The Shattering: Prelude to Cataclysm (39 page)

He took a small, petty pleasure in the look on Magatha’s face as more and more of her so-called loyal Grimtotem abandoned her. He suspected his father would be all right with that.

“Any more?” he asked. When the rest of the Grimtotem stayed where they were, he nodded. “Two dozen Bluffwatchers will escort you to your new home. I cannot honestly say I wish you luck. But your deaths at least will not be on my head.”

They moved toward the lifts. He watched them for a moment. Magatha did not look back.

My words were not idle, Magatha Grimtotem. If I see you again, even though An’she guides me, I will not stay my hand.

Garrosh had once been ashamed of his heritage. It had taken time for him to understand, embrace, and finally celebrate who he was and where he had come from. Filled with that confidence, he had legitimately won much honor for himself and the Horde. Since then he had grown accustomed to adulation. But now, as he and his retinue climbed up the winding ramp to the appointed meeting site in Thousand Needles, he felt the gazes of the tauren on him and stiffened slightly.

It was not a good sensation, to feel that he had not been in
the right. And truly, he knew that he had wished to fight Cairne in an honorable way that showed respect both to himself and to one he regarded as a noble warrior. Magatha had robbed him of that, cast an ugly shadow on his reputation in the eyes of many—too many. Why,
he
was as much a victim as Cairne.

So he forced his head higher, and quickened his pace. Baine was waiting for him. He was bigger than Cairne, or perhaps he simply stood straighter than the aging bull had. He stood quietly, holding his father’s enormous totem at his side. Hamuul Runetotem, Stormsong Grimtotem, and several others waited a slight distance behind Baine.

Garrosh eyed Baine up and down, taking his measure. Large, powerful, with the calmness that Garrosh recognized from Cairne, he waited almost placidly.

“Garrosh Hellscream,” Baine said in his deep, rumbling voice, and inclined his head.

“Baine Bloodhoof,” Garrosh replied. “I think we have much to discuss.”

Baine nodded to Hamuul. The elderly archdruid caught the eye of the others standing behind Baine and gestured to them. They inclined their heads and walked several paces away, giving the two what privacy they could atop this barren needle.

“You robbed me of more time with my father, whom I loved,” Baine said bluntly.

So this was how it was to be played. No false courtesies, which Garrosh despised. Good.

“Your father challenged me. I had no choice but to accept that challenge, or my honor—and his—would forever be sullied.”

Baine’s expression did not change. “You used trickery and poison to win. That sullies your honor even more.”

Garrosh was tempted to retort hotly but instead took a deep breath. “Much as it shames me to admit it, I was deceived by Magatha Grimtotem. It was she who poisoned Gorehowl. I will never know if I could have defeated your father in fair combat, and so I am as cheated as you are.”

He wondered if Baine would understand what that admission cost him.

“You stand there with your honor tarnished because she tricked you. I stand here, bereft of my father, gathering up corpses of innocents. I think one of us has lost more than the other.”

Garrosh said nothing, his cheeks growing hot, with what emotion, he did not know. But he knew what Baine had said was true. “I will expect the same challenge from the son as the father, then,” he said.

“You will not have it.”

Garrosh frowned, not understanding. Baine continued. “Do not think that I would not enjoy fighting you, Garrosh Hellscream. Whatever was on the blade, yours was the hand that cut down my father. But tauren are not so petty. The true killer was Magatha, not you. My father issued the mak’gora, and the argument between you and he is settled, even if, due to Magatha’s treachery, the fight was no fair one. Cairne Bloodhoof always put the tauren people first. They need what protection and support the Horde can provide, and I will do all in my power to see that they get it. I cannot claim to honor his memory and yet disregard what is best for them.”

“I, too, loved and respected my father, and have striven to honor his memory. I did not
ever
seek to dishonor Cairne Bloodhoof, Baine. Your understanding of that despite the treachery that slew him speaks well of you as a leader of your people.”

