The Voice of the World, Raised in Song

Cenarion Circle and Sisters of Elune
21

She stood quietly on the dock in Keel Harbor as she awaited the Pearl Queen, fresh from her victory over the Seaking off Freehold. Though in the opposite direction, Captain Pellerin had promised to transport Dame Catherine and her party to Khaz Algar. The main fleet had already departed, leaving those like herself to catch up.

Just before leaving her home in Gilneas City, she had received a message from the Dragon Isles.

I hope this reaches you well. I hear you and your people have returned to your homeland and begun rebuilding. If I can ever endure traveling beyond the isles, I would like to see this Gilneas myself some day. But the thought of being on one of your wooden sea-craft makes my hooves turn to stone, so I will stick to what I know.

With Fyrakk dead and peace restored, it looks like we are all returning to “what we know”. For me, it’s hunting with Tomul and her band. There are still the remnants of the Primalists and their allies here, but they are but whispers in a storm now. I hope it is the same for whatever has troubled your land.

Go with Ohn’ahra’s grace, Eirena of Gilneas, and know that you will always be welcome in Maruukai.

Shiban of Clan Shikaar

“Cosmic thoughts, Eirena?”

Eirena Valmy turned to see Catherine standing there. “Not quite so far away… or long ago.” She explained the message from Shiban, the centaur hunter she had met in Maruukai during the Dragonscale Expedition.

Catherine nodded, noticing the Gilnean huntress still wore the Shikaar banner he gave her. “Would that all of our time was spent so… constructively.” She looked around. “Things seem to be moving along here.”

“One day at a time, they often say.” Eirena ran her gauntleted fingers through the fur of Leatho, her hunting bakar - another friend she had made in Maruukai. “I feel like there’s something else I should be doing here, but I know there’s not. I’m a creature of the wild, Catherine, even without the curse.”

“I know the feeling. It’s been much the same for me since Northrend, when I was a priestess in the Cathedral. Going to the front made me start questioning myself. After the Broken Shore, my decision was made - I wanted to fight for the Alliance, not just pray for it. So I went and joined the Silver Hand.”

Eirena’s head tilted. “No regrets?”

The paladin snorted. “Don’t I wish…” She sobered. “There are a lot of people I wish had been, or still were, with us. Eran, of course… Saavedro, my old mentor, no matter what he became… my parents. They died when I was a teenager. If only they had stayed dead.” At Eirena’s curious glance, she explained, “They had been in Lordaeron for trade when the Scourge came, and were among those taken by the plague. Then they ended up with the Forsaken, as part of the expeditionary forces during the Cataclysm, before they were killed.”

Eirena was horrified. “Killed here… during the invasion.”

Catherine nodded, her good eye glistening as she looked towards the sea, spotting the Pearl Queen in the distance. “I never found out until much later, of course.” She sighed. “They devoted their lives to two things - their family, and the pursuit of success. The latter was what got them killed.”

Eirena’s eyebrows rose. “Seeking success is a bad thing?”

“No. But letting it become an all-encompassing goal is. Our failures shape us as much as our successes do. Our pain as much as our joy. You know this as well as anyone.”

“Aye… I keep thinking, for all the life choices he made, that Eldred should have lived to see… this.” Eirena indicated the landscape around her. “I’m sure some amnesty would have been made for his actions during the rebellion. Now… now I’ll never know.” Her elder brother had been a warlock, banished from the Gilnean enclave in Darnassus for murdering a city guardsman in a panic during the worgen crisis, and then banished from Darnassus because of his use of dark magic. He had been killed in Tyrhold by the Eightfold Path, his essence used to resurrect the eredar warlock who now acted as its true mastermind. When Gilneas was liberated, Eirena had brought Eldred’s remains to Aderic’s Repose for burial.

Whatever he had been, whatever he had done, he was still the only family she had had left. Now she had no ties of blood - only those with brethren in arms like Catherine. And Shiban, come to think of it…

The Pearl Queen came up to the dock. Captain Pellerin stepped from the wheel and raised her voice. “All aboard who’s coming aboard!”

22

The glowing fel-green eyes of Kalimos narrowed as he saw the body (and severed head) of Savona in the hold of the Seaking. The crew wisely kept their distance. A number of them were in bandages; even the captain had set aside his usual coat, and was wearing the same sort of gear (well-made, but functional) as the crew. “I suppose I should have expected something like this,” he said, a hint of malicious respect in his tone. He turned to Vizka. “A lightning raid, you said?”

“Almost literally. Dey were waitin’ for us, and used a tortollan teleportation scroll ta board and escape. I’ve seen it before; de tortollans’ magic is… formidable.”

