Kirygosa transformed into her human form. Tucking a lock of long, blue-black hair behind an ear, she respectfully approached the bodies of her slain kin. Five had started out, to protect the Focusing Iris. Five had been killed, giving their lives attempting to complete their task. Mild-tempered and wise Uragos, older than the others, the leader of the group. Rulagos and Rulagosa, clutch mates, appearing in human form as twins. They had fallen together, close to each other and in the same pose, arrows piercing their throats—as similar in death as in life. Tears filled her eyes as Kirygosa turned to regard Pelagosa. Kiry could recognize Pelagosa only by her petite size. She had always been among the smallest of the blues, young (as the dragons reckoned such things) but having a gift with the arcane that surpassed her years. Whoever slew her had also fought with magic, and she was burned beyond recognition.
Lurugos had perhaps resisted the hardest, given how far away from the murder site they found his body. Scorched, frozen, partially submerged, with arrows sticking out like quills in his shoulders and legs, he had not given up. Kirygosa thought that he might have even fought for a heartbeat or two after his head had been severed from his shoulders in a clean strike from a sharp sword.
Banagos, in human shape, came behind her and squeezed her arm. Swiftly she covered his hand with her own.
“I know little of the lesser races,” Banagos said. “I see all kinds of weapons here and evidence that magic was used—demonic and arcane both.”
“It could be any race,” Kiry said.
“Then perhaps we were on the right track with the idea of killing them all,” Banagos said. His voice was raw with grief, and his blue eyes were reddened with unshed tears. He had loved little Pelagosa, and they would have been mates once she had come of age.
“No,” said Kiry sharply. “Such has ever been the sentiment of those who do not take time to think, Banagos, as I know you know. As I know Pelagosa always believed. They do not ‘all’ do this, any more than ‘all’ dragons attack wantonly and slay the younger races for sport. We understand why this was done. And it was not for hatred of our people. It was because someone wished to obtain the Focusing Iris for his or her own purposes.”
“Five dragons,” breathed Alagosa. “Five of us. Five of our finest. Who could possibly be strong enough to do this?”
“That,” said Kiry, “is what we need to find out. Banagos, return to the Nexus with this grim news. Alagosa and I will stay here and… care for the remains of our fallen.”
She had thought to spare him further pain, but Banagos shook his head. “No. She would have been my mate. I… will tend to her. And the others. You are closest to Kalecgos. It is best that he hear this from you, and quickly.”
“As you wish,” said Kiry gently. She looked one final time at the bodies of the blue dragons, trapped in death in a form most of them scorned; closed her eyes in sorrow once more; then leaped skyward. Her wings flapped as she wheeled and turned back for the Nexus. Her thoughts were no longer on the fallen, but on their killers. Who was strong enough to have done such a thing? And for what specific purpose?
She knew very little, only enough to confirm their worst fears about the traveling party. She hoped that in her absence, Kalec had learned more.
• • •
Kalecgos knew that with every second that ticked by, the Focusing Iris was moving farther and farther south. And it was becoming harder and harder to trace. He had an advantage others in his flight did not. Though he was no longer the blue Dragon Aspect, he still led the blues. That tie to his flight, with echoes of what he had once been, seemed to enhance his connection to the Iris. When Teralygos had said he could barely sense the object any longer, Kalecgos had closed his eyes and drawn in three deep breaths. He visualized it in his mind, concentrating on it, on sensing and—
And there it was. “It is now in the Borean Tundra, is it not?” he asked Teralygos with his eyes still closed.
“Yes, yes, it is, and—” The words ended in a harsh, short cry. “It is gone!”
“No, it is not,” Kalec said. “I can still sense it.”
Many dragons sighed in relief. At that moment, a female voice said quietly, “They were all slain, Kalecgos. All five.”
He opened his eyes and regarded Kirygosa sickly as she recounted what she, Banagos, and Alagosa had beheld. “And you cannot say if it was human or elf, orc or goblin?” he asked when she was done. “No scrap of a banner or distinctive arrow fletching?”
