The Shattering

by Christie Golden

  “No,” he rasped. “Incineratus … gifted me with the fire of passion, to do what I need to do.”

  Slowly Aggra nodded. “As you learned last night, that fire burns within you already. But this is a great gift indeed. Very few have felt the brush of Incineratus’s fire.”

  He knew by what she did not say that she herself had not been so honored. He felt compelled to add, “I do not think the gift was for me. It was for the elements in Azeroth, that I might be better able to help them.”

  “I have asked for such, to help the kindlings here,” she said quietly. “I was not deemed worthy.”

  He grasped her hand. “You are skilled, Aggra. And it could be that the fire that burns within you already is enough.”

  Startled, she lifted her eyes to his. He expected her to tug her hand away and make a sharp retort. Instead, Aggra let her hand remain in his, brown fingers entwined with green, for a long moment before squeezing gently and moving away.

  “There are two more,” she said, once again controlled and brusque in her demeanor. “While you have a great gift, perhaps Gordawg and Aborius will be able to help you more than Incineratus and Kalandrios could. Give you a little clarity on what you saw, perhaps. I find myself that sometimes their mysteries irritate more than they enlighten.”

  He was surprised at her irreverence but found himself forced to agree with it. Sometimes Fire and Air were both a little bit flighty.

  The metaphysical fire had died down to an ember in his heart now, but he could still feel it. He moved on to Aborius, moving in a circle around the Throne of the Elements, and knelt before the Fury of Water.

  She turned around at once. Thrall had not even mentally voiced his plea before he felt the patter of a gentle spray of water across his upturned face. He licked his lips; it was sweet and clean, the freshest water he had ever tasted.

  Go’el, your pain and confusion are as my own. Many come here with concerns, but few feel them as strongly as you do. Would that I could aid you, in this world that houses the droplets that are of me and yet not of me. Your heart is already afire with the passion to help, to heal. To put right a world sorely troubled. I cannot give you such a gift as Incineratus did, but I will tell you, do not be ashamed of your feelings. Water shall give you the balance you seek; it shall replenish and restore. Do not be afraid of anything you feel in this journey to save your world. Neither be afraid of the wound within your own soul, which you must heal.

  Thrall was confused. I? I have no wound, great Fury, save the pain at the torment my world is in.

  He felt a brush of compassionate humor. One faces one’s burdens when one is ready, not before. But I say again unto you, Go’el, son of Durotan, son of Garad—when the time comes that you are ready to heal your wound, do not be afraid to dive deep.

  Water was running down his face now. Again Thrall opened his mouth to taste the sweet liquid, but instead found it to be warm and salty. Tears. He was weeping, openly, and for a moment Aborius allowed Thrall to feel the element’s own empathy for him.

  He sobbed, unashamed, knowing that what he felt was good and true. Tears were part of the gift that loving Taretha Foxton had given him, as had been so poignantly revealed to him last night. Even more than wanting to liberate his people from the camps, even more than wanting them to have a land where they would be safe and happy, Thrall realized that he wanted the world in which he had been born to be whole. Only then would the other things follow. Only when Azeroth had recovered from this strange, angry hurting that was causing it to shake and quiver and weep, only then could the Horde, or, indeed, the Alliance, truly grow and thrive. This was why he had felt called to come to Outland. This was why he had left the Horde behind, the Horde he had loved and helped create. It truly had been the only choice.

  He got to his feet, shaking, dragging an arm across his eyes, and turned to the final Fury.

  Gordawg was perhaps the most imposing of the Furies, even more so than the fiery Incineratus. The Fury of Earth was like a mountain come to life, and as Thrall approached, the earth beneath him trembled.

  Gordawg seemed to take no notice of Thrall, instead striding away from him as the orc hastened to follow. Thrall reached out imploringly with his thoughts. Finally Gordawg came to a halt so abruptly that Thrall almost ran into him.

  Massively, slowly, he turned and gazed down at the orc, so small in comparison.

  What you wish of Gordawg?

  I come from a land called Azeroth. The elemental spirits there are troubled. They voice their pain in wildfires, floods, earthquakes.

  Gordawg peered down at him, his glowing eyes narrowing.

  Why so pained?