Kalimos nodded thoughtfully. “And yet, Savona is the only one killed by a blade. The others seem to be suffering fire injuries, shrapnel wounds from the cannon fire that has disabled your ship.” He approached closely to the captain and hissed venomously, “Did you allow this?”

Vizka met his gaze without flinching; they were of about equal height. “And if I did?” Though he knew full well what kind of power the eredar wielded, the Zandalari privateer showed no fear. “I fight dirty, you know dat. But murderin’ people in their homes, puttin’ kids’ lives at risk… ya did know de Lorewalker and his wife had a boy dere, right?”

Kalimos sneered. “And if I did?” he replied, echoing the captain’s retort. “You’re in this too deep to pull out now, Vizka. But I can be generous. I will forgive this, for now… but I will not forget it. I still have need of you.”

“Far more than I need you, and we both know it,” Vizka replied coolly. “Have a care before ya threaten me, Kalimos. I’ve killed better people than you… and a lot worse, too.”

Far from being outraged, Kalimos had to admit to an admiration for the captain’s courage. Perhaps when the time came, he would let him die quickly. “As you say,” he replied. “For now, we will focus on getting your ship back in order. And then we will all be going to this Khaz Algar.”

“Professor Sputterspark may already be there, Lord Kalimos,” Zaidu spoke up. “He was in Dalaran.”

Kalimos turned at that. “Was he, now? What for?”

“He didn’t say. But he once mentioned he has a rival among the Kirin Tor. One Caedus Netherfist, a gnome archmage. Netherfist is the apprentice of Esheregos - Eregesh. Going to settle a score, perhaps.”

“Sputterspark is too volatile,” Caradell, the renegade kaldorei demon hunter, added. She had not been involved in the attack on the Puretide house. “Lord Relsyn had a point. We are now much too… public. And Sputterspark is a notorious attention-seeker. Letting him off the leash was a dangerous gamble.”

Kalimos’ eyes narrowed. “You question my judgment, Caradell?”

Caradell shook her head once. “Not at all. I am merely concerned that these public displays of hostility do more harm than good to the cause.” Her equally-burning stare met his. “We cannot afford to fight amongst ourselves. Not even disrespectful swine like the captain here.” At that, Vizka grinned and blew her a kiss in mocking response. She ignored him. “Our opponents believe in the strength of unity. So we must. But we must also remove any potential… complications.”

“And do you see me as one of those ‘complications’?”

“…no, Lord Kalimos.”

Kalimos noted the hesitation, but did not comment on it. Another matter he would forgive, but not forget. “What you say has merit,” he said after a moment. “Perhaps we will lay low for a time. But we also have work ahead of us.” He turned to Vizka. “Whatever supplies you require for repairs, Captain, I will see that you get them. Once you are prepared, we will depart.”

23

Vizka waited a long moment before he was certain Kalimos and his lot were gone, before he spoke aloud. “You can show yaself now.”

Standing atop a crate in the hold was a vulpera in bone-adorned leather armor, carrying a pair of huge daggers similarly adorned. “You take big risks, Goldtusk.”

“Dat’s da way dis game is played, Vilaya. ‘Go big or go home’, as I’ve heard some put it.” The captain folded his arms across his chest, an expression of mock outrage on his face. “Although, did your friends hafta do so much damage to my ship?”

“You’re lucky Captain Pellerin didn’t sink you and claim the bounty on your head.” Vilaya glared at him. “You confuse me, pirate.”

“How so?” Vizka grinned. “And it’s ‘privateer’, by de way.”

“We’re in Freehold, pirate. I call it like I see it.” The vulpera assassin’s fingers tapped a rhythm on her dagger hilts. “Why are you helping us, and yet still working for them?”

“Helpin’ you? Not a bit, my dear. I’m a fighter at heart, and da Path’s vision appeals ta me. But those I kill have weapons in their hands or spells on their lips. Killin’ people in their livin’ rooms is… distasteful.”

Vilaya sneered. “How noble.”

“No, noble was when I was servin’ in da navy. Now I’m in it for myself. Nothing wrong with dat.” Vizka shrugged. “Besides, I doubt any of your friends would want ta work with me anyhow. I stuck with Sylvanas during dat whole brouhaha in Orgrimmar.”

“And she slaughtered an entire city full of people in their living rooms. Where was your outrage then?”

Another shrug. “Sometimes it’s better ta stand at da demon’s side than be in its path. It may not be pleasant, but it’s de truth. If dat offends your sense of morality, maybe you should run on back to ya desert and hide under a rock.” Vizka turned, pacing the deck of the hold. “I have seen far more of de world beyond Zandalar than you have, Vilaya. It is very beautiful, and very dangerous. One must often do terrible things ta survive in it. It’s not always about savin’ de world; it’s about tryin’ ta live in it. Comin’ from a race of survivors as you do, I would think you’d know dis.”

