Before the Storm

by Christie Golden

  “Not that I’ve heard. To them, she’s just a fair-haired priestess.”

  Turalyon nodded but still looked concerned.

  Faol continued. “Your king has already told you what we expect will transpire, and he has advised you about what to do if a banner is raised either at Thoradin’s Wall or here at the keep. I wish to avoid tedious repetition, so I’ll just say be alert and move quickly.

  “But I truly hope that doesn’t happen. I and my fellow priestess will be out there with you. Others will be standing by to lend aid if needed. You may be shopkeepers, or blacksmiths, or farmers. But today you are my brothers and sisters. Today we are all servants of the Light. If you’re afraid, don’t be ashamed of it. You’re doing something no one has ever done before, and that can always hold fear. But do know that you are doing the work of the Light. And now, accept its blessings.”

  He and Calia lifted their arms, turning their faces skyward. The sun might be hidden behind clouds, but that did not mean it wasn’t there, sending its life-giving rays to those who dwelled on the face of this world. It was the same with the Light, Anduin thought. It was always present even when it seemed to be far beyond one’s reach.

  A golden glow filled the area: no explosion of blinding illumination but a gentle radiance that made Anduin’s tight chest loosen as he inhaled deeply. He had been awake all night, both unable and unwilling to sleep, but as he closed his eyes and opened to the healing energy, he felt renewed, refreshed, and calm.

  He stepped outside just as the clouds cleared for a moment and a few lone, beautiful rays of sunshine fell upon the group as they made their way out of the sanctum. This, too, was a blessing of the Light, though simple and mundane if something as magnificent as the sun itself could ever be called such things.

  Many of those present—including Anduin himself—had never been to this historic site. They were allowed to roam within the confines of the fortress, though not outside it. Anduin would put no one unnecessarily at risk by allowing them to venture too far. He believed that Sylvanas would keep her word, but neither of them had said anything about spies. He had SI:7 to observe and report; she had her Deathstalkers to do the same. Their presence was yet another reason to be concerned about Calia, and she was under strict instructions to keep her cloak’s hood up every time she ventured outside an enclosed space.

  Most would return to the ships to sleep, though some had asked to remain inside Stromgarde Keep. Plenty of food, clean water, tents, and dry firewood had been provided for their comfort. Anduin watched them as they departed the chapel, some in groups of newly found friends, others in solitude. Some stayed behind to talk to Calia and Faol, and that made Anduin smile. Among them he noticed the passionate and headstrong young Philia, who seemed to almost palpably radiate joy at Emma, an elderly woman who had lost so many to Arthas’s war against the living—a sister and her family and, even more tragically, Emma’s own three sons. “Ol’ Emma,” as Anduin had learned some called her, was not the hardiest of women, and her mind had a tendency to wander. But she seemed alert and her color was good as she spoke first to Calia and then, cautiously, to Faol.

  “I have, in some ways, learned more lessons in the past several months than in a thousand years,” Turalyon said, following Anduin’s gaze. “There’s much I have been wrong about.”

  “Genn still thinks this is a bad idea.”

  “He’s right to worry. Sylvanas is…slippery. But no one can truly know another’s heart. You have to make the best call with the information you have—and your own instincts. Genn is fueled by anger and hatred—not all the time, but often. You and I are fueled by other things.”

  “The Light,” Anduin said quietly.

  “The Light, yes,” Turalyon agreed. “But we should let it guide us, not command us. We also have our own minds and hearts. We should make use of those as well.”

  Anduin said nothing. He had heard of the battles that Turalyon and Alleria had been fighting for a millennium. He knew they had been devotees of a naaru called Xe’ra, who, they thought, had epitomized what they loved best about the Light. Instead, Xe’ra had revealed herself to be stern and implacable—dangerously so.

  “One day soon,” Anduin said at last, “I would talk to you about your experiences with the Light. But for now, I understand your words and agree with them.”

  Turalyon nodded. “I will share what I can in the hope that it will help you be the ruler your grandfather and father were. And I will ask my son, Arator, to come to Stormwind soon. You two are very similar.”

