Blizzard Creative Writing Contest Entry - "An Empress of Dark Iron"

[unlimitedblack]

“An Empress of Dark Iron”

The Dark Iron hospitaller cut the cord, and Moira Bronzebeard blinked, then screamed from more than the pain. The elation that the new mother felt when she held her son in her arms for the first time turned to ice, because with new eyes she saw both her son and the son of her greatest enemy.

She felt as though she’d been thrown from the stifling warmth of Blackrock Mountain into the freezing waters of Helm’s Bed Lake. Her whole body shuddered as her mind tried to order itself: She was Moira, Princess of Ironforge, Empress of Dark Iron, a captive, a lover, now a mother. Now a widow. No, that can’t be...

Dagran is my husband, she thought. No, he’s the Dark Iron emperor and a wretched villain of a man. And I love him. And this is his son, our son. No! Love that bastard? It’s impossible! The pain, which no magic could dull, only made the confusion more maddening.

She had been under a spell all along. Her foolishness had led her party to be captured by the Dark Iron, and the Emperor had not been gentle in wrenching her will away from her with his magic. The magic should have faded when he died... that was how enchantments worked, right? Why would the spell break now?

Her memories came in a jumbled haze; trying to capture a clear image was like grasping at shadows. Some details came more clearly than others: memories of her wedding, her wedding night, came through with the importance and vividness that such events were due, but skewed in a way. Moira felt like a prisoner forced to watch as some kind of puppeteer made her move, made her speak, say things she’d never have said were she in her right mind. It was like a nightmare.

Why now?

The answer was crying his tiny voice into the world for the first time, writhing impatiently in her arms. She didn’t understand why, but her son was the reason her mind was free.

“Empress?” Moira tore her eyes away from her son, wiping tears away as she looked at the midwife who had spoken. “Empress, the heralds are outside. They wish to announce his name to the clan.”

She felt like she was on the back of a gryphon getting tossed about the Maelstrom, falling, spinning, looking for anything for purchase. One word cut through the chaos, sounding in her mind in response to the midwife’s question: “Fenran,” Moira whispered. The name meant ‘freedom.’

If the midwife thought the old Dwarfish name was improper, she made no sign. The name was whispered amongst the attending hospitallers, until Moira heard the sounds of running feet down the stonewrought halls.

An unfamiliar voice shouted in the distance: “Hear me, Shadowforge! The heir of the Emperor is born! A son is born! Fenran Thaurissan is his name! Long live Fenran! Long live the Empress Moira!” Cheers could be heard.

Moira’s heart sank. This was no nightmare. She was trapped in the Dark Iron capital with her newborn son. She was the widow of her family’s greatest enemy. Another thought came unbidden, clear as the sunlight she hadn’t seen since her capture:

Moira had become her family’s greatest enemy.

* * *

The next moments, or hours, flew past Moira as she tried in vain to clear the confusion from her mind. She saw enemies all around her. The Dark Irons had ever been the blood-enemies of the Bronzebeards. Only a grudging peace was imposed by the High King of the Dwarves stopped them, and then the last High King died. The greatest lie ever told about the War of the Three Hammers was that it was merely a civil war over Khaz Modan; it was a blood-feud, with the Wildhammers caught haplessly in the middle and the dwarven homeland at stake.

Now, in the seat of the Dark Iron nation, she sat on clean sheets of smoothspun wool. The attending nurses bowed deferentially to her as they performed their duties, called her “Empress.” Everyone was respectful, if not pleasant. It was a jarring sense given her prior interactions with captured Dark Iron spies. The discord did nothing for her fragile, exhausted mind.

At length, a charcoal-skinned midwife came in, with Fenran wrapped in embersilk, sleeping. “Your Highness,” she said with great ceremony, “many sons of Dark Iron have I seen in these seventy-seven years of service to the Imperial house. I say this to ye truly: never have I seen a child more beautiful than this.”

Moira blinked and said nothing for a moment, though an appreciative smile forced its way across her lips. She exhaled a thank-you, and then the midwife was tenderly laying the child into her embrace. With a bow, the midwife withdrew, slipping between the maroon drapes that hid Moira’s bed from view.

All her life, Moira’s father had raised her to know the the Dark Irons could never be trusted. They had enslaved themselves and their captives to the Firelord. In the last year alone, they had destroyed the Thandol Span, slaughtered her uncle Brann’s researchers in the Badlands... there was no end to the awful acts they had performed in her own memory, aside from what had come in the centuries before her time.

Years at her father’s side at the High Seat, and the constant drilling of her uncles, had trained Moira to tell truth from fables. The midwife was telling the truth. None of the nurses had been false to her. And to her own eyes, Fenran was a beautiful baby. She wondered if the nurses in Ironforge would have acted with any less grace or amazement with her son. Could they have praised her better? The Dark Irons were at least capable of honesty, of love and caring for others. It calmed Moira to discover this, if only a little.

