The Shattering: Prelude to Cataclysm

One

Land ho!" cried the lookout. The slender blood elf had established a perch for himself in the crow's nest, a place so precarious, Cairne thought, that an actual crow would think twice about alighting upon it. The young elf leaped easily onto the rigging, hands and bare feet entwined with the rope, seemingly as comfortable as a squirrel. The aged tauren watching from the deck shook his head slightly at the sight. He was pleased and unabashedly a bit relieved that the first part of their journey to Northrend was over. Cairne Bloodhoof, leader of the tauren, proud father and warrior, did not like ships.

He was a creature of the good, solid earth, as were all his people. They had boats, yes, but small ones that stayed well within sight of the land. Somehow even the zeppelins, airborne goblin contraptions though they were, felt more secure beneath his hooves than a seafaring vessel. Perhaps it was the rocking motion and the fact that the sea could become hostile in an instant. Or perhaps it was the long, unbroken tedium of a voyage such as the one they had just made, from Ratchet to the Borean Tundra. Regardless, now that their destination was in sight, the aged bull felt cheered.

He was, as befit his rank, traveling in the Horde flagship, Mannoroth's Bones. Sailing alongside the proud vessel were several more, empty now save for kegs of fresh water (and a few of Gordok ogre brew, to promote morale) and nonperishable foodstuffs. Cairne would only enjoy his stay on dry land for a day or so, while the ships were loaded with supplies no longer needed here in Northrend and the last of the soldiers of the Horde, who doubtless were looking forward to the journey home.

His aged eyes could not see the land yet through the thick fog, but he trusted in the sharper ones of the acrobatic sin'dorei lookout. He walked to the railing and closed his hands over it, peering into the mists as the ship drew closer.

He knew that the Alliance to the southeast had chosen to erect Valiance Keep on one of the many islands that dotted that area, which made for easy navigation. Warsong Hold, their destination, was well situated and commanded a good view of the surrounding area — much more important to the Horde than deep harbors or easy access. Or at least, it had been more important.

Cairne blew softly through his nostrils as the ship slowly, carefully moved forward. He was starting to make out ships through the peculiarly thick fog — the skeleton of another vessel, her captain clearly not so wise as the troll who captained Mannoroth's Bones, that had either come under attack or run herself aground — perhaps both. "Garrosh's Landing," the site was immodestly called, and this was what was left of that impulsive young orc’s sailing vessel. It had been stripped down to the bones, the once - vivid scarlet hues of sails sporting the black symbol of the Horde now faded and tattered. Equally weathered was the single watch tower that now came into view, and Cairne could just glimpse the hulking form of what had once no doubt been a great hall.

Garrosh, son of the famed orc hero Grom Hellscream, had been among the first to answer the call to come to Northrend. Cairne admired the youth for that, but what he had seen and heard of his behavior was equal parts encouraging and distressing. Cairne was not so old that he did not remember the fire of youth burning in his veins. He had raised a son, Baine, and had watched the young tauren struggle with the same problems he himself had, and understood well that some of Garrosh's behavior stemmed largely from nothing more unusual — and temporary — than young male bravado. Garrosh's enthusiasm and passion were, Cairne had to admit, catching. In the midst of a disheartening war, Garrosh had stirred the hearts and imaginations of the Horde and awakened a sense of national pride that had spread like wildfire.

Garrosh was, for good and ill both, his father's son. Grom Hellscream had never been known for patient wisdom. Always he had acted first, violent and urgent, his war cry the piercing, unsettling scream that had given him his surname. It had been Grom who had first drunk the blood of the demon Mannoroth — blood that had tainted him and all other orcs who had drunk it. But in the end, Grom had had his revenge. Though he had been the first to drink, and thus the first to fall to demonic bloodlust and madness, he had been the one to end that madness and bloodlust. He had slain Mannoroth. And with that gesture, the orcs had begun to reclaim their own great hearts, wills, and spirits.

Garrosh had once been ashamed of his father, deeming him weak to have drunk the blood, and a traitor. Thrall had enlightened the youth, and now Garrosh Hellscream embraced his heritage. Perhaps embraced it a little too enthusiastically, Cairne mused, although the result of Garrosh's enthusiasm had had positive results among the warriors. Cairne had to wonder if perhaps Thrall, in praising the good Grom had indeed done, had overly downplayed the harm Grom had also caused.

Thrall, the warchief of the Horde and a wise as well as courageous leader, had clashed on more than one occasion with the brash young Garrosh. Before the disaster that was the Wrath Gate had occurred, Garrosh had actually challenged Thrall to fight in the arena at Orgrimmar. And, more recently, Garrosh had allowed himself to be baited by Varian Wrynn's angry taunts and had charged at the king of Stormwind, clashing violently with him in the heart of Dalaran itself.

And yet, Cairne could not argue with Garrosh's success and popularity, nor the joyful zeal and passion with which the Horde responded to him. Granted, unlike some rumors would have it, Garrosh had not single - handedly beaten back the Scourge, slaughtered the Lich King, and made Northrend safe for Horde children to frolic in. But there was no denying the fact that he had led incursions that had been unqualified successes. He had brought back to the Horde a sense of fierce pride and fire for battle. He had managed, every time, to turn what looked like lunacy into a rousing success.

Cairne was too intelligent to dismiss this as coincidence or accident. So bold he could be called reckless Garrosh might be, but recklessness did not yield the results that Grom's son had gotten. Garrosh had been exactly what the Horde needed at what was arguably its darkest, most vulnerable hour, and Cairne was willing to give the boy that.

"Dis be as far as we be goin'," said Captain Tula to Cairne, shouting out orders to have the smaller boats lowered. "Warsong Hold be not far, straight to da east up da hills."

Tula knew exactly what she was talking about, having sailed between here and Ratchet countless times over the last several seasons. This knowledge had been why Thrall had requested she captain Mannoroth's Bones. Cairne nodded.

"Open one of the kegs of ogre brew to reward your hardworking crew for their diligence," he said to her in his deep, slow - paced voice. "But save some for the brave warriors who will be making their journey home after so long."

Tula brightened considerably. "Yes, High Chieftain," she said. "Thank ya. We be keepin' it to da one keg."

Cairne squeezed her shoulder, nodding his approval, and then, with not a little trepidation, lowered his great bulk into the seemingly tiny, cramped boat that would bear him the rest of the way to shore. The fog clung to his fur like spider's webbing, cloving and cold. It was with pleasure that, a few moments later, he stepped out into the frigid waters that lapped on the shore of Garrosh's Landing and helped tug the boat firmly aground.

The mist was still present but seemed to thin the further inland they went. They trudged past broken, abandoned siege engines and discarded weaponry and armor, past the remains of a long - abandoned farm with pig skeletons that had been bleached white by the sun. They continued up the slight incline, the tundra soil covered with some sort of red plant that stubbornly persisted in existing despite the harshness of this place. Cairne respected that.

Warsong Hold loomed ahead, clearly and proudly visible. It appeared to be located in the center of a quarry, the hollow providing a practical barrier. Nerubians, an ancient race of spiderybeings, many of whose corpses had been raised by necromantic magic, had attempted attacks at various times, but no longer. What had once been strong, sticky webbing had now been cut or worn down to nothing more than a few ropy strands that danced harmlessly in the wind. Along with the Scourge, they, too, had retreated before the dedicated efforts of the Horde.

Up ahead, Cairne caught a blur of movement as a scout caught sight of the Horde standard at the front of Cairne's entourage and dashed away. Cairne and his group followed along the line of the quarry until they encountered a path that descended into it. It was not an impressive entrance, but a workmanlike one, and Cairne found himself in what had been the forge area.

Now, though, no rivers of yellow molten metal flooded the channels; there was no "tink tink" sound of hammer on anvil. His nose, keener than his eyesight these days, caught the faint, stale scent of wolf. The beasts had been gone for some time, sent home even before their masters. What weapons and ammunition there were seemed to have been gathering dust for a while. Once Cairne could make a proper assessment of what was going on, the several kodos who had also made the sea voyage, excellent beasts of burden, would help transport the cargo back to the ships.

Cairne felt the chill of the place. With the forges running, there would be more than enough heat generated to warm the cavernous, open area, but with them still and silent, the cold of Northrend had permeated. Cairne, seasoned veteran though he was, was almost overwhelmed by the size of the place. Larger certainly than Grommash Hold, probably even larger than some Horde cities, it was massive, open, and empty feeling. Their hooffalls echoed as he and his people moved toward the center of the first level.

Two orcs engaged in deep discussion turned as he approached. Cairne knew them both and nodded respectfully at them. The older one with green skin was Varok Saurfang, younger brother to the great hero Broxigar and father to the late, deeply grieved Dranosh Saurfang. Many had lost a great deal in this conflict; Varok more than anyone's fair share.

His son had fallen, along with thousands of others, at Angrathar the Wrath Gate. On that dark day, Horde and Alliance had fought side by side against the best the Lich King could throw at them — even prompting that monster himself to appear. Young Saurfang fell, his soul consumed by Frostmourne. Moments later, a Forsaken known as Putress unleashed a plague that would destroy both the living and the undead.

More torment lay in store for the Saurfang line. The corpse of the young warrior was raised by the Lich King, then turned loose to destroy those he had loved in life. A blow more of mercy than of battle had ended his unnatural existence. Only with the fall of the Lich King had High Overlord Varok Saurfang been able to finally bring home the body of his boy — a corpse, now, and nothing more.

Grizzled, strong, Saurfang was everything that Cairne felt was best about the ores. He had wisdom and honor, a powerful arm in battle, and a cool head for strategy. Cairne had not seen Saurfang since his son had fallen at the Wrath Gate, and he silently took in the aging such a deep pain had wrought. Cairne did not know if he, faced with such a horrific violation of all the tauren held dear in the shape of his child, could have borne the double loss half as well as Saurfang did.

"High Overlord," Cairne rumbled, bowing. "As a father myself, I grieve for what you have had to endure. But know that your son died a hero, and what you have wrought here honors his memory. Anything else is borne away on the winds."

Saurfang grunted acknowledgment. "It is good to see you again, High Chieftain Cairne Bloodhoof. And… I know what you say is true. I am not ashamed to say, though, that I am glad this campaign has finally come to an end. We have lost too much."

The younger orc standing beside Saurfang grimaced, as if the words were distasteful to him, and it was clearly an effort for him to hold his tongue. His skin was not green, as was that of most orcs Cairne had met, but rather a shade of rich loam brown, marking him as a Mag'har from Outland. His pate was bald save for a long ponytail of brown hair. This, of course, was Garrosh Hellscream. No doubt to him it was dishonorable to admit that one was glad that battle had come to a close. The tauren chieftain knew that the passing years would teach him that while it was good to fight for a worthy cause and to earn victory, peace was also a good thing. But for now, despite the long, hard - fought war, Garrosh clearly had not had enough of combat, and this bothered Cairne.

"Garrosh," Cairne said. "Word of your deeds has penetrated to all corners of Azeroth. I am sure you are veryproud of your accomplishments here, as Saurfang is of his."

The compliment was genuine, and Garrosh's tense posture eased slightly. "How many of your troops will be returning with us?" continued Cairn.

"Nearly all of them," Garrosh replied. "I leave a skeleton crew with Saurfang, and a few others at outposts here and there. I do not anticipate he will have need even of that. The Warsong offensive has crushed the Scourge and taken the fighting spirit out of the rest of our enemies, as we came here to do. It is my belief that my former advisor will sit and watch spiders spin cobwebs and fully enjoy the peace he so obviously craves."

The words might have stung another. Cairne bridled on Saurfang's behalf — after what the older orc had endured, Garrosh's words were particularly harsh. Saurfang, however, clearly had grown used to Garrosh's attitude and merely grunted.

"We have both done our duties. We serve the Horde. If I serve by watching little spiders instead of fighting large ones, then I am well content."

"And I must serve the Horde by bringing its victorious soldiers safely home," Cairne said. "Garrosh, which of your soldiers is assigned the task of directing the withdrawal?"

"I," Garrosh said, surprising Cairne. "Such as it is. We all have shoulders to carry items." Once downtrodden and ashamed of his heritage, Garrosh had struck the old tauren as a youth who would require a specially shaped doorway to accommodate his swollen head. And yet he did not hesitate to do the basest task right alongside his soldiers. Cairne smiled, pleased. He suddenly understood a bit better why the orcs Garrosh led admired him so deeply.

"My shoulders are more stooped than they once were, but I daresay they can bear what they need to," Cairne said. "Let us get to work."

It was the work of less than two days to finish packing the supplies that would accompany the troops, load them onto kodos, and transport them to the ship. As they worked, many of the orcs and trolls sang songs in their harsh, guttural tongues. Cairne understood Orcish and Zandali, and smiled at the discrepancies between the actions of the songs and what was actually transpiring. Trolls and orcs blithely sang of chopping off arms and legs and heads while tying boxes onto the backs of the mellow pack kodos. Still, their spirits were high, and Garrosh sang as loudly as any of them.

At one point, as they were walking side by side earning crates to the ship, Cairne asked, "Why did you leave your landing site, Garrosh?"

Garrosh shifted the weight on his shoulder. "It was never intended to be a permanent site. Not when Warsong Hold was so close."

Cairne eyed the great hall and the tower. "Then why build these?"

Garrosh did not answer. Cairne let him remain silent for a time. Garrosh might be many things, but the taciturn type he was not. He would speak… eventually.

And sure enough, Garrosh said after a moment, "We built these when we landed. At first there was no trouble. Then a foe unlike any I have encountered came out of the mists. It does not sound as if you have been troubled by them but, I confess, I have wondered if they would return."

A foe so powerful as to give Garrosh pause? "What is this enemy that gave you such trouble?" Cairne asked.

"They are called the Kvaldir," Garrosh said. "The tuskarr think they are the angered spirits of slain vrykul." Cairne exchanged glances with Maaklu Cloudcaller, the tauren who happened to be walking alongside them. Cloudcaller was a shaman, and as he regarded Cairne he nodded slightly. None of Cairne's landing party had personally seen the vrykul, but Cairne knew of them. They looked like humans — if humans were larger than tauren and sometimes had skin that was covered in ice, or made of metal or stone. They were definitely full of violence and power. Cairne was comfortable with the idea of being surrounded by spirits, but those were tauren ancestors. Their presence was positive. The thought of vrykul ghosts haunting this place was not a pleasant one. Cloudcaller, too, looked a bit uneasy at the notion.

"They come when the mists are thickest. The tuskarr say that is what enables them to manifest," Garrosh continued. He sounded skeptical. Too, there was a strange tone in his voice. Embarrassment?

"They terrified many of my warriors and were so powerful they forced us to withdraw to Warsong Hold. I was finally able to take back this site when the Lich King fell."

And there was the shame. Not in seeing "ghosts," if indeed they were such, but in being forced to run from them. No wonder Garrosh had not mentioned why he had abandoned Garrosh's Landing, a place he might logically feel some pride in and fondness for.

Cairne kept his gaze carefully averted from the scowling Garrosh, who was clearly ready to defend his honor if he heard anything he could perceive as an insult to his courage.

"The Scourge do not come to these shores," Garrosh added, somewhat defensively. "It seems even they do not like the Kvaldir."

Well, if the Kvaldir had not attacked them so far, Cairne would not complain. "Warsong Hold is a better strategic site," was all Cairne said.

It was midday on the second day when Cairne bade farewell to Saurfang. He gripped the other's hand hard. Garrosh might have joked about the peace and quiet of remaining up here with but a skeleton crew, but the reality would be something else. And there would likely be ghosts aplenty to haunt Saurfang, if only in his memories. Cairne knew that, and as he looked into Saurfang's eyes, he knew that the orc knew it, too.

Cairne wanted to thank him again, to offer encouragement, praise for a task so successfully completed. For being able to bear such burdens. But Saurfang was an ore, not a blood elf, and lavish compliments and effusion would not be welcomed or wanted.

"For the Horde," Cairne said.

"For the Horde," Saurfang replied, and it was enough.

The fighters who comprised the last wave of the Warsong offensive to depart Northrend shouldered their weapons and began to trudge westward, through the quarry and up onto the Plains of Nasam.

As had happened every time they went this way, the fog closed slowly about them. Cairne felt nothing supernatural about it; but, as he would freely admit, he was a warrior, not a shaman. Still, he had not endured what Garrosh and his fighters had, nor seen what they had seen, and he knew there were such things as angry spirits.

The fog slowed them down, but nothing unusual rose up to attack them. As they made their way to the beach and the small boats waiting for them, however, Cairne slowed. He sensed… something. His ears twitched, and he sniffed the cool, moist air.

As Cairne strained his old eyes to try to see in the obscuring mist, he could make out the faint, ghostly shape of a ship. No, more than one… two… three…

"Kvaldir!" roared Garrosh.

Two

For a few precious moments, everyone struggled against a sense of fear, forcing themselves to focus on the approaching battle. The ships emerged from the mist's veil, manned by the dead. Pale, they were; pale with a tinge of green, of rot, and wrapped with seaweed, their clothing sodden and torn. The oars went up, and the Kvaldir, crying and moaning, leaped into the water and surged upon the shore.

They were everywhere, enormous and ghastly, moving faster than such supposedly undead things should by all rights be able to move, to interpose themselves between the Horde warriors and Warsong Hold. The second ship pulled up alongside Mannoroth's Bones, and the things that some called spirits of the dead began to attack the living. On the shore, others closed the ring about Cairne and Garrosh, moving so swiftly for the attack that some of Garrosh's fighters died before they had even had a chance to swing their weapons.

Cairne, too, moved more swiftly than one would think. Unlike some of the ores, who were cowering or even running in terror, he had no fear of the dead. Let them come. With a deep bellow he charged one of the giant, undead warriors, attempting to use the rune - covered haft of his ancestral spear to knock some of the others aside. They were swift to evade the spear, and even over the moaning and shrieking, Cairne heard the wind as the spear struck nothing. The runespear was blessed by a shaman, as all Cairne's weapons were; if it encountered even a ghost, it would do harm.

"Stand and fight!" Cairne bellowed. "There is nowhere to flee!"

He was right. They were trapped between the hold and their ship on the ocean, which itself was coming under attack. They were caught out in the open and —

No. Not in the open.

"Retreat!" Cairne roared, reversing his previous command. He pitched his voice as loud as possible over the unearthly cries of the Kvaldir and the battle shouts of the pathetically few who were left of the once - vast Warsong offensive. "Retreat to the great hall at Garrosh's Landing!" They could catch their breaths, plan, regroup. Anything was better than standing and being slaughtered with no real strategy for fighting back.

Considering the orc’s penchant for reckless action, Cairne half - expected Garrosh to protest. But instead Garrosh took up the cry, blowing a horn he had strapped to his hip and pointing to the west. At once the Horde members moved in that direction, hacking at the undead creatures as they went. Some of them didn't make it, decapitated or gutted by the double - bladed and very corporeal axes of the Kvaldir. Even Cairne was hard pressed to keep moving forward, and at one point a pale hand closed upon and twined about the runespear, threatening to tug it from his grasp. Cairne did not resist the pull, instead letting the hideous thing haul him to itself.

No enemy would be permitted to abscond with the runespear.

He shouted a battle cry and stabbed.

It sank deep. The Kvaldir's eyes widened. He opened his mouth, spat blood, and sank to the earth. Cairne stared. Flesh and blood and bone!

Garrosh was right to be skeptical of the tuskarr stories. The ghostly spirits were nothing more than living beings. And anything that lived… could die.

The revelation fueled Cairne as he moved steadily toward the great hall, partially obscured now by the strange mist that was nothing more sinister than a cover for the vrykul — for so they had to be. Some of the others had gotten there before him. Cairne saw with dismay that two of the three doors had been damaged. One was gone completely; the other hung by a single hinge.

His eyes fell upon a table where once, in pleasanter times, the soldiers would gather for a repast. Indeed, a weather - beaten lantern, mug, and bowl still sat on the table. With a single sweep of his huge arm, Cairne sent them flying, then grasped the table in both hands. Grunting slightly, he lifted the table, attached benches and all, and hurried to the doorway as fast as he could.

Garrosh grinned. "You are smart and strong, old bull," he said with admiration that, while grudging, was nonetheless genuine. 'You! Grab those crates! Everyone else, hurry, inside, inside!"

They obeyed. Cairne waited, singlehandedly holding aloft the table, until the last one, a troll bleeding badly from a sliced - up leg, hobbled into the great hall. The second he was inside, Cairne ducked in after him and slammed the table into the doorway at a slight angle so that it wedged in firmly. Not a heartbeat later, the makeshift door shuddered under the thump of an attack. There was more pounding and the moans of the "undead."

Cairne gulped in air as he continued to barricade the door. "They are foes, but they are living foes!" he told them. "Garrosh, you were right. The Kvaldir are no more or less than vrykul. They use the mist and costumes as weapons to strike fear into the hearts of their enemies before they attack. It fooled me at first, too — until the runespear impaled one of them and I realized what they were doing."

"Whatever they be, we cannot hold much longer," gasped Cloudcaller, leaning his broad back against the "door" as it shook. Others braced against it. The shaman and druids among the group were desperately trying to attend to the wounded, of which there were many — too many. Fully a third of the already diminished group was injured, some of them seriously. "The crates — any weapons in them? Anything we could use?"

It was a good idea, but one without hope. Most of them had dropped the supplies as they turned to battle their attackers. Carrying the heavy crates with them as they headed for the safety of the great hall would have been foolish.

"We have nothing," Cairne said. "Nothing save our courage."

He had just taken a deep breath, hoping to say a few words to inspire his and Garrosh's people as they fought what would doubtless be their last battle, when Garrosh interrupted him.

"We have our courage, yes," said Garrosh, "but we also have something more. And we will show these false ghosts the price they must pay for attempting to trick us. They think we are vulnerable outside of the hold. And they want to take back this landing. They will know the wrath of the Horde!"

He strode to the center of the hall and flipped back a woven rug that had been lying on the floor. Beneath it was a trap door. With a grunt of effort, Garrosh slowly tugged it open. The trap door fell back with a clang, revealing a small, hollowed - out area.

And in that area, piled high like watermelons, were grenades.

Some of the warriors cheered. The others looked at Garrosh, confused.

'You left them here, just in case, did you not?" Cairne asked, surprised. "In case Warsong Hold fell?"

The orcs were not overfond of contingency plans, Cairne had learned. They did not like to even conceive of possible defeat. And yet it was obvious that Garrosh had done exactly that — left a crate of valuable weapons buried in the sand, in case at some later time, when the orcs were in full retreat, they would have need of them.

Garrosh nodded shortly. "It is not a pleasant thought."

"But it is the mark of a leader, to hold all possibilities, even the unpleasant — even the unthinkable." Cairne said. "It was well done, Garrosh." He inclined his head in a gesture of respect even as a particularly vigorous assault nearly caved his door in.

What was left of the Warsong offensive all scrambled for the small but lethal weapons. The pounding had not ceased all this time. The crates that had been piled up were being pushed ever forward, and the table that served as a door was starting to splinter before the onslaught. Cairne shifted his hooves and repositioned his back to keep up the support as the others loaded themselves down with grenades. Garrosh rose and nodded to Cairne.

"One, two, three!" cried Cairne. On "three" Cairne and the orcs guarding the other two doors stepped back, Cairne dropping the table and the orcs swinging wide the doors. Garrosh was there, a massive battleaxe in each hand, screaming his father's war cry and slashing at the false ghosts, all violence and death. Cairne stepped back, allowing the others to precede him in their race for the ship. They threw the grenades into the cluster of Kvaldir. There were several explosions, and then the path was clear — save of bodies. They had a few precious moments before the next wave of Kvaldir came.

"Go, go!" he urged, turning back to where his spear lay. He quickly strapped it to his back. If he needed to fight in the next few minutes, all would be lost anyway. The real fight would have to take place on the ship. His hands free, he scooped up a badly injured orc as if the warrior weighed nothing at all, and began running as fast as he could toward the ship.

Mannoroth's Bones had been damaged and was under attack, but it looked still seaworthy, at least to Cairne's eyes.

He felt a tug of pain in his heart as a troll fell not four paces in front of him, an axe in his back. There would be time to honor the fallen later, but now there was nothing Cairne could do but leap over the body and keep running.

His hooves sank in the sand. He felt slow, and not for the first time cursed what age had done to his body. There was a hideous cry, and one of the Kvaldir lunged at him, swinging his axe with both brawny arms. Cairne dodged as best he could, but he was not swift enough and grunted in pain as it sliced his side.

And then at last he was there, delivering his charge into one of the small skiffs. It pushed off immediately, crammed to overflowing with wounded. Immediately it became a target, and Cairne had to stand in the small, rocking boat and fight off the Kvaldir while two orcs rowed furiously. At one point, he looked back at the shoreline, dotted with the corpses of "ghosts."

And the corpses of brave members of the Horde.

But some of those "corpses" were still moving. Cairne narrowed his eyes and leaped out of the boat as it pulled up alongside Mannoroth's Bones. He turned back, half - swimming, half - wading, slogging onto the shore toward the injured. Cairne intended to do everything he could to keep that number from increasing.

Six times back and forth he went, bearing those who could not get themselves to safety. Garrosh's group had exhausted their supply of grenades, and the shore was equal parts blood and sand now. The horrific, muddy concoction sucked at his hooves as he ran. He heard Garrosh's war cry through it all, the sound heartening his warriors and even Cairne until at last all who could be rescued had been.

"Garrosh!" shouted Cairne.

Bleeding from half a dozen wounds, his breath ragged, Cairne looked about for Garrosh. He was over there, whirling his two axes, shouting incoherently as he severed limbs and was spattered with blood. So lost in the battle haze was he that he paid no attention to Cairne's cries. The tauren hastened over to him and grabbed Garrosh's arm. Startled, the orc whirled, axes raised, but halted the blow in time.

"Retreat! We have the wounded! The battle is on the ship now!" Cairne shouted at him, shaking his arm.

Garrosh nodded. "Retreat!" he cried, his voice earning over the fray. "Retreat to the ship! We will continue to fight and slaughter our enemies on the water!"

The few combatants left fighting turned at once and hastened to the shore, leaping into the boats even as they pushed off for Mannoroth's Bones. A Kvaldir wrenched one hapless orc from inside the skiff and dragged her onto the shore, where he proceeded to hack her limb from limb. Cairne forced himself to shut out her cries, shoving the last boat off with all his strength and clambering into it.

There were several of the giant humanoids on the ship already. Captain Tula was shouting to shove off, and her crew was scrambling to obey. The anchor was hauled up and the ship pushed off toward open water. The Kvaldir vessels, wreathed in the cold, clinging fog, pursued. The sight was less frightening now that everyone understood they faced a living foe, but the danger was still very real. The crew had held its own while the remnants of the Warsong offensive struggled to get to the ship, but now they were able to attend to their duties while the soldiers fought. The Kvaldir ships pulled up alongside, close enough for Cairne to see the leering, furious faces of the murderous enemy.

"Do not let them board!" shouted Garrosh. He dispatched a foe and, leaping over the still - twitching corpse, chopped the hands off of a Kvaldir attempting to climb aboard. The Kvaldir screamed and fell into the freezing waters. "Tula! Push us out to sea! We must outrun them!"

The frantic crew obeyed. Cairne, Garrosh, and the others fought like demons. Archers and gunmen fired at the enemy vessel. Several bowmen lit their arrows on fire, aiming for the sails. A great cheer went up as one of them caught. Bright orange flames pierced the cold gray of the fog, and the sail began to crackle as the fire spread. Mannoroth's Bones lurched toward open water. Cairne fully expected the Kvaldir to follow, but they did not.

He heard cries in their ugly language as some hastened to put out the fire that was consuming their ship while others rushed to the bow and hurled curses at the rapidly disappearing Horde vessel.

