The dry yet musty air of the qiraji tunnels was a smell Agamaggan had grown to despise. And it was merely the upper layers where the hot wind from the outside world still managed to pass through.
The deeper it went, the worse it became. It was unique in its wrongness when the physical appearance was already glaring evidence.
Stone, crystal, and mineral brutally made way for alien structures of chitinous architecture and violet flesh that was both hard and soft. This was the mùetabolism of something, yet now scaled to a continental level.
Turning the stale air into annoyingly humid, warm, bile-infested winds to the rhythm of a raspy breath. The sounds of heartbeats that, even amid battles, where chittering and screeches were omnipresent, could be faintly heard.
If not, their pulse, seen in bulging dark veins between pillar floor and ceiling, was evident to all with the displeasure to gaze upon them.
It was a realm no sane being would willingly enter, yet the Great Boar did and became a home of sorts within the past weeks.
He had scarcely left those tunnels since the first raid at Cenarion Hold.
Agamaggan only went deeper, leading the charge as the living and greatest battering ram ever to grace Azeroth. Nothing resisted his primal stampede.
He carved bloody paths through the endless tide of oversized insects and varied enslaved titan constructs, their weapons and magic doing little else but tickling.
That didn't mean it was easy, however. Wounds accumulated quickly, and those creatures weren't lacking in cleverness. A tunnel collapsing on the boar demi-god might not instantly crush Agamaggan, but death would soon follow.
It had happened multiple times and nearly cost him and five hundred lives. It was a common tactic when the enemy felt defeat was inevitable, and at times, it was the strategy itself.
The Kingdom of Ahn'Qiraj was a threat like few Agamaggan had ever faced.
It was in a way comparable to a very few empires, surpassing most of them. The danger they posed only grew with the conditions the Wild had to face them in.
They had no difficulties sacrificing themselves en masse, a strategy only viable for them, and they had mastered it to a gruesome art.
It put the Wild's expansive healing and resurrection prowess to the test, and if not for both, their progress would have been incredibly painful.
Fighting them was no different than battling demons and undead at a base level. Here, they adapted from battle to battle in a horrid dance that made each consecutive battle deadly in its own twisted way.
Yet for all of this, Agamaggan found it cathartic to crush those bugs and living statues.
He was alive again and doing his utmost to stretch his old bones!
Thanks to the not-so-furbolg, he was reborn, and if he fell in battle, he could be brought back once more.
But that was to be avoided at all costs; it wouldn't be years of waiting, but a pointless death would see the Great Boar out of commission for at least a month. And diverted Ohto's focus.
That wouldn't do.
As such, failing was unacceptable, and there were very real chances even with the dragons on their side. They did poorly in environments with no open sky, which, unfortunately, comprised the bulk of the battlefields.
And, while they were forces to be reckoned with, on the ground, they were clumsy and awkward, using raw strength more than anything.
They weren't the factor to secure an absolute victory that many initially believed.
Not without an Aspect acting, but Agamaggan did not have great hope for that. Their track records for most were… poor.
Those hundreds of dragons that joined, of which most were relatively young, were the best they could expect to come. There was no complaint on Agamaggan's part, but he wasn't blind.
The Dragonflights did not do their utmost for whatever reasons they may have, valid or not. Good thing they weren't the only allies.
Mountain giants weren't idle, as were other allies of the Wild, like faerie dragons and Ancients of Lore, Life, and War, but their small population limited their impact on a conflict of that size.
New allies of convenience were brought in, and the general of that force was scheduled to meet today.
This explains the Great Boar's presence outside the First Gate, the largest silithid tunnel in Silithus, which was opened directly beneath Cenarion Hold. Here he was free of the tunnels' horrid aesthetics and olfactory violations.
However, the First Gate did not open to an arid sand-bound land. The world around resembled a less humid version of Feralas; it stood out like the impossible oasis it was.
The harsh rays of the sun, forever bearing down on the desert, were shielded by the verdant canopies of massive trees, creating a fresh, livable environment for all below.
