Jaina Proudmoore: Tides of War

20

It was, finally, beginning to work.

There were still tremors from the wounded earth and sharp, angry lightning. The wind still wept and the oceans roared about the shaman as they stood, day after day, offering of themselves to heal the very soul of Azeroth. But there was progress.

Sometimes, the ocean seemed to becalm itself for a few moments. The rain would stop for longer and longer stretches, showing glimpses of blue sky. The earthquakes once ceased for three whole days.

The members of the Earthen Ring—Nobundo, Rehgar, Muln Earthfury, and others—took each little sign to heart. Just as with healing an injured body, it would take time to heal Azeroth. But the elements would, eventually, recover—as long as the care was maintained throughout the lengthy and grueling process.

Thrall stood strongly and securely on the shivering earth, at once rooting himself and drawing its pain from it. He envisioned his spirit, his union with the great Spirit of Life, soaring boldly upward to touch the very sky. He drew spray-damp air into his lungs, purifying it and breathing it out cleansed. It was hard work, demanding work, and, thus far, ceaseless work. But it was the most profoundly rewarding and, yes, joyous thing he had ever done in his life.

Calmed now, like a frightened child gradually drifting to sleep, the earth’s trembling subsided. The winds, angrier, died down more sullenly. But the rain ceased. The shaman opened their eyes, returning to the simple physical reality, and exchanged weary smiles. It was time to rest.

Aggra’s strong brown hand curled around Thrall’s, and she looked at him with approval and admiration. “My Go’el has become a rock instead of a whirlwind,” she said. “Since your return, we have made great strides.”

He squeezed her hand. “If I am a rock, then you are the sturdy soil it rests upon, my heart.”

“I am your mate, and you are mine,” she replied. “We will be, like the elements, what each other needs when times are trying. Stone, wind, water—or fire.” She winked. It had been Aggra who had pushed him toward his destiny when he had been ill at ease with the other shaman. There had been nothing of subtlety about her. Thrall had been angry at the time but had grown to see her wisdom. Since his return, they had been inseparable—working together as if in a dance, delighting in each other’s company when at rest. He thought again of his words to Jaina and sent a silent prayer to whoever might be listening that she be blessed as he had been.

Thrall’s good mood faded when they returned to camp and saw a young orc dressed in light leather armor, waiting at attention. The dust and mud on his clothing proclaimed him a messenger, and the grim look on his face spoke eloquently of the nature of the news he bore.

He saluted smartly. “Go’el,” he said, bowing low, “I bring news from Orgrimmar. And… from elsewhere.”

Coldness seized Thrall’s heart. What had Garrosh done? Others, too, were approaching, looking mildly interested at the stranger in their midst. Thrall debated reading the news privately but decided against it. News was news for them all, for he was no longer warchief of the Horde.

He waited until the rest of the Ring had arrived, then motioned for them to come forward. The unfortunate young orc shifted his weight, clearly expecting the request that Thrall gave him. “Read your missive to everyone, my young friend,” Thrall said quietly.

The messenger took a steadying breath. “‘It is with a heavy heart that I inform you of nothing short of disaster to any thought of peace in this troubled continent—indeed, perhaps in the entirety of Azeroth. Garrosh gathered the Horde armies and marched on Northwatch Hold, razing it utterly. He then waited several days, allowing the Alliance to build up its defenses at Theramore. Against our navy and army, Theramore brought in the 7th Legion’s fleet and several well-known military advisors, among them Marcus Jonathan, Shandris Feathermoon, Vereesa Windrunner, and Admiral Aubrey. The Horde fought bravely but was defeated—seemingly.

“‘Go’el, Garrosh utilized enslaved molten giants to gain his victory in the Razing of Northwatch Hold. And to destroy Theramore, he—’”

The courier paused as a series of gasps rippled through the crowd. Former Horde and Alliance members were both gathered here, their loyalties placed aside in the face of the greater need, but still precious. And as shaman, to hear of the enslavement of elementals—and such elementals!—to wage war was horrifying. The words “destroy Theramore” hung in the air.

“Continue,” Thrall said grimly.

