“One moment,” Sylvanas told the grinning goblin. He halted beside her chair. “You have my attention. Do not waste it.”
“I’m certain you’ll agree that I’m not, Warchief,” he said again with that air of complete confidence. “But first a little background. I’m sure you’re aware of the tragedies and challenges the Bilgewater Cartel faced before we were invited to join the Horde.”
“Yes. Your island was destroyed by an erupting volcano,” Sylvanas said.
Gallywix looked unconvincingly sad. He touched a gloved finger to his eye to wipe away a nonexistent tear. “So many lost,” he sighed. “So much kaja’mite gone, just like that.”
Sylvanas amended her thought. Perhaps the tears were genuine.
“Kaja’Cola.” The goblin sniffled nostalgically. “ ‘It gives you ideas.’ ”
“Yes, I am aware there is no more kaja’mite,” Sylvanas said flatly. “Get to the point, assuming you have one.” Her conversation with the goblin was drawing undue attention from Baine and Saurfang, among others.
“Oh, yes indeedy, I most certainly do. You know,” he said, laughing a little, “it’s kind of funny. There’s a distinct possibility that that volcano…might not have been caused by Deathwing or the Cataclysm.”
Her glowing eyes widened slightly. Was he really saying what she thought he was? She waited with an impatience that was not usually associated with the dead.
“You see, hmm…how to put this?” He drummed his fingers against his first chin. “We were mining rather deeply on Kezan. We had to keep our customers happy, now, didn’t we? Kaja’Cola being the delicious, brain-boosting beverage that—”
“Do not push me, goblin.”
“Gotcha. So. Back to my tale. We were digging deep. Very deep. And we found something unexpected. A hitherto unknown substance. Something truly phenomenal. Unique! Only a small vein of liquid that turned solid and changed color once exposed to the air. One of my smarter miners, ah…recovered a chunk of it privately and brought it to me as a token of his esteem.”
“In other words, he stole it and tried to bribe you with it.”
“That’s one way of looking at it. But that’s not the point. The point is that while that awful Deathwing certainly had a lot to do with triggering the volcano, digging that deep may—may, I repeat, I’m not at all certain of it—have contributed.”
Sylvanas regarded the trade prince with newfound awe at the depths of his avarice and selfishness. If Gallywix was right, he’d cheerfully destroyed his own island and a goodly number of innocent—well, comparatively innocent—goblins along with it. All for a piece of some kind of marvelous ore.
“I did not know you had it in you,” she said almost in a tone of admiration.
He seemed about to thank her, then thought better of it. “Well. It was a very special mineral, I must say.”
“And I imagine you keep it locked away in a very secure location.”
Gallywix opened his mouth, then slitted his eyes and looked mistrustfully at Nathanos. Sylvanas almost laughed. “My champion Nathanos is a dour sort. He barely speaks, even to me. Any secrets you have to share with me are more than safe with him.”
“As my warchief says,” Gallywix replied slowly, clearly unconvinced but seeing no other option. “You are incorrect, Dark Lady. I do not keep it hidden away. I keep it in plain sight, literally close at hand.”
He used the golden-hued tip of his cane to push back his hideous top hat in a casual gesture. Sylvanas waited for an answer. When a moment passed and she received none, she started to frown. The goblin’s tiny eyes moved, flickering to the top of his cane and then back to Sylvanas.
The cane? She looked at it again, more closely this time. She’d never paid it much attention. She never paid much attention to anything Gallywix wore, carried, or said. But something was nagging at her.
Then she knew what it was. “It used to be red.”
“It used to be,” he agreed. “It isn’t now.”
Sylvanas realized that the small orb, only about the size of an apple, was not actually made of gold. It was made of something that looked like…like…
Amber. Tree sap that over the centuries had hardened to become something that could be crafted into jewelry. Sometimes ancient insects had gotten caught in the flowing fluid, forever enveloped by it. This one had that same warmth to it. It was pretty. But she was skeptical that this harmless-looking decoration was as all-powerful as Gallywix would have her believe.
