THIRTY-TWO

The funereal cloth in which High Chieftain Cairne Bloodhoof had been lovingly wrapped was exquisite. It had been woven in the hues of the Earth Mother—tans and browns and greens.

As was traditional among the tauren, the dead were cremated with ceremony and ritual. The bodies were placed atop a pyre, and a raging fire was lit beneath them. The ashes would fall to the earth; the smoke would rise to the sky. Earth Mother and Sky Father would thus both welcome the honored dead, and An’she and Mu’sha would witness their passing.

Thrall wore, as he almost always did, the armor that the late Orgrim Doomhammer had bequeathed to him. Its weight hindered him somewhat, and Thrall was forced to climb slowly atop a ridge so he could be on the same level as the body and look at what remained of Cairne with vision made blurry because of tears.

Thrall had rushed back to Azeroth. He and Aggra had met briefly with Baine, and Thrall had requested some time alone with Cairne. The request had been granted. Later there would be long conversations, and planning, and preparations. But for now Thrall sat near his old friend for a long time, while the sun made its languid path across the blue sky of Mulgore. Finally Thrall took a deep breath and said quietly, “Cairne, my old friend … are you still here?”

Both tauren and orcs believed that the spirits of the beloved dead sometimes spoke with those they had loved in life. They imparted warnings, or advice, or simply blessings.

Thrall would have been grateful for any of these.

But his words were taken by the soft, fragrant breeze and borne away, and nothing, no one, stirred to answer him. Thrall lowered his head for a moment.

“And so I truly am alone, and you truly have departed, my old friend,” he said. “And so I cannot ask your advice, or your forgiveness, as I should have been able to.”

Only the soft sigh of the wind answered him.

“We parted in anger, you and I. Two who should never be angry at one another, two who should have been old enough to know that this is a bad way to part. I was frustrated in my inability to solve my own challenges, and I turned from you when you spoke wisdom. Never had I done so before, and now see what has happened. You lie here, slain by treachery, and I cannot look you in the eye and tell you how my heart is breaking at this sight.”

His voice, too, was breaking, and he took a moment to regain his composure, although there was no one here to see him save the birds and beasts of the land. The armor felt heavy and hot on him.

“Your son … Cairne, I would say to you, you would be so proud of Baine, except that I already knew how proud you were of him. He is truly your son, and will carry the legacy of all you fought for to another generation. He did not let his pain rule his head. He has kept your people safe, at the cost of his own burning desire. The tauren are at peace once again, which I know was all you ever wanted for them. Even in the depths of horror, such as that dreadful, dark night—even then, your people, and the spirit of the Horde survived.

“The Grimtotem are now open enemies, instead of deceivers you held to your heart, who took your trust and still coldly planned to strike. The tauren will not be taken unawares by them again—ever. As for Garrosh … I truly believe that he did not know of Magatha’s treachery. He’s many things, but a deceitful, scheming murderer is not one of them. He’d want to know he’d won fairly, so he could legitimately revel in the honor. He …”

His voice trailed off. Thrall was terribly distraught at the murder of his friend and the slaughter that had followed Cairne’s death. He was glad the tauren were again at peace, under such a fine leader as Baine. But other than that …

“Cairne,” he said slowly, “I built this Horde. I inspired them, gave them purpose, direction. And yet … it seems as though this duty, this purpose … it is no longer the one that calls to me. How can I lead them well when my focus is elsewhere?”

His instincts, once so certain, were no longer as sharp as they once were. He buried his face in his hands, the black armor creaking with the gesture. He felt—lost. Torn. He again saw himself standing in the mist of the vision quest, his armor cracking and falling off him as he stood in the grip of fear and helplessness. He realized with a jolt that if he continued to lead them thusly, with his mind and heart and attention elsewhere, that he would eventually take the Horde down the path of civil war. Whatever his disagreement with Garrosh about what had happened in his absence, it had been he who had appointed young Hellscream acting warchief. It was his responsibility as much as Garrosh’s, and, in the end, all that could be proven was that the youth had done nothing worse than accept a challenge and up the consequences. He would not force the Horde to watch him and Garrosh struggle over that.

“I never told you this before. I wish I had. Do you know,” he continued quietly, “that to my mind, you always held the heart of the Horde, Cairne? You, and the tauren. When many others in the Horde hungered for war and darker paths, you listened to the wisdom of your Earth Mother, and counseled us to try other ways, other ideas. You reminded us of forgiveness and compassion. You were our heart, our true spiritual center.”

