The Shattering

by Christie Golden

  —or crystal … or diamond …

  One with the mountain …

  No, oh, no, it couldn’t be—

  Suddenly Magni’s foot quivered and a bulge of clear stone formed atop it. Like a living ooze of rock, it began moving upward, along his legs, his torso. It spiked here and there with a sudden groaning sound, forming long crystal spears, as if Magni Bronzebeard was a crystal forming crystals of his own. Magni opened his mouth in a long, wordless cry and lifted his arms high over his head. Diamond ooze scurried to wrap around his hands, shooting out to encircle his body. Magni screamed, a gut-wrenching cry of pure horror. But the merciless clear liquid stone poured into his mouth, silencing him in midscream, hardening so quickly he didn’t even have time to close his eyes.

  Everyone had been staring, open-mouthed, but now was galvanized into action by the sound, echoing in the diamond cavern, bone-chilling, like no cry of pain or horror they had ever heard.

  Rohan began to cast healing spells. Magellas and Belgrum moved forward, seizing Magni’s arms, trying foolishly to somehow pull him away from where he stood. But it had all happened too fast, and now it was too late. The echoes of his single shout died away. Magni looked like he had been both turned to stone and encased in it, his head thrown back, his arms spread, the tendons in his neck standing out in pain. And over him, like some bizarre costume, were ragged, gleaming chunks of jagged crystal.

  Anduin broke the shocked silence. “Is he … can you …”

  Rohan stepped close to Magni, placing a hand on his king’s arm and closing his eyes. A single tear leaked beneath the closed lids as he stepped away, shaking his head.

  Anduin stared. Disbelief rushed through him, the same disbelief he had experienced after the land trembled and buried Aerin beneath the crushing weight of tons of rock. But … this wasn’t possible!

  He dragged his gaze to Magellas, who stared as aghast as he.

  “I was certain,” he murmured, “that it was not literal … we checked every source. …”

  “You mean—it worked? This is what the ritual was supposed to do?” Anduin cried, his voice treble with his shock and horror.

  “Not literally,” Magellas said, looking like a panicked hare. “But we—we d-did perform it precisely correctly. …”

  Unable to help himself, Anduin sprang forward. With a cry, he took the hilt of his ceremonial dagger, and before anyone could stop him, had struck the figure on the shoulder. The hilt shattered beneath the impact, part of it whirling erratically away. The impact jarred his hand, and he dropped the part of the hilt he still held. Clutching his stinging hand, he stared.

  There was not a single mark on the image. Magni had been turned into one of the hardest known materials in the world.

  As Anduin stared at the diamond lump that had once been a vibrant, hale dwarf, some of the words of the ritual floated back to him. For behold, we are earthen, of the land … For who would not wish to return home? … And so it shall be that you shall become as you once were. You shall return home, and you shall become one with the mountain.

  The dwarves were descendents of the titans. Magni had become what he had once been—and paid for it with his life. “He’s gone home,” Anduin whispered past a throat tight with grief. Tears welled in his eyes and blurred the image of Magni Bronzebeard. As the torchlight glinted off the statue, Anduin saw only beautiful, fractured lights dancing before his gaze.

  He blinked hard, gulping, tears trickling down his face for the kindly dwarf who had only wanted to do what was best for his people, who had wanted to talk to a wounded world in order to help it heal. And for that goal, he had been lost to them.

  What were the dwarves going to do now?

  SIXTEEN

  Anduin didn’t realize how much comfort the constant ringing of the forge had provided until it was silenced.

  He hadn’t thought of Ironforge as a lively, bustling city, not the way Stormwind was. And yet when the sound of the forge ceased, and the halls no longer echoed with the distinctive sound of dwarven laughter, he realized that the city once did have a cheerfulness to it. Now, even though more people than ever were in Ironforge coming to pay their respects to Magni Bronzebeard, it was somber and bleak.

  Within the hour of the disaster, the question of succession had become pressing. Gryphons were sent out immediately in search of Brann and Muradin, Magni’s brothers. Thus far, they had met with no success.

