Richard Knaak: Wolfheart

But they had not received word from three of the major members of the Alliance, including Stormwind . . . and if Stormwind alone did not participate, then—

Around her, the light of Elune grew blinding.

The Temple Gardens vanished.

Tyrande Whisperwind stumbled, then caught herself. Her eyes widened. New surroundings came into view, surroundings not at all even a part of Darnassus, the night elf capital. She now stood in a place far away, a place clearly on the mainland, on the continent of Kalimdor. Tyrande had been transported hundreds of miles in less than a single heartbeat.

More shocking than that, she was surrounded by the unmistakable vision of war. The stench of wholesale death was familiar to her, and darkened mounds roughly the size and shape of bodies—mangled ones—were everywhere.

What had once been pristine wilderness—a few ruined tree trunks marked that this had once been forest—had clearly been ravaged by previous battles here. As the high priestess fought to regain her composure, it quickly dawned on her that she knew this place, this time, though whether from memory or because of Elune, it was impossible to say.

She stood in the midst of Azeroth’s first climactic struggle against the Burning Legion . . . a battle fought more than ten thousand years ago during the War of the Ancients. That war had culminated with the Sundering and the sinking of the night elf capital of Zin-Azshari into the waters once housing her people’s fount of power—the Well of Eternity. The Legion had sought the end of all life on Azeroth and had come horribly close in achieving that monstrous goal, ironically with the help of the night elves’ own queen.

The demonic warriors surged forward, the fiery infernals at the vanguard. The massive constructs were followed by felguard and felhounds, the former towering, armored warriors and the latter fearsome, toothy beasts. Other demons added to their monumental numbers. The insidious army rushed over the landscape unhindered, contrary to what the night elf recalled of that history. Anything touched by the demons burst into the same horrific green flame that surrounded each of the monstrosities.

Tyrande looked for those defenders she knew should be here, her own people and the many fantastic allies who had gathered to prevent the destruction of Azeroth. However, they were nowhere to be seen. Nothing blocked the destructive forces. The land, the world, was doomed. . . .

But then a powerful howl shook the scene. The high priestess felt her hopes instinctively rise. She felt she should know that howl, for it touched her very soul.

The demons faltered, though only for a moment. As one, they let out a mighty roar themselves, then renewed their push forward.

From the opposite direction, a great shadow stretched across the landscape. Tyrande followed it to its origin.

The wolf Ancient was gigantic, majestic, and so pure white that he all but gleamed. He towered over all else. The huge animal howled again, and this time countless other howls joined in from somewhere behind him.

“ Goldrinn . . . ” Tyrande murmured.

From the dawn of its reshaping by the mysterious titans, Azeroth had been guarded by beings who were tied to the world as no other creatures could be. The dragons had been empowered by the titans, but Azeroth itself gave rise to spirits and demigods, creatures eternal in nature yet capable of ultimate sacrifice. But not until the War of the Ancients had any of these protectors faced a threat as terrifying as the Burning Legion. Dragons had perished by the scores, and among the spirits and demigods there were many who fell in the final battle.

One of those had been Goldrinn.

Yet, this bloody scene before her was not exactly history. Tyrande finally understood that, though her natural instinct was to fear not only for her world but also for the wolf seeking to protect it again. Elune had chosen this urgent scene to tell her something, though the high priestess was at a loss as to what it might be. Was she to watch Goldrinn sacrifice himself once more?

Several demons neared the giant wolf, who growled his challenge to them. But as the attackers came upon him, with renewed cries, a vast pack of mortal wolves leapt from the emptiness behind Goldrinn. They poured over the landscape, sleek, furred hunters already sizing up their individual prey. Though they were not as huge as most of the demons, they charged with ferocity and determination unparalleled.

The two forces collided. The demons wielded blades, axes, savage teeth, claws, and more, and knew how to use all of them well. At first it seemed the wolves had only teeth and claws, but their dexterity and swiftness were unmatched. They darted among their sinister foes, snapping and slashing wherever there was an opening.

Goldrinn stood at the forefront. The huge wolf seized a felguard in his mouth and bit through. Green flames erupted as the beast let the fragments fall. At the same time his claws crushed through another foe.

Two wolves brought down an axe-wielding enemy who had just cleaved in twain one of their brethren. The wolves tore the demon’s arms off, then one took out the throat. However, other demons fell upon them, overwhelming the pair.

Tyrande strained to join the battle but could not move. She could only watch helplessly as more wolves perished, and even though they seemed to take more than their number in adversaries, that did little to assuage her fears and regrets for them.

More and more demons focused on Goldrinn, clearly aware that he was what guided the wolves. The demons tried to hack away at his limbs or drag him down so that they could cut his throat, but Goldrinn shook off those near his paws, batting some away so hard that they crashed into their own comrades. In his savage jaws, the gigantic wolf plucked up one demon after another. Some he bit to pieces like the first; others he shook until the sheer force sent their body parts scattering. Goldrinn barreled through the Burning Legion’s ranks, his eager pack ever at his side.

Bloody wolf carcasses and dismembered demon corpses already littered the battlefield, but the two sides’ numbers appeared undiminished. Another wolf was chopped to pieces, and even more demons attacked Goldrinn. Yet, the enormous wolf was undaunted and continued to claw and bite one foe after another, leaving them piled three and four high in many places.

Mother Moon, why do you show this to me?!? The high priestess strained to leap to Goldrinn’s aid, but still could not do more than observe. Either let me join this struggle, or tell me the purpose of this endless slaughter, please!

But the fight went on without revelation, and, worse, matters suddenly took a dark turn for Goldrinn. Harassed from all sides, the wolf could not fend off all his opponents. Demons struck him again and again, the growing number of wounds finally beginning to take their toll on the great Ancient.

One of the felguard managed to climb atop the white wolf’s back. The fiendish warrior, his eyes blazing green in anticipation, raised his weapon and struck hard at the center of the wolf’s spine.

“No!” Tyrande cried out, realizing what was about to happen. She was well aware of this dire event, though she had never known the details.

Goldrinn let out an anguished howl. His legs collapsed beneath him. Demons pushed at him in greater numbers.

From somewhere in the madness to the Ancient’s right, a single dark-brown wolf leapt up. Though the height should have been beyond his capabilities, the smaller wolf managed to reach not only Goldrinn’s back but the demon who had so terribly wounded him as well.

The felguard turned just as the wolf neared. The demon attempted to slash at the newcomer, but the sleek, lupine form darted under the axe blade. The wolf then bore into the felguard’s legs, toppling his towering foe.