Prologue
25 Years After the Dark Portal
The clicking. He would never get over that sound. The crackling of flames and the rumbling crawl of lava never unsettled Ambren Softhoof. The Molten Core held no horrors for him. Even the Blackwing Lair failed to unsettle him, despite the horrid nature of its purpose. Perhaps Onyxia frightened him - she was the first fearsome dragon Ambren had ever seen in the flesh - but quickly he learned that his companions feared her not. Their strength, their courage, inspired his own.
Abyss the guild was called. Their leader, an intrepid warlock of the Forsaken, felt no need to hide her view of the world. "It is an abyss into which all good must dive at one point or another," she said, a very long year ago. "And I choose to do so without hesitation. The Tauren, I know, are not fond of that. I will not ask you to agree. I will only tell you that I am in need of a loyal shaman."
Ambren pondered on that, trudging through the chitinous tunnels beneath the sands of Silithus. Loyal… that was the word he used that day. Is that what she said to the others?
"Zanti!" The voice was belligerent, even for an Orc. "We have to move faster than this."
Click-click. Click-click. Ambren shuddered as Zanti moved her tamed Silithid closer to the Orc. "Do you have somewhere else to be, Da'Vester? Does the Old God interfere with a night of grog in Orgrimmar?"
Da'Vester grumbled, but gave no response.
"You may notice that not all of us ride Silithids. We will not leave allies behind."
"Perhaps if you had not ordered us to leave our mounts in the sand…" muttered a priest, another of the Forsaken.
Zanti whirled her head and raised her heavy, decayed voice. Never to a shout, but fierce nonetheless. "Look around you. Feel the ground under your boots. Which of our mounts would you say could traverse through these tunnels? Hm? Your undead horse? Wolf and raptor claws will only stick in this terrible ichor. The kodos cannot fit through some of these tunnels, even without a rider. Our Tauren walk quicker than the rest of us thanks to their hooves. But the horse was not equipped the same. Think before you speak. And let us keep moving."
Click-click. Click-click.
Forty adventurers trudged up the winding tunnels that the Qiraji made beneath the sands. Ambren stayed near the back, hoping not to catch an unhappy eye staring at him. It was well known that he and Zanti were friends, when all was said and done and they took their reprieves back home. Lately, it seemed, being a friend of Zanti was being the enemy of another.
"Here," said a smooth yet rotten voice. And quite suddenly, something was pushed into Ambren's large Tauren hands. "From the higher ups."
Ambren looked down and saw the wild, frozen hair of Arthur McGee. Once a nurse for the military of Lordaeron, Arthur was killed in the Culling of Stratholme. By some divine miracle - perhaps the Light, or as Ambren suspected a foresightful boon of the Earthmother - he was not bewitched into servitude by the Scourge. Instead he was buried peacefully at home in Lordaeron… and raised quite suddenly to join the Forsaken. Zanti discovered him quickly, learning the ways of the mage and abandoning all trace of his former life.
Arthur was an odd fellow, but a good friend. If only he didn't call himself -
"Fart," said Ambren, inspecting the crown in his hand. "What is this?"
"A diadem," said Fart McGee. "Found it on Vek'lor's body. Officers wanted you to have it. No power left in it, but the Brood might trade you something useful for it."
"Perhaps," Ambren nodded, slipping the ancient crown into his pack.
Fart McGee stomped stiffly up the incline beside Ambren, returning to his usual wordless company. Still, he could always be counted on to listen. "Something's not quite right, Fart. I do not recognize our guild. They question Zanti's leadership far too often… as though she were not responsible for our victories. Can you name a warlock who has ever saved so many lives? I fear they will disregard her commands in the fight to come."
"We will die," the mage said bluntly.
"Yes," Ambren said. "Even if we succeed… not all of us will come out of here alive."
A ripping sound escaped from the elegant robe covering the decaying body underneath. A few heads turned back to Fart McGee, laughing. He looked forward, ignoring them all, and said, "Good."
"I have studied the scrolls that the Cenarion Circle gathered. The War of the Shifting Sands is a mystery no more. Without this knowledge we would not have gotten this far," Zanti said, laying out her parchment for the raiders to see. "You must trust that what I am about to say is as close to the truth as I know. But we must also be prepared for surprises."
