The Shattering: Prelude to Cataclysm (38 page)

And it would be a long wait. The several days’ notice that Baine had given them had enabled the Grimtotem to bring in a great quantity of food and other supplies. She had recalled all her people from Bloodhoof Village and the unsuccessful Sun Rock Retreat attack to defend this, the capital. Yes, the more Magatha thought about it, the calmer she grew. Baine would be defeated, as his father had been, and her stranglehold on the tauren would be certain.

She drifted to sleep in the lodge that had belonged to Cairne Bloodhoof. Her pleasant dreams were interrupted by a sudden flash of brilliant light and a roll of answering thunder that shook the very earth. Rain sluiced down on the lodge as Magatha bolted upright, snorting. Another blinding flash of lighting. A shaman and a tauren, Magatha was no stranger to storms. But this one had a powerful fierceness to it. She sniffed and listened, senses alert. Perhaps she was imagining things. Still, she had not lived this long by ignoring her instincts, and so she threw on some robes and a cape to guard against the torrential downpour.

Magatha squinted as rain pelted her face, peering upward. The sky was black and gray, with thunderclouds blotting out the stars. Nothing unusual. This place was called Thunder Bluff, after all. Satisfied that it was nothing more than a particularly violent storm, she reached to slip the hood further down over her face.

And then she saw it. It emerged from its cover, as garishly colored as the concealing thundercloud had been subdued, an airborne ship with a bright purple balloon hovering over it. Then came another … and another. She gasped with the crash of recognition.

“Zeppelins!”
Magatha cried.

No sooner had Magatha uttered the word than ropes were lowered from the sides of the zeppelins, and several tauren, orcs, and trolls shimmied down them. Such was the surprise that many of the enemy were able to drop safely to the earth before the Grimtotem could gather guns and bows to defend themselves.

Once on the ground, the enemy rushed to attack. Three of them were heading directly for Magatha. Fully awake now, she frowned and reached into a small pouch she carried by her side. Her fingers closed on one of her totems. The elements responded—the sky was suddenly ripped open by jagged bolts of lightning, several of which shot like spears directly at the enemy. Many of them fell at once. But in the chaos that ensued, another zeppelin moved into position and unloaded its dangerous passengers.

Magatha snarled and lifted her hands to the sky. Lightning speared one of the zeppelins. It caught fire immediately, the blaze racing hungrily along, devouring the enormous rigid balloon frame in seconds. The pilot somehow managed to steer it so that it careened right into the flight tower.

Magatha swore. The wyverns trapped within would be of no use to them as burned corpses. The late goblin pilot had made the destruction of his ship count.

But there was no time to ponder the incident. A huge explosion rocked High Rise of Thunder Bluff. The remaining zeppelin was
dropping bombs. Bodies and pieces of bodies flew up into the air, illuminated by the dim, incongruously pink light of dawn. Rahauro grabbed his matriarch and steered her back from the conflict. She struck him angrily and returned to the fray.

“Get what wyverns we have and attack from the air!” she cried. “We’ve downed one of the zeppelins; let’s get the other one!”

“Other … two,” Rahauro corrected.

A huge storm crow landed beside Baine. It shapeshifted, twisted, and Hamuul told his chieftain, “We lost one of the zeppelins. But all their attention is focused on High Rise. Stormsong’s thundercloud worked perfectly.”

Baine nodded his approval. The first wave was the most dramatic. They had the element of surprise, of shock and startlement, and Magatha and her best fighters were swarming over that level now. They were fighting the several dozen who had been lowered from the zeppelins to attack and distract them from the slower, but harder to stop, rogues stealthily moving to Hunter, Elder, and Spirit Rises. Baine was giving the Grimtotem a taste of their own medicine—cutting them off from one another. Except whereas the Grimtotem had slain the shaman, druids, and hunters, Baine’s troops were merely cutting the ropes of the bridges that connected the smaller rises to the main rise. Some arrows, bullets, and spells would reach across the space between the rises, but the vast majority would not.