Cairne suddenly felt the pain of his wounds and grimaced. He permitted himself to lie down in the boat and close his eyes for a moment. Let the pretend ghosts rail. Today, fewer than they expected have fallen to them. And for now, Cairne thought wearily, that was enough.

Three

I am saddened to depart this place," Garrosh said as they stood on the deck of Mannoroth's Bones a few hours into their journey.

Cairne stared at him. "Saddened? I would think Northrend symbolized a place of carnage and loss. Many of our best and brightest were slain here. I have never been one to mourn leaving a battlefield."

Garrosh snorted. "It has been a long time since you were on a battlefield… elder."

Cairne's brows drew together and he straightened, towering over even Garrosh. "For an elder, it seems my memory is sharper than yours, young one. What do you think the last few hours were? Do you disregard the sacrifices that your soldiers made? Do you sneer at the wounds I and others now bear because of it?"

Garrosh muttered something and did not answer, but it was clear to the tauren that Garrosh did not regard a siege in the same light as a no doubt glorious battle on some open plain. Perhaps he thought there was some shame in being trapped in the first place. Cairne had seen too much to be so foolish, but the blood ran hot in the young ore. Garrosh would learn that it was in how one fought, not where or when, that honor was born. And by that standard, the Horde had given a proud accounting of itself.

And so, he had to admit, had Garrosh. His reckless leaping into the fray had paid off — this time. But apparently, according to others he had talked with, even Saurfang, who clearly disliked the young ore, it had paid off a number of times before. Where did boldness become recklessness? Instinct become bloodlust? As he shivered a little in the sharp, biting wind blowing off the arctic seas despite his thick fur, his body stiffening up from its wounds and the exertion, Cairne was forced to admit that it had indeed been a while since he had fought with any regularity, though he had still been able to hold his own when he needed to.

"The Horde won victory against all odds, against a terrible foe in Northrend," said Garrosh, returning to the original subject of the conversation. "Each life counted toward that goal. Toward the honor and glory of the Horde. Saurfang's own son was lost. He and the others shall have lok'vadnods composed and sung for them. One day, ancestors willing, I shall have one written for me as well. And that is why I am saddened to depart, Cairne Bloodhoof."

Cairne nodded his grizzled head. "Though I do not think you want a lok'vadnod terribly soon, hmm?"

It was an attempt to interject levity, but Grom Hellscream's boy was too earnest to chuckle along. "Whenever death comes, I will meet it proudly. Fighting for my people, a weapon in my hand, my battle cry on my lips."

"Hrmmm," rumbled Cairne. "It is a glorious way to go. With honor and pride. May we each be granted such a dignity. But I have much more stargazing to do, more listening to drumming circles. More teaching the young ones and watching them come of age before I am willing to go with death on that final journey."

Garrosh opened his mouth to speak, but it was as if the wind snatched the words out of his tusked mouth. Cairne, massive and solid as he was, stumbled under the force of the gale that erupted out of nowhere. The ship lurched beneath them, tipping wildly to one side, and suddenly the deck was awash in water.

"What is happening?" Garrosh bellowed, even that loud sound almost drowned out by the abrupt howling of the wind. Cairne did not know the proper seaman's term for this type of storm and thought that identifying it was the least of their worries. Captain Tula rushed on deck, her blue skin pale and her eyes wide. Her functional clothing — black foot wraps, pants, and a plain white shirt — was drenched and plastered to her skin. Her black hair had come undone from its topknot and looked like a mop atop her head.

"What can I do?" Cairne asked at once, unsettled more by her obvious concern than the storm that had quite literally seemed to come out of nowhere.

"Get below so I won't be haviir t' worry about you landlubbers!" she shouted, too focused to worry about rank and courtesies. If the situation hadn't been so dire, Cairne would have chuckled. As it was, he reached out, seized Garrosh unceremoniously by the back of his gorget, and had begun to steer the protesting orc toward the center of the ship when the wave crashed over them all.

Cairne was slammed to the deck as if by a giant hand. The breath was knocked out of him, and even as he struggled, water surged into his lungs to take its place. As quickly as it had come, the wave receded, nearly taking both him and Garrosh with it as easily as if they were but twigs in a stream wending through Quel'Thalas. As one, they reached out to one another, hands gripping painfully hard. They slammed into the curving bulwark, their progress halted for the moment. Cairne rose, his hooves caning a deep gouge in the slippery wooden deck as he stubbornly sought purchase. Snorting and bellowing with the effort, he fought his way fonvard, hauling Garrosh until the orc could scramble upright. There came a sudden crack of lightning far, far too close and the shattering rumble of thunder almost immediately afterward.

Still Cairne moved forward, one arm around Garrosh, the other reaching out until it grasped the slippery but solid doorframe, and the two half - stumbled, half - slid down into the hold.

Garrosh vomited up water, then stubbornly reached out a brown hand and tried to rise. "Cowards and children stay in the hold while others risk their lives," he gasped.

Cairne placed a hand none too gently on Garrosh's armor - clad shoulder. "And self - centered fools get in the way of those trying to save lives," he growled. "Do not be a fool, Garrosh Hellscream. Captain Tula needs to tend the ship so that it won't snap in two, not waste precious energy and time trying to stop us from being washed overboard!"

Garrosh stared at him, then threw back his head and howled his frustration. But to his credit, he did not attempt to rush back up the stairs.

Cairne braced himself for a long, bruising wait at best, a cold, wet death at worst. Instead, the storm abated as suddenly as it had come. They had not even caught their breath when the ship's violent, rocking movements stilled. They stared at one another for a moment, then both turned and hastened up the stairs.

Unbelievably the sun was already coming out from behind rapidly dissipating clouds. It was an incongruously cheerful sight compared to what greeted Cairne's eyes as he emerged.

Sunlight glinted on the calm, silver surface of an ocean littered with debris. Cairne glanced wildly around, counting ships as he saw them. He counted only three, and prayed to the ancestors that the remaining two ships were merely scattered, although the debris bobbing in the water was mute testimony to the fact that some of them, at least, had not made it.

Survivors, clutching the floating crates, were crying out for aid, and both Cairne and Garrosh rushed to assist. This, at least, they could help with, and so spent the next hour bringing gasping, soaked ores, trolls, and tauren — with the occasional sodden Forsaken or blood elf — aboard the ships that remained.

Captain Tula was grim - faced and taciturn as she barked out orders. Mannoroth's Bones had sunived the — hurricane? Typhoon? Tsunami? Cairne wasn't sure. Their ship was largely intact, and was now crowded to the gills with shivering survivors huddled in blankets. Cairne patted a young troll on the shoulder as he handed her a mug of hot soup, then moved to the captain.

"What happened?" he asked quietly.

"Cursed if I know," was the reply. "I be on de ocean since I be a youngster. I be makin' dis voyage dozens of times, resupplying Warsong Hold until dem Kvaldir stopped me. And I never be seein' anyting like dat."

Cairne nodded solemnly. "I hope I do not offend if I say, I guessed as much. Do you think perhaps — "

A howl of outrage that could only issue from the throat of a Hellscream interrupted him. Cairne whirled to see Garrosh pointing at the horizon. He was visibly shaking, but it was clear that it was with anger, not fear or cold.

"Look there!" he cried. Cairne gazed where he pointed, but again, his aged eyes failed him. Not so Captain Tula's. They widened.

"They be flyin' de flag of Stormwind," she said.

"Alliance? In our waters?" said Garrosh. "They are in clear violation of the treaty."

Garrosh referred to a treaty between the Horde and the Alliance, signed shortly after the fall of the Lich King. Both factions had been sorely damaged by the long battle, and both sides had agreed to a cessation of hostilities, including the struggles at Alterac Valley, Arathi Basin, and Warsong Gulch, for a brief time.

"Are we still in Horde waters?" asked Cairne quietly. Tula nodded.

Garrosh grinned. "Then by all laws, theirs and ours, they are ours for the taking! We are allowed by the treatyto defend our territory — including our waters!"

Cairne couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Garrosh, we are not in any condition to be mounting an attack. Nor do they seem to be interested in us. Have you considered the possibility that the same storm that so damaged us blew them off course? That they are not here to attack, but are here only by accident?"

"The winds of fate, then," Garrosh said. "They should face their destiny with honor."

Cairne understood at once what was going on. Garrosh had a perfectly valid excuse for action, and he obviously intended to take it. He could not take revenge on the storm that had damaged Horde ships and taken the lives of many of his people, but he could vent his anger and frustration on the hapless Alliance vessel.

To Cairne's dismay even Captain Tula was nodding. "We be needin' more supplies to replace what was lost," she said, tapping her chin, her eyes narrowed in thought.

"Then let us claim what is rightfully ours. Can Mannoroth's Bones engage in battle?"

"Aye, mon, dat she can, wit' a little bit of preparation."

"I am sure you will find many hands eager to aid you," Garrosh replied. Tula nodded and strode off, barking orders left and right. Garrosh's statement had been correct. Everyone leaped to attention, desperately eager to do something, anything, rather than sit and bemoan their fate. Cairne understood and approved of the desire and need, but if his suspicion was correct and the crew of the Alliance vessel were simply innocent victims…

The ship turned slowly, its sails swelling, and headed swiftly for the "enemy" ship. As they drew closer, Cairne could now see it more clearly and his heart sank.

It made no effort to elude their obvious pursuit. It could not have, even if the captain had wished to. The vessel was listing badly to port. Its sails had been shredded by the vicious wind that had played slightly less cruelly with the Horde fleet, and it was taking on water. Cairne could only just make out what was on the ship's standards — the lion's head of Stormwind.

Garrosh laughed. "Excellent," he said. "Truly a gift. Another chance to show Varian how highly I regard him."

The last time Garrosh and King Varian Wrynn of Stormwind had been in the same room, they had come to blows. Cairne had no particular fondness for humans, but no true dislike of them, either. Had this ship attacked his own, he would have been the first to issue orders to return fire. But this ship was broken, sinking, and even without their "help" would likely soon vanish beneath the icy waters forever.

'Vengeance is petty and beneath you, Garrosh," Cairne snapped. "And what honor is there in slaving those about to drown? You may not violate the letter of the treaty, but you do its spirit." He turned to Tula, hoping she would see reason. "I am the commander of this mission, Captain. As such, I outrank Garrosh. I order you to give aid to these victims of the storm. Their being here was not provocative, but accidental, and there is greater honor in aiding than in butchering."

She regarded him steadily. "With all due respect, mon, our warchief be appointin' you leader only with regard to overseeing the return of the Warsong offensive veterans. Overlord Garrosh be in charge of all martial decisions."

Cairne's jaw dropped as he stared at her. She was correct. The thought had not occurred to him when they had been fighting tooth and nail against the surprise onslaught of the Kvaldir. Then, he and Garrosh had been thinking completely as one. There was no question but that aggression and battle were utterly necessary, so they had not been in conflict over that, only over how best to defeat the enemy. But now, though he was in charge of the voyage to bring the troops home, they were still obliged to obey Garrosh until such time as Thrall formally relieved Garrosh of his command. There was nothing Cairne could do.

Quietly, for Garrosh's ears alone, he said, "I ask you, please. Do not do this thing. Our enemy is already broken. If we do not choose to assist them, they will likely die here anyway."

"Then a swift kill is a mercy," was Garrosh's reply. And as if to punctuate the statement, the roar of cannons echoed. Cairne was staring straight at the ill - fated Alliance ship as the cannonballs punched holes in its side. From other vessels, a rain of arrows descended, and the sound that no Alliance soldier would ever forget, the sound of the Horde in full battle cry, rose up over the sound of waves and wind.

"Again!" Garrosh yelled, racing fonvard to the bow, quivering like an eager wolf on the hunt as they drew yet closer to the ship.

The mast was now broken on the Alliance vessel, but Cairne could make out a figure on the deck frantically waving the white flag of surrender. If Garrosh noticed it, he gave no sign. As soon as Mannoroth's Bones was close enough, he let out a howl and leaped to the enemy vessel, a weapon in each hand, and began to attack the humans.

Cairne turned away, sickened. Legally Garrosh was right, but by any other reckoning, morally or spiritually, what he was doing was wrong. Horribly wrong, and Cairne darkly wondered how the spirits would exact their revenge upon the Horde, or Garrosh, or perhaps even him, Cairne Bloodhoof, for standing by and permitting it to happen.

It was over quickly, too quickly, as far as the orcs were concerned. Garrosh, somewhat to Cairne's surprise, actually shouted to his troops to "Hold!" after only a few moments. The tauren pricked his long ears up and moved close, straining to see and hear what Garrosh would do next.

"Bring me the captain!" Garrosh demanded. A short while later, a troll, holding a human male tightly by both arms, hurried over and tossed the hapless captain to the deck.

Garrosh prodded the figure with a foot. "You are in Horde waters, Alliance dog."

The man, sinewy, tall for his race, and tanned, with short - cropped black hair and a neatly trimmed beard, simply stared up at the ore. "There is a treaty — "

"Which does not apply to incursions into our territory. That is obviously an act of aggression!"

'You saw what shape we were in," the captain replied, disbelief in his voice. "A rabbit wouldn't have found us aggressive!"

It was the wrong thing to say, and Garrosh kicked him in the ribs. Cairne could hear one or two of them break. The man grunted and his face went pale, then flushed.

'You are in Horde waters," Garrosh repeated. "Whatever state your ship was in, I am well within my rights for everything I do here. Do you know who I am?"

The man shook his head.

"I am Garrosh Hellscream, son of the great Horde hero Grom Hellscream!" The captain's eyes widened, and he paled again. Clearly he did indeed recognize the name — if not the first, then surely the surname. Grom Hellscream was legend in the Alliance as well as the Horde.

"I have defeated my enemies and claimed your vessel for the Horde, and you as prisoners of war. The question is, what should I do with you now? I could set fire to your ship and let you burn," he mused, rubbing his chin. "Or simply leave. It has not escaped my notice that you have no skiffs. There are sharks and orcas in these waters, and I am certain they love the taste of Alliance flesh almost as much as my troll warriors do."

The captain swallowed hard, no doubt keenly aware that it was a troll who had brought him before Garrosh and was now standing beside him. The troll cackled and licked his lips exaggeratedly. Cairne and Garrosh both knew the Darkspear trolls were not cannibals, but clearly the captain didn't.

"My friend Cairne Bloodhoof there," Garrosh continued, jerking his thumb over his shoulder without turning to actually look at Cairne, "urged me to be merciful. And do you know, I think he might be right."

The captain's eyes darted to Cairne. The old bull was certain that he himself looked almost as surprised as the human. What was Garrosh doing?

He had swarmed the ship, along with his men, slaving all but a handful of the crew. And he was talking about mercy?

"Today, Captain, I have shown you the mighty arm of the Horde, and I also show you its mercy. There are eleven of you who seem to have survived the… storm." He smiled a little. "We will give you two skiffs, along with some of our own precious rations. That, and luck, should be enough to see you to safety. And when you reach home, tell them what has happened here. Tell them that Garrosh Hellscream was both death and life to you and your people today."

Without another word, he turned and gracefully leaped back onto the deck of Mannoroth's Bones. He spoke quickly and quietly to Tula, who nodded and issued orders of her own. Cairne watched as a few supplies and a single water keg were brought forth from below and two small skiffs were cut loose. At least Garrosh was keeping to his bizarre bargain. The tauren watched with mournful eyes as the humans scrambled into the boats and began to row back in the direction of Northrend.

He shifted his gaze to Garrosh, who stood straight and tall, his arms folded, still in his armor this entire time despite the storm and near - drowning.

Garrosh was a brilliant tactician, a fierce warrior, and loved by those he led.

He also held grudges, was a hothead, and needed to learn the lessons of both respect and compassion.

Cairne would speak with Thrall immediately upon their return. What Garrosh was had served the Horde well in Northrend, at a time of struggle unlike any they had ever known. Cairne knew it would serve the son of Grom poorly upon their return to Orgrimmar. Those who lived entirely by the sword sometimes did not know what to do in the aftermath of war. Out of their element, unable to channel their passions and energies the way they knew best — sometimes they ended up as belated casualties of the same war that had claimed the lives of their fellows, dying in taverns or in street fights instead of in battle, or simply becoming lost souls who continued to exist without truly living.

Garrosh had too much potential, too much to offer, to end up that way. Cairne would do all he could to prevent such a fate from befalling the son of Grom Hellscream.

But Garrosh would have to be a willing partner in such an endeavor for it to succeed. As he regarded the orc now, standing so certain in his tightness, Cairne was not at all certain that Garrosh would be such a participant in shaping his own destiny.

He looked back at the slowly retreating skiffs. At least Garrosh had spared some lives, although Cairne had a sneaking suspicion it was rooted in arrogance. Garrosh very much wanted words of his deeds to reach Varian, to no doubt further irritate that leader.

Cairne sighed deeply, and turned his face up to the sun, weak in these northern climes but still present, closed his pale green eyes, and prayed for guidance.

And patience. A very great deal of patience.

Four

It was a festival the likes of which Cairne had never seen in Orgrimmar, and he wasn't altogether sure he liked it.

It was not that he did not wish to honor the soldiers who had fought so valiantly against the Lich King and his subjects. But he knew as well as others, and better than some, the cost of war on all fronts, and frowned a little to himself at the lavishness with which the veterans were received.

The parade, he had recently discovered, had been Garrosh's idea. "Let the people see their heroes," he had stated. "Let them march into Orgrimmar to the welcome they deserve!"

An unkinder soul than Cairne might have mentally amended, And make sure everyone knows that Garrosh Hellscream was responsible for the victory.

Still, Garrosh had insisted that everyone who had been involved with the campaign in Northrend be encouraged to participate. No one expected to see Forsaken or sin'dorei veterans in this parade, although they would not have been denied the right to march had they attended. They had their own concerns and had waged their own campaign in the northernmost continent of the world. No, this parade was mainly comprised of those who dwelt in the hot, dusty lands of Kalimdor — orcs, trolls, and tauren. And it looked to Cairne as if even ^- one of those races who had raised a weapon or a curse against the Scourge had come. The line stretched all the way from the gates of Orgrimmar well past the zeppelin tower.

Scorning the softer traditional rose petals that the Alliance often used on such occasions, Horde workers had paved the road with pine branches that, when crushed underfoot, produced a pleasing scent. Durotar did not offer much in the way of pine branches, so Cairne knew that these had been shipped in from a great distance. He sighed deeply and shook his head at the extravagance.

Grom's boy was at the head of the parade, the first at the gate when it opened, along with his Warsong Hold veterans. Cairne did not begrudge him the position — after all, Cairne had stayed behind in Kalimdor and Garrosh had gone to Northrend, as had all these brave warriors. And most of them were ores, and this was orc territory. Still, it rankled him that most of the crowd kept pace with Garrosh, cheering him on, seeming to care little for the ranks of other military units who had fought just as hard, and in some cases had sacrificed even more bright young lives to the cause but who lacked a charismatic figurehead.

Thrall himself was standing outside Grommash Hold. He was clad in the instantly recognizable black plate armor that had once belonged to Orgrim Doomhammer, for whom Orgrimmar was named. In one giant green fist, the warchief of the Horde bore the massive Doomhammer itself. Thrall was an imposing figure whose legend preceded him at even ^- turn, and on more than one occasion a battle had been won simply by his appearance on the field so clad.

Beside him, slightly stooped but still powerful for an orc in his late fifties, stood Eitrigg. Eitrigg had left the Horde after the Second War, in which his sons had been betrayed by fellow orcs and were killed in battle. Sickened by the corruption and waste he saw in the ores, Eitrigg had felt his duly to his people was over. He had rejoined the Horde when Thrall had risen to command it and return the orcs to their shamanic roots. He was one of Thrall's most valued and trusted advisors and had only just returned from aiding the Argent Crusade in Zul'Drak. In his arms, he bore an object wrapped in cloth.

Thrall's bright blue eyes, rare among ores, were fastened on the approaching line of warriors. Garrosh drew to a halt in front of him. Thrall looked at him for a moment, then inclined his head deeply in a gesture of respect.

"Garrosh Hellscream," he said in his deep, rumbling voice that carried easily over the crowd, "you are the son of Grom Hellscream, my dear friend and a hero to the Horde. You once did not understand how great an orc he was. Now you do, and it is clear that you, too, are a hero of the Horde for what you have achieved in your campaign in Northrend.

"We stand in the shadow of the armor and the very skull of our great enemy, Mannoroth, whose blood tainted us and clouded our minds for so long. The enemy that your father slew, and in so doing, he freed his people from a terrible curse."

He nodded to Eitrigg, who stepped forward. Thrall took the bundle he bore and unwrapped it. It was an axe — not just any axe, but a named weapon, a famous weapon. Its wickedly curved blade had two notches in it. When the wielder swung it, it sang its own battle cry — just as its owner had once done — which gave it its name.

Many of the spectators recognized it, and murmurs rose throughout the crowd.

"This," said Thrall solemnly, "is Gorehowl. It is the weapon of your father, Garrosh. It is this blade that killed Mannoroth, an almost inconceivably brave deed that cost Grom Hellscream his life."

Garrosh's eyes widened. Joy and pride shone on his brown face. He reached out to accept the gift, but Thrall did not surrender it at once.

"It killed Mannoroth," he repeated, "but it also took the life of the noble demigod Cenarius, who taught the first mortal druids. Like any weapon, it can be used for good or ill. I charge you with being the best of your father, Garrosh. With using this weapon wisely and well, for the good of your people. It is my honor to welcome you home. Receive the love and thanks of those whom you have served with your blood and sweat and spirit."

Garrosh took the weapon and hefted it experimentally. He swung the blade as if he had been born to do so — and, mused Cairne, perhaps he had. It shrieked and howled, cutting the air as it had once and would again cut down the enemies of the Horde. He lifted the axe high above his head, and again cheers swept through the Valley of Wisdom. Garrosh closed his eyes for a moment, as if literally basking in the adoration. Cairne did not think for a moment that it was undeserved, but thought a bit of grateful humility for both the weapon and the accolades might have served Garrosh well.

'Veterans, the taverns are open to you this night. Eat and drink and sing of your glorious deeds, but be mindful that the citizens of Orgrimmar are those whom you have served and not your foes." Thrall allowed himself a smile. "The haze of alcohol can sometimes blur such lines."

Good - natured laughter rippled through the crowd. Cairne had known to expect this. Thrall had agreed to reimburse every inn and tavern for food, drink, and lodging the entire day. However, it was up to the tavern and innkeepers to police their customers — the Horde would not pay for damaged chairs or tables, and there were always damaged tables and chairs. Not to mention a few broken noses, but such were borne as a necessary part of the celebrating. Cairne, who did not indulge in such wild behavior — had not even done so as a younger tauren — did not approve, but he had not protested when Thrall had suggested it.

Thrall waved, and several carts pulled by kodos and raptors were brought forth, covered by heavy blankets. At Thrall's nod, several orcs stepped forward and, on the count of three, pulled off the blankets to reveal dozens of kegs of strong beer.

"Let the revelry begin!" shouted Thrall, and wild cheering and applause filled the air.

The parade now officially over, the veterans moved eagerly to the kegs, beginning what was certain to be a long night and likely a hangover - heavy morning. Cairne strode toward the entrance of Grommash Hold, pausing for a moment to eye the skull and armor of which Thrall had spoken.

The armor had been securely chained to an enormous dead tree for all to see. The skull of the great demon lord, which was set atop the tree, had been bleached white by the sun. Long tusks curved out from the pale bone, and the plate armor was gargantuan, unwearable by even the most powerful orc, troll, or tauren. Cairne regarded it for a long moment, thinking about Grom, thanking his spirit for the sacrifice that had set the orcs free.

With a long sigh, he turned and trundled inside. He had, as was his right, brought a retinue with him. He had selected who among his people would have the honor of attending the feast tonight. Ordinarily his son Baine would be among them, but Baine had opted to remain behind in Mulgore.

It is a high honor that you ask me to attend such a ceremony, Baine had written, but the higher honor is making sure our people are safe until you, their leader, have returned home for good.

The response pleased but did not surprise Cairne. Baine did exactly as his father would have done in the same situation. While it would have made him happy to have his son by his side, Cairne felt better knowing that the tauren people were watched over and cared for in his absence.

In Baine's stead was the venerable archdruid Hamuul Runetotem, who was a good friend and trusted advisor. Also present were members of several of the individual tauren tribes such as the Dawnstrider, Ragetotem — a tribe with a warrior focus who had sent several of its sons and daughters to fight proudly in Northrend alongside Garrosh — Skychaser, Winterhoof, and Thunderhorn, among others. Included for politics' sake rather than personal preference was the matriarch of the Grimtotem, Magatha.

Alone among the tauren tribes, the Grimtotem had never formally joined the Horde, though Magatha lived on Thunder Bluff and her tribe enjoyed all the rights of being a tauren. A powerful shaman who had come to lead the Grimtotem thanks to the tragic, accidental death of her mate — a death that, it was whispered, was not quite so accidental as it had appeared — she and Cairne had clashed before. Cairne was more than happy to make her welcome on Thunder Bluff and to invite her to important ceremonies such as this one, as he firmly believed in the old adage, "Keep your friends close and your enemies closer." She had not opposed him openly, and he doubted she ever would. Magatha might plot and scheme safely in the shadows, but in the end Cairne believed she was a coward. Let Magatha think herself powerful for merely running her own tribe. He, Cairne Bloodhoof, was the one who truly led the tauren people.

Thrall took his seat in the massive throne that afforded him a view of the entire enormous room and watched as the throng filed in. The braziers that normally burned on either side of the throne had been extinguished. In front of the cold braziers were now two lesser, but still ornate, seats that had been moved there for the occasion. Per Thrall's request, Cairne and Garrosh each took one — Garrosh on Thrall's right, as the hero of the hour. In various places about the room, the Kor'kron, Thrall's bodyguards, stood quietly and unobtrusively.

Thrall eyed Cairne and Garrosh, watching their reactions. Cairne shifted slightly in the somewhat too - small chair. Thrall grimaced; the orcish carpenters had tried hard to take a tauren physique into consideration when they had designed the chair but had obviously failed. The old bull was clearly filled with pride as his people settled in. He, like Thrall, knew they had all given, and in some cases forever lost, so much to this war.

The years were starting to take their toll on the tauren high chieftain. Thrall had heard how well Cairne had fought when his group had come under siege, how he had returned again and again to bear more wounded to safety. That did not surprise him. He well knew Cairne's courage, great heart, and compassion. What did surprise him was how many wounds the tauren had suffered in the conflict and how slowly he appeared to be healing from them.

Thrall's heart suddenly hurt. He had lost so many dear to him — Taretha Foxton, the human girl who had shown him that loving friendship could exist between the races; Grom Hellscream, who had taught him so much about what it meant to be an ore; and perhaps soon now Drek’Thar, who, according to the orc who attended him, was growing frail and whose mind was drifting away. The thought of having to say the final farewell to Cairne, who had been so close for so many years, was painful.

He turned his attention to Garrosh. The young Hellscream, Gorehowl across his lap, ate and drank and laughed raucously, fully enjoying himself and utterly present in the moment. But now and then he, too, paused and looked out on those assembled with shining eyes and a chest swelled with pride. Thrall had not missed the enthusiasm with which the population of Orgrimmar had received Garrosh. Not even he, Thrall, had been so completely adored during any kind of ceremony. That was as it should be, Thrall thought. Not all of his decisions were welcome ones among his people, but he knew he led them well and they respected him. Garrosh, however, seemed to have tasted nothing but approbation and the love of his people.

Garrosh caught Thrall looking at him and smiled. "It is good to be here," he said.

"Good to enjoy the accolades you have earned?" Thrall asked.

"Of course. But it is also good to see the orcs. To see them remembering, as I did, what it means to be an ore. To fight the just battle, to defeat your foes, to celebrate your victory with the same passion that let you earn it."

