Before the Storm

by Christie Golden

  “Why is that, dear?” Vellcinda hadn’t been terribly old when she had died. A young sixty, she had always said. “I’m far less frightening than Doctor Halsey.”

  The blacksmith, Tevan Whitfield, had chuckled, a raspy, hollow sound. “That’s certainly true. No, I mean…when I was alive, I felt immortal. I didn’t take care of myself, and I was a bit reckless. Now I am immortal, technically. But because injury is the only thing that can threaten that, I’m suddenly aware of how fragile flesh is.”

  “Flesh has always been fragile.” She inspected the hand. She’d sewn it on well. She noticed again that it didn’t have calluses, nor were the muscles strong. The previous owner of the hand the blacksmith Tevan now wore probably had been some sort of artist or entertainer.

  She tapped the fleshy palm of the hand gently with her forefinger bones. “Can you feel that?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Excellent.” She regarded him levelly. “I must let you know that this hand won’t be as strong as you’re used to.”

  “A few weeks of hammering will take care of that.”

  Vellcinda gave him a compassionate look. “No, dear,” she said gently, “it won’t. You can’t grow muscle anymore.”

  His face fell. Not literally. His face hadn’t decayed much at all. He was, in fact, rather handsome for a Forsaken.

  “Come back if you can’t use it properly,” she said. “We’ll see if we can’t find a better one for you.” She patted the hand gently.

  “You see?” Tevan had said. “This is what I’m talking about. In time, we’ll just…wear ourselves away.”

  “That’s what happens in life, too,” Vellcinda reminded him briskly. “We can’t all be pretty, nigh-immortal things like elves. The proper attitude is that we must accept what we have and be grateful for it. You and I and the others are here. And that’s a lovely thing. Nothing lasts forever, and if we die and can’t come back, well, we’ve had a second chance, and that’s more than many have had.”

  Tevan smiled. With his intact face, it was a pleasant expression. Vellcinda had no false modesty about her own face, which was somewhat the worse for wear from being a lazy layabout in her grave for so long. She’d been plain even as a living, breathing human. Her husband had always said she was beautiful to him, though, and she believed him.

  That was what love was, wasn’t it? Seeing with the heart and not the eyes and finding beauty there.

  “You’re right,” the blacksmith said. “I don’t think I ever thought about it like that. I chose to receive the Gift. I know others didn’t. At the time, I thought them fools. But now I wonder. I know Lady Sylvanas is trying to find ways that we can continue our existence. But what if we weren’t meant to?” He gestured to his fine new noncallused hand. “How much should we do, how far should we go, just to keep existing?”

  Vellcinda had smiled. “Goodness, for a blacksmith, your thoughts are quite philosophical.”

  “Maybe it’s my new hand.”

  Tevan had been the first with whom Vellcinda had conducted such discussion, but he would not be the last. Once the idea had come into her head, Vellcinda found she couldn’t stop thinking about it.

  Now, months after that conversation, the leader of the Desolate Council stood in the throne room of the Undercity, in the spot where Sylvanas Windrunner had stood for so long until she had left to lead the Horde. Beside Vellcinda on the top dais were the other four leading members of the governing council, who were called, simply and logically, the Governors. On the second step, just below them, were the seven known as the Ministers, who would implement the policies the Governors created. At the bottom were those who Vellcinda thought were actually the most important members of the council: the ten Listeners. Every day, they would meet and speak with those among the Forsaken who had questions, comments, or complaints about how the leadership governed. They reported directly to the Governors. Although any citizen of the Undercity was free to flag down any member of the council—including the Prime Governor, Vellcinda herself—the Listeners were more readily available.

  Thus far, things seemed to be going swimmingly. Vellcinda looked out over the calm crowd that filled the room to overflowing and continued outside. She was so very pleased. Today, more than ever, they needed to stand together, work together, for the betterment of everyone until their Dark Lady returned.

