The Changing of Paths

Cenarion Circle and Sisters of Elune
1

Dame Catherine Hildreth stood quietly in the courtyard outside Dornogal, flanked by two individuals - Inquisitor Donal Heskin, spear gripped tightly in his hand, and Chaiya Greenacre-Puretide, her face pinched in both pain and rage. The letter Catherine had received, signed “the penitent”, had requested them both to be present. Though she had no idea why, it was just as well that they had requested she bring companions; the paladin had no intention of meeting this anonymous letter writer alone. Anonymous requests to meet tended to be ambushes.

That feeling intensified once she saw the three figures approaching, and recognized one of them instantly: Vizka Goldtusk. She glanced at Donal, whose eyes had narrowed on seeing the Zandalari privateer, remembering the confrontation that had occurred aboard the Seaking just outside of Freehold. To her surprise, another there was an earthen, his silvery beard running down nearly to his knees. The gems in his body were glowing with fel energy, and he was escorted by a hulking felguard, carrying a massive hammer that Catherine recognized as being from the armory of Uldir in Zandalar. The central figure was a Nightborne, wearing what appeared to be nerubian-style robes, showing the arcane runes in his chest and arms as well as the glowing tips of his fingers. His face was shrouded by a veiled headdress. He tapped the ring on his right hand, and began to speak - and she heard his voice in perfect Common, even though he did not speak that tongue. “Warmaster Hildreth,” he said. “My companions and I have come to claim sanctuary with you and your allies… and I have personally come to ask the forgiveness of your comrades.”

Catherine’s eyebrow rose… and then she had a moment of realization, even as the figure before her removed his concealing headgear. “Relsyn,” she said coolly. At her other side, Chaiya’s eyes widened with rage. “Has the Eightfold Path come to its senses?”

Lord Aldos Relsyn shook his head. “No,” he admitted quietly. “But I have. As have my companions here.” He met her gaze evenly. “Perhaps perpetual conflict is inevitable; I will not dispute that. But I will not perpetuate it any further, either.”

“That did not stop you when you and your filth attacked us,” Chaiya snarled.

The Nightborne warlock bowed his head. “That was a mistake, Lady Puretide. I did not want that.”

“A mistake?” The pandaren mage’s voice was quiet, but shaking with fury… and then began to rise as she continued, “You consider the burning of my home, the killing of my husband, my brother-in-law, and Sir Eran… nearly killing me, my son, and our friends the Blunderwitzes… a simple MISTAKE?! How dare you!” She turned to Catherine. “Dame Catherine, let me incinerate this murdering scum now. I will not --”

“Let him speak.” Catherine and Chaiya turned in surprise to Donal, whom both had expected to put his spear through the man’s skull and be done with it. “Captain Goldtusk already risked the eredar’s wrath to aid us. Now he is here, together with his… employer. I would like to know why.”

“You have named a major reason, Inquisitor Heskin,” Relsyn replied. “The eredar. Kalimos.” He sighed and turned to the figure next to him. “Speaker Karaash found the grimoire of my former mentor, Professor Sputterspark… after he was killed in the Ringing Deeps by the Lady Blunderwitz. We had worked with a former member of the Sundered Flame, a dracthyr named Zaidu. He had approached me with the idea of containing Kalimos, using him as a battery for our magics.”

Catherine could guess what happened next. “He betrayed you.”

Relsyn nodded. “Zaidu had been… without a purpose before he came to us. Kalimos mentored him, just as he did Speaker Karaash when they meet in the Deeps.”

“I am appreciative of the knowledge he gave me,” the earthen replied, his voice surprisingly mellow. “And I thought him to be right, that the only way to endure the trials to come was to embrace the chaos they wrought. I may have forsaken the Edicts, but I will not forsake Azeroth. Kalimos cares nothing for our world. He would see it burn for his own pleasure.”

“So would Zaidu, as we soon discovered,” Relsyn added. “Like Sarkareth, he found his own path to power. That we escaped with our lives at all was… miraculous. The dracthyr possess great strength, and combined with fel magic - and the millennia of experience Kalimos wields - we had no chance.”

The paladin’s good eye was glaring. “You should have thought of that before resurrecting him, Relsyn. You traded the Corruptor, a tinpot dictator, for an eredar lord of the Burning Legion. Did you not stop and think that was probably a bad idea?”

Relsyn had the good sense to look ashamed. “No, I didn’t,” he admitted. “No more than I did when I remained loyal to Elisande.”

Catherine stared at him for a long moment, then turned to Donal. “What do you think?”

The young warrior gazed hard at all three of them. “It is difficult for me to believe, especially as I don’t trust them… but I do not think they lie, my lady.”

Nodding, Catherine turned to Chaiya, whose hands were clenched into fists, and gently put a hand on her shoulder. The pandaren looked first at Relsyn, hatred in her eyes… and then she sighed, and looked back to Catherine. “I do not like this, and I certainly do not like them,” she said. “But I will trust your judgment, Dame Catherine.”

Catherine smiled. “Thank you, my friend.” Her expression sobered as she turned back. “Very well, Lord Relsyn. If you and your companions wish a chance to prove your good intent, we will give it to you. And though this will be obvious to you, I will emphasize it by saying so aloud: You have a great deal to prove, and I am taking an incredible risk by trusting your goodwill. If I get so much as the slightest whiff of deception, I will kill you.”

Relsyn bowed his head in acceptance, as did Karaash and Vizka. “Understood.”

2

“He did WHAT?!”

The void elf recoiled at the furious near-shriek. “He has surrendered himself to the Heralds, Lord Zaidu. Himself, the earthen speaker, and the privateer.”

Zaidu, styling himself “the Ascended” now, was not feeling particularly uplifted. “Damn him,” he hissed. “Damn them.” He shook his head, swearing vehemently in Draconic. “We should have killed them. I should have killed them.”

“Patience, Zaidu.” The voice from behind him sounded surprisingly reassuring. “The war is not yet over. And in a way… perhaps he had a point, after the incident in Kun-Lai.”

“What do you mean?”

“Being too obvious. Savona… though I grieve the loss of a loyal servant, she was a blunt instrument. And she struck too forcefully. We all did.”

Zaidu considered this… then shook his head, sighing. “The sentimental fool,” he muttered, thinking of Relsyn. “I suppose we shouldn’t hunt them down like the swine they are, Master, given their new… protectors?”

“Not actively, no. But if there is an encounter that… ‘ends in an accident’, well…” The other shrugged. “As you say, the man was a sentimental fool. So were the others who went with him, in a way. Though I am somewhat put off by the ingratitude of Speaker Karaash. The effort I put into his training. No matter. We have greater concerns. It seems our diminutive green friends have opened a new front to the war. Where remains to be seen.”

Zaidu nodded, having heard of the former Trade Prince’s operations in the Ringing Deeps. “There’s really nothing left here at this point. Xal’atath’s pet queen is dead, the Order of Night is broken, the earthen are unified and allied with the Arathi and the nerubians…” He snorted lightly. “This seems to be counter to what we sought here, Lord Kalimos.”

Kalimos the Unforgiven, once an eredar lord of the Burning Legion, smiled benevolently. “As I said, Zaidu, patience. Wars are not won in a day.”

3

“After all that, and they come crawling to us. You trust them?”

Catherine shook her head once. “No… and I suspect you don’t either, Khorag. But the enemy of my enemy --”

“Can still be the enemy. You know this just as well as I do.” Khorag, fallen vindicator-turned-death knight, gazed at her with his unsettling ice-blue eyes. The rotting flesh in his face always made Catherine’s skin crawl, but it was the firm glare in those eyes that unnerved her most. It unnerved most people, especially when he was angry. “I don’t think we can leave this to goodwill alone. We need someone… acquainted with their ways, but without the concerning lack of loyalty.”

She understood immediately. “You want to reach out to the Witch.”

Khorag snorted. “‘Want’ is not the term I would use, Warmaster. Even dead and corrupted as I am, I like dealing with that kind as little as possible. But in this case… yes, I believe it would be a good idea.”

“I agree. We’ve worked well enough with her before, during the Fourth War - and you had said you’d met her in Northrend, fighting the Scourge. She’s told us where to find her if we needed her. That is… if she’s still there.”

“She will be,” Khorag replied without hesitation.

“You sound so certain.” Catherine sighed. “I wish I could be.” She straightened and looked up, as the draenei was at least two feet taller than she. “To Menethil Harbor for you, then?”

