She recalled what she had said to him then: “If anyone should be bitter and hateful, it should be me. Yet I hear the things some of them call the Horde—insulting, cruel terms—and I feel so much regret . . . My father didn’t just want to win. He hated the orcs. He wanted to crush them. Wipe them off the face of Azeroth. And so do some of these generals.”
Anduin had been right. People did change. Now, she was one of those whom she had once mentally chided.
It had been then that Kalec had first hesitantly expressed that he wished to be more than a friend to her. He had promised to help her defend her home. “I do not do this for the Alliance, or for Theramore. I do this for Theramore’s lady.” And he had pressed a kiss into her palm.
They had grown closer when Kalec struggled against losing himself while under the influence of the artifact that had revealed the true story behind the creation of the Dragon Aspects. But the events of the recent months had again put distance between them, and he had only recently come to Pandaria. Now he regarded her, with love, but also with unhappiness, and she felt a chill that had nothing to do with the crisp air coming off the sea.
For a moment, she simply took in the sight of Alliance vessels in the water, and the beautiful, violet light of the topmost part of the tower. It hovered a good distance away from the levitation platform below. Sigils in the shape of the Kirin Tor’s eye surrounded it, and to Jaina it looked almost like a lighthouse, a beacon in the storm.
Black humor made her chuckle. “First a swamp, then the rain. One of these days, we’ll have to find a really nice beach.”
When he did not respond with a quip of his own, she felt cold inside. She inhaled a deep breath and turned to him, taking both his hands in hers. “What is it?” she asked, though she was afraid she already knew.
For answer, he gathered her in his arms and held her tightly, resting his cheek on her white hair. She slipped her arms around his waist and breathed in his scent, listening to his heartbeat. Too soon, he gently disengaged and looked down at her.
“This war has taken so much from you,” Kalec said. “And I don’t just mean physical things.” He smoothed a lock of hair that had fallen across her eyes, letting the single streak that was all that remained of her golden tresses trail through his fingers. “You’ve grown so . . .”
“Hard? Bitter?” She had to struggle not to let her tone of voice match the words.
He nodded sadly. “Yes. It’s as if the process of wounding doesn’t ever stop for you.”
“Shall I list what’s happened?” She spoke sharply, but didn’t regret it. “You’ve been there for some of it!”
“But not all. You didn’t ask me to come with you to Pandaria.”
She looked down. “No. But that doesn’t mean I don’t—”
“I know,” he interrupted gently. “I am here now, and glad to be, and I hope to continue to be with you, whatever comes. I want to help, Jaina, but you seem to like this dark place where your heart has landed. I watch you in court each day, and I see someone who is filled more with hatred than with love. Garrosh might have put you there. But you’re staying in that place of your own free will.”
She stepped back, staring at him. “You think I like this? That I like having nightmares, and feeling so angry I am about to explode? Don’t you believe I have a right to be satisfied—no, no, downright ecstatic—that someone who did such horrible things is getting what he deserves?”
“I don’t think you like it, and I do believe you have a right to your feelings. What worries me is that those feelings won’t end with this trial.”
A vein throbbed in her temple, and she placed a hand to it. “What makes you think they won’t?”
“Remembering how eager you were to have Varian dismantle the Horde.”
“I can’t believe you—”
“Hear me out, please,” he implored. “Think for a moment how you would feel if Varian did what Garrosh has done. Let’s say he decided that the Alliance should consist solely of humans. He decrees that the draenei should only be allowed in Stormwind if they live in slums. He orders that Tyrande be murdered if she doesn’t agree to create a legion of satyrs to fight in his army. The gnomes and the dwarves are tolerated merely as a labor force. He hears that some artifact is located in the most beautiful place in Azeroth, a place of great sacredness. He destroys it to get what he wants. He—”
“Enough,” said Jaina. She was trembling, but couldn’t identify the emotion. “You’ve made your point.”
He fell silent.
“I didn’t destroy Orgrimmar. And I could have. So easily,” she said.
“I know.”
