Jaina Proudmoore: Tides of War (33 page)

Kiry hesitated now, glancing at Teralygos. “Perhaps it would be best if a party joined you in your search.”

Kalec bit back an angry retort. Kiry had ever been a good friend; she was his sister of the spirit, although they were not clutch mates. She did not cast aspersions on Jaina to hurt him; she did so because she was worried. Worried that he might be too affected by his feelings for Jaina Proudmoore to complete his duty to his flight, and knowing him well enough to understand that if Kiry was right, Kalec would never forgive himself if something went wrong.

“I thank you for your concern,” he said, “and I know you have only the good of our people in mind when you speak so. Please believe that I do as well. I can—I must—handle this on my own.”

He waited. If there was too much of a protest, he would acquiesce to what the rest of the flight wished. He certainly had not done a faultless job by himself thus far.

Fortunately, most of the blues did not share Kiry’s opinion. Kalec suspected that it was because they discounted Jaina, a single human, as a true threat. It was because Kiry recognized Jaina’s abilities as being exceptionally strong that the dragoness did not follow suit.

“Then it is settled,” Kalec said. “I will not fail you again.”

He spoke the words with conviction, hoping beyond hope that he was right. This wounded world could not bear it if he wasn’t.

•   •   •

Not so long ago, the former warchief of the Horde had held a celebration to welcome home the veterans who had fought against Arthas and in the Nexus War in Northrend. Garrosh well remembered the glorious parade to Orgrimmar—he himself had suggested it. It was at this celebration that Thrall had honored him, given him his father’s
weapon, which now rested securely against Garrosh’s broad back.

Garrosh was proud of how he had fought in those wars. But he was even prouder of what he had done at Northwatch Hold and Theramore. In Northrend, at least part of the victory had been owed to the Alliance. The thought filled his mouth with ashy loathing. Now things were as they should be. Now the battle was against the Alliance. It was a war Thrall had had the power to start, but he had been too cowed by the fair-haired female mage. Instead, Thrall had fought for “peace,” whatever that could possibly be between the orcs and their former oppressors. Garrosh was determined to be to the Alliance what Grommash Hellscream had been to the demons. As the father had overthrown obedience and enslavement to fel creatures by slaying Mannoroth, so the son would overthrow the subtler chains of “peace” with the Alliance. He was sure that even stubborn Baine and Vol’jin would come around eventually, and a true peace—on the Horde’s terms, bought with blood and enforced with the same—would occur.

And so, he had given instructions that this celebration, this victor’s triumphal march to the capital of the Horde, would put Thrall’s to shame. Nor would the march and a single feast be all. No, Garrosh had ordered six days’ worth of festivities. Raptor fights in the arena! Sparring battles, with heavy purses to the greatest warriors of the Horde! Feast after feast, set to the accompaniment of lok’tras and lok’vadnods, while the streets would flow with good orcish grog.

At one point, as Garrosh and his retinue headed toward the gates of Orgrimmar, he saw with satisfaction that the throngs of cheering Horde members would not part for him. They chanted his name until it rose like thunder, and Garrosh gave Malkorok a delighted look as he drank it in.

“Garrosh! Garrosh! Garrosh! Garrosh!”

“They love you too much to let you through, my warchief!” said Malkorok, shouting to be heard over the noise. “Tell them of your victory! They wish to hear it from your lips!”

Garrosh looked again at the crowd and cried, “Do you wish to hear my vision?”

He had thought it impossible, but the crowd roared even louder. Garrosh’s grin widened and he waved them to silence.

