they did not have, for even as Shandris got something of a semblance of order set up near the river, she heard horns in the forest beyond sounding over and over. There was no doubt in her mind that the defenders were mere moments from a new attack, and this time there would be no fortuitous and epic charge such as Denea and the handful of survivors had informed her Commander Haldrissa had bravely led. Haldrissa’s choice to convert a failed attempt to kill Garrosh into a trick that had turned defeat into reprieve would be sung by night elves for generations to come . . . assuming that there were generations to come.
Shandris eyed the forest to the north; the land rose higher there, low hills that, given other circumstances, might have proved valuable in a counterattack. She wished that they had been able to set up an outpost there back when the entire land had been theirs, but now it was impossible.
The general surveyed the rest of the region and had to admit that Haldrissa had arranged matters as well as anyone could. Shandris had noticed that some of the younger officers, including Denea, had laid hints that perhaps their commander should be permanently shunted aside, but they had renounced any such thoughts after her bravery. Older Haldrissa might have gotten, but she had gotten older because she was good.
And a lot of other night elves will not be getting any older after this day is over. . . .
“Take over!” she ordered one of her aides. Turning her nightsaber, she headed back to where the other priestesses had Tyrande. One of attendants looked up as she approached, but the general had no interest in anyone but her mother. Fortunately, to Shandris’s great pleasure, Tyrande’s eyes were open.
“My daughter,” she greeted the general.
Not caring how it might appear, Shandris dismounted and went to hug the high priestess. Tyrande returned the hug with equal vigor.
“You are well?” Shandris asked.
“I still have some trouble focusing, but, yes . . . I am fairly well.” She stared deep into the general’s eyes. “They are coming.”
Tyrande was not asking, but rather informing. Shandris was not surprised. “I expect that they will be at the edge of the forest in two minutes at most.”
The high priestess pushed herself up onto her elbows, then had to shut her eyes a moment. “Whatever Garrosh had the archers use, it was very potent . . . not that my wounds were anything small. The Horde has expert shots.”
“And we had better ones. The Horde paid.” A new horn sounded. This time, it was an Alliance horn.
“Bring me Ash’alah,” demanded the high priestess.
“You are not well enough—” Shandris began, only to stop when Tyrande gave her a look. Rather than argue when orcs were about to rush down on them, the general gave Tyrande a hand up.
One of the priestesses brought forth Ash’alah for Tyrande. She mounted and, after Shandris had done the same, the pair raced off to the front.
Horns began to blow in earnest across the Alliance lines. They seemed to echo those coming from the forest. Still none of the enemy was visible to either Shandris or Tyrande, but something had surely caught the attention of the sentries.
What it was became evident as they rode up. The treetops were shaking.
The magnataur were on the move.
“Fire arrows,” Shandris decided. “We send enough fire arrows, we burn down the forest and send the magnataur running for their damned lives. . . .”
“‘Burn down the forest’?” Tyrande took a breath and straightened. Then, “Perhaps you are right. . . .”
“I do not know if I am. . . . The fire might just make them meaner. . . . I do not know what else to do.” The general looked at Tyrande. “Unless Elune—”
“The Mother Moon does not exist to answer our every demand like a servant,” the high priestess replied. “But I have been praying to her constantly since I awoke.”
“And?”
“And all I know is that we must fight and accept either death or survival.”
Shandris grunted. “I just love Elune.” She checked that her glaive was secure, then readied her bow. “She ought to consider how lonely it might be for her without us.”
“Shandris—”
The general chuckled darkly. “I am only jesting.”
The treetops nearest to the river began shaking. The general sent out the order for fire arrows to her messengers, who rushed to tell the archer commanders. As the riders vanished on their missions, a familiar