Jaina Proudmoore: Tides of War

by Christie Golden

  “Garrosh! Garrosh! Garrosh! Garrosh!”

  “They love you too much to let you through, my warchief!” said Malkorok, shouting to be heard over the noise. “Tell them of your victory! They wish to hear it from your lips!”

  Garrosh looked again at the crowd and cried, “Do you wish to hear my vision?”

  He had thought it impossible, but the crowd roared even louder. Garrosh’s grin widened and he waved them to silence.

  “My people! You are blessed among orcs to live in a time of history. A time when I, Garrosh Hellscream, am poised to claim Kalimdor for the Horde. The human contagion that had taken foul root in Theramore has been cleansed by the essence of arcane magic. They are no more! Jaina Proudmoore will no longer emasculate us as a people with her soft-mouthed words of peace. They fell on deaf ears, and now she and her kingdom are but dust. But that is not enough. The night elves are next. For so long they have denied us the basic needs of life. We will deprive them of their lives, of their cities, and send what few we spare to become refugees of the Eastern Kingdoms. I, Garrosh, will humble them and reduce them to begging for mere morsels of food and a place to sleep, while the Horde avails itself of their riches. Their cities are cut off from aid by stout Horde battleships, and when we are ready to invade, they will fall before us like wheat before the scythe!”

  More cheering, more laughter and clapping. And another chant arose, spontaneous but inspired by his words:

  “Death to the Alliance! Death to the Alliance! Death to the Alliance!”

  • • •

  Baine sat in the corner of the dank, dark inn at Razor Hill. What light came in through the door did nothing to illuminate the place, indeed only showed thick clusters of dancing dust motes. The beer was poor and the food worse. A few miles due north, he could have been enjoying a feast the likes of which he had never tasted. He was more than content here.

  Garrosh had forbidden the army to disperse. All Horde fighters had to stay in Durotar, but the warchief had not commanded Baine to attend the feasts in Orgrimmar. The “oversight” was an insult, and Baine was intelligent enough to know it. He also knew he was thankful for it. He feared that if he were forced to spend another moment listening to cheers for Garrosh—cheers for placing the Horde needlessly in harm’s way, cheers for mass murder enacted in the most cowardly of fashions—he would be unable to stop himself from challenging the green-skinned fool. And if he did, no matter who walked away from the fight, the Horde itself would be the loser.

  He was not to be alone in his dark brooding. As he nursed the poor beer, he watched the doorway. More tauren came in, nodded to Baine, and took their seats. After a time, he saw Vol’jin. The troll did not sit with him, but their eyes met. Then, to his surprise, he saw the bright gold-and-red garb of sin’dorei… and the tattered clothing of Forsaken. His heart lifted. Others saw what he saw, felt what he felt. Perhaps there might be a way to halt Garrosh’s madness after all. Before the Horde ended up having to pay the price.

  • • •

  The salt-tinged sea air was filled with sound. It had not ceased since it began two days ago, when word of Theramore’s fall had reached Varian, and would not cease until the task was complete. It was the sound of feverish activity—boards being cut to size, nails being pounded, engines being tinkered with. The barks of dwarves and the cheerful voices of gnomes punctuated the noises of industry.

  Not a citizen of Stormwind complained of the noise, for it meant hope. It was the sound of the Alliance refusing to be broken by a single deadly but cowardly act.

  Broll Bearmantle, Varian, and Anduin stood together, gazing out at the harbor. The day had only just dawned, and the sails being carefully raised on one of the great new vessels were tinged with the pinkness of a sun peeking over the horizon.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen quite so many workers all in one place—not even in Ironforge,” said Anduin. Per his own request, Anduin was to remain in Stormwind until the fleet had sailed, at which time he would return to his studies with the draenei. Varian smiled down at his son, glad that the youth had chosen to remain. The encounter with Jaina had startled and upset both of them. Anduin in particular reeled with the shock of seeing peace-loving “Aunt Jaina” so full of hatred. They had talked long into the evening, the man who had once identified with Jaina’s new attitude and the boy who quailed from it, talked about what grief and loss could do to someone, talked about what war and violence, as well, could do.

