Before the Storm

by Christie Golden

  “That had to have been a tremendous shock when he awoke.”

  “That phrase,” Moira said, “does not begin to capture it. All I can say is it’s a good thing dwarven hearts are almost as strong as stone.”

  Anduin hesitated. “I’m so glad. Not just for me and my friendship with him but for you. There was a time I thought my father and I would never become a real family, but we did.”

  Moira was quiet for a while. Her bright, bookish son was busying himself with another ancient tome, his green eyes flicking over ancient words. When she spoke, she pitched her voice low.

  “It’s for that child that I’d want that more than for myself,” she said. “It’s…a lot to undo, Anduin. But he said he wanted to try.”

  “Will you?” Anduin asked, speaking quietly so the boy could not hear.

  “I think my people and my son would be best served by having good relationships with a being who speaks directly to Azeroth.” It was an attempt at lightness, but it fell flat.

  “But what about you?”

  Again Moira was silent. She had just opened her mouth to speak when a voice interrupted her.

  “Yer Highness, Yer Majesty, come quickly!” It was one of the guards usually stationed at the High Seat. He was flushed and out of breath.

  “What is it?” Moira demanded.

  “It’s yer father! He’s here! And he needs tae see you two right away!”

  Magni Bronzebeard awaited them in the Hall of Explorers.

  Anduin, who once had looked on, helpless to intervene, as the king was agonizingly transformed into gleaming stone, had thought he would be prepared to meet the awakened Magni.

  He was not.

  Magni stood beneath the pteradon skeleton with his back to the entrance, deep in conversation with Velen and High Explorer Muninn Magellas. Falstad and Muradin stood beside them, listening intently, their bushy eyebrows drawn together in concern.

  High Tinker Gelbin Mekkatorque, the white-bearded leader of the gnomes whose cheerful demeanor belied his deep, quiet wisdom, also had been summoned. Anduin had scheduled a meeting with him for the next day. The gnomes had been invaluable against the Legion, and he wanted to make sure he had a chance to thank the physically smallest but perhaps intellectually greatest members of the Alliance. The presence of the high tinker’s adviser, the gruff warrior Captain Tread Sparknozzle, whose black eye patch was testimony to his years of battlefield experience, indicated that this was no mere diplomatic visit on Magni’s part.

  When the glittering shape turned to Anduin, the young king felt as if he had been punched in the gut. A thing made of stone should not move so gracefully, nor should its diamond beard flutter with that movement. Magni was neither the dwarf he had been nor the statue he had become; he was both and neither, and the juxtaposition struck Anduin on a profound level. A heartbeat later, though, gratitude and joy flooded him at Magni’s words.

  “Anduin! My, ye’ve grown!”

  The phrase loathed by children everywhere was transformed by the power of nostalgia and the inexorable arrival of adulthood. It was so ordinary a phrase, so real, that the illusion of “other” was as shattered as Magni’s diamond prison had been. The voice was warm, living, and very definitely Magni’s. Anduin wondered whether the diamond “flesh” would be warm, too, if he were to touch the being who now strode toward him. But the spurs and shards that dotted the dwarf-shaped form precluded the enthusiastic handshakes and crushing hugs that Magni had been so prone to in his former incarnation.

  Had Moira or Dagran found a way around that? Did Magni even wish to bestow the gestures he’d been so free with during his life as a being of flesh and blood? For the sake of all of them, Anduin hoped so. Moira had asked Belgrum to take care of Dagran, who had protested that he wanted to meet his grandfather. We’ll see, she said. Her face wasn’t hard exactly, but it was concerned.

  “Magni,” Anduin said. “It is so good to see you.”

  “And ye and me daughter.” Magni turned his stone eyes to Moira. “I dare tae hope that once me duty’s done here, I might be able tae meet me grandson. But sadly, a visit’s nae what I’ve come about.”

  Of course not. Magni spoke for Azeroth now, and that was a great and solemn duty. Anduin’s gaze flickered to the draenei. Velen was not a maudlin soul. He smiled easily and warmly and often laughed. But he had known so much pain that it was those lines his ancient face remembered, cutting through his visage as if they had been chiseled, and they were set in a grim expression now.

