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 c
ould 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.
19
Baine was a warrior. His eyes had seen almost more than he could bear of the horrors of war. He had beheld towns and forts and even his own city of Thunder Bluff ablaze. He had witnessed battles of magic as well as those of blade and fire and fist, and knew that spells killed as surely and as brutally as steel. His voice had shouted orders to attack, and his two hands had taken lives.
But this…
The night sky was not a black background lit with the dull orange-red of flames consuming buildings and flesh, although some buildings had indeed caught fire earlier in the battle. Instead, there was a violet glow, almost pretty, like moonlight on snow, emanating from the city. And above that deceptively pleasant radiance, the sky was putting on a show. Bright spikes of lightning slashed through the blackness in all colors of the rainbow. Here and there, the jagged illumination lingered, moving and turning only to wink out and reappear elsewhere. They were close enough to hear booming and cracking sounds as the very fabric of the world was again and again rent asunder and knitted together. As the colorful lights paraded themselves in the sky, Baine thought incongruously of a phenomenon known as the northern lights he had seen in Northrend. Cairne had spoken of being filled with awe at the sight, and as Baine beheld the glow, awe mixed with stunned, sick revulsion filled him.
The soft purple glow heralded the blanket of arcane energy that enveloped Theramore. The mana bomb, so thoughtfully provided by the blood elves—who stood cheering with other Horde members who somehow felt that what Garrosh had wrought was a good thing—had exploded over an entire city and had not just harmed its citizens and buildings but crushed them utterly. Baine had watched both friend and foe perish from arcane magic attacks far too often to feel anything but fury at what he beheld. The people caught in the blast had been blown apart inside, as magic distorted and reformed them down to the last drop of blood. The buildings, too, were remade from the inside. So great had the blast been that Baine knew that every creature, every blade of grass, every handful of soil was now rendered dead and worse than dead.
And the awful magic would linger. Baine did not deal with magic. He did not know how long the eerie violet glow that marked Garrosh’s calculated brutality would pulsate around the city of the slain. But Theramore would not be livable for a long time.
Tears ran down his muzzle, and he made no effort to wipe them away. He stood surrounded by throngs of cheering Horde, but as he looked around, he saw, illuminated by the ghostly arcane glow, faces that wore his own expression of shock and revulsion. What had happened to the warchief who had once said, “Honor… no matter how dire the battle, never forsake it”? Who had hurled another orc, Overlord Krom’gar, off a cliff to die, for dropping a bomb on innocent, druids and leaving nothing but a crater? The similarity was eerie and struck Bain
e to the marrow. Garrosh had gone from decrying such murders to committing them.
“Victory!” shrieked Garrosh, standing atop the highest ridge of the small islands in the channel. He lifted Gorehowl, and the axe’s sharp blade caught and flashed the purple light over the assembled Horde. “First, I gave you a glorious battle in which we claimed Northwatch Hold for our own. Then, I harnessed your patience, so that we could fight an even more honorable fight—against the finest soldiers and minds the Alliance had to offer. Each one of you is now a veteran of a battle against Jaina Proudmoore, against Rhonin, General Marcus Jonathan, and Shandris Feathermoon! And to secure our victory, I snatched from beneath the very noses of the greatest magic wielders in this world an arcane artifact so powerful it has destroyed an entire city!”
He pointed at Theramore, as if any of those standing there were not riveted by the evidence of mass destruction. “This is what we have wrought! Behold the glory of the Horde!”
Did none of them see? Baine couldn’t understand it. So many, too many, seemed happy at beholding the dead city, crowded with corpses of people who had died in a horrible and painful fashion. They were happy at being tricked into a battle against Theramore when all along, Garrosh had had the means to win without sacrificing a single Horde life. Baine was not sure which act he despised more.
The cheers were deafening. Garrosh turned and caught Baine’s gaze. He held it for a long time. Baine did not look away. Garrosh’s lip curled in a sneer. He spat on the ground and stalked off. The swell of the cheers followed him.
Malkorok, however, lingered. And then he began to laugh. It started slow and soft, rising to a maniacal cackle. Baine’s sensitive ears were awash in insane laughter, in cheers at suffering, and in the imagined sounds of a whole city crying out in torment before obliteration mercilessly descended.
Jaina Proudmoore: Tides of War Page 21