By the moons’ glow, listen.
Beside the river, listen.
Holding those you love, listen
To the cries of the dying,
To the whisper of the wind over the silent dead,
To the song my broken heart will ever sing
Of the story of the Tree of the World
And the death of all the dreams
It once cradled in its mighty boughs.
Part One: In the Ivory Tower
In purity, all things are born.
The eldest tree was once a tender sapling,
And even the stars were young.
O Lady Elune,
Weep tears so sweet
At the thought of the innocence
That once was ours.
* * *
Clang!
The martial music of swordplay rang out as the two blades clashed. The combatants sprang apart, circling. The older man, hair and beard as white as moonlight, feinted, then brought his weapon arcing up and around. But the younger man was quick and deftly blocked the blow. Sparks flew, and the colliding blades glinted in the sunlight.
“Nicely done,” Genn Greymane grunted even as he lunged.
Again, the youth parried. “But one of these days, you’ll have to go on the—”
Greymane barely got his sword up in time to prevent King Anduin Wrynn’s blow.
“Offensive?” Anduin grinned. He bore down with the weapon, feeling the older man’s blade straining against it. His suncolored hair had come loose and was falling into his eyes, and he grimaced as he realized Greymane had noticed.
The Gilnean king abruptly pulled back. Caught off balance, Anduin stumbled forward. Greymane whipped his blade around with a speed almost equal to that of the young king’s, turning his hand at the last minute to ensure that only the flat of the weapon would strike Anduin’s body. Growling with effort, Anduin
managed to block the blow. His father’s sword, Shalamayne, caught it, but the impact jarred his hand. Shalamayne fell to the grass of Stormwind Keep’s garden area.
“Before you say anything,” Anduin said, panting as he bent to pick up the sword, “I’ll be wearing a helm in battle.”
“Under ideal circumstances, yes,” Greymane said. He smirked. His cheeks warm with embarrassment as much as exertion, Anduin didn’t begrudge him a little gloating. “In the meantime,” Genn continued, “I suggest you get a trim. There are enough things to worry about in battle without being blinded by your own golden locks.”
Anduin laughed. “I’ll be fine,” he said. “I’ll secure it better the next time we spar.”
“You Wrynn men and your predilection for long hair,” Greymane said, shaking his head. “Never understood it.”
One of the Stormwind guards approached, saluting smartly.
“Your Majesty,” he said. “Spymaster Shaw has returned with news.”
Anduin tensed and glanced at Greymane. Little sobered both men like hearing that Mathias Shaw awaited an audience.
“Urgent?” Anduin asked.
“At Your Majesty’s pleasure,” the guard replied.
The young king relaxed slightly. “That’s a relief,” he said. “Give him refreshment and tell him King Greymane and I will meet him in the map room shortly.”
* * *
Genn and Anduin, wearing fresh clothes and smelling better than they had half an hour earlier, strode into the room where Mathias Shaw regarded the large map of Stormwind with a practiced eye.
Anduin conducted most of his meetings here. As a small boy, he used to sneak into the room and play with the figures representing units of soldiers, supplies, and weapons. Now, though, this room symbolized the heaviest of a king’s duties—the creation of battle strategies.
Shaw turned and bowed as the two entered.
“It’s nice to see you when you aren’t bringing dire tidings,” Anduin quipped.
Genn grunted in amusement, but Shaw didn’t crack a smile. “It is a pleasant change of pace,” was all the spymaster said. “Per our conversation, Majesty, I have all but saturated Orgrimmar with my agents.”
After Anduin’s recent encounter with Sylvanas Windrunner in the Arathi Highlands, when he had witnessed how low she would stoop for her own ends, he had been both heartbroken and furious. He had told Genn and Mathias that, while he would not start a war without provocation, he was no longer willing to give the Horde’s leader the benefit of the doubt.
I want her, and the Blightcaller, and Saurfang—anyone of import or position in Orgrimmar—under constant surveillance. And I want them to know it, the king had said. I want them to believe they cannot order a drink at a tavern without the Alliance knowing the color of the ale.
