The Shattering: Prelude to Cataclysm (31 page)

“Some would call you traitor for revealing that information, young prince,” he said quietly.

“What Moira is doing is wrong, even if she is the legitimate heir,” Anduin said. “Some of her goals and plans make sense. But how she’s going about them—I can’t approve of that. Just because she’s a dwarf and the daughter of a friend doesn’t mean I blindly support her. And just because you’re a member of the Horde doesn’t mean I wouldn’t support
you.
”

He kept his gaze on Baine, but out of the corner of his eye he saw Jaina relax slightly, hopefully.

“He has met Thrall, and they like and respect each other,” Jaina said. “You could ask for no better endorsement, Baine.”

Baine nodded, though his ears flapped, presumably in distress. “Had not Thrall left, though, I would have no need of your aid, and …” He paused, and took a deep breath, blowing it out through his nostrils. “And my father would still be alive.”

Anduin gasped and looked at Jaina. Her eyes were sad, and she nodded. “Baine already told me,” she said quietly.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, and meant it. Whatever anyone thought of the Horde, everyone agreed that Cairne had been a good, decent leader and a good … man? Person? But it was not unexpected. Cairne was old. It seemed strange that Baine seemed so upset. No, not upset—anyone who loved his father would be upset at his passing—but … agitated. Distressed. “What happened?”

“Sit down,” Jaina said, not unkindly. This time Anduin and Baine complied, taking seats on the floor. Jaina poured tea for all of them, put the cups on a tray, and sat down on the floor, cross-legged, herself. Anduin took a cup, and, after a moment, so did Baine. He regarded the tiny cup in his massive hand and gave a little chuckle—possibly the first, Anduin suspected, he had uttered since learning of his father’s death.

Jaina glanced from one to the other. “Neither of you knows how much I wish we three were meeting under different circumstances,” she said quietly, “particularly yours, Baine. But at least we are meeting. Maybe this conversation tonight will lay the groundwork for future, more formal conversations between our people.”

Anduin lifted his cup. “To better times,” he said. Jaina lifted hers and clinked it gently. After a moment Baine did so, too.

“I think … my father would be glad of this,” he said. “Prince Anduin. Let me tell you what suffering this past day has brought.”

“I’m listening,” the prince of Stormwind said.

*   *   *

“Are you listening to me?” Moira screamed.

“Aye, Your Excellency, I—”

“How could you let him escape?”

“I dinna ken! We’ve arrested th’ magi. … Perhaps a warlock summoning frae outside?” Drukan was reaching here, and he knew it.

“We have wards up against such a thing!” Moira was pacing now. It was early morning, and this was not the sort of news she had wished to awaken to. Not at all. She had simply thrown on a wrap when Drukan had sent her an agitated message that her prize pet had escaped. “No, it must have been something else. Perhaps you simply drank too much and slept while he tiptoed past you!”

Drukan frowned but bit back a retort. “I dinna drink on duty, Yer Excellency. And even if he had slipped past me, he would not have gotten past the guards stationed at every entrance.”

Moira placed a hand to her throbbing temples and massaged them. “
How
is not important. We …” A crafty smile curved her lips. “Perhaps we are mistaken. Perhaps my pretty little caged bird of a prince has not escaped after all.”

Drukan looked at her, perplexed. She sighed. “He has clearly left his quarters, yes. But perhaps he is still in Ironforge, simply hiding. There are many places for one to hide in this city.”

“Indeed there—oh.”

She smiled sweetly. “I will send you as many additional guards as you need to search for him. But you must not attract undue attention! No one must know that he is missing. You have taken the doddering old servant in for questioning?”

Drukan brightened somewhat. “Oh, yes indeed.”

“Take care he is not mistreated. We want Anduin … cooperative.”

“Of course.”

“This must stay as quiet as possible. We shall put out word that Anduin is ill. … No, no, then that pesky Rohan will insist upon seeing him. What to do, what to do …” Moira paced the room, pausing beside her son’s cradle and rocking it absently.