  “From what I hear, he’s the better swordsman.” Anduin grinned.

  “Nearly every swordsman I know says the same thing, so you’re in good company.” Turalyon looked up at the sky. “Still late afternoon. What are your plans?”

  “I’ll walk with Genn. Have him tell me what he remembers of this place. It will help distract us both. Then…” He shrugged. “I don’t think I’ll be getting much sleep tonight.”

  “Nor I. I seldom sleep before battle.”

  “This isn’t a battle,” Anduin said, not for the first time. Turalyon regarded him kindly with warm brown eyes, a hint of a smile on his scarred visage.

  “Tomorrow, you, the forty-one people on the field, and everyone watching will be engaging in a battle not for property or riches but for the hearts and minds of the future,” Turalyon said. “I would call that a battle, Your Majesty, and one well worth fighting.”

  * * *

  —

  That night, torches were lit along the ramparts of the old fortress, something the walls had not seen in many years. The warm, dancing light chased away darkness but coexisted with the flickering shadows of its own creation. The night was oddly clear, and the moonlight was kind to the area.

  Anduin had wrapped himself in a cape and now stood looking out over the rolling landscape. Thoradin’s Wall was only a slight smudge of pale stone in the distance. Anduin saw nothing moving there or in the field that stretched between the two outposts.

  He closed his eyes for a moment, breathing the cool, moist air. Light, you’ve guided and shaped me for most of my life. And since my father died, I’ve woken up every morning with the fate of tens of thousands of people resting on my shoulders. You have helped me bear this burden, and I have been blessed to have many wise people to rely upon. But this one’s on me. It feels like the right thing to do. The bones that were shattered by the bell are easy tonight. My heart is clear, but my mind…

  He shook his head and said aloud, “Father, you always seemed so certain. And you acted so swiftly. I wonder if you ever doubted as I do.”

  “No one save a madman or a child is completely free from doubt.”

  Anduin turned, laughing a little in embarrassment. “My apologies,” he said to Calia. “You stumbled upon my ramblings.”

  “I apologize for intruding,” she said. “I thought you might want company.”

  He considered declining her offer, then said, “Stay if you like. I might not be the best companion, though.”

  “Nor I,” she admitted. “We’ll be awkward together, then.”

  Anduin chuckled. He was growing fond of Calia. At nearly forty, she was much older than he was, but she felt less like a parent figure, as Jaina had been, and more like a big sister. Was it the Light in her that made him feel so easy in her presence? Or was it simply who she was? She had been a big sister once.

  “Would it pain you to talk of Arthas?” he asked. “Before things…before.”

  “No. I loved my little brother, but few people seem to grasp that. He was not always a monster. And that little boy is how I’ll always remember him.”

  A sudden smile crossed her features. “Did you know,” she said, “he was once terrible at swordplay?”

  Elsie hoped that the Alliance participants in the Gathering had had a pleasant journey. It was a much longer trip for them than it
was for the Forsaken. The Arathi Highlands were comparatively close, only a short flight via bat.

  Of course, a short flight via bat was still exciting, as she so seldom traveled anywhere other than Brill to visit some friends. She could hardly believe that the day had finally come, that this meeting was actually happening, as her bat landed and she slipped off onto the soft grass at a site named Galen’s Fall.

  It was an apt name, as the human prince Galen Trollbane, onetime heir to the once-great kingdom of Stromgarde, had been slain on this spot years earlier by the Forsaken. Lady Sylvanas’s apothecaries had raised him from death’s grasp, and for a time he had served her. Then he rebelled, taking his men and declaring that he owed no allegiance to anyone other than himself and that he would restore Stromgarde to its former glory.

  Stromgarde Keep lay to the south; one could see it from here. It was still in ruins, and Galen had fallen twice—once as a human, once as a Forsaken. Such, mused Elsie, is the fate of those who would defy the Banshee Queen.

