“Kalec!” Jaina cried. “They’re us!”
But he was already on his feet, racing toward the open floor to find a large enough space in which to transform. Jaina dropped into battle mode, her mind clearer and sharper than it had been for the duration of the trial. She and Kalec had an advantage many others did not. With the dampening field down, they had their weapons back.
And she intended to use hers. The woman on the floor, targeting the races of the Horde and sending fireballs in their directions, was no stranger. Jaina remembered all too well how that woman felt. This was not merely a possible Jaina—this was one she had been, in this timeline, and she was grimly determined to stop that woman in her tracks. She summoned a crackling ball of whirling fire and hurled it at her other self.
That Jaina turned and met the fireball with a blast of pure arcane energy. A cold smile twisted her face, and Jaina had an instant where she wondered, I know exactly what I will do, and so must she—how do I fight myself?
• • •
Go’el and Varian leaned against one of the stone pillars that flanked the entrance to the temple, listening to Garrosh Hellscream rave. “He digs his own grave with each word he speaks,” Go’el said, shaking his head. “What a waste.”
Varian started to nod, then cocked his head, frowning slightly. At once, Go’el was alert, and turned from the frenzied display inside the temple. He heard it now too, still faint but growing louder, a steady but erratic beat, as of many—
“Wings,” snapped Varian. Even as he spoke, another sound became audible, this one more regular and thrumming, a rhythmic whump-whump-whump.
“Zeppelin!” shouted Go’el. Two skilled warriors with decades of experience between them, they acted in perfect concert with no more words. Varian sprinted down the corridor and outside, shouting out a warning while snatching up a sword from the paw of a surprised guard. Go’el spun on his heel and turned to the temple floor. He had just opened his mouth to call the fighters out to do battle when he saw Kairoz, so very casually, so very calculatedly, tip over the Vision of Time, and the floor of the Temple of the White Tiger was engulfed in chaos.
Go’el lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the energy storm, swirling and emitting a noise that almost, but not quite, drowned out the screams of the crowd. A massive temporal rift burst open. Squinting, Go’el watched in impotent fury as Kairoz and Garrosh, both grinning victoriously, disappeared through the floor. Go’el expected the aperture to close, but Kairoz had left nothing to chance. Where once two had stood, now there were ten, and Go’el knew them all. His eyes went at once to the powerful orc clad in traditional human plate armor. Across his gleaming chest was a tabard of red and gold, bearing the crest of a black falcon. The orc swung a gigantic battleaxe as, swifter than his fellows, he charged straight for the seats filled with screaming spectators.
Go’el knew that crest. An enemy out of time who had come to kill him had worn it. Go’el had killed that enemy. He would kill this one as well.
“Thrall!” Go’el screamed, and the mighty orc, wearing the tabard of Aedelas Blackmoore, whirled to face himself with a hungry grin.
• • •
Zaela laughed as the infinite dragons, with loyal Dragonmaw orcs crouched atop their backs, approached the Temple of the White Tiger. Inside, her warchief was making his escape, thanks to Kairozdormu. She recalled that first meeting with the bronze dragon in Grim Batol, in the same room where Alexstrasza had been held captive by the Dragonmaw of years past. “I will give you, the leader of the Dragonmaw, a draconic army to command,” he had told her.
“Bronze dragons?” Zaela had asked.
He shook his head. “The bronze dragonflight would have time unfold as it wills, no matter the consequences. The infinite dragonflight and I believe in altering time to suit our will.”
There had been no leak, no warning, nothing to distract from the glory of this certain victory. The most important of Garrosh’s foes were gathered in one place; she was sure that when Kairoz revealed everything to him, he would appreciate the tribute to his own brilliant strategy at Theramore. Striking from both within and without the temple would pin those who sought to quench their ugly obsessions with Hellscream between death at the hands of the Dragonmaw and death from their own alternate selves.
It was an elegant plan. Zaela was untroubled by the thought of killing members of the Horde in this attack. As far as she was concerned, the only members of the real Horde were with her now.