“Let me see it,” she demanded.
“I will happily do so, but not in front of prying eyes. Can we go someplace a little less public?” At her irritated glance, he said in the sincerest voice she had ever heard from him, “Look. You are gonna want to keep this information close. Trust me on this.”
Oddly, she did. “If you are exaggerating, you will suffer.”
“Oh, I know that. And I also know you’re going to like what you find out.”
Sylvanas leaned over and murmured to Nathanos. “I will be back momentarily. He had best be right.”
Aware of the eyes on her, she rose and indicated that Gallywix might follow her back to the room behind the throne. He did so, and as the skin flap dropped closed, he said, “Huh. I never knew this place was here.”
Sylvanas did not reply, instead simply extending her hand for the cane. With a little bow, he handed it to her. Her hand closed around it.
Nothing.
The decoration was garish, but Sylvanas could see now that it was of fine craftsmanship. She was rapidly tiring of the goblin’s game. She frowned slightly and slipped one hand up the cane’s shaft to the gem that was perched atop it.
Her eyes flew wide, and she sucked in a soft gasp of astonishment.
Once she had mourned the life denied to her. She had contented herself with the gifts of her undeath: her devastating banshee wail, the freedom from hunger and exhaustion, and the other shackles that tethered mortals. But this sensation dwarfed them both.
She felt not merely strong but mighty. As if her grip could crush a skull, as if a single stride could cover a league and more. Energy coiled inside each muscle, straining like a beast of pure precision and power against a leash. Thoughts raced through her brain, not simply her usual calculating, cunning, clever thoughts but shining, frighteningly brilliant ones. Innovative. Creative.
She was no longer a dark lady or even a queen. She was a goddess of destruction and creation, and she was stunned that she had never understood how deeply the two were intertwined. Armies, cities, entire cultures—she could raise them.
And fell them. Stormwind would be among the first, yielding its people to swell the numbers of her own.
She could deal death on a scale that—
Sylvanas released the orb as if it had burned her.
“This…will change everything.” Her voice was shaking. She summoned her usual icy calm. “Why have you not used this ere now?”
“It was gold when it was liquid, see, and it was amazing. Then it became solid and red, and it was pretty but ordinary. I always held out hope I’d find more of the stuff one day. And then…one day, boom, the top of the cane turned gold and amazing again. Who knew?”
Sylvanas needed to get back to the feast. The other leaders doubtless were talking already. She didn’t intend to give them more fodder by lingering here.
“You see the possibilities,” the goblin said as they reentered the hold. As if he were talking about something mundane and pragmatic, not something that had shaken Sylvanas Windrunner to her very core with a taste of power hitherto unimaginable.
“I do,” she said, her voice under control again, though inside she still trembled. “Once this feast is finished, you and I will talk at length. This will serve the Horde well.”
Only the Horde.
“The Alliance knows nothing of this?”
“Don’t worry, Warchief,” he said, his old glib self again. “I got people on it.”
Anduin summoned his counselors to join him in Stormwind Keep’s map room. They inclined their heads as he entered; he had long ago bidden them not to bow.
Greymane and Shaw were there, of course. So was Prophet Velen, the ancient draenei who had tutored Anduin in the ways of the Light. Of all of them, it could be said that perhaps the draenei Prophet had lost the most in this war. Genn had lost his son to violence in years past, and of course this war had claimed Varian Wrynn. But Velen had witnessed the death not only of his son but of his entire world—quite literally.
And yet, Anduin mused as he regarded the lavender-skinned being, though I can sense his sorrow, he remains the most serene of us all.
Sky Admiral Catherine Rogers was also present. Anduin had similar sentiments toward her as he did toward Spymaster Shaw. Anduin respected both individuals, but his relationship with them wasn’t comfortable. Rogers was too thirsty for Horde blood for his liking. He had forcefully rebuked both her and Greymane for taking a recent assignment much further than he had ordered. But the Alliance had needed Rogers’s hawkishness in the war, and Mathias protected the innocent in his own way.