Thrall knew, as he clumsily formed the words, that it was time he trusted his own heart. It was leading him away from Orgrimmar, from the Horde, to a fierce and passionate young shaman named Aggra and the proud orcish ways she represented.

And it was leading him to the very heart of the world.

He closed his eyes in pain. He did not want this decision to be the right one. It was too hard; it would cause too much upheaval, hurt too many people. There were many reasons he should stay, all sound and logical, all important and vital. And there was only one reason he should go, and that reason was mystical and mysterious and far from clear to him.

But it was the right choice. It was the only choice. A wind came, tugging at his hair gently, tugging at his soul more firmly. His skin prickled. And he realized that his choice had already been made.

He had been shown, very clearly, what to do. If he continued to walk the path of warchief, he would fail. There was only one way he could save the Horde—and his world.

He knew what to do.

Slowly Thrall rose. The setting sun—An’she, to the tauren people—in its riot of color bathed the black plate. Then, slowly, Thrall began divesting himself of it. First he unfastened and then slipped off the shoulders. They fell to the soft, green grass with a musical, clanking sound. Next, he began unfastening the breastplate. It had once been dented by the blow that had cost Doomhammer his life. That blow had been a cowardly one—it had come from behind, a spear strike that had shattered the back plate and dented the breastplate from the inside. Thrall had ordered it repaired, so that it could be worn again.

Piece by piece, the armor of Orgrim Doomhammer, the armor of the warchief of the Horde, was removed and placed with reverence on a growing pile. Thrall reached into his pack and pulled out a simple brown robe, pulling it over his head, and then draped the string of prayer beads about his neck. Aggra’s words came back to him: We do not wear armor in our initiations. An initiation is a rebirth, not a battle. Like the snake, we shed the skins of who we were before. We need to approach it without those burdens, without the narrow thoughts and notions that we have held. We need to be simple, clean, ready to understand and connect with the elements, and let them write their wisdom on our souls.

He removed the boots and rose, his bare, green feet on the good, solid earth, his arms outspread, his head tilted back, his blue eyes closed. He greeted the arrival of twilight not as the warchief in ceremonial garb. It was not who he was, not anymore. They had shown him, the elements. But he had perhaps acted in time—he was choosing to shed the armor and the title of warchief rather than having it torn from him. The choice was in his hands—and he made it freely, calmly.

Thrall was a shaman. His responsibility no longer lay only with the Horde, it lay with Azeroth itself, and the elements that cried out to him for aid, to save them from the dreadful catastrophe that loomed ahead, or to heal them if it turned out he was not in time. The wind, still warm and gentle, picked up, as if caressing him in approval.

He lowered his head and opened his eyes. His gaze fell upon the body of his friend one last time. As An’she set in the west, making a striking silhouette of Thunder Bluff, a final ray seemed to fall upon the body. Arranged atop Cairne’s broad chest were all the ritual adornments he had worn in life—feathers, beads, bones. And something else. Pieces of wood, broken, with blood and carvings to adorn them.

Thrall realized that he was looking at pieces of the legendary Bloodhoof runespear that Gorehowl had shattered when Garrosh dealt the killing blow.

And with the realization came a wave of loss, fresh and raw, and Thrall understood that the pain he had felt up until this moment was a pale shadow. And he had a lifetime left to endure without his old friend’s kindness, wisdom, and humor.

Impulsively Thrall leaped gracefully onto the pyre. The poles used to create it swayed a bit but held beneath his weight. Thrall reached out a hand and placed it on Cairne’s brow, then, gently, reverently, picked up the smallest piece of the broken runespear. He turned it in his hand, and a shiver went through him.

The piece he had selected bore the single rune: Healing. He would keep this, to remember Cairne by. To always be in touch with his heart.

Thrall jumped lightly to the earth and began to walk slowly toward the setting sun. He did not look back.

The wind was slightly chill after the sun had gone, Thrall reflected. There was much that yet needed to be discussed with Baine, much planning that still needed to be done. Yet before that Thrall desired a little time to sit with Aggra in this peaceful land. She had never been here, but like him had responded to the gentleness and tranquility of the place. She—

A continent away, Drek’Thar, who had been dozing, bolted upright. A scream was torn from his throat.

“The oceans will boil!”

The ocean bed cracked open, and miles away, the tide drew back from Stormwind Harbor like a curtain. Ships were suddenly grounded, and citizens of that city out for a pleasant afternoon stroll along the beautiful stone harbor paused, shielded their eyes against the light of the setting sun, and murmured to one another, idly curious.

