The Shattering

by Christie Golden

  He bowed, courteously, and Garrosh bowed lower, and then Cairne returned home to Thunder Bluff.

  The Kor’kron, the elite guards that were always near the warchief though usually unobtrusive, had shown him out. Cairne had always thought them fiercely loyal to Thrall; indeed, Thrall had revived the order. But it would seem that while their loyalty was certainly fierce, that loyalty was not to any one individual, but to whoever led the Horde. Cairne had listened carefully for any quiet protests or grumblings from them about the new direction the Horde was taking, at least in Orgrimmar, and heard nothing. Indeed, if there were any whisperings or mutterings, they would likely echo approval of the “glory days attitude” that Garrosh had brought to his style of leadership.

  “I have not seen Orgrimmar since the rebuilding, nor do I have any desire to,” Hamuul Runetotem rumbled, jolting Cairne back to the present moment. “But, old friend, I do not think you asked me here to comment upon architecture.”

  Cairne chuckled. “Would that were the reason, but you are correct. I wished to inquire as to how the negotiations with your kaldorei contacts in the Cenarion Circle are proceeding.”

  At the feast to honor the returning veterans, Cairne had spoken up with a suggestion to reestablish relations with the night elves through the Circle, an area of mutual connection. Garrosh had exploded, and Thrall had had to try to calm him down. The end result was that, officially, nothing had happened.

  But, unofficially, Thrall had given Hamuul permission to do whatever he thought would benefit the Horde. And Hamuul had spent the last several months clandestinely sending letters, couriers, and even representatives.

  “Surprisingly well, considering everything,” Hamuul replied. “It took a while to even get an initial response from the kaldorei. They were deeply angry.”

  “So were we.”

  “I explained that to them, and fortunately there are those among them who still call me friend and believed my words. It has been slow, Cairne. Slower than I would have liked, slower than I think was necessary, but things ripen in their own time. I did not wish to force a meeting, but it seems that the kaldorei now would be amenable to one such.”

  “This news makes an old bull happy,” Cairne exclaimed, his heart swelling. “I am pleased to hear that there are some who hear the whispers of reason over the shouts of aggression.”

  “It is easier to hear such things in the Moonglade,” Hamuul said, and Cairne nodded.

  “When and where would such a meeting take place?” Cairne inquired.

  “Ashenvale. A few more days of letters, and then I think it will happen.”

  “Ashenvale? Why not the Moonglade itself?”

  “Remulos does not get involved in these sorts of affairs,” Hamuul replied. Remulos was one of the sons of the demigod Cenarius, who had taught druidism to Malfurion Stormrage. A powerful, beautiful being, Remulos’s form was that of a night elf and a stag; his hair and beard made of moss; his hands not flesh, but leafy, wooden talons. In this tranquil place he oversaw, peace reigned.

  “He cannot prevent casual discussions, but we would not bring such potentially explosive issues to the Moonglade without his blessing. If this goes well, however, Remulos has indicated that he would permit a second meeting in the Moonglade.”

  “That would be good,” Cairne said. “Ashenvale is still too volatile a place for my liking. You will be attending, I take it?”

  “I will. I will be leading the meeting, along with an archdruid who is essentially my counterpart among the kaldorei.”

  “Take some of my best warriors with you,” Cairne urged.

  “No.” Hamuul shook his head firmly. “I will not give anyone an excuse to take up arms, saying that I myself come to do so. The only weapons will be the claws, teeth, and talons we all possess in our bestial forms. My counterpart has agreed to do the same. Swords do not befit those who come with peace in their hearts.”

  “Hrrm,” rumbled Cairne, stroking his beard. “What you say is true, though I could wish it otherwise. Still, I would not want to see anyone attack you in your bear shape, old friend. They would not end up the victor.”

  Hamuul chuckled. “Let us hope we do not find out. I will be careful, Cairne. More than my own life is riding on the outcome of this gathering. We are all aware of the risk we take, and we deem it worth it.”

  Cairne nodded and spread his arms, indicating the sacred grounds before them. “I hope I do not have to come here to commune with you afterward.”

  Hamuul threw back his head and laughed.