She had difficulty restraining her normal, casual violence toward the dragon she rode. The infinite dragon was no dominated beast of burden, but a willing ally provided by Kairoz. She leaned to the left, and the dragon, the membranes of his wings the pleasant color of the metal of guns, banked and brought her alongside Harrowmeiser’s somewhat repaired zeppelin.
“Is your jolly crew ready?” She shouted to be heard over the rattling noise.
The goblin glanced over his shoulder at his shipload of pirates, all of whom bristled with weapons, and gave Zaela a thumbs-up. Some of the pirates had initially wanted to slaughter Harrowmeiser, but the promise of gold had mollified them. “Yeah, though some of ’em don’t quite trust the chutes. I am deeply offended. Shokia’s in position in the bow, ready to pick off stragglers and key targets, and Thalen is in the stern prepared to do the same. So”—and he pointed to the ball and chain that still encircled each foot—“when can these come off?”
Zaela threw back her head and laughed, freely, joyfully. To think that she was lost in despair but a few days ago!
“You will dance at our victory celebration, goblin. I promise you!”
“I better—I’ve sunk a lot of money into this venture,” Harrowmeiser said.
“I will go on ahead and see if Kairoz has been successful!” she shouted, and again, with just a squeeze of her right thigh, the dragon banked and resumed course. She heard Harrowmeiser’s fading voice yelping, “Hey, hey, don’t touch that—no, no, don’t drink it, for the love of . . . !”
Though there had been no means to create another mana weapon even approaching the power of the one that had reduced the once-proud Alliance city to a sinkhole, Thalen had managed to craft several dozen smaller ones. Exploiting their newfound respect for one another to the fullest, Harrowmeiser had rigged some of Thalen’s mana grenades with random timers. They would appear to be duds, only to explode erratically and, hopefully, at the worst possible moment. Each dragon rider was equipped with at least two or three, and they would boost morale with each victim they claimed. Zaela could see the temple now. It spread out before her, its serenity about to be rudely interrupted. Its bridges, walkways, and little pagodas were filled with pandaren; its center arena, with the enemies of Garrosh Hellscream.
She led the flight, bringing her mount down closer. He knew what to do. Folding his wings, he dove, and she clung to him like a burr on a wolf. He jerked his head sharply and exhaled a dark tornado of scouring breath down upon the cluster of pandaren merchants who were pointing skyward and shouting.
Zaela howled her delight. Kairoz, as he had assured her he would, had removed the dampening field. She reached into her pouch and drew out a tiny sphere. The leader of the Dragonmaw threw her first mana grenade, and grinned at the small lavender explosion.
• • •
Anduin blinked, peering through a haze of pain. He heard Chromie calling his name, and other sounds coming from above—more than just the shouting he had heard before. He couldn’t quite identify the clamor, and gingerly touched the back of his head. He hissed as the pain shot up by several degrees. He felt a lump about the size of an egg, and his hand came away red. The din continued, and abruptly comprehension clicked into place.
He recognized the clash of steel and the sharp song of magic. Anduin was suddenly overcome with a wave of nausea that had nothing to do with his injury. Because of him, Garrosh had gone into the hall wearing only the lightest of restraints. If he hurts anyone, it’s my fault.
“Anduin?”
>
“I’m all right, Lo,” he lied, nearly blacking out again from the act of simply sitting upright. He was drained from healing the Chu brothers and didn’t have much strength left, but he asked the Light for aid, and the pain subsided to merely excruciating. “I gotta get up there . . . stop Kairoz. I’ll send someone down for you and Chromie.”
“You are too injured to join a fight,” Li said firmly.
Not when I’m responsible for it, Anduin thought despairingly, but did not say. Ignoring their protests, he got up the stairs through an effort of sheer will, and when he stumbled through the door, he wondered if he was hallucinating.
He recognized the combatants, and at the same time, they were strangers: The blue-skinned troll with a necklace made of human and elven ears, who cackled as he tried to add more to his collection. The mighty tauren, wielding a massive mace, who wore a warchief’s armor . . .