“Aye. And from there… who knows.”

Two days later, Khorag stepped off the boat in Valgarde, remembering it like it had just been yesterday. Most of the people who remained here were involved in exploring the continent, but still regularly had to contend with attacks by the vrykul. His half-ethereal deathcharger climbed the steep paths and rocky crags of the Howling Fjord, eventually crossing the mountain pass into the Grizzly Hills.

Along the banks of the Blackriver, he became aware he was being followed, a conclusion confirmed by a voice from the woods. “The only people who come to the Hills these days are people searching for something, or people trying to escape.”

“Indeed,” Khorag replied calmly. “Which one are you?”

“Both, of course.” A great brown bear approached, topped with a well-crafted saddle of leather, wood and steel, a lantern hanging from a fishing pole attached to the side, and travel gear hanging from each flank. Atop the saddle was a short, slim figure in gold-trimmed purple robes, orbs of shadow magic in various places, a matching staff seen over one shoulder. Her short hair was closely cut with a braid running along the part-line, and was a shimmering purple white. Her eyes, barely visible through the darkly-lensed glasses she wore from snow blindness, were deep purple. Her ears bore the slight points indicating elven ancestry, and were each adorned with amethyst studs, matching the pendant she wore around her neck. “Seeking solitude, and escaping the ignorant.” She smiled warmly as she nudged the bear to kneel, and she gracefully dismounted. “It has been some time, death knight.”

“Indeed it has. But I assured Dame Catherine before I left that I knew you would still be here, and we both agree your counsel will be welcome to us.”

“I’m flattered. I know you would not come to me willingly. For all that we’re on good terms, you still don’t like me, and neither does Catherine.” Her smile widened, as she looked distinctly unbothered by that fact. “No need for soft-serve, Khorag, we know each other well enough. What brings you to me?”

“As you may expect, trouble. Of a kind that you may be familiar with, from our experiences in the Fourth War. Towards the end of the Fourth War.”

Her smile faded, and her eyes narrowed behind her glasses. “Go on.”

4

The pandaren warrior stood on a small ridge outside his home village in Kun-Lai’s Zouchin Province, unsheathing the sword at his back, the hilt wrapped with his worn-out Shado-Pan facemask. Bowing his head, he brought the wavy blade down into the earth between two gravestone markers. One was freshly cut and marked with pandaren script with only five words: “Shiyama, beloved wife and mother”. The other was a much older, worn-looking, but still clean stone, also with only five words: “Mengyao, beloved husband and father”.

He gently put a hand on Shiyama’s stone, and gracefully rose. “Thank you for taking this time with me, Baron Kitrik.”

“No sweat, Master Snowsteel. And just Kitrik is fine. We’re friends here. Mostly.” Kitrik the Assassin smiled. “And even rogues like me have families.”

Zhao-Ming Snowsteel chuckled lightly. “Fair enough.” His expression sobered. “Things have quieted in Khaz Algar?”

“For now, but it’s gonna heat up soon, I can feel it in my gut. You saw Orgrimmar towards the end. You know what side of that wall Gallywix was on - and how he hightailed it outta there when Saurfang and Sylvanas fought it out. Whatever that scheming son of a slug is up to, it’s not good.”

The Shado-Master nodded. “I have heard he has that reputation. Often resorting to outright treachery to achieve his aims.” He looked pensive. “I am still wary about some of the other allies Dame Catherine has called. I understand the so-called leader of the cultists has defected. I wonder why she did not just have him killed.”

“Useful tools,” the Assassin pointed out.

“But unreliable ones. I know you goblin engineers tend to push things to the limit, but…”

“Believe it or not, you’re not the only one who’s had this thought.” Kitrik gazed at him thoughtfully. “But it’s not them you’re worried about, is it? Your bugbear is still the Zandalari. And we’ve got a lot of people tied to them.”

Zhao-Ming sighed, bowing his head. “It is not fair, I know, but they have been harbingers of ill will in our history for as long as we have had history.”

“After what happened in the Cataclysm, tryin’ to rally all trolls to fight the whole damn world, I don’t blame you. But these guys were a bunch of crazy mooks followin’ Zul. Rest of 'em ain’t so bad. Especially the guy I’ve worked with. He’s good people.”

“Indeed, I have heard much of this ‘Collector’. He has been here in Pandaria from time to time, seeking out former loyalists of Zul.” Zhao-Ming looked pensive. “I think I would like to meet him.”

“I think I can arrange that.” Kitrik paused, then said, “Y’know, I know a bunch of weaponscrafters, if you need something new.”

“No need. Mother taught me everything I know about blacksmithing; I’ve been crafting weapons since I was old enough to pick up a hammer.”

“No kidding? You got something nice in mind to take down more goons with, eh?”

“Indeed.” He noticed Kitrik’s belt was empty. “And perhaps a little extra, if you’re inclined, since you also appear to be without.”

“Not exactly.” Kitrik grinned, pressing the studs on the back of his gauntlets, activating his powered fists. “I’ve been makin’ stuff since I was old enough to pick up the tools, too. But… pandaren steel is good to have, and I’ve been itching for some new blades anywho. I’d be glad to provide whatever ya need.”

“As it happens, I have something in mind…”

5

Vizka Goldtusk sat alone in his cabin and poured himself a glass of brandy. He sipped his drink with a tired sigh as he sat back in his chair, head resting against the paneling. A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. “Yes?”

“Sorry ta bug ya, Cap’n,” came the voice of his first mate. “Ya got visitors. A dracthyr and a vulpera.”

Vizka had a very good idea who the dracthyr was. The vulpera, though… he knew Zulimbasha had two who followed him, and wondered if it was the killer. The Collector probably knew about the arrangement with Catherine. “Let dem in.” He rose as the two guests entered. The vulpera was not the killer, but the shaman - wearing robes of wolf-fur, matching the nickname he had been given, “the Foxwolf”. He inclined his head to them. “Archivist Lengua, Farseer Eldex. Welcome to de Seaking.”

“Captain.” Lengua was in her visage form, but her horns and scaly face marked her true self. Her red eyes stared through thick lenses. “The leader of the very people trying to kill us suddenly defects, and you jump ship…” She winced. “Pun not intended… along with him? What’s your game here?”

“Strange as it may be for ya to consider, but I’m not a monster. I just happened to have worked for a lot of 'em. Zul… Sylvanas… de Path.” Vizka’s good eye stared right back. “I’m an opportunist, Lengua. I go where de money is. And when Seela and Mariel came ta me in Zuldazar, I thought ‘why not’, just like I did with Sylvanas. But dat experience, and what happened after, made me think… especially once Kalimos and his pet dracthyr began takin’ more power.”

Eldex frowned at that. “Pet dracthyr?”

“Zaidu.” Lengua all but snarled the name. “A renegade from the Sundered Flame.” She looked back to the captain. “So you suddenly realized you were working with a bunch of world-burning lunatics and decided to change sides. What, there’s no profit in watching the world burn?”

“No,” Vizka replied sharply, enough to make the evoker flinch. “Dere isn’t.” He looked at Eldex. “Your friend here knows what path I walk, in addition to life on de sea. We carry similar blessings. Even a self-servin’ scoundrel like me serves de Loa. De hand of Death is constantly on our shoulders, and de masters of sea and sky determine our path. And then dere is always de hunt. Whether it be treasure or adventure, we’re always looking for somet’ing. We are all one pack in his eyes.”

The Foxwolf’s eyebrows rose. “I never would have expected a seafarer to be a follower of Gonk.”

“‘Be it hoof or paw or hand, he roams de sea and sky and land,’” Vizka quoted. He sat back down, sighing. “When I was a boy, just before I joined de fleet, I encountered a raptor in de jungles of Zuldazar. She stared at me for what felt like an eternity… before she ran off into de trees again. Dat memory has stayed with me for nearly forty years, and will probably stay with me until de time comes for me to travel to de Other Side. As time went on… dat was what de Path was askin’ me to help dem burn, it felt to me.”

Lengua’s expression went from skepticism to solemnity. “Like the Primalists who turned against Fyrakk when they saw what he really was.”

Vizka nodded. “Though dere are still some who believe in what he was doin’, just not how he was doin’ it. Zaidu found a Primalist from Highmountain and brought him in not too long ago… along with a blood-maddened killer of an orc from Outland who served Garrosh in Pandaria.”