Vilaya was disgusted at the comparison. “I am nothing like you. You kill for money. How is that any different from killing for fun, as you accused Savona of doing?”

“Gold makes de world go 'round, little assassin. I believe in de Golden Rule: Dey who have de gold make de rules.” Vizka grinned as he tapped his golden tusks. “As you can see.” The vulpera’s hands tightened around her dagger hilts. Vizka noticed, and laughed. “Ease up dere. I’m not about ta get into it with you. Run on back to your master in de Necropolis. Our arrangement is complete. But I’m sure ya know how ta find me…”

Vilaya’s jaw clenched. “The next time I see you will be to send you to Bwonsamdi, Goldtusk. I promise you that.”

“We will see.”

24

Caedus Netherfist awoke… and suddenly wished he hadn’t. From the tips of his hair to the tips of his toes, everything hurt. He let out a groan of pain.

“Easy, Master.” Chaiya was at his side, her robe tattered - used for bandages, judging from what she had put on him.

“Ch…Chai…ya.” Even speaking hurt. “W…where…?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere underground. The spider-things that attacked Dalaran dragged us down here.”

Spider-things? Caedus thought back to what he had seen just after the city relocated from the Broken Shore.

“No talking, overcrawlers!” A jab at the cage got their attention - a massive creature standing on six of its eight limbs. Caedus, eyes somewhat foggy from pain and the loss of his spectacles, still made out the shape. He had seen enough of them in Northrend. Nerubians!

“Bah… the small one is nearly dead already,” the first voice hissed. “We should kill it.”

“We should,” agreed another, “but we have our orders. We take them. Probably kill them anyway, but for now, we take them.”

The beligerent one, as Caedus began to think of it, let out a hissing-snorting sound. “Bah. No point in it. If we’ll kill them all anyway, why not just do it now?”

“Because our queen has commanded it this way,” said the other, who Caedus dubbed “the reasonable one”. They certainly sounded so to him, anyway. “Do you oppose Ansurek’s word?”

That got the beligerent one to be a little less beligerent. “N-no, of course not.”

“I should hope not. Now go.” The reasonable one was silent, waiting until the beligerent one was out of sight and earshot, before they turned back to the cage. “Listen to me carefully. I can get you out of here, but you must do exactly as I tell you. Or else the idiots like that one, baying for your blood, will get what they want.”

“And why should we --” Chaiya’s protest was stopped by Caedus putting a hand on her arm. She looked down at him, then up at their captor. “Not much choice, then.”

“Not if you want to live, no,” agreed the reasonable one. “You are not the first from your magic city I have seen here. You were brought here with another, who has even greater power… and is not what he seems. I know where he is.”

Caedus’ eyes narrowed. Could this creature truly know where Eregesh was? “And then?” he asked quietly.

He could swear the nerubian… smiled at him, as they held out a small flask. “You are not alone in Azj-Kahet, overcrawlers. There are those among us who share your enemy. I will work to get you well enough to travel before we liberate your ally. I only hope we can reach him in time.”

Neither mage liked the sound of that. Still, Caedus gave one brief, brief nod. The reasonable one returned the gesture, before going about their business.

Chaiya stared at the flask, presumably a healing draught of some kind. “Can we trust it?” she asked.

Caedus did not reply. He reached out and took it from his apprentice’s hand - before he drank it to the dregs…

25

In the portal room at the gates of Orgrimmar, Zulimbasha had barely felt the disorientation of the portal disappear before he was approached by Silna. How she knew he was coming, he had no idea, but also knew better not to ask. Her senses had not failed her yet. “There’s someone who’s been wandering around town asking about survivors of Dalaran,” she said in Zandali. “I think we should help.”

“And why is that?”

“Because that someone is Chaoyen Greenacre.”

“What?!” Zulimbasha’s eyes went wide. “I thought he went back to the Wandering Isle…”

“It seems word of the fall of Dalaran has reached even the back of Shen-zin Su, Master. The guards say he’s been here at least two days. He eats. He drinks. He sleeps. He wanders and asks about Dalaran. ‘Did anyone survive?’ Always what he wants to know.”

The two priests walked out of the portal room and into the Valley of Strength. Sure enough, there he was, dressed in red, wearing the colors of Huojin on his tabard, and carrying what looked for all the world like a chicken coop on his back. “Please, has anyone…”

Zulimbasha approached slowly, raising a hand in greeting. “Hey dere, Mistah Greenacre,” he said in Orcish. “How can we help ya?”

The pandaren stopped in his tracks, and turned to look at him, quailing ever so slightly. Given the Collector’s attire, he couldn’t blame him. “Master Zulimbasha. Do you know something?”

