THIRTY
It began as a thunderstorm.
Anduin had grown used to frequent, and sometimes violent, rainstorms in Theramore. But this one had thunder that rattled his teeth and shook him awake and lightning that completely illuminated his room. He bolted up in time to hear another crash of thunder and the sound of rain pounding so fiercely against his window that he thought the drops alone would shatter it.
He got out of bed and looked out—or tried to. Rain was sluicing down so heavily it was impossible to see. He turned his head, listening as the sound of voices in the hallways reached him. He frowned slightly and threw on some clothes, poking his head out to find out what the commotion was.
Jaina rushed past. Clearly she, too, had just awakened and tossed on clothing. Her eyes were clear, but her hair had not seen a comb yet.
“Aunt Jaina? What’s wrong?”
“Flooding,” Jaina replied succinctly.
For an instant Anduin was hurled back in time to the avalanche in Dun Morogh, to another instance of angry, distressed elements venting their rage upon the innocents. Aerin’s cheerful face swam into his mind, but he forced it aside.
She drew breath, probably to protest, then gave him a strained smile and nodded. “All right.”
He took another minute to tug on his tallest boots and throw on a hooded cape, then he was racing outside along with Jaina and several servants and guards.
The rain and the whipping wind almost halted him in his tracks. It seemed to be coming sideways rather than straight down and took his breath away for a moment. Jaina, too, was having difficulty walking. She and the others stumbled almost as if drunk as they descended from the elevated tower to ground level.
Anduin knew there was a full moon, but the heavy clouds obscured any light it might have provided. The guards bore lanterns, but the illumination was feeble. Fire would have been no use whatsoever in the deluge. Anduin gasped when his feet sank ankle-deep in water so cold he could feel it even through his heavy but now sodden boots. His eyes were adjusting to the dimness, and he realized that the entire area was covered with water. It was not too deep—not yet.
Lights were on at the inn and the mill, and there was more shouting, barely heard over the tremendous pounding of the rain and thunder. The inn was on a slight hill, but the mill was now several inches deep in water.
“Lieutenant Aden!” Jaina cried, and a mounted soldier wheeled his steed and splashed toward her. “We’re opening the doors of the citadel to anyone who needs refuge. Bring them in!”
“Aye, my lady!” Aden shouted back. He yanked on the head of his horse and headed for the mill.
Jaina paused for a moment and lifted her hands to the sky, then moved her hands and fingers. Anduin couldn’t hear what she said, but her mouth was moving. A heartbeat later, he gasped as the image of a giant dragon head appeared beside her. It opened its jaws and breathed a sheet of flame across the water, evaporating a large patch. Of course, the water rushed in again to fill the void, but the dragon head seemed tireless. It continued to breathe fire, and Jaina nodded in satisfaction.
“To the docks!” she cried to Anduin, and he followed her, gamely running as fast as he could through the water. It grew deeper as the ground sloped downward. Up ahead, Anduin saw a sight that might have been humorous at any other time but now only contributed to the chaos: All the gryphons had flown to perch atop various buildings. Their wings and fur were drenched, and they cawed defiantly at the flight masters who were alternately railing at them and pleading with them to “Please, come down!”
The water was up to Anduin’s knees now, and he, Jaina, and the guards were grimly slogging their way forward. People, like the gryphons, had gotten to the highest ground possible. Their instincts were sound, but the lightning was furious and frequent, and what had seemed like wisdom at first was now revealed as potentially even more dangerous. Anduin and the guards were now helping frightened merchants and their families climb down to safety.
Anduin was starting to shiver. His cloak and boots were sturdy, but they were never meant to keep him warm or dry while actually in water. The water was utterly frigid, and he couldn’t feel his legs below his knees. Still, he pressed onward. People were in trouble, and he had to help them.
He had just opened his arms to receive a sobbing little girl when a lightning bolt turned night into day. He had been looking over the girl’s shoulder as she clung to him in the direction of the docks and saw a bright white zigzag strike the wooden pier. A deafening clap of thunder came immediately afterward, along with the horrible sound of people screaming and the groaning of shattered wood. Two ships that had been docked there rocked violently, tossed about as if by an angry giant child.
The girl shrieked in his ear and clutched his neck as if trying to strangle him. There was another flash of lightning, and it looked to Anduin as if a giant wave had come out of the sea, almost like a hand about to slam down on the docks. Anduin blinked, trying to clear his vision from the rain pouring like a river down his face. He couldn’t be seeing what he thought he was, he simply couldn’t.
Another nearly blinding flash, and the strange wave had disappeared.
So had the Theramore docks and the two ships. He had seen what he thought he had after all. The lightning had sheared off most of the Theramore docks, the ocean had completed the task, and now he could even glimpse fire despite the pummeling of the rain.
Jaina grabbed his shoulder and placed her mouth next to Anduin’s ear. “Take her back to the citadel!”
He nodded and spat out rainwater in order to speak. “I’ll come right back!”
“No! This is too dangerous!” Jaina again yelled in order to be heard over the storm. “Go and take care of the refugees!”
Anger and impotent frustration suddenly welled up in Anduin. He wasn’t a child. He had strong arms and a calm head; he could help, dammit! But he also knew Jaina was right. He was heir to the throne of Stormwind, and he had a responsibility not to put himself foolishly in harm’s way. With a muttered curse he turned back toward the citadel, wading through the icy water.
He was past shaking by the time he slogged into the citadel, where some of the servants were busily wrapping blankets around the flood victims and offering hot tea and food. Anduin carefully turned over the child to an older woman who rushed up to take her. He knew that he was drenched, that he needed to change out of the wet clothes, but he just couldn’t seem to move to do so. One of Jaina’s assistants looked up at him, did a double take, and frowned at his expression. Anduin stared back, chilled to the bone, blinking almost stupidly. In a distant part of his brain, he realized he was probably going into shock.
“Wish I had Fearbreaker,” he murmured. He was dimly aware of the servant pulling him into a side room, helping him out of the sodden clothes and thrusting a too-large shirt and pair of pants at him. Before Anduin quite realized what had happened, he was wrapped in a rough but warm blanket in front of the fire with a mug of hot tea in his hand. The servant vanished—there were many others who needed immediate care. After a few moments Anduin began shivering violently, and after a few moments more, he began thinking about the idea of perhaps being in the vicinity of being warm.
After a while he felt well enough to be of help, rather than simply taking up a spot on the floor. He went to his room, threw on his own clothing, and returned to help others as he had been helped, providing hot liquids and blankets and taking their soggy clothes to hang up on lines quickly strung about the rooms.
The rain did not let up. The waters rose, despite Jaina’s dragon head trying to keep them at bay. Jaina was pushing herself well past the point of exhaustion, renewing the spell every few minutes, issuing orders, and aiding the refugees. As the waters climbed, more and more people sought refuge in the citadel, sitting on the wooden floors of its many stories. Eventually Anduin was fairly certain that the citadel, the guard quarters, and the inn housed everyone who lived in Theramore.
Finally, toward dusk of the second day, Jaina resigned herself to sitting down and eating and drinking something. She had changed clothes several times, and this current change of clothing was now sopping wet. Anduin drew a seat for her by the fire in her small, cozy room and brought her some tea. Jaina was shaking so badly that the cup rattled in the saucer as she lifted bloodshot, exhausted eyes to him.
“I think you need to return home. There’s no knowing when the flooding is going to stop, and I can’t risk your safety.”
Anduin looked unhappy. “I can help,” he said. “I won’t do anything foolish, Jaina, you know I won’t.”
She reached out as if to tousle his blond hair but seemed too weak to complete the gesture. Her hand fell limply into her lap, and she sighed.
“Well, it’s not as if you’d see your father,” she murmured, taking a sip of tea.
“What do you mean?”
Jaina froze, the cup halfway to the saucer. She lifted wide eyes to Anduin, and he saw the look of someone desperately searching for a comforting falsehood but too exhausted mentally to find it.
“What about my father? Where is he?” And then he knew. He stared at her, horrified. “He’s going to attack Ironforge, isn’t he?”
“Anduin,” Jaina began, “Moira is a tyrant. She—”
“Moira? Come on, Aunt Jaina, you have to tell me what he’s doing!”
In a voice that was heavy with resignation and trembling with weariness, Jaina spoke, confirming his worst fears.
“Varian is taking an elite strike team to Ironforge. Their mission is to execute Moira and liberate the city.”
Anduin couldn’t believe his ears. “How are they getting in?”
“Through the Deeprun Tram passageway.”
“They’ll be spotted.”
Jaina rubbed her eyes. “Anduin, we’re talking SI:7 people. They won’t be spotted.”
Anduin shook his head slowly. “No, they won’t. Jaina, you’re right. I do need to leave Theramore.”
She frowned, the little crease on her forehead more prominent with her weariness. “No. You are not going to Ironforge!”
He almost growled in exasperation. “Jaina, listen to me, please! You’ve always been reasonable; you’ve got to be reasonable now. Moira’s done some bad things—locked down the city, put innocent people in jail. But she didn’t kill King Magni and she is his daughter. She’s the rightful heir, and her son after her. Some of the things she wants to do, I approve of—she’s just trying to do the right things the wrong way.”
“Anduin, she is holding a whole city—Ironforge, the dwarven capital—hostage.”
“Because she doesn’t know them yet. Doesn’t trust them. Jaina, in some ways, she’s just a frightened little girl who wanted her father to love her.”
“Scared little girls who rule cities do dangerous things, and they need to be stopped.”
“By being killed? Or do they need to be guided? She wants the dwarves to take another look at their heritage. To reach out to the Dark Irons as the brethren they are. Is that worth being murdered for? And maybe her child along with her? Listen to me, Jaina, please. If Father carries out this attack, a lot of people are going to die, and the succession will be thrown into confusion. Instead of coming together as a people, the dwarves are going to find themselves in the midst of another civil war! I’ve got to try to stop him, don’t you see? Make him understand that there’s another way.”
“No, absolutely not! You are thirteen years old, with insufficient training, and the heir to the throne besides. Do you think it would help Stormwind if you got yourself killed?” She took a deep breath and paused, thinking hard. He stayed silent. “All right. If you are set on doing this—and you might be right—I’m coming with you. Give me a few hours to contain the situation here and—”
“He’s on his way now. We don’t have the luxury of a few hours, you know that! I know Father, and so do you. You know that whatever is going to happen, it’s going to be bad, and it’s going to happen quickly. I can help. I can save lives. Let me do this.”
Jaina’s eyes filled with tears, and she turned away. He didn’t press her. He had faith in her and knew she would do the right thing.
“I …”
“One day I’ll be king, and not just for a short time. One day Father will be gone, and no one knows when that day will be. It could be as early as tonight—Light knows I hope not, but you know that, and I know it. And so does Father. Ruling Stormwind is my destiny, what I was born to do. And I can’t face that destiny if I’m being treated like a child.”
She bit her lower lip, then dashed her hand across her eyes. “You’re right,” she said quietly. “You’re not a little boy anymore. We both still want you to be, your father and I, but you’ve already seen so much, done so much. …”
Her voice broke and she paused. “You take the utmost care not to get caught, Anduin Wrynn,” she said in a voice that was hard and angry. For a second he was startled, then he realized she wasn’t angry at him—she was angry that there was no other way. “And you stop your father. You make it worth the risk, do you understand?”
He nodded mutely. She caught him up in her arms and hugged him tightly, as if she were holding him for the last time. And maybe, in a way, she was, trying to give a final farewell to the boy he had been. He hugged her back, feeling a cold brush of fear. But even stronger than the fear was a calm, quiet feeling in the center of his being that told him he was doing the right thing.
She drew back and patted his cheek, the tears streaming down her face as she forced a smile.
