The Shattering

by Christie Golden

  Thank you for downloading this Gallery Books eBook.

  * * *

  Join our mailing list and get updates on new releases, deals, bonus content and other great books from Gallery Books and Simon & Schuster.

  CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP

  or visit us online to sign up at

  eBookNews.SimonandSchuster.com

  This book is dedicated to my wonderful and loyal readers. It is you who made Arthas: Rise of the Lich King Blizzard’s (and my own) first New York Times bestseller, and you who make it possible for me to do this work I love so much. I will continue to strive to write the very best books I can for you.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  * * *

  Thanks and appreciation must go to my wonderful and enthusiastic editor, Jaime Costas, who always makes me feel so great about what I do. I must also express my gratitude for the constant support of the Blizzard development team: the deeply appreciated Trio of Awesome—Chris Metzen, Evelyn Fredericksen, and Micky Neilson—with whom I have worked before and with whom I hope to continue working for many moons to come; Justin Parker, Cate Gary, James Waugh and Tommy Newcomer, for editing and various other emergency aid; Alex Afrasiabi for game perspective on the story development; Gina Pippin, who keeps the wheels turning and who has unbridled enthusiasm for seemingly everything I do, and her assistant George Hsieh, who sends me Neat Stuff. You are all without exception creative, fun, and a delight to work with, and I couldn’t have done it without you.

  THE SHATTERING

  PRELUDE TO CATACLYSM

  PROLOGUE

  The sound of rain beating on the tightly drawn hides covering the small hut was like that of a drum played by a swift hand. The hut was well made, as all orcish huts were; no water seeped inside. But nothing could close out the humid chill of the air. If the weather turned, the rain would become snow; either way, the cold damp penetrated to Drek’Thar’s old bones and kept his body taut even during sleep.

  But it was not the cold, not this time, that caused the elderly shaman to toss and turn.

  It was the dreams.

  Drek’Thar had always had prophetic dreams and visions. It was a gift—a spiritual sight, as he no longer had physical sight. But since the War Against the Nightmare, the gift had grown teeth. His dreams had worsened during that dreadful time, and sleep promised not rest and refreshment, but terror. They had aged him and turned him from one who had been old but strong into a frail, sometimes querulous elder. He had hoped that with the defeat of the Nightmare, his dreams would return to normal. But while the intensity had lessened, his dreams still were very, very dark.

  In his dreams, he could see. And in his dreams, he longed for blindness. He stood alone on a mountain. The sun seemed closer than normal and was ugly and red and swollen, casting a bloody tinge on the ocean that lapped at the foot of the mountain. He could hear something … a distant, deep rumbling that set his teeth on edge and made his skin prickle. He had never heard this sound before, but due to his strong connection with the elements, he knew that it indicated something terribly, terribly wrong.

  A few moments later the waters began to churn, surging angrily now at the foot of the mountain. The waves grew high, hungry, as if something dark and dreadful stirred beneath their crashing surface. Even on the mountain, Drek’Thar knew he was not safe, knew nothing was safe, not anymore, and he could feel the once-solid stone shuddering beneath his bare feet. His fingers curled tightly, painfully, about his staff, as if somehow its gnarled length would stay stable and secure despite a roiling ocean and a crumbling mountain.

  And then, with no warning, it happened.

  A fissure zigzagged along the earth beneath him. Roaring, he half-leaped, half-fell out of the way as it opened like a mouth attempting to devour him. He lost his hold on his staff, and it fell into the widening maw. As the wind whipped up, Drek’Thar clung to an upthrust shard of rock and, trembling as the earth trembled, peered with eyes that had not seen in far too long at the blood-red, boiling ocean beneath.

  Huge waves crashed against the sheer wall of the mountain cliff, and Drek’Thar could feel the blistering spray as they surged impossibly high. From all around him came the screams of the elements, frightened, tormented, calling out for aid. The rumbling increased, and before his terrified gaze a massive chunk of earth broke the surface of the red ocean, rising, rising seemingly without cease, becoming a mountain itself, a continent, even as the land upon which Drek’Thar stood cracked open yet again, and he fell into the fissure, crying aloud and clutching at air, falling into fire—

  Drek’Thar bolted upright in the sleeping skins, his body convulsing and drenched in sweat despite the cold, his hands clawing the air, his again-unseeing eyes wide open and gazing into blackness.

