The Shattering

by Christie Golden

  His mind was already awhirl with ways to bypass the pacifistic Thrall and the crotchety old Cairne and get the Horde what it needed. The trick was to do so without overstepping his bounds.

  It was not a time to be cautious. It was a time to be bold. They would understand once he gave them results.

  * * *

  Cairne and his entourage were up and packed before dawn, despite the fact that the celebration had run well into the early hours and he, as a guest of honor, had been required to stay the entire time. He was anxious to return home. The troops he had sent to Northrend when Thrall had issued the call to arms were fierce fighters indeed, and had conducted themselves well. But they, too, were weary of bloodshed and endless nights and days of endurance. Once a nomadic people, the tauren now had a home, Mulgore, and it was dear to them. Today, finally, they began the last leg of the journey to its gentle, rolling hills, proud buttes, and the loved ones there they had left behind.

  They had chosen to walk so they could keep the fellowship together for a little longer, but that was no hardship. As dawn was just breaking and other Horde fighters were either sleeping off the revelry or perhaps clutching their heads in payment for said revelry, the tauren were already out of Durotar and heading into the Barrens. Cairne sent ahead Perith Stormhoof to notify Baine that they would be arriving. Perith was one of a select few scouts and messengers called the Longwalkers. They were Cairne’s only to command, and were trusted with the most important of messages and information. Not even Thrall knew everything Cairne shared with the Longwalkers. This was hardly a mission of great import. Lives did not depend on it. But Perith’s eyes gleamed happily at this particular task, and he departed with his usual steady swiftness.

  Late afternoon stretched its thick, golden light on the plains of Mulgore. Perith met them as they neared the turnoff for Camp Narache and Bloodhoof Village, falling into step beside Cairne as they moved slowly toward home.

  “I have informed Baine, as you requested,” Perith said. “He assures you that all will be ready.”

  “Good,” approved Cairne. “The shops in all the villages should be aware that several travelers will be descending upon them. I would see none of my people go hungry tonight.”

  “I think you will find what Baine has in mind … acceptable.”

  Curious, Cairne turned to regard Perith. At that moment there was a blast of horns. Several kodos were lumbering toward them. Cairne’s aging eyes could not discern who was atop the great beasts, but even his ears could hear the cheering of the little ones. They tumbled pell-mell off the kodos, shouting and laughing, throwing flowers and bundles of herbs at the approaching heroes.

  “Welcome home, Father,” said Baine Bloodhoof. Cairne turned at the sound of the familiar voice, squinted, and smiled as he made out the shape of his son, riding easily atop one of the great kodos.

  Tears stung the old bull’s eyes for a moment. This was how one should be welcomed home. With the happy cries of children and family, with the blessings of the natural world. Simpler, better … more tauren.

  “Well done, my son,” Cairne said, keeping the emotion out of his voice with an effort. “Well done.”

  Baine, calm and steady as his father, nonetheless radiated joy at Cairne’s arrival. He dropped easily to the ground and approached his father. They clasped arms warmly, then fell into step, separating out a bit from the cluster of others joyfully welcoming family.

  “There are more,” Baine said, watching with a smile as several of the warriors took the road to the southwest. These lucky few had already reached their home. “The road home will be lined with those ready to welcome you.”

  “A sight for sore eyes,” Cairne said. “Is all well with them?”

  “It will be better once the veterans of the war are home,” Baine said. “How was the celebration in Orgrimmar?”

  “It did what it was supposed to,” Cairne said. “It was very orcish. Much weaponry and feasting and shouting. Our people were not overlooked, though.”

  Baine nodded. “Thrall would never do so.”

  Cairne craned his neck over his shoulder, looking about for a moment, then continued in a lower voice. “He would not. He is too wise and too greathearted. I return home with a task that only we can perform to aid the Horde.”

  He spoke quietly to Baine of Hamuul’s suggestion. Baine listened attentively, nodding at times, his ears twitching as he listened. “This is well,” he said. “I am a warrior myself, but I tell you, our people have had enough of it. If Hamuul thinks these talks can help, then I am with you, Father. I fully support it.”