“The one the Blunderwitzes saw at the Puretide homestead in Kun-Lai?”

“De very same. Those people were crazy zealots on a good day; we had a few run-ins with dem when we were workin’ for Zul durin’ his mad scheme to resurrect Lei Shen. Dis one is a lot worse.”

Eldex’s storm-blue eyes gazed at him. “Captain Pellerin has spoken for you as well,” he said quietly. “And you are correct… the spirits around me speak to your truth. But we are not the ones you ultimately have to convince, you realize this.”

“I know. Some may never be convinced at all.” Vizka shrugged, a slight grin on his gold-tusked face. “But gettin’ on people’s bad sides was part of de risk I took when I went off on my own. No risk, no reward.”

Eldex inclined his head. “Perhaps.” He unhooked one of the weapons he wore at his belt, a Zandalari warhammer charged with lightning. Then, to the surprise of both the other people in the room, he held it out to the captain. “This weapon was given to me by Valkia’jin. You may have known her. She was also a follower of Zul.”

“I remember Valkia - and her father, Zul’kor.” Vizka stared with his good eye at the weapon. “And dat was what she used to kill him, if I remember.”

“Yes. When she was mortally wounded in Uldum fighting against the Black Empire, she gave this to me. I think it fitting at this point that it return to the hand of a Zandalari, for I foresee you will need this in the battles to come.”

Vizka’s hand shook as he wrapped his fingers around the handle. “I will wield it with honor,” he whispered, unknowingly echoing what Eldex had said to Valkia on the day she died. “At least, what honor is left to me.”

The Foxwolf smiled warmly. “There is more to you than you let others think, Captain.”

6

Nor’taeron Sunblade stood at the blacksmith’s forge in Dornogal’s Forgegrounds, putting the last touches on a shield he had been working on. He had actually been going back and forth between the forge and the tinkering bench for most of the day, working on this and that. Because he knew - or at the very least, suspected - that something was coming… and not a very good something, at that. Most things these days never were.

As he left the shield sitting on the smithing table, he turned to head over towards the workbench… and saw Kitrik, working again on his power-fist gauntlet upgrades. The goblin looked very tired, and there was a slight clench to his jaw that looked like it had been there for a while. He also looked like someone who had definitely not seen the sun in some time; he had been going down into Azj-Kahet for a while, working with the Severed Threads and rescuing other survivors of Dalaran. “Something to occupy your mind before what is to come, malanore?”

The Assassin looked up, his violet eyes definitely looking bloodshot. “And how do you know something’s comin’?”

“Instinct,” the Blood Knight replied with a smile. “I’ve been working on and off on weapons and armor since the news of Gallywix’s return. I have a feeling I know some who will need them.” He nodded to both the new blades worn at his belt, and to the work on his gauntlets. “I see you do as well.”

Kitrik turned back to his work… then with a sigh, tossed his tools onto the workbench. “Yeah,” he whispered. “But I’m still tryin’ to figure it all out. Is this a distraction from the important stuff, or is this the important stuff?” He explained briefly about the interaction he’d had with his fellows in Pandaria.

Nor’taeron remained silent throughout, letting the goblin release the anguish in his soul. “It seems to be a time of liberations and homecomings, does it not?” he mused after Kitrik had finished. “The Dragon Isles, Amirdrassil… Gilneas… even Lordaeron to a certain extent. Now, possibly Kezan?”

“That’s kind of what I’m afraid of, Taeron. Kezan is no place to fight a war, and Undermine is a good example of why. And I’m not just talkin’ the active volcano, either. Especially the fact it involves that fat leech, and how he has enough power to… well, build a power base. I thought the Horde woulda wiped out his holdings when he turned tail after the deathmatch between Saurfang and Sylvanas, but… he’s greedy, self-centered, and more than a little crazy, but he’s not stupid.”

“Given what the Darkfuse crews are mining down there, there is very likely a hidden hand to this. If not her directly… someone in her orbit.”

Kitrik nodded. “I’m afraid of that too. I’ve seen what that goop did to the nerubians. I’m trying not to imagine Gallywix with an army of void-infused hobgoblins, or marketing his own brand of their ‘Ascension’ to the cartels.”

“Well, we’ll give him a healthy reminder of why not to fool around with corruptive chemicals, hmm?”

Kitrik’s eyebrows rose. “We?”

“You’re not honestly going to pull the ‘this is a goblin thing, we’ll do it ourselves’, are you?” Nor’taeron knelt, putting a hand on the Assassin’s shoulder. “You’ve been with us for a long time, Kitrik. Taeril’hane trusted you. So does his son. So do Dame Catherine and Master Zulimbasha. And so do I. You and the other goblins we’ve worked with over the years… you are our comrades, our friends. We will not leave you to stand alone.” Kitrik was speechless, and then looked down at his feet. The Blood Knight smiled. “Go and get some sleep, my friend. Tomorrow is another day, as our Ebon Blade friends often remind us.”

Kitrik looked like he might protest… and then, sighing, he nodded. “Funny how it’s taken all this since Northrend to appreciate that,” he said quietly, before walking out into the Forgegrounds.

Watching the Assassin walk away until he was out of sight, Nor’taeron then rose and turned back to the engineer’s workbench, checking on a rifle he had been commissioned to work on for one of Archivist Lengua’s latest recruits, a dracthyr hunter who had actually become an agent for Wrathion, of all people, in the Dragon Isles. Over the past several weeks, Lengua had begun bringing in more dracthyr, and not just evokers, into the ranks. Both Dame Catherine and Zulimbasha had organized them as the “Heralding Wings”, with Lengua as their leader. He ran his hands along the barrel, ensuring that everything was fitted properly… then he nodded in satisfaction, crated the weapon, and summoned a courier from the nearby trading post. “Send this to the addressee in Valdrakken, please.” He handed the courier a small gold pouch. “With my compliments.”

“Yes, sir.”

7

Emelie Danjou had spent so long in Northrend that snow blindness had affected her eyes, requiring her to wear reflective spectacles. She was thus glad to be able to get to a place that wasn’t so bright - down in Azj-Kahet, near the sanctum of the Severed Threads. She still wore the glasses - they gave her an air of mystery - but the lighting down here was more… suited to her. It was a damn sight better than Hallowfall. The only time she could be anywhere near there comfortably was when Beledar shifted into shadow, and that was too brief a period… and they all looked funny at her anyway. Probably because of all the shadow orbs in her robes. They might have seen those, and the points in her ears, and thought her one of the crazy cultists from the Order of Night. She also found seeing more half-elven folk in one place than she had ever encountered in her entire life somewhat unnerving…

The moment she set foot in Dornogal, she knew why Khorag had summoned her. She could feel the powers warring. The natural forces of Azeroth, the Radiant Song, the Black Blood, the nerubian magic. Other than the death knights, and the one demon hunter, this lot tended to avoid dark magic. Warlocks in particular. But now, it seemed, they had a number of them now… and needed someone they trusted (or at the very least, did not have a desire to kill on the spot) to guide them, for they knew not what they contended with, other than the fact it was evil. On that, at least, she did not argue.

“Lady Emelie. I was told I would find you here.”

Emelie looked up, her eyebrows raising to see the figure standing before her. The odds of this one approaching her would have been like seeing him go up to a wielder of the Light - not at all, except maybe with a weapon in hand. As it happened, he did have a weapon - a formidable-looking hammer - but it was at his belt, his hand resting on the handle. His other hand was on a satchel worn at his hip. “Khorag, I’m guessing.”

“He said you were not fond of the brightness of the surface, and the blinding radiance of Hallowfall. I cannot blame you. Those Arathi make me… uneasy.”

“Likewise. What can I do for you, Farseer?”

The figure stepped closer - an orc with brown skin contrasted by white face paint, wearing ornate red chainmail with the sigils of the Horde on the belt. He too radiated power, the power of the elements. Though he was a good deal older than she, he was nervous. “I have considered the wisdom of what I am about to ask for some time,” he said quietly. “Ever since the defectors came to us, and brought what they had with them. There was one thing that they did not show to Dame Catherine and her comrades… they instead brought it to me. I think they appreciated the irony.”