“It has been a difficult day,” Anduin said. “But it was more difficult for those we addressed. In the end, the war is over, the Legion is defeated, and we can bury the dead knowing that tomorrow will not contribute to the numbers of those slain in battle. And for this I am grateful.
“However, it does not mean that we can cease our efforts toward making this world better. Instead of slaying our enemies, we must heal and restore our people—and a world that is dreadfully wounded. And,” Anduin added, “we must protect and study a precious resource that has come to my attention just today. All these things pose a fresh set of challenges.”
Anduin could sense the small golden-blue stone in his pocket, nestled there quietly and benevolently. He knew very little about it yet, but one thing he did know: it was not evil, though he understood full well that it certainly could be turned to dark purposes. Even the naaru could.
Anduin withdrew the handkerchief. “This morning, Spymaster Shaw reported to me about what he has observed in Silithus. Not only are there great fissures that have erupted, spreading out from where the sword of Sargeras impaled the world, but those fissures have revealed a hitherto unknown substance. It’s…unique. It’s easier to show you how rather than tell you.”
He handed the handkerchief to Velen, who reacted as Anduin had. The draenei took in a startled breath. Almost before Anduin’s eyes, years—decades—of suffering seemed to be lifted. As profound as it had been to experience it himself, it was almost more moving for Anduin to witness the material’s effect on another.
“For a moment, I thought it a piece of a naaru,” Velen breathed. “It is not, but the sensation is…similar.”
The naaru were benevolent beings made of holy energy. Nothing was closer to the Light than they. When Anduin had studied under the draenei at the Exodar, he had spent much time in the presence of the naaru O’ros. The beautiful, benevolent being had been another casualty of the war, and the memory of that time was now tinged with pain. Even so, Anduin recalled the emotions O’ros had engendered, and he agreed with Velen’s assessment.
“Although,” Velen added, “there is the potential for great harm here, as well as great good.”
Greymane took it next. He seemed stunned by what he experienced, almost confused by it, as if some deep, firmly held belief had been shattered. Then he frowned, the lines around his eyes deepening, and he thrust the honey-hued stone toward Shaw.
“I admit,” he said in a rough voice, directing his words to both the king and the spymaster, “I thought perhaps you were exaggerating. You weren’t. This stuff is powerful—and dangerous.”
Shaw waved the stone away; he seemed to have no desire to handle it more than was necessary. Anduin respected that. Rogers took it next. She stumbled, reaching out to grasp the side of the large map table for balance, gazing raptly at the tiny piece of stone. Then her expression turned to one of anger and hope commingled. “Is there more of this?”
Shaw gave Velen and Rogers an edited version of what he’d told Genn and Anduin earlier. The two listened intently. When he had finished, Rogers said, “If we can find a way to use this…we could crush the Horde.”
“The thought of Sylvanas with this sickens me,” Genn said, not mincing words.
Why must we bend everything to violence? Anduin thought with his own hint of anger. Instead he said, answering Rogers’s first question, “I told Spymaster Shaw we must obtain more of this and study it. I believe there are far better things we can do with this substance than create methods to kill more efficiently.”
“Sylvanas wouldn’t think so, and neither must we.”
Anduin leveled his blue-eyed gaze at Greymane. “I would say that what makes us better than her is that we do think so.” As Genn started to protest, Anduin lifted a hand. “But I would never leave the Alliance vulnerable. With enough information, we can apply our skills to more than one task.” He squared his shoulders and turned his attention to the map of Azeroth spread before him, his blue eyes roaming the image of a world that had become newly precious to him. His gaze lingered on the home of Stormwind’s nearest ally, the dwarven lands and their capital city of Ironforge.
“Humans did not stand alone against the Legion,” Anduin reminded those assembled. “We were joined in that fight by the draenei and those pandaren who had chosen the Alliance. Your people, too, Genn: worgen and human refugees who have more than earned their place in the Alliance by standing shoulder to shoulder first with my father and then with me to face that awful peril. The dwarves and the gnomes also stood with us.”
