Before the Storm

by Christie Golden

  First it was her husband, Jem, who had died in the First War. But people died in war, didn’t they? And they were honored and remembered in ceremonies like the ones that sweet boy-king had led.

  Anduin Wrynn reminded her so much of her own bright boys. Three of them there had been: Little Jem, named for his father; Jack, named for his uncle John; and Jake. They, too, had died in a war, just like her sister, Janice. Except that war was worse than the one that had just ended, in a way. Her sons had perished because of Arthas Menethil and his war on the living. They’d been warriors of Lordaeron, given places of honor as King Terenas’s guards. They’d fallen along with their king and their kingdom.

  But no one honored their names with a formal ceremony. No one thought of them as war heroes. They’d been turned into mindless undead monstrosities. They were still in that brutally cruel state, were dead, or had become one of the Banshee Queen’s Forsaken.

  Whatever her beautiful sons’ final fate, they were lost to her, and the living world of humans spoke of such horrors only in whispers.

  She gripped the handle of the bucket she carried and focused on her task: drawing water from the well. Thinking of Jem, Jack, and Jake was never a good thing. The places it dragged her mind and heart—

  Emma gripped the handle of her bucket more tightly as she approached the well. Focus on what the living need, she told herself. Not the dead.

  Or the undead.

  “I heard that you spoke most eloquently at the service today, Your Majesty.”

  Anduin smiled tiredly at the elderly servant. He was quite capable of preparing for bed himself, but Wyll Benton had taken care of him since he was a little boy and would be offended if his service was refused.

  “Princes and kings have so much to worry about,” he had said once, the first time Anduin had tried to decrease his duties. “The last thing they need is to bother themselves with things like candlewick trimming and hanging their clothes properly.”

  He was tall and heavyset, though Anduin noted that he’d slimmed down some recently. His mild, somewhat detached demeanor disguised a stubborn will and fierce devotion to the house of Wrynn. So much has changed, and most of it not for the better, Anduin thought. But at least Wyll is a constant.

  “If indeed I was eloquent, it was the Light speaking through me to comfort those in need of it,” Anduin replied.

  “You underestimate yourself, Your Majesty. You’ve always had a way with words.”

  Wyll removed Anduin’s belt, hanging the mace Fearbreaker reverently from a hook on the wall near the king’s bed. The servant himself had mounted the hook there, where Anduin could reach it at any moment. Just in case, he had said. The prince Anduin had been at the time had rolled his eyes at that, but the man he had become felt his heart warm at the unspoken expression of concern of a man who was more than a servant—Wyll was an old friend.

  “You’re too kind,” Anduin said.

  “Oh, sir,” Wyll sighed, “I’m never that, as you well know.”

  Anduin pressed his lips together to keep from smiling outright. His spirits lifted, and he couldn’t resist teasing Wyll.

  “You’ll be pleased to hear we’re going back to Ironforge soon. Unless you’d rather not?”

  “Why, Your Majesty, why would I not? There’s nothing like the constant heat and clanging of a continuously running giant forge to make certain one rests well. Besides, surely nothing bad ever happens in Ironforge. No one gets turned to diamond, or is buried beneath rubble, or taken hostage, or forced to flee for his life,” the old servant continued in a voice just shy of sarcastic.

  Wyll had accompanied Anduin on his last visit to Ironforge, shortly before the Cataclysm had forever altered the face of Azeroth. All the things the servant had just mentioned, along with many others, had occurred on that eventful trip, and two of them had happened to Anduin.

  The words, meant as a joke—at least as much of a joke as Wyll could manage—caused another wave of sorrow to flow over the young king. This one, though, was different; the loss was older. Time had mellowed the pain, though it would never completely leave him. At his king’s silence, Wyll looked at him as he hung up the coat.

  “Your pardon, Your Majesty,” he said, his voice heavy with remorse. “I didn’t mean to make light of your loss.”