  Not for the first time, Cairne counted his blessings that the Earth Mother and his lifemate, Tamaala, had given him such a gift in his son. Although Tamaala had left to walk with the spirits many years ago, she lived on in their son. Baine was such a comfort to his father. He had his mother’s spirituality, perception, and great heart, and his father’s calmness and—Cairne was forced to admit—stubbornness. Cairne had not had to think twice about leaving Mulgore in his son’s capable hands. He wondered how Thrall bore it, with no mate and no progeny. Even Grom had had a son, for the Earth Mother’s sake. Perhaps now that the war had ended, Thrall might turn his thoughts to such things as a mate and an heir.

  “How did our favorite shaman conduct herself in my absence?”

  “Well enough,” Baine replied. They were speaking of Magatha. “I watched her closely. It would have been an opportune time to stir up trouble, but there was none.”

  Cairne grunted. “There may be. Young Garrosh Hellscream is a hothead, and I saw her slip out to speak with him.”

  “I have heard he is a magnificent warrior,” Baine said slowly, “but …” and here he grinned, “also a hothead.”

  The two Bloodhoof grinned at each other. Cairne clapped his hand on Baine’s shoulder and squeezed hard. Baine swiftly covered his father’s hand with his own.

  Just ahead, Thunder Bluff rose majestically into the late afternoon sky.

  “Welcome home, Father. Welcome home.”

  SIX

  The day was cool and slightly overcast, and as Jaina Proudmoore walked up the blue and gold carpeted steps of Stormwind’s magnificent cathedral, it began to rain. Part of the steps was blocked off, in need of repair after the War Against the Nightmare, and the rain made them slick. She did not bother to put up her hood to cover her bright golden hair, letting the droplets fall gently on her head and face. It was as if the sky itself was weeping at the thought of the ceremony about to be enacted within.

  Two young priestesses flanking the door smiled and dropped curtseys. “Lady Jaina,” the human girl on the right said, stammering a little, a blush visible even on her dark skin. “We were not told to expect you—do you wish to sit with His Majesty? I am sure that he will be pleased to have your company.”

  Jaina gave the girl her most disarming smile. “Thank you, no. I’m happy to sit with everyone else.”

  “Then here,” said the dwarf priestess, extending an unlit candle. “Please take this, me lady, and sit wherever ye’d like. We’re right glad tae have ye.”

  Her smile was genuine, if restrained, due to the solemnity of the moment. Jaina took the candle, stepped inside, and dropped a handful of gold coins into the offering plate next to the priestesses.

  She breathed deeply; thanks to the dampness in the air, the smell of incense was even stronger here than usual, and it was darker inside than she remembered it being in the Cathedral of Light. The candles smoked as they burned, and Jaina glanced down the rows of pews searching for a space to sit, wondering if she should have rejected the young priestess’s offer so quickly. Ah, there was a spot. She moved down the aisle and nodded at the elderly gnome couple who scooted aside to make room for her. From here she had an excellent view, and smiled as she watched the familiar figures of King Varian Wrynn and his son, Anduin, file in as unobtrusively as possible from a separate room.

  Although Varian could never be considered “unobtrusive.” It was n
ot for nothing that, upon spotting him half-drowned and unconscious over a year ago, the orc Rehgar Earthfury had decided he would make a fine gladiator. With no memory of his past, Varian had adapted well to the brutal lifestyle. Unbeknownst to him at that time, he had actually been split into two separate entities—Varian, under the thumb of the dragon Onyxia, and Lo’Gosh, a fearsome and powerful gladiator. Varian held all of the original man’s manners, knowledge, and etiquette; Lo’Gosh, a Taur-ahe word that meant “ghost wolf” and honored a ferocious creature of legend, all of the original Varian’s battle skill. Varian was elegant; Lo’Gosh was violent. Varian was sophisticated; Lo’Gosh was brutal.

  The two halves were eventually reunited, but imperfectly. Sometimes it seemed that Lo’Gosh had the upper hand in the tall, powerfully built body. More than ever, King Varian Wrynn, dark brown hair pulled back in a topknot and a wicked scar slicing across his once-handsome face, dominated a room.

