Before the Storm

by Christie Golden

  “That’s not how you pat yourself on the back.”

  Anduin laughed and turned to Genn, clapping the older man on the shoulder. “I confess, I might want to do a little back patting. But I think the congratulations belongs to them. Those down there. The courage it had to have taken for any of them to be willing to do this…it’s almost unfathomable.”

  He expected an irritated retort. Instead, Genn Greymane was silent, as if seriously considering Anduin’s words. And that, Anduin thought, was a victory right there.

  ARATHI HIGHLANDS FIELD

  Philia had believed that her father as he was now would not be too different from the man she’d loved so much. She was discovering as they spoke and ambled around the field together that she was both wrong and right.

  Parqual’s appearance, especially up close, had shocked her initially. For a brief moment, though she would never tell him, horror and disgust had closed her throat and urged her body to flee. But then he had smiled. And it was her papa’s smile.

  Different—oh, yes. Changed beyond imagining. But he was still himself. Some things he had forgotten, and that pained her. But in many ways, he was still so much himself that she could scarcely believe it.

  At one point, they were chatting happily about history, a topic about which they were both passionate. Without thinking, Philia blurted out, “Oh, Papa, you should write about Arthas and what happened that day!”

  Horrified, she put a hand to her mouth as her father turned very still. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have—”

  “No, it’s all right,” Parqual replied quickly. “It’s something that I’ve thought about. A firsthand account. Primary sources are the most important, you know.”

  Philia did know, and she smiled slightly.

  “I never did, because everyone who would read it already has their own firsthand account. But now…”

  The possibilities. “Papa—you could write it, and we could share it with the Alliance! We only know rumors and whispers. You could let us all know what really happened!”

  He looked at her sadly. “I don’t think our Dark Lady will permit a second meeting, my dear.”

  Philia felt as though her heart had plunged to her toes. “Is…is this our only chance to see each other?”

  “It may well be.”

  She shook her head. “No. No, I won’t accept that. I’ve only just found you again, Papa. I won’t lose you a second time. There has to be a way!”

  Philia expected more sad denials, but instead her father was silent. His lambent gaze was not on her but on the woman who had been pointed out as the leader of the Desolate Council. Elsie Benton stood now with the human priestess who had been so kind to the Forsaken. As if feeling his gaze, the priestess turned her head and looked at Parqual.

  “I think we may have found that way,” Parqual murmured. Gently, he placed a hand on his daughter’s back. “Come. There are people I would like you to meet.”

  * * *

  —

  Calia continued to keep her eyes on the field as she spoke with Elsie. It looked as though all those who remained were having positive conversations with their loved ones. She heard laughter and saw smiles. This is how it should be. The people of Lordaeron haven’t been free to be who or what they wish to be. For this moment, they are.

  There was Osric, talking to his friend Tomas. Over there, two sisters were reunited. There was Ol’ Emma, whom Calia had healed, looking ten years younger as she smiled at her children. And Parqual and Philia were coming to join them. They spoke for a few moments; Calia was too far away to hear what they said.

  Parqual said something to his daughter, then headed alone toward Calia. She felt a flicker of concern; he shouldn’t be approaching her like this. No one was supposed to know that she and Parqual knew each other. Loudly, he said, “Priestess…may this Forsaken have your blessing?”

  “Of course,” she replied.

  He bent his head, whispering to her, “We need you now. It’s time.”

  “Wh-what?”

  “You’ll see. Be ready.”

  Calia steadied herself and called for the Light’s blessing. It came, bathing him in its warm, gold-white glow. Parqual grimaced; the Holy Light healed Forsaken, but it was not pleasant for them. With a nod of appreciation, he turned and rejoined the group. She watched them, alert now. For a while, they simply chatted. And then, too casually, Philia and Parqual walked away from the Felstones. After a moment, the Felstone family, too, began to walk. Slowly and indirectly, so as not to attract too much attention, they were moving from the center of the field toward Stromgarde Keep.

  Saa’ra’s words rushed back to Calia so swiftly that she staggered.

  There are things you must do before that peace will be granted to you. Things that you must understand, that you must integrate into yourself. People who need your help. What one needs in order to heal will always come one’s way, but sometimes it is hard to recognize it. Sometimes, the most beautiful and important gifts come wrapped in pain and blood.

  Was this the moment she had been thinking of ever since she had found her way to the Netherlight Temple and Archbishop Faol? So much had fallen into place so perfectly: the Desolate Council, Anduin’s noble call for this gathering. And now, spontaneously, human and Forsaken had taken a step so courageous that Calia felt both inspired and ashamed.

  Yes. Parqual was right.

  It was time.

  She whirled toward Elsie, her hood falling off with her movement. “Elsie, there’s something you must know. And I pray to the Light that has sent me here this day that you will understand—and support it.” She swallowed hard. “Support…me.”

  ARATHI HIGHLANDS, THORADIN’S WALL

  “Something is wrong,” Sylvanas murmured. “But I cannot put my finger on precisely what.”

