Jaina Proudmoore: Tides of War

by Christie Golden

  He was coughing, red-black blood streaming from his tusked mouth. Most of his body was covered in burns, the plate mail melted to his skin. It had to be terribly painful, Jaina mused.

  Good.

  She leaned over the orc, bringing her face close enough to his that she could smell his fetid breath as he gasped for air. He looked up at her, tiny eyes wide with fear. Fear of Jaina Proudmoore, the friend to orcs, the diplomat.

  “Your people are despicable cowards,” she hissed. “You are nothing more than rabid dogs, and you should be put down. You spit on mercy? Then you will have none. You want carnage? Garrosh will get more blood than ever he bargained for.”

  Then, with a savage cry, she brought the shard of mirror down into the small space between the orc’s gorget and his shoulder armor. Blood spurted up, covering her hand, splashing her face.

  The dying orc tried to roll away, but she held his head between her hands, forcing him to look at her as life ebbed with each heartbeat. When he at last was still, she rose. She left the shard of glass from the broken mirror embedded in the orc’s throat.

  Jaina continued her grim perusal of what the Horde had left of Theramore. The cold rage inside her burned stronger with everything she beheld. The dock was completely gone. Oddly, she felt better here, looking at the wreckage, than she did near the crater where—

  She blinked. Not wanting to, but feeling compelled, she turned and walked back to where her tower had stood. She felt the tingling that was the hallmark of arcane energy growing stronger. The whole city was bathed in its residue, but she realized she was approaching the source of the disaster. Her heart rate sped up and she quickened her pace. She closed her eyes, then opened them. She did not want to look into the crater, but she knew she had to.

  It was so simple and so lovely—a plain, glowing purple orb that pulsated with arcane energy. It looked delicate, but it had survived a blast that had reduced a city to ashes without so much as a scratch on its surface.

  Kalecgos had not exaggerated the power of the item—or, she thought with a stab of fresh grief, the violence it could wreak in the wrong hands. She could feel the energy almost washing over her physically from the artifact’s proximity. Her hair stood on end, and she felt her eyes strain for a moment, then adjust, and knew that they were glowing even brighter now. Purposefully she began to climb down into the crater. Rhonin’s remains were nowhere to be seen. It appeared that he had succeeded in drawing the bomb directly to him. All that remained of Rhonin were two children, a grieving widow—if Vereesa had been far enough away to have survived the blast—and his memory. Jaina tasted bitterness in her mouth at the thought. He had died trying to save her. She would not let his death be in vain.

  She reached the bottom. The Focusing Iris was at least twice her size and certainly heavy. She could teleport it with her and hide it for now, but the most pressing thing was how to conceal it from Kalecgos. The solution struck her almost at once. Kalec had come to know her well, had grown to care for her. Jaina bent down and placed her hand on the artifact, feeling a gentle thrum of energy. Coldly, calculatedly, she proceeded to ward it with her deepest sense of self, holding in her mind her greatest strengths and weaknesses. When he sought to find the Focusing Iris, he would sense only her. She would use Kalec’s feelings for her to trick him. As the sole remaining survivor and ruler of Theramore, Jaina Proudmoore claimed the Focusing Iris for her own.

  The Horde wanted war. They had gone to grotesque lengths to crush their enemy.

  If war was what they wished, Jaina would give it to them.

  With pleasure.

  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.