THIRTY-ONE

Anduin!” Rohan’s voice was filled with warmth and surprise as he peered at the boy, who had suddenly appeared in the Hall of Mysteries. “We’d heard ye escaped. Why in th’ world have ye come back here?”

Anduin stepped out from the portal and quickly ducked into a corner of the hall. Rohan followed, speaking quietly and urgently.

“Moira’s on th’ warpath for ye. She’s searched here twice already an’ has got her lackeys scouring every inch of Ironforge. She’s nae said anything, o’ course, but we can tell who she’s looking for.”

“I had to come back,” Anduin said, keeping his voice low. “My father is mounting an attack to sneak into Ironforge, and I’ve got to stop him. He plans to kill Moira. He thinks she’s a usurper.”

Rohan’s white brows drew together in a frown. “But she’s not. She’s a lousy queen, that’s fer sure, an’ she’s thrown some good people in jail. But she is the rightful heir, and so is the wee bairn after her.”

“Exactly,” Anduin said, grateful that Rohan understood what he was getting at. “What she’s doing is wrong. I of all people can see that. She was trying to keep me prisoner. She was never intending to let me go. But that doesn’t mean my father can just murder her. It’s not his place, and he will accomplish nothing other than dwarven outrage and another civil war. Besides, some of what she wants to do is the right thing.”

“How did ye learn of this? Are ye certain yer information is accurate?”

Anduin didn’t want to implicate Jaina, so he just nodded. “As the Light guides me, Father Rohan, I trust that what I have been told is true.”

“Well, ye are a prince, not a humble priest like meself, so if you think it is the truth, then I do, too. And ye’re right. Murderin’ our leaders is nae the right thing t’ do … and there are folks that like some o’ what she’s been saying. I’ll help ye, lad. What do ye need of me?”

Anduin realized he hadn’t thought that far ahead. “Um,” he began, “I know my father’s coming via the Deeprun Tram tunnel. I don’t know when he’s supposed to get here. We should try to intercept him.”

“Hm,” said Rohan, “like many things, easier said than done. Ye’re a lad yet, but ye’re no dwarf-sized. And th’ Dark Irons are on the lookout for ye.”

“We’ll just have to be careful,” Anduin said. “And I’ll have to stoop. Come on!”

The eighteen assassins and the king of Stormwind scrambled out of the Deeprun Tram track and onto the platform. They were met by several Dark Iron dwarves. It was a one-sided fight, and the SI:7 team quickly and ruthlessly dispatched Moira’s guards. The fight had attracted some attention, and a little crowd of mostly gnomes now stared at the men and women in masks and black leather, unsure if they were rescuers or new foes.

“Dinna worry,” Graddock reassured them. “We’ve come fer Moira and her people, not the good folk of Ironforge.”

The gnomes, who had been clustered together, gave a cheer.

They hurried on, heading toward the Hall of Explorers, which would be quiet at this time of night. From there, it was a straight shot across the Great Forge to the High Seat. The gnome named Brink scouted ahead and reported back.

“Twenty-three,” he said in a gravelly voice. “Ten are Dark Iron guards.”

“Only ten? I expected more,” Graddock said. “Let’s go.”

In the end Anduin did not have to stoop. One of the priestesses was an alchemist and had readily agreed to mix up an invisibility potion. “It will nae last very long,” she cautioned. “An’ it tastes nasty tae boot.”

“I can run pretty fast,” Anduin assured her, taking the small vial. He uncorked it and coughed at the fumes. The priestess was right—it certainly smelled nasty.

“Bottoms up,” he said and lifted it to his lips.

“Hold a moment, lad,” Rohan said. “There’s summat going on out there. …”

There was a commotion out in the main area. Various guards were running about, looking grimmer than usual.

“Och, I hope ye’ve not been spotted,” Rohan said quietly. One of the guards started jogging toward the Hall of Mysteries, and Anduin crouched back in the shadows, prepared to chug the potion, if need be.