“Do you remember when you told me you would stay and fight in the Battle of Theramore?” He bit his lower lip and nodded. “I was frustrated with the generals for their hatred of the Horde. And you asked me if I thought that hatred would make them unreliable commanders in battle.”
“I do remember,” he replied. “You also said that it didn’t matter how you and they felt. And I said it did matter, a great deal—but defending the city was the most important thing at that moment. Just like defeating Garrosh was, when all of us—Alliance and Horde—were trying to take him down.”
“So . . . you’re telling me that now that we have, that he’s standing trial . . . the differences between—between us . . . they matter again.”
He whispered, “Yes.”
Tears stung her eyes. “How much?” she said in a faint voice.
“I don’t know yet. I won’t until I see who we are at the end of all this. If you keep hanging on to this hatred, Jaina . . . it will devour you. And I couldn’t bear to watch . . . to lose you to that. I don’t want to lose you, Jaina!”
Then don’t leave me, her heart cried, but she didn’t voice it. She knew what he meant by the words, and they went far beyond a simple physical parting. This wasn’t a lover’s quarrel over something foolish. This was about who they were, at their very cores. And whether or not they could continue to be together if what their hearts most needed was in conflict.
And so Jaina didn’t argue. She didn’t promise to change, nor did she threaten to leave. She simply arched up, threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him with her whole heart. With a soft little sound of pain and love commingled, Kalecgos pulled her tightly to him, clinging to her as if he would never let go.
• • •
It was a beautiful evening in Silvermoon City. Thalen Songweaver, informally clad in stockings, breeches, and a linen shirt open at the throat, had the windows flung wide to let in the night air, and the gossamer curtains swelled and billowed softly. Faint sounds wafted up to his luxurious apartments in the Royal Exchange. He lay on his bed, smoking a hookah of black lotus and dreaming glory. The normally relaxing combination was failing him tonight. While his senses were dulled, the agitation remained, and his white brows drew together as he brooded upon the current situation.
Not so long ago, his position was one to be envied. He had provided aid in more than a single capacity to his warchief, Garrosh Hellscream: first, by pretending to be a devoted and trustworthy member of the Kirin Tor while reporting faithfully back to Garrosh, and second . . . well. Suffice it to say that history would forever remember Theramore not for how it was founded, or evolved, but for how it had been obliterated.
The thought made the blood elf smile as he idly fiddled with a miniature toy mana bomb, a small-scale replica of the one he had created. He’d given them out as a little thank-you to those of the Horde who had freed him from his Theramore prison. It was, he knew, in exquisitely poor taste, but was still vastly amusing.
Yet even reflecting on that moment of glory did not make him feel comfortable this evening. He sighed, rising and walking to the window. He leaned on the sill, peering out. While the auction house was open at all hours, the streets were quiet this time of night. Unlike their kaldorei cousins, civilized elves conducted most of their business with the sun smiling down upon them. If he’d wanted to see lively acti
vity at night, he’d have taken quarters above Murder Row.
It had been going so very well. And then everyone had turned on Garrosh. Thalen’s aquiline nostrils flared. Even his own leader, Lor’themar Theron, had refused to aid the warchief. Weaklings, all of them. Now Garrosh’s fate was being decided by a bunch of talking bears and some glowing sort of . . . spirit beings, or whatever they were. Absolute madness.
He glanced back fondly at his lavish quarters. He suspected that soon wisdom would dictate that he vacate them. Theron had been too busy overthrowing the rightfully appointed warchief to bother with a lone archmage, but once they had all decided what to do about Garrosh, no doubt the sin’dorei leader would recall that little incident in Theramore, and elves like Songweaver—elves actually loyal to the Horde, imagine such a thing!—would become persona non grata. Who knew—if Theron kept cozying up to the Alliance, he might even call for executions.
Thalen’s hand went to his slender throat, stroking it thoughtfully. He rather liked his head right where it was.
