The other weapons were not so recognizable to the archdruid and the high priestess. Some resembled blunderbusses, while a few made absolutely no sense. However, in the hands of gnomes, they could only be dangerous . . . even to their wielders.
“—yer tongue I’ll cut out and slice up fer meat between me bread!” growled Drukan, clearly having uttered several threats already. “And that infernal device ye sit on will make a good still fer strong dwarven spirits!”
“I am still very much in the early stages of testing the strength components of this mechanism,” Gelbin dryly responded. “It would be fascinating to discover just what force would be required for it to divide you in half!”
Drukan’s followers muttered, and two started for the gnomes. Drukan angrily waved the pair back.
“What is the meaning of this?” Malfurion called out in the hopes of quickly distracting the two sides.
The Dark Irons seemed no more pleased to see him than they did the gnomes. A fiery-eyed Drukan waved his axe at Gelbin. “This—this gnome tried tae run me over with his stinkin’ toy!”
“And I said that the incident was purely accidental!”
“Cease yer babbling!” Drukan took a step toward the gnome. Both sides leaned in toward the inevitable struggle.
But a brilliant silver glow coming between them startled the two factions. The dwarves and the gnomes pulled back.
Tyrande lowered her hands and the glow dissipated. Striding between Drukan and Gelbin, she calmly said, “Now, I am certain that this is a misunderstanding. The high tinker had already admitted that his creation had some corrections that needed to be made, and perhaps should have taken those into account before moving among others. Also, Master Drukan may be wary of his surroundings, but he should understand that he was invited here, and that means that his safety is guaranteed by me and my husband, as it is for all honored guests. I only ask in turn that he respect that this guarantee applies to the others as well.”
“Yes . . . yes . . . I suppose I should be a bit more cautious until the controls are fine-tuned,” Gelbin responded. He frowned. “Although I am growing dubious about the worth of these arm attachments. . . .”
Drukan put away his weapon. With a grunt he said, “The fairness o’ the high priestess and the archdruid is known even tae us. The journey’s been long. I’ll leave it at that.”
To the gnomes’ escort, Tyrande said, “Sisters, I believe you were leading High Tinker Gelbin and his party to their quarters?”
They took the hint and immediately guided the gnomes on before hostilities could boil over again. At the same time Drukan gave the high priestess a cursory bow and led his companions off.
“And so it begins,” the archdruid muttered. “The pretense that all is well with each member of the Alliance is starting to unravel. Even the Dark Irons should have been able to understand that Gelbin meant no harm, and the gnomes should have not become so defensive so quickly. Their nerves were clearly already frayed before their arrival.”
“No one wishes to show weakness, my love, even if in these extraordinary times it would certainly be reasonable to do so. We already knew how terrible things are in some of the other regions; that they have all come here is a sign that, despite everything, the Alliance holds together.”
Malfurion shook his head. “But to what extent?”
She took his arm and led him off to the temple. “That,” the high priestess answered soothingly, “we will find out come the morrow. Until then, there is little point in worrying too much.”
Malfurion frowned but said nothing. As he and Tyrande headed off, though, he took one last look at the portal.
But the one figure he hoped would materialize did not do so . . . and the archdruid wondered if he truly ever would.
10
The Banquet
With all having arrived save Stormwind, it behooved Malfurion to indeed see that the summit began. In order to build the mood to a positive level, he and Tyrande had agreed to host a banquet for all the guests. Accustomed to dealing with diurnal races, the night elves held the dinner banquet at sunset in an open area just beyond the confines of Darnassus. With food and drink of countless varieties set before them and the tranquil forest nearby, the rulers, emissaries, and their staffs gradually relaxed. Even Drukan went out of his way and permitted food not brought by his vessel to be served to the Dark Irons . . . but only after his chosen taster had verified that nothing was poisoned.
Night elf musicians played not only music composed by their own race but also favored works from among the peoples represented by the guests. There was only one common thread between the songs: all of them had been chosen to stir the heart, to suggest promise in the future.
Yet, there were still undertones of trouble brewing. Malfurion had spoken with more than one representative and in the process sought to verify his suspicions concerning the state of each realm. What he had learned at times discouraged him far more than his confident face reflected.
Among the dwarves, food was growing scarce, and old, bitter rivalries threatened to engulf the race. To add to the troubles, many of their underground passages had collapsed during the Cataclysm and still needed to be cleared. Thus far, matters had not come to a head, but they needed only one incident to have that happen.
The human domains also had to rebuild, and some of them were arguing over where current borders existed. Food and shelter were common problems, and Tyrande and Malfurion had already promised what aid the night elves could offer. Sisters of Elune and druids now journeyed through each part of the Alliance, using their abilities to heal both the people and nature.
But, from what Malfurion had heard, it was not enough.
Still, overall, the banquet began to have the effect that he sought. The dwarves did not even argue among themselves, and the gnomes had not set off any disastrous inventions.
Seated by Tyrande, Malfurion looked at the empty places to his right. “Genn indicated he would be arriving soon,” the high priestess informed her husband. “Eadrik just came with the message.”
“I thought I saw Eadrik, but I was not certain. There should be—” He hesitated as he caught sight of a shape nearing the banquet. “Odd. Who is that approaching now? It looks like—a draenei!”
Tyrande squinted—something she was having to do more and more often—in the direction he was staring. “Not just any draenei! That is Velen.”
Others began to notice the extremely tall figure—he stood nearly a foot taller than Malfurion—in the golden robes. His skin was alabaster white and his legs ended in thick cloven hooves. The Prophet had silver hair that reached past the shoulders and was set in ornate braids. He also had a matching beard that hung nearly to his waist.
Velen’s eyes were a brilliant blue and literally glowed. But most arresting of all was the luminous sigil just above his head, a sign of the gift he had been granted from the mystical naaru, energy beings from beyond Azeroth, beyond the otherworldly realm of Outland. They were creatures with an affinity to the Holy Light, of which Velen was now the chief prophet of the draenei. Other draenei wielded the power of the gift, but none so much as the figure before the assembly. In fact, the Light not only emanated from the sigil but at certain times almost seemed to faintly surround the august arrival . . . though it could have also merely been some trick of the eye.
Velen himself radiated timelessness, with only wrinkles around his ancient eyes. However, up close, one could see minute cracks in his alabaster skin, as if he were a statue hewed aeons ago. Malfurion did not know how old the draenei was. Older than any night elf alive, that much was true.