“Healers! Come quickly, ye’re needed!”

“What is it?” Rohan said, giving a fairly good impression of someone who had just been roused from sleep.

“There’s been fighting at the Deeprun Tram,” the Dark Iron guard said.

“Really?” Rohan kept his voice pitched loud for Anduin’s benefit. “How many? And is th’ site contained?”

“About ten, and nay, there seems to be fighting in th’ Great Forge area, too. Bring all yer priests! Now!”

Rohan cast a quick, apologetic glance over his shoulder, then gathered his supplies and hurried off along with the other priests. Anduin was on his own.

“Too late,” he murmured to himself. If Varian and the team of assassins were already at the forge—

His mouth set in a grim line, then he lifted the potion to his lips and gulped it down, grimacing at the taste.

Then Anduin Wrynn ran as fast as his legs could carry him toward the High Seat, Moira … and his father.

The first few guards were dispatched quietly. The group skidded to a halt and caught their breaths, melding with the shadows. Right across the forge was the High Seat … and there were several Dark Irons in the way.

“We’ll split into two groups. You,” and Graddock pointed to nine of his followers, “stay wi’ me. We’ll tackle th’ guards at th’ forge. The rest of ye, go wi’ Varian. Get him tae Moira, no matter the cost. Is that clear?”

They all nodded. Despite the odds that stared them in the face, none of them looked particularly distressed. As Varian watched, Brink even yawned and stretched. He supposed this was all in a day’s work for them, just as slaughtering foes twice his size had been his “job” as a gladiator.

“All right, then. Let’s be about it.”

And with no further warning, the first group moved forward. Varian, whose eyes had gotten used to seeing them after the hours they had spent together this night, blinked as they became indistinguishable from the shadows. And then the cries started as the assassins attacked—cutting throats, picking up the startled dwarves and hurling them into the molten liquid pools of the forge.

“Go, go!” It was Brink, elbowing Varian in the thigh. He needed no further urging. His group began to run at full speed along the length of the Great Forge. The Dark Iron guards stationed there met them halfway, roaring challenges. Pleased to finally be in an open, one-on-one swordfight after sneaking around all night, Varian shouted a battle cry and fell eagerly on the first one. Swords clashed against axe blade and shield, striking sparks in the dim light. The Dark Iron was good, Varian had to give him that. He managed to block Varian’s blows fully four times before the king dodged a counterattack and stabbed the dwarf through the gap in his armor between arm and breastplate.

He whirled, sweeping one sword parallel to the ground, biting through the armor of another guard. This one cried out in pain, falling to his knees. Varian kicked him in the face, then severed his head from his shoulders with the second sword. He didn’t even see the head strike the ground, his eyes searching for where the next attack would be.

His team was already inside the High Seat, quickly and ruthlessly dispatching any opposition they found there. Of course, at this hour Moira would not be sitting on her stolen throne. She would be in one of the private back rooms, asleep, with her brat of a child.

Varian rushed forward, his focus narrowing so that the door to the false queen’s private rooms was the only thing he thought of. He ran full tilt toward it, turning at the last minute to slam it with a plated shoulder. It did not yield. Again he slammed into it, and again, and then two more assassins were there, putting their shoulders to the task.

The door splintered, and they half-ran, half-fell inside. They were attacked almost at once. Varian heard a woman screaming and the shriek of a frightened infant. He paid it no mind, slashing out with his swords at the two dwarves who charged him. They fell quickly, their blood spattering him. One of his swords was lodged firmly in the midsection of one, and after a quick attempt to tug it free Varian abandoned the weapon. He whirled, gripping the remaining sword with both hands, and sought his prey.

Moira Bronzebeard, wearing a nightgown, her hair in disarray and her eyes wide with terror, stood on the bed. Varian ripped off the mask that had covered the lower part of his face, and Moira gasped with recognition. In two strides Varian had her. He seized her arm, hauling her off the bed. She struggled, but his hand had clamped down around her upper arm like a manacle.

She stumbled as he pulled her out of the room, but he didn’t care. Varian marched out into the open area near the forge, where crowds were starting to gather, dragging the struggling dwarf behind him. He hauled her to him roughly with one arm.

His other hand was at her throat, pressing the sword against the pale flesh.

“Behold the usurper!” Varian cried, his identity no longer secret, his voice echoing in the vast space. “This is the child Magni Bronzebeard wept countless tears over. His beloved little girl. How sickened he would be to see what she’s done to his city, his people!”

The gathered crowd stared. Even the Dark Irons did not dare make a move, not with their empress in such immediate jeopardy.

“This throne is not yours. You bought it with deceit, and lies, and trickery. You have threatened your own subjects when they have done nothing wrong, and bullied your way to a title you have not yet earned. I will not see you sit upon this stolen throne one moment longer!”

“Father!”

The voice cut through the haze of Varian’s rage, and for just an instant the blade he held to Moira’s throat wavered. Then he recovered. He did not take his eyes from the dwarf as he replied.

“You shouldn’t be here, Anduin. Get out. This is no place for you.”

“But it is my place!” The voice was coming closer, moving through the crowd toward him. Moira’s gaze darted from Varian to, presumably, his son, but she made no attempt to beg for aid. Probably because she knew any movement other than her eyes would result in the sword’s being plunged deep into her pale throat.

“You sent me here! You wanted me to get to know the dwarven people, and I have. I knew Magni well, and I was here when Moira came. I saw what turmoil her arrival brought. And I saw that things got far too close to civil war when people reached for weapons to solve their problems with her. Whatever you may think of her, she is the rightful heir!”

“Maybe her blood’s right,” snarled Varian, “but her mind’s not. She’s under a spell, Son; Magni always thought so. She tried to keep you prisoner. She’s holding a bunch of people for no reason.” Making sure his grip was solid, he turned his head slightly. “She’s not fit to be leader! She’s going to destroy all that Magni tried to do! All that he … he died for!”

Anduin stepped forward, a hand outstretched imploringly. “There’s no spell, Father. Magni wanted to believe there was rather than the truth—that he drove Moira away because she wasn’t a male heir.”

Varian’s black brows drew together. “You spit on the memory of an honorable man, Anduin.”

Anduin didn’t flinch. “You can be an honorable man and still make mistakes,” he continued implacably. His father’s cheeks darkened, and he knew he didn’t need to say anything else. “Moira was accepted among the Dark Irons. She fell in love, she married within the laws of her people, she bore her husband a child. She’s the rightful dwarven heir of the dwarven people. They need to decide whether to accept her or not. It’s not our place.”

“She held you hostage, Anduin!” Varian’s voice echoed, and Anduin flinched slightly. “You, my son! She can’t be allowed to get away with that! I won’t let her hold you and a whole city prisoner. I won’t, do you understand?”

His boy, his beautiful son … it was hard not to simply bellow in anger and plunge the blade into the usurper’s neck. To not rejoice in the feel of hot, wet blood spurting over his hand. To know that the threat to his son was forever ended. He could do it. He could do all that. And how he wanted to.

“Then let her answer to the law, to her people, for what she has done to them. Father—you’re a king, a good one, one who wants to do the right thing. You believe in the law. In justice. You’re not some—some vigilante. Destruction …” Anduin paused in midsentence, a strange but calm look coming over his young face, as if remembering something. “Destruction is easy. Creating something good, something right, something that lasts—that’s what’s hard. It’d be easy to kill her. But you have to think of what’s best for the people of Ironforge. For the dwarves—all of them. What is wrong with the dwarves’ deciding how much or how little they want to participate in the world’s politics? What’s wrong with reaching out to the Dark Irons if they are amenable?”

There were some slight murmurings. Varian looked around, nostrils flaring. Rohan cleared his throat.

“The lad speaks true, Yer Majesty. Summat o’ what Moira says is wisdom. Now, how she’s gone about it—right foolish. But she’s our princess, in the end. And once she’s proper crowned, our queen.”

“If Moira dies and there is no clear heir, civil war will erupt!” Anduin continued. “Do you think that’s what’s best for the dwarven people? Do you think that’s what Magni would want? This might bring Stormwind into the war, too—or the night elves, or the gnomes. Can you make the decisions for them, too?”

Varian’s hand was trembling slightly now, and Moira let out a little squeak as the blade nicked her throat. A single drop of red blood dewed the sword.

You’re not some—some vigilante.

Destruction is easy.

I do want to do what’s right—what’s just, Varian thought wildly. But how do I create something that lasts? She is the rightful heir, and, yes, the dwarves might turn on one another. It’s not my place to do this. This is their city, their queen or their pretender. If we could only find Brann or Muradin, we—

He blinked.

“Much as I wish it weren’t true,” he said harshly to Moira, who stared up at him with wide, terrified eyes, “yours is the rightful claim to the throne. But just like me, Moira Bronzebeard, you need to be better than you are. You need more than just a bloodline to rule your people well. You’re going to have to earn it.”

He shoved her away. She staggered back but made no attempt to flee. How could she? She was encircled by the populace of the city she had tried to rule with a cruel, arrogant hand.

“You obviously can’t be trusted to have free rein over Ironforge. Not by yourself, not yet. You’ve made that amply clear. These people aren’t just the Dark Iron dwarves you’re used to lording over. The dwarves have three clans. Dark Iron, Bronzebeard, and Wildhammer. You want to bring the dwarven people together? Fine. Then each of those clans needs a representative. A voice, which, by the Light, you will listen to!” He was working it through as he spoke. The Wildhammers, it was true, had demonstrated little interest in Ironforge and had their own holdings elsewhere. They were their own nation; Moira would not be their queen.

But this was about more than her title. It was about the dwarves as a people. It was about preventing, as Anduin had said, civil war. It felt right—right enough to be given a chance to see if it worked. In the end, the dwarves themselves would decide that.

Moira said nothing, only looked around with wide, fearful eyes. She looked like nothing more than a scared little girl, standing there in her nightgown. …

“Three clans, three leaders. Three … hammers,” Varian said. “You for the Dark Irons, whom you married into, Falstad for the Wildhammers, and Muradin or Brann or whoever we can find for the Bronzebeards. You will listen to their needs. You will work with them for the betterment of the dwarven people, not your own selfish ends. Do you understand me?”

Moira nodded … carefully.

“We’ll be watching you. Very. Closely. Instead of bleeding your life out here on the floor of the High Seat, you’ve got a second chance to prove that you’re ready to lead the dwarves.” He leaned over her. “Don’t disappoint them.”

He gave a curt nod. The blades of the SI:7 team were sheathed as quickly as they had been drawn. Moira’s hand went to her throat and tentatively touched the nick there. She was visibly shaking, all her chilling elegance and false sweetness gone.

He was done with her. He turned to Anduin, saw his son smiling and nodding with pride. With two strides Varian closed the distance between them and hugged his son. As he held Anduin tight, he heard the first smatterings of applause. It built, grew, was joined by shouts and whistles of approval. Names were called—“Wildhammer!” “Bronzebeard!” And, as Anduin and Rohan had said, even “Dark Iron!”

Varian looked up to see dozens, perhaps hundreds, of dwarves smiling and cheering at him and his decision. Moira stood alone, her hand still to her throat, her head bowed.

“See, Father?” Anduin said, pulling back to look up at him. “You knew exactly the right thing to do. I knew you did.”

Varian smiled. “I needed someone to believe that for me, before I could,” he replied. “Come on, Son. Let’s go home.”

Thrall and Aggra hurried back to Garadar, only to find a grim-faced welcome. Greatmother Geyah in particular looked extremely sad, rising to embrace Thrall. A tauren stood by, tall and straight. Thrall recognized him as Perith Stormhoof, and he felt the color drain from his face. “Something terrible has happened,” Thrall said, the phrase not a question but a statement. “What is it?”

Geyah laid a hand on his heart. “First, you know here that you were right to come to Nagrand. Whatever has happened in your absence.”

Thrall glanced at Aggra, who looked as upset as he felt. He forced himself to be calm. “Perith. Speak.”

And Perith did, his voice calm, breaking only at certain points. He spoke of the treacherous murder of innocent druids gathering peacefully, and of an outraged Cairne challenging Garrosh. Of the great high chieftain’s death that was subsequently determined to be from poison administered by Magatha Grimtotem. Of the slaughter at Thunder Bluff, and Bloodhoof Village, and Sun Rock Retreat. When he had finished, he held out a rolled-up scroll. “Palkar, Drek’Thar’s attendant, sends this as well.”

Thrall unrolled it with hands he forced to not tremble. As he read Palkar’s words—words that revealed that, contrary to what all had thought, Drek’Thar, while his mind sometimes wandered, still had true visions—his heart sank. The ink had spotted as Palkar wrote of Drek’Thar’s latest utterance: The land will weep, and the world will break. …

The world will break. As another world had done once before …

Thrall swayed, but refused offers to sit. He stood, his knees locked into position as if welded there. For a long moment he stood, wondering, Was I right to come? Was this bit of knowledge I have gleaned worth the loss of Cairne? Of so many innocent, peaceful tauren? And even if I was right—am I in time?

“Baine,” he said at last. “What of Baine?”

“No word, Warchief,” Perith said. “But it is believed he is still alive.”

“And Garrosh? What has he done?”

“Nothing, so far. He appears to be waiting to see which side is victorious.”

Thrall’s hands clenched into fists. He felt a brush, featherlight, and looked down to see Aggra’s hand touching his. Not knowing exactly why he did so, he opened his fist and permitted his fingers to twine with hers. He took a deep breath.

“This—” His voice broke, and he tried again. “This is grievous news. My heart breaks for the slain.” He looked at Geyah. “Today, I learned things from the Furies that I believe will help me aid Azeroth. I had hoped to leave in a few days, but now surely you understand that I must depart immediately.”

“Of course,” Geyah said at once. “We have already packed your things.”

He was both glad of this and not, as he had hoped to have a few moments to compose himself. Geyah, shrewd female that she was, realized this at once. “I am sure you will wish to take a few moments in meditation before you go,” she said, and Thrall seized upon the opportunity.

He strode outside Garadar a short way to a clump of trees. A small herd of wild talbuk eyed him, then with a flip of their tails galloped a short distance away to resume grazing in peace.

Thrall sat down hard, feeling a thousand years old. He was having difficulty absorbing the scope of the catastrophic news. Could it all really be true? The killing of the druids, of Cairne, of untold numbers of tauren at the very heart of their land? He felt almost dizzy and placed his head in his hands for a moment.

His mind went back to his last conversation with Cairne, and pain shot through his heart. To have exchanged such words with an old friend—and to have those words be the last thing Cairne had from him … this single death seemed to strike him harder than all the innocent lives lost as a result of Cairne’s murder. For murder it was. Not a fair death in the arena, but poisoned—

He jumped as he felt a hand on his shoulder and whirled to see Aggra sitting beside him. Anger stirred inside him and he snapped, “Have you come to gloat, Aggra? To tell me what a poor warchief I am? That my divided loyalties have cost the life of one of my dearest friends and those of countless innocents?”

Her brown eyes were unspeakably kind as she shook her head, remaining silent.

Thrall exhaled loudly and looked off to the horizon. “If you did, you would be saying nothing I have not already thought.”

“So I assumed. One doesn’t often need help in beating oneself up.” She spoke quietly, and Thrall suspected he was hearing the voice of experience. She hesitated, then said, “I was wrong to so sit in judgment of you. I apologize.”

