Before the Storm

by Christie Golden

  ARATHI HIGHLANDS FIELD

  Anduin prayed to the Light as he never had before. These people—both human and Forsaken—had done nothing but try to see past their old hatred, their fear. They had reached out in love and in trust—

  —trust in me—

  —to do what was right, and good, and kind.

  Even as he urged the gryphon on to his greatest speed, he realized with a sick, sinking horror that he would be too late.

  Up ahead, Osric Strang ran beside his friend Tomas. The young king reached for the Light, but before he could release it upon the running Forsaken, an arrow sang past his ear and implanted itself in Tomas’s bony chest. It went clear through, piercing the spine with inhuman precision.

  No…

  Anduin glanced around wildly. There was Philia, with her father, Parqual, running with her arm around him protectively, as if she were the parent, not he. But the arrows of the dark rangers were as merciless as those who fired them. They struck true, and Parqual tumbled in midstride. Philia fell to her knees, her arms going around the decaying body and her sobs ripping Anduin to shreds.

  He could reach none of them in time. Not even any of the Felstone boys, who were running toward the keep as fast as their long legs could go. One of them cradled the frightened, elderly Emma in his arms, trying to shield her with his own body, not understanding that he and his undead brothers were the ones in danger, not their mother.

  Three arrows sang. Three arrows reached their targets. Three bodies toppled to the ground, their mother hitting the earth hard and crying out their names.

  The other Forsaken on this lethal field were much too far away. Anduin knew he could not save them. But he could save Emma.

  He brought the gryphon down and jumped off his back, gathering up the weeping woman and calling to the Light. She has lost them all, now. Please, give her hope as well as healing. Her boys would want her to live.

  Emma’s eyelids fluttered. She opened them and gazed up at him. Her eyes were swollen with tears. “All of them,” she said.

  “I know,” Anduin said. “And you must live for all of them, since they cannot.” He lifted her—she was so light, so frail—and eased her atop the gryphon. “He’ll take you back safely.”

  She nodded, summoning her courage, and held on tightly as the beast gathered himself and ascended into a sky crowded with bats and gryphons bearing dark rangers and priests. Despite the provocation, Anduin’s priests had not attacked, for which Anduin was grateful.

  Sylvanas Windrunner had killed her own people. But she had ordered restraint when it came to humans. At least thus far. Anduin’s gaze swept the field. There were a few more Stormwind residents running toward the keep, but they drew no fire from the dark rangers.

  But a warning began to sound in the back of his mind. If they were done with the slaughter of their own kind and they did not want to attack the humans who had participated in the Gathering, why were they here?

  And the answer slammed into his head. He frantically began to scan the field for the one person, living or undead, who could possibly pose a threat to Sylvanas Windrunner: Calia Menethil.

  She was running as fast as she could. A warm golden field enveloped her: the Light, shielding her from harm. For now. Anduin cast a spell on himself as he raced after her, trying to close the distance between them.

  A shadow passed overhead. Anduin looked up, and his heart surged as a single bat flew over him, low and close, an intimidation and a taunt. He caught a glimpse of glowing red eyes, and then the bat was gone, moving forward more swiftly than he could ever run toward the Light-shielded uncrowned queen of Lordaeron.

  Sylvanas was running her down like a hawk would a rabbit. The shield would protect Calia, but it would not last forever, and then there would be a few heartbeats during which she would be completely vulnerable. If he could just reach her in time, he could call down another shield for her. But his decision to send the elderly Emma back to safety on his gryphon meant that he was relying on his own two feet. He called on the Light for strength and speed and a shield of his own.

  He knew that he had made himself the perfect target. So be it. If Sylvanas wanted war, let her start one.

  But even as he closed the distance, he knew it would not be enough. The cry of denial scraped Anduin’s throat raw as he uttered it. The world around him seemed to shatter like glass; all its bright shards of hope and idealism and joy were rendered jagged and sharp.