“As it be happenin’, I too want to know de answer to dat question, sir,” Zulimbasha replied. “She stayed in Dalaran?”

Chaoyen nodded. “I begged her not to, but… the fire she wields powers her spirit now. She wants vengeance for Zhangren and Lazhna, and for our friends.”

“I don’t blame her,” Silna muttered. “Dat scene was horrific, and I couldn’t even see it.”

“Indeed,” Zulimbasha agreed. “Dere be others who survived it who be of similar mind, me good mon. And as I said, I have as much desire as yaself ta know what has become of our friends. I have good people in Khaz Algar now lookin’ for dem. If Chaiya survived - and given dat spirit ya mentioned, I fully believe she did - dey will find her. Anyt’ing we can do ta help, we will.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “And what becomin’ of ya grandson in dis, mon? Surely ya did not leave young Zhenyen alone?”

“Of course not,” Chaoyen snapped defensively, before realizing that it was a question of concern, not judgment. He sighed. “I still have many friends, and their children, back on the farm in Dai-Lo. He is taking in the sight of the new land. It helps to… keep his mind at ease.”

Silna gazed at him evenly with her pale blind eyes. “He knows?”

“He knows,” Chaoyen replied. “We went with Lorewalker Ketiron when we planted his staff in the Wood.” He looked at his hands for a moment, and a glint of ferocity glimmered in his eyes. “Do you plan to go yourself to this Khaz Algar, Master Zulimbasha?”

“I think probably, ya.”

“Then let me go with you. I may have a farmer’s hands, but they can still strike against those who threaten our friends and family. I learned a few things from Lazhna’s brother before he left.”

Zulimbasha stared for a long moment… then he smiled, and nodded. “I have a great respect for de pandaren fightin’ arts, Mistah Greenacre. It would be an honor.”

26

Not all who ended up in Azj-Kahet from Dalaran were still held by the nerubians. Nor’taeron Sunblade was one such - an almost literal light in the darkness, with his gleaming armor and the white and gold tabard of the Tyr’s Guard. The red cloak he wore with it was ragged now, but he was still strong, and his spear burned with enchanted flame. He stood in the Weaver’s lair, his golden gaze to the south, to the ominous City of Threads beyond. “They are safe, D’lin?”

“The small one, the ‘gnome’, was in bad shape, but he took the potion I gave him. He should be well. The other? I would hate to be on her bad side. As for their friend… Ansurek’s zealots may well know his secret. A creature like that corrupted by those mad-fangs…” D’lin shuddered; they clearly did not like to think about it. “We have new arrivals on the surface. More outsiders like yourself.”

“Aye, Lengua mentioned she’d heard the news of the fleet from the Arathi and the earthen… she has been watching for new arrivals for days now. Thinking we might have some specifically looking for us.”

D’lin’s gaze was attracted by movement. “Here they are now, it would seem.”

Nor’taeron turned, his eyes going wide when he saw who they were… and then he smiled. “Never did I think I would actually be pleased to see you.”

“Yeah, same to you, pal.” Kitrik looked amused. “What the hell are you doin’ here? I thought you were back in Silvermoon.”

“Magistrix Ceraxia and I decided to return to Dalaran before the shift. Thinking on it now, it was probably a bad idea.” He shrugged. “No matter. Did the chiefs back home send you?”

“Zulimbasha sent Kitrik,” Kieran replied. “We just happened to tag along.” He indicated himself and Kirenna, who leaned on her dual-bladed spear.

“The rumors of Titan lore had nothing to do with it, eh?” The Blood Knight chuckled, then sobered. “Zulimbasha sent you after Lengua?”

Kitrik nodded. “And Eregesh, and whoever was with 'em. You said Ceraxia was here, too?”

“Aye; the Arathi expeditioners found the group we were with, and sprung us out. She’s gone to Hallowfall, last I heard; I stayed to see if I could find our other friends. I ran into Lengua just after, and she and I have worked with D’lin here.” At this he indicated the nerubian next to him, who bowed their head. “They found several others, including Archmage Netherfist and Chaiya Puretide… and they suspect Eregesh is being held as a test subject.”

“Test subject for what?”

Nor’taeron’s expression was grim. “We found out just after Lengua left to look for you. The nerubian queen, Ansurek, is using ‘Black Blood’ - the very essence of the Old Gods - to mutate her forces. They think it a means of ‘restoring the greatness of Azj-Kahet’.”

“By the Titans,” Lengua breathed. “This is their ‘Ascension’?”

“A lie fostered by lunatics,” D’lin hissed angrily.

