World of Warcraft

by Steve Danuser

  The Windward was in dock when the great storm came to Boralus. Boralus was usually in good readiness for storms, being wise to their signs, but this one crept upon them like a murderer. It lashed at them of an evening and did not abate in the morning. Other ships limped into the little port, and the waters rose. The people in the town spent all day in the wind and the rain shoring up the groaning floodwalls. By the third and fourth days the storm was even worse, and the Kul Tirans were collapsing to drown in the standing water, and the ships were dashing themselves to pieces on the rocks with their crews trapped inside them.

  Ery and a bedraggled handful of other tidesages were present; there was no way to fill their numbers from the little monastery, and no entry from the swollen south. Back then a journey on foot into the sound would have been equally as dangerous as sailing in, and during a storm most of the paths would have been underwater. Knowing there was no hope of reinforcements, Ery set herself and the others at the river’s mouth in nothing more than little skiffs and dinghies, to try to divert the rising water. There being no seawall, they were forced to do its work themselves: to cut the waves and shatter their power before they reached much farther into the harbor and to redirect the tempestuous sea itself back into the pitiless ocean. Behind them the people of Boralus were sucked down into the waves, and the ships were tossed as though they were fishermen’s coracles. But Ery and the others could do nothing but hear the shouts and screams, knowing that a moment’s faltering would see the town swept clean like a flagstone.

  In all this the mermaid Halia had not been idle. She minded her lover’s advice and did not stay close to her, but tried to help men and women who had fallen in and could still be saved; she longed to use some of her magic to shore up the crumbling edges of the town but was too afraid. She was also afraid of someone spotting her and of getting blamed for such a hideous storm, and she was equally afraid of straying too far away from Ery. On the fifth day of the storm many of the other tidesages had faltered, exhausted or broken, but Ery grimly hung on like a limpet, until she was alone.

  When she was left by herself and night fell, Halia swam to her and begged her to slit open her feet and save herself from the storm, or at least to rest, but Ery would have none of either. “There’s a chance yet,” she said. “The storm will be at its peak tonight, but it is breaking half the spit into the water. Behold that wave coming toward us! If it gets through me, all is lost. If I can seal the harbor’s mouth now, I will. If I die, I would as lief leave Boralus behind me.”

  “If you die, I die,” said Halia. “I will help you.”

  For Halia knew, looking on Ery, that to save Ery’s life she would easily incur the Tidemother’s wrath, and it did not seem as though the Tidemother could show her fury more plainly than she was showing it now. So when Ery stood in the rocking skiff and with one mighty blow parted the boiling gray waters, Halia held the water back from the other side, so between them they ripped the seas in twain, as though they had each grasped the edge of a piece of linen. At the harbor mouth a wall of water churned and clawed, stupefying those fatigued townsfolk still fighting the storm in Boralus, but between the mermaid and the sea priest the ocean found no purchase.

  Halia was delighted, but Ery stood in the skiff and called, “Beloved, it is not yet done.”

  Halia said courageously, “If you hold the water, I will raise a wall.”

  Then Halia the mermaid was the one who churned the mud and stone up from the seabed and attacked the crumbling chunks of what cliff-face had fallen into the water, trying to mingle sandstone and chalk with hardest basalt. It was a brave intention, and a crest of the Tidemother’s magic swept through the harbor like lightning. Halia did not know it then, but it made each and every one of her sisters, huddled in their homes and drowsing to the far-off sounds of the storm, jolt awake.

  A brave intention, but so difficult in execution! Even as Halia built the rocks, they would not stay together or were battered apart by the thundering waves into drifts of shrapnel that cut her skin and scales to pieces. In a welter of terror, she poured more and more of herself into the work—the very life that coursed within her—without heed for her own existence. She thought only of Ery, standing above in a little boat, with that little boat now mostly in pieces, kept together only by the pressure of tidesage magic. She thought of brave little Boralus, too, clinging to the rock, and the ships going down in the harbor. She poured so much of her life into the wall that she had to stop, frightened of how tired she was, pausing only every so often to break upward through the waves and check on her lover and see if they could stop. But Ery would only say, “It is not yet done.”