  The priestess had said something to Vellcinda that had the Prime Governor agitated. No one else on the field seemed to notice. They were too busy taking strolls with their loved ones.

  And that was it.

  “They’re defecting,” Sylvanas snapped.

  Nathanos was instantly alert, scanning the field with his spyglass. “Several of them are moving in the direction of Stromgarde Keep,” he confirmed, “but that may not be intentional.”

  “Let’s find out,” Sylvanas said. She lifted the horn to her lips and blew three long, clear notes.

  Now to see who comes when called—and who breaks and runs.

  At that moment, one of the priests returned, urging her bat to go as quickly as it could. She looked shocked and sickened.

  “My lady!” she gasped. “The priestess—I didn’t recognize her until her hood fell off—I can scarce believe it—”

  “Spit it out,” Sylvanas snarled, her body taut as a bowstring.

  “My lady—it’s Calia Menethil!”

  Menethil.

  The name was laden, heavy with meaning and portent. It was the name of the monster who had made her. Who had slaughtered and destroyed. It was the name of the king who had ruled Lordaeron. And it was the name of that king’s daughter—his heir.

  And to think she had thought the king of Stormwind an ingenuous fool. He played politics better than she could possibly have imagined.

  Anduin Wrynn had brought a usurper with him. And now, that girl, that damned human child who ought to be long dead, was taking Sylvanas’s own people to join the Alliance.

  “My lady, what are your orders?”

  ARATHI HIGHLANDS FIELD

  In the center of the field, Elsie stared at the queen of Lordaeron. “It’s not possible,” she said. But she knew it was true. Calia had taken care to keep her face hidden in the shadow of her hood. But now the hood was gone and she had turned to look directly at Elsie, and Elsie could not look away.

  �
�You are my people, and I want to help you,” Calia pleaded. “I only came to observe, to begin to get to know the Forsaken of Lordaeron.”

  “Undercity,” Elsie said. “We live in the Undercity.”

  “You didn’t once. You won’t have to live in the shadows anymore. Just—please. Come walk with me. Parqual, the Felstones, all the others—see them? They’re defecting. Anduin will shelter and protect you all; I know he will!”

  “But—the Dark Lady—”

  As if in response, the horn sounded three sharp blasts. Elsie turned her gray-green face back toward the wall and the Forsaken banner that had been unfurled.

  “I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” Elsie said. “I can’t betray my queen. Not even for you.” She turned and shouted, “Retreat! Retreat!”

  ARATHI HIGHLANDS, STROMGARDE KEEP

  Anduin heard the sound of the horn. Baffled, he looked down, trying to ascertain what had caused it. As far as he could see, nothing had changed from a moment—

  He pressed his lips closed to prevent a groan from escaping. There was sudden deep, dull pain inside him.

  “What’s wrong, son?” Genn asked sharply.

  “It is the bell,” Velen said somberly, sadly. Turalyon looked confused, but Greymane’s face went hard. He knew about the bell. About the warning it meant to his young king.

  “The retreat,” Anduin managed, grimacing as the pain increased. “It’s dangerous.” A second pain struck Anduin, different but even more devastating to him. For this was not the bone-hurting ache of the Divine Bell’s handiwork but the knife-sharp pain of a dream shattering before his eyes. With a sick jolt, Anduin saw that the tiny figures who had stood at attention on Thoradin’s Wall were now mounted on bats and flying toward the field.

  Dark rangers.

  “It’s over,” he whispered, and leaned on the parapet. “Get them to safety before it’s too late!”

  On the field below, spread out like markers in the map room, were other tiny figures. Some of them were heading back toward Thoradin’s Wall. Some were returning to the keep.

  And some still stood in the field as if paralyzed.

  The pain wasn’t abating, and Anduin clenched his jaw against it as he looked back at the wall. He forced his fisted hands to open and lifted the spyglass.

  His mind saw things with a strange, swift clarity, and he immediately picked out Archbishop Faol and Calia. The former was close to the wall, urging his charges to rush through the gates to safety. But Calia stayed in the field, arguing with Elsie Benton. The priestess’s hood was down.

  Calia…what are you doing?

  Calia turned away from the Prime Governor, ran forward a few paces, cupped her hands around her mouth, and shouted, “Forsaken! I am Calia Menethil! Head for the keep!”

  “What is that girl doing?” shouted Genn.

  But Anduin was not listening. His gaze was riveted on the pair of women in the field, one human, one Forsaken, and at that moment Elsie Benton dropped like a stone with a black-fletched arrow protruding from her chest.

  Calia turned back toward Elsie, but she was too late. A look of horror was on her face, but there was nothing she could do now for the murdered Prime Governor. Calia shouted again, “To the keep! Run!”

  Anduin jerked back, his mind reeling. Now he saw that everyone, humans and Forsaken both, had broken into a run.

  Sylvanas had moved to the offensive, just like that. Right under their watchful eyes.

  And he, Anduin Wrynn, had put innocent unarmed civilians directly in her path. The only way to correct his terrible mistake was to do everything he could to save them, even if it meant starting a war.

