The Shattering: Prelude to Cataclysm (2 page)

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 the 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.

T
HE
L
AND
W
ILL
W
EEP
…

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.

Up ahead, Cairne caught a blur of movement as a scout caught sight of the Horde standard at the front of Cairne’s entourage and dashed away. Cairne and his group followed along the line of the quarry until they encountered a path that descended into it. It was not an impressive entrance, but a workmanlike one, and Cairne found himself in what had been the forge area.

Now, though, no rivers of yellow molten metal flooded the channels; there was no “tink tink” sound of hammer on anvil. His nose, keener than his eyesight these days, caught the faint, stale scent of wolf. The beasts had been gone for some time, sent home even before their masters. What weapons and ammunition there were seemed to have been gathering dust for a while. Once Cairne could make a proper assessment of what was going on, the several kodos who had also made the sea voyage, excellent beasts of burden, would help transport the cargo back to the ships.

Cairne felt the chill of the place. With the forges running, there would be more than enough heat generated to warm the cavernous, open area, but with them still and silent, the cold of Northrend had permeated. Cairne, seasoned veteran though he was, was almost overwhelmed by the size of the place. Larger certainly than Grommash Hold, probably even larger than some Horde cities, it was massive, open, and empty feeling. Their hooffalls echoed as he and his people moved toward the center of the first level.

Two orcs engaged in deep discussion turned as he approached. Cairne knew them both and nodded respectfully at them. The older one with green skin was Varok Saurfang, younger brother to the great hero Broxigar and father to the late, deeply grieved Dranosh Saurfang. Many had lost a great deal in this conflict; Varok more than anyone’s fair share.