Nor’taeron nodded in agreement. “Our initial plan was to liberate the two first, then get into where they’re holding Eregesh. The Weaver and her allies have means where we can use nerubian pheromonal traces to make us… fit in, as it were. I would feel a lot more comfortable with more fighters with us. D’lin is no slouch with a blade, but they’re… well, light.”

“Speakin’ of light… what the hell are you thinking, Nor’taeron? You’re gonna waltz into a city full of pissed-off spider-folks lookin’ like that?”

“And what’s wrong with how I look, Kitrik?”

The Assassin just looked at him like he had asked the stupidest question in the world. Which, at the moment, it seemed so. “Your armor is brighter than a Lightforged’s tattoos, and your spear is practically a torch.”

Nor’taeron grinned wickedly. “Good. That means they will see me, and not you. Now, then… who’s with me?”

27

Catherine stood on the deck of the Pearl Queen as the ship pulled into Dornogal Bay, under the shadow of the aerie tower at Storm’s Reach. At her side, Torcall stared in wide-eyed astonishment. So too did another dwarf who had joined the journey, Marrim Snowmane. Araen, however, looked pensive. So did Calum Granden, the ship’s Tidesage. “There is a darkness here,” he whispered. “I feel it.”

“As do I,” Catherine agreed. “But a light here as well. I hear the Song much more strongly here than I did in Stormwind.” Looking to starboard, her eyes widened. “By the Light…”

All eyes turned to see the ruins of Dalaran, the shoreline spider-webbed with cracks of magical energy. Elizabeth stepped from the helm (leaving it in the hands of her first mate) to stand next to Catherine. “Are we really seeing this?”

“Seeing, yes. Believing… that’s taking a bit more effort.”

“Our destination lies ahead of us, Captain,” McDonnell called from the wheel, pointing. The tower that housed Dornogal’s council was visible over the rocks that surrounded and embraced the city. In the bay in front of them was the combined expedition from the Alliance and the Horde.

Elizabeth gazed for a moment across the way, then nodded. “Pull into position with the fleet and drop anchor, Mr. McDonnell. Dame Catherine and I will go ashore first.”

“Aye, Captain.”

“Dame Catherine, a moment.” The paladin turned, seeing Donal standing there. He held a bundle in his hands. “I know you have your own, but if you’re going ahead first… I would like you to have these. I know my grandda would have too. Call it… an acclamation of our new Warmaster.”

Catherine unwrapped the bundle to reveal a beautifully-crafted sword and shield, carved with Titan runes, and crackling with contained storm energy. “These were from his cache of relics from Ulduar?” Eran had amassed a sizeable collection.

Donal nodded; he himself was wearing armor that his grandfather had once used, which had come from that same cache. So too was the spear he carried. “He was never one for shields, but he often said it was too beautiful to leave behind. He hoped to find someone to use it eventually.” He looked amused. “I think he hoped it might’ve been me.”

Catherine hefted the weapon and shield in her hands; they were so light, a testament to the Titan-forged keepers’ craftsmanship. She bowed her head. “I will bear these with honor, my friend.” She set the blade at her hip, and the shield on her back, then turned to the captain. “Let us see what awaits us in this new land.”

28

Jenit had arrived with the fleet, and the first thing she did (once she assured herself that her new upgraded eyes were indeed working correctly, and that it was a city of honest-to-Titans earthen she was seeing) was ask what the inhabitants, and others, had heard about survivors from Dalaran. Certain survivors in particular. Once she had all the information she needed, she mounted up her mecha-drake - a gift from Englebert - and dove down into the Coreway. She was on the hunt.

She had begun to feel many things beyond the “usual” since the outsiders, including their kin from the old city, had come to Mechagon. What she was feeling now was good, honest rage. That her living family and friends had been harmed. At the senseless deaths of others, like Zhangren and Zhaoren, Lazhna, and Sir Eran. And at the one who had committed the act. He was the one she was after. She knew he was here. He had been in Dalaran. Now that lines (of a sort) had been established between Dornogal and the capitals, word was travelling from the home front. One such had come from Vilaya, Zulimbasha’s personal assassin. She had heard the wretches confirm it.

He is here. Jenit’s hands clenched. And here is where he will die.

At the other end of the Coreway, Jenit flew into a massive cavern, festooned with pipes and machinery - some of it quite old, and well-worn. The machinery in Mechagon was constantly kept in nearly pristine condition, but there was also a far greater active population. From what she had heard, the earthen had been dwindling until Dalaran had arrived, and the survivors had aided in restoring their “Awakening Machine”. Now, little by little, they were returning to what they should be. It would be interesting to find out more.

But first things first.