And the golden-haired human boy in the coronation robes of a king of Stormwind, who huddled on the ground, knees pulled tightly to his chest, frozen with horror. He clutched, ironically enough, Fearbreaker.
Wrathion’s words rushed back to him: “I worry you may be too soft to wear your kingdom’s crown, Prince Anduin.” In another timeway, at least, the double-crossing dragon had been right. Anduin’s paralysis broke and he rushed toward the other boy, his hand outstretched, when the young king of Stormwind yelped, “Behind you!” and covered his head.
Anduin darted to his left and tumbled, tedious hours of hand-to-hand combat training instinctively kicking in, and he heard the whizzing sound of a glaive barely missing him. He sprang to his feet and whirled to see the huge troll leering at him.
“Ya be quick, little prince, but I be wearin’ yah ears just da same,” said Vol’jin.
Anduin stared at the gigantic troll as he straightened to his full height, glaive raised. The prince dove toward the other Anduin, grabbed Fearbreaker from his grasp, and swung the mace upward. A brilliant yellow light shone from it, making Vol’jin grunt in pain. That pause gave Anduin enough time to swing Fearbreaker in a smooth, almost leisurely arc, and for a wild moment it seemed as if the mace was moving itself. Its silver head struck the troll’s left side. The leather armor prevented the blow from being a deadly one, but Anduin felt ribs give beneath it nonetheless.
Vol’jin stumbled, grunting, and turned a cruel face toward Anduin. “For dat, you gonna suffer, little prince,” he promised. “Bwonsamdi gonna have to wait a little while for ya spirit!”
He came at Anduin like a madman, shrieking in his own guttural language, and Anduin realized to his horror that the troll wasn’t going for a kill, but reaching out for his right ear.
Crying out incoherently, Anduin brought up Fearbreaker, the glowing mace again saving his life by knocking the glaive away from his face. Vol’jin countered at once, getting in a blow to Anduin’s unarmored shoulder that made the prince stagger backward. Fearbreaker fell from his fingers. He clapped a hand over the bleeding wound and looked up just in time to see Vol’jin draw back for the killing blow . . .
And then stumble, a shocked look on his tusked, white-painted face, as young King Anduin launched himself at Vol’jin.
It was futile, of course.
Vol’jin recovered at once, twisting and easily throwing off the slight King Anduin as a dog might shake off a rat. Almost brusquely, the troll stabbed the youth in the chest, pulled out the dripping glaive, and bent to slice off the human’s ears.
A giant golden claw descended from nowhere, grasped Vol’jin, and hurled him across the arena. Chromie brought her huge head down to Anduin. “Are you all right?”
He was fine, and he was dying, and he didn’t know how to respond. Anduin went to his other self, hoping somehow he would be in time. Quickly he murmured a prayer and the wound stopped bleeding, but he could tell by the king’s chalky face that death had been only delayed, not averted.
“He leaped on Vol’jin without even a weapon,” Prince Anduin said, his voice rough. “He saved my life.” He peered at Chromie, as if seeing her for the first time.
“You got out,” Anduin said stupidly. “I forgot. I’m sorry.” He cradled the king, feeling warm blood seeping out onto his shirt. Vol’jin’s glaive had gone all the way through.
“Guards found us,” she said. “I must do everything I can to destabilize this rift. It’s the only way to send them all back.”
It was quite surreal, Anduin thought, to be holding yourself as you died. “What do you need me to do?” He couldn’t seem to tear his gaze away from that pale, still face . . . his face . . .
“You are doing it,” Chromie said, with infinite kindness. “Acceptance will help their reality in this place grow tenuous. It’s easy for you to accept your alternate. The others,” she said, lifting her great head and looking about at the violence, “will have a harder time.”
She changed into gnome form, scurrying to the broken shards of the Vision of Time, which still lay on the floor, and began to cast a spell. Anduin returned his gaze to the king, who was looking up at him with oddly peaceful blue eyes.
“You’re . . . all right,” said the king.
“Yes, I am,” the prince said. “You saved me.”