“‘To destroy Theramore, he stole an artifact from the blue dragons and used it to power the most potent mana bomb ever created. Theramore has fallen utterly, in an arcane ruin, and our scouts say that no one inside the city walls survived.’”

No one survived. Jaina, his friend, the constant voice of peace, was gone. Thrall found he had difficulty breathing, and Aggra squeezed his hand. He tightened his own grip until he knew it was painful; still Aggra held on, loving and supporting him, knowing more than most the stabbing pain that was in his heart.

Quiet sobbing could be heard as one of the draenei turned to her troll friend for comfort. The troll embraced the draenei gently but looked furious. Everyone was stunned, even those Thrall knew to be opposed to peace. Such wanton slaughter held no honor for the Horde. And such recklessness would have a dear price to pay.

Unbelievably, there was yet more to hear. Unable to speak just yet, Thrall motioned for the courier to continue.

The young orc’s own voice was heavy with sorrow as he spoke. “‘Our navy has dispersed, to form a ring around Kalimdor and blockade the Alliance. There will be no aid coming to Feathermoon Stronghold, or Teldrassil, or elsewhere, nor will any significant number of their inhabitants escape. Garrosh has openly boasted of conquering the entire continent and either driving out or wiping out all traces of the Alliance. The only light I can offer, my friend, is that not all the members of the Horde throng about Garrosh delightedly. Some of us see the dangerous path he is treading and fear that the Horde itself will suffer for it. With apprehension for my people, I remain your friend, Eitrigg.’”

Thrall nodded his comprehension of the dire words, but his mind was on other words, spoken not so long ago by a woman now dead.

Nothing is free, Go’el. Your knowledge and skills were bought at a cost… Garrosh is stirring up trouble between the Alliance and the Horde—trouble that didn’t exist until he started it… You can control the winds as a shaman. But the winds of war are blowing, and if we do not stop Garrosh now, many innocents will pay the price for our hesitation.

And many had. For a long moment, Thrall simply stood, lost in painful, soul-searching thought while the rest of the Ring spoke their concerns. Had she been right? Could this have been avoided if he had let others do the working here?

There was a time when that question would have haunted him for days. Now he examined it, as the rational mind must, and dismissed it. Jaina had always maintained that it was as foolish to downplay one’s abilities as it was to exaggerate them. Thrall had held the space of Earth for the four Aspects during the battle against Deathwing. He was most certainly not solely responsible for the healing that had taken place here, but he knew he had been able to significantly contribute.

To, quite literally, change the world by healing it.

He was as disturbed by the use of molten giants as the other shaman and as grieved as any by the honorless attack upon Theramore, the use of stolen magic to enact mass murder from a distance. But he knew that he could not—in fact, none of them could—leave now.

Nobundo was saying that very thing as Thrall’s heavy heart turned to the conversation. “We are seeing progress. We cannot stop now—none of us.”

“What might he do next?” asked Rehgar. “To enslave molten giants for his own selfish purposes threatens to undo all that we have worked toward!”

“We united with the Cenarion Circle and the Aspects to heal Nordrassil,” Muln Earthfury said. “This union was unprecedented and accomplished all we had hoped. With Nordrassil whole again, the world has a chance of healing. If Garrosh will do this, what might he do to our World Tree?”

Thrall looked over at his friends. Their faces reflected his own indecision. Nobundo and Muln exchanged glances, and then Nobundo approached.

“I am angered and saddened by this news,” he said. “Not just word of the abuse of the elementals, but all of this. It is true that the earth may rise up in anger at being so mistreated, and even Nordrassil is at risk. But if we halt our work here now, in an effort to rebuke Garrosh—and I am not sure how such efforts would be received—we risk undoing what good we have managed to achieve. Go’el—the Horde was once yours. You chose to place Garrosh in charge of it. And all of us know of your friendship with the peace-seeking lady Jaina Proudmoore. If you feel the need to depart, no one here will question you. I would say the same to anyone else. We are here because we choose to be—because we are called. If you no longer hear that call, you may walk away with our blessings.”

