The Shattering

by Christie Golden

  Drukan looked at her, perplexed. She sighed. “He has clearly left his quarters, yes. But perhaps he is still in Ironforge, simply hiding. There are many places for one to hide in this city.”

  “Indeed there—oh.”

  She smiled sweetly. “I will send you as many additional guards as you need to search for him. But you must not attract undue attention! No one must know that he is missing. You have taken the doddering old servant in for questioning?”

  Drukan brightened somewhat. “Oh, yes indeed.”

  “Take care he is not mistreated. We want Anduin … cooperative.”

  “Of course.”

  “This must stay as quiet as possible. We shall put out word that Anduin is ill. … No, no, then that pesky Rohan will insist upon seeing him. What to do, what to do …” Moira paced the room, pausing beside her son’s cradle and rocking it absently.

  “Ah … we shall say he has gone to visit Dun Morogh. Yes! That’s just the thing.” This would accomplish two purposes. It would provide a plausible cover for why Anduin was not available and would give the impression that, at least in some cases, there was contact with the outside world that Moira approved of. Continuing to rock the cradle, she waved a hand at Drukan. “Go, shoo. Be about your task. Oh, and Drukan?” She lifted her eyes from her child and regarded him coldly. “You must make certain that no one knows about Anduin’s disappearance and no one knows what has happened here. I will reveal my agenda in my own time, and in my own way. Is that clear?”

  Drukan swallowed audibly. “Y-yes, Yer Excellency.”

  * * *

  Palkar returned with fresh meat to prepare for his and Drek’Thar’s evening meal and found a bedraggled tauren courier waiting for him. He was one of Cairne’s Longwalkers, which meant that the news he bore was important indeed. He was weather stained, and Palkar could see dried blood on his clothing. It was uncertain at first glance if the blood was the tauren’s or that of another.

  “Greetings, Longwalker,” he said. “I am Palkar. Come inside and eat with us, then share your news.”

  “I am Perith Stormhoof,” the Longwalker replied. “And my news cannot wait. I will share it with your master now.”

  Palkar hesitated. He did not like to talk about Drek’Thar’s declining health with anyone. “You can share it with me. I will make sure that he receives it. He has not been well as of late and—”

  “No,” said Perith flatly. “I have instructions to deliver the news to Drek’Thar, and deliver it I shall.”

  There was no other option. “Drek’Thar’s mind is not what it once was. I tend to him. If you speak only to him, your words will be lost.”

  The tauren twitched an ear, his harsh expression softening slightly. “I regret to hear this news. You may hear it with him, then. But I must speak with him.”

  “I understand. Come in.”

  Palkar held open the tent flap, and Perith entered, having to duck as the flap was not designed to accommodate one of his size. Drek’Thar was awake, and his body posture seemed attentive and alert. He was, however, seated a good six feet away from his sleeping furs.

  “Drek’Thar, we have an honored guest. It is one of Cairne’s Longwalkers, Perith Stormhoof.”

  “My sleeping furs … why did you move them? You are always disturbing my things, Palkar,” he said, his voice displaying his confusion.

  Palkar gently helped the elderly orc to his feet, guided him to the furs, and helped him into a comfortable seating position.

  “Now,” Palkar said to Perith, “you may share your news with us.”

  Perith nodded. “The news is grave. The heart of the matter is that our beloved leader, Cairne Bloodhoof, is murdered, and the Grimtotem have taken over many of our cities in a bloody coup.”

  Drek’Thar and Palkar both stared at him, horrified. The news seemed to jolt Drek’Thar into one of his lucid phases.

  “Who slew the mighty Cairne? What caused this?” the elderly orc demanded in a voice that was surprisingly clear and strong.

  Perith recounted the tragedy of the attack on the druids in Ashenvale, and of Hamuul Runetotem’s narrow escape. “When Cairne heard of this atrocity, he challenged Garrosh Hellscream to the mak’gora in the arena. Garrosh accepted—but only if Cairne adhered to the old rules. He demanded a battle to the death, and Cairne agreed.”

  “Then he fell, in fair battle. And the Grimtotem saw the opportunity,” Drek’Thar said.