Emelie’s gaze narrowed as she saw movement within the satchel at the orc’s side, and as the shaman opened it, she could see why. It was a murloc, and a very strange one at that. Its flesh was green, its eyes were burning red, it had a tuft of white beard running down to its feet, and it was wearing fel-runed robes - meant to evoke the appearance of Gul’dan. But that was not the case. She recognized full well the power within this one. She had last sensed it when he had come to her in Northrend, seeking to bring her into his little war with those she now worked with. She now looked up at the shaman. “You’re kidding.”

“I do not do this lightly, Lady Emelie. The powers that he, and you, have used are despicable to me. I’ve seen what it has done on my Draenor, and on his, and I have seen what it has done here. But I do not believe that now, with so much on the line, we can afford to be squeamish. Whatever weapons we have at our disposal to protect this world from Xal’atath, or from those who seek to use her influence to incite their own chaos… we must use them. The enemy of our enemy.”

The enemy of our enemy can still be the enemy. Khorag had mentioned he had said so to Catherine, referring to the defectors. “I hope you realize what you’re asking. There are a number of people we both know and respect who want this man dead, and I have no doubt the feeling is mutual.”

“I do realize, my lady. Far better than anyone. But as I said, we may not have a choice. He can help us battle the Path, since they betrayed him so readily. I fully expect he will betray us in turn, but… that is a risk we must take.”

Emelie sighed. I am about to get very popular with my comrades, she thought. Very popular indeed. “Very well. Bring him to me.” The shaman set the satchel on the floor at her feet. “I will need some of your blood. As you share it, it might help to break the enchantment.” Without hesitation, he removed one of his gauntlets and slashed the palm of his hand on one of its sharp edges. She nodded approvingly. “Onto his head.” He gripped his hand into a fist, dripping blood onto the murloc’s head. As he did, Emelie began to speak in the dark tongue of the Legion that warlocks used, channeling her own magic.

The murloc began to glow with unearthly light, chattering excitedly as it did… and then both figures were forced to step back at the sudden addition of volume to its form, and the chattering turned into soft, ragged laughter as… what appeared to be an almost identical twin of the shaman now stood before them, but his flesh a bright green, with red eyes to the shaman’s amber. He let out a ragged, almost breathless cry… and then collapsed to the ground.

Emelie knelt, conjuring a healthstone and holding it to the fallen figure. His red eyes looked unfocused for a moment as he looked at her, and then he recognized her. “W…Witch,” he whispered. He then peered up at the other… and a smile crossed his face. “What… might have been.”

“In both ways… ‘brother’,” the shaman replied calmly.

“Huh. How strange… those I must now call allies.” The green-skin rested his head on the rocky ground. “They will… not forgive you this, Danjou.”

Emelie shrugged. “Probably. That will be my problem, not yours. You have a pretty big uphill battle yourself. But for now, take that stone in. Rest. There will be much for you to do.”

8

He felt the teleportation effects fade quickly as he found himself standing in a rather large hall, surrounded by machinery. The teleporter from Stormwind had been set in a rather out of the way location, off in the grass behind the Embassy, but the glow made it distinctive.

“Speaker Karaash?” He turned to see a mechagnome with a long white mustache approach. “I’m Ernulph Ratchetrouter. Welcome to Mechagon.”

“Appreciation to you, Ernulph Ratchetrouter.” Karaash cast his good eye around the hall. “This place is… overwhelming. And in exceptional condition. Surprising, considering did I not hear correctly that there had been a conflict with your former leader here?”

“Some years ago now. King Mechagon thought he could force the world to ‘return to the perfection the Titans gave us’ by mechanizing - or wiping out - all organic life.” The mechagnome engineer clenched his jaw. “He was a fool and a madman. The world is well rid of him.” He then smiled. “But come. They are waiting for you at my workshop.”

“Did she say why she wished to meet with me?”

Ernulph shook his head. “Only that she did, and that it was urgent. I believe she’s preparing to travel with that goblin assassin Kitrik to his homeland. Trouble abounds. No surprise there, eh?”

Karaash nodded quietly as he followed Ernulph through the city to his workshop near the Machinist’s Garden. He had not met Jenit Blunderwitz, but recalled what Relsyn had said when they met with Dame Catherine and her comrades, and so was not surprised to recognize the one who had killed Rakeri Sputterspark outside Gundargaz. What did surprise him was that she had the dinstinctive spaulders of the Assembly of the Deeps - the gears of the Machine-Speakers with kobold candles - on her shoulders. The other gnome was mostly organic compared to her, save for his right arm. It was he who greeted him now. “Welcome, Speaker Karaash. I’m Englebert Blunderwitz. I see you’re familiar with my wife, Jenit.”

“Indeed. Though we did not meet in person.”

Jenit looked up at him, and though her eyes were no longer organic, Karaash felt the hostility. He would have shivered if he were capable. “You’re looking a bit less green today.”

Karaash nodded; the fel green taint in his eyes and in the crystals in his chassis was gone, replaced not by his original sapphire blue, but rather a flame yellow. “While the powers I wield are still of a… dark nature, I have chosen not to be fully embraced by the fel, yes.”

“You took his grimoire afterward. Do you still have it?”

Setting his backpack down, the Machine-Speaker opened the flap and withdrew the book. “I presume you wish to take it so that it may be destroyed.”

Jenit’s unearthly gaze continued to pierce into his soul. “Do you want me to?”

“Speaking for myself, no. Professor Sputterspark’s schematics are… interesting to me, as are his studies of demonology. But I also have no desire to incite hostilities with those who are to be allies, if none is required.”

The stare continued for a long moment, then she waved a hand. “Put it away. I don’t want to see it.”

“As you wish.” Karaash replaced the book in his pack, then set it back on his shoulders. “Why did you request communication with me? Was it because of the grimoire? Or… what occurred after?”

Jenit stepped down from her workbench, picking up her rifle nearby. “I heard that you and a few others from that war-wacky cult were joining us. When I heard about you in particular, because of his grimoire… I wanted to get a look at you.” Her jaw tightened as she put the barrel of the rifle right up against Karaash’s chin. The earthen did not flinch. “I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt here. But you worked alongside people who injured my husband and murdered my friends. So I want to drive the point home here: If you so much as twitch a finger in a manner I don’t like, I will turn you to powder and scatter you to the winds. Am I clear?”

Karaash did not doubt for a second she would do just that. “Crystal, Jenit Blunderwitz.”

“Then we understand each other.” She lowered her weapon. “Thank you, Speaker Karaash.” Then she turned from him, and did not look back. The Speaker immediately took that as a dismissal. Ernulph, who did not know all the specifics, looked confused. Englebert had been silent all throughout, but his still-organic eyes also held a hint of distrust.

Not undeserved, Karaash thought. He simply bowed his head and made his way out.

9

Lengua sat quietly on a rock outcropping on the outskirts of Iskaara, staring out towards the shimmering boughs of Amirdrassil to the west. Alone with land, sea, and sky, the evoker was left only with her thoughts - first and foremost being that how she never knew just how much she would miss eel-gut soup. The cuisine in Khaz Algar left something to be desired…

The creches back on the Reach were being opened up now that Raszageth and Fyrakk were dead, and dracthyr of many kinds - not simply those with the great power Neltharion had infused them with - were becoming more and more prevalent. Lengua had found a number of them over the past few weeks with the aid of Esheregos and Rianagosa, who had returned to the Dragon Isles after the ordeal in Azj-Kahet. Riana had been a great help, both to Lengua and to her uncle. Their first new recruit had actually been one of the “early risers” who had belonged to the Obsidian Warders - the weyrn that had gone over to the Alliance. Adyra was one of those with negligible magical powers, but with an instinct for the hunt. She had ended up becoming one of Wrathion’s agents during the campaign, helping secure the Obsidian Citadel, and later fighting in the Dream against Fyrakk. When Lengua had told her of the threat posed by the Void in Khaz Algar, Adyra had not hesitated. Neither had Eliastrasz, a fellow evoker. Neither had Tremas and Iyannadormi - an infinite dragon who had taken dracthyr form, and a dracthyr warrior he had met during the “timerunning” in Pandaria. Esheregos had been pleased. “Making your own weyrn in a new world,” he had said.

Esheregos… she still worried about him. She had seen what the Black Blood had done to the nerubians. She had heard about Y’tekhi, the Weaver’s quartermaster, who had undergone Ansurek’s foul “Ascension” to infiltrate the City of Threads more thoroughly, only to be played like a puppet on strings by Xal’atath. Lengua didn’t know if they still lived. Would Esheregos be as vulnerable, if he were to confront the Harbinger’s forces again? Or worse, someone like that lunatic Tidesage?