"The Horde is more than just orcs, Garrosh," Thrall reminded him.

"Yes. But we are its core. Its center. And if we hold firmly to that, to what it means — then you will see more victories from your Horde, Warchief. You will see more than that. You will see chests swell with pride at being who they are. And their war cry of 'For the Horde!' will come not just from their lips, but from their hearts."

Everyone but Thrall, Garrosh, and Cairne sat on the floor, the stone cushioned by thick, soft hides. All three races were used to being close to nature, and the hall was heated by braziers, fires, and body heat. Thrall noticed that only Magatha and her Grimtotem looked put out. Everyone else settled in, happy to be here at this feast, happy to simply be alive after so much pain and hardship and battle.

There was ceremony, but Thrall well knew that humans or elves would not recognize it as such. Servants brought in huge trays heaped high with delicacies. The food was eaten with the hands, and it was simple but nourishing: boar ribs basted in beer, roasted bear and venison, grilled haunch of zhevra turning on a spit, hearty bread to sop up the savory juices, and beer and wine and rum with which to wash it all down. Grommash Hold was filled with much laughter and cheer as the guests ate and drank. The servants cleared out the trays and, sated, those assembled turned their full attention to their warchief.

Now, thought Thrall, the less than celebratory part begins.

"We are glad and grateful that so many of our brave warriors have returned safely home, to bring what they have learned to serve the Horde here," Thrall began. "It is right to celebrate and honor their achievements. But war is not without its costs, both in the lives of the fallen, and in the financial costs to provide for the soldiers as they do battle. Due to the peculiar storm at sea that destroyed several of our vessels, we have lost both soldiers and sorely needed supplies.

"The storm not only cost us these precious things, but the strange nature of the event has not been the only one recorded. From all over Kalimdor and indeed in the Eastern Kingdoms, I have heard reports of similar phenomena. Those of you who, like me, call Orgrimmar home need no reminding of the drought that has had so devastating an impact. And we have felt the earth itself tremble beneath our feet from time to time.

"I have spoken with many of my most trusted shaman, and members of the Earthen Ring." Another pang went through him as he thought of the one shaman he had most trusted, whose judgment was now as unreliable as that of a small child. Drek’Thar, I have never had greater need of your insight than now, and it is too late for you to share it with me.

"We are doing everything to discover what, if anything, is troubling the elements. Or, conversely, to determine if this is all simply nature going through a completely normal cycle."

"Normal?" came a gruff voice from the back of the crowd. Thrall could not see the speaker, but it sounded like an ore. "Droughts in some areas, floods in others, earthquakes — how is this normal?"

"Nature has its own rhythms and reasons," Thrall said, completely unperturbed by the interruption. He welcomed challenges; they kept him sharp, showed that he was approachable, and oftentimes made him explore avenues previously unthought - of. "It does not adapt to suit us — we must change to accommodate it. A fire may destroy a city, but it also clears space for new and different kinds of plants to thrive. It burns off disease and harmful insects. It returns nutrients to the soil. Floods deposit new types of minerals in places that have never had them. And as for earthquakes, well…" He smiled. "Surely the Earth Mother is allowed to grumble from time to time."

There was a ripple of laughter, and Thrall felt the mood change. He himself was not entirely certain that what was being reported was normal; in fact, he was beginning to feel from what connections he could make that it was quite the opposite. The elements seemed… chaotic, distressed. They were not speaking clearly to him as they usually did, and he was worried. But there was no need to spread his worry among his people until such time as it was necessary for them to know. He could simply be too distracted by other things to listen as well as he needed to. And, ancestors knew, there were certainly plenty of other things for the warchief of the Horde to be distracted by.

"It is true that this land of Durotar, the new homeland of the ores, is a harsh place. But that is nothing new. It has always been a difficult environment in which to dwell. But we are ores, and this land suits us. It suits us because it is so harsh, because it is brutal, because few beings other than orcs could wrest a living from it. We came to this world from Draenor, after warlock magics had rendered most of it lifeless. And we could have done the same to this one. When I rebuilt the Horde, I might indeed have taken a more fertile land. But I did not."

Murmurs rippled throughout the hall. Cairne looked at him with narrowed eyes, no doubt wondering why Thrall was choosing to remind his people that Durotar was a difficult land at best. He nodded almost imperceptibly to his old friend, reassuring him that he knew what he was doing.

"I did not, because we had wronged this world. And yet, we were here in it, we had a right to live. To find a homeland. I chose a place that we could make our own — a land that asked of us all we could give. Living here has done much to cleanse us of the curse that so damaged us as a people. It has made us even stronger, hardier — more orclike than living in a soft land ever would."

Cairne's posture eased as the murmurs turned approving. "I stand by that choice. I well know what the sons and daughters of Durotar were able to give in Northrend. But our land gave, too. No one could have expected the high cost of supplies for the campaign in Northrend. And yet, could we have turned away from the call?"

No one spoke. No one present would have turned away, whatever the cost might be. "And thus it is that our land has given, as we have; given until it has almost given out. The war to the north is over. We must now turn our attention to our own lands, and our own needs. It is an unfortunate consequence of the events of the Wrath Gate that the Alliance has a fresh reason to oppose us. While I realize that to some of you this means nothing, and others are glad of it, I assure you that no one is glad of the fact that the night elves have, for the moment, shut down all trade avenues with us."

Everyone present knew what that meant — no fresh lumber for building, no hunting rights in Ashenvale, no safe passage anywhere the Sentinels patrolled. There was silence for a moment, then unhappy murmuring.

"Warchief, if I may?"

It was Cairne, in his slow, calm voice. Thrall smiled at his old friend. "Please. Your advice is always welcome."

"Our people have a connection with the night elves that the other races of the Horde do not," Cairne continued. "We are both followers of the teachings of Cenarius. We even have a joint sanctuary, the Moonglade, where we meet in peace and converse, sharing what knowledge and wisdom we have obtained. While I understand that they are angry with the Horde, I do not think that all bonds will be severed. I think the druids might be good ambassadors for reopening discussions. Archdruid Hamuul Runetotem knows many kaldorei."

He nodded at the archdruid, who rose to speak. "Indeed, Warchief. I have friendships with them that are years in the making. They may, as a race, resent us, but would take no pleasure in the thought of children starving to death, even the children of their so - called enemy. I have a high position in the Cenarion Circle. Negotiations could potentially be reopened, especially in light of the cooperation we have received with the treaty.

If the warchief would permit me to approach them, perhaps we could prevail upon them to — "

"Prevail upon them? Negotiate? Pagh!" Garrosh actually spat on the floor as he spoke. "I am ashamed to hear such mewling words come from the mouth of any member of the Horde! What happened at the Wrath Gate harmed us all, or has everyone here already forgotten Saurfang the Younger and the many who died with him — and who were later obscenely raised as the walking dead to fight against us? The elves have no greater claim to being attacked than we!"

"Impertinent youth," growled Cairne, turning on Garrosh. 'You use the name of Saurfang the Younger to your advantage when you openly disrespect the wisdom of his bereaved father!"

"Just because I disagree with Saurfang's tactics does not mean I belittle his son's sacrifice!" Garrosh retorted. 'You, who have seen so many battles in your many, many years, should understand that! Yes, I disagreed with him. I said to him as I say to you, Warchief Thrall, let us not fret and whimper like kicked dogs about the night elves' oh - so - delicate feelings. Let us move into Ashenvale now, before my troops are scattered, and simply take what we need!"

The two had been leaning to their sides, shouting over Thrall as if he were not there. Thrall had permitted it because he wanted to judge the relationship between the two, but now he lifted a commanding hand and his voice was biting.

"It is not that simple, Garrosh!"

Garrosh turned to protest, but Thrall narrowed his blue eyes in warning, and the younger orc closed his mouth and sat sullenly silent.

"High Overlord Saurfang knows that," Thrall continued. "Cairne and I and Hamuul know that. You have had your first taste of battle and proved more than worthy at such a noble endeavor, but you will soon learn that nothing is black and white in this world."

Cairne leaned back in his chair, apparently mollified, but Thrall could see that Garrosh was still seething. At least, Thrall thought, he was listening and not talking.

"Varian Wrynn's stance against our people is becoming increasingly militaristic." He did not add, thanks to you, because he knew Garrosh would hear the unspoken words. "Jaina Proudmoore is his friend and is sympathetic to our cause."

"She is still Alliance scum!"

"She is still Alliance, yes," Thrall said, his voice deepening and growing louder, "but anyone who has served with me or who has bothered to read a single historical scroll over the last few years knows that she is a human with integrity and wisdom. Do you think Cairne Bloodhoof disloyal?"

Garrosh seemed taken aback by the abrupt change of subject. His eyes darted to Cairne, who sat up straighter and snorted.

"I — of course not. No one here questions his devotion and service to the Horde." He spoke carefully, looking for the trap. Thrall nodded. Although his tone was defensive, Garrosh's words did seem sincere to him.

"They would be a fool to do so. Jaina's loyalty to the Alliance does not preclude her working toward peace and prosperity for all who dwell in Azeroth. Nor does Cairne's loyalty to the Horde. His proposition is a sound one. It costs us little and could gain us much. If the night elves agree to open negotiations, well and good. If not, then we pursue other avenues."

Cairne looked over at Hamuul Runetotem, who nodded and said, "Thank you, Warchief. It is my deeply held belief that this is the right path, both to honor the Earth Mother, who seems so distressed, and to obtain what is needed for the Horde to recover from this terrible war."

"As always, my friend, I thank you for your service." Thrall turned to Garrosh. "Garrosh, you are the son of one who was very dear to me. I have heard you called the Hero of Northrend, and I think that an apt title. But I personally have found that sometimes after war, it is difficult for the warrior to find where he belongs. I, Thrall, son of Durotan and Draka, promise you that I will work with you to find a suitable position where your skills and abilities can best be used to serve the Horde."

He had meant this exactly as he said it. He did admire Garrosh's work in Northrend. But those talents were limited, and he needed time to think about where best to position Garrosh to work for the Horde.

Apparently, though, Garrosh did not understand Thrall's intention. His eyes narrowed and he growled softly beneath his breath.

"As the warchief wills, of course. With your permission, great Thrall, I find the air in here a bit stuffy."

Without waiting for the sarcastically requested permission, Garrosh rose, gave Thrall a nod that was only barely courteous enough, and strode outside.

"That boy is a kodo disliking the bridle," Cairne murmured.

Thrall sighed. "But too valuable to give up on." He lifted his arm and, pitching his voice to carry, announced, "The air is close. More liquid to wet dry throats!"

A cheer went up, and the crowd was momentarily distracted. Thrall thought about Cairne's words and his own, and wondered how in the world he would tame the wild kodo without breaking him.

But Garrosh's role in the Horde, while an important concern to Thrall, was not uppermost in his mind. What troubled him most were the good of his people, of the Horde as a whole, and the unhappiness of the elements. His people were clamoring for more wood to build homes, but the very world itself seemed troubled.

He had chosen Durotar for the exact reasons he had spoken — because it enabled his people to atone for the harm they had done, and because this land had toughened and strengthened them. But he had never anticipated that so many rivers would dry up; that so much of what little forest there was would be denuded by a war that, while utterly necessary, was also utterly damaging.

No, Thrall thought as he sipped at a mug of beer. The taming of a single rebellious kodo was the least of his worries now.

Five

Garrosh gulped the night air gratefully. It was dry and warm even after nightfall, so unlike the cold, damp air of Northrend. But this was his home now, not the Borean Tundra, not Nagrand back in Draenor. This arid, inhospitable land, the city named for Orgrim Doomhammer, the land for Durotan, Thrall's father. He reflected on that a moment, nostrils flaring with irritation. The only thing named after him was a tiny strip of shoreline constantly hammered at by false ghosts.

He came to a stop beneath the skull and armor of Mannoroth and felt his agitated spirit calm somewhat. He did feel a swell of pride at looking at what his father had done. It was good to have learned he could be proud of his heritage, but he wanted to make his own path, not ride along in the wake of his father's deeds. Gorehowl, so newly his, was strapped to his back. He reached for it and held the weapon that had killed the great foe of his people, brown hands closing over the shaft.

"Your father was just what the Horde needed, when it needed it," came a gravelly, deep, feminine voice behind him. Garrosh turned to see an elderly tauren. It took him a moment — her fur was dark, and in the night only the glitter of starlight on her intent eyes and the four stripes of white paint on her muzzle were immediately visible. As his eyes adjusted, he could see that she wore formal robes that marked her as a shaman.

"Thank you, um… ?" He waited for her to identify herself. She smiled.

"I am Elder Crone Magatha of the Grimtotem tribe," she said.

Grimtotem. He had heard the name. "Interesting that you speak of what the Horde needs when yours is the only tauren tribe that has refused to officially join it."

She chuckled softly, her rough voice oddly musical. "The Grimtotem does what it will, as it will. Perhaps we have not yet joined the Horde because we do not have sufficient reason to."

Garrosh took umbrage. "What? This is not sufficient?" He stabbed a thick brown finger at the skull and armor of a pit lord. "Our war against the Burning Legion was not? The Warsong offensive was not enough to impress the mighty Grimtotem?"

She regarded him steadily, not in the least put out by his ranting. "No," she said mildly. "It did not impress me. But the tales of what you did in Northrend… well, those are the deeds of a hero indeed. We Grimtotem watch. And wait. We know strength and cunning and honor when we see it. It could be that you, Garrosh Hellscream, like your father, are just what the Horde needs, when it needs it. And when the Horde figures this out as well, I think you may count on Grimtotem support."

Garrosh wasn't sure what she was getting at, but one thing was clear. She'd liked what she'd heard inside the keep. Which could mean that she approved of how he wanted to see things happen. That could be good. Maybe somebody could finally start getting something done around here.

"Thank you, Elder Crone. I appreciate your words now, and I hope that shortly I'll be worthy of more than words of support."

His mind was already awhirl with ways to bypass the pacifistic Thrall and the crotchety old Cairne and get the Horde what it needed. The trick was to do so without overstepping his bounds.

It was not a time to be cautious. It was a time to be bold. They would understand once he gave them results.

Cairne and his entourage were up and packed before dawn, despite the fact that the celebration had run well into the early hours and he, as a guest of honor, had been required to stay the entire time. He was anxious to return home. The troops he had sent to Northrend when Thrall had issued the call to arms were fierce fighters indeed, and had conducted themselves well. But they, too, were weary of bloodshed and endless nights and days of endurance. Once a nomadic people, the tauren now had a home, Mulgore, and it was dear to them. Today, finally, they began the last leg of the journey to its gentle, rolling hills, proud buttes, and the loved ones there they had left behind.

They had chosen to walk so they could keep the fellowship together for a little longer, but that was no hardship. As dawn was just breaking and other Horde fighters were either sleeping off the revelry or perhaps clutching their heads in payment for said revelry, the tauren were already out of Durotar and heading into the Barrens. Cairne sent ahead Perith Stormhoof to notify Baine that they would be arriving. Perith was one of a select few scouts and messengers called the Longwalkers. They were Cairne's only to command, and were trusted with the most important of messages and information. Not even Thrall knew everything Cairne shared with the Longwalkers. This was hardly a mission of great import. Lives did not depend on it. But Perith's eyes gleamed happily at this particular task, and he departed with his usual steady swiftness.

Late afternoon stretched its thick, golden light on the plains of Mulgore. Perith met them as they neared the turnoff for Camp Narache and Bloodhoof Village, falling into step beside Cairne as they moved slowly toward home.

"I have informed Baine, as you requested," Perith said. "He assures you that all will be ready."

"Good," approved Cairne. "The shops in all the villages should be aware that several travelers will be descending upon them. I would see none of my people go hungry tonight."

"I think you will find what Baine has in mind… acceptable."

Curious, Cairne turned to regard Perith. At that moment there was a blast of horns. Several kodos were lumbering toward them. Cairne's aging eyes could not discern who was atop the great beasts, but even his ears could hear the cheering of the little ones. They tumbled pell - mell off the kodos, shouting and laughing, throwing flowers and bundles of herbs at the approaching heroes.

"Welcome home, Father," said Baine Bloodhoof. Cairne turned at the sound of the familiar voice, squinted, and smiled as he made out the shape of his son, riding easily atop one of the great kodos.

Tears stung the old bull's eyes for a moment. This was how one should be welcomed home. With the happy cries of children and family, with the blessings of the natural world. Simpler, better… more tauren.

"Well done, my son," Cairne said, keeping the emotion out of his voice with an effort. "Well done."

Baine, calm and steady as his father, nonetheless radiated joy at Cairne's arrival. He dropped easily to the ground and approached his father. They clasped arms warmly, then fell into step, separating out a bit from the cluster of others joyfully welcoming family.

"There are more," Baine said, watching with a smile as several of the warriors took the road to the southwest. These lucky few had already reached their home. "The road home will be lined with those ready to welcome you."

"A sight for sore eyes," Cairne said. "Is all well with them?"

"It will be better once the veterans of the war are home," Baine said. "How was the celebration in Orgrimmar?"

"It did what it was supposed to," Cairne said. "It was very orcish. Much weaponry and feasting and shouting. Our people were not overlooked, though."

Baine nodded. "Thrall would never do so."

Cairne craned his neck over his shoulder, looking about for a moment, then continued in a lower voice. "He would not. He is too wise and too greathearted. I return home with a task that only we can perform to aid the Horde."

He spoke quietly to Baine of Hamuul's suggestion. Baine listened attentively, nodding at times, his ears twitching as he listened. "This is well," he said. "I am a warrior myself, but I tell you, our people have had enough of it. If Hamuul thinks these talks can help, then I am with you, Father. I fully support it."

Not for the first time, Cairne counted his blessings that the Earth Mother and his lifemate, Tamaala, had given him such a gift in his son. Although Tamaala had left to walk with the spirits many years ago, she lived on in their son. Baine was such a comfort to his father. He had his mother's spirituality, perception, and great heart, and his father's calmness and — Cairne was forced to admit — stubbornness. Cairne had not had to think twice about leaving Mulgore in his son's capable hands. He wondered how Thrall bore it, with no mate and no progeny. Even Grom had had a son, for the Earth Mother's sake. Perhaps now that the war had ended, Thrall might turn his thoughts to such things as a mate and an heir.

"How did our favorite shaman conduct herself in my absence?"

"Well enough," Baine replied. They were speaking of Magatha. "I watched her closely. It would have been an opportune time to stir up trouble, but there was none."

Cairne grunted. "There maybe. Young Garrosh Hellscream is a hothead, and I saw her slip out to speak with him."

"I have heard he is a magnificent warrior," Baine said slowly, "but…" and here he grinned, "also a hothead."

The two Bloodhoof grinned at each other. Cairne clapped his hand on Baine's shoulder and squeezed hard. Baine swiftly covered his father's hand with his own.

Just ahead, Thunder Bluff rose majestically into the late afternoon sky.

"Welcome home, Father. Welcome home."

Six

The day was cool and slightly overcast, and as Jaina Proudmoore walked up the blue and gold carpeted steps of Stormwind's magnificent cathedral, it began to rain. Part of the steps was blocked off, in need of repair after the War Against the Nightmare, and the rain made them slick. She did not bother to put up her hood to cover her bright golden hair, letting the droplets fall gently on her head and face. It was as if the sky itself was weeping at the thought of the ceremony about to be enacted within.

Two young priestesses flanking the door smiled and dropped curtseys. "Lady Jaina," the human girl on the right said, stammering a little, a blush visible even on her dark skin. "We were not told to expect you — do you wish to sit with His Majesty? I am sure that he will be pleased to have your company."

Jaina gave the girl her most disarming smile. "Thank you, no. I'm happy to sit with everyone else."

"Then here," said the dwarf priestess, extending an unlit candle. "Please take this, me lady, and sit wherever ye'd like. We're right glad tae have ye."

Her smile was genuine, if restrained, due to the solemnity of the moment. Jaina took the candle, stepped inside, and dropped a handful of gold coins into the offering plate next to the priestesses.

She breathed deeply; thanks to the dampness in the air, the smell of incense was even stronger here than usual, and it was darker inside than she remembered it being in the Cathedral of Light. The candles smoked as they burned, and Jaina glanced down the rows of pews searching for a space to sit, wondering if she should have rejected the young priestess's offer so quickly. Ah, there was a spot. She moved down the aisle and nodded at the elderly gnome couple who scooted aside to make room for her. From here she had an excellent view, and smiled as she watched the familiar figures of King Varian Wrynn and his son, Anduin, file in as unobtrusively as possible from a separate room.

Although Varian could never be considered "unobtrusive." It was not for nothing that, upon spotting him half - drowned and unconscious over a year ago, the orc Rehgar Earthfury had decided he would make a fine gladiator. With no memory of his past, Varian had adapted well to the brutal lifestyle. Unbeknownst to him at that time, he had actually been split into two separate entities — Varian, under the thumb of the dragon Onyxia, and Lo'Gosh, a fearsome and powerful gladiator. Varian held all of the original man's manners, knowledge, and etiquette; Lo'Gosh, a Taur - ahe word that meant "ghost wolf and honored a ferocious creature of legend, all of the original Varian's battle skill. Varian was elegant; Lo'Gosh was violent. Varian was sophisticated; Lo'Gosh was brutal.

The two halves were eventually reunited, but imperfectly. Sometimes it seemed that Lo'Gosh had the upper hand in the tall, powerfully built body. More than ever, King Varian Wrynn, dark brown hair pulled back in a topknot and a wicked scar slicing across his once - handsome face, dominated a room.

Anduin was a sharp contrast to his father. He was pale, fair - haired, and slender, and slightly taller than the last time Jaina had seen him. While nowhere near his father's imposing size — and Jaina guessed he would take after his willowy mother and never be quite the large man that Varian was — he was a youth now and not a child. He exchanged smiles and nods with Brother Sarno and young Thomas as he and his father moved to take their seats. Perhaps feeling her gaze, he frowned slightly, looked around — and met her eyes. He was schooled enough in the formalities that princes should abide by that he didn't crack a grin, but his eyes brightened and he gave her a slight nod.

All eyes turned from the king and his son to Archbishop Benedictus, who had entered and was moving slowly to the altar. Of average height and solid, stocky build, the man looked more like a farmer than a holy man. He never seemed to quite fit his splendid robes of gold and white, looking slightly ill at ease. But once he began to speak, his voice, calm and clear, earning throughout the cathedral, it was obvious that the Light had chosen him.

"Dear friends of the Light, you are all welcome here, in this beautiful cathedral that turns none away who come with open hearts and humble spirits. This place has seen many occasions of joy, and many of sorrow. Today we assemble to honor the fallen, to remember them, and mourn them, and respect their sacrifices for our Alliance and for Azeroth."

Jaina looked down at her hands clasped in her lap. This was one reason she had not wanted to be in a highly visible part of the cathedral. Her romance with Arthas Menethil had not been forgotten — not when he was prince, certainly not when he was the Lich King, and not now that he had been defeated. It was because of him that this sad ceremony was even necessary. A few heads turned her way, recognizing her, and giving her sympathetic glances.

Not a day went by that Jaina did not think of him, wondering if there was anything she could have done, anything she could have said, to have turned the once - bright paladin from his dark path. Her feelings had been turned against her during the War Against the Nightmare, trapping her in a dream in which she had indeed prevented him from becoming the Lich King… by becoming the Lich Queen herself in his stead….

She shivered, forcing thoughts of that horrible dream away, and turned her attention back to the archbishop. "… the frozen lands far to the north," Benedictus was saving. "They faced a terrible foe with an army that no one ever truly thought we would be able to defeat. And yet, thanks to the blessing of the Light and the simple courage of these men and women — humans, dwarves, night elves, gnomes, draenei; yes, and even the members of the Horde as well — we are safe in our homeland again. The numbers are staggering, and more reports come in every day. To give you an idea of the estimated losses, each worshipper here today has been given a candle. Each candle represents not one, not ten… but one hundred

Alliance lives lost in the Northrend campaign."

Jaina felt the breath go out of her and she stared at the unlit candle, clasped in a hand that suddenly started shaking. She looked around… there had to be at least two hundred people in the cathedral, and she knew that others were gathering outside, wanting to participate in the remembrance ceremony even though the cathedral was filled to capacity. Twenty, thirty — perhaps forty or fifty thousand people… dead. She closed her eyes for a moment and turned back to the archbishop, painfully aware that the gnome couple next to her was staring at her and whispering something.

When she heard raised voices and startled gasps from the back of the cathedral, it was almost a relief. She turned and saw two weather - beaten Sentinels talking animatedly with the two priestesses. Even as she rose and tried to exit quietly, she saw Varian already on the move.

The human priestess, apparently against the wishes of the dwarf, who looked put out, was steering the two Sentinels into a room on the left - hand side. Jaina hastened to join them. Even as she walked through the entrance to the room, Varian joined her. There was no time for greetings, but the two exchanged acknowledging glances.

Varian turned to the paladins who had also moved to join them. "Lord Grayson," he said to the tall man with black hair and an eye patch, "get these soldiers some food and drink."

"Aye, sir," the paladin said, hastening off to do so himself. Such was the attitude of paladins; any service, however humble, that helped another was of the Light.

"Please, sit," Varian said.

The taller of the two night elves, a purple - skinned woman with white hair, shook her head. "Thank you, Your Majesty, but this is no pleasure errand. We come with dire news and stand ready to report back as soon as possible."

Varian nodded, tensing slightly. "Then deliver your news."

She nodded. "I am Sentinel Valarya Riverrun. This is Sentinel Ayli Leafvvhisper. We come with reports of attacks by the Horde in Ashenvale. The treaty has been violated."

Jaina and Varian exchanged glances. "We knew when we signed the agreement that there would be a few holdouts, on both sides," Jaina said hesitantly. "The borders have long been a source of — "

"I would not be here if this were a skirmish, Lady Jaina Proudmoore," Valarya said icily. "We were not born yesterday. We know to expect the occasional row. This was not such a thing. This was a slaughter. A slaughter, when the Horde claims to be peaceable!"

Jaina and Varian listened, Jaina with ever - widening eyes and Varian slowly clenching his fists, as the gory tale unfolded. A dozen Sentinels had been ambushed as they guarded a convoy of harvested herbs and mineral carts making their way through the green forests of Ashenvale. None had survived. Their deaths were only discovered when the convoy was two days late in arriving at its destination. The carts and all they had contained were gone.

Valarya paused and took a deep breath, as if calming herself. Her sister Sentinel stepped beside her and squeezed her shoulder. Varian was frowning, but Jaina pressed on.

"It is indeed a violation of the agreement," Jaina said, "and as such needs to be brought to Thrall's attention. But even so — I'm afraid I still don't see what makes you call this a slaughter rather than an unfortunately not uncommon incident."

Ayli winced and turned away. Jaina looked from one to the other. These were warriors, who had likely been fighting for longer than Jaina had been alive. What had rattled them so?

"Let me put it this way, Lady Proudmoore," Valarya said through clenched teeth. "We weren't able to recover the bodies."

Jaina swallowed. "Why not?"

"Because they had been methodically chopped into several pieces," Valarya said, "and those pieces were taken away by carrion eaters. This was, of course, after they had been skinned. We're not sure if they were alive for that or not."

Jaina's hand flew to her mouth. Bile rose in her throat. This was beyond obscene, beyond an atrocity….

"The skins were hung like linens from a nearby tree. And on that tree, written in elven blood, were Horde symbols."

"Thrall!" bellowed Varian. He whirled on Jaina, glaring at her. "He authorized this! And you prevented me from killing him when I had the chance!"

'Varian," Jaina said, fighting not to be sick, "I've fought beside him. I've helped negotiate treaties with him — treaties he has always honored.

