Hearing that there had been another enemy nearby, Jarod quickly looked around, but saw nothing.
This made Neva’s grin widen. . . and look even more deathly. “N-never fear. Had . . . had she been around, you . . . you would not be alive! She was with me. . . . ” The Watcher suddenly shook. “Ungh! By Elune . . . kill me!”
Jarod did not move. “Tell me where my sister is and I will end your suffering.”
“You . . . you will never reach her in . . . in time!” Neva said the last with some pleasure despite her pain.
“I will if you answer me quickly. In return, I swear that I will do what I can for you.”
She glared at him. “I will not . . . tell you.”
He reached to his belt, where a knife hung. Jarod slowly removed the short but sharp blade. “I will end the suffering. It will only get worse. I know. I saw it on the fields so many times. Good, strong warriors—stronger than you or me—screaming from the pain of their wounds and their shattered insides. The worst ones were those I could not reach because of the Burning Legion so near. They lived for days.” He looked off, remembering. “I cannot think of how many I had to send off because there was not any chance of a healer of any sort even easing their conditions.”
Neva managed to look away, although she groaned with each forced movement. Her neck was not broken, but Jarod knew that was little comfort to her. The rest of her body was mangled.
He reluctantly sheathed the knife, then rose. That caught her attention.
“You cannot—”
“I am wasting my time here. I will find Maiev one way or another—”
“Wait!” The injured assassin gritted her teeth, then gasped, “Maiev is—Maiev is going to kill the Highborne. First . . . first their leaders . . . then the rest.”
The news did not entirely shock him, not from what he had already witnessed. “That I know. Farewell, Neva. . . .”
“Wait!” She coughed and more blood came up. “W-wait. Your sister . . . your sister has another surprise. I . . . I will not let you save the damned spellcasters . . . but I . . . I will give you the archdruid. . . .”
He could not hide the effect this revelation had upon him. Jarod returned to Neva’s side. “Malfurion? What has happened to him? Where is he?”
She glared. “First . . . your . . . your word. I know you, Shadowsong. Maiev says . . . says you always kept your word . . . just like a good boy. Tell me . . . tell me you will kill me and I will give you the archdruid. . . . ” Another cough. More blood. “Will not matter as much . . . if the Highborne die. He will be disgraced. . . .”
Maiev has Malfurion. . . . The awful thought kept racing through Jarod’s mind. He could not trust that his sister might not be ready to kill the archdruid at any moment. Time was of the essence. “You have my word. I will take the pain away.”
She looked relieved, and extremely pale. As best she could, she told him the path he should take. Jarod, as a soldier well-versed in communicating with the dying, could tell that she did not lie. There were some gaps in her description, but he knew enough, he thought.
“You . . . you promised,” she pressed after she was done.
“I know,” Jarod answered, drawing the blade.
Neva studied the knife, then turned her gaze skyward.
“You will . . . be too late to stop her,” Neva rasped. “Too late . . .”
He said nothing, using the knife expertly to keep his oath.
The deed done, Jarod Shadowsong stood. Even though Neva had been an enemy, he regretted that he had let her suffer for as long as he had. That was not his way. However, Jarod had needed to know what his sister intended and where it would take place. And while Neva had not given him everything, she had offered one item that, frankly, was much more important to him than the lives of all the Highborne combined . . . Malfurion’s whereabouts. Nothing mattered more than rescuing the archdruid.
Jarod leaned over Eadrik. With his finger, he drew a crescent moon in the air over the worgen’s body. The sign of Elune. He prayed that the Mother Moon would take Eadrik’s spirit to wherever the worgen’s kind should go after death. Eadrik had proven himself as good a comrade as any Jarod had fought beside in the war. The members of the Alliance were fools if they did not see what having such beings on their side could mean. It might even be able to swing the advantage away from the Horde, who thus far seemed better suited to the wild world Azeroth had become.
The night elf headed off at as great a pace as he could. However, only then did he recall that he had forgotten to make certain from Neva that there were no more traps between Malfurion and him. It would take only one misstep to end the archdruid’s rescue before it began.
And this time, there would be no one to save Jarod, either.
24
Ashenvale at War
As Jarod had begun his day in search of Malfurion, events quickened in Ashenvale. With Elune’s guidance, Tyrande had worked miracles in the form of moon-affected currents to see to it that the ships reached Ashenvale even more quickly than estimated. Shandris had immediately sent heralds to the outposts to alert them of their coming and, in turn, learn where matters stood. As this went on, the newly arrived force wasted no time in moving out and marching. During the march, Tyrande explained to those priestesses who had accompanied her as to what their roles would be and what risks they would have to take.
Thus it was that Haldrissa and her Sentinels had the great pleasure—and relief—of watching the reinforcements arrive the next day, and they instantly began melding with the defenders already at the river. With Denea and the rest of her staff at her side, Haldrissa quickly rode up to meet the arrival of the high priestess and general.
Tyrande Whisperwind was an arresting sight. She did not wear the soft, shimmering robes of the temple now but rather the armor of a warrior of the moon goddess. Her formfitting armor, which covered her from neck to foot, had been crafted with layered plates that allowed her ease of movement. A gossamer cloak the color of moonlight and attached at the shoulders fluttered in the breeze. The high priestess also wore a winged helmet that covered the top half of her head.
“Hail, Commander Haldrissa,” Tyrande said without preamble. “I give thanks to the Mother Moon that we find you holding here.”
“The Horde has made no sign of movement since Silverwing fell. . . .”
Their expressions turned more dour at her answer. Tyrande and Shandris had been informed of the outpost’s destruction the moment that they had arrived, but it was still a bitter pill to swallow. For a long time Silverwing had been admired as an example of night elf determination in the face of extreme adversity.
“The damned orcs will pay,” Shandris remarked with relish. “Whatever tricks they have been using are not going to help them anymore!”
“Let us temper our desire to avenge the brave defenders of Silverwing and elsewhere in Ashenvale with the knowledge that Garrosh Hellscream commands the Horde now, not Thrall,” said Tyrande. “This is a different Horde in many respects, Shandris. We must move with thought and caution.”
“Oh, we will. We will move with the thought of crushing the orcs and the caution of not getting their blood in our eyes when we cut them down.”
The high priestess’s brow arched. Haldrissa said nothing, but Denea and most of the other Sentinels present nodded hearty agreement with the general.
“We need to know all that has transpired,” Tyrande told the commander, “and where you think your weakest points in the line might be.”
Haldrissa wasted no time in explaining all as best she could. A daring Denea tossed in her own suggestions when there seemed a point of hesitation on the senior officer’s part, including the belief that a thrust forward now would enable them to push the Horde back even to Silverwing. Haldrissa did not silence her second, a part of her wondering if Denea had a sharper grasp than her at the moment. Not once did the younger Sentinel pause in uncertainty as she did, and all that Denea suggested sounded reasonable to her.