  I do not know, Fury. I ask them, but their replies are chaotic. All I know is that they suffer. Your fellow Furies have been unable to help me solve this mystery so that I can aid the elements of Azeroth.

  Gordawg nodded, as if he had been expecting this.

  Gordawg want to help. But other land far away. Cannot help without knowing land.

  Thrall was not surprised. It was the same reason the other Furies had given for being unable to help: it was not their world, and they did not know it.

  A thought came to him. Gordawg, there is a portal between Azeroth and what remains of Draenor. Once, it was closed so that the destruction of Draenor would not pass to my world. Now, the illness of my world could pass to yours, if I do not stop it. Can you do nothing to help me? And in helping me, perhaps protect Outland?

  Gordawg hears what you say. Gordawg understands the need. And yet Gordawg says again—of this world, Gordawg knows. The great being knelt, scooped up a handful of earth, and popped it into his maw before Thrall’s startled gaze. I taste. I can tell where this earth has been, what its secrets are.

  Thrall’s eyes widened as an idea came to him. Could it be so simple?

  He always carried with him a small transportable altar—a feather to represent Air, a small chalice for Water, flint and tinder for Fire …

  … and a small rock for Earth. Now he fumbled in his pouch with fingers gone shaky with hope and fear commingled. Finally his hand emerged, holding the small rock in his palm.

  It was an actual piece of an element of Azeroth; the other items—flint and tinder, a chalice, a feather—were only symbols. But this was the element it represented.

  Gordawg … here is a stone from my world. If you can glean anything from it, I ask you, please tell me.

  Gordawg stared. The rock was small. He bent over, extending his giant hand, and Thrall dropped the stone into it.

  Not much for Gordawg to taste, he grumbled. But Gordawg try. Gordawg wish to help.

  The stone was but a tiny speck on his hand, and Thrall watched it vanish into the massive gullet. He glanced over at Aggra, who spread her hands and shrugged. She was as confused as he.

  Suddenly Gordawg growled. Not the way of the earth. Not right. Angry, frightened stone here. Something has made it so!

  Thrall listened, barely breathing.

  Something that was once right, but now is wrong. Was of the world, but now is unnatural and dark. Was wounded, once, but now is healed in a way—but the healing also wrong. Is angry. Wants to make others wounded. Will hurt the earth to do so. Must be stopped!

  He stamped his foot, and the earth shook.

  This … something, Thrall thought. It is in Azeroth?

  Stone fears its coming. Not there, not yet. But stone is afraid. Poor stone. He lifted a hand and extended a finger, pointing it at Thrall. You hear cries of frightened stone. Of all the elements. These quakes of the earth, giant waves, fires—that is the elements telling you they are afraid. You must stop them from being wounded … maybe destroyed completely!

  How do I do that? Please tell me!

  Gordawg shook his enormous head. Gordawg not know. Perhaps other shaman who also hear the frightened stone might know. But I tell you this. I have tasted something like this fear before. Almost kind of fear I taste in the earth right before this world ripped to pieces. Is
fear of being broken. Being shattered.

  Gordawg turned and strode off. Thrall stared after him, shocked.

  “He ate the stone you gave him,” Aggra said, stepping up beside Thrall. “Was he able to help?”

  “Yes,” said Thrall, his voice a whisper. He cleared his throat, shook his head. “He told me that the stone was afraid. That all the elements are afraid. They know something dreadful is coming. Something that was once good and in harmony with the world, but now is unnatural. It’s been hurt, and it burns with the desire to hurt other things.”

  He turned to her. “And one final thing. I have to go back to Azeroth. I don’t think they would have helped me if I couldn’t do something. I have to see if I can figure out what exactly the elements are so terrified of … and do all in my power to stop it. Because that stone was emitting a similar kind of terror to what Draenor felt before—”

  “—before it was shattered,” Aggra finished, her own eyes wide with fear. “Yes, Go’el. Yes! We must not let such a cataclysm happen twice!”

  * * *

  Once the bloodlust and the thrill of victory over Cairne had passed—Cairne Bloodhoof, a legend, one of the great figures of the Horde’s history in Azeroth—Garrosh was somewhat surprised to find himself dealing with mixed emotions.