Shaw had raised an eyebrow. An interesting approach, he had said, but he did not offer a protest.
Now, Anduin asked, “Are we seeing results?”
“My spies are . . . enjoying the challenge,” Shaw said, in a voice that indicated he, personally, was not.
“Casualties?”
“Significantly fewer than expected.”
“Good,” Anduin said. “Send more.”
Genn nodded his white head in approval.
Shaw’s bushy red brows drew together in disapproval. “If I send any more spies, no one in Orgrimmar will be able to walk through the street without jostling a dozen of them.”
“Let them be jostled, then,” Anduin said. “I assume they continue to provide useful information?”
“Indeed. The latest reports indicate that Warchief Sylvanas and her high overlord are at odds—and that the Blightcaller isn’t taking it well.”
Genn and Anduin exchanged glances. “That could be excellent news for us,” Anduin said. “My father spoke well of Varok Saurfang, and I myself heard him testify at Garrosh Hellscream’s trial. He has long had a reputation for honorable conduct.
Perhaps he is beginning to see Sylvanas as we do.” He wondered if Saurfang had been informed of the ignoble choices Sylvanas had made in the Arathi Highlands, and if so, whether they had troubled the high overlord. One could hope.
Anduin’s voice hardened. “He’s no fool, and the Banshee Queen believes in power over honor.”
“Don’t sentimentalize the old orc yet,” Shaw warned. “He is a veteran of the First War, when Stormwind was sacked and your grandfather was assassinated.”
Anduin inclined his head. “Point taken. Nonetheless, I will take an orc with honor over a banshee with none. And if Saurfang and Nathanos Blightcaller are truly in conflict as well, I find that all to the good.”
“What exactly is getting under Blightcaller’s rotting skin?” Genn asked Shaw.
“Martial plans.”
“Which are?”
“In flux,” Shaw replied. “Hence the clash between the warchief and her high overlord. But a single word has slipped.”
Anduin arched a blond eyebrow. “And that word is?”
Shaw replied grimly, “Silithus.”
* * *
When Cordressa Briarbow, followed by two other Sentinels and three dwarves, finally trudged within sight of the Temple of the Moon, she almost wept. The recently promoted captain had sent word ahead, and Tyrande Whisperwind had left instructions that the Sentinel and those she escorted be treated to a hero’s
welcome.
“Well, now,” said Gavvin Stoutarm, leader of the Explorers’ League expedition, as they made their way toward the temple.
“That’s almost as lovely a use o’ stone as Ironforge.”
Cordressa smiled wearily. She had grown fond of the dwarves over the last few weeks. Magni Bronzebeard, Speaker for Azeroth, had warned the Alliance leaders that the world had begged for healing. The Explorers’ League had answered the call by sending a team to Silithus to explore the strange new material known as Azerite. The substance, the very essence of Azeroth, had come to the surface when the fallen titan Sargeras had brutally plunged a massive sword into the world. Azerite’s properties were remarkable, and the Alliance had done very little study of it as of yet. Given the danger from the goblins at the site, Tyrande had assigned Cordressa and other Sentinels to protect the group.
Cordressa had heard descriptions of dwarves, of course—that they were short, drunken loudmouths with thick accents and thicker heads. They supposedly did nothing but unearth things best left hidden, and only turned their faces up to the sun or the moons when they had to. But her prejudices had been quickly disabused once she had gotten to know them.
To the Sentinel’s everlasting regret, everyone—including her—had underestimated the numbers, ferocity, and brashness of the goblins near the gargantuan sword. In a single night, the Sentinels and the expedition had suffered several casualties.
Riddled with guilt, Cordressa had made it her personal mission to get the rest of the team to safety.
Gavvin’s comment about the great night elven temple might have sounded deprecating to others’ ears, but not to Cordressa’s. She heard the awe and respect in Gavvin’s booming voice, and so she smiled.
