The Shattering

by Christie Golden

  “You obviously can’t be trusted to have free rein over Ironforge. Not by yourself, not yet. You’ve made that amply clear. These people aren’t just the Dark Iron dwarves you’re used to lording over. The dwarves have three clans. Dark Iron, Bronzebeard, and Wildhammer. You want to bring the dwarven people together? Fine. Then each of those clans needs a representative. A voice, which, by the Light, you will listen to!” He was working it through as he spoke. The Wildhammers, it was true, had demonstrated little interest in Ironforge and had their own holdings elsewhere. They were their own nation; Moira would not be their queen.

  But this was about more than her title. It was about the dwarves as a people. It was about preventing, as Anduin had said, civil war. It felt right—right enough to be given a chance to see if it worked. In the end, the dwarves themselves would decide that.

  Moira said nothing, only looked around with wide, fearful eyes. She looked like nothing more than a scared little girl, standing there in her nightgown. …

  “Three clans, three leaders. Three … hammers,” Varian said. “You for the Dark Irons, whom you married into, Falstad for the Wildhammers, and Muradin or Brann or whoever we can find for the Bronzebeards. You will listen to their needs. You will work with them for the betterment of the dwarven people, not your own selfish ends. Do you understand me?”

  Moira nodded … carefully.

  “We’ll be watching you. Very. Closely. Instead of bleeding your life out here on the floor of the High Seat, you’ve got a second chance to prove that you’re ready to lead the dwarves.” He leaned over her. “Don’t disappoint them.”

  He gave a curt nod. The blades of the SI:7 team were sheathed as quickly as they had been drawn. Moira’s hand went to her throat and tentatively touched the nick there. She was visibly shaking, all her chilling elegance and false sweetness gone.

  He was done with her. He turned to Anduin, saw his son smiling and nodding with pride. With two strides Varian closed the distance between them and hugged his son. As he held Anduin tight, he heard the first smatterings of applause. It built, grew, was joined by shouts and whistles of approval. Names were called—“Wildhammer!” “Bronzebeard!” And, as Anduin and Rohan had said, even “Dark Iron!”

  Varian looked up to see dozens, perhaps hundreds, of dwarves smiling and cheering at him and his decision. Moira stood alone, her hand still to her throat, her head bowed.

  “See, Father?” Anduin said, pulling back to look up at him. “You knew exactly the right thing to do. I knew you did.”

  Varian smiled. “I needed someone to believe that for me, before I could,” he replied. “Come on, Son. Let’s go home.”

  * * *

  Thrall and Aggra hurried back to Garadar, only to find a grim-faced welcome. Greatmother Geyah in particular looked extremely sad, rising to embrace Thrall. A tauren stood by, tall and straight. Thrall recognized him as Perith Stormhoof, and he felt the color drain from his face. “Something terrible has happened,” Thrall said, the phrase not a question but a statement. “What is it?”

  Geyah laid a hand on his heart. “First, you know here that you were right to come to Nagrand. Whatever has happened in your absence.”

  Thrall glanced at Aggra, who looked as upset as he felt. He forced himself to be calm. “Perith. Speak.”

  And Perith did, his voice calm, breaking only at certain points. He spoke of the treacherous murder of innocent druids gathering peacefully, and of an outraged Cairne challenging Garrosh. Of the great high chieftain’s death that was subsequently determined to be from poison administered by Magatha Grimtotem. Of the slaughter at Thunder Bluff, and Bloodhoof Village, and Sun Rock Retreat. When he had finished, he held out a rolled-up scroll. “Palkar, Drek’Thar’s attendant, sends this as well.”

  Thrall unrolled it with hands he forced to not tremble. As he read Palkar’s words—words that revealed that, contrary to what all had thought, Drek’Thar, while his mind sometimes wandered, still had true visions—his heart sank. The ink had spotted as Palkar wrote of Drek’Thar’s latest utterance: The land will weep, and the world will break. …

  The world will break. As another world had done once before …

  Thrall swayed, but refused offers to sit. He stood, his knees locked into position as if welded there. For a long moment he stood, wondering, Was I right to come? Was this bit of knowledge I have gleaned worth the loss of Cairne? Of so many innocent, peaceful tauren? And even if I was right—am I in time?

