Jaina Proudmoore: Tides of War

14

The sun set, red and swollen. The troll and the tauren, fur and skin seemingly bloodied by the hue, made their silent, steady way up the hill to the ruins of Northwatch Hold. There was no Alliance there anymore, not even corpses. Garrosh Hellscream now slept in a tower once occupied by an admiral, and it was he whom the troll and tauren sought.

Garrosh was in a good mood. The evening campfires for cooking, warmth, and light were already lit. Garrosh was happy for any Alliance spies to see how many of the Horde they would be facing, and put no limits on how large the fires blazed or how numerous they were. A haunch of zhevra roasted over one such fire now, turning on a spit and rendering both fat that sizzled as it dripped and a mouthwatering scent as it cooked.

“Let them come forward,” Garrosh said expansively to Malkorok. “They are the leaders of their people. Vol’jin, Baine, come join me. Tear off some of this delicious meat for yourselves!”

The tauren and the troll glanced at each other, then stepped forward. Each had a knife and sliced off and speared a chunk of the dripping flesh. A cask of cherry grog was passed around, and they drank politely.

“Now,” said Garrosh, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Warchief,” said Baine, “your people sit and await your orders. Their blood burns with the fire for battle. You know our feelings on this matter. We come, openly, imploringly, to tell you that you must strike soon, or the Alliance will have time to prepare a defense!”

“I thought you liked the Alliance, Baine Bloodhoof,” drawled Garrosh. His small dark eyes were sharp and alert, contradicting his languorous pose.

“You know where my loyalties lie,” said Baine, his voice dropping almost to a growl. “I have no wish to lead my braves into a battle where they will be slaughtered—not when I can lead them into one in which they will be the victors.”

“You share this opinion,” stated Garrosh, turning to Vol’jin.

The troll spread his arms. “You heard us before on dis, Wahchief. My people be ready to taste Alliance blood. Dey get impatient if you keep holdin’ dem back. Da Forsaken might be fine wit’ patience an’ all, but I gotta ask you—what you be tinkin’? You be a great warrior! You not be afraid of dem Alliance. So why we not be strikin’ now?”

“You are right. I am a great warrior. And I know more than a little of strategy,” Garrosh replied. “I am growing very weary of your questioning my wisdom in this matter.” Gone was the cheerful, relaxed pose. Garrosh had neither drunk too much nor feasted too much. His eyes were fixed upon them intently.

“We do not question,” said Baine carefully. “We too are warriors of no little repute. We too understand the need for tactics. We are offering our advice, dearly bought with the blood of our people, in an effort to prevent unnecessary bloodshed. And we urge you to listen to us.”

Baine took a deep breath, rose, strode to Garrosh, and knelt before him. The gesture of obeisance rankled, but it was genuine. He needed Garrosh to listen. His people—nay, the entire Horde—needed it.

“The tauren and the trolls have ever been friends to the orcs,” he said. “We admire and respect your race. You are warchief of the Horde, Garrosh Hellscream, not just warchief of the orcs.” He let his gaze move to the imposing figure of Malkorok standing beside Garrosh, his arms folded across his massive gray chest as he stared balefully at Baine. “You lead us—all of us. You are too smart to be ignoring our advice on this. We do not understand why you seem to wish to listen only to this Blackrock orc.”

Malkorok growled low and took a step forward. Garrosh raised a hand, and the other orc paused in midstride. “I need you to get a message to the Blood and Thunder and the other vessels gathered just outside of Theramore Harbor,” he said, his eyes not on Malkorok but on Baine. “Tell them that I have new orders for them.”

Baine and Vol’jin exchanged hopeful glances. Perhaps Garrosh was finally listening to them.

Garrosh smiled around his tusks, and when he spoke, his voice was hard. “Tell the fleet to pull back even farther from Theramore. Far enough away that the most sophisticated Alliance contraption can no longer see them. Their presence isn’t needed anymore.”

“What?” Vol’jin’s question was a strangled cry of disbelief.

“My goal has been accomplished. I wanted the Alliance to be aware of the possible threat to their shores.”

Slowly, Baine got to his hooves. “You… plan to withdraw the fleet,” he said, his voice hollow.

“I do,” Garrosh said, also rising. The two stared at each other.

“Instead of pressing the attack before Theramore can call in aid… you are withdrawing.”

“Yes. And here we have it, tauren. Those are my orders. Are you questioning them?”

