Christie Golden: The Shattering: Prelude to Cataclysm

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 saving 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.