Turalyon felt the blood drain from his face. For a moment he couldn't respond. She stared at him, breathing quickly, daring him to speak.
"Just because you live longer doesn't mean you feel more," he said. "Trust me on that one." He gave her a lopsided smile. Her face only hardened the more.
"So, you are better than me because you live for this long?" she challenged, snapping her fingers. "Or are you better than me because of your precious Light?"
'Alleria, I want to see justice done. You know that. But you're not talking justice, you're talking vengeance. And I see what it's doing to you. The Light isn't mine, it's everyone's. It's about healing. It's—"
"Don't you dare lecture me!" she warned, her voice dropping to a steely hiss. "Your Holy Light didn't stop the orcs from tearing open a way into our world, did it? The Light can't restore my ravaged homeland, or give me back my—"
She closed her jaw with a snap. Turalyon stared at her for a long moment, then sighed deeply.
"Ranger," he said formally, "here are my orders. For the moment, you will stay here in Stormwind, along with half of my troops and myself. Send for your rangers, have them gather here. The city has just started to get its feet underneath it. I won't leave it unprotected."
Her jaw tightened. "So we're just going to wait out the war here, sir, like cowards, sir?"
Turalyon did not rise to the bait. "I will request reinforcements, and when they come, we'll leave. But until then, we stay here."
She nodded. "You'll protect a city when it's your own. I see now. Permission to leave to gather my rangers, sir?"
Alleria's words were designed to get under his skin, and they had. But Turalyon was more concerned about what had happened to Alleria — or more correctly, what she was doing to herself — to cause her to speak them. She had changed so very, very much. Sadly he recalled first their initial reactions to one another — he stammering, awestruck first by her grace and beauty and later by her consummate skill, and she amused, intrigued, slightly supercilious. He had lost some of his awe — not all of it; he would never lose all of it, but some — and she had grown to respect him. To like him. To seek out his company, to want him by her side in battle and, he'd once believed, in a more intimate way.
But there seemed little of that woman left. And all he could do was be saddened and worried by the changes, and wonder if shed let her hate for the orcs get in the way of her judgment. By the Light — if she died because of this recklessness of hers —
He realized he was staring, and nodded. He did not trust himself to speak past the lump in his throat. Alleria inclined her head, the barest gesture of required respect, and strode past him.
Turalyon watched her go, wondering if he'd made the right decision. What would Lothar have done? Would he have waited until reinforcements came, or would he have charged into battle? Was he wasting time or being smart? Was it enough, to send his second-in-command Danath Trollbane and half his men to Nethergarde right now?
He shook his head, clearing it. He couldn't afford to second-guess right now, and his decision felt like the right one. He'd need to send some messengers. One to the Wildhammers, letting them know the situation. One to Lordaeron.
And one, he thought with a small, sad little smile, to Mekkatorque, to let him know that unfortunately, the men intended as ratcatchers for the tram would not be coming after all.
Alleria did not head back to the keep, as she had said she would. Instead, once she left the cathedral, she started to run, her feet swift and almost completely silent as they carried her along the streets toward the great gates of the city. She ignored startled glances as she ran, permitting the gawking stares to fuel her anger, and raced through the gates into the wooded area beyond. She ran until she found a small stream and there, beneath the boughs of the sheltering trees, she sank down on the sodden earth.
She was cold and soaked to the skin, but she ignored the discomfort.
It had gone worse than she had feared.
How was it that a mere human could rattle her so? He was a child beside her, a rude, loud child who — even as she thought the words, she knew that they were wrong. Turalyon was shockingly young compared with her, but he was reckoned a man among his own people, and he was kind and wise and smart.
And at one point, so long ago it seemed now, she had thought she loved him.
Alleria growled and put a clenched hand to her heart, as if warning it not to soften. Her fingers touched the wrought silver of a necklace that held three precious stones. It had been given to her by her parents; it was a link with a world that had once been. A world of grace and beauty and balance. A world the orcs had forever crippled.
The trees here were not those of the forests of Eversong, those beautiful, golden-leafed patriarchs whose branches had held her and her sisters and — She squeezed her eyes shut, and whispered a name: "Lirath . . ."
Her youngest brother. She remembered him now the way he had looked the last time she had seen him. Beautiful, laughing, dancing beneath the golden leaves as a piper played a sprightly tune. Young, so young. He wanted to be a ranger, like his sisters, but in this moment she had frozen forever in her mind, Alleria watched him simply enjoy being alive.
The orcs had slaughtered him, snuffing out his bright life like a flame pinched between a cruel thumb and forefinger.
Had slaughtered so many, too many other kin — cousins, aunts, uncles, nieces … had slaughtered friends she had known longer than Turalyon had been alive —
And they would pay. Her hand tightened on the necklace. They would suffer, as gentle young Lirath had. As her people, her city, her land had. They would taste a thousandfold the pain they had inflicted upon her. It would be sweet — sweet as the blood she had once tentatively licked from her hand after a kill. Turalyon had almost caught her that time. Now, she told herself, he must not know.
He must not stop her.
He must not soften her heart, as he had come perilously close to doing once before.
Whatever the cost, Alleria Windrunner would have her revenge.
Rain pounded down outside, but the stables were dry, if steamy. The scent of horses and leather filled the moist air. The beasts whickered, pawing at the haycovered cobblestones beneath their hooves as their riders saddled them. They were trained warhorses, and had not seen battle in some time. They seemed as anxious as Danath Trollbane was to depart.
Danath's men, though, were greener.
His own horse had been saddled and ready quickly, and now he moved among his soldiers. "Make haste," he glowered at one who was having trouble with the stirrups. "This is no pleasure outing!"
Turalyon had let him choose half among all the military left in Stormwind. He'd chosen cavalry units he knew would be able to cross the miles quickly and form ranks again soon after. They needed to move fast — but they had to be careful not to wear out the horses. He suspected they wouldn't have the luxury of a rest to reorganize and regroup. But most of the men he'd fought with were scattered now over the human territories, and there was no time to summon all the veterans home.
"We don't want to miss the fight, do we, sir?" a soldier said with a grin as he grasped his mount's reins. He was little more than a boy, really, too young to have fought in the Second War — one of the many who had joined after the War's end, to help fill out the ranks so badly decimated by the fighting.
Danath shook his bald head and ran a hand through his silvering beard, trying to recall the boys name. Farrol, that was it. "You've not faced orcs before, have you, Farrol?" he rumbled.
"No, sir!" Farrol replied with a wide grin that showed how young he really was. "But I'm looking forward to it, sir!"