Landing in Gundargaz, where the Machine Speakers - the engineers and maintenance crews - made their home, Jenit unloaded two crates strapped to the saddle of her mount, containing the “battle chickens” - the constructs she and Englebert had built. Hers was very similar to his, only hers had rockets. When she asked why his didn’t, he simply replied he was not made of money. She had laughed. She and her father were well-off by Mechagonian standards - not obscenely rich, but enough to have plenty of extra cash on hand for extra things. Like rockets on mechachickens, for instance.

She felt a smile tug at her lips at the amusing memory… and then a snarl when she remembered how close it had come to just becoming a memory. Once the battle chickens were deployed, she unslung the quad-barrelled rifle her father had made, and quickly made her way out of town. This was where the Titan machinery was most concentrated… and this was the likeliest place she would find him. She was certain of it.

A bolt of melded shadow and felfire flew right past her head, forcing the mechagnome huntress to hit the deck.

Jenit looked up… and there he was. “Sputterspark!” she snarled. Fury coursing through her system, she jumped to her feet, firing off a burst from her gun.

The blast spattered like raindrops against the shield Rakeri Sputterspark had raised. He laughed. “Not this time, wretch.”

“Fine by me. Dethkluk!”

Rakeri turned at the sudden movement as the mechachicken fired off its rocket boosters, flying right into his face. His feet slipped off the edge of the pylon he was standing on, and he tumbled, screaming, to the ground a hundred feet below. One of his legs dislocated from its socket, and his staff cracked in half as he tumbled. “DAMN YOU!” he shouted as he hurled another bolt of dark magic. The blast tore through the barrels of Jenit’s rifle, twisting the weapon to pieces in her hands.

Now she was really mad. Shrieking like a banshee, Jenit hurled herself at Rakeri, his pincer-like hands trying to keep her normal-looking - but still metal - ones from his throat. Fuelled by pure rage, she slammed him against the side of the metal pylon he had fallen from. Again. And again. And again.

Stars filled Rakeri’s vision as his head cracked against the side of the structure, as her hands tightened around his throat. With a strength fuelled by pure hatred, she snapped the professor’s neck. Rakeri fell limp to the ground… and a shimmering dark sphere rolled out of the folds of his robe. Jenit caught it under her foot, and picked it up. “Marennia will not be bringing you back this time, warlock,” she sneered. “She has already suffered her deserved fate. Now you suffer yours.” She crushed the soulstone to powder in her fist… and then for good measure, she spat in his dead face. Then, without another look back, she was gone.

A stout figure approached after that, kneeling next to the body. A fascinating synthesis of flesh and machine. The other one had been too, come to that. He had seen everything. His sole good eye (the other sightless after suffering a blow to the face from a maddened skardyn) searched for some sign, but it was clear this child of Mimiron - for so he recognized him, from a dusty memory of the Keepers of long ago - would never function again.

His gaze narrowed as he saw something interesting under the body. Rolling it over, he saw it was indeed a book… one with a heavy cover. He opened it, and saw it was not simply a book of magic; it was also filled with technical schemata. Looking around for a moment, he sat upon the ground next to the body, and began to read…

29

These outlanders have far greater knowledge than we thought. Though their machines are woefully primitive compared to ours, their ability to adapt and sustain themselves is… remarkable.

He flipped through the pages of Rakeri Sputterspark’s grimoire, absorbing every bit of information he could read. Once he figured out that the language was a derivative of the Titan script, it was simple enough to decipher. How different things were among the outlanders - and yet how similar! This child of Mimiron had taken to adapting technology to his needs. And he had wielded curious magic. Similar to the energies that corrupted the skardyn - and the High Speaker - but… it did not seem to corrupt the wielder. Or if it did, not nearly as overtly as the Void. This one was no friend of the Harbinger, he was sure. And neither was the one who killed him.

The same people, yet they are at odds, he thought. Is that how all outlanders treat one another, or was this some kind of personal vitriol… or corruption, like the skardyn to us? Thinking on that led him to reach up towards the cracks in his granite face; one of Eirich’s zealots had been so far tainted that he had swung his hammer-spear into his face, destroying the eye.

“Do the earthen make it a habit of killing people here to aid them?”

He looked up, his eye focusing on the one who addressed him now. A very different figure indeed, much larger. His skin was deep red, and his eyes a blazing emerald. His feet ended in cloven hooves, like a ramolith. He realized the flame within this new outlander was similar to that wielded by the now-deactivated child of Mimiron, who he suddenly remembered was lying next to him. “I did not destroy this one,” he said calmly. “I witnessed what became of him. Another of his people was responsible. She carried a firearm.”

The red-skinned stranger nodded. “I should have expected as much…” He saw the book in his hand. “You are a scholar?”

“I am a Machine Speaker,” he replied. “I must know many things to perform my duties under the Edicts. Yet… that no longer matters, does it? Were you here when the Councilward declared us all Unbound?”