“I thought I might find you here.”

Lengua’s head turned at the sound of a much larger being becoming a much smaller one. Speak of the dragon, and here he flies, she thought. As she made to rise, Esheregos held up his hand. “No, no. I think I’ll join you.” He sat down next to her. Riana was soon there as well, sitting opposite them both. Lengua’s worry deepened as she saw his face; the blue dragon looked exhausted. Seeing her gaze, he smiled. “No, I’m not about to join Senegos in the Ossuary just yet. But since we are here…” His gaze looked out to the east, towards the Azure Archives. “I am tired, my kindred. After all the wars… with ourselves, worst of all… I think it is time I return to being amongst my own again. There is much work to be done here still. Many more of your kin, Lengua, are still being found and awakened, and guided into this new world until they find their own way. Much as we all were at one point, I have to say. You, by us. Riana, by me. And I… by that magister whose name I never learned, for showing kindness in an unkind world.”

“After what we endured at the hands of Malygos’ jailers, we did not know if we could trust you. I for one thought that you had come to spy on us, and send us back into the depths if you wanted.” Lengua shook her head. “I was glad to be wrong.”

“As were we.” Esheregos raised a hand, and with a burst of arcane magic, a familiar staff appeared in his hand. “The nerubians of the Threads were good enough to recover this for me. I think it fitting now…” He held it in both hands… and then handed it to Riana.

The younger dragon’s eyes went wide. She reached out to touch the head of the staff… adorned with the horns of her father, Iskanigos. Esheregos had been forced to kill him during the Nexus War, and had taken them as a reminder of what had been lost that day. She took it in her hands.

“My days of war are done. I’m afraid you may have much more ahead of you. But I am confident that with those such as you guiding the way, our friends will prevail.” Esheregos rose, smiling, as he gently laid his hands on their heads. “Whatever comes ahead, both of you… take care of each other, and those who fight alongside you.” Then he stepped back, and leapt from the outcrop. A roar and a flap of wings heralded his change back into his natural form, and he flew away to the east.

Lengua and Riana exchanged glances, both wondering if they would ever see him again.

10

He felt an inexplicable sense of dread the moment he stepped off the rocket drill at Slam Central Station. The bright lights, the chaotic traffic, the general aura of grime - and something else…

“Kitrik?”

He turned to Jenit, standing at his side, and smiled tiredly. “I’m alright, Jen. It’s just…” He sighed. “I ain’t been down here in almost forty years… and now I wish I’d never come back. It’s worse than before.”

“You were from Bilgewater Port originally, yes?” asked Nor’taeron, standing at his other side. The bling would make him a target, but Kitrik also knew the sword at his back would make up for that. It usually did.

Kitrik nodded. “My brother and I came down here once when we were kids, to sign the work with the Steamwheedle when we went off on our own. Haven’t been back since. Now I remember why.”

“Oh, it ain’t as bad as it looks. Well, it is, but don’t let that fool ya.”

Kitrik turned at the sound of that voice, his jaw hanging open for a moment. “Kellik? Is… is that really you?”

“Hello, big brother. It’s been a while.”

Laughing, the twin brothers embraced. Jenit observed the other goblin, who was much darker in complexion, and had glowing blue eyes, making her realize he was in fact dead - a death knight, like Khorag and some of his folk in the Heralds. He was also much more muscular than Kitrik, and wore his hair in a ponytail. His dark armor, chainmail tabard, and elementium blade - a relic from Aberrus, if she wasn’t mistaken - gave him an intimidating appearance, but he seemed to be all smiles here. He looked up to the Blood Knight. “Taeron! Still lighting up every room you walk into, I see.”

“One of us has to these days, Captain. You’re not exactly looking all that bright yourself.”

Kellik raised a finger. “Hey now. None of that.” He chuckled. “It’s just ‘Kellik’ now, buddy. I left all that rank crap behind.” He noticed the mechagnome hunter, and inclined his head. “Ah, a friend from Mechagon, eh?”

“Yeah. This is Jenit, Bert Blunderwitz’s missus.”

“Oho! And how is Bert doin’? Heard he’d lost an arm to the cult nuts, had to get a replacement.”

“Better with it each day, though he still grips his coffee mug with his organic hand.” Jenit smiled, the smile of a predator before the pounce. “Though he’d like to crack a few skulls with it, too.”

“I don’t doubt it. And you do too, it looks like.”

Kitrik shook his head. “You dropped off after all that went on in the Dragon Isles, I thought some wack Primalist or Path cultist got you.”

“The Path very nearly did,” Kellik said grimly. “Seela got the drop on me outside’a Imbu.”

“That crazy witch.” Kitrik felt a shudder go down his spine. “Is she here?”

“Oh yeah. Workin’ for the Darkfuse, no surprise there. I think she might be tryin’ to get a line on some of their weapons for her cult pals.”

The look on Nor’taeron’s face made clear what he thought of that idea. “How bad is it here, Kellik?”

“Take what you know about Gallywix and amp it up. He rules down here even more firmly than he did in Bilgewater. Goons, guns, bots… and fear, most of all. The other trade princes are scared outta their wits, and having seen the heat most of the Darkfuse are packing, I don’t blame 'em.”

As they walked out of the station towards the bright lights of the Incontinental Hotel, Kitrik had to ask, “What the hell are you doin’ here, anyway, Kel?”

“Workin’, Kit. Necromercenaries like me seem to be in high demand.” Kellik raised a hand to forestall the inevitable question. “And no, not for the Darkfuse. Emphatic ‘hell no’ to that. I don’t care if Gallywix had all the gold on Azeroth, I wouldn’t work for that bloated pusbag. Bad enough we have to see his face on posters all over town, and statues in front of the hotel and the Gallagio…”

“You still keepin’ up with our contacts in Steamwheedle?”

Kellik nodded. “Few of ‘em as are left, yeah. Some of them ended up goin’ to Darkfuse… some old pirates went to the Blackwater, now that Revilgaz is at high table. For all the good it does him at the moment. And… a lot of 'em ended up dead. Worked to death in the Deeps, murdered in the street, or sent off to the Kaja’Coast.”

“He took the kaja mines?”

“Yeah. Zandalari’ll be pissed if they figure out what’s going on.”

“What is going on?” Jenit asked.

"Been seein’ a lot of the new weapons with the goop they’re dredgin’ out of the Deeps. Not sure what all the kaja’mite’s for, but whispers say he’s building up a hoard of the stuff. All the signs are pointin’ to Gallywix gearing up for a war. Against who, no idea yet. But ever since he took over the Gallagio, he’s built up the place like a freakin’ fortress. He’s got something going on, and only he knows exactly what. "

Kitrik shook his head. “He’s a bottom-feeding, double-crossing suckpig, but he’s not an idiot. He knows word will get out… and we’ll have war in the streets, weapons or no.” He looked grim as he gazed up at the tower of the Incontinental. “This is gonna get ugly, folks. Real ugly.”

11

Brother Septimus Galedeep stood quietly on the balcony of the inn in Mereldar, staring out towards Beledar. His expression was troubled, but his conscience was clear. There was indeed a war coming between light and darkness, there was no stopping that. Yet as he observed events down here in Khaz Algar, he began to seriously question whether the Path was truly the way forward. The Corruptor had founded it as his own personal cult, and Zaidu and Kalimos had taken it over for themselves. The others now began to see that perhaps Lord Relsyn had been right. He wondered if who he had asked to see would be convinced…

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you where you stand, Septimus.”

The Tidesage turned, his expression somber, which caught his questioner slightly off-guard. “I need your help, Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth Pellerin’s saber did not lower so much as a fraction. “Go on.”

“You and I both know what is coming. We’ve seen it all over here. Dalaran. Azj-Kahet. Now Kezan. You and I both saw what madness came of these powers. Lord Stormsong. Lady Ashvane.” He held up his hands, dark energy swirling around them. “I have always followed a darker calling, you know that. But I am still a man, for all that. And if it is my fate to die in the coming conflict - Renilash, the Arathi call it - then I would rather do so as a man, rather than as a monster.”

“Are you begging me for redemption, Septimus? After you and yours killed Sir Eran and Lorewalker Puretide, nearly killed the Lorewalker’s wife and son, and all the other tales of woe you and this ‘Path’ have perpetrated?”

