Before the Storm Read online

  The crowd cheered, some through their tears. Now it was others’ turn to speak. Anduin stepped to the side, allowing them to come up and address the crowd. As he did so, his gaze flitted back to Greymane, and his heart sank.

  Mathias Shaw, master of spies and head of Stormwind’s intelligence service, SI:7, stood beside the deposed king of Gilneas. And both men looked as grim as Anduin had ever seen them.

  He was not overly fond of Shaw, though the spymaster had served Varian and now Anduin loyally and well. The king was intelligent enough to understand and value the service SI:7 agents performed for their kingdom. Indeed, he would never know exactly how many agents had lost their lives in this recent war. Unlike warriors, those who operated in the shadows lived, served, and died with few ever knowing of their deeds. No, it wasn’t the spymaster himself Anduin disliked. It was the need for men and women like him that he regretted.

  Laurena had followed his gaze and stepped in without a word as Anduin nodded to Genn and Shaw, moving his head to indicate that they should speak away from the throngs of mourners who would not depart for some time. Some lingered, kneeling in prayer. Some would go home and continue to grieve in private. Others would go to taverns to remind themselves that they were still among the living and could yet enjoy food and drink and laughter. To celebrate life, as Anduin had urged them.

  But a king’s tasks were never done.

  The three men walked quietly behind the memorial. The clouds were almost gone, and the rays of the setting sun sparkled on the water of the harbor that spread out below.

  Anduin went to the carved stone wall and placed his hands on it, breathing deeply of the sea air and listening to the cry of the gulls. Taking a moment to steady himself before hearing whatever dark words Shaw had to utter.

  As soon as word of the great sword in Silithus had reached him, Anduin had ordered Shaw to investigate and report. He needed boots on the ground there, not the wild rumors that had been circulating. It sounded impossible, and terrifying, and the worst part of it was that it was all true. The final act of a corrupted being, the very last and most devastating blow struck in the war against the Legion, had all but obliterated much of Silithus. The only thing that had mitigated the scope of the disaster had been that mercifully, in his random, angry blow, Sargeras had not thrust the sword into a more populated part of the world than the nearly empty desert land. Had he struck here, in the Eastern Kingdoms, a continent away from Silithus…Anduin could not permit himself to go down that path. He would be grateful for what little he could be.

  Shaw had hitherto sent missives with information. Anduin had not expected the man himself to return quite so soon.

  “Tell me,” was all the king said.

  “Goblins, sir. A whole mess of the unsavory creatures. It seems they began arriving within a day of—”

  He broke off. No one had come up with a vocabulary to describe the sword that felt comfortable. “Of the sword-strike,” Mathias continued.

  “That fast?” Anduin was startled. He kept his expression neutral as he continued to gaze out over the water. The ships and their crews look so small from here, he thought. Like toys. So breakable.

  “That fast,” Shaw confirmed.

  “Goblins aren’t the most charming, but they are cunning. And they do things for a reason,” Anduin said.

  “And those reasons usually involve money.”

  Only one group could gather and finance so many goblins so quickly: the Bilgewater Cartel, which had the support of the Horde. This had the oily fingerprints of the unctuous and morally deficient Jastor Gallywix all over it.

  Anduin pressed his lips together for a moment before speaking. “So. The Horde has found something valuable in Silithus. What is it this time? Another ancient city to scavenge?”

  “No, Your Majesty. They found…this.”

  The king turned around. In Shaw’s palm was a dirty white handkerchief. Wordlessly, he unfolded it.

  In the center was a small pebble of some golden substance. It looked like honey and ice, warm and inviting, yet also cool and comforting. And…it was glowing. Anduin eyed it skeptically. It was appealing, yes, but no more so than other gems. It didn’t look like anything to warrant a huge influx of goblins.

  Anduin was confused, and he glanced over at Genn, an eyebrow raised in query. He knew little of spycraft, and Shaw, though well regarded by all, was still largely an enigma that Anduin was only beginning to decipher.

  Genn nodded, acknowledging that Shaw’s gesture was odd and the object odder but indicating that however Shaw wished to proceed, Anduin could trust him. The king removed his glove and held out his hand.

  The stone tumbled gently into Anduin’s palm.

  And he gasped.

  The heaviness of grief vanished as if it were physical armor that had been seized and yanked off. Weariness fled, replaced by surging, almost crackling energy and insight. Strategies raced through his head, each one of them sound and successful, each one of them engendering a shift in comprehension and ensuring a lasting peace that benefited every being on Azeroth.

  Not only his mind but also his body seemed to ascend abruptly and shockingly, rocketing in an instant to whole new levels of strength, dexterity, and control. Anduin felt like he could not only climb mountains…he could move them. He could end war, channel the Light into every dark corner. He was exultant and also perfectly, wholly calm and completely certain as to how to channel this rushing river—no, tsunami—of energy and power. Not even the Light affected him as this…this did. The sensation was similar but less spiritual, more physical.

  More alarming.

  For a long moment, Anduin couldn’t speak, could only stare in wonder at the infinitely precious thing he cupped in his palm. At last he found his voice.

  “What…what is this?” he managed.