Thrall closed his eyes for a long moment. He was grieving, shocked, furious. He wanted nothing more than to don armor, pick up the Doomhammer, and march on Orgrimmar. To punish Grom Hellscream’s son for all the foolish, arrogant, devastating things he had done. Garrosh was his mistake, his responsibility, and no one else’s. Thrall had tried to instill orcish pride in Garrosh, but instead of taking the best of his father’s lessons, the young Hellscream had taken the worst of them.

But he could not go, could not satisfy his pain. Not yet. Even if Jaina Proudmoore’s ghost were to show up and cry for vengeance right this moment, he would have to tell her no.

He lifted sad blue eyes to Nobundo and said, “I grieve. I am angry. But I am still called to be here. Nothing is greater than this duty, right now.”

No one spoke, not even Aggra. They all knew what the admission had cost him. Rehgar reached out and clapped Thrall on the shoulder.

“We won’t let anyone, Horde or Alliance, who fell in this ill-conceived abomination die in vain. Let us honor them by what we do here. Let’s get back to work.”

Jaina teleported into Stormwind’s Valley of Heroes, directly beneath the statue of General Turalyon. General Jonathan used to patrol here, but there was no mounted soldier waiting to greet newcomers to the city or attend the king at a moment’s notice. Jaina looked up at the scaffolding that supported several towers still under repair from Deathwing’s attack.

She had hidden the Focusing Iris safely, close enough so that Kalecgos would still blur the artifact and her together, but other than that, she had not bothered to do much to “prepare” for her meeting with Varian. Her face and robes were still dirty, her body lacerated by small cuts and discolored by bruises. She did not care. This was no formal dinner, no celebratory gathering, no occasion for baths and cosmetics or even clean clothes as far as she was concerned. Jaina had come for a more somber and colder reason than that. Her only concession to her appearance was to wear a dark cape with the hood pulled down to hide her newly white hair with the single remaining golden streak.

Stormwind, it seemed, had already gotten the dreadful tidings of Theramore’s fate. The city was bustling at all hours, but now there was a precision and a grimness to it. Soldiers patrolled the streets, no longer nodding and greeting citizens casually but striding with purpose, their eyes scanning the rushing crowds. The bright banners of gold and blue had been taken down, replaced by simple, plain black ones of mourning.

Jaina pulled her cloak about her more tightly and set out for the keep. “Halt!” The voice was sharp, commanding. Jaina whirled, instinctively lifting her hands to cast a spell, but stopped herself. It was no Horde member assaulting her; it was one of Stormwind’s guards. He had drawn his sword and regarded her, frowning. The frown turned into shock as the guard’s eyes met hers.

Jaina forced a smile. “Your devotion to duty is to be commended, sir,” she said. “I am Lady Jaina Proudmoore, come to have an audience with your king.” She moved the hood back slightly, enough so that her features could be distinguished. Jaina did not recall meeting this man personally before, but it was likely she had encountered him during her many formal visits. If not, she was a familiar enough figure that he would recognize her.

It took a moment, but then he sheathed his sword and bowed. “My apologies, Lady Jaina. We were told there were no survivors save those on the outskirts of the city. Thank the Light you are alive.”

It has nothing to do with the Light, thought Jaina. It has everything to do with Rhonin’s sacrifice. She still did not know why Rhonin had chosen to die while ensuring that she survived. He was a husband and father of twins, the leader of the Kirin Tor. He had more to live for than she did. Jaina should have died with her city, the city she had been too trusting to truly protect.

Nonetheless, the words were meant kindly. “Thank you,” she said.

The guard continued. “We are preparing for war, as you see. Everyone—we were all stunned to hear—”

Jaina couldn’t bear any more and lifted a hand. “Thank you for your concern,” she said. “Varian is expecting me.” He wasn’t. He thought her dead, lost with Kinndy and Pained and Tervosh and—“I know the way.”

“I am certain you do, Lady. If you have need of anything, anything at all, any of the Stormwind guards would be honored to assist.”

He saluted again and resumed his patrol. Jaina continued on to the keep. Here, too, the banners of the Alliance had been replaced with black ones, hanging on the front of Stormwind Keep behind the huge statue of King Varian Wrynn. Jaina had seen it before, and gave it and the fountain upon which it stood little heed. Quick footfalls carried her up the steps to the main entrance of the keep, where she announced herself and was told that Varian would, of course, see her shortly.