  Today they were holding a service for those Forsaken who had experienced their Last Death, fighting against the terrifying evil of the Burning Legion. Vellcinda had spoken with the Dark Lady’s champion, Nathanos Blightcaller, on his recent visit to the Undercity and had implored him to persuade Sylvanas to return.

  “I know she has many responsibilities,” she had told him. “But surely she can spend a few hours with us. Please, tell her to come for the ceremony we will be holding for those who willingly accepted death on behalf of the Horde. She doesn’t have to stay long if her duties call her, but it would mean so much.”

  Nathanos had said he would carry the message. But there had been no sign that Sylvanas would come.

  She waited a few moments longer just in case. The Forsaken in the crowd waited patiently, as they always did. Finally, their leader sighed.

  “I suppose you all want me to speak,” Vellcinda said. “So I’ll try to say a little something. Forgive me if I clear my throat a few times; we’re all too familiar with that tickling of the ichor!”

  That brought some laughter, raspy and guttural. Vellcinda continued. “I want to first acknowledge our friends who made the journey to be here today. I see blood elves, and trolls, and orcs, and even a few goblins and pandaren. Thank you for standing with us to honor those who fell from among our dwindling numbers. I’m particularly grateful for all the tauren out there. If not for you, we might all be extinct.”

  There were representatives of all the Horde races there, but she saw more tauren than any other. It was thanks to the tauren that the Forsaken had been admitted into the Horde. Vellcinda shuddered to think about what would have happened to her people without that protection.

  “Even so, with the exception of our kind friends who stand here with us, I fear it is, sadly, accurate to say that many of the living still don’t accept us. And these individuals seem to think that because we’ve already been dead, we don’t really care about life, or whatever you choose to call our existence. They seem to think that we should suffer less when those of our numbers perish. Well, they’re flat-out wrong. We do care. We do grieve.

  “Our queen is hunting for a way to increase our numbers by bringing back the fallen from the dead. Making more Forsaken. But what those of us assembled here today really wish from her is to know that she values the Forsaken she already has. Not just us as her people—which of course we are—but as individuals. To accept that some of us are content with just a second chance and might not want a third or a fourth but the Last Death instead.

  “We stand here today, thinking of those who did experience their Last Deaths. They are gone, utterly. Their blood doesn’t flow in the veins of their children and on to generations—at least not generations who will ever live here and interact with us. Those Forsaken are lost, but they are also at peace. Reunited at last with those they loved in life. Let us honor their loss by never forgetting their names. Who they were. What they did.”

  Vellcinda steeled herself. “I’ll go first. On this day, I remember Tevan Whitfield. He was a blacksmith, and he once told me that he was more afraid of death as a Forsaken than he had been as a living man. And yet when he was asked to serve, he did so. He made weapons that enabled others to fight the foe. He mended armor when it was damaged as we mend bodies when they are damaged. He faced his greatest fear and lost that gamble. I’ll remember you always, Tevan. You were a good friend.”

  She nodded to Parqual Fintallas, who stood beside her. He cleared his throat and began to speak of a woman who had been a warrior in
life and in her undeath, until her body had been hacked to pieces by a fel reaver. The remembrances spread out like ripples from a pond. First from those who stood on the dais, then the Ministers, and then the Listeners. Then, one by one, members of the crowd, too, began to speak.

  So many of them had lost their families on that long-ago awful day, when Arthas had returned, that it was rare to see an intact one. Most Forsaken had made new families—unions made with those whom they had never known in life but who were just as important.

  As Vellcinda listened, holding her friend Tevan in her thoughts, she was sad, but she was content. All mourned, but no one wept. No one railed against injustice. But more important to her was that no one was angry. She had come to believe that anger wasn’t good for the Forsaken. Many already weren’t thinking too clearly, with their brains usually being rotten to some degree or other. As far as Vellcinda was concerned, rage just muddied the waters until no one could see where he or she was trying to swim.

  There were some in the Undercity who resented the role the Desolate Council had created for itself, but Vellcinda had been firm that it was only a stopgap measure. Supplies needed to be brought in. Replacement limbs had to be attached.