  Anduin was a sharp contrast to his father. He was pale, fair-haired, and slender, and slightly taller than the last time Jaina had seen him. While nowhere near his father’s imposing size—and Jaina guessed he would take after his willowy mother and never be quite the large man that Varian was—he was a youth now and not a child. He exchanged smiles and nods with Brother Sarno and young Thomas as he and his father moved to take their seats. Perhaps feeling her gaze, he frowned slightly, looked around—and met her eyes. He was schooled enough in the formalities that princes should abide by that he didn’t crack a grin, but his eyes brightened and he gave her a slight nod.

  All eyes turned from the king and his son to Archbishop Benedictus, who had entered and was moving slowly to the altar. Of average height and solid, stocky build, the man looked more like a farmer than a holy man. He never seemed to quite fit his splendid robes of gold and white, looking slightly ill at ease. But once he began to speak, his voice, calm and clear, carrying throughout the cathedral, it was obvious that the Light had chosen him.

  “Dear friends of the Light, you are all welcome here, in this beautiful cathedral that turns none away who come with open hearts and humble spirits. This place has seen many occasions of joy, and many of sorrow. Today we assemble to honor the fallen, to remember them, and mourn them, and respect their sacrifices for our Alliance and for Azeroth.”

  Jaina looked down at her hands clasped in her lap. This was one reason she had not wanted to be in a highly visible part of the cathedral. Her romance with Arthas Menethil had not been forgotten—not when he was prince, certainly not when he was the Lich King, and not now that he had been defeated. It was because of him that this sad ceremony was even necessary. A few heads turned her way, recognizing her, and giving her sympathetic glances.

  Not a day went by that Jaina did not think of him, wondering if there was anything she could have done, anything she could have said, to have turned the once-bright paladin from his dark path. Her feelings had been turned against her during the War Against the Nightmare, trapping her in a dream in which she had indeed prevented him from becoming the Lich King … by becoming the Lich Queen herself in his stead. …

  She shivered, forcing thoughts of that horrible dream away, and turned her attention back to the archbishop. “… the frozen lands far to the north,” Benedictus was saying. “They faced a terrible foe with an army that no one ever truly thought we would be able to defeat. And yet, thanks to the blessing of the Light and the simple courage of these men and women—humans, dwarves, night elves, gnomes, draenei; yes, and even the members of the Horde as well—we are safe in our homeland again. The numbers are staggering, and more reports come in every day. To give you an idea of the estimated losses, each worshipper here today has been given a candle. Each candle represents not one, not ten … but one hundred Alliance lives lost in the Northrend campaign.”

  Jaina felt the breath go out of her and she stared at the unlit candle, clasped in a hand that suddenly started shaking. She looked around … there had to be at least two hundred people in the cathedral, and she knew that others were gathering outside, wanting to participate in the remembrance ceremony even though the cathedral was filled to capacity. Twenty, thirty—perhaps forty or fifty thousand people … dead. She closed her eyes for a moment and turned back to the archbishop, painfully aware that the gnome couple next to her was staring at her and whispering something.

  When she heard raised voices and startled gasps from the back of the cathedral, it was almost a relief. She turned and saw two weather-beaten Sentinels talking animatedly with the two priestesses. Even as she rose and tried to exit quietly, she saw Varian already on the move.

  The human priestess, apparently against the wishes of the dwarf, who looked put out, was steering the two Sentinels into a room on the left-hand side. Jaina hastened to join them. Even as she walked through the entrance to the room, Varian joined her. There was no time for greetings, but the two exchanged acknowledging glances.

  Varian turned to the paladins who had also moved to join them. “Lord Grayson,” he said to the tall man with black hair and an eye patch, “get these soldiers some food and drink.”

  “Aye, sir,” the paladin said, hastening off to do so himself. Such was the attitude of paladins; any service, however humble, that helped another was of the Light.

  “Please, sit,” Varian said.

  The taller of the two night elves, a purple-skinned woman with white hair, shook her head. “Thank you, Your Majesty, but this is no pleasure errand. We come with dire news and stand ready to report back as soon as possible.”

  Varian nodded, tensing slightly. “Then deliver your news.”