There is nothing about this that sounds like anything he would do. We have no proof whatsoever that he authorized this incursion, and — "

"No proof? Jaina, they were ores! He's an ore, and he's supposed to lead the damned Horde!"

Her stomach was calm now, and she knew that she was in the right. "The Defias are humans," Jaina said, very quietly. "Should you be held responsible for their actions?"

Varian jerked as if she had struck him. For a moment she thought she had reached him. The Defias were a deeply personal enemy and had taken a great deal from Varian. Then his brows drew together in a scowl that was made terrifying by the brutal scar across his face. He did not look like himself now.

He looked like Lo'Gosh.

"You dare recall that to me," he growled softly.

"I do. Someone has to recall you to yourself." She did not meet the anger of Lo'Gosh, the part of Varian that was cold and swift and violent, with anger of her own. She met it with the practicality that had saved her — and others — time and time again.

'You lead the kingdom of Stormwind — the most powerful in the Alliance. Thrall leads the Horde. You can make laws, and rules, and treaties, and so can he. And he is no more capable of controlling the actions of every single one of his citizens than you are. No one is."

Lo'Gosh scowled. "What if you are wrong, Jaina? And what if I'm right? You've been known to be a poor judge of character in the past."

Now it was Jaina's turn to freeze, stunned, at the words. He was hurling Arthas back at her. That was how Lo'Gosh played, how he had won in gladiatorial combat — dirty, using every tool at his disposal in order to win at all costs. Her nightmare rushed back at her, and she pushed it away. She took a deep breath and composed herself.

"Many of us knew Arthas well, Varian. Including you. You lived with him for years. You didn't see the monster he would become. Neither did his father, nor Uther."

"No, I didn't. But I'm not making the same mistake again, and you are. Tell me, Jaina, if you had seen what Arthas would become… would you have tried to stop him? Would you have had the guts to kill your lover, or would you have stood by, peace at all costs, a mewling little pacifist who - "

"Father!"

The word, uttered in a boyish tenor voice, cracked like a whip. Varian whirled.

Anduin stood in the doorway. His blue eyes were wide and his face was drained of color. But there was more than an expression of shock on his face. There was bitter disappointment. Before Jaina's eyes, Varian changed. Gone was the coldly raging anger of Lo'Gosh. His posture shifted. He was Varian again.

"Anduin — " Varian's voice, steady, but tinged with worry and a hint of regret.

"Save it," Anduin said, disgusted. "You stay in here and — do whatever it was you were doing. I'll go back out to provide the sort of royal face that lets our people know someone cares about what they've lost. Even if he is a mewling little pacifist."

He turned on his heel and stalked toward the door. He gripped the doorframe for a moment. Jaina watched as his back straightened and he brushed at his hair, composing himself, putting on the face of calmness as he might put on his crown. He had had to grow up so quickly. The two Sentinels glanced at one another briefly. Varian stood for a moment, staring where his son had been. He sighed deeply.

"Jaina, why don't you return as well?" At her look of uncertainty, he smiled a little. "Don't worry. The Sentinels and I will talk reasonably about what's to be done."

Jaina nodded. "Afterward, though — a moment of your time?"

"Of course." He turned back to the two elven females. "Now, you were saving. When did the attacks occur?"

The conversation continued in low voices. Varian was listening to all that was said, but he would not rush to anger again. Jaina turned and slipped quietly from the room. She did not, however, seek out the same pew at which she had been sitting. Instead, she hung toward the back of the cathedral, standing quietly in the shadows, watching and listening and doing what she did best… thinking.

Seven

An hour later, the service was over. She'd not really wanted to continue to attend. But as the ceremony continued, she realized that she needed to be here for at least two people. One of them was herself. Halfway through the sermon, she found herself with her head bowed, tears slipping down her cheeks as she mourned those who had given all to stand against evil; mourned the young, earnest man Arthas Menethil had once been. And through the tears, she found a sense of peace she had not known until that moment.

As for the other…

She returned to the small room where Varian had received the Sentinels. The elves were gone, but the king of Stormwind was still there. He sat at a small table, his head in his hands. He looked up at her approach, even though she had been quiet, and gave her a weary smile.

"I am sorry I so lost control earlier."

"You should be."

He nodded, acknowledging the truth of her comment. "I am. What I said was inappropriate and untrue."

She softened a little. "Apology accepted. And I'm not the only person who deserves one."

He grimaced at that, but nodded. "I would rather he not have seen that, but what's done is done."

She slipped into the chair opposite him, ready to listen. "Tell me what happened."

He did. He had agreed to send several alchemists to Ashenvale to assist the night elves in looking over the site of the slaughter and examining the blood and clothing. An emissary, unarmed and no doubt sweating bullets, would be sent to Thrall to conduct an inquiry.

"That's very… restrained of you," Jaina commented.

"My actions should depend on what I know, not what I suspect. If it turns out that Thrall is behind this atrocity, rest assured I will march on Orgrimmar and have his head. I don't care if I'm authorized to do that or not, I will."

"If he is, I'll be marching beside you," Jaina said. She was certain Thrall would be as shocked and horrified by the attack as Varian and Jaina had been. Even if he was not Varian's friend, he would always be an honorable foe. He would never have authorized a violation of the treaty, let alone so gruesome an attack.

"I wanted to talk about Anduin," she said, changing the subject.

Varian nodded. "Anduin is a born diplomat. He understood the necessity to go to war in Northrend, but he yearned — still yearns — for peace. And I seem to be unable to cease yearning for war. Things were good when I came back, but…"

"Well, he is a teenager," Jaina said lightly.

"He took Bolvar's death hard. Very hard."

At the name, Jaina shifted uncomfortably.

"I realized how close they had become while I was gone. Bolvar was like a father to Anduin."

"Does… he know?" Jaina asked quietly.

Varian shook his head. "And I hope he never does." When the Lich King was finally slain, dreadful news came with the victory — the revelation that there must always be a Lich King, or else the Scourge would run rampant across the world. Someone needed to don the helm, become the next Lich King, or else everything they had all fought for would be for nothing.

It was Bolvar — his life saved by the red dragons' flames but his body hideously deformed, seeming a living ember shaped vaguely like a man — who had insisted on undertaking the dreadful task. And it was Bolvar who now wore the Lich King's crown, sitting atop the roof of the world, forever destined to be the jailor of the undead. Even now, Jaina's blue eyes filled with quick tears at the thought.

"Anduin has had a difficult time of it," Jaina said, her voice thick. She cleared it and resumed. "But Bolvar was not his father. You are, and I know he's glad to have you back. But — "

"But he wants his father back, not Lo'Gosh. Completely understandable. But Jaina… sometimes I'm not sure where one ends and the other begins. I… do not like having the boy around, living with me, while I try to determine this."

"I've been thinking the same thing. And I have an idea…."

Jaina slipped her hood over her head as she exited the cathedral. It was still raining, and in fact had picked up. It did not distress her unduly; living in Theramore, she was well accustomed to such damp weather.

Having teleported to Stormwind, she had no palfrey, so she strode quickly through the wet streets toward Stormwind Keep. It was not a long walk, but her feet found a few puddles, and when she did arrive, she was quite thoroughly soaked and shivering.

The guards knew her and nodded politely as she entered. Sen - ants stepped up to her quickly, offering to take her cloak and get her something hot to drink. She waved aside the offers, smiling kindly, and thanked them for their attentiveness. As she was a well - known visitor, they did not question where she wished to go in the keep when she asked directions.

Jaina made her way past the formal rooms and the throne room into the private areas of the castle. She reached her destination, smoothed her soggy hair, and knocked on the door to Anduin's quarters.

There was no immediate response. She tried again, this time saving quietly, "Anduin? It's me, Jaina."

She heard the quiet tread of feet approaching the door, and then it opened a crack. Solemn blue eyes peered up at her and then flickered past "It's just me," she assured him. He nodded his fair head and then stepped back to admit her.

Stormwind Keep was lavish enough, she supposed, though it did not hold a candle to Lordaeron's once - magnificent palace. She remembered what Prince Arthas's chambers had been like as she took in Anduin's rather sparse room. He had been prince all his life, and king for a time, during Varian's absence, and yet this room was simple and spare. The bed was small, better suited to the child he had been rather than the youth he was. He'd need a larger one soon, she thought; he was growing like a weed. The bed frame lacked ornate hangings, the walls paintings, save for one — a portrait of Anduin and his mother, Queen Tiffin, when the boy was still an infant. Jaina guessed she had died not long after that portrait had been painted, slain by a rock thrown during a Defias riot. It was this incident that she had referred to earlier with Varian, in an attempt to get him to understand the position Thrall was in. Tiffin's son had never known her.

There was a simple nightstand with a pitcher of water and a basin next to the bed on one side. An unlit brazier stood a few feet away, to take the chill off the room in winter. A door opened presumably to another room where Anduin's clothing and other regalia were stored, as Jaina saw nothing here, not even a wardrobe. In the center of the room there was a single chair next to a small table upon which sat books, parchment, ink, and a quill. Politely Anduin eased the chair out for her, reaching to take off her cloak and hang it up, then stood next to the chair, his arms folded. He was obviously still upset from his earlier conversation with his father.

'You're drenched," he said flatly. "Let me order you some hot tea."

"Thank you. That would be most welcome." She gave him a smile.

He returned it, but it was forced and did not reach his eyes. He tugged on a braided rope beside the door.

"I swear, you'll be as big as your father the next time I see you," Jaina teased, hoping to ease him out of his mood. She settled into the chair.

He grimaced slightly. "Which version of my father?" His voice was evenly pitched, carefully modulated as befit a prince, but the words had a bite to them that Jaina, who knew him so well, winced at.

"Your father is chagrined that you witnessed that," she said gently.

"I'm certain he is," Anduin said in that same voice. "But there are many things I have witnessed at my age."

He stood straight and tall, his hands clasped behind his back. Was he betrothed yet? She realized she didn't know. She hoped not. Anduin was right. He had seen a great deal in his short life, and she had rather hoped that he would yet have some time to be a boy, at least.

"Oh, for pity's sake," she said, waving a slightly annoyed hand at him. 'You're unsettling me, standing there like you have a polearm for a spine. Go hop on the bed and talk with me. You know I'm not much for ceremony."

Like ice cracking under the first warm rays of a spring sun, a slight smile curved Anduin's lips. She winked at him. The smile became a full - fledged grin, a slightly sheepish one, but a grin nonetheless.

There was a soft knock on the door. A gray - haired sen - ant stood in the doorway.

"What can I do for you, Your Highness?"

"Some peacebloom tea. Two cups. Oh…" He turned to Jaina. "Are you cold? I can have Wyll light the brazier for us."

Jaina quirked an eyebrow, lifted a hand, and fluttered it in the direction of the brazier. At once the kindling in it caught.

"Not necessary, but thank you."

He laughed at the display. "I forgot. Just the tea, then. Oh, and some bread and honey. And some cheese, Dalaran sharp. And a couple of apples." Jaina was touched. Anduin had remembered apples and cheese were Jaina's favorite snack. "Thank you."

Jaina hid her smile. Definitely a growing boy. Once Wyll had left, Anduin obeyed her earlier request, settling himself comfortably on the bed, regarding her with those bright blue eyes that saw more than adults suspected.

"There, that's better. I've not come to lecture you or to apologize for your father," Jaina continued. "I've come to give you an opportunity for a little fun, if you like."

He raised a golden eyebrow at that. "Oh? Fun?" He pronounced the word with exaggerated awkwardness. "What, pray tell, is that?"

"Something you need more of. Your father is upset that you had to see that. He and I talked for a bit, and we both decided that you might like to have the chance to get away from things from time to time."

He eyed her curiously. "What exactly did you have in mind?"

"How would you like to come visit me at Theramore?" Anduin had been to Theramore once, during a terrible storm, to attend peace talks that had been violently disrupted. She hoped to change his association of the place to a more positive one.

But Anduin apparently had the resiliency of youth, for instead of looking unhappy, he brightened. "Visit the frontier again? I'd like that very much! I didn't get to see very much of it at all. Is there any dragon fighting going on?"

"Hardly any at all," Jaina said with a mock sigh. "But I'm sure there is some trouble a thirteen - year - old boy can get into."

"Thirteen and a half, almost" Anduin admonished her in all seriousness.

"I stand corrected."

"But… it's a very long journey."

"Not for magi."

"Well, no, of course not, I didn't mean for you, Aunt Jaina, I meant for me."

She smiled at him. "I've got a little something that might make traveling a bit easier." She fished in the pouch clipped to her belt and came out with a small oval crystal covered with soft blue runes. "Here. Catch!"

Jaina tossed it to Anduin, who caught it easily. "It's pretty," he said, examining it and tracing the runes with his fingers.

"Pretty, and rather rare. Hold it lightly for now. Don't close your fingers over it. Recognize the runes?"

He peered at it. "It has your name and the word… 'Home,'" he said.

"That's right. I see you've been keeping up with your studies. I had this created just for you. Even before… today… I had thought that you might enjoy coming to visit your old Auntie Jaina."

He scowled at her, brushing a lock of blond hair off his face. 'You're not old," he said.

"And you've been keeping up with your diplomacy, too," she said, grinning. "But yes. It's called a hearthstone." "But the rune means 'home."'

"Yes, it does, but 'homestone' sounds so ugly. 'Hearthstone' is more musical."

He chuckled, turning the hearthstone over in his hand, and said in a slightly supercilious tone, "Trust a girl to worry about such things."

"Kingdoms have risen and fallen over less," Jaina said.

"True enough," he allowed. "So, how does this hearthstone work?"

"Close your hand tightly over it, and concentrate."

Anduin obeyed. Jaina rose and went to him, placing her hand over his. A faint blue light limned her hand, then his.

"This will bind the stone to you," Jaina said quietly. He nodded his understanding. "Focus. Take the stone into yourself. Make it yours."

She felt the shift, from her to him, and smiled softly to herself as she let go. "There. It's yours now."

Anduin looked at it again, grinning. He was clearly fascinated. "It's purely magical, right? It's not a gnomish construct?"

Jaina nodded. "And I'm afraid it will only take you to Theramore. From there, we can port you back home."

"Wouldn't want to put the dwarves and their gryphons out of business I suppose," Anduin said with that odd streak of pragmatism that surfaced now and then.

"Be mindful of when you use it," she said, rising. "It will literally take you right to my hearth. Midafternoon is a very good time." He continued to regard the stone, smiling, and Jaina's heart lifted. This was definitely the right thing to do. She held out her arms to him. Anduin slipped off the bed and hugged her. He was growing up, she thought to herself, her arms around shoulders that were broader than she remembered, his head resting on her shoulder. This boy had known nothing but challenge, hardship, and loss, and yet he could laugh, could embrace his "auntie," could be excited at the prospect of visiting the frontier.

Light, let him stay a boy a little longer. Let him know at least something of peace before he has to take on adult responsibilities… again. 'You might regret this, Aunt Jaina," he said, pulling away and regarding her seriously. Her heart lurched at his tone of voice. "Why do you say that, Anduin?" "Because I'm probably going to be visiting you all the time."

Relief swept through her. "That hardship I think I can handle." Jaina Proudmoore, ruler of Theramore and a powerful sorceress, laughed like a girl and mussed the prince of Stormwind's bright golden hair.

Eight

For a change, the weather was dry and the skies were partially clear as the pair of orcs rode their wolves through Dustwallow Marsh. The orcs were male, one older, one younger. Both looked as though they had been wandering for weeks in the swamp with their old, stained clothes. They wore oversized cloaks wrapped around their frames, a wise precaution in a place usually so rainy. Their wolves, though, were surprisingly sleek coated and healthy looking to belong to such obviously down - on - their - luck masters, although they, too, were now muddy from many sessions of plodding through the muck and mire.

The trek ended in a swim out to one of the little islands off the coast, in a place called Tidefury Cove. The riders dismounted and swam side by side with their wolves. When the orcs emerged on dry land, they moved a safe distance away from the vigorous shaking that ensued as the wolves clambered ashore.

The younger orc took out a spyglass and lifted it to his face. "Right on time," he said.

A dinghy was approaching. In it was a single, slender figure, wearing a cloak that concealed its form as the ores' cloaks had. But pale hands that were small and uncallused revealed that the lone occupant was female — and human.

The younger orс waded into the water as the human woman's vessel approached. Easily he grabbed the bow and pulled the boat firmly onto the shore, extending a hand to help her out. Without hesitation, she grasped the huge, rough hand, her own barely curling around two fingers, and permitted herself to be assisted.

Once out of the boat, she slipped off her hood, revealing bright golden hair and a smile equally as bright.

"Thrall," Jaina Proudmoore said warmly. "Someday we shall meet under better circumstances."

"Ancestors willing, that day will not be long in coming," Thrall rumbled, his voice deep and affectionate. He slipped off his own hood, revealing a strong, bearded, orcish face and eyes as blue as her own.

Jaina squeezed his hand and then released it, turning to his companion, an older orc with white hair pulled back in a topknot and a sparse beard.

"Eitrigg," she said, and dropped a small curtsey.

"Lady Jaina." His voice was cooler than Thrall's, but still kind. With a nod, he moved slightly away to higher ground, to keep watch while his warchief and the human sorceress spoke.

Jaina turned back to Thrall, her brow furrowing. "Thank you for agreeing to meet me here. In light of… recent events, I thought a meeting site other than our usual one at Razor Hill would be a good idea. Word has reached Stormwind of the… incident in Ashenvale."

Thrall grimaced and ground his teeth. "Word has reached me of the incident in Ashenvale." His voice simmered with barely contained anger.

Jaina let herself smile. "I knew that you couldn't possibly be behind it. That the rumors you were involved weren't true."

"Of course they're not true!" Thrall spat the words. "I would never condone such barbarity. And if I make a treaty with the Alliance, I intend to see that it is kept." He sighed and rubbed his face. "Still — I cannot lie. Orgrimmar, the Barrens — they are in desperate need of supplies. And there are plenty of both to be had in Ashenvale."

"But that's not the way to get them." Jaina said.

"I know this," Thrall snapped, then added more gently, "but others apparently do not understand such — subtleties. Jaina, I did not authorize that incursion, and I am furious at the level of brutality displayed toward the Sentinels. I deeply regret the violation of the treaty. But the results have proven… very popular."

"Popular?" Jaina's eyes widened. "I know some of the Horde have bloodthirsty natures, but — I confess I had thought better of them as a whole. I had thought you — "

"I have done what I thought best," Thrall said, then added under his breath, "though now sometimes I question." More loudly, he said, "We have a violent history, Jaina. And the more fate forces us toward simply surviving, the closer to the bone we must pare."

"Have you received Varian's courier?"

The grimace deepened. "I have." They both knew what the courier's letter had said. Varian had been very controlled in the missive — for him. He had demanded that Thrall issue a formal apology, reaffirm his dedication to the treaty, denounce the actions, and turn over those responsible to Alliance justice. Varian would then agree to overlook the "blatant violation to a treaty designed to promote peace and cooperation between our two peoples."

"What are you going to do? Do you know who did it?"

"I do not have proof, but I have my suspicions. I cannot approve of the action."

"Well, of course you can't," Jaina said, looking at him uncertainly. "Thrall, what's wrong?"

He sighed. "I cannot approve of it," he repeated, "but I will not do as Varian demands."

She stared at him for a moment, mouth slightly open in shock. "What do you mean? Varian believes you deliberately broke the treaty. His request wasn't unreasonable, and he will have the perfect excuse to escalate the situation. We could be looking at outright war!"

He held up a large green hand. "Please. Listen to me. I will send a letter to Varian, stating that I did not condone the incursion. I will seek out those responsible. I've no desire for war. But I cannot apologize for the violence, nor will I turn over any suspects to the Alliance. They are Horde. They will be judged by Horde. To give them to Varian — no. It is a betrayal of my people's trust on far too many levels. And frankly… it is wrong. Varian would never stand for such a request from me, nor should he."

"Thrall, if you didn't give the order, then you're not responsible, and — "

"But I am responsible. I lead my people. It is one thing to rebuke my people for violating a law. It is another to appear to attack their sense of self. Their very identity⁷. You do not understand how the Horde thinks, Jaina," Thrall said quietly. "That is one thing my unique upbringing granted me. To understand how things are perceived from both sides. My people hunger, they thirst for clean water, they must have wood for housing. They believe they were wronged when the night elves closed the trade routes. They see this unwillingness to fill basic needs as a brutal act — and someone, somewhere, decided to retaliate in kind."

"Slaughtering night elves and removing their skins is in - kind retaliation for closed trade?" Her voice rose.

"Closed trade permits children to starve, to be exposed to the elements, to become sick. The logic… I can follow it. And so can others. If I were to condemn this attack openly, when it successfully provided something so desperately needed — it would seem as though I am condemning that need. I would look weak, and believe me, there are plenty who would like to take advantage of such a moment of perceived vulnerability. It is a treacherous path I walk, my friend. I must rebuke them — but only to a point. I will apologize for the violation of a treaty, but not for the theft, or even the murders or how they were performed."

"I am — disappointed that you choose this path, Thrall," Jaina said, being completely honest.

'Your opinion matters to me. It always does. Nonetheless, I will not grovel before Varian, nor play down the desperate survival needs of my people."

Jaina was silent for a long moment, her arms folded tight across her chest, looking down at the ground. "I think I understand," she replied finally, the words coming slowly, bitterly. "Light, how I hate to say that. But one thing you need to understand is how very badly the Wrath Gate incident harmed your relationship with the Alliance. We lost almost five thousand at the Wrath Gate alone, Thrall. And in particular, the loss of Highlord Bolvar Fordragon was personally felt by so very many."

"As was the loss of Saurfang the Younger," Thrall said. "The best and brightest sliced down in his prime, then raised to… well. Do not think the Horde escaped lightly from this conflict."

"Oh, I don't. But — it is hard to bear. Especially when so many of the fallen died at Horde hands and not Scourge."

"Putress was not of the Horde!" Thrall growled.

"It's a distinction that not a lot of people make. And even now, there are doubts. You know that."

Thrall nodded, growling a little in the back of his throat. Jaina knew it was not directed at her but at Putress and the rest of those who had been behind the attack. Those who had claimed allegiance to the Horde while plotting behind its back.

"First that, and now this. It's going to be hard for the Alliance leadership to trust you," Jaina continued. "A lot of people, Varian included, felt that you didn't do enough to address the situation after it happened. Publicly decrying all aspects of this incursion would go a long way to mending the Alliance's image of you and the Horde both. And let's face it — it wasn't a little scuffle. This was horrific."

"It was. And turning over suspected criminals to Alliance justice would be a horror that my people would never recover from. It would shame them, and I will never do that. They would seek to overthrow me, and they would be right in doing so."

She regarded him evenly. "Thrall, I don't think you fully appreciate the direness of the situation. It's not going to do much good for you to tacitly approve something you deplore if it brings war upon the Horde. And Varian — "

'Varian is a hothead," Thrall snapped.

"So is Garrosh."

Thrall suddenly chuckled. "Those two are more alike than they know."

"Well, their hotheaded similarities may end up getting more people killed, far too soon after Northrend."

'You know I do not wish war," Thrall said. "I led my people here to avoid senseless conflict. But truth be told, from what you have said, it does not sound like Varian is inclined to listen to me anyway. He would not believe me even if I did publicly denounce the attack. Would he?"

She did not answer, her brow furrowing deeper in her unhappiness. "I… I would encourage him to."

Thrall smiled sadly and gently dropped a huge hand on her narrow shoulder. "I will condemn the breaking of the Horde's word… but nothing more." He looked around at the dismal swamp environment in which they stood.

"Durotar was the place I chose to give my people a fresh start. Medivh told me to bring them here, and I chose to listen to him, though I knew nothing of this place. When we arrived, I saw it to be a harsh land, not verdant like the Eastern Kingdoms. Even places with water, such as this, are difficult in which to dwell. I chose to remain here despite that, to give my people a chance to pit their spirits against the land. Their spirits are still mighty, but the land…" He shook his head. "I think Durotar has given all it can. I must tend to it, to my people."

Jaina's eyes searched his. She brought her hand up to brush a lock of golden hair out of her eyes, a girlish gesture, but her expression and words were those of a leader. "I understand that the Horde works differently than the Alliance, Thrall, but — if you can find a way to do what I urge you to, you will find a path open to you that would otherwise not be."

"There are many paths open to us at all times, Jaina," Thrall said. "As leaders of those who trust us, we owe it to them to examine every one."

She extended her hands to him, and he clasped them gently. "Then I shall just have to hope that the Light guides you, Thrall."

"And I hope your ancestors watch over and protect you and yours, Jaina Proudmoore."

She smiled up at him warmly, as another fair - haired human girl had in the not - so - distant past, then Jaina returned to her small boat. Still, Thrall thought as he gave the dinghy a good shove, he saw a little furrow in her forehead that told him she was still troubled.

So was he.

He folded his arms and watched the water take her back toward her home. Eitrigg came quietly down to join his warchief.

"It is a pity," Eitrigg said, apropos of apparently nothing.

"What is?" asked Thrall.

"That she is not an ore," Eitrigg said. "Strong and smart and greathearted. A leader all on her own. She would bear strong sons and brave daughters. A fine mate she could make someone someday, if she so chose. A pity she is not an ore, and so cannot be yours."

Thrall couldn't help it. He threw back his head and laughed loudly, startling some crows resting in a nearby tree into cawing angrily and flapping away in a flurry of black wings to a quieter perch.

"We are coming off wars with the Lich King and nightmares themselves," Thrall said. "Our people are starving, thirsting, and reverting to barbarism. The king of Stormwind thinks me a brute, and the elements turn deaf ears to my pleas for understanding. And you speak of mates and children?"

The old orc was completely unruffled. "What better time? Thrall, everything is unsettled now. Including your place as warchief of the Horde. You have no mate, no child, no one to carry on your blood if you were suddenly to join the ancestors. You have not even seemed interested in such a thing."

Thrall growled, "I have had more on my mind than dalliances and getting a mate with child," he said.

"As I say… those reasons are precisely why that is so important. Too — there is a comfort and a clarity to be found in the arms of one's true mate that can be found nowhere else. The heart never soars as high as when listening to the laughter of one's children. These are things you have put aside for perhaps too long — things that I have known, though they were taken from me. I would not trade that knowing for anything else in this or any other life."

"I need no lecture," Thrall grumbled.

Eitrigg shrugged. "Perhaps that is true. Perhaps it is you who needs to speak, not I. Thrall, you are troubled. I am old, and I have learned much. And one of those things I have learned is how to listen."

He slogged into the water, his wolf following. Thrall stood for a moment, then followed. When they reached the shore, both orcs swung onto the backs of their wolf mounts and said nothing more. They rode in silence for a while, and Thrall collected his thoughts.

There was something he had not shared with anyone, not even Eitrigg. He might have shared it with Drek’Thar, had that shaman still been in possession of his faculties. As it was, though, Thrall had kept it to himself, a cold knot of a fearful secret. Inwardly, he was at war with himself.

At last, after they had ridden for some time, he spoke. 'You may understand after all, Eitrigg. You, too, have had interaction with humans that has been more than slaughter. I straddle two worlds. I was raised by humans, but born an ore, and I have gleaned strength from both. I know both. That knowledge was power, once. I can say without boasting that it made me a unique leader, with unique skills, able to work with two sides at a time when unity had been utterly vital to the survival of all of Azeroth.

"My heritage served me, and through my leadership, the Horde, very well then. But… I cannot help but wonder… does it still serve them now?"

Eitrigg kept his eyes on the road before him and merely grunted, indicating that Thrall should continue.

"I want to care for my people, provide for them, keep them safe so that they can turn their attention to their families and rituals." Thrall smiled a little. "To finding mates and getting children. To the things all thinking beings have a right to. To not have to constantly see their parents or children going off to war and never returning. And those who still spoil for battle do not see what I do — the Horde population now consists largely of children and elders. A whole generation almost entirely lost."

