Before the Storm

by Christie Golden

  “Because this world belongs to all of us,” Runetotem said quietly.

  Sylvanas smiled. “Perhaps one day soon, ‘all of us’ will mean ‘Horde.’ In the meantime, I put the interests and welfare of my people before the Alliance who destroyed Taurajo. I suggest all of you do as well.”

  “But—” the archdruid began.

  She turned to him, her face cold, composed, but her eyes hot, angry fire. “Object again and I will not take it well. Vol’jin and his loa named me the warchief of the Horde. And as warchief of the Horde, I decide what is important to reveal—and when and to whom. Is that understood?”

  Hamuul’s ears flattened against his skull, but he spoke calmly enough. “Yes, Warchief.”

  THE UNDERCITY

  Parqual Fintallas had been a historian when he still drew breath. He’d known all there was to know about Lordaeron and remembered, with a great deal of fondness, time spent with his wife, Mina, and his daughter, Philia, in his modest but comfortable chambers in Capital City. Even now, he could recall the smell of the ink and the parchment as he scribbled notes from various musty old tomes, and the golden, honey hue of the light that filtered in. The crackle of the fire, warm and comforting as he worked late into the night by the light of candles. Sometimes Mina would send in Philia to deliver his supper when he was too engrossed to come to the table. He’d pull her onto his lap when she was young and invite her to sit with him when she was older, encouraging her to browse through the massive library while he feasted on Mina’s excellent cooking.

  But there was no crackling fire here in the Undercity, no smells of parchment and ink and delicious food prepared with love by a warm and wise lifemate. No child to pester him with questions he’d loved to answer. Only coldness, dampness, the sickly smell of rot, and the eerie green glow of the tainted river that flowed throughout the subterranean necropolis.

  Those memories were too fresh to be anything but painful, yet how sweet they still were. The Forsaken were strongly discouraged from revisiting places they had loved in life. Their home was no longer Lordaeron but the Undercity, a place that, like the inhabitants who no longer had need of sleep, didn’t distinguish between day and night.

  Once or twice, Parqual had sneaked into his former lodgings, smuggling books into the Undercity. But he had been caught once and admonished. His books had been confiscated. There is no need to remember the human history of this place, he had been told. Only the history of the Undercity matters now.

  Over the years, he’d made use of adventurers to acquire more books, each one precious to him. But he could not use adventurers who sought gold or fame to bring back what had gone. Mina was either dead or a gibbering monstrosity. And Philia, his bright, beautiful girl, was still human, possibly still alive. But even so, she would be horrified at what had become of her beloved papa.

  For the longest time, he had thought himself unique in his wistfulness. But then Vellcinda had founded the Desolate Council to take care of the city in the Dark Lady’s absence. What had begun purely as necessity had, for Parqual at least, become something so much more. It had given him a sense of camaraderie and the knowledge that not everyone was content simply to serve without questioning. The Forsaken might not be living, but they had needs, desires, emotions that were not being met.

  Vellcinda believed that Sylvanas would visit soon and would listen to what the council had to say.

  Parqual sincerely hoped she was right, but he had his doubts. Sylvanas needed to stop forcing them to live again if they did not wish to; she needed to allow them to embrace their former lives as well as their undeath.

  History taught that those who had power were generally loath to relinquish any of it unless they were forced to do so.

  And in all his years of life and undeath, Parqual had seldom found history’s lessons to be wrong.

  The capital of the night elves was one of Anduin’s favorite places, though he had seldom been able to travel there. The kaldorei were a beautiful people, and so was their city, nestled securely in the embrace of the massive World Tree, Teldrassil.

  Anduin stood now beside High Priestess Tyrande Whisperwind and her beloved, the archdruid Malfurion Stormrage, in the Temple of the Moon. Serenity enveloped this place as the tenders of the temple went about their duties with grace and purpose. The rhythmic sound of softly splashing water was soothing, and the statue of Haidene, holding aloft the bowl from which the moonwell’s radiant liquid flowed, was calming to behold.

