35. Joint Front

Life mana coursing through my bladed claw, I clutched the lich's unnaturally sharp-horned skull and unmade it with a snarl. Its screech was blood-curdling and grating as the magic holding it together was unraveled.

Its grotesquely exaggerated bony frame draped in a golden inlaid dark cloak cracked and exploded in a scarlet flash of light and dark frigid–even to me–smoke. The frost covering me where I held it melted at the same time.

And the mind inside likely inevitably escaped my grasp once again. It was in the safety of its phylactery where its soul was bound, per Jaina's words and what I knew of liches.

It was somewhere in the surrounding area. Utterly impossible to get and crush in any meaningful way. It could be in a tree hollow to my right or fifty meters underground. It was like finding a shrew in a forest, and it was bullshit.

'Fucking cockroach…' I spat at the dusty robe left behind before staring down from the rotting skeletal structure I stood upon. It was crumbling from my presence and bulk. The chaos spread across the horde of undead and demons from the former fault.

The sudden disconnection from the lich made the dumber undead–the vast majority of them–go absolutely feral. But it wasn't the occasional damage to the Legion that was the win. They barely targeted demons, favoring the warmth of the living.

It was the disorganization caused. It wasn't me that it helped, but the tide of the battle on our side shifted.

'Hmm, from above…' My furry ears twitched, and I backhanded a gargoyle diving at me with a screech, the dull side of my claws hitting its head like a falling boulder.

The fascinating creature–not undead, surprisingly enough, and that I wished to study–able to change from organic to stone and vice versa, didn't survive the impact, smashing into the hard, cold ground.

If it had survived the initial hit, which I doubted given the crack of spinal cords I heard.

But they came in pairs, if not more. Probably pissed them off by me temporarily killing the skelly boy. Why, under Ursol and Ursoc, they served the Scourge, no one knew. It was probably mind control or something, though.

I batted three balls of gastric acid out of five with my armored forearm while the other two landed on my shoulder and chest plate, sizzling as they slowly ate away the first layer. The smell was foul to my nose but less disgusting than the undead. The good thing was that stinking was the best it could do; Groot simply shed the touched part.

Burns of that variety didn't spread wildly like fire, even if they stuck.

In return, I quickly shot a dozen seed-bound bolts from both crossbows at the offending bat-like flyers harassing me.

My bolts didn't go deep in their skins, but they were never meant to kill by themselves. They weren't bullets.

The gargoyles cawed and squealed as I hit my marks, for the most part, with thorny vines ensnaring them, lacerating their leathery wings, and entrapping their limbs.

The rest was history, and they died meeting the embrace of Azeroth. They were resilient critters with almost stone-like fur, but it came at a price—they were heavy and brittle.

Gargoyles remained quick in spite of that, but they were predictable, clumsy, and, to top it off, far from intellectually gifted. No survival instincts and beyond diving to make people fall or shoot their acid from above–still in range of everything, not a blade–and swarming tactics.

A common denominator between the Burning Legion and the Scourge was how our past battles and skirmishes unfolded.

"To your right, Ohto!" Came the voice of Thrall, and one of those giggling patchwork of rotting flesh as tall as me jogging my way was made to fall into a sinkhole.

The large undead gracelessly crushed a ghoul as it landed belly-first on the dead soil with a dumb, surprised grunt.

I nodded in appreciation to the orc Warchief. And in the next heartbeat, I finished the abomination, my claws still infused in Life of great effectiveness against such heretical creatures to the wild and nature.

Its scream was short but filled with agony, mindless as it may be. And I loved every moment; it was the same for demons. It was a soothing symphony to my mind.

The little retribution I could get was the only way to vent efficiently.

'I hate them.' A felguard was bisected as I grabbed one of those dead spider people behind and threw it at the raving humans serving the Scourge. They were crushed and died far too painlessly for my liking.

The source of this hate was deeper than what they did and represented, and that was plenty enough, but it wasn't all.