“I was not. My comrades and I have only just arrived.” His head tilted. “I am Kalimos. Might I know who you are?”

“I am called Karaash. My directives are to repair and maintain the machines, like the other Machine Speakers… and like them, I serve the High Speaker. At least now I have a reason to want to.” He paused, musing on that thought. “As well as the ability to make that choice.” He looked back up at Kalimos. “You wield dark power, yet your mind appears clear. You are no slave of the darkness, like Eirich and his zealots.”

Kalimos was silent for a moment. “There was a time I wondered about that myself,” he said finally. “Like you, I was bound by the will of a Titan. Now… I too am Unbound. And I am not alone in this. There are others who work with me, with many strengths and powers. Even those who wield the power of the Void, yet… retain themselves. Fighting against the Harbinger and her ilk with their own weapons. A fitting irony. Not my preference, however.”

“This power you wield… is it possible for others to learn?”

Kalimos’ burning green eyes stared at him for a long time, as if examining him. Finally, he nodded. “No one is beyond knowledge, Speaker Karaash… if they have the will to use it,” he said. “Do you have the will to use it?”

Karaash was silent, lost in thought. For five thousand years, he had toiled in the Deeps because that was what the Edicts demanded of him. That was the directive he had been given. But as the machines fell into disrepair despite their hard work, and Eirich retreated into obsessive delusion - and finally into madness - Karaash had begun to question the Edicts. Would any of it matter if they all shut down where they stood, and the machines fell dormant… their bodies and their possessions left behind to be plundered by kobolds or other opportunists?

Yet now the Awakening Machine was restored, and the new earthen that emerged were granted something no earthen had ever possessed: The will to choose their own fate. Slowly yet surely, that desire had spread. One of the members of the original Council had shown the way by leading the first Unbound. It had fractured their unity. But now the Council was whole again - and they all embraced the new way forward. A way beyond the Edicts.

“The Titans’ way is folly,” he said finally, marveling at the ability to speak his thoughts aloud. “The Harbinger’s way is madness. But this… this I can work with.” He looked up at Kalimos. “I cannot answer your question for absolute certainty… but I am willing to find out.”

Kalimos smiled.

30

Chaiya seethed with impatience. Anger, pain, and worry warred with the precepts of Tushui she had embraced, to carefully consider before taking action. Yet she couldn’t help it, especially looking beside her at her injured (but improving) mentor. The nerubian’s healing potion had done its work, but he had to be taken away from this place. Yet how?

The answer soon came to her in the form of noise on the other side of the door in the room where she and Caedus were being held. The door suddenly opened… and an Ascendant nerubian walked in, blades in its taloned hands. Before it could get another two paces, a massive speartip split the creature’s head open and it collapsed, twitching, to the floor. The speartip was of Thalassian design, and she instantly recognized the bearer - Nor’taeron Sunblade, student of the late Taeril’hane Ketiron, a friend of her mother’s. With him were the dracthyr evoker Lengua, the goblin assassin Kitrik, and two Forsaken - an elven dark ranger and her fearsome three-headed canine, and an undead human carrying a massive sword and a runebladed axe. “Sinu a’manore, Master Sunblade,” she greeted him.

The Blood Knight inclined his head with a smile. “Bal’a dash, milady. Stand back.” He smashed the locked cage door with his spear. “Are you injured?” He indicated her shredded robes.

She quickly shook her head. “No. It was for Archmage Netherfist. He is recovering, but…”

The Forsaken warrior was already moving forward. “Kirenna, Kitrik, we need to get them out of here. Back to the Weaver’s lair.”

“Take him,” Chaiya said firmly. “I have business here. One of them said they knew where Esheregos is. And I have monsters I want to burn.”

“I am true to my word, Lady Puretide,” hissed D’lin, from behind Nor’taeron. “And we all have monsters we want to burn here.”

Nor’taeron gazed for a moment at Chaiya, then nodded. He then turned to the others. “Take Archmage Netherfist to safety. Lady Puretide, D’lin and I will find him. You have my word.”

Lengua knelt. “Climb onto my back, Archmage. And hold on. I’m not sure how well I can go carrying a passenger, but at least my hands will be free just in case. The rest of you, cover me.”

D’lin handed Chaiya a vial filled with an acidic-smelling concoction. “You will want to apply this. Pheromone traces. They will help you seem like you belong. Only the Ascendant guards will be able to sense otherwise, but not if we keep our distance. He is being held in the halls beneath the Transformatory.” The pandaren recoiled, but she knew that if she did not do as they said, she would not get out of here alive.

Nor’taeron’s jaw clenched. “This is where this ‘Ascension’ happens?”