Several of the mercenary trolls he had hired were also hard at work. They were swiftly and implacably scaling the sheer bluff. Bombs had been carefully placed for just such an attempt; these were carefully defused.

The lifts, not surprisingly, were set to blow. These were more complicated and were taking much longer. For the moment the distraction on High Rise had worked, and no one had thought to blow the lifts.

Yet.

*   *   *

What wyverns were left were swiftly prepared for flight, and the Grimtotem took the fight to the zeppelins. Grimtotem hunters mounted on the winged, lionlike creatures were able to fire directly on the crew and fighters on the deck—even those druids who had assumed storm crow form and were swooping down for the fight. But the Grimtotem were met with equal force as guns and arrows were fired directly at them. Magatha watched as one Grimtotem hunter was sprung upon by a great horned cat that sank its teeth in the hapless tauren’s throat. Druid and hunter both toppled from the wyvern, the druid changing into storm crow shape a scant few feet above the rise. The hunter struck the ground hard and lay still.

Corpses were everywhere. It was time to retreat. There were Forsaken magi in a cavern containing bodies of water known as the Pools of Vision; they could, if properly persuaded, create a portal to whisk Magatha away to safety. The traditional ramp that led down to each level had been bombed by a zeppelin and was still smoking. Magatha gestured, then turned and leaped down to the second rise. Rahauro and several others followed her, weapons in hand. Bloody hand-to-hand combat was rampant as well. A shadow fell over her, and she glanced up to see one of the two remaining zeppelins.

“To the Pools of Vision!” she cried. “And the lifts—detonate the bombs, then join me!”

“At once, Elder Crone,” Cor said. The bombs had been his plan, and now he hurried off to carry out her orders.

Magatha hastened up the lodge that led to the bridge. In the space of a few more heartbeats she would be—

She skidded to a halt, her hooves slipping on the well-worn wood. Gorm reached out a hand just in time to keep his matriarch from falling down into the chasm that yawned below.

“They’ve cut the ropes!” Gorm yelled, tugging Magatha back to safety.

“I can see that, you stupid—” She was interrupted by an
explosion. She turned back to the rise to see smoke coming up from where one of the lifts was, and smiled to herself. Now the next one. She waited for the highly anticipated sound. True, it would mean Thunder Bluff would be officially under siege for some time, but they were prepared for that.

The sound did not come.

The lift reached the top, and Baine Bloodhoof rushed forward so fast that Rahauro could not even move to intercept him. Hard on Baine’s hooves were a charging bear, a Grimtotem, and several other warriors. Magatha reached for a totem, but before her fingers could close on it, Baine was upon her. He swung—not a sword, but what looked to be a mace, far too small for him.

Breath rushed out of her in a whoosh as the small mace slammed into her side. She had not had the chance to don armor, and the impact sent her flying. Pain shot through her, and before she could even struggle to breathe, let alone rise, Baine Bloodhoof was crouching over her, holding the peculiar weapon high. “Yield!” he cried. “Yield, murderess and traitor!”

She opened her mouth, and nothing came out. She still could not inhale to speak. Baine’s brown eyes narrowed in … pleasure? Panic shot through her as she realized, in her silence, she had given him permission to strike.

“I … yield!” she gasped, the words barely audible over the cacophony of battle.

Baine lowered the mace. But out of the corner of her eye, she saw him clench his other fist, and then she knew nothing more.

Baine stood and gazed out over the Grimtotem he had taken prisoner. Some Grimtotem had died in the fight to retake Thunder Bluff, and many of those who had survived were injured. He had ordered their wounds treated, and there were white bandages on the black fur. Their numbers had been reduced during the fierce battle, but they had died in fair combat trying to hold a city they had taken by treachery and stealth, and he did not mourn them.

The question before him was, what to do with those who remained? Especially their leader?