Her eyes dropped down to look at Fenran’s puffy cheeks, the beginnings of golden hair on his head, his eyebrows... she was torn. This was her son. Her firstborn. Yet she felt a cloying fear when looking at him. He would grow up trapped in this place, and while his people might love him in their way, she wasn’t sure if she could love his people. She had done that under coercion; freed of the spell, she wanted to return to Ironforge. She wanted to go home.

Merciful Light, what can I do?

* * *

The days of observation and tests ended. Moira returned to the royal apartments and laid Fenran down in a crib of Khazi pine. She looked at the decor... all deep reds, purples, even a portrait of the Firelord. She felt the gorge rising in her throat at the thought of her son staring down a flaming death’s head. But she knew that she needed to step very carefully. It would serve, for now.

While her son slept his first night in his sunless, claustrophobic home, she sent the midwives and servants away and had her first moments alone since... since when?

Since assassins killed the Emperor before her eyes.

The assassins hadn’t been subtle. Somehow they had breached the Iron Hall, and slew the molten giant Magmus. In his death-throes, the monstrous doorman had fallen through the wall, granting the assassins entrance to the Imperial Seat. Dozens of dead senators later, they had wordlessly engaged the Emperor. She did her best to help him, but it wasn’t enough. Dagran lay dying in her arms, his blood draining out onto ashen stone, and she remembered swearing vividly at the assassins.

She recalled them speaking respectfully to her, where she gave only spite in return. For them it was a rescue mission; for her it was murder. Knowing her father had sent them only enraged her further. When they had attempted to remove her with force, she was faster, and placed Dagran’s dagger at her own throat. Knowing reinforcements weren’t far off, the assassins used their magic to escape, Moira’s hatred nipping at their heels. Then she was alone.

She remembered her cold determination, while the dark iron stiletto was strangely warm against her neck. Even with the killers gone, it was as though death were still an option, perhaps the only recourse. Moira shuddered at the memory. She would have killed herself out of love for a man who’d stolen her will away? All her reason and logic screamed out ‘no,’ but her memory disagreed.

Perhaps it had been a part of the spell, or perhaps it was her own will to live that won out, but Moira had told the corpse of Dagran Thaurissan that she would live, and raise their son without a father. She had cast aside the dagger as the adrenaline faded. She remembered her eyelids getting heavy, her last sight being the death-grin of her husband, as joyous in death as he was in his cruel life.

* * *

It took two weeks, but eventually Moira could no longer claim that her fatigue prevented her from granting the leaders of the Dark Iron clan a chance to look upon Fenran. She was able to eschew the traditional presentation feast; with her reactions still confused by the after-effects of the spell, she needed to ease back into the role that she had crafted for herself.

Her first audience was with the ancient Lokhtos Darkbargainer, one of the few surviving senators. He had been absent the day of the assassination, which Moira discovered had served her well: in the chaos that ensued after the Emperor’s death, the Darkbargainer summoned Hemner Oilfist and the Thorium Brotherhood back to Shadowforge. Using the superior armaments they had used to break away from Blackrock Mountain years before, they restored order to the city and installed a tense peace between the many factions that vied for control of the empire.

“I have come as bidden, Empress,” said the Darkbargainer. His words were barely louder than a whisper, yet his voice sent echoes through the room when he spoke.

This was common when dealing with the Darkbargainer. He appeared almost from the shadows, and in conversation was calm and controlled when the tendency of a Dark Iron elder was rage. For an exemplar of a race known for betrayal and belligerent thuggery, the Darkbargainer was very old -- meaning he was very lucky, or a ruthless and subtle player.

She had selected the order of the audiences very carefully, so as not to favor any side of the simmering conflict over who would lead the Dark Iron clan. As the Darkbargainer had installed himself as the arbiter of the dispute, it made sense to invite him first to view the heir. Moira recognized the problem of inviting the most cunning dwarf in the city as her first audience: the Darkbargainer had the greatest chance of detecting a change in her. However, if she could fool him, she could fool any of them. It was a gamble, but she had little choice.

“Come closer, Senator,” Moira said, “and look upon Fenran Thaurissan.”

The Darkbargainer pushed back the hood of his cloak, revealing an ash-colored pate, and leaned in slightly, his knotted hands atop one another on the pommel of his walking hammer. “Hmm,” was all the senator said at first, and behind his grey-lined beard, Moira could read nothing.

She was about to press for his reaction when he spoke. “He takes after his mother.” Moira smiled at that, proud of her son’s red hair and fair complexion, until the Darkbargainer shook his head ever so slightly. “We can hope that he grows out of that, lest some suspect that he is not the Emperor’s issue.”

