Richard Knaak: Wolfheart

A confused grunt arose from the shrouded creature. Suddenly, the cage shook harder. Inside, a huge form slammed against the bent bars. Heavy breathing arose near the tear in the tarp, but nothing could be made out clearly in the tear itself.

The breathing became labored, exhausted. The orcs heard stumbling.

Then there came a violent thud. The cage shuddered and almost slipped again. Only the strength of nearly two dozen struggling orcs kept that from happening.

Briln and the others waited several tense moments, but there was no renewed movement or sound. With caution, the captain approached the covered cage. Becoming more daring, he prodded the tarp.

Nothing happened. Briln exhaled in relief, then turned to the others. “Load that thing aboard, then get those bars bent back and that hole covered with something! Better make sure that there’s always a sack of that herb concoction the shaman gave us ready to sprinkle on the thing’s food! We can’t afford this on the seas!”

The other orcs moved to follow his orders. The captain studied the silhouettes of the other ships. Each contained such a cage. The new warchief Garrosh had commanded that this venture be completed, regardless of the cost in seeing it done. Briln and the others here had not questioned that cost, either, for all would have readily perished for the legendary overlord of the Warsong offensive. Garrosh’s deeds were epic and retold over and over in the Horde. He was also the son of the late Grom Hellscream and had been an advisor to Thrall, the orc leader who had freed their people from captivity.

Yes, no matter how many lives it had already cost and would likely cost by the time the fleet reached its destination, it was all worth it to Briln and the others. The Horde was at last within grasp of its destiny. It had the vitality, the drive, that this altered Azeroth deserved. Those who had held power so long in the world had become decadent . . . too weak and soft. The Horde—and especially the orcs—would finally stake its claim on the more lush regions that it needed not only to survive but finally to thrive as it had long deserved.

This recent Cataclysm, so Garrosh had impressed upon his people, was the great sign that this was their day. The world had been torn asunder, and to survive meant to be able to adapt to its much-transformed lands.

The crewmembers finally had the last cage loaded. Briln watched as they sealed the hull. They had a fair supply of the sleep powder in stock, and there were other threats that were supposed to keep the creatures in line, but the elder orc looked forward to the end of the journey.

Aboard deck, his first mate saluted. “Everything’s secured, Captain! All set to sail on your word!”

“Get us going, then,” Briln growled. “The sooner we get this cargo to Garrosh, the sooner it becomes the Alliance’s trouble. . . .”

The other orc grunted agreement, then turned to bellow Briln’s command. In short order, the ship pulled away from the dock.

The winds whirled madly and thunder crashed. A storm was brewing, the last thing the fleet needed. Still, the captain thought it nothing compared to what the Horde’s enemies would soon face. Briln stared beyond the dark, swirling waters, imagining the fleet’s destination, imagining what his cargo would do once Garrosh had it under his reins.

And for a moment, Briln almost pitied Ashenvale’s defenders, almost pitied the night elves.

But then . . . they were only night elves. . . .

Tyrande Whisperwind knew that the world could never be mended. Deathwing, the great black dragon, had forever changed the face of all Azeroth in a manner even more terrifying in some ways than the Sundering—when the world’s lone continent was savagely split apart. The high priestess, who had survived that epic event some ten thousand years ago, had never imagined that she would have to live through anything so brutal again.

To those few who might have been unfamiliar with her race, the night elf, her midnight-blue hair falling below her shoulders, seemed barely more than two decades old, rather than ten thousand years. However, her glittering, silver eyes were filled with the wisdom of so much experience. There were some very fine lines near those elegant eyes, but they were more the result of troubled times during the past ten millennia than from age.

Tyrande strode through the lush Temple Gardens, the centerpiece—though geographically more west of the center—of Darnassus and composed of several islets of varying size filled with the most exquisite of flora. The light of a full moon shone down upon the gardens and with what appeared particular favor upon her. That it did so disturbed neither Tyrande nor any who happened by the high priestess. After all, it was a normal sight already familiar to those who knew the solemn figure.

She had hoped that out here she would be better able to think, to come to some conclusion concerning the weighty matters upon her. As high priestess, Tyrande generally sought guidance and peace from the goddess Elune, also called the Mother Moon, from a place of quiet meditation in the temple directly to the south. However, even the calm of the perpetually moonlit sanctum of the Sisterhood—the heart of Elune herself, some called it—had no longer proven enough. Thus, she had hoped the tranquil gardens might suffice where the temple had failed.

But although the gardens in some ways embodied the spirit of the Mother Moon even more than the temple, it was not enough to calm the high priestess this night. Tyrande could not keep from constantly worrying about the upcoming summit. The time of the gathering was fast approaching, and already she and the archdruid Malfurion Stormrage—her co-ruler and mate—wondered whether the event would prove worth anything at all.

The Alliance faced a revitalized Horde now led not by the seemingly conflicted Thrall, who might have kept the peace for the sake of both sides, but rather by a new, much more ambitious warchief. Garrosh coveted the great forests of Ashenvale, though he would hardly stop with them should they fall to his warriors.

Despite, as an archdruid, being more concerned with the wilds of Azeroth and having absolutely no ambitions toward politics, Malfurion had done what he could to help maintain unity in the Alliance. However, Tyrande and Malfurion both knew that the Alliance’s future did not and could not rely upon him. It was time for someone who could be more dedicated to that goal. That was thus one of the points of this summit Tyrande and Malfurion had put together, to see if through the talks someone would arise who could best guide those assembled forward in this new world.

Of course, the gathering would not matter if not all the members were in attendance, and there were some of significance who still had not sent word of their participation. If they did not join, then no true accord would likely be acceptable.

Among those Tyrande passed during her trek were other priestesses, all of whom bowed low in homage to her. They were clad in silver-white, sleeveless robes similar to her own. Tyrande wore little ornamentation, needing none to mark her as high priestess. All knew her. She acknowledged their greeting with a smile and a nod of her head, but so engrossed was she in her dark thoughts that, in truth, she forgot the encounters immediately after.

The foul vision of Deathwing the Destroyer and what he had caused filled her mind, nearly overwhelming her. Her heart pounded and her blood raced as she imagined the continuing repercussions of his terrifying act.

The summit must prove of benefit, Tyrande thought anxiously. This is the one opportunity we have to stave off the downfall of our world. If nothing comes of this, there will be no hope of attempting another gathering. It will be too late for all of us by then. . . .