Richard Knaak: Wolfheart

“Varian Wrynn,” she repeated, recalling so much about the king’s troubled past in that name. He had been a slave, a gladiator, a man with no memory of his true self. He had watched his kingdom fall and fought to take it back from none other than what had turned out to be the daughter of Deathwing in human guise.

And during those terrible times, when Varian had lost his name and had been forced to fight for his life nearly every day for the pleasure of spectators, he had been given another name by those in attendance, a uniquely important name.

He had been—and still was by many—called Lo’Gosh .

Lo’Gosh . . . another name for the ghost wolf, Goldrinn .

The two cloaked travelers disembarked from the small boat. That they were night elves like the majority of the inhabitants of Rut’theran Village was evidenced in their build and their ears, which shoved back the fabric of their deep hoods. Their faces remained in shadow.

The port village was humble by night elf standards but exceedingly fresh in appearance, for all the buildings were new. It was actually the second settlement by the name, the first destroyed by the sea during the Cataclysm. The second most significant characteristic of the port other than its three docks was the hippogryph breeding area, where eggs of the astonishing winged creatures who acted as aerial transport for the night elves were meticulously cared for and the young were raised.

The most significant aspect of the island was something the pair of travelers had been viewing for quite some time. In fact, they had seen it from miles away on the mainland . . . just as anyone else in this region would have.

Teldrassil was the name given for the island, but only as an afterthought. The island was only an extension of the true Teldrassil . . . a titanic tree filling most of the land and rising so high, the top vanished in the clouds. Its branches were so vast that they dwarfed some kingdoms. The thick crown could have housed an entire civilization—and did.

Indeed, Teldrassil was known as the second World Tree. The first, ancient Nordrassil, still lived, but had yet to recover from the violence of the Third War—again, against the Burning Legion—only a few years prior. While Nordrassil had provided immortality, good health, protection from the misuses of the Well of Eternity’s magic, and an open path to the Emerald Dream, the second World Tree had served mainly as the new home for the night elf race. Even then Teldrassil had already had its share of troubles. The tree had been tainted by the evil of the Nightmare Lord through his puppet, the archdruid Fandral Staghelm. That taint had spread to the flora and fauna upon Teldrassil, and only recently had the tree been cleansed.

But as inspiring as the vast tree was to all who saw it, the newcomers almost appeared oblivious to its presence now. The taller of the traveling pair—male, with long, silver hair spilling out from his hood—paused to eye with much interest the adult hippogryphs. The slighter and clearly female figure at his side coughed harshly and teetered against her companion. The male quickly turned his attention from the avian creatures and tightened his hold on her.

“The portal,” he murmured. “It will be nearby and quicker. Just hold on . . . we are almost there. Hold on . . . please!”

The female’s hood briefly bobbed up and down. “I will . . . do my best . . . my husband. . . .”

Her reply was very weak, and by the stiffening of his form the male showed his grave concern for his mate. Guiding her forward, he searched for what neither had ever seen but should have been readily identifiable.

A Sentinel officer noticed the pair. Her gaze swept over the concealing cloaks. Frowning, her glaive gripped at the ready, she confronted them.

“Welcome, visitors,” she said. “May I ask from where you come?”

The male looked at her, his face briefly becoming visible.

The Sentinel’s words trailed off, and her face flushed with shock. “You . . .”

Without a word, the male led his mate past the stunned officer. As he did, that which he sought became visible through the buildings and the crowd.

“The portal . . . ,” he murmured.

A stone path followed a gentle slope up to Teldrassil. At the base of the tree loomed a tall portal, a huge, shimmering mark in Darnassian script emanating from its side. Yet, even as high as it stood, the magical entry was dwarfed by some of the great roots arcing down from Teldrassil.

The portal was a magical, direct link to the city far, far above. Two Sentinels were the only evident guards, but the male traveler knew that there were others hidden near and, in addition, safety measures built into and around the structure.

Undaunted, he led his mate toward the portal. The Sentinels eyed him suspiciously.

From behind the travelers came the officer’s voice. “Let them pass unhindered.”

The guards did not question the command. The male traveler did not waste time turning to thank the officer; all that mattered was getting his mate to Darnassus . . . to help.

“Watch your footing,” he whispered to her.

She managed a nod. They had succeeded in making it to the portal itself. His hopes rose. Almost there!

A fit of coughing overtook her. It became so brutal that he lost his grip on her. She fell to her knees, her hooded face nearly to the stone.

He quickly retrieved her, but as he helped her straighten, the soft patter of liquid caught his ear.

A small pool of blood decorated the area near where her face had hovered.

“Not again . . .”

Her hand, which held his, suddenly squeezed with the incredible strength of the truly fearful. “Husband—”

She collapsed in his arms.

The guards moved to assist, but he had no time for them. They might even suggest that he wait while they check on her condition. But in his harried thoughts, any second meant disaster . . . loss. . . .

His only hope was reaching the high priestess.

Gripping his slumped mate, the male lunged into the portal.

Moving against the slight breeze passing through the forest, the long, thick branches from the nearby trees stretched down. The leafy appendages moved with utmost purpose toward the bearded figure they surrounded. He stared up at the oncoming branches and did nothing . . . but smile.

Malfurion Stormrage stood silent as leaves from the first branches caressed his face. Even among those of his calling, he was unique. At first, it appeared that he was adorned with the marks of the great animals whose shapes those most versed in his calling could summon. Only closer inspection revealed that some of these attributes were a part of him, the results of his ties to Azeroth and the many years his spirit had spent in the Emerald Dream. While his dreamform had become more and more attuned to that other realm, his sleeping body—still bound to his spirit—had begun to take on elements of these powerful creatures. Thus, the edges of his arms grew into the expansive gray wings of the storm crow. The nightsaber, its bond especially close to those of Malfurion’s race, was marked by what were not boots but the archdruid’s very feet. They now mimicked the look of the feline’s mighty paws. In addition to all this, his kilt bore in front as decoration the curved teeth of the nightsaber, and his hands were clad in gloves ending in the claws of the bear.

One mark that had nothing to do with beasts and perhaps more with Malfurion in particular was the blue bolts of lightning that crossed his torso from shoulder to opposing side of the waist. Smaller, complementing bolts darted from his elbow down his forearm. Stormrage was not merely the archdruid’s surname; it was also a hint of the tremendous power at his command, power that he sought to use only when all other efforts failed.