Moira forced herself to scoff. She wished that her son had anyone else for a father, but that was not the Moira that the Darkbargainer expected. “How could he not be? Who would dare to doubt?”

“Many would dare, Empress, but the Darkbargainer is not amongst them.” He hobbled back to settle onto a stool. “I have seen too many kings of Dark Iron at their birth to think that your son is not of their lineage. However, very few amongst the Dark Iron have my memory.”

“Then I shall count on ye, Senator, to quell that rumour should it arise.” Moira let herself assume the authority that she had earned only by the Darkbargainer’s grace. “I have known no one save the Emperor, and Fenran is surely his son.” That was the truth, as much as Moira hated it.

The Darkbargainer only nodded in response.

With the formal presentation out of the way, Moira ventured to learn the state of the Dark Iron clan. While she still wouldn’t allow herself to trust him, the Darkbargainer had ever expressed an unwavering loyalty to the crown. Despite the rebellion of his Thorium Brotherhood, the Darkbargainer had chosen to remain in Shadowforge to assist in keeping the Dark Iron people true to their heritage, and their loyalty to the Emperor. While she knew he was capable of great intrigue, his counsel had been invaluable while she, under the spell, had struggled to keep the empire under control.

Briefly, he reported that little had changed: General Angerforge chafed at being contained within the Depths. The Chief Architect, Fineous Darkvire, worked tirelessly to conscript any and all able-bodied souls in digging his Grand Egress: a passage from the Molten Core to the surface, built to allow Ragnaros and his Flamewalkers to issue forth with the Dark Iron army driven before them, bent on wrathful destruction.

Meanwhile, the Darkbargainer and his Brotherhood were hard at work correcting flaws in the Dark Iron war machine that had arisen since the rebellion. Moira recalled that while her father had been willing to extend the Thorium Brotherhood a degree of grace given their neutrality, no one in Ironforge had any illusions about Oilfist’s ambitions. With their return to Shadowforge, the Dark Iron empire was a more dangerous threat to Khaz Modan than ever before. If the empire could unify under a proper leader again, the tide of the war would change.

Moira had no intention of helping the Dark Irons win, but she was not an expert at espionage. If she could escape... no, when she escaped with her son, she would have a wealth of information to provide to her father and his strategists on how to dismantle the Dark Iron clan.

His report finished, the Darkbargainer rose with visible effort. “As ever, Empress, there is work to be done. By your leave, I shall set myself to it.”

She nodded her sincere thanks. “I shan’t keep ye any longer, Senator. Do look after yerself.”

“That is wisdom, Empress,” the ancient dwarf replied as he moved towards the nursery’s exit, “and I shall advise you to do the same. Now that the heir is born, you must put your household in order. You may find Shadowforge and her ways unfamiliar, and perhaps they are.”

This was ominous, even from the Darkbargainer. Moira laughed it off, hoping to goad the old dwarf into revealing something else. “What has the Empress of Dark Iron to fear from her own people, Senator?” Calling herself that made her stomach turn. ”Or should I ask who?”

The click of the Darkbargainer’s walking hammer stopped as he turned over his shoulder. “Trust no one, Empress. Your very presence has disrupted many long-sown plots.” He stepped past the threshold before she could say anything else, and vanished into darkness.

* * *

The Chief Architect regarded the child at arms’ length, as though he were inspecting a clock mounted on the wall. “Yes, yes,” he said to no one, “you shall do quite nicely.”

Moira did her best to appear as though she were merely accepting Fenran back instead of snatching him away from Fineous Darkvire. Thankfully, many of her visitors had duplicated the Darkbargainer’s manners in not requesting to hold the child. Darkvire had been insistent. As she returned to her rocking chair, she squeezed every last ounce of pleasantry into her voice: “It pleases me that my son meets with yer approval, Lord Darkvire.”

“It is pleasing that he is a healthy child. That will serve well.”

Moira disliked that the Architect had not inquired about the health of the child’s mother, but said nothing. He was a rude and self-absorbed little dwarf, and her memories did not paint him in a different light at all. The way Darkvire carried himself, in a well-pressed suit with his short beard meticulously combed, was off-putting no matter what. No matter how sweet his words, his gaze was hateful, unless he looked on someone who had something he wanted. Moira recalled clearly that Darkvire had never wished anything of his Empress.

She sat back in her rocking chair, attempting to calm Fenran, who apparently disliked the Chief Architect from the moment they met eyes. The fussing child kept her attentions long enough that she didn’t recognize that the Architect had stopped speaking. She looked back to him, and noticed that he was cleaning his monocle with an runecloth kerchief. As he replaced it on his eye, she noticed a strange glimmer on the glass, and the Architect’s face turned quizzical before splitting into a grin.

