Jaina Proudmoore: Tides of War (38 page)

Help us. This is not what we wish to do!

He felt the watery hand holding him down tremble, as if it was struggling itself against something, and then release. Thrall shot to the surface, coughing and gasping in clean air.

Stop this. Or else your people will die while we slay them and grieve, and we will live forever in servitude.

Thrall gathered his wits and, still coughing, asked, “Where?”

No words filled his mind, but there was an image: a chunk of land off the coast of the Northern Barrens. It was a long way from Orgrimmar, but what did the point of origin matter to the ocean, which touched all shorelines?

“Go’el,” said the beloved voice, calling him back to the present. “Go’el!”

The horrifying image of drowned corpses and a ruined city faded. Thrall blinked, feeling a surge of relief at seeing Aggra’s face instead
of the vision—for such it had to be. She smiled and stroked his cheek.

“What did you see, my friend?” asked Muln. Others had gathered around now. Thrall struggled to rise, but Muln pushed him down. “Rest and speak—then rise and eat.”

Thrall nodded. “You are right, of course, Muln,” he said. “The elements granted me a vision. This may explain why they have grown so suddenly distressed.” Quickly, succinctly, but leaving out no important detail, Thrall recounted what he had seen.

“Do you know the island?” asked Nobundo.

“I do,” he said. “It is Fray Island, located due south of Durotar.”

The shaman exchanged glances. “If the elements cry out so poignantly for aid, we must answer,” said Muln.

But Nobundo shook his head. “No,” he said. “If they wished aid from us all, we would all have had the vision. They know we cannot leave here. But… they did call for help.”

Thrall nodded slowly. Aggra looked pained but resigned. “They spoke to me,” he said. “And me alone. So it is I who must answer their cry and stop this slaughter of my people. Aggra, beloved, you know I would have you with me, but…”

She smiled around her tusks. “The task is yours, Go’el,” she said, “and I will strike anyone who dares say in my presence you are not up to it.”

He smiled wanly. “Up to it” indeed. Up to freeing hundreds of enslaved water elementals so that they did not eradicate an entire city? He hoped so. The elements were wise; he would trust them. Thrall got to his feet, embraced his mate, then headed to his small tent to pack what little he would need for the journey.

•   •   •

Vol’jin had had enough.

When word of the “accident” at Razor Hill Inn had reached him, he had seen it as a sign. He would risk no more “accidents” to his people. Long had he liked and trusted Thrall, and when that orc had urged him to stay with the Horde, he had agreed. Caution also had seemed to dictate such a choice, despite the insult Garrosh had offered him
by forcing his people to live in the slums. Now the trolls were on the Echo Isles, and so too close for comfort.

But perhaps it was time for a withdrawal. Or at least time to plan for one. Garrosh and the “loyal” Horde—the ones who drank in taverns in Orgrimmar as opposed to Razor Hill—were still in the throes of self-congratulation for their despicable actions. The Kor’kron, or at least that filth Malkorok, had made it very clear that they were so convinced of ultimate victory that they were willing to eliminate those Horde members who dared speak against Garrosh in private and, presumably, public.

Under Thrall, the Horde had been good to the trolls. But now—Vol’jin had lost many fine soldiers in the last two battles. And this was how he was repaid? No. Time to go home, at least for now, since home was so close; time to sink deep into meditation and see what the loa had to say. He recalled his words to Garrosh from some time ago, that the orc would spend his reign glancing over his shoulder—and that in his last moments, the warchief would know exactly who had killed him.

It seemed that the decision was the right one. Even before he reached the Echo Isles, he was met by a canoe. The shaman in the stern had his arms raised, and the water directly beneath the boat was moving faster than it should have; he was using the elements to bear him to his leader as swiftly as possible.

Vol’jin didn’t even wait until the other boat pulled alongside him. Asking the loa to help him make his voice carry, he cried, “What is it, mon? What be wrong?”

