The Shattering: Prelude to Cataclysm (21 page)

His eyes fell on the humans. “Lady Jaina … sometimes he dinna ken what tae make o’ ye, but he was always fond o’ ye. King Varian, ye were as a brother tae him. And Anduin … ah, lad, ye’ve no idea how dear ye were tae Magni.”

Anduin bit his lip hard and thought of the exquisite mace, likely invaluable, that Magni had so readily gifted him with, and thought he maybe had at least an inkling of how the late king regarded him.

The elderly dwarf cleared his throat. “Well, er … thank ye fer coming.” When those assembled blinked askance at him, Rohan stepped up smoothly.

“Please … all are welcome tae come t’ the High Seat and share yer stories about Magni. We’ll have some refreshments fer ye.”

Gentle murmurings could be heard as the honored guests moved down the stairs, away from the contorted, gem-encrusted figure that was so much more than diamond, and yet nothing more than diamond.

He didn’t realize he was staring until a gentle hand closed on his shoulder. “Prince Anduin, come along,” Jaina said kindly.

“Yes, come, Son,” said Varian. “Our presence is required for some time yet.”

Mutely, Anduin nodded, dragging his gaze away and praying quietly to the Light that Muradin or Brann would be found soon, and come to Ironforge, and chase away at least some of this awful solemnity that lay like a shroud upon the city. Although he suspected that the dwarves would never quite get over the shockingly strange, unforeseen, and violent end their beloved leader had met.

“Well, that is the last of it,” Thrall said. He set down the quill and regarded the parchment solemnly. This was the last official business he would conduct for some time—signing the approval to begin work on repairing Orgrimmar. Again. It seemed to Thrall that the city had only just begun to recover from the War Against
the Nightmare when another blow had been dealt it. Gazlowe had dropped his price a second time, and Thrall was quite moved by the gesture, even though it was still almost ludicrously high. Too, the goblin had agreed to be paid in increments instead of in advance, and had indicated he’d be willing to adjust the fee if he didn’t need to also provide certain supplies. Thrall felt a small, somewhat petty twinge of satisfaction leaving such annoying details as budgets, construction, and supplies to Garrosh. Such “boring” things were of necessity part of being a good leader, and Garrosh needed to learn that.

Nodding, he left the scrolls for Garrosh and rose. He would be making this journey alone. By his orders, no Kor’kron would accompany him. Their duty was now to defend Garrosh Hellscream, the acting warchief of the Horde. They would not be needed to guard a lone shaman journeying to another world to seek knowledge. His leave-taking was not being announced with fanfare or spectacle. For one thing, such frivolities were too expensive. For another, he did not wish to make this any kind of an “event.” He was simply going away for a time, and he had no desire to make his departure anything of consequence for the average Horde citizen. While he made no secret of it—that would be as counterproductive in his mind as trumpeting it—he wished it to be perceived as a minor event.

He had sent word ahead to Cairne, of course, informing his old friend of his decision and reasoning behind it, and requesting that Cairne advise Garrosh when needed. He had as of yet received no response, which surprised him. Cairne usually was quite prompt in such matters. He supposed that the tauren leader, too, had his hands full with the aftermath of Northrend.

“Farewell for now, my old friend,” Thrall said to Eitrigg. “See that the boy does the little things as well as the large.”

“I shall, Warchief,” Eitrigg said. “Do not tarry in our homeland overlong. Garrosh will do his best, but he is not you.”

Thrall embraced his friend, clapping him on the back, then picked up the small sack that was all he planned to carry
with him on the journey. With little notice even being taken of him, the warchief of the Horde walked out of Grommash Hold into the still-hot night air, heading for the flight tower.

“You are making a grave mistake,” came a deep, rumbling voice in the darkness.

Surprised at the words, though recognizing their speaker, Thrall checked his brisk stride and turned to Cairne Bloodhoof. Cairne stood beneath the towering dead tree that bore the skull of a demon and his once-impregnable armor. The tauren high chieftain was straight and tall, his arms folded across his broad chest, his tail swishing slightly. His face showed disapproval.