  TWENTY

  Five bears, their fur of varied shades but all shaggy and huge, walked the verdant forests of Ashenvale. They paused to snuffle or paw at something that interested them here and there, and did not appear to be together. Bears seldom were. Still, if one had watched them long enough, and followed their apparently aimless wandering, one would have noticed that they all seemed to be heading in the same direction.

  One also might have noticed that they had horns.

  They reached a certain spot in the mountains slightly west of the Talondeep Path. One, a larger, more grizzled-looking beast than the others, scouted about for a few minutes, sniffing cautiously, then rose up on its hind legs and lifted its forepaws to the sky.

  Claws, black and shiny, turned to long, strong fingers. Brown and white fur rippled and shortened. The bear muzzle elongated, horns now jutting from a larger head with calm, deep-set eyes. Skeleton and organs shifted within the short-furred skin. Hind legs turned to long, strong limbs with hooves and not paws, and the short tail elongated and grew whiplike, with a tuft at the end.

  “I can smell them; they are coming,” Hamuul Runetotem assured his fellows. “And they are alone.”

  Beside him the other druids emulated him, their bodies twisting, but not disharmoniously, from bear to tauren. They stood, ready, only their tails and ears moving now and then.

  A few moments later five nightsabers, their coats varying shades of dark hues, crested the hill, running swiftly and elegantly. Almost at once they, too, shifted their shapes. Long, lithe, feline bodies became long, lithe, night elf bodies. Ears grew longer, hands and feet replaced paws, and their tails disappeared altogether. They stood regarding the tauren solemnly. Hamuul bowed low.

  “Archdruid Renferal,” he said. “I am so pleased you have come, my old friend.”

  “It was not without a great deal of soul-searching,” Elerethe Renferal said. Hamuul noted that she did not call him “friend” in return. She was tall and graceful, with short green hair and purple skin. It was clear, though, that she had seen battle; lavender scars marred the darker violet, and her body was sinewy and muscular rather than lush.

  “Your soul has guided you and your companions to this meeting, as my soul has guided me and mine,” Hamuul said.

  “The blood of the butchered Sentinels still calls for justice, Hamuul,” Renferal replied, but even as she spoke, she stepped forward to close the distance between herself and Hamuul.

  “And justice it shall have,” Hamuul assured her. “But unless there can be conversation, and peace, and healing, justice cannot come.” He took the initiative, sitting on the soft green grass. The other tauren druids emulated him. The kaldorei exchanged glances, but when Renferal sat, they did as well. It was a circle, of sorts, albeit one that could be divided neatly in half by race.

  The coldness and precise division of races pained Hamuul. This was not a gathering of strangers, but of erstwhile friends. The ten of them had worked together for years as part of the Circle. There had been a bond that had transcended race and political divisions, a bond of what it meant to take on the form and touch the spirit of the beasts of this world, to unite with nature in a way no others understood. But that bond had been sorely tested. Hamuul sent a silent prayer to the Earth Mother that the work they did here today would make strides toward reforging that bond, perhaps even make it stronger.

  “I am sure word has reached you that Thrall has departed—temporarily. And I am
equally sure you know his mission.”

  Renferal frowned. “Yes, we have heard. And we know who he has appointed in his stead.”

  “Rest assured that Thrall does not intend to be gone long and that he has asked Cairne to counsel young Hellscream,” Hamuul said. “You know that Thrall’s wish is for peace.”

  “Is it? Truly?” Another night elf spoke up, anger in his voice. “Then why does he leave at all? And appoint Garrosh to rule in his absence? Garrosh, who has openly spoken against the treaty? Who we believe was behind the attack in the first place?”

  Hamuul sighed. There had been no conclusive evidence one way or the other that Garrosh had instigated the brutal attacks on the Sentinels. But it was easy to believe those rumors.

  “Thrall is in Nagrand to better understand what is wrong with the elements. Come now—we druids are closer to the natural world than most, though we are not shaman. I cannot believe that anyone present does not think this world is in pain.”

  That seemed to mollify the night elf contingent. “If Thrall can return quickly with anything that can help calm the elements—and if Garrosh can refrain from any more needless slaughter,” said Renferal, “then perhaps good can come of this.”