“I am sure Ironforge is glorious,” she said, “but we have something that you do not. I think you will find it most welcome.”
“Oh? An’ what might that be?” asked Inge Ironfist.
“Moonwells.”
“I’ve visited a moonwell in Greenwarden’s Grove,” Arwis Blackstone piped up. “Very pretty an’ quite restorative!”
Moonwells were precious and sacred things, filled with healing waters and blessed by priestesses. They were all “very pretty,” but there was nothing like the moonwell in Darnassus.
Cordressa would enjoy watching the dwarves’ reactions.
As they entered the Temple of the Moon, the dwarves fell silent. After the brutal, nearly lifeless landscape of Silithus, the greenery of the temple was jarring. The dwarves looked around with their mouths slightly open and then stared, transfixed, at the giant statue in the temple’s center.
“This is Haidene,” Cordressa explained. “The first high priestess of Elune.” Most first-time visitors to the Temple of the Moon believed that the white, gleaming statue of a night elf female, bearing aloft a basin of flowing water, was Elune herself. In parts of the temple, elf bards played music as soft as Elune’s light and as soothing as the gentle splash of falling water.
One of the priestesses, Astarii Starseeker, stepped up and embraced Cordressa. “Word of your coming reached us,” she said.
She turned her kind visage on the dwarves, who stared up at her with wide eyes. “Your journey has been long and dangerous. We are so sorry for your loss. Please, allow us to do what we can to heal and refresh you. There is plenty of food, as well as water from the moonwell. But we find the most efficacious use of the sacred waters is bathing in them. We have some robes for you to change into, should you wish to do so.”
Gavvin frowned. “Well, it’s nae that I dinna have a fine physique, ye ken, but I dinna want tae offend ye lovely ladies.”
His already ruddy cheeks blushed redder than Cordressa had yet seen them.
Astarii smiled. “There are private rooms for changing.”
“Er . . . oh.” Gavvin harrumphed, turning an even brighter shade of red. “Well. In that case . . . thank ye.”
There was plenty of room for all of them in the temple pool. Almost better than feeling her own pain, weariness, and grief eased by the cool waters was watching the astonishment on the faces of her friends. Yes. Friends. They are not merely my charges anymore. She undid her hair and let her midnight-blue tresses flow behind her as she sank down, murmuring a prayer of gratitude.
The water muffled sounds, but the Sentinel still heard her name being called. Reluctantly, she opened her eyes. A familiar face smiled down at her. “Delaryn!” Cordressa exclaimed, sitting upright in the water.
Lieutenant Delaryn Summermoon was perched atop one of the low walls of the pool. She was a fellow Sentinel, though younger than Cordressa and below her in rank. Cordressa had mentored her since the Cataclysm had ripped through Azeroth, and they had become close. Delaryn’s pinkish skin glowed beneath her dark
blue hair; she still had not chosen her facial markings. I know they do not always have to mark a rite of passage, she had told Cordressa once. But I feel they should. And there is nothing that has made enough of a mark on me yet to choose their form. “I heard you had returned,” Delaryn said. She turned her radiant gaze to the dwarves who sat in the pool, their heads only just above water, expressions of bliss on their faces. “I am glad you brought them home.”
“Would that I had brought them all,” Cordressa said. Pain stole into her heart even through the moonwell’s waters. “I sent a letter detailing the events to Lady Tyrande.”
Delaryn did not press. Instead, she said, “Our lady has asked for you to report to her in person.”
“I shall see her now, then.” Cordressa started to rise.
Her friend placed a hand on her shoulder and, gently but firmly, pressed her back down into the water. “When you are healed,” she said. “She stated that very plainly.”
“I will serve at any instant that I am called,” Cordressa replied. “But I confess . . . I am pleased to have a few more moments.”
* * *
A short while later, Cordressa and Delaryn thanked the priestesses and bade them farewell. Cordressa envied them—her softer sisters, whose paths had brought them to a temple instead of a battlefield. Such a path had never been for her, nor for Delaryn.