  “Gracious,” Vellcinda had said once at a public meeting, “if our dear Sylvanas should step through that door, I’d be more than happy to say, ‘Hello, Dark Lady, we’ve missed you terribly. Please do take over running this great city. It’s a very wearying thing!’ ”

  As a servant, she had prepared meals, tended the sick, scrubbed bathtubs, and emptied chamber pots. She’d done what needed doing, and as far as she was concerned, she’d much rather step back and let others who were better at leadership step up. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d just sat and enjoyed watching the calming flow of the green canals.

  She returned to the present, chiding herself for woolgathering. When the last person had finished talking, she looked at the gathered crowd. “My, I’m so proud of all of you. And of those who gave all they had for the Horde. Thank you for coming.”

  And that was it. The crowd dispersed, and she watched them go. She was disappointed that Sylvanas hadn’t accepted the invitation to attend but it was not unexpected.

  “Prime Governor Vellcinda,” came a calm voice. She turned, surprised and delighted.

  “Why, Champion Blightcaller,” she said. “How good of you to come. I…don’t suppose…?”

  He shook his head. “No. Our queen has urgent business to attend to. But,” he added, “she has sent me to learn more about what is happening in her absence and to let you know that she does intend to visit shortly. She regrets that she was unable to be here today.”

  “Oh, that is so kind of her! I’m pleased to hear that.” She patted his arm. “I’m old enough to read between the lines, young man. Lady Sylvanas is afraid she has another Putress on her hands. But don’t fret. We’re just a group of concerned citizens, caretakers of a sort, minding the house while the mistress is gone. Why don’t you come around for a visit this afternoon? We’ll be happy to discuss what we’re trying to do. Perhaps you would care for some tea?” Vellcinda liked to brew tea, to smell it, to hold the warm cup in her hands, even if she did not drink the beverage.

  He looked slightly baffled and opened his mouth to reply. But before he could do so, Vellcinda heard another voice. “Ah, precisely the fellow I have come here to meet. Well, not quite, but close enough.”

  Vellcinda and Nathanos both turned to see a rather short Forsaken dressed in priest’s robes. She didn’t recognize him, but that wasn’t surprising. The Undercity wasn’t vast, but there were still a lot of people here, not to mention all those who were simply passing through.

  “I’ve not had the pleasure,” she said.

  The newcomer bowed. “Archbishop Alonsus Faol,” he said. Vellcinda was surprised. It had been a well-known name not so long ago. She was pleased he had not perished with so many others.

  “Oh, my,” she said. “It’s an honor.”

  Even Nathanos Blightcaller bowed to the archbishop. “Indeed it is. What is it you wish of me, sir?”

  “I have a letter. Actually, two. The first one is for your warchief. The second one is for someone named Elsie Benton.”

  Vellcinda swayed slightly. Nathanos caught her arm, looking at her with concern, but she smiled and waved him off. “It’s been a long time since I heard that name. Only my family and closest friends called me that.”

  The archbishop’s expression softened. “Then…here. Your letters.”

  He handed each of them a tightly rolled scroll, and Vellcinda took hers with a trembling hand. Her eyes flew wide as she saw the wax stamp, which was blue, with the imprint of the lion of Stormwind.

  And she knew at once what it was.

  So did Nathanos. “This is from the king of Stormwind,” he snapped, his red eyes blazing with anger as he turned to Faol. “What are you doing, fraternizing with an enemy of the Horde?”

  “But as I’m not a member of the Horde, the king is not my enemy,” the archbishop said pleasantly. “I serve the Light. I’m a priest, and so is King Anduin. The letter is for your queen, and it’s important. You should make sure that she sees it. But,” he added, “it’s not immediately dire. I suggest that you do as you had intended. Spend some time here in the Undercity. Take your thoughts and this missive back to the warchief. And you, dear lady…”

  Faol laid a gentle hand on her arm. “This missive, I am sorry to say, does contain bad news. I’m so very sorry.”