  “We don’t know.” Shaw’s voice was blunt.

  What could be done with this! Anduin thought. How many could it heal? How many could it strengthen, soothe, invigorate, inspire?

  How many could it kill?

  The thought was a gut punch, and he felt the elation inspired by the gemstone retreat.

  When he spoke again, Anduin’s voice was strong and determined. “It would seem the Horde does know…and we must find out more.” This could not be allowed to fall into the wrong hands.

  Into Sylvanas’s hands…

  So much power…

  He closed his fingers carefully around the small nugget of limitless possibility and turned again to the west.

  “Agreed,” Shaw replied. “We have eyes on it.”

  They stood for a moment while Anduin considered his next words. He knew that both Shaw and Greymane—the latter uncharacteristically silent but looking on approvingly—were awaiting his orders, and he was grateful to have such staunch individuals in his service. A lesser man than Shaw would have pocketed this sample.

  “Get your best people on it, Shaw. Pull them off other assignments if need be. We must learn more about this. I’ll be calling a meeting of my advisers shortly.” Anduin extended his hand for Shaw’s handkerchief and carefully rewrapped the small chunk of this unknown, unbelievable material. He tucked it into a pocket. The sensation was less intense, but he still could feel it.

  Anduin already had intended to travel, to visit the lands of Stormwind’s allies. To thank them and help them recover from the ravages of war.

  His schedule had just been accelerated drastically.

  Sylvanas Windrunner, former ranger-general of Silvermoon, the Dark Lady of the Forsaken, and present warchief of the mighty Horde, had resented being told to come to Orgrimmar like a dog that needed to perform all its tricks. She had wanted to return to the Undercity. She missed its shadows, its dampness, its restful quietude. Rest in peace, she thought grimly, and felt the tug of an amused smile. It faded almost at once as she continued pa
cing impatiently in the small chamber behind the warchief’s throne in Grommash Hold.

  She paused, her sharp ears picking up the sound of familiar footsteps. The tanned hide that served as a nod to privacy was drawn aside, and the newcomer entered.

  “You are late. Another quarter of an hour and I would have been forced to ride without my champion beside me.”

  He bowed. “Forgive me, my queen. I have been about your business, and it took longer than expected.”

  She was unarmed, but he carried a bow and bore a quiver full of arrows. The only human ever to become a ranger, he was a superlative marksman. It was one reason he was the best bodyguard Sylvanas could possibly have. There were other reasons, too, reasons that had their roots in the distant past, when the two had connected under a bright and beautiful sun and had fought for bright and beautiful things.

  Death had claimed them both, human and elf alike. Little now was bright and beautiful, and much of the past they had shared had grown dim and hazy.

  But not all of it.

  Although Sylvanas had left behind most warmer emotions the moment she had risen from the dead as a banshee, anger somehow had retained its heat. But she felt it subside to embers now. She seldom stayed angry for long at Nathanos Marris, known now as Blightcaller. And he had indeed been about her business, visiting the Undercity, while she had been saddled with duties that had kept her here in Orgrimmar.

  She wanted to reach for his hand but contented herself with smiling benevolently at him. “You are forgiven,” she said. “Now. Tell me of our home.”

  Sylvanas expected a brief recitation of modest concerns, a reaffirmation of the Forsaken’s loyalty to their Dark Lady. Instead, Nathanos frowned. “The situation…is complicated, my queen.”

  Her smile faded. What could possibly be “complicated” about it? The Undercity belonged to the Forsaken, and they were her people.

  “Your presence has been sorely missed,” he said. “While many are proud that at last the Horde has a Forsaken as its warchief, there are some who feel that you have perchance forgotten those who have been more loyal to you than any other.”

  She laughed sharply and without humor. “Baine and Saurfang and the others say I have not been giving them enough attention. My people say I have been giving them too much. Whatever I do, someone objects. How can anyone rule like this?” She shook her pale head. “A curse upon Vol’jin and his loa. I should have stayed in the shadows, where I could be effective without being interrogated.”

  Where I could do as I truly wished.

  She’d never wanted this. Not really. As she had told the troll Vol’jin before, during the trial of the late and greatly unlamented Garrosh Hellscream, she liked her power, her control, on the subtle side. But with quite literally his dying breath, Vol’jin, the Horde’s leader, had commanded that she do the opposite. He had claimed he had been granted a vision by the loa he honored.

  You must step out of da shadows and lead.

  You must be warchief.

  Vol’jin had been someone she respected, although they had clashed on occasion. He lacked the abrasiveness that so often characterized orc leadership. And she had been genuinely sorry he had fallen—and not just because of the responsibility he had placed on her head.

  She had opened her mouth to ask Nathanos to continue when she heard the thump-thump of a spear butt on the stone floor outside the small room. Sylvanas closed her eyes, trying to gather patience. “Enter,” she growled.

  One of the Kor’kron, the elite orc guards of the hold, obeyed and stood at attention, his green face unreadable. “Warchief,” he said, “it is time. Your people await you.”

  Your people. No. Her people were back in the Undercity, missing her and feeling slighted, unaware that she would like nothing more than to return and be among them once more.

