The Shattering

by Christie Golden

  Two of the braves held another tauren between them. Even in the dim moonlight Baine recognized him.

  “I know you,” he said. “You are one of Magatha’s people. What are you doing here this time of night?”

  The other tauren was elderly, but there was nothing frail about him. He made no effort to resist the firm grip the braves had on him. Instead, he gave Baine a compassionate yet concerned look.

  “I come to warn you, Baine Bloodhoof. Your father is dead, and you are to be next. You must leave, quickly and quietly.”

  Pain shot through Baine, but he tamped it down. This was a Grimtotem. This had to be a trick.

  “You lie,” he rumbled. “And I do not take kindly to jests about my father’s well-being. Tell me why you are really here, and perhaps I will overlook your poor taste in jokes.”

  “No lie, Chieftain,” the Grimtotem insisted. “He fell in the arena against Garrosh Hellscream, whom he challenged in the mak’gora.”

  “Now I know you lie. Thrall has forbidden such things. The mak’gora is no longer a duel to the death.”

  “What was old is new again,” said Stormsong. “Cairne made the challenge, and Garrosh agreed—providing they fought under the old rules. It was indeed to the death.”

  Baine froze. It was all indeed possible, from what he knew, both of his father and of Garrosh. He knew that his father had not approved of Thrall’s appointment of Garrosh—nor, truth be told, had Baine. He knew that both Hamuul Runetotem and Cairne thought it likely that Garrosh was behind the attacks on the Sentinels in Ashenvale. It was entirely like Cairne to have challenged Garrosh if he felt that the orc was a true danger to the well-being of the Horde. And entirely like Cairne to not back down if Garrosh decided to change the rules.

  “My father would have won such a battle,” he said, his voice shaking slightly.

  “He might well have,” the shaman agreed, “had not Magatha poisoned Garrosh’s weapon. She used her position as shaman to bless Gorehowl and coated its blade with poisoned oil. A single strike was all that was needed.” He said the words bitterly, angrily. “My pack—open it. There is sad proof within.”

  Baine nodded at one of the braves. The tauren opened the pack they had taken from the Grimtotem, and his eyes widened. Baine felt a deep chill within. Slowly, the brave reached inside—and produced a small fragment of what looked to be little more than a broken stick.

  Baine extended a hand, and the brave placed the splinter of the legendary runespear in Baine Bloodhoof’s palm. Trembling, he closed his fingers about it, feeling the runes, known and familiar, against his skin. He staggered. His powerful yet gentle father—whom he had envisioned either passing gloriously in battle or peacefully in his sleep—murdered by treachery …

  Anger began to swell inside him as the Grimtotem continued. “Two dozen Grimtotem warriors are waiting just beyond the firelight to attack. I was to lead the mission myself. Instead, I come to warn you. Your father was a great tauren, even if I disagreed with some of his decisions. He did not deserve such a death, nor do you. Long have I served the matriarch, but this time …” He shook his head. “This time she has gone too far. She has disgraced what it means to be a shaman. I will not participate in her plans any longer.”

  Baine closed the distance between him and the Grimtotem in two strides and jerked the other tauren’s head up by his beard. The Grimtotem grunted slightly but met Baine’s gaze evenly.

  The strange dream … the sense of unease …

  A great pain filled Baine’s chest, lancing his heart, and he could hardly breathe. “Father,” he whispered, and even as he said the word, he realized that the Grimtotem defector had spoken the truth. Tears stung his eyes, but he blinked them back. There would be time to properly mourn his father later. If what the defector said was true—

  “What is your name?”

  “I am known as Stormsong, Chieftain.”

  Chieftain. He supposed he was chieftain of the Bloodhoof now. … “I will stand and fight,” Baine declared. “I will not run from danger. I will not abandon the people of the village that bears my family’s name.”

  “You are outnumbered,” said Stormsong, “and yours is more than simply another life to be thrown away in battle. You are the last Bloodhoof, and, too, you would be the obvious choice to lead your people as well as your tribe. You have a responsibility to the tauren to stay safe and reclaim what has been stolen from you. Do you think Bloodhoof Village is the only tauren settlement under attack tonight?”

