As I have been, Anduin thought. We are both prepared to go against our natures if we must.
He continued to draw closer to the Banshee Queen. He could see her more clearly now. Sylvanas had come unarmed, as he had demanded they both be. He could see her red eyes glowing beneath the hood she wore, her skin a muted blue-green not at all out of place in the somber, drizzly land, the marks under her eyes looking oddly like tear stains. She was beautiful and deadly, as beautiful and deadly as the flowers of the toxic herb Maiden’s Anguish.
Emotions tumbled within him at the sight: Apprehension. Hope. And at the foremost, anger. Baine had told him that Vol’jin had ordered the retreat; Sylvanas had carried it out. But had Vol’jin done so, really? Had there truly been no alternative? Had Sylvanas betrayed his father and left him and everyone on that airship to die? And if she had…should Anduin even be talking peace with her now?
The words he had said so recently about Varian Wrynn, to the gathered crowd at Lion’s Rest, came back to him. He knew that no one—not even a king—is more important than the Alliance. Anduin did, too. If all went well today, the Alliance could soon be safer than it ever had been. Whatever Sylvanas had or had not done, Anduin was certain that this was the right path. And sometimes the right path was a painful and dangerous one.
They came within ten feet of each other and brought their mounts to a halt. For a long moment, they simply took each other’s measure. The only sounds were the soft sigh of the wind that stirred both gold and silvery hair, the stamp of Reverence’s hooves, and the creak of the saddle as the great horse shifted. Sylvanas and her undead mount stayed perfectly, unnaturally still.
Then, impulsively, Anduin swung himself down and took a few steps toward Sylvanas. She raised a brow. After a pause, she emulated him, walking almost languidly until they were less than a yard apart.
Anduin broke the silence. “Warchief,” he said, and nodded acknowledgment. “Thank you for honoring my request.”
“Little Lion,” she said in that throaty, strangely echoing tone that the Forsaken had.
The term stung more than it ought to. Aerin, the brave dwarf who had died trying to save lives, had called him that with warmth. He did not like Sylvanas twisting that memory to an insult.
“King Anduin Wrynn,” he said, “and not so little anymore. You would do well not to underestimate me.”
She smirked slightly. “You are still small enough.”
“I’m sure we have better use of our time than to stand here flinging insults.”
“I do not.” She was enjoying this. He imagined that to her, he did appear small. After all, by her actions at the Broken Shore, ordered or not, she had sealed Varian’s death. What was the son to her but a speck, a flea, a minor inconvenience?
“Yes, you do,” he said, not allowing himself to be baited. “You are the warchief of the Horde. Its members fought bravely against the Legion. And the people closest to you—the Forsaken—have asked something of you that means much to them, and you have listened.”
She met his gaze implacably. He had no idea if he was getting through to her. Most likely not, he thought ruefully. But that was not why he had come here today.
“This is not an offer of peace,” he continued. “Merely a cease-fire for a twelve-hour period.”
“So you said in your letter. And I responded that I agreed to your terms. Why are we having this conversation?”
“Because I wanted to see you in person,” the king replied. “I want to hear from your own lips that no member of the Alliance will be harmed.”
She rolled her eyes. “Does your precious Light tell you if someone is lying?”
“I’ll know,” he said simply. That wasn’t exactly true. He thought he would know. He believed he would know. But he wasn’t certain. The Light was not a sword. A sharp blade could always be relied on to cut flesh if the blow was struck a certain way. The Light was more nebulous. It responded to faith, not just skill. And oddly, it was because of that that he trusted it even more than Shalamayne.
Something flickered on her face and then was gone. She lifted her chin slightly as she replied, “Do you not trust me to keep my word, then?”
He shrugged. “You’ve gone back on it before.”
There it was. Varian’s death. Sylvanas didn’t reply at once. Then, almost courteously, she said, “I give you my word. As the Dark Lady of the Forsaken and as warchief of the Horde. No member of the Alliance will come to harm by any member of the Horde today. Including me. Does that satisfy you, Your Majesty?”
There was an extra emphasis on the last two words. She was not showing respect by using them. She was using his new position as a not-so-subtle knife between the ribs. Because they both knew that in a better world it would have been Varian Wrynn speaking with her. And this meeting would have been less fraught with tension, resentment, and mistrust.
Anduin spoke before he could stop himself.
“Did you betray my father?”
Sylvanas stiffened.
Anduin’s heart sped up, slamming against his chest. It was not a question he had intended to ask. But it was the one he needed to. He had to know. Had to know if Genn Greymane was right—if Sylvanas had set up his father and the Alliance army to die.
* * *
—
The words were out there.
Sylvanas stood motionless as a stone, her face expressionless. Her chest did not rise and fall with breath. Her heart did not pump blood. But even so, she was shocked that the boy had the courage to confront her so bluntly—and so quickly.
She had not given much thought to the events of the Broken Shore. There had been so much else to seize her attention, and she was not one for rumination. But now her thoughts flew back to that bloody, chaotic moment as if she again stood on that rise, with the Alliance army below her, fighting fiercely, while the Horde gave all its mighty heart to the attack.