  The glowing aura of protection around the true queen of Lordaeron shimmered, then vanished.

  He watched, only a few yards too far away to save Calia, as Sylvanas Windrunner drew back a black arrow, slowly, languidly, savoring the moment, and then let it fly.

  Violet tendrils of smoke twined around the weapon as it flew unerringly toward its target. Time seemed to slow as Calia, her hood down and her blond hair flying, was struck in the center of the back—directly through the heart. She arched and fell forward, hitting the ground hard, arms and legs akimbo, making her last movements clumsy and graceless.

  Anduin called on the Light, but he was too far, too slow, and there was no response.

  Calia Menethil, heir to the throne of Lordaeron, was dead.

  Now, past all ability to help, to heal, he reached her and dropped to his knees beside her. Once more, a shadow fell over his body as well as his heart, and he looked up, devastated and furious, to see Sylvanas Windrunner smirking down at him, another arrow nocked to the bowstring.

  The air was filled with the sound of beating membranous wings as she was joined by a host of her rangers. They, too, had arrows nocked, all aimed at him.

  A spurt of fear raced through him, then absolute white-hot fury. The shield of Light still glimmered around him, but it would not last. He had a choice. He could save himself and immediately run to the keep, protected by the Light, or he could gather Calia’s limp frame and, vulnerable to even a single ordinary arrow, bear her from the field.

  Turalyon kept calling this a battlefield. I kept telling him he was wrong.

  Silently, Anduin gathered Calia’s still-warm body in his arms and rose. He looked up at the dark rangers, at their dark mistress, and gazed evenly into those glowing red orbs.

  “You don’t want a war,” he said calmly.

  “Don’t I?” She drew back on the string farther. Anduin could hear the bone bow creak. “If I kill you today, too, I’ll have a matched set of dead royals: a queen and a king.”

  He shook his head. “If you wanted war, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. But I have a right to declare it. You promised not to kill any of my people.” He lifted Calia’s body, letting her still frame say all that needed to be said.

  “Ah, but she is not one of yours, is she?” Sylvanas’s voice had a cold but angry edge to it, and the hair along Anduin’s arms lifted. “She is—was—a citizen of Lordaeron. Its queen. You brought a usurper onto the field, Anduin Wrynn. I would be well within my rights to consider that a hostile action. Who violated the treaty first?”

  “She came as a healer!”

  “She leaves as a corpse. Did you think I would not discover what you had done?”

  “I swear to you by the Light, I acted in good faith. I gave no orders to your people to defect. You can believe that or not. But if you strike me down, my people and all of Stormwind’s allies will retaliate. And they will do so holding nothing back.”

  Her eyes narrowed. Anduin knew she understood the lesson of this day’s tragic events. She was not universally loved among her people. He was. She ruled with an iron fist. He ruled with compassion. Neither of them was ready for a war. Anduin said a silent prayer that Sylvanas would not start one.

  The silence stretched on. “I grieve for the fallen today,” Anduin said. “But they did not die by my hand. Calia Menethil was indeed not my subject. As for wha
t she thought she could accomplish…I truly do not know. Whatever it was, she paid the price for it. I am going to take her body back to the Netherlight Temple and the Conclave she so loved. If you want a war, you can start it now.”

  He turned, feeling a phantom tingle in his exposed back as he began to walk calmly, without rushing, toward Stromgarde Keep. The shield around him faded and disappeared.

  Nothing happened. Then he heard the bats utter their unnerving, high-pitched sounds and a rapid, loud flapping of leathery wings. And then they were gone.

  There would be no war between the Alliance and the Horde today.

  The next few days were a blur of regret, pain, and soul-searching for Anduin Wrynn.

  Genn, predictably, had been furious, but to Anduin’s surprise, he had bitten his tongue when the young king walked through the gates of Stromgarde carrying the body of Calia Menethil. Faol was heartbroken, receiving the corpse of his beloved friend humbly from Anduin’s arms, as stunned as Anduin had been at Calia’s turn and riddled with remorse for not anticipating it.

