Jaina Proudmoore: Tides of War (21 page)

“I wasn’t needed there,” Jaina replied. “I had a different—well, calling. I went where I felt I could best serve. I had no idea other magi felt insulted by that choice.”

“It’s old grumbling, nothing more,” Rhonin told her. “Some people just like to be cranky. And the main reason it still doesn’t sit right with a few of them is because there were more than a few magi who thought that you should have been the future of the council, not a smart-mouthed redhead.” At her shocked expression he added, “Come now, Jaina, I’ve heard you say often enough that it’s as much a mistake to downplay one’s talents as it is to inflate them. I’m good. Damn good. And so are many others in the Kirin Tor. Some of those are here today. But you…” He shook his head admiringly. “You’re a fine diplomat, no question. Azeroth owes a lot to you. But even I think you may be squandering your gifts, staying here in Theramore.”

“Theramore is a nation. One I founded to shine out as a beacon of hope for peace in this world. One I have promised to take care of and protect. I would be but one of many in the Kirin Tor. Here…” Jaina gestured at the activity all around them. “I can’t leave, not now and probably not ever, Rhonin. You know that. Theramore needs me. And whatever you say, I cannot believe that I could better serve Azeroth as one of many magi in the Kirin Tor than I have as a diplomat.”

He nodded, a bit mournfully, it seemed to her. “You
are
Theramore,” he said in agreement. “More than I or anyone can be the Kirin Tor. This world is in a sad, sad state, Jaina. It’s not been allowed to
recover. First the war against Malygos and the blues. Then fighting that bas—forgive me, the Lich King—cost so many lives. And then Azeroth itself practically cracks in half. No disrespect to your efforts, but I don’t think that either the Horde or the Alliance would know what to do with peace if it bit them.”

Jaina knew that Rhonin did not mean his comments as a criticism. He was merely lamenting, as did she, the fact that Azeroth and its denizens had been forced to endure so many catastrophes, so much violence. And yet, what he said galvanized her, as it struck far too close.
Was
she wasting her time? Hadn’t she said as much to Go’el not so long ago, that she feared her words were falling on deaf ears? What she said came back to her:
It seems as if I am struggling through mud simply to be heard, let alone actually listened to. It’s… difficult to try to be a diplomat and work for real, solid results when the other side won’t acknowledge reason anymore. I feel like a crow cawing in the field. I wonder if it’s just wasted breath.

Kalecgos, too, had expressed the same thing.
Why are you not in Dalaran?
he had asked her.
Why are you here, standing between swamp and ocean, between Horde and Alliance?

Because someone has to,
she had answered. And because she believed she had the ability to succeed as a diplomat.

If you believe that—and I am not saying you are wrong—why are you trying so very hard to convince yourself?

Had she been doing the wrong thing, in the wrong place?

Jaina forced the thought back. Now was not the time to get lost in regrets. Now was the time to act, to defend her people from the battle that was quite literally on the horizon. “I must see my people safe first,” she said to Rhonin. “Not even I can talk of peace while they are in harm’s way. Let’s go.”

T
he sun set, red and swollen. The troll and the tauren, fur and skin seemingly bloodied by the hue, made their silent, steady way up the hill to the ruins of Northwatch Hold. There was no Alliance there anymore, not even corpses. Garrosh Hellscream now slept in a tower once occupied by an admiral, and it was he whom the troll and tauren sought.

Garrosh was in a good mood. The evening campfires for cooking, warmth, and light were already lit. Garrosh was happy for any Alliance spies to see how many of the Horde they would be facing, and put no limits on how large the fires blazed or how numerous they were. A haunch of zhevra roasted over one such fire now, turning on a spit and rendering both fat that sizzled as it dripped and a mouthwatering scent as it cooked.

“Let them come forward,” Garrosh said expansively to Malkorok. “They are the leaders of their people. Vol’jin, Baine, come join me. Tear off some of this delicious meat for yourselves!”

The tauren and the troll glanced at each other, then stepped forward. Each had a knife and sliced off and speared a chunk of the dripping flesh. A cask of cherry grog was passed around, and they drank politely.

“Now,” said Garrosh, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Warchief,” said Baine, “your people sit and await your orders. Their blood burns with the fire for battle. You know our feelings on
this matter. We come, openly, imploringly, to tell you that you must strike soon, or the Alliance will have time to prepare a defense!”

“I thought you liked the Alliance, Baine Bloodhoof,” drawled Garrosh. His small dark eyes were sharp and alert, contradicting his languorous pose.

“You know where my loyalties lie,” said Baine, his voice dropping almost to a growl. “I have no wish to lead my braves into a battle where they will be slaughtered—not when I can lead them into one in which they will be the victors.”

“You share this opinion,” stated Garrosh, turning to Vol’jin.

The troll spread his arms. “You heard us before on dis, Wahchief. My people be ready to taste Alliance blood. Dey get impatient if you keep holdin’ dem back. Da Forsaken might be fine wit’ patience an’ all, but I gotta ask you—what you be tinkin’? You be a great warrior! You not be afraid of dem Alliance. So why we not be strikin’ now?”

“You are right. I am a great warrior. And I know more than a little of strategy,” Garrosh replied. “I am growing very weary of your questioning my wisdom in this matter.” Gone was the cheerful, relaxed pose. Garrosh had neither drunk too much nor feasted too much. His eyes were fixed upon them intently.

“We do not question,” said Baine carefully. “We too are warriors of no little repute. We too understand the need for tactics. We are offering our advice, dearly bought with the blood of our people, in an effort to prevent unnecessary bloodshed. And we urge you to listen to us.”

Baine took a deep breath, rose, strode to Garrosh, and knelt before him. The gesture of obeisance rankled, but it was genuine. He
needed
Garrosh to listen. His people—nay, the entire Horde—needed it.

“The tauren and the trolls have ever been friends to the orcs,” he said. “We admire and respect your race. You are warchief of the Horde, Garrosh Hellscream, not just warchief of the orcs.” He let his gaze move to the imposing figure of Malkorok standing beside Garrosh, his arms folded across his massive gray chest as he stared balefully at Baine. “You lead us—all of us. You are too smart to be ignoring our advice on this. We do not understand why you seem to wish to listen only to this Blackrock orc.”

Malkorok growled low and took a step forward. Garrosh raised a hand, and the other orc paused in midstride. “I need you to get a message to the
Blood and Thunder
and the other vessels gathered just outside of Theramore Harbor,” he said, his eyes not on Malkorok but on Baine. “Tell them that I have new orders for them.”

Baine and Vol’jin exchanged hopeful glances. Perhaps Garrosh was finally listening to them.

Garrosh smiled around his tusks, and when he spoke, his voice was hard. “Tell the fleet to pull back even farther from Theramore. Far enough away that the most sophisticated Alliance contraption can no longer see them. Their presence isn’t needed anymore.”

“
What?
” Vol’jin’s question was a strangled cry of disbelief.

“My goal has been accomplished. I wanted the Alliance to be aware of the possible threat to their shores.”

Slowly, Baine got to his hooves. “You… plan to withdraw the fleet,” he said, his voice hollow.

“I do,” Garrosh said, also rising. The two stared at each other.

“Instead of pressing the attack before Theramore can call in aid… you are withdrawing.”

“Yes. And here we have it, tauren. Those are my orders. Are you questioning them?”

The moment strung out, tense and silent save for the sizzle of meat juices dripping into the fire. No one moved, though everyone watching was prepared to.

“You are the warchief of the Horde, Garrosh Hellscream,” Baine said finally. “You will do as you wish. I only pray to the Earth Mother that when this debacle is all over, there is a Horde left.”

Before Garrosh could taunt him further, Baine turned and left. Vol’jin was right beside him. As they headed back toward their encampments, they could hear harsh orcish laughter behind them.

