But worst of all, the magnataur were unstoppable. They ripped through the Sentinels as if the seasoned warriors were stalks of wheat and the magnataur were reapers. Bodies lay everywhere and in every sickening condition. The night elves tried in vain to focus on the behemoths, Horde archers keeping any attempt to attack the magnataur from even beginning. Thus left unchecked, the fearsome creatures continued to wreak their havoc.
The priestesses of Elune both fought and healed, and because of that they and their leader were also special targets of any Horde archer. Despite the Mother Moon’s blessing, Sisters were not indestructible, as Tyrande had almost proven herself. Their numbers were depleted quickly and those still left were forced to take greater defense and thus become less effective in aiding their comrades.
Although commander of the Sentinels, Shandris did not shirk from the struggle, either. When not making expert use of her bow, she threw her glaive again and again, and rarely did she miss with either weapon. She also had to shield herself from more than her share of arrows and other weapons intent on ending the life of one of those most essential to the hopes of the faltering defenders.
Tyrande also fought. She had faced demons, shadow creatures, orcs, and more in her long life, and fell into the rhythm of war with more ease than she cared to think about. Yet, for every enemy that fell, there seemed a dozen more.
And again, there were always the magnataur.
The Sentinel lines finally cracked.
“We cannot hold them here!” Tyrande shouted. “The riverbank is lost! Pull back!”
Shandris grabbed the lead trumpeter. “Sound the call! We move to the secondary position!”
The trumpeter blew hard, her notes picked up by the other surviving trumpeters. Tyrande and Shandris had decided on a backup position a little farther in, where the natural rise of the area would give them a bit of a defensive wall. Against the magnataur it would be nothing, but it would at least slow the Horde itself.
As best they could, the Sentinels and their allies moved. They did battle all the way, the archers trying to buy some distance between the defenders and the attackers. The magnataur, caught up in their eagerness for destruction, did not follow the Horde at first, buying the Alliance a few precious seconds.
But a few seconds were indeed all that bought, and as Tyrande and Shandris fell back with the rest, both were keenly aware that from their second position . . . there was nowhere left to go.
Ashenvale was falling.
Ashenvale falls, Garrosh Hellscream thought with growing anticipation. Ashenvale falls, Father!
Garrosh wondered how his father would have viewed this victory. Would he have been proud? Even eight magnataur had proven enough to easily crush the decadent Alliance. They had been all he needed to tilt the balance once and for all.
This land will help us grow, he thought as he surged forward with the rest of his loyal force. A Sentinel caught behind the collapse of her lines sought to bring more glory to her doom by suddenly leaping up from the dead to attack him. She proved to be a decent adversary, briefly stalling his advance, and so when Gorehowl ripped through both her breastplate and her torso, he wished her spirit well in the afterlife.
This would be a battle of which the young would be taught forever. Every family would have heroes to name in the festivals that would come after the war’s triumphant end.
Even the legendary Thrall, Garrosh’s predecessor—even Thrall, who had been reluctant to renew the struggle for Azeroth—would surely call Garrosh the champion of the orc race and of all the Horde.
Ashenvale is ours . . . and the rest of Azeroth will follow. . . . There is nothing more mighty than the Horde . . . nothing that the Alliance can do to change what fate demands of this new world. . . .
One had to be strong in the Azeroth that Deathwing had created. The Alliance had once been so, but it was of the past. The Horde was of the future.
Garrosh was the future.
He almost pitied the night elves and their ilk. They fought bravely but without a chance. They acted as if there were hope, when it was obvious there was not. Garrosh had used the very summit intended to bring his enemies together in order to catch them most off guard. The other factions of the Alliance had provided the night elf force with the handful of supporters that he had calculated. By the time Theramore and the others were able to send greater numbers, the Horde would have Ashenvale secured.
Ashenvale is ours, the warchief repeated to himself, savoring that fact. Ashenvale is—
An unearthly howl arose from the forest to the north. The warchief missed a step as he looked that direction. He knew wolves, dire wolves, and most of their cousins, and this sounded like none of those.
The howl repeated, this time much stronger, much more challenging, and Garrosh knew right away that it challenged the Horde. Moreover, he was not the only one. Everywhere, orcs and others hesitated, eyed the forest, and clutched their weapons a little tighter. Even the magnataur looked up in curiosity at this sharp cry.
And from the forest there answered a multitude of similar howls. Even from where he stood, Garrosh could hear the shaking of leaves and brush as something that seemed as massive in its own way as the magnataur closed on the battlefield.
Recovering, he raised Gorehowl and opened his mouth to shout orders.
Stunned yells arose from those warriors farther to the north, the ones who had been passing through the forest toward the night elves’ position. Those shouts were followed by growls and screams.
“To the north, you fools!” Garrosh commanded. “To the north—”
Out they flowed, a river of dark death. Wave after wave of sleek, furred forms. The orcs, trolls, and tauren Garrosh saw in their path went down in a flash of weapons and claws. The fiends moved like the wind and spread out as they met the Horde.
But most amazing of all was that at their head ran a human. Yet, he moved like no human, but indeed seemed more a wolf than even the dread fighters who flanked him. He wielded a sword that glittered and that identified him to Garrosh from clear across the terrain.
“The sword Shalamayne . . . ,” Garrosh snarled, his fury rising swiftly. “Varian Wrynn . . .”
28
The Sword and the Axe
It had taken every resource for Varian to get himself, his crew, and, most of all, the worgen to Ashenvale in time. In truth, he had expected to come to find that all had been laid waste in the Alliance-held lands and that everyone he knew among the defenders was dead. Yet, as the ship had dropped anchor as near as they could and the worgen disembarked, he had suddenly been filled with a sense that, not only had he not arrived too late, but his belief that this had been his destiny all along was more true than he could have imagined. The moment that he stepped onto the shore of Ashenvale, Varian had felt the call of Goldrinn even more than he had during the ritual. It had grown stronger with each breath he took—so strong that he finally no longer resisted it but fully embraced it.
Clad in lightweight but durable leather armor and with Shalamayne sheathed at his side, Varian started running, running with purpose.
Genn Greymane had seen him standing there, watching the forest. The aura of Goldrinn had grown around the king of Stormwind. All the worgen could see it, even if Varian’s own people could not. Genn had realized what was about to happen and had been the one to tell those of Stormwind to follow as best they could later. Almost immediately after that point, Varian had disappeared among the trees.