  “I will remind you that we do not know for certain that it was Garrosh’s doing, and thanks to this gathering, good has already come,” Hamuul said. “May peace begin here, now.”

  Various expressions flitted across the faces of those assembled: hope, worry, mistrust, fear, determination. Hamuul looked about and nodded. It was going as well as he had expected, though not as well as he could have wished.

  With careful deliberation, he reached into one of his bags and brought out a long, thin object wrapped in decorated leather. He lifted it high for a moment, then stood, placed it in the center of the circle, and unwrapped it.

  “This is a ceremonial pipe,” he said. “It is shared among the participants at the beginning of peace talks. For ages has this been the custom of my people. I brought this to my first meeting of the Cenarion Circle. Some here remember that meeting. I bring it again now, to formally show my desire for healing and unity.”

  Renferal watched closely, nodding her green head quietly. Then she reached in her own bags and brought forth a cup and a waterskin.

  “It seems you and I are of the same mind,” she said quietly, lifting the cup. It was a simple, ceramic goblet. It had been glazed blue, and runes were etched on it, but otherwise it was unadorned. Hamuul smiled softly. Long ago, she had brought this, as he had the pipe. “This cup is ancient. We do not know its original owner, but it has survived since the Sundering, passed down from hand to hand with love and care. The water is from the Temple of Elune. It is pure and delicious.” She poured some water into the goblet reverently, then she, too, rose and set it in the center.

  Hamuul nodded, pleased. The night elves were taking this meeting as seriously as the tauren were. He could feel the tension start to die, feel respect and hope start to replace resistance and antagonism.

  He rose, bowed to Renferal, and bent to pick up the pipe. As he filled it with herbs, he began to speak.

  “Once lit, the pipe will be passed around from person to person,” he explained for the benefit of those younger night elf druids who had never seen the tauren ceremony before. “Please, when it reaches you, hold it for a moment. Think of what you wish to achieve here. Then bring it to—”

  He froze.

  The breeze had shifted, carrying to his sensitive tauren nose a scent. Strong, familiar, not unpleasant at any other time, but he knew that now, at this delicate juncture, it could spell the death of everything.

  Orcs.

  “No! Hold!” cried Hamuul in the orc’s native tongue, but it was too late. Even before the words had left his mouth, the deadly arrows sang out on their lethal flight. Two night elves dropped, throats neatly pierced.

  Cries of rage and alarm from tauren and night elf erupted. Renferal whirled for just an instant to affix Hamuul with a stare of fury and loathing that pierced his heart as surely as any spear.

  “We came in good faith!” was all she said before she transformed into a cat and launched herself on the nearest orc, a huge, bald, snaggle-toothed warrior with a giant two-handed sword. He fell beneath her, his sword knocked from his hand and lying useless in the grass as her claws laid open his abdomen.

  “Get the purple skins!” cackled their leader. Where had they come from? Why? Was this Garrosh’s doing? It didn’t matter. By accident or design, the peace conference had been destroyed beyond imagining. All that was left to Hamuul was to protect the three—no, he amended as another orc impaled Renferal with a polearm, pinning her to the earth—two night elf druids who still survived.

  Surrendering to his anger and pain, he shifted quickly into bear form, and lunged for the nearest orc in this barbaric war party. His fellow tauren did likewise, each of them changing into various bestial forms. The orc female, brandishing two shortswords, never stood a chance against Hamuul’s bulk. Her cry was cut short as his weight crushed her ribcage. He wanted to clamp his massive jaws down on her throat, crunch her windpipe, taste the coppery flavor of her blood, but he restrained himself. He was better than they.

  All around him the druids were shifting into various forms to defend themselves—storm crow, diving and slicing at the orcish faces with razor-sharp talons; cat, with teeth and claws to rend and tear; and bear, the strongest of the bestial forms. Blood spattered everywhere, and the scent of it drove Hamuul almost mad. He hung onto his sanity by the barest of threads, remembering why he had come here, how close they had been to the dream of peace a few short, violent, minutes ago.

  “Hold, hold, these are tauren!” came a cry, piercing the red haze of battle. Summoning every bit of restraint he possessed, Hamuul leaped off the orc he was fighting and reverted to his true shape.