  “I would never have brought her today if I’d had the slightest idea,” he said.

  “I know,” Anduin said. “Take her home. And I will do the same for my people. I’ll come to the temple as soon as I can.”

  It tore at him to see the people who once had been so full of hope look so shocked and devastated as they boarded the ships that had borne them to the Arathi Highlands and its ghosts. Even those who had not parted well from their Forsaken counterparts looked shaken. Anduin usually was able to find the right words at the right time, but now he found none.

  What could he tell them, really? How could he possibly comfort them? There was no easy, obvious road back from this, and so he retired to his cabin, deep in prayer for guidance.

  It came in the form of a knock on the door and the appearance of an old friend. “I do not wish to disturb,” Velen said.

  Anduin smiled wearily. “You never could,” he said, and invited the draenei inside. He offered some refreshment, but Velen declined gracefully.

  “I will not stay long,” Velen said. “But I felt I should come. You are king now, not the youth I guided only a few short years ago back on the Exodar, but I will always be there if you ever wish what wisdom the Light sees fit for me to give you.”

  Velen doubtless thought the reminder of Anduin’s time among the draenei would be comforting. But all Anduin could think of was how much he longed for those days. For that peace. And before he knew what was happening, he had blurted out, “I feel helpless, Velen. I promised my people a reunion with their loved ones. Instead, they watched them be slaughtered. I want to comfort them, but I have no words. I miss my time learning from you. I miss the Exodar. I miss O’ros.”

  Velen smiled sadly. “We all do,” he said, “but we cannot go back to happier times. We can only live in the present, and right now that present is painful. But we do have a way to be with a naaru. We are priests, Anduin, but we cannot heal others until we are steady and calm within ourselves. Go to the Netherlight Temple now. Share your grief with Faol and in so doing, help each other. Speak with Saa’ra. See what it has to say to you. There is time. Then you can greet your people on the docks and, Light willing, know what to say to help their wounded hearts.”

  Anduin smiled. “I’ll never be as wise as you, old friend.”

  Velen chuckled and shook his head ruefully. “My only wisdom is to understand that I am not.”

  THE NETHERLIGHT TEMPLE

  When Anduin entered the temple, he saw at once that something was happening. It seemed as though everyone in the temple had clustered around the entrance to Saa’ra’s chamber, which was marked by its constant radiance. Anduin, frowning, hastened toward the crowd, making his way through the priests who stood or knelt, silent, reverent. Up ahead, Anduin could see the radiant lilac form of Saa’ra, and despite his heartache and confusion, he felt the naaru’s comforting brush upon his spirit.

  Calia Menethil’s body hovered in front of Saa’ra. She lay in the air as if she were sleeping, her hands folded on her breast. Her blond hair gleamed almost as brightly as the naaru itself, falling softly, her gold and white robes draping her slender frame.

  Faol knelt in front of the crystalline entity, his head bowed in prayer. High Priestess Ishanah stepped beside Anduin and said quietly, “Something is happening to Calia. Her flesh has not begun to decompose. Faol has been with her since he brought her here.” The draenei turned, looking down at Anduin as she said, “Saa’ra told him to wait for you, my young king.”

  A shiver ran down Anduin’s spine, and he swallowed. He took a deep breath and stepped toward the archbishop. “I’m here, Your Grace,” he said quietly. “What would you have me do?”

  Faol turned his face up to Anduin’s. “I’m not quite sure,” he said. “But Saa’ra was insistent that you were to be part of this.”

  And then Saa’ra, who had been silent, spoke in their minds.

  Calia would come to me when the dreams of what was past were too painful to endure, Saa’ra said. I cautioned her to have patience. There were things she had to do before the dreams would cease, things she must understand. People who would need her help.

  And I assured her of this seemingly strange truth: that sometimes the most beautiful and important gifts come wrapped in pain and blood.

