Jaina Proudmoore: Tides of War

18

“He is gone!” snapped Pained. “That cursed traitor Songweaver—he is gone! I am getting reports that a small group of Horde came in and freed him!”

“I will take some Sentinels and try to find them,” Shandris stated. “They must not be allowed to escape.”

“Indeed, they cannot,” said Vereesa. “I will not let a blood elf reveal how we stand now. If you search the north road, I and a few others will see to the west.” She turned to Rhonin. “I anticipate we will be back soon.”

“I would tell you to be safe, my love, but that would be redundant,” said Rhonin. Both appeared exhausted. Vereesa was spattered with blood that was, thankfully, not her own, and Rhonin looked as if a good stiff breeze would blow him over. Still, they knew their duties and would never shirk them.

She slipped into his arms and they kissed with the familiarity of lovers and companions who knew each other’s body well. The kiss was sweet, but they did not linger.

“Rest, if you can,” Vereesa urged. Rhonin snorted. She grinned. “I said, if you can.”

“I’ll try. But there are many wounded, and even those of us who can’t conjure a healing spell to save our souls can wrap bandages.”

“This is why I love you so,” she murmured. “I will be back soon, my love.” Shandris and her Sentinels had already departed through the north gate. Vereesa’s warriors were mounted and waiting as she hastened to a fresh horse, leaping atop it with lithe grace. She did not look back as they rode out the west gate. Rhonin didn’t expect her to. His wife had made her farewells and was on to her duty, as he should be on to his.

Jaina’s first duty in those early moments, when it sank in that, yes, they had won, was to care for her people. Such was always her first responsibility. She spoke briefly to Jonathan, who updated her on the status of their defenses. He assured her that the marines of the entire Seventh Fleet would be coming ashore and offering their aid to the injured, and that it was the gryphon roosts and other aerial defenses that had taken the most damage.

“Do you think they will return?” she asked.

“Doubtful. They suffered many casualties and will need time to regroup. Besides, we’ve got a dragon if they send more than ground troops.”

Jaina had to smile at that. “Then let’s get to helping those who need it,” she said. A quick look around assured her that the other generals were taking charge of the injured as well. Hunters set their pets to sniffing out still-living bodies in the rubble, and even as Jaina watched, two people were pulled out from beneath piles of stone and wood. They were wounded but smiling—and alive.

Dr. VanHowzen looked up as she entered the infirmary. “Lady Jaina,” he said, “please move back about three steps.”

She quickly did as she was told, and two soldiers carrying a third on a stretcher ran past her. The infirmary was filled to overflowing. Blue sky could be glimpsed from a hole in the roof, but it appeared as though the building would hold. “What do you need, Doctor?” Jaina asked.

“We need to spread out into the courtyard area,” he said. “And tell the most experienced healers to come meet me here. We can use their help. Anyone else will just get in the way right now.”

Jaina nodded briskly. VanHowzen stabbed a bloody finger at her. “And you and the rest of your magi, get something to eat. I don’t want to have to be treating you too. These soldiers need me more.”

Jaina smiled wanly. “Message received.” She turned and went back outside, mindful of those hurrying in with the wounded. She conjured bread and water, an easy spell, enough to fuel her for a little while, and forced herself to eat, although she was far from hungry.

They had won, Jaina thought sadly as she looked around, but not without cost. All the gryphons and hippogryphs, along with their riders, had been slain. Their furry, feathered bodies lay where they had fallen, pierced by arrows or blasted by spells, their roosts destroyed by the Horde intruders who had spirited away the traitor Songweaver. The beasts had not died alone, however; the bodies of giant bats, dragonhawks, and lionlike wyverns also sprawled on the ground of Theramore.

She spied a small figure wandering aimlessly where the inn had once stood. Jaina hurried up to Kinndy, relieved that her apprentice had survived. The face that Kinndy turned up to her, though, made her heart ache.

Kinndy was pale. Even her lips were bloodless. Her eyes were enormous but dry, and Jaina reached down and stroked her messy pink hair comfortingly.

“I thought I knew… what it would be like,” the gnome said quietly. Jaina found it hard to believe that this sweet, soft voice had once exchanged ribald jokes with Tervosh or had challenged a dragon.

“You can read all the books in the world, Kinndy, but no one ever knows what battle will be like until she’s in it,” Jaina said.

“You… had the same experience?”