It was from the heart, from being a creature of life and nature, furbolg, and among that, one far more in tune with the world they were killing with their mere presence. Words failed to describe the rage it generated.

I abhorred them much like demons, but in fact, it was worse, oh so much worse.

To my instincts and magic-honed senses,… they had no right to exist; they were anomalies, a threat to me and my people, and their total annihilation was their only destiny.

Demons felt out of place, but were they intrinsically wrong entities? Eh, not particularly, monstrous pests to banish that shouldn't be here, yes, but not revolting chimera born of Death, Shadow, and Fel.

I despised them all the same, but it was different.

And I made it known, barely able to contain myself as I balanced between near rampages as my eyes veered red, healing and focusing on tactical targets.

The good thing was that twenty minutes later, the battle ended, and I found myself in the aftermath like it had been multiple times a day and night since Shandris took the helm.

My job was triage and healing, not that anybody put me there or could, for that matter. I didn't lead anything officially either, but to say no to me was a different story beyond my power.

"That had been, pardon my words… too easy." I heard Jaina's worried voice from the side while I healed the wounds. Per usual, there was no favoritism beyond who was dying or not.

And the feisty Warsong female orc–one of the rare ones remaining–was almost crushed as I fixed her back, which had been dozed in Fel fire.

I might have growled and nearly broke her ribs, but the dumb bitch wasn't cooperating like I needed her to. Sleeping spells were risky when we could be attacked at any moment.

And she wasn't unique; many of the younger orcs but not only had been a pain since Hellscream chastising more than a week ago.

Reality made it hard for it to become anything else—they can't fight me. All barks, no bites, and I wasn't above using my fangs if they fancied the latter.

Still, I healed her. Each life was one against the Burning Legion. Her near-death state made her a priority, regardless of whether she was an orc. Well, the priority also depended on status if the wounds were in the same realm, but still.

But I wasn't alone on the task, so lighter stuff wasn't on me.

The druids–Grimtotem and night elves–priests, witch doctors, shamans, and regular first aids were being done. It reduced our death toll by an immense margin, with the clinically dead brought back by me reducing that even more.

There was a clear divide in who healed who, tho… and there wasn't much I could do. It wasn't a kaldorei druid that would heal an orc or half of the priests. It was an extremely strenuous 'alliance'.

In the end, only I truly went to the three groups since there was tension even after all those battles, all the blood drawn together. It didn't fix anything. It was only the battles that stopped everything from exploding, in fact.

"Too easy, indeed, my battle sister… They act far too simply overall, and this tendency has increased only. I was but a young girl barely older than you when the Legion first invaded. I know how they truly operate, and I fear we're being played; they shouldn't grow weaker." It was Shandris' voice, and I could hear the frown in her tone.

An even more feisty Warsong warrior replaced the orc woman. Half of his torso and face showed severe acid burn with many flesh wounds. He was breathing with great difficulty, and his body was growing cold, yet here he was, throwing a tantrum at me.

I would be awed by that strength of will if he wasn't glaring at me with his remaining good eye.

"Don't want healing, die better then." I rumbled in the little Orcish I learned as I rebuilt the little shit face and everything that was damaged. And the damages were extensive.

Well, damages from this battle, many orcs' bodies beyond mutation from Fel exposure had their bones and brain, among other stuff, contradicting their physical appearance. It explained a lot of their behavior, and the implications were grim.

But it wasn't straightforward to fix forced growth–if fixable at all–outside of probably total body reconstruction. Anyway…

Turning the cripple into an able-bodied buffoon, he scrambled away, trying to mask the thick scent of his fear with a veneer of righteous anger. I merely scoffed at the pettiness.

I never cared much for gratitude–it was to an extent at times, but that was unremarkable–by the ancestors, I didn't even demand the bare minimum of a thank you.

But that degree of rebuttal was starting to peeve me off something fierce. If those types of orcs want to be 'glorious' and 'honorable,' then they don't go half-heartedly with their death wish, but that wouldn't be the case either.

