Cycle of Hatred (world of warcraft)

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  Lady Proudmoore had done amazing things. For starters, few of her sex had been able to accomplish what she had done, either as a wizard or as a ruler. Oh, there were plenty of female monarchs, true, but they generally came to their position by heredity or marriage, not through sheer force of will as the lady had done. While it was Medivh who first encouraged the notion, it was Jaina Proudmoore who managed the heretofore inconceivable task of uniting human and orc. She was, in his expert opinion, the greatest leader the world had ever seen, and Kristoff considered it an honor to be her most trusted advisor.

  Which was why her blind spot for the orcs was so maddening. Kristoff could understand it—of all the leaders he had encountered and studied, the only one he might consider Lady Proudmoore's equal was Thrall. His accomplishment—bringing the orcs together and throwing off the yoke of the demonic curse that had brought them so low—was even more impressive.

  But Thrall was a unique individual among orcs. At their heart, orcs were uncivilized beasts, barely able to comprehend speech. Their customs and mores were barbaric, their behavior unacceptable. Yes, Thrall had kept them in line, using what he learned while being raised among humans to bring a semblance of civilization to them, but Thrall was mortal. When he died, so would the orcs' temporary flirtation with humanity, and they would descend right back into the vicious animals that they were when Sargeras first brought them here.

  However, Lady Proudmoore would not hear those words. Certainly, Kristoff had tried, but even the greatest of leaders had their blind spots, and this was hers. She insisted on her belief that orcs could live in harmony with humans, to the point that she betrayed her own father.

  That was when Kristoff realized that extraordinary action would need to be taken. The lady let her own father be killed rather than betray the trust of creatures who, beyond Thrall, would never return the favor.

  Under other circumstances, Kristoff would never have done what he did. Every day, he awakened wondering if he had done the right thing. But every day, he also awakened in fear. From the moment he first came to Kalimdor through the end of the war and the founding of Theramore, Kristoff lived in abject terror that everything they had built would be destroyed. Aside from one fort on the Merchant Coast, the human presence on Kalimdor consisted of a small island off the eastern coast, surrounded on three sides by creatures who were at best indifferent, and at worst hostile to humans, and on the fourth by the Great Sea.

  Despite his fears, despite his advice, the lady constantly took actions that favored the orcs to the detriment of humans. She claimed it was to benefit the alliance, that they were stronger united than they would be apart. The truly tragic thing was that she believed it.

  But Kristoff knew better. And when Lady Proudmoore proved herself incapable of seeing the bigger picture, the very bigger picture that Kristoff had trained all his life to see, he got outside help.

  Duree poked her shriveled head into the chambers. "Sir, the scrying stone from Northwatch is getting all glowy. I think it's got a message."

  Dryly, Kristoff said, "That's usually what that means, yes." He got up from behind the lady's desk and went out into the throne room, where the stone was kept. Presumably, that was either Lorena or Davin informing him that the former had finally arrived, her troops having gotten there that morning. Kristoff's plan to have Lorena already in place when the troop carrier arrived was dashed by the airship's having mechanical problems that delayed its takeoff, plus the troop carrier benefited from a strong wind that hastened its arrival.

  Walking up to the stone, which sat on a pedestal in the southwest corner of the throne room, Kristoff saw that it was indeed alight with the crimson glow that indicated that its counterpart at Northwatch had been activated and used.

  Hesitating for a moment, Kristoff grabbed it. As expected, it sent a painful shock up his arm that almost forced him to drop it. The glow dissipated concurrently with the shock, followed by Major Davin's voice. It sounded like Davin was deep inside a cave and shouting toward the mouth.

  "Lord Chamberlain, it's my sad duty to inform you that Colonel Lorena's airship has yet to report. Spotters saw the airship, but it was heading northeast. The troops have arrived, but I don't know what the colonel had in mind for 'em. Please advise."

  Kristoff sighed as he put the stone back on its pedestal. "Damn that woman!"

  "What woman?" Duree asked.

  "Colonel Lorena. Who did she take with her on the airship?"