“My people! You are blessed among orcs to live in a time of history. A time when I, Garrosh Hellscream, am poised to claim Kalimdor for the Horde. The human contagion that had taken foul root in Theramore has been cleansed by the essence of arcane magic. They are no more! Jaina Proudmoore will no longer emasculate us as a people with her soft-mouthed words of peace. They fell on deaf ears, and now she and her kingdom are but dust. But that is not enough. The night elves are next. For so long they have denied us the basic needs of life. We will deprive them of their lives, of their cities, and send what few we spare to become refugees of the Eastern Kingdoms. I, Garrosh, will humble them and reduce them to begging for mere morsels of food and a place to sleep, while the Horde avails itself of their riches. Their cities are cut off from aid by stout Horde battleships, and when we are ready to invade, they will fall before us like wheat before the scythe!”

More cheering, more laughter and clapping. And another chant arose, spontaneous but inspired by his words:

“Death to the Alliance! Death to the Alliance! Death to the Alliance!”

•   •   •

Baine sat in the corner of the dank, dark inn at Razor Hill. What light came in through the door did nothing to illuminate the place, indeed only showed thick clusters of dancing dust motes. The beer was poor and the food worse. A few miles due north, he could have been enjoying a feast the likes of which he had never tasted. He was more than content here.

Garrosh had forbidden the army to disperse. All Horde fighters had to stay in Durotar, but the warchief had not commanded Baine to attend the feasts in Orgrimmar. The “oversight” was an insult, and Baine was intelligent enough to know it. He also knew he was thankful for it. He feared that if he were forced to spend another moment listening to cheers for Garrosh—cheers for placing the Horde needlessly in harm’s way, cheers for mass murder enacted in the most
cowardly of fashions—he would be unable to stop himself from challenging the green-skinned fool. And if he did, no matter who walked away from the fight, the Horde itself would be the loser.

He was not to be alone in his dark brooding. As he nursed the poor beer, he watched the doorway. More tauren came in, nodded to Baine, and took their seats. After a time, he saw Vol’jin. The troll did not sit with him, but their eyes met. Then, to his surprise, he saw the bright gold-and-red garb of sin’dorei… and the tattered clothing of Forsaken. His heart lifted. Others saw what he saw, felt what he felt. Perhaps there might be a way to halt Garrosh’s madness after all. Before the Horde ended up having to pay the price.

•   •   •

The salt-tinged sea air was filled with sound. It had not ceased since it began two days ago, when word of Theramore’s fall had reached Varian, and would not cease until the task was complete. It was the sound of feverish activity—boards being cut to size, nails being pounded, engines being tinkered with. The barks of dwarves and the cheerful voices of gnomes punctuated the noises of industry.

Not a citizen of Stormwind complained of the noise, for it meant hope. It was the sound of the Alliance refusing to be broken by a single deadly but cowardly act.

Broll Bearmantle, Varian, and Anduin stood together, gazing out at the harbor. The day had only just dawned, and the sails being carefully raised on one of the great new vessels were tinged with the pinkness of a sun peeking over the horizon.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen quite so many workers all in one place—not even in Ironforge,” said Anduin. Per his own request, Anduin was to remain in Stormwind until the fleet had sailed, at which time he would return to his studies with the draenei. Varian smiled down at his son, glad that the youth had chosen to remain. The encounter with Jaina had startled and upset both of them. Anduin in particular reeled with the shock of seeing peace-loving “Aunt Jaina” so full of hatred. They had talked long into the evening, the man who had once identified with Jaina’s new attitude and the boy who quailed from it, talked
about what grief and loss could do to someone, talked about what war and violence, as well, could do.

Anduin had lifted sad but determined eyes to his father. “I know this is a horrible thing,” he said. “And… I realize we have to attack the Horde. They’ve shown us what they are willing to do, and we must prevent them from harming more innocent people. But I don’t want to be like Jaina. Not about this. We can protect our people—but we don’t have to do it with hate in our hearts.”

Varian’s own heart had swelled with pride. He had not expected such acceptance, reluctant though it was, from Anduin. He was honestly surprised that he himself hadn’t shared Jaina’s feelings, and realized how far he had come from the man he had once been. There was a time when he had been filled with anger and rage, when parts of himself had been at war. He had been two beings, literally, and the rejoining physically was only a portion of the battle. He’d been taught to integrate those parts in his very soul, through the blessing of the wolf Ancient, Goldrinn. Truly, he had made great progress.