  Anduin had lifted sad but determined eyes to his father. “I know this is a horrible thing,” he said. “And… I realize we have to attack the Horde. They’ve shown us what they are willing to do, and we must prevent them from harming more innocent people. But I don’t want to be like Jaina. Not about this. We can protect our people—but we don’t have to do it with hate in our hearts.”

  Varian’s own heart had swelled with pride. He had not expected such acceptance, reluctant though it was, from Anduin. He was honestly surprised that he himself hadn’t shared Jaina’s feelings, and realized how far he had come from the man he had once been. There was a time when he had been filled with anger and rage, when parts of himself had been at war. He had been two beings, literally, and the rejoining physically was only a portion of the battle. He’d been taught to integrate those parts in his very soul, through the blessing of the wolf Ancient, Goldrinn. Truly, he had made great progress.

  He might even be as wise as his son one day.

  Broll had departed Teldrassil through magical means, an option not available to most of his people. The report of the blockade had been sobering but not unexpected.

  “It is good, to see this construction,” the druid said as the three stood together. “Do not think that you will sail alone, Varian. While we have many ships trapped by the Horde’s blockade, there are many more elsewhere. Malfurion and Tyrande are more than willing to help you as best they can. You may look to see a few dozen of our graceful ships alongside yours in the not-too-distant future.”

  Anduin turned to regard the druid, craning his neck to look up at this friend of his father’s. Anduin knew that Broll, too, had had to face loss and rage and hatred. Varian thought it must hearten the prince to see two former gladiators standing and discussing what had to be done with regret rather than glee. Light, it heartened him.

  “You will not try to fight your way out of the blockade?” asked Anduin.

  “No. Our energies are best put toward teamwork right now. What lives we must sacrifice need to count, Anduin. We have a better chance of winning when we focus together.”

  Anduin’s golden head turned again to the ships in the harbor. “Why did the Horde do this? They didn’t know we had relocated the civilians. They just…” His voice trailed off. Varian laid a gentle hand on his son’s shoulder.

  “The easy answer is that the Horde are monsters. What they did was monstrous, certainly. And I have a few choice words about Garrosh and his Kor’kron that I will not utter in front of young ears.” Anduin gave him the ghost of a grin. Growing sober again, Varian continued. “I don’t know why, Son. I wish I could tell you why people do such horrible things. The fact that I am certain many who are not Alliance are quietly muttering about Garrosh doesn’t sway my hand.”

  “But… we won’t fight like Garrosh did?”

  “No,” Varian said. “We won’t.”

  “But if he is willing to do things we’re not… won’t that mean he will win?”

  “Not while I have breath in my body,” said Broll.

  “Nor I,” said Varian. “The world has become… unhinged. I saw violence and blood and madness in the pit. I did not expect to ever see anything like what Jaina was forced to witness.”

  “Do… do you think she will recover? From the hurt to her soul that seeing that gave her?”

  “I hope so,” was all Varian could say. “I hope so.”

  22

  The Violet Citadel was somber and still as Jaina slowly walked up the stone steps from the entrance hall. Pai
n wrapped this place. Once, Dalaran had felt light to her. The designs and structures certainly were graceful, but more than that, it was a place where magic was integral. Now it felt… heavy in a way it had never had before. Jaina, bearing her own burdens, sensed it, feeling kin to those who had lost so much.

  Several extremely powerful magi, including the leader of the Kirin Tor. And one traitor, who was at least partially responsible for those bitter losses. No wonder the very air felt thick and sad.

  “Lady Proudmoore,” said a voice brittle with pain. Jaina turned, and she felt a stab of sympathy.

  Vereesa Windrunner stood alone in the huge entrance chamber. She wore clean plate armor in shades of silver and blue, and any wounds she had endured in battle were either healed or healing. All but one, which Jaina felt would never fully heal.

  The widow of Rhonin looked impassive, as if she were little more than an animated statue, except her blue eyes blazed with fury. Jaina wondered if that fury was directed at the Horde for murdering her husband, or at Jaina, or even herself, for surviving.

