Richard Knaak - Wolfheart

“Varian Wrynn!” roared a voice the king recognized. “Varian Wrynn, I challenge you! Turn and meet your doom!”

Varian whirled. Garrosh Hellscream, Gorehowl raised high, grinned as the two faced one another.

The human said nothing, his expression answer enough for the orc. They converged, the axe wailing as the two weapons clashed and sparks flew. The force of their strike sent both combatants stumbling back a few steps.

The warchief grinned ominously. “Such a weapon! With Gorehowl, it will make the finest comrade an orc could wield!”

“Shalamayne prefers the taste of orc blood,” Varian replied. “Yours especially. . . .”

He lunged.

The orc deflected his strike, the blade and the axe head again sending up a shower of sparks. Garrosh swung. The human countered. Again and again, the two champions found themselves as evenly matched as their fabled weapons.

“I’ve waited for this moment!” Garrosh grinned. “Our fight in Ulduar was too brief and without satisfaction, especially since I did not then have Gorehowl to match against your sword. . . .”

“My sentiments exactly!” The king deflected another strike by Gorehowl, both fighters forced to squint as sparks from the clashing weapons flew at their eyes. “I promise not to disappoint you this time . . . except when I take your head. . . .”

The orc laughed. “Your skull will have a place of honor on the gates of Orgrimmar!”

He swung Gorehowl low, seeking to catch Varian by surprise and disembowel the human. The king turned Shalamayne down and, though the angle was awkward, kept the axe from his torso.

Ignorant of the battle waging below him, the magnataur continued his turn as he hunted for the puny human. Varian saw the great leg sweeping toward them. He rolled back as Garrosh, not yet aware of the danger, readied another blow from the wailing axe.

The leg struck the orc. It was only a glancing blow, but it was enough to send Garrosh sprawling.

Unable to see what happened to Garrosh after that, Varian chose to sheathe Shalamayne. He watched as the magnataur settled in place for a moment. When that happened, Varian jumped at the leg.

The moment he grabbed hold of the magnataur’s fur, the monster roared and tried to shake him loose. But before the behemoth could, another figure clung to the other hind leg. The worgen began his climb at the same time as Varian, creating a distraction for the king.

A second worgen jumped onto the same leg as Varian. Several more quickly did the same. They were for the most part those he had commanded to follow him, but who had become momentarily separated by the battle.

Gritting his teeth, Varian pulled himself up. The first part of his plan had come into play, but now he had to follow through. Without the aid of claws, Varian still reached the back of the magnataur long before the first worgen.

The magnataur twisted as much as his upper torso would allow him. His hand came agonizingly near Varian, who drew Shalamayne and cut at the fingers. He was rewarded with the behemoth snatching the bleeding hand back, which allowed several of the worgen to make it to the king.

There was no need for words. The worgen knew their task. Like ants, they raced up and around the magnataur and, wherever their blades, maces, and other mundane weapons proved too unmanageable, began rending the flesh with their claws and even biting. The thick, tough hide of the gigantic creature protected at first, giving the magnataur the chance to try to brush off some of the vermin on him. A half dozen worgen went spilling off the beast, some managing to land well or snag hold of a leg, but others plummeting to their deaths.

But then a worgen managed the first tear in the magnataur, his success followed immediately by another. The bull howled in rage and shook back and forth. With his stocky build, especially his elephantine lower half, the magnataur could no more jump than the mammoth that part of his body resembled. Instead, he abruptly reared up on his hind legs, seeking with the unexpected motion to dislodge his attackers. Two worgen fell free, but Varian and the rest managed to maintain their grips despite this surprise.

More worgen joined those swarming the magnataur. They clambered over his back, his neck, and some of the most daring even tore into his chest. Alone or even if only a dozen or so, they would have been mere annoyances . . . but now they began to take a toll. The bull’s rage took on a hint of frustration, then pain, as he bled from more than two dozen wounds.

Shalamayne proved even better than ordinary swords and claws at cutting through the rough hide. His feet braced, his balance careful, Varian slashed again and again, opening ravines in the magnataur’s back.

Another angry bellow caught his attention. The next nearest magnataur had finally chosen to aid the bull. It was not out of any loyalty between the monsters, but rather a sense of survival. The other magnataur had realized that anything that could potentially harm their leader could next turn on the others.

Varian grinned. The reason for his grin became instantly apparent as more worgen suddenly crawled up the legs of the oncoming magnataur. No longer interested in assisting the dominant bull, the other behemoth tried in vain to clear his own hide of the rapidly increasing numbers of lupine invaders.

A battle horn blowing an Alliance signal made Varian look to the night elves’ lines. Without the magnataur in direct conflict with them, the Sentinels were able to even better regroup. What had been a rout was now more of a balanced battle again.

Varian planned to take it further than that. The worgen, heedless of their danger, did not flinch from attacking the other magnataur. Others of the great pack continued their rush into the midst of the Horde forces and, from the monster’s back, Varian could see the swath of death that the Gilneans had already made through the enemy.

The bull suddenly began to move toward the deeper forest. Varian knew what he planned: the magnataur intended to either seize a partial tree trunk and try to knock the worgen off, or begin rubbing against the standing trees in the hopes of doing the same.

Varian returned to one of the hind legs. There, he found, of all Gilneans, Genn Greymane. “Why are you here?”

“To make sure what you want done is done!” the other monarch roared back.

Varian was actually pleased to see him. “The other hind leg! We need to get down lower while he’s distracted!”

Genn looked puzzled until Varian made a cutting motion. The worgen then smiled. “I’ll take the lead with them!”

They separated without another word. Varian sheathed his sword, then began his descent. What he planned could not have been done until now. The magnataur needed to be focused on the worgen as a whole, not a few who climbed down now instead of up.

As he reached the point he desired, Varian drew Shalamayne. He glanced at the other hind leg. Despite the creature’s movement, the worgen easily clung to the limb. Genn had just reached the same level as Varian.

Without hesitation, and with his other hand and his legs holding him as best they could, Varian Wrynn used Shalamayne to cut as deep and wide a wound as he could in the back of the magnataur’s leg.

The beast roared in sudden agony. It stumbled to the side, nearly dislodging some of the worgen elsewhere. Varian hoped for the best for the brave Gilneans as he readjusted his aim and, instead of slashing, drove Shalamayne deep.

The effect was instantaneous. The bull’s leg collapsed. Sword gripped tightly, Varian threw himself free.

He landed a short distance from the crippled leg. Blood dripped out of the wound, but that was not why the leg could not hold any longer: Varian had expertly severed the tendon.