Before the Storm (World of Warcraft)

by Christie Golden

  “You’re a cutie and a smarty,” he said, “so I’ll tell you nicely. We’re in a world that’s always going to be at war, sweet cheeks, and the only ones who survive it are the ones with the biggest weapons. Grizzek here understands. You gnomes seem to have problems with that concept. Sure, sure, this Azerite does all the things you say it’s gonna do. We will make buildings, and cure sickness, and save lives. But we are also going to grind the Alliance down beneath our heels, and, Miss Smarty-Pants, you need to decide if you’re gonna be on the winning side when that all goes down. Believe me when I say I hope so.”

  He looked at Grizzek, stabbing a finger at him to punctuate the words. “Weapons. Pronto.”

  Then he tipped his hideous hat to Saffy and waddled out.

  For several long moments, neither Grizzek nor Saffy spoke. Then, quietly, Saffy said, “What he’s going to do with the Azerite…those will be crimes against gnomanity. And humanity, and goblins, and orcs, and everyone. Everyone, Grizzy.”

  “I know,” he said just as quietly.

  “And we will have made it possible for him to do it.”

  Grizzek was silent. He knew that, too.

  She turned to him, her eyes wide and shimmering with tears. “Azerite is part of Azeroth. We can’t let him do that to her. We can’t let him do that to us. Somehow we’ve got to stop him.”

  “We can’t stop him, Saffy,” Grizzek replied. His eyes roamed the magnificent things the two of them had made out of their passion for science and tinkering—and for each other. All of them made his heart swell with pride and then ache with terror for how they would be used.

  She came to him and started weeping softly. He put his arms around her, trying to hold her tight enough to shut out the pain of their complicity.

  Then a thought occurred to him. “We can’t stop him,” he repeated, “but I think I have a plan on how we can stop something.”

  “Thank you for coming,” Anduin said to his guests. “I know the hour is late, but it is important.”

  “So your letter said,” Turalyon replied. It was indeed late, well past midnight, but the young king suspected that neither Greymane nor Turalyon had yet seen his bed. Too much was going on.

  The king had requested their presences in the Cathedral of Light. A few acolytes and novices moved about even at this hour, but most of the priests were gone. He awaited them at the narthex of the cathedral and indicated that they should join him as he walked down the aisle toward the altar.

  “I wanted to give you an update on where we stand for the Gathering,” Anduin said.

  They frowned, exchanging glances. “Your Majesty,” Genn said, “we have already given you our opinion on this.”

  “We have,” Turalyon said. “With respect, Your Majesty, we have a fundamental disagreement on the Light’s intentions and purpose.” He hesitated. “I do not condemn you for your feelings. It would not be the first time a devotee has misunderstood the Light. I know I have. I don’t claim to be perfect or to have a true comprehension of it. No one can.”

  “But you both do feel that this is wrong?” Anduin pressed. “That there is nothing to be gained by having Forsaken and humans meeting when a prior bond had existed between them?”

  “We have made that clear, Your Majesty,” Turalyon stated. “If you have bidden us to come here at this hour simply to rehash this argument with you—”

  “No,” Anduin said. “Not with me.”

  “With me,” came a rich, warm, oddly echoing voice.

  They turned around.

  Archbishop Alonsus Faol stood on the blue steps leading up to the altar.

  He was clad in a miter and robe that bespoke his stature in life. Anduin had looked diligently for the garments. It was, he had realized, easier for humans to recognize the outer trappings of an archbishop than what remained of the man himself.

  Both Greymane and Turalyon seemed stunned. Anduin waited but did not speak. This had to unfold between Faol and his oldest, dearest friends without interference from outsiders. Anduin said a silent prayer that everyone in this room would look with eyes of remembered friendship and see truly.

  “I’m quite aware that I don’t look as you remember me,” Faol continued. “But I think you recognize my voice. And my face is mostly intact, though it lacks that bushy white beard I was so fond of.”