"Speak," said Da'Vester, sharpening his axes. "Let us be done with this."
Sighing openly, Zanti continued. "C'Thun is an Old God, but has a weakness that we can exploit. We must take care when entering the chamber. The Great Eye will attempt to wipe us all out with a single beam of energy. But if we file inside in smaller groups, the power will not amplify. Our healers will have little to do right away if we execute the entrance properly."
A slim Troll, aglow with the light of her staff, stood and spoke. "Ya hear dat? Dohn' be givin' me too much ta handle!"
Another of the healers, priest like the Troll, echoed the sentiment. Save me… Ambren thought. I already know what he's going to say. And Swain said it. "We should not be healing you at all," the tall Forsaken complained. "None of you should be getting attacked except for -"
"Pardon my interruption," Zanti said. "I have a battle plan to explain. Thank you, Rainos and Swain for your input."
The warlock they called Pooty let a breathy laugh escape his decaying nose. Ambren furtively glanced about the circle of raiders, and saw the disdain in many of their eyes.
"C'Thun will employ the use of many appendages. They can appear through the walls, through the ground, and through the ceiling. Watch your surroundings. We will spread out after entering the chamber. We will take damage. All of us."
And I will heal it, Ambren thought bitterly. That is my job, after all.
"And what is the weakness you mentioned?" asked Caylts, one of the only other Tauren on the team. He stood menacingly with front-pointed horns, and a set of shoulderguards he'd been given by the Brood, fashioned from violet Qiraji chitin. Yet, ever patient, he spoke to Zanti with respect.
"It is on the inside," Zanti said. "Which we will attack when we are eaten."
Click-click. Click-click. The Silithid mounts skittered on the stone floor of the temple proper as the voices from the raiders began to rise. Even Ambren could scarcely believe what their leader had just said.
"Enough!" Zanti asserted. "It is inevitable. The tentacles that appear from within the stones will batter us, fire spells at us… and some will simply swallow us whole and send us into the belly of a god. It is unpredictable, and there is no escape from its maw. But there is an escape from the belly."
"And how do you expect us to survive long enough to make that escape?" said Da'Vester, a sharp weapon in each hand.
"Because of our dear friend Ambren."
All eyes turned to Ambren Softhoof. Some in disbelief. Some in disgust. Fart McGee had a wry smile on his rotting face.
Click-click-click-click.
"How… What is my task, friend?" Ambren knew his voice sounded uncertain. Zanti had never given him a task so unique or critical before. Why now?
"You will jump into the belly as soon as you possibly can," Zanti said, "and heal anyone who gets swallowed. Once inside you will see two… things. You will know them by their aggressive nature. When those things die, C'Thun's body will become weak. Very weak, but for a short time. Naturally, another healer will be swallowed at some point. That healer will be certain to keep Ambren alive."
"Ya killin' him," a plated Troll warrior said. "Dere's no guarantee dat anotha healer gets eaten. Why you guona put dat on Ambren?"
"Because," Zanti said plainly. "I trust him."
...
Softhoof they called him. As a young Tauren, chasing wolves through the plains of Mulgore, he laid to sleep almost every night with a pebble caught somewhere in his hooves. Too many times the elders had to trim away his corneum and repair white-line fractures caused by these little pebbles. "Why your hooves are so soft," his mother once said, "I will never know. But you must know this, Ambren. If you ever need to run for your life, you may not make it."
Click-click.
"Five at a time," Zanti said. "We will run inside."
Click-click. Click-click.
The voice of his mother would not leave him. "Do not listen to your father. He wants you to be a warrior like him. But your hooves are too delicate."
"Each of those groups will have at least one healer. Rainos first…"
Click-click-click.
"The order of druids might serve you well. The mighty bear has paws, not hooves. But perhaps you would be even more delicate like that."
Fart McGee stepped up beside Ambren. "Looks like we'll be running in together, Softhoof."
Click-click. Click-click-click.
"As a hunter, perhaps… you will not need to move so much. But I think that is not your calling, my child. No…"
Da'Vester grumbled as he always did, sliding one blade against the other and letting a sharp ringing echo through the halls of the Temple of Ahn'Qiraj. "We're ready!"
Click. Click. Click.