  “The land will weep, and the world will break!” he shrieked. Something solid touched his flailing hands, enclosed them, stilled them. He knew that touch. It was Palkar, the orc who had attended him for several years.

  “Come now, Greatfather Drek’Thar, it is only a dream,” the young orc chided.

  But Drek’Thar would not be brushed aside, not with the vision he had had. He had fought in Alterac Valley not so long ago, until he had been deemed too old and weak to serve in that capacity. If he could not serve there any longer, he would serve with his shamanic skills. His visions.

  “Palkar, I must speak with Thrall,” he demanded. “And the Earthen Ring. Perhaps others have seen what I have … and if they have not, I must tell them! Palkar, I must!” He attempted to rise. One of his legs gave way beneath him. Frustrated, he pounded at his betraying, aging body.

  “What you must do is get some sleep, Greatfather.” Drek’Thar was weak, and struggle as he might, he could not offer sufficient resistance to escape Palkar’s steady hands pushing him back on the sleeping skins.

  “Thrall … he must know,” muttered Drek’Thar, slapping ineffectually at Palkar’s arms.

  “If you feel it necessary, tomorrow we will go and tell him. But now … rest.”

  Exhausted from the dream, and feeling the cold in his aged bones afresh, Drek’Thar nodded and permitted Palkar to prepare him a hot drink with herbs that would send him into a peaceful sleep. Palkar was a good caretaker, he thought, his mind already wandering again. If Palkar thought tomorrow would be soon enough, then it would be. After he finished the drink, he laid his head down, and before sleep claimed him, wondered driftingly, Soon enough for what?

  * * *

  Palkar sat back and sighed. Once, Drek’Thar had been mentally as sharp as a dagger, even though his body was growing increasingly fragile under the weight of his years. Once, Palkar would have sent a runner off to Thrall immediately upon learning of Drek’Thar’s vision.

  But no longer.

  Over the last year, the sharp mind that had known so much, had held wisdom almost beyond comprehension, had begun to wander. Drek’Thar’s memory, once better than any written record, was becoming faulty. There were gaps in his recollection. Palkar could not help but wonder if, between the twin enemies of the War Against the Nightmare and the inevitable ravages of age, Drek’Thar’s “visions” had deteriorated into nothing more than bad dreams.

  Two moons ago, Palkar recalled painfully as he rose and returned to his own sleeping skins, Drek’Thar had insisted that runners be sent to Ashenvale, because a group of orcs was about to slaughter a peaceable gathering of tauren and kaldorei druids. Runners had been sent, indeed, warnings issued—and nothing had happened. The only thing that had been accomplished by listening to the old orc was that the night elves had grown more suspicious. There had been no orcs within miles. And yet Drek’Thar had insisted that the peril was real.

  There had been other, lesser visions, all equally imaginary. And now this. Surely if t
he threat was real, others than Drek’Thar would be aware of it. Palkar was not an inexperienced shaman himself, and he had had no such forebodings.

  Still, he would keep his word. If Drek’Thar wished to see Thrall, the orc who had once been his student and now was warchief of the very Horde Drek’Thar himself had helped to create, in the morning Palkar would prepare his mentor for the journey. Or he might send a runner so that Thrall would come to Drek’Thar. It would be a long and difficult trek; Thrall was in Orgrimmar, a continent away from Alterac, where Drek’Thar insisted on making his home. But Palkar suspected such a thing would not happen. Come tomorrow Drek’Thar would likely not even remember he had dreamed at all, let alone the content.

  Such was usually the case these days. And Palkar took no joy in the fact. Drek’Thar’s increasing senility caused Palkar only pain and a fierce desire to wish the world were otherwise, the world that Drek’Thar was so convinced was about to be broken. Little did the old orc know that for those who loved him, the world was broken already.