  “No. There are rumors circulating that Magatha poisoned Garrosh’s blade so that the noble Cairne was felled by nothing more than a nick. I saw her anoint the blade; I saw Cairne fall. I cannot say if Garrosh knew of the deception or was himself deceived. I do know that the Grimtotem did all they could to prevent word from reaching Thunder Bluff. It was only with the greatest care, and the blessing of the Earth Mother, that I eluded their net.”

  Palkar stared at him, his mind reeling. Cairne assassinated by the matriarch of the Grimtotem? And Garrosh was either duped or a willing participant—either was terrible to contemplate. And now the Grimtotem ruled the tauren.

  He tried to gather his thoughts, but Drek’Thar, alert and fully present now, spoke more quickly than he. “Baine? Any word of him?”

  “There was an attack on Bloodhoof Village, but Baine escaped. No one has heard from him yet, but we believe he lives. If he were dead, rest assured that Magatha would announce it—and back it up with his head.”

  Something was bothering Palkar, more than the obvious horror at the news. Something else that Perith had said—

  “Then there is still hope. Is Garrosh choosing to aid the usurpers?”

  “We have not seen evidence of that.”

  “If he truly was a participant in the dishonorable murder of Cairne,” Drek’Thar continued, “it is unlikely that he would not do all he could to silence Baine and see that those Garrosh supported continued to hold power. The warchief must be advised of these developments at once.”

  The warchief must be advised. …

  I must speak with Thrall. … He must know. …

  Ancestors … he had been right!

  Sweat broke out on Palkar’s brow. Two moons ago, Drek’Thar had had a wild, feverish vision in which he proclaimed that soon a peaceful gathering of druids, both night elf and tauren, would be attacked. Palkar had believed him and sent guards to “protect” the gathering, but nothing had happened. He had thought that the “vision” was nothing more than an expression of Drek’Thar’s increasing senility.

  But Drek’Thar had been right. Now, speaking lucidly with Perith Stormhoof, the old shaman did not appear to even recall the vision. But it had happened, exactly as he had predicted. A peaceable gathering of night elves and tauren had indeed been attacked—and the results had been disastrous. The incident had simply occurred much later than anyone could have expected.

  Frantically Palkar recalled Drek’Thar’s most recent dream in which he had cried, “The land will weep, and the world will break!” Could it be that this “dream,” too, had been a true vision? That it would come true, just as the dream of the druid gathering had?

  Palkar had been a fool. Better to have told Thrall of the dream and let the warchief decide for himself whether or not to pay attention to it. Palkar clenched his hands in anger directed not at Drek’Thar, but at himself.

  “Palkar?” Drek’Thar was saying.

  “I’m sorry—I was thinking—what did you say?”

  “I asked if you would write a missive,” Drek’Thar said as if he had uttered this request several times. Which, for all Palkar knew, he might have. “We must tell Thrall right away. Even so, it will take time for a Longwalker to find him. We can only hope we are not too late to help Baine.”

  “Of course,” Palkar replied, leaping up to obey. He would write whatever Drek’Thar and the Longwalker wished. And then, at the end, he would confess to the warchief all that he had kept from him and why, and let things fall as they might.

  He would not risk Drek’Thar’s being righ
t a second time.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Thrall was surprised at the level of involvement and effort it took to prepare for the vision quest. He understood now Geyah’s comment about Drek’Thar’s doing his best as one of the last shaman the orcs then had. It would seem that a “proper” vision quest involved nearly the entire community.

  Someone came to measure him for a ritual robe. Someone else offered the herbs for the rite. A third orc came to volunteer to lead the drumming and chanting circles, and six more offered their drums and voices. Thrall was surprised and moved. At one point he said to Aggra, “I do not wish for any favors to be done to me because of my position.”

  She gave him a slight smirk. “Go’el, it is because you are in need of a vision quest, not because you are the leader of the Horde. You do not need to worry about any favors.”

  It both relieved him and embarrassed him, and he wondered, not for the first time, how it was that Aggra was so adept at getting under his skin. Maybe it was a gift from the elements, he mused drily as he watched her stride off, head high.