  Magni regarded Moira, Anduin, and Velen seriously. “I’ve sought the three o’ ye out nae because all o’ ye are leaders o’ yer people but because ye are priests.”

  Moira and Anduin exchanged surprised glances. Anduin was aware of this commonality, of course, but for some reason he hadn’t given much thought to it.

  “She’s in terrible pain,” he said, his diamond face, seemingly so hard, furrowing easily into an empathetic wince. Anduin wondered if the rite that had so transformed Magni meant that he could now literally sense Azeroth’s pain. Anduin thought of the destruction of Silithus, of the almost inconceivable size of the sword now towering over the landscape. If Sargeras’s last attempt to destroy Azeroth had come close to succeeding, it was a terrifying thought.

  “She needs healin’. An’ that’s what priests do. She made it clear that all must heal her or all will perish.”

  Velen and Moira turned to each other. “I believe that the words your father has spoken are true,” the draenei said. “If we do not tend to our wounded world—as many of us as possible—then most assuredly we all will perish. There are others who must hear this message.”

  “Aye,” Moira said, “and I think it’s time that the lad met the rest of us.”

  And as one, the two turned to look directly at Anduin.

  Anduin’s brow furrowed in confusion. “The rest of whom?”

  “Other priests,” Moira said. “The Prophet and I have been working with a group you’re long overdue to get to know.”

  And then Anduin understood. “The Conclave. In the Netherlight Temple.”

  The very name seemed to set calm upon Anduin’s soul, almost in defiance of the temple’s history as the prison for Saraka, a void lord and a fallen naaru, and its location in the heart of the Twisting Nether. For eons, the draenei had studied the creature. Only recently had they been able to purify it. Now, as its true self, Saa’ra, the naaru lingered, embracing its former prison as a sanctuary it offered to others.

  Anduin had heard about the struggle that had unfolded in the early days of the Legion’s invasion. And he knew that many who now walked its hallowed halls were, like the naaru itself, those who had fallen into darkness but had been brought back into the Light. These priests, known as the Conclave, had reached out to others on Azeroth so they would join together to help stand against the onslaught of the Legion. Although the threat had ended, the Conclave still existed, offering help and compassion to all who would seek the Light.

  “What the Conclave did and continues to do is so important,” Anduin said. During the war, they had roamed Azeroth, recruiting priests to tend to those who were on the front lines against the Legion. Now they still tended to those courageous fighters as they dealt with lasting injuries to body, mind, and spirit. Not all scars were physical. “I wish I could have assisted their efforts during the war.”

  “Dear boy,” Velen said, “you have always been right where you needed to be. We have our own paths, our own struggles. My son’s fate was mine. Moira’s path is overcoming prejudice and championing the Dark Irons who believe in her. Yours was succeeding a great king and governing the people who have loved you since your birth. It is time to let go of regrets. There is no place for them in the Netherlight Temple. It is a site filled with only hope and determination to follow where the Light leads us and bring it into the dark places that so need its b
lessing.”

  “The Prophet, as he usually is, is dead right,” Moira said. “Though I admit I’m pleased to finally be able to share this place with you. Despite the dire nature behind this visit now, I know you’ll find some balm for your soul there. It’s impossible not to.”

  She spoke as one who herself had found such a balm. Anduin thought of the strange material safely inside his pocket. He had planned to show it to the Three Hammers after what was supposed to have been a pleasant walk. Now he realized that no one would be better able to identify the stone than Magni, who was still one with the earth.

  “We will go, but not yet. I thank you for your message, Magni. And…there’s something I need to show you. All of you.” Briefly he summarized what he knew about the amber material, realizing as he spoke that it was precious little.

  “We don’t know much,” he finished, “but I believe you can tell us more.”

  He withdrew the handkerchief and folded it open. The little gem glowed its warm amber and blue hues.

  Magni’s eyes filled with diamond tears. “Azerite,” he breathed.

  Azerite. They had a name for it at last. “What is it?” Moira asked.