  Turalyon went as still as if he were the statue that stood at the entrance to Stormwind. The only thing that proved he was not was the rapid fall and rise of his chest. The expression on his face was one of utter loathing, but he did not speak or move.

  If Turalyon’s reaction was cold, Genn’s was pure fire. He whirled on Anduin, his face contorted in fury. Not for the first time, the young king was aware of the sheer power of the man even when he wasn’t in his worgen form. He needed no claws and teeth, not even a sword, to kill. And right now, he looked as though he was about to rip Anduin apart with his bare hands.

  “You’ve gone too far, Anduin Wrynn,” Greymane snarled. “How dare you bring this thing into the Cathedral of Light! You’re chasing this distorted ideal of what peace really is. And now you’ve brought that here.”

  His voice shook. “Alonsus Faol was my friend. He was Turalyon’s friend. We’d accepted that he was gone. He was buried at Faol’s Rest. Why are you doing this to us?”

  Anduin didn’t flinch. He had been expecting this reaction. When he got no response, Greymane turned on the source of his loathing.

  “Have you got the boy under some sort of spell, wretch?” he bellowed. “I know that there are priests who can do that sort of thing. Let Anduin go, get out of here, and I will not rip that putrid corpse of yours to shreds.

  “You chose this…this shambling existence. You chose to be this creature of nightmares. And you have to know what’s happened to me. To my people. What yours did to me and how much I loathe what you’ve become. If you had any decency, any respect for those you once called friends, you’d have hurled yourself into the fire during your first Hallow’s End and spared us all this!”

  Anduin closed his eyes in pain at the vitriol Greymane was hurling at a man he’d loved in life. He had known this would be difficult, but he had not expected Genn to be so malicious in his anger.

  Faol, though, seemed completely unsurprised by the reaction and looked at Genn sadly. “You stand there, a few strides away from an old friend, and you attack me with words chosen for their power to wound,” Faol said. “And I know why you do so.”

  “I do so because you are a monstrosity! Because your people are an abomination and should never have been created!”

  Faol shook his head. His voice remained calm, tinged with a hint of sorrow. “No, my old friend. You do this because you are afraid.”

  Anduin blinked, shocked. Genn Greymane was many things, but he was no coward. Anduin did not want to interfere, but if it looked like Faol was in danger, he would do so. Although Faol was probably a more powerful priest, even in his present state, than Anduin could ever be.

  Greymane stood absolutely still. “I’ve killed for lesser insults than that.” The words were pitched low, a growl.

  “I know that,” Faol continued. “And yet I say again: you are afraid. Oh, not of me personally.” He put a withered hand on his bony chest. “I’m certain you believe you can take me in one of your heartbeats. You may be right at that, but I’d just as soon not find out.”

  He shook his head sadly. “No, Genn Greymane. You’re afraid because you believe that if you acknowledge here, now, with me, that Forsaken aren’t irredeemable monsters—if you show any hint of understanding, or kindness, or compassion, or friendship—then that will mean your son died for nothing.”

  A human cry of rage and pain turned into a wolf’s howl as the Gilnean king arched his back. His form shifted, wreathed in mystical smoke as gray as the wolf’s pelt. Taller, much more massive, he c
rouched on his lupine haunches and prepared to spring at Faol. Turalyon seized the worgen by the arm, shaking his head.

  “No bloodshed in this place,” he said.

  “The creature doesn’t even have blood,” Genn snarled, his voice deep and ragged. “He’s tied together like a stick puppet with ichor and magic!”

  “I know something about loss,” the archbishop continued. Anduin marveled at Faol’s calmness. “And I know something about you, too. You’ve held fast to that pain. It’s served you well. It’s enabled you to fight with unbridled ferocity. But like any edged weapon, it can cut both ways. And right now, it’s coming between you and an understanding that could change your world.”

  “I can’t change my world!” Genn cried in a broken voice. The words were still blazing with fury, but shot through them was a deep thread of pain that made Anduin’s heart ache. “I want my son back, but that banshee murdered him! She and her kind—your kind—nearly destroyed my people!”

