World of Warcraft: Before the Storm is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 by Blizzard Entertainment, Inc.
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Del Rey, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
DEL REY and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
WARCRAFT, WORLD OF WARCRAFT, and BLIZZARD ENTERTAINMENT are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Blizzard Entertainment, Inc., in the U.S. and/or other countries. All other trademark references herein are the properties of their respective owners.
Hardback ISBN 9780399594090
Ebook ISBN 9780399594106
randomhousebooks.com
Book design by Mary Wirth, adapted for ebook
Cover art: Bastien Lecouffe Deharme
Cover design: Scott Biel
v5.3.1
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Maps
Prologue: Silithus
Chapter One: Stormwind
Chapter Two: Orgrimmar
Chapter Three: Orgrimmar
Chapter Four: Stormwind
Chapter Five: Stormwind
Chapter Six: Tanaris
Chapter Seven: Ironforge
Chapter Eight: Ironforge
Chapter Nine: The Netherlight Temple
Chapter Ten: Dalaran
Chapter Eleven: Stormwind
Chapter Twelve: Thunder Bluff
Chapter Thirteen: Darnassus
Chapter Fourteen: Stormwind
Chapter Fifteen: The Netherlight Temple
Chapter Sixteen: Stormwind
Chapter Seventeen: Stormwind
Chapter Eighteen: Tanaris
Chapter Nineteen: The Undercity
Chapter Twenty: The Netherlight Temple
Chapter Twenty-one: Tanaris
Chapter Twenty-two: The Undercity
Chapter Twenty-three: Stormwind
Chapter Twenty-four: Stormwind
Chapter Twenty-five: Stormwind
Chapter Twenty-six: Stormwind
Chapter Twenty-seven: Tanaris
Chapter Twenty-eight: Arathi Highlands, Stromgarde Keep
Chapter Twenty-nine: Arathi Highlands, Thoradin’s Wall
Chapter Thirty: Arathi Highlands
Chapter Thirty-one: Arathi Highlands, Stromgarde Keep
Chapter Thirty-two: Arathi Highlands, Thoradin’s Wall
Chapter Thirty-three: Arathi Highlands, Stromgarde Keep
Chapter Thirty-four: Arathi Highlands Field
Chapter Thirty-five: Arathi Highlands, Stromgarde Keep
Epilogue: The Arathi Highlands
Dedication
Acknowledgments
By Christie Golden
About the Author
Kezzig Klackwhistle straightened from where he’d been kneeling for what felt like at least a decade, placing his big green hands on the small of his back and grimacing at the ensuing cascade of pops. He licked his dry lips and looked around, squinting against the blinding sunlight and mopping his bald head with a sweat-stiff kerchief. Here and there were tightly clustered swirling swarms of insects. And of course the sand, everywhere, and most of it probably going to end up inside his underclothes. Just as it had yesterday. And the day before.
Man, Silithus was an ugly place.
Its appearance had not been improved in the slightest by the gargantuan sword an angry titan had shoved into it.
The thing was massive. Ginormous. Colossal. All the grand and fancy and multisyllabic words goblins smarter than he could possibly throw at it. It had been plunged deep into the heart of the world, right here in scenic Silithus. The bright side, of course, was that the enormous artifact provided a great deal of what he and the other hundred or so goblins were searching for right this very moment.
“Jixil?” he said to his companion, who was analyzing a hovering rock with the Spect-o-Matic 4000.
“Yeah?” The other goblin peered at the reading, shook his head, and tried again.
“I hate this place.”
“Ya do? Huh. It speaks well of you.” Glaring at the piece of equipment, the smaller, squatter goblin smacked it soundly.
“Ha ha, very funny,” Kezzig grumbled. “No, I mean it.”
Jixil sighed, trudged to another rock, and began to scan it. “We all hate this place, Kezzig.”
“No, I really mean it. I’m not cut out for this environment. I used to work in Winterspring. I’m a snow-loving, snuggle-by-the-fire, holly-jolly kinda goblin.”
Jixil threw him a withering glance. “So what happened to bring you here instead of staying there, where you weren’t annoying me?”
Kezzig grimaced, rubbing the back of his neck. “Little Miss Lunnix Sprocketslip happened. See, I was working in her mining supply shop. I’d go out as a guide for the occasional visitor to our cozy little hamlet of Everlook. Lunny and I kinda…yeah.” He smiled nostalgically for a moment, then scowled. “Then she goes and gets her nose out of joint when she caught me hanging around Gogo.”
“Gogo,” Jixil repeated in a flat voice. “Gee. I wonder why Lunnix would get upset with you hanging around a girl named Gogo.”
“I know! Gimme a break. It gets cold up there. A guy has to snuggle by the fire now and then or he’ll freeze, am I right? Anyway, that place suddenly got hotter than here at midday.”
