Pageantry, Malfurion had written in his instructions. Delaryn had not understood what that meant. But now she did.
They were about to enact a piece of lethal theater that was dependent upon illusion, partial truth, and mystery.
So she waited. There was illumination in the forest: glowing, insubstantial orbs darted and hovered about. Those who did not understand what they were might simply find the lights pretty and slightly compelling. Those who did know regarded them with respect, reverence, gratitude . . . or fear.These were wisps, the spirits of the beloved kaldorei dead. For a moment, Delaryn wondered if any who had fallen today were among them—if Ferryn was among them—but she banished the thought. Now, more than ever, there was no room for distraction.
A troll waved a thick, three-fingered hand in annoyance at a few of the wisps darting about him. A tauren’s tail swished and her ears twitched, as if these lights, only the size of a kaldorei’s head, were nothing more than buzzing insects.
Fools, Delaryn thought. Keep coming . . .
It took several more minutes before Saurfang realized the peril. In the ugly, guttural language of the orcs, he shouted the order for a retreat. Fear tinged his voice.
As well it should. In small groups, the spirits of the dead were indeed innocuous. But in large numbers, they could bring down a demon lord—and they had.
And now . . . Malfurion Stormrage called the chief performers in this drama to take the stage. His voice boomed forth like thunder. “Ash karath,” he cried. Do it!
His words were both an order to the spirits and a taunting challenge to the Horde. The latter retreated as fast as they could—at least, the wise ones among them who had listened to Saurfang.
The darkness of the forest lit up as the wisps obeyed the shan’do. Too late, all the Horde who had ventured into the shadows of the trees understood. The wisps descended in a solid sheet of light upon those too foolish or confused to have fled with their commander, obscuring them from sight—but not silencing them; the forest rang with shrieks of torment. And Delaryn was glad to hear that song.
The remaining Horde soldiers fled frantically, futilely. An orc, huge and bristling with weapons, tripped on one of the dozens of roots that now snaked out, and he hit the earth hard.
A white, buzzing cloud descended on him. A moment later, the cloud lifted, sailing toward the next victim of the wisps’ wrath, leaving nothing behind but charred skeletons, or sometimes merely ash.
“To me!” the shan’do cried.
Now, the elves took their own cue to participate in this play of life and death. They rose from the undergrowth or dropped from the branches where they had been concealed and joined their leader, racing forward in pursuit of their enemy.
The wisps buzzed angrily, harrying the Horde as they fled back the way they had come.
Delaryn had guessed more than a hundred had accompanied the high overlord. Only a handful—no more than a dozen—made it back to the shore near Zoram’gar Outpost. The rest had been demolished by the wisps.
As his soldiers reached the fringes of the forest, Malfurion shouted the order to halt. He lifted his powerfully muscled arms and, in a swarm of light, the wisps darted toward him, forming a wall that concealed their living brethren. A few moments later, again obeying his silent bidding, the wall of wisps parted, drawing back like a curtain to reveal Malfurion Stormrage standing atop a small rise, with every single soldier he had at his command lined up before him so their numbers looked greater. Around them, the branches of the trees moved, grasping only air . . . for now.
“This ends now.” Malfurion’s voice, rich and resonant, carried through the still air to the Horde clustered on the shore. “The Horde will not take a single step farther into our land, not without paying with their lives. This I vow.”
The curtain of living light closed once again.
Pageantry.
The next move was up to the Horde.
Delaryn sagged slightly, but she was smiling. “Shan’do,”
she said, “how did you know this would work?”
Malfurion smiled. Normally the expression gentled his face, but now it only reinforced his fierceness. He bowed deeply to the lights that had answered his call. “Fear is a useful tool, when used shrewdly. The Horde is powerful,” he said, his deep voice thrumming with resolve, “and its members are intelligent.
But many are deeply superstitious. I anticipated that these protective spirits would not only destroy those they embraced, but also terrify those who managed to escape. This fear will spread to the rest of the Horde army. They cannot go forward without facing the wisps, our arrows, and the forest’s wrath.”