Tyrande Whisperwind, high priestess of Elune and founder of the Sentinels, was working in a small, private room on another level of the temple. She was writing a missive when the two Sentinels arrived. She looked up as they entered.
Cordressa saluted. “Lady Tyrande, I have come as requested.
I take full responsibility for my failure in Silithus.”
The high priestess did not speak. She rose, moved to her friend, and embraced her. Tyrande drew back and regarded Cordressa kindly. “Sentinel Cordressa,” she said, her voice warm, “I have reviewed your report. I understand your emotions.
It is hard to lose those entrusted to us. But it is clear that all of us—I, Malfurion, King Anduin, and his advisors—underestimated the goblin threat in Silithus. It is easy to take them too lightly, and we paid the price for that. As for your part in this—you brought the survivors home through treacherous territory, while also returning to us with valuable information.
That cannot be viewed as a failure.”
She touched Cordressa’s cheek, smiling, then stepped back.
“I have almost finished writing a response to King Anduin about some troubling new intelligence his spies have received.”
“Shall I leave, my lady?” asked Delaryn.
“You may stay, Sentinel,” Tyrande said. “This will soon become common knowledge.”
Delaryn inclined her head.
Tyrande resumed her seat. “After the tragedy of the Arathi Highlands, King Anduin has reinforced the number of eyes on the Horde’s leaders in their capital city. It appears that the warchief and her favorite, Nathanos Blightcaller, disagree with High Overlord Saurfang about the movement of troops.” She looked at Cordressa. “Your encounter with the goblins in Silithus was troubling enough. But now, it appears, Saurfang wishes to send several hundred Horde soldiers there.”
Cordressa frowned. “May I speak freely?”
“Always.”
“Several hundred is nothing to worry about.”
Tyrande replied, her face grim, “It is when that number is simply a scouting party sent to determine the best path for a future army. King Anduin believes—as do I—that the Horde has found a lethal use for Azerite and that Saurfang’s intention is to cut off all Alliance access to it. This could drastically shift the balance of power to the Horde.”
Cordressa’s gut clenched. Anduin Wrynn had visited Darnassus a few months ago. He, Malfurion, and Tyrande had discussed this exact scenario. The night elves and the draenei were the only Alliance bastions on the continent who could offer a swift counter to a Horde incursion into Silithus, and the draenei’s resources had been depleted during the war against the Legion. Tyrande had since been overseeing a slow but steady buildup of an army that could be dispatched to the site of
Sargeras’s evil sword, should the need arise.
“I see,” Cordressa replied. “Unfortunately, I have witnessed the peril that already faces the Explorers’ League.
They are incapable of withstanding an army—as are our priests and druids.”
“Are the moonwells having any impact?” asked Delaryn.
In other times, in different areas of the world, the night elves had created moonwells at sites troubled by fel or similar energies. Priests and druids worked together to harness nature’s power and the blessings of Elune, and the sacred waters often calmed and purified the uneasy land. Several groups had been sent to Silithus in the hopes that this healing magic would work there as well. It was a more peaceful method of combating the damage done by the sword of Sargeras and the greed of goblins.
“It is too early to tell,” Tyrande replied. “We have pledged to help the healers in their efforts to care for Azeroth. If the Horde does move on the sword of Sargeras, we
will defend them. We must begin preparations to do so.” She gestured at the letter she had been writing. “I have written to Shandris Feathermoon to have her soldiers on high alert. Over the next few weeks, I will be dispatching troops, one or two ships at a time so as not to attract attention. Once our fleet has assembled at Feralas, they will be ready to march on the sword when I give the order.”
Shandris Feathermoon was almost as legendary as Tyrandeherself. Orphaned as an adolescent when her family was slain by the Burning Legion, she had found a second mother in Tyrande.
Shandris was one of the first Sentinels and remained their general to this day. Currently, she oversaw night elf forces in the lush green land of Feralas and a place called Trueshot Lodge, where she worked with hunters of all races.