“I am not asking for your forgiveness, Elizabeth. As you say, it is far too late for that. But this battle between us… your mother warned me about what would happen if you were to be harmed. I have thought about that constantly ever since. If death in battle is to be my fate… I would rather it be with you than against you.”

The captain stared at him for a long moment. “You’re serious.” Her eyes narrowed. “I have known you for a long time, Septimus… I’ve known you were more than a little mad, but I have never known you to lie. Not to me.” Finally, her saber lowered. “Others, you said.”

“A couple are already on their way to Kezan to see what is going on there. Officially, it’s to negotiate with Darkfuse Enforcement to gain access to their armaments for the Path. In actuality… reconnaissance. I suspect there is more going on than simply a fat goblin making a push for power. Especially after what was found in the Ringing Deeps.”

“So this is… what? You trying to align our goals? Plead for clemency?”

“Well… in essence, yes.” Septimus stared evenly at her. “I know you don’t believe me, Elizabeth. I’m not sure I do either. But I think it would be better for all of us if we only had to watch our backs for Xal’atath and her schemes, rather than each other.”

Her expression did not waver. “That will be for Dame Catherine to decide. I will bring you to her… pray I am not making a mistake here, Septimus, or I will make you regret it.”

“I will take that chance - if only so that I may help fight the real war.”

12

Mariel Surrette sat alone in one of the few remaining forest clearings outside of Brill, waiting. She flexed the hand that had been attached to her wrist - replacing a hand she had lost to Araen Warpwalker’s sword. The ren’dorei huntress had tracked her into the City of Threads in Azj-Kahet. She had clearly intended to take Mariel’s head, but someone had stopped her. A dracthyr, it looked to her - but in the colors of the infinite dragonflight, much like Araen herself. “This one is of purpose too, Araen,” he had said. Araen had not been happy with that, but had contented herself with taking off Mariel’s left hand - and the bow gripped in it, taking it for herself. The weapon had been crafted of shadowghast metal in the visage of the one carried by Sylvanas in the Shadowlands. The slightest nod of the dracthyr’s head had indicated that this had been “of purpose” too, before they had left Mariel behind, with one hand and a bruised ego. Damn time-travelling meddlers, she thought.

Still, she was Forsaken, and there were always spare parts…

But then had come the meeting with Brother Galedeep. The Madman of Brennadam, it seemed, had had enough of the Path, and was approaching his former war buddy to try and call it off. Some had already traveled to Undermine to negotiate with Gallywix’s lot, see if they could get some of these newfangled weapons the Darkfuse were showing off. Mariel had conducted her share of dirty dealings in service to the Forsaken, and had no regrets for her past choices. But she was also a pragmatist. When Sylvanas had abandoned the Horde and the new Council had offered amnesty, she had taken it. She considered what the Tidesage had told her. “We may be beyond forgiveness, Mariel… but this is not the war we should be fighting. We cannot afford to make an enemy of the entire world. Everyone who has tried has fallen to their hubris.”

“Kalimos and Zaidu will never agree to this, Septimus,” Mariel had pointed out. “Neither will that psychotic Mag’har. Caradell might not either.”

The Tidesage’s expression had hardened. “Then they will die.”

It was the absolute certainty in those four words that had led her to this. To sitting and waiting… and as she heard footsteps approach, she knew the wait was over. A lone figure approached - a pale-skinned, red-eyed blood elf, wearing Maldraxxi bonemail. A double-scythed sethrak spear rested in her hand. “You are the last person I expected to hear from, Mariel.”

“You are the last person I expected to call on, Kirenna,” Mariel replied coolly. “But… times change. You’ve heard?”

“I have. More and more coming forward. But there are still those who stick to their insane crusade.”

Mariel smiled grimly, echoing what Septimus had told her. “Then they will die.”

13

“I didn’t think there was any place I would dislike more than Azj-Kahet. Ugh.”

“What’s the matter, Lengua, you weren’t fond of the homicidal, void-addled spider people? They’re still a damn sight better than the undead ones, I’ll tell you. Those don’t even talk.”

Lengua shook her head, looking down at her companion with a slightly bemused expression. “You say that like that’s a bad thing, Professor Darkspanner.”

“I dunno, I kinda like hearing lunatics scream battle cries before I kill them, you know?”

The dracthyr evoker chuckled. She had met Barthol Darkspanner in Valdrakken, where he had come as part of the Explorers’ League contingent to the Dragonscale Expedition. He had guided her into the “Azerothian Archives” program the expedition had set up there, and they had been in contact on and off ever since. The gnome death knight had been with the League since the war against the Lich King, where he had met the goblin brothers Kitrik and Kellik. Gnome historian and goblin mercenaries had formed an alliance that had lasted for more than a decade, the long-standing feud between the two races be damned.

He was also very welcome company, especially in a place like this. Excavation Site Nine was a Titan vault found by the goblins after the rockwall collapse in the Ringing Deeps, and a number of people had been through here since. Some had not come out; this vault was practically coated in Black Blood. Everything about this disgusting void substance made Lengua’s scales crawl, even while in her visage, as she was now. Both wore well-worn long coats, but while Lengua elected to go without armor, Barthol kept his. She carried a “pivel” - a pick and shovel combo - she had taken from a particularly surly kobold raiding the earthen graves at Mourning Rise. He carried an excavator’s pickaxe at one hip, but at the other was his frost-caked runeblade.

“My lady.” She looked up at the sound of Draconic being spoken, and saw Adyra, with the Zereth-inspired armor and gun Nor’taeron had sent her. She then switched to Common for Barthol’s benefit. “Trouble ahead.”

“What have you found?”

“It looks like the Assassin’s information was correct. A contingent of the Darkfuse has elected to meet here with Kalimos and Zaidu. Both of them are here in person.”

“Then this will be their tomb,” the professor said coldly, sword and pick now in his hands.

Lengua nodded in agreement. “Is he ready, Adyra?”

“Ready and waiting.”

“Then let us proceed.”

14

Seela Skullscrapper was crouched atop her vantage point overseeing the meeting, Darkfuse rifle in her hands. She had replaced her gas mask with a targeting scanner, but kept the old charged-slime power pack the Forsaken had given her years ago. It worked just as well with these new Black Blood weapons as it did with the ones the Forsaken - and later the Maldraxxi - had given her.

While she had arranged this shindig, Seela was more content to watch… and to deal with whoever showed up to cause a fuss. Treasure hunters and the lot had been through here for weeks. She knew that Vizka had gone over to the enemy, and had brought a few with him… and was likely to bring a few more. Mariel had disappeared, so had Brother Galedeep… and she had no doubt they had gone over too. Her “benefactors” were losing allies by the day. Much like Gallywix, she thought; rumors were going around that Gazlowe had returned to Undermine and was rallying the population into an army to bring him down.

She thought back on all those years she had spent working for the Trade Prince; how she had been on the “losing team” almost every time with him. On the Lost Isles, he had only managed to avoid getting torn limb from limb by sweet-talking Thrall… and after Sylvanas had betrayed them, he had fled with his tail between his legs. This time, that seldom-heard rational part of her mind warned, it would not end until Gallywix was dead. What then for her, and those others who had followed him?

Movement. The targeting lens whirred as she saw three targets. Two dracthyr and a gnome. Moving all sneaky like, or at least trying to. Her rifle tracked their movements. One of them was Archivist Lengua, the leader of the other team’s dragons. Kill her, and that would soften up the rest of –

The barrel of a very large-caliber pistol touched the back of her head. “Seems you forgot… never lose sight of your surroundings while tracking your prey. Basically the first rule of assassination.”

Seela’s finger was on the trigger. “I thought the first rule of assassination was to kill the assassin, Kitrik.”

“Depends on which version of the book you have…” Kitrik shook his head. “You ever get tired of being on the losing team, Seela?”

“Funny you should say that… was just thinking of how we keep getting shafted with fatso running the show.” She snorted quietly. “You a mind-reader now?”

“Just trying to put myself in the mindset of a survivor. We were on opposite sides on the Lost Isles, in the war… now. But we’re all goblins, Seela. We should live how we want, not how some bloated void-sucking jerk like Gallywix wants us to. Gazlowe wants to give us all a future. Maybe even folks like you and your associates, what few don’t get themselves killed.” The Assassin’s pistol did not waver. “Now you got two choices here. You can kill Lengua or one of her pals there with your fancy-pants new gun… and I can blow your head off. Though this thing’s an azerite pistol from the Ashvane hoard, so it might kill me with you. But I suppose it’s a risk.”