“If not quite shoulder to shoulder,” Genn said. Anduin had discovered that the softer emotions tended to make the gruff king uncomfortable. Genn wore rage and stubbornness better than warmth or gratitude. So, too, had Varian for many years.
“Perhaps not,” Anduin said, smiling a little; the joke was one at which the dwarves themselves probably would guffaw. He envisioned their former king, Magni Bronzebeard, retorting with something like Nae worries, lad, we’ll cut ye down tae size.
“But they have always been there for us, as sturdy and undefeatable as stone.” Affection for these strong, hardheaded people, who had been the ones to start him along both his path to the priesthood as well as toward proper fighting technique, swept through Anduin. “We should take this to the Explorers’ League. They might have some insight that we lack. And they are all over the world. That’s a lot of extra eyes and ears for you, Shaw.”
Shaw nodded his reddish-brown head. Anduin continued.
“The night elves might also be of assistance. As ancient as their race is, perhaps they have encountered something like this before. They, too, lost many in this war, and I believe a pledge of aid and support would be welcome. And the draenei—” Anduin reached to touch the arm of his old friend Velen. “You have lost more than any of us can fully comprehend. And as you say, this…material…evokes the naaru. Perhaps there is some kind of connection.”
He returned his attention to the group. “All came when we called. And now their veterans have returned to fields too long neglected, to supplies dangerously depleted. We remember what happened after the battle for Northrend. When resources are depleted, sparks of resentment can turn to a conflagration—even among races on the same side. Let us make sure that none of our allies regret having offered aid to Stormwind.”
They were looking at one another, nodding in agreement.
“I intend to travel to the lands of our steadfast friends,” Anduin informed them. “To thank them in person for their sacrifices, to offer what we can so their economic recovery will be swift, and to enlist their aid as well.”
He had expected Greymane
to protest, and the older man did not disappoint. “Your people are in Stormwind,” Genn reminded the king unnecessarily. “They need you here. And Gilneas, at least, needs no royal visit.”
No. Gilneas did not. It never had. In years past, by the order of Greymane himself, Gilneas had cut itself off from all contact with anything outside its massive stone walls. The kingdom had not come to the aid of others when they were in need, and that isolation had evoked anger and resentment toward the Gilneans, at least at the outset, when they at last had been forced to abandon their self-imposed seclusion. But now there was nothing left of the once great realm but ruins, shades, and sorrow.
“You were angry with me, as I recall, when I ventured into the Broken Isles to see the place where my father fell,” Anduin replied mildly.
“Of course I was. You left Stormwind and told no one,” Greymane retorted. “You hadn’t even named a successor. Still haven’t, by the way. What would have happened if you’d been killed?”
“But I wasn’t,” Anduin countered. “And my leaving was the right thing to do.” More gently, he continued. “Genn, you told me I didn’t need to see that place. But I did. To me, my father’s sacrifice has made it hallowed ground. It is where I found Shalamayne—or perhaps I should say, where it found me. It is where I…” He paused. He was not yet ready to tell anyone what he had experienced, not even Velen, the Prophet, who would have understood.
“Where I truly accepted the mantle of my kingship,” he said instead. He cleared his throat; his voice was too thick. “Where I was able to lead the Alliance to a hard-won victory. Yes. Stormwind’s people need me. But so do those in Ironforge and Darnassus. This is how we use peace. To lay the groundwork for unity and prosperity so that perhaps war might one day be relegated to the history books.”
It was a noble goal, but perhaps an unattainable one. Most of those around the table seemed to think the latter. But Anduin was determined to try.
* * *
—
“Ol’ Emma” was what most people in Stormwind knew her as. She was all right with that nickname; she was old, after all, and it was usually spoken with friendliness. But she had a real name—Felstone—and a past, just like everyone else. She had loved and been loved once, and if sometimes she got lost in the past because, well, that was where everyone was, then so be it.
Before the Storm Page 4