So it was that he was returning home, to the Nexus, to speak with his flight. And… he realized he wanted to go home.
He noticed as he approached that no one was wheeling protectively about the Nexus, as dragons had done from time immemorial. The sight saddened him further. He decided not to land immediately, but instead to speak with one who might have either balm for his soul or difficult words he would need to hear.
He found Kirygosa at her “pondering place,” where he had been speaking with her when the news of the theft had first reached them. She did not seem surprised as she saw him approach. As before, she had opted for her human form, leaning against the shining tree, not feeling the cold even though she wore a light, sleeveless blue dress.
He landed on the hovering platform, transforming into his own bipedal form, and took the hand she extended to him as he sat beside her.
They didn’t speak for a long time. Finally Kalec said, “I saw no one patrolling.”
Kirygosa nodded. “Most of them are gone now,” she said. “Each day, someone decides that his or her home is no longer here.”
Kalec closed his eyes in pain. “I feel like I’ve failed, Kiry,” he said softly. “Failed at everything. Failed as a leader, failed to recover the Focusing Iris, failed Jaina… failed to even realize how badly wounded she was by what happened at Theramore.”
Her blue eyes held no hint of pleasure as she looked at him. “She has it, then?”
“I do not know. I can’t really sense it anymore, not distinctly. But… I think she might.”
She knew what the words cost him and squeezed his hand. “For what it is worth, I do not think you were wrong to have loved her. Or to love her still. Your heart is great, but it must also be wise.”
“You know,” he said, attempting to interject levity, “there are those who have said that you and I would be a good match. Prevent me from going after the wrong sorts of females.”
Kiry did laugh at that, resting her head on his shoulder. “I do not deny that you will make a fine mate for someone one day, Kalecgos, but it is not me.”
“And there goes my last hope of being a normal dragon.”
“I am glad every day that you are not,” she said, and his heart felt full with the affection in her eyes. He did love her—but not as a mate. He sighed, and the melancholy resettled upon him. “Oh, Kiry, I have lost my way. I don’t know what to do.”
“I think you know exactly what to do, and you know your path,” she said. “You stand at a crossroads, my dear friend. As do we all. Either the blues need you to lead them well and wisely… or they need to be free to find their own paths, be the leaders of their own lives. Do we truly have a purpose higher than our duties to ourselves? Perhaps the younger races, too, have the right to be the leaders of their own lives. Make their own choices… and live with the consequences.”
As Garrosh did, Kalec thought. As Jaina is preparing to do.
“Changes,” he murmured, recalling what he had once said to Jaina. There is a rhythm, a cycle to such things. Nothing stays the same, Jaina. Not even dragons, so long-lived and supposedly so wise.
Supposedly.
“Where will you go?” he asked quietly, in those four words telling Kirygosa of his choice.
“I have not explored the world as you have,” she said. “I am told there are oceans that are warm, not filled with ice. Breezes that are sweetly scented, not brisk and chill. I think I should like to see those places. Find a different pondering place.”
There was no more need for words. She rose, as if she had been waiting only to hear him release her. He too got to his feet, and they embraced tightly.
“Farewell for now, dear Kalec,” she said. “If you ever have need of me, search for me in tropical climes.”
“And if you have need of me, go to the most unlikely place you can think of for a dragon to be. I’m sure I’ll be there.”
His chest ached as he watched her change, catch the wind beneath her wings, and soar upward, wheeling for a moment in farewell and then heading south.
A half an hour later, Kalecgos stood alone at the top of the Nexus. His old adversary-turned-friend Teralygos had been the last one to leave. He headed northeast; unlike Kirygosa, the still peace of the cold lands, the traditional home of the blues, was what the elderly dragon craved.
None of the other dragons had been surprised at his decision; none of them seemed to blame him. Change. It had come, and all the struggling and resistance in the world, all the protesting, all the wishing for things to be the way they used to be—it was all futile. Change would come. What would it do to him, the sole citizen of a now-empty kingdom? Where did his path lie?