  Baine’s eyes widened in growing horror as Stormsong continued. “Even now, slaughter goes on in Thunder Bluff! Magatha will rule the tauren by the time the sun peeks its head over the horizon to regard the bloody aftermath of this shameful night. You must survive. You do not have the luxury of dying to avenge your father! Come, please!”

  Baine snorted angrily, gripping Stormsong by the front of his leather vest, then releasing him. The shaman was right.

  “This could be a trick, a trap!” one of the braves said. “He could be leading you into an ambush!”

  Baine shook his head sadly. “No,” he said. “No trick. I can feel it. The shaman speaks the truth.” He opened his hand, which he had clenched hard around the runespear fragment, and regarded it for a moment before tenderly placing it in a pouch. “My father is slain, and I must survive tonight if I am to take care of our people as he would have wanted me to. Stormsong Grimtotem, you risk much, coming to warn me. And so I risk much in trusting you. Know that if you betray me, you will die within seconds.”

  “Well do I know that,” Stormsong agreed. “I am one and you are many. Now … the Grimtotem are on three sides, but I think I know a way to scatter them. Follow me.”

  * * *

  The Grimtotem charged the village. They were met not by sleeping, unaware tauren, but by warriors in training, fully armed and ready for them. Tarakor was not altogether surprised; he had assumed that Stormsong had been captured and Baine had been alerted to the attack. Still, they were Grimtotem, and they would fight to their deaths.

  Many fell beneath Tarakor’s axe, but there was one he did not see—Baine Bloodhoof. Every Grimtotem present knew that killing Baine was the sole objective, and as the moments ticked by and Baine did not appear, Tarakor began to panic.

  There was only one explanation.

  “Grimtotem!” he cried, brandishing his axe over the body of a druid he had sliced almost in two as she attempted to transform into cat form. “We are betrayed! Baine has escaped! Find him! Find him!”

  Now the battling villagers were not a target, but a nuisance, as the Grimtotem tried to move past the boundaries of Bloodhoof Village. And then suddenly the earth began to shake. Tarakor whirled, axe at the ready, and stared for a split second in horror.

  Nearly a dozen kodos were charging directly at him and his men. Some of them were being ridden by Bloodhoof villagers, but others only had saddles and harnesses. Some, not even broken for riding yet, did not have that much. They bellowed, eyes rolling, frightened out of their wits, and gave no indication that they were even considering slowing down.

  There was only one option. “Run!” cried Tarakor.

  They did. The kodos followed, seeming to pick up speed, and the Grimtotem literally ran for their lives. Up ahead was Stonebull Lake, and potential safety. Tarakor did not slow as he plunged into the cold water, sinking beneath the weight of his armor. The kodos followed, but their stampede slowed as they hit the water. Tarakor swam as strongly as he could, struggling to the surface, his armor, donned to protect him, threatening to drag him down. The kodos were straggling back to the land now, still snorting, shaking water off their coats. The Grimtotem treaded water as Tarakor counted heads. Some had not emerged from the depths of the lake, and some had not even made it that far this night. They would be grieved later. For now the ones who had survived struck out to the far side of the lake.

  It was slow going. They emerged, drenched and shivering and disheartened.

  They had fai
led. Baine had escaped. Stormsong had betrayed them. Tarakor was not looking forward to telling Magatha the news.

  * * *

  Baine watched the stampede, nodding to himself. It had been a good plan, to agitate the herd, and it had bought them the opportunity to escape. While generally placid even in the wild, agitated, frightened kodos were a force that could not be stopped. The kodos were driving the enemy westward, trapping them against the mountains. They had nowhere to go. Some would be killed, but others would escape and come after them; it was a delay, but even a brief delay would help Baine and his followers.

  “Camp Taurajo has not fallen to the Grimtotem, has it, Stormsong?”

  The Grimtotem shook his head. “No. Our main targets were Thunder Bluff, Bloodhoof Village, Sun Rock Retreat, and Camp Mojache.”

  “Then we head for Camp Taurajo and hope it has not become a secondary target. We can arrange transportation from there.”