“Yes. Originally, the Transformatory was for our normal evolutionary process, but Ansurek and her new master have perverted the old ways to make monsters. All for the glory of Azj-Kahet.” The nerubian hissed angrily. “The halls beneath are where truly sick creatures are made, using the Black Blood.”

Chaiya dimly recalled the phrase, something about Northrend. Then it clicked. “The Old Gods?”

Nor’taeron nodded. “Even dead, they haunt us.” He indicated D’lin. “All of us.”

“What can we do?”

“We must rally our support among those who see as the Weaver and her allies do,” D’lin replied. “For now… I offer my aid by assisting you in rescuing your comrade, and getting you all to safety.” They looked outside the door. “This break-in has not attracted undue attention… yet. We cannot expect this to remain so for long. Follow me. Overcrawlers such as yourself have become pheromone-marked more frequently of late, particularly by our allies, so we should not run into any delays. If we are questioned, let me do the talking.”

Chaiya nodded. “We have come this far. Lead on, friend.”

The Transformatory had to be the most evil thing Chaiya had ever experienced, more so than the circumstances leading to this. Even the very air was foul. Nor’taeron felt it, too. D’lin was putting on a brave face, but Chaiya could see they were just as sickened by this. Describing it was one thing. Seeing it was something else entirely. She actually found this strangely reassuring; it meant that the nerubian was as sincere as they claimed.

As they moved quietly through the underhalls, Chaiya felt the fur on the back of her neck stand up, a sense of dread rising along with it. She knew they were close, but something was wrong. She soon saw why as they turned the corner. She gasped, horrified. “By the Ancients…”

31

Every nerve in his body was afire, every muscle ached. Like he had been crumpled up into a ball in the hand of a giant, then straightened out and stretched like taffy. And worst of all… the whispers. The damned whispers. Voices that were clearly not his own.

Aspects preserve me. Am I… lost?

That one was his own. He clung to it like a lifeline. Not yet. But… oh, gods. What am I now? Am I still a blue dragon? Am I even still a dragon at all? Am I… a monster?

He felt a surprisingly gentle hand touch his snout, and that was when he realized he was not in his visage form. Even sweeter was the voice he heard. “You are no monster.”

His eyes struggled to focus. But his ears had picked that voice up loud and clear. He realized he must have spoken his thoughts aloud. “Chaiya,” he rumbled. “Is that truly you, or do my senses deceive me?”

“It is I.” The pandaren bowed her head, tears welling in her eyes. “I am here with allies.”

“By the Light…” Nor’taeron was aghast. “Just like what happened to Ord’taeril on Argus. They’ve tried to warp him.” His eyes narrowed. “But he speaks to us, he recognizes us. His mind is still his own.” He cautiously approached. “Lord Eregesh,” and now he addressed him by his visage name, the one he knew best, “if I sever your bonds, will you be able to shift? We need to get you out of here. Preferably before the alarm gets raised. D’lin is keeping watch, but it’s just them and us, and an army of mad nerubians.”

The dragon-mage’s mind reeled. What happened to Ord’taeril on Argus. He knew exactly what that meant - the mad experiments of the late, unlamented Sekhesmet of Stratholme, who had used the liquified Void energy of Eredath to warp the last scion of House Ketiron. Did that mean…

No. One thing at a time. “Proceed, Master Sunblade,” he replied, in Thalassian.

The Blood Knight raised his burning spear and smashed the bolts to the chains holding the dragon to the floor, making a careful circuit around him both to ensure the best angle of his blows, and keeping prepared in case the dark power seized his mind. Eregesh couldn’t blame him. As the last silksteel chain fell away, he reached within himself… and suddenly, the world around him became much larger. He was in the ragged remnants of his robes, his staff and his silver headpiece gone. He looked upon his hand and realized… it was not pale anymore. He ran his hand across his face, and through his blue hair, and felt… something that did not belong. Running from his scalp and down to the middle of his shoulderblades.

“I could not see it in dragon-form, except maybe for his eyes,” Nor’taeron said, horrified rage in his expression - not at the man, but at his circumstances. “But here…”

“What happened to Ord’taeril on Argus, you said,” Eregesh whispered. He chuckled humorlessly. “I can only hope… I have as much strength as he did.” He flexed his fingers, wincing at the stiffness. He looked around. “Where are we? I recognize the architecture, but… this is far more intact. Not Northrend, then. We shifted in Dalaran…” He shook his head, remembering what had become of Dalaran. “Khaz Algar?”

“Aye, Lord Eregesh,” Nor’taeron confirmed. “A nerubian kingdom called Azj-Kahet, deep below the earth. Lengua and I have been working here trying to find other survivors since we escaped. D’lin, our guide here, is an ally. They will take us to the others.”

“And we had better go now,” D’lin hissed. “We have company.”