She shook her head. “What colors we found were random. There were no footprints. The snow had melted too much, and they were clever to both avoid the softer sand and refrain from tracking blood on the rocks. All we know, Kalecgos, is that someone likely knew where to find them, was strong enough to slay five dragons, and has absconded with the Focusing Iris. Whoever they were, they knew exactly what they were doing.”
Her voice was low on this final sentence. Kalec nodded to her. “Perhaps that is true. But so do we.” This was spoken with a certainty he did not feel. “I am able to sense generally in which direction it travels. And I will follow it and bring it back.”
“You are our leader, Kalecgos,” said Kirygosa. “We need you here!”
He shook his head. “No, you do not,” he said quietly. “It is because I am your leader that I must go. It is time we acknowledged what is happening—how the flight is feeling. Many of our people have already left for the wide world. We once knew the role we needed to play; now we do not, and our most precious magical item, both tool and symbol, has been stolen, and good dragons lie dead for that theft. It is my job to guide and protect you. I… have not done so.”
It hurt to admit it. “I have failed, at least in this, and perhaps in other things. You do not need me here, to worry and wonder along with the rest of you while others venture forth to retrieve our stolen orb. That is my task—and by performing it, I will indeed guide and protect you.”
Glances were exchanged, but no one protested. They all knew this was the right path. He had meant everything he said. The failure was his; the recovery of the item was his duty. But what he did not say was that he wanted to go. He felt more at home interacting with the younger races than he did here, ostensibly leading his flight. He caught Kiry’s eye, and she at least seemed to understand this deeper emotion—and approved of it.
“Kirygosa, daughter of Malygos,” he said, “take the wisdom of Teralygos and others, and be my voice here while I am gone.”
“No one can truly be your voice, my friend,” Kirygosa replied gently, “but I will do all I can. If anyone can find the lost Focusing Iris in this wide world of ours, it will be you, who among us all know Azeroth best.”
There was nothing more to say. In silence, Kalecgos leaped upward and flew out into the cold, snowy day, following the gentle tug that whispered this way, this way. Kirygosa had said she thought Kalec knew Azeroth better than any other blue dragon. He could only hope she was right.
2
Baine Bloodhoof looked about uneasily as he and a small retinue entered the city of Orgrimmar. The sole progeny of the late, much beloved and mourned tauren high chieftain Cairne Bloodhoof, Baine had only recently stepped into the position his father had occupied for so many years. It was a responsibility he had never actively sought, and he had accepted the duty with both humility and regret at the time of his father’s death. Since then, the world had changed in every respect.
His personal world had shattered the night of his father’s murder. Cairne had been slain in a mak’gora, a ritual duel, by Garrosh Hellscream. Garrosh, who had recently been named warchief of the Horde by Thrall, had intended to fight honorably, but someone else did not wish him to. Magatha Grimtotem, a shaman who had long harbored a hatred of Cairne and a desire to lead the tauren, had painted Garrosh’s axe, Gorehowl, with poison rather than simple anointing oil. And so the noble Cairne had died by betrayal.
Garrosh had stayed out of the ensuing conflict that arose when Magatha made a blatant bid for conquest of the tauren. Ba
ine had defeated the would-be usurper, banishing her and those who refused to swear loyalty to him. Afterward, he had vowed his own loyalty to Garrosh in the orc’s role as warchief for a reason that was twofold—because his father would have wished it, and because Baine knew he had to do so in order to keep his people safe.
Since then, Baine Bloodhoof had not come to Orgrimmar. He had no desire to. Now he wished even more heartily that he could have stayed away.
But Garrosh had sent a summons to all the leaders of the various Horde races, and Baine, having pledged his support to Grom Hellscream’s son, had come. So had the others. To disobey would be to risk open war.
Baine and his entourage rode their kodos through the massive gates. More than one tauren stared, ears flicking, at the towering scaffolding and the massive crane that moved above them. While Orgrimmar had never been as pastoral as Thunder Bluff, it was now actively martial. Looming iron construction, heavy and black and ominous, had replaced the simple wooden huts, “to prevent another fire,” Garrosh had said. And, Baine knew, to evoke the so-called glory days of the Horde. To remind everyone after the chaos of the Cataclysm and the subsequent terrorizing of Deathwing that the orcs, and by extension the Horde itself, were not to be trifled with. To Baine, the ugly changes did not represent strength. The “new Orgrimmar” represented domination. Conquest. Subjugation. Its hard, jagged metal was a threat, not a comfort. He did not feel safe here. He did not think anyone who was not an orc could feel safe here.