“You, however,” he said, his voice losing none of its pomp, “will not serve at all. Or, I should say, you have served, and are now unnecessary.”

“I beg yer pardon?” She snapped.

“You are missing a certain something, Empress. A certain dedication to the Dark Iron empire. A good craftsman recognizes when something has gone awry with his work.”

Moira stopped pretending the indignation she’d practiced with all of her other visitors. The Architect knew the spell was broken. She stood, holding Fenran close against her chest. “It was you?”

The Architect put a finger to his lips, waving away the accusation. “Now, calm yourself. You’ll upset the heir.”

Moira recalled that her marriage had been presented as genuine to the rest of the Dark Iron clan. When the spell broke, she thought hard about why Dagran kept the enchantment a secret. With him dead, she had doubted she would ever know. She had consigned herself to thinking that it was a political move on Dagran’s part, to strengthen his own legitimacy by marrying royal blood. Base sorcery would have been viewed as lacking in validity or panache, even by the Dark Iron.

Now that she knew that the Architect had authored it, she had questions. She pointedly ignored Darkvire’s snide request and shouted, “Guards!” She could exercise some imperial authority to learn what she wanted to know what this sniveling little...

The guards were posted just outside the door. Why weren’t they rushing inside?

The Architect clicked his tongue, mocking. “I liked you so much better as the devoted widow.”

She reached to her waist, where Dagran’s stiletto should have been. As her belly had swelled the dagger-belt became uncomfortable to wear. It hung from a hook on the wall on the far side of the room. She scowled.

“Well, I must return to the Halls. Fenran looks wondrous, and shall make a fine emperor when his time comes, given the proper guidance.” Darkvire chuckled, and turned to go. At the door, he turned and sketched a bow, then backed out of the room. He looked at the two guards she knew were on duty, and as Moira hurried over to her dagger-belt hung, she heard him speak again.

“Gulver, Kirtian, I trust you’ll keep the Empress under very close watch?” Both guardsmen clapped the butts of their poleaxes against the masonry with a “Yes, milord.”

“Good boys.” Moira listened as the Architect’s chuckle echoed down the hallway, and waited for his footsteps to fade.

She needed to get out of Shadowforge. With Fenran born and her mind free of the spell’s control, she was a liability to the Architect’s plot. If he had as much power as it appeared, she could be killed in her sleep. She lay Fenran down in his crib, her mind racing.

She had one advantage: in his arrogance, the Architect had tipped his hand. If not for his arrogance, Moira would have been killed before she could accomplish anything. She didn’t have the time to plan, but she would improvise.

Now, to get out of the damnable city...

* * *

Hours passed into the curfew watch. Moira paced the room, wide awake, hushing Fenran as he cried, wracking her brain for anything she could use to escape. She was confident she could dispose of the Architect’s guards, but she had no idea who else was on his payroll, or how she could escape the city undetected.

During her son’s next nap, she set herself to searching the room for any kind of secret passage. These were the Imperial Apartments -- surely Forgewright would have designed an hidden escape method known to the emperors and the Chief Architect alone. With the emperor dead and the Chief Architect against her, she had no way of knowing.

Her eyes kept returning to the portrait of Ragnaros. It was large enough to cover a dwarf-sized hole. She lifted the heavy frame off the wall, and barely able to hold it up, she leveraged it down as silently as possible. When she looked up at the space it occupied, she saw only blank stone.

Exhaling her defeat, she set her hands back to lifting the portrait up again, but noticed that the ramhide backing on the portrait had pulled away. She turned the portrait around to tuck the edges back into the frame, but then some lettering on the inside of the hide caught her eye.

She pulled more of the hide away, and seeing unusual runes, instantly knew it for what it was: a teleport scroll. Leave it to the Dark Iron to trust their final escape to magic. As she deciphered the spell, a plan began to form, and immediately she pushed the ramhide back into place and left the portrait leaning against the wall.

Taking parchment and ink, she began writing a letter to the Darkbargainer, detailing how the Architect had threatened her life, implicated himself in the Emperor’s murder, and bribed the Imperial Guard to keep her contained. Framing the Architect for her disappearance would be the perfect way to throw Shadowforge into chaos, and would hopefully delay them from pursuing her for at least a little time. She intentionally left off in the middle of a sentence, dropping the quill onto the parchment, as though she had been disturbed before she could complete it.

She didn’t have many supplies in the nursery that would sustain her on a long trip, but she knew she wouldn’t need more than what was necessary to care for Fenran. Everything went into a pack meant for when she toured the city, which she was quick to hide from view.