  “I will be out momentarily,” Sylvanas said, adding, in case the guard did not understand what was behind the words, “Leave us.”

  The orc saluted and withdrew, letting the skin flap fall into place.

  “We will continue this as we ride,” she told Nathanos. “And I have other things I wish to discuss with you as well.”

  “As my queen wishes,” Nathanos replied.

  * * *

  —

  A few years earlier, Garrosh Hellscream had pushed to have a massive celebration in Orgrimmar to commemorate the end of the Northrend campaign. He wasn’t warchief—not then. There had been a parade of every veteran who wished to participate, their path strewn with imported pine boughs, and a gigantic feast awaited them at the end of the route.

  It had been extravagant, and expensive, and Sylvanas had no intention of following in the footsteps of Hellscream, not just in this situation but in any. He had been arrogant, brutal, impulsive. His decision to attack Theramore with a devastating mana bomb had the softer races wrestling with their consciences, although the only thing that had truly troubled Sylvanas about it was the orc’s timing. Sylvanas had loathed him and had secretly conspired—regrettably without success—to kill him even after he had been arrested and charged with war crimes. When, inevitably, Garrosh had been killed, Sylvanas had been immensely pleased.

  Varok Saurfang, the leader of the orcs, and Baine Bloodhoof, high chieftain of the tauren, had borne no love for Garrosh either. But they had pushed Sylvanas to make a public appearance in Orgrimmar and at least some kind of gesture to mark the end of the war. Brave members of this Horde you lead fought and died to make sure the Legion did not destroy this world, as the demons have so many others, the young bull had intoned. He had been but one step away from openly rebuking her.

  Sylvanas recalled Saurfang’s thinly veiled…warning? Threat? You are the leader of all the Horde—orcs, tauren, trolls, blood elves, pandaren, goblins—as well as the Forsaken. You must never forget that, or else they might.

  What I will not forget, orc, she thought, ire rising in her anew, are those words.

  So now, instead of returning home and addressing the Forsaken’s concerns, Sylvanas sat astride one of her bony skeletal horses, waving to the throngs of celebrants who crowded the streets of Orgrimmar. The march—she had taken care that no one referred to it as a “parade”—officially began at the entrance to the Horde capital. On one side of the gargantuan gates were clusters of the blood elves and Forsaken who inhabited the city.

  The blood elves were all dressed splendidly in their predictable colors of red and gold. At their head was Lor’themar Theron. He rode a red-plumed hawkstrider and met her gaze evenly.

  Friends, they had been. Theron had served under a living Sylvanas when she was ranger-general of the high elves. They had been comrades in arms, much like the one who rode beside her as her champion. But whereas Nathanos, a mortal human in years past and now Forsaken, had kept his unswerving loyalty to her, Sylvanas knew that Theron’s was to his people.

  People who had been just like her once.

  They were just like her no more.

  Theron inclined his head. He would serve, at least for the moment. Not one for speeches, Sylvanas merely nodded back and turned to the group of Forsaken.

  They stood patiently, as always, and she was proud of them for that. But she could not show favoritism, not here. So she gave them the same greeting she had given Lor’themar and the sin’dorei, then nudged her steed to move through the gate. The blood elves and the Forsaken fell in line, riding behind so as not to crowd her. That had been her stipulation, and she had stood firm on it. She wanted to be able to snatch at least a few moments of privacy. There were things meant for her champion’s ears alone.

  “Tell me more about the thoughts of my people,” she ordered.

  “From their perspective,” the dark ranger resumed, “you were a fixture in the Undercity. You made them, you worked to prolong their existence, you were everything to them. Your ascension to warchief was so sudden, th
e threat so great and so immediate, that you left no one behind to care for them.”

  Sylvanas nodded. She supposed she could understand that.

  “You left a great hole. And holes in power tend to be filled.”

  Her red eyes widened. Was he speaking of a coup? The queen’s mind flashed back a few years to the betrayal of Varimathras, a demon she had thought would obey her. He had joined with the ungrateful wretch Putress, a Forsaken apothecary who had created a plague against both the living and the undead and who had nearly killed Sylvanas herself. Retaking the Undercity had been a bloody endeavor. But no. Even as the thought occurred to her, she knew that her loyal champion would not be speaking in so casual a manner if something so terrible had happened.

  Reading her expression perfectly, as he so often did, Nathanos hastened to reassure her. “All is calm there, my queen. But in the absence of a single powerful leader, the inhabitants of your city have formed a governing body to tend to the population’s needs.”

  “Ah, I see. An interim organization. That is…not unreasonable.”

  The warchief’s path through the city would take her first through an alley lined with shops called the Drag and then to the Valley of Honor. The Drag had once been an apt name for the area, which had abutted a canyon wall in a less than savory part of the city before the Cataclysm. With that terrible event, the Drag, like so much of beleaguered Azeroth, had physically shifted. Like Sylvanas Windrunner herself, it had emerged from the shadows. Sunlight now illuminated the winding, hard-packed dirt of the streets. More reputable establishments, such as clothing shops and ink supply stores, seemed to be springing up as well.