Rushing blindly to die wasn't a 'good' death. They wanted both the bees and the honey without the stings.

A small part of me enjoyed their reactions. It was hurting them.

Frustration aside, I was still paying attention to what was happening behind me and thinking about it as well.

"We've cleaned this part of the land, following that section of Ashenvale-" The leader of this tense amalgamation of dramatically distinct groups went on.

From my peripheral vision, I noted the Warchief of the Horde had arrived with Cairne. My student Ton came soon after from the opposite direction and put himself between me and the elven Captain.

'Grommash is alone then… urg. I hope Thrall chains are still tight like yesterday.' I thought that this time, it was far more nervous yet easy to work around a dwarf with blown-off legs carried by two nervous gnomes.

Everyone to me was small, but dwarves and gnomes were so positively tiny it was almost comical; the same was true for goblins. I wasn't used to it like kobolds. They were 'humanoids,' so it was a bit uncanny.

But to the discussion.

Thrall's exacerbating softness toward Grommash was the weak point that, on almost a daily basis, put our cooperation at risk. Not that the night elves were helping.

Yet, as I predicted, the Warsong Chieftain was a diversion for them. The language barrier diminished potential conflict, too, not that it stopped them from yelling at each other.

Luckily, the Captain of the Shadowleaves understood that, and Shandris Feathermoon was a patient woman. It was impressive how different she was from her adoptive mother, who didn't impress me in the least as a person and leader.

Be that as it may, she wanted the madman's head on a pike like every other respectable night elf.

And orcs were hardly the only potential source of conflict between us, Grimtotem and Bloodhoof, kaldorei and quel'dorei, kaldorei and orcs, kaldorei and humans and beyond.

It was annoying, but among them, only the Grimtotem taurens were under my 'control,' and they were the most reasonable. For a measure of reasonableness when Hellscream had beef with them, though he had problems with everyone—me in particular.

We were reaching the limits of our cooperation even under duress, and the duress in question's apparent weakening didn't help. Leaders didn't mind-control their people, and discontentment among everyone was quickly rising—myself included.

"It's strange indeed." Cairne hummed aloud, "The demons and the Scourge remain mighty, but outside of number, their tactics are set in stone, rushing forward with little beyond. Such an enemy cannot operate on that alone."

"It feels like we're walking on the snare of a trap. We have been converging on Mount Hyjal, and no sign of the demon lord yet. The spirits are quiet, but danger is rising." Thrall said as I finally stood up; my task was done. Now I was hungry, and the horses, kodos, and saber cats looked quite delicious.

The animals all tensed up as my gaze languidly passed over them. My mind was about which muscles and organs would taste best, raw or prepared. Warm and bloody liver was exceptional with some spices and honey.

Then I shook my head. The Bear Lords only knew how instincts and hunger mixed too well; you werent the same bear. Even the people around didn't look unappetizing.

'Ohto, you have reserves…' I poked the part of my belly where my armor articulations were; the fat was evident but far less than before this fucking plague destroying our land, 'But I can take a nibble or two. At worst, I can heal them. I can even put them to sleep.'

But I shook my head again; there wasn't such a loophole. Mana, don't regenerate out of nowhere without a font of energy, and I would like to eat my own paw to regrow it.

It was a waste.

Bah… no fresh meat, then. That paladin war horse looked tasty, though—those legs, though… no. No. I can't.

"The undead…" My tauren student said as the discussion went on, spitting the word like he just ate shit, "Their actions are unusual too. More than I bothered to count, I observed them sabotage the Legion. It hardly makes sense. It is probably to lower our guard, a false hope of victory. The same as the demons."

That was my cue to chime in.

"Probably both, Ton. But while the two are enemies and deserve decimation, they aren't allies. Their 'king' doesn't want to rule stone fragments floating in the Great Dark Beyond." I was more lenient to myself about what to reveal, but the value of my revelations was debatable.

"Arthas." I heard the saddened whisper from Alliance's sorceress but didn't comment on it. Shandris was less tactful.

