Before the Storm

by Christie Golden

  “They are calling themselves the Desolate Council,” Nathanos continued.

  “A rather self-pitying name,” Sylvanas murmured.

  “Perhaps,” Nathanos agreed. “But it is a clear indicator of their feelings.” He glanced over at her as they rode. “My queen, there are rumors about things that you have done in this war. Some of those rumors are even true.”

  “What kind of rumors?” she asked, perhaps too quickly. Sylvanas had plans upon plans, and wondered which of them had seeped into the realm of rumor among her people.

  “Word has reached them of some of your more extreme efforts to continue their existence,” Nathanos said.

  Ah. That. “I assume that word has also reached them that Genn Greymane destroyed their hope,” Sylvanas replied bitterly.

  She had taken her flagship, the Windrunner, to Stormheim in the Broken Isles in search of more Val’kyr to resurrect the fallen. It was, thus far, the only way Sylvanas had found to create more Forsaken.

  “I was almost able to enslave the great Eyir. She would have given me the Val’kyr for all eternity. None of my people would have ever died again.” She paused. “I would have saved them.”

  “That…is the concern.”

  “Do not dance around this, Nathanos. Speak plainly.”

  “Not all of them desire for themselves what you desire for them, my queen. Many on the Desolate Council harbor deep reservations.” His face, still that of a dead man but better preserved because of an elaborate ritual she had ordered performed, twisted in a smile. “This is the peril you created when you gave them free will. They are now free to disagree.”

  Her pale brows drew together in a terrible frown. “Do they want extinction, then?” she hissed, anger flaring brightly inside her. “Do they want to be rotting in the earth?”

  “I do not know what they want,” Nathanos replied calmly. “They wish to speak with you, not with me.”

  Sylvanas growled softly under her breath. Nathanos, ever patient, waited. He would obey her in all things, she knew. She could, right now, order a group of any combination of non-Forsaken Horde warriors to march on the Undercity and seize the members of this ungrateful council. But even as she had that satisfying thought, she knew it would be unwise. She needed to know more—much more—before she could act. She would prefer to dissuade Forsaken—any Forsaken—than destroy them.

  “I…will consider their request. But for now I have something else I wish to discuss. We need to increase what is in the Horde’s coffers,” Sylvanas murmured quietly to her champion. “We will need the funds, and we will need them.”

  She waved at a family of orcs. Both the male and the female bore battle scars, but they were smiling, and the child they lifted over their heads to see her warchief was plump and healthy-looking. Clearly, some of the Horde loved their warchief.

  “I’m not sure I understand, my queen,” Nathanos said. “Of course, the Horde needs funds and its members.”

  “It is not the members that concern me. It is the army. I have decided I will not dissolve it.”

  He turned to look at her. “They think they’ve come home,” he said. “Is this not the case?”

  “It is, for the moment,” she said. “Injuries need time to heal. Crops need to be planted. But soon I will call upon the brave fighters of the Horde for another battle. The one you and I have both longed for.”

  Nathanos was silent. She did not take that for disagreement or disapproval. He was often silent. That he did not press her for more details meant that he understood what she wanted.

  Stormwind.

  The peace-hungry boy-king Anduin Wrynn had lost his father and by all accounts had taken it badly. There were rumors that he had recovered Shalamayne and was now fighting with cold steel as well as with the Light. Sylvanas was dubious. She had difficulty imagining the sensitive child doing such things. She had respected Varian. She had even liked him. And the specter of the Legion had been so dreadful that she had been willing to put aside the hatred that fueled her now as food and drink had fueled her in life.

  But the Wolf was gone, and the young lion was still a cub, really, and the humans had taken tremendous losses. They were weak.

  Vulnerable. Prey.

  And Sylvanas was a hunter.

  The Horde was tough. Strong. Battle-hardened. Its members would recover far more swiftly than the Alliance races. They would need less time for the things she had cited; crops, healing, a chance to pause and restore themselves. Soon enough, they would thirst for blood, and she would offer the red life-fluid of Stormwind’s humans, the oldest enemies of the Horde, to slake that thirst.