  A Forsaken handler took the reins and fed the bat a large dead insect, which it chomped happily as it was led away.

  Parqual was waiting for her, his gray-green lips turned up in a smile. In his arms he held a ratty old teddy bear. “I’m glad you came,” he said, “even though you don’t have anyone waiting for you.”

  “Of course I had to come,” she said. “I had to see you reunite with that daughter you keep going on and on about.” She nodded at the toy. “You must remember, Philia is going to be a big girl now. She might be a little old for a teddy bear. Quite a few years have passed.”

  He chuckled. “I know, I know. I’m just so pleased she wanted to see me.” He indicated the stuffed animal. “Brownie Bear here was the first toy I gave her when she was born. She was afraid she’d forget it on her trip to Stormwind, so she left it behind. It’s…one of the few things of my old life that I have. And I wanted to share that with her.”

  Elsie beamed at her friend, letting his pleasure and anticipation be hers just a little bit. She looked around contentedly. Although many on the council had met with rejection on their first—or sometimes second or third—attempts to contact the living, every member finally did find someone who would agree to come. It was going to be a memorable day.

  “She’s not here yet,” Parqual continued. “I wonder if she had second thoughts about coming.”

  “I don’t see why she would tell us she would come and then not,” Elsie said. As she looked around, she noticed that Annie Lansing had a basket of sachets, flowers in full bloom, and scarves and she was allowing council members to make a selection. Annie had no jawbone, and she currently had a pretty green scarf wrapped around the lower part of her face.

  “Oh, that’s such a nice thing Annie is doing,” Elsie exclaimed. “It’s going to be difficult for our loved ones to see what’s happened to us. A scarf or a sachet will help.” Some Forsaken had survived their time with death better than others; a gentling of their decomposition would assist the Alliance members in seeing past the body, which had endured so much, so they could focus instead on the person.

  “That’s a fine idea!” Parqual’s face was not too disfigured, and carefully chosen trousers and a jacket covered his exposed bones. But he was aware that to the living, he might not smell particularly pleasant. “I think I’ll get myself a sachet.”

  “You’d better hurry; they look very popular!” Elsie smiled as Parqual, clutching Brownie Bear, shuffled off quickly toward the thronged Annie.

  Elsie turned her attention to the ramparts of the great wall and the line of archers atop them. When one of them turned around, Elsie started as she realized that these women, strong and lithe and still beautiful even in their undeath, could only be Sylvanas’s elite dark rangers. They stood as still as if carved from stone, their quivers full of arrows, their bows held in one hand. Only their cloaks and their long hair moved in the breeze.

  Nathanos Blightcaller was atop the wall as well, talking quietly to them. He met Elsie’s gaze and nodded to her. She nodded back.

  “There she is!” someone called, and Elsie turned.

  The Dark Lady was coming.

  Sylvanas rode atop one of the bats, her white-gold hair and glowing red eyes marking her as unmistakably as her bearing. The bat came in for a landing, and Sylvanas leaped gracefully from its back. No stiff movement of bone or sloughing skin for her. Her face was smooth, with high cheekbones, and her movements were as lithe as they had been when she yet breathed. Elsie felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude that her leader was here to support them even though Sylvanas had concerns.

  The fire-red gaze swept the small crowd and alighted on Elsie.

  “Ah, Prime Governor,” Sylvanas said. “It is good to see you again. I trust that no one has forgotten the procedure I outlined for what is to come.”

  Forgotten? Elsie had it emblazoned on her mind, and she was certain everyone else did, too. No one wanted to jeopardize future meetings by causing anything to go wrong at today’s.

  Sylvanas turned and pointed at the figures on the wall. “A few reminders, just in case. These archers are here for your protection. Anduin has the same number along the ramparts of Stromgarde Keep. You already know Archbishop Alonsus Faol. He and another priest will be accompanying the Alliance humans as they head toward the meeting site, which will be halfway between the fortresses. They will be moving about with you to facilitate conversations—and to monitor them.”