Jaina thought back to her first encounter with the risen dead in the lands that would later be known as the Plaguelands. More vividly than she wished, she recalled walking into one of the farmhouses, breathing in the sickly sweet reek of carrion; the cries of the shambling thing that had once been a living human being, attacking her; and her own attack with a fireball, adding the smell of incinerated flesh to the miasma. She had burned the farmhouse down, consigning more of the walking corpses to true death. This battle had been different but in many ways the same. Anything that involved violence and killing or being killed was the same, as far as it affected her. Even now, she felt a chill touch her like the brush of a bony hand, and she shivered.

“Yes,” she said, “I had the same experience.”

“Do you… get used to seeing this?” Kinndy spread her short arms to indicate the bodies still strewn about. “Seeing people who were alive and well only a few hours ago now… like this?”

Her voice broke on the last word, and Jaina was relieved to see tears, finally, in the girl’s eyes. Being able to grieve was the first step in healing from such horror.

“No, you don’t,” Jaina said. “It hurts, every time. But the… unfamiliarity of it goes away, and you learn that you can go on. That those you’ve lost would want you to go on. You’ll remember how to laugh and be thankful and enjoy life. But you won’t ever forget.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to laugh again,” said the girl. Jaina almost believed her. “Why me, lady? Why did I survive and all of them didn’t?”

“We will never know the answer to that. All we can do is honor those who aren’t here by living our own lives to the fullest. Making sure their deaths meant something. Think of how much your parents love you and how grateful they will be that you weren’t killed.” Jaina smiled a little, though it was tinged with melancholy. “Think of how grateful I am that you weren’t killed.”

Kinndy looked up at her searchingly, and then the faintest ghost of a smile touched her pale lips. Jaina felt another knot in her stomach untie. Kinndy was made of strong stuff. She would be all right.

Jaina broke off a chunk of bread and gave it to the girl. “You handled yourself very well, Kinndy. You did me and your family proud.”

Jaina wasn’t sure what to expect. It wasn’t what happened next. Kinndy, smart-mouthed, independent Kinndy, dropped the piece of bread to the bloodied earth, turned to Jaina, wrapped her arms around her mentor, and sobbed as though her heart would break.

Her own blue eyes sorrowful, Jaina gazed at the aftermath of battle, knelt down, and held her apprentice tight.

Of all the races that had given their allegiance to the Horde, there was no question that the tauren were among the most peaceable. Slow to anger, quick to forgive, stalwart and steadfast. But when a tauren did find a reason for fury and outrage, it was usually wisdom to move out of his way.

The throngs of Horde soldiers scurried to one side when Baine came through.

He strode heavily, angrily, his tail lashing, his ears flat. He did not request an audience with the warchief. He bellowed his demand for it, as his father before him had.

“Garrosh!” The roar of the normally calm bull silenced any other conversation and caused heads to whip around. Followed by Hamuul Runetotem and, hanging back slightly, Vol’jin, Baine marched up to where the warchief stood on the far west side of the bridge over Dustwallow Bay, arms folded, gazing at Theramore. He did not turn when Baine called his name. Heedless of any repercussions to himself, Baine grabbed Garrosh’s arm and whirled the orc about to face him. At that moment the Kor’kron surged forward, Malkorok in the forefront, but Garrosh shook his head before they could move to slice the angry tauren into so much meat.

Baine shoved a bloody piece of cloth into Garrosh’s face, growling furiously. This did get a reaction out of Garrosh, who snatched away the cloth and snarled at Baine.

“That, Garrosh, is the blood of a young tauren who died obeying your orders! Your commands! The commands that have left far too many stiffening in these muddy waters for no purpose!” shouted Baine. “It is a more fitting decoration than your tattoos, Garrosh!”

Malkorok was there, shoving the mighty bull so hard that Baine actually stumbled backward a step. Malkorok seized Baine’s wrists in his powerful warrior’s hands and started to twist, his missing fingers not hampering the strength of his grip. Garrosh had wiped his face clean of the bloody smears and now said, “Let him go, Malkorok.”

For a moment, it seemed as though the Blackrock orc would refuse the direct command. Then, his body visibly straining against it, he released Baine, spat on the ground, and stepped back.

Garrosh regarded Baine and then, to the tauren’s utter disbelief, began to laugh. It was a slow, deep rumble of mirth, building to a loud guffaw that seemed to echo across the water. “You stupid beast,” said Garrosh, still chuckling. Facing Baine, he extended a hand and pointed back toward Theramore. “The moment of our victory has finally come!”