“Cairne! It is good to see you. I had hoped to hear from you prior to my departure,” Thrall said.

“I do not think you will be glad, for I do not believe you are going to like what I have to say,” the tauren said.

“I have ever listened to what you have to say,” Thrall replied, adding, “which is why I requested you advise Garrosh in my absence. Speak.”

“When the courier arrived with your letter,” Cairne said, “I thought I had indeed, at long last, finally become senile and was dreaming fever dreams as poor Drek’Thar does. To see, in your own writing, that you wished to appoint Garrosh Hellscream as leader of the Horde!”

The voice had begun quiet, but stern. Cairne was slow to anger, but it was clear he had had some time to think on this matter and it disturbed him greatly. His voice deepened and grew louder as he spoke. Thrall glanced about quietly; so public a place was not where he would have wished to have this particular conversation.

“Let us discuss this in private,” Thrall began. “My quarters and ears are open to you at all—”

“No,” replied Cairne, and stamped a powerful hoof for emphasis. Thrall glanced at him, surprised. “I am here, in the shadow of what was once your greatest enemy, for a reason. I remember Grom Hellscream. I remember his passion, and his violence, and his waywardness. I remember the harm he once did. He may have
died a hero’s death by slaying Mannoroth; I am the first to acknowledge that. But by all accounts, even your own, he took many lives, and gloried in the doing. He had a thirst for blood, for violence, and he quenched that thirst with the blood of innocents. You were right to tell Garrosh of his father’s heroism. It is true. But also true were the less savory things Grom Hellscream did, and his son needs to know these things as well. I stand here to ask you to remember these things, too, the dark and the bright, and to acknowledge that Garrosh is his father’s son.”

“Garrosh never had the taint of demonic blood that Grom had,” Thrall said quietly. “He is headstrong, yes, but the people love him. He—”

“They love him because they only see the glory!” Cairne snapped. “They do not see the foolishness.” He softened somewhat. “I, too, saw the glory. I saw tactics and wisdom, and perhaps with nurturing and guidance those are the seeds that will take root in Garrosh’s soul. But he finds it far too easy to act without thinking, to ignore that inner wisdom. There are things about him I respect and admire, Thrall. Mistake me not. But he is not fit to lead the Horde, any more than Grom was. Not without you to check him when he overreaches, and especially not now, when things are yet so tenuous with the Alliance. Do you know that many secretly whisper that now would be a fine time to strike at Ironforge, with Magni turned to diamond and no leader yet visible?”

Thrall did know it. He’d known that the whispers would begin the moment he had learned the news. It was why he had moved quickly to send formal representatives to what amounted to a funeral service, and why he had chosen a sin’dorei and a tauren whom he knew to be moderate individuals.

“Of course I know this,” Thrall sighed. “Cairne—it won’t be for very long.”

“That does not
matter
! The child does not have the temperament to be the leader you are. Or should I say, you were? For the Thrall I knew, who befriended the tauren and helped them so greatly,
would not have blithely handed over the Horde he restored to a young pup still wet behind the ears!”

Thrall’s jaw tightened, and he felt anger growing within him. Cairne had set his great hoof squarely on Thrall’s own worries. Worries that he could not shake. Yet he knew there was literally no other choice. No one else could take on the responsibility. It had to be Garrosh.

“You are one of my oldest friends in this land, Cairne Bloodhoof,” Thrall said, his voice dangerously quiet. “You know I respect you. But the decision is made. If you are concerned about Garrosh’s immaturity, then guide him, as I have asked you. Give him the benefit of your vast wisdom and common sense. I—need you with me on this, Cairne. I need your support, not your disapproval. Your cool head to keep Garrosh calm, not your censure to incite him.”

“You ask me for wisdom and common sense. I have but one answer for you. Do not give Garrosh this power. Do not turn your back on your people and give them only this arrogant blusterer to guide them. That is my wisdom, Thrall. Wisdom of many years, bought with blood and suffering and battle.”