The moment strung out, tense and silent save for the sizzle of meat juices dripping into the fire. No one moved, though everyone watching was prepared to.

“You are the warchief of the Horde, Garrosh Hellscream,” Baine said finally. “You will do as you wish. I only pray to the Earth Mother that when this debacle is all over, there is a Horde left.”

Before Garrosh could taunt him further, Baine turned and left. Vol’jin was right beside him. As they headed back toward their encampments, they could hear harsh orcish laughter behind them.

The attitude in Theramore was determined and grim. The martial aspect of the city, always present, surged to the forefront. The inn was no longer a place to sit by a fire, enjoying a brew and conversation, but a place where soldiers were quartered, sometimes eight to a room. Cots even covered the floor of the public areas. Dried beans, grains, smoked meats, and containers of fresh water were stockpiled deep in the heart of Foothold Citadel.

A sliver of hope energized the city briefly when the sails of the 7th fleet were spotted on the horizon. The ships, twenty in all, carried not just Stormwind’s finest sailors but also several generals of no small repute. The air grew almost celebratory when the flagship, the Spirit of Tiffin, docked in Theramore Harbor, followed by the rest of the fleet. Despite the urgency, the marines of the flagship disembarked with an abbreviated but precise ceremony, moving to the martial rat-a-tat of a drum so they were lining up facing Jaina, Pained, Tervosh, Kinndy, Vereesa, and the members of the Kirin Tor. Gathered behind them were the citizens of Theramore, their weary, wary faces relaxing as they cheered the men and women who had come to help defend them.

Varian had told Jaina he would send as many as he could, but he had named no names, as he himself was uncertain as to whom he could reach in time. Jaina shielded her eyes from the sun, watching eagerly as ramrod-straight males and females from nearly all the races of the Alliance strode down the gangplank.

“Marcus Jonathan, general of Stormwind, high commander of Stormwind Defense,” one of the marines announced. A large, imposing man wearing heavy plate mail moved with surprising lightness from the plank to the dock. His beard and mustache were full, but his red-brown hair was cropped fairly short. He looked simultaneously relaxed and ready to spring into action in a heartbeat. Jaina was not a particularly short woman, but as he stood and extended a hand to her, she felt very small indeed.

“I was the first King Varian asked, and the first to accept,” he said. “You have done so much for the Alliance, Lady Proudmoore, that it is an honor to be able to assist you.”

“Thank you, General,” she said. “You bring hope with you.”

The next two were dwarves. Jaina had never met them, but she knew who they were, and the tragic reason these two particular dwarves were here and not two others.

“Thaddus Stoutblow o’ the Wildhammer,” the first one said gruffly, saluting her with his hammer rather than shaking her hand.

“Horran Redmane o’ the 7th Legion Base Camp,” the second said.

“You are both most welcome,” Jaina said. “And let me extend my sympathies for the deaths of General Thunderclash and General Marstone.”

Thaddus Stoutblow nodded brusquely. “Aye, the deaths o’ our superiors were nae the ways we wanted tae get our commands, that’s fer sure.”

“But we’ll avenge them,” put in Redmane. “Happy tae come help, Lady. Killin’ Horde is killin’ Horde, nae matter where we do it.”

Even with the Horde all but camped on her doorstep, she regretted the necessity to fight, and such bloodthirst as the two dwarves displayed pained Jaina. However, she merely nodded and turned her attention to the next general.

His hooves clopping gently on the wood of the gangplank, draenei general Tiras’alan strode toward her. She was surprised but pleased to see him, especially after the open, if understandable, hostility displayed by the dwarves toward the Horde. Tiras’alan had been present at the historic moment when Lady Liadrin of the Blood Knights had spoken with the naaru A’dal, renouncing Kael’thas and choosing to serve the Shattered Sun Offensive. He had initially been furious that she would dare approach, after all her people had done. Yet A’dal had shown forgiveness and compassion, and it had been Tiras’alan who had given Lady Liadrin the tabard of the Shattered Sun.

Jaina welcomed the draenei warmly. Strength and gentleness radiated from him, just as golden light seemed to radiate from his armor as he bowed to her.

“I come to protect and defend,” he said. “Word of your great deeds and efforts for peace has reached even Shattrath City, Lady.” His voice was musical and deep. “Theramore must stand. The Horde will not triumph.”

No talk of “killin’ Horde” from the draenei, but his was as firm and earnest a pledge of support as the dwarves had given.