We make our stand here, she had told the archers. And so they had, firing arrow after arrow, like a deadly rain, a storm, upon the loathed, fel-fueled enemy. And it was working. The Legion came, wave after wave of demonic monstrosities, each more horrible and horrifying than the last. But Varian’s people were good. As were her own.
The bellow of surprise and warning had caused her to whirl. Sylvanas had watched, stunned, as a flood of demons poured through the gap behind her. She beheld Thrall, mighty warrior and shaman, the founder of the current Horde—on his knees, his green body trembling with the simple effort of trying to get on his feet. Baine stood over him, savagely defending his friend. Shock paralyzed her for a moment.
And then her warchief’s words: Dey’re comin’ from behind! Cover da flank!
The spear. That awful spear, piercing Vol’jin’s torso as he shouted out his order. It should have killed him immediately, but Vol’jin was not ready to die. Not yet. Purpose fueled him. He slew his killer and continued to fight, growing weaker before her eyes. Before Sylvanas knew it, she was on her horse, riding toward her leader, scooping him up to get him off the battlefield to safety.
In what must have been an agonizing effort, the troll turned and looked up at her. He whispered the order to her, his voice too weak for others to hear over the din of furious battle.
Do not let da Horde die dis day.
It was a direct command from her warchief. And it was the right one. The Alliance effort below, valiant as it was, was dependent on Horde assistance. If the Horde retreated now, Varian’s army would fall.
But if the Horde stayed and fought, then both armies would fall.
Sylvanas had closed her eyes, each option unacceptable to her, but she made the only choice she could: obeying the will of the warchief, who later would die from the poisoned spear and, to everyone’s astonishment, appoint Sylvanas Windrunner as leader of the Horde.
She lifted the horn to her lips and sounded the retreat.
She had told no one of the regret she had felt when, standing on the stern of her ship, she beheld the green smoke of the explosion below, where Varian had fallen, and wondered if she was watching the final, excruciating moments of a mighty warrior.
Sylvanas would tell no one of that now, either. But as she stood before the young king, she could see traces of his father in him that had come with the last few years. Not just physically, in Anduin’s increased height and more muscled physique, or even in the strong line of a determined jaw. She saw Varian in his bearing.
Did you betray my father?
Later, she would question her choice in responding. But in this moment she had no desire to offer falsehood.
“Varian Wrynn’s destiny was set in stone, Little Lion. The Legion’s numbers would have seen to that whatever choice I made that day.”
His blue eyes searched hers for the lie. He found none. Something about him relaxed ever so slightly. He nodded.
“What happens here today benefits both the Horde and the Alliance. I am glad you have agreed to honor this cease-fire. I hereby swear to you that I, too, will abide by it, and no member of the Horde will come to harm by any Alliance hand this day.” He inclined his head in acknowledgment as he mirrored her words, adding, “Including mine.”
“Then we have nothing more to say.”
He shook his golden head. “No, we don’t. And I regret that. Perhaps another day we will meet again and speak of other things that could help both our peoples.”
Sylvanas allowed herself a small smile. “I doubt that very much.”
Without another word, Sylvanas turned, offering him a clear shot at her back, leaped into the saddle of her undead steed, and galloped down the path the way she had come.
Despite the harsh words from the Horde leader as she left, Anduin felt hopeful. He believed her…Legion forces had been appearing everywhere, Genn had told him. If Horde soldiers had been surprised on that ridge, and Anduin believed Baine’s report that they had, it was not unreasonable to suppose that remaining there would have doomed them—and the Alliance.
He had thought he would never know the real, full story. But if things went well today and in future such encounters, then perhaps many questions could be answered—and not just his.
A squire stepped forward and took Reverence’s reins as the king slipped from the horse’s back. “You’re back in one piece,” Genn observed.
“Don’t sound so disappointed,” Anduin joked.
“It went well, then,” Turalyon said.
Anduin sobered as he regarded the paladin. He was as much a personal hero to the young king as Faol was. Turalyon loved a woman who skirted the line between the Void and the Light, whose sister was the one with whom he had just met.
“Yes,” he said. “It did.” He made a decision on the spot. “I asked her about Father,” he told Genn. “She said there was nothing she could have done to save him. And I believe her.”
“Of course she would say that,” Genn scoffed. “Anduin…” He shook his head. “Sometimes you are simply too naive. I fear that something is going to come along and beat that out of you one of these days.”
“I’m not naive. This…felt true.”
Genn continued to scowl, but Turalyon nodded. “I understand.”
Anduin stepped between them, clapping each of them on a shoulder. “Let’s begin. There are people anxious to be with their families.”
“I’ll tell the priests to stand ready by the gryphons,” Turalyon said.
May they be needed only for blessings, Anduin thought but did not say. Aloud, he said only, “Thank you, Turalyon.”
He moved forward, looking at the nineteen people who stood waiting. On their faces were expressions of apprehension and excitement. Their king understood both emotions completely.