  “Baine,” he said at last. “What of Baine?”

  “No word, Warchief,” Perith said. “But it is believed he is still alive.”

  “And Garrosh? What has he done?”

  “Nothing, so far. He appears to be waiting to see which side is victorious.”

  Thrall’s hands clenched into fists. He felt a brush, featherlight, and looked down to see Aggra’s hand touching his. Not knowing exactly why he did so, he opened his fist and permitted his fingers to twine with hers. He took a deep breath.

  “This—” His voice broke, and he tried again. “This is grievous news. My heart breaks for the slain.” He looked at Geyah. “Today, I learned things from the Furies that I believe will help me aid Azeroth. I had hoped to leave in a few days, but now surely you understand that I must depart immediately.”

  “Of course,” Geyah said at once. “We have already packed your things.”

  He was both glad of this and not, as he had hoped to have a few moments to compose himself. Geyah, shrewd female that she was, realized this at once. “I am sure you will wish to take a few moments in meditation before you go,” she said, and Thrall seized upon the opportunity.

  He strode outside Garadar a short way to a clump of trees. A small herd of wild talbuk eyed him, then with a flip of their tails galloped a short distance away to resume grazing in peace.

  Thrall sat down hard, feeling a thousand years old. He was having difficulty absorbing the scope of the catastrophic news. Could it all really be true? The killing of the druids, of Cairne, of untold numbers of tauren at the very heart of their land? He felt almost dizzy and placed his head in his hands for a moment.

  His mind went back to his last conversation with Cairne, and pain shot through his heart. To have exchanged such words with an old friend—and to have those words be the last thing Cairne had from him … this single death seemed to strike him harder than all the innocent lives lost as a result of Cairne’s murder. For murder it was. Not a fair death in the arena, but poisoned—

  He jumped as he felt a hand on his shoulder and whirled to see Aggra sitting beside him. Anger stirred inside him and he snapped, “Have you come to gloat, Aggra? To tell me what a poor warchief I am? That my divided loyalties have cost the life of one of my dearest friends and those of countless innocents?”

  Her brown eyes were unspeakably kind as she shook her head, remaining silent.

  Thrall exhaled loudly and looked off to the horizon. “If you did, you would be saying nothing I have not already thought.”

  “So I assumed. One doesn’t often need help in beating oneself up.” She spoke quietly, and Thrall suspected he was hearing the voice of experience. She hesitated, then said, “I was wrong to so sit in judgment of you. I apologize.”

  He waved a hand. In light of what he had just heard, Aggra’s tart comments were the least of his worries. But she pressed on.

  “When we first heard of you, I was excited. I was raised on stories of Durotan and Draka. I admired your mother in particular. I … I wanted to be like her. And when we heard of you, we all thought you would come home to Nagrand. But you stayed in Azeroth, even when we, the Mag’har, joined the Horde. Made alliances with strange beings. And … I felt betrayed that Draka’s son would forsake his people. You did come back. Once. But you did not stay. And I could not understand why.”

  He listened, not interrupting.

  “Then you came again. Wanting our knowledge, knowledge that was bought with such pain and effort—not to help the world that birthed our
people, but to help this strange, alien place. I was angry. And so I was harsh to you. It was selfish and shallow of me.”

  “What changed your mind?” he asked, curious.

  She had been looking away, to the horizon, as he had been. Now she turned her face to his. The slanting afternoon light caught the strong planes of her brown, so very orcish face. And Thrall, used to finding harmony and pleasing beauty in the faces of human woman, as he had grown up among that race, was suddenly struck by hers.

  “It was starting to happen before the vision quest,” she said quietly. “You had already begun to change my mind. You did not rise to the bait to be hooked like a fish. Neither did you use your influence with the Greatmother to replace me as your teacher. And the more I watched and listened to you, the more I realized … this truly does matter to you.

