head, he went on. “My warchief, I confess all these failures, all these stains to my honor, and await my fate!”
There was silence, then he heard Garrosh say, “Your honor is your life.”
“Yes, my warchief.”
“And your life you offer to me.”
Again Briln agreed. At the same time he thought to himself, My disgrace is great! Garrosh rightly makes me suffer for my failures before granting me a proper death to atone for them!
“So, if your life is mine, then your honor is mine . . . and as it is my honor at stake, I would have it redeemed in battle!”
The captain could not help gaping as he looked up. “I don’t understand, Warchief. . . .”
“You will join us as we march through Ashenvale and see your work crush the Alliance! You will stand at the forefront, and if you die, your name will be spoken with pride by our people for generations!”
Garrosh himself offered Briln a hand up. The captain stared wide-eyed.
“Your first mate will now be captain. You’ll now command soldiers in combat, and you will serve directly under me.”
Briln’s chest swelled with pride. “I will slay a hundred night elves before they bring me down! I will destroy Silverwing Outpost myself!”
The warchief chuckled. “Fight well. That’s what I ask.”
“I will!”
There was a rumble from the closest cage, but a tentative one that did not threaten. The creatures were subdued.
“We leave at sunrise tomorrow,” Garrosh announced with confidence, ignoring the fact that he had clearly just arrived himself after what must have been a strenuous ride. “The first stage of my plan’s at work on the night elves in Ashenvale already! Their communications with Darnassus are cut off and they will be making many assumptions as to what comes next based on past wars!” He gestured at the cages. “They’ll die discovering just what great fools they’ve been made. . . .”
The nearest beast rumbled again, this time seeming to echo the warchief’s triumphant tone. Briln’s grin widened. He would live to see his work unleashed upon the night elves. He would live to know that he had served the Horde well.
And he would live to see the beginning of a new world—one forged by the hand of the Horde, not the Alliance. . . .
Tyrande and Malfurion had chosen to have the summit outside, in an area often used for grand events. They could have used the temple, where they had held their wedding, but part of the choice had to do with the Gilneans. It had been agreed by both that the introduction of Genn’s people to the Alliance would be better served outside, where some of those who might be discomforted by their presence would be able to avoid feeling trapped.
Now, with seating arranged in more circular fashion save for an entrance to the east, the highest-ranking night elves seated themselves and then awaited the entrances of their guests. All had now arrived save the magi of Dalaran, whose ruling council, the Kirin Tor, had declined to send a representative due to Dalaran’s desire to remain a bridge between the two warring sides. In Dalaran, magi of the Horde were as welcome as those serving the Alliance.
Tyrande and Malfurion had the seats of honor at the opposing end from the entrance. Sentinels in their full uniforms stood as honor guard near not only the high priestess and archdruid but also the entrance, where they would flank each of the visiting contingents.
But this was more than merely the official introduction of the summit. The entrances would be climaxed by the Ceremony of Induction, when new members of the Alliance would be added by call of vote. If a new member was accepted, it made sense that its representatives would then seat themselves and become part of the discussion to follow. To wait until a gathering was nearly at the end was ludicrous.
And if a supplicant was rejected . . . it also made sense for that party to depart as quickly as possible so as to keep its shame to a minimum.
On the surface, there was no sign of the turmoil going on in Darnassus. News had reached the pair that something—exactly what it was had not been made clear—had happened to Maiev’s brother in the course of the investigation. Malfurion and Tyrande only knew that Jarod was bedridden from injury. The high priestess had sent healers, and so there was apparently no fear of permanent injury, but both leaders desired to speak with Maiev’s