“We got nothing here,” Jixil said. He’d obviously stopped paying attention to Kezzig’s description of his Winterspring plight. Sighing, Kezzig picked up the huge pack of equipment, slung it easily over his shoulders, and lugged it over to where Jixil still was hoping for positive results. Kezzig let the bundle drop to the earth, and there came the sound of delicate pieces of equipment clanking perilously against one another.
“I hate sand,” he continued. “I hate the sun. And oh boy, do I really, really hate bugs. I hate the little bugs, because they like to crawl into your ears and up your nose. I hate the big bugs because, well, they’re big bugs. I mean, who doesn’t hate that? It’s kind of a universal hate. But my particular hate burns with the light of a thousand suns.”
“I thought you hated suns.”
“I do, but I—”
Jixil suddenly stiffened. His magenta eyes widened as he stared at his Spect-o-Matic.
“What I meant was—”
“Shut up, you idiot!” Jixil snapped. Now Kezzig was staring at the instrument, too.
It was going insane.
Its little needle flipped back and forth. The small light at the top flashed an urgent, excited red.
The two goblins looked at each other. “Do you know what this means?” Jixil said in a voice that trembled.
Kezzig’s lips curved in a grin that revealed almost all of his jagged yellow teeth. He curled one hand into a fist and smacked it firmly into the palm of the other.
“It means,” he said, “we get to eliminate the competition.”
Rain fell on the sombe
r throngs making their way to Lion’s Rest as if even the sky wept for those who had sacrificed their lives to defeat the Burning Legion. Anduin Wrynn, king of Stormwind, stood a few steps back from the podium where he soon would be addressing mourners of all the Alliance races. He watched them silently as they arrived, moved to see them, loath to speak to them. He suspected that this service honoring the fallen would be the most difficult he had endured in his relatively short life not just for the other mourners but for himself; it would be held in the shadow of his father’s empty tomb.
Anduin had attended far, far too many ceremonies honoring the casualties of war. As he did each time—as, he believed, every good leader did—he hoped and prayed that this one would be the last.
But it never was.
Somehow there was always another enemy. Sometimes the enemy was new, a group springing up seemingly out of nowhere. Or something ancient and long-chained or buried, supposedly neutralized, rising after eons of silence to terrorize and destroy innocents. Other times the enemy was bleakly familiar but no less a threat for the intimacy of the knowledge.
How had his father met those challenges time after time? Anduin wondered. How had his grandfather? Now was a time of relative quiet, but the next enemy, the next challenge, doubtless would arrive all too soon.
It had not been all that long since Varian Wrynn’s death, but for the great man’s son it felt like a lifetime. Varian had fallen in the first real push of this latest war against the Legion, apparently slain as much by betrayal from a supposed ally, Sylvanas Windrunner, as by the monstrous, fel-fueled creatures vomited forth from the Twisting Nether. Another account, from someone Anduin trusted, contested that version, suggesting that Sylvanas had had no other choice. Anduin was not sure what to believe. Thoughts of the cunning and treacherous leader of the Horde made Anduin angry, as they always did. And, as always, he called on the Holy Light for calmness. It did not serve to harbor hatred in his heart even for such a deserving enemy. And it would not bring back his father. Anduin took comfort in knowing that the legendary warrior had died fighting and that his sacrifice had saved many lives.
And in that fraction of a second, Prince Anduin Wrynn had become king.
In many ways, Anduin had been preparing for this position all his life. Even so, he was keenly aware that in other, very important, ways, he hadn’t truly been ready. Maybe still wasn’t. His father had loomed so large not just in the eyes of his youthful son but in the eyes of Varian’s people—even in the eyes of his enemies.
Dubbed Lo’Gosh, or “ghost wolf,” for his ferocity in battle, Varian had been more than a powerful warrior superbly skilled at combat. He had been an extraordinary leader. In the first few weeks after his father’s shocking death, Anduin had done his best to comfort a grieving, stunned populace reeling from the loss, while denying himself a proper chance to mourn.
They grieved for the Wolf. Anduin grieved for the man.
And when he lay awake at night, unable to sleep, he would wonder just how many demons in the end it had taken to murder King Varian Wrynn.
Once he had voiced this thought to Genn Greymane, king of the fallen realm of Gilneas, who had stepped in to counsel the fledgling monarch. The old man had smiled even though sorrow haunted his eyes.
“All I can tell you, my boy, is that before they got to your father, he had single-handedly killed the largest fel reaver I ever saw, in order to save an airship full of retreating soldiers. I know for certain that Varian Wrynn made the Legion pay dearly for taking him.”
Anduin did not doubt that. It wasn’t enough, but it had to be.
Although there were plenty of armed guards in attendance, Anduin had put on no armor on this day when the dead were remembered. He was dressed in a white silk shirt, lambskin gloves, dark blue breeches, and a heavy formal coat trimmed in gold. His only weapon was an instrument of peace as much as war: the mace Fearbreaker, which he wore at his side. When he had gifted the young prince with it, the former dwarf king Magni Bronzebeard had said that Fearbreaker was a weapon that had known the taste of blood in some hands and had stanched blood in others.