  Without hesitating, the old woman called up the answer from memory. Peculiar though her manner might have been, the woman was incredibly efficient. "Major Bek, Captain Harcort, Captain Mirra, and Lieutenant Noroj. Oh, and Corporal Booraven."

  Frowning, Kristoff asked, "Why did she bring a corporal along?" He had specifically told the colonel to have her senior staff on the airship and to send the troops along by boat. Then a memory started niggling at him. "I know that name from somewhere."

  Duree, bless her, came to his rescue. "She's the one they called the good—luck charm, back during the war. A sensitive, if I'm rememberin' right—can sniff out magic at a hundred paces."

  "Right, of course." Kristoff remembered that Booraven—who had been a private during the war—not only was able to detect demons that couldn't be seen with the naked eye, but also could tell when someone had been possessed by a member of the Burning Legion. She also was always able to find Lady Proudmoore, or any other wizard, a skill several generals made use of when the lady was difficult to track down during a chaotic campaign.

  At once, Kristoff realized what Lorena had in mind. "Damn her!" Letting out a long sigh, he muttered, "And damn myself as well."

  "What was that, sir?" Duree asked.

  "Nothing," Kristoff said quickly. He couldn't afford to explain things to Duree. "That'll be all."

  Sounding confused, Duree said, "All—all right, sir." Looking at him strangely, she left.

  For his part, Kristoff stared out the large window. It was hazy today, and he couldn't see more than a league or two out on the Great Sea.

  Belatedly, Kristoff realized that the mistake was truly his own. He had let the colonel's hostility toward him—which had always been there, going back to the days of the war—affect his own reactions to her. He treated her with the same contempt she treated him with, an indulgence that was acceptable, if sometimes counterproductive, when they both advised the lady, but suicidal when he sat on her throne. Part of the point of the symbolism of the raised throne was that the leader had to be above everything else—including the petty rivalries of the court.

  The very arrogance that had done in Garithos and so many more before him, had done in Kristoff. If the chamberlain had treated Lorena with respect, she might have done as he asked. Because he didn't, she took Booraven with her to once again serve the purpose of finding Lady Proudmoore. That explained why she headed northeast: to Durotar, where the lady was taking care of the thunder lizards.

  Much as it galled him, he had only one recourse. The plan had to go ahead, with some small variations. They might cause problems later, but by then the die would be cast. The only way for Jaina Proudmoore to see that the orcs were not to be trusted was to accelerate the inevitable war between them.

  To that end, he picked up the stone once again, this time with both hands rather than one, which the stone registered as a desire to send a message. This time, the stone glowed blue. "This is Chamberlain Kristoff. I'm afraid our worst fears have been realized. Both Lady Proudmoore and Colonel Lorena have been taken by the foul orc cult known as the Burning Blade. The orcs must be made to pay for this. Major Davin, you are to take charge of all forces at Northwatch and prepare for war."

  When he put the stone back down, the glow faded, its message sent through the aether to its counterpart in the keep.

  After that, he retreated to the chambers to finish the work he had been in the middle of. However, the stink of sulfur permeated the air as soon as he arrived at the entryway, which meant that Zmodlor had arrived.
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br />   Galtak Ered'nash. Report, Chamberlain.

  Kristoff wrinkled his nose, both because of the smell and in general disgust. He hated being involved with demons, and if the stakes weren't so high, he would just as soon run this creature through. But another lesson of leadership Kristoff had learned was that sometimes one had to make strange allies in order to serve the greater good of one's people. That was why Lady Proudmoore had taken the extraordinary step of bringing human and orc together in the first place, and why Kristoff now had to take the same step with Zmodlor. It was a temporary alliance with a minor demon who meant little in the grand scheme of things. In truth, Kristoff was using Zmodlor—playing on the creature's vanity and bowing and scraping before him in order for him to do precisely what Kristoff wished.

  "All goes according to plan. The people of Theramore are primed to attack the orcs and destroy them."

  Good. I will derive great pleasure from seeing those foul traitors wiped from this world.

  "As will I." Kristoff meant those words. Zmodlor had been a useful ally to Kristoff because the two of them shared a fervent desire to rid the world of orcs. And when this was all over, and the orcs were no longer a factor, Kristoff fully intended to rid the world of Zmodlor as well…

  May our hearts' desires come to us sooner rather than later, Chamberlain. Farewell. Galtak Ered'nash.

  Nodding, Kristoff repeated those two words in Zmodlor's native tongue that translated as: "All hail the Burning Blade."

  Sixteen

  Aegwynn watched with bitter amusement as Jaina Proudmoore tried to break the demonic wards. The girl had left Aegwynn's hut to go to the periphery of the wards—which were in the same location as the previous ones—and try to penetrate them from close up, at which Aegwynn didn't expect her to be any more successful.

  Zmodlor obviously had no interest in meeting Aegwynn again, since he'd gone to the trouble to trap her here once Proudmoore dispersed the old wards. After all, as long as those wards, which were up due to Aegwynn's desire, were in place, Zmodlor had nothing to worry about. But if the wards went down, he'd be concerned, and so would have a backup in place.

  Not that it mattererd. Aegwynn was long past the point of being able to fight demons magically.

  After her latest failed attempt, Proudmoore reached into her cloak and pulled out some jerky. Almost unconsciously, Aegwynn nodded her approval. Whoever mentored the girl was sensible enough to teach her the practicalities. That was something Scavell, for all his brilliance, had never covered. It wasn't until the third time she collapsed from hunger following the pursuit of a demon that she thought to bring food with her on such missions.

  Then the girl turned to face Aegwynn. "Perhaps if we combine our forces, we can do it."

  "Not bloodly likely." Aegwynn laughed bitterly. "Adding my ‘forces' to yours would give you the same result. My magical abilities have long since…atrophied." The word was inaccurate, but was sufficient for the purposes of answering Proudmoore's question. "A pity there's no one on the other side to serve as a conduit."

  "A conduit for what?"

  Aegwynn revised her estimate of Proudmoore's teacher back downward. "Don't you know Meitre's penetration spell?"

  Proudmoore shook her head. "Most of Meitre's scrolls were destroyed ten years ago. I learned the ones that were salvaged, but that one doesn't sound familiar."

  "Pity," was all Aegwynn would say. It mattered little to her whose wards were up, as long as they kept her safe here. She wanted nothing more than to live out the rest of her days away from the world she'd already done too much damage to.

  "Why are you so weakened?"

  Aegwynn sighed. She should have expected that.

  Then again, perhaps Proudmoore needed to hear the entire story. Or at least, Aegwynn's own verison of it.

  Twenty—five years ago…

  Medivh had taken up residence in the tower of Kharazan in the Redridge Mountains, located in a series of hillocks. Surrounded only by vines and weeds—the old trees of the Elwynn Forest no longer made it up this far; they had died after Medivh took up residence—the tor on which Medivh had his keep was shaped exactly like a human skull.

  Aegwynn found the shape to be sadly appropriate. She approached the place now on foot, having no desire to do anything to alert her son to her approach.

  The Guardians of Tirisfal were dead. Orcs now rampaged throughout Azeroth. War had broken out all over the world. The source of all this?

  Her own flesh and blood.

  She didn't know how it was possible. She had sired Medivh to carry on her work, not unravel it.

  Only when she arrived at the gates did she feel it. Her son was present, she knew that much, as were Moroes, the house servant, and the cook—though the latter two were both asleep in their respective chambers. But she felt another, one whose essence was intertwined with that of her son. One whom she had defeated centuries ago.

  No longer bothering with her attempt to arrive subtly, she cast a wind spell that slammed into the gate, gale forces shattering the wood into a thousand pieces.

  Her son stood on the other side. He had inherited Aegwynn's great height and her eyes; from Nielas Aran came his broad shoulders and elegant nose. His gray—flecked hair was tied back in a respectable ponytail, and he kept his salt—and—pepper beard well trimmed. His maroon cloak flowed behind him in the breeze.