  His mind went back to the Netherlight Temple. The Light finds us, he thought. All of us. It chooses the story, or the face, or the name, or the song that resonates the most with each of us. We may call it Elune, or An’she, or just the Light, but it doesn’t matter. We can turn away from it if we desire, but it’s always there.

  He caught Tyrande watching him, a slight smile curving her lips. She understood.

  “I regret that I have not been a more frequent visitor to your beautiful city,” he said aloud.

  “War by its nature conspires to keep us all from places that nurture the spirit,” Tyrande said.

  With a sigh, Anduin turned away from the statue and faced the pair of leaders. “My letter outlined the nature of the current battle we face,” he said. “A battle to heal our world. Has Magni come to you yet?”

  “Not yet,” Malfurion said. “It is a wide world, and Speaker for it he may be, but there is much ground to cover. We had already sent members of the Cenarion Circle back to Silithus after…after the tragedy. We wanted to assess the damage.”

  We have eyes on it, Shaw had told him earlier.

  “Not for the first time, and I’m certain not for the last, I am grateful for the strong bonds between our peoples,” Anduin said. “What did the Circle learn?”

  The two exchanged a look. Then, “Come,” said Malfurion. “Let us ride.”

  Anduin walked with them through the springy grass of the temple and out the arched doorway. Two Sentinels, the fierce female soldiers who guarded the city, awaited them with three nightsabers.

  “Do you know how to ride one?” Tyrande asked with a smile.

  “I’ve ridden gryphons, hippogryphs, and horses,” Anduin said, “but not a nightsaber.”

  “They are similar to a gryphon, but with a smoother gait. I think you will enjoy it.”

  There was a spotted black one, one that had a soft gray coat, and a white one with black stripes that reminded the young king of the great White Tiger, Xuen, whom he had met in Pandaria. Too much so; he felt it would be almost disrespectful to ride it. He opted for the gray one, swinging himself into the saddle with ease. The big cat looked back at him, grunted, and shook its head before settling into a rhythmic lope that was as comfortable as Tyrande had promised.

  “I believe it is as grim as the Speaker made it out to be,” Malfurion said as the three made their way down the carpeted ramp and over the white marble stone, heading away from the temple. He kept his voice pitched softly. “Everyone in the Cenarion Hold and throughout the region was killed at once.”

  “I sent priestesses when I heard,” Tyrande said, and left it at that. Anduin thought bleakly of the horrifying sight that must have greeted the gentle Sisters of Elune. More than the world was wounded by Sargeras. The only consolation was that the mad titan had, after so long cutting a swath of destruction and torment throughout the universe, finally been imprisoned.

  “Our first thought was to send groups of druids and priestesses to create moonwells,” Malfurion continued.

  It made good sense. Moonwells contained sacred waters that could heal wounds and restore energy and vitality, and they often were put to use purifying corrupted areas. Or in this case, healing wounded ones.

  “Did you meet with success?” Anduin asked.

  “It is too early to tell. Most of our groups have not even had an opportunity to create one. The goblins are hard at work
plundering Azeroth,” Malfurion said, his normally pleasant, deep voice a rumble of wounded anger. “And there is plenty for them to exploit. As Magni told you, the essence of the world has come to the surface, and in great supply. We ourselves found a vein.”

  A vein. Anduin’s mind went immediately to the intricate network of veins and arteries that went through a living body. Strange how so long ago, well before anyone understood that Azeroth was a sleeping nascent titan, the term “vein” had been used to describe the ribbons of various minerals that ran throughout the world.

  Malfurion turned his black-striped nightsaber to the right, heading toward the Warrior’s Terrace. As they passed the citizens of Darnassus, many turned to regard the sight of the young Stormwind king, bowing and waving to him. Anduin smiled and returned the waves, although the subject matter he was discussing with the Darnassian onlookers’ leaders was a bleak one.