The shaman answered, his voice borne to Vol’jin’s long ears on the anxious wind, “Alliance! Dey comin’! A whole lot of dem!”

•   •   •

Garrosh roared in anger and threw his mug across the table. “Alliance? Here? Our intelligence said they were gathering at Darkshore!”

The hapless troll whose job had been to inform the warchief flinched slightly, although the mug had not been hurled in his direction. “I doan know about dat, Wahchief, but dey sure be closin’ in
on Bladefist Bay. Dere be dozens of ships. Whatchu wan’ us to do?”

Garrosh recovered from his outburst almost immediately. “Tell Baine to send druids to every port that we are blockading. Our fleet needs to redirect immediately. And Northwatch—order them here, every last ship! Now!”

And then, to the confusion of the troll messenger, a crafty smile crossed Garrosh’s face. “And all the magi… bring them to me. The plan I have can work as well in Bladefist Bay as in Darkshore.”

•   •   •

Varian stood on the deck of the
Lion of the Waves
as they approached Kalimdor. The draenei shaman had been doing a stellar job of imploring the wind and the waves for aid, and the fleet had crossed the ocean in record time with fair winds and calm seas. They were now but a few miles off the coast of Bladefist Bay. Varian was the leader of the Alliance forces but not the captain of the
Lion of the Waves,
and took care to let Telda Stonefist do her job. Indeed, it was an easy task—Telda knew what she was doing, and for all her small stature, every sailor jumped when she barked an order.

Now as Varian strode to stand beside her, the spray from the wind dampening both their hair, she handed him a spyglass. “There’s yer first glimpse o’ th’ bay,” she said.

Varian placed the instrument to his right eye. There was only one ship at the dock, though he knew the path through to Orgrimmar would be hard-fought. “Looks as if the single ship in the harbor is of goblin construction.”

“Which means that one good shot should blow th’ whole thing sky-high.” Telda grinned.

Varian felt a tingle of unease. It was a remnant of Lo’Gosh, a heightening of all the senses, including those that went beyond the usual five. He turned to face into the briskly blowing wind, sniffing, and lifted the spyglass again to his eye. Only sea and sky, different shades of blue.

Slowly, he turned in every direction. Blue sea, blue sky…

Something that was not blue, a small speck on the horizon.

“There,” Varian cried, pointing to the south. “Ships!”

Somehow, Garrosh had anticipated him.

“All hands, battle stations!” shouted Telda in a voice that seemed far too loud to have issued from such a short frame. Everyone jumped into action. Swiftly the well-trained marines leaped to the cannons. Magi climbed the rigging, the better to aim the devastating fireballs that wreaked such havoc on wooden sailing vessels. And the shaman rushed to the sides of the ship, more than any others putting themselves in harm’s way, to urge the elements to assist them by showing they were willing to risk themselves as well.

The horns were sounded, and one by one, the ships that had been sailing due east swung about, ready to face the threat from the south. Varian scrambled up the rigging himself, holding on with one hand while bringing the spyglass to his eye.

There were several ships sailing steadily toward them, but the Horde was wildly outmatched. Varian nodded. He didn’t know how Garrosh had expected them—perhaps a deep-sea fishing vessel had spotted the armada and hastened back to sound the alarm—but it didn’t matter now. All that mattered was that the Horde had indeed focused on the blockade, and it was throwing all it had at the Alliance. Which was not much.

“Jaina,” he murmured, quickly lowering himself to the deck, “you were right about one thing at least. Perhaps we can end this here and now.”

At first, there was almost a giddy atmosphere. It was clear that the Horde had fallen for the disinformation spread by the Alliance spies and that its navy was busily engaged in guarding shores that would not come under attack. The few ships from Northwatch Hold were little more than practice targets. Bladefist Bay, still and quiet and almost bored, now erupted into an ocean battlefield.