"The Earthmother smiles upon you every day, little Ambren. You were born to be a shaman. I know it in my heart. And perhaps, with the wind at your back…"
Click. Click.
"... you can accomplish anything."
Click.
"NOW!"
Ambren could see it already. The Old God, C'Thun. Centered in the chamber, its Great Eye protruded from a pool of shadow in the stone floor. Five companions ran into the chamber, at once being struck by a beam of energy from the Eye, quick as lightning. Confidently, reflexively, Rainos cast her heals upon them. They ran to the back of the chamber, taking position, and attacking the Eye at once.
"Next!"
Giddy with his demon beside him, Pooty ran into the chamber with his group, casting curses upon the Eye of C'Thun. The beam struck him, and he laughed. It must have been no pain at all after keeping the attention of Emperor Vek'lor for so long.
"Next!"
Wind be at my back… thought Ambren. And into the chamber he ran, Fart McGee waddling beside him with stiff bones clacking against the ancient stones. Ambren summoned a water totem at once, and in that instant the Eye zapped him in the chest, casting its spiteful energy through his core and onto his companions. The pain was not so bad. But the feeling in his heart was terrible.
"Next!"
More ran into the room. A great shadow appeared on the other side of the chamber, where no one yet stood, and from its depths a massive clawed tentacle emerged, smacking the ground around it and sending painful tremors through the floor. The new group ran to it immediately, trying to cut it down.
"Next!"
Ambren dropped his other totems, the stoneskin of earth, the windfury of air, the searing totem of fire. A warm memory of his adventures across Azeroth to learn the shamanistic ways gave him a sudden boost of courage.
And then a deep, malicious voice spoke in his mind.
Your courage will fail.
The Old God spoke to him, and its Eye fixed upon him. Then the ground beneath him fell away, and a great mouth opened up. Ambren steeled his mind, crossed his arms, and jumped straight into the belly of the beast. For a few awful moments, he could see nothing.
Sliding down the viscous throat of the appendage, Ambren held his breath and wished for the rocky protrusions on his enchanted armor to cut the beast as he went down. When the crushing tightness of the esophagus gave way, he fell into a massive stomach, instantly feeling the enveloping sting of godly stomach acid. It was not dark as he'd expected inside the belly of C'Thun. Its fluids illuminated the cavernous organ with a vile green glow. The acid burned quickly, and in a panic Ambren started to heal himself. The Earthmother still sees me here, he noted. The ancestors still grace me.
A little island of flesh poked out of the stomach acid. As Ambren's healing wave briefly gave soothe to his burning body, he started to trudge through the stomach acid to reach it. Another quick healing spell, and he was as safe as he might hope. Even with the two creatures attacking him now.
Rising from the acid, two huge claws at the ends of tentacles undulating with boils started to swipe at him, battering the chain mail on his chest, the shield in his hand. This was a pain he had seldom experienced before. The dozens of whelps Onyxia hatched could not hit so hard. The fires of Ragnaros seldom reached him during that battle. Even Nefarian's shadowflame breath could not truly harm him, not with the Onyxian Scale Cloaks they had crafted from the dragon's fallen sister.
But this was not the sort of thing Ambren was normally expected to do.
Blocking what he could, Ambren raised his jeweled mace up to amplify his healing waves. Lok'amir il Romathis it was called. The Hand of Nefarian, gifted to him by Zanti when they'd pillaged his hoard of treasures inside the Blackwing Lair. No finer weapon had yet been seen in Azeroth for many years. Yet it scarcely felt strong enough to keep him alive.
The voice spoke again. You are weak.
"Ambren!" a real voice shouted. Falling into the acid, Caylts charged rapidly at one of the claws, making no note of the burning sensation in his hooves. More green liquid splashed up onto his armor as he swung viciously, hoping to expose an Old God's weakness.
Given some reprieve, Ambren healed his Tauren companion.
A new patch of flesh appeared in the stomach, this one rumbling with intensity. It looked as though it were preparing to eject something. "To protect itself…" Ambren realized. It wants us back out. But we need to kill these creatures…
Caylts grimaced as the acid burned him. And no matter how quickly Ambren cast his heals, the wounds burned open again. He was bloody and growing tired. He needed to leave.
"Caylts! To the flesh!" Ambren shouted.