This was partly the work of Ursol's and many shamans and geomancers, who sought to alter the local climate.
Thus, aiding the flora in blooming and growing without continual intervention from druids, particularly Cenarius, would require such life under these conditions.
It was he who was the main actor behind the enormity of this forest, even if the seeds weren't his making. He was the power that manifested the Sara'shenia Forest.
And in an ironic twist, the tunnels below were subsumed, having a similar fate. Creating a dimmer version of Hollowmaw's biodome with its own version of the Goldilocks slowly growing in power.
In time, it would become a true opposition to the insectoid constructs that were molesting the ground below. For now, it was a liaison and key to the stability of this nascent, magically infused environment.
It ensured that claimed territories couldn't be retaken without great cost, compared to a barren desert. Foods and water were abundant, the latter transported through roots that tapped into the groundwater.
No efforts and resources were spared, even if the Wild's focus was, as always, split between the waking world and the Nightmare in the Dreaming.
And yet this wasn't enough; this was no ordinary war, and if nothing were done, the war would drag on for years. Years they couldn't waste. Time wasn't on their side.
This delayed the plan to annihilate the Lich King before his awakening, and that was just one point among many.
The Wise and likely Resilient Bears' prophecy–the porcine Wild God was no fool, Ohto being a seer protected by Ursol would explain a lot of the vegetal jalgar oddness–was clear on many coming events.
Uncertainty was omnipresent; however, evidence based on observations clarified most of it.
Arthas Menethil, or whoever puppeted his corpse, was to be destroyed. Any delay worsened their chance at success and increased the risk.
It was why Agamaggan, on the first glimpse of the telltale airships, was pleased.
He was not any fonder of the Horde than any in the Wild Council, the contrary even.
Yet Horde assistance would be critical in reducing casualties and shortening the time to push back the silithids and qiraji, sealing them away in their hole where they belonged.
Preferably forever if pushing further was feasible.
As such, Agamaggan walked forward, cloven hooves digging into the prepared landing area where trees were moved.
It was a large clearing for the Horde to set camp, with routes leading to Cenarion Hold and cleaned silithid hives.
Though he wasn't alone there, he saw a number of dragons in various visage forms, yet all distinctive from the genuine ones by the presence of horns.
But they were few and far between. It was simply to avoid unneeded surprise, to show they were here beyond what Ohto, Zak'ji, and Magatha had informed the Horde.
"Lord Agamaggan, my sentinels are ready to act on your command." Shandris Feathermoon declared, walking to him and doing a small yet respectful military bow.
He tilted his head in recognition toward the female kaldorei. His attention then snapped to a second voice from an elderly tauren, who moved with the force of youth he shouldn't have—the advantages of rejuvenation and druidism.
"As do the Cenarion Circle, honored Ancient." Hamuul Runetotem, the highest mortal druid authority on the surface here, said. He was a future Archdruid if all went right.
His serene voice betrayed the tension in the air, but the Great Boar knew better. None were calm; the Wild Hunt members sprinkled around proved this much.
The negotiations with the Warchief were concluded, and they were satisfactory for both parties; however, plans rarely survived in practice.
"Good, then be prepared. For the Wild." Agamaggan spoke, the air vibrating with the motors of approaching engines. Birds flew and insects quieted down, filling the Sara'shenia Forest with unnatural booms and clicks of heavy machinery.
At the same time, with calloused hands on the thick railing of the leading airship's deck, Varok Saurfang frowned.
He studied the forest, one large enough to contain wood of quality unseen in nature, which could feed the Horde's bottomless appetite for such valuable material for a year if used wisely.
If even he could see it, what could someone in the trade see? It wasn't greed, merely the potential in how the Horde would grow from such abundance.
And it had grown in less than a month.
Ultimately pointless thoughts. These woods were inaccessible without a war he did not wish for. But his preferences were far below his duty to the Horde.