  “Ranger-General Vereesa,” Jaina said. “I… find I have no words.”

  Vereesa shook her head. “There are no words,” she said flatly. “Only action. I have been waiting for you, since I heard you yet lived, for I knew you would come. And I come to you to implore that you will help me in obtaining that action. You survived; my beloved did not. You, I, and a handful of night elven Sentinels are the only ones who can give voice to the slaughter at Theramore. You have obviously come to speak to the Kirin Tor. May I ask what you intend to say to them?”

  Jaina knew that Vereesa was leader of the Silver Covenant, a presence the high elf herself had formed as a precaution against possible treachery from the Sunreavers, blood elves who had been granted permission to join the Kirin Tor. As such, Vereesa was vocal and outspoken—but had no formal voice in the Kirin Tor. Neither did Jaina, officially, but as the sole living mage to report about the disaster—and as the one whom Rhonin had chosen to portal to safety even as he called the mana bomb down upon himself—she knew she would be given an audience. Now that Rhonin was gone, Jaina found herself remembering a particular conversation. How he had told her that many of the Kirin Tor wished she had not chosen the path she did, how they wanted her to be one of their number.

  Jaina might not have been a member of the Kirin Tor. But she was certainly going to speak to them.

  Vereesa was still looking at her, her face an implacable mask that doubtless concealed a maelstrom of anguish and rage. Suddenly moved, Jaina strode to the other woman and blurted out, “Rhonin cared about two things when he died. He wanted to make sure you would survive—and he made the effort to get me to safety. He bought both our lives with his own.”

  “. . . What?”

  “The bomb landed where it did because Rhonin called it to him. Rhonin used his magic to redirect it to the tower, which was heavily warded and magically protected, so the blast would cause as little damage as possible.”

  The façade was starting to crack. Vereesa lifted a trembling hand to her lips, listening.

  “He—he told me that I needed to survive. That I was the future of the Kirin Tor, and if I didn’t go through the portal he was struggling to keep open, we would both die—and his efforts would be for nothing. I refused to leave and—he pushed me through. Vereesa—I don’t understand why he chose me. Theramore was my city; I should have died for it. But he was the one who died. And I will not forget that, not as long as I draw breath, and I will do all that I can to be worthy of his sacrifice. I was there, Vereesa. I know what they did. And I will urge the council to make sure the Horde is never, ever, in so powerful a position again. That no one else has to suffer as we have.”

  Vereesa’s lips curved into a trembling smile, and the next thing the mage knew, the two women were hugging each other tightly, and Jaina felt warm tears against her neck.

  • • •

  For the second time in more than a week, Jaina stood in the Chamber of the Air. It looked the same, if something that constantly changed could be called “the same.” The simple gray stone beneath her feet was the same, and the display of shifting sky from night to day, from storm to stars, was familiar. Yet everything was different. Jaina was no longer dazzled by the glorious vista, nor by the honor of being permitted to speak to the Council of Six. Five, now. She was unmoved as she looked about at the faces of the remaining members of the council.

  Standing next to them, but not officially part of them, was the stone-faced Vereesa. Jaina was glad she had been permitted to attend. Surely she had earned the right by losing the one she loved best in this world.

  “Sad is the occasion that welcomes Lady Jaina Proudmoore a second time to these chambers, but glad are we to see you survived.” It was Khadgar who spoke, and this time he seemed to truly be the age his appearance proclaimed him as. His voice was weary; he leaned heavily on a staff; and even his formerly dancing eyes looked old. His companions, too, appeared strained. Modera had dark circles beneath her eyes. Disciplined Karlain was clearly having difficulty restraining his anger and pain. Aethas, the leader of the Sunreavers, who had recommended Thalen Songweaver, still wore his helmet, so Jaina could not see his face. But his body language was agitated.