Baine gaped. Behind him, Vol’jin recovered first. “What in da name of da spirits you be tinkin’, mon? We just lost! Not just lost—it was a disastah!”

“Disaster,” repeated Garrosh, rolling the word around in his mouth as if tasting it. “No, I do not think so. You were all so very angry with me for waiting. You had secret meetings; you complained to me again, and again, and again. You did not trust my wisdom. My plans. And now, can you tell me what my decision to wait has bought us?”

“Defeat?” said Runetotem, spitting the word like acid.

Again Garrosh laughed, that inexplicable and inappropriate laughter that only threw fuel on the fire of Baine’s grief and fury. He thought again of those he had lost, to no real purpose other than to satisfy Garrosh’s ego. But before Baine could speak, Garrosh dropped the amused expression and drew himself up to his full height.

“Behold what happens to those who dare stand against the will of the warchief of the Horde!”

To Baine’s confusion, he pointed again, but not toward Theramore or the harbor in which the ruins of Horde ships were sinking. Garrosh Hellscream pointed up.

So engrossed in his pain and anger had Baine been that he hadn’t even noticed that they had had to shout to be heard above a whirring, buzzing noise. It was coming closer, and Baine could feel it shaking his very bones. Far off, now a fair distance from the docks but drawing nearer with each moment, flew not a dragon—as might have been an expected sight in a previous war—but a giant goblin sky galleon. Beneath it, fastened securely to the hull, was a large spherical object. So shocking was the sight that for an instant, Baine didn’t even know what he was looking at.

And then his eyes widened in horrified comprehension.

Garrosh continued to rant, almost screaming to be heard. “We waited. On my orders, we waited. We waited until the 7th Legion’s fleet, almost in its entirety, came to Theramore Harbor. We waited until the greatest generals of the Alliance—Marcus Jonathan and Shandris Feathermoon among them—came to the aid of poor Lady Jaina to offer their best soldiers and their brilliant strategies. We waited until Kalecgos of the blue dragonflight came, until five members of the Kirin Tor, including their leader, Rhonin, came. Ships and soldiers, magi and generals, all at Theramore. We threw ourselves at the gates, which our friend Thalen Songweaver weakened for us—and his loyalty was rewarded. While the Alliance focused on us, a small team infiltrated Theramore. Their accomplishments were twofold—they rescued Thalen and were able to cripple the Alliance aerial defenses. And now—we shall wait no longer!”

Each of the races, it seemed to Kalec, had its own way of honoring the slain. Sometimes grim necessity, in which the needs of the living came before those of the dead, dictated that these healing rituals be delayed and that the corpses of the fallen be dealt with in a more perfunctory manner than grieving hearts would wish. But here there was no need for a mass grave, or a bonfire for expediency. There was both time and a place to care for the dead. Kalec joined the survivors of the Battle of Theramore in lifting the broken bodies, identifying them, and gently placing them in wagons. The honored dead would be bathed and clad in clean clothing that did what it could to hide the hideous rents in the flesh. There would be a formal ceremony, and the fallen would be laid to rest in the cemetery outside the city.

He was engrossed both in melancholy and in a sort of solemn joy. They had rebuffed the Horde’s attack. He had survived, and Jaina had survived. There would be—

His heart spasmed in his chest. Kalec stumbled to a sudden stop and had to catch himself in order to not drop the body of the slain soldier he was bearing in his arms.

It had been flitting on the edge of his consciousness during the battle: the essence of the Focusing Iris. He had feared that it had fallen into the hands of the Horde, but it had stayed stationary a ways to the south, and so Kalec had ceased to give it more thought and instead placed his attention on the immediate battle.

Now it was moving. Fast.

And it was moving northwest. Toward Theramore.

Quickly and carefully he placed the body he bore on the wagon and hastened to find Jaina.

Jaina was tending to the still injured. Kalecgos found her standing outside Foothold Citadel. There was a sea of wounded lying on the square where once they had trained with combat masters. Jaina walked among them, teleporting them to safety. Several who were clearly not Theramore guards had come to help her with her task. Where the wounded would arrive, Kalec didn’t know—perhaps at Stormwind, or Ironforge, but any major city deep in Alliance territory would be safer than here.

But even as he approached, something went wrong. The portal opened, then collapsed. Jaina frowned, that little furrow that was so uniquely hers appearing between her brows. “Something is preventing the portals from stabilizing,” he heard her say to her assistants.