  “I walked with you, and saw how you lived the elements, like a true shaman does. I saw, and I shared, your pain, and joy. I watched you with Taretha, with Drek’Thar, with Cairne and Jaina. You live what you believe, even if you didn’t understand it until you underwent the vision quest. You are not a power-hungry child seeking a new, better challenge. You are striving to do what is best for your people—all of them. Not just orc, or Horde, but you even want what is best for your rivals. You want,” she said, and placed a brown hand flat on the earth in a loving gesture, “what is best for your world.”

  “I am not sure that what I have done is best for it,” Thrall admitted quietly. “If I had stayed—”

  “Then you would not have learned what you have.”

  “Cairne would be alive. And so would the tauren who lived in Thunder Bluff and—”

  Her hand shot out and gripped his arm, the nails digging angrily into the flesh. “What you have learned could save everything. Everything!”

  “Or nothing,” Thrall said. He did not pull his arm back, instead watched as blood began to seep from beneath her nails.

  “You chose possibility over certainty. The possibility of success over certain defeat. If you had done nothing, then you would not have been a warchief. You would have been a coward, unworthy of such an honor.” Her face hardened slightly. “But if you want to wallow? Cry, ‘Poor Go’el, woe is me’? Then by all means do so. But you will have to do it without me.”

  She began to rise. Thrall caught her wrist, and she glared at him.

  “What did you mean?”

  “I meant, if you choose the path of self-pity over action, that you would prove my change of heart to be wrong. And I would not go back to Azeroth with you.”

  He tightened his grip on her wrist. “You … were planning on returning with me? Why?”

  Emotions flitted across her face, and finally Aggra blurted, “Because, Go’el, I found that I did not wish to be apart from you. But it seems I was wrong, because you are not what I thought you were. I will not go with one who—”

  He pulled her down into his arms and crushed her to him. “I would have you come with me. Walk with me wherever this path may take us. I have grown used to your voice letting me know when I am wrong, and … I like to hear it when you speak gently. It would pain me, to not have you near. Will you come? Be at my side?”

  “To—advise you?”

  He nodded, his cheek resting against the top of her head. “To be my wisdom, as Air, my steadiness, as Earth …” He took a deep breath. “And my passion and my heart, as Fire and Water. And if you would have it so, I would be these things to you.”

  He felt her trembling in his embrace: she, Aggra, strong and courageous. She pulled back a little and laid her hand on his chest, her eyes searching his. “Go’el, as long as you have this great heart to lead—and to love—then know that I will go with you to the ends of any world and beyond.”

  He placed a hand on her cheek, green skin against brown, then leaned forward slowly to rest his forehead gently against hers.

  THIRTY-TWO

  The funereal cloth in which High Chieftain Cairne Bloodhoof had been lovingly wrapped was exquisite. It had been woven in the hues of the Earth Mother—tans and browns and greens.

  As was traditional among the tauren, the dead were cremated with ceremony and ritual. The bodies were placed atop a pyre, and a raging fire was lit beneath them. The ashes would fall to the earth; the smoke would rise to the sky. Earth Mother and Sky Father would thus both welcome the honored dead, and An’she and Mu’sha would witness their passing.

  Thrall wore, as he almost always did, the armor that the late Orgrim Doomhammer had bequeathed to him. Its weight hindered him somewhat, and Thrall was forced to climb slowly atop a ridge so he could be on the same level as the body and look at what remained of Cairne with vision made blurry because of tears.

  Thrall had rushed back to Azeroth. He and Aggra had met briefly with Baine, and Thrall had requested some time alone with Cairne. The request had been granted. Later there would be long conversations, and planning, and preparations. But for now Thrall sat near his old friend for a long time, while the sun made its languid path across the blue sky of Mulgore. Finally Thrall took a deep breath and said quietly, “Cairne, my old friend … are you still here?”

  Both tauren and orcs believed that the spirits of the beloved dead sometimes spoke with those they had loved in life. They imparted warnings, or advice, or simply blessings.