Garrosh had even moved Grommash Hold from the Valley of Wisdom, where it had been under Thrall since the founding of the city, to the Valley of Strength—a decision, Baine thought, that reflected the nature of each warchief. As the tauren approached the hold, they were joined by a cluster of blood elves in their red and gold regalia. Lor’themar Theron, his long, pale blond hair in a topknot and his chin decorated with a small patch of beard, caught Baine’s eye and nodded coolly. Baine returned the gesture.
“Friend Baine!” called an unctuously cheerful voice. Baine looked over to his right, then down. A sly-looking, obese goblin with a slightly battered top hat chomped a cigar and waved boisterously at him.
“You must be Trade Prince Jastor Gallywix,” Baine said.
“That I am, that I am indeed,” said the goblin with enthusiasm, giving him a toothy, somewhat predatory grin. “And delighted to be here today, as I am sure you are. My first official visit to Warchief Garrosh’s court!”
“I don’t know that I’d call it a court,” Baine said.
“Close enough, close enough. Delighted, yes. How are you all doing in Mulgore?”
Baine regarded the goblin. He did not dislike goblins on principle, as some did. Indeed, he owed a great debt to Gazlowe, the goblin leader of the port town of Ratchet. Gazlowe had been of tremendous help to Baine during Magatha’s attack on Thunder Bluff, providing zeppelins, weaponry, and warriors of a sort for (by goblin standards) a paltry fee. Baine simply did not particularly care for this goblin. Nor, his sources told him, did anyone. Not even Gallywix’s own people.
“We are rebuilding our capital and fighting back the quilboar who are encroaching on our territory. The Alliance recently destroyed Camp Taurajo. We have erected the Great Gate so that they will come no farther,” Baine said.
“Oh, well, sorry and congratulations, then!” Gallywix laughed. “Good luck with all that, eh?”
“Er… thank you,” Baine said. Despite their small size, the goblins threaded their way through the flow of other Horde races to be first to enter Grommash Hold. Baine flicked an ear, sighed, dismounted from his kodo, handed the reins over to a waiting orc, and entered the hold himself.
This incarnation of the hold was, like everything else in the “new” Orgrimmar, more impersonal and martial—even the throne of the warchief of the Horde. Under Thrall’s leadership, the skull and armor of the demon Mannoroth—whose blood had once corrupted the orcs and who was valiantly slain by Grom Hellscream—had been displayed on a massive tree trunk at the entrance to the hold. Garrosh had taken the symbols of his father’s greatest victory and adorned his own throne with them, taking what Thrall had erected for the entire Horde to see and making them instead a personal tribute. He even wore part of the demon’s tusks as shoulder armor. Every time he saw Garrosh, Baine’s ears flattened slightly at the affront.
“Baine,” said a gruff voice. Baine turned and felt the first surge of pleasure he had experienced since departing Thunder Bluff.
“Eitrigg,” he said warmly, embracing the elderly orc. It seemed this honorable old veteran was the last who remained here of Thrall’s original advisors. Eitrigg had served Thrall well and loyally, and had stayed behind at Thrall’s request to advise Garrosh. It gave Baine hope that Garrosh had not concocted some reason to dismiss Eitrigg. It had been Eitrigg who had first noticed the smear of poison on Garrosh’s weapon, Gorehowl, and who had told the young warchief that he had been tricked into slaying Cairne dishonorably. Baine had always respected Eitrigg, but that deed in particular had made Baine the orc’s steadfast friend.
Baine narrowed his brown eyes at Eitrigg’s expression. Keeping his voice as soft as possible—not an easy task for a tauren—he asked, “I take it you do not approve of the topic of today’s gathering?”