  And in the bargain she would increase the population of the Forsaken. For all the humans who fell with their city would be reborn to serve her. Would that be so terrible, really? They would be with their loved ones for all time. They would not suffer the daggers of passion or loss any longer. They would need no sleep. They could pursue their interests in death as well as in life. There would at last be unity.

  If the humans only understood how terribly life and all its attendant suffering dealt with them, Sylvanas thought, they would leap at the chance. The Forsaken understood…at least, she had thought they did, until the Desolate Council had inexplicably concluded otherwise.

  Baine Bloodhoof, Varok Saurfang, Lor’themar Theron, and Jastor Gallywix would no doubt consider that Sylvanas had a certain interest in creating human corpses. They had not become leaders of their people by being stupid, after all. But they also would be fighting against the hated humans and claiming their shining white city, with its neighboring forested land and bountiful fields, for their own. They would not begrudge her the bodies, not when she handed them such a victory—one both practical and highly symbolic.

  There was no longer a human hero to stand and rally the Alliance against them. No Anduin Lothar, who was slain by Orgrim Doomhammer, and no Llane or Varian Wrynn. The only one by those names was Anduin Wrynn, and he was nothing.

  Sylvanas, Nathanos, and her entourage of veterans had gone all the way through the Valley of Honor and looped back, heading into the Valley of Wisdom. There Baine awaited her. He stood in full traditional tauren regalia, only his ears and tail moving as they flicked off the flies that buzzed in the summer air. Many of his braves were gathered around him. Mounted, Sylvanas was tall enough to look even the males in the eye, and she did so steadily. Baine stared calmly back.

  Except for those pandaren who had chosen to ally with the Horde, Sylvanas had the least in common with the tauren. They were a deeply spiritual people, calm and steady. They craved the tranquillity of nature and honored ancient ways. Sylvanas once had understood those sentiments but no longer could relate to any of them.

  What irked her the most about Baine was that despite the murder of his father and wrong upon wrong being heaped upon his horned head, the young bull still cherished peace above all pursuits: peace between races and in one’s own heart.

  Baine’s honor obligated him to serve her, and he would not tarnish it. Not unless he was pushed to limits that Sylvanas still hadn’t reached.

  He placed his hand on his broad chest, over his heart, and stamped his hoof in a tauren version of a salute. The braves followed suit, and the ground of Orgrimmar trembled ever so slightly. Then Sylvanas continued, and the tauren fell in line behind the cluster of Forsaken and Theron’s blood elves.

  Still Nathanos remained silent. They followed the twining road toward the Valley of Spirits, the long-standing seat of the trolls. They were so proud of themselves, these “first” few races. Sylvanas believed that they never truly accepted the later races—the blood elves, the goblins, and her own people—as “true” Horde members. It amused her that, since the goblins had joined the Horde, they had oozed into the Valley of Spirits and had nearly ruined their allotted area.

  Like the tauren, the trolls were among the fir
st friends to the orcs. The orc leader Thrall had named the land Durotar for his father, Durotan. Orgrimmar was so named to honor an early warchief of the Horde, Orgrim Doomhammer. In fact, until Vol’jin, all warchiefs had been orcs. And until Sylvanas, they all had been members of the original founding races. And male.

  Sylvanas had changed all that, and she was proud of it.

  Like her, Vol’jin had left his people leaderless upon his ascension to warchief. The trolls stood today with no public face to represent them, save potentially Rokhan; at least the Forsaken had her in the role of warchief. Sylvanas reminded herself to appoint someone head of the trolls as swiftly as possible. Someone she could work with. Could control. The last thing she needed was for the trolls to choose someone who might want to challenge her position.