  “Yet here you are,” Faol continued almost placidly. “Many of you are still healthy. Strong. Alive.” For the first time since this confrontation began, the undead priest stepped forward. “Answer me this, old friend. If I had not come alone—if I had brought Liam with me, raised, as I was, and still himself, as I am—would your answer be different?”

  The worgen jerked back at words that pierced him more than any blade. He panted, his ears flattened to the back of his skull, his tail lashing the air. Anduin, himself reeling from the shock of the archbishop’s words, lifted his hands, cupping them in preparation for the Light. But before he could act, Greymane howled in fury, dropped to all fours—and raced from the room.

  Anduin started to go after him, but Faol stopped him. “Let him go, Anduin. Genn Greymane ever had a temper, and now he’s been forced to look at something sad and ugly within himself. He’ll either come around in his own time or he won’t. But now, whatever he says, he has realized he cannot tar us all with the same brush. It’s a small victory, but I will accept it.”

  “Victory.”

  The single word was laced with more icy abhorrence than Anduin had ever heard, so filled with disgust that it physically hurt him. In the tense moments with Genn, he had almost forgotten the silent paladin. The two men had reacted differently but with the same repellence.

  Turalyon had no sword and wore no armor. Yet he still loomed large and powerful in the cathedral as he straightened to his full height. If Genn had been racked by anguished fury, Turalyon, one of the first paladins of the Silver Hand, was brimming with righteous rage.

  “You blaspheme what was once a good man,” he snapped. “You have stolen his form and parade him about, wearing him as if he were a suit of clothing. Your broken mouth is good for nothing save spewing filthy lies. The undead are unholy. Whatever priestly powers they have come from the shadows of the Light, not the Light itself. If there is anything left in you of that good, kindly man I loved so much, you capering piece of carnage, come to me, and I will blast him into merciful oblivion.”

  How could Turalyon not see what Anduin saw? The high exarch had embraced a redeemed dreadlord as a companion and fellow soldier! The young king, too, had been initially horrified. But although the legendary paladin doubtless had encountered more dark things, including truly evil Forsaken, than Anduin ever would, Varian’s son had seen courage displayed by one of Sylvanas’s creations. He held fast to the memory of witnessing Frandis Farley murdered for daring to oppose unnecessary cruelty and violence. He recalled Elsie’s letter, how it had nearly broken his heart. He had seen things Turalyon, in his thousand years of war against the Legion, had never witnessed.

  And now Turalyon was refusing to see something—someone—who stood right in front of him.

  “I created the Order of the Silver Hand,” Faol admonished him, his voice growing stronger. “I saw in you something that no one else had. You were a fine priest, but that wasn’t what the Light wanted you to be. The Light needed champions who could fight with both the weapons of humanity and the love and power of the Light. The others were strongest with the first and came to the Light later. You were the opposite. They were good, fine men. They were noble paladins. But they are all gone, and you have become the high exarch of the Light. You are too wise, Turalyon, to deny the truth. Deny that and you deny the Light itself.”

  To Anduin’s horror, Faol closed the distance between himself and the paladin. He spread his arms open wide. Turalyon trembled and his fists clenched, but he did not strike.

  “Look for the Light in me,” Faol instructed. “You will find it. And if you do not, then I do beg of you to strike me down, for I would not wish to exist as a broken corpse the Light had abandoned.”

  Anduin looked down to see that Calia had stepped beside him. She looked up at him, and he saw that she was afraid for her friend. He was, too, even though he had met the archbishop only recently.

  All will be as the Light wills it, he thought.

  For a moment, Anduin thought the paladin so enraged that he wouldn’t even try. But then Turalyon lifted an arm. A ray of what looked like pure golden sunlight, impossible at this hour of night when that orb hid its head, shone down upon both forms.