Magatha was among the wounded, but it did not appear to have damaged her pride any. She stood as straight and tall as ever, flanked by two Bluffwatchers who appeared to be longing for any excuse to attack and finish her off. Part of Baine shared that longing. To strike off her head and impale it on a pike at the foot of the bluff as a warning, as had been done with the heads of dragons … yes, he admitted it would satisfy him greatly.

But it was not what his father would have done, and Baine knew it.

“My father let you stay here, in Thunder Bluff, Magatha,” Baine said, not using her title. “He treated you fairly, hospitably, even though he knew that you were more than likely plotting against him.”

Her eyes narrowed, and her nostrils flared, but she did not speak in anger. She was too smart, curse her.

“You repaid that consideration by smearing poison on Garrosh Hellscream’s weapon, and watching as my father died ignobly and in agony. Honor would demand a life for a life, or the challenge of mak’gora—a challenge issued to you, not to Garrosh, who I think was nothing but a pawn in your game.”

Magatha tensed, ever so slightly, waiting for the challenge. Baine smiled bitterly. “I believe in honor. My father died for it. But there is more that a leader must respect. He must also know compassion, and what is best for his people.”

He strode down from the lodge until he was eye to eye, hoof to hoof with her, and it was she who drew back slightly and flattened her ears.

“You like comfort, Magatha Grimtotem. You like power. I will let you live, but you will taste neither.” He held out his hand. One of the Bluffwatchers gave him a small pouch. Magatha’s eyes widened as she recognized it.

“You know what this is. It is your totem pouch.” He reached inside and brought forth one of the small, carved totems—the
links Magatha had with the elements she controlled. He held it between two powerful fingers and crushed it to pieces. She tried, and failed, to not show her horror and fear at the gesture.

“I do not think for a moment this will completely sever your connection to the elements,” Baine said. Nonetheless, he repeated the gesture with another totem, and another, and finally a fourth. “But I know it will anger the elements. And it will take you time—and abasement before them—to regain their favor again. I think such groveling and humility are fine things for you to taste. In fact, I will contribute even more of such things.

“You will be sent from this place to the harsh Stonetalon Mountains. There you may eke out an existence as best you may. Harm no one, and no one will harm you. Attack, and you are the enemy, and I will put no restraints on anything anyone wishes to do to you. And stir up treachery again—then, Magatha, I will come for you myself, and even the spirit of Cairne Bloodhoof urging me to calmness will not stop me from cutting off your head. Are we clear?”

She nodded.

He snorted, then drew back, eyeing the others. “There are some among you who were uneasy with the bloodshed, as Stormsong Grimtotem was. Any of you who wish to come forward and swear loyalty to me, the tauren people, and the Horde, and publicly disassociate yourselves from the stain that spreads whenever the name Grimtotem is mentioned, as Stormsong has done, you will receive a full pardon. The rest of you, go with your so-called matriarch into the wilderness. Share her fate. And pray you never see my face again.”

He waited. For a long moment no one moved. Then a female, clutching the hands of two little ones, stepped forward. She knelt before Baine and bowed her head, her children imitating her.

“Baine Bloodhoof, I had no part in the slaughter of that night but confess that my mate did. I would have my children grow up here, in the safety of this peaceful city, if you will have us.”

A black bull moved toward the female, placing a hand on her shoulder, then kneeling beside her. “For the sake of my mate and
children, I present myself to your judgment. I am Tarakor, and it was I who led the attack against you when Stormsong deserted. I have never seen mercy in my life, but I ask it for my innocent children, if not for myself.”

More and more came forward, until fully a quarter of the Grimtotem were kneeling before Baine. He was not so trusting as to think they would not need to be watched. When sharing Magatha’s banishment, shame, and powerlessness was the only other option—for he intended to strip all of them of their ability to fight back, at least temporarily—he imagined many would have a sudden change of heart about their past deeds. But some of them, he also knew, were genuine in their desire. And perhaps others would become so. It was a risk he would have to take, if true healing were to happen.