  Cairne had been the one to challenge him. Garrosh still wasn’t exactly sure why. Cairne had hurled accusations about—something about some attack on druids somewhere. Garrosh had had no idea what he was talking about, but once that humiliating blow had been struck and Cairne had invoked the challenge, there had been no turning back. For either of them. The old bull had fought well. Garrosh would never admit it, but he had been worried that he might not survive the fight. But he had. Garrosh bore the blood of the tauren high chieftain on his hands, yes, but there was no guilt. It had been a fair fight, each combatant had been aware that only one would walk away alive, and honor had been satisfied.

  And yet … while there was no guilt, Garrosh found there was regret. He had not disliked Cairne, although the two had clashed repeatedly over their beliefs in what was best for the Horde. It had been a shame that Cairne simply could not wrap his old-fashioned mind around what needed to be done.

  After the wild celebrating of those who had been supporting Garrosh had died down and the night was moving toward dawn, Garrosh found himself back at the arena. Cairne’s body had been removed almost immediately, to where, he did not know. He wasn’t sure what the tauren did with their dead. Bury them, burn them?

  There was still blood on the floor of the arena. Garrosh supposed someone would have to come clean it up. He would see to it on the morrow. For now, he was embarrassed that he had neglected the vital task of cleaning his blade for too long. Speaking of … where was—He looked around, becoming increasingly worried when he did not see the axe.

  “Are you looking for Gorehowl?” The voice startled Garrosh. He turned to see one of the Kor’kron standing there, holding out his cherished axe and bowing. “We retrieved it and put it in a safe place until you wished it.”

  “My thanks,” said Garrosh. He was a little uncomfortable with the nearly constant and yet often unnoticed presence of the elite unit of bodyguards. But he had to admit, they were handy at times like this. He was angry that he had allowed himself to be so carried away as to forget Gorehowl. It would not happen again. He waved the bodyguard away, and the Kor’kron bowed again and moved into the shadows, leaving Garrosh alone with the axe that had been his father’s.

  As he regarded the axe, and the blood on the arena where Cairne had fallen, he heard a voice behind him. An orc’s—but not one of his bodyguards.

  “This is a loss to the Horde, and I know you know it.”

  Garrosh turned to see Eitrigg sitting up in the stands. What was the old orc doing here? He couldn’t remember seeing Eitrigg during the combat, but surely he had to have been present. Garrosh found he didn’t remember much about the actual fight itself; it was no wonder that he hadn’t been paying attention to who else was watching. He had been rather occupied at the time.

  He debated chastising the other orc, but found he was strangely weary. “I do know it. But I had no choice. He challenged me.”

  “Many saw the challenge. I don’t dispute that. But did you not notice how quickly he fell?”

  Unease stirred in Garrosh. “I do not remember much. It was … fast, and heated.”

  Eitrigg nodded. Slowly, for Garrosh knew his joints pained him, Eitrigg rose and descended to the floor of the arena, speaking as he went. “It was. How many blows did you receive? How many did Cairne deal? Many. And yet he fell so quickly from just one.”

  “It was a good blow,” Garrosh said, his voice sounding petulant in his own ears. Had it been? It had been right across the chest. Hadn’t it? The bloodlust hazed everything—

  “No.” Eitrigg spoke bluntly. “It was a long but shallow cut. And yet he did not defend himself when the death strike came.” By now Eitrigg stood beside him. “Do you not think that odd? I certainly did. And I am not alone in my observation. Cairne died far too quickly, Garrosh, and if you didn’t notice it, others did. Others like me, and Vol’jin, who came to me just a short while ago. Others who wonder how it is that such a fine warrior fell with just a glancing blow.”

  Garrosh was starting to grow angry. “Out with it!” he growled. “What are you trying to say? Are you saying I did not win this fight fairly? Would I have let him give me these wounds had I been attempting to cheat?”

  “No. I do not think you fought dishonorably. But I believe someone did.” Eitrigg extended a gnarled finger and pointed at Gorehowl. “You received a shamanic blessing with sacred oil on your blade.”

  “So did Cairne. So does everyone who chooses to fight in the mak’gora,” Garrosh said. “It’s part of it. That is not dishonorable!” He was starting to raise his voice, and a strange emotion was churning inside him. Was it—fear?

