Jaina Proudmoore: Tides of War (30 page)

Jaina observed with a strange detachment the odd things that the mana bomb had strewn about. Over here was a hairbrush; over there,
a severed hand. Near the edge of the crater fluttered leaves from a book. Automatically she reached to pick them up. One of them had been altered at so fundamental a level by the bomb that it crumbled to pieces as she touched it. By the armory, a soldier lay in a puddle of red blood… three paces away, another soldier floated at Jaina’s eye level, globules of frozen purple liquid drifting upward from a rent in his armor.

Her foot stepped on something soft and she jumped back quickly, peering down. It was a rat, its body glowing violet. A piece of perfectly normal cheese was still gripped in its mouth. Kalec’s warning that no one could have survived the blast echoed in her mind. Not even the rats, it would seem…

She shook her head. No. No,
someone
must have survived this… It couldn’t possibly have killed everyone, everything. She moved with grim determination, sorting through rubble where she could, pausing to listen, hoping to hear a voice crying for help over the buzzing and crackling of a broken sky. She found Pained, who had fallen over the body of an orc she had clearly slain. Jaina knelt beside the warrior, brushing the long dark blue hair back, and then gasped as the strands shattered like spun glass. Pained had died with her sword in her hand, the familiar grim expression on her face. She had died as she had lived, defending Jaina and Theramore.

The hurt, numbed by horror, moved again like the awakening of a limb gone to sleep. Jaina forced it down and kept moving. Here were dear Aubrey, and Marcus Jonathan, Tiras’alan, and the two dwarves. On the top of one of the broken roofs was sprawled the body of Lieutenant Aden, his shining armor turned purple-black from the blast.

Suddenly Jaina’s mind was clear, and rational, and her own.

You should stop. Kalec was right. Get out, Jaina. You’ve seen enough to know no one survived. Get out
now,
before you see too much.

But she couldn’t. She had found Pained. She needed to find the others. Tervosh, who had been her friend for so long—where was he? And the guard Byron, and Allen Bright the priest, and Janene, the innkeeper who had insisted on staying—where were they? Where was—

The shape looked like a child at first, which was what drew Jaina’s eye. The children had all been evacuated safely. Who—

And then she knew.

Jaina stood, barely breathing, wanting to look away but unable to. Slowly, jerkily, her feet moved, almost of their own accord, taking her to the body.

Kinndy lay face down in a still puddle of her own blood. The crimson stain had tainted her pink hair, matting it, and Jaina realized she wanted to plop Kinndy into a hot bath and help her scrub herself clean, get her a fresh new robe—

She fell to her knees and placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder, to turn her over. Kinndy’s body crumbled into shining violet dust.

Jaina screamed.

She screamed in utter horror, frantically gathering up the crystalline powder that was all that remained of a smart, lively young woman. She screamed in loss, in grief, in guilt, and then most of all, in rage.

Rage at the Horde. Rage at Garrosh Hellscream, rage at those who followed him. Rage at Baine Bloodhoof, who had warned her but had nonetheless permitted this to happen. Had perhaps
known
this was going to happen. Her screaming turned to racking, hoarse sobs that ripped her throat. She kept lifting handfuls of the purple sand, trying to hold on to Kinndy, her sobbing increasing as the dust persisted in trickling through her fingers.

This wasn’t
war
. This wasn’t even
murder
. This was obliteration, done at a comfortable distance. Killing in the most brutal and cowardly fashion Jaina could conceive of.

Something glinted, like a sort of signal, on the dead earth. She stared at it for a moment, then slowly, unsteadily got to her feet. Staggering like a drunk, she made her way toward the strange gleam.

The shard of silvery glass was no larger than her palm. She picked it up. In her shocked state, Jaina didn’t realize at once what she was looking at, and then pain stabbed her afresh. So many memories—Anduin’s lively face as he chatted with her. Varian’s scarred visage. Kalec standing out of sight in the corner when she used this mirror. Rhonin—

She caught movement out of the corner of her eye and whirled to look, hoping against all rationality that maybe someone had survived.

They were large, and covered in armor, and green. There were at least twenty-five, perhaps more than thirty of them, all orcs, and they were busily poking around the debris. One of them dropped something in a pouch, spoke to the others, and harsh orcish laughter punctuated the ceaseless ripping and popping sounds.

Jaina clenched her fists, including the one that clutched the shard of broken glass. She was only vaguely aware of the pain as the shards sliced open fingers and palm.

It took a minute, but one of them noticed her standing in the midst of the devastation. He pulled back thick green lips from yellowed tusks in a grin and nudged one of his comrades. The biggest one in the best armor—clearly the leader of the little scouting party the coward Garrosh had no doubt sent to make sure everyone was quite dead—grunted, then said something in thickly accented Common.

“Little lady, don’t know how you survive. But we correct mistake.”

They all drew their weapons—axes, broadswords, knives that glinted dully with the slick of poison on their blades. Jaina felt her own lips stretch in a rictus of a grin. They looked at her more closely, at first clearly puzzled by her unexpected reaction, and then their leader began to laugh. “We get to kill Jaina Proudmoore!” he said.

“Bring her head back to Warchief Garrosh!” asked another orc.

Garrosh.