“May the Light be with you,” she said. Stepping back, she began to cast the spell to create a portal.
“It is,” Anduin said. “I know it.”
And he stepped through.
They were shadows, nothing more, as they slipped along the dark streets that were deserted this hour of the night. They were heading north, into the smoky Dwarven District.
Heading for the Deeprun Tram.
The station was utterly deserted, and of course the tram itself was nowhere to be seen. When it had been running, bright spotlights had been placed every few yards along the track for the safety and pleasure of the commuters. Now that the tram was “closed for repairs” at its Ironforge departure site, Varian had ordered all the lights in the Stormwind jurisdiction extinguished. The eighteen other men and women who now dropped down onto the tracks and ran lightly along the metal path, their feet making barely a sound, were accustomed to maneuvering in the darkness, and the path was a straight shot. Varian’s feet, however, did make some slight sounds, and he frowned to himself. He was in this instance the weakest link in the chain. His training had been much different from those of his compatriots. While he was unquestionably as deadly as they, his manner of attack was quite different, and he was more than willing to let himself to be guided and corrected. All nineteen of them wore masks to protect their identities.
The leader of this part of the mission was Owynn Graddock, a dwarf with darkly tanned skin and black hair and beard. He had been handpicked for the job by Mathias Shaw, head of SI:7. Though most were human, there were several other dwarves and a few gnomes among the company. Varian had insisted they be included. Every trained assassin could do the job, but dwarves and gnomes would stand to benefit the most from regaining control of Ironforge.
Prior to the mission, Graddock had scouted out almost the entire length of the tram’s tunnel himself, so the group knew what to face.
“There’s nae break in th’ glass keeping the water from th’ lake out,” Graddock had reported. “I half-expected that—it would flood the tunnel but good, an’ thus prevent the sort o’ thing we’re attempting here. But I figure Moira eventually wants to be able to use th’ tram—maybe tae mount an attack on Stormwind. At any rate, we’re lucky with that.
“Now, about here … I saw some Dark Irons lurkin’ about. So …” He had looked up, his solemn brown eyes regarding Mathias and Varian. “Here’s where th’ battle begins.”
Now they ran, swiftly and for the most part silently, until they reached the subterranean lake. Varian did not spare the wonders of the lake, visible through strong glass, a second glance. His mind was utterly on the mission.
On they ran, no one growing even slightly out of breath. A scent reached Varian’s nostrils—thick and sweet and cloying. Pipe tobacco. He smiled beneath his mask at how his enemies had so obviously given themselves away. At once he slowed, as did his companions. In the dim light he saw Graddock gesture for them to prepare for battle.
The assassins drew various weapons—daggers, awls painted with poison, gloves with special devices built inside them. Varian tightened his mask more firmly so that it would not slip and reached for his own weapons, two shortswords. He was loath to forego the more familiar Shalamayne, but it was instantly recognizable, and he wished no one to suspect his identity until he chose to reveal it.
Another gesture from Graddock, and they moved forward, slowly, and this time even Varian’s feet did not make noise on the creaky metal. He was learning. Now he could glimpse the dwarves up ahead. There were five of them. They were sitting on folded blankets. Tankards of ale and trays heaped with the remnants of a meal surrounded them, and—Varian couldn’t believe it—they were playing cards.
Graddock held up his hand and brought it down once, twice, three times.
The assassins sprang.
Varian wasn’t sure how they communicated, but it was almost as if the attack was choreographed. Each dwarf had a black-leather-clad killer atop him before he could do more than gasp in surprise. Varian had charged forward, swords at the ready, biting back a yell, but by the time he was there, the five had been quickly and quietly killed. One had a knife in his eye. Another’s neck had been snapped. A third’s face was swollen in reaction to a swift-acting poison, froth still dripping from his mouth. A gnome male named Brink, balding and oddly dangerous looking for one of his race, and a human female now rose, cleaning their blades emotionlessly and efficiently, from the final two kills.
They moved on to the next group. They were closing in on Ironforge.