“Or?”

“Or, keep these psychos you’ve been working for from spreading this crap around. Show 'em what they’re wanting to buy… up close.”

Seela was silent, the gaze in her targeting scanner still focused on Lengua, who seemed to be waiting. She realized that this was part of Kitrik’s plan. The dracthyr and her comrades were waiting for what she did next. Which begged the question… what would she do next?

Her head moved ever so slightly, her gaze focused in… and she pulled the trigger.

15

A figure moved right into the shot, intended for Kalimos. It was the Mag’har death knight Marha Bloodaxe, the mad devotee of Garrosh who had killed Lorewalker Puretide. She let out a hideous scream of agony as the Black Blood round detonated in her chest, and her body and armor began to turn to ash. All that was left was her bloodstained Kor’kron tabard and cloak, and the battleaxe she had been carrying… which fell to the ground with a slightly squishy sound.

Zaidu’s eyes went wide with shock, and then fury, as he looked at the Darkfuse goblins, who carried similar weapons - and wore confused expressions. “TRAITORS!” the “Ascended” screeched.

“That wasn’t one of --” The Darkfuse patrol leader didn’t have a chance to say more, as the enraged dracthyr warlock incinerated him in a burst of fel fire.

Kitrik activated his gauntlets, then turned to Seela. His eyes spoke a silent thanks to her. “Cover me,” he said, and she nodded. With a running jump, he leapt, landing right on Zaidu’s back. Hissing, Zaidu hurled him aside, his claws ripped through his coat, his felfire damaging the clockwork circuits in his armor. Kitrik gave as good as he got, leaping about from the rocks, hitting the lower weak points, then - with a mixture of foot propulsion and rocket propulsion from against a nearby wall - barrelled into the dracthyr, knocking him to his feet. Ascended and Assassin rolled, trading blow for blow, but it was anyone’s game… for though Zaidu was much larger, Kitrik had agility - and a lot more experience at how to fight dirty.

“Attack!” roared Lengua, as she and Professor Darkspanner charged forward, Adyra giving them fire support.

Kalimos turned, seeing a battalion of Deathguard arrive, with Mariel Surrette at the lead. “Ah, good. Kill these–” But before he could finish the command, he saw their weapons raise, and saw the insignia… the insignia of the Heralds. They too had betrayed him. But unlike Zaidu, whose power was fueled by rage, he gazed at them coolly. “So be it,” the eredar said, as he waved his arms… unleashing a wave of fel flame. When the flames died away, his eyes widened in disbelief. A pair of shimmering anti-magic shields had been raised, protecting the battalion, and two death knights of similar stature stood next to Mariel. One was the professor, the other was Kellik. Both had weapons in their hands, and (probably literally) ice in their veins.

At that moment, Zaidu crashed bodily into him, a blooded and bruised Kitrik having used the last power in his damaged gauntlets. Now the eredar was angry, and he rose in a burst of green flame. “ENOUGH!” he screamed. “You are, all of you, vermin. And I will deal with you accordingly!”

“I think not, Kalimos.”

Kitrik felt a shiver run down his spine at the sound of that voice. He turned, as did the others… and saw double. One brown. One green. One in spike-adorned armor. The other in rune-embroidered robes. But the same eyes. The same face. One of them was solemn, determined… the other was grinning. The grinning one, the green one was the one who had spoken.

And they were both allies, it seemed. Impossible! the Assassin thought. And yet…

Kalimos’ eyes were wide in horror. “No…”

“I killed you once before, Kalimos, and I can do it again. And this time, Argus will not bring you back.”

Kitrik looked at Kalimos, and saw something he never expected. The eredar was afraid! Panicking, Kalimos reached into his robe… and a hum began to emit from within. The Assassin immediately knew it was a teleportation device. Before any of them could react, the two warlocks were gone.

Bloody and aching, the Assassin collapsed to his knees, his brother immediately at his side. But his face looked up… and saw the one who had driven Kalimos away standing over him. “Corruptor…”

“Assassin.” Urgan of the Black Harvest knelt, bringing himself eye level to the goblin. “Strange times indeed.” He conjured a healthstone in his hand, and held it out. “If there is to be a brave new world, perhaps our time would be best be spent doing things like this, to ensure it comes about, hmm?”

Kitrik hesitated… and then, he reached out and took the healthstone. “Why?” was all he could ask.

The Corruptor grinned. “Why not?”

16

He stood in the shadow of one of the bleachers of the Demolition Dome in Undermine. It was surprisingly quiet, for a city in the throes of revolution, and for being the main gladiatorial arena for the capital of goblinkind - even if the gladiators were of the mechanical (or mechanically-enhanced) kind.

Hearing the movement behind him, his head turned ever so slightly. “You must be in dire straits indeed if you’re coming to me.”

“War makes for strange bedfellows, Master Poquelin. You’ve seen enough of that of late. And you certainly seem to have embraced the strangeness.”

Poquelin the Accursed chuckled. “Indeed I have, Dame Catherine.” It was true, too; his wargear now strongly resembled that of his former jailers, the night elf Wardens. His alliance with Itzara Ravensong had been surprisingly productive, and even more surprisingly lasting. She was now working with the archdruid from Kul Tiras to search for Tekolin Wintershade, who had disappeared from his home in Bel’ameth. Poquelin was concerned for the old man too; he had accepted the demon hunter’s help, especially in dealing with his adoptive granddaughter (and Poquelin’s fellow Illidari exile), Caradell. “What’s happened now?”

“The Path has more or less fragmented, but the bigger fragments are still moving like a shard of glass through our guts. Several have… elected to join with us, but Kalimos and Zaidu have escaped. Probably gone into hiding to regroup.” Catherine gritted her teeth. “But we may have problems closer to home. Our new warlock ‘friends’ have brought the Corruptor back… and he appears to be willing to work with us.”

Poquelin turned to face the paladin, disbelief evident on the portion of his face not covered by his blindfold. “Is this some kind of a joke?”

“I wish it were. It seems his counterpart from the Iron Horde Draenor, who I thought would have been most against it… has elected to restore him. Apparently Kalimos and the late unlamented Professor Sputterspark elected to humiliate the scumbag by turning him into a murloc. They should have killed him.”

“That’s been done before, Catherine. Saavedro slew him in Northrend… and yet Saavedro is dead and condemned to penance in Revendreth, and the Corruptor is here, alive and well.” Poquelin knew he was taking a risk speaking so of Catherine’s mentor, but he knew she was aware of what he had become, and the fate he had earned for himself. “Much as I would like to send him off to hell myself… perhaps the Farseer may be on to something. After all, under normal circumstances, you would want nothing to do with me. You follow the Light. I’m corrupted by the fel. Mortal enemies under normal circumstances, hmm?”

Catherine saw his point. “But the times are anything but.”

“Exactly. I’m not saying trust him, or any of the defectors from the Path. Hell, you don’t trust me, and yet here you are. But for all that he’s a disgusting criminal who has violated both of our homelands in decades past… he has considerable knowledge at his disposal. And if the fears held by some - the draenei Prophet, the Arathi, perhaps even Azeroth herself - are true… we will need all the help we can get.”

“Kitrik said that the Corruptor believed we would be stronger fighting together, rather than against each other.” Catherine sighed. “That still leaves the diehards. Kalimos, Zaidu… and Caradell is still unaccounted for. I suspect Tekolin’s disappearance has something to do with her.”

“So do I. But I don’t think she is the one who caused it directly. I think he left to find her.”

“That’s what worries me, too… more than if she had acted directly.” She hesitated. “You’re right, I would normally not want anything to do with you or your lot. But we’re already getting undead, death knights, warlocks… and you are our only demon hunter. Do you know anyone among your former Illidari comrades who might be willing to help us?”

The Accursed was silent, thinking… then he nodded. “I may, at that.”

17

After her meeting with Poquelin, Catherine returned to Dornogal, and from there flew to the camp outside the ruins of Dalaran. She had mentioned the one she was meeting here, and had in fact called that meeting just before leaving for Undermine. She found him waiting, staring at the arcane-infused crater and the wreckage of what had once been a mighty city. He had attired himself in Arathi-style robes, but the written script on the embroidered scrollwork front and back was orcish (and just a hint of Eredun, she could tell).

