Richard Knaak: Wolfheart

Ashenvale is ours, the warchief repeated to himself, savoring that fact. Ashenvale is—

An unearthly howl arose from the forest to the north. The warchief missed a step as he looked that direction. He knew wolves, dire wolves, and most of their cousins, and this sounded like none of those.

The howl repeated, this time much stronger, much more challenging, and Garrosh knew right away that it challenged the Horde. Moreover, he was not the only one. Everywhere, orcs and others hesitated, eyed the forest, and clutched their weapons a little tighter. Even the magnataur looked up in curiosity at this sharp cry.

And from the forest there answered a multitude of similar howls. Even from where he stood, Garrosh could hear the shaking of leaves and brush as something that seemed as massive in its own way as the magnataur closed on the battlefield.

Recovering, he raised Gorehowl and opened his mouth to shout orders.

Stunned yells arose from those warriors farther to the north, the ones who had been passing through the forest toward the night elves’ position. Those shouts were followed by growls and screams.

“To the north, you fools!” Garrosh commanded. “To the north—”

Out they flowed, a river of dark death. Wave after wave of sleek, furred forms. The orcs, trolls, and tauren Garrosh saw in their path went down in a flash of weapons and claws. The fiends moved like the wind and spread out as they met the Horde.

But most amazing of all was that at their head ran a human. Yet, he moved like no human, but indeed seemed more a wolf than even the dread fighters who flanked him. He wielded a sword that glittered and that identified him to Garrosh from clear across the terrain.

“The sword Shalamayne . . . ,” Garrosh snarled, his fury rising swiftly. “Varian Wrynn . . .”

It had taken every resource for Varian to get himself, his crew, and, most of all, the worgen to Ashenvale in time. In truth, he had expected to come to find that all had been laid waste in the Alliance-held lands and that everyone he knew among the defenders was dead. Yet, as the ship had dropped anchor as near as they could and the worgen disembarked, he had suddenly been filled with a sense that, not only had he not arrived too late, but his belief that this had been his destiny all along was more true than he could have imagined. The moment that he stepped onto the shore of Ashenvale, Varian had felt the call of Goldrinn even more than he had during the ritual. It had grown stronger with each breath he took—so strong that he finally no longer resisted it but fully embraced it.

Clad in lightweight but durable leather armor and with Shalamayne sheathed at his side, Varian started running, running with purpose.

Genn Greymane had seen him standing there, watching the forest. The aura of Goldrinn had grown around the king of Stormwind. All the worgen could see it, even if Varian’s own people could not. Genn had realized what was about to happen and had been the one to tell those of Stormwind to follow as best they could later. Almost immediately after that point, Varian had disappeared among the trees.

Genn had followed . . . and the worgen had followed him.

Varian would recall little of the run through the forest. He only knew deep inside that somehow he ran faster than should have been possible, that he seemed to outrace time itself. The spirit of Goldrinn fueled him, the great wolf’s fury touching his heart and enabling Varian to push on and on toward his destination.

At last, sensing something, he drew to a halt as Genn and the worgen came up behind him. Genn blinked, sniffed the air again, and muttered a single word that verified Varian’s suspicions: “Horde . . .”

That word encompassed so many smells, so many aspects, of the enemy. Varian himself could smell the muskiness of the orcs and the tauren, the sweat of many trolls, the decay of the Forsaken, the smoke of many fires, and the stench that could only be attributed to goblin machines.

The other worgen raised their snouts as they, too, smelled the nearness of the enemy. Varian led them a bit closer and they caught their first glimpses of the battlefield.

At that point he had drawn Shalamayne and, seeing what he and the worgen must do, had thrust the sword forward and shouted a war cry.

The worgen had howled with him, and Genn, glancing Varian’s way, had seen the aura around the king of Stormwind radiate stronger than ever. The snarling visage of Goldrinn had loomed over the wolf Ancient’s champion.

Varian had leapt into the fray, the worgen spreading out as he had bidden them. The first of the Horde had been brought down with almost ridiculous ease, so disbelieving had they been of the sight.

Now, as the worgen spread out into the main battlefield, Varian decided on his next course of action. He wanted dearly to find Garrosh Hellscream, but such a personal battle had to take second place to the more imminent disaster.

“To me!” he roared to the nearest worgen. Without looking to see who followed, he ran—yes, ran, despite so much distance already crossed—and headed for the lead magnataur.

A shaggy tauren saw him and moved to intercept. The heavy axe created a dust cloud as it drove into the ground where Varian should have been. However, the king had moved far more swiftly than his bullheaded adversary had calculated. Varian was already to the side of the much bulkier, taller warrior. With Shalamayne, he slashed across the tauren’s torso, cutting so deeply that the tauren was dead before he fell.

The Horde ranks no longer charged forward. They were already painfully aware of a new and powerful enemy in their very midst. Yet, the orcs and their allies were not used to the fluid movements of the worgen. Underestimation of the lupine attackers led to many Horde deaths in the first few moments.

That was not to say that worgen did not perish. The Horde had not thrived without being able to adapt. Two orcs combined to catch a worgen between them. What one axe failed to strike, the other caught in the spine. Other worgen dropped with bolts through their chests or throats.

But the Horde suffered much greater. Not only was this a foe that they had never met before, but it came at them from the side, forcing them to face both the west and north at once. After all, Tyrande and Shandris were not so slow-witted as not to realize that they once again had hope. Even with the magnataur still wreaking havoc, they managed to re-form some of their lines and counterattack.

But all of this Varian only vaguely registered as his view swept from the field to his prey. The bull had turned his attention to this new enemy of his masters. A huge hand grabbed at a worgen and, while not succeeding in snatching him up, did inadvertently swipe the unfortunate Gilnean, sending him hurtling to his death.

Two orcs attacked Varian, but a worgen leapt at one, pulling the green-skinned warrior to the ground, where they struggled. The worgen’s claws tore through the throat of the orc.

Varian dodged the swing by the second orc, came under his shield, and thrust Shalamayne through the orc’s midsection. Pulling the sword free, the king then had to jump to the side as one back leg of the magnataur came down.

The gigantic creature turned. However, the magnataur were not built for speed. They did not need to be: they were so huge that they covered distance readily. However, in close combat, Varian at least had the advantage in mobility, as long as he avoided the feet or the hands. That, though, would avail him nothing in the long run, and he had no intention of merely running.

As the behemoth instinctively turned after him, Varian moved toward the hind leg again. He came within reach.