“Your wisdom will be most welcome,” Jaina said. “It will be good to have a paladin’s Light in the battle to come.”

A purple-skinned, blue-haired night elf stepped out, blinking at the sun. Jaina’s eyes widened and she smiled, welcoming this particular ally—Shandris Feathermoon, general of the night elf Sentinels—as a friend.

“Battle sister,” Shandris said, returning the smile gently. “The archdruid and the high priestess send me to you with joy, and it is with joy that I and my Sentinels come to aid you.”

“You and they are most welcome,” said Jaina, realizing that if Shandris had brought some of her people, it was likely that the other generals had brought what could be spared of their finest as well. Garrosh was bringing all the races of the Horde to bear on Theramore; they would be greeted in kind.

The last to stride onto the dock of Theramore Harbor was no general, but a familiar figure nonetheless. Jaina had learned only a short time ago that he had survived the Razing of Northwatch Hold. He had been badly injured and fallen unconscious, and the Horde had left him for dead. Her pleasure at seeing him was followed instantly by shock and grief at his appearance. He had not come through the battle for Northwatch Hold unscathed; he had lost an eye and had a jagged scar marring what had once been a handsome visage. As he walked toward her, she noticed that one leg dragged slightly. He saw where her gaze went and her sympathetic expression on her face, and smiled as much as he could with his damaged face.

“Admiral Aubrey,” Jaina said warmly, hurrying up to him with her hands outstretched in welcome.

“Lady Proudmoore,” he said. “I’m alive, and the Horde didn’t take my wits. That’s all that matters. I’ll serve you as best I can.”

“As best you can is better than most could serve. I am so pleased to see you. The Alliance is going to be very glad of those wits. And a firsthand account of the Horde’s tactics will be helpful as well.” She squeezed his hands and inquired, “Are there any others with…?” Her voice trailed off as his expression grew solemn.

“About half a dozen survived with enough of their body parts left to join me,” he said. “And I’ve news of the Horde fleet as well, which I need to share as quickly as possible.”

“Aye, Admiral Aubrey’s right,” said Thaddus Stoutblow. “This is nae the time fer a cup o’ tea an’ idle chatter.”

“Agreed,” Jaina said at once. “Would that we had time for proper ceremony. Captain Vimes will help familiarize your crews and soldiers with the city and its defenses. Generals—and Admiral—please come into the keep. We have a great deal to discuss.”

A few moments later saw Jaina, the five generals, the five members of the Kirin Tor, Ranger-General Vereesa, and the single admiral seated around a large table. Ink, quills, and paper were on hand, as were glasses of fresh water. Not even the dwarves asked for alcohol; all knew that their wits needed to be clear and sharp.

“I bid all of you welcome once again,” Jaina said before anyone else could speak. “Generals, Ranger-General, Admiral, the magi you see before you are respected members of the Kirin Tor—including mage Thalen Songweaver. They have come to offer their insight and expertise in defense of Theramore.”

Marcus Jonathan peered at Rhonin. “In defense,” he repeated. “I take it you are still not choosing sides in the coming battle?”

“It is my hope, unrealized as it is likely to be, that there might not be a battle at all,” said Rhonin with a placidness unusual for him. As muttering began to make its way around the table, he lifted a hand. “If our presence is an insufficient deterrent to violence, then we will act to defend the city in order to prevent as much loss of life as possible. In the meantime”—he smiled—“a few of us have gotten our hands dirty before. Perhaps we can help in the planning.”

“The Light sends aid in all manner of ways, and in all manner of beings,” said Tiras’alan calmly, directing the words to the Sunreaver. “I for one welcome your cumulative wisdom.”

There were nods, some more blatantly reluctant than others. “I am relieved that we all realize that we have a common foe,” Jaina said. “There are so many years of experience gathered here around this table. I am glad every one of you is here.”

Aubrey leaned forward. “Before we start talking strategies and planning, Lady Jaina, I need to tell you what we saw as we sailed toward the harbor.”

Jaina felt the blood drain from her face. “Let me guess,” she said. “Several Horde battleships.”

Jonathan frowned slightly. “You cannot see them from the harbor,” he said, “and Theramore’s ships stayed close to home, or so we were informed. How did you know?”

“They were here a few days ago, being very careful to stay just inside Horde territory,” said Pained. “It appears they never truly left.”