He might even be as wise as his son one day.

Broll had departed Teldrassil through magical means, an option not available to most of his people. The report of the blockade had been sobering but not unexpected.

“It is good, to see this construction,” the druid said as the three stood together. “Do not think that you will sail alone, Varian. While we have many ships trapped by the Horde’s blockade, there are many more elsewhere. Malfurion and Tyrande are more than willing to help you as best they can. You may look to see a few dozen of our graceful ships alongside yours in the not-too-distant future.”

Anduin turned to regard the druid, craning his neck to look up at this friend of his father’s. Anduin knew that Broll, too, had had to face loss and rage and hatred. Varian thought it must hearten the prince to see two former gladiators standing and discussing what had to be done with regret rather than glee. Light, it heartened
him
.

“You will not try to fight your way out of the blockade?” asked Anduin.

“No. Our energies are best put toward teamwork right now. What
lives we must sacrifice need to count, Anduin. We have a better chance of winning when we focus together.”

Anduin’s golden head turned again to the ships in the harbor. “Why did the Horde do this? They didn’t know we had relocated the civilians. They just…” His voice trailed off. Varian laid a gentle hand on his son’s shoulder.

“The easy answer is that the Horde are monsters. What they did was monstrous, certainly. And I have a few choice words about Garrosh and his Kor’kron that I will not utter in front of young ears.” Anduin gave him the ghost of a grin. Growing sober again, Varian continued. “I don’t know why, Son. I wish I could tell you why people do such horrible things. The fact that I am certain many who are not Alliance are quietly muttering about Garrosh doesn’t sway my hand.”

“But… we won’t fight like Garrosh did?”

“No,” Varian said. “We won’t.”

“But if he is willing to do things we’re not… won’t that mean he will win?”

“Not while I have breath in my body,” said Broll.

“Nor I,” said Varian. “The world has become… unhinged. I saw violence and blood and madness in the pit. I did not expect to ever see anything like what Jaina was forced to witness.”

“Do… do you think she will recover? From the hurt to her soul that seeing that gave her?”

“I hope so,” was all Varian could say. “I hope so.”

T
he Violet Citadel was somber and still as Jaina slowly walked up the stone steps from the entrance hall. Pain wrapped this place. Once, Dalaran had felt light to her. The designs and structures certainly were graceful, but more than that, it was a place where magic was integral. Now it felt… heavy in a way it had never had before. Jaina, bearing her own burdens, sensed it, feeling kin to those who had lost so much.

Several extremely powerful magi, including the leader of the Kirin Tor. And one traitor, who was at least partially responsible for those bitter losses. No wonder the very air felt thick and sad.

“Lady Proudmoore,” said a voice brittle with pain. Jaina turned, and she felt a stab of sympathy.

Vereesa Windrunner stood alone in the huge entrance chamber. She wore clean plate armor in shades of silver and blue, and any wounds she had endured in battle were either healed or healing. All but one, which Jaina felt would never fully heal.

The widow of Rhonin looked impassive, as if she were little more than an animated statue, except her blue eyes blazed with fury. Jaina wondered if that fury was directed at the Horde for murdering her husband, or at Jaina, or even herself, for surviving.

“Ranger-General Vereesa,” Jaina said. “I… find I have no words.”

Vereesa shook her head. “There
are
no words,” she said flatly. “Only action. I have been waiting for you, since I heard you yet lived, for I
knew you would come. And I come to you to implore that you will help me in obtaining that action. You survived; my beloved did not. You, I, and a handful of night elven Sentinels are the only ones who can give voice to the slaughter at Theramore. You have obviously come to speak to the Kirin Tor. May I ask what you intend to say to them?”