but he’s as stubborn as one of us, possibly more.”
He quieted as his brother suddenly joined them. Illidan gave him a cursory glance, then focused his attention completely on Tyrande.
“You look like a warrior queen,” he told her. “Azshara herself could appear no finer.”
Tyrande flushed and Malfurion wished that he had made some compliment—any compliment—for which the priestess might remember him before the host set off.
“You are the Night Warrior herself, in fact,” Illidan continued smoothly. “I hear you’ve been put in charge of a band of your sisters.”
“The high priestess says that my skills have much increased of late. She says that in all her years of guidance, I’m one of the swiftest to attain such levels.”
“Not a surprise.”
Before Malfurion could say anything similar, a horn suddenly blared. It was followed by another, then another, and so on as each segment of the mighty army signaled its readiness for departure.
“I have to return to the sisters,” Tyrande told them. To Malfurion, she added, “I came to wish you well.” Instinctively, the priestess turned to Illidan. “And you, of course.”
“With your blessing, we’re certain to ride to victory,” Malfurion’s sibling returned.
Again Tyrande flushed. Another horn sounded, and she quickly donned the helmet, turned her panther around, and rode off.
“She looks more suited for battle than either of us,” Malfurion commented.
“Yes. What a mate she’ll make for someone, eh?”
Malfurion looked at his brother, but Illidan had already urged his night saber toward Lord Ravencrest. As the noble’s personal sorcerer, Illidan had to ride near the elder night elf. Malfurion and the others had been ordered to remain within shouting distance, but otherwise they did not have to stay with Ravencrest. The master of Black Rook Hold did not want all of his strongest weapons clustered together. The Eredar already knew to focus on the druid and the wizards whenever possible.
Jarod Shadowsong and three soldiers rode to him. “It’s time to go! I must ask you to come with us!”
Nodding, Malfurion followed the captain back to the rest. Rhonin and Krasus wore almost identical dour expressions. Brox’s had changed not one bit, but under his breath the orc appeared to be chanting.
“A march at night,” commented Krasus, turning to watch the last vestige of day vanish. “How very predictable. Archimonde will note it. Despite their best to adapt, your people are still inclined to fall back to comfortable tendencies.”
“With such numbers, we’ll still be able to push the demons back,” Captain Shadowsong insisted. “Lord Ravencrest will sweep the monsters from our fair land.”
“So we can only hope.”
A final horn sounded and the night elven host moved as one in the direction of Zin-Azshari. Regardless of his misgivings, Malfurion swelled as he watched the armed force cover the landscape. The banners of three dozen major clans highlighted a collection of alliances spanning the width and breadth of most of the realm. Foot soldiers marched in perfect unison like a swarm of dedicated ants heading to a feast. Night sabers leapt along in great prides a hundred strong and more, their helmed riders staring wearily ahead.
The bulk of the soldiers wielded swords, lances, and bows. Behind them came siege machines—ballistae, catapults, and the like—drawn by teams of the dark panthers. Most of those operating the machines were of Lord Ravencrest’s clan, for in general night elves did not work with such devices. Only Ravencrest seemed to have the foresight necessary to lead his people to victory. That he had not sought the aid of the dwarves and others was bothersome to the druid, but in the end it would not matter. Despite his misconception that Azshara was innocent, the noble would still see to it that the Burning Legion fell to bloody defeat.
After all, there was really no other choice.
• • •
Urged on by Ravencrest and their own belief in certain victory, the night elves made good distance that first eve. Their commander finally gave the order to halt two hours into daylight. Immediately the host set up camp, a long line of sentries marking the front to ensure the demons would not catch them by surprise.
Here the land had not yet been touched by the horror of the Burning Legion. To the south, forest still stood. To the north, high, green hills dotted the landscape. The elder night elf sent out patrols to investigate each direction, but no foes were found.
Malfurion was immediately drawn to the woods, almost as if they called his name. When chance came, he separated from his companions and turned his mount toward them.
Jarod Shadowsong immediately noted his act. The captain rode after him, calling out as he approached, “I must ask you to turn back! You cannot go out there by yourself! Remember what happened—”
“I’ll be all right, Jarod,” Malfurion replied quietly. In truth, he felt that this particular patch of wilderness was shielded even from the demonic assassins who had so often preyed on him and his companions. How this could be, Malfurion could not say, but he knew it with the utmost certainty.
“You cannot go alone—”
“I’m not. You’re with me.”
The soldier gritted his teeth, then, with a look of resignation, followed the druid into the forest. “Please … just not so long.”
Promising nothing, Malfurion continued on into the deeper part of the forest. A feeling of trust, of faith, overwhelmed him. The trees welcomed him, even seemed to recognize him—
And then he understood why he felt so at home in this place.
“Welcome back, my thero’shan … my honored student.”
Captain Shadowsong looked around for the source of the stirring voice, a voice reminiscent of both the wind and thunder. Malfurion, on the other hand, waited patiently, knowing that the speaker would reveal himself in his own fashion.
The wind abruptly picked up around the duo. The officer held tight to his helmet while the druid bent his head back to better feel the breeze. Loose leaves began rising up in the wind, which grew stronger, fiercer. Yet, only the captain appeared dismayed by this; even the night sabers raised their snouts up to inhale the fresh wind.
A miniature whirlwind arose before the riders. Leaves, brush, bits of stone and earth … more and more they gathered within, compacting together to form something solid.
“I have been waiting for you, Malfurion.”
“By the Mother Moon!” Jarod gasped.
The giant moved on four strong legs akin to those of a stag; the bottom half of his torso was indeed the body of one. Above that, a barrel-chested form similar in coloring and shape to a night elf peered down at the two intruders with orbs of pure golden sunlight. A hint of forest green tinged the otherwise violet flesh and the fingers ended in gnarled but deadly talons of aged wood.
The newcomer
