Richard Knaak - Wolfheart

What mattered was that someone first shouted “Varian!” and then “ Goldrinn! ” and those names repeated over and over to become the new battle cry. It was a cry that reverberated through the Horde ranks and sent the first true hint of uncertainty through their minds. The victory should have been theirs long ago. The Alliance should have fallen. What was happening now was not how the magnificent plan had been supposed to play out.

And none knew the last more than Garrosh Hellscream. The future that he had envisioned coming to fruition once Ashenvale was in Horde hands now looked so very distant. His ultimate weapon, the crushing power of the magnataur, had now become a much-too-visible image of his master strategy gone awry.

Even as he thought that, another of the giants went crashing to the ground. Worgen swarmed over the fallen behemoth, seeking especially the throat.

One of the Kor’kron pushed close to Garrosh. “Warchief, you risk yourself here! We cannot lose you. . . .”

“ Lose me?” Garrosh shoved the insolent guard aside. “I will not hide from battle!”

“But the Alliance—”

The warchief glared, causing the hardened guard to flinch. Garrosh roared another command, sending in reinforcements where the accursed worgen had weakened his forces.

The Alliance’s new battle cry pounded in his head. Garrosh could not make out exactly what the enemy called, but he could see how it stirred them to greater effort against his warriors. “What is that? What words do they shout?”

Another guard answered. “They cry the name of the human king . . . and with it, Goldrinn . . . their title for the great Lo’Gosh !”

“The wolf Ancient . . .” Garrosh’s gaze searched the struggle. “Lo’Gosh . . . and Varian Wrynn . . .”

And as he once more spoke the human’s name, the orc leader spotted the Alliance’s apparent champion among the enemy encroaching on his position . . . and Varian Wrynn spotted him.

In silent agreement, they pushed toward one another. Garrosh’s personal guard protested, but he slipped in among the other fighters and left his would-be protectors struggling to reach him.

Shalamayne moved as a blur, cutting and slaying any who stood in the king’s way. Brave though orcs, tauren, blood elves, and trolls might be, foolish they were not. There was better chance for glory—and life—against many others.

But one figure did come between the two, Varian his intended hunt, also. His impetuous thrust almost did what so many had failed to do. However, the cut in Varian’s arm was shallow.

Briln, the edge of his axe blade stained with the human’s blood, glared at Varian.

“My magnataur!” roared the former mariner bitterly. “My glory and honor! Look what you’ve done!”

His ferocity forced Varian into momentary retreat. Briln had not survived for so long without being skilled with the axe, as Haldrissa had discovered to her detriment. There were tricks that he could have even taught Garrosh—not that such a thing mattered at the moment to the distraught orc. The magnataur were to have been his way of redeeming himself for all the catastrophes of the journey, especially the lives lost. Now this human, this lone human, was undoing that.

Varian had no time for this insane orc. He knew that Garrosh was very close, even perhaps almost within striking range. Yet, the former mariner would not be denied.

Briln swung again, and in doing so reminded Varian of his one obvious weakness. The eye patch meant darkness was all that the orc could see on that side, and even though Briln knew that, too, he could still not change that fact.

Varian let the orc attack anew, and when the swing pulled Briln so that his lost eye best faced the human, Varian drove Shalamayne into his adversary’s chest.

Briln dropped his weapon as Varian pulled Shalamayne free. The orc fell to his knees. Still glaring at Varian, he gasped, “My . . . magnataur . . . my . . .”

The captain crumpled, and Varian swung Shalamayne behind his own back.

A shock ran through his body as the blade met metal. Half kneeling, he spun and blocked a second swing. Both times an inhuman wail preceded the clash.

“I knew you’d deflect both,” Garrosh rumbled in honest admiration as he loomed over Varian. “You would not be who you are if you could not. . . .”

“I’d be dead,” Varian answered lightly. “I’d be you.”

The warchief chuckled . . . and attacked.

Shalamayne and Gorehowl bit at one another once, twice, three times. Their wielders brought them together so quickly that, rather than sparks, it was as if lightning played over the human and the orc.

Varian stumbled over a corpse. Garrosh chopped downward, intending to cleave him in two. The king rolled to the side, came up, and lunged.

Now it was Garrosh’s turn to retreat. He kept Gorehowl up, saving his throat twice, then used the hefty reach the axe provided him to stave off Varian until the orc was able to regain his footing.

Once more, sword and axe joined together. Garrosh sought to catch the blade with the curve of Gorehowl’s head, but Varian withdrew the point at the last moment. He then tried to drive under the warchief’s defenses, only to have the orc block Shalamayne with the flat of the axe.

“You only delay the inevitable!” shouted Garrosh. “The day of the Alliance is at an end! The Horde is Azeroth’s future!”

“The Horde should fear the end of day! With the end of day comes the night . . . and with the night comes the worgen . . . ,” Varian retorted.

The gap that had separated them from the other combatants around them closed at that moment. Warriors locked in desperate combat flowed into the pair, pressing them into one another. The eyes of the human and the orc met long, and both saw death in the other’s gaze.

“Pray to your spirits,” the king flatly stated.

“I shall do so. You’ll need a proper guide to the afterlife, human. . . .”

With a roar, Garrosh shoved as hard as he could. Varian slammed into those behind him. The warchief cut a savage arc, Gorehowl’s mournful cry sending those closest scattering again.

Varian cut off the cry with Shalamayne, first deflecting the axe, then using a twist of his wrist to enable the sword to bring the orc’s weapon to the side.

With his fist, Garrosh hammered the human’s shoulder. Varian gritted his teeth as his bones shook. Seeking to stop the attack, he brought his blade between his shoulder and the pounding fist.

The warchief swung at his other, now-unprotected shoulder.

Varian tossed Shalamayne to his other hand, then tilted the blade toward Gorehowl. But although he kept Gorehowl from crushing his shoulder, the axe still cut across the upper arm. The king grunted in renewed pain as he shifted away.

Shalamayne avenged him quickly. Varian had long ago learned to wield his sword with either hand, although one would always be favored over the other. Garrosh reacted too slowly to the fact that his human foe could handle Shalamayne well even now. The tip of the sword drew a red line along the warchief’s chest just below the throat.

Suddenly another axe entered the fray. One of the Kor’kron had reached the struggle and, in keeping with his duties, sought to protect Garrosh. The guard threw himself bodily toward Varian, his unexpected intervention leaving the king in desperate straits.

Another Kor’kron came at Varian from the opposite direction. Their axes were not Gorehowl, but they were well bloodied and wielded by expert hands. The Kor’kron slashed and swung, pushing Varian back.

Garrosh growled angrily at his guards, but his words were drowned by the battle. Both Kor’kron looked upon Varian with malevolent eagerness: with his death they would not only serve their warchief but also bring acclaim upon themselves.