  She slipped into the cold, turbid waters like a corpse, straight down to the bottom of the harbor.

  Neither Halia nor Ery gave way, or faltered very much, in the wake of a losing battle. Halia’s horrified sisters were the first to break through the storm of rubble that Halia was creating and shout at her to stop, or to rest at least; when she did neither, they did not know what to do.

  It was not that they were not frightened of the storm, or sorry for Boralus, but they had never conceived of one of their own paying any kind of price for it. To see their foolish little sister half-dead from her selfless rigors made them angry and guilty. When they saw the wall gnashing upward from the seabed, they threw themselves into her labor and withheld nothing—for mermaids are passionate and do nothing by halves. Halia’s wall surged and seethed with shell and rock and mud, and the crumbled wood and steel from ships that had already sunk to the bottom of the harbor, and the bones of the dead sailors themselves. More and more mermaids emerged from their bolt-holes and temples and threw themselves into the wall without misgiving, and soon they were building upward—upward—upward—until the wall had nearly broken the crest of the waves.

  Ery, knowing nothing of this yet, fought alone. She was standing in the wreck of her ship, endlessly pulling back on the waves as though she were tugging a rope. Here her human fellows joined her at last; beating bravely through the current came Windward, which had risked not only the storm but the fresh danger of the mermaids, darting visibly to and fro amid huge boils of water, stone, and mud. The sailors were scared almost more of the mermaids than they were of the rock fragments that were embedding themselves in the Windward’s hull; to them it seemed like the end of the world.

  Ery’s skiff was destroyed by then, and to the sailors of the Windward she appeared to be standing on the water as though it were solid stone. They had gathered up the half-drowned sailors and now sought to rescue their tidesage, shouting at her to board and save herself. No matter what they said, she would not come to them. They stood shivering in awe to watch her, and to watch a great and terrible wall being built beneath her feet, until she was standing on solid stone and rising with it. They also stood shivering in fear to watch the mermaids surface, then dive, all around her and this wall, and to see one in particular return over and over by her side, though she was weak and beaten bloody by tearing wind, water, and rock. Watch was all the Windward crew could do—watch and keep calling for Ery. The great seawall towered higher and higher, until it was high as the Windward’s prow, then high again as its mast, with Ery standing fearlessly atop it. And as the wall grew, some of the oldest mermaids, totally spent, fell lifeless as they worked. They rose to the surface of the water, became a sizzle of bubbles, and were gone. The other mermaids did not falter. The sailors were sicker with sorrow now, and their cries for Ery were now often cries for the mermaids to take pity on themselves and stop. Stop they did, but only when the wall was so tall that it cast a great shadow down upon the Windward, and when Ery was a figure high above the crow’s nest and the topsail, and when the only figure moving in the surface of the water was a single mermaid—one who kept calling to Ery, over and over, as they did, asking her if the work was yet done. When Ery finally turned around, as though to answer, she fell, as spent as the dead mermaids bubbling on the foam.

  She fell down the whole length of
that wall to a terrible cry from the Windward. She slipped into the cold, turbid waters like a corpse, straight down to the bottom of the harbor.

  The sailors on the Windward watched as the last lone mermaid dived down after her, and they watched as the waves hammered into the wall without Ery to hold them back, and they watched that wall hold steady against them. They could cheer at that, at least, but their cheers died as they watched the mermaid struggle back to the surface with their tidesage, who was not moving, or breathing either. The Windward sailors put out their dinghy and hauled the mermaid—yes, the mermaid!—and Ery back to the deck of the Windward with frantic working at the davit and the falls. There the other tidesages worked on her, and the sailors too, and cleared great gouts of seawater from Ery’s lungs. But she would not breathe for them.

  Almost nobody protested when the mermaid, sprawled on the deck, drew a little pearl-handled knife; those who did protest were held back by their fellows. She struggled with Ery’s shoes and hacked at them, and then she slit open the soles of Ery’s very feet. Then she dragged the motionless woman with her, struggling along on the deck with her great bright tail, covered in blood and scales and mud, and it was frightful. The mermaid kept crying, “The harbor! The harbor!” and the sailors, with the great bravery of pity, pushed both women over the railing. Ery and the mermaid tumbled down into the dark water and disappeared.

