“It is kind of you to say that.” Jarod shifted uncomfortably. “If I may, I would like to spend some time here alone.”
“Of course. We must return, anyway. More of our guests are arriving.”
The former commander nodded. “May all go well with the summit.”
“We can only hope.”
The high priestess and the archdruid each respectfully bowed to Jarod, then left him by the burial site. He watched them depart, aware that he had not been told everything. However, none of that truly mattered now. All he cared about was this final place of rest for his Shalasyr.
Jarod knelt by the flowers. Their scent touched his soul and immediately made him think of tender moments with his mate. He imagined her with him.
And at last, with the visual evidence of Shalasyr laid to rest, and with his mind now forced to think beyond the moment, Jarod Shadowsong looked to the flowers and quietly asked, “So what becomes of me?”
Malfurion did not speak until they were far from Jarod, and even then he kept his voice low. “You were not honest . . . at least, not fully. You did not tell him everything about the conflict between you and Maiev when she reappeared.”
“It was not necessary. Maiev and I understand one another. Her devotion to duty is not something to be taken lightly. She has made amends and that is the end of it.”
“I am glad, but then, why did you not tell him more?”
Tyrande smiled softly. “That right belongs to Maiev.”
Their attention was caught by a young priestess moving toward them. Her expression was anxious.
“High Priestess,” she greeted, bowing. “There are more arrivals below . . . apparently from a submarine.”
“A submarine. That means the gnomes have arrived too. Almost everyone is here, then,” Malfurion said.
Tyrande nodded. “There is no sign of any ship from Stormwind?”
“No, High Priestess.”
“I see.” Tyrande exhaled. “Thank you for the news. We shall go directly to the portal. Have attendants ready for our new guests.”
“Yes, High Priestess.” The other female rushed off to obey.
“He will come,” the archdruid offered. “He has to.”
“That is what Shandris indicated . . . but if Varian Wrynn is coming, he is waiting until the very last moment. We cannot very well hold off the summit until we know with all certainty.”
“No . . . but there will be little point to it if he does not come.”
“Now, Mal . . .”
They did not discuss the point more. Returning to the portal, the night elves waited for the gnomes. As the pause lengthened, Malfurion and his mate looked at each other in curiosity and not a little concern.
“Could one of their devices have gone off down there?” the archdruid finally asked.
“Someone likely would have come through to report it.”
“Assuming anyone could . . .”
The portal abruptly shimmered again. With some relief, they watched for the gnomish leader to step through.
But what took shape within at first looked like nothing with which the archdruid, at least, was familiar. It had two long legs bent back like a bird’s, a stout, round carriage, and what seemed two pairs of arms, the upper ones much smaller than the lower duo. For its size and girth, it also appeared to have a relatively tiny head.
The figure fully formed, and despite all his concerns, Malfurion could not help chuckling quietly at the newcomer.
The bald gnome had the large-nosed, round face of his ilk and in some manner resembled a short, fat human, although there was no known link between the two races. This particular gnome, despite being elder in status, seemed as animated as a child. He was not so tall—in fact, standing, he was a foot shorter than Kurdran and certainly barely a third of the latter’s bulk. Malfurion had to make all these assumptions from past visits, for most of the gnome was hidden by what had first appeared to be his body and was instead some fantastical walking device.
The newcomer raised a pair of odd goggles, then peered at the night elves with inquisitive eyes. “High Priestess Tyrande Whisperwind and Archdruid Malfurion Stormrage!” the gnome rattled off at a breathtaking rate of speech. “I am pleased to be here!”
“High Tinker Gelbin Mekkatorque, you are most welcome,” Tyrande declared.
Gelbin tugged on his short white beard in thought, then grinned. The machine marched him forward until he was within a yard of his hosts.
The huge right arm of the machine suddenly shot toward Malfurion. Although not frightened, the archdruid chose caution and took a step back. A three-fingered “hand” paused within a couple of inches of his chest.
“Oh, do excuse me! I’ve been trying these experimental arm attachments for the newest mechanostriders! Still fine-tuning the movements! I only meant to have it shake hands!”
Steeling himself, Malfurion reached to the mechanical hand. The gnome shifted a lever and the hand gripped the night elf’s own.
Tyrande let out a slight gasp of concern, but Malfurion simply did as the high tinker suggested, shaking the walker’s hand. The moment that was done, the fingers released their hold on the night elf, and the arm retracted.
With clinical interest, Gelbin Mekkatorque leaned over and asked, “How was the pressure? Any fractures or breaks?”
“No . . . none at all.”
“Ah, finally!” Gelbin sat back in triumph.
Behind the walker, other gnomes stepped through the portal. Unlike their leader, they came in on foot, although all wore objects or gear that clearly were devices of their own manufacture. They peered up at the high tinker, then at the night elves.
Tyrande greeted the rest of the party, then said to Gelbin, “We have food and drink prepared . . . and space set aside for your . . . endeavors.”
“Wonderful! We’ve still some equipment to bring up! Will we be near where your Sentinels practice their archery? Dwendel here has a new possible weapon that may be able to fire fifty arrows in a minute . . . if it would just stop doing so in every direction each time.”
Dwendel, a redheaded gnome clearly much younger than most of his party, looked a bit sheepish.
“I have seen to those arrangements as well, High Tinker. If you will follow these Sisters . . .”
Making some adjustments, Gelbin did as she bade. The walker strode like a large, flightless bird after the priestesses. Gelbin’s companions—the huge sacks each carried clanking ominously—tried to keep up as best they could.
Watching the gnomes, Tyrande murmured, “That is nearly everyone but Stormwind.”
“Yes. For the sake of the others, we will not be able to hold off.”
The high priestess looked disturbed. “Elune would not have granted me that vision if it did not have significance to the summit. Varian Wrynn must arrive soon.”
“We can only—”
A terrible uproar erupted from the direction of where the gnomes had gone. Without hesitation, both night elves rushed to see what was happening.
They found Gelbin and his party confronted by Drukan and several of the Dark Iron dwarves. The dwarves had their axes and blades out and their faces were filled with fury. Gelbin had the arms of his walker extended toward the Dark Iron emissary, but it was clear that the high tinker was not proposing that Drukan shake hands.
Behind Gelbin, the rest of the gnomes had drawn a variety of odd-looking but no less sinister devices. Even Gelbin himself had stashed on his mount a weapon the night elves recognized as Wrenchcalibur—so named in part because it was roughly shaped like the tool. The complex series of cogs, pistons, runes, and levers somehow enabled it to serve as a good mace.