  The truth of those words hit Anduin’s heart. Those were the gifts that no one ever wanted, that one would do anything not to have bestowed. But they were also indeed as Saa’ra said: beautiful and important.

  There will be no more of those battles for her now. Calia Menethil will be freed from the pains of the living, from the nightmares that once rent her heart.

  She understood that those on that field were her people. And she accepted that responsibility by giving her life to try to save them. Not human, as they were when she was young, but Forsaken, as they were in that moment.

  Light and dark. Forsaken priest and human priest. Together you shall bring her back as the Light and she herself would have her be.

  Anduin’s mouth was dry, and he trembled. He looked at Faol, but the priest only nodded. They moved wordlessly to Calia’s side, standing as she hovered in midair, and each of them took one of her small, pale hands.

  Bring her back as the Light and she herself would have her be, Saa’ra had said. He didn’t know what the naaru had meant by the words, and he suspected that Faol didn’t either.

  But somehow, he knew, Calia did.

  Anduin felt the Light come to him, warm and calming. It seeped through his body, soothing his spirit and his tumultuous mind. It was a familiar sensation, yet there was something different. He usually experienced the Light’s power flowing through him like a river. But now it seemed like a whole ocean was utilizing him as a vessel. Anduin felt a quick flicker of fear. Would he be able to contain and direct something this powerful?

  He anticipated that he would feel overwhelmed, stretched to his limit, but the tide of Light that swept through him now was one that reinvigorated him even as it asked him to be fully present, to give all of himself to the task ahead.

  Yes, he said in his heart. I will.

  The Light limned him in its warm hue, and it chased around the still yet completely intact body of the queen of Lordaeron and whirled about the Forsaken archbishop. Anduin felt it swell like a wave, then crest and break, emptying him but not depleting him.

  The cold hand in his squeezed.

  Anduin gasped as Calia opened her eyes. They glowed a soft, gentle white, not the eerie yellow hue of a Forsaken’s. A smile curved a face that had no flush of life to it. Slowly her body tilted from horizontal to vertical, and her feet settled onto the stone floor.

  Calia Menethil was dead, but she lived. She was no mindless undead, but she was not Forsaken, either. She had been raised by a human and a Forsaken both using the
power of the Light, bathed in the radiance of a naaru.

  “Calia,” said Faol, and his voice trembled. “Welcome back, dear girl. I didn’t dare hope that you would return to us!”

  “Someone once told me that hope is what you have when all other things have failed you,” Calia said to him. Her voice was echoing, sepulchral, but like Faol’s, it was warm and kind. Her white gaze went to Anduin. She smiled gently. “Where there is hope, you make room for healing, for all things that are possible—and some that are not.”

  Anduin watched as everyone responded to Calia’s—what? Resurrection? No, she was still dead. Dark gift? That wouldn’t be accurate either, because it was the Light that had been present today. There was nothing of darkness in this undead woman.

  After a short time, though, she turned to Anduin and gave him a rueful smile. “Thank you,” she said, “for helping the archbishop bring me back.”

  “The Light didn’t need my help,” he said.

  “Well, then, for not abandoning me on the field.”

  “I couldn’t do that.” He frowned and asked quietly, “Was that your plan all along? To use my work on the Gathering as a chance to reclaim your throne?”

  Sorrow flitted across her pale face. “No. Not really. Come sit with me.”

  They found a small table, and everyone gave them privacy. “Ever since I met Archbishop Faol, I had believed that one day, if I had the chance, I could show that even though I was not Forsaken, I could treat them as my people and rule them well. My brother had tried to destroy them. I wanted to help them.”

  “So when you heard about the Gathering, you wanted to participate.”

  She nodded. “Yes. I wanted to meet more Forsaken who were not priests. I wanted to see how they would react to meeting their families. But that was all I intended for the Gathering. I swear it.”

  “I believe you,” he said, and he saw her visibly relax.