  Only then did the hard-bitten sailors of the Windward weep, for the love of the tidesage who had been their devoted friend and helper. They wept too for the dead, the dead mermaids and sailors alike, who had given them and Boralus their lives. They waited but saw nothing, and they cried bitterly. The captain had just given the order to trim the sails and prepare to turn about when they saw a dark head break the water. The hair now had a strange sheen, but the eyes were open, and the face was Ery’s. In place of strong legs, a tail shimmered beneath the surface of the sea. The sailors’ pity had been great, but greater still was the Mother’s. Halia’s arms were around Ery’s neck, and she wept and laughed alternately, for joy.

  All of Kul Tiras now knows Ery’s story, even if she never returned to them again as a priest of the sea and a fellow in arms. As long as the mighty seawall of Boralus has stood, its people now swear on mermaids as symbols of highest honor and good luck, and as symbols of sacrifice, too, for no mermaids were ever seen again within that harbor. On certain calm sunsets when the red is deeply reflected on the surface of the harbor, old sailors call it Ery’s blood, which presages good weather; in remembrance of the dutiful tidesage and the mermaid who loved her so faithfully.

  n the way deep down of twisting and turning mines, it was a bright kobold’s turn to tell the sleep-time story. Twig Whiskersnoot found a candle bigger than her arms could reach around and lit its oiled wick. With a strike of her flint, light bounced about the rough-hewn stone walls of her burrow. If there was one thing every kobold dreaded, it was darkness and terrified Twig was no exception.

  Comforted by the warm candlelight, Twig flopped herself down on a small pillow of moss beside her hunched grandmother and awaited her audience. The other tenderfoots scampered down from their parents’ dens and cuddled up to one another, chittering in anticipation. The most eager of the bunch, the tiny Tallow Whiskersnoot, practically sat on Twig’s foot to get the closest seat. He was wearing his best necklace—which was strung tight with his favorite rocks—just for the occasion. Meanwhile, Granny Whiskersnoot nestled beside her granddaughter, grooming an unruly puff of fur on Twig’s head. “You sure this story is the one you want to share?” she asked gently, fussing her granddaughter’s ragamuffin fluff back into shape.

  “Yes, yes!” Twig replied, bobbing her head with excitement. “It me favorite story! Everyone will love it.” She lowered her ears a bit, sinking into her shoulders. “As long as Granny no mind. This Granny’s story, and me want to share.”

  “This Twig’s story now.” Granny smiled approvingly before coughing hard into her apron. Twig rubbed her back, eyes soft. Despite her age and dwindling health, Granny always made the journey from her cozy nest down to the common cave to spend time with her granddaughter, even when her paws ached with cold and she had to lean on her pickax for the voyage back. The least Twig could do was show everyone how remarkable Granny was.

  When twitching ears and flicking tails finally settled down, Twig smirked at her captive audience and began to tell her tale.

  Many long time ago, Whiskersnoot kobold tunnels crumbled, keeping us all in the deepest dark. Not safe to go higher, decided long ago. Lived in bottomless tunnels all our lives and our parents’ lives and their parents’ lives, we have. By wax and wick, we dig and dig and sit and sit. What a bore! Me say there is something better out there. And it’s true: there is.

  Granny Whiskersnoot was doing as we kobolds do, picking the shiny from the rock and minding the candle. She followed the saying, as all Whiskersnoot do: “Never pick above your snout.” But Granny brave, and Granny curious. She pick a little bit above snout, day after day.

  After long time, Granny began to wonder if anything up there at all, but then she felt dust falling on her. Above Granny’s head was a crack in the rock—and a light! She stood on the wee tips of her toes, and what did she see? A candle. But not just any candle. This candle burned bright and bright, but it needed no wick! This candle could stay lit forever and never snuff out. Granny left to lead other Whiskersnoot kobolds to the Wickless Candle but could never find it again. But she always remember its help. And she tell Twig. And now Twig tell you!