  “Transportation where?” Stormsong asked.

  Baine’s eyes were hard as he urged the kodo he rode to greater speed. His heart was full with the missing of his father and the anger he bore toward the Grimtotem for the bloodshed this night.

  “I do not know,” he said honestly. “But I know this. My father will be avenged, and I will not rest until the Grimtotem have been revealed for the traitors they are. My father permitted them to live with us, though they refused to join the Horde. Now I will expel them from every aspect of tauren society. This, I vow.”

  Baine had not traveled much outside of Mulgore in the last few years, and he had forgotten just how open and exposed the aptly named Barrens were. Jorn Skyseer greeted them and brought them into the camp, making sure the orc guards were not alerted. Baine did not know yet whom he could trust. They gathered together in the back of one of the great lodges: Baine; the four braves who had come with him from Bloodhoof Village; the recovering Hamuul Runetotem, who had a bitter tale to tell of an attack on a peaceful druidic gathering; and the defector, Stormsong. Jorn joined them, carrying a tray of food—apples, watermelon, Mulgore spice bread, and chunks of cooked meat.

  Baine nodded his thanks to the hunter. He took a bite of fruit and regarded Hamuul. “I trust your word, Hamuul, and that of Stormsong, Grimtotem though he is. It is cruel that our leader betrays us so, whereas my trust must fall to an old enemy.”

  Stormsong lowered his muzzle. It was awkward for him to be here, but he was gradually winning the respect and trust of Baine and those around him.

  “I do not know what Garrosh knew of the attack, but I do know that it was an oversight that I survived,” Hamuul said. “They left me for dead, and I nearly was. As for the challenge,” and he eyed Stormsong, “Garrosh may have consented to the use of the poison, he may not. It does not matter. Magatha has what she wanted—control of Thunder Bluff, Bloodhoof Village, probably Camp Mojache, and unless we stop her soon, all the tauren.”

  “But not Sun Rock,” Jorn said quietly. “They have sent a runner. They were able to repel the attack.”

  Baine nodded. It was good news, but far from sufficient. Baine growled softly and forced himself to eat. He needed to keep his strength up, although his stomach did not wish the food.

  “Archdruid, my father ever trusted your advice. I have never been in more need of it than now. What do we do now? How do we fight her?”

  Hamuul sighed, thinking. A long silence fell. “From what we can learn, most of the tauren are now controlled by Magatha—willingly or not. Garrosh might be innocent of treachery, but he is most certainly a hothead, and one way or another he wished your father dead.” Baine took a deep breath, and Hamuul gave him a compassionate look before continuing. “The Undercity is not safe for you, not patrolled as it is by orcs likely loyal to Garrosh. The Darkspear trolls are likely trustworthy, but they are not many. And as for the blood elves, they are much too far away to offer any aid. Garrosh will likely reach them before we could.”

  Baine laughed without humor and gestured at Stormsong. “So it seems that our enemies are more trustworthy than our friends,” he said drily.

  Hamuul was forced to agree, nodding. “Or at least more accessible.”

  A thought struck Baine, daring and dangerous. As his father had taught him, he sat with the thought for a long moment, turning it over in his head rather than simply blurting it out. Finally he spoke.

  “I will take an honorable enemy over a dishonorable friend every time,” he said quietly. “So let us go to an honorable enemy. We will seek out the woman Thrall trusted.”

  He looked at them each in turn, seeing dawning comprehension on the long-muzzled faces.

  “We will go to Lady Jaina Proudmoore.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  “Have you ever gone on a vision quest, Go’el?” Geyah asked one night as they shared a simple meal of clefthoof stew and bread. Thrall ate hungrily; the day had been long and intensely wearying, emotionally and physically. He had spent the day not communing with or aiding the elementals of this land, but destroying them.

  Thrall understood that very few elemental spirits were balanced and in harmony with themselves and the other elements. Some were in true alignment with their natures, chaotic though those natures might be. Others were sometimes sick and corrupted. Often, a gentle but firm hand could bring them back into line. But sometimes the entities were too damaged. One such had been the little spark in Orgrimmar, who would not listen to reason, or even to begging.

