Richard Knaak - Wolfheart

The lord of Stormwind read their reflexes, recognized their moves. He let one guard press ahead of the other. As the first Kor’kron’s anticipation of striking the fatal blow rose, Varian shifted his grip on Shalamayne and threw it like a spear.

Caught unawares by the unorthodox maneuver, the foremost guard left himself open. The force of Varian’s throw sent the blade deep into his foe.

Before the second Kor’kron could make sense of matters, Varian had snatched away the dying guard’s axe. With the full force of his might, he swung at his other adversary’s leg.

The axe all but separated the limb. Screaming, the orc fell to one side.

Varian plucked Shalamayne free, then skewered the wounded Kor’kron.

Why Garrosh had not pursued his two guards became evident as the orc buried Gorehowl in the skull of a riderless nightsaber. The cat did not die immediately, its sharp claws seeking one last time to tear the orc to shreds. But with agility more remarkable due to his broad form, Garrosh evaded the feline’s paw, then moved in and for a second time let Gorehowl bite into the nightsaber’s skull.

The warchief turned his dripping axe to Varian. Without a word the pair renewed their duel. Blood from those who had gotten in their way splattered the human and the orc, but neither paid attention to anything but the other.

Horns sounded. Alliance horns. They grew more dominating, though Garrosh did not notice that. What he did notice was that his breathing was growing more ragged. He had expected to slay Varian Wrynn by now and raise the human’s severed head for all the hapless Alliance to see. Because of that, he had exerted himself harder than he usually did.

But this human has come an impossible distance! the orc angrily reminded himself. He should be the weary one! He should be unable to even lift his sword. . . .

Varian, though, looked as fresh of energy as he had when first they had met. The human’s eyes remained unwavering.

Garrosh realized that he had far underestimated the human. This king possessed the fury of an orc and, through him, the defenders seemed to have gained that fury as well.

And only then did the warchief truly see that the stories he had heard about Varian Wrynn were true. Lo’Gosh did smile with favor on this human . . . and why not? They were of a kind. Here was one who had the heart of a great and determined hunter, a great and determined warrior.

The heart . . . of a wolf.

I have been a fool! the warchief knew then. I should’ve planned an even greater, more brutal thrust! With such a leader, the Alliance may even take eastern Ashenvale back!

Unmindful of what went on in his adversary’s thoughts, Varian further pressed his attack. He saw Garrosh give ground and knew that the orc did not do so as part of some sinister strategy. The advantage had turned to Varian’s.

Varian slashed. It was an attack a weary Garrosh knew that he could parry, but his arm moved a fraction slower than it was wont.

Shalamayne dug into the upper arm, striking tensed muscle.

Garrosh’s entire arm shook. The warchief’s grip momentarily failed. Gorehowl slipped from his twitching fingers and fell to the ground.

Varian pulled back to strike—and an ear-shattering roar overwhelmed both fighters. Varian and Garrosh looked up to see another magnataur come rushing down on them. Worgen scurried over his body as he sought to escape their savage attacks. The worgen had taken Varian’s tactics to heart and had improved on them, for as the behemoth reached the pair, his ravaged front legs gave out and he pitched forward.

Varian threw himself back. With his good hand, Garrosh risked life and limb to seize Gorehowl. As the shadow of the plummeting magnataur rushed over him, he leapt.

The stricken monster rolled to one side, but the worgen only clambered to safer ground, then resumed their relentless shredding. The hind legs kicked wildly, forcing Varian to back farther away.

Garrosh pushed himself to his feet. He searched for the human, but the struggling magnataur blocked his view.

Rage refueling his strength, the warchief began running to the back of the beast. He would find Varian Wrynn again and this time there would be a decisive—

“Warchief!” Another of his Kor’kron stepped in front of him. Garrosh tried to shove the fool aside, but suddenly other hands seized him.

“Beware!” shouted another guard. Two others stepped in to protect their leader as several worgen atop the magnataur took interest in fresher meat. “Get the warchief away!”

As some of his personal guard battled the worgen, a furious Garrosh roared, “Release me, you damned fools! I must find him! I will have his death . . . and claim the sword!”

“The battle is lost!” the first Kor’kron dared to say. “We must get you from here before we’re overrun!”

Garrosh rewarded the speaker with the back of his hand. As blood dribbled down the guard’s mouth, the warchief roared, “The next coward to speak such lies loses his dishonorable head!”

“No lies!” proclaimed another. Several heads bobbed in agreement. “All but one magnataur are down. Our lines have disappeared. On our south, we are among the enemy already. You but have to look and see. If I lie, my head is yours!”

“Mine also!” said the first, with the rest following suit.

Such offers were not given lightly, not with the great possibility that Garrosh would accept. The warchief frowned, then surveyed what he could of the struggle.

It took no imagination to quickly see that they were right. The banners of the Sentinels could be seen edging closer. His own warriors’ banners were little in view, and most of those could be seen farther and farther east. The rest lay no doubt trampled under the enemy’s feet.

“No! I will find him even if I must fight every foe on the field! I will not lose. . . . ” He tried to go in hunt of Varian again, only to have his own guards seize him and begin to drag him to safety.

“We will win Ashenvale yet,” the lead Kor’kron assured him as the guards continued their struggle to save Garrosh.

“The warchief himself says that one battle is not a war!” reminded another. “We will take Ashenvale! We swear it, Warchief. . . .”

Garrosh fought with himself to accept what they said. They were repeating what he had always proclaimed to them. Yet, the reality was bitter to swallow . . . especially after the unfinished duel with Varian Wrynn.

He shook free of his fearful guards, but, to their relief, headed to the mounts to which they had been steering him. In their wake, the battle still raged, though it was clear that the Alliance continued to gain ground.

“Sound the horns,” Garrosh ordered. “Sound the retreat.”

A relieved guard signaled a trumpeter, who did as commanded. As the hated sound reverberated in his mind, Garrosh mounted. He swung Gorehowl once, listened to it wail as he did, then hooked it onto a brace on his back. Just before Garrosh urged his mount on, he looked over his shoulder to where the first elements of the Horde were abandoning the lost cause.

“It is but a battle,” the warchief finally agreed. “ Only a battle. Ashenvale is our destiny. . . . ” Garrosh envisioned again the realm he would build and, in envisioning it, once more knew that it would happen.

He led them off, already making plans. This was not over . . . not until he had won. . . .

And not until Varian Wrynn was dead.

Varian watched the riders fade in the distance, aware that he could have pursued but had chosen not to do so.

Genn Greymane found him near the great corpse of the magnataur who had separated the human from the orc. The worgen leader’s fur was slick with blood and other gore, as was that of every other of his people.