Tyrande greeted the rest of the party, then said to Gelbin, “We have food and drink prepared . . . and space set aside for your . . . endeavors.”
“Wonderful! We’ve still some equipment to bring up! Will we be near where your Sentinels practice their archery? Dwendel here has a new possible weapon that may be able to fire fifty arrows in a minute . . . if it would just stop doing so in every direction each time.”
Dwendel, a redheaded gnome clearly much younger than most of his party, looked a bit sheepish.
“I have seen to those arrangements as well, High Tinker. If you will follow these Sisters . . .”
Making some adjustments, Gelbin did as she bade. The walker strode like a large, flightless bird after the priestesses. Gelbin’s companions—the huge sacks each carried clanking ominously—tried to keep up as best they could.
Watching the gnomes, Tyrande murmured, “That is nearly everyone but Stormwind.”
“Yes. For the sake of the others, we will not be able to hold off.”
The high priestess looked disturbed. “Elune would not have granted me that vision if it did not have significance to the summit. Varian Wrynn must arrive soon.”
“We can only—”
A terrible uproar erupted from the direction of where the gnomes had gone. Without hesitation, both night elves rushed to see what was happening.
They found Gelbin and his party confronted by Drukan and several of the Dark Iron dwarves. The dwarves had their axes and blades out and their faces were filled with fury. Gelbin had the arms of his walker extended toward the Dark Iron emissary, but it was clear that the high tinker was not proposing that Drukan shake hands.
Behind Gelbin, the rest of the gnomes had drawn a variety of odd-looking but no less sinister devices. Even Gelbin himself had stashed on his mount a weapon the night elves recognized as Wrenchcalibur—so named in part because it was roughly shaped like the tool. The complex series of cogs, pistons, runes, and levers somehow enabled it to serve as a good mace.
The other weapons were not so recognizable to the archdruid and the high priestess. Some resembled blunderbusses, while a few made absolutely no sense. However, in the hands of gnomes, they could only be dangerous . . . even to their wielders.
“—yer tongue I’ll cut out and slice up fer meat between me bread!” growled Drukan, clearly having uttered several threats already. “And that infernal device ye sit on will make a good still fer strong dwarven spirits!”
“I am still very much in the early stages of testing the strength components of this mechanism,” Gelbin dryly responded. “It would be fascinating to discover just what force would be required for it to divide you in half!”
Drukan’s followers muttered, and two started for the gnomes. Drukan angrily waved the pair back.
“What is the meaning of this?” Malfurion called out in the hopes of quickly distracting the two sides.
The Dark Irons seemed no more pleased to see him than they did the gnomes. A fiery-eyed Drukan waved his axe at Gelbin. “This—this gnome tried tae run me over with his stinkin’ toy!”
“And I said that the incident was purely accidental!”
“Cease yer babbling!” Drukan took a step toward the gnome. Both sides leaned in toward the inevitable struggle.
But a brilliant silver glow coming between them startled the two factions. The dwarves and the gnomes pulled back.
Tyrande lowered her hands and the glow dissipated. Striding between Drukan and Gelbin, she calmly said, “Now, I am certain that this is a misunderstanding. The high tinker had already admitted that his creation had some corrections that needed to be made, and perhaps should have taken those into account before moving among others. Also, Master Drukan may be wary of his surroundings, but he should understand that he was invited here, and that means that his safety is guaranteed by me and my husband, as it is for all honored guests. I only ask in turn that he respect that this guarantee applies to the others as well.”
“Yes . . . yes . . . I suppose I should be a bit more cautious until the controls are fine-tuned,” Gelbin responded. He frowned. “Although I am growing dubious about the worth of these arm attachments. . . .”
Drukan put away his weapon. With a grunt he said, “The fairness o’ the high priestess and the archdruid is known even tae us. The journey’s been long. I’ll leave it at that.”
To the gnomes’ escort, Tyrande said, “Sisters, I believe you were leading High Tinker Gelbin and his party to their quarters?”
They took the hint and immediately guided the gnomes on before hostilities could boil over again. At the same time Drukan gave the high priestess a cursory bow and led his companions off.
“And so it begins,” the archdruid muttered. “The pretense that all is well with each member of the Alliance is starting to unravel. Even the Dark Irons should have been able to understand that Gelbin meant no harm, and the gnomes should have not become so defensive so quickly. Their nerves were clearly already frayed before their arrival.”
“No one wishes to show weakness, my love, even if in these extraordinary times it would certainly be reasonable to do so. We already knew how terrible things are in some of the other regions; that they have all come here is a sign that, despite everything, the Alliance holds together.”
Malfurion shook his head. “But to what extent?”
She took his arm and led him off to the temple. “That,” the high priestess answered soothingly, “we will find out come the morrow. Until then, there is little point in worrying too much.”
Malfurion frowned but said nothing. As he and Tyrande headed off, though, he took one last look at the portal.
But the one figure he hoped would materialize did not do so . . . and the archdruid wondered if he truly ever would.