  She nodded. “I am Sentinel Valarya Riverrun. This is Sentinel Ayli Leafwhisper. We come with reports of attacks by the Horde in Ashenvale. The treaty has been violated.”

  Jaina and Varian exchanged glances. “We knew when we signed the agreement that there would be a few holdouts, on both sides,” Jaina said hesitantly. “The borders have long been a source of—”

  “I would not be here if this were a skirmish, Lady Jaina Proudmoore,” Valarya said icily. “We were not born yesterday. We know to expect the occasional row. This was not such a thing. This was a slaughter. A slaughter, when the Horde claims to be peaceable!”

  Jaina and Varian listened, Jaina with ever-widening eyes and Varian slowly clenching his fists, as the gory tale unfolded. A dozen Sentinels had been ambushed as they guarded a convoy of harvested herbs and mineral carts making their way through the green forests of Ashenvale. None had survived. Their deaths were only discovered when the convoy was two days late in arriving at its destination. The carts and all they had contained were gone.

  Valarya paused and took a deep breath, as if calming herself. Her sister Sentinel stepped beside her and squeezed her shoulder. Varian was frowning, but Jaina pressed on.

  “It is indeed a violation of the agreement,” Jaina said, “and as such needs to be brought to Thrall’s attention. But even so—I’m afraid I still don’t see what makes you call this a slaughter rather than an unfortunately not uncommon incident.”

  Ayli winced and turned away. Jaina looked from one to the other. These were warriors, who had likely been fighting for longer than Jaina had been alive. What had rattled them so?

  “Let me put it this way, Lady Proudmoore,” Valarya said through clenched teeth. “We weren’t able to recover the bodies.”

  Jaina swallowed. “Why not?”

  “Because they had been methodically chopped into several pieces,” Valarya said, “and those pieces were taken away by carrion eaters. This was, of course, after they had been skinned. We’re not sure if they were alive for that or not.”

  Jaina’s hand flew to her mouth. Bile rose in her throat. This was beyond obscene, beyond an atrocity. …

  “The skins were hung like linens from a nearby tree. And on that tree, written in elven blood, were Horde symbols.”

  “Thrall!” bellowed Varian. He whirled on Jaina, glaring at her. “He authorized this! And you prevented me from
killing him when I had the chance!”

  “Varian,” Jaina said, fighting not to be sick, “I’ve fought beside him. I’ve helped negotiate treaties with him—treaties he has always honored. There is nothing about this that sounds like anything he would do. We have no proof whatsoever that he authorized this incursion, and—”

  “No proof? Jaina, they were orcs! He’s an orc, and he’s supposed to lead the damned Horde!”

  Her stomach was calm now, and she knew that she was in the right. “The Defias are humans,” Jaina said, very quietly. “Should you be held responsible for their actions?”

  Varian jerked as if she had struck him. For a moment she thought she had reached him. The Defias were a deeply personal enemy and had taken a great deal from Varian. Then his brows drew together in a scowl that was made terrifying by the brutal scar across his face. He did not look like himself now.

  He looked like Lo’Gosh.

  “You dare recall that to me,” he growled softly.

  “I do. Someone has to recall you to yourself.” She did not meet the anger of Lo’Gosh, the part of Varian that was cold and swift and violent, with anger of her own. She met it with the practicality that had saved her—and others—time and time again.

  “You lead the kingdom of Stormwind—the most powerful in the Alliance. Thrall leads the Horde. You can make laws, and rules, and treaties, and so can he. And he is no more capable of controlling the actions of every single one of his citizens than you are. No one is.”

  Lo’Gosh scowled. “What if you are wrong, Jaina? And what if I’m right? You’ve been known to be a poor judge of character in the past.”

  Now it was Jaina’s turn to freeze, stunned, at the words. He was hurling Arthas back at her. That was how Lo’Gosh played, how he had won in gladiatorial combat—dirty, using every tool at his disposal in order to win at all costs. Her nightmare rushed back at her, and she pushed it away. She took a deep breath and composed herself.

  “Many of us knew Arthas well, Varian. Including you. You lived with him for years. You didn’t see the monster he would become. Neither did his father, nor Uther.”