He waved a hand. In light of what he had just heard, Aggra’s tart comments were the least of his worries. But she pressed on.

“When we first heard of you, I was excited. I was raised on stories of Durotan and Draka. I admired your mother in particular. I … I wanted to be like her. And when we heard of you, we all thought you would come home to Nagrand. But you stayed in Azeroth, even when we, the Mag’har, joined the Horde. Made alliances with strange beings. And … I felt betrayed that Draka’s son would forsake his people. You did come back. Once. But you did not stay. And I could not understand why.”

He listened, not interrupting.

“Then you came again. Wanting our knowledge, knowledge that was bought with such pain and effort—not to help the world that birthed our people, but to help this strange, alien place. I was angry. And so I was harsh to you. It was selfish and shallow of me.”

“What changed your mind?” he asked, curious.

She had been looking away, to the horizon, as he had been. Now she turned her face to his. The slanting afternoon light caught the strong planes of her brown, so very orcish face. And Thrall, used to finding harmony and pleasing beauty in the faces of human woman, as he had grown up among that race, was suddenly struck by hers.

“It was starting to happen before the vision quest,” she said quietly. “You had already begun to change my mind. You did not rise to the bait to be hooked like a fish. Neither did you use your influence with the Greatmother to replace me as your teacher. And the more I watched and listened to you, the more I realized … this truly does matter to you.

“I walked with you, and saw how you lived the elements, like a true shaman does. I saw, and I shared, your pain, and joy. I watched you with Taretha, with Drek’Thar, with Cairne and Jaina. You live what you believe, even if you didn’t understand it until you underwent the vision quest. You are not a power-hungry child seeking a new, better challenge. You are striving to do what is best for your people—all of them. Not just orc, or Horde, but you even want what is best for your rivals. You want,” she said, and placed a brown hand flat on the earth in a loving gesture, “what is best for your world.”

“I am not sure that what I have done is best for it,” Thrall admitted quietly. “If I had stayed—”

“Then you would not have learned what you have.”

“Cairne would be alive. And so would the tauren who lived in Thunder Bluff and—”

Her hand shot out and gripped his arm, the nails digging angrily into the flesh. “What you have learned could save everything. Everything!”

“Or nothing,” Thrall said. He did not pull his arm back, instead watched as blood began to seep from beneath her nails.

“You chose possibility over certainty. The possibility of success over certain defeat. If you had done nothing, then you would not have been a warchief. You would have been a coward, unworthy of such an honor.” Her face hardened slightly. “But if you want to wallow? Cry, ‘Poor Go’el, woe is me’? Then by all means do so. But you will have to do it without me.”

She began to rise. Thrall caught her wrist, and she glared at him.

“What did you mean?”

“I meant, if you choose the path of self-pity over action, that you would prove my change of heart to be wrong. And I would not go back to Azeroth with you.”

He tightened his grip on her wrist. “You … were planning on returning with me? Why?”

Emotions flitted across her face, and finally Aggra blurted, “Because, Go’el, I found that I did not wish to be apart from you. But it seems I was wrong, because you are not what I thought you were. I will not go with one who—”

He pulled her down into his arms and crushed her to him. “I would have you come with me. Walk with me wherever this path may take us. I have grown used to your voice letting me know when I am wrong, and … I like to hear it when you speak gently. It would pain me, to not have you near. Will you come? Be at my side?”

“To—advise you?”

He nodded, his cheek resting against the top of her head. “To be my wisdom, as Air, my steadiness, as Earth …” He took a deep breath. “And my passion and my heart, as Fire and Water. And if you would have it so, I would be these things to you.”

He felt her trembling in his embrace: she, Aggra, strong and courageous. She pulled back a little and laid her hand on his chest, her eyes searching his. “Go’el, as long as you have this great heart to lead—and to love—then know that I will go with you to the ends of any world and beyond.”

He placed a hand on her cheek, green skin against brown, then leaned forward slowly to rest his forehead gently against hers.