He sensed the weariness in his voice, and Eitrigg obviously did, too, for he said, 'You sound… soul sick, my friend. It is not like you to so doubt yourself, or to fall so far into despair."

Thrall sighed. "It seems most of my thoughts are dark these days. The betrayal in Northrend — Jaina cannot imagine how stunned, how shocked I was. It took all my skill to keep the Horde from splintering afterward. These new fighters — they have cut their warrior's tusks on slaughtering undead, and that is a very different thing from attacking a living, breathing foe, who has family and friends, who laughs and cries. It is easy for them to become inured to violence, and harder for me to temper them with arguments that call for understanding and perhaps even compassion."

Eitrigg nodded. "I once walked away from the Horde because I grew sickened by their love of violence. I see what you see, Thrall, and I, too, worry that history will repeat itself."

They had emerged from the shadows of the swamplands and onto the road heading north. Heat from the baking sun seared them. Thrall glanced around at the place so aptly named the Barrens. It was drier than ever, browner than ever, and he saw few signs of life. The oases, the salvation of the Barrens, had begun drying up as mysteriously as they had appeared.

"I cannot recall the last time I felt rain on my face in Durotar," Thrall said. "The silence of the elements at this time when something is clearly so very wrong…" He shook his head. "I remember the awe and joy with which Drek’Thar pronounced me a shaman. And yet, I hear nothing."

"Perhaps their voices are being drowned out by these others you are listening to," Eitrigg offered. "Sometimes, in order to solve many problems, you must focus on only one for a time."

Thrall considered the words. They struck him as wisdom. So much could be eased if he understood what was wrong with this land and was able to help heal it. His people would eat, would have shelter again. They would not feel the need to take from those who already had bitterness and hate in their hearts. Tensions would be eased between the Horde and the Alliance. And maybe then Thrall could focus on, as Eitrigg had said, his own legacy, his own peace and contentment.

And he knew exactly where to go to listen.

"I have been to the land of my father only once," he told the elder ore. "I wonder if now another journey is in order. Draenor was a world that saw more than its fair share of elemental pain and violence. What it is now — Outland — could still remember that. My grandmother, Geyah, is a powerful shaman. She could guide me as I attempt to listen to the wounded elements there. And perhaps they have some knowledge bought from the pain of their own world that could help ease Azeroth."

Eitrigg grunted, but Thrall knew him well enough to know the gleam in the other's eyes was that of approval.

"Sooner you do that, sooner you'll have a little one to dandle on your knee," he said. "When do you leave?"

Thrall, his heart lightened by the decision, laughed.

Nine

Jaina rowed steadily, deep in thought. Something was troubling Thrall. Something more than the current situation. He was an intelligent, capable leader, with a great heart as well as a great mind. But Jaina was convinced that this tacit acceptance of the graphically violent attack in Ashenvale would lead to nothing positive. He might keep the goodwill of his people, but he would lose that of the Alliance — well, what little was left, anyway.

She had to hope that he would find out who was behind it and deal with them swiftly. A second occurrence would be disastrous.

She docked, secured the little dinghy, and walked toward the keep, lost in thought. She was worried about Thrall and his relationship to the Horde. In all the time she had known him, he had never seemed so… uncertain about his control over it. She had been stunned at the conclusions he had reached about how to proceed. Thrall would never in his heart condone such unnecessary violence. And, therefore, how could he publicly?

She smiled perfunctorily at the guards and ascended the tower that housed her private quarters. And Varian — he was still dealing, poorly, it was clear, with the integration of his separated selves. It would have been better if he had been granted some period of calm, but such was not fate's decree. The Alliance had been plunged into war with a man — if you could still call him that — who had once been her childhood friend, and who had slaughtered tens of thousands. And what of young Anduin? He was a capable youth, perceptive and smart. But he wanted a father who could — well, father him.

She entered the sitting room, where a cheerful fire burned in the hearth. It was late afternoon, so she was not surprised to see that the servants had laid out the tea things.

She was, however, surprised to see a fair - haired young man, a cup and saucer in his lap, who turned to her with an impish grin.

"Hello, Aunt Jaina," he said. "Your hearthstone worked perfectly."

"Goodness, Anduin!" Jaina said, startled but pleased. "I only just saw you a few days ago!"

"I did warn you that you'd be seeing me all the time," he said jokingly.

"Well, lucky me." She stepped fonvard, mussed his hair, and went to the sideboard to pour herself her own cup of tea.

"Why are you wearing that ugly cloak?" Anduin asked.

"Oh, well," Jaina said, caught off guard, "I didn't want to attract attention. I'm sure you don't always want people knowing it's you when you're out riding or such."

"I don't mind," Anduin said. "But then again, I don't have secret meetings with orcs in the middle of nowhere."

Jaina whirled, splashing tea. "How did — "

'Yes!" Anduin looked delighted. "I was right! You were out meeting Thrall!"

Jaina sighed and wiped at her robes, grateful that they were, actually, the rough and dirty ones rather than her nice, everyday clothes. 'You're too perceptive for your own good, Anduin," she said.

He grew sober. "It's how I've stayed alive," he said matter - of - factly. Jaina felt her heart lurch in empathy for the boy, but he was not seeking pity. "I've got to admit, I'm surprised that you're seeing him. I mean, what I overheard from the Sentinels about the attack seems pretty brutal. Not the sort of thing Thrall would endorse."

She moved toward the fire with her cup of tea, pulling up her own chair. "That's because he didn't endorse it."

"So he's going to apologize and turn over the killers?"

Jaina shook her head. "No. An apology — but only for breaking the treaty. Not for how it was broken."

Anduin's face fell. "But… if he wasn't responsible, and he doesn't think it's a good thing — why not? How does that help earn trust?"

How indeed, Jaina thought, but did not say. "One of the things you'll learn, Anduin, is that sometimes you can't always do what you'd like to do. Or even do what you think is the right thing — at least not right away. Thrall certainly doesn't want war with the Alliance. He wants to cooperate for all our benefits. But — the Horde thinks differently from the Alliance about a lot of things, and displays of power and strength are absolutely key to a leader's ability to govern them."

Anduin frowned into his tea. "Sounds like Lo'Gosh," he murmured.

"Ironically, yes — that aspect of your father would have fit quite well into the Horde mentality," Jaina said. "One of the reasons he was so popular as a gladiator during his brief… er… career."

"So Thrall can't risk coming out and denouncing it right now, is that what you're saving?" Anduin popped a small cream - and - jam - laden biscuit into his mouth. For a pleasant instant Jaina was more concerned about whether they'd have enough pastries and small sandwiches to appease a growing boy's appetite than about the possibility of war. She sighed. Would that filling Anduin's teenage belly was the most pressing of her cares.

"Essentially that's correct." She did not wish to reveal specifics and so simply added, "But I know he didn't do it, and I know that personally he is appalled."

"Do… you think he will let it happen again?"

It was a serious question, worthy of a serious, thoughtful reply. So she took the time to give him one.

"No," she said at last. "This is just my opinion, but… I think this took him by surprise. He's aware of it now."

Anduin drained his cup and went to the sideboard to pour himself a second serving. While he was there, he piled small cakes and sandwiches on his plate. "You're right, Aunt Jaina," he said quietly. "Sometimes you just can't do what you want. You have to wait until the time is right, until you have enough support."

And Jaina smiled to herself. The youth in front of her had been king at age ten. True, he had a sound advisor in the form of Highlord Bolvar Fordragon, but she'd seen enough to know that he'd wrestled with many things by himself. Perhaps he had never been faced with the sort of choice Thrall had, but he could certainly empathize with it.

She found herself, as she often did, missing the wise, wry presence of Magna Aegwynn. She wished that great lady, the former Guardian of Tirisfal, was still alive to give her sound, if sometimes tart, advice. What would Aegwynn have done now, with this boy sitting at her hearth, this too - serious but good - hearted young man?

A smile touched Jaina's lips. She knew exactly what Aegwynn would have done. Lighten the situation.

"Now, Anduin," Jaina said, almost sensing the presence of the wise old woman in the room. "Fill me in on all the court gossip."

"Gossip?" Anduin looked perplexed. "I don't know any."

Jaina shrugged. "Then make some up."

Anduin returned to Stormwind three minutes late for dinner, materializing in his room to discover that Wyll had laid out his clothing. He splashed his face quickly with water from the basin, then threw on the formal dining clothing and scrambled quickly downstairs to join his father.

There were rooms for enormous banquets, but ordinary dinners for the two of them were held in one of Varian's private rooms. The last few meals they had shared together had been stiff and uncomfortable. Looming between Varian and Anduin Wrynn was the shadow of Lo'Gosh. But now, as he slipped into his chair and reached for his napkin, Anduin looked down the length of the table and saw his father without the haze of resentment that had clouded his vision earlier. His visit to Jaina had enabled him to clear his mind, to just… be away from all of this, even for a little while.

And as he looked at his father, he did not see Lo'Gosh. He saw a man who was starting to get faint lines at the corner of his eyes, the marks of age and weariness and not battle. He saw the strain of the crown, of the countless decisions that had to be made daily. Decisions that cost money, or even more precious a currency, lives. He felt not pity for his father — Varian did not need it — but compassion.

Varian glanced up and gave his son a tired smile. "Good evening, Son. How was your day? Do anything fun?"

"Actually, yes," said Anduin, dipping his spoon into the rich, thick, turtle bisque. "I used Aunt Jaina's hearthstone to pay her a visit."

"Did you now?" Varian's blue eyes flickered with interest. "How did that go? Did you learn anything?"

Anduin shrugged, suddenly filled with doubt. It had seemed so exciting at the time, but now that he had to recount the incident to his father it…

well, it was just having tea, mostly.

"We talked about some things. And, um… had tea."

"Tea?"

"Tea," Anduin said, almost defensively. "It's cold and wet in Theramore. There's nothing wrong with having tea and eating something."

Varian shook his head, reaching for a slice of bread and cheese. "No, there's not. And you certainly were in fine company. Did you talk about the current situation?"

Anduin felt the heat rise in his face. He didn't want to betray Jaina, even inadvertently. But he also didn't want to lie to his father. "Some."

Keen eyes flickered to Anduin's face. Lo'Gosh wasn't completely present, but Anduin sensed he wasn't completely absent, either. "See any orcs?"

"No." That at least he could answer honestly. He toyed with his soup, his appetite suddenly gone.

"Ah, but Jaina did."

"I didn't say - "

"It's all right. I know that she and Thrall are thick as thieves. I also know Jaina wouldn't betray the Alliance."

Anduin brightened. "No, she never would. Never."

"You… sympathize with her, don't you? With the orcs and the Horde?"

"I… Father, we've just lost so many already," Anduin blurted out, putting his spoon down and regarding Varian intently. 'You heard Archbishop Benedictus. Almost fifty thousand. And I know that a lot of our people died at the hands of the Horde, but a lot of them didn't, and the Horde also suffered terrible losses. They're not the enemy, they — "

"I do not know what other term you would use to describe someone — some thing — that could do to those Sentinels what the orcs did to them."

"I thought - "

"Oh, Thrall replied, condemning the breaking of the treaty and assuring me he had no desire for it to happen again. But as for what was done to those elves? Nothing. If he is as civilized as you and Jaina seem to think, then why would he stay silent on something so atrocious?"

Anduin looked miserably at his father. He couldn't say what he knew, and even if he could, the information was secondhand. He wondered if he'd ever truly grasp politics. Jaina, Aegwynn, and even his father had all praised his insight, but he felt more confused than clear on… well, pretty much everything. What he knew was more intuition than logic, and that was something that neither Varian nor Lo'Gosh would really understand.

He just knew, somehow, in his bones, that Thrall wasn't as Varian saw him. And he couldn't explain it any better than that.

Varian watched his son keenly and sighed inwardly. He liked Jaina; he respected her; but she was not a warrior. He was not opposed to peaceable relationships with former foes, as Anduin seemed to think. His agreement to the armistice in the first place was proof of that. It was just that his people's safely came first. Only a fool extended the hand of friendship if it was likely to be sliced off at the wrist.

Anduin wasn't weak. He had proved that again and again in situations that would have made someone twice his age give in to panic or despair.

But he was… Varian groped for the word and found it: soft. He was not the best with heavy weapons, although his archery and dagger throwing skills were superb. Perhaps if he had more ability, more understanding, of what a warrior endured, he would be less inclined to be kind - hearted when such gentler emotions might result in the deaths of said warriors.

"I'm glad you're taking advantage of this chance to visit Jaina," he said. He finished the soup and wiped the bowl clean with a bit of bread, nodding at the servants who came to remove the bowl and used utensils. "I think it's a good idea."

Anduin glanced up at him. Varian realized, with a pang of pain, that the boy's expression was wary, guarded. "But?" Anduin said bluntly.

Varian had to smile. "But," he agreed, emphasizing the word, "I think it would also be a good idea if you spent some time elsewhere. With people other than me and Jaina."

The guarded expression shifted into one of curiosity. "What do you mean?"

"I was thinking of Magni Bronzebeard," Varian said. "You're fond of him, aren't you?"

Anduin looked relieved. "Very much so. I like the dwarves. I admire their courage and tenacity."

"Well, would you like to go stay with him for a while in Ironforge? You've not spent much time there, and I think it's time you did. The dwarves — except for the Dark Irons, of course — have close ties with us. Magni likes you and I'm sure would teach you all kinds of things. You wouldn't be too far away either, in case you wanted to come visit your lonely old father."

Anduin grinned now, and Varian felt better. This was a good idea. "The Deeprun Tram can bring me right back to Stormwind," he agreed.

"Absolutely," Varian said. "So it's settled, then?"

'Yes, that sounds like a lot of fun, actually," Anduin said. "I've wanted to spend some time learning more about the Explorers' League, and the display of their most precious exhibits is right there in Ironforge. Maybe I'll even get to talk to some of the members."

The servers came with the second course, roast venison in a rich sauce. Anduin dug in, his appetite, which had seemed a bit off to Varian, clearly having returned.

If the boy wanted to spend time with the Explorers' League studying, Varian would not try to stop him. It was a good pursuit for a future king. But he'd also have a quiet word with Magni and emphasize the need for Anduin's battle training to be stepped up. Magni would understand. Varian himself had studied under the skilled tutelage of a dwarf and knew that the same training would benefit his son. Maybe it would help make this promising but delicate boy become a man.

Ten

Thrall awoke, instantly alert to the sound of horns blowing a warning. He leaped out of his sleeping furs immediately, the acrid smell of smoke telling him what the emergency was before he heard the words that he knew would strike terror into the heart of every citizen of Orgrimmar:

"Fire! Fire!"

Even as he threw on clothing, two Kor'kron burst into the room. It was obvious that they, like Thrall, had only just heard the news.

"Warchief! What would you have us do?"

He pushed past them, barking orders as he did so: "Bring me a wyvern! All hands to the pond near the Spirit Lodge save the shaman — rouse them and direct them to the site of the fire! Form a bucket brigade to sluice down any nearby buildings!"

"Yes, Warchief!" One of them kept pace with Thrall while the other ran ahead to cam' out his warchief s orders. Thrall had barely left the shadow of the hold when the reins of a wyvern were pressed into his hand. He leaped atop the great beast and directed him straight up.

Thrall clung as the creature rose nearly vertically, giving him a good view of where the fire raged out of control. It was not far. He had ordered many of the bonfires that burned night and day in Orgrimmar to be extinguished because of the extreme drought that was parching the land. Now he realized he should have allowed none of them.

Several buildings had caught fire. Thrall grimaced at the stench of burning flesh, reassured that it likely came from a place called the Chophouse; it was the stench of burning animal meat that he smelled. Even so, three buildings were already going up, vast sheets of flame illuminating the night.

By the light of the conflagration Thrall could see forms scurrying about. The shaman, as he had ordered, were converging on the site of the active blazes, while others were soaking surrounding buildings to ensure that they did not catch.

He guided the beast in the direction of the fire, patting his neck proudly. The wyvern had to be smelling the smoke, sensing the danger, yet he obeyed Thrall trustingly, never shying as Thrall guided him closer and closer to the source. The smoke was thick and black, and the heat was so fierce, he wondered for a moment if it might burn his clothing right off him or scorch the courageous wyvern. But he was a shaman, and he could tame this blaze if anyone could.

He landed, leaped off, and released the beast to the air. The wyvern flew away immediately, happy to put distance between himself and the danger now that he had served his rider well. Figures turned toward Thrall as he approached, parting to make way for their warchief. The other shaman did not move, though, standing still, eyes closed, arms lifted, communing with the fire as Thrall was about to do.

He emulated them, calming himself and reaching out to this individual elemental flame.

Brother Flame… you can do great harm and great good to those whose lives you choose to touch. But you have taken for your fuel the dwellings of others. Your smoke sears our eyes and lungs. I ask you, return to the places where we hold you with gratitude. Harm no more of our people.

The fire answered. This elemental was but one of many who were angry and erratic, fierce and uncontrolled.

No, we do not wish to return to the confinement of the bonfires or braziers or small family hearths. We like being free; we want to race across this place and consume all in our path.

Thrall felt a flutter of worry. Never before had such a direct request of his, one from the heart and filled with concern for the safety of others, been so flatly refused.

He asked again, putting more of his own will into the query, emphasizing the damage that the element was doing to people who had ever welcomed it into their city.

Reluctantly, sullenly, like a sulky child, the blaze began to die down. Thrall sensed his fellow shaman lending their aid, their concentration, their pleas as well, and was grateful if unnerved by the incident.

The fire did consume seven buildings and a great deal of personal properly before it finally subsided. Fortunately, no lives were directly lost, although Thrall knew that several were affected by the smoke. He would —

"No," he whispered. A spark, dancing defiantly, was wafting on the wind, heading for another building, to wreak more havoc. Thrall reached out to the spark, sensed in its erratic intent its refusal to respect Thrall's entreaty.

His eyes were open now, watching the path of the tiny flame. If you continue your path, little spark, you will cause great harm.

I must burn! I must live!

There are places where your glow and heat are welcome. Find them. Do not destroy the dwellings or take the lives of my people!

For a second the spark seemed to wink out of existence, but then it blazed back with renewed vigor.

Thrall knew what he had to do. He lifted his hand. Forgive me, Brother Flame. But I must protect my people from the harm you would cause them. I have requested, I have begged, now I warn.

The spark seemed to spasm, and yet it continued on its lethal course.

Thrall, grim - faced, clenched his hand hard.

The spark flared defiantly, then dwindled, finally settling down to nothing more than the faintest of glowing embers. For now, it would no longer do anyone harm.

The threat had ended, but Thrall was reeling. This was not the way of the shaman with the elements. It was a relationship of mutual respect, not of threats and control and, in the end, near destruction. Oh, the Spirit of Fire could never be extinguished. He was far greater than anything any shaman, or even group of shaman, could ever attempt to do to him. He was eternal, as all the spirits of the elements were. But this part of him, this elemental manifestation, had been defiant, uncooperative. And it had not been alone. It was part of a disturbing trend of elements that were sullen and rebellious rather than cooperative. And in the end, Thrall had had to completely dominate it. Other shaman were now calling rain to soak the city in case there was another aberrant spark that persisted in its course of devastation.

Thrall stood in the rain, letting it soak him, pour off his massive green shoulders, and drip down his arms.

What in the name of the ancestors was happening?

"Well, of course we can do it," said Gazlowe. "I mean, we're goblins, of course we can do it, you know what I'm saving? We did it in the first place, after all. So yes, Warchief, we can rebuild those parts of Orgrimmar that were damaged. Don't you worry about that."

Two Kor'kron stood a few paces away, massive axes strapped to their backs, powerful arms folded, watching the scene and silently guarding their warchief. Thrall was talking with the goblin who, along with several others, had helped construct Orgrimmar several years ago. He was clever, intelligent, more scrupulous and less annoying than most of his brethren, but even so, he was a goblin, so Thrall was waiting for the other boot to drop.

"Well, that's good. And how much are we looking at?"

The goblin reached into the small sack he had brought with him and pulled out an abacus. His long, clever, green fingers flew across it as he murmured to himself,"… carry the one… factor in the cost of supplies at a postwar rate… and of course labor's gone up…"

He retrieved a piece of charcoal and a sheet of parchment and scribbled down a number that made the orc’s robust green skin turn sickly. "That much?" Thrall asked, disbelieving.

Gazlowe looked uncomfortable. "Look… tell you what… you've been awfully good to us, and you've been more than scrupulous in your business affairs. How about…"

He wrote a second figure down. It was less than the first figure, but only marginally. Thrall handed the paper over to Eitrigg, who whistled softly.

"We will need more supplies," was all Thrall said. He rose and left without another word. The Kor'kron fell into silent step behind him. Gazlowe looked after Thrall.

"I am guessing that's a yes. That's a yes, isn't it?" he asked Eitrigg. The elderly orc nodded, his eyes narrowing as, from out of the open door, he watched Thrall's shape grow smaller and smaller as he left Grommash Hold.

Though Thrall was a well - known figure in Orgrimmar, the inhabitants of the city were always courteous enough to give their warchief space. The Kor'kron who shadowed him helped encourage that attitude. If Thrall wanted to wander the streets of his capital city, well, then, good for him. So it was that Thrall found his feet taking him on dusty roads still covered in ash, breathing air that was still thick and smelled of char. He needed to walk, to move, to think. His bodyguards knew him well enough to keep back and let him do so.

The sum Gazlowe quoted was astronomical. Yet it would have to be done. Orgrimmar was the capital of the Horde. It could not be permitted to stay damaged. Unfortunately, the tragedy only emphasized the two great issues that consumed Thrall's thoughts every waking moment and during his dreams as well: Why were the elements so agitated, and how best could he lead this postwar Horde?

The decision he had reached during his conversation with Eitrigg was the right one. Thrall realized he needed to go to the home of his people — to Nagrand, where a legacy of shamanism had been practiced and understood for so long its origins had been swallowed by time. Geyah was wise and her mind still sharp. She, and those she had personally trained, would have answers he could not possibly find here in Azeroth. Answers to questions Thrall didn't even know he should be asking. The more he thought about it, the more it called to his soul as the right thing, the absolutely perfectly right thing, to do. The shaman of Outland had learned how to help a broken world. They could help the distressed elements in Azeroth.

Thrall also knew this was no self - indulgent vision quest for his own peace of mind. His people were enduring great hardships. Even verdant Mulgore was starting to feel the effects of the drought creeping westward from the Barrens. And the fire of the previous night was undoubtedly testimony to the dire need to do something now, before the next fire perhaps razed Orgrimmar, or Thunder Bluff. Before the next storm swept Theramore, and Jaina Proudmoore with it, off the map. Before any other lives or livelihoods were lost.

And in this way, Thrall realized, he could best serve the Horde. He knew he was unique — a warrior, a shaman, of the worlds of humans and orcs both. No one else could be who he was. No one else could do what he could do. Because no one else had the experience and skills he had.

But the Horde must not be paralyzed while he was not at its head. One day Thrall would pass, as all things must, to walk with the ancestors. For a moment he permitted his thoughts to wander to the things Eitrigg had said. To the thought of a child, and a lifemate. Someone courageous and strong and great of heart, as Draka had been to his father, Durotan. He had not known his parents, but he had heard the stories. Theirs had been a fine match, one of the heart. They had loved one another and stood by each other through the darkest of times, even giving their lives together to protect Thrall. Walking on the streets of the Horde capital, Thrall realized that he did, as Eitrigg had implied, long for such a stalwart companion, to

share the hard times and the joyful both. And for a child of that union, a fine son or daughter.

But he had no mate, no child. Perhaps that was just as well, for now — he would leave no brokenhearted family if he passed. Only the Horde, which would have to learn to do without him. Perhaps it could do without him now. For a short time, anyway. Long enough for him to go to Nagrand and find out what was amiss with the elements and somehow put an end to the aberrant behavior that was claiming so many lives.

He closed his eyes for a moment. Handing over control of the Horde that he had founded was like entrusting the care of a loved child to another. What if something went wrong?

But something was going wrong, terribly wrong. Another would have to lead the Horde for a time. He nodded his head once, firmly, and felt his soul and heart settle somewhat. Yes, this was the right thing to do. There was no longer a question of if he should go, or even when — as soon as possible. The only question that remained was to whom would he surrender care of this loved "child."

His first thought was Cairne. His oldest friend here in Kalimdor, Cairne and he thought alike on many things. He was wise and ruled his people well. But Thrall, like Cairne himself, knew there were those who thought him old - fashioned and out of touch with what was needed. If there was slight unrest in the form of the Grimtotem in Cairne's own city, then there would surely be unrest and murmuring if Thrall appointed an elderly tauren to lead the Horde now.

No, Cairne would definitely have a part to play, but it could not be the role of leader. An orc would be better. One the people knew and liked already.

Thrall sighed deeply. The perfect choice was one he could not have — Saurfang the Younger. Youthful, charismatic, and yet wise beyond his years, he had been the brightest star in the sky of Horde warriors before the Lich King had slain him. His father, though not quite broken, had been emotionally devastated by the recent events. Too, the orc was too old, as was Cairne, as was the deeply trusted Eitrigg. Thrall realized that there could be only one choice, and he made a sour expression.

There was only one who could do it. Only one who was young and vibrant, who was well known and loved, who was a warrior without equal.

Only one who could on such short notice bring the disparate factions of the Horde together and keep their spirits high and proud.

A perfect figurehead.

Thrall's glower deepened. Yes, Garrosh was loved and a fine fighter, but he was also rash and impulsive. Thrall was about to deliver him the ultimate power. A word floated to his mind, usurper, but he did not truly believe such a thing would happen. Garrosh needed something to placate an ego as mammoth as his legend — an ego that Thrall now realized he might have unwittingly helped to inflate. He had been concerned when he learned that Garrosh despised his father, and had wanted to show the son of Grom that Hellscream had done great good. But perhaps he might have made Grom look better than he was. If so, then the younger Hellscream's arrogance might be, at least in part, due to Thrall himself. He had not been able to save Grom's life; he had hoped to inspire and guide his son.

Still, Eitrigg would be there to temper Garrosh, as would Cairne, if Thrall asked it of his old friends. Thrall would not be gone long. Let Garrosh sit in his place temporarily in Grommash Hold, with Cairne and Eitrigg on either side. If the rumors were true, Garrosh had already tipped his hand with the Ashenvale incident, and Thrall knew Cairne would sit on the orc before he'd let anything like that get by him, now that he knew to be watchful of it. There wouldn't be a lot that Garrosh could do, really, to harm the Horde, and — Thrall had to admit — there was much Garrosh could do to inspire it.

Their leader would be gone. They would be worried and afraid. Garrosh would remind them that they were proud and fierce and unconquerable, and the Horde would cheer and be content until Thrall returned with the real answers to the problems that besieged them. Calm the land, and all would have a chance to become better. Ignore the land, the elements, and no glorious victory in battle could ever make up for the disasters that

would inevitably follow.

Garrosh saluted as he stood before Thrall. "I am here as you have asked, Warchief. How may I serve the Horde?"

"It is precisely to request such service that I have summoned you here. Walk with me."

Thrall had been seated on his throne when Garrosh arrived, flanked by four of the large, intimidating Kor'kron. He had sent one of them ahead to deliberately make the younger orc wait for a while, and made no effort to stand when he did enter. Now Thrall rose, slowly and in control of the situation, and spread out his arms in a welcoming, friendly, but slightly patronizing gesture. Garrosh needed to understand his place before Thrall could change it.

He nodded to the Kor'kron, who saluted smartly and stayed where they were as Thrall guided Garrosh to the private areas of Grommash Hold, where they could speak without being overheard. 'You know I am a shaman as well as a warrior," Thrall said as they walked.

"Of course."

