The impossible has happened! Silverwing has fallen. The dread words repeated themselves over and over in her head. Silverwing has fallen. . . .
Su’ura feared that Ashenvale itself would be next.
His warriors were chafing to hunt down Silverwing’s remaining defenders, but Garrosh wanted the night elves to escape. It was all part of his grand strategy.
Briln and the other officers joined him. The former mariner had proven himself worthy in combat and the warchief gave him a nod. Briln grinned.
“Silverwing is ours,” Garrosh declared with immense satisfaction.
The others around him cheered. Warriors beyond them took up the cry. The cheer became a single word, or rather, name. Over and over, the warriors shouted out “Garrosh! Garrosh!”
“The survivors’ll tell ’em what happened,” Briln mentioned when the cheering had finally died down. “The Alliance will have many more fighters when they come to avenge Silverwing. They’ll be ready for blood.”
Garrosh grinned. “Good. Let them send a thousand fighters—ten thousand.” He waved Gorehowl over his head, the axe keening. The other orcs looked with admiration upon the fabled weapon.
“Let them send all the warriors the Alliance has.” The warchief eyed the carnage he had wrought. “It will just mean more of them will die.”
20
Departures
“Welcome, Shandris,” Tyrande greeted as the general entered the chamber where the high priestess and the archdruid had been in grave discussion concerning the events in Ashenvale. “I understand that the readiness of the first expedition is imminent.”
The general bowed her head. “The Mother Moon makes my network look slow and inefficient. All is as you say. We will be able to leave shortly.”
Malfurion did not look pleased with this news. “I should have never agreed that you take command of the expedition, Tyrande. I am the one who will go.”
“No. Elune has decreed that this is my path. It pains me that we will be apart, but in the vision I saw myself there and you here, and knew it the right thing.”
He grimaced. “The path of the druid sounds easier and easier when I listen to things such as this.”
Two attendants entered the chamber from another room behind Tyrande. They carried her armor. “I would certainly beg to differ, Mal. If I never have anything to do with the Emerald Dream again, I will be very pleased about that.”
“All is in readiness, mistress,” one of the attendants informed the high priestess. “We are about to take your belongings aboard and wondered if you would be wearing this for the journey.”
“No. Elune promises us a safe voyage. It is in Ashenvale where she cannot reveal what awaits.”
With a grunt, Shandris saluted her. “Judging by the pace of your packing, my news was even more out-of-date than I thought. I suspect it would be good for me to get my own gear aboard. We will be sailing very soon, will we not?”
The high priestess smiled. “Yes. But only if that meets with your approval.”
“The sooner we get to Ashenvale, the sooner we send the Horde running.” With that, Shandris saluted Tyrande and Malfurion, then marched off.
Tyrande’s smile turned into a fearful frown. She quickly dismissed the attendants and, when finally alone with her husband, said, “I truly cannot see what is happening in Ashenvale, Mal. I do not like that . . . but I still know that I have got to be there and you need to be here. I cannot explain why.”
“No need. I will just grind my teeth and do as you say.”
Tyrande kissed the archdruid. “Thank you for understanding.”
“Hmmph! You know I do not.”
“Then thank you for pretending.” With tremendous reluctance, she broke from him. “I must go.”
“I will not see you off. I promise.” Tyrande had earlier asked him not to be there when the ships sailed. Despite her assurance that Elune knew what had to be done, it was still at least as much a struggle for Tyrande to separate from him as it was Malfurion from her. They had already lost so many centuries in the past. And now, with mortality peering over their shoulders, it was harder than ever to contemplate being in two different lands, especially considering that they did not know what danger might await Tyrande—danger in which Malfurion would be unable to intervene.
“Oh! What news of the assassins?” she asked as she departed.
“Maiev has a theory involving the worgen. I doubt its value, but at this point, it would not surprise me to learn anything.”
That caused her to stop. “The worgen?”
“I will follow through on it with Maiev. As I said, it is very likely nothing, but we will see. Go now! I will keep Darnassus in one piece while you are away, even if I am not you.”
“Thank you.” She left before either could find another excuse to delay the separation.
Malfurion immediately tried to focus on something other than his wife. The murders were the most logical, not to mention urgent, choice. He had not revealed that Jarod had also indicated there was a need to speak to the worgen, but Maiev’s brother wanted to do it without his sister present. While the former guard captain had not said as much, his style of investigation was quite different from his sister’s. Both were very determined and known for getting the task done. Jarod, though, preferred a less brash, more subtle approach, which was also more to Malfurion’s tastes.
And with all the chaos going on at the moment, whatever little calm could be maintained was more than for what the archdruid could hope.
He should have waited for Malfurion, but Jarod could not contain his impatience any longer. Nor did he think that he could keep his intentions hidden from Maiev. That was why Jarod was already on his way to the area where he knew that he would find the group of worgen whom he had previously encountered. More important, he would find that one particular worgen.
Maiev had some other avenue of investigation that she wanted to pursue and had taken Neva with her, so Jarod was able to slip away fairly easily. His sister still did not entirely think him necessary to her work, but so long as he did nothing to interfere, anything he might accidentally discover she would accept.
Someday, perhaps we will understand one another better, Jarod thought as he neared the territory where he had last confronted the worgen.
He sensed the faint smell that he associated with the worgen. A musky sweat. The scent was faint, but that did not mean that the worgen were not nearby.
“Night elf . . .”
Even closer than I thought. . . . Jarod turned to face the worgen who had spoken. He did not recognize the markings, at least not as those of the one he sought.
“What do you do here, again?” the worgen growled.
So this is at least one of those from before. That pleased Jarod, for it saved time in having to explain just who he was. There were enough other things that he might have to explain.
“I would like to talk with one of you. The one who was in charge the last time I was here.”
The worgen cocked his head. He sniffed the air, and Jarod realized that the Gilnean was taking in the intruder’s scent, perhaps even marking whether there was the sweat one associated with lying or fear.
“I know of whom you speak. He’ll not want to talk with you.”
“I would just like to have the chance. Let him say so and I will leave.”
The worgen’s ears flattened and his brow furrowed. Finally, reluctantly, he gestured the direction Jarod had been heading. “That way. Not far.”
When the lupine figure did not move, the night elf turned and started walking as indicated. Although he did not hear the worgen behind him, he knew that the creature was following.
They climbed a short hill, then descended the other side. Jarod could not help but feel that more eyes now watched him from beyond the surrounding trees.