Anduin wanted to meet and thank as many as he could among the bereaved today. He wished he could console everyone, but the cold truth was that such a thing was impossible. He took comfort in the certainty that the Light shone upon them all…even a tired young king.
He lifted his face, knowing the sun was behind the clouds and letting the gentle drops fall like a benediction. He recalled that it also had rained a few years ago during a similar ceremony honoring those who had made the final, greatest sacrifice in the campaign to halt the mighty Lich King.
Two whom Anduin loved had been in attendance then who were not here today. One, of course, was his father. The second was the woman he had fondly called Aunt Jaina: Lady Jaina Proudmoore. Once, the lady of Theramore and the prince of Stormwind had been in agreement regarding the desire for peace between the Alliance and the Horde.
And once there had been a Theramore.
But Jaina’s city had been destroyed by the Horde in the most horrific manner possible, and its bereft lady had never been able to ease the pain of that terrible moment fully. Anduin had watched her try repeatedly, only to have some fresh torment reinjure her wounded heart. Finally, unable to bear the thought of working alongside the Horde even against so dread a foe as the demonic Legion, Jaina had walked out on the Kirin Tor, which she led, on the blue dragon Kalecgos, whom she loved, and on Anduin, whom she had inspired his whole life.
“May I?” The voice was warm and kind, as was the woman who asked the question.
Anduin smiled down at High Priestess Laurena. She was asking if he wished her blessing. He nodded and inclined his head and felt the tightness in his chest ease and his soul settle. He then stood respectfully to the side while she spoke to the crowd, awaiting his own turn.
He had not been able to speak formally at his father’s memorial service. The grief had been too raw, too overwhelming. It had shifted shape in his heart over time, becoming less immediate but no less great, and so he had agreed to say a few words today.
Anduin stepped beside his father’s tomb. It was empty; what the Legion had done to Varian had ensured that his body could not be recovered. Anduin regarded the stone face on the tomb. It was a good likeness and a comfort to look upon. But even the skilled stonecrafters could not capture Varian’s fire, his quick temper, his easy laugh, his motion. In a way, Anduin was glad the tomb was empty; he would always, in his heart, see his father as alive and vibrant.
His mind went back to when he first had ventured to the place where his father had fallen. Where Shalamayne, gifted to Varian by the lady Jaina, had lain, dormant without Varian’s touch. Awaiting the touch of another to which it would respond.
The touch of the great warrior’s son.
As he held it, he had almost felt Varian’s presence. It was then, when Anduin truly accepted the duties of a king, that light had again begun to swirl in the sword—not the orange-red hue of the warrior but the warm, golden glow of the priest. At that moment, Anduin had begun to heal.
Genn Greymane would be the last person to call himself eloquent, but Anduin would never forget the words the older man had said: Your father’s actions were indeed heroic. They were his challenge to us, his people, to never let fear prevail…even at the very gates of hell.
Genn wisely had not said they were never to fear. They were only not to let it win.
I will not, Father. And Shalamayne knows that.
Anduin forced himself to return to the present. He nodded to Laurena, then turned to look at the crowd. The rain was slowing but hadn’t stopped, yet no one seemed inclined to leave. Anduin’s gaze swept over the widows and widowers, the childless parents, the orphans, and the veterans. He was proud of the soldiers who had died on the battlefield. He hoped their spirits would rest easily, knowing their loved ones were h
eroes, too.
Because there was no one assembled at Lion’s Rest today who had let fear prevail.
He spotted Greymane, hanging back beside a lamppost. Their eyes met, and the older man nodded a brief acknowledgment. Anduin allowed his gaze to roam over the faces, those he knew and those he did not. A little pandaren girl was struggling not to cry; he gave her a reassuring smile. She gulped and smiled back shakily.
“Like many of you, I know firsthand the pain of loss,” he said. His voice rang clear and strong, carrying to those who stood in the farthest rows. “You all know that my fath—”
He paused, clearing his throat, and continued. “King Varian Wrynn…fell during the first major battle at the Broken Isles, when the Legion invaded Azeroth yet again. He died to save his soldiers—the brave men and women who faced unspeakable horrors to protect us, our lands, our world. He knew that no one—not even a king—is more important than the Alliance. Each of you has lost your own king or queen. Your father or mother, brother or sister, son or daughter.
“And because he and so many others had the courage to make that sacrifice, we did the impossible.” Anduin looked from face to face, saw how hungry they were for comfort. “We defeated the Burning Legion. And now we honor those who sacrificed all. We honor them not by dying…but by living. By healing our wounds and helping others heal. By laughing and feeling the sun on our faces. By holding our loved ones close and letting them know every hour, every minute of every day, that they matter.”
The rain had stopped. The clouds began to clear, and bits of bright blue peeked through.
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