  Thrall would have been grateful for any of these.

  But his words were taken by the soft, fragrant breeze and borne away, and nothing, no one, stirred to answer him. Thrall lowered his head for a moment.

  “And so I truly am alone, and you truly have departed, my old friend,” he said. “And so I cannot ask your advice, or your forgiveness, as I should have been able to.”

  Only the soft sigh of the wind answered him.

  “We parted in anger, you and I. Two who should never be angry at one another, two who should have been old enough to know that this is a bad way to part. I was frustrated in my inability to solve my own challenges, and I turned from you when you spoke wisdom. Never had I done so before, and now see what has happened. You lie here, slain by treachery, and I cannot look you in the eye and tell you how my heart is breaking at this sight.”

  His voice, too, was breaking, and he took a moment to regain his composure, although there was no one here to see him save the birds and beasts of the land. The armor felt heavy and hot on him.

  “Your son … Cairne, I would say to you, you would be so proud of Baine, except that I already knew how proud you were of him. He is truly your son, and will carry the legacy of all you fought for to another generation. He did not let his pain rule his head. He has kept your people safe, at the cost of his own burning desire. The tauren are at peace once again, which I know was all you ever wanted for them. Even in the depths of horror, such as that dreadful, dark night—even then, your people, and the spirit of the Horde survived.

  “The Grimtotem are now open enemies, instead of deceivers you held to your heart, who took your trust and still coldly planned to strike. The tauren will not be taken unawares by them again—ever. As for Garrosh … I truly believe that he did not know of Magatha’s treachery. He’s many things, but a deceitful, scheming murderer is not one of them. He’d want to know he’d won fairly, so he could legitimately revel in the honor. He …”

  His voice trailed off. Thrall was terribly distraught at the murder of his friend and the slaughter that had followed Cairne’s death. He was glad the tauren were again at peace, under such a fine leader as Baine. But other than that …

  “Cairne,” he said slowly, “I built this Horde. I inspired them, gave them purpose, direction. And yet … it seems as though this duty, this purpose … it is no longer the one that calls to me. How can I lead them well when my focus is elsewhere?”

  His instincts, once so certain, were no longer as sharp as they once were. He buried his face in his hands, the black armor creaking with the gesture. He felt—lost. Torn. He again saw himself standing in the mist of the vision quest, his armor cracking and falling o
ff him as he stood in the grip of fear and helplessness. He realized with a jolt that if he continued to lead them thusly, with his mind and heart and attention elsewhere, that he would eventually take the Horde down the path of civil war. Whatever his disagreement with Garrosh about what had happened in his absence, it had been he who had appointed young Hellscream acting warchief. It was his responsibility as much as Garrosh’s, and, in the end, all that could be proven was that the youth had done nothing worse than accept a challenge and up the consequences. He would not force the Horde to watch him and Garrosh struggle over that.

  “I never told you this before. I wish I had. Do you know,” he continued quietly, “that to my mind, you always held the heart of the Horde, Cairne? You, and the tauren. When many others in the Horde hungered for war and darker paths, you listened to the wisdom of your Earth Mother, and counseled us to try other ways, other ideas. You reminded us of forgiveness and compassion. You were our heart, our true spiritual center.”

  Thrall knew, as he clumsily formed the words, that it was time he trusted his own heart. It was leading him away from Orgrimmar, from the Horde, to a fierce and passionate young shaman named Aggra and the proud orcish ways she represented.

  And it was leading him to the very heart of the world.

  He closed his eyes in pain. He did not want this decision to be the right one. It was too hard; it would cause too much upheaval, hurt too many people. There were many reasons he should stay, all sound and logical, all important and vital. And there was only one reason he should go, and that reason was mystical and mysterious and far from clear to him.

  But it was the right choice. It was the only choice. A wind came, tugging at his hair gently, tugging at his soul more firmly. His skin prickled. And he realized that his choice had already been made.

  He had been shown, very clearly, what to do. If he continued to walk the path of warchief, he would fail. There was only one way he could save the Horde—and his world.