'You have seen enough to know that the elements are deeply disturbed. The strange waves you encountered coming home from Northrend. The fire that raced through Orgrimmar."

'Yes, I am aware of these things. But how can I possibly change them?"

'You cannot. But I can."

Garrosh narrowed his eyes. "Then why do you not do so? Warchief?"

"It is not as warchief that I can do these things, Garrosh. It is as a shaman. And you ask the very question I have been wrestling with — why do I not do it? The answer is, to do so would mean I would need to leave Orgrimmar. To leave Azeroth altogether."

Garrosh looked alarmed. "Leave Azeroth? I don't understand."

"I intend to travel to Nagrand. The shaman there deal with elements that have suffered terribly, yet there are places where the land is still verdant. Perhaps I can learn why that is… and apply that understanding to our troubled elementals here."

Garrosh smiled around his tusks. "My homeland," he said. "I would like to see it again. Speak with the Greatmother before she leaves us to walk with the ancestors. It was she who healed me and so many others when the red pox was upon us."

"She is a great treasure," Thrall agreed, "and one whose wisdom I would seek."

"You will be returning soon?"

"I — do not know," Thrall said honestly. "It may take time to learn what I must. I trust I will not be gone too long, but it could be weeks — even months."

"But - the Horde! We need a warchief!"

"It is for the Horde that I go," Thrall said. "Do not worry, Garrosh. I do not forsake it. I travel where I must, to serve as I must. We all serve the Horde. Even its warchief does so — perhaps especially its warchief. And well do I know that you serve it loyally too."

"I do, Warchief. You were the one who taught me that my father was someone to be proud of, because of what he was willing to do for others. For the Horde." Garrosh's voice was earnest, the naked emotions plain on his face. "I have not been part of it for long. But even so, I have seen enough to know that, like my father, I would die for it."

'You have already faced and cheated death," Thrall admitted. 'You have slain many of its minions. You have done more for this new Horde than many who have been part of it since the beginning. And know this: I would never leave without appointing someone able to take care of it, even during so brief a sojourn."

The younger orc's eyes widened, this time in excitement. 'You — you are making me warchief?"

"No. But I am instructing you to lead the Horde on my behalf until I return."

Thrall had never expected to see Garrosh lost for words, but now the brown - skinned orc seemed struck dumb for a moment. "I understand battle, yes," he said. "Tactics, how to rally troops — these things I know. Let me serve that way. Find me a foe to face and defeat, and you will see how proudly I will continue to serve the Horde. But I know nothing of politics, of… of ruling. I would rather have a sword in my fist than a scroll!"

"I understand that," Thrall said, slightly amused that he found himself reassuring the normally proud Garrosh. "But you will not be without sound advisors. I will ask Eitrigg and Cairne, both of whom have shared their wisdom with me through the years, to guide and advise you. Politics can be learned. Your obvious love for the Horde?" He shook his head. "That is more important to me than political acumen right now. And that, Garrosh Hellscream, you have in abundance."

Still Garrosh seemed uncharacteristically hesitant. Finally he said, "If you deem me worthy, then know this. I shall do all that I can to bring glory to the Horde!"

"No need for glory at the moment," Thrall said. "There will be enough of a challenge for you without any extra effort. The Horde's honor is already assured. You just need to take care of it. Put its needs before your own, as your father did. The Kor'kron will be instructed to protect you as they would me. I go to Nagrand as a shaman, not as warchief of the Horde. Make good use of them — and of Cairne and Eitrigg." He paused, and amusement quirked his lips. "Would you go into battle without a weapon?"

Garrosh looked at him, confused at what, to him, seemed a sudden change of subject. "That is a foolish question, Warchief, and you know it."

"Oh, I do. I am making sure you understand what powerful weapons you have," Thrall said. "My advisors are my weapons as I struggle to always do what is best for the Horde. They see things I do not, present options I did not know I had. Only a fool would scorn such things. And I do not think you a fool."

Garrosh smiled, relaxing slightly as Thrall's intention became clear. With a touch of his former arrogance, he said, "I am not a fool, Warchief. You would not ask me to serve so if you thought me one."

"True. So, Garrosh, do you agree to lead the Horde until such time as I return? Taking advice from Eitrigg and Cairne when they offer it?"

The young Hellscream took a deep breath. "It is my true longing to lead the Horde to the best of my ability. And so, yes, a thousand times yes, my warchief. I will lead as well as I can, and I will consult with the advisors you suggest. I know what a tremendous honor you do me, and I will strive to be worthy of it."

"Then it is done," Thrall said. "For the Horde!"

"For the Horde!"

Ancestors, Thrall thought as he watched Garrosh stride away, chest swelled with pride and pleasure, I pray I am doing the right thing.

Eleven

Two weeks later, his things already having been sent ahead on an earlier train, Anduin Wrynn stepped off the Deeprun Tram and was immediately almost crushed by a pair of powerful, short arms.

"Welcome, lad!" exclaimed King Magni Bronzebeard. Anduin tried to reply but was unable to actually take breath into his lungs and so stayed silent for a moment more while Magni continued. "We've been excited about hosting ye. Ye've sprouted up right tall, ye have. I barely knew ye!"

Magni released Anduin, who gasped in air with a whooshing sound. Even so, he was smiling at both the king and the young dwarf lady who stood next to him. He suspected that his reasons for coming here were not the same as his father's for sending him, but it didn't matter. He was away from home, a boy being exposed to an entirely different culture after having been confined to the city of Stormwind for far too long.

"It's good to be here, Your Majesty," he said. "Thank you for agreeing to host me."

"No thanks needed, me lad. I think we needed a wee kick in th' pants. Place has gotten too stodgy." Magni clapped him on the back. "Come now, I've got yer chambers all ready. Now, I know ye've sent ahead a few servants, and they've been made most welcome. But I'd like to assign Aerin here," and he indicated the young dwarf woman, "tae be yer bodyguard, though I doubt the folk o' Ironforge will be bothering ye much."

Aerin gave him a cheerful grin. "Great tae meet ya," she said, bowing politely.

She was a fine specimen of dwarven womanhood, curvaceous and pink - cheeked with a long brown braid running the length of her back. She wore her armor as if it were no more of a hindrance than a frock, and as she stuck out her hand to shake his heartily, Anduin saw that most of her curves were muscle. "Aerin is one of my personal retinue. She'll take good care o' ye."

"Aye. and I'm also an Ironforge native, born an' bred," Aerin said with pride. "I'll be happy to be yer guide while ye're here as well, Yer Highness."

"Thank you," Anduin said. "And please—call me Anduin." While the dwarves were fiercely devoted to their royal family, there was a pleasant ease in their attitude toward them that Anduin liked.

"All right then," Aerin agreed, "Anduin it is."

"Let's go to yer quarters an' get ye settled in," Magni said, turning and striding off at so brisk a pace that Anduin was hard put to keep up with him. "I think ye'll like what I've picked out for ye," he said, a twinkle in his eye.

"Would you mind if we visit the Great Forge first?" asked Anduin. "I'd like to see it again."

"O' course not!" said Magni. "Always proud tae show it off."

Ironforge was, quite literally, centered around a giant forge. The air was thick and almost stiflingly hot, a contrast to the cold freshness of the snowy environment right outside the dwarven capital's towering gateway. But the harsh scent was different and not evocative of human cities in any way, and Anduin loved it. As they approached the forge, Anduin winced a little at the oppressive heat rolling off it in waves and removed his jacket. He glanced down at Aerin furtively. He was wearing only a light linen shirt and breeches, earning the jacket slung over his shoulder, and he was drenched with sweat. Aerin and Magni were in full armor and seemed completely unaffected. Such was the constitution of the dwarves.

The discomfort was quickly forgotten at the powerful sight of the forge, with its streams of molten metal splashing like water and glowing in shades of red and yellow and orange. It was so overwhelmingly vast, the mind almost couldn't grasp it. At least his had a hard time with it.

"Aye, that's a grand sight," Magni said. Anduin agreed. After a while the heat was too much, and he was grateful to continue on through the relative cool of a corridor. Several dwarves and gnomes moved about purposefully, and the guards posted here and there nodded polite greetings to their liege.

Anduin slowed, confused at the direction they were taking. He had assumed that he would be staying in the royal quarters located near the High Seat. He was, after all, a prince, and such would be expected of him. He had wondered if he'd be able to get any sleep, as the High Seat was located right next to the forge. Which, in addition to being incredibly hot, was also active day and night. But it looked as though they were going away from that part of Ironforge.

He opened his mouth to ask about this when he came to a dead stop, mouth still hanging open. Not at the structure that was before him — from the outside it looked like merely another part of Ironforge architecture. There was nothing remarkable about the arched doorways. It was what he glimpsed inside that made Anduin's heart skip a beat.

It was the skeleton of a giant winged reptile, held together by wiring and suspended from the ceiling. Enraptured, Anduin walked toward it.

"What is it?"

"It's a pteradon," Aerin said. "Unearthed in Un'Goro Crater. Nasty place. Spent too much time there meself."

"Now, now, lad, we've got to go tae yer quarters afore ye can do much sightseeing," Magni chided. His eyes were bright, as if he were in on some joke that Anduin wasn't quite getting.

Anduin sighed and cast a final wistful glance at the pteradon and nodded. "Of course, sir. I'll be here for several weeks at least. Plenty of time for amusement later. Let's go to my quarters."

"All right," Magni said. He didn't move.

"Your Majesty? My quarters?" Now Aerin was smothering a grin. What was going on?

Slowly Magni lifted a finger and pointed to his left. "We're already there!" He threw back his head and laughed. Aerin joined in, and Anduin felt a foolish grin spread across his face. "I've arranged for ye and yer folk to have apartments right here. Directly across from the library. I thought ye might be a wee bit tired o' living in royal dwellings. And I know summat o' what ye're interested in."

"Thank you, Your Majesty!"

"Psssh," Magni said, waving a hand dismissively. "I've known ye since ye were a wee bairn. This is me home. And here, ye can call me Uncle, if ye'd like."

A fleeting expression of sorrow, old and well - worn, danced across his face. For a moment, Anduin thought it related to the term uncle, but realized at once it was another term of affection that Magni Bronzebeard was missing: Father.

Magni had only one child, a daughter, Moira. A few years ago, servants of the Dark Iron emperor, Dagran Thaurissan, had spirited Moira away. Magni believed that Dagran had seduced his daughter through magical means, enchanting her so that she thought she was in love with him. When Magni sent in a team to kill Thaurissan and retrieve the ensorcelled Moira, she had refused to come home. She had announced that she was pregnant, and that the murder of her husband had created a terrible, fiery rage within her heart. Magni had been devastated. Nothing had been heard of Moira or her child—heir to two kingdoms—since.

Becoming a grandfather should have been an occasion for rejoicing. Magni should have had his daughter with him here in Ironforge, his grandchild—Anduin didn't even know if it was a boy or a girl, and he was not about to ask if Magni knew—playing on his knee. Instead, child and grandchild were estranged from him, still caught in the throes of what Magni firmly believed was the emperor's dark spell even from beyond the The somber moment passed quickly, and Magni smiled again, although the mischievous glint had gone from his eyes. "Dinner's at eight sharp, mind. Dun be late. Ye're training with Aerin first thing on the morrow."

Anduin was surprised. Fighting? His shoulders sagged slightly. He supposed that he should have expected his father to set up something like this. Well, at least Aerin seemed like good company, and there should still be time to investigate the library and learn more about the Explorers' League.

"Yes, Uncle." Anduin smiled at the dwarf, pleased to see that the term eased Magni's taut features, at least a little. Magni nodded, patted Anduin's arm, and turned and strode back toward the High Seat. Anduin watched him go, then turned to Aerin.

"So, my attendants are all settled in?"

"Och, aye, some time ago."

He grinned. "Then I'm going to the library!"

The following morning Anduin was lying on his back, staring at the ceilings of an out - of - the - way area of the High Seat, bruised and filled with both great pain and a fresh admiration for the fighting abilities of the dwarves.

"Down again, li'l lion?" A tsk - tsk of disapproval. "That's three times in a row."

Every muscle aching with the effort, Anduin lifted his arm and grasped Aerin's smaller but stronger one. She hauled him to his feet as if he weighed nothing at all. His left arm dangled at his side, the shield still strapped to it. His sword was at least two yards away on the floor. Sighing, Anduin lumbered over to pick it up. He closed his hand painfully around the hilt and with great effort lifted the sword.

Aerin's blue eyes darted to the shield, and she raised her eyebrows meaningfully. It still hung down.

"I, uh… can't lift it," Anduin said, feeling the hot color rushing into his cheeks.

Aerin looked exasperated for just an instant, then smiled cheerily. "No matter, li'l lion. Today was just about checkin' yer strength an' judging yer skills. Ye'll be with us for a while. We'll send ye back tae yer father all properly dwarf - tempered, ye'll see!"

She had started calling him "li'l lion" yesterday afternoon when they had been ambling around Ironforge together, and he hadn't minded. And he knew her comment just now was intended to be encouraging. Instead, he winced inwardly.

He knew his father did not think he was "warrior material," knew that one of the reasons Varian had sent him here at all was to "toughen him up" and have the dwarves "make a man out of him." Anduin was painfully aware—now literally—that he really wasn't warrior material. He was good at archery and knife throwing, because he had a keen eye and a steady hand, but when it came to the heavier weapons, his slight build just couldn't seem to manage it. But that was not all there was to it. The swords and polearms never seemed to feel comfortable in his hands. And no matter how hard he trained, no matter how many hours he sparred with this stout, cheerful female dwarf, despite her words, he was not going to become "all properly dwarf - tempered."

"I'm sorry," he said. 'You're a fine trainer, Aerin. I'm sure I'll improve."

"Och, I ken ye will," she said, winking at him, and for the first time he realized that she was really quite pretty. He smiled back, sorry to have lied to her. He wasn't at all sure he would improve, and he felt his mood darken as he anticipated disappointing Aerin. But she had already begun putting things away, whistling and bustling about industriously. He assisted her, hanging up the training weapons and shrugging out of the padded armor, trying not to gasp as overly strained muscles protested.

"I think I'll go back to my quarters and take a bath," he said, dragging a hand across his sweaty forehead.

"Aye, I was going to say something," she said bluntly. He stared at her for a full half a minute, mortified, before a telltale smile curved her lips and he realized she was just teasing him—again. He laughed sheepishly. "Let me know if ye need anything." Aerin said. "I'll be happy tae take ye out for a ride later."

The thought of bouncing around on one of the giant rams that the dwarves favored as mounts made Anduin turn pale. "No, I may just stay inside for a bit, keep up with my studies."

"Well, if ye want some fresh air, simply send fer me."

"I will. Thank you again."

"O' course, any time!" She bustled off cheerily. Anduin could not help but notice that she hadn't even really broken a good sweat. He sighed and went back to his quarters.

A good hot bath and a change of clothes later, his mood much improved, he decided to take a walk to the Mystic Ward. He was feeling in need of a little Light.

He knew he'd made a good decision when he felt the constriction around his chest ease as he approached. Somehow, whether it was a trick of the light or the actual materials used in construction, the Mystic Ward seemed brighter to him. Too, the softly lapping pool in the ward was soothing. He wasn't sure exactly what its purpose was, if indeed it had any other than decorative. He fished out a coin, made a wish, and tossed it in, watching the gold glint in the light for an instant before slowly sinking downward. He was reassured when he peered into the depths and saw that it had many monetary companions. There were stairs—was the pool for swimming, or ritual bathing? He'd have to ask Aerin. For now he was not going to commit any kind of social error.

He walked through the open doorway into the Hall of Mysteries, smiling gently as blue - purple - white light fell upon him. Five pillars, each adorned with a repeating geometric pattern wrought in gold and blue, supported an upper story and a ceiling. Now that he was inside, he found the place not quite as sacred - feeling as the cathedral—but the Light was still there. It had seemed to him yesterday and earlier today that everyone in Ironforge wore plate armor even going about day - to - day tasks. It was a relief to see rooms filled with gnomes and dwarves in soft, flowing robes.

Something small and hard and moving fast slammed into his thigh, and he stumbled backward. "What—"

"Dear me!" came a small squeak. "Dink, look out for—"

"Ouch!" A second something small and hard and moving fast slammed into Anduin's thigh, causing his legs—already weak from the training he'd received earlier—to buckle. Before he could recover, he'd fallen on his knees on the cold stone floor. He winced, but did not utter a cry as he slowly rose.

"Terribly sorry about that!" Anduin peered down at two gnomes. They looked like brother and sister. Both had white hair and blue eyes that were now wide with embarrassment. They both wore robes in shades of yellow and blue. The female was holding a book and starting to blush. "I'm afraid I got caught up in this. Wasn't looking where I was going. Don't know what Dink's excuse is!"

"I was following you, Bink!" said the male, who was apparently named Dink. "Sorry, young fellow. Sometimes we get a little too focused around here for our own good!"

"Our good and others," Bink said, smiling winningly. She attempted to brush the dust off Anduin's knees solicitously. Anduin winced and stepped back, forcing a smile. "So terribly sorry!"

"That's all right," he said. "I should be more careful, too."

They both beamed up at him at the same instant, then bowed and scurried off. Amused but hurting, Anduin watched them go.

"Here now, lad," came a deep, kindly voice. "Let me take care o' that for ye."

A sudden pleasant warmth seeped gently through Anduin, and he turned to see an elderly dwarf chanting softly while moving his hands. His long, white beard had two braids and a third ponytail. The top of his head was quite bald, with a ponytail in back and long fringes on the side. His green eyes crinkled in a smile. A heartbeat later, Anduin realized all the pain was gone—the stinging of his bumped knees, the aches and stiffness of his training. He felt rested, refreshed, as if he'd just awoken from a good night's sleep.

"Thank you."

"Ye're welcome, lad. Might ye be th' young prince o' Stormwind we've been told tae expect?"

Anduin nodded and stuck out his hand. "Pleased to meet you… ?"

"High Priest Rohan. Light's blessing be on ye. How do ye find our glorious city?"

"By taking the Deeprun Tram," Anduin quipped, the old joke escaping before he realized it. His eyes widened, and his cheeks reddened. "I—I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

To his surprise and relief, the high priest threw back his balding head and laughed heartily. "Och, I've not heard that one in far too long. I walked ri' into it, did I not?" The guffaw subsided to a chuckle.

Anduin relaxed, grinning a little himself. "It's a really bad joke. I apologize."

"Well, I'll fergive ye if ye can come up with some better ones," Rohan said.

"I'll try…."

"Far too little laughter these days, says I. Och, the Light's serious business, but then again, ye cannot be Lighthearted without a little humor, can ye?"

Anduin eyed him dubiously, wondering if it would be disrespectful if he groaned at the pun. His expression did not go unnoticed, but Rohan only smiled the more. "Aye, I ken, 'tis a poor joke, which is why I hope ye'll teach me some new ones. In the meantime, what brings ye to the Hall of Mysteries?"

Suddenly serious, Anduin said, "I just… I just missed the Light."

The old dwarf smiled gently, and this time his voice was soft and serious, though no less full of joy. "It is never far, lad. We cam' it in ourselves, although 'tis true, seeking the company of others in a special place feeds th' soul. Ye are welcome here any time, Anduin Wrynn."

No title. Anduin knew he did not have one before the Light, and neither did Rohan. He remembered his father saying once, after he had been home for a time, that if it were not for Anduin, and for the people of Stormwind who relied upon him, Varian would have been content to remain Lo'Gosh, fighting in the ring. It was an uncomplicated and straightforward, if short and brutish, existence, lacking all the complexities of royal life.

As he walked up the curving stairway to the quieter rooms above, the soft blue light augmented by the glowing orange of the braziers here and there, he realized that he understood his father's longing. Not for the violence of the ring and the threat of sudden death each day: his father might crave the fight, but not he. No, what Anduin longed for was the seemingly elusive luxury of peace. Peace to sit in quiet contemplation, to study, to help people. A priestess brushed past him, smiling gently, her face calm.

Anduin sighed. It was not his fate. He was born a prince, not a priest, and no doubt his destiny included more war, more violence, and would demand of him politicking and maneuvering.

But for now, here in the Hall of Mysteries, Anduin Wrynn—no title at the moment—sat quietly and thought not of his father, or Thrall, or even Jaina, but of a world where anyone could walk into any city and be welcomed there with open arms.

Twelve

Drek'Thar tossed and turned in his sleep. Visions plucked at him, pinched and teased and tormented him. Half - glimpsed, uncertain, unclear; visions both of peace and prosperity and disaster and ruination playing out simultaneously in the theater of his mind.

He could see in this vision. He stood, and yet there was nothing beneath his feet. All around him were stars and inky black sky, above and below. Images of the Spirits of Earth, Air, Fire, Water—all angry, all unhappy, all raging at him. They reached out to him, pleading, and yet when he turned to them, heart open and trying to understand, rebuffed him with fury so profound he staggered. If they had been children, they would have wept.

Water crashed around him, whipped by Air manifesting as wind. Storms, strong and powerful, catching up ships and snapping them like child's toys. Cairne and Grom's boys were on such a ship… no, no, it was Thrall… then it did not matter who was on the ship, for it had been smashed to sodden kindling.

Fire was next, its sparks diving at Drek'Thar like birds protecting a nest. He was powerless under the onslaught, crying out as his clothing caught and burned. He beat at it frantically, but the flame refused to be extinguished.

Just as it seemed that Drek'Thar would succumb to Fire's attack, it ceased. He was whole and sound. Drek'Thar breathed heavily, trembling. The moments stretched out. Nothing happened, yet the vision continued.

And that was when he felt the rumbling beneath his feet. And he knew, somehow, that Air and Water and Fire had already voiced their pain. And while they might yet again, this trembling of a sobbing Earth beneath his feet was, Drek'Thar knew, yet to come. And he sensed it would be terrible. Images flashed through his mind—a place of snow, a place of forests -

He shouted and bolted upright, blinking eyes that once again, mercifully, saw only darkness. His reaching hands met those of Palkar, as they always did.

"What is it, Greatfather?" asked the younger ore. His voice was clear, strong, untroubled by all that haunted Drek'Thar.

Drek'Thar opened his mouth to answer, but suddenly his thoughts were as dark as his eyes. He had dreamed—something. Something important. Something he needed to share—

"I… I don't know," he whispered. "Something terrible is about to happen, Palkar. But… I don't know what. I don't know!"

He shook with frustrated, fearful sobs.

The tears that streamed down his face were warm.

Anduin developed a routine as the days unfolded. Mornings were spent training with the seemingly inexhaustible and eternally chipper Aerin. When they were not sparring, she and Anduin went for rides out in the countryside. While rams would never be his favorite mounts, Anduin loved the chance to get outside; the clear air made him feel almost giddy, and the snowy land was so very different from the temperate clime of Stormwind. He grew to become very fond of Aerin. He could trust her to not pull a punch, physically or verbally, and found that very refreshing. Once, he asked about Moira. "Och, that's a convoluted business, that," she said.

"Sounds straightforward to me. She got kidnapped, was enchanted, and broke Magni's heart."

"I'll certainly agree that he misses her," Aerin said, "but he was no the best daddy tae her either."

Anduin was stunned. He'd always imagined the bluff dwarf as the perfect father. Surely he would appreciate someone for who they were, not who he wanted them to be.

"Not cruel, or anything, mind. But… well, Her Highness was the wrong gender. Magni always wanted a son tae rule after him. Felt that a female just wouldna do th'job right."

"Jaina Proudmoore is a wonderful leader of her people," Anduin said.

"Aye, and it wasn't long after Moira disappeared that His Majesty put me an' a few others in his elite guard," Aerin said. "I think he finally understood that he'd been a bit unfair. 'Tis my hope that one day, father an' daughter will have a chance tae make things right."

Anduin hoped so, too. It would seem that father - child difficulties were not limited to humans.

As they rode together, he got to know the people of the neighboring areas of Kharanos and Steelgrill's Depot. Once they even rode as far as Thelsamar in Loch Modan, where they broke for lunch and Anduin, exhausted, fell asleep by the loch and awoke two hours later to an exquisitely painful sunburn.

"Och, ye humans, not smart enough tae come in out o' the sun," quipped Aerin.

"How come you aren't burned?" asked Anduin crossly. Ninety percent of the time he saw her, Aerin was in full armor, and the rest of the time she lived underground. What skin was now revealed was even paler than his own.

"I went and napped in the shade o' yon rock outcropping," she said.

He gaped at her. "Why didn't you suggest that to me?"

"Thought ye'd figure it out for yerself. Ye will in the future, won't ye?" She smiled placidly at him, and although he was in terrible pain and the color of a crab when it was boiled, he found he could not be angry at her. He hissed as he put his shirt back on; the fine runecloth fabric, soft as a feather, was agony. Aerin was right. He would never let himself drift off on a sunny day without making damned sure he was well protected by the shade.

He returned to his quarters to find a letter waiting for him. It was in Magni Bronzebeard's own bold handwriting:

Anduin—

Come to the High Seat as soon as you return. Bring Aerin, too.

He'd hoped to ask High Priest Rohan for some help with his sunburn, but Magni's summons clearly brooked no delay. He showed the letter to Aerin, whose eyes widened. She nodded, and as one they turned and hastened to the High Seat. Despite the pain of his sunburn, Anduin broke into a trot. Worn' flooded him. Had something happened to his father? Had war finally broken out between the Horde and the Alliance?

Magni was there, leaning over a table. Two other dwarves, their garb travel stained, were on either side of him. A third dwarf looked on eagerly. Anduin recognized him as High Explorer Muninn Magellas, the head of the Explorers' League, a dashing dwarf with red hair and beard who liked to sport goggles most of the time. On the table were three stone tablets. Anduin skidded to a halt, exchanging a quick, confused glance with Aerin, who shrugged, clearly just as confused as he.

"Ah, Anduin, lad, come here, come here! Ye'll want tae see this!" Magni waved him forwvard, his eyes alight with excitement. Relief filled Anduin, leaving him feeling momentarily drained, and then he felt a twinge of annoyance.

'Your message sounded urgent, Your M—Uncle Magni," he said, moving forwvard, feeling the sunburn with renewed awareness.

"Och, not urgent, but most intriguing! Come take a look for yerself!"

One of the dwarwes nodded and stepped out of the way so Anduin could stand beside Magni and Magellas. He looked at the tablets, realizing now that there were not three, but only one, which had been broken into pieces.

There was writing on each part of the shattered tablet. Anduin knew several languages, but this was unfamiliar to him.

"Me brother Brann sent this tae me," Magni said. He pulled off one of his gloves and ran bare, powerful fingers over the texts with a startlingly light touch. "He was intrigued and thought I might be as well." He glanced at Anduin. "And as soon as I saw these, I sent for ye. I imagine ye've no idea what ye're looking at."

Anduin laughed a little and shook his head. "I've never seen this before."

"I'm not sure anyone has, at least not in a long, long time. This writing… it is of the earthen."

Anduin's skin erupted in gooseflesh and he stared at the broken pieces with new respect. The earthen were creations of the titans, long, long ago. And it was from the earthen that the current dwarwes were descended. The stone in front of him was unspeakably old, perhaps as old as ten thousand years—maybe even older. He, too, reached a trembling hand to touch it, lightly, as Magni had, with profound respect.

"Do you know what it says?"

"Nay, I'm not schooled in such things. Even Brann had a wee bit o' trouble with this. That's why he sent it here, to the experts at the hall. He got something… let me see…" Magni picked up a piece of paper that lay on the table. "Something about… becoming one with the earth."

"Hmph," said Aerin. She was, as Anduin was learning, all about practical matters. She did not have much in the way of imagination and had gotten so bored with the repeated visits to the Hall of Explorers that Anduin had officially relieved her of duty when he spent time there. "Becoming one with the earth? Sounds like bein' buried in it tae me."