  “Thank you for seeing me,” Jaina said. “Forgive me if I dispense with formalities. I came here not so long ago, asking for the Kirin Tor’s help to defend Theramore. You granted it, and for that I am grateful. For the death of Archmage Rhonin, I grieve with you. He died a true hero. I am alive because of him. I am humbled by that gesture, and I vow to honor it as best I can. I will not mince words. I am here to ask you to join with the Alliance in attacking the Horde. The armies gather in Orgrimmar, to feast and drink and celebrate a massacre. If we strike now, we will destroy them so that they are unable to perpetrate such evil again.”

  “Dalaran is neutral,” said Modera. “We went to Theramore only to protect and advise.”

  “And if you had done more than that, Theramore might be of note to mapmakers of the future,” Jaina retorted. “Rhonin gave his life to stop the mana bomb as best he could. If there had been more—if the full force of the Kirin Tor had been brought to bear—he might still be alive!”

  “I am… revolted by Garrosh’s actions,” said Aethas. “And I take responsibility for the harm done by one of my own Sunreavers. But attacking Orgrimmar is not the answer.”

  “You Sunreavers cannot be trusted,” growled Vereesa. She looked imploringly at the other members of the council. “Why is he even still here? They are traitors, all of them! I warned you not to let them join the Kirin Tor!”

  “There have been human traitors, and high elf, and gnome, and orc,” said Aethas calmly. “I will do what I can to atone for the treachery of Songweaver. The irony that I sent him as a gesture of goodwill does not escape me. But we must not abandon our stance of neutrality for vengeance!”

  Others were nodding. Khadgar looked thoughtful, as if he were turning things over in his mind. Jaina could not believe their reactions, their hesitation.

  “What will it take for you to realize that the Horde will eventually turn on you? They do not understand ‘neutral,’ just as they do not understand ‘diplomacy’ or ‘decency.’ They will flow over Kalimdor, then turn on the Eastern Kingdoms, then come here. Your refusal to stop them will mean that one day soon, Horde will be swarming over Dalaran itself! Please, strike while we still can! We have uprooted the city once—let us do so now. Take it to Orgrimmar. Attack from above while they lie in a drunken stupor, dreaming of conquest! You’ve lost Rhonin and an entire city. Will you act when Teldrassil falls? When they are burning a World Tree?”

  “Lady Jaina,” said Modera, “you have been through the unspeakable. You have beheld horrors and watched a friend die while he saved you. There is no one here who approves of the actions of the Horde. But… we must meet, to decide what next to do. We will summon you when we have reached a decision.”

  Jaina bit her tongu
e against a flood of retorts and nodded. They would do the right thing. They had to.

  • • •

  Jaina found both Windle and Jaxi Sparkshine in a corner at the inn called A Hero’s Welcome. The normally lively and bright tavern was quiet and solemn; there was little “welcoming” about it. Jaina hesitated in the doorway, wondering if she should intrude upon their grief. Wondering if she could bear the torment she knew she would see in their eyes. They had entrusted Kinndy to her, and she had failed them. There hadn’t even been enough of the girl left to bury.

  She closed her eyes against the sting of tears and turned to leave. As she did so, she heard a voice calling, “Lady Proudmoore?”

  She flinched, then turned around. Both gnomes had slipped from their table and were walking over to her. How old they looked now, Jaina thought. Kinndy had come to them later in life, a little “miracle,” they called her. Jaina’s words floated back to her: I give you my word, I will keep her as safe as I possibly can.

  She had planned to be eloquent, to praise Kinndy as the girl deserved. To give her bereaved family comfort, to let them know that Kinndy had fought well and bravely, that she had been a light to everyone who knew her. That she died defending others.

  What burst from Jaina’s lips was, “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” And for several long moments, it was the Sparkshines who gave Jaina Proudmoore comfort. They sat back down at the table, talking of Kinndy, wanting to be farther along in the healing process than any of them were.

  “I’ve asked the Kirin Tor for help,” Jaina said, her feelings too raw to continue speaking of her apprentice. “I’m hoping they will join the Alliance and attack Orgrimmar. To stop anyone else from—from ending up like Kinndy.”

  Windle glanced away for a moment, and Jaina realized he was listening to the chimes sounding the hour. Before she could apologize for keeping them so long, the gnome mage had slipped off his chair. “It’s nine o’clock.”