  Her gaze roamed over the assembled council members. “When you engage with your Alliance counterparts, you will speak of nothing other than your past history with them. You will not discuss your existence with me in the Undercity. They will not discuss their current lives, either. Faol and the other priest have agreed that if they happen upon anyone, Forsaken or human, indulging in such conversations—or indeed anything that could smack of treason or disrespect to the other side—those parties will receive a reminder. A second time, and they will be escorted off the field. Treat the archbishop and the priest with appropriate courtesy and obey them. Dawn is almost here. Once day breaks, if we are prepared, I will sound the horn once, and you may take the field. You will have until dusk. If for any reason I deem it necessary to call a halt to the meeting, I will sound the horn again three times and erect the Forsaken banner. Should this happen, return immediately.”

  Elsie wanted to know how immediate “immediately” was. Surely, if one wanted to express a final word of caring, or perhaps even an embrace if the Alliance member was brave enough, that was not a treasonous action. But one did not question the Dark Lady.

  “When the meeting has concluded, the horn will alert you that it is time to come home,” Sylvanas finished. “Is that understood?”

  One obeyed, especially in this situation, in which misconduct or even a simple misunderstanding on either side could mean a fresh outbreak of a war that—well, no one needed that right now, certainly.

  So Elsie stayed silent. When the horn blew, her people would say farewell and return right away. It was clear-cut and brooked no disagreement.

  There was the soft thudding of hooves on grass as one of Sylvanas’s dark rangers led a bony horse to the Dark Lady. She nodded and took the reins, then returned her glowing gaze to her subjects.

  “I ride now to meet with the young human king. I do this for you. Because you are Forsaken. I will not be long. And then you may go forth and meet the humans who had once been part of your former life. You will see if they still have a place in your current existence.”

  She paused, and when she spoke again, Elsie thought she heard threads of regret lacing the words.

  “You should prepare for great disappointment. Though they may try, the living cannot truly understand us. Only we can. Only we know. But you have asked this of me, and so I give it to you. I will return shortly.”

  Without another word, she swung herself into the saddl
e and turned the skeletal horse’s head.

  Alone, weaponless, Sylvanas Windrunner, the Dark Lady of the Forsaken, the Banshee Queen, rode to meet the king of Stormwind.

  Elsie had never felt prouder to be a Forsaken.

  Anduin had seen Lady Sylvanas Windrunner before, of course. All the major political figures in Azeroth had assembled in the Temple of the White Tiger to witness judgment passed on Garrosh Hellscream. He suspected but did not know for certain that she had been involved with the plot against Hellscream’s life. Certainly he wouldn’t put it past her. Sylvanas, she who was dead and yet “lived,” had no compunctions about ending the lives of others.

  There was no question in Anduin’s mind that forbidding Genn to accompany him to this meeting had been the right thing. Greymane had proved a worthy and valuable ally, and he had been open about his affection toward Anduin. But there were some positions you just didn’t put someone in. So close to the person Genn hated more than anyone in the world was one such. Anduin trusted Genn and was fond of him, but he knew that here, but a few paces away from his enemy, Genn probably would have attacked. And whether Genn died or Sylvanas did, war would have broken out at the worst possible time.

  Anduin did not need Shalamayne or even the more familiar mace, Fearbreaker. His weapon was the Light. And of course, Sylvanas was deadly enough without a bow. All she needed to do was open her mouth and utter a wail, and he would perish.

  As he rode the white-coated Reverence along the soft earthen road toward the meeting site, a small hill midway between their respective fortresses, he saw a still-tiny shape approaching.

  Sylvanas was mounted on one of her unnerving skeletal steeds. Reverence’s nostrils flared as he caught the scent of death and decay, but true to his name, the horse didn’t falter. He was a trained war mount. Ordinary horses would be unsettled by the scent of blood or bodies. They would avoid stepping on other creatures if possible. Not warhorses. In battle, Reverence would be an extension of Anduin and an additional weapon, running down enemies and trampling them underfoot. The horse was trained to act counter to his instincts.