All things change, Jaina, whether from the inside out or the outside in. Sometimes with only a single shift in a variable, he had once said to the woman he fell in love with.
And… we are magic, too, she had replied.
“Yes,” he murmured. “We are.”
And he knew what he had to do.
• • •
Jaina had done what she could to disguise herself and had traveled by the usual methods to Ratchet rather than simply teleporting. Once there, she bought a gryphon from a traveler who seemed down on his luck and flew south. She fully realized that she was flying over the path the Horde had taken to march on Northwatch, and she let that bitter knowledge fuel her anger.
When the ruins of Northwatch Hold, now occupied by the Horde, came into view, she had to choke back a lump in her throat. The sight of the red-and-black banners of the Horde soldiers left behind to guard while the rest of the ships formed the blockade turned the pain cold.
She brought the gryphon to the earth and dismounted, taking care to hold the small pouch she always carried close to her. She then gave the gryphon a smart smack on his leonine rump. He flapped upward in irritation, and Jaina nodded. He would soon find his way back to Ratchet and a new rider, who would be very pleased at having him. Jaina had no further need of the beast. She turned to the east and murmured a teleportation spell. A few seconds later, Jaina arrived on Fray Island.
“Eh there, missy,” said a rough voice. The human addressing her had cutoff breeches, an open shirt, and a cutlass. “Come to play with the pirates, have ye?”
She turned her glowing white eyes to him. “I’ve no time for this,” she said. Almost absently, she directed a fireball at the thug. He screamed as his whole body caught fire, stumbled a few feet, and then fell, writhing.
Jaina was unmoved by the sight, turning her attention to the fellow’s comrades as they rushed up, shouting angrily. They were not Horde—not all of them—but they were cutthroats and murderers and deserved no one to mourn them. Ruthlessly Jaina marched through the encampment, blasting her would-be killers with fire, ice, and arcane energy. She slew humans and trolls, dwarves and an ogre, who looked ridiculous with a tiny hat perched on his bald pate.
She scoured the buildings clean, so that she would have no distractions. Jaina turned toward the north. Her hand slipped down into the pouch and held the Focusing Iris—perfectly miniaturized, thanks to information gleaned from perusal of the tome she had stolen from the Dalaran library—and began to make her plans.
• • •
The Earthen Ring was exhausted. The elements seemed angrier today than usual, and while no one spoke the words aloud, Thrall was certain that he was not the only one to wonder if their efforts were starting to have less effect.
It did not make any sense. Progress had been very slow, it was true, but it had been measurable and consistent. The weary shaman retreated back to their encampment, in need of food and rest. Muln Earthfury, as the former leader of the Earthen Ring, seemed to be the most affected.
Aggra watched the tauren, frowning a little. “The silence troubles me,” she said. “We all think the same thing, but no one speaks it. Come, let us talk to Muln.”
Thrall smiled and shook his head. “We think along the same lines, my heart, but always you press for action first.”
> She shrugged. “Growing up in Nagrand will teach you to act quickly when you see trouble,” she said, squeezing his hand as they walked.
Muln looked over at the two orcs and sighed. “I already know what you are going to say,” he said. “And I do not know the answer as to why we seem to be backsliding. The elements are so distressed, and have been for so long, it is hard to hear them clearly anymore.”
Thrall said, “Perhaps we should—”
Pain shot through him and he fell to his knees, clutching his skull.
Aggra dropped beside him, hands on his shoulders. “Go’el, what is it?” she cried.
His lips moved, but nothing came out. Aggra’s face faded away. Thrall saw nothing for a moment, and then suddenly, he saw too much.
Water, blue-green and cold and angry, crashed over him. He choked, gasped, struggled to breathe. It lifted him up and then thrust him under, tossed and turned him. It was a great wave, and yet—Thrall saw here and there small, furious eyes, the shape of an arm, a head, the glitter of a manacle. This was more than a simple ocean wave—Thrall was at the mercy of enslaved elementals.