  “Och,” Magni said softly, sadly, “I told ye she was hurtin’. Now ye can see it fer yerselves. This…is part o’ her. It’s…bah, ’tis so hard tae describe in words. Her essence, I suppose will do. More an’ more o’ it is comin’ tae th’ surface.”

  “Can she not heal herself?” Mekkatorque wanted to know.

  “Aye, she can and has,” Magni replied. “Ye’ve nae forgotten th’ Cataclysm, have ye? But that fel thing that bastard stuck her wi’…” He shook his head, looking like someone who was losing his beloved. Anduin supposed he was.

  “ ’Tis a good an’ noble effort she’s made, but one that’s destined tae fail. Azeroth canna do it by hersel’. Nae this time. That’s why she’s beggin’ fer our help!”

  It all made sense. Perfect, devastating sense. Anduin passed the small sample of Azerite to Moira. As all did, she went wide-eyed with wonder at what she was feeling.

  “We hear you,” he said to Magni, looking deep into the diamond eyes. “We will do all we can. But we also need to make sure that this…Azerite…isn’t used by the Horde.”

  The Azerite pebble now rested in Muradin’s hands. He glowered. “Enough o’ this and ye could take down a whole city.”

  “Enough o’ this,” Falstad said, “an’ we could shatter th’ Horde.”

  “We’re not at war,” Anduin said. “For now, our task is twofold—and it’s clear. We need to heal Azeroth, and we need to keep this”—and he accepted the Azerite—“safely away from the Horde.”

  He regarded Mekkatorque. “If anyone can figure out how to put this…this essence to good use for a worthy purpose, it’s your people. Magni has told us that Azeroth is producing increasing amounts of this substance. We will send you samples when we have obtained them.”

  Gelbin nodded. “I’ll get my best minds on it. I think I know just the person.”

  “An’ I’ll talk tae the other members of th’ Explorers’ League an’ send a team down tae Silithus,” Magellas said.

  “All that’s grand,” Magni said even as he shook his head in sorrow. To Anduin he said, “Aye, I ken that all this was a shocker tae ye, lad. Off wi’ ye three. Go tae yer priest hall an’ let them know a whole world might be dyin’.” He cleared his throat and straightened. “Right, then. Me job’s done. I’ll be off.”

  “Father,” Moira said. “If you aren’t called away by…by her…then I’d ask you to stay for a bit.” She took a deep breath. “There’s a wee lad who’s been pestering me about meeting you for some time now.”

  THE NETHERLIGHT TEMPLE

  Anduin stepped through a portal into a realm of wonder so beautiful, so Light-filled, his heart seemed to break even as it swelled with joy.

  He had spent much time in the Exodar and was accustomed to the soothing purple light and the sense of peace that pervaded the place. But this…this had the Exodar’s essence writ large, but with a different touch.

  The massive carved statues of draenei should have been intimidating, towering over visitors as they did. Instead, they felt like protective benevolent presences. The melodic sound of flowing water came from both sides of the ramp that Anduin descended; sparks of light floated up gently, as if created by the soft splashing.

  He took a deep breath of the clean, sweet air as if he’d never truly expanded his lungs before. Farther into the temple, down the long, gentle incline, was a cluster of people. He knew who they were or, rather, what they represented, and the knowledge filled him with quiet anticipatory joy.

  Velen laid a hand on the king’s shoulder as he had done so many times over the last years and smiled.

  “Yes,” he affirmed, seeing Anduin’s unspoken question. “They are all here.”

  “When you said priests,” Anduin said, “I assumed you meant…”

  “Priests just like us,” Moira finished. She gestured to the various individuals milling around them. Among their number Anduin saw not only humans, gnomes, dwarves, draenei, and worgen—those who would be at home in Stormwind’s Cathedral of Light—but also night elves, who worshipped their moon goddess, Elune; tauren, who followed their sun god, An’she; and…

  “Forsaken,” he whispered as the hair along his arms and the back of his neck lifted.

  One of them stood, her stooped back toward him, cheerfully talking with a draenei and a dwarf. There was another group heading toward one of the hall’s alcoves, carefully bearing piles of no doubt ancient tomes. This one consisted of a Forsaken, a night elf, and a worgen.

  Words would not come. Anduin found himself staring openly, hardly daring to blink lest it all turn out to be a dream. In Azeroth, these groups would be killing one another—or, at the very least, they would be suspicious, hate-filled, and fearful. The musical sound of a night elf’s throaty laugh wafted to him.

  Velen looked completely content, but Moira was eyeing him carefully. “You all right, Anduin?”

  He nodded. “Yes,” he said, his voice husky. “I can honestly say I’ve never felt better. This…all this….” He shook his head, smiling. “It’s what I’ve dreamed of seeing all my life.”

  “We are priests before all else,” came a voice. It was masculine, warm, and jovial, though it had a peculiar timbre to it, and as Anduin turned, he fully expected to greet a human priest of the Light.

  He found himself face-to-face with a Forsaken.

  Anduin, schooled since childhood not to let his emotions show, hoped he recovered sufficiently, but inwardly he was reeling. “So it seems,” he said, his voice betraying his astonishment despite himself. “And I am glad for it.”

  “Your Majesty,” said Velen, “may I present Archbishop Alonsus Faol.”

  The Forsaken’s eyes glowed an eerie yellow. They couldn’t possibly twinkle with amusement as a living man’s would, but somehow they did.

  “Don’t fret about not recognizing me,” the archbishop said. “I know I don’t look like my portrait.” He lifted a bony hand and stroked his chin. “I’ve lost the beard, you see. Slimmed down quite a bit, too.”

  Oh, yes, those undead eyes were twinkling.

  Anduin gave up any hope of behaving in a typically regal manner here. We are priests before all else, the undead being had told him, and he discovered it was a relief to put away the burden of royalty at least temporarily. He smiled and bowed.

  “You are a man out of history, sir,” Anduin told the archbishop in a voice of awe. “You founded the paladin order—the Silver Hand. Uther Lightbringer was your first apprentice. And Stormwind might not be standing today were it not for your diligent efforts. To say it is an honor to meet you doesn’t begin to describe it. You were…you are one of my heroes.”

  Anduin was utter
ly sincere. He’d pored through all the thick tomes about the benevolent, Greatfather Winter–like priest. The words on those pages painted a picture of a man who was quick to laugh but stood as strong as stone. Historians, usually content with simply recording dry facts, had waxed eloquent about Faol’s warmth and kindliness. Portraits depicted him as a short, stout man with a bushy white beard. The undead being who stood before the king of Stormwind was still shorter than average but otherwise unrecognizable. The beard was gone. Cut? Rotted away? And the hair was dark with dried blood and ichor. He smelled like old vellum: dusty but not unpleasant. Faol had died when Anduin was a child, and the boy had never gotten to meet him.

  Faol sighed. “I have done and been those things you have cited, true. I have also been a mindless minion of the Scourge.” He lifted his bony arms, indicating the glorious temple and those who tended it. “But here the only thing that matters is that I am a priest first.”

  “I’ve been working with the archbishop for some time now,” Moira said. “He’s been helping me and the Dark Irons find and gather priests for the temple. We needed to do that in order to stand against the Legion, but even now that the crisis has passed, I still keep coming here. The archbishop’s fine company. Considering he is, after all…you know.” She paused. “A man with no beard.”

  Anduin chuckled. He felt a familiar, welcome warmth in his chest as he looked around, trying to be more evaluating in his assessment of the place. Could this be a template for the future? Surely if gnome and tauren, human and blood elf, Forsaken and dwarf, could bond together for the common good, this could be re-created on a larger scale on Azeroth.

  The problem was that the priests, at least, had a common point they all agreed on even if each saw the Light through a different lens, as it were.

  “There is another notable person I think you’d like to meet,” Faol said to Anduin. “She, too, is from Lordaeron. But do not fear; she yet breathes, though she faced many dangers with courage and the Light’s aid. Come here, my dear.” His voice grew fond as he beckoned to a smiling blond woman. She stepped forward, taking the archbishop’s desiccated hand without hesitation, then turned to regard Anduin.