While she waited, Jaina had another visit she needed to pay. She slipped off through a side door and into the Royal Gallery.

It, and the art it housed, had suffered from the attack of the great black dragon. Some of the statues had been shattered, and several works of art shaken from the walls. Anything damaged beyond repair had been removed, but other paintings, carvings, and sculptures remained here, awaiting attention.

Jaina stood still, as if she, too, were carved of stone. So painful were the emotions racing through her that she wished she was. Then her knees buckled and she found herself sprawled before a huge statue. It depicted a proud man, with long hair flowing beneath a sweeping hat.

His mustache was neatly trimmed, and his carved gaze was fastened on something in the distance. One hand, now missing two stone fingers, was on the hilt of his sword. The other grasped his belt. A crack ran through the statue, starting at the booted right foot and zigzagging upward to end in the center of his chest. Jaina reached out with a trembling hand and touched the stone boot.

“Was it only five years ago that I chose my path?” she whispered. “I chose to ally with strangers, with the enemy, with orcs, instead of you, Papa. Instead of my own blood. I called you intolerant. Said that peace was the way. You said you would always hate them, that you would never stop fighting them. And I told you they were people. They deserved a chance. And now you are dead. My city is dead.”

Tears slipped down her face. In a detached part of her brain, she observed that they were light purple and glowing—liquid arcane energy. As they splashed onto the stone base upon which the statue stood, the tears evaporated in violet mist.

“Papa… forgive me. Forgive me for letting the Horde grow so strong. Forgive me for giving them the chance to slaughter so many of our people.” She lifted her eyes up again, seeing the implacable statue through a haze of purple-white. “You were right, Papa. You were right! I should have listened! Now, now that it’s too late, I see that. It took… this… for me to understand.”

She dragged a sleeve across her streaming eyes. “But it’s not too late for me to avenge you. To avenge K-Kinndy, and Pained, and Tervosh, and Rhonin, Aubrey and all the generals—to avenge everyone who fell last night in Theramore. They’ll pay. The Horde will pay. I’ll destroy Garrosh; you’ll see. With my own hands, if I can. I’ll destroy him, and every one of those cursed green-skinned butchers. I promise you, Papa. I won’t betray you again. I won’t let them kill any more of our people, ever. I promise, I promise…”

Jaina had taken a few moments to compose herself before returning to await her summons. That newfound composure was shattered when, after being announced and ushered into Varian’s private chambers, she was greeted not by the tall, dark-haired former gladiator but by a slender, towheaded boy.

“Aunt Jaina!” said Anduin, relief on his face as he hurried toward her. “You’re alive!”

He hugged her tightly. Jaina was stiff in the embrace. He sensed it at once and pulled back. His eyes went wide as he fully took in her arcane-altered appearance.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, more sharply than she had intended.

“I was worried about you,” he said. “When word reached us about what happened in Theramore… I wanted to be here. I knew that if you had survived, you’d come to Stormwind.”

She stared at him, mute. What could she possibly say? How could she speak to this child, who was so naive, about the true horror of what she had witnessed? He was so innocent, so ignorant of the real nature of their enemy. As naive and ignorant as I was, once…

“Jaina! Thank the Light!” She turned, relieved, to address the warrior king who strode into the room. Varian had long nursed a personal hatred of the orcs. Anduin was too young to understand, but he would, one day. Varian, she knew, would understand now—now, when it counted the most.

He was dressed informally and looked exhausted and harried, but there was relief and pleasure on his face. It too turned to surprise at her appearance.

Irritated, Jaina snapped, “The only reason I survived was because Archmage Rhonin pushed me through a portal to safety. I was affected at least somewhat by the blast.”

Varian raised an eyebrow at the bluntness of her statement, but he nodded, accepting the explanation and not dwelling on it. “You’ll be glad to know you weren’t the only survivor,” he said. “Vereesa Windrunner and Shandris Feathermoon and their scouting parties are also alive. They were far enough away from the center of the blast. They’ve returned to their respective homes and are talking to their people about war.”