Such melancholy thoughts. Perhaps a drink at the Silvermoon City Inn would help ease him into slumber. He was just about to pull the windows closed, then paused as he saw two huge black wolves riding into the exchange. For a moment, he thought nothing of it, assuming the cloaked orcs were adventurers seeking to unload their most recent spoils at the auction house. But they rode past both the house and the bank, halting directly below his window. He saw now they were both females. One had the hood of her cloak down and was looking about guardedly. The other’s hood hid the rider’s features.
Unease warred with curiosity—his bane, Thalen mused sourly. Ah well, bravado to the last . . .
“Hail, friends or foes,” he called down in a bright voice. “I am not quite sure which. Either you have come to arrest me, or you are my rescuers from that unpleasant imprisonment in Theramore come to visit me, as I invited you to do.”
The hooded rider lifted her face. The sight was intended for his eyes only, and it was the proud visage of a gray-skinned orcish female. “Neither, but a friend nonetheless. We have come seeking your assistance in a matter most urgent and full of glory.”
Zaela, the leader of the Dragonmaw clan, grinned fiercely up at him.
“Well, well,” he said, “I thought you were—”
“I am alive and well, and I am pleased that you are also.” His heart leaped at her next words. “As you said—someone rescued you once, when you languished in captivity. I think you might be the sort of person who would care to return that favor.”
18
Day Four
Tyrande looked at Go’el, seated in the witness chair, and then laughed softly, shaking her head. Taran Zhu frowned.
“Chu’shao, do you need a moment?”
“No, Fa’shua, I ask the court’s forgiveness. I was simply trying to think of how to introduce Go’el.”
“Let him introduce himself,” suggested Taran Zhu.
Tyrande lifted a brow, inviting the orc to speak.
Go’el looked up at the celestials, addressing them. “My name is Go’el. I am the son of Durotan and Draka, life-mate to Aggralan, daughter of Ryal. Father to Durak. I lead the Earthen Ring.”
“Can you tell us more about the Earthen Ring, and what it does for Azeroth?” asked Tyrande.
“The Earthen Ring is an organization composed of shaman of all races,” he said. “There, there is no conflict, only care for our world. Our present, overriding duty is to work with the elements to heal it from the destruction of the Cataclysm.”
“But you personally did more than most shaman, after the Cataclysm,” Tyrande continued. “You were instrumental in defeating the cause of the Cataclysm himself—the corrupted black Dragon Aspect, Deathwing.”
“I was honored to help.”
“You did more, World-Shaman Go’el, but for now, I would like you to tell the court about another name, and another title, you once held. Can you explain to us what your duties were prior to your heroic activities on the part of our world?”
“With the utmost respect, I protest,” said Baine, clearly reluctant.
“Fa’shua, I am merely establishing the nature of the witness’s character,” said Tyrande. “By anyone’s reckoning, Go’el is a truly remarkable individual.”
“I do not disagree with you, Accuser, but please move on. Go’el, please answer the question.”
“I was once known as Thrall, warchief of the Horde.”
“An interesting name, ‘Thrall,’ ” mused Tyrande. She had recovered from her earlier moment of confounded humor, and now walked leisurely around the courtroom. “Can you please tell us how you received it?”
“The word means ‘slave,’ ” Go’el said. “My parents had been murdered. I was found by a human, Aedelas Blackmoore, who named me and raised me to be a gladiator. I later learned his intention was to use me to lead an uprising of the orcs against the Alliance.”
“Obviously, you did not do so,” Tyrande said. “What did you do?”
“I escaped Blackmoore and set about freeing orcs from internment camps.”
“When was this?”
“A few years prior to the coming of the Legion.”
Tyrande nodded. “You built an army of freed orcs, did you not?”
“I did.”
“And what did you do with this army?”
“I led them against the control center for the internment camps, Durnholde Keep. I defeated Blackmoore and won freedom for my people. Eventually I led them across the ocean, to Kalimdor, and founded a new land and city—Durotar and Orgrimmar.”
“Orgrimmar, for Orgrim Doomhammer, and Durotar, for your father, Durotan. A land and a city for the orcs,” Tyrande said.