“If this Horde army does get the support of the warchief,”
Tyrande continued, “it will need time to prepare. And it will need time to arrive. We will have ample opportunity to give High Overlord Saurfang a warm welcome.”
Tyrande Whisperwind smiled.
* * *
Renzik sometimes grew tired of being the boots-on-the-ground member of SI:7 in Orgrimmar. He understood the reasons.
Practically every other member of the organization belonged to an easily recognizable Alliance race, which meant that eighty percent of the time, they had to remain unseen. The other twenty percent of the time, they had to rely on magic or truly superb disguises. Obviously, their opportunities for going undercover were limited.
Renzik was second-in-command, and he was a goblin. That was why Mathias Shaw repeatedly assured him he was trusted above all others to get the real story deep inside Horde territory. That was all fine and good and flattering, but it did get a little old. He was a spy and a rogue, and truth be told, he cared very little for interacting with others. But the pay was good, and he was one of probably only a handful of goblins who could honestly say they were highly respected. It didn’t hurt that he despised what the goblins had become under the leadership, if one could even use that word, of Trade Prince Jastor Gallywix.
Besides, he had the tiniest of soft spots for the Alliance way of looking at things—which he would admit to no one, lest he tarnish his hard-won reputation.
He’d been in the Horde’s capital city since day one of the “Sword in the Sand” debacle, posing as a merchant of odds and ends. He was the one all the Alliance spies reported to—indirectly, of course. Only a few knew who he really was, and that was just fine with Renzik.
The assignment had been pretty boring, especially as, with the persona of a merchant, Renzik’s chances to skulk in the darkness were slim. On the plus side, no one heard as much gossip as a merchant. Either people spilled their guts to the stranger with pretty objects or they ignored him and talked as if he weren’t standing right in front of them.
He’d set up his traveling stall near Grommash Hold. He was far enough away not to be considered a threat, but close enough that he could observe who went in and out . . . and how they looked when they left.
It had been peculiarly satisfying to watch the daily ritual of Varok Saurfang trudging into the hold for his meeting with the warchief. He looked frustrated when he entered and was usually glowering by the time he left. Even better was when the warchief herself chose to leave the keep for a hard ride on her skeletal steed. The Banshee Queen didn’t show a lot of emotion, so when her eyes were narrowed, her lips were pressed together, and she spoke harshly, it was equivalent to an orc having a total meltdown. In other words . . . the job was getting interesting.
It was about that time. Sure enough, Saurfang emerged from the darkness of Grommash Hold into the glaring Durotar afternoon with an expression that was becoming more routine with each passing day.
Renzik mopped his sweaty, bald pate. His spies had reported that Nathanos was also not happy with the high overlord’s plans or with his attitude. Love-struck puppy, Renzik thought, pondering the idea of a deader—as he referred to Forsaken—in love.
Creepy.
Even as he was thinking about the Dark Lady’s champion, a voice shouted in anger.
“Saurfang!” The voice sounded almost human, but not quite—just as Nathanos, even with his shiny new body, was almost but not quite human.
Saurfang didn’t bat an eye. He kept striding toward Orgrimmar’s great gate.
“Varok Saurfang!” Oh, Nathanos was really mad now. This was going to be interesting. He didn’t break into a run as he emerged from the hold, but you could tell he wanted to. “Guards! Stop him!”
All movement had come to a halt. Everyone’s attention was on the scene unfolding in front of them. Renzik didn’t even have to keep one eye on his wares—though he did so out of habit.
For a moment, the two guards didn’t move. Then, while they didn’t exactly stop Saurfang, they stepped—or rather, meandered, looking furtive and worried—into his path. They didn’t raise their weapons. Boy, I’d hate to be them today. Whatever they do, they’re going to tick off somebody powerful.
