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New guilt.
Brox should have died then. He should have died with his comrades. They had given the ultimate
sacrifice for the Horde, but he had survived, had lived on. It was not right.
I am a coward& he thought once more.If I had fought harder, I d be with them.
But even though he had told this to Thrall, the Warchief had shook his head and said,  No one fought
harder, my old friend. The scars are there, the scouts saw you battle as they approached. You did your
comrades, your people, as good a service as those who perished& 
Brox had accepted Thrall s gratitude, but never the Horde leader s words.
Now here he was, penned up like a pig waiting to be slaughtered for these arrogant creatures. They
stared at him as if he had grown two heads and marveled at his ugliness. Only the young female, the
shaman, had shown him respect and care.
In her he sensed the power that his own people talked about, the old way of magic. She had healed the
fiery wound that her friend had caused him with but a prayer to the moon. Truly she was gifted and Brox
felt honored that he had been given her blessing.
Not that it would matter in the long run. The orc had no doubt that his captors would soon decide how
to execute him. What they had learned from him so far would avail them nothing. He had refused to give
them any definitive information concerning his people, especially their location. True, he did not quite
know himself how to reach his home, but it was better to assume that anything said concerning that might
be hint enough for the night elves. Unlike those night elves who had allied themselves with the orcs, these
had only contempt for outsiders& and thus were a threat to the Horde.
Brox rolled over as best as his bonds allowed. Another night and he would likely be dead, but not in the
manner of his choosing. There would be no glorious battle, no epic song by which to remember him&
 Great spirits, he muttered.  Hear this unworthy one. Grant me one last struggle, one last cause. Let me
be worthy& 
Brox stared at the sky, continuing to pray silently. But unlike the young priestess, he doubted that
whatever powers watched over the world would listen to a lowly creature such as him.
His fate was in the night elves hands.
What brought Malfurion into Suramar, he could not quite say. For three nights he had sat alone in his
home, meditating on all Cenarius had told him, on all he himself had witnessed in the Emerald Dream.
Three nights and no answers to his growing concerns. He had no doubts that the spellwork continued in
Zin-Azshari and that the situation would only grow more desperate the longer no one acted.
But no one else even seemed tonotice any problem.
 Perhaps, Malfurion finally decided, he had journeyed to Suramar simply to find some other voice, some
other mind, with which to discuss his inner dilemma. For that he had chosen to seek out Tyrande, though,
not his twin. She gave more care to her thoughts, whereas Illidan had a tendency to leap into action
regardless of whether or not he had hatched any plan.
Yes, Tyrande would be good to talk with& and just to see.
Yet, as he headed in the direction of the temple of Elune, a large contingent of riders suddenly bore
down from the other direction. Edging to the side of the street, Malfurion watched as several soldiers in
gray-green armor rushed by on their sleek, well-groomed panthers. Held high near the front of the party
was a square banner of rich purple with a black avian form at the center.
The banner of Lord Kur talos Ravencrest.
The elven commander rode at the forefront, his mount larger, sleeker, and clearly the dominant female of
the pack. Ravencrest himself was tall, lanky, and quite regal. He rode as if nothing would deter him from
his duty, whatever that might be. A billowing cloak of gold trailed behind him and his high, red-crested
helm was marked by the very symbol of his name.
Avian also best described his features, long, narrow, his nose a downward beak. His tufted beard and
stern eyes gave him an appearance of both wisdom and might. Outside of the Highborne, Ravencrest
was considered one of those with the most influence with the queen, who in the past had often taken his
counsel.
Malfurion cursed himself for not having thought of Ravencrest before, but now was not a good
opportunity to speak with the noble. Ravencrest and his elite guard rode along as if on some mission of
tremendous urgency, which made Malfurion immediately wonder if his fears about Zin-Azshari had
already materialized. Yet, if that had been the case, he doubted that the rest of the city would have
remained so calm; the forces at play near the capital surely presaged a disaster of monumental
proportions, quickly affecting even Suramar.
As the riders vanished, Malfurion moved on. So many people clustered into one area made the young
night elf feel a bit claustrophobic after his lengthy period in the forest. Still, Malfurion fought down the
sensation, knowing that soon he would see Tyrande. As anxious as she made him feel of late, she also
calmed his spirit more than anything else could, even his meditations.
He knew he would have to see his brother, too, but the idea did not appeal to him so much this night. It [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]