“Did King Varian and the warchief follow your example?”
“They did. They learned they had more in common than they thought when they sat down to talk.”
“What did Garrosh contribute to these peace talks?”
“Well . . . he didn’t seem to understand that being a leader means sometimes thinking about things that aren’t all that exciting. He interrupted when Go’el and Father were discussing trade. He kept talking about the Horde . . . just taking what it wanted.”
Tyrande gave Garrosh a pointed glance. “I see. Please continue.”
“Go’el and Father were starting to get along when word came of another attack by the Lich King. They agreed it needed to be addressed but were planning on resuming the conference, but then we were attacked by agents of the Twilight’s Hammer cult. It all fell to pieces after that. Of course, that’s just what the cult intended. They broke the attack down by races—the Horde members of the cult targeted the Alliance races of the summit, and vice versa. Garrosh was shouting about ‘human treachery,’ Father mistakenly believed that Go’el had hired an assassin, and . . .”
“History documents the rest, thank you, Prince Anduin.” She paced deliberately, her back to him, her face turned to the crowd peering eagerly down. Anduin, too, glanced up at the spectators, and thought again of his father’s comment about the gladiator pits. They were hungry for blood, he realized, and the idea both chilled and saddened him. His gaze went back to Garrosh, and there was weariness in the orc’s posture that made Anduin wonder if Garrosh was thinking the same thing.
And if, finally, he might not want to fight it anymore.
“I would like to move on to your second . . . encounter . . . with Garrosh Hellscream.”
He knew this was coming, of course, but was unprepared for the way he responded. It was as if no time had passed—as if only a moment ago, the great bell had fallen . . . He cleared his throat, and was displeased that his voice shook slightly when he spoke.
“It was a few months ago, before—”
Tyrande turned, smiling gently, but holding up a hand that forestalled further comment. “May it please the court,” she said. “I do not need you to tell it, Prince Anduin. I would like to show it.”
So that’s what she wants to save the Vision for . . . “Do you think that’s wise?” Anduin blurted. Too fresh in his mind was the awful screaming of the Divine Bell, and the effect that sound had on those with any kind of darkness in their hearts. The thought of replicating that moment horrified him. “What if it—”
Tyrande held up a hand. “Do not fear, Your Highness. I understand your concerns. I spoke with Chromie at length about this event, and she and I have already witnessed it. While these displays granted to us through the Vision of Time are remarkable, seeing and hearing the bell rung in this manner does not have the same effect as actually being in its presence.”
“Thank the Light,” Anduin murmured as he relaxed, exhaling in relief. His bones ached, abruptly and deeply. Neither he nor his body, apparently, would relish watching the events surrounding the Divine Bell play out. His palms were moist and he took a breath to steady himself, whispering a soft prayer. A gentle wave of healing energy washed through him, and the pain subsided somewhat.
“Now that you have been reassured, Prince Anduin, can you please set up the details of what we are about to see?”
He licked his lips and glanced up at the celestials. They did not show any reaction, but simply seeing them was calming to Anduin. Keeping his gaze focused on them and avoiding Hellscream, he spoke. “The mogu created an artifact that Lei Shen, the tyrant known as the Thunder King, called the Divine Bell. Its origins were violent and cruel, in keeping with the discord and horrors it would unleash when it was rung. Its tones fueled the anger and hatred of Lei Shen’s warriors, lending them unnatural strength and power, while striking fear into the hearts of his enemies. Once the Alliance learned about it, the night elves hid it away in Darnassus. The idea was to keep it out of any hands that might misuse it—Horde or Alliance. Lady Jaina herself placed protective wards to keep it safe.”
“It sounds like a powerful weapon.” And of course, Tyrande knew it was.
“It was a double-edged sword,” Anduin continued. “It took as much as it gave—perhaps more.”
“What happened to the bell?”
“A Sunreaver agent, acting on orders from Garrosh, was able to bypass Lady Jaina’s wards on the bell. He and several other Horde members stole it.”
“From what you are telling us, it sounds as though this bell would have made Garrosh Hellscream unstoppable.”
Without even realizing it, Anduin glanced over at Garrosh. His skin crawled at the expression on the orc’s face, but the reaction was not from fear. The stillness Garrosh assumed was unnatural for him, whom Anduin always recalled posturing and bellowing. Anduin reached for a glass of water on the small table beside his chair before continuing.
“The pandaren had crafted the means to combat the ringing of the bell. They had made the Harmonic Mallet, which turns the bell’s chaos to harmony. The mallet had been broken and scattered, but with help, I managed to find and assemble the pieces, and located an ointment to activate it. When it was restored, I headed out to confront Garrosh. I wanted to stop him before he rang the bell.”
“Alone?”
“There wasn’t time for anything else.”
Tyrande nodded at Chromie, and what Anduin had been dreading began.
This time, though, Anduin had a chance to hear what Garrosh said before the human prince had reached him.
Garrosh stood, larger than life in the Vision, the one whom Anduin remembered, not this still-as-stone orc who sat in the courtroom watching with an emotionless visage. He was alone save for his champion, Ishi, on a platform off the Mogu’shan Vaults, facing the bell. It was enormous, much bigger even than the mighty orc himself. It bore the face of a grotesque creature on it, and its lower rim was studded with spikes. Garrosh grinned and roared in triumph, lifting his arms. He called out to his people, still lingering in the vaults, “We are the Horde. We are slaves to nothing and no one! With the Divine Bell, I will burn away any remnants of weakness within us.”
Garrosh was trembling, Anduin realized, shaking with an almost uncontrollable passion and excitement as he spat out the names of the emotions he despised.
“Fear . . . despair . . . hatred . . . doubt. The lesser races are buried beneath their weight. But we will control their power. Together, we will destroy the Alliance and claim what is rightfully ours. Let our song of victory begin.”
Despite Tyrande’s words of reassurance, Anduin clenched his fists so tightly that his fingernails cut into his palms, and his brow was dewed with sweat. The dark song rang out, but he knew at once that the high priestess had been right—he heard the awful, discordant cry of the bell only in his ears, not in his heart or his bones. Gratitude left him weak for a moment as he watched and listened.
Anduin saw his image race toward the bell. He thought of himself as average-sized; his father, of course, was a particularly large human male, but Anduin had been used to that since his birth. But to see his form standing next to not only the then-warchief of the Horde but also the gargantuan bell made him realize how slender he was . . . how very breakable—
“Stop, Garrosh! You do not know what that bell is capable of!” His own voice—firm, certain.
Garrosh whirled, saw Anduin, looked past the prince, and then smiled as he realized Anduin was all that stood between him and victory. He threw back his head and laughed.
“So in the end, it is not Varian but his whelp who comes to face me. You run bravely to your death, young one.”
Tyrande called, “Stop here,” and the scene froze. Anduin blinked, coming back to the present moment. “That was indeed exceptionally brave, Your Highness.”