Zaela howled her delight. Kairoz, as he had assured her he would, had removed the dampening field. She reached into her pouch and drew out a tiny sphere. The leader of the Dragonmaw threw her first mana grenade, and grinned at the small lavender explosion.
Anduin blinked, peering through a haze of pain. He heard Chromie calling his name, and other sounds coming from above—more than just the shouting he had heard before. He couldn’t quite identify the clamor, and gingerly touched the back of his head. He hissed as the pain shot up by several degrees. He felt a lump about the size of an egg, and his hand came away red. The din continued, and abruptly comprehension clicked into place.
He recognized the clash of steel and the sharp song of magic. Anduin was suddenly overcome with a wave of nausea that had nothing to do with his injury. Because of him, Garrosh had gone into the hall wearing only the lightest of restraints. If he hurts anyone, it’s my fault.
“Anduin?”
“I’m all right, Lo,” he lied, nearly blacking out again from the act of simply sitting upright. He was drained from healing the Chu brothers and didn’t have much strength left, but he asked the Light for aid, and the pain subsided to merely excruciating. “I gotta get up there . . . stop Kairoz. I’ll send someone down for you and Chromie.”
“You are too injured to join a fight,” Li said firmly.
Not when I’m responsible for it, Anduin thought despairingly, but did not say. Ignoring their protests, he got up the stairs through an effort of sheer will, and when he stumbled through the door, he wondered if he was hallucinating.
He recognized the combatants, and at the same time, they were strangers: The blue-skinned troll with a necklace made of human and elven ears, who cackled as he tried to add more to his collection. The mighty tauren, wielding a massive mace, who wore a warchief’s armor . . .
And the golden-haired human boy in the coronation robes of a king of Stormwind, who huddled on the ground, knees pulled tightly to his chest, frozen with horror. He clutched, ironically enough, Fearbreaker.
Wrathion’s words rushed back to him: “I worry you may be too soft to wear your kingdom’s crown, Prince Anduin.” In another timeway, at least, the double-crossing dragon had been right. Anduin’s paralysis broke and he rushed toward the other boy, his hand outstretched, when the young king of Stormwind yelped, “Behind you!” and covered his head.
Anduin darted to his left and tumbled, tedious hours of hand-to-hand combat training instinctively kicking in, and he heard the whizzing sound of a glaive barely missing him. He sprang to his feet and whirled to see the huge troll leering at him.
“Ya be quick, little prince, but I be wearin’ yah ears just da same,” said Vol’jin.
Anduin stared at the gigantic troll as he straightened to his full height, glaive raised. The prince dove toward the other Anduin, grabbed Fearbreaker from his grasp, and swung the mace upward. A brilliant yellow light shone from it, making Vol’jin grunt in pain. That pause gave Anduin enough time to swing Fearbreaker in a smooth, almost leisurely arc, and for a wild moment it seemed as if the mace was moving itself. Its silver head struck the troll’s left side. The leather armor prevented the blow from being a deadly one, but Anduin felt ribs give beneath it nonetheless.
Vol’jin stumbled, grunting, and turned a cruel face toward Anduin. “For dat, you gonna suffer, little prince,” he promised. “Bwonsamdi gonna have to wait a little while for ya spirit!”
He came at Anduin like a madman, shrieking in his own guttural language, and Anduin realized to his horror that the troll wasn’t going for a kill, but reaching out for his right ear.
Crying out incoherently, Anduin brought up Fearbreaker, the glowing mace again saving his life by knocking the glaive away from his face. Vol’jin countered at once, getting in a blow to Anduin’s unarmored shoulder that made the prince stagger backward. Fearbreaker fell from his fingers. He clapped a hand over the bleeding wound and looked up just in time to see Vol’jin draw back for the killing blow . . .
And then stumble, a shocked look on his tusked, white-painted face, as young King Anduin launched himself at Vol’jin.
It was futile, of course.
Vol’jin recovered at once, twisting and easily throwing off the slight King Anduin as a dog might shake off a rat. Almost brusquely, the troll stabbed the youth in the chest, pulled out the dripping glaive, and bent to slice off the human’s ears.
A giant golden claw descended from nowhere, grasped Vol’jin, and hurled him across the arena. Chromie brought her huge head down to Anduin. “Are you all right?”
He was fine, and he was dying, and he didn’t know how to respond. Anduin went to his other self, hoping somehow he would be in time. Quickly he murmured a prayer and the wound stopped bleeding, but he could tell by the king’s chalky face that death had been only delayed, not averted.
“He leaped on Vol’jin without even a weapon,” Prince Anduin said, his voice rough. “He saved my life.” He peered at Chromie, as if seeing her for the first time.
“You got out,” Anduin said stupidly. “I forgot. I’m sorry.” He cradled the king, feeling warm blood seeping out onto his shirt. Vol’jin’s glaive had gone all the way through.
“Guards found us,” she said. “I must do everything I can to destabilize this rift. It’s the only way to send them all back.”
It was quite surreal, Anduin thought, to be holding yourself as you died. “What do you need me to do?” He couldn’t seem to tear his gaze away from that pale, still face . . . his face . . .
“You are doing it,” Chromie said, with infinite kindness. “Acceptance will help their reality in this place grow tenuous. It’s easy for you to accept your alternate. The others,” she said, lifting her great head and looking about at the violence, “will have a harder time.”
She changed into gnome form, scurrying to the broken shards of the Vision of Time, which still lay on the floor, and began to cast a spell. Anduin returned his gaze to the king, who was looking up at him with oddly peaceful blue eyes.
“You’re . . . all right,” said the king.
“Yes, I am,” the prince said. “You saved me.”
“I . . . did?” The voice was softer now, but the king looked pleased. He chuckled, then winced in pain. “I was so scared . . . I couldn’t do anything, just watch him—”
“But you did,” Anduin interrupted him gently. “When it counted—you came through.”
The king fell silent, then said, “ ’s cold in here.”
Anduin gathered the boy tighter, careful of his wound. “I’ve got you.”
The fighting continued, but it felt dim and far away to Anduin. There was another long pause, and Anduin thought that perhaps it was over. Then the king said, so softly Anduin had to strain to hear, “I’m afraid . . .”
Anduin swallowed hard. “Don’t be,” he said. “You’ll be with Mother and—and Father.”
“Is . . . Father alive? Here?”
“Yes, yes he is.”
The dying Anduin closed his eyes. “I’m glad. I wish I could see him.”
“You will. Just—hang on, all right?”
A ghost of a smile. “You’re as bad a liar as I am.” The smile faded. “Tell him I love him.”
“I will.”
The king sighed softly, and his chest did not rise again. His skin grew pale, paler than it should be from the simple but solemn touch of death. To Anduin’s surprise, the king’s body began to emit a soft, pure radiance, and then it dimmed.
King Anduin Wrynn had gone home.
Slowly, Prince Anduin Wrynn stumbled to his feet, grasped Fearbreaker, dragged a sleeve against his wet face, and started to heal those still locked in battle.
36
Guards rushed in carrying weapons. One pandaren tossed a small axe toward Baine. The tauren caught it smoothly in one hand as he ran toward the two Thralls locked in combat. He was grateful Go’el was clad in shamanic clothing, for there was nothing visually different about these two other than what they wore and what they wielded. Just as he reached them, he found himself frozen in midstride and struggled to keep his balance. He heard the bellow of draconic laughter and glanced up to see the mad Kalecgos grinning at him. This incarnation of the blue dragon was quite insane; it was the only reason there were not more dead inside the arena. He appeared to be targeting friend and foe alike, and had nothing resembling a battle strategy.