  Vellcinda was glad of the warning as she broke the seal, opened the scroll, and read:

  To Elsie Benton,

  I do not even know if you still exist. But I feel compelled to ask Archbishop Faol to search for you while he is in the Undercity. If you are reading this, I assume his quest was successful.

  It is with the deepest sorrow that I must inform you that your husband, Wyll Benton, passed away peacefully this afternoon. I hope it comforts you to know he did not die alone; I was with him.

  Wyll served my father and me devotedly for many years. He did not speak to me of his family; I suspect it was too painful for him to recall those times and what he thought was your fate. He called out for you before he died and hoped to see you again.

  I follow the path of a priest, as you may know, and I pleaded with him to allow me to heal him. He refused, and I respected his wish.

  I have resolved to do all I can so that those who are Forsaken can reunite with their human friends and families, if only briefly. There are some things, I believe, that transcend the politics of kings and queens and generals. Family is one of them. To this end, I have sent a missive to your warchief. I hope she agrees with me.

  I close by fulfilling a promise asked of me by my friend Wyll: telling you that he always loved only you and that he will wait for you.

  Again, please accept my sincerest condolences.

  And a signature in an elegant, educated hand: King Anduin Llane Wrynn.

  “My poor Wyll,” Vellcinda said, her voice trembling. “Archbishop, please thank King Anduin for me. I’m grateful my husband didn’t die alone. No one should die alone. You tell the king that I think this is a fine plan. I hope our warchief does, too. I’d have been so glad to have seen Wyll one more time.”

  “What plan?” Nathanos demanded, looking from Vellcinda to Faol suspiciously.

  “This,” Vellcinda said, handing him the scroll. As Nathanos read, Faol said, “The outline for the king of Stormwind’s proposition is clarified further in the scroll to be given to Warchief Sylvanas. I will be here for a few days, and I am happy to answer any questions you or Vellcinda might have.”

  Looking displeased, Nathanos returned the missive. Clutching the precious scroll, the Prime Governor of the Desolate Council corrected Faol.

  “Elsie,” she said. “I think it’s time I went by Elsie again.”


  Lu, la lu, my dearest child,

  Lu, la lu, lu la lay,

  Lordaeron says, “Go to sleep.”

  Azeroth says, “Dream you deep.”

  Lu, la lu, la lu, la lay,

  Safe in my arms you’ll stay.

  Calia sang softly to the dreaming child she held. This precious little one would one day be heir to the throne of Lordaeron.

  No. No, there was no Lordaeron, not anymore. There was only the Undercity, inhabited by the dead. Her father’s crown had been broken and bloodied and now was lost to time. Calia would never wear it now. This drowsing, dreaming infant would never wear it, either. And that pained her. A single tear trickled down her face to land on the rosiest, softest cheek in the world.

  The child who was by all rights the trueborn heir to the throne blinked, the small mouth forming a pout. Calia lifted the bundle and kissed the tear away, tasting salt on her lips.

  And the baby laughed as her mother began once again to sing the old, old lullaby, glancing up as her husband came in to kiss the top of his wife’s head. He placed his hand on her shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze—

  —the bony claw digging deep and—

  Calia screamed. She bolted upright, her heart slamming against her chest, gasping for breath. For an interminable, horrible instant, she could feel the pain of the undead hand that grabbed her. Then she blinked, and the horror retreated into memory.

  She buried her face in her hands, realizing it was wet with tears, and tried to still her shaking.

  It was only a memory. It wasn’t real.

  But it had been, once.

  She slipped off the bed, reached for a robe, and then padded barefoot to Saa’ra.

  No matter what the hour, there was usually someone about in the Netherlight Temple. Someone was always coming in or heading out. Those who made this place their home knew of Calia’s night terrors and had made it clear they were available at any time if she needed company or to talk. But she only ever wanted to speak to Saa’ra.