Chapter 23

The shifts changed at nightfall. Most of the Orcs rose, at least somewhat refreshed, and the few sentries staggered into the cave to get what sleep they could. Veren Redmorning met with his commanders as the transfer was in progress.

"How long do you plan to stay here?" Shel'yin asked at once.

"Until tomorrow morning, at least," Redmorning said. "They need the rest, and since most of our enemies are comfortable in the darkness, traveling by night buys us no advantage."

Lev Darksun grunted. "Especially when they can make themselves invisible," he said. "Maybe the warlock here can see them, but the rest of us can't."

"We didn't get as much of a head start as I'd like," Veren agreed. "But we've set up our defenses carefully. I doubt anyone will get past the sentries, and the cave mouth is highly defensible."

"You mean it is a death trap," Shel'yin said.

"Thank you for that useful and heartening remark, Warlock. Anyone else?"

As it happened, Veren Redmorning was only half right.

Ordinary Night Elves would not have been able to get past the sentries. The Priestess in charge of the Ashenvale garrison realized it as soon as her scouts brought her the report. That was why she sent a Warden, instead.

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Androis Darkiron moved quietly through the undergrowth outside the cave. Red light glowed from the entrance, but the stench of evil magic was almost gone.

It is as the scouts said. They have slain the Guardian and taken the Medallion of Kashinath.

But… What use could Orcs have for that peculiar talisman, so double-edged in its use? We did not consider it worth our while to spend the lives it would take to destroy the revenant, the Warden thought. Perhaps we should have taken more thought to what would happen if it fell into the wrong hands.

No satyr could have done it, that much was certain. Besides, satyrs can only raise mindless skeletons. It would take a thinking Undead to understand the conditions and accept them. No one could have anticipated that red Orcs would penetrate so far into the forest.

Darkiron supposed it was dimly possible that the Orcs had simply kept the artifact, and did not realize what it was for. In that case, she would have to try and recover it when her primary mission was complete.

It is not insult enough that they desecrated a sacred place when they came to Ashenvale, that they slew its trees for building and its creatures for food. Now they have taken hostages, as well.

Darkiron was within inches of the entrance now. She risked a glance around the edge of the cave mouth, then ducked back. The sentries were alert, scanning the darkness, but they would not see her. Orcs cannot see the invisible. Not even these demon-Orcs.

She gathered up the necessary mana and blinked into a shadow close to the wall inside. A peon passed quite close, and Darkiron held her poisoned dagger at the ready, but the Orc did not notice her. She looked around the cave with a practiced eye.

They seem surprisingly calm and organized, for Orcs under the influence of the demon's blood. Nor do I scent the stink of the Burning Legion on them. What is this?

It did not matter. She had caught sight of her objective. A travois sat against the wall close to the back of the cave, with a tall, hooded figure standing guard over it. An Elf lay under blankets there, her back to the Warden. A druid of the claw paced restlessly by the end of the travois, casting a giant shadow in the firelight.

Arinagh. I hope they have treated you well, my old friend. Darkiron selected a suitable shadow, close to the travois, and blinked again.

The fan of knives would be too conspicuous to use yet. But she had seen what the Orcs wore. None of them had armored necks. Darkiron threw her dagger underhand, and it flew with lethal accuracy. The cloaked guard fell to his knees without a sound.

"Bring her," Darkiron whispered. "I will lead you out."

Arinagh looked at her with an expression that was almost sad. "Darkiron," he rumbled. "I am glad to see you, though I wish the circumstances were otherwise. You must go, and quickly."

"What do you mean?"

"Too late," said a voice beside Androis' ear, and she found a blade at her throat. "Do not try to teleport. Believe me when I say you do not want to find out which of us is faster."

The voice was female, and the language was hers. Androis glanced at the travois and found it empty. How could I not have heard her? I have not been crept up on since I was a girl.

"Who are you?" Darkiron said coldly.

Then she saw the fallen sentry reach up and pull the knife from his throat. His hood fell back.

"Goddess," Androis Darkiron said, as she saw the black blood running from the side of his neck. She knew she had not missed the artery, but the flow was thick and sluggish. "That is no Orc."

"Indeed," said the dead man, also in the familiar tongue. He touched the wound and looked at his fingers. "You should consider yourself fortunate. If you had killed me, I do not think you would be alive at this moment."

"She's only alive because I thought you might need her life," the Elf said.

Orcs were beginning to gather around them, attracted by the strange tableau. A murmur ran around the inside of the cavern.

"I told you once before," the Undead said. "I will not kill a prisoner. No more than I would take your life, when you offered it."

"I am sorry," Arinagh said heavily. "I did not realize the Priestess knew I had been taken alive."

Androis barely heard him, lost in realization as she recalled the account she had heard of the last battle against the Orcs.

"A skeleton mage killed our chimera," she said slowly. "We thought it was some trick of Orcish magic, an animate dead like the satyrs use."

"No," Arinagh said. "It was Rokhyel Shadebreaker."

"You used the Medallion of Kashinath," Androis said. It is unfortunate that I'm about to die, because the Priestess should certainly hear this. "But… You should be alive…"

"The Shadebreaker has scruples which I lack," the voice at Darkiron's ear said. "He did not let the Medallion finish its work."

A tenor voice said something in Orcish. The small crowd parted. A slim Orc stood in front of Darkiron and her captor. He wore a sword harness, and he stood flanked by a small warlock and the biggest grunt that Androis had ever seen.

"So this is the Chieftain of the red Orcs," Androis Darkiron said in the Common tongue. "I expected someone taller."

The Orc looked over Androis's shoulder, presumably at the other Elf.

"They came from Draenor," she said. "He does not understand you." She translated rapidly.

The Orc smiled.

"Everyone does," Darkiron's captor translated his reply.