  Although many today had greeted her with cheers and smiles, Sylvanas did not fool herself that she was universally beloved. She had led the Horde to a seemingly impossible victory, and for now, at least, it appeared that its members were solidly with her.

  Good.

  She nodded courteously to the trolls, then braced herself to meet the next group.

  Sylvanas did not much care for goblins. Although her own sense of honor was somewhat fluid, she could appreciate honor in others. It was, like many things, an echo of something she once had heard. But the goblins were little better than squat, ugly money-grubbing parasites as far as she was concerned. Oh, they were intelligent. Sometimes dangerously so—to themselves and others. That they were creative and inventive there was no doubt. But she preferred the days when the only relationship one had with them was purely financial. Now they were full-fledged members of the Horde, and she had to pretend that they mattered.

  They, of course, were not without their leader: the multi-chinned, waistband-straining green lump of greed that was Trade Prince Jastor Gallywix. He stood in the front of his motley gaggle of goblins, all of them grinning and showing their sharp yellow teeth. His spindly legs seemed already too tired to bear his frame, and he sported his favorite top hat and cane. At her approach, he bowed as deeply as his midsection would permit.

  “Warchief,” he said in that unctuous voice, “I hope you might find some time for me later. I have something that might interest you a very great deal.”

  No one else had dared try to insert their own agenda this day. Trust a goblin to do so. She frowned at him and opened her mouth to speak. Then she looked carefully at his expression.

  Sylvanas had lived a very long life before Arthas Menethil had cut her down. And now she lived, after a fashion, again. She had spent much of that time looking into faces, judging the character behind them and the words that were spoken.

  Gallywix often had that sort of hail-fellow-well-met artificial cheer that she so despised, but not today. There was no desperate push from him. He was…calm. He looked like a player who knew he was going to win. That he so boldly addressed her here, now, meant that he was serious about speaking with her. But his body language—he wasn’t hunching obsequiously but stood straight for perhaps the first time she’d ever seen—told her even more clearly that this was someone willing to walk away from the table without undue disappointment.

  This time he meant it. He did have something that would interest her a very great deal.

  “Speak with me at the feast,” she said.

  “As my warchief commands,” the goblin said, and doffed his top hat to her.

  Sylvanas turned away to complete the route.

  “I do not trust that goblin.” Nathanos, who had remained so silent for so long, spoke with distaste.

  “Nor do I,” Sylvanas replied. “But one thing goblins understand is profit. I can listen without promising anything.”

  Nathanos nodded. “Of course, Warchief.”

  The goblins and the trolls had fallen in line behind her. Gallywix was riding in a litter behind Sylvanas’s own guards. How he had finagled that position, she didn’t know. He met her gaze and grinned, giving her a thumbs-up and a wink. Sylvanas fought to keep her lip from curling in disgust. She already was regretting her decision to talk with Gallywix later, so she focused on something else.

  “We do still agree, do we not?” she said to Nathanos. “Stormwind must fall, and the victims of the battle will become Forsaken.”

  “All is as you would wish it, my queen,” he said, “but I do not think mine is the opinion with which you need to concern yourself. Have you broached this with the other leaders? They may have something to say about the idea. I do not think we have seen a peace more dearly bought, nor more appreciated. They may not want to upend the cart just yet.”

  “While our enemies remain, peace is not victory.” Not when vulnerable prey yet remained to be hunted. And not when the continued existence of her Forsaken was so uncertain.

  “For the warchief!” a tauren bellowed, his oversized lungs enabling the cry to carry far.

  “Warchief! Warchief! Warchief!”

  The long “victory march” was nearing its end. Now Sylvanas approached Grommash Hold. Only one more leader awaited her—one to whom she gave grudging respect.

  Varok Saurfang was intelligent, strong, fierce, and, like Baine, loyal. But there was something in the orc’s eyes that always put her on alert when she gazed into them. The knowledge that if she misstepped too badly, he might well challenge, or even outright oppose, her.