Jaina turned a weary but smiling face to Kalec and extended a hand. “Kalec, I—” The words died as she saw his expression. “Kalec, what is it? What’s wrong?”

“The Focusing Iris,” he said. “It’s heading here. Now.” Kalec felt fear clawing at the back of his throat and forced it down.

“But how? From the Horde? Kalec, that doesn’t make sense. If they were the ones who stole it, why did they not use it immediately?”

He shook his head, his blue-black locks flying wildly. “I don’t know,” he said. And he realized that was the source of his fear. The not knowing, the not comprehending the why.

The frown deepened. “Perhaps that’s why the portals aren’t working,” she said. She turned to her friends. “Maybe the Focusing Iris is causing interference—or maybe the Horde has figured out some kind of trick we don’t know about. Please… go find Rhonin and bring him here. Between the two of us, he and I just might be able to keep a portal open despite this nullifying field.”

They nodded and raced off. Jaina turned back to Kalecgos. “Where is it?”

“I can’t pinpoint it. But it’s coming. I have to find it. If the Horde is using it as a weapon…” He couldn’t bear to speak it. He wanted more than anything to pull Jaina into his arms and kiss her, but he refused to let himself.

He refused to kiss her good-bye.

Jaina was familiar enough with what was about to happen to hasten a few steps back. Swiftly, but mindful of the injured littering the ground, Kalecgos changed into his dragon form and sprang upward, flying straight up, then toward the harbor—and the Focusing Iris.

He could only hope that he wasn’t too late.

Rhonin was helping search amid the rubble that had been the keep, where he, Jaina, and the others had strategized for battle. He listened with half an ear to the pleas of the five Jaina had sent, putting the pieces together as they spoke with rising apprehension. If Kalec had sensed the approach of the Focusing Iris, they were in more danger than they realized. Rhonin was certain that Garrosh and the Horde had somehow tricked all of them—including Kalecgos, including himself—and were indeed the ones who had absconded with the artifact. The ways they could harness so much magic once it was in their firm possession were almost quite literally infinite.

A noise distracted him from his pondering. It was faint at first, then grew louder—a whirring, chopping, mechanical sound. Rhonin glanced up, and for an instant, his heart stopped.

A goblin sky galleon was making its way toward them from the southeast. Its distinctive silhouette gave it away, but it seemed to have something strapped to its hull, hidden at first by the galleon’s shadow. Then the airship altered course slightly, and Rhonin saw a reflective glint of late afternoon sunlight.

It was a mana bomb.

Blood elves had created the cursed things—bombs fueled by pure arcane energy. Death was immediate. The size varied, but the bombs with which Rhonin was familiar were as large as a human male. This bomb, looking like delicate spun glass, ran the entire length of the galleon. And if it was being fueled by the Focusing Iris—

Vereesa—

He felt a sudden shudder of relief through the horror that gripped him. Vereesa was already well on her way west. There had been no report that she was heading back to Theramore. She would be out of the blast radius. His wife would be safe.

Depending on where the bomb would be deployed.

He turned to those who were awaiting his response. “Yes, please tell Lady Jaina that I’ve detected a sort of dampening field in operation. That’s why the portals aren’t working. Tell her to meet me in the top rooms of her tower. And tell her to hurry.”

They left to deliver his message. Rhonin didn’t hesitate. He ran for the appointed meeting place, his mind racing. The tower had been warded with all kinds of protective magics. It was a solid fortress against such attacks. It could work—but so many things had to go exactly right.

Well. Rhonin would just have to make sure they did, wouldn’t he?

Mana bomb!

Kalec’s mind reeled as he recognized the sphere that looked so deceptively lovely. So this was what the Horde thieves had planned! He had never conceived that one this large could be built. Theramore would be practically obliterated.

Unless it was detonated in the air…

It was a suicide venture. For a brief moment, Kalec felt a sharp, keen pain that he would never again see his fellow blues, especially dear Kirygosa; that he would never again see Jaina Proudmoore. But it was for Jaina and her people that he was doing this. If her life could be bought with his, it was an easy choice. He had been forced to watch Anveena sacrifice herself; he could not bear to see anyone else he loved die if he could help it.

He was a dragon, but the goblin aircraft would be armed, both magically and physically. He would have to attack not merely ferociously but cleverly. He hovered for a few precious moments, trying to make an assessment of what he would be fighting. The moments were abruptly cut short when three cannons opened fire on him.