•   •   •

The attitude in Theramore was determined and grim. The martial aspect of the city, always present, surged to the forefront. The inn was no longer a place to sit by a fire, enjoying a brew and conversation, but
a place where soldiers were quartered, sometimes eight to a room. Cots even covered the floor of the public areas. Dried beans, grains, smoked meats, and containers of fresh water were stockpiled deep in the heart of Foothold Citadel.

A sliver of hope energized the city briefly when the sails of the 7th fleet were spotted on the horizon. The ships, twenty in all, carried not just Stormwind’s finest sailors but also several generals of no small repute. The air grew almost celebratory when the flagship, the Spirit of Tiffin, docked in Theramore Harbor, followed by the rest of the fleet. Despite the urgency, the marines of the flagship disembarked with an abbreviated but precise ceremony, moving to the martial rat-a-tat of a drum so they were lining up facing Jaina, Pained, Tervosh, Kinndy, Vereesa, and the members of the Kirin Tor. Gathered behind them were the citizens of Theramore, their weary, wary faces relaxing as they cheered the men and women who had come to help defend them.

Varian had told Jaina he would send as many as he could, but he had named no names, as he himself was uncertain as to whom he could reach in time. Jaina shielded her eyes from the sun, watching eagerly as ramrod-straight males and females from nearly all the races of the Alliance strode down the gangplank.

“Marcus Jonathan, general of Stormwind, high commander of Stormwind Defense,” one of the marines announced. A large, imposing man wearing heavy plate mail moved with surprising lightness from the plank to the dock. His beard and mustache were full, but his red-brown hair was cropped fairly short. He looked simultaneously relaxed and ready to spring into action in a heartbeat. Jaina was not a particularly short woman, but as he stood and extended a hand to her, she felt very small indeed.

“I was the first King Varian asked, and the first to accept,” he said. “You have done so much for the Alliance, Lady Proudmoore, that it is an honor to be able to assist you.”

“Thank you, General,” she said. “You bring hope with you.”

The next two were dwarves. Jaina had never met them, but she knew who they were, and the tragic reason these two particular dwarves were here and not two others.

“Thaddus Stoutblow o’ the Wildhammer,” the first one said gruffly, saluting her with his hammer rather than shaking her hand.

“Horran Redmane o’ the 7th Legion Base Camp,” the second said.

“You are both most welcome,” Jaina said. “And let me extend my sympathies for the deaths of General Thunderclash and General Marstone.”

Thaddus Stoutblow nodded brusquely. “Aye, the deaths o’ our superiors were nae the ways we wanted tae get our commands, that’s fer sure.”

“But we’ll avenge them,” put in Redmane. “Happy tae come help, Lady. Killin’ Horde is killin’ Horde, nae matter where we do it.”

Even with the Horde all but camped on her doorstep, she regretted the necessity to fight, and such bloodthirst as the two dwarves displayed pained Jaina. However, she merely nodded and turned her attention to the next general.

His hooves clopping gently on the wood of the gangplank, draenei general Tiras’alan strode toward her. She was surprised but pleased to see him, especially after the open, if understandable, hostility displayed by the dwarves toward the Horde. Tiras’alan had been present at the historic moment when Lady Liadrin of the Blood Knights had spoken with the naaru A’dal, renouncing Kael’thas and choosing to serve the Shattered Sun Offensive. He had initially been furious that she would dare approach, after all her people had done. Yet A’dal had shown forgiveness and compassion, and it had been Tiras’alan who had given Lady Liadrin the tabard of the Shattered Sun.

Jaina welcomed the draenei warmly. Strength and gentleness radiated from him, just as golden light seemed to radiate from his armor as he bowed to her.

“I come to protect and defend,” he said. “Word of your great deeds and efforts for peace has reached even Shattrath City, Lady.” His voice was musical and deep. “Theramore must stand. The Horde will not triumph.”

No talk of “killin’ Horde” from the draenei, but his was as firm and earnest a pledge of support as the dwarves had given.

“Your wisdom will be most welcome,” Jaina said. “It will be good to have a paladin’s Light in the battle to come.”