She approached the nursery’s only exit and called for a messenger, whom she met at the door while braiding her hair. A bleary-eyed page blinked at her, mumbling a “Yes, Your Highness?”

She summoned her best performance of contained panic. “I must see Lokhtos Darkbargainer immediately. Try not to be seen, but go quickly. Go!” The page said nothing and bolted out of the nursery, getting grunts from the two guards.

Now for the hard part. She made sure that Fenran was fed and sleeping, that the pack was within a hand’s reach, and that the messenger was gone at least a few minutes. She closed her eyes to concentrate, and began to whisper the mantra High Priest Rohan had taught her as part of her initiation into the Priesthood of the Holy Light.

“The Light compels ye, the Light compels ye...” She stood at the center of the room, facing towards the door. She could feel the pure warmth of the Light emanating softly from her hands. She calmed her mind, and let the divine energy flow through her.

“The Light compels ye, the Light compels ye.... Gulver?” She raised her voice so that the guards could hear her. “Can I borrow ye a moment?”

The guard stepped into the threshold, and Moira’s eyes snapped open, focusing on him instantly. “The Light compels ye! Do now the work of the Light!”

With that the spell took shape, and Moira felt her vision shift. She saw herself standing in the middle of the room, from Gulver’s eyes. She looked down, and saw the guard’s hands as though they were her own. While this manner of mind control was not as permanent as what Moira had been subjected to, it would serve.

Kirtian made a questioning noise and came into the nursery himself. Moira turned quickly, drawing Gulver’s dagger and planting it in his partner’s throat before Kirtian realized what was happening. She could feel Gulver’s shock and anger through the spell, but Moira didn’t waste time with remorse.

Turning again, Moira dropped the dagger, and walked the controlled guard to stand before her concentrating form in the middle of the room, and then willfully broke the spell. As Gulver’s dazed mind regained control of his body, Moira recovered first. With a fast draw, her stiletto drew a gash across Gulver’s neck. The guard crumpled to the ground, but Moira quickly wiped the dagger on his tabard, sheathed it, and made for the crib. Moving fast but gingerly, she threw the pack over her shoulders and then wrapped the sleeping Fenran in a sling over her chest. In three steps, she was standing before the portrait of the Firelord, and reaching behind she pulled the ramhide scroll away.

Her understanding of arcane script gave her a general idea of where the teleport scroll would take her, but as she read the incantations and felt the edges of the scroll begin to crumble as the spell consumed it, she got a clearer image of the place in her mind: Thorium Point. She had to keep herself from laughing lest she break the spell, but it amused her greatly to think that the Emperor of the Dark Iron clan had kept a teleportation scroll to the clan traitors’ headquarters as his bolthole.

When the blue energies dissipated around her, she found herself standing near a cliff-face, with the bustling trading post of the Thorium Brotherhood a hundred feet below. It was early morning, with hints of dawn creeping in from the east. With no opposition in sight, she immediately found the nearest path leading north into the mountains and set off at a jog, Fenran strapped securely to her back.

* * *

Hours later, she started to wonder if the observation post had been abandoned. She stopped next to a broad Khazi pine tree, and leaned close to take in the familiar scent of her homeland. A noise like a bear growling echoed from around the great pine, and Moira froze.

Just her luck to run into a dangerous beast. She prayed Fenran stayed asleep...

The bear started humming. She heard the creak of a wooden knob turning, and smelled Thunder 55 in the air. She nearly wept for joy.

“D’ye have a mug of that to share, mountaineer?” she said around the tree. She heard someone spit out a mouthful of Thunderbrew’s finest and scramble to his feet.

“Who’s there? Show yerself, Dark Iron!”

Moira put her hands over her head and stepped out from behind the tree. A green-hooded dwarf with droplets of spilled beer in his beard had a well-crafted rifle aimed at her in an instant. Recognizing her, he lowered his rifle, but raised it again cautiously. “Aye, that’s far enough.”

Moira expected this welcome, but was thankful that the rifle wasn’t aimed at her head any longer. “D’ye know who I am, mountaineer?”

The watchman nodded, calling up some decorum. “I surely do, Highness, but I’ve orders.”

Moira let her hands down, and when the mountaineer didn’t overreact, she relaxed. “I am countin’ on yer orders, soldier.”

The mountaineer bent to grab a device of gnomish design, and began to fiddle with the dials. Minutes later, the sound of flying machines echoed overhead. Dwarves wearing the Stormpike colors descended, spreading out with eyes fixed on Blackrock Mountain in the distance. A familiar white-bearded dwarf leapt down last, surprisingly spry in his plate armor.

“By all the Longbeards in the hall,” said Muren Stormpike as he strode towards her, “it’s good to see ye in one piece, Highness.”

Moira stepped into the colonel’s open arms and embraced him. “Good tae see ye too, Muren.”

She felt the older dwarf stiffen a little as his hands found Fenran strapped to her back. “This is the child, then.” The baby chose that moment to wake up, and fidgeted loudly.

“Aye,” Moira said, “it is.” With a practiced tuck in her shoulder, she slung the baby around and took him in her arms. This was the first time Fenran looked on the sky, and he clearly did not like the look of the puffy clouds over him. In the dim morning light, her son’s eyes had a purplish glint to them.

“Princess,” and it was then that Moira realized she might actually miss being called ‘Empress’, “it’s important that I tell ye the state of things in Ironforge.”

Muren Stormpike had always been dour, which was a contrast to the bombastic furor of his clansmen, General Vanndar Stormpike especially. He seemed particularly stone-like as Moira regarded him. “Is now really the time, Muren? It’s not as though the Dark Irons will be happy I’ve walked off...”

His words were slow, deliberate. “I fear that yer child would find a better fate amongst the Dark Iron than in yer father’s court.”

What? Moira could have slapped him. Her jaw worked for an instant before she spoke. “My child’s fate is my own, Muren! I couldnae leave him in Blackrock!”

“Highness... he’s a Dark Iron...”

As if she weren’t keenly aware! “He’s a Bronzebeard in equal part! He is a prince, if not the heir of the High Seat!”

Muren’s head shook once. “Ye know yer father would never allow it.” At her silent resistance, he sighed and continued. “Princess, I have my orders. The child of Thaurissan can never enter Khaz Modan, upon his very life.”

“Muren Stormpike, I thought I knew ye!” Moira snapped, biting back the more colorful curses. “Ye would dare threaten the life of a child? My child?”

Muren held up his hands, as though pushing the idea away. “I’ve no wish to harm him at all, Highness. No one wishes for that. I have mountaineers who can care for him until he can be delivered back to Thorium Point. The Dark Iron keep what is their own, and ye’ll be safe in Ironforge once again.” And to Muren, she could tell, it was as simple as that.

Moira would have none of that. “Do ye hear yerself? Asking a mother to abandon her child to the Dark Iron?” That would never happen. The boy had already lost a father, and he damn well wouldn’t lose his mother too!

“Highness,” pleaded Stormpike, “give up the child. You can return home, and all will be forgiven.” His patience was clearly beginning to crumble, but if she could get Muren to defer to a higher authority, it might buy her time to make a case for keeping Fenran in Ironforge.

“I want to speak to my father.” Whose authority was higher? “I know his rage, and I know that yer order must have been born of that. I would speak to him, and show him his grandson. Could ye grant me that grace, Muren? For all the time ye’ve known me?”

Muren gave a short sigh. “Highness, yer father is not at Ironforge at the moment. A week hence he departed by steamship to Northrend, bringing fresh troops to battle against the Scourge.” He paused but a breath. “There are also rumours that your uncle, Prince Muradin, is alive.”

The world tilted beneath Moira, and she went to her knees. Ever had Muradin been the first to console her after she chafed against her father’s will time and again. She’d wept at news of his death at the hands of that bastard Arthas, but learning Muradin was alive brought her close to tears again. Brann had been declared unfit to rule by the Senate, and with Muradin dead, the firstborn of Moira’s issue would certainly be the heir of the High Seat. If Fenran were the only heir, he would be safe. But if a more suitable heir was alive, like Muradin, that would not be the case...

Even if she could convince Muren to take Fenran back to Ironforge, he would never be safe. Her father would banish him, or one of the less scrupulous senators might find a way to do the unthinkable. The only other choice was less appetizing, and posed no less danger, but...

The ground shook still, which Moira evidenced from the soldiers struggling to stay upright. Muren was shouting over a growing noise, and the flying machines returned, dropping more dwarves to the ground who quickly formed a cordon around him and the Princess.

The baby started to wail again, and Moira turned to see the ground behind her explode upward. A drill emerged from the earth, and quickly grew to reveal the top of a Dark Iron mole machine. She felt Muren grab her arm and haul her up, and as she came to her feet she was pulled along as the Stormpike colonel moved to make an escape, but more mole machines punched their way out of the ground, surrounding them.

Gangways folded down from the mole machines, spilling out dozens of Dark Irons with rifles trained on the Bronzebeard soldiers. From one of the machines emerged General Angerforge, a pair of hulking golems tromping behind him.

“What excellent fortune,” said the General mirthlessly. “Drop yer weapons, Stormpike, and maybe ye’ll live.”

“If ye can pry them from me cold, dead hands, Dark Iron, ye’re welcome to them.” Muren’s voice was cold and murderous, and he flourished the axe in his other hand readily.

Angerforge chuckled. “It has been many, many years since I’ve had the pleasure of superior numbers, bronzey. Don’t think I’ll hesitate to use them, eh?”

“Yer precious heir is amongst us!” The Stormpike colonel shook Moira and her child just a bit, for effect. “Would ye dare put him to risk?”

“That’s what marksmen are for, cur.” He raised an arm, but Moira’s shout stopped him.

“General! Let Stormpike and his men return to Ironforge.” She could not go back, and her mind roiled in the torrid madness of it all. “I will not see them harmed.”

Angerforge’s arm did not move, but he was no longer amused. “Empress, we must brook no mercy for the enemy!” She heard Darkvire’s sibilance echoed in Angerforge’s earnestness. If she returned to Shadowforge, the Architect would find a way to kill her, if not Fenran as well...

But that wasn’t the present problem. Moira let the ice creep into her own voice. “General, defy me and ye shall find yerself with a far more merciless enemy. Stand down.”

Angerforge locked eyes with Moira, and for the briefest of moments there was a predatory gleam in the General’s look. Moira’s shoulder shifted, nudging Fenran slightly, reminding the Dark Iron of his presence. The General’s look turned frustrated, like a child denied a toy, before he put his hand down, slowly. “As you will, Empress.”

With a courteous nod to the General, Moira turned back to Muren. The Stormpike colonel’s jaw had gone slack from the way Moira had commanded the Dark Iron leader, but now it set again. “Princess...”

“Go home, Muren.” Go to that home that was once mine. “Tell my father what ye’ve seen. And tell him to send no more kidnappers.” It was a thin lie. Moira hoped it would work.

She turned away and took a step towards the mole machine. Something hit the ground behind her, and she heard Muren growl: “I’ll not have this, ye daft girl, I’ll --!” Moira felt his mailed hand clamp on her shoulder, and it was like a switch was thrown. Fast as a bullet, she drew out the stiletto and punched it through Muren’s forearm, plate and all. The Stormpike colonel grit his teeth as his eyes went wide, and for a moment the two of them were statues: Muren’s hand outstretched to her, Moira’s hand on the hilt of a dagger whose point poked out bloodily from the other side of the colonel’s arm.

“I promise you, Muren Stormpike, the next time you lay a hand on me or my child, it shall be yer very last mistake.” With a shove that brought a pained grunt from Muren, she pushed him back, leaving the dagger in his arm, and moved briskly to stand before Angerforge. She turned, clutching Fenran to her chest, and set her eyes on the Ironforge soldiers who stood with weapons ready.

She spoke, and let her father’s command seep into her voice. “The Empress of Dark Iron spares yer lives today, soldiers of Ironforge. Go now, quick and quiet, before I change me mind.” Can you forgive me for this?

The soldiers obeyed, with Muren Stormpike the last of them to back down. His look was shock, bittered with hate, and Moira took her eyes away just to avoid that gaze. She looked at the ground instead: drops of blood stained the boot-trodden snow, from the dagger she’d put in his arm. Dagran had given her that dagger as a wedding present, and worn it for her on the day he died. Part of her was glad to be rid of it. Part of her hated giving it up.

She waited as the Bronzebeard soldiers and mountaineers took off in their flying machines. She waited until the roar of their engines were distant.

“Empress,” came Angerforge’s rumbling tone, “test my loyalty no further than this. For every Bronzebeard who lives, the day we take back Khaz Modan is that much further away.”

“When we take back Khaz Modan, General,” Moira said softly, “my father’s people will welcome us with open arms. They will welcome their king, our emperor, to the High Seat. I’ll not succor our enemies, but I’ll not slay my son’s subjects needlessly.”

If Angerforge doubted her, she didn’t care. She turned to the crying baby in her arms and cooed softly, rocking Fenran back and forth slowly. “Let’s return to Shadowforge. We have had a harrowin’ day, to be sure.”

The General said nothing, but stepped aside, nodding deferentially to allow Moira into the mole machine. She graced him with a nod of her own, and stepped into the contraption. As the machine prepared to descend, she watched as the dim light of the sky above faded. The endless sky, the freedom she’d tasted... she shook her head. No. Back into the hell of the Firelord’s mountain.

For now.

* * *

When the mole machine came to a stop, it was before the outer gate of the Dark Iron Highway. The molten giant Bael’gar stood facing away from that gate, great blood-colored arms crossed over his juggernaut-sized chest. He paid Moira and the General no mind as they exited the mole machine. Standing in the staging area, his walking hammer held before him, was the Darkbargainer, flanked by armed Brotherhood guards.

“Empress,” said the ancient dwarf, “welcome back. You and the heir are unharmed?”

“Aye, Senator, we are.”