“Ah … we shall say he has gone to visit Dun Morogh. Yes! That’s just the thing.” This would accomplish two purposes. It would provide a plausible cover for why Anduin was not available and would give the impression that, at least in some cases, there was contact with the outside world that Moira approved of. Continuing to rock the cradle, she waved a hand at Drukan. “Go, shoo. Be about your task. Oh, and Drukan?” She lifted her eyes from her child and regarded him coldly. “You must make certain that no one knows about Anduin’s disappearance and no one knows what has happened here. I will reveal my agenda in my own time, and in my own way. Is that clear?”

Drukan swallowed audibly. “Y-yes, Yer Excellency.”

Palkar returned with fresh meat to prepare for his and Drek’Thar’s evening meal and found a bedraggled tauren courier waiting for him. He was one of Cairne’s Longwalkers, which meant that the news he bore was important indeed. He was weather stained, and Palkar could see dried blood on his clothing. It was uncertain at first glance if the blood was the tauren’s or that of another.

“Greetings, Longwalker,” he said. “I am Palkar. Come inside and eat with us, then share your news.”

“I am Perith Stormhoof,” the Longwalker replied. “And my news cannot wait. I will share it with your master now.”

Palkar hesitated. He did not like to talk about Drek’Thar’s declining health with anyone. “You can share it with me. I will make sure that he receives it. He has not been well as of late and—”

“No,” said Perith flatly. “I have instructions to deliver the news to Drek’Thar, and deliver it I shall.”

There was no other option. “Drek’Thar’s mind is not what it once was. I tend to him. If you speak only to him, your words will be lost.”

The tauren twitched an ear, his harsh expression softening slightly. “I regret to hear this news. You may hear it with him, then. But I must speak with him.”

“I understand. Come in.”

Palkar held open the tent flap, and Perith entered, having to duck as the flap was not designed to accommodate one of his size. Drek’Thar was awake, and his body posture seemed attentive and alert. He was, however, seated a good six feet away from his sleeping furs.

“Drek’Thar, we have an honored guest. It is one of Cairne’s Longwalkers, Perith Stormhoof.”

“My sleeping furs … why did you move them? You are always disturbing my things, Palkar,” he said, his voice displaying his confusion.

Palkar gently helped the elderly orc to his feet, guided him to the furs, and helped him into a comfortable seating position.

“Now,” Palkar said to Perith, “you may share your news with us.”

Perith nodded. “The news is grave. The heart of the matter is that our beloved leader, Cairne Bloodhoof, is murdered, and the Grimtotem have taken over many of our cities in a bloody coup.”

Drek’Thar and Palkar both stared at him, horrified. The news seemed to jolt Drek’Thar into one of his lucid phases.

“Who slew the mighty Cairne? What caused this?” the elderly orc demanded in a voice that was surprisingly clear and strong.

Perith recounted the tragedy of the attack on the druids in Ashenvale, and of Hamuul Runetotem’s narrow escape. “When Cairne heard of this atrocity, he challenged Garrosh Hellscream to the mak’gora in the arena. Garrosh accepted—but only if Cairne adhered to the old rules. He demanded a battle to the death, and Cairne agreed.”

“Then he fell, in fair battle. And the Grimtotem saw the opportunity,” Drek’Thar said.

“No. There are rumors circulating that Magatha poisoned Garrosh’s blade so that the noble Cairne was felled by nothing more than a nick. I saw her anoint the blade; I saw Cairne fall. I cannot say if Garrosh knew of the deception or was himself deceived. I do know that the Grimtotem did all they could to prevent word from
reaching Thunder Bluff. It was only with the greatest care, and the blessing of the Earth Mother, that I eluded their net.”

Palkar stared at him, his mind reeling. Cairne assassinated by the matriarch of the Grimtotem? And Garrosh was either duped or a willing participant—either was terrible to contemplate. And now the Grimtotem ruled the tauren.

He tried to gather his thoughts, but Drek’Thar, alert and fully present now, spoke more quickly than he. “Baine? Any word of him?”