  He chafed at the delay, but there was little he could do about it. And there was a part of him, a not insignificant part, that anticipated the ritual eagerly. So much had been lost to the orcs in the years before he became a shaman himself. His own experience of such communal rites was lacking, he knew.

  At last, three days later, all was prepared. Torches were lit at dusk. Thrall waited at Garadar to be escorted to the prepared ceremonial site. Aggra came to get him, and he did a double take at her.

  Her long, thick, reddish-brown hair was braided with feathers. She wore a leather vest and kilt embroidered with feathers and beads, and symbols in white and green paint decorated her face and elsewhere where her brown skin was revealed. She stood tall and straight and proud, the tan of the leather setting off the dark brown of her skin to perfection. In her arms, she bore a bundle of cloth as brown as her skin.

  “These are for you, Go’el,” she said. “They are plain and simple. Initiate’s robes for an initiation.”

  “I understand,” Thrall said, reaching out to take the bundle from her.

  She did not surrender it to him. “I am not certain that you do. I admit, you are a gifted and powerful shaman. But there is much you still do not know about it. We do not wear armor in our initiations. An initiation is a rebirth, not a battle. Like the snake, we shed the skins of who we were before. We need to approach it without those burdens, without the narrow thoughts and notions that we have held. We need to be simple, clean, ready to understand and connect with the elements and let them write their wisdom on our souls.”

  Thrall listened intently and nodded respectfully. Still, she did not give him the robes, not yet. “You will also find a necklace of prayer beads. This will help you reconnect with your inner self, so you may touch them as you feel called.”

  Now, finally, she extended the bundle to him. He accepted it. “I will return shortly,” she said, and left.

  Thrall regarded the plain brown garment, then slowly and respectfully put it on. He felt … naked. He was used to wearing the distinctive black plate armor that had once belonged to Orgrim Doomhammer. He wore it nearly every waking moment and had grown accustomed to its weight. This garment was light. He slipped the prayer beads around his neck, rolling them between his fingers, thinking hard on what Aggra had said. He was to be reborn, she had told him.

  As what? And as who?

  “Well,” said Aggra, startling him out of his reverie, “it would seem initiate’s robes suit you after all.”

  “I am ready,” Thrall said quietly.

  “Not quite yet. You are not painted.”

  She stepped forward, with her usual brusque manner, to a small chest nestled against the hide wall, rummaged about, and emerged with three small pots of colored clay. “You are too tall. Sit.”

  Somewhat amused, Thrall did so. She stepped toward him, opened one of the jars, dabbed some clay on her finger, and began applying it to his face. Her touch was deft, strangely gentle for someone Thrall had known to be so forceful, the clay cool; and this close to her, Thrall could smell the sweet, light scent of the oil with which she had anointed herself. She frowned slightly at him.

  “What is wrong?”

  “These colors do not look the same on green skin.”

  “I fear I cannot change that, Aggra, no matter how much studying with you I do,” he said, his voice and expression utterly sincere and concerned.

  She looked him right in the eye for a long moment, irritation furrowing her brow. And then she smiled. A hearty chuckle rumbled from her.

  “Ancestors know, that is true,” she said. “It seems as though it is I who must change the colors of the paint, then.”

  They both smiled, looking at one another, then Aggra dropped her gaze. “Perhaps blue and yellow instead,” she said and retrieved the appropriate jars. She continued painting his face in silence. Finally she nodded her approval, then frowned again. “Your hair … one moment.”

  She wiped her hands. Long, clever brown fingers undid the two long braids that Thrall usually wore, and she quickly braided feathers into the hair. “Now. Now you are ready, Go’el.”

  Aggra fetched a polished sheet of metal that would serve as a mirror.

  Thrall almost did not recognize himself.

  His green skin was now adorned with dots and swirls of yellow and blue, as if he wore a mask. His hair, braided with bright feathers from the windroc, fell about his shoulders in a thick mass. Normally he was contained, controlled. Now, he realized he looked …

  “… wild,” he said quietly.

  “Like the elements,” she said. “There is little that is calm and orderly about them, Go’el. You now begin your vision quest kin to them. Come. They are waiting.”