Baine’s ear twitched. He was still angry, and Garrosh did not blame him in the slightest.

“Yet—your mercy to the Grimtotem confuses me. I have heard that although you have driven them out, you did not exact revenge on them either. Here, the mak’gora or even stronger revenge seems appropriate. Why did you not execute the Grimtotem? Or at least their deceitful matriarch?”

“Whatever the Grimtotem are, they are tauren. My father suspected that Magatha might prove treacherous, and he kept her here so he could watch her. He chose that path so as not to cause
division and strife. I honor his wish. There are other ways to punish than killing. Ways that are perhaps even more just.”

Garrosh struggled with that for a moment, but he knew in the end, he would want to honor his own father’s wishes just as Baine had. He contented himself with saying, “It is good, to honor the wishes and memory of one’s father.”

Baine smiled coldly. “As I have ample proof now that Magatha is a traitor, she has been banished and her power crippled. The same punishment is shared by all Grimtotem who chose to go with her. Many have repented of their actions and stayed. There is a separate Grimtotem faction now, led by Stormsong, who saved my life and has proven himself loyal to me. Magatha and any Grimtotem who follow her will be killed on sight if they trespass into tauren territory. That is sufficient vengeance. I am not going to waste time on revenge when my energy is better spent toward rebuilding.”

Garrosh nodded. He had learned all he needed to about the young Bloodhoof and was impressed.

“Then I offer you the full protection and support of the Horde, Baine Bloodhoof.”

“And in return for that protection and support, I offer the loyalty of the tauren people.” Baine said the words stiffly, but sincerely. Garrosh knew he could trust this tauren’s word.

He extended a hand. Baine took it in his three-fingered one, enveloping Garrosh’s completely.

“For the Horde,” Baine said quietly, although his voice trembled with emotion.

“For the Horde,” Garrosh replied.

It began as a thunderstorm.

Anduin had grown used to frequent, and sometimes violent, rainstorms in Theramore. But this one had thunder that rattled his teeth and shook him awake and lightning that completely illuminated his room. He bolted up in time to hear another crash of thunder and the sound of rain pounding so fiercely against his window that he thought the drops alone would shatter it.

He got out of bed and looked out—or tried to. Rain was sluicing down so heavily it was impossible to see. He turned his head, listening as the sound of voices in the hallways reached him. He frowned slightly and threw on some clothes, poking his head out to find out what the commotion was.

Jaina rushed past. Clearly she, too, had just awakened and tossed on clothing. Her eyes were clear, but her hair had not seen a comb yet.

“Aunt Jaina? What’s wrong?”

“Flooding,” Jaina replied succinctly.

For an instant Anduin was hurled back in time to the avalanche in Dun Morogh, to another instance of angry, distressed elements venting their rage upon the innocents. Aerin’s cheerful face swam into his mind, but he forced it aside.

“I’m coming.”

She drew breath, probably to protest, then gave him a strained smile and nodded. “All right.”

He took another minute to tug on his tallest boots and throw on a hooded cape, then he was racing outside along with Jaina and several servants and guards.

The rain and the whipping wind almost halted him in his tracks. It seemed to be coming sideways rather than straight down and took his breath away for a moment. Jaina, too, was having difficulty walking. She and the others stumbled almost as if drunk as they descended from the elevated tower to ground level.

Anduin knew there was a full moon, but the heavy clouds obscured any light it might have provided. The guards bore lanterns, but the illumination was feeble. Fire would have been no use whatsoever in the deluge. Anduin gasped when his feet sank ankle-deep in water so cold he could feel it even through his heavy but now sodden boots. His eyes were adjusting to the dimness, and he realized that the entire area was covered with water. It was not too deep—not yet.

Lights were on at the inn and the mill, and there was more shouting, barely heard over the tremendous pounding of the rain and thunder. The inn was on a slight hill, but the mill was now several inches deep in water.

