WarCraft: War of The Ancients Book Two. Richard A. Knaak

reveal it, Tyrande Whisperwind felt none of the peace or strength she passed on to her people. The high priestess seemed to think that she especially had been touched by the Mother Moon, but Tyrande sensed no great presence within herself. If the Mother Moon had chosen her for something, she had failed to inform Tyrande.

      The last bit of daylight fled beneath the horizon. Tyrande hurried, knowing that soon the horns would sound and the host would move on toward Zin-Azshari. She touched the heart of one more soldier, then strode to her waiting panther.

      But before she reached it, another night elf confronted her. Out of reflex, Tyrande put a hand to his chest—only to have him take her hand by the wrist.

      The priestess looked up and her own heart at first leapt with joy. Then she noted the dark uniform and the hair bound back in a tail.

      Most of all, Tyrande noticed the amber eyes.

      “Illidan …”

      “I’m grateful for your blessing, of course,” he responded with a wry grin. “But I’m comforted more by your near presence.”

      Her cheeks flushed, though not for the reason he thought. Still gently holding her wrist, Malfurion’s twin leaned close.

      “Surely this is fate, Tyrande! I’ve been looking for you. We’re entering fast-moving times. Decisions must be made without hesitation.”

      With sudden anxiety, she understood what he intended to ask—nay, tell her. Without meaning to, Tyrande pulled back her hand.

      Illidan’s face immediately grew stony. He had missed neither her reaction nor the meaning behind it.

      “It’s too soon,” she managed, trying to assuage his feelings.

      “Or too late?” The wry grin returned, but to her it now appeared to be slightly hollow, more of a mask. After a moment, though, Illidan’s face relaxed. “I’ve been too impetuous. This isn’t the right time. You’ve been trying to comfort too many. I’ll speak with you again, when the moment is more appropriate.”

      Without another word, he headed toward where a mounted guard in the garb of Ravencrest’s clan awaited with the sorcerer’s own night saber. Illidan did not look back as he and his escort rode off.

      More troubled than ever, Tyrande sought her own panther. Yet, even as she mounted, another came to interrupt her thoughts. This time, however, it proved to be a more welcome soul.

      “Shaman, forgive this intrusion.”

      With a gentle smile, she greeted the orc. “You are always welcome, Broxigar.”

      Only she was allowed to call him by his full name. To all others, even Lord Ravencrest, he was merely Brox. The massive orc stood a good head shorter than her, but made up for it with a girth three times her own and nearly all of that muscle. She had seen him wade into enemies with the ferocity of one of the huge cats, but around her he acted with more respect than many of those who asked for her blessing.

      Thinking that a blessing was what the orc had come for, Tyrande reached down to touch his chest. Brox looked startled, then welcomed the touch.

      “May the Mother Moon guide your spirit, may she grant you her silent strength …” She continued on for a few seconds more, giving the orc a full blessing. Most of the other priestesses found him as abhorrent as the rest of the night elves did, but in Tyrande’s eyes, he was no less one of Elune’s creatures than herself.

      When she had finished, Brox dipped his head in gratitude, then muttered, “I am not worthy of this blessing, shaman, for that is not why I’ve come to you.”

      “It isn’t?”

      The tusked, squat face twisted into what Tyrande recognized as remorse. “Shaman … there is something that burdens my heart. Something that I must confess.”

      “Go 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!”