  “We obtained some samples to study,” Malfurion continued. “It is…” The archdruid, Anduin knew, was well over ten thousand years old. Yet this substance left him at a loss for words. For a moment, the night elf seemed almost overcome.

  Riding closely beside and in perfect synchronization with her husband, Tyrande reached out to him, squeezing his arm briefly in silence.

  Anduin regarded Malfurion with deep sympathy. “I have held it,” he said quietly. “I know how it affected me. I cannot imagine how it must have moved those so deeply connected to nature and the land.”

  “I cannot deny the magnificence of it—or the power, for good or ill. And Tyrande and I—all the kaldorei—will do everything we can to prevent its misuse.”

  The Warrior’s Terrace loomed up ahead. At the top, standing at attention, a unit of five Sentinels awaited them. Their leader was an elf with long dark blue hair pulled back in a ponytail. Her skin was pale reddish-purple, and the traditional markings on her face looked like claw marks. Like all her sisters, she was strong and lithe and fierce. But unlike many of the Sentinels Anduin had met before, she did not have a hardened expression. Tyrande slipped off her saber and greeted the Sentinel warmly. Anduin and Malfurion, too, dismounted.

  One hand on the Sentinel’s shoulder, Tyrande turned to her guest. “King Anduin Wrynn,” she said, and Anduin realized that it would take a long time for him to grow used to that title, “may I present Captain Cordressa Briarbow.”

  The captain turned to Anduin and inclined her head. “I am honored,” she said.

  “A pleasure, Captain,” Anduin said. “I remember you from the trial in Pandaria.”

  She smiled. “I am flattered you recall.”

  “We have been in communication with the Explorers’ League,” Tyrande said. “Ordinarily, they provide their own protection. But given the state of Silithus at this moment, I have offered them the aid of Cordressa’s unit.” Her eyes flashed. “Goblins are not to be trifled with, and with them present in so many numbers, the area is dangerous.”

  “A wise decision,” Anduin said. “I am certain there will be several expeditions. I will assign some of my units to protective duty as well.” Anduin was no lover of war, but he knew that others thrived on combat. This would allow them to utilize their training in a positive way.

  “Druids and shaman can take care of themselves,” Malfurion said, “but the members of the Explorers’ League are generally archaeologists and scientists. And right now they are doing precious work.”

  Their attention was drawn by a soft swirl of white a few feet away, accompanied by the distinctive sound of a portal opening. A moment later, a gnome, all eyebrows and mustache, stepped through. Gold embroidery on his violet tabard depicted the all-seeing eye that was the symbol of the Kirin Tor.

  What did the most powerful magi in Azeroth want with Tyrande and Malfurion? Anduin wondered. But when the gnome trundled directly up to him, the king realized it wasn’t the leaders of Darnassus that the Kirin Tor had come to see.

  “Greetings, High Priestess, Archdruid,” the gnome said, nodding to the much bigger night elves. “King Anduin, this message is for you.”

  “Thank you.” Light, please let this not be more bad news. Our poor world cannot handle it.

  He broke the seal and read, feeling all eyes on him.

  To Anduin Wrynn, King of Stormwind, Kalecgos of the Kirin Tor gives greetings.

  Your Majesty, I hope this finds you well. I understand you embarked on a journey to thank your fellow Alliance members for their role in winning a terrible war. It is exactly the sort of thing I would expect of you, my friend, and I hope it goes well.

  Our Mutual Friend paid me an unexpected visit just now. I believe we will not be seeing her again any time soon. But I have faith that she will return, and her mind will be the calmer and clearer for her retreat from this world. It is difficult to heal when a wound is constantly being reopened.

  I know nothing about where she will be, but I felt you would wish to hear. —K

  “Is all well, Your Majesty?” Malfurion asked quietly.

  It was, overall, good news. At the same time, Anduin again regretted that Jaina still seemed to be lost. He hoped, as Kalec did, that she would find the answers, and the peace, she sought.