“We were more than ready to engage if they had given us even a whiff of provocation,” said Jonathan. “But they sat there quite calmly, as if out for a scenic boat ride. They didn’t budge.”

Stoutblow glowered. “Which I, fer one, am verra sorry fer.”

“We had no desire to start this war,” Jonathan said, though Jaina didn’t miss that he, too, looked as if he wished that the Horde had fired on them so that the tension, at least, would be broken. “But we will be the ones to end it. They’re there, they’re armed, and they’re just… waiting.”

Tiras’alan cleared his throat. “If I may? Lady Jaina, word reached us that you were… warned about the attack. Do you believe that it might have been a trick? That perhaps Garrosh wants you to think the target is Theramore, when in reality it is elsewhere?”

“There’s nae other decent target reachable by land,” said Redmane, scoffing. “Seems a wee bit silly tae have all them Hordies squattin’ there fer nae reason. Th’ Horde’s big, true, but nae that big.”

“The thought did occur to us,” said Shandris. “We have seen no evidence that there are plans to attack anywhere other than Theramore.”

Jaina pondered, then shook her golden head. “No. I am certain it was no ruse. My… contact risked a great deal to warn me, and I trust him completely.” She had sat with Baine while he grieved a father slain by treachery, had seen a weapon sacred to the Light glow approvingly in his mighty fist. He would not betray her.

The draenei regarded her, then nodded. “Then we will take this unknown contact at his word. The evidence does appear to support it.”

Shandris leaned forward. “Admiral Aubrey,” she said, “we have had the honor to speak with you during our journey here. Lady Jaina and the others have not. Why do you not tell them what you have shared with us?” She smiled. It was not a pleasant smile. Shandris Feathermoon was a predator, and it was clear that she was ready to begin the hunt. “Then we shall make our strategies.”

Jaina took a moment to be grateful to the Light—and to Varian Wrynn, A’dal, High Priestess Tyrande, Archdruid Malfurion, Rhonin, and the Council of Three Hammers—for the collective wisdom of these battle-hardened men and women. With luck, not only would they withstand the Horde attack, but they would do so with the fewest number of casualties on both sides.

Then, when Garrosh Hellscream realized that even his best efforts at violence would not prevail, maybe he would be willing to talk peace.

Earth Mother, give me guidance, Baine prayed silently. He had come to the little remembrance site—the tauren equivalent of a graveyard—close to the encampment that the tauren had passed on their path to Northwatch. He found comfort here, where the benevolent spirits of those who had died might yet linger.

The days crawled by as the Horde waited… and waited, and the Alliance defenses at Theramore grew stronger by the moment. Baine had heard from Perith and knew that Jaina had received his message with the graciousness and appreciation he had come to expect from the lady of Theramore. Even so, the warning had been given to prevent a massacre of the Alliance, not so that the Alliance would have a chance to massacre the Horde. Which it was shaping up to be. Still, this could not be laid at Jaina’s feet; Garrosh, for some unfathomable and alarming reason, seemed content to stay holed up with his Kor’kron and that Blackrock orc while precious moments passed.

Word had come that the 7th Legions famous fleet had arrived and that the decks of the flagship were crawling with Alliance generals whose names ought to have been striking terror into Garrosh’s heart. Instead, Baine had heard laughter and bold comments coming from the warchief’s encampment while the dire news was being whispered among the Horde’s foot soldiers, who sat awaiting orders.

Baine no longer had the heart to even protest Garrosh’s delay. At best, he would be taunted and pushed to his limits, then dismissed. At worst, he could be accused of treason and perhaps executed.

Baine was a warrior. He was no stranger to tactics and strategy and knew that what seemed like foolishness sometimes was wisdom. But he could see nothing here that resembled wisdom. Garrosh had attacked Northwatch, and the victory was overwhelming. Had they pushed on to Theramore even a day or two later, a similar victory would have been assured. But instead, Grom’s son had waited and let Jaina learn about the planned attack, had let her stockpile food and weapons, had let her receive outside assistance.

“Why?” Baine said aloud. He thought of his people, steady and solid, and his oath of loyalty to Garrosh as leader of the Horde. And he thought of them lying as stiffening corpses, slain more truly by Garrosh’s foolishness and utterly inexplicable decisions than by Alliance weapons. He lifted his muzzle to the sky, sharp, stinging tears filling his eyes, and, alone with his ancestors, shook his fists furiously and cried with all his confused and aching and angry heart, “Why?”