  Turalyon’s face was hard as stone. It was the unforgiving expression of the righteous doing what they deemed to be the right thing. But then, as Anduin watched, transfixed by the silent struggle going on between belief and faith, that granite visage softened. Turalyon’s eyes widened; then the radiant, golden glow that enveloped both the living and the dead caught the glitter of unshed tears. Joy spread across his face, and then, as Anduin watched, moved beyond the ability to speak, Turalyon, paladin of the Silver Hand, high exarch of the Army of the Light, dropped to his knees.

  “Your Excellency,” he breathed. “Forgive me, my old friend. My arrogance blinded me to what was clear all along had I looked with the right eyes.”

  And he bent his head for the archbishop’s blessing.

  Faol, too, was struggling with emotion. “Dear boy,” he said in a voice that shook, “dear boy. There is nothing to forgive. There was a time when I would have agreed with you. You are the sole living member of the original order, the last of the only sons I would ever have. I am grateful that I have not lost you, too, not to death, or the Void, or to your own limitations.”

  He placed his hand, decaying and lifeless, upon the paladin’s gray-gold head. Turalyon closed his eyes in quiet joy.

  “My blessing, such as it is, is upon you. There is no one, living, dead, or anywhere in the mysterious shades in between, who cannot benefit from always looking with eyes, heart, and mind wide open. Rise, my dear boy, and lead even better now that you have greater understanding of the ways of the Light.”

  Turalyon did so, appearing clumsy for a moment before straightening. He looked over at Anduin. “I owe you an apology as well,” he said. “I thought of you as someone who hoped for the best at the cost of wisdom. I could not have been more wrong.”

  Anduin heard Calia sigh deeply with relief. “There is no need,” he replied. “We are taught to fear the Forsaken. And even the archbishop understands that there are many whose rebirth turned them cold and cruel. But not all.”

  “No,” Turalyon agreed. “Not all. I am overjoyed to have my old friend and mentor back.”

  “We will work together,” Faol assured him.

  “If only Greymane could have witnessed this,” Calia said.

  “Like all people, he will see when he is ready,” Turalyon said. “I will certainly reassure him as best I can. But for now, let me do what I can to aid you. Others should be able to have the gift that the archbishop and I have received this night.”

  Anduin smiled. He could not see the future. But he could see this moment, and his heart was full. “I will accept your aid most gladly.”

  “Ya know,” Grizzek observed as he and Saffy prepared their escape, “life with you is
never dull.”

  “We do keep hopping, don’t we?” she replied, and gave him a look that turned his heart all gooey-melty.

  Grizzek, not being a complete idiot, had anticipated that at some point, someone who did not wish him sunshine and rainbows and a long happy life might come knocking. He had prepared for the eventuality by digging out—well, by modifying a second shredder to dig out, actually—a tunnel that opened up into a random spot in Tanaris. After Gallywix had departed, they’d decided to make a run for it. They packed up what they could take with them in the little mining cart, including a few airtight casks of Azerite, and everything else…well, some of it couldn’t be destroyed, but they’d dismantled what they could.

  The bomb set to detonate an hour after they left also would help.

  All their notes were coming with them. They’d programmed Feathers to fly to Teldrassil with a warning about what had happened and a plea for rescue at a specific location. They would offer the Alliance what they had discovered on the stipulation that they would be creating only things that could help, not harm.

  It was a risk. A crazy, glorious one, but it was the only option they had. Neither, they had decided, could live with knowing their discoveries were going to be used to kill so effectively.

  Just before they left, Grizzek took a long last look around. “I’m gonna miss this place,” he admitted.

  “I know, Grizzy,” Saffy said, her big eyes filled with sympathy. “But we’ll find another lab. One where we can create to our hearts’ content.”

  He turned to her. “Anywhere in the world. Just so long as it’s with you.” Then, as her eyes widened with shock, he knelt in front of her. “Sapphronetta Flivvers…will you marry me? Again?”

  In his large green hand, he held one of the Azerite rings they had created. The base was rough because neither of them was a jeweler, and the Azerite was an imperfect drop that had been allowed to harden. But when Saffy said, “Oh! Grizzy, yes!” and he slipped it on her teeny tiny finger, he thought it was the most beautiful ring in the world.