“There was an attack on Bloodhoof Village, but Baine escaped. No one has heard from him yet, but we believe he lives. If he were dead, rest assured that Magatha would announce it—and back it up with his head.”

Something was bothering Palkar, more than the obvious horror at the news. Something else that Perith had said—

“Then there is still hope. Is Garrosh choosing to aid the usurpers?”

“We have not seen evidence of that.”

“If he truly was a participant in the dishonorable murder of Cairne,” Drek’Thar continued, “it is unlikely that he would not do all he could to silence Baine and see that those Garrosh supported continued to hold power. The warchief must be advised of these developments at once.”

The warchief must be advised. …

I must speak with Thrall. … He must know. …

Ancestors … he had been right!

Sweat broke out on Palkar’s brow. Two moons ago, Drek’Thar had had a wild, feverish vision in which he proclaimed that soon a peaceful gathering of druids, both night elf and tauren, would be attacked. Palkar had believed him and sent guards to “protect” the gathering, but nothing had happened. He had thought that the “vision” was nothing more than an expression of Drek’Thar’s increasing senility.

But Drek’Thar had been right. Now, speaking lucidly with Perith Stormhoof, the old shaman did not appear to even recall the vision.
But it had happened, exactly as he had predicted. A peaceable gathering of night elves and tauren had indeed been attacked—and the results had been disastrous. The incident had simply occurred much later than anyone could have expected.

Frantically Palkar recalled Drek’Thar’s most recent dream in which he had cried, “The land will weep, and the world will break!” Could it be that this “dream,” too, had been a true vision? That it would come true, just as the dream of the druid gathering had?

Palkar had been a fool. Better to have told Thrall of the dream and let the warchief decide for himself whether or not to pay attention to it. Palkar clenched his hands in anger directed not at Drek’Thar, but at himself.

“Palkar?” Drek’Thar was saying.

“I’m sorry—I was thinking—what did you say?”

“I asked if you would write a missive,” Drek’Thar said as if he had uttered this request several times. Which, for all Palkar knew, he might have. “We must tell Thrall right away. Even so, it will take time for a Longwalker to find him. We can only hope we are not too late to help Baine.”

“Of course,” Palkar replied, leaping up to obey. He would write whatever Drek’Thar and the Longwalker wished. And then, at the end, he would confess to the warchief all that he had kept from him and why, and let things fall as they might.

He would not risk Drek’Thar’s being right a second time.

Thrall was surprised at the level of involvement and effort it took to prepare for the vision quest. He understood now Geyah’s comment about Drek’Thar’s doing his best as one of the last shaman the orcs then had. It would seem that a “proper” vision quest involved nearly the entire community.

Someone came to measure him for a ritual robe. Someone else offered the herbs for the rite. A third orc came to volunteer to lead the drumming and chanting circles, and six more offered their drums and voices. Thrall was surprised and moved. At one point he said to Aggra, “I do not wish for any favors to be done to me because of my position.”

She gave him a slight smirk. “Go’el, it is because you are in need of a vision quest, not because you are the leader of the Horde. You do not need to worry about any favors.”

It both relieved him and embarrassed him, and he wondered, not for the first time, how it was that Aggra was so adept at getting under his skin. Maybe it was a gift from the elements, he mused drily as he watched her stride off, head high.

He chafed at the delay, but there was little he could do about it. And there was a part of him, a not insignificant part, that anticipated the ritual eagerly. So much had been lost to the orcs in the years before he became a shaman himself. His own experience of such communal rites was lacking, he knew.

At last, three days later, all was prepared. Torches were lit at dusk. Thrall waited at Garadar to be escorted to the prepared ceremonial site. Aggra came to get him, and he did a double take at her.

Her long, thick, reddish-brown hair was braided with feathers. She wore a leather vest and kilt embroidered with feathers and beads, and symbols in white and green paint decorated her face and elsewhere where her brown skin was revealed. She stood tall and straight and proud, the tan of the leather setting off the dark brown of her skin to perfection. In her arms, she bore a bundle of cloth as brown as her skin.