Thrall stiffened. This was the absolute last thing he had wanted. But it had happened, and when he spoke, his voice was cold.

“Then we have nothing more to say to one another. My decision is final. Garrosh will lead the Horde in my absence. But it is up to you as to whether you will advise him in that role, or let the Horde pay the price for your stubbornness.”

Without another word, Thrall turned and strode off into the darkness of the sultry Orgrimmar night. He half-expected Cairne to come after him, but the old bull did not follow. His heart was heavy as he retrieved a wyvern, slung the sack across his saddle, and mounted. The wyvern leaped skyward, his leathery wings beating quietly and rhythmically and creating a cool breeze that brushed the orc’s face.

*   *   *

Cairne stared after his old friend. Never had he thought it would come to this—an argument over something that was so obviously a mistake. He knew Thrall saw it, too, but for whatever reasons the orc felt it necessary to persist in this course of action.

The parting words wounded Cairne. He had not expected Thrall to dismiss his concerns so quickly or so thoroughly. There was virtue in the boy. Cairne had seen it. But the recklessness, the deaf ear he turned to sound advice, the burning need for acknowledgment and accolades—Cairne flicked his tail, the thoughts agitating him. These were qualities that needed tempering. And, of course, Cairne would be there. His words would be ignored, doubtless, but he would offer them.

He looked up again at Mannoroth’s skull, gazing into the shadowed eye sockets.

“Grom, if your spirit lingers, help us guide your son. You sacrificed yourself for the Horde. I know you would not wish to see your son destroy it.”

There was no response; if Grom was indeed here, lingering beside the great evil he had destroyed, he was providing no answers. Cairne was on his own.

…
AND THE
W
ORLD
W
ILL
B
REAK

Aggra ran lightly over the surface of Skysong Lake, her bare, brown feet making only the faintest of splashes. Normally she walked, enjoying the feel of this place of power, but the wind had whispered in her ear a moment ago, with the words of Greatmother Geyah:
Come, child, I have news.

Gentle as the words were, it was a summons that Aggra hastened to obey. She had come to the Throne of the Elements to sit quietly at the feet of the great Elemental Furies—Aborius, Gordawg, Kalandrios, and Incineratus—in the hope that perhaps today they would speak to her. She had barely settled down near Kalandrios, the Fury of Air, when Geyah’s words had come to her. So now she was heading back toward Garadar, the Horde fortress in this land of Nagrand, to hear the news that was so important it could not wait.

Aggra was a shaman, but as fit, healthy, and strong as most warriors. She was therefore only slightly out of breath from her exertion when she entered the building atop the highest rise of Garadar and dropped to her knees in front of the Greatmother, her head respectfully lowered.

“The wind bade me come, Greatmother. What is the news?”

Geyah smiled and patted the threadbare rug. Aggra moved to sit beside her. Geyah touched the younger orc’s face gently. “So prompt. Perhaps the wind let you fly, eh?”

Aggra chuckled and leaned into the gnarled hand. “No, but the water spirits let me run over the lake.”

Geyah laughed. “That was kind of them. As to my news, I have just heard from my grandson … and he wishes to come here to Nagrand, to learn what I have to teach.”

Aggra blinked. “He … what? Go’el?”

“Yes, Go’el.”

Aggra frowned. “Does he still go by that hateful slave name?”

“He does,” Geyah said, unperturbed by Aggra’s seeming rudeness. Aggra knew Geyah had realized long ago that it was easier to direct the elements to help one than it was to curb Aggra’s sharp tongue. “And that is his choice. Perhaps you can ask him why he so chooses when he arrives.”

“Perhaps I will,” Aggra agreed readily. She had never met the famous Thrall, as she had been away from Nagrand when he had come once before. All she knew of him was what others had told her. Now it seemed she would get the chance to make up her own mind about him. “I did not think he would ever return.”