Jaina didn’t want to think about the widowed Vereesa and her two fatherless children. “I am glad to hear that,” she said, “all of it. Oh, Varian, I owe you an apology. You’ve been right all along. I kept telling you that we could somehow reach the Horde, find some way to peace. But we can’t. This proves that we can’t, and you knew it even when I was too blinded by hope to see it. We need to retaliate against the Horde. Now. They’ll all go back to Orgrimmar. Garrosh won’t be able to resist a celebration of his brave victory over the Alliance.”

Anduin flinched slightly at the bitterness in her voice. She pressed on, the words rushing out of her. “The streets will run with ale, and the whole army will be assembled. There will be no better time to strike.”

Varian tried to speak. “Jaina—”

She barreled on, starting to pace and gesturing with her hands. “We’ll get the kaldorei to send their ships along with ours. We’ll take them completely by surprise. We’ll kill the orcs and raze their city. Make sure that they don’t ever recover from this blow. We’ll—”

“Jaina.” Varian’s deep voice was level as he caught hold of her wrists and gently halted her nearly frantic pacing. “I need you to be calm right now.”

She turned her face up to his, questioning. How could he speak of calmness?

“I’m sure you don’t know this, but the Horde has built up a very effective blockade around the entire continent. The kaldorei couldn’t come help us even if they wanted to. I’m not saying we don’t strike back. We will. But we’ve got to do so intelligently. Have a strategy. Figure out first how to break the blockade and then regain Northwatch.”

“Don’t you know what they did to it?” Jaina snapped.

“I know,” Varian said, “but it’s still a strategic foothold that we’ve got to get back before we can make a move. We’ve got to rebuild the fleet. We lost a lot of good people at Theramore; it’s going to take time to call back others from their posts to fill their positions. We need to do this right, or we’re just throwing more lives away.”

Jaina was shaking her head. “No. We’ve got no time for that.”

“We don’t have time to not do it,” Varian said. He kept his voice measured and calm. For some reason, it irritated Jaina. “We’re looking at war that could stretch out over two continents. Maybe even into Northrend. If I am to enter into a world war, where there are no boundaries, I’m going to do so wisely. If we rush in now, we do the Horde’s work for them.”

Jaina looked over at Anduin. He stood silently, his face pale and his blue eyes sad. He made no effort to interrupt his father and his friend in their discussion about a worldwide war. She returned her attention to Varian.

“I have something that can help,” she said. “A very great weapon has come into my keeping. It will destroy Orgrimmar just as surely as the Horde destroyed Theramore. But we will need to act now, when the armies are foolishly gathered together in Orgrimmar. If we don’t, the moment will be lost!”

Her voice rose on the last word, and she realized she’d clenched her fists. It would be more than just, to use the Focusing Iris on Garrosh and his beloved Orgrimmar. “We can wipe out every one of those green-skinned sons of—”

“Jaina!” The word was a pained, sharp exclamation from Anduin. Surprised, Jaina fell silent.

“What happened in Theramore was more than a tragedy,” Varian said, turning Jaina gently to regard him. “It was an irreparable loss, and a vile and cowardly act. But we mustn’t compound the loss by losing more Alliance soldiers needlessly.”

“There could even be some in the Horde who disagree with what happened,” Anduin said. “The tauren, for instance. And even most orcs prize honor.”

Jaina shook her head. “No. Not anymore. It’s too late for that, Anduin. Far too late. There’s no going back from what they’ve done. You didn’t see what—” Her voice caught and she struggled to speak for a moment. “We must retaliate. And we can’t wait. Who knows what atrocity Garrosh and the Horde will perpetrate if we do? We can’t have another Theramore, Varian! Don’t you see?”

“We will fight them, don’t worry—but we’ll do so on our terms.”

She jerked free from his hands on her arms and stepped back. “I don’t know what’s happened to you, Varian Wrynn, but you’ve turned into a coward. And you, Anduin, I am sorry for my part in keeping you a gullible child. There’s no hope for peace; there’s no time for strategy. I have their ruination in my grasp. You’re a fool for not seizing the chance!”

They spoke her name at once, father and son, so different but so oddly similar in how they stepped forward imploringly.

She turned her back on both of them.