Heedless of his own safety, Varian climbed the rigging again and peered over the ocean. He could see a mere three or four ships, struggling in his direction as fast as they could. Their sails, too, billowed with wind; the Horde had had shaman far longer than the Alliance had and no doubt was demanding all they could give.

“Hard about port!” Telda shouted. Varian tightened his grip on the wet ropes as the ship swung hard to the left, turning to face the threat from the south. For a moment, he almost—almost—felt sorry for the crews in the ships the Alliance were about to blow out of the water.

“Fire!”

The
Lion of the Waves
was rattled by the sound of all its cannons exploding, disgorging their contents upon the enemy. Some cannonballs splashed harmlessly into the water, but most struck their target—the lead ship—dead on. Cheers went up as the side of the Horde vessel was nearly completely caved in.

And then the wood began mending itself. It would seem that in addition to experienced shaman, the crew of this ship also had skillful druids. Varian swore, climbed down swiftly, and dropped the rest of the way.

“Warlocks, at the ready!” he shouted. It was always uneasy when those who worked with demons were pressed into service for the good of the Alliance, but they had certain spells—and certain creatures in thrall—whose efficacy was undeniable. They hurried to the sides, their black and purple and other dark-hued robes flowing about them, and summoned their minions. As one, they lifted their arms and began to chant their ugly-sounding spells.

Fire rained down, steady and pervasive, on the already-damaged ship. Small, cackling demons known as imps were sent to dance upon the enemy vessel, throwing fire hither and thither. The fact that they seemed to enjoy the destruction they wrought was an added bonus.

“Magi!” cried Varian, his eyes fastened on the Horde ship. Enormous fireballs joined the steady, deadly rain of flame. The cannons roared again, and the enemy vessel could take no more. It cracked in two, and Varian saw with satisfaction many Horde soldiers leaping frantically into the waters of the bay. Still more were going down with the ship.

The
Lion of the Waves,
victorious, swung slowly around. The shaman redirected the wind, and the ship bore down on its next target. “One doon; three tae go!” crowed Telda. “Come on, lads an’ lassies! We’ll be supping in Orgrimmar by sunset!”

And that was when a gray cloak fell over the ship.

Varian swore. This was shamanic doing. But already the warlocks were reacting, sending their glowing green orbs beyond the reach of the conjured fog and reporting back. One of them, a human woman seemingly too young for the shining white hair that draped over her shoulders, called to Varian, “Majesty—they’re doing something in the ocean. It’s churning fiercely. I can’t quite make out what’s going on.”

More cannon fire, but this time, Varian didn’t know which ships were doing the firing and which were being fired upon. And then there came a dreadful cracking sound—not the sound of ships buckling under cannon fire, but something new and horrible that was out there but unseen. And suddenly Varian understood that even though the Horde was vastly outnumbered, its forces were much more dangerous than he had anticipated.

I
t took time—more time than Jaina wanted to spend. But she needed to be thorough. Antonidas had taught her that. If you rushed through the studying of spells or their execution, you risked results where nothing happened—at best—or at worst, disaster. “It’s every bit as dangerous as going into battle with a type of weapon you’ve never handled before,” he had said, cautioning her.

So she sat on one of the small hills on Fray Island and reread everything the stolen tome could tell her about the Focusing Iris. She thought about what Kalec had shown her of magic, how it was logical and precise, and about what the book claimed, that arcane energy was so similar to an element it might as well be one, for all magical intents and purposes. As she read, Jaina would absently reach out to stroke the surface of the Focusing Iris, cool even in the hot sun.

She had already performed some experiments with the item, and successfully; its new, smaller size was testament to that. She restored it to its proper size and began other tests. She slept little and ate only conjured food. After two days of reining in her impatience, heartened by her success here, Jaina finally felt she was ready. She watched with narrowed eyes as the Horde sent most of its vessels from Northwatch Hold. Jaina expected they were going to Orgrimmar. The thought gave her pleasure.