“It is time,” he said. “May today be a day of change. Of connection. Of hope and looking forward to a day where reuniting with loved ones becomes a commonplace occurrence rather than a historic one. You’ll be watched and will be protected.”
They had been blessed by two priests already, but this benediction would be from their king. He lifted his hands and called down the Light upon those gathered. Eyes closed. Lips turned up in soft smiles, and he could feel calmness settle on those present. Including himself.
“Light be with you,” Anduin said. He looked first at Archbishop Faol, who put a hand on his unbeating heart and bowed, and then at Calia, who had stayed up with him all night distracting him with stories. She smiled, her eyes shining. This moment was as much for them as it was for the active participants.
He nodded to Turalyon, who bowed his head, and waved to Genn Greymane. Anduin’s chief adviser’s glower had not lifted since their arrival, but he nodded now and shouted orders.
What remained of the enormous wooden doors creaked and shuddered open. Anduin recalled his conversation with Turalyon. The paladin had said that they would all be battling “not for property or riches but for the hearts and minds of the future.”
For a moment, the group simply stood. Then one of them—Philia—shouldered her way through the crowd and began striding forward boldly, her body straight, her jaw set, her booted feet traveling swiftly over the green sward.
As if it was a signal the others had been awaiting, they started moving, too, some with quicker paces than others. No one was allowed to break into a run lest someone mistake haste for danger. But they flowed out of the gate and toward the cluster of shapes that were now coming out of Thoradin’s Wall.
Over the sounds of conversation, a happy laugh rang out, sounding kind and strangely hollow. It was Archbishop Faol. And suddenly Anduin found joyful tears stinging his eyes.
You led the Army of the Light, Turalyon, Anduin thought, and his heart lifted. But this is the army of hope.
* * *
—
Ol’ Emma kept wondering if this was truly happening or if it was just one of her daydreams. She decided that the pain in her joints as she walked across the soft grass, at a much more rapid pace than usual, proved that it was indeed a reality. Emma walked a great deal on a daily basis, carrying water back from the well to her small, tidy home, so endurance was not the problem. Speed was. She wanted so badly to be like Philia and all but run toward the center of the field, but her age would not permit her. She told herself that Jem, Jack, and Jake doubtless had learned patience in their time as undead. They could wait a few more moments to see her.
She was the one who didn’t want to wait.
Someone fell in step beside her. He carried a beautifully crafted helm and introduced himself as Osric Strang.
“I’m Emma Felstone,” Emma said. “That looks mighty heavy.”
Osric, a powerfully muscled man with red hair and a beard, laughed. “Heavy enough to do its job. I made this for the—the person I’m going to see today. Tomas was like a brother to me. We used to argue over who made the best armor, when we served as guards—him in Lordaeron, me in Stormwind. I thought him lost forever that horrible day.”
Osric gestured to the helm. “I thought if he’d survived being turned into a Forsaken with his brain intact, I’d better do what I could to keep it that way.” He smiled down at her. “Who are you going to see?”
“My boys,” Emma replied. She could hear the smile in her voice. “All three of them. They were in Lordaeron when…” She couldn’t finish.
Osric regarded her with deep sympathy. “I’m…I’m so sorry you lost them. But I’m very glad they joined the council so you can see them again.”
“Oh, I am, too,” Emma said. “You have to focus on what you have, don’t you?”
“That you do.” The armorer shifted the helm to the crook of one arm and extended the other to Emma. “It can be a bit tricky walking over this terrain. Hang on to me.”
Such a good boy, she thought as she gratefully did so. J
ust like mine.
The meeting site—exactly midway between Stromgarde Keep and Thoradin’s Wall—had been prepared for the event. There were two tables, one on each side. One was where the Horde could put gifts for the Alliance, and the other was where the Alliance could place their own gifts. Osric walked up to the Alliance table and set down the helm, then rejoined Emma. The priestess who had interviewed them smiled winningly beneath her hood at the assembled participants, then asked them to form a long line facing their Horde counterparts.
Earlier, the weather had been damp and cold, the sky overcast. Now, though, the clouds were disappearing and sunlight peeked out. As everyone moved into position, Emma looked about anxiously for her sons. With a pang of worry, she wondered if she would even be able to recognize them. Although she had met Archbishop Faol, Emma wasn’t fully prepared for how bad some of the Forsaken looked.
No one would mistake them for living beings, and the sunlight was not kind to them. Bones jutted through gray-green skin. Their eyes glowed eerily, and they hunched and shuffled as they walked.
Well, she told herself. My skin is all wrinkled, and I sometimes hunch and shuffle, too.
There was a long silence. Archbishop Faol moved forward. “If you wish to leave now, you may do so,” he said in that strange but pleasant voice. At first no one moved, but then Emma saw about four or five humans, their faces shocked and almost as gray as those of the Forsaken, turn and hasten back toward the keep. One of those who had been rebuffed cried out after a departing figure in a hollow voice that held a world of sorrow. The others stood for a moment, then turned and began the long walk the way they had come, their heads bowed. Oh, those poor things, Emma thought.
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