  But even with that thought, the pain did not ebb. Everyone was shouting at him, asking for orders, telling him one thing while someone else was screaming another. But Anduin couldn’t hear any of them. He knew that he needed to listen to what this strange, contradictory gift of the Divine Bell had to say to him. He squeezed his eyes shut and pleaded silently, Light, what is happening? What can I do?

  The answer came. It was swift, blunt, and brutal.

  Protect.

  And mourn.

  “No,” he whispered, protesting even as he accepted the words. His eyes snapped open.

  Genn was raging at him. “—got to get our soldiers out there and—”

  “—stand ready to defend our people by—” It was Turalyon, radiant with the Light. Anduin couldn’t speak, but he nodded to Turalyon that he should proceed.

  Bats swooped and darted over the field, their riders showering it with black lines.

  Each one struck its target. And Anduin understood.

  “Genn,” he said, his voice a harsh rasp. “Genn—she’s killing them. She’s killing them all.”

  Sylvanas Windrunner had kept her word. Her rangers were not attacking humans.

  They were attacking Forsaken. Even those who were returning to the wall.

  This is wrong, he thought. And I am wrong for standing here.

  He made his decision, and the pain ebbed at once. “Whatever happens”—he called over his shoulder, racing toward the one remaining gryphon left—“do not attack the rangers unless they attack us. Is that clear? I need your word!”

  “You have it,” Turalyon stated. Anduin wondered if the paladin had some inkling of what he was about to do or if he was simply being a good soldier. Genn, however, could never be counted on simply to obey without protest.

  “What are you planning?” he demanded. “These aren’t your people. They’re hers! She’ll kill you, boy!”

  Anduin was about to find out.

  For a ghastly moment, the slaughter around Calia Menethil overlapped and blended with the memory of those two terrifying days years ago when she had lain motionless in a ditch while crazed undead rampaged only a few feet away. She was frozen and could only watch in horror as the dark rangers of Sylvanas Windrunner loosed arrows upon the members of the Desolate Council.

  They had come with no hatred in their hearts for Sylvanas. These were only people who wanted to see friends and family they thought were forever beyond their reach. But their warchief, their own Dark Lady, she who had made them and above all others should be safeguarding their well-being, had ordered her rangers to shoot into their midst.

  They aren’t even armed, Calia’s mind said stupidly, as if that were the most important thing in this horrifying betrayal. They had brought only rings and love letters and toys onto this field. They wanted nothing other than kindness and connection.

  I didn’t mean for this to happen, she thought. But that didn’t matter. Nor did it matter that the initial idea to seek sanctuary with the Alliance had come from Parqual. They would have been her people had they lived, and they were her people in undeath, too. And she would not scurry to safety like a coward while her people were being butchered by a jealous usurper queen for daring to race toward what they believed to be a sanctuary.

  She was Calia Menethil. Heir to the throne of Lordaeron. And she would fight—and die—to defend her people. She just had to get them safely to Stromgarde Keep and maintain a barrier of Light between them and the arrows that continued to claim them.

  “To the keep!” she shouted. “Run!”

  And she hastened to do whatever she could to shield her people from the false queen’s rage.

  ARATHI HIGHLANDS, THORADIN’S WALL

  “My queen, what are you doing?”

  Sylvanas heard the shock in her normally calm champion’s voice. She chose to overlook it. On the surface, what was unfolding below—the firing of arrows, the screams and pleas of the Desolate Council as they tasted their Last Deaths could seem perplexing and disturbing.

  “The only thing I can do and still hang on to my kingdom as it is,” she said. “They were defecting.”

  “Some were runni
ng back here, to safety,” he replied.

  “They were,” she agreed. “But how much of that was fear? How tempted were they until that point?” She shook her head. “No, Nathanos. I cannot take the risk. The only Desolate Council members I trust are the ones who returned to me early on, broken and bitter. Truly Desolate. All the others…I cannot allow that sentiment, that hope, to grow. It is an infection ready to spread. I have to cut it out.”

  Slowly, accepting her words, he nodded. “You are letting the humans go.”

  “I have no wish to fight a war when I’m not ready to do so.” She gazed at the growing number of motionless Forsaken corpses on the field. So many had opted for death. “I don’t think the boy king arranged this. It was stupid. He is naive, but he is not stupid. He would not risk war for a handful of Forsaken merchants and laborers.” Her initial suspicion had evaporated quickly. If he had intended this defection, he would have planned better for it. No, Sylvanas placed the blame on the Menethil girl, as reckless and deceitful as her loathed brother. She had gulled both the king of Stormwind and the warchief of the Horde.

  And she was about to die for it.

  “I grow tired of the game,” Sylvanas said. “I will kill the usurper myself. And then the Forsaken will return home, where they belong. With me.”

  She gave her champion a cold smile. “One of the Desolate Council’s desires was not to be reborn again and again. So I have given them two gifts today. A reunion with their loved ones and their final deaths.

  “And now,” she said, grasping her bow and leaping lightly atop a waiting bat, “I am about to consign Calia Menethil to the annals of history’s dead royalty.”