He was not alone. There were dozens, hundreds, of orcs caught up in the wave as well, all struggling to survive. Debris, too, was a danger in addition to the water itself. A hand made of seawater pushed Thrall downward, and he saw below him—
The roofs of Orgrimmar! How was that possible? But he could see the gate, the debris of the iron scaffolding that he had heard Garrosh had erected.
Help us, voices whispered.
Thrall couldn’t breathe. He felt water filling his lungs.
Help us. This is not what we wish to do!
He felt the watery hand holding him down tremble, as if it was struggling itself against something, and then release. Thrall shot to the surface, coughing and gasping in clean air.
Stop this. Or else your people will die while we slay them and grieve, and we will live forever in servitude.
Thrall gathered his wits and, still coughing, asked, “Where?”
No words filled his mind, but there was an image: a chunk of land off the coast of the Northern Barrens. It was a long way from Orgrimmar, but what did the point of origin matter to the ocean, which touched all shorelines?
“Go’el,” said the beloved voice, calling him back to the present. “Go’el!”
The horrifying image of drowned corpses and a ruined city faded. Thrall blinked, feeling a surge of relief at seeing Aggra’s face instead of the vision—for such it had to be. She smiled and stroked his cheek.
“What did you see, my friend?” asked Muln. Others had gathered around now. Thrall struggled to rise, but Muln pushed him down. “Rest and speak—then rise and eat.”
Thrall nodded. “You are right, of course, Muln,” he said. “The elements granted me a vision. This may explain why they have grown so suddenly distressed.” Quickly, succinctly, but leaving out no important detail, Thrall recounted what he had seen.
“Do you know the island?” asked Nobundo.
“I do,” he said. “It is Fray Island, located due south of Durotar.”
The shaman exchanged glances. “If the elements cry out so poignantly for aid, we must answer,” said Muln.
But Nobundo shook his head. “No,” he said. “If they wished aid from us all, we would all have had the vision. They know we cannot leave here. But… they did call for help.”
Thrall nodded slowly. Aggra looked pained but resigned. “They spoke to me,” he said. “And me alone. So it is I who must answer their cry and stop this slaughter of my people. Aggra, beloved, you know I would have you with me, but…”
She smiled around her tusks. “The task is yours, Go’el,” she said, “and I will strike anyone who dares say in my presence you are not up to it.”
He smiled wanly. “Up to it” indeed. Up to freeing hundreds of enslaved water elementals so that they did not eradicate an entire city? He hoped so. The elements were wise; he would trust them. Thrall got to his feet, embraced his mate, then headed to his small tent to pack what little he would need for the journey.
• • •
Vol’jin had had enough.
When word of the “accident” at Razor Hill Inn had reached him, he had seen it as a sign. He would risk no more “accidents” to his people. Long had he liked and trusted Thrall, and when that orc had urged him to stay with the Horde, he had agreed. Caution also had seemed to dictate such a choice, despite the insult Garrosh had offered him by forcing his people to live in the slums. Now the trolls were on the Echo Isles, and so too close for comfort.
But perhaps it was time for a withdrawal. Or at least time to plan for one. Garrosh and the “loyal” Horde—the ones who drank in taverns in Orgrimmar as opposed to Razor Hill—were still in the throes of self-congratulation for their despicable actions. The Kor’kron, or at least that filth Malkorok, had made it very clear that they were so convinced of ultimate victory that they were willing to eliminate those Horde members who dared speak against Garrosh in private and, presumably, public.
Under Thrall, the Horde had been good to the trolls. But now—Vol’jin had lost many fine soldiers in the last two battles. And this was how he was repaid? No. Time to go home, at least for now, since home was so close; time to sink deep into meditation and see what the loa had to say. He recalled his words to Garrosh from some time ago, that the orc would spend his reign glancing over his shoulder—and that in his last moments, the warchief would know exactly who had killed him.
