Another unit consisting of defenders from Ashenvale formed a new center. Denea had volunteered to take command of them in place of Haldrissa, and Shandris had agreed to that. The general gave the younger Sentinel some last-minute instructions, then sent her off to her soldiers.
Shandris turned to Tyrande. “Are you ready? Can you take over?”
The devastation around the high priestess still fresh in her mind—and especially the deaths of those who had paid for being in the vicinity of her—Tyrande flatly replied, “Be ready.”
With a crooked grin, Shandris secured another mount from one of the other Sentinels, then rode off. Tyrande of necessity led her own cat farther to the rear. Although she ached to join Shandris in battle, for this, she had to be in a safer position. Only when her task was accomplished could she enter the fray herself.
The apparent impasse held. Making certain that the assigned priestesses were ready, Tyrande waited for the right moment.
A horn blew from where Shandris commanded.
The Alliance archers ceased firing.
The orcs forming the first ranks roared, then charged toward the river. Tauren and trolls followed them, while in the back, the undead warlocks of the Forsaken and witch doctors from the trolls began casting spells that Tyrande hoped her own side would be able to counter with minimal losses. Arrows flew toward the Alliance’s own front ranks, where huntresses, lances ready, were forced to crouch behind shields and barriers.
In concert with the other priestesses, Tyrande prayed to Elune.
Moonlight touched her and her followers. It then reached forth beyond the defenders’ lines, stretching across the river. However, where before it had simply glowed everywhere in order to dissolve the false mist, now its light focused as if through a diamond.
And even moonlight in the eyes can blind.
The front ranks of the Horde were caught in their tracks. The hulking warriors stumbled. Whether orc, tauren, or some other powerful fighter, there was nothing they could do. The light caught them by surprise. It dazzled their gazes. Several orcs ran into one another, their positions made worse by the fact that they were half in the water.
Now, Shandris! Tyrande silently called. Now!
The blare of a new horn heartened her, as did the battle cry of the rushing Sentinels and the deadly hiss of the protecting archers. Into the river raced the lancers, their nightsabers undaunted by the water or the enemy ahead. Shandris had utilized the knowledge of Ashenvale’s defenders to know where the shallowest areas were, aiding the momentum of the charge.
From the other side, there came the bleat of a horn. Still blinded, the Horde fighters shuffled back as best they could.
They will be slaughtered, Tyrande thought with some guilt. She knew that she did the right thing, but still she also prayed that perhaps the enemy would see fit to either keep running or wisely surrender.
The first of the lancers reached the other side, the crumbling lines of the orcs and their allies only a few yards ahead now. The expert aim of Sentinel archers downed several brutish warriors who refused to retreat with the rest. Orcs, by far the bulk of Garrosh’s expedition, lay strewn everywhere, their fearsome tusked faces often still seeming angry in death. Some had more than half a dozen bolts sticking out of their thick hides and even more stuck in their armor and shields. The orcs had done their best to protect themselves, but against so many arrows, even the best of armor proved inadequate.
Yet, even despite the deadly downpour, several orcs—arrows deep in legs, arms, and torso—survived to keep some order as they dragged more severely wounded comrades back from danger. Two grabbed banners from fallen comrades, waving the Horde flags in defiance as the Sentinels moved in after them.
Despite the surviving orcs’ bravado, it appeared that the destruction of Silverwing would soon be avenged. However, of even greater import was the growing hope that the liberation of all Ashenvale seemed possible . . . if Garrosh’s ambition could be crushed here and now.
Again, the enemy horn sounded . . . yet, this time in a more fearsome, defiant manner. Tyrande had to assume that Garrosh intended a stand on safer ground. The only trouble was, the moonlight followed the Horde, continuing to blind them even as the lancers drew within striking range. The warlocks and other casters could not even give proper cover, as they were also unable to face the moonlight. That, in turn, gave more advantage to the Alliance spellcasters, who worked in earnest to put an end to the Horde’s magical threat. Fearsome blasts bombarded the warlocks nearest to the front.
The Horde horn blared once more, its signal not at all seeming to call for retreat. Rather, it encouraged attack in its tone, promised victory.
But instead of turning to face their foes again, the orcs and other fighters remaining from the front lines did a strange thing. They scattered to the trees as if trying to get out of the way. How they hoped to escape the nightsabers by fleeing, she could not say. Night elves were more forest creatures than orcs, tauren, or even trolls. Their cats were just as wily and quick in such areas, and the riders knew well how to handle their lances even among the trees.
Shandris must have suspected something, for a horn sounded on the Alliance side, one that signaled for a regrouping rather than a continued hunt through forest. With so many of the enemy now turned from the direction of the battle, the high priestess finally chose to cease the prayer.
Even as the moonlight faded, she urged her mount forward. If there was danger to her people—and to her Shandris—Tyrande needed to be nearby.
The first wave of foot soldiers had made it to the other side behind the lancers. Some threw their glaives at retreating targets, but most already began regrouping. Watching them, Tyrande breathed with relief. Garrosh would find the advance line able to hold against his warriors.
A monstrous roar rumbled through the region.
A massive rock appeared in the sky, then dropped down hard on a band of lancers just about to join their compatriots. The hapless riders never even realized their doom. The rock crushed some, and the fragments from its shattering slew the others.
More rocks came flying through the air. Ashenvale’s defenders had warned about hidden catapults, but Tyrande had never witnessed anything like this. There was something different. She was reminded of her own near death and how that assault, too, had seemed not quite what it appeared.
The first rock had done the most harm. Now warned, the Alliance army better avoided the areas where the missiles dropped.
Trees began shaking farther into the forest ahead. Another roar thundered across the landscape . . . and this time was answered by several more, all from the same direction.
What seemed initially a series of rhythmic explosions accented the roars. Tyrande frowned. Not explosions. It was as if they were hoofbeats—but for such, the animals would have to be gigantic. . . .
The tree line flew away, entire oaks tossed as if nothing. A humongous shape, with some resemblance in outline to a centaur but much bulkier, burst out among the stunned defenders.
“Elune, preserve us!” the high priestess blurted.
The giant creature seized a lancer and mount with one hand and tossed both casually over his shoulder. Night elf and cat went screaming to their deaths. The behemoth stomped at the closest Sentinels on foot, crushing one beneath his sturdy, elephantine feet.
Indeed, the lower half of the body had much similarity to such a creature—or rather, to its larger, more deadly cousin from Northrend, the mammoth. Yet, where the head and shoulders should have begun, the upper torso of another fantastic creature roughly akin to a human began. The towering monster, two long tusks arching down from the sides of his mouth, eagerly searched the ground before him for more victims.