  Anduin had wanted to go home, but instead his father had come to him. All the leaders of the Alliance had either come in person to honor Magni’s memory or else had sent representatives. The young prince had always wanted to meet High Priestess Tyrande Whisperwind, who for so long had led the night elves and been forced to be apart from her great love, Archdruid Malfurion Stormrage. And Anduin had been curious about Far Seer Nobundo, the Broken who had been touched by the elements and brought shamanism to his people. Velen, leader of the draenei, had sent Nobundo to honor the reason Magni had fallen—trying to heal the earth, to understand the elements.

  So it was that Anduin stood beside Jaina and his father, a few paces away from the night elf high priestess and Malfurion, the archdruid of legend, and the first shaman the Alliance had known. Under any other circumstances he would have been delighted. Now, though, as they stood solemnly gazing at the diamond figure that had once been Magni Bronzebeard, he bitterly wished that he had never met the distinguished personages, if the privilege had been bought at so high a cost.

  Even the goblins, too, had sent representatives, and so had the Horde. It was a deep show of respect from Thrall and the Horde in general, and although many eyes looked upon the blood elf and the tauren unfavorably, Anduin found nothing in their behavior to warrant hostility.

  Advisor Belgrum had stepped up to fill the void until such time as Muradin or Brann could be found and brought to Ironforge. He was selected for the duty because he had no political agenda other than finding—and serving—a new king, knew Ironforge and its people inside and out, and because his loyalty to the dwarven people themselves was beyond question. He was clearly deeply uncomfortable with the honor, but also knew that someone had to take the reins of power until the rightful leader could be contacted.

  Now he stepped forward and looked at the representatives in turn. “Yer presence here is a great honor,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “Would that we were celebrating a happy occasion. Magni was no’ just a great dwarf—plenty o’ leaders have been great. Magni … was good. And that’s much harder tae find. He would have been so pleased tae see all o’ ye … aye, even ye, too,” he said to the Horde emissaries, “for ye’ve come wi’ good hearts an’ plenty o’ respect.” The blood elf seemed to be debating whether or not to be offended, but the tauren nodded solemnly.

  “High Priestess Tyrande … yer faith and patience were well known tae Magni, and he spoke with great respect o’ yer people. Archdruid Malfurion—ye’ve done so much tae help our world. Magni would have been right pleased to ken ye had come.”

  His eyes fell on the humans. “Lady Jaina … sometimes he dinna ken what tae make o’ ye, but he was always fond o’ ye. King Varian, ye were as a brother tae him. And Anduin … ah, lad, ye’ve no idea how dear ye were tae Magni.”

  Anduin bit his lip hard and thought of the exquisite mace, likely invaluable, that Magni had so readily gifted him with, and thought he maybe had at least an inkling of how the late king regarded him.

  The elderly dwarf cleared his throat. “Well, er … thank ye fer coming.” When those assembled blinked askance at him, Rohan stepped up smoothly.

  “Please … all are welcome tae come t’ the High Seat and share yer stories about Magni. We’ll have some refreshments fer ye.”

  Gentle murmurings could be heard as the honored guests moved down the stairs, away from the contorted, gem-encrusted figure that was so much more than diamond, and yet nothing more than diamond.

  He didn’t realize he was staring until a gentle hand closed on his shoulder. “Prince A
nduin, come along,” Jaina said kindly.

  “Yes, come, Son,” said Varian. “Our presence is required for some time yet.”

  Mutely, Anduin nodded, dragging his gaze away and praying quietly to the Light that Muradin or Brann would be found soon, and come to Ironforge, and chase away at least some of this awful solemnity that lay like a shroud upon the city. Although he suspected that the dwarves would never quite get over the shockingly strange, unforeseen, and violent end their beloved leader had met.

  * * *

  “Well, that is the last of it,” Thrall said. He set down the quill and regarded the parchment solemnly. This was the last official business he would conduct for some time—signing the approval to begin work on repairing Orgrimmar. Again. It seemed to Thrall that the city had only just begun to recover from the War Against the Nightmare when another blow had been dealt it. Gazlowe had dropped his price a second time, and Thrall was quite moved by the gesture, even though it was still almost ludicrously high. Too, the goblin had agreed to be paid in increments instead of in advance, and had indicated he’d be willing to adjust the fee if he didn’t need to also provide certain supplies. Thrall felt a small, somewhat petty twinge of satisfaction leaving such annoying details as budgets, construction, and supplies to Garrosh. Such “boring” things were of necessity part of being a good leader, and Garrosh needed to learn that.

