Denea was not alone, either. Suddenly several survivors of Haldrissa’s command closed with the orcs. With them were some of Silverwing’s warriors, including both Su’ura and the rogue. The enemy was now temporarily outnumbered. Two orcs fell swiftly. Haldrissa’s makeshift attack force pushed deeper. At last she could see Garrosh himself. The first of his guards faced her. Around Haldrissa, Denea and the others who had joined the commander fought valiantly to create an opening.
But time was running out. Haldrissa knew that. The longer she remained unable to reach the warchief, the more likely that she never would.
A night elf perished with an axe buried in her chest. Another simply vanished in the melee, her riderless mount battling that of an orc. Haldrissa’s comrades were forced to bunch together as more orcs and even tauren moved in from other positions.
Garrosh, seemingly oblivious to the struggle so near him, continued toward the river. Haldrissa swore. There were too many foes between her and the warchief. She had lost her chance . . . and soon she would lose her life.
For nothing.
The trumpeter blew the note to press the attack. The Horde ranks began crossing the river again, the magnataur leaving them an open path occasionally littered by the ghastly remains of their victims.
Haldrissa eyed the trumpeter, then urged her cat on. Caught up in the Horde’s impending triumph, the orc did not notice her approach.
The commander threw the glaive.
The orc turned just as the spinning weapon reached him. The movement upset some of Haldrissa’s accuracy, and though the blade all but sheared his neck in half—leaving no doubt to the trumpeter’s death—the glaive dropped to the ground a short distance farther instead of returning.
“Damn!” Dismounting, Haldrissa ignored the lost weapon and rushed to the body. She found the horn still clutched tightly in one hand. Too tightly, in fact: it took all her strength to force open the fingers enough to pull the horn free.
No one was looking. Thanking Elune for this last chance, the veteran warrior put the horn to her lips and blew.
She knew from past experience some of the general calls used by the Horde. Advance and retreat were the most obvious. Haldrissa now blew the latter as best as she could recall and prayed that in the heat of battle most of those who would heed such a call would not recognize any mistake.
At first it seemed that nothing was happening. Haldrissa blew again. As she finished, she saw the first rows, already almost across, falter. Even the magnataur hesitated.
With all her breath, the night elf blew a third time.
The Horde lines began to return. Their faces were filled with confusion, a contrast to their expressions during their confident rush forward. That confusion grew and the retreating enemy now ran faster.
Managing to inhale enough air, Haldrissa sounded the call one more time.
Even the magnataur began to turn back. One tauren tried to wave the leader back to the front, only to be crushed under one heavy foot as the behemoth, entirely ignorant of his victim, thundered back into the forest from which he and the others had emerged.
“Give me that!” rumbled an orc voice.
She lunged away from the speaker in the direction of her glaive, all the while clutching the horn. In the distance Haldrissa heard the other trumpeters now repeating the call to retreat. They were taking their cue from what they believed to be the master trumpeter with Garrosh. If her adversary succeeded in taking the horn and then blowing the attack once more, all her work would be for nothing.
Her hand came down by the glaive just as an axe tried to cut the appendage off. Haldrissa bit her lip as the edge of the axe left a long, bleeding line across the back of her hand and part of her wrist. Despite the pain, she managed to seize the glaive and turn in time to deflect a second strike.
He has one eye, just like me, Haldrissa could not help thinking upon first seeing her adversary. He was also an older representative of his race, as she was. However, orcs had never had immortality and thus, compared chronologically to her, he was an infant. In terms of suffering, though, they were akin to one another.
“Give me the horn, night elf. . . . I’ll not let you steal my last glory! I brought them all the way from Northrend for this!”
Without a moment’s hesitation the commander slammed the horn against the ground. When that proved insufficient to break it, she quickly brought her glaive down on it.
A harsh pain erupted from her heart. Acting almost as swiftly, the orc had tried to keep her from destroying the horn. He had succeeded in killing Haldrissa—she knew the wound was fatal—but from his disgusted expression, he understood very well that her death still meant her victory.
Someone far away called Haldrissa’s name. She had a vague image of Denea and the others—far less in number than had followed their aging commander—being forced to retreat. The commander’s own mount lay dead, several heavy gashes inflicted by either her opponent or some unseen enemy having done in the brave animal.
Her vision grew blurred. A murky figure stepped right in front of her. Haldrissa tried to raise her glaive, but there was too much pain from her chest. No longer caring about war, Haldrissa tried to grab the pain and remove it, but all she did was grasp futilely at the gaping wound.
“You fought bravely,” she heard the older orc grumble. “You fought cleverly. You don’t deserve such slow, painful dying, night elf.”
Somehow she nodded. What he said made perfect sense. She had fought long and hard for her people. It was time to rest. If only the pain would go away, she could rest.
The axe caught her along the throat, cutting deep and at last rewarding Haldrissa’s valor with rest.
26
Maiev
Jarod sensed something close ahead. Although armed only with his knife, he pushed on.
A minute later he saw one of Maiev’s Watchers. From her bored stance, she looked as if she had been posted on guard duty for some time. It only took a glimpse past her for Jarod to verify that she was guarding the one he sought.
Malfurion Stormrage hovered above the ground, his arms and legs splayed to the sides as much as physically possible. Magical energy surrounded him, and it was clear that he was in some pain. At the moment the archdruid appeared oblivious to his surroundings, although it was possible, not to mention quite probable, that Malfurion secretly worked to somehow free himself.
The Watcher removed her helmet and wiped her forehead. She looked up at the archdruid, her expression growing from boredom to disdain.
Aware that the moment might quickly pass, Jarod had no recourse. As the guard glanced at her charge, he threw the dagger.
She fell with barely a sound, the blade through the back of her neck. The helmet tumbled away. Jarod slipped forward, feeling as if he were back in the war against the Burning Legion, so callous about life were his sister and her cohorts.
But how else would she become, considering what she has been through? the former guard captain could not help asking himself, managing yet to find some excuse for his sister, his only remaining flesh and blood. She had done so much for the sake of their race that he felt some guilt at having to fight her . . . and yet, she intended to bring ruin to Darnassus.
Seizing up the knife, he wiped it off and looked up at Malfurion. Not at all to his surprise, the archdruid gazed down at him.
Jarod waited for Malfurion to speak, but when the archdruid only looked down to his side, Maiev’s brother assumed that the trap kept him from doing so. He followed the other night elf’s eyes but did not see anything.
But there has to be some way to free the archdruid, Jarod thought. He headed toward the area upon which Malfurion focused, all the while thinking about Maiev. Jarod still knew her better than almost anyone, despite the long passage of time. There were traits, ways of thinking, that he was fairly certain remained consistent.