“I . . . did?” The voice was softer now, but the king looked pleased. He chuckled, then winced in pain. “I was so scared . . . I couldn’t do anything, just watch him—”
“But you did,” Anduin interrupted him gently. “When it counted—you came through.”
The king fell silent, then said, “ ’s cold in here.”
Anduin gathered the boy tighter, careful of his wound. “I’ve got you.”
The fighting continued, but it felt dim and far away to Anduin. There was another long pause, and Anduin thought that perhaps it was over. Then the king said, so softly Anduin had to strain to hear, “I’m afraid . . .”
Anduin swallowed hard. “Don’t be,” he said. “You’ll be with Mother and—and Father.”
“Is . . . Father alive? Here?”
“Yes, yes he is.”
The dying Anduin closed his eyes. “I’m glad. I wish I could see him.”
“You will. Just—hang on, all right?”
A ghost of a smile. “You’re as bad a liar as I am.” The smile faded. “Tell him I love him.”
“I will.”
The king sighed softly, and his chest did not rise again. His skin grew pale, paler than it should be from the simple but solemn touch of death. To Anduin’s surprise, the king’s body began to emit a soft, pure radiance, and then it dimmed.
King Anduin Wrynn had gone home.
Slowly, Prince Anduin Wrynn stumbled to his feet, grasped Fearbreaker, dragged a sleeve against his wet face, and started to heal those still locked in battle.
36
Guards rushed in carrying weapons. One pandaren tossed a small axe toward Baine. The tauren caught it smoothly in one hand as he ran toward the two Thralls locked in combat. He was grateful Go’el was clad in shamanic clothing, for there was nothing visually different about these two other than what they wore and what they wielded. Just as he reached them, he found himself frozen in midstride and struggled to keep his balance. He heard the bellow of draconic laughter and glanced up to see the mad Kalecgos grinning at him. This incarnation of the blue dragon was quite insane; it was the only reason there were not more dead inside the arena. He appeared to be targeting friend and foe alike, and had nothing resembling a battle strategy.
His counterpart did, though, and charged his other self, drawing the mad Kalecgos’s attention away from Baine. The two orcs fought on, but the other Thrall appeared to have the disadvantage. Of course, Baine thought. The alternate Thrall never had the chance to undergo shamanic training, whereas Go’el was a master shaman in addition to his battle experience.
Baine had almost gotten to the two when he sensed more than saw the attack. He barely turned in time to deflect the blow from the huge mace wielded by what seemed like an armored mountain come to deceptively quick
life, and he stared into his own eyes. His other self seemed surprised, and backed off for a moment, long enough for Baine to remember that he was clad only in light clothing, while his alternate was in full armor.
Out of the corner of his eye, Baine noticed that the celestials had not moved, and he became furious. Could they not see that people were dying? Were they too “high above” it all to help?
At that moment, as if they had heard his thoughts, a shout went up, piercing through the haze and cacophony of battle. It was a strong voice, deep and rich and now coming from a tiger’s jaws, as much a plea as a warning, the voice of he whose temple this was—Xuen.
“Remember the sha! Remember the sha!”
And suddenly Baine understood.
These alternate selves he, Go’el, and others were battling—they were not random incarnations. Kairoz had deliberately selected the darkest, the most broken, the most bellicose versions he could find. Kalecgos was insane. Thrall was the champion of the hated Aedelas Blackmoore. Baine himself was the warchief of the Horde, and somehow he knew the other had gained that position by murdering Garrosh Hellscream to avenge his own Cairne Bloodhoof.
No wonder the celestials did not join the fray. Anything they did would do nothing more than add fuel to the fire.
“You killed Garrosh, didn’t you?” he asked his other self. “Because he killed our father.”
The other Baine’s eyes narrowed and he snarled. “I tore Hellscream apart with my own hands,” he said, “and the bronze dragon tells me you—you defended him!” With a bellow, he charged, but Baine parried, his axe’s blade clanging against the head of the mace. Baine’s own words came back to him, sharp and clear as any of the draenei’s crystals: “We all carry within us the potential to become our own versions of Garrosh Hellscream.”
World of Warcraft: War Crimes Page 30