  Palkar knew it was useless to grieve for what had been, for what Drek’Thar himself once had been. Indeed, Drek’Thar’s life had been longer than most and certainly full of honor. Orcs faced adversity and understood that there was a time to fight and rage and a time to accept the reality of what was. Since Palkar had been a small child, he had cared for Drek’Thar, and he had vowed to continue until that old orc’s last breath, no matter how painful it was to bear witness to his mentor’s slow decline.

  He leaned over and snuffed out the candle between thumb and forefinger, pulling the furs tight about his large frame. Outside, the rain continued to fall, beating its steady tattoo on the tightly drawn skins.

  PART I

  THE LAND WILL WEEP …

  ONE

  “Land ho!” cried the lookout. The slender blood elf had established a perch for himself in the crow’s nest, a place so precarious, Cairne thought, that an actual crow would think twice about alighting upon it. The young elf leaped easily onto the rigging, hands and bare feet entwined with the rope, seemingly as comfortable as a squirrel. The aged tauren watching from the deck shook his head slightly at the sight. He was pleased and unabashedly a bit relieved that the first part of their journey to Northrend was over. Cairne Bloodhoof, leader of the tauren, proud father and warrior, did not like ships.

  He was a creature of the good, solid earth, as were all his people. They had boats, yes, but small ones that stayed well within sight of the land. Somehow even the zeppelins, airborne goblin contraptions though they were, felt more secure beneath his hooves than a seafaring vessel. Perhaps it was the rocking motion and the fact that the sea could become hostile in an instant. Or perhaps it was the long, unbroken tedium of a voyage such as the one they had just made, from Ratchet to the Borean Tundra. Regardless, now that their destination was in sight, the aged bull felt cheered.

  He was, as befit his rank, traveling in the Horde flagship, Mannoroth’s Bones. Sailing alongside the proud vessel were several more, empty now save for kegs of fresh water (and a few of Gordok ogre brew, to promote morale) and nonperishable foodstuffs. Cairne would only enjoy his stay on dry land for a day or so, while the ships were loaded with supplies no longer needed here in Northrend and the last of the soldiers of the Horde, who doubtless were looking forward to the journey home.

  His aged eyes could not see the land yet through the thick fog, but he trusted in the sharper ones of the acrobatic sin’dorei lookout. He walked to the railing and closed his hands over it, peering into the mists as the ship drew closer.

  He knew that the Alliance to the southeast had chosen to erect Valiance Keep on one of the many islands that dotted that area, which made for easy navigation. Warsong Hold, their destination, was well situated and commanded a good view of the surrounding area—much more important to the Horde than deep harbors or easy access. Or at least, it had been more important.

  Cairne blew softly through his nostrils as the ship slowly, carefully moved forward. He was starting to make out ships through the peculiarly thick fog—the skeleton of another vessel, her captain clearly not so wise as the troll who captained Mannoroth’s Bones, that had either come under attack or run herself aground—perhaps both. “Garrosh’s Landing,” the site was immodestly called, and this was what was left of that impulsive young orc’s sailing vessel. It had been stripped down to the bones, the once-vivid scarlet hues of sails sporting the black symbol of the Horde now faded and tattered. Equally weathered was the single watch tower that now came into view, and Cairne could just glimpse the hulking form of what had once no doubt been a great hall.

  Garrosh, son of the famed orc hero Grom Hellscream, had been among the first to answer the call to come to Northrend. Cairne admired the youth for that, but what he had seen and heard of his behavior was equal parts encouraging and distressing. Cairne was not so old that he did not remember the fire of youth burning in his veins. He had raised a son, Baine, and had watched the young tauren struggle with the same problems he himself had, and understood well that some of Garrosh’s behavior stemmed largely from nothing more unusual—and temporary—than young male bravado. Garrosh’s enthusiasm and passion were, Cairne had to admit, catching. In the midst of a disheartening war, Garrosh had stirred the hearts and imaginations of the Horde and awakened a sense of national pride that had spread like wildfire.