10
THE BANQUET
With all having arrived save Stormwind, it behooved Malfurion to indeed see that the summit began. In order to build the mood to a positive level, he and Tyrande had agreed to host a banquet for all the guests. Accustomed to dealing with diurnal races, the night elves held the dinner banquet at sunset in an open area just beyond the confines of Darnassus. With food and drink of countless varieties set before them and the tranquil forest nearby, the rulers, emissaries, and their staffs gradually relaxed. Even Drukan went out of his way and permitted food not brought by his vessel to be served to the Dark Irons . . . but only after his chosen taster had verified that nothing was poisoned.
Night elf musicians played not only music composed by their own race but also favored works from among the peoples represented by the guests. There was only one common thread between the songs: all of them had been chosen to stir the heart, to suggest promise in the future.
Yet, there were still undertones of trouble brewing. Malfurion had spoken with more than one representative and in the process sought to verify his suspicions concerning the state of each realm. What he had learned at times discouraged him far more than his confident face reflected.
Among the dwarves, food was growing scarce, and old, bitter rivalries threatened to engulf the race. To add to the troubles, many of their underground passages had collapsed during the Cataclysm and still needed to be cleared. Thus far, matters had not come to a head, but they needed only one incident to have that happen.
The human domains also had to rebuild, and some of them were arguing over where current borders existed. Food and shelter were common problems, and Tyrande and Malfurion had already promised what aid the night elves could offer. Sisters of Elune and druids now journeyed through each part of the Alliance, using their abilities to heal both the people and nature.
But, from what Malfurion had heard, it was not enough.
Still, overall, the banquet began to have the effect that he sought. The dwarves did not even argue among themselves, and the gnomes had not set off any disastrous inventions.
Seated by Tyrande, Malfurion looked at the empty places to his right. “Genn indicated he would be arriving soon,” the
high priestess informed her husband. “Eadrik just came with the message.”
“I thought I saw Eadrik, but I was not certain. There should be—” He hesitated as he caught sight of a shape nearing the banquet. “Odd. Who is that approaching now? It looks like—a draenei!”
Tyrande squinted—something she was having to do more and more often—in the direction he was staring. “Not just any draenei! That is Velen.”
Others began to notice the extremely tall figure—he stood nearly a foot taller than Malfurion—in the golden robes. His skin was alabaster white and his legs ended in thick cloven hooves. The Prophet had silver hair that reached past the shoulders and was set in ornate braids. He also had a matching beard that hung nearly to his waist.
Velen’s eyes were a brilliant blue and literally glowed. But most arresting of all was the luminous sigil just above his head, a sign of the gift he had been granted from the mystical naaru, energy beings from beyond Azeroth, beyond the otherworldly realm of Outland. They were creatures with an affinity to the Holy Light, of which Velen was now the chief prophet of the draenei. Other draenei wielded the power of the gift, but none so much as the figure before the assembly. In fact, the Light not only emanated from the sigil but at certain times almost seemed to faintly surround the august arrival . . . though it could have also merely been some trick of the eye.
Velen himself radiated timelessness, with only wrinkles around his ancient eyes. However, up close, one could see minute cracks in his alabaster skin, as if he were a statue hewed aeons ago. Malfurion did not know how old the draenei was. Older than any night elf alive, that much was true.
Even Drukan stood as Velen joined the banquet. Almost as one, the guests dipped their heads or bowed in respect. There was something about the draenei that spoke of an inner peace and knowledge that most could only dream of attaining. Small wonder, since Velen was not only leader of his people but a priest as well.
The draenei raised the crystalline head of a long, purple staff in Malfurion’s and Tyrande’s direction. Both the large crystal and the smaller one at the bottom of the staff briefly shimmered brighter. “Hail to you, Archdruid and High Priestess! Forgive this intrusion. . . .”
“The presence of the Prophet is never an intrusion,” Tyrande returned as solemnly, speaking to the others as well as their new guest, “and Velen himself is ever welcome here as a friend to all. We are all grateful for the aid he and the draenei gave us during the recent conflict with the demons of the Burning Legion.”
The priest bowed his head. “It is we the draenei who must thank the Alliance for taking us in, and even more so for standing against the foulness of the Burning Legion! Do not think so little of that! Never had there been a world that could stave off the demons not merely once, but more!”
Tyrande once more acknowledged this for all in attendance, but insisted more personally to the Prophet, “The final victory might not have been ours if not for you and your people, Velen. None here will deny that, either.”
“I am honored that you think so, but know that we will always be indebted to Azeroth. Thus, I come to promise you now that the draenei will do all we can to help the various lands of the Alliance in whatever capacity we may best.”
There was startled rumbling from the attendees, the night elves included. Malfurion leaned forward. “Your people are not returning to Outland? We just assumed . . .”
Velen smiled as if well aware that he would be faced with this very question. “Some have been sent back to revitalize our civilization there, but the rest of us will remain here on Azeroth for so long as we are needed.”
The high priestess looked around at the others. “I think that I speak for all of us when I say that this is a noble gesture for which we can only express again our own gratitude.”
