The Shattering: Prelude to Cataclysm

PRELUDE TO CATACLYSM

Gallery Books A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc. 1230 Avenue of the Americas New York, NY 10020 www.SimonandSchuster.com

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2010 by Blizzard Entertainment, Inc. All rights reserved. Warcraft, World of Warcraft, and Blizzard Entertainment are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Blizzard Entertainment, Inc., in the U.S. and/or other countries. All other trademarks referenced herein are the properties of their respective owners.

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First Gallery Books hardcover edition October 2010

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Manufactured in the United States of America

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

ISBN 978-1-4165-5074-7
ISBN 978-1-4391-7143-1 (ebook)

Thanks and appreciation must go to my wonderful and enthusiastic editor, Jaime Costas, who always makes me feel so great about what I do. I must also express my gratitude for the constant support of the Blizzard development team: the deeply appreciated Trio of Awesome—Chris Metzen, Evelyn Fredericksen, and Micky Neilson—with whom I have worked before and with whom I hope to continue working for many moons to come; Justin Parker, Cate Gary, James Waugh and Tommy Newcomer, for editing and various other emergency aid; Alex Afrasiabi for game perspective on the story development; Gina Pippin, who keeps the wheels turning and who has unbridled enthusiasm for seemingly everything I do, and her assistant George Hsieh, who sends me Neat Stuff. You are all without exception creative, fun, and a delight to work with, and I couldn’t have done it without you.

T
HE
S
HATTERING

PRELUDE TO CATACLYSM

The sound of rain beating on the tightly drawn hides covering the small hut was like that of a drum played by a swift hand. The hut was well made, as all orcish huts were; no water seeped inside. But nothing could close out the humid chill of the air. If the weather turned, the rain would become snow; either way, the cold damp penetrated to Drek’Thar’s old bones and kept his body taut even during sleep.

But it was not the cold, not this time, that caused the elderly shaman to toss and turn.

It was the dreams.

Drek’Thar had always had prophetic dreams and visions. It was a gift—a spiritual sight, as he no longer had physical sight. But since the War Against the Nightmare, the gift had grown teeth. His dreams had worsened during that dreadful time, and sleep promised not rest and refreshment, but terror. They had aged him and turned him from one who had been old but strong into a frail, sometimes querulous elder. He had hoped that with the defeat of the Nightmare, his dreams would return to normal. But while the intensity had lessened, his dreams still were very, very dark.

In his dreams, he could see. And in his dreams, he longed for blindness. He stood alone on a mountain. The sun seemed closer than normal and was ugly and red and swollen, casting a bloody tinge on the ocean that lapped at the foot of the mountain.
He could hear something … a distant, deep rumbling that set his teeth on edge and made his skin prickle. He had never heard this sound before, but due to his strong connection with the elements, he knew that it indicated something terribly, terribly wrong.

A few moments later the waters began to churn, surging angrily now at the foot of the mountain. The waves grew high, hungry, as if something dark and dreadful stirred beneath their crashing surface. Even on the mountain, Drek’Thar knew he was not safe, knew nothing was safe, not anymore, and he could feel the once-solid stone shuddering beneath his bare feet. His fingers curled tightly, painfully, about his staff, as if somehow its gnarled length would stay stable and secure despite a roiling ocean and a crumbling mountain.

And then, with no warning, it happened.

A fissure zigzagged along the earth beneath him. Roaring, he half-leaped, half-fell out of the way as it opened like a mouth attempting to devour him. He lost his hold on his staff, and it fell into the widening maw. As the wind whipped up, Drek’Thar clung to an upthrust shard of rock and, trembling as the earth trembled, peered with eyes that had not seen in far too long at the blood-red, boiling ocean beneath.

Huge waves crashed against the sheer wall of the mountain cliff, and Drek’Thar could feel the blistering spray as they surged impossibly high. From all around him came the screams of the elements, frightened, tormented, calling out for aid. The rumbling increased, and before his terrified gaze a massive chunk of earth broke the surface of the red ocean, rising, rising seemingly without cease, becoming a mountain itself, a continent, even as the land upon which Drek’Thar stood cracked open yet again, and he fell into the fissure, crying aloud and clutching at air, falling into fire—

Drek’Thar bolted upright in the sleeping skins, his body convulsing and drenched in sweat despite the cold, his hands clawing the air, his again-unseeing eyes wide open and gazing into blackness.

“The land will weep, and the world will break!” he shrieked. Something solid touched his
flailing hands, enclosed them, stilled them. He knew that touch. It was Palkar, the orc who had attended him for several years.

“Come now, Greatfather Drek’Thar, it is only a dream,” the young orc chided.

But Drek’Thar would not be brushed aside, not with the vision he had had. He had fought in Alterac Valley not so long ago, until he had been deemed too old and weak to serve in that capacity. If he could not serve there any longer, he would serve with his shamanic skills. His visions.

“Palkar, I must speak with Thrall,” he demanded. “And the Earthen Ring. Perhaps others have seen what I have … and if they have not, I must tell them! Palkar, I must!” He attempted to rise. One of his legs gave way beneath him. Frustrated, he pounded at his betraying, aging body.

“What you must do is get some sleep, Greatfather.” Drek’Thar was weak, and struggle as he might, he could not offer sufficient resistance to escape Palkar’s steady hands pushing him back on the sleeping skins.

“Thrall … he must know,” muttered Drek’Thar, slapping ineffectually at Palkar’s arms.

“If you feel it necessary, tomorrow we will go and tell him. But now … rest.”

Exhausted from the dream, and feeling the cold in his aged bones afresh, Drek’Thar nodded and permitted Palkar to prepare him a hot drink with herbs that would send him into a peaceful sleep. Palkar was a good caretaker, he thought, his mind already wandering again. If Palkar thought tomorrow would be soon enough, then it would be. After he finished the drink, he laid his head down, and before sleep claimed him, wondered driftingly,
Soon enough for what?

Palkar sat back and sighed. Once, Drek’Thar had been mentally as sharp as a dagger, even though his body was growing increasingly fragile under the weight of his years. Once, Palkar would have sent
a runner off to Thrall immediately upon learning of Drek’Thar’s vision.