The General crossed his arms as he turned to face her: clearly he wanted an explanation. “Now that we’re safe within Shadowforge once again, Empress, can ye tell us how the Bronzebeards were able to steal ye away?”

Before Moira could respond, she heard footsteps approaching. Fineous Darkvire, his beard unkempt, bellowed at them from across the staging area. “General! Do not pay heed to a single thing that woman says! She is a Bronzebeard spy and has been from the start!”

Moira ignored him, and spoke quickly to get the General’s attention. “SI:7 agents, General.” Moira felt the story coming unbidden to her lips, each word only half-thought before she uttered each in turn. “Now that Varian Wrynn has returned to Stormwind, he’s contracting Shaw’s infiltrators to the other leaders of the Alliance. But they could not have breached the city without help. His.” She shrank away from the Chief Architect, as though keeping her distance. That sold the General, who looked from her to the Architect suddenly.

Darkvire shook visibly. “Astounding, that you could conjure such an interesting fiction for yourself, Princess Bronzebeard. You won’t fool anyone with that.”

“There is more.” Moira pleaded, “From the passage they used to get me to the surface, I saw another tunnel that led straight towards the Iron Hall. One of the agents even bragged about using the tunnels once before, to kill the Emperor. They had the same help even then.”

As the Darkbargainer and the General both regarded Darkvire, his surety began to wear thin. “This is preposterous. Such tunnels do not even exist.”

“Ye dare to lie, even now?” Moira knew she needed to sell this; she could tell the Darkbargainer was not convinced. “Ye would have sold the heir of the Emperor to Stormwind! My son!”

“How can any of you believe this prattle?” Darkvire looked at the Darkbargainer and Angerforge both, hands wide, as though waiting to receive the answer.

There was silence as Moira raced to find something, anything to use. Without at least one more argument to cast the Architect into doubt...

“Because those tunnels do exist,” said the Darkbargainer, slowly, interrupting Moira’s thoughts, “I helped to craft them, and then sealed them, long ago. The only key that could open that seal is the key of the Chief Architect.” He held up a stylishly worked key of dark iron. “When I came to the Empress’ chambers, as bidden, I saw two dead guards, the Empress and the heir missing, and this key, forgotten on the floor.”

The General strode to him and took the key in his hand. “‘F.F.F.’ is inscribed on the this key... Forgewright’s key?”

All eyes turned to the Architect, save Moira’s. Hers locked onto the Darkbargainer.

“What?” said Darkvire, “That’s impossible! I have the only master key, and it is secured in a safe in my chambers.”

“If ye can produce it, Darkvire,” said Angerforge, crossing his arms, “then we’ll know that this is a very convincing fake.”

Darkvire’s bitterness was palpable. “You shall see me pull it from my safe with your own eyes, General, and you will know you’ve been had.”

The General nodded to the Darkbargainer, and with the Brotherhood guard behind him, set off with Darkvire towards the city. Lokhtos turned to regard Moira patiently. They stood alone together on the Dark Iron Highway, until Moira broke the silence.

“If Darkvire produces his key...”

The Darkbargainer waved this concern away. “He will find his key conveniently absent. Do not fear, Empress.”

“How did ye...” she started, realizing she couldn’t form the proper question. Instead she asked only “why?”

The Darkbargainer took a breath, then released it. “I owed a favor to an old friend, Empress, one whom Darkvire disgraced with his politics. Moreover, I serve the Dark Iron clan. The Dark Iron should serve the Emperor, whose will serves the Dark Iron, and none other.”

Moira’s breath caught before she found her voice again. “I don’t know how I can thank ye, Lokhtos.”

The ancient dwarf stroked his beard for a moment, and then gave the smallest of grins. “Thank me by raising a king who will lead his people to glory and honor. A true son of Dark Iron wants for nothing else.” With that, the ancient dwarf hobbled away slowly, his walking hammer echoing against the cobbles.

Moira looked down, marvelling that Fenran had slept through Darkvire’s ravings. To her surprise, the child’s eyes were open, their color indiscernible in the dim light from the distant city. He looked cheerfully at his mother, not knowing how close he had come to betrayal and death. Moira could not despair as she looked into her son’s eyes, though she knew that even with the Architect gone, her life and Fenran’s were still at risk. Hers was an empire full of enemies, but after meeting Stormpike in the mountains, she knew that Ironforge would be no different.

She rocked her son in her arms, kissing his forehead lightly, eliciting a joyful gurgle. “Do ye hear, my son? Glory and honor. I shall teach ye of them as best as I can. Someday you will see Ironforge, I promise ye. But for now, let’s head home.”

She took her first steps after the Darkbargainer, towards the glow of Shadowforge City, her heart light for what felt like the first time.