Most of the other representatives of the Alliance murmured their agreement. The Dark Irons were the only ones to look not entirely satisfied with this revelation. Velen looked pleased at this overall acceptance.
“Please, join us, revered one,” Tyrande added, immediately signaling the servers to add a seat next to Malfurion and her. The two made certain that none of the other representatives would be deprived of space for this unexpected addition.
“I would be happy to join all my friends here. A little water is all I need.”
Despite that insistence, Tyrande had some food and wine also brought. Some slight surprise at the announcement aside, the draenei was a welcome guest.
The banquet settled down. The mood lightened. Tyrande exchanged a hopeful look with Malfurion.
From their right, just beyond Velen, Kurdran let out a hearty laugh at something the draenei said, drawing the night elves’ attention. The Prophet looked mildly amused at the effect his words had had on the dwarf. Kurdran turned to tell one of his countrymen something in regard to what he had heard from Velen—and paused to warily eye a party approaching. At the same time, the musicians, evidently also noting the newcomers, paused.
Genn Greymane had arrived at last.
The king of Gilneas was flanked by four of his people, three men and one woman. Eadrik was one of the escort, and he at present listened to something that Genn whispered.
As before, the Gilneans looked like any other humans, though Genn’s escort obviously consisted of seasoned fighters. If not for his confident stride and bearing, Genn might have simply been one more member of the band; he wore little ornamentation marking his regal status. The most evident sign of his rank was the Gilnean crest embossed on his shirt just over the heart, which Genn absently touched as he entered the gathering. The downfall of his kingdom had very much humbled the once-haughty monarch.
If there was anything to distinguish the Gilneans from most other humans, it was a wariness in their gazes as they neared. It was not a look of distrust but rather of defiance. Yet, defiance not against anyone in particular but at the world in general.
As they reached the center of the banquet, Genn raised his hand shoulder high. The other Gilneans stopped. The king took a half a dozen steps more, then halted in front of the night elves.
“My apologies. The delay was unavoidable.” His eyes fixed on Velen. “You must be Prophet Velen. I’ve heard much of you. I wasn’t aware you’d be here. I am Genn Greymane.”
The Prophet bowed his head. “Greetings, King of Gilneas. I am also familiar with you.”
Tyrande and Malfurion rose, the former declaring, “Welcome, Genn Greymane! Please take your place with us!”
“Before I do, I must say something to all here.”
His announcement spurred glances of curiosity and concern among the other leaders and emissaries. Malfurion fought off a frown.
“Please speak, Genn,” the archdruid finally encouraged. “We will be glad to listen.”
Malfurion’s declaration quieted the others, though some, especially the Dark Irons, still watched with wariness and concern.
The king nodded. “I’ll make this short. I made some terrible decisions years ago. I abandoned the Alliance for what I thought was the right course for my people. That proved to be a sorry mistake.” He cleared his throat. “What I’m saying is that I thank you all for giving us this second chance.”
With that, Genn bowed to the other guests, then led his party where they were to be seated. Rather than prolong what had clearly been an awkward moment for the human, Tyrande immediately signaled for the musicians to begin anew. She also made certain that the Gilneans were quickly fed and that the other guests had more drink and food brought to them.
The meal progressed. Personal conversations began to develop and a serious note crept into some aspects of the scene. Kurdran had shifted over to Tervosh to speak about something that caused the archmage to frown but nod. Across from them, Drukan watched with narrowed eyes, then returned to his food. A moment later, though, he rose and, to their surprise, went to speak privately with the high tinker.
“Do you think these conversations are a sign of hope or fragmentation?” Malfurion
quietly asked his mate, his serene face belying his concern.
“Each of their lands is trying to recover, as even we are. They are no doubt attempting to see what they might be able to gain from others. In a sense, that might bring them together . . . but only if they do not feel that they have to sacrifice too much in turn.”
“Which means that you think these conversations are both.”
Tyrande touched his hand. “Yes, my love, unfortunately I do.” She smiled slightly. “But at least they are talking, and that is something to work on—”
He noticed her look past him. “What is it?”
“There are two Sentinels seeking our attention.”
The archdruid casually turned in that direction. Seeking their attention was an understatement; clearly only the fact that so many officials from the Alliance were gathered here prevented the pair from racing toward its leaders. The two had purposely kept where the vast majority of the banquet could not see them. Both gripped their weapons, frequently looking over their shoulders at something behind them.
“Stormwind, perhaps?” he asked.
The high priestess rose. “If so, from their stances, it cannot be good news.”
He surveyed their guests, then muttered, “I am coming with you.”
She made no move to stop him. Velen looked up at her as she stepped away, nodding as if to show that if they needed his support—whatever the matter—he would give it.
Some of the other guests watched as they departed, but the night elves pretended not to notice. Moving with measured steps, they finally reached the two Sentinels.
And there they discovered that behind the pair stood at least half a dozen more, along with a very dour Maiev.
Tyrande wasted no time: “Speak.”
But it was Maiev, not the lead Sentinel, who spoke. Stepping forward, she answered, “High Priestess . . . there is a body.”
World of Warcraft: Wolfheart Page 12