  That look was in his eyes now as he stepped forward. He met Sylvanas stare for stare, not breaking eye contact even as he executed a brief bow and stepped aside to let her pass before he fell in line behind her.

  As all the others would do.

  Warchief Sylvanas dismounted and entered Grommash Hold with her head held high.

  Nathanos was concerned that the other leaders wouldn’t support her plan.

  I will tell them what they will do…when the time is right.

  * * *

  —

  A heavy, rough-hewn wooden table and benches had been brought into Grommash Hold. A celebratory feast would be served for the leaders of each group and a select few of their guards or companions. Sylvanas herself would sit at the head of the table, as befitted her position.

  Now, as Sylvanas regarded her tablemates, she reflected that none of them had family of any sort. Her champion was the closest thing to a formal consort or even companion present. And their relationship was complicated, even to themselves.

  Each of the races had been encouraged to present a ritual celebrating victory or honoring its veterans. Sylvanas was willing to indulge this request; it would appease many, and the funds for such an event would come not from Horde coffers but from those of each race. The idea had been suggested by Baine, of course, whose people had practiced such rituals as part of their culture for…well, as long as there had been tauren, Sylvanas assumed.

  The trolls, too, had agreed to participate, as well as the Horde’s pandaren. They had a unique position among the Horde in that they were a collection of individuals who felt a connection to the Horde’s ideals. Their leader, and their land, was far away, but they had proven their worth to the Horde. They had nodded their furry round heads at the prospect of presenting a ritual, promising beauty and spectacle to uplift the spirits. Sylvanas had smiled pleasantly and told them that such would be welcomed.

  Sylvanas recalled that once, Quel’Thalas used to host magnificent, bright, shining ceremonies with mock battles and pomp and pageantry. But in more recent times the former high elves, wrestling with betrayal and addiction, had turned much grimmer. Quel’Thalas was recovering, and the blood elves still loved their luxuries and comforts, but they now found such ostentatious displays distasteful in the light of so much unrelenting tragedy for their people. Their contribution, Theron had told her, would be brief and to the point. They were bitter now. Bitter as the Forsaken still were; Sylvanas had flatly refused to participate in what she perceived as a waste
of time and gold.

  In this, the goblins were on her side. It was a darkly amusing thought.

  She waited as several shaman of all races opened the ceremonies with a ritual. The tauren offered a re-creation of one of the great battles of the war. And finally, the pandaren stepped into the center of Grommash Hold. They wore silk outfits—tunics and breeches and dresses—in hues of jade green, sky blue, and nauseating pink. Sylvanas had to admit, for as large and soft and round as the pandaren appeared, they were startlingly graceful as they danced, tumbled, and staged mock battles.

  Baine rose to close the events. Slowly, his gaze roamed the hall, taking in not just the leaders at the table but others who sat on rugs and hides on the hard-packed dirt floor.

  “It is with both pain and pride that we gather here today,” he rumbled. “Pain, for many brave heroes of the Horde fell in honorable and terrible battle. Vol’jin, warchief of the Horde, led the vanguard against the Legion. He fought with courage. He fought for the Horde.”

  “For the Horde,” came the solemn murmur. Baine turned to look at something. Sylvanas followed his gaze and saw Vol’jin’s weapons and ritual mask hanging in a place of honor. Others, too, bowed their heads. Sylvanas inclined her own.

  “But we do not forget the pride we hold in those battles—and their outcome. For against all odds, we have vanquished the Legion. Our victory was bought with blood, but it was bought. We bled. Now we heal. We mourned. Now we celebrate! For the Horde!”

  The response was no hushed, respectful one this time but a full-throated, openhearted cheer that all but shook the rafters of the hold. “For the Horde!”

  Roasted boar and root vegetables were served, with ale, wine, or harder liquor to wash it down. Sylvanas observed while others partook. Shortly after the first course was cleared, she noticed a red and purple top hat splotched with stars heading toward her end of the table.

  “Oh, Warchief? A moment of your time.”