Jaina Proudmoore: Tides of War

21

It was with a wounded body and a heavy heart that Kalecgos returned to Northrend and the Nexus. He had, despite Jaina’s words, followed her. Partially because he feared for her safety and her state of mind, and also because he sensed that the Focusing Iris was still in Theramore. It took him time—he had to fly, bearing not-insignificant injuries from the battle, and she had teleported.

He had beheld the huge crater and what the mana bomb had left of Theramore. It was sickeningly little. But the Focusing Iris was nowhere to be found. Someone had to have found it. He suspected Garrosh; the lives of a few loyal subjects of the Horde were nothing compared to the power of the Focusing Iris. Of course he would send a party to retrieve it.

Thus he had left Kalimdor, flying bleakly and laboriously northward with nothing to show for his efforts on the blues’ behalf other than a dead city that was mute testimony to his failure. He had, unexpectedly but certainly, fallen in love. Now she, too, had been broken because of what he had done—or failed to do. Part of him simply wanted to head in a random direction and just keep going. But Kalecgos could not do that. The blue dragons had put their faith in him. He had to tell them what had transpired and determine what course they wished him to take now.

Kirygosa met him as he approached from the south. She darted around him for a moment, showing her pleasure at his return, then settled in to fly beside him the rest of the way to the Nexus.

“You are wounded,” she said worriedly. Many scales had been ripped from Kalecgos’s azure form, and the skin beneath bore ugly bruises. He could fly still but ached with every wing beat.

“It is a little hurt,” he said.

“It is not,” she replied. “What has happened? We sensed something terrible… and you do not have the Focusing Iris.”

“It is a story I wish to have to tell but once,” he said, his voice revealing the deep pain of his heart. “Will you gather the flight, dearest Kiry?”

For answer, she dipped beneath him, nuzzling his head with her own, then flew off to obey. They awaited him, and he saw with renewed bleakness that their numbers had dwindled even further since his departure. He was pleased to see that Narygos, Teralygos, Banagos, and Alagosa had remained.

He landed among them, retaining his dragon form, and looked about. “I have returned, but the news I bear is grim.” They stood quietly as he spoke, telling them of the cooperation he’d had from Rhonin and the Kirin Tor, from Jaina. Of his difficulty in pinning down the location of the Focusing Iris. And finally, keeping his voice emotionless because he could not bear to feel it all again, of the Horde using their artifact against the Alliance with so devastating an effect.

They listened in silence. No one asked questions. No one interrupted. He had expected anger, but instead they seemed to grow more melancholy than furious at the thought that their magic, their Focusing Iris, had been used to wreak such malicious destruction. It was as if something had broken inside each of them. Kalec understood that. It was a reflection of his own torment.

No one spoke for a long time. Then Teralygos lifted his head and regarded Kalecgos sadly. “We have failed,” he said. “Our charge has ever been to ensure that magic was used wisely. To manage it. And look how badly we have executed that duty.”

“The failure is mine, Teralygos,” Kalec said. “I was the Aspect. I could sense the Focusing Iris, but I failed to locate it in time.”

“It was stolen from all of us, not only you, Kalecgos. We all must shoulder the responsibility for this abhorrent event.”

“I am your leader, as long as you will have me,” Kalec said, though the words were like ash in his mouth as he spoke them. “I will do all that is in my power to recover it.” Even though it has gone missing—again. If only I had been able to destroy it when the sky galleon still bore it!

“You are as lost as you were before this started,” said Alagosa. There was only sorrow in her voice, not censure, but even so, the words stung. She was right.

“It was in Theramore,” Kalec said. “It was not destroyed in the attack. Someone has spirited it away again, and I am certain that it is the Horde.”

“I am not. I believe that it is in the possession of Jaina Proudmoore. You said she reached Theramore before you, and by the time you arrived, the Focusing Iris was gone.”

It was not what was said that surprised Kalec so much as who had said it. The accusation, spoken in gentle tones but no less stunning for that, came from Kirygosa. She had lingered in the back, listening quietly, but now she moved forward.

“Jaina helped me to find it,” Kalec retorted defensively. “She knew even before the—even before, what kind of havoc it could wreak. Why would she willingly take it without telling me?”

“Perhaps because she doesn’t trust you to keep it safe,” said Kiry. Again, there was no attack in her voice or mien, but Kalec still felt wounded. “Or perhaps because she plans to use it against the Horde.”

“Jaina would never—”

“You do not know what she would and would not do,” said Kirygosa. “She is human, Kalec, and you are not. Her kingdom has been removed from the map as surely as if it had been blotted out with ink. She is a powerful mage, and the Focusing Iris—the very instrument of death to her people—was within her grasp. We need to consider this a possibility and prepare for it. If she has it, we must find out—and take it back. Whatever the cost. It is our artifact, and much of that blood is on our heads. We must not allow it to be used so again.”

Her logic was unassailable. Kalec recalled how furious and grief-stricken Jaina had been when she teleported away from him. Too, she had been visibly affected by the arcane magic from the blast. It had whitened her hair; caused her eyes to glow—if it had done this to her body, what might it have done to her mind?

“I will find the Focusing Iris,” he said heavily. “Whoever has it—Garrosh or Jaina.”

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.”