The deer suddenly bolted into view. It ran toward him, not the direction Varian had anticipated. The animal, a young stag, charged into him, forcing the king to leap out of the way.
And as he did, he came face to face with another hunter.
A worgen.
The furred hunter looked more startled than Varian. The two faced off against one another as the stag fled to freedom.
“You . . . ,” rasped the worgen. “You’re—”
“Varian Wrynn!” snarled a hated voice.
A second worgen burst into the area. His fur was frost white save for the head and mane, which retained some charcoal black. The newcomer’s glittering blue eyes were filled with such bitterness that Varian instinctively held his bow ready. Behind the second worgen followed nearly a dozen others, all moving with a clear subservience to this later arrival.
“You’ve got a lot of gall coming here!” As the second worgen spoke, he changed. He shrank slightly and his fur seemed to just dissipate.
Genn Greymane gestured at the bow. “Fire away! You’ve already more or less struck me through the heart! My people will suffer for your choice—”
Varian lowered the bow. “I’ll not waste an arrow on you. Bad enough you’ve ruined my hunt! Did you hope to convince me to change my mind by coming here?”
“You talk madness! We always hunt here! You’re not far from our encampment and you know it!”
“I don’t—” The former gladiator realized that he had been outmaneuvered and he knew by whom. He looked around, no longer as furious with the Gilneans as he was with another. “Where are you, archdruid? You think this funny?”
“‘Archdruid’?” Genn looked baffled.
“I do not find anything humorous about the last few days’ events,” Malfurion Stormrage replied from behind Varian. “As for Genn and the other worgen hunting here, the knowledge had completely slipped my mind.”
The archdruid was the image of innocence. Despite all the evidence to the contrary, Varian found he could not bring himself to accuse the night elf outright. Glancing at Genn, he saw that the other king felt likewise.
“This area is too crowded for hunting, Archdruid,” the lord of Stormwind finally remarked. “And I’ve lost my taste for it, anyway.”
“Good,” interjected Genn with a hint of disdain. “You’d probably end up blundering into us over and over as you go stomping through the forest, scaring off all the game. . . .”
“There’ll never be a day when I can’t outhunt you or any of your dogs, Greymane,” Varian retorted, advancing on Genn.
“Ha!” The other king also advanced. “One of our younglings could catch a buck faster than you! As for me, I could take down a dozen before you managed to nick even one with those puny little bolts!”
“Always big with the boasts, but never able to follow through with them—”
“If I might intercede.” Malfurion came between the two monarchs. “There is little point in such words unless you have the wherewithal to prove your own case.”
“That’s always been the trouble with Greymane—”
“Spoken like the self-righteous—”
A thunderclap echoed through the vicinity. Ears flattening, the other worgen were cowed.
Seemingly oblivious to his own display of power, the archdruid went on, “As I said, there is little point in braying at one another without being able to justify those words. Perhaps it is time to show what, if any, strength lies behind them.”
“What’re you talking about?” Varian snapped. Genn nodded toward his rival, indicating the question was foremost on his mind as well.
“You could both go your separate ways and continue this endless argument . . . or you could put some conclusion to your disagreements by seeing who does have the better skill.”
“You think to throw us together,” Genn snarled, “and make us see each other in a different light! Ha! I know this one well enough—too well, after his damning words. . . .”
“Damning in their truth,” Varian retorted. “But I’ll agree with Genn on your intentions, Archdruid . . . and also agree that it won’t work.”
“Then, the two of you have nothing to fear.”
“It has nothing to do with fear,” the Gilnean king grumbled. “Damnation! Even if I deigned to hunt with this one around, he’d be stumbling over everything. . . .” Without warning, Genn transformed again. “Now forgive me, Malfurion, but we’ve lost enough time. We don’t hunt for sport. We hunt.”
Genn darted into the brush. The other worgen turned and followed without a sound.
“Fool Gilneans,” Varian muttered, more to himself than to the archdruid.
“My apologies for any offense I have caused,” Malfurion respectfully said.
Varian paid him no mind. “Give him furs, claws, even wings, Greymane’s no hunter. Still all bluster, even after all the ruin he’s caused himself and his kingdom. . . .”
The archdruid gestured in a direction leading away from the worgen. “If you still want to hunt, you will find good game that way, Varian.”
The king continued to glare at where his rival had last been visible.
“Varian?”
Without a word, the king darted after the worgen.
18
The Chase
The high priestess exhaled sharply as the last of the Alliance representatives departed. She had spent every moment discussing Ashenvale’s needs with the others and had at last managed to gain as much as she had hoped from them. In return, Tyrande had promised what she could of increasing Darnassus’s support for various requirements of the allies’ homelands. She had also worked to manipulate various deals between the different factions, achieving more in a few desperate hours than in months of negotiation.
But will it be enough to save Ashenvale? she wondered as she paused to drink some water.
One of her attendants entered. “General Shandris seeks an audience.”
The fact that Shandris had not simply walked in meant that she understood how hard the high priestess had been working on matters. The general was obviously concerned that her adopted mother might not be up to dealing with one more situation.
She had underestimated Tyrande. “Send her in, of course.”
Shandris bowed her head as she entered. “Forgive me if this is a bad time—”
“This is an appropriate time. You come with a status report?”
“Yes. I think that we can get a fleet off by tomorrow midday. Our swift-response force makes that possible.”
“A force you put together for just such an occasion,” Tyrande said with pride. Months prior to the Cataclysm, Shandris had proposed the prepared and prearranged force in view of elements of the Horde already battling with the night elves in Warsong Gulch. Six ships capable of carrying a full contingent of Sentinels, mounts, and supplies were put on constant call, with everything cycled on a monthly basis to keep all fresh and ready.
And now they were needed.
“I but followed your lead,” Shandris pointed out. “You mentioned previously that, after past events, we needed to be ready rather than reactive.”
“What about additional strength?” the high priestess asked, not wishing to take any credit for what she fully believed was Shandris’s accomplishment.
“Four more ships can sail within a week.”
“That is good news. I hope I have some for you. I have been able to secure assistance from the rest of the Alliance in one form or another. Most will offer military might; others supplies.”
Shandris smiled savagely. “The Horde will rue their ambition.”
“Perhaps . . .”
“Something you know? A vision from Elune?”
The high priestess shook her head. “No. No more visions. Merely a . . . feeling . . . on my part.”
“And not a good one. What is it?”
“The Horde knows full well that we can muster strong reinforcements. They must be following a strategy unlike any previous.”