Richard Knaak: Wolfheart

“If we do not hear official word from Stormwind before he arrives, it may be the latter.”

“Unfortunately, too true.” Malfurion’s frown deepened. “But you could have told me all this when you initially contacted me.”

“There is more.” She described Elune’s vision and what it had revealed.

He brooded over the revelation for a breath or two, then asked, “You have faith you could not be mistaken?”

“The Mother Moon made it abundantly clear.”

“It makes sense in great part, and yet not in other ways.” He brooded for a moment. “Leave this matter to me. I will see that somehow things come together . . . if it is indeed Varian Wrynn on whom the Alliance’s future most depends.”

Tyrande accepted his decision to take control of that situation with a nod. Then, also eyeing Jarod, she continued, “We have another, more personal situation here . . . perhaps two. Jarod left behind some unfinished relationships of significance.”

“Those will have to come to their proper conclusions without our efforts. There is so much more at stake. I welcome Jarod back . . . but his life is his own to master, in the long run.”

They glanced back into the chamber. At that moment the newly returned Jarod rose again. Malfurion and Tyrande heard him exhale deeply as he gave his Shalasyr one last kiss.

“Let us hope Shandris and his sister see it that way,” the high priestess wryly returned under her breath as they moved to attend to their old friend. “Though I doubt they will.”

Most night elves of military status utilized the training areas in the Warrior’s Terrace to hone their skills. There they had the use of target ranges and dueling grounds. The night elves were respected by both their allies and enemies as strong and skilled fighters, especially General Shandris Feathermoon’s Sentinels.

But Maiev Shadowsong was no Sentinel and considered herself far more skilled and dedicated than any of them, including their commander. Indeed, in her opinion the Sentinels knew nothing about dedication . . . and sacrifice.

Her face was narrower than many night elves’, and weathered. Scars marked her face—scars from both battle and torture. She had been warrior, jailor, prisoner, executioner. Her eyes held a fatalistic gleam.

Her armor was more elaborate than that of a Sentinel, with a thick breastplate, heavy shoulderguards, and high metal boots, all of a dark silver-gray bordered by a golden bronze. Wicked gauntlets ending in claws covered both hands, and even the draping forest-green cloak was lined with sharp blades that were not merely for show. A face-obscuring helm lay to the side of where she trained, with it a jagged, round blade known as an umbra crescent.

There had been a title for what she had once been—what she still considered herself—though some no longer saw purpose in it. Those were the same people who did not sufficiently understand the dangers facing the night elf race, dangers against which the Sentinels were poorly equipped both physically and mentally. Fortunately, Maiev had found others who still saw as she did and so had begun recruiting and training the best of those to rebuild the elite force wiped out by Malfurion’s brother.

The elite force known as the Watchers.

For some ten millennia, Maiev had been a Watcher. Their leader—the warden, in fact. The Watchers, originally volunteers from the ranks of the Sisters of Elune and later also chosen from those outside the temple, had been charged with the daunting task of acting as jailors for the traitor Illidan Stormrage and, later, other monstrous criminals from not just the night elves but other races as well. As leader, Maiev had made Illidan her utmost priority . . . and utmost focus.

No, in Maiev’s view, the Watchers had been a far more dedicated force than even the Sentinels.

Maiev practiced her skills, not in the Warrior’s Terrace, but out in the forest beyond. There, she could unleash the energy ever pent-up inside her. This day she practiced with smaller blades—daggers—striking out at preselected targets while bounding through the area. One after another, the daggers sank deep into the centers of their targets, no matter at what angle Maiev threw them.

It was not by skill alone that her aim was so perfect, though. Incentive pushed her as much. In her mind, each target bore the visage of a male night elf whose eyes were covered by cloth, as if he were blind. Sometimes the details of the face changed, but it was ever recognizable in her thoughts. She knew that face better than her own, having stared at it so much. In fact, her current exercise was also a futile attempt to eradicate the memory.

But still she tried, slaying him again and again. That she had done so in truth did not matter. Whether as a cunning prisoner in the barrows or a demon seeking power over the world, Illidan Stormrage would forever be burned into Maiev’s very soul.

Drawing the last dagger, Maiev lunged under a branch. Alighting onto a lower one, she brought her hand back for throwing, then spun around to face the intruder she had felt coming up behind her. At the same time Maiev tossed the dagger up, catching it by the hilt as it came down.

The tip ended up touching the throat of another female. To her credit, the newcomer flinched only slightly. Maiev nodded her approval; Neva was her best student.

“Forgive this interruption,” Neva said calmly, eyes never going to the hand that held the dagger under her chin. “I would not have disobeyed your command if it were not important.”

Maiev removed the dagger. “I trust your judgment. You know me better than anyone.”

This straightforward comment elicited a brief but odd look from Neva.

Maiev’s brow arched. “Why are you here?”

“I was crossing through from the Temple Gardens when I saw the gathering. The archdruid Malfurion Stormrage was there.”

“Was he?” Maiev’s memories coursed back to much younger days, when she had been a senior priestess of Elune. There again she saw Illidan Stormrage, though as a younger, handsome, but haughty figure, next to his twin brother, the future archdruid.

“Yes . . . the archdruid had evidently arrived just a moment before I had. He stood only a few feet from where I did. He was staring at a male in a travel cloak. The male was carrying another, a female. She looked to be dying. . . .”

“Get to the point.”

The other female gave a slight nod. “The archdruid recognized the male. He whispered the name, which I was just barely able to hear.” Neva hesitated, then concluded, “It was your brother’s name.”

Maiev revealed no reaction. She simply stood there as still as a statue. After several seconds, she finally blinked; then, with deft ease, she spun and threw the blade at the final target. The strike was perfect.

“Jarod . . . ,” Maiev muttered.

“I am not mistaken, Warden.”

“I did not think you were. So my brother has come back.”

Neva bowed her head. “I had thought him long dead.”

“We were both mistaken, then.” Maiev retrieved her helmet. “He will be in or near the temple—probably in it.”

“You are going to visit him?”

“Not at the moment. I need to think—” Maiev suddenly paused. Her eyes swept over the trees to the region to her right. Neva followed her gaze but saw nothing.

“Never mind,” Maiev ordered her companion as the senior Watcher put the helmet on. “Let us go. I must see my dear long-lost sibling.”

“But you said you were not going to visit—”

Jarod’s sister looked at her companion with narrowed eyes. “I said I must see him.”

Neva nodded her understanding.

Without another word, Maiev bounded down through the branches toward Darnassus. The younger night elf leapt after. Despite millennia separating their ages, Neva found herself hard-pressed to keep up with her instructor.