Saurfang slowed, stopped. He stared at one guard, then the other. Neither met his gaze, looking elsewhere and doubtless quaking in their boots. Slowly, the high overlord turned. Orcs were much bigger than Forsaken, and much hardier. This orc, in particular, was very big and very hardy. Nathanos, in his fresh human suit, was dwarfed—hah!—by the towering green figure.
“You were not dismissed,” Nathanos snapped.
“You weren’t at the meeting.”
Silence. As a fellow eavesdropper, Renzik knew exactly what that meant. Saurfang apparently did, too, for he slitted his eyes and rumbled deep in his chest.
“You should not interfere in matters that do not concern you, Blightcaller. You are Sylvanas’s champion, not her high overlord.”
“I was a ranger in life,” Nathanos said. “The only human to be so honored. I served the lady Sylvanas then, and I serve her now, and I know more about most things than you could possibly imagine.”
“I do not trust imagination. I trust facts. Numbers. Strategy. Weapons. I know these things, Blightcaller, and I was fighting wars while you still bleated like a besotted mooncalf.”
If he had still been human, Nathanos would no doubt have either flushed purple or turned pale as milk. As it was, he simply stood, frozen, his glowing crimson eyes fixed on Saurfang.
Renzik noticed a goblin in breeches, a vest, and a cap standing nearby, taking gold and writing tickets. The rogue chuckled raspily. If there was a quick copper to be made, trust a goblin to find a way. He returned his gaze to the escalating argument, sidling a few steps in the bookie’s direction.“A hundred gold on the Blightcaller,” he said. Everyone else was sure to be betting on the orc. Renzik, though, had spent enough time in human company to understand that they often came through against the greatest odds, especially when their pride—or their heart—was on the line. In the Blightcaller’s case, Renzik suspected he was still human enough that both were involved.
“There is a certain amount of respect I owe you, elder,”
Nathanos was saying. “Which is why I am exercising restraint and giving you a warning. Never leave my lady’s presence without her permission again—or you will answer to me.”
Saurfang did the most incendiary thing he could possibly do in this moment. He laughed.
Then he began to clap, slowly. “I show restraint as well, puppy,” he said. “By not ripping your too-human head off. Here’s a lesson for you. Respect is earned, and you have yet to earn mine.”
“Perhaps I will earn your respect when your blood makes mud of the sands of Orgrimmar.”
Saurfang straightened as best as his curved, orcish spine would permit and opened his arms wide as if to embrace the Forsaken.
“You are welcome to try! The warchief will have to find a new toy if you do.”
Nathanos Blightcaller let out an uncharacteristic roar of fury that surprised—and heartened—Renzik.
I’m gonna make a killing on this one, he thought, rubbing his hands in anticipation as the Forsaken champion charged the high overlord.
* * *
“A fight,” Tyrande repeated, as disbelieving as Anduin was about the news. Her aide, the Sentinel Cordressa, managed to keep her face stoic. Mostly.
“A fight,” Shaw assured them. “This report comes directly from my second-in-command.”
Anduin looked at those gathered around the table in the royal garden area. It was inevitable that at some point they would relocate to Stormwind Keep’s map room during the head-ofstate visit from High Priestess Tyrande Whisperwind and the draenei Prophet Velen. But for now, the grim topic of war strategy would at least be discussed under an open sky, surrounded by green, living things. Tyrande and Cordressa would appreciate the gesture, he was sure. He was anxious to perform
all the duties of a good host and responsible king—though he had never anticipated that discussing a fistfight between High Overlord Saurfang and Nathanos Blightcaller would be part of those duties.
The last time Anduin had met Tyrande had been in Darnassus. He had gone to thank the night elves for their aid against the Legion—and to discuss how to handle the newly discovered Azerite. All were painfully aware that Teldrassil and the Exodar were the last Alliance bastions on the continent of Kalimdor, and both Velen and Tyrande had agreed that vigilance was necessary regarding the sword of Sargeras and the substance now coming to the surface in the area.