  Belatedly he realized he had been injured; in bear form, he had not felt the wound. He pressed a hand to the gash in his side and murmured a healing spell, his eyes widening in horror as he assessed what had happened.

  It seemed almost impossible to him, but all five night elves were slain and lay where they had fallen. Almost all the tauren had been wounded, and he grieved to see that one of them lay on the grass, an arrow in her eye, flies already buzzing around her limp form.

  He whirled on the orc who seemed to be the leader. “In the name of Cenarius, what have you done?”

  The orc was pale green and seemed completely unperturbed by Hamuul’s outburst. He merely shrugged. “We saw five of those filthy night elves running in those cat shapes and thought they might be attacking.”

  “Attacking? Five?”

  The orc continued to regard him steadily and remained silent. How had they even known for certain they were druids and not just nightsabers? Hamuul wondered.

  Slightly unnerved by the orc’s sullen, silent stupidity, Hamuul’s voice rose even more with outrage. “Who sent you? Was it Garrosh?”

  The orc shrugged again. “Who is Garrosh?”

  Impossible. Hamuul could not believe anyone could be so ignorant. Love him or loathe him, everyone knew Garrosh. The orc had to be toying with him for some reason.

  “You have interrupted a secret and vital meeting that could have ensured the Horde the rights to harvest wood in Ashenvale without risking lives! I will personally report you to Cairne Bloodhoof and see that this incident is made public. I will not be responsible for another black mark on the Horde’s honor. These elves, these druids,” and he pointed a shaking finger at the cooling corpses, “came here at my request. They trusted I would keep them safe. And now our best hope for peace lies as dead as they do because you thought they were attacking. What is your name?”

  “Gorkrak.”

  “Gorkrak,” Hamuul said, relishing the name and emblazing it upon his memory. “Any chance you stood of advancing in the Horde, Gorkrak, ends right here.”

  Gorkrak’s expression shifted slightly. His piggy eyes moved coldly, deliberately,
from the night elf druids, to Hamuul, to something behind the tauren. A crafty smile spread across his face, and too late Hamuul realized what was about to happen.

  “Not if I end you first,” Gorkrak crowed.

  And Hamuul heard the twang of an arrow taking flight.

  * * *

  Gorkrak of the Twilight’s Hammer looked about with satisfaction.

  “I thought druids were supposed to be smart,” one of his brethren said, tugging his sword out of the body of a white tauren female.

  “All are foolish who do not embrace the coming destruction,” Gorkrak said. He dropped the stupid expression he had worn to trick Hamuul. “It is inevitable and beautiful. We will bury the corpses, but not so well that the carrion eaters will not find them. We want the bodies discovered.” He smiled darkly. “Eventually.”

  He was glad that Hamuul had mentioned Garrosh. It meant that already suspicion had begun to spread about the acting warchief. Some were already whispering that it had been Garrosh who butchered the Sentinels. Now they would believe him behind this slaughter as well.

  “For the nothingness that awaits,” Gorkrak said. “Dig.”

  * * *

  Hamuul Runetotem regained consciousness slowly. He blinked awake, then wondered if he really was awake. Where was he? What had happened? He could see nothing, and something pressed in on him from every angle. Breathing was difficult; what little air there was smelled of old blood and earth. He tried to move and realized that he was pinned. His body was in agony, and thirst clawed at his throat. He was in his bear form; he imagined he had had a split second to change shapes before he had been shot—

  —in the back—

  —by fellow Horde members.

  Memory crashed down on him like an avalanche, and he suddenly realized where he must be, and what was pressing on him.

  He was in a mass grave.

  Adrenaline shot through him, giving his tormented body fresh strength. Which way was up? Corpses draped lifeless arms across his shoulders, pressed cold torsos against his back, as if trying to force him to join them in death. Hamuul opened his sharp-toothed mouth, gasping in fetid air and dirt, and pressed his paws against the bodies of his friends. He clawed his way upward, causing the corpses to bleed sluggishly, to where the freshest air was coming, using all his strength to shoulder aside bodies and dirt, until his head broke the lightly packed surface and he gulped in fresh air. Grunting, now feeling anew the pain of his wounds, he climbed free and collapsed, white and light brown fur clotted with blood and other gory fluids, gasping and shivering in horror at the atrocity.