  Nodding, he left the scrolls for Garrosh and rose. He would be making this journey alone. By his orders, no Kor’kron would accompany him. Their duty was now to defend Garrosh Hellscream, the acting warchief of the Horde. They would not be needed to guard a lone shaman journeying to another world to seek knowledge. His leave-taking was not being announced with fanfare or spectacle. For one thing, such frivolities were too expensive. For another, he did not wish to make this any kind of an “event.” He was simply going away for a time, and he had no desire to make his departure anything of consequence for the average Horde citizen. While he made no secret of it—that would be as counterproductive in his mind as trumpeting it—he wished it to be perceived as a minor event.

  He had sent word ahead to Cairne, of course, informing his old friend of his decision and reasoning behind it, and requesting that Cairne advise Garrosh when needed. He had as of yet received no response, which surprised him. Cairne usually was quite prompt in such matters. He supposed that the tauren leader, too, had his hands full with the aftermath of Northrend.

  “Farewell for now, my old friend,” Thrall said to Eitrigg. “See that the boy does the little things as well as the large.”

  “I shall, Warchief,” Eitrigg said. “Do not tarry in our homeland overlong. Garrosh will do his best, but he is not you.”

  Thrall embraced his friend, clapping him on the back, then picked up the small sack that was all he planned to carry with him on the journey. With little notice even being taken of him, the warchief of the Horde walked out of Grommash Hold into the still-hot night air, heading for the flight tower.

  “You are making a grave mistake,” came a deep, rumbling voice in the darkness.

  Surprised at the words, though recognizing their speaker, Thrall checked his brisk stride and turned to Cairne Bloodhoof. Cairne stood beneath the towering dead tree that bore the skull of a demon and his once-impregnable armor. The tauren high chieftain was straight and tall, his arms folded across his broad chest, his tail swishing slightly. His face showed disapproval.

  “Cairne! It is good to see you. I had hoped to hear from you prior to my departure,” Thrall said.

  “I do not think you will be glad, for I do not believe you are going to like what I have to say,” the tauren said.

  “I have ever listened to what you have to say,” Thrall replied, adding, “which is why I requested you advise Garrosh in my absence. Speak.”

  “When the courier arrived with your letter,” Cairne said, “I thought I had indeed, at long last, finally become senile and was dreaming fever dreams as poor Drek’Thar does. To see, in your own writing, that you wished to appoint Garrosh Hellscream as leader of the Horde!”

  The voice had begun quiet, but stern. Cairne was slow to anger, but it was clear he had had some time to think on this matter and it disturbed him greatly. His voice deepened and grew louder as he spoke. Thrall glanced about quietly; so public a place was not where he would have wished to have this particular conversation.

  “Let us discuss this in private,” Thrall began. “My quarters and ears are open to you at all—”

  “No,” replied Cairne, and stamped a powerful hoof for emphasis. Thrall glanced at him, surprised. “I am here, in the shadow of what was once your greatest enemy, for a reason. I remember Grom Hellscream. I remember his passion, and his violence, and his waywardness. I remember the harm he once did. He may have died a hero’s death by slaying Mannoroth; I am the first to acknowledge that. But by all accounts, even your own, he took many lives, and gloried in the doing. He had a thirst for blood, for violence, and he quenched that thirst with the blood of innocents. You were right to tell Garrosh of his father’s heroism. It is true. But also true were the less savory things Grom Hellscream did, and his son needs to know these things as well. I stand here to ask you to remember these things, too, the dark and the bright, and to acknowledge that Garrosh is his father’s son.”