“Who won the fight?” That, of course, was Genn Greymane. “Saurfang. Although by my agent’s account, it was closer than one might imagine,” Shaw said. “According to him, both participants all but crawled away.”
“Does your agent know if Saurfang was punished?” Anduin said.
“Quite the opposite,” Shaw replied. “Nathanos was the one who was reprimanded.”
Anduin said, quietly, “Then it’s happened.”
All heads turned to him. “What’s happened?” Genn asked.
The young king looked at them each in turn. “The decision has been made. Sylvanas is siding with Saurfang over her champion. He’ll be on the march soon. From all that your spies have told us, Shaw, Nathanos has been protesting this. According to him, it’s a waste of resources. Were those not the words you used?”
“They were,” Shaw confirmed.
“This was likely the final straw, then. The Horde’s troops will be heading to Silithus.”
“This sudden urgency,” Velen said, frowning. “It does not make sense. Magni informed all of us—Horde and Alliance alike—about Azerite and its true nature some time ago. Why move now?
What does Saurfang know that we do not?”
“It could be as simple as an old warrior looking for a fight,” Greymane said.
“No,” Tyrande said. “Saurfang is no fool, nor would he waste resources and soldiers merely to satisfy his ego. If he is pushing this hard, there is a reason.”
“I’ll bet they’ve found a way to make weapons out of Azerite,” Greymane said.
“I would not bet against you, King Greymane.” Tyrande turned her glowing gaze to Anduin. “You are right, King Anduin.
Things are escalating. When I received your last missive, I sent orders to General Feathermoon to be prepared to receive soldiers. If we are all in agreement on this, I stand ready to dispatch them immediately. They can reach Silithus before the Horde does.”
A chill swept through Anduin, leaving a coldness in the pit of his stomach. Despite all he had seen in his young life, all he had endured and lost, he had never been where he was now: on the crumbling precipice of full-fledged war in all its brutal horror. Weaponry, troops, soldiers, rogues, bombs, poison, slaughter . . . These were terrible enough on their own, but with Azerite thrown into the mix, who knew what horrifying changes would be wrought? Tens—perhaps hundreds—of thousands
could die if this war erupted.
Anduin swallowed hard and realized that all eyes were on him. He didn’t know whether to be grateful for Tyrande or to curse her. She, a veteran of millennia of warfare, had not spoken the awful three-letter word herself. I stand ready to dispatch them, she had said, and with her turn of phrase—which was as precise and deliberate as her aim in battle—Tyrande Whisperwind was waiting for Anduin to issue the command.
To take the first steps toward certain war—for Anduin could not fathom a situation where Varok Saurfang marched his troops and refused to use them.
Could that be why the old orc and the Dark Lady’s champion had come to blows? Because Sylvanas did not want a war with the Alliance? Even as he had the thought, he dismissed it as the hopeful yearning of a child who longed for peace. Sylvanas Windrunner had proved, time and again—so adamantly that her attitude could not be mistaken—that she ached for war against the Alliance.
He licked lips suddenly gone dry, and took a deep breath.
Light, I pray you, guide me in this.
“Move your troops, High Priestess,” Anduin told the night elf leader. To his surprise, his voice was sonorous and strong.
The Light was indeed guiding him, and the words came clearly and easily. “Send them to protect the Alliance. If the Horde truly intends to claim Silithus, we will already have a foothold. I trust your judgment on how to use them. I would prefer reconnaissance and deterrence.”
“As would I, King Anduin. War is a dreadful thing.”
Tyrande’s voice trembled as she spoke, not from fear—not from her—but from a deeper understanding of horrors that Anduin, even if he lived to be a hundred, would never fully comprehend.
She turned to look at Velen, lifting an aqua brow in question. Anduin felt sympathy for him. The draenei, perhaps more than even Tyrande, had seen so very much of war.
Velen sighed deeply. “I had hoped for a breath of peace after the Legion was defeated. But I agree with you both. Send the troops, High Priestess. Send them, and let us pray they will not be needed.”
It was done.