“You have come a long way out of Saavedro’s shadow.” He did not turn, his gaze still on the ruin before him, an almost contemplative look on his face. The quartet of braids running down to his chest swayed in the slight breeze.

“Interesting that you use that term, Corruptor. Shadow. Was it not you who drove him to it?”

“The shadow within him rose long before I ever met him… and it took root before my return. You know this as well as I do.” Urgan of the Black Harvest let out a sigh. “I have often wondered ever since how that rematch would have gone. That damned priest…” He turned. “No matter now. You have summoned me. Is it for battle, or for parley?”

Catherine smiled, the scar across her right eye wrinkling. “Who’s to say it can’t be both? Not all battlefields are of swords and sorcery.”

The Corruptor gazed at her for a moment… then chuckled, and nodded. “Indeed so. The fact that you come to me not screaming oaths of vengeance or what not is an indicator of how well-armed you are for such a combat. More so, perhaps, than I.”

“An admission of weakness? That is not something I expected to hear from you.”

“Even I can grow old and tired. And you forget, I’ve spent the better part of the past year or two as a damned murloc.” He shrugged lightly. “Better than the years I spent trapped in a soulstone, but still.” His head tilted slightly. “You wanted to have a look at me. To see the monster that killed or corrupted your comrades over the years. A beast of the Shadow Council who drinks blood and kills for fun, that’s what the draenei think of me. Certain among your lot too.”

“Are you?”

“Am I?” The warlock laughed, a humorless, almost bitter laugh. “All of my life, since I left my calling as an apprentice shaman behind, I followed causes in pursuit of power - or tried to create my own, as with the Path. And what has that earned me? This ‘reputation’? Ha!” He shook his head, the braids swaying. “What I have seen in recent days… I’m often reminded of what some who survived Draenor, the real Draenor, have said. What they felt in their spirits as Ner’zhul opened his portals and shattered our world. I feel it here constantly. The Song.”

Catherine’s expression was somber for a moment… then it hardened. “I am not sure who you are trying to convince here - me, or yourself. If it’s the former, it’s not working. I wouldn’t trust you even if you were the last living thing on this planet. You’re an abomination to this world, and should be treated as such.”

“Oh, spare me the sermons, Hildreth. I’ve heard it from better.” Urgan’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps you are not as well-armed for this kind of combat, or as far out of his shadow, as I thought. Still trying to prove yourself to a man who became the very monster you think me to be.”

“Do not speak another word about him or I will kill you where you stand.”

“He did kill me. You think you can do better? Who are you trying to prove yourself to, ‘Warmaster’? The Light? Your boy-king? Me? Or… perhaps yourself? Wondering if you’re truly worth the trust that Saavedro and Heskin put in you.”

Catherine wanted to scream in fury, but kept it to a clenched jaw and clenched fists. The hell of it was, he was right…

“My Iron-born counterpart and his surprising choice of allies made the decision to bring me back to help you,” he went on. “And I am willing. I will not be your enemy… unless you choose to make me so.”

The enemy of my enemy can still be the enemy. Khorag’s admonition still stung. “You’re not my friend either,” she snarled.

The Corruptor smiled cruelly. “I never said I was.”

18

Undermine was a city at war.

Urban conflict was nothing new to Kellik, having been through his fair share of city fighting - in the halls of the Undercity during the war for Northrend, in Suramar during the Legion war, and in Dazar’alor during the Fourth War, just to name a few. He had seen Orgrimmar besieged (twice), seen Teldrassil burn, and seen Gilneas liberated. Yet like so many, he never believed it could happen in his people’s city… and now he stood in the doorway of the Incontinental, watching Undermine burn. What had happened to Bilgewater Port during the Cataclysm, that was one thing. This was totally different.

“Distant thoughts, brother?”

He glanced aside to the speaker. Not his actual brother, Kitrik, but his brother-in-arms from the Ebon Blade. “Not so distant anymore, Barthol. Now they’re right here.”

Barthol Darkspanner nodded. “I remember when Mekkatorque took us to try and liberate Gnomeregan after Arthas died. Decade or so later, and we’re still living on the surface outside the gates. Or in Mechagon.” He snorted. “I say ‘we’, but… I’ve never been one for staying home.”

“It’s still home, though. Good to still have one.”

“It is that.” The gnome’s expression sobered. “Kitrik came here wishing he had never come back. What about you?”

“Remembering what kind of scum runs the place, then and now… I was glad to get away when we left, yeah.”

“Any regrets coming back here?”

“Nah. Helping stomp out Gallywix, so we can see what kinda new future people like Gazlowe want to build for our folks? It’s like you gnomes in Gnomeregan, and again in Mechagon. Taking out the jerks so the regular folks can live.” He chuckled. “It’s about as crazy having you here as me being in Mechagon, but hey, it works, right?”

“The people on the street don’t seem to see it that way, but I’ll take hand gestures.” The professor grinned. “So long as they remember I have a sword.”

The two death knights laughed at that. Though Barthol was more experienced with his Scourge-granted powers, Kitrik had wielded a sword since he had been strong enough to pick one up, and both had worked together to improve one another’s respective technique - starting when they had met in Northrend, more than a decade before. Kellik and Kitrik had never been much for gnome bashing, and had been glad to help in Mechagon with Gazlowe’s crew. As well as the brothers, Barthol had worked with the Steamwheedle and the Blackwater for years, regularly commuting between Booty Bay and Ratchet, and also down to Gadgetzan. When they had called, he had not hesitated.

“Hey guys.” Kitrik approached the pair, his goblin-crafted armor (red for the Bilgewater, of course) dented and spattered with blood. “Just got word that they’re about to open up the Gallagio and finish this.” His violet eyes met their deathly blue ones. “He dies.”

“He dies,” Kellik echoed. Barthol gave a single, solemn nod.

19

Zulimbasha sat quietly in the courtyard of the Necropolis, eyes closed in meditation… then looked up on sensing movement. He smiled. “Good to see you, my eyes in the sky,” he greeted his guest in Zandali. “You bring news?”

“I do, Master Zulimbasha, from the fighting in Undermine. Gallywix is dead.”

Zulimbasha snorted a laugh. “Good riddance. Bwonsamdi will have him soon enough.”

“I hear Hexlord Raal said much the same thing when he found out. He expressed the hope that Bwonsamdi would give him a ‘swift kick in the teeth’ for what his goons did to the Kaja’Coast.”

“No arguments there.” The Venture Company had destroyed a mountain sacred to the Windmother while expanding their mining operations there, undermining (pun slightly intended) the agreement made between Trade Prince Gazlowe and Queen Talanji. The Paku’ai were furious, and rightly so, and the Bilgewater had been playing damage control ever since. He didn’t envy them their task; Raal, for all that he was a very upbeat fellow, was not someone you wanted angry at you. Much like his patron Loa, who had a tendency to pick up those who displeased her and drop them like so many crabs against the rocks. “What is happening there now?”

“Kitrik and Kellik have said they plan to stay for a time to ‘restore their connections’.” The messenger hesitated. “I told them if they needed anything, we would offer it. I didn’t mean to speak for you, but --”

Zulimbasha raised a hand, stopping her. “You did right, Soji. What we can do, we will.” He smiled. “Trust your instincts. You know who our friends are.”

Soji fidgeted nervously. “Trust is… not an easy idea for me, Master. You know where I came from, where I had to live… what kind of people had to live there.”

His eyebrows rose. “My parents were a pair of zealots who betrayed our people and our land to follow Zul’s mad visions, and they died for it. I am their son, but I am not them. We all rise above who we were to become our best selves.”

“You think so?”

“Oh, I know so. What you just said… is that all you think of yourself? An exile? Is that your story?” The Collector shook his head. “No. You are an exile who chose to redeem herself in the service of her people, and of the friends of her people. Your mind is open and your heart is good. Where we were born, who we were before… those are only part of the story, Soji. They are not the entirety of the story, unless one suffers from a disturbing lack of imagination.” He rose, wincing at the stiffness of his limbs. “The way the story ends, at least for we trolls - Darkspear, Amani, Zandalari, so on - is always the same. The Other Side awaits us. That is a certainty. But what occurs between now and then? Some of that is out of our hands, true - but the rest of it… we must write the tale ourselves.”