"A cowardly king and abomination then, useless. It doesn't change our quandary…" The female kaldorei's severe expression worsened as she glared at the map while I approached to have a look.

We had cut a zigzagging path to the foot of Mount Hyjal, destroying Legion and Scourge outposts and everything of theirs in between. It didn't feel random now that I got a good look at it.

I wasn't surprised, though. I knew what awaited us—at least the general idea of it. Thousands would die; I could only try to ensure I didn't join the casualties.

We didn't go much beyond that; those were the logical and practical steps to take. We weren't on a rescue mission; we were way far past that point, as irking as it was to accept.

Every night, elves' settlements were void, either raised in undeath, sacrificed by demons, or the blessed ones evacuated. Furbolgs were no different, and the same fate befell almost everything else.

This portion of Ashenvale, not unlike many more, was dying. It was silent; no birds and insects to sing had fled if lucky. Its beauty was stripped; no more blooming flowers and verdant grove. It was becoming a desolate land, either burning or freezing and smelling of decay and sulfur. It was maddening and torturous—an anguish I never knew I could feel.

"They are gathering their force for a final assault." That was our conclusion, and it was strengthened by the growing presence South of us and the general movement of our enemies from our scouts.

After that, the discussion on what to do next went on for two more hours. It shifted from our provisions to internal conflicts and smaller yet equally important details for an army to work.

A lot of it bored me to death, but it was necessary—logistics was the unseen backbone of any group, an armed force all in particular. And luckily, it wasn't on me to hammer the details. I was an outside helper with full independence. At most, I gave my opinion.

Then it was time to rest.

However, it was cut short halfway through.

I felt a poke on my feet, awakening me from my sleep high in the heart of a tree—a safe place but close enough to the ground to react in time.

"Medivh." I said, staring down at the oversized black bird as my mind rapidly came to full awareness; then I snarked with a faint smirk, "That wasn't hard, was it not?"

The man turned raven, tilted his head, and pecked at my foot again before taking flight before I strangled him. I frowned and followed suit, my body becoming that of a bloodwing bat as the stale wind took me.

It didn't take long to arrive where Medivh wanted me to be. My feelings on why were confirmed before my ears, smell, and eyesight; it–no, he–was an unmistakable presence.

To say little of Malfurion Stormrage would be sensing a proper Wild God, yet not quite. He wasn't incomparable to Cenarius or Ursol but decidedly inferior in the amount of energies to both by a long shot.

It was still far more than me, however.

It was beyond exceptional. But it wasn't overwhelming or anything, though. It was your capacity and how much magic you can throw.

If I had been weaker, it might have been, but no. I was less magically powerful; that was clear, and I didn't deny it, but that meant little when the gap wasn't an abyss. I still had claws the size of his arms.

I knew he knew I was here. I felt his gaze; his sense brushed me with interest and curiosity, and I gazed back.

Then the Archdruid came into view; he was substantially more muscular than your average male kaldorei and equally handsome with a wild beard and great antlers. His eyes widened as he saw me properly, and his curiosity became even more obvious.

Next to him was Tyrande with the mother of all grimaces on her, and beside her was Shandris frowning as well, ready to protect the older woman if a fight broke out.

Jaina was there, as was Thrall, each on their own side. I landed, the dying grass and dry soil folding under my weight as I returned to my original form and attracted everyone's attention. It would be hard not to when the tallest here was two times smaller in height.

"You are Ohto, I presume? The one to have convinced my love of that daring entente with those outlanders, yes?" Malfurion asked first with an amount of respect that frankly took me off guard, and I nodded.

"I must thank you then, young one. And I'm honored to meet such a formidable creature of the wild. In all my years of life, I have never met such a controversial and unique furbolg as you."

I felt he wanted to ask more and was barely holding back from doing that.

"The honor is shared, Malfurion Stormrage," I said with an even tone, and then, as if perfectly timed, came Medivh. It was time we joined forces properly then. Yet there was no joy… all of what unfolded until now had been the easy part.

*

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