  “Garrosh never had the taint of demonic blood that Grom had,” Thrall said quietly. “He is headstrong, yes, but the people love him. He—”

  “They love him because they only see the glory!” Cairne snapped. “They do not see the foolishness.” He softened somewhat. “I, too, saw the glory. I saw tactics and wisdom, and perhaps with nurturing and guidance those are the seeds that will take root in Garrosh’s soul. But he finds it far too easy to act without thinking, to ignore that inner wisdom. There are things about him I respect and admire, Thrall. Mistake me not. But he is not fit to lead the Horde, any more than Grom was. Not without you to check him when he overreaches, and especially not now, when things are yet so tenuous with the Alliance. Do you know that many secretly whisper that now would be a fine time to strike at Ironforge, with Magni turned to diamond and no leader yet visible?”

  Thrall did know it. He’d known that the whispers would begin the moment he had learned the news. It was why he had moved quickly to send formal representatives to what amounted to a funeral service, and why he had chosen a sin’dorei and a tauren whom he knew to be moderate individuals.

  “Of course I know this,” Thrall sighed. “Cairne—it won’t be for very long.”

  “That does not matter! The child does not have the temperament to be the leader you are. Or should I say, you were? For the Thrall I knew, who befriended the tauren and helped them so greatly, would not have blithely handed over the Horde he restored to a young pup still wet behind the ears!”

  Thrall’s jaw tightened, and he felt anger growing within him. Cairne had set his great hoof squarely on Thrall’s own worries. Worries that he could not shake. Yet he knew there was literally no other choice. No one else could take on the responsibility. It had to be Garrosh.

  “You are one of my oldest friends in this land, Cairne Bloodhoof,” Thrall said, his voice dangerously quiet. “You know I respect you. But the decision is made. If you are concerned about Garrosh’s immaturity, then guide him, as I have asked you. Give him the benefit of your vast wisdom and common sense. I—need you with me on this, Cairne. I need your support, not your disapproval. Your cool head to keep Garrosh calm, not your censure to incite him.”

  “You ask me for wisdom and common sense. I have but one answer for you. Do not give Garrosh this power. Do not turn your back on your people and give them only this arrogant blusterer to guide them. That is my wisdom, Thrall. Wisdom of many years, bought with blood and suffering and battle.”

  Thrall stiffened. This was the absolute last thing he had wanted. But it had happened, and when he spoke, his voice was cold.

  “Then we have nothing more to say to one another. My decision is final. Garrosh w
ill lead the Horde in my absence. But it is up to you as to whether you will advise him in that role, or let the Horde pay the price for your stubbornness.”

  Without another word, Thrall turned and strode off into the darkness of the sultry Orgrimmar night. He half-expected Cairne to come after him, but the old bull did not follow. His heart was heavy as he retrieved a wyvern, slung the sack across his saddle, and mounted. The wyvern leaped skyward, his leathery wings beating quietly and rhythmically and creating a cool breeze that brushed the orc’s face.

  * * *

  Cairne stared after his old friend. Never had he thought it would come to this—an argument over something that was so obviously a mistake. He knew Thrall saw it, too, but for whatever reasons the orc felt it necessary to persist in this course of action.

  The parting words wounded Cairne. He had not expected Thrall to dismiss his concerns so quickly or so thoroughly. There was virtue in the boy. Cairne had seen it. But the recklessness, the deaf ear he turned to sound advice, the burning need for acknowledgment and accolades—Cairne flicked his tail, the thoughts agitating him. These were qualities that needed tempering. And, of course, Cairne would be there. His words would be ignored, doubtless, but he would offer them.

  He looked up again at Mannoroth’s skull, gazing into the shadowed eye sockets.

  “Grom, if your spirit lingers, help us guide your son. You sacrificed yourself for the Horde. I know you would not wish to see your son destroy it.”

  There was no response; if Grom was indeed here, lingering beside the great evil he had destroyed, he was providing no answers. Cairne was on his own.

  PART II

  … AND THE WORLD

  WILL BREAK

  SEVENTEEN

  Aggra ran lightly over the surface of Skysong Lake, her bare, brown feet making only the faintest of splashes. Normally she walked, enjoying the feel of this place of power, but the wind had whispered in her ear a moment ago, with the words of Greatmother Geyah: Come, child, I have news.