Anduin shot her a glare that had no malice in it and returned his attention to the tablet. "What do you think it means? That's kind of vague."

"Indeed, and one must have clarity in such things," Magni said, nodding. He eyed Anduin speculatively. 'Ye're a right sharp lad, Anduin. Have ye been paying attention to what's been going on in th' world?"

Anduin was confused. "I know there's a lot of tension between the Alliance and the Horde," he said, wondering if that was what Magni was getting at. "That the Horde has been stirring up trouble because its supplies are depleted on account of the war."

"Good, good." Magni nodded approvingly. "But not just because of the war. Follow the chain, lad."

Anduin furrowed his brow. "Well… because Durotar is a pretty harsh land," he said. "There were never many supplies to begin with."

"And there are fewer now because… ?"

"Because of the war and…" Anduin's eyes widened as comprehension dawned. "Because of the unusual droughts."

"Exactly."

"Now that we're talking about it… Aunt Jaina said there had been a violent storm right before I visited her. Even she said it was one of the worst she'd seen. And there were reports of a strange hurricane that damaged many ships trying to come home from Northrend."

"Yes!" Magni almost cheered in his excitement. "Ferocious storms, floods in some places, droughts in the other… Something's wrong, lad. I'm no shaman, but th' elements are definitely not happy these days. This tablet could possibly hold th' key tae what's wrong wi' them."

"Do—really? You really think something that old can help us today?"

"Anything's possible, lad. And at the very least…" Magni said in an exaggeratedly conspiratorial whisper, "we've gotten our hands on something that's not seen the light o' day in a while, eh?"

He clapped Anduin on the back. Right on the sunburn.

The translation process was slow and painful, with many false starts. It didn't help matters that the translators struck Anduin as a touch self - important and unwilling to admit they might be wrong—and each one had a slightly different interpretation.

High Explorer Magellas kept insisting it was a metaphysical union. "'Become one with th' earth,'" he repeated. "Tae join wi' it. Tae sense its pain."

Advisor Belgrum, a wizened elder with hands that trembled but a voice that, when raised, could be heard almost throughout all of Ironforge, scoffed. "Bah," he said. "Muninn, ye're too taken wi' the lasses. Ye see 'becoming one' in everything."

Magellas, who had been casting sidelong glances at the comely Aerin the whole time, laughed boisterously. "Just because ye've nae been wi' a lass in decades, Belgrum, doesna mean—"

"Now, now, all this salty talk's not fit fer young royal ears!" chided Aerin, who was completely unruffled by the conversation.

Anduin, however, colored slightly. "It's okay," he said. "I mean… I know about these things."

Unable to resist, Aerin winked at him. "Do ye now?"

Anduin quickly turned to Belgrum. "What do you think it means?" he asked, hoping to change the subject.

"Well, I think we canna really know until we get all of it translated. Th' interpretation of a phrase is often dependent upon what else is around it. Fer instance, take… 'I am hungry.' If ye put it in a paragraph like, 'Me wife is cooking dinner in th' other room. I can smell th' beer - basted boar ribs. I am hungry, well, that's a literal hunger, isn't it?"

"Belgrum, ye're toying with me. It's past lunchtime," Aerin said.

"But if the paragraph is more like, 'I have been imprisoned fer four years. All I see are the gray walls. I dream o' open spaces and sunlight. I am hungry.' That's quite a different thing."

"Goodness, ye're a poet," said Aerin, impressed. Anduin was, too.

"I see what you mean," he said. "I've never thought of it that way. What—"

A deep rumbling interrupted him. Anduin gasped as the floor beneath him vibrated ever so subtly, as if he were standing on a giant purring animal, except it signaled nothing so benevolent. Another sound came from above—Anduin glanced up to see the hundreds of books trembling as they slowly moved out from their shelves.

Three thoughts struck him simultaneously. One, that he suspected all those books, and all the priceless knowledge they contained, were about to topple unceremoniously from tremendous heights to almost certain damage, if not destruction. Two, that the books that were about to topple unceremoniously were about to fall from tremendous heights on top of their heads. And finally, if the tablet pieces were to slide off the shaking table, they would shatter. He lunged forward and grabbed them, pressing the irreplaceable pieces of knowledge close to his heart.

"Look out!" Aerin cried, grabbing the arms of both Anduin and Belgrum and dragging them along to the large archway that separated the library from the main display hall. Anduin misunderstood and thought she meant for them to flee the hall completely, and he kept going until, with a grunt, Aerin flung herself bodily on him. Frantically he twisted and landed hard on his hip, Aerin at his back, the tablet protected still.

"Nay, Anduin! Not out there! Stay in th' archway!"

The warning came not a second too soon. He had fallen directly under the pteradon skeleton. It was rattling violently, the chain suspending it swinging and making the bony wings flap as if it had suddenly come to unlife. The bindings that positioned it in such a pose had never been meant to hold against anything more demanding than gravity, and even as Anduin watched, the wiring snapped and the skeletal wings crashed down. For a long, slow, horrified moment he simply watched as death toppled toward him.

Then stout, strong arms wrapped around his shoulders and his face was pressed into cold plate as Aerin draped herself atop him. She uttered a pained "oof!" as one of the fossilized bones clanged against her armor and forced the wind out of her lungs.

A heartbeat later, it was all over. Aerin leaned back, her face drawn in pain but otherwise seemingly all right. Anduin sat up and looked around cautiously. The books, as he had expected, were on the floor, as were most of what had adorned the tables.

"The tablet!" cried Belgrum, hurrying to his feet.

"I have it," Anduin said.

"Good lad!" exclaimed Magellas.

Aerin got to her feet, wincing slightly. Anduin followed, his legs shaking, clutching the tablet pieces to his chest still. He stared at her.

"You saved my life," he said quietly.

"Och," she said, waving it aside. "Ye'd have done the same. Besides, I'd be a poor bodyguard if I wasna prepared to save yer life when I needed to, now wouldn't I?"

He nodded, grateful, and gave her a smile. She winked back playfully.

"Everyone else all right?" Anduin asked, handing the tablet over to Belgrum.

"Looks like… och, the poor books," Magellas said, real pain in his voice. Anduin nodded solemnly.

"I should see if anyone else needs help," Aerin said.

"Good idea. Let's go."

"I'm nae takin' ye into danger," Aerin said.

"Well, you have to stick with me, so you can't really go off alone, can you?" He had her there, and she gave him a scowl. "Let's go to the Hall of Mysteries," Anduin continued. "If anyone's hurt, they're going to need healers." He left the Hall of Explorers and went quickly to the Hall of Mysteries, Aerin, seemingly completely recovered, trotting along beside him. They slowed as they approached.

Dozens of people were clustered about the hall. Some were walking on their own. Others were being carried, or were borne on the backs of rams. Some were lying on the cold stone floor while their loved ones wept frantically, calling for the priests, who seemed very scarce and were murmuring healing prayers at a rapid rate. "Oh, dear," Aerin said. "Looks like we were lucky."

Anduin nodded. "Rohan's not here," he said. "That means there's a worse situation somewhere else." He gently grabbed ahold of one priestess as she scurried past. "Excuse me, but where is High Priest Rohan?"

"He's been called away," she said.

"Where?"

"Kharanos. It hit harder there. Now please, let me tend tae these people!"

"Come on," Anduin said to Aerin.

"What?"

"We're going to Kharanos. I've been taught how to help in emergency situations," Anduin said. "I can tend wounds, set bones, bandage—help until the real healers can get to people."

"And how many bones have ye actually set?"

"Um… none. But I know how to!" At her uncertain look, he grabbed her arms and shook her. "Aerin, listen! I can help! I can't just stand around here and watch!"

"Help these fine folk, then," Aerin said practically.

Anduin glanced around. Now that he looked at them, he realized that what he was seeing was the blood left by a healed injury, not an injury itself. Most of those still actually injured were mobile, upright, and talking. This was not an emergency site, although it was clear that the priests were being kept busy and would be for some time. "They don't need it," he said quietly. "I want to help those that really do. Please—let's go to Kharanos."

Her eyes searched his and she sighed. "All right. But I'm nae letting ye wander into danger, got that?"

He smiled. "Fine, but let's hurry, all right?"

Thirteen

Anduin hung on tightly to the great ram as it took the slick, icy path from Ironforge to the small villages in its shadow at a full gallop. He had no choice but to trust in the ram's sure hooves, and he realized somewhat to his surprise his trust seemed to be well placed. There wasn't a single stumble. The large beasts were actually more comfortable to ride than horses, he had found, but that still didn't mean he enjoyed the breakneck pace of the trip.

As they approached Kharanos, they were greeted by several of the mountaineers stationed there.

"Hurry! Several are trapped in town!" one of them cried. "Give me yer ram, lass! I've got tae ride tae Ironforge and get more help!"

Immediately Aerin slipped off and handed the reins over to the mountaineer, who vaulted into the saddle and took off. Without a word Aerin quickly climbed up behind Anduin and they hurried on grimly.

The injuries were much more severe here. Anduin saw nearly a dozen people being treated right out in the open, as almost all of the buildings were damaged in some way. He looked around for Rohan, and found him kneeling over an elderly dwarf female. Anduin slipped off the ram and hurried to the high priest just in time to see him pull a sheet over the still form.

Rohan looked up, his eyes looking older than Anduin had ever seen them. "Prince Anduin," he said, "I thought ye might come. Know some first aid training, do ye?"

Anduin nodded. "And I'm no dwarf, but I've got a pretty strong back," he said. "I hear people are trapped inside."

"Aye," he said, "but it's healers we're short of, nae strong backs. Aerin, lass, go help the others; I'll put our boy tae work here."

"Aye," Aerin said, "let's get these people out o' danger and into th' fresh air!"

And for the next several hours Anduin was indeed put to work. As more and more victims of the quake were pulled from the rubble, Rohan healed those with the most grievous injuries, leaving those with minor wounds to Anduin. He bathed and bandaged and smiled and reassured, and at one point saw Rohan looking at him approvingly.

He thought about his father as he worked. Varian was a warrior. Anduin knew that he was not. Sparring and the thought of dealing injury had never made the human prince feel the way he did now, when he was doing something concrete to ease pain instead of cause it, to help people instead of harm them. Oh, war was a dark and dire necessity sometimes, as was the case in Northrend, but Anduin knew in his heart that he would always long for, and strive for, peace. The injuries here, caused by nature and unavoidable, were bad enough. Anduin did not want to think how he would feel if he were treating those wounded in battle and not by the accidental fall of rocks.

Someone had set up a cauldron and filled it with snow. The resulting water was hot and clean. Anduin poured a small bit of a healing potion into a mug of water and added a few leaves of peacebloom to steep, then handed the mug to a young gnomish mother. She let her two children, a baby and a toddler, sip it first before taking a drink herself.

"You're very kind, sir," she said. "Thank you."

'You're very welcome," he said, patting the baby's tiny head and moving on to a cantankerous middle - aged dwarf male who was arguing with another healer. The priestess, a visiting night elf, was dabbing at a cut on the dwarfs forehead that was bleeding profusely.

"I'm fine, curse ye, go an' tend tae someone who's really wounded, or I'll make ye next in line wi’ a broken nose!"

"Sir, please, if you'll just hold still—"

"I'll no waste yer precious healing abilities on a wee cut!" the dwarf bellowed. "Why don't ye—"

The earth rumbled again. This time Anduin did not feel that he was standing on a large purring creature, but attempting to balance atop a bucking horse. His feet went out from under him and he hit the frozen ground hard. It rumbled beneath him, angry and aggressive this time, and he covered his head and held his breath and waited for it to be over. All around him he heard screaming, high - pitched and terrified, and a low, rumbling, cracking sound. Anduin fought against a primal terror as he squeezed his eyes shut and prayed to the Light. He hadn't anticipated this. He'd handled the first quake just fine, but now reason seemed to have deserted him. He realized that the screaming he heard around him now included his own voice.

Something warm and calming touched him, and he felt the familiar sensation of the Light. His chest suddenly loosened and he was able to breathe. The earth still heaved beneath him, but he could think now, could ride it out in control of his emotions, not they in control of him. Others, too, seemed to calm, and the awful sound of screams no longer mixed with the sounds of a shaking earth.

It seemed to go on forever, but finally the aftershock ended. Anduin lifted his head cautiously. His breath misted in the cold air as he looked around. The gnome woman and her children—they were all right. So were the cranky dwarf and the night elf female, although both were pale. Where was—there was Rohan. It must have been he who had calmed him and the others, using the Light to protect them from the crippling attack of fear. Anduin put hands to the earth to push himself up and splashed in something wet. For a horrible second he thought it might be blood, but it was brown and cool. What… Slowly Anduin got to his feet, staring at the liquid on his hands. He sniffed it cautiously.

It was… beer.

For a second, it made no sense, and then he realized what had to have happened. He whirled to look behind him, seeing several shattered casks that had rolled away and a blanket of ominous white where a building had once been.

The Thunderbrew Distillery had caved in, and snow and collapsing earth from the hill behind it had smothered it all.

"Oh, Light," Anduin breathed, the words a panicked prayer as he broke into a run and went toward the mound of snow that had once been a pleasant little inn. Others joined him, calling out reassurances, grabbing shovels and starting to dig with a will. A gnome mage rushed forward, robes fluttering in agitation. "Don't worn¹! I can melt the snow!" she cried, preparing to suit action to words.

"No!" Anduin cried. "You'll flood it!"

The gnome, bright red hair tied back in two pigtails, glared at him, but nodded, seeing the logic in the words.

"Wind," came a soft voice. An elegant, long - legged draenei woman stepped forward, looking at Anduin. He wondered how it was that a thirteen - year - old boy had suddenly been put in charge and thought frantically. Yes—properly directed and controlled, the wind could blow away the enveloping snow without causing harm to anyone trapped inside. They could then see how much earth was piled atop the rubble.

"Uh—yeah," he said inelegantly. "But be careful!"

She closed her eyes and fluttered long, blue fingers, tossing her blue - black hair. Despite the direness of the situation, for a moment Anduin simply stared at her, enraptured by her beauty and grace, then blushed and concentrated his attention on the magic she was summoning.

He heard a slight thump and a small shape appeared. It was jar shaped, filled with a glowing light, and he knew it to be a totem—a method for shaman to contact, summon, and control the elements. Radiant jewels seemed to swirl about it, and runes he did not recognize moved in a slow circle.

A heartbeat later, a little dust devil formed, blue - white and whirling. It grew larger as the shaman began to chant, and with a flick of her wrist she released it. It did not move. The draenei opened her eyes, puzzled, and said something in a language Anduin did not understand. Still the little elemental she had summoned did not obey her.

Her face showed her confusion and a trace of fear. She spoke again, imploringly, and finally it moved forward, whirling, sending the snow flying so that the onlookers had to take a step back. A few moments later it was done. The snow was gone, revealing the gray stone that had once been the distillery's roof. The elemental whirled in place, faster and faster, until it suddenly vanished. Out of the corner of his eye, Anduin saw the young draenei shaman lift a trembling hand to her face.

The crowd rushed forward again, eager to begin assisting those trapped inside. Anduin was among them.

"Wait, wait!" It was Rohan this time. "Silence!" Everyone obeyed, staring at the high priest, who closed his eyes and listened. Anduin heard it after a moment of straining—a faint tapping and clanking. Someone was still alive down there. There was also the sound of muffled voices, their words too faint to be heard.

"Dinna waste yer breath shouting!" Rohan said in a deep voice. "We can hear ye an' we're coming fer ye!"

People began again to dig by hand. Others brought in some equipment to help with the process. Unsurprising to Anduin, Aerin was in the forefront of the recovery, her arms quivering with strain after a time but her determination overriding her exhaustion. Bit by bit, the rock was lifted away, revealing dusty, wounded bodies beneath it. Rohan moved about as needed, attempting as best he could to see and heal those he could not physically touch. His concentration was utter, his eyes sharp and focused, his hands moving in a swift motion that belied his age. Anduin felt tears sting his eyes, tears of joy and gratitude for this dwarf and the blessing of the Light, as victim after victim of the earthquake was removed alive and well.

"How many levels?" Anduin asked, pausing at one point to wipe his forehead. It was cold, but he was sweating profusely from the hard physical labor.

"Three," someone said.

"Nay, f - four," someone else corrected. It was the innkeeper, Belm, sitting off to the side with a blanket wrapped around him and a mug of hot tea. His hands were wrapped around the mug for warmth, and he trembled as he spoke. "There are rooms deep b - below for those stayin' overnight. We had no guests and I d - dinna think anyone was in them."

"Thank the Light fer wee favors," muttered Rohan. "Three levels tae worry about, then."

"Och, nae so great a task," Aerin scoffed, although the strain on her face belied it. "The sooner we rebuild, the sooner we can raise our mugs wi’ good Thunderbrew ale!"

Laughter rippled through the crowd, and for the first time since the whole ordeal began, Anduin saw smiles on some of the faces. It did not detract from the dire need to recover the wounded, but it eased the tension and the workers moved the swifter for it.

The first level was cleared out now, of rubble, injured, and, more somberly, bodies. Again someone tapped a rhythmic tattoo, and again the reassuring sound of a response made people sigh in relief. Several gnome volunteers were the first to wriggle through a small cleared area into the next level, ropes tied around their tiny waists. A few tugs told those above how many survivors: three. A cheer went up, the hole was widened, and even as others worked to clear it, Aerin and a second dwarf dropped down.

Hopes were high. The recovery was going well. More and more people were coming to offer aid. Food and hot drinks and blankets were being passed around. At one point Anduin glanced over at Rohan, who caught his eye and nodded.

"Dinna worry, lad, we'll rebuild. We dwarves are tough, an' so are our friends the gnomes. And believe me, the distillery will be th 'first thing that gets rebuilt!"

Anduin laughed along with all the others and returned, smiling, to the task at hand. It began to snow again, which helped nothing at all. He was soaked and cold, but the activity helped keep him warm. His fingers were scraped and bleeding. He could have had Rohan heal them with a quick prayer, but he knew that others were in far more dire straits than he. His fingers would recover. The injuries suffered by others would be harder to—

It came again, another aftershock, and Anduin barely had time to leap out of the way as the floor beneath him buckled. He landed hard, the wind knocked out of him, gasping like a fish for air even as he winced when small chunks of stone pelted his body. The earth finally ceased its angry shaking, and for what felt like the thousandth time Anduin got to his feet and wiped a trickle of blood from his eyes to peer at the distillery. He blinked sticky lashes, and for a moment refused to believe what he saw.

There was no distiller,⁷. Not anymore. There was only a dreadful hole in the ground, a hole covered with pieces of walls, and ceiling, and tables. Dust was still rising, mingling incongruously with the peaceful image of falling

Aerin….

Rohan clambered up and tapped on the stone, cocking his ear to listen. After a few seconds he tapped again. Then he sighed heavily and stepped back, shaking his head slowly.

Something snapped in Anduin.

"No!" he cried, surging fonvard. Fear gave him new strength, and he forced his cold fingers to obey as they grasped a large chunk of stone and hurled it away only to reach for another one. "Aerin!" he cried, his voice hoarse.

"Aerin, hang on, we'll get you out!"

"Lad," came a gentle voice.

There was something in that tone that Anduin refused to acknowledge. He ignored Rohan's voice and kept going, his breath coming in hitching sobs. "Aerin, just hang on, okay? We're c - coming!"

"Lad," came Rohan's voice again, more insistent. Anduin felt a hand on his shoulder and angrily shook it off, glaring with blurred vision at the priest, seeing the compassion and sorrow on the aged visage and denying it utterly. He looked around at those who were supposed to be helping him. They stood still. Some of them had tears running down their faces. All of them looked stunned, shocked.

"There's no tapping," Rohan persisted inexorably. "It's… over. No one could have survived that. Come away, lad. Ye've done all ye could an' then some."

"No!" shrieked Anduin, lashing out with his arm and barely missing Rohan. 'You don't know that! We can't just give up! They're not answering because they're wounded, maybe unconscious. We have to hurry—have to get them out—have to get her out…."

Rohan stood quietly by, making no further attempt to stop the young human prince. Anduin, tears flooding down his face, kept going, for how long, he did not know. Stone after stone he moved, until his slender shoulders screamed in white - hot agony, until his hands bled furiously and numbed and cramped until finally he crumpled on the snowy stone and sobbed violently. He reached one hand out, palm flat, trying to contact his friend, who was trapped beneath the implacable stone hurled upon her by the violently agitated earth.

"Aerin," he whispered, for her ears alone, wherever she might be. "Aerin… I'm sorry… I'm so so sorry…."

Now he did not resist the gentle hands slipping about his exhausted body and lifting him up. He accepted, unable to fight anymore, his heart hurting and his body too drained to protest. The last thing he knew before merciful unconsciousness finally claimed him was the gentle touch of gnarled hands upon his heart and forehead, and the soft voice of Rohan telling him to rest now, rest and heal.

And the last thing he saw in his mind's eye was a cheerful dwarven face framed by brown hair, smiling, as Aerin always was, and in his heart always would be.

Fourteen

Magni looked older than Anduin had ever seen him.

In the two days since the disaster at the distillery, Anduin had learned that those who had fallen at Kharanos had had a great deal of company. The quake had not been localized. It had shaken towns throughout Khaz Modan. Part of Menethil Harbor now lay at the bottom of the ocean, and excavation sites from Uldaman to Loch Modan had been buried, at least partially. It had gone from being a localized incident to a national crisis.

The tragedy had aged the dwarven king, but there was a determination in his eyes that told anyone who looked into them that Magni Bronzebeard would not be kept down. He glanced up as Anduin entered the High Seat and waved him forward, not with the enthusiasm he had displayed on the first occasion, but with blunt command. Anduin hastened to the king's side.

"I dinna wish to act precipitously," Magni began, "but by th' Light, now I wish I had. We might have been able to save all those lives. Including Aerin's."

Anduin swallowed hard. A service for the Khaz Modan dead had been conducted yesterday. It was harder to sit through than the one in Stormwind had been; that was a commemoration of many thousands of lives lost over along period of time. Anduin had mourned the death of his friend Bolvar Fordragon, but the loss had been many months old by the time of the service. The loss of Aerin was new and raw and, dammit, hurt so badly.… He focused his attention on Magni's words.

"I—don't understand," he said. "This is about the tablet?"

"Och, aye," Magni said. "I've been pushing th' translators and they're pretty sure as to what the tablet says. Let me read tae ye." He cleared his throat and bent closer, his eyes flickering over the strange letters. His heavily

accented voice deepened as he read the formal, archaic - sounding words aloud.

"'An' here are the why an' the how, tae again become one wi' the mountain. For behold, we are earthen, o' the land, and its soul is ours, its pain is ours, its heartbeat is ours. We sing its song an' weep fer its beauty. For who wouldna wish tae return home? That is the why, 0 children o' the earth.

'"Here is the how. Go ye tae the heart o' the earth. Find ye these herbs three: mountain silversage, black lotus, and ghost mushroom. Wi' a finger's pinch o' the soil that nourished them, consume the draft. Speak these words wi' true intent, an' the mountain shall reply. And so it shall be that ye shall become as ye once were. Ye shall return home, and ye shall become one with the mountain."'

He turned his intense gaze to Anduin. "Do ye see?"

Anduin thought so. "I… think so… this—this rite will let you speak to Azeroth itself?"

"It seems so, aye. An' if we can talk tae Azeroth itself, then we can ask what th' bloody Nether is going on wi' it. Help find a way tae—tae fix it, tae heal it somehow. An' maybe then there'll be nae more o' these unnatural floods an' droughts an'… and earthquakes. Anduin—there's more goin' on here than a simple cave - in. Summat big is happening. Did ye know that reports o' tremors are coming in from as far awa' as Teldrassil?"

"That… shouldn't be possible… should it?"

Magni shook his head. "Not normally, no. 'Tis not how such things work… not naturally, at any rate."

Anduin was silent for a moment, thinking. Something occurred to him. "But… aren't some of those herbs toxic if ingested?"

"That's why they want ye tae take it wi' soil," said Magni. "Certain soils neutralize certain poisons. Dinna worry, I've checked wi' the top herbalists in Ironforge. I've no desire tae keel over clutching me throat."

Anduin stared. 'You? You're going to try this? This sounds like something a shaman should do."

"Nay, lad. 'Tis me realm that is hardest hit. 'Tis the dwarves who are suffering the most. I lead them. We are the children of the titans, lad. We are already of the earth, more than any other race. It's right that I be the one to do this. Besides, what kind o' a king would I be, tae let others face the danger o' th' unknown while I cowered in safely? That's nae the way o' the dwarves, lad."

"Nor would it be my father's way," Anduin said, realizing the words were true as he spoke them.

"No, it wouldna be Varian's way either," Magni agreed. "Now, the scholars have agreed that it should work right here in Ironforge. I'll just need tae go as deep as I can, right tae the heart o' the earth." He smiled a little at Anduin. "Not everyone knows about th' secret places, but I think ye can be trusted. Ye've th' stout heart o' one of our own, lad, even though ye're reed thin an' far too delicate, bein' a human stripling."

Anduin found himself smiling a little, something that two days ago he wondered if he'd ever be able to do. Aerin would be the first to chide him for being such a sad fellow, he knew. "Aerin promised to dwarf - temper me," he said, his voice catching a little, but still surprisingly light.

"Ah," Magni said, giving him a smile tinged with sorrow. "I'd say she did, from what I see before me."

Anduin swallowed again.

"Now," Magni said, "I've sent for some herbalists tae gather th' necessary ingredients. All should be ready tae do this tomorrow morning."

"So soon?"

"Aye. the sooner the better, I think. Azeroth had better start talking tae me, so that I can do what I can to take care of it. Do ye not agree?"

Anduin nodded. Light alone knew if there would be any more aftershocks.

Anduin started to head back to his rooms, but instead found his feet taking him to the Hall of Mysteries. He had avoided it for the past two days. For some reason he didn't want to see Rohan again. He wasn't sure why. Maybe it was because he felt he had failed the high priest in the effort to save lives. Maybe because of how angry he had been at Rohan when he had tried to urge Anduin to come away from the wreckage. But now he stood before the hall, took a deep breath, and went inside. At once, as always, the Light offered comfort. Even so, he still did not wish to speak with anyone, and ascended to the upper level where there were fewer people. At one point he heard a soft voice and winced slightly as he recognized it as Rohan's. He kept his eyes closed and his head bowed, hoping that the dwarf wouldn't notice him. He heard the tread of feet approach and then fall silent, and a hand was gently placed on his shoulder.

Anduin did not reply, but felt a gentle warmth stealing through him. Softly, Rohan said, 'Ye're a good lad, Anduin Llane Wrynn. Ye've a good heart. Know that even if it breaks, it will mend again."

And as the dwarf withdrew, Anduin realized that there had been no magic performed on him at all. And yet he felt better.

Healing, it would seem, took many forms.

When he returned to his rooms, he found Wvll waiting with a note from Magni asking Anduin to come to his quarters. Anduin was confused but immediately went.

Magni was waiting for him. The room in which he greeted Anduin was surprisingly small and cozy, very dwarven in its snug feeling, unlike the large, airy, human rooms. A brazier burned cheerily, and the table was piled with simple but hearty fare. Anduin's stomach growled quite audibly, and he realized he hadn't eaten for several hours. Ever since Aerin's… death, he had not had much of an appetite, but now, looking at the assortment of roast meats, fruits, breads, and cheeses displayed on the table, it seemed to return with a vengeance. Life, it would appear, did go on. The body had needs that had to be satisfied, even if, as Rohan said, one's heart was broken.

"There ye are, lad," Magni greeted him. "Pull up a chair and dive right in." His own plate was already piled high, and Anduin did as he was bid, enjoying the roast lamb, Dalaran sharp, and grapes.