  The shaman could not be selfish. They must always show honor and respect for the elementals, to ask humbly for their aid and be grateful when it was offered. But they also had a responsibility to protect the world from harm, and if that harm came from an uncontrollable elemental, their duty was clear.

  And Outland was apparently overrun with them.

  Aggra had leaped into the fray with the surety of one who had done this dozens, perhaps hundreds of times. She took no joy in the task, but neither did she hesitate to defend herself or him, her charge, even if she would rather he was not so. It was a bitter fight, Thrall thought, a shaman using the power of a healthy elemental to slay its tainted … brethren? Peers? He was not sure of the word, only that it made his heart ache to watch it. In the back of his mind was the nagging question: Is this the future of Azeroth’s elementals? And is there nothing I can do to prevent it?

  He turned to Geyah, to answer her question. “When I was young, and under Drek’Thar’s tutelage, I met the elements,” Thrall said. “I fasted and did not drink for a full day. Drek’Thar took me to a certain area, and I waited until the elements approached me. I asked each of them a question, as part of my test, and pledged myself to their service. It was … very powerful.”

  Aggra and Geyah exchanged glances. “That is well,” said Geyah, “though not a traditional rite of passage. Drek’Thar did the best he could under challenging circumstances. He was one of only a handful left, and when you came to him, the Frostwolves were too busy simply trying to survive, and so he could not prepare a traditional vision quest for you. You have done well on your own, Go’el, astonishingly well, but perhaps now that you have come back to your homeland to learn, it is time for you to have a proper ritual quest.”

  Aggra was nodding. She looked solemn and did not regard him with her usual barely concealed disdain. In fact, quite the opposite—she seemed almost to have acquired a new respect for him, if her body language was any indication.

  “I will do what I must,” Thrall said. “Do you think it is because I have not had this particular rite that I am not learning what I have come here to learn?”

  “The vision quest is about self-knowledge,” Aggra said. “Perhaps you need that before you are ready to accept other knowledge.”

  It was hard not to take umbrage at her slightest word. “More than most I am self-made,” he said stiffly. “I think I have learned a great deal about myself already.”

  “And yet the mighty Slave cannot find what he seeks,” said Aggra, tensing slightly.

  “Peace, the two of
you,” Geyah said mildly, though she was frowning. “The worlds are in enough chaos without two shaman sniping at one another. Aggra, you speak your mind, and that is well, but perhaps holding your tongue from time to time might be a good exercise for you. And, Go’el, surely you admit that anyone, even the warchief of the Horde, would benefit from knowing himself better.”

  Thrall frowned slightly. “My apologies, Grandmother. Aggra. I am frustrated because the situation is dire, and I as of yet can do nothing to help. It serves no one to take my irritation out on you.”

  Aggra nodded. She looked annoyed, but somehow Thrall sensed that—for once—it was not with him. She seemed annoyed with herself.

  The young shaman confounded him, he had to admit. He did not know what to make of her. Thrall was not unaccustomed to dealing with intelligent, strong women. He had known two—Taretha Foxton and Jaina Proudmoore. But they were both human, and he was coming to realize that their strength came from a place that was very different from where orc females drew their strength. He had heard stories of his mother, Draka, who had been born sickly but through her own will and determination had become as strong physically as she was mentally and emotionally. “A warrior made,” he had once heard Geyah say of Draka with admiration. “It is easy to be a good warrior when the ancestors gift you with speed and strength and a strong heart. It is not so easy when you must wrest these things from a world that does not want to give them to you, as Draka did.”

  Now she spoke to Thrall, though it was upon Aggra that her gaze was fixed. “Your mother’s spirit is within you, Thrall. Like her, everything you are, you have made of yourself. What you gave your people was not an easy thing—you had to fight for it. You are your mother’s son as well as your father’s, Go’el, son of Durotan—and Draka.”

  “I came here to do whatever was necessary to learn how to help my world,” Thrall said. “But I would be about this vision quest as quickly as possible.”

  “You will stay as long as it takes, and you know it,” Aggra said.