Regardless, he was not here to gape at one of the Wild's most desirable abilities. If only they were willing to trade more, but alas, he couldn't blame them for not doing so.
Traitorous and dishonorable, some would call those thoughts, but this lack of criticism was what made the Old Horde commit countless atrocities. It was through them that he remained steadfast and loyal.
"General Saurfang, we're approaching the landing zone! Do we have your permission to begin landing?" A goblin called from behind with a pen and a notepad in her hands.
Her glasses shone under the sunlight as she wrote faster than most he had ever witnessed.
"You may. Have our weapons aimed up, but make sure they are armed and secured." Varok said swiftly, and seconds later, after yells and alarms blared, he stared at the approaching verdant plane.
It would be a tight fit with all the gunships, but that was enough. It had to. Or they would have to cut trees, and the Wild wasn't known to respond with measures against such 'transgressions.'
It would have to be asked, and he foresaw the discussion to be exhausting.
Then he caught sight of a sizable battalion composed of what he could glimpse among night elves, furbolgs, taurens, kobolds, quillboars, dark trolls, those strange stag and deer centaurs, and bipedal wolves.
The last one was new, and his mind immediately began analyzing them, but it reached a screeching halt at what stood at the front. At what he had somehow subconsciously ignored till then.
It was a boar. More than a boar. Far more than the simple animal Saurfang was familiar with. It couldn't be compared.
The giant beast of flesh and thorns at the head stared right back at him. Ancient eyes peeling him layer by layer. Judging. Gauging. Calculating.
He felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end as primal fear rose from his heart to his throat. He culled most of it, but it lingered. The illusion of safety from distance and air superiority was shattered.
Intellectually, he knew this creature would be defeated with ease against even a single gunship of the latest generation.
A well-placed and timed shot of their rocket cannons and guns would cripple, if not outright kill, let alone a salvo of not one ship but many.
And the Lady of Iron was three times the size of those with exponentially more firepower under and inside her hull.
She wasn't the greatest airship of the Horde by any means, but it shouldn't matter. She was among the most powerful and largest, flesh destined to be turned to red mist.
Yet, instincts honed by decades of war and bloodshed told a different tale to the venerable orcish warrior. He wasn't so sure of the gunships' supremacy.
"So this is one of their famed Wild Gods… to think Hellscream decapitated one of them." His older brother's outspokenness broke Varok's musing.
He could imagine the eyes of Broxigar wide with too much enthusiasm at the sight.
A part of Varok was too. He was an orc, and fighting was his lifeblood. His brother was skilled, more than he was, and not by little. Few were in the Horde. It was easy to deduce what was happening in his sibling's mind.
But he was only an orc at the end, one past his prime, no matter how skilled or experienced.
This beast was far beyond; it was bigger than most houses and easily bulkier than any mature gronns he ever saw. It was easily outside of demons and perhaps some of the larger red dragons, the single most dangerous creature he had laid eyes upon.
No blades would go deep enough in its hide to reach muscle, much less cause actual wounds, even less ones that mattered, even if it stood still.
You didn't fight that; this was a natural disaster of thorns and tusks given shape.
He didn't need to be able to feel its power to know it was potent and more than an oversized animal if the far too intelligent eyes weren't sufficient.
Shamans were staring and muttering prayers to the spirits and elements, both in wonder and what Varok remarked appeared to be fear.
"If this beast isn't one of them, I fear what awaits us, brother, is only death," Varok stated with a deeper frown.
It had to be a Wild God, or any future conflicts against the Wild were utterly doomed to fail catastrophically. Their appellation was no arrogance.
"Then let us take as many with us. They can bleed, they can die." Broxigar answered with a feral grin, and his little brother snorted.
"Calm yourself," Varok chided, fully knowing the weight of his words, "Suicide here would bring you and the Horde no honor."
Their eyes never left the demi-god as the Iron Lady's motors slowed down for her to hover comfortably twenty meters above the ground.
It was time to disembark.
*
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