  Granny clapped her frail, thin paws as Twig took a dramatic bow. The rest of the tenderfoots were rapt at the wondrous tale. A candle that needed no wick? What other wonders might they behold by digging upward? They clambered on top of one another, asking Twig and Granny for more stories about the Wickless Candle. But Twig’s perpetually unhappy papa, head of the Whiskersnoot clan, interrupted the sleep-time story and folded his mucky paws firmly across his chest. The youngsters all pinned their ears back, Twig included, as if to block the scolding words from entering.

  “Twig forget rest of Whiskersnoot saying: ‘Never pick above your snout, else the darkness snuff you out!’ Twig tell dangerous story. Old, old Whiskersnoot pick above snout and lost mines! Trap generations down here many long time. Nothing good come from up above.”

  “It’s okay, Papa Whiskersnoot,” one of the bolder younglings piped up. “We know it’s just story. Not real—no, not real.”

  Twig felt like her tail had been trampled. She knew the story was true. Granny had told her so! But as she looked around the group—whose curious eyes had glittered like gemstones just moments ago—they now shook their heads. “Just a story,” some echoed. “Not real—no, not real.”

  “Good. Now, sleep time, all of you,” Papa Whiskersnoot said with a huff. The tenderfoots followed him back to their warrens, avoiding Twig’s disappointed eyes.

  “Me sorry, Twig.” Granny sighed sadly, and the sigh turned into a hoarse wheeze. “Kobolds don’t trust what lies beyond their noses. Fearful, skittish. You told story well. Maybe in time, they believe too.” Granny stood wearily and rested her weight against her pickax. “Me heart know Wickless Candle out there, and me heart is with Twig.” She lovingly patted Twig’s shoulder and shuffled her way to bed.

  As Granny departed, Tallow tiptoed up beside her and tugged on Twig’s sleeve. “Me believe in the Wickless Candle.”

  Twig crouched to meet Tallow’s eyes and found no lie there. “You do?”

  “Me do!” Tallow nodded with a large grin and a cartoonish bobble of his head. The string of shiny rocks around his neck jingled playfully as he spoke. “Me want adventure! Excitement! Like Twig do!”

  Feeling a little less terrible, Twig stayed up late with Tallow. They whispered to each other about all the adventures they’d go on someday. Talk of perilous exploits and derring-do and the Wickless Candle turned soon to dreams as Twig’s eyes grew heavy and tired. She didn’t even remember falling asleep.

>   When she woke, there was no sign of Tallow. A single note lay beside her:

  GOING TO FIND WICKLESS CANDLE! PICK ABOVE SNOUT! BACK SOON!

  —TALLOW

  Just then, the ceiling of the cave began to tremble, dropping stalactites like spears. Twig fled her burrow, watching as kobolds dove for cover, crying and trembling. A group of the most weathered miners had gathered at the mouth of a cavern. Rocks and shrapnel tumbled from the shadows, punctuated by grinding metal and splintering wood.

  “Cave-in! Cave-in!” one cried, fastening his candled helmet tightly over his head. “Get tools! Get candles! Get help!”

  Twig lit her own candle as fast as she could and rushed into the fray. As she helped the miners shove roots and shovels to brace the tunnel, something on the ground caught her eye: a strand of shiny rocks, tangled amid the rubble. The quaking died down as she cradled the necklace in her paws, trembling.

  “Has anyone seen Tallow?” Papa Whiskersnoot asked, taking stock of the kobolds present. With a moment of hesitation, Twig limply held out the necklace.

  “Tallow leave note. Tallow go to find Wickless Candle.” Twig’s ears drooped as she grasped the necklace tightly. “We need start digging. Tallow could be trapped! Need save him!”

  The miners’ faces all fell. “Not safe to dig,” one said. “Mine just braced. May give out again. Cave-in bad, Twig. Tallow’s candle snuffed out.”

  The kobolds hung their waxy heads, some bobbing mournfully in agreement. Some had already fallen to their knees, weeping about the darkness consuming poor little Tallow. Papa Whiskersnoot curled his paws into fists and ground his crooked teeth. He leaned in closer, and Twig’s courage bent beneath the volume of his voice. “Me warn story was dangerous! Me told Twig no good come from looking to murky myths. And now, Tallow snuffed! Darkness take him because he believe stupid story!”