“It would be the new orcish homeland, yes,” Go’el said.
“Just for orcs?”
“No. I found strong and brave allies in Sen’jin, leader of the Darkspear trolls, and later in his son, Vol’jin. The tauren—I have openly said I believe them to be the heart of the Horde, and Cairne Bloodhoof was my brother. The Horde grew to encompass the Forsaken, the sin’dorei, a section of the goblin populace, and now it is also open to any pandaren who wishes to join us and believes in our ideals.”
“Some believe these choices diluted the true Horde.”
Go’el looked at Garrosh, who was seated in his usual place beside Baine. Garrosh gazed steadily back at him. “I believe that they have strengthened the Horde, not weakened it.”
“When did you step down, and why?”
“It was shortly after the defeat of the Lich King,” Go’el said. “Right after the Cataclysm shook Azeroth. I left for Nagrand, to study with the shaman there. To learn what was troubling the elements. The Horde needed leadership while I was away. Later, as I mastered my abilities, I joined with those who were working to calm the elements and save our world.”
“You appointed Garrosh Hellscream to take your place, did you not?”
“I did.” Go’el’s jaw tightened, but his voice remained civil.
“What were your reasons?”
“Garrosh had acted well and with honor in Northrend. He was young, courageous, a symbol of hope and victory to a people ground down by war and the horrors of the Scourge.”
“Did you have any misgivings?”
“I would have had one misgiving or another with anyone I appointed. I would have wondered, for instance, if the burden of leadership would be too much for those who were elderly. Or if the fact that they were not orcs would lead to discontent. There was no one perfect choice. Garrosh seemed to know his own limits, and there were many on hand to advise him.”
Tyrande nodded to Chromie. “May it please the court, I would like to show a Vision depicting this thought process.”
The scene took shape in the center of the arena, a moment Go’el recalled well.
“You will be returning soon?” Go’el blinked, surprised at the lack of confidence in the voice of the Garrosh in the Vision. He had truly forgotten how ill a
t ease Garrosh had once been with his heritage—and himself.
“I—do not know,” Go’el saw and heard himself say. “It may take time to learn what I must. I trust I will not be gone too long, but it could be weeks—even months.”
“But—the Horde! We need a warchief!”
“It is for the Horde that I go. Do not worry, Garrosh. I do not forsake it. I travel where I must, to serve as I must. We all serve the Horde. Even its warchief does so—perhaps especially its warchief. And well do I know that you serve it loyally too.”
“I do, Warchief. You were the one who taught me that my father was someone to be proud of, because of what he was willing to do for others. For the Horde. I have not been part of it for long. But even so, I have seen enough to know that, like my father, I would die for it.”
Go’el saw the looks of surprise on many faces in the temple as the Garrosh of the past spoke with such sincerity. For so long, the only Garrosh they had seen or heard tell of was the destroyer of Theramore. Go’el questioned Tyrande’s wisdom in showing this; surely it would win sympathy for Garrosh.
“You have already faced and cheated death,” Thrall said. “You have slain many of its minions. You have done more for this new Horde than many who have been part of it since the beginning. And know this: I would never leave without appointing someone able to take care of it, even during so brief a sojourn.”
“You—you are making me warchief?” Such surprise on that young face . . .
“No. But I am instructing you to lead the Horde on my behalf until I return.”
Garrosh groped for words. “I understand battle, yes. Tactics, how to rally troops—these things I know. Let me serve that way. Find me a foe to face and defeat, and you will see how proudly I will continue to serve the Horde. But I know nothing of politics, of . . . of ruling. I would rather have a sword in my fist than a scroll!”
“I understand that,” Thrall said. “But you will not be without sound advisors. I will ask Eitrigg and Cairne, both of whom have shared their wisdom with me through the years, to guide and advise you. Politics can be learned. Your obvious love for the Horde?” He shook his head. “That is more important to me than political acumen right now. And that, Garrosh Hellscream, you have in abundance.”
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