The ocean drew in upon itself for but a moment. Then what had pulled back began to return, with a lethal intensity. A towering wave bore down upon the harbor. The great vessels that had sailed to such exotic, faraway places as Auberdine and Valiance Keep were smashed to so much kindling, like toy ships beneath an angry child’s foot. Debris and bodies now crashed into the docks, destroying them just as easily and quickly, sweeping away the now-screaming pedestrians as the water rushed implacably forward. The water rose, drowning engines of war and crates of medical supplies with equal ruthlessness.

It did not stop there. It continued to climb, until even the mighty stone lions that stood watch over the harbor were completely submerged. Only then did it seem to halt.

Miles to the south, a crack in the earth off the coastline of Westfall had created a huge sinkhole. The ocean was angry, and frightened, and it vented its terror upon the land, and the land responded in despair.

Drek’Thar clung to Palkar, shaking him, shouting, “The land will weep, and the world will break!”

The earth split beneath Thrall.

He leaped aside, landing and rolling and getting swiftly to his feet only to be knocked off them again. The ground beneath him surged upward as if he were riding the back of a great creature, lifting him up and up. He clung to it, unable to rise and flee, and even if he did flee, to where?

Earth, soil, and stone, I ask of you calmness. Share with me what it is you fear, name it, and I will—

The earth did have a voice, and now it screamed, a rumbling, agonizing cry.

Thrall felt the rip in the world. It was not here, not in Thunder Bluff, nor even in Kalimdor—it was to the east, in the midst of the ocean, in the center of the Maelstrom. … This, then, was what the elements had been so afraid of. A shattering, a cataclysm, breaking the earth as Draenor had been broken. Through his connection with them, their terror surged through him, and he, too, threw back his head and shrieked for a long moment before unconsciousness claimed him.

He awoke to the tender touch of beloved fingers on his face, opening his eyes to see Aggra looking down at him with a worried expression. She relaxed as he gave her a weak smile.

“You are tougher than you look, Slave,” she teased him, though her voice conveyed her relief. “I thought you had decided to join the ancestors there for a few moments.”

He looked around and realized he was in one of the tents atop Thunder Bluff, maybe in Spirit Rise. Baine was standing beside him.

“We found you lying on the earth, a short distance from the funeral grounds, and brought you here, my friend,” said Baine. He smiled slightly. “My father loved you in life, Thrall, son of Durotan,” he said. “But I do not think he would have you join him in death quite so soon.”

Thrall struggled to sit up. “The warning Gordawg gave us,” he said. “We were too late.”

Her eyes were compassionate. “I know. But I also know exactly where the wound was made.”

“In the Maelstrom,” Thrall said. “I got that much before I …” He grimaced.

She touched his shoulder, feeling the texture of the soft robe. “You do not wear your armor,” she said quietly.

“No,” said Thrall. “I do not.” He smiled gently at her. “I have shed my skin.” He turned to Baine. “If you would—I would ask that you send someone for it. Though I no longer wear the armor of a warchief, I would have it brought to Orgrimmar. It is an important part of our culture.”

“Of course, Thrall. It shall be done.”

Aggra sat back, glancing at him and Baine. “So what do we do now?”

Thrall reached up and grasped the young Bloodhoof’s hand. “Baine … you know I came back with the hope of both helping the Horde and the elements. And I believe I can still do both these things. Just … I can no longer achieve both goals as warchief.”

Baine smiled sadly. “I have no love for Garrosh Hellscream, although I do believe him innocent in the poisoning of my father. I confess I would prefer to see you again leading the Horde. But after what has happened, I understand that you must go. Reports have been coming in—every place with a shoreline facing the South Seas is reporting tidal waves and storms. Theramore, Stormwind, Westfall, Ratchet, Steamwheedle Port. The Undercity has had massive quakes. Fires burn in Ashenvale from lightning strikes.”

Thrall closed his eyes. “Your understanding makes this easier, Baine. I love the Horde. Along with your father, I built it into what it is today. But there is a greater need, and it is that need I must attend to. Immediately. I will send word to Orgrimmar and then prepare to set sail to investigate this … wound to the world. The Horde must get along the best it can without me.”

Drek’Thar wept, tears falling from blind eyes. Palkar knew better than to doubt him. He felt nothing, at least not here, not physically, but he could sense the world’s distress. And so when Drek’Thar inhaled a sobbing breath and turned his face up to his young caretaker, Palkar waited for what the seer would impart. The younger orc’s blood seemed to run cold in his veins at the words.

“Someone is breaking down the door! Bar it! Do not let him in!”

Drek’Thar had been right before. He had been right about everything. There was no doubt in Palkar’s mind that he was right about this.

The only question was—who was the mysterious intruder?