Richard Knaak: Wolfheart

Crashing against Goldrinn’s back, the demon lost his weapon. The felguard sought to rise, but the wolf was already upon him.

With one ferocious bite, the wolf tore out the demon’s throat.

As the corpse slipped off the side, the lesser wolf howled. He glanced down, then jumped. His leap was not without purpose, for he landed atop another demon harassing Goldrinn, then tore out the chest of that one.

Taking the lesser wolf’s lead, others of the pack began rending those demons intent on Goldrinn’s destruction. The Burning Legion was at last forced to abandon the taking of the wolf Ancient and, indeed, was now pressed back.

But it was too late for Goldrinn. The Ancient managed to push himself up and seize in his mouth a demon. He bit through the armor and sinew, spitting out the pieces. But then the wound took its toll. The Ancient collapsed, crushing a few more of his enemies, and then lay unmoving.

Again, as had happened more than ten thousand years before, Goldrinn died.

Yet, seemingly undaunted by this terrible loss, the dark-brown wolf spearheaded the advance, pushing ahead of Goldrinn’s corpse. More and more of the lesser wolves joined their brother, now becoming avengers of their patron.

One demonic warrior after another perished at the teeth and claws of the dark-brown wolf. He howled between adversaries, his cry now as great as that of Goldrinn. He seemed larger, too, more than twice the size of the others.

The Burning Legion began to steer their efforts against him, but that seemed only to encourage the brown wolf. He took on every demon that attacked and left in his wake their tattered bodies. With so many demons much taller than him, the wolf even began jumping up on his hind legs in order to better snap at an arm or even a lowered head. His front claws slashed through armor and flesh as well as any blade.

A helpless Tyrande let out another gasp. The more she stared at the valiant wolf, the more comfortable he seemed on two legs as opposed to four. The claws of one hand clamped together so tightly that they were as one, and also grew with each successive cut.

This was different from what the high priestess had heard had happened during the original battle, and she knew immediately that history had now slipped into something else. This was what Elune truly wished to reveal to her . . . though what it meant was yet a mystery to the night elf.

The wolf’s claws abruptly became a true greatsword, and the brown wolf fully a man . . . an armored warrior whose face the high priestess could not make out from where she watched. The pack right behind him, he continued to challenge the Burning Legion. His sword thrust again and again.

A startling new change followed, but this time among the demons. They transformed, becoming foes equally recognizable and far more imminent: orcs .

The transformation was swift and happened without notice by those involved. The wolves tore at the orcs as if they had always been the enemy.

Felling another opponent, the shadowed warrior raised his sword and let out a triumphant shout that still had hints of a lupine howl. The wolf pack surged again, but now they also stood on their hind legs, and their forepaws became hands wielding axes, maces, and other weapons. Like their leader, they were now human, albeit even more shadowed than he was.

Disarray overtook the orcs. Their numbers dwindled. The lead warrior once again confidently shouted.

And from behind the line of battle, in the direction the high priestess knew the body of the wolf Ancient lay, there came an answering howl. Tyrande turned her gaze there . . . and beheld two Goldrinns. The first was the corpse of the slain animal. The second was a glorious, translucent spirit who once more howled victory.

But though the wolf spirit was like mist, there was something else within him, something more solid and somewhat familiar—

With a start, the high priestess realized that she was staring at the shadowed leader . . . despite the fact that he should have been at the forefront of the battle. Then, blinking, Tyrande noticed that she was watching the forefront. Both areas had suddenly blended together. Goldrinn’s ghostly countenance hovered over his champion, who seemed to grow taller yet.

An orc wielding two axes swung at the champion. The warrior deflected the first axe, then swiftly did the same with the second. With a whirl of the sword, he then brought the blade between both axes and thrust it deep into the orc’s chest.

Blood spurted from the gaping wound as the champion pulled the weapon free. The orc gaped, staggered. His eyes glazed. The axes fell from his twitching fingers.

The hulking orc dropped to his knees. His body shook and blood flowed from his mouth, dribbling over his jaw and tusks.

The shadowed hero took a step back.

The orc fell forward, landing face-first at his slayer’s feet. As he perished, so, too, did the last of his comrades.

The battle was over.

The spectral Goldrinn let out a new howl. Then, he and the warrior fully blended together. At the same time, the shadowed champion at last turned his gaze toward Tyrande. His face was finally visible. . . .

And at that moment, the high priestess returned to the Temple Gardens.

Tyrande wavered briefly, then quickly regained her composure. There was no one else in sight, perhaps coincidence, perhaps Elune’s intention. Tyrande also suspected that not even a second had passed in the mortal world.

The high priestess did not question being suddenly thrust into the vision. Elune had clearly wished to relay something of such urgency to her that it could not wait. Understanding what it was, Tyrande was grateful, yet a bit confused.

She realized that someone was approaching her. Smoothing her silver robes, the high priestess met the gaze of one of General Shandris Feathermoon’s aides. The Sentinel looked a bit flushed, as if she had been running hard.

The female Sentinel—her torso, forearms, and legs protected by light armor—knelt with the utmost deference before Tyrande, not only because the high priestess was their leader, but also because the general was Tyrande’s adopted daughter. The warrior was armed with one of the favored weapons of the night elves, a triple-bladed moonglaive.

Keeping her head down, the other night elf said, “The general knew that you would wish to see this immediately, High Priestess.”

The Sentinel held forth a small parchment that bore Shandris’s personal seal. Taking the missive and dismissing the aide, Tyrande broke the seal and read the contents. The message was short and to the point, as was the general’s way.

Word arrives that the king of Stormwind will be joining the summit.

There was nothing more save Shandris’s mark at the bottom. The news was significant in one great respect in that if Stormwind was a part of the gathering, then the other holdouts would quickly send word of their coming as well. The high priestess and Malfurion had been hoping that Stormwind would agree to be part, though of late they had been concerned that its ruler might instead decide the kingdom’s fortunes were better without its troubled neighbors.

But of even more significance to the high priestess was the timing of this news. She knew that Shandris had only just received it herself a few minutes before and that, as the general always did, Shandris had made certain that her beloved ruler and mother would share in that knowledge as swiftly as possible. Elune had intended for the vision to coincide with the arrival of the missive.

“So, Varian is coming . . . ,” Tyrande murmured. “It all makes sense now. I should have seen it.”

And the vision now became clear. The night elf had only had a glimpse of the face, but even then she had been certain that the shadowed champion resembled none other than King Varian Wrynn of Stormwind. Naturally, the Mother Moon had known, but could only give her high priestess a sign when there was something that could actually be done with that knowledge.