  “Of Khaz Modan’s loss,” Anduin said. The earthquake in Dun Morogh, its tremors felt even in Ironforge, had marked the first indication that the unhappy world was in true peril. Anduin had gone to Dun Morogh to assist with the rescue efforts. He had not yet embraced the path of priesthood, but he knew first aid and desperately wanted to help. The round of aftershocks claimed the life of Aerin Stonehand, the young dwarf woman who had been assigned to train him.

  It was the first time Anduin had lost anyone close to his age. And, if he was being honest with himself, he had begun to feel more than simple friendship toward the bright-eyed, lively warrior.

  “It’s all right,” he reassured Wyll. “Things are better there now. Magni’s awoken from his…ah, communing with the earth, I’m just fine, and the Three Hammers are working together like a well-oiled gnomish machine.”

  Magni Bronzebeard, who had been king of Ironforge at the time, had participated in a ritual that would “make him one with the earth.” All had hoped the rite would give some insight into the distressed world, but the ritual had been quite literal, not metaphorical. It had turned Magni into diamond. At the time, the already beleaguered city had grieved deeply. Thank the Light, it transpired that Magni had not been killed…but he had been changed. Now, Anduin had been told that the former king spoke with—and for—Azeroth herself. No one was sure where or how to find him; he wandered the world and came when needed.

  Anduin wondered if he would ever see Magni again. He hoped so.

  “Even so, sir,” Wyll said. “Of course I’ll come with you.”

  Of course he would. As far as Anduin knew, the devoted servant had no family of his own, and he had served the Wrynns for most of his life. Anduin didn’t need Wyll’s tending—he was quite capable of hanging up a coat by himself and removing his own boots—but as increasing age prohibited Wyll from doing many things, Anduin knew his childhood servant still wanted to feel that he was of use. Anduin cherished Wyll not for what he did but for who he was.

  “I’ll be glad of your company,” Anduin said, and he was. “That will be all for now, though. Good night, Wyll.”

  The old man bowed. “Good night, Your Majesty.”

  Anduin watched him close the door, smiling affectionately after him. When the door snicked shut, he turned back to his dressing table. The amber-hued stone, still wrapped in the handkerchief, sat beside two items that held great personal meaning for Anduin. One was a small carved box that contained Queen Tiffin’s engagement and wedding rings. The other was the compass Anduin once had given his father.

  He looked at the white piece of fabric for a moment, but it was the compass he reached for, the same one that had been recovered and returned to him by an adventurer who had helped the distraught new king on his first steps toward healing his grief.

  He opened the compass now and regarded the portrait of a little boy painted within, cheeks still round with childhood’s softness. After all he had beheld and experienced in the last few months, Anduin wondered if he had ever truly been as young as the artist had depicted him.

  A compass. Something to keep you on the right path.

  There had been a clear compass in fighting the Burning Legion. Clear, good, true, and powerful. Anduin knew the immediate next step in his path. To meet with his allies, help them aid their own people, and demonstrate how valuable he considered those ties. To ask for their assistance in learning more about this strange mineral—and keep it from being misused. After that…

  He closed his eyes. Light, he prayed, you have given me good advisers and true who have helped me lead well
thus far. I trust in you to show me the next steps in their proper time. I have always longed for peace, and now peace of a sort is upon us. And this material…it could be used to further that peace in ways we can’t even begin to imagine.

  Give me the guidance to lead well now, too.

  He placed the compass down gently, blew out the single candle Wyll had left burning on the nightstand, and had no dreams.

  * * *

  —

  In the morning, Anduin called for a less formal gathering in the receiving room outside his private quarters. He had spent many a night there, dining alone with his father. He still had difficulty thinking of the room as belonging to him now.

  “I had almost forgotten we were heading into summer,” Greymane said as he helped himself to a sweet-smelling, perfectly ripe peach. Amberseed buns, Stromgarde cheese, herbed eggs, ham, bacon, fresh sunfruit, and pastries also had been laid out, and milk, coffee, tea, and a selection of juices were provided to wash it down.