  “Yes,” he said. “An update on a personal matter. Nothing dire.”

  “Do you wish me to carry a response?” the gnome courier inquired.

  “You may tell Kalecgos that I have received the message and I share his hopes. Thank you.”

  The gnome nodded. “Good day, then!” His small hands made motions that Anduin could not quite follow, and the air before the courier shimmered. Anduin caught a glimpse of the beautiful floating city of Dalaran for just an instant, then the gnome stepped through the portal. It faded behind him.

  Anduin turned to Malfurion and Tyrande. “The letter concerned Jaina,” he said. “She is safe, according to Kalecgos.”

  “That is good news,” Tyrande said, “though it makes me wonder why she did not choose to fight alongside us against the Legion after the Broken Shore. Will she be returning?”

  Anduin shook his head. “Not immediately, at any rate. Hopefully one day.”

  “And may that day be soon,” Malfurion said. “The world needs all the champions it can find.”

  “It does,” Anduin said slowly, thinking. His plan had been to rendezvous with Velen at the Exodar. He had spent much time there a few years earlier, and it was the closest thing he had to a second home. He yearned to walk its crystalline halls once more and to speak with the warm, friendly draenei.

  But Velen already had enlightened the draenei about what Magni had revealed in Ironforge. Down to the littlest one, they were all probably hard at work already. The Exodar and Velen did not need him right now. His task was to spread the news to others and spur them on to action. And that was a task he could not do alone.

  Anduin made a decision. He would not be traveling to the Exodar. He would return to Stormwind briefly, and then he would travel to the third place that, in his heart, he felt he could call home: the Netherlight Temple.

  It was very late when Anduin returned from Teldrassil. He used his hearthstone to avoid disturbing anyone. Wyll had been asleep for several hours, and Anduin didn’t feel like getting into discussions with Genn Greymane just yet. There was, however, someone he did very much wish to speak with, and he wanted to give her a chance to report with news before he left for the Netherlight Temple.

  He had materialized in the receiving room where he and his father had shared so many meals, arguments, and discussions. A ghost of a smile touched his lips, along with the ache of loss; then he turned and went to his private quarters, lit a candle, and placed it in the window. That task done, he tended to another one—filling his growling stomach. After descending into the kitchen, quiet at this hour, he heaped a plate with bread, Dalaran sharp, and goldenbark apples. When Anduin returned to his chambers, he closed the door behind h
im and said, “I’ll feel silly if I’m talking to myself.”

  “You’re not.” Valeera was there. Anduin started to smile, then saw the expression on her face. All at once, he lost his appetite.

  “Something’s wrong,” he said. When she didn’t deny it, Anduin’s heart sank. “Tell me.”

  She closed her eyes, then mutely handed him a letter. For a moment, Anduin didn’t want to read it. He wanted to stay in this place of innocent ignorance. But that was not granted to a king, not one who wanted to be a good leader of his people, at any rate.

  He swallowed hard. “Is he safe?”

  “For the moment.” Valeera jerked her head at the letter.

  At least the worst hasn’t happened, Anduin thought. But he suspected he knew what was in the letter now.

  With a heavy heart, he unfolded the letter, which was written in the agreed-upon code. He translated it as he read.

  For years, I have cherished our friendship.

  I cherish it still. But with great reluctance and

  for the sake of those who look to me for protection,

  I know the time has come when I must sever it.

  Anduin’s stomach clenched. She knows. He continued reading.

  I will not put my people nor you, friend, at

  further risk.

  I still believe that there will come a day when

  we can speak openly, with the support of all our people.

  But that day has not yet come.

  Earth Mother watch over you.

  Anduin had half expected this once Sylvanas had become leader of the Horde. But even so, it felt like a physical blow. Ever since the day he had accidentally materialized in the middle of a meeting between Baine Bloodhoof and Jaina Proudmoore, he had liked the tauren leader. Like Baine, Anduin had thought they were friends. But all at once he was besieged by doubt.