  “Look at the color of the oil,” Eitrigg said. “It is black and sticky. No—in the ancestors’ names, do not touch it!”

  Most of the blade that had taken Cairne Bloodhoof’s life was coated with dried blood. But in one small spot along the edge, Garrosh could now see a tacky-looking, black substance that did not in any way resemble the golden, glistening oil with which blades were usually anointed.

  “Who blessed Gorehowl, Garrosh Hellscream? Who blessed the axe that slew Cairne Bloodhoof?” Eitrigg’s voice held anger, but it was not directed at Garrosh.

  A sick feeling twisted Garrosh’s gut. “Magatha Grimtotem,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper.

  “It was not your skill in battle that killed your opponent. It was the poison of an evil schemer who sought to destroy an adversary and used you, like a pawn, to do so. Do you know what has happened in Thunder Bluff? While you were out celebrating?”

  Garrosh did not want to hear. He stared at the blade, but Eitrigg pressed on.

  “Grimtotem assassins have taken over Thunder Bluff, Bloodhoof Village, and other tauren strongholds. The teachers, the powerful shaman, and druids and warriors—all dead. Innocent tauren slaughtered in their sleep. Baine Bloodhoof is missing and is probably dead, too. Blood pours from a peaceful city, because you were too full of pride to notice what was happening literally right in front of your eyes!”

  Garrosh had been listening in increasing horror, and now he bellowed, “Enough! Silence, old one!” They stood there staring at one another.

  And then something broke in Garrosh. “She robbed me of my honor,” he said quietly. “She took my kill from me. I will never know now if I would have been strong enough to defeat Cairne Bloodhoof in a fair fight. Eitrigg, you must believe me!”

  For the first time that night, the old orc’s eyes held a glimmer of sympathy. “I do, Garrosh. No one has ever questioned your honor in battle. If Cairne knew what was happening to him as he died, I believe he knew you were not to blame. But know that doubt has been sown here tonight. Doubt that you fought fairly—and they are speaki
ng of it, in hushed whispers. Not everyone is as understanding as I and Cairne Bloodhoof.”

  Garrosh stared again at the blood- and poison-coated weapon he bore. Magatha had stolen his honor. Had stolen his respect in the eyes of the Horde he so loved. She had used him, used Gorehowl, too, a weapon his father had once wielded. It had been coated with poison, the coward’s weapon. It, too, had been dishonored. And Magatha, in performing such a base, deceitful act, had spat in the face of her shamanic traditions. And Eitrigg was telling him that there were some who believed he would willingly be involved in this?

  No! He would show Vol’jin and any others who voiced their lies exactly what he thought of them. He closed his eyes, clenched his hand on the hilt of Gorehowl, and let the rage take him.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Jaina’s first instinct upon seeing Anduin materialize so unexpectedly, almost literally in front of her, had been to contact his father. While Moira had been doing an excellent job of keeping a tight hold over communication going in and out of Ironforge, complete isolation was difficult to obtain. Rumors had begun circulating after only a day. Varian had immediately tried to contact his son by sending urgent letters. When they were not answered, he had become both worried and angry.

  Jaina was not a parent, but she had an idea of what Varian was going through, both as the father of a son he had only recently reunited with and as a king fearing for the security of his kingdom. But more urgent than putting Varian’s fears to rest had been the calming of a potentially explosive situation. Sometimes politics began and ended with two people. While she had never met Baine, his reputation preceded him. She had certainly known, respected, and liked his father. Baine had come to her, risking everything, trusting that she would aid him. Jaina did know Anduin, quite well, and knew that if the initial shock and suspicion could be quelled, productive conversation would ensue.

  And so she had assuaged their fears, and gotten them to speak, both to her and each other. The news each bore was dreadful in its own way. Baine spoke of the murder of his father at the hands of Garrosh and Magatha and the ensuing slaughter of a peaceful people in one of the bloodiest coups Jaina had ever heard of. And Anduin spoke of a returning daughter whose rightful claim to the throne did nothing to mitigate the fear at the utterly tyrannical way she had swept into a city and taken away the liberties of its citizens.