  Garrosh was, for good and ill both, his father’s son. Grom Hellscream had never been known for patient wisdom. Always he had acted first, violent and urgent, his war cry the piercing, unsettling scream that had given him his surname. It had been Grom who had first drunk the blood of the demon Mannoroth—blood that had tainted him and all other orcs who had drunk it. But in the end, Grom had had his revenge. Though he had been the first to drink, and thus the first to fall to demonic bloodlust and madness, he had been the one to end that madness and bloodlust. He had slain Mannoroth. And with that gesture, the orcs had begun to reclaim their own great hearts, wills, and spirits.

  Garrosh had once been ashamed of his father, deeming him weak to have drunk the blood, and a traitor. Thrall had enlightened the youth, and now Garrosh Hellscream embraced his heritage. Perhaps embraced it a little too enthusiastically, Cairne mused, although the result of Garrosh’s enthusiasm had had positive results among the warriors. Cairne had to wonder if perhaps Thrall, in praising the good Grom had indeed done, had overly downplayed the harm Grom had also caused.

  Thrall, the warchief of the Horde and a wise as well as courageous leader, had clashed on more than one occasion with the brash young Garrosh. Before the disaster that was the Wrath Gate had occurred, Garrosh had actually challenged Thrall to fight in the arena at Orgrimmar. And, more recently, Garrosh had allowed himself to be baited by Varian Wrynn’s angry taunts and had charged at the king of Stormwind, clashing violently with him in the heart of Dalaran itself.

  And yet, Cairne could not argue with Garrosh’s success and popularity, nor the joyful zeal and passion with which the Horde responded to him. Granted, unlike some rumors would have it, Garrosh had not single-handedly beaten back the Scourge, slaughtered the Lich King, and made Northrend safe for Horde children to frolic in. But there was no denying the fact that he had led incursions that had been unqualified successes. He had brought back to the Horde a sense of fierce pride and fire for battle. He had managed, every time, to turn what looked like lunacy into a rousing success.

  Cairne was too intelligent to dismiss this as coincidence or accident. So bold he could be called reckless Garrosh might be, but recklessness did not yield the results that Grom’s son had gotten. Garrosh had been exactly what the Horde needed at what was arguably its darkest, most vulnerable hour, and Cairne was willing to give the boy that.

  “Dis be as far as we be goin’,” said Captain Tula to Cairne, shouting out orders to have the smaller boats lowered. “Warsong Hold be not far, straight to da east up da hills.”

  Tula knew exactly what she was talking about, having sailed between here
and Ratchet countless times over the last several seasons. This knowledge had been why Thrall had requested she captain Mannoroth’s Bones. Cairne nodded.

  “Open one of the kegs of ogre brew to reward your hardworking crew for their diligence,” he said to her in his deep, slow-paced voice. “But save some for the brave warriors who will be making their journey home after so long.”

  Tula brightened considerably. “Yes, High Chieftain,” she said. “Thank ya. We be keepin’ it to da one keg.”

  Cairne squeezed her shoulder, nodding his approval, and then, with not a little trepidation, lowered his great bulk into the seemingly tiny, cramped boat that would bear him the rest of the way to shore. The fog clung to his fur like spider’s webbing, cloying and cold. It was with pleasure that, a few moments later, he stepped out into the frigid waters that lapped on the shore of Garrosh’s Landing and helped tug the boat firmly aground.

  The mist was still present but seemed to thin the further inland they went. They trudged past broken, abandoned siege engines and discarded weaponry and armor, past the remains of a long-abandoned farm with pig skeletons that had been bleached white by the sun. They continued up the slight incline, the tundra soil covered with some sort of red plant that stubbornly persisted in existing despite the harshness of this place. Cairne respected that.

  Warsong Hold loomed ahead, clearly and proudly visible. It appeared to be located in the center of a quarry, the hollow providing a practical barrier. Nerubians, an ancient race of spidery beings, many of whose corpses had been raised by necromantic magic, had attempted attacks at various times, but no longer. What had once been strong, sticky webbing had now been cut or worn down to nothing more than a few ropy strands that danced harmlessly in the wind. Along with the Scourge, they, too, had retreated before the dedicated efforts of the Horde.