Jaina didn’t even deign to reply. She tossed away the mirror shard and simply lifted her hands. A wave of arcane energy, augmented by the lingering effects of the mana bomb, struck them all. They stumbled back, shaking and weakened. One of those clutching a dagger dropped the blade from nervous fingers and struggled to maintain her balance. Stronger orcs shook it off and again brandished weapons, hastening to close the distance.

A smirk curved across Jaina’s face. The orcs froze, literally, in their tracks, their lower legs encased in ice. Jaina’s fingers danced in the air, weaving a spell, calling fire out of nothing and hurling an enormous whirling ball of crackling flame right in their midst. Weakened from
the blast of arcane energy, six of them succumbed at once, screaming in torment as they were burned alive. Ten more were severely scorched and spasmed in agony. They too would be dead shortly. The spell wore off, and the remaining orcs, somewhat more cautiously this time, continued to approach.

A cone of frigid air encircled them. They now moved as if through mud, and Jaina picked four more of them off with fireballs. They fell instantly. Another arcane blast, which felt almost effortless to Jaina, slew more.

Ten were left. Six of them were struggling; four were largely uninjured. Again fire sprang from her fingers, and all ten of them fell to the ground. She sent out another blast of arcane energy.

When she finally lowered her hands, sweat plastering strands of white hair to her face, they were all still. All save one. His chest heaved with ragged breaths, and he twitched and shuddered.

Jaina bent and picked up the mirror shard. She didn’t look at it. Slowly, stiffly, a cold pleasure growing in her, she stepped over and on the bodies until she reached the lone survivor.

He was coughing, red-black blood streaming from his tusked mouth. Most of his body was covered in burns, the plate mail melted to his skin. It had to be terribly painful, Jaina mused.

Good.

She leaned over the orc, bringing her face close enough to his that she could smell his fetid breath as he gasped for air. He looked up at her, tiny eyes wide with fear. Fear of Jaina Proudmoore, the friend to orcs, the diplomat.

“Your people are despicable cowards,” she hissed. “You are nothing more than rabid dogs, and you should be put down. You spit on mercy? Then you will have none. You want carnage? Garrosh will get more blood than ever he bargained for.”

Then, with a savage cry, she brought the shard of mirror down into the small space between the orc’s gorget and his shoulder armor. Blood spurted up, covering her hand, splashing her face.

The dying orc tried to roll away, but she held his head between her hands, forcing him to look at her as life ebbed with each heartbeat.
When he at last was still, she rose. She left the shard of glass from the broken mirror embedded in the orc’s throat.

Jaina continued her grim perusal of what the Horde had left of Theramore. The cold rage inside her burned stronger with everything she beheld. The dock was completely gone. Oddly, she felt better here, looking at the wreckage, than she did near the crater where—

She blinked. Not wanting to, but feeling compelled, she turned and walked back to where her tower had stood. She felt the tingling that was the hallmark of arcane energy growing stronger. The whole city was bathed in its residue, but she realized she was approaching the source of the disaster. Her heart rate sped up and she quickened her pace. She closed her eyes, then opened them. She did not want to look into the crater, but she knew she had to.

It was so simple and so lovely—a plain, glowing purple orb that pulsated with arcane energy. It looked delicate, but it had survived a blast that had reduced a city to ashes without so much as a scratch on its surface.

Kalecgos had not exaggerated the power of the item—or, she thought with a stab of fresh grief, the violence it could wreak in the wrong hands. She could feel the energy almost washing over her physically from the artifact’s proximity. Her hair stood on end, and she felt her eyes strain for a moment, then adjust, and knew that they were glowing even brighter now. Purposefully she began to climb down into the crater. Rhonin’s remains were nowhere to be seen. It appeared that he had succeeded in drawing the bomb directly to him. All that remained of Rhonin were two children, a grieving widow—if Vereesa had been far enough away to have survived the blast—and his memory. Jaina tasted bitterness in her mouth at the thought. He had died trying to save her. She would not let his death be in vain.

She reached the bottom. The Focusing Iris was at least twice her size and certainly heavy. She could teleport it with her and hide it for now, but the most pressing thing was how to conceal it from Kalecgos. The solution struck her almost at once. Kalec had come to know her well, had grown to care for her. Jaina bent down and placed her hand on the artifact, feeling a gentle thrum of energy. Coldly,
calculatedly, she proceeded to ward it with her deepest sense of self, holding in her mind her greatest strengths and weaknesses. When he sought to find the Focusing Iris, he would sense only her. She would use Kalec’s feelings for her to trick him. As the sole remaining survivor and ruler of Theramore, Jaina Proudmoore claimed the Focusing Iris for her own.

The Horde wanted war. They had gone to grotesque lengths to crush their enemy.

If war was what they wished, Jaina would give it to them.

With pleasure.

I
t was, finally, beginning to work.

There were still tremors from the wounded earth and sharp, angry lightning. The wind still wept and the oceans roared about the shaman as they stood, day after day, offering of themselves to heal the very soul of Azeroth. But there was progress.

Sometimes, the ocean seemed to becalm itself for a few moments. The rain would stop for longer and longer stretches, showing glimpses of blue sky. The earthquakes once ceased for three whole days.

The members of the Earthen Ring—Nobