The portal is no longer a concern… not now that I have the dragon’s toy…

The words reverberated in the heads of each. Illidan, Captain Varo’then, and Mannoroth stared uncomprehendingly at the monstrous gap. Even the Highborne, who continuously strained to keep the portal together, almost paused, so stunned were they.

The disk shall open the way, as planned, but through a medium more trustworthy than this pathetic little hole… The gap pulsated. One more powerful, more certain to hold when bound with the power of you have brought me… I speak, of course, of the Well itself…

 Jarod Shadowsong did not feel like a legend, but the eyes of everyone he passed gazed at him as if he was one. His reputation, already built up far beyond what it deserved for his minuscule successes on the battlefield, had grown a hundred times greater with the coming of such mythic beings as Cenarius and the other ancient protectors of the world. The story of the intentional public acknowledgment of him as commander by Cenarius had been retold over and over throughout the camp until some variations had him clad in gold and accepting the forest lord’s service by knighting the latter with a gleaming, magical sword. Despite the outrageousness of such tales, few among the defenders seemed to scoff at them. Even the council of nobles eyed the low-caste officer with something resembling reverence.

There was no one Jarod could talk to about his concerns, either. Rhonin was the closest thing to a confidant, but the human kept insisting that the night elf live with the changes in his life.

He dared not even go to the priestesses and seek some sort of confession by which to unburden himself of his anxieties. With Maiev all but high priestess, word would certainly get back to his sister… and that was the last thing the officer wanted.

For one of the few times since having command thrust upon his back, Jarod rode alone through the camp. He had told his adjutants that he would not be long and so there was no need for them to follow. Besides, everyone already knew who he was. All they had to do was ask and he would easily be located.

He received constant salutes and more than a few grateful expressions. Some sisters of Elune working among the wounded looked up at his pacing, even they nodding respectfully. Thankfully, Maiev was not one of them.

One slightly shorter priestess adjusted her helmet, saw him, and immediately came running. Jarod reined his mount to a halt, fearful that she bore some message requiring a meeting with his sister but aware that he could hardly turn tail.

“Commander Shadowsong! I was hoping to see you again!”

Jarod scrutinized the priestess’s face. Attractive, although a little younger up close than he had first supposed. The face was familiar, but where —

“Shandris… it’s Shandris, isn’t it?” The orphan that Mistress Tyrande had taken under her wing before her kidnapping.

Her eyes widened appreciatively at his remembrance of her. Jarod suddenly felt very uncomfortable under that intense gaze. Shandris was a year or two away from being old enough for a suitor and while he was not that many years ahead of her, it was still a gulf the size of the Well of Eternity.

“Yes! Commander, have you heard anything about her?”

Now, he recalled their last conversation… and each one previous. Her missing rescuer had been a focal point of each and every one of their encounters. Jarod had been polite with her, but never could give her the answer she sought. There had been no attempt to rescue the high priestess. How could there be? She had surely been taken to the palace and, if so, had likely been slain shortly thereafter.

But Shandris refused to believe that Tyrande would not return. Even when Malfurion, the most logical one to attempt to rescue her, had gone off on his mission, Shandris had half believed that when he returned, the druid would somehow have Tyrande with him. Jarod had kindly tried to convince her otherwise, but the young female had a stubborn trait worthy of a tauren. Once she set her mind on something, she kept to it — which was also why when the novice had first begun to look at him with personal interest, the soldier had started to worry.

“Nothing. I’m sorry, Shandris.”

“And Malfurion? He’s back?”

He frowned. “There’s been no sign of him, either, little one, but I must remind you, his mission leads him elsewhere. What he and the others attempt means more to our people than even rescuing the high priestess means to you and, especially, the druid. You know that.”

“She’s not dead!”

“I never said that she was!” he snapped back. “Shandris, it would be a dream of mine for her to be rescued, but even Mistress Tyrande would understand why that’s not come to pass!”

Her expression froze for a moment, then softened. “I’m sorry! I know you’ve got so much to do! I shouldn’t bother you with this, Jarod.”

Oblivious to her use of his first name, the former Guard captain tried to placate her. “I’ve always time for you, Shandris…”

Her eyes took on a sudden glow that warned him that he had taken his placating one step too far. Again, the novice looked at him in a manner females did not generally look at Jarod Shadowsong.

“I really must go now, Shan — ” But the rest of what he planned to say died on his lips, for the all-too-familiar cry of the battle horns sounded just then and Jarod knew that, this time, they were no mistake actually announcing the arrival of welcome additions. No, these sounded from the front lines and the roar that followed accented all too well the fact that the bloodshed had started once more.

As he turned his mount, a slim hand touched his knee. Shandris Feathermoon called, “Commander! Jarod! May the blessings of Elune be upon you…”

Despite himself, Jarod smiled gratefully, then urged his beast on. Although he did not look back, he felt with complete certainty her eyes on his back.

Reports came at him left and right the moment he reached his tent. There were demons on the southern ridge, others coming over the river to the north. The main horde pressed the center, a massive wedge of their own already cutting into the defenders’ lines without any sign of slowing.

“The scouts report a second massing just behind the first!” shouted a rider just arriving. “They swear it’s as large, even larger, than the main body!”

“How many of the damned monsters are there?” growled a noble. “Haven’t we made a dent in their army yet?”

The answer came not from Jarod, but rather Rhonin, and it was not an answer any of them wanted to hear. “Yes, we have… but it’s a very, very small dent.”

“By the Mother Moon, outsider, how can we possibly win, then?”

The wizard shrugged and gave the only response he could. “Because we must.”

They all looked to Jarod. Trying not to swallow hard, he looked over the party, then, in his sternest voice, said, “You all know what you need to do at your positions! We need this new wedge broken up! Let’s get to it!”

He surprised even himself with how determined he was. As the others dispersed, the night elf turned to Rhonin. “I think they’re saving that second massing for when that wedge breaks through!”

“Send the tauren in,” suggested the wizard.

“Huln’s people are needed where they are.” Jarod tried to think, but, unfortunately, the only notion he had was one he could not imagine implementing. Yet… “I must find Cenarius!”

And, with that, he ran off.

It was time to end this farce.

So Archimonde thought as he used his senses to survey the battle. The news had come to him that a thing of power had been delivered to his lord, the disk utilized by the mad dragon to create such admirable carnage. Sargeras himself felt certain that this disk would open the way for him. Having seen it — and coveted it for the battlefield — Archimonde could well believe his lord correct.