"I wanted tae have a few words wi' ye afore the ritual on the morrow," Magni said, reaching for his tankard and downing a big swig of ale. "Afore the earthquake, I had a wee chat with Aerin."

The food stuck in Anduin's throat, and he reached for his own glass of juice to wash the suddenly tasteless food down.

"She said she'd never seen anyone try harder at sparring, and she's trained quite a few warriors. But… she also said the weapons weren't yer friends. That ye dinna have a real feel fer them."

The human prince felt his face grow hot. Had he so greatly disappointed Aerin?

"An, being the sharp lassie that she is… was… Aerin knew a born warrior when she saw one. And one that wasna born tae it."

The king took a bite of a crisp apple and chewed, watching Anduin's reaction. The boy put down his knife and fork and simply waited to hear what Magni had to say. Something kind but dismissive, no doubt. Something to make it sound like Anduin hadn't disappointed him.

"I've also been talking wi' Rohan," Magni continued. "If ye can get past his terrible jokes, th' fellow has a lot of wisdom. He couldna say enough about ye—how ye seemed tae thrive whenever ye visited. How ye felt compelled tae go to the aid of those who'd been harmed. How ye worked long past the time when ye should have dropped from exhaustion." He took another long pull on the tankard, then set it down and turned to face Anduin with his whole body. "Lad… have ye ever considered that ye just might not be cut out fer the life of a warrior? And that there's summat else that might be just exactly what ye're supposed to be doing?"

Anduin stared down at his plate. Given what Aerin had told him about how Magni wished that he had had a son, not a daughter, he wasn't sure how criticism of his father would be received. Finally he just spoke simply and truthfully. "Father wishes me to be a warrior," he said. "I've always known that in his heart, that's what he wants for me."

Magni placed his hand on Anduin's shoulder. "Och, he might want that, right enough, because it's what he is. But yer father is a good man. In the end, he'll want ye to do what's right for ye, and fer the kingdom. There's no shame in healing, lad, in loving th' Light, in inspiring people and giving them hope. None at all. That's looking out fer the good o' yer kingdom just as much as fighting for it is."

Anduin felt a shiver run through him, but it was not unpleasant. Far from it; it was a shudder almost of… knowing. And it left in its wake a strange calmness and contentment. A priest. Someone who worked with the Light to do its work to heal, not harm, someone who inspired others by clearing their heads and asking them to give their best, rather than inflaming their darker emotions. He thought about the peace that always bathed him any time he entered the cathedral or the Mystic Ward here in Ironforge. A longing seized his soul for more of that. It felt almost like coming home to hear the dwarven king speak so. He looked at Magni, his eyes searching those of this powerful warrior and great king.

"Do… do you really believe that?"

"Aye, I do. And while we'll find another arms trainer fer ye, I'd be right pleased tae see ye start talking seriously wi' High Priest Rohan."

Anduin didn't want another arms trainer. He wanted Aerin, cheerful and pragmatic and blunt. But he nodded. "I will, sir."

"Good!" They finished their meal, chatting quietly, and when the last grape had been popped into Anduin's mouth and the last drop of ale had been consumed by Magni, the dwarf patted his belly and smiled at the human prince. "Now, then, we should both get some sleep. But afore then, I've got summat fer ye."

He slid out of the chair and trundled over to an old chest. Anduin followed, curious. The chest groaned in protest as Magni lifted the lid. Inside were several cloth - covered items whose shapes led Anduin to believe they were weapons. Magni selected one and lifted it out, carefully unwrapping it.

It was indeed a weapon, a mace, gleaming as bright as the day it was made although it had to be quite old. The head was silver, wrapped in intersecting bands of gold that had runes etched into it. Small gems dotted it here and there. It was altogether a lovely and graceful thing of beauty and power.

"This," said Magni reverently, "is Fearbreaker. It is an old weapon, Anduin. Several hundred years. This was handed down through the Bronzebeard line. It's seen battles in Outland and here in Azeroth. It's known th' taste o' blood, and in certain hands, has been known tae also stanch blood. Here, take it. Hold it in yer hand. Let's see if it likes ye." Magni winked.

More than a little intimidated—the weapon was large for one so slight as he to wield—Anduin extended a hand and grasped the shaft of the mace. At once he felt a cool calmness spread from the weapon to his hand, and from there throughout his whole body. He found himself inhaling and letting the breath out as a sigh, found his body—tense for so long from effort and pain both emotional and physical—relaxing. Uncertainly and worry were not banished, not quite, but they receded through Fearbreaker's touch of metal against skin.

Just as he opened his mouth to comment on the sensation, he could have sworn the weapon… glowed, slightly.

"As I suspected," Magni said. "It does like ye."

"It's… alive?"

"Nay, nay, but, lad, ye know as well as I, as well as anyone who wields a weapon—they have their likes an' their dislikes, same as people. They can be persnickety at times. I thought ye and Fearbreaker might be a good match. 'Tis yers."

Anduin gaped. "I—I couldn't possibly—"

"Oh, aye, ye can, an' ye will. Fearbreaker has sat here fer some time now, waiting fer the right hand tae wield it. Ye may not be an armsman like yer father, but ye can fight the good fight. Fearbreaker proves it. Go on, lad. If ever a thing was meant fer someone, that weapon was meant fer ye."

Anduin blinked. He teared up quickly these days, but somehow, holding the beautifully wrought mace, he was not ashamed of the quick emotion as he had been. Fearbreaker. That was what Rohan had done for him when he had panicked—broken his fear. Called forth his best. "Thank you. I will treasure this."

"O' course ye will. Now, off tae bed wi' ye, lad. I've got a few last - minute things tae prepare, and then I'm tae bed meself. Got tae have a good night's sleep if one is tae have long conversations with one's world, eh?"

Anduin laughed a little. He left Magni's quarters not cheered or happy, but more reconciled to what had happened. He placed the precious weapon on the nightstand by his bed. In the darkness of the room after he had blown out the candles, it emitted a barely perceptible radiance, and as he drifted off to sleep, Anduin wondered if he was being silly to think that it might be watching over him.

Fifteen

Anduin realized that Magni's compliment wasn't an idle one. He was indeed the only human—indeed, the only person who wasn't a dwarf or a gnome—present as those who would witness and participate in the ritual assembled in the High Seat. Magni had donned his most formal armor. Gone was the avuncular dwarf whom Anduin had become so fond of. Today Magni was fully embracing what he needed to be for his people, and he was

every inch, short though it might seem to Anduin, a king. Anduin, too, had dressed in the finest clothes he had brought with him, but still felt a bit out of place. Fortunately, he knew many of the dwarves.

One, though, was not present, and he missed her keenly. He wondered what she would have thought about this. Would Aerin have deemed it superstitious nonsense, or a practical method of finding out information? He would never know.

Magni's eyes swept the assembled gathering. There were not many—High Priest Rohan, several herbalists, High Explorer Magellas, and Advisor Belgrum from the Explorers' League. "Would that me brothers were here," Magni said quietly, "tae witness this. But there was no time tae notify them. Come, let us go. Each moment we linger distresses poor Azeroth th' more."

Without another word he strode toward a large door toward the entrance of the High Seat. Anduin had noticed the door there before but had never asked about it, and no one had ever mentioned it. Magni nodded, and two attendants stepped forward bearing a huge iron skeleton key between the two of them. Another brought out a large ladder; the door was so gargantuan even the slightly taller Anduin would not have been able to reach the lock.

The dwarves cautiously ascended and hefted the mammoth key into position. Working together, they twisted it. With a deep, protesting groan, the key turned and the lock yielded. The dwarves descended and moved the ladder out of the way.

For a moment nothing happened, and then slowly the door magically swung open of its own accord toward the onlookers, revealing a yawning darkness.

The two attendants who had opened the door had set aside the giant's key and now moved ahead of the small procession, lighting sconces along the way as they went to reveal a simple descending corridor. The air was cool and moist, but not stale. Anduin realized that there must be huge open areas beneath Ironforge.

They followed the corridor in silence as it led them ever downward. It was precise and linear; no twining path this, not for the dwarves. One of the attendants moved up ahead of them, and when they reached the end of the hallway, there was a brazier burning brightly ready to greet them. The hallway opened into a large cavern, and Anduin gasped.

He'd been expecting the neat hallway, but what he saw startled him. Beneath his feet was a platform that branched out to two paths. One was a set of stairs, carpeted and surprisingly new looking, which led upward. Another path led downward, this one plain, unadorned stone. What took his breath away was what was on the walls and above.

Clear, gleaming crystals jutted from the walls and ceiling. They caught the light of the brazier and the torches the attendants held, sparkling and seeming to radiate clean white illumination of their own, though Anduin

knew that was but a trick of the imagination. Nonetheless, it was beautiful, this blending of the glories of the natural formations of this place and the simple lines of dwarven architecture.

"The crystal—it's so beautiful," Anduin said softly to Rohan, who was walking next to him.

The priest chuckled. "Crystals? Lad, these are no crystals. Ye're looking at diamonds."

Anduin's eyes widened, and his head whipped back up to regard the gleaming ceiling with new respect.

Magni was purposefully striding up the stairs to a broad platform large enough to accommodate a group several times their size. He turned and nodded expectantly.

"I think it no accident that right when we needed it, we have uncovered a tablet that contains information that might be of great help," he said, his voice echoing in the cavern. "Nearly everyone present here today lost someone he or she loved dearly three days past. Reports come from all over Azeroth that summat is mightily wrong. The earth is wounded, an' is shaking—cryin' out fer aid. We are dwarves. We are of th' earth. I have faith in the word of the earthen. I believe that what I do here—this rite that is unspeakably old—will let me heal this poor, hurtin' world. By my blood an' bone, by the earth an' stone, let this be done."

The hair on the back of Anduin's neck prickled. Even though Magni's speech had been spontaneous, there was something about it that made his breath catch. He felt that just as he had descended into the heart of the earth, so he was about to descend into a ritual that was deep and unfathomable.

Belgrum stepped forward, a scroll in his hand. Magellas stood beside him, his hands clasped behind his back. Beside these two stood Reyna Stonebranch, a dwarf herbalist, holding a crystal vial full of a murky - looking liquid. Belgrum cleared his throat and began to speak a strange language that sounded hard and blunt and made Anduin shiver. It seemed colder here now, somehow.

After each phrase, Magellas translated for Anduin's benefit. The young prince remembered Magni reading the same phrases to him just yesterday.

"An' here are the why an' the how, tae again become one wi' the mountain," intoned Belgrum. "For behold, we are earthen, o' the land, and its soul is ours, its pain is ours, its heartbeat is ours. We sing its song an' weep fer its beauty. For who wouldna wish tae return home? That is the why, O children o' the earth."

Home. Azeroth was truly home to all of them, Anduin thought as Belgrum continued with the specific directions on how to prepare the draft. Home wasn't Stormwind, or even with his father, or Aunt Jaina. Home was this land, this world. Here they now stood, in the "heart of the earth," embraced by diamonds and stone that felt sheltering rather than oppressive. Magni was about to speak to the wounded Azeroth and find out best how to heal it.

It was truly a noble goal.

"Wi' a finger's pinch o' the soil that nourished them, consume the draft. Speak these words wi' true intent, an' the mountain shall reply. And so it shall be that ye shall become as ye once were. Ye shall return home, and ye shall become one with the mountain."

Reyna now stepped forward, handing the muddy - looking elixir to Magni. Unhesitatingly the dwarven king took the transparent, slender vial, brought it to his lips, and drank it down. He wiped his lips and handed it back to Magellas now handed him a scroll. With a bit more hesitation than Belgrum had displayed, Magni read aloud in the ancient language while Magellas translated.

"Within me is th' earth itself. We are one. I am o' it and it o' me. I listen fer th' mountain's reply."

Magni handed back the scroll, then spread his hands imploringly. He closed his eyes and furrowed his brow in concentration.

No one knew what to expect. Would the mountain suddenly begin to talk? If so, what would its voice be like? Would it speak only to Magni, and what would he hear? Could he speak to it? Would—

Magni's eyes flew open. They were wide with wonder, and his mouth curved in a soft smile. "I… I can hear…" He lifted his hands to his temples. "Th' voices are in me head. Lots o' 'em." He chuckled softly, his expression one of stunned joy and triumph. "It's not just one voice. It's… dozens, maybe hundreds. All the voices o' the earth!"

Anduin shivered, his own lips curving in a smile. Magni had been right! He could hear the earth itself—themselves? It was so confusing!—speaking to him.

"Can ye understand them?" asked Belgrum excitedly. "What are they saying?"

Magni suddenly threw his head back, arching. He seemed to try to stagger backward, but his feet were held as if rooted in place. No, not rooted… Anduin realized his black boots were turning almost translucent, as if they were suddenly made of glass—as if his feet themselves were suddenly made of glass—

—or crystal… or diamond…

One with the mountain…

No, oh, no, it couldn't be -

Suddenly Magni's foot quivered and a bulge of clear stone formed atop it. Like a living ooze of rock, it began moving upward, along his legs, his torso. It spiked here and there with a sudden groaning sound, forming long crystal spears, as if Magni Bronzebeard was a crystal forming crystals of his own. Magni opened his mouth in a long, wordless cry and lifted his arms high over his head. Diamond ooze scurried to wrap around his hands, shooting out to encircle his body. Magni screamed, a gut - wrenching cry of pure horror. But the merciless clear liquid stone poured into his mouth, silencing him in midscream, hardening so quickly he didn't even have time to close his eyes.

Everyone had been staring, open - mouthed, but now was galvanized into action by the sound, echoing in the diamond cavern, bone - chilling, like no cry of pain or horror they had ever heard.

Rohan began to cast healing spells. Magellas and Belgrum moved forward, seizing Magni's arms, trying foolishly to somehow pull him away from where he stood. But it had all happened too fast, and now it was too late. The echoes of his single shout died away. Magni looked like he had been both turned to stone and encased in it, his head thrown back, his arms spread, the tendons in his neck standing out in pain. And over him, like some bizarre costume, were ragged, gleaming chunks of jagged crystal.

Anduin broke the shocked silence. "Is he… can you…"

Rohan stepped close to Magni, placing a hand on his king's arm and closing his eyes. A single tear leaked beneath the closed lids as he stepped away, shaking his head.

Anduin stared. Disbelief rushed through him, the same disbelief he had experienced after the land trembled and buried Aerin beneath the crushing weight of tons of rock. But… this wasn't possible!

He dragged his gaze to Magellas, who stared as aghast as he.

"I was certain," he murmured, "that it was not literal… we checked every source…."

'You mean—it worked? This is what the ritual was supposed to do?" Anduin cried, his voice treble with his shock and horror.

"Not literally," Magellas said, looking like a panicked hare. "But we—we d - did perform it precisely correctly…."

Unable to help himself, Anduin sprang forward. With a cry, he took the hilt of his ceremonial dagger, and before anyone could stop him, had struck the figure on the shoulder. The hilt shattered beneath the impact, part of it whirling erratically away. The impact jarred his hand, and he dropped the part of the hilt he still held. Clutching his stinging hand, he stared.

There was not a single mark on the image. Magni had been turned into one of the hardest known materials in the world.

As Anduin stared at the diamond lump that had once been a vibrant, hale dwarf, some of the words of the ritual floated back to him. For behold, we are earthen, of the land… For who would not wish to return home?… And so it shall be that you shall become as you once were. You shall return home, and you shall become one with the mountain.

The dwarves were descendents of the titans. Magni had become what he had once been—and paid for it with his life. "He's gone home," Anduin whispered past a throat tight with grief. Tears welled in his eyes and blurred

the image of Magni Bronzebeard. As the torchlight glinted off the statue, Anduin saw only beautiful, fractured lights dancing before his gaze.

He blinked hard, gulping, tears trickling down his face for the kindly dwarf who had only wanted to do what was best for his people, who had wanted to talk to a wounded world in order to help it heal. And for that goal, he had been lost to them.

What were the dwarves going to do now?

Sixteen

Anduin didn't realize how much comfort the constant ringing of the forge had provided until it was silenced.

He hadn't thought of Ironforge as a lively, bustling city, not the way Stormwind was. And yet when the sound of the forge ceased, and the halls no longer echoed with the distinctive sound of dwarven laughter, he realized that the city once did have a cheerfulness to it. Now, even though more people than ever were in Ironforge coming to pay their respects to Magni Bronzebeard, it was somber and bleak.

Within the hour of the disaster, the question of succession had become pressing. Gryphons were sent out immediately in search of Brann and Muradin, Magni's brothers. Thus far, they had met with no success.

Anduin had wanted to go home, but instead his father had come to him. All the leaders of the Alliance had either come in person to honor Magni's memory or else had sent representatives. The young prince had always wanted to meet High Priestess Tyrande Whisperwind, who for so long had led the night elves and been forced to be apart from her great love, Archdruid Malfurion Stormrage. And Anduin had been curious about Far Seer Nobundo, the Broken who had been touched by the elements and brought shamanism to his people. Velen, leader of the draenei, had sent Nobundo to honor the reason Magni had fallen—trying to heal the earth, to understand the elements.

So it was that Anduin stood beside Jaina and his father, a few paces away from the night elf high priestess and Malfurion, the archdruid of legend, and the first shaman the Alliance had known. Under any other circumstances he would have been delighted. Now, though, as they stood solemnly gazing at the diamond figure that had once been Magni Bronzebeard, he bitterly wished that he had never met the distinguished personages, if the privilege had been bought at so high a cost.

Even the goblins, too, had sent representatives, and so had the Horde. It was a deep show of respect from Thrall and the Horde in general, and although many eyes looked upon the blood elf and the tauren unfavorably, Anduin found nothing in their behavior to warrant hostility.

Advisor Belgrum had stepped up to fill the void until such time as Muradin or Brann could be found and brought to Ironforge. He was selected for the duty because he had no political agenda other than finding—and serving—a new king, knew Ironforge and its people inside and out, and because his loyalty to the dwarven people themselves was beyond question. He was clearly deeply uncomfortable with the honor, but also knew that someone had to take the reins of power until the rightful leader could be contacted.

Now he stepped forward and looked at the representatives in turn. "Yer presence here is a great honor," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "Would that we were celebrating a happy occasion. Magni was no' just a great dwarf—plenty o' leaders have been great. Magni… was good. And that's much harder tae find. He would have been so pleased tae see all o' ye… aye, even ye, too," he said to the Horde emissaries, "for ye've come wi' good hearts an' plenty o' respect." The blood elf seemed to be debating whether or not to be offended, but the tauren nodded solemnly.

"High Priestess Tyrande… yer faith and patience were well known tae Magni, and he spoke with great respect o' yer people. Archdruid Malfurion—ye've done so much tae help our world. Magni would have been right pleased to ken ye had come."

His eyes fell on the humans. "Lady Jaina… sometimes he dinna ken what tae make o' ye, but he was always fond o' ye. King Varian, ye were as a brother tae him. And Anduin… ah, lad, ye've no idea how dearye were tae Magni."

Anduin bit his lip hard and thought of the exquisite mace, likely invaluable, that Magni had so readily gifted him with, and thought he maybe had at least an inkling of how the late king regarded him.

The elderly dwarf cleared his throat. "Well, er… thank ye fer coming." When those assembled blinked askance at him, Rohan stepped up smoothly.

"Please… all are welcome tae come t' the High Seat and share yer stories about Magni. We'll have some refreshments fer ye."

Gentle murmurings could be heard as the honored guests moved down the stairs, away from the contorted, gem - encrusted figure that was so much more than diamond, and yet nothing more than diamond.

He didn't realize he was staring until a gentle hand closed on his shoulder. "Prince Anduin, come along," Jaina said kindly.

'Yes, come, Son," said Varian. "Our presence is required for some time yet."

Mutely, Anduin nodded, dragging his gaze away and praying quietly to the Light that Muradin or Brann would be found soon, and come to Ironforge, and chase away at least some of this awful solemnity that lay like a shroud upon the city. Although he suspected that the dwarves would never quite get over the shockingly strange, unforeseen, and violent end their beloved leader had met.

"Well, that is the last of it," Thrall said. He set down the quill and regarded the parchment solemnly. This was the last official business he would conduct for some time—signing the approval to begin work on repairing Orgrimmar. Again. It seemed to Thrall that the city had only just begun to recover from the War Against the Nightmare when another blow had been dealt it. Gazlowe had dropped his price a second time, and Thrall was quite moved by the gesture, even though it was still almost ludicrously high. Too, the goblin had agreed to be paid in increments instead of in advance, and had indicated he'd be willing to adjust the fee if he didn't need to also provide certain supplies. Thrall felt a small, somewhat petty twinge of satisfaction leaving such annoying details as budgets, construction, and supplies to Garrosh. Such "boring" things were of necessity part of being a good leader, and Garrosh needed to learn that.

Nodding, he left the scrolls for Garrosh and rose. He would be making this journey alone. By his orders, no Kor'kron would accompany him. Their duty was now to defend Garrosh Hellscream, the acting warchief of the Horde. They would not be needed to guard a lone shaman journeying to another world to seek knowledge. His leave - taking was not being announced with fanfare or spectacle. For one thing, such frivolities were too expensive. For another, he did not wish to make this any kind of an "event." He was simply going away for a time, and he had no desire to make his departure anything of consequence for the average Horde citizen. While he made no secret of it—that would be as counterproductive in his mind as trumpeting it—he wished it to be perceived as a minor event.

He had sent word ahead to Cairne, of course, informing his old friend of his decision and reasoning behind it, and requesting that Cairne advise Garrosh when needed. He had as of yet received no response, which surprised him. Cairne usually was quite prompt in such matters. He supposed that the tauren leader, too, had his hands full with the aftermath of Northrend.

"Farewell for now, my old friend," Thrall said to Eitrigg. "See that the boy does the little things as well as the large."

"I shall, Warchief," Eitrigg said. "Do not tarry in our homeland overlong. Garrosh will do his best, but he is not you."

Thrall embraced his friend, clapping him on the back, then picked up the small sack that was all he planned to carry with him on the journey. With little notice even being taken of him, the warchief of the Horde walked out of Grommash Hold into the still - hot night air, heading for the flight tower.

"You are making a grave mistake," came a deep, rumbling voice in the darkness.

Surprised at the words, though recognizing their speaker, Thrall checked his brisk stride and turned to Cairne Bloodhoof. Cairne stood beneath the towering dead tree that bore the skull of a demon and his once - impregnable armor. The tauren high chieftain was straight and tall, his arms folded across his broad chest, his tail swishing slightly. His face showed disapproval.

"Cairne! It is good to see you. I had hoped to hear from you prior to my departure," Thrall said.

"I do not think you will be glad, for I do not believe you are going to like what I have to say'," the tauren said.

"I have ever listened to what you have to say," Thrall replied, adding, "which is why I requested you advise Garrosh in my absence. Speak."

"When the courier arrived with your letter," Cairne said, "I thought I had indeed, at long last, finally become senile and was dreaming fever dreams as poor Drek'Thar does. To see, in your own writing, that you wished to appoint Garrosh Hellscream as leader of the Horde!"

The voice had begun quiet, but stern. Cairne was slow to anger, but it was clear he had had some time to think on this matter and it disturbed him greatly. His voice deepened and grew louder as he spoke. Thrall glanced about quietly; so public a place was not where he would have wished to have this particular conversation.

"Let us discuss this in private," Thrall began. "My quarters and ears are open to you at all—"

"No," replied Cairne, and stamped a powerful hoof for emphasis. Thrall glanced at him, surprised. "I am here, in the shadow of what was once your greatest enemy, for a reason. I remember Grom Hellscream. I remember his passion, and his violence, and his waywardness. I remember the harm he once did. He may have died a hero's death by slaying Mannoroth; I am the first to acknowledge that. But by all accounts, even your own, he took many lives, and gloried in the doing. He had a thirst for blood, for violence, and he quenched that thirst with the blood of innocents. You were right to tell Garrosh of his father's heroism. It is true. But also true were the less savory things Grom Hellscream did, and his son needs to know these things as well. I stand here to ask you to remember these things, too, the dark and the bright, and to acknowledge that Garrosh is his father's son."

"Garrosh never had the taint of demonic blood that Grom had," Thrall said quietly. "He is headstrong, yes, but the people love him. He—"

"They love him because they only see the glory!" Cairne snapped. "They do not see the foolishness." He softened somewhat. "I, too, saw the glory. I saw tactics and wisdom, and perhaps with nurturing and guidance those are the seeds that will take root in Garrosh's soul. But he finds it far too easy to act without thinking, to ignore that inner wisdom. There are things about him I respect and admire, Thrall. Mistake me not. But he is not fit to lead the Horde, any more than Grom was. Not without you to check him when he overreaches, and especially not now, when things are yet so tenuous with the Alliance. Do you know that many secretly whisper that now would be a fine time to strike at Ironforge, with Magni turned to diamond and no leader yet visible?"

Thrall did know it. He'd known that the whispers would begin the moment he had learned the news. It was why he had moved quickly to send formal representatives to what amounted to a funeral service, and why he had chosen a sin'dorei and a tauren whom he knew to be moderate individuals.

"Of course I know this," Thrall sighed. "Cairne—it won't be for very long."

"That does not matter'. The child does not have the temperament to be the leader you are. Or should I say, you were? For the Thrall I knew, who befriended the tauren and helped them so greatly, would not have blithely handed over the Horde he restored to a young pup still wet behind the ears!"

Thrall's jaw tightened, and he felt anger growing within him. Cairne had set his great hoof squarely on Thrall's own worries. Worries that he could not shake. Yet he knew there was literally no other choice. No one else could take on the responsibility. It had to be Garrosh.

'You are one of my oldest friends in this land, Cairne Bloodhoof," Thrall said, his voice dangerously quiet. 'You know I respect you. But the decision is made. If you are concerned about Garrosh's immaturity, then guide him, as I have asked you. Give him the benefit of your vast wisdom and common sense. I—need you with me on this, Cairne. I need your support, not your disapproval. Your cool head to keep Garrosh calm, not your censure to incite him."

'You ask me for wisdom and common sense. I have but one answer for you. Do not give Garrosh this power. Do not turn your back on your people and give them only this arrogant blusterer to guide them. That is my wisdom, Thrall. Wisdom of many years, bought with blood and suffering and battle."

Thrall stiffened. This was the absolute last thing he had wanted. But it had happened, and when he spoke, his voice was cold.

"Then we have nothing more to say to one another. My decision is final. Garrosh will lead the Horde in my absence. But it is up to you as to whether you will advise him in that role, or let the Horde pay the price for your stubbornness."

Without another word, Thrall turned and strode off into the darkness of the sultry Orgrimmar night. He half - expected Cairne to come after him, but the old bull did not follow. His heart was heavy as he retrieved a wyvern, slung the sack across his saddle, and mounted. The wyvern leaped skyward, his leathery wings beating quietly and rhythmically and creating a cool breeze that brushed the orc’s face.

Cairne stared after his old friend. Never had he thought it would come to this—an argument over something that was so obviously a mistake. He knew Thrall saw it, too, but for whatever reasons the orc felt it necessary to persist in this course of action.

The parting words wounded Cairne. He had not expected Thrall to dismiss his concerns so quickly or so thoroughly. There was virtue in the boy. Cairne had seen it. But the recklessness, the deaf ear he turned to sound advice, the burning need for acknowledgment and accolades—Cairne flicked his tail, the thoughts agitating him. These were qualities that needed tempering. And, of course, Cairne would be there. His words would be ignored, doubtless, but he would offer them.

He looked up again at Mannoroth's skull, gazing into the shadowed eye sockets.

"Grom, if your spirit lingers, help us guide your son. You sacrificed yourself for the Horde. I know you would not wish to see your son destroy it."

There was no response; if Grom was indeed here, lingering beside the great evil he had destroyed, he was providing no answers. Cairne was on his own.