Needing no second telling, the warrior parried a claw's massive swipe and ran to the quivering flesh. Ambren hooked his mace back onto his belt and jumped onto one of the claws, holding on tight as the stomach began to roll and contract. Abruptly, the patch of flesh flexed and flung Caylts upward, back into the esophagus and out of C'Thun's belly. Ambren fell off the wriggling tentacle, and scrambling back to his safe spot, re-summoned his totems.
Your heart will explode.
Three more of the raiders fell into the stomach. They were quick to attack, practiced as they were in vanquishing the great evils of Azeroth. Too wracked with pain, Ambren fell to one knee and nearly let a claw pierce him through the back. But a wash of relief took him back to his hooves, and the shimmering sound of a holy shield enveloped him. He looked, and saw the grinning tusks of Rainos, staff in her hand as she ran across the stomach to the quivering flesh.
"Word got around," she told him. "Dat was good 'tinking!"
A claw fell into the acid, shriveling and becoming still. Ambren grabbed hold of it, ignoring the layer of acid that coated it, and flew into the stomach lining as the belly folded and regurgitated his fallacies. He was left alone again, waving his mace about to heal himself.
And then the acid began to rise.
Only the quivering flesh that expelled the raiders of Abyss stood above the burning liquid. I cannot stand on it, or I will be shot out. Someone will surely die. I must brave this pain myself. I will not betray my leader's trust…
Loyal, she'd said. A loyal shaman.
Your friends will abandon you. Death is close…
The acid continued to rise. Fart McGee fell into the stomach, at once grimacing in pain. "Gah!" he shouted. "Ridiculous!"
Yet he persisted, scorching the remaining claw as he waded through the acid. "Good luck," the mage bid Ambren.
A new holy shield spared him more burning for a moment. Swain had fallen in. "Get out of here," he said, standing still. "Go help out there. I'll take over."
"We have orders," Ambren said back to him. "Just heal me, I can last." He gave Swain a quick heal, then a large one. The priest begrudgingly waded out of the stomach, hands idle. "Swain," Ambren repeated. "Please, the shield will not last. I feel my mana dwindling. I need your -"
"No you don't," he said, stepping onto the quivering flesh of the Old God.
You will die.
The acid rose again. One claw remained, and swiped at Ambren, the only enemy that it saw. He took a blow against the shield, and another. He staggered within the thickening acid, losing his focus. The heal went off a second too late. Ambren lost his footing and fell.
All that he could think to do amid the pain was the quick summoning of a fire totem.
You are already dead, said C'Thun.
The crackle of fire from a sizzling totem. The swoosh of a fireball shooting toward the stomach claw. Another totem? Have I the mana? Water. It sizzled in the acid, but did not break, and jostled every few seconds as it healed him in tiny spurts. This would not save him, surely. Only buy time. And the claw would strike again any moment.
Any moment.
Any moment now.
Briefly, muffled through the thick walls of the innards of a god: "Now! Everything you have, NOW!" Was that Zanti's call? Ah, but Ambren had nothing left to give. Any moment now.
No… I've done it. He's vulnerable.
A cacophony of spells and strikes above. Warcrying, grunting, laughing. Calls of, "For the Horde! For Azeroth! Fall into the Abyss!"
The stomach rippled, trying to expel him one more time. Ambren raised his mace out from the acid, and healed himself, ever so slightly.
Then it all stopped, just a moment too soon. The rumbling, the rising of acid, the shouting. Only one voice reached Ambren's burning ears. Yes… it was Zanti.
"Summon him, quickly! He's still in there! And someone heal Pooty, he's still alive!"
My friend… my leader… the wind is at my back…
"Where are you going? Help me! Thank you Arthur… I need another, one more of you! NOW DAMN IT!"
Click-click. Click-click. Click-click-click-click-click-click…
The Silithids were moving. He could hear the click of their legs on stone leaving the chamber. Zanti was screaming now. For the first time, Ambren heard her scream. "HE'S GOING TO DIE DOWN THERE!"
Click. Click. Click.
Ambren healed himself one last time.
...
"The assault is inevitable," said Cairne Bloodhoof. His whiskers were turning white at last, but looked ever youthful in the firelight of the smoky tent. "I am afraid that the Horde will ask much and more from Thunder Bluff. And we cannot deny our assistance. This oath runs deep, and I will keep it."
"Then what have we to discuss, father?" Baine Bloodhoof, the spitting image of the leader of the Tauren, was always eager to make the short journey across Mulgore to speak on the council. Yet he had the fire of youth in his voice, and the defiance of a rebellious calf.
"We must decide how much we can give to Outland," Hamuul Runetotem said softly. The old druid shrunk down into the wild shape of the cat, stretching and laying down beside the fire. "The urgency of the situation cannot be ignored, yet there is no less threat here in Azeroth."
Sark Ragetotem pounded his drinking horn down onto the log bench. "The Alliance may send more forces to that cursed world, but they will certainly take any opportunity they can to destroy The Horde! I will not abandon Thunder Bluff."
Ever at his side, Holt Thunderhorn laughed, oiling his bowstring. "True enough. Our war has not ended."
"Skychasers," Cairne prompted. "What is your perspective?"
The three shamans sat together, pondering. Siln was too shy to speak, preferring her apprentices to her mentors. Tigor was often instructed to keep quiet at these meetings. Their father, Beram Skychaser, spoke for all three. Yet tonight he said nothing. "It is… difficult to say, chieftain. A delicate balance. What say you, Ambren?"
All eyes peered over the fire to the tired old shaman. He knew they tried not to gaze at him unwarranted, for when they looked at all they looked at his scars. The patches of fur forever burned away, the missing flesh about his arms and ears… the permanent steel fixtures on his hooves.
They look upon a loyal shaman.
"Take us to Outland, chieftain. But take only those who wish to go. Let loyalty reveal itself to you, and to Thrall. Take the young, the old, the dim, the bright. So long as they want it, you will not have a single Tauren incapable of fighting the Burning Legion with all their heart."
"I see," said Cairne. "Thank you, Ambren."
When the council adjourned, Ambren stood and began strolling by himself through Thunder Bluff, as he often did at night. Most times he would visit the Spirit Rise, sit beside the pools and let the wet air warm him. But tonight he chose the Hunter Rise, where his view of the plains of Mulgore would be best on this moonlit night.
Buhm, buhm, buhm, said his metal hooves as he crossed the bridge. The Honor Guard ignored him, their version of respect. Though Ambren would have preferred acknowledgement. Not a salute. But a simple greeting.
The night was young, still. Young hunters and warriors bustled about the plateau, sharing tips and tricks they were learning on the plains. "Baine likes to trick the new calves with that old Mazzranache story! It's a different bird every time, I tell you."
A few Orcs had made the wyvern flight across The Barrens to visit, and gossiped about the news that all of Azeroth already knew. "They'll be sending the best into the Dark Portal itself! Burning Legion thinks it's got another chance to come get us!"
Was that how he sounded not so long ago? Only two years had passed since he signed Zanti's charter. Nearly nine months had gone by since the guild dissolved. The irony still stung. One of Azeroth's greatest victories was the death of the guild that achieved it. Nearly the end of his life if not for Zanti and Fart McGee and -
"Are you Ambren Softhoof?" a gentle Tauren voice said. Ambren turned and found a young woman, clad in rusty chain mail. She held a haunch of strider meat in each hand.
"I am," he said. "I was."
"May I sit with you? I have meat to share."
"Please," he said, gesturing to the ground beside him. The young Tauren sat down, handing him the haunch and letting her hooves dangle off the edge of the Hunter Rise. The moon painted the plains below with silver light, and together they watched a pack of kodo lay down beside a tree for their night of rest.
"People in my village speak honorably of you," she said. "There were rumors you chose to live in Thunder Bluff, but some said you might have preferred to be in Undercity."
"You are not from Bloodhoof Village," Ambren remarked. "They seem not to speak of me at all anymore. Yes, I thought of going to Undercity. But my place is here."
"But what about… I'm sorry. I don't know what it was like. I only know you're a hero."
Ambren smiled, sadly. "I was a raider, not a hero. I followed my leader's commands, and followed them well. That is all. What is your name, young warrior?"
"I am called Amahra."
"Tell me the version of the story that you know, Amahra."
She bit into the strider meat first, chewed to allow herself a moment. Ambren bit into his own, moreso to demonstrate an easy demeanor.