“Lieutenant Aden!” Jaina cried, and a mounted soldier wheeled his steed and splashed toward her. “We’re opening the doors of the citadel to anyone who needs refuge. Bring them in!”

“Aye, my lady!” Aden shouted back. He yanked on the head of his horse and headed for the mill.

Jaina paused for a moment and lifted her hands to the sky, then moved her hands and fingers. Anduin couldn’t hear what she said, but her mouth was moving. A heartbeat later, he gasped as the image of a giant dragon head appeared beside her. It opened its jaws and breathed a sheet of flame across the water, evaporating a large patch. Of course, the water rushed in again to fill the void, but the dragon head seemed tireless. It continued to breathe fire, and Jaina nodded in satisfaction.

“To the docks!” she cried to Anduin, and he followed her, gamely running as fast as he could through the water. It grew deeper as the ground sloped downward. Up ahead, Anduin saw a sight that might have been humorous at any other time but now only contributed to the chaos: All the gryphons had flown to perch atop various buildings. Their wings and fur were drenched, and they cawed defiantly at the flight masters who were alternately railing at them and pleading with them to “Please, come down!”

The water was up to Anduin’s knees now, and he, Jaina, and the guards were grimly slogging their way forward. People, like the gryphons, had gotten to the highest ground possible. Their instincts were sound, but the lightning was furious and frequent, and what had seemed like wisdom at first was now revealed as potentially even more dangerous. Anduin and the guards were now helping frightened merchants and their families climb down to safety.

Anduin was starting to shiver. His cloak and boots were sturdy, but they were never meant to keep him warm or dry while actually
in
water. The water was utterly frigid, and he couldn’t feel his legs below his knees. Still, he pressed onward. People were in trouble, and he had to help them.

He had just opened his arms to receive a sobbing little girl when a lightning bolt turned night into day. He had been looking over the girl’s shoulder as she clung to him in the direction of the docks and saw a bright white zigzag strike the wooden pier. A deafening clap of thunder came immediately afterward, along with the horrible sound of people screaming and the groaning of shattered wood. Two ships that had been docked there rocked violently, tossed about as if by an angry giant child.

The girl shrieked in his ear and clutched his neck as if trying to strangle him. There was another flash of lightning, and it looked to Anduin as if a giant wave had come out of the sea, almost like a hand about to slam down on the docks. Anduin blinked, trying to clear his vision from the rain pouring like a river down his face. He couldn’t be seeing what he thought he was, he simply couldn’t.

Another nearly blinding flash, and the strange wave had disappeared.

So had the Theramore docks and the two ships. He had seen what he thought he had after all. The lightning had sheared off most of the Theramore docks, the ocean had completed the task, and now he could even glimpse fire despite the pummeling of the rain.

Jaina grabbed his shoulder and placed her mouth next to Anduin’s ear. “Take her back to the citadel!”

He nodded and spat out rainwater in order to speak. “I’ll come right back!”

“No! This is too dangerous!” Jaina again yelled in order to be heard over the storm. “Go and take care of the refugees!”

Anger and impotent frustration suddenly welled up in Anduin. He wasn’t a child. He had strong arms and a calm head; he could help, dammit! But he also knew Jaina was right. He was heir to the throne of Stormwind, and he had a responsibility not to put himself foolishly in harm’s way. With a muttered curse he turned back toward the citadel, wading through the icy water.

He was past shaking by the time he slogged into the citadel, where some of the servants were busily wrapping blankets around the flood victims and offering hot tea and food. Anduin carefully turned over the child to an older woman who rushed up to take her. He knew that he was drenched, that he needed to change out of the wet clothes, but he just couldn’t seem to move to do so. One of Jaina’s assistants looked up at him, did a double take, and frowned at his expression. Anduin stared back, chilled to the bone, blinking almost stupidly. In a distant part of his brain, he realized he was probably going into shock.