Eitrigg made a sour face. “That is a pale statement. And I am not alone in my thoughts.” He clapped the young leader on his arm, then stepped back, indicating that Baine should proceed to his people’s traditional place on the left of the warchief’s throne. At least Garrosh had made no effort to demote the tauren. Baine noted that Lor’themar was now on the right side of Garrosh, and next to the blood elves’ sea of gold and red was the green skin of the goblins. Sylvanas and her Forsaken were directly opposite the orc, and Vol’jin and his trolls sat next to Baine. The orcs given the honor of being present—most of them Kor’kron, the formal guardians of the warchief—stood at attention, ringing the entire gathering.
Baine recalled his father telling him of similar meetings in Orgrimmar. At those gatherings, there were feasts, laughter, and revelry as well as debate and discussion. Baine saw no signs that anything resembling a feast had been prepared. Indeed, he thought as he took a tepid swig from the waterskin that hung at his belt, it had been a good thing that he and his people had brought their own water. Otherwise, in this desert city that baked under the sun, the iron buildings absorbing the heat, the tauren would even now be collapsing.
The moments crawled by, and the gathered leaders and their companions began to grow restless. Low murmuring broke out among the Forsaken. It seemed to Baine that despite the undead’s frequent, chiding usage of the word, “patience” was not a universal discipline among them. His sharp tauren ears caught a sibilant whisper from Sylvanas, and the muttering subsided.
An orc clad in Kor’kron livery stepped forward. One hand had only three fingers, and a livid scar, pale against the darker hue of his skin, zigzagged across his face and down his throat. Red war paint, looking like streaked blood, adorned face and arms. But it was not these distinctions that made Baine’s eyes narrow at the newcomer. It was the tone of the orc’s scarlet-decorated skin.
Dark gray.
That meant two things. One, that the orc was a member of the Blackrock clan—a clan that had birthed many infamous members. And two, that he had spent years never seeing the light of day; he had dwelt inside Blackrock Mountain, serving Thrall’s enemy.
Names, imparted in dire tones by his father, Cairne, filled Baine’s head. Blackhand the Destroyer, warchief of the Horde and secret member of the Shadow Council, who had offered shaman up to become the first warlocks his people had ever known. That orc’s son Dal’rend, nicknamed “Rend,” had skulked for years in the depths of Blackrock Spire and opposed Thrall’s leadership. There had only been a handful of Blackrock orcs whom Thrall had spoken of with respect. A handful, out of far too many. That this obviously seasoned veteran had the honor of opening the ceremonies—even ahead of the Kor’kron—made Baine uneasy
about what was to come.
The veteran gestured imperiously. Several green-skinned orcs stepped forward. They held long, ornately decorated chimaera horns. With precise movements, they lifted the horns to their lips, filled their lungs, and blew. A long, deep, hollow sound reverberated through the chamber, and despite the current situation, Baine felt his spirit respond to the call to order. When the horns’ blast had faded, the orcs who had blown them stepped back into the shadows.
The Blackrock orc spoke. His voice was deep and gravelly, and it carried throughout the chamber.
“Your leader, the mighty Garrosh Hellscream, approaches! Show him all honor!” The orc thumped his intact hand across his massive chest, turning to face the entrance to Grommash Hold.
Garrosh’s brown body was covered with tattoos. Even his lower jaw had been tattooed black. Bare-chested, the orc wore Mannoroth’s mammoth tusks, covered with spikes, on his shoulders. His waist was encircled with a belt that bore a carved skull—evocative of that of the great demon that adorned the throne. He clutched Gorehowl, the legendary weapon of his father, and lifted it high. Shouting and cheers filled the huge chamber, and for a moment, Garrosh stood, drinking it in. Then he lowered the axe and spoke.
“I bid you all welcome,” he said, spreading his arms in an encompassing gesture. “You are true servants of the Horde. Your warchief calls you, and you come.”
Like trained wolves, Baine thought, trying and failing to hide a frown. Thrall had never spoken so to his people.
Garrosh continued. “Much has transpired since I assumed the mantle of warchief. We have faced trials and danger, threats to our world and our way of life. And yet, we persevere. We are the Horde. We will not let anything break our spirits!”
Jaina Proudmoore: Tides of War Page 2