"Everybody knows the great raiding guilds of Azeroth. But none seemed to know how to defeat the great evils within the dungeons of our enemies. They helped infiltrate, prepare, spread word, but… only Abyss could seem to fight well, and without its members dying off. Felcaller Zanti led to succeed, not to gain honors and treasures. Until… Ahn'Qiraj."
Ambren nodded. "And what do they say happened at Ahn'Qiraj?"
Amahra hesitated, worried of inaccuracy. "You may not have opened the gate at the Scarab Wall, but you were the ones brave enough to enter the Temple while others occupied the Ruins. They say that the Alliance stood beside you and slayed the ancient Prophet Skeram and then… turned their backs to fight outside the gates."
"I would not hold that against them," Ambren said. "The Alliance felt that it was more imperative to keep the Qiraji contained to Silithus. As did the Cenarion Circle. That is a noble effort. But Zanti wanted to put a stop to it once and for all. Go on, Amahra."
"You were brought provisions as you entered the Temple. Every few days you would emerge, and the Brood of Nozdormu would gift you with new treasures to use in your fight. But then you stopped resurfacing. Thrall feared you were dead, or trapped and running out of supplies. The fight at the Scarab Wall was too vicious to spare anything but scouts. And the scouts did not come back.
"The tale is that… you fought amongst yourselves. Fractured internally. Hope in Zanti faded. Yet she led you to victory all the same as she ever did. The Felcaller tasked you with jumping into the belly of C'Thun to heal your friends while they exposed his weakness. And then you were… left down there. Burning in the stomach acid. Zanti and Arthur McGee tried to summon you quickly but the rest had turned their backs and started looking for treasures to loot. They left you."
"And how did I get out?"
Amahra sat in silence for a moment. A nightingale fluttered out of a tree and flew down into the plains. "No one can agree on that. Just rumors."
"Those who supported Zanti were killed in the fight with C'Thun. An intentional omission of support. It was planned before we ever entered the Temple. A Troll named Rainos spent her final spells on Zanti and Fart… excuse me. Arthur McGee. But soon every healer who still answered to her was dead. They were the only two who cared to save me, and they needed one more person to summon me from the depths."
"So who was the third?"
"A young magus, sent in as a scout. Her name was Neiryx. She'd walked invisible through the chitinous tunnels, on foot, with no knowledge of what she would find. Untrusting of the Horde, she stayed hidden for the fight with C'Thun. But when she sensed the mutiny… ah… bravely she stepped forward and helped complete the summoning ritual."
Amahra turned a gentle but confused gaze at Ambren, looking past his burns and straight into his eyes. "Untrusting of the Horde?"
"Neiryx was a Human. And I owe her my life."
The young warrior stood, her chain mail twinkling. "I will be going to Outland when the time comes," she said. "And I'm going to start a Raiders' Guild. With Zanti retired… I don't believe there is anyone left who can run a guild the way she can. So I'll try."
Pulling a bound parchment from her pack, she handed it over to Ambren. In the moonlight he could see the guild charter clearly through his one good eye.
Raiders' Guild: Refuge
Leader: Amahra
Signed by:
Finnhorn Agaloch
Bondye the Survivalist
"Refuge…" Ambren said.
Amahra smiled. "Yes. There are many kind hearts out there who want to help. But they are pushed aside, left in the dust by those who care more about medals and skulls for the mantelpiece than they do for the people who fight alongside them. Those fighters who betrayed Zanti… they live in disgrace now. Rightfully so. But perhaps they have inspired a greater need for loyalty thanks to their treachery. My guild will be a refuge for those who see that."
Ambren pulled a quill imbued with endless ink from his pouch. A gift from an old friend. He signed the charter with a careful hand.
Amahra looked on in awe. "You will fight with us? You are going to Outland?"
"I will help in any way I can," Ambren said. "I may not be there on the front lines. But I can pick herbs, brew potions, recruit more capable fighters and healers. I can research histories and keep up to date on new information that will be imperative to our success. And if the need truly arises… I will be ready to stand beside you. I have a feeling about you, young Amahra. I believe you will inspire much loyalty."
"Thank you, Ambren."
"It is my honor. You may want to visit Undercity before you go to Outland. As I understand it, Arthur McGee is still looking for a good adventure. But I warn you, he only answers to the name Fart."