on.”
“Shaman, I have tried to find my death.”
Her lips pursed as she struggled to understand. “Are you telling me that you tried to kill yourself?”
Brox pulled himself up to his full height, his expression darkening. “I am an orc warrior! I’ve not guided my dagger to my own chest!” As abruptly as his fury had arisen, it now vanished completely, replaced only by shame. “But I’ve tried to guide the weapons of others to it, true.”
And the story came flowing out. Brox told her of his last war against the demons, and how he and his comrades had held the way while they awaited reinforcements. Tyrande heard how, one by one, all the other orcs had perished, leaving only the veteran. The actions of Brox and the others had helped save the battle, but that had in no manner made him feel any less guilty about surviving where others had not.
The war had ended soon after, leaving Brox with no proper method by which to atone for what he saw as a tremendous failing on his part. When the Warchief Thrall had requested that he hunt down the anomaly, he had seen it as a sign that the spirits had finally granted him an end to his misery.
But the only one to die in that search had been his young comrade, which added to Brox’s already heavy burden. Then, when it became clear that the Burning Legion would invade Kalimdor, the orc had once more hoped for redemption. He had thrown himself into the struggle and fought as hard as any warrior could be expected. He had always been at the forefront, daring any foe to take him on. Unfortunately, Brox had fought too well, for even after slaying a score of the demons, he had survived with barely a scratch.
And as the gathered host had set out from Suramar, the graying orc had finally started to think that he had committed a different sin. He realized that the shame that he had felt in surviving his former comrades had been a false one. Now Brox felt a new shame; everyone around him fought for life while he sought to escape it. They went to battle the Burning Legion for reasons opposite his own.
“I accept that I might die in battle—a glorious fate for an orc, shaman—but I am filled with dishonor for seeking it at the possible cost of those who fight against evil for their lives and those of others.”
Tyrande stared into the eyes of the orc. Beast he was to the rest, but once more he had spoken words of eloquence, of meaning. She touched his rough cheek, smiling slightly. How arrogant her people were to see only the image, not the heart and mind.
“You need not confess to me, Broxigar. You’ve already confessed to your heart and soul, which means that the spirits and Elune have heard your remorse. They understand that you have realized the truth of things and regret your earlier thoughts.”
He grunted, then, to her surprise, kissed her palm. “I give thanks to you even still, shaman.”
At that moment, the horns sounded. Tyrande quickly touched the orc on the forehead, adding a slight prayer. “Whatever fate battle holds for you now, Broxigar, the Mother Moon will watch over your own spirit.”
“I thank you for saying so, shaman. I will trouble you no more now.”
Brox raised his ax in respect, then trotted off. Tyrande watched the orc vanish among the other fighters, then turned as a signal she recognized as coming from the sisterhood alerted her to her own need for haste. She had to be ready to lead her own group forward as soon as the host began to move. She had to be ready to meet the fate that Elune had planned for her.
And that, she understood, included matters other than the coming battle.
“They added soldiers from two more settlements in the northwest,” Rhonin commented as he and Krasus rode. “I heard as many as five hundred.”
“The Burning Legion can bring forth such a number in but a few scant hours, perhaps even less.”
The red-haired wizard gave his former tutor a sour expression. “If none of this helps, then why bother? Why not just sit on the grass and wait for the demons to slit our gullets?” He took on a mock look of surprise. “Oh, wait! That’s not what happened! The night elves did fight—and they won!”
“Quiet!” hissed Krasus, giving Rhonin as sharp a glare as the human had given him. “I do not downplay the additions, only point out the facts. Another fact to be recalled is that our presence here and the existence of the anomaly through all time means that what has happened in the past may not be what will happen this time. There is a very, very good chance that the Burning Legion will triumph now … and all we know will never have been.”
“I won’t let that happen! I can’t!”
“To eternity, the fates of your mate Vereesa and your unborn twins are nothing, Rhonin … but I will fight for their sakes as much as I fight for my own flight’s future, however monstrous that may still be even with victory.”
Rhonin quieted. He knew as well as the dragon mage what fate would eventually befall the red flight. Even if the Burning Legion was defeated in this period, the dragons would still suffer terribly. Deathwing the Destroyer would see to it that the orcs gained control of them, especially Krasus’s own red flight, and used them as beasts of war. Many, many dragons would die for no good reason.
“But there was just beginning to be hope for us again,” Krasus added, his stare drifting momentarily. “And that, more than anything else, gives me another reason to see that history does not change.”
“I only know what happened from the histories preserved by the wizards of Dalaran, Krasus. You know them from living this time—”
The gaunt, almost elven figure hissed again. “Your recollections based on the writings are likely more accurate than my own riddled mind. I have come to the conclusion that Nozdormu’s intrusion into my thoughts, while helpful in setting us on this mission, also were too much for me to absorb completely without the loss of other memories.” Nozdormu, the Aspect of Time, had been the one to call upon Krasus and warn him of the crisis. The huge, sandcolored dragon now could not be contacted even in this period, and Krasus feared that he was, in all his incarnations, trapped in the anomaly. “I fear that I will never entirely recall this time period—and what is missing is enough to fuel my uncertainties as to the outcome.”
“So we fight and hope for the best.”
“As has been done by everyone in battle throughout history, yes.”
The bearded human nodded grimly. “Suits me just fine.”
On and on the night elven forces traveled, advancing miles without pause or delay. Most of the soldiers marched with high spirits, for it seemed that the enemy was not at all eager to match blades with them. With ears sharper than any of the creatures around him, Krasus heard soldiers pointing out that much of the destruction and death caused by the demons had been on unsuspecting and ill-prepared innocents. Once they had faced an organized resistance, the demons themselves had been slaughtered. Some even speculated that if the night elves had pursued the Burning Legion back to Zin-Azshari after that first battle instead of withdrawing to gather more strength, then the war would have already been over.
Such comments bothered Krasus; it was one thing to go into battle with confidence, another to believe the foe so easily defeated. The night elves had to understand that the Burning Legion was death incarnate.
His gaze turned to the one night elf who seemed to realize some of this. Krasus recalled that