  As a worgen, Greymane had hunted for food in a way that the rest of the Alliance could not, and could feed upon things others could not. Worgen were, in many ways, the strongest and best suited to war, for the adage that an army marched on its stomach was a true one. But clearly the king of Gilneas still relished the taste of summer’s first fruits.

  It seemed most of them had slept well, as had the young king. He wondered if it was an effect of the stone. After a few pleasantries about the meal, the king steered the conversation to practicalities.

  “Genn,” he said, helping himself to a second serving of eggs, “I would like to ask you to look after my kingdom while I am away. I can’t think of anyone better to tend to it than someone already familiar with what that entails. Don’t worry,” he added, smiling, “I promise I’ll formalize it before I leave this time.”

  Slowly, Genn put down his fork. “Your Majesty,” he said, “I am honored. I will serve Stormwind as I have served two of its kings. But I am an old man. You might do well to begin looking for a way to have someone younger rule should anything happen to you.”

  Inwardly Anduin sighed. This was not the first time the subject of an heir had been brought up. He chose to ignore it, but he was almost certain that Genn would reference it at least once more before he left for Ironforge even though Anduin had made his opinion quite clear. He was not going to marry a woman he didn’t love.

  “I’m pleased you accept,” Anduin said, dodging the entire issue and turning to Velen before Genn could pursue it. “Prophet, I hope you will accompany me on my journey both to Ironforge and overseas. I have not forgotten the draenei who still guard the Exodar. I would see them and thank them.”

  The white-bearded draenei inclined his head, moved. “It is an honor to accompany you, Your Majesty. It will mean so much to my people.”

  “It will mean much to me as well,” Anduin replied, buttering his toast. Butter, he thought. Something he took for granted when so many didn’t have so much as a slice of bread. “What can Stormwind offer the draenei to show our deep appreciation for their aid against our mutual enemy?”

  “That Your Majesty cares enough to even inquire after all that you have endured will surely warm their hearts.”

  The young king placed the butter knife down and regarded his old friend. “You know more of endurance than any of us,” he said quietly. “Of suffering, of loss.”

  Liam Greymane was not the only son who had left behind a loving father. More than even this deeply personal loss was the one that Velen’s people had suffered. Argus, their beloved homeworld, not only had become overrun with corrupted eredar but had been deliberately tortured for eons by the fallen titan Sargeras. The very soul of that broken world had risen to turn on anyone and everyone, even those who had liberated it and sought to help it. Even now, Anduin could hardly bear to think of it, and he prayed to the Light that their own world, their beautiful Azeroth, which had sustained such varied and marvelous forms of life, would not suffer the same fate.

  Velen’s face softened with sorrow that would never, could never, be assuaged, but his voice was warm as he spoke. “It is precisely because we know so much of the darkness of this universe that we focus instead on that which is good and kind and true. I say again, your presence in the violet halls of our city will soothe our spirits more than you yet understand.”

  There was no arguing with a draenei, Anduin thought. A smile quirked his lips. “It’s as you wish, my old friend. But I ask that you set your mind to thinking of something more tangible we can bring as well.”

  The ancient being’s own lips curved in a smile that was eternally youthful. “I will see what I can come up with.”

  “Good. More pressing is what we need to bring to Ironforge, as it’s the first city I intend to visit. What can we offer the dwarves as a gift that they would most appreciate?”

  For a moment, brows were furrowed in contemplation. And then, as one, all of them, even the great Prophet Velen, began to laugh.

  Grizzek Fizzwrench stepped outside his simple ramshackle hut into the lazy, slowly fading heat of the late afternoon. He smiled at the familiar sound of the ocean lapping against the shore, the rustle of the palm trees. The nostrils on his large, long nose flared and his narrow chest expanded as he breathed in the salty air.