Jaina was confused and more than a little irritated that Rhonin insisted she come to him. The wounded who needed to be portaled to care were here, not inside the tower! Nonetheless she and her assistants hurried as she was bidden. Rhonin was waiting for them at the top of the tower. He threw open one of the stained-glass windows and pointed skyward. Jaina gasped.

“Is it the Focusing Iris?”

“Yes,” said Rhonin. “It’s powering the biggest mana bomb that’s ever been made. And putting out a dampening field so that no one can get away.” He whirled on her. “I can divert it. But first, help me—I can hold back the dampening field long enough to get these people to safety.”

Jaina glanced at her stalwart companions. “Of course!”

Rhonin muttered an incantation, his fingers fluttering as he concentrated, then nodded to Jaina. She began to cast the portal-opening spell, but didn’t understand what she saw. She intended to send the injured directly to Stormwind, but instead caught a glimpse not of that great stone city but an island, little more than a rock, one of many that dotted the Great Sea. She turned to Rhonin, confused.

“Why are you redirecting my portal?”

“Takes… less energy,” grunted Rhonin. Sweat was dotting his brow, matting wisps of red hair to his forehead.

The reasoning made no sense. She opened her mouth, and he snapped, “Don’t argue. Just—go through, all of you!”

Jaina’s companions obeyed, racing into the swirling portal. Jaina hung back. Something wasn’t right. Why was he—

And then she understood. “You can’t defuse it! You’re planning on dying here!”

“Shut. Up. Just go through! I have to pull it here, right here, to save Vereesa and Shandris and as… as many as I can. The walls of this tower are steeped in magic. I should be able to localize the detonation. Don’t be a foolish little girl, Jaina. Go!”

She stared at him, horrified. “No! I can’t let you do this! You have a family. You’re the leader of the Kirin Tor!”

His eyes, closed in concentration, snapped open and his gaze was both furious and pleading. His body trembled with the strain of holding open the portal and blocking the dampening field.

“And you’re the future of it!”

“No! I’m not! Theramore is my city. I need to stay and defend it!”

“Jaina, if you don’t go soon, we will both die, and my efforts to drag the cursed bomb here instead of letting it strike the heart of the city will be for nothing. Is that what you want? Is it?”

Of course not. But she couldn’t stand by and let him sacrifice himself for her. “I won’t abandon you!” Jaina cried, turning to look up at the bomb. “Maybe together we can divert it!” She was shouting to be heard over the noise of the sky galleon. It was coming closer now, and she saw, dipping and diving about it, several small flying figures.

And one large one.

Kalec!

Kalec folded his wings and dropped like a stone, the cannonballs narrowly missing him. He beat his wings powerfully, coming up beneath the galleon, his eyes glued to the mana bomb. He opened his jaws, intending to freeze the thing and then shatter it. The resulting explosion would destroy him, of course, and the goblins ferrying the bomb as well. But the residue that would fall upon Theramore would be only mildly damaging. The city—and Jaina—would survive.

A sudden sharp pain pierced him. He faltered, whirling to challenge his opponent—a Forsaken mounted atop a huge bat. The Forsaken’s polearm had struck Kalec where his forearm joined his body—one of the few places without protective scales—and had gone deep. Kalec’s abrupt movement ripped the polearm out of the Forsaken’s bony hand, and the blue dragon’s retaliatory and instinctive tail swipe knocked both bat and rider from the sky.

The galleon had dropped now, and the cannons were aimed upward at him. Kalec tried to dodge out of the way but came under the sudden attack of dozens of wind riders. A huge boom echoed, and this time, Kalec wasn’t able to dodge the cannonballs.

Jaina cried out as she saw Kalecgos start to fall. At that precise moment, the sky galleon released its cargo.

She would never remember exactly what happened next. She felt herself being both pushed and pulled toward the still-whirling portal entrance. She shouted in protest, trying to tug herself free, and craned her neck to look back just in time to see hell.

The world went absolutely white. The tower shattered. Rhonin’s body, standing tall, arms outstretched as he glared defiantly at his fate, turned suddenly purple. He was frozen in time for a fraction of a heartbeat; then he exploded in a cloud of lavender ash. As the portal whirled closed and Jaina was dragged farther and farther away, she saw a violet ocean of arcane energy wash over Theramore. Cries of utter, absolute, depthless terror assaulted her ears, and then she knew no more.