It seemed that the decision was the right one. Even before he reached the Echo Isles, he was met by a canoe. The shaman in the stern had his arms raised, and the water directly beneath the boat was moving faster than it should have; he was using the elements to bear him to his leader as swiftly as possible.
Vol’jin didn’t even wait until the other boat pulled alongside him. Asking the loa to help him make his voice carry, he cried, “What is it, mon? What be wrong?”
The shaman answered, his voice borne to Vol’jin’s long ears on the anxious wind, “Alliance! Dey comin’! A whole lot of dem!”
• • •
Garrosh roared in anger and threw his mug across the table. “Alliance? Here? Our intelligence said they were gathering at Darkshore!”
The hapless troll whose job had been to inform the warchief flinched slightly, although the mug had not been hurled in his direction. “I doan know about dat, Wahchief, but dey sure be closin’ in on Bladefist Bay. Dere be dozens of ships. Whatchu wan’ us to do?”
Garrosh recovered from his outburst almost immediately. “Tell Baine to send druids to every port that we are blockading. Our fleet needs to redirect immediately. And Northwatch—order them here, every last ship! Now!”
And then, to the confusion of the troll messenger, a crafty smile crossed Garrosh’s face. “And all the magi… bring them to me. The plan I have can work as well in Bladefist Bay as in Darkshore.”
• • •
Varian stood on the deck of the Lion of the Waves as they approached Kalimdor. The draenei shaman had been doing a stellar job of imploring the wind and the waves for aid, and the fleet had crossed the ocean in record time with fair winds and calm seas. They were now but a few miles off the coast of Bladefist Bay. Varian was the leader of the Alliance forces but not the captain of the Lion of the Waves, and took care to let Telda Stonefist do her job. Indeed, it was an easy task—Telda knew what she was doing, and for all her small stature, every sailor jumped when she barked an order.
Now as Varian strode to stand beside her, the spray from the wind dampening both their hair, she handed him a spyglass. “There’s yer first glimpse o’ th’ bay,” she said.
Varian placed the instrument to his right eye. There was only one ship at the dock, though he knew the path through to Orgrimmar would be hard-fought. “Looks as if the single ship in the harbor is of goblin construction.”
“Which means that one good shot should blow th’ whole thing sky-high.” Telda grinned.
Varian felt a tingle of unease. It was a remnant of Lo’Gosh, a heightening of all the senses, including those that went beyond the usual five. He turned to face into the briskly blowing wind, sniffing, and lifted the spyglass again to his eye. Only sea and sky, different shades of blue.
Slowly, he turned in every direction. Blue sea, blue sky…
Something that was not blue, a small speck on the horizon.
“There,” Varian cried, pointing to the south. “Ships!”
Somehow, Garrosh had anticipated him.
“All hands, battle stations!” shouted Telda in a voice that seemed far too loud to have issued from such a short frame. Everyone jumped into action. Swiftly the well-trained marines leaped to the cannons. Magi climbed the rigging, the better to aim the devastating fireballs that wreaked such havoc on wooden sailing vessels. And the shaman rushed to the sides of the ship, more than any others putting themselves in harm’s way, to urge the elements to assist them by showing they were willing to risk themselves as well.
The horns were sounded, and one by one, the ships that had been sailing due east swung about, ready to face the threat from the south. Varian scrambled up the rigging himself, holding on with one hand while bringing the spyglass to his eye.
There were several ships sailing steadily toward them, but the Horde was wildly outmatched. Varian nodded. He didn’t know how Garrosh had expected them—perhaps a deep-sea fishing vessel had spotted the armada and hastened back to sound the alarm—but it didn’t matter now. All that mattered was that the Horde had indeed focused on the blockade, and it was throwing all it had at the Alliance. Which was not much.
“Jaina,” he murmured, quickly lowering himself to the deck, “you were right about one thing at least. Perhaps we can end this here and now.”
Jaina Proudmoore: Tides of War Page 28