  “Another beautiful day all to myself,” he said aloud, cracking his neck, knuckles, and toes in a lovely long stretch. Then, with a cackle of anticipation, he plunged into the surf.

  Once he’d been an ordinary goblin. Just like all the others, he’d lived in cramped, less than hygienic slums and shantytowns, performing unsavory deeds for even more unsavory people. It had been fine when he was on Kezan, but when that island…well, exploded—which islands were really not supposed to do—and the refugees of the Bilgewater Cartel moved to Azshara, things changed.

  He didn’t like Azshara, for one thing. It was too autumnal for his summer spirit. All those orange and red and brown colors. He liked the blue of sky and sea and that bright yellow sand and the soothing waving of green-fronded palm trees. Then, when the shredders began tearing up the land, rendering it ugly, he disliked Azshara even more. The idea of wasting both time and money—which were kind of one and the same—reshaping a part of Azshara to make a symbol of the Horde seemed like the worst brownnosing Grizzek had ever seen—and he’d seen a lot.

  And all those other races in the Horde: they just didn’t seem to understand the goblin mentality. The “deaders,” as he thought of the Forsaken, gave him the creeps, and the only thing they seemed to enjoy tinkering with was poisons. The orcs thought they were better than everyone else. “Original Horde” and all that claptrap. The tauren were too in love with the land to make any reasonable person comfortable, and the whole thing the trolls had going on with the loa scared the crap out of him. Pandaren were just too…well…nice. He’d met a blood elf or two he could share a beer with, but the race as a whole was way too pretty, and they liked pretty things, and goblins and their culture most definitely did not qualify as pretty things.

  But the very worst part of joining the Horde was that the union had elevated Jastor Gallywix from a simple slimy trade prince to the powerful slimy leader of an entire Horde faction. And then one day, quite suddenly, as if a switch had been flipped, Grizzek had had enough.

  He had taken everything he owned—all of his laboratory knickknacks, books filled with years of painstakingly detailed notes on experiments, and a small warehouse full of supplies—and moved here, to a deserted beach in Tanaris.

  Working alone in the sweltering sun, which turned his pale yellow-green skin to a rich forest-emerald hue, he had constructed a small, modest domicile and a not so small, not very modest laboratory. Grizzek found that he flourished in solitude and sunlight. He rose in the late afternoon, went for a swim, and broke his fast, then headed in to work during the cooler evening and night hours. Over the years, he’d constructed
a bristling defense system composed of robots, alarums, whistles, and other warning devices.

  His favorite such device was Feathers, the unimaginatively named robotic parrot who provided what passed for company. Feathers flew reconnaissance several times a day, using its mechanical eyes to scan for anything out of the ordinary. It would immediately alert Grizzek to trouble. And then…well, depending on the nature of the intruder, they would be sent off with a gruff warning or else a blast of the Goblin Dragon Gun Mark II he always kept handy.

  It was a beautiful life. And he had made many beautiful things. Well, beautiful might not be the right word. He’d made things that blew other things up in a spectacular fashion and practical gizmos that made it possible for him not to worry about cooking, cleaning, or, really, anything other than creating more gadgets and explosive devices.

  And so of course, when Feathers suddenly appeared while he was lying on his back, floating lazily, and squawked loudly, “Intruder alert, west side entrance!” it meant that his beautiful life was probably about to implode.

  Grizzek grimaced, listening to Feathers’s report. When it came to a single name, though, his eyes snapped open.

  He swore long, loudly, and colorfully, and swam back to shore.

  * * *

  —

  “Trade Prince,” Grizzek said a few moments later, standing at the main gate, dripping and wearing nothing but a towel. “I thought we had a deal. You got to keep all my inventions, I got to leave the cartel with supplies and peace of mind.”

  Trade Prince Jastor Gallywix, garishly dressed as always, his round bulging tummy preceding him by almost two full paces, merely smiled. He had brought with him several bruisers, including the muscle-bound Druz, his chief enforcer.