World of Warcraft: The Shattering: Prelude to Cataclysm Page 0,127

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.