  Thrall had been through a great deal in his life. He had been taught to fight while still a child, had learned about friendship and hardship in the same formative years. He had liberated his people and fought demons. And yet now, as he followed Aggra outside to the prepared site next to the lake, he found that he was nervous.

  The drumming started as soon as he appeared. Aggra straightened. She lost both her lightness and her aggressiveness, and for a moment she seemed to him to be a younger version of Geyah. She moved with a graceful, solemn step, and he slowed his own pace to match hers. It seemed the entire population of Garadar had turned out, standing to form a line on either side of the path. The torches kept the darkness at bay for a few feet, but after that the shadows waited. Up ahead, standing waiting for him, propped up on a staff, was Geyah. She looked beautiful, if fragile, and her wrinkled face was luminous and smiling. He drew up to her, then bowed deeply.

  “Welcome, Go’el, son of Durotan, who was son of Garad.” Thrall’s eyes widened slightly. Of course—he should have realized it earlier. Garad was his grandfather, and he now stood in Garadar, a place named after him. “Child of and chosen of the elements. Not so far from this site, the Furies watch over us. They will behold the ceremony held this night.”

  Thrall glanced out over the black water. He could see only one of the Furies—Incineratus, the Fury of Fire, moving slowly about. But he knew the others were there.

  “It is well,” he said, as he had been instructed. “I offer my body, mind, and spirit to this vision quest.”

  Aggra took his hand, led him forward to the center of the pile of skins that had been placed on the ground, and brought him down with her.

  “When you embark upon this quest,” she said, “your soul leaves your body. Know that while you journey in the world of spirit, your people will keep careful watch over your physical form. Here. Take this draft. Drink it down swiftly.”

  She handed him a cup of a vile-smelling liquid. Thrall accepted it, his fingers brushing hers as he did so. He gulped the liquid down as quickly as possible, then swallowed again, hard, to keep the unpleasant concoction in his stomach. Even as he handed the cup back to Aggra, he began to feel light-headed. He did
not protest as she reached for him and settled his head on her lap. It was an oddly tender gesture, coming from one who had previously been so curt, but he accepted it.

  His head spun, and the drumming seemed to throb through his veins, as if it were not heard so much as felt. As if the sound were merging with his own heartbeat.

  Cool fingers caressed his hair. Again, unusual for Aggra. Her voice—deep, soft, kind—came to him as if from far, far away.

  “Go within yourself and outside yourself, Go’el. Nothing shall harm you here, though you may be afraid of what you see.”

  * * *

  Thrall opened his eyes.

  A shimmering, misty figure stood before him. It had luminous eyes, four legs, sharp teeth, and a tail. It was a spirit wolf, and he knew, without understanding how he knew, that it was Aggra.

  “You will lead me?” he asked the wolf, confused. “I thought Grandmother—”

  “I was chosen to guide you. Come,” said Aggra, her voice husky and somehow suited to issuing from a wolf’s muzzle. “It is time. Follow me!”

  And suddenly Thrall, too, was a wolf. The world changed in front of him, some things becoming insubstantial, other things taking on a new, strange solidity. He shook himself, feeling lighter than air, part of the nothingness that was everything, and followed her into the swirling mist.

  They emerged into the bright light of a noonday sun, in an arena. Thrall, in spirit wolf form, blinked in confusion.

  He was looking at himself.

  “What …” the now-Thrall said, his voice sounding strange in his own ears. “I thought I was to meet the elements and—”

  “Silence!” Aggra’s reprimand was a harsh, short bark, and Thrall obeyed. “Observe only. Do not try to interact. No one here can see or hear you. This is your vision quest, Go’el. It will show you exactly what you need to know.”

  Now-Thrall nodded and watched.

  Younger Thrall was clad in a few pieces of armor. His body was fit and toned, sweat gleaming on green skin, and he was armed with a sword in one hand and a mace in the other. Now-Thrall knew where he was—he was in the arena at Durnholde Keep. The sounds of both cheers and boos were thunderous, and he knew that somewhere up there, eating fruit and drinking wine, was the hated Aedelas Blackmoore. The man who had taken him as an infant and turned him into a gladiator. Anger burned in him, even as he watched his younger self fighting a huge bear.