  Yet the being that stood before her was unrecognizable as her son. For, though her eyes saw Medivh, her entire wizardly being saw only Sargeras.

  "How is this possible? I killed you."

  Medivh laughed a demonic laugh. "Mother, are you truly that much of a fool? Did you really think that a mere girl could destroy the greatness that is Sargeras? He used you. Used you to make me. He hid within you, then—when you so ably seduced my father—transferred his essence to my fetus. He has been my constant companion—my mentor, the parent you never let me have."

  Aegwynn couldn't believe it. How could she have been so blind? "You killed the council."

  "Did you not always say that they were fools?"

  "That's not the point! They didn't deserve to die!"

  "Of course they did. You didn't teach me very much, Mother. You were always far too busy with your duties as Guardian to actually raise the son you brought into the world to succeed you. But one lesson you did impart on one of the rare occasions when you bothered to acknowledge my existence was that the council were fools. It was Sargeras who taught me what the final fate of all fools must be. You see, Mother, I learned all my lessons well."

  "Stop pretending, Sargeras," she said. "Stop speaking in my son's voice."

  Medivh threw his head back and laughed. "Don't you understand, little girl? I am your son!" He raised his hands. "And I am your end."

  What happened next happened far more quickly than Aegwynn would have imagined. She remembered very little of the details, which was probably a mercy. All she knew for sure was that she had a harder and harder time countering Medivh's—or, rather, Sargeras's—spells and that he had an easier and easier time countering hers.

  Weakened, battered, bleeding, Aegwynn collapsed to the stone floor of Medivh's keep, barely able to lift her head. Her son stood over her, laughing. "Why do you look so sad, Mother? I am exactly as you made me. After all, you sired me in order to circumvent the council and carry on your heritage. You did that. From the moment you destroyed Sargeras's physical form, thus freeing him to reside within you, your heritage was to facilitate Sargeras's will. Now you have fulfilled your purpose." He grinned. "One final poke in the eye to the council, eh?"

  Aegwynn's blood turned to ice. Those were her thoughts upon Medivh's conception. She had never used that phrase aloud, certainly never to Medivh. She had indeed been a minor presence in his life at first, mostly for his own protection—she couldn't afford to let it be known that her son was in Stormwind, for fear that her enemies would use him against her. Indeed, she only revealed that she was his mother when he had passed puberty.

 
; At that moment, she ceased all resistance. She no longer wished to live in a world that she had betrayed so thoroughly. In her eagerness to do her job right, to prove the council wrong in their dismissal of her, she had led to the victory of demonkind.

  Not since she finished her apprenticeship had Aegwynn cried. The birth of her child, the death of her parents, the losses against demons—none of it had made her weep. She had always been stronger than that. Now, though, tears flowed freely down her cheeks as she looked up at her son, who laughed at her anguish.

  "Kill me."

  "And let you off the hook? Don't be a fool, Mother. I said I was your end, not your death. Allowing you to expire would not begin to atone for what you have done to me." Then he muttered an incantation.

  Eight centuries ago, the council had given her the power of the Guardian, and it had been the most wonderful experience of her life. It was what it might have been like for a blind person to see for the first time. When she passed that power on to Medivh, it had been less wonderful, but still she had a feeling of satisfaction in creating her legacy, and the departure of the power had been smooth and pleasant, like drifting slowly to sleep.

  Now, though, her power was being ripped from her by Medivh, and it felt like being struck blind, deaf, and dumb. Her entire body felt deadened—it was less like falling asleep and more like falling into a coma.

  But she remained awake and aware of all that was happening. And she realized that if she stayed here, Medivh—or, rather, Sargeras—would keep her here. She would reside in the keep's dungeon, no doubt, able to see and hear all that went on, be made aware of every foul deed that her son performed in Sargeras's name.

  She also realized something else—she was still young. Which meant that Medivh had not taken the de—aging magic from her.

  That was her salvation, she realized. She gathered up the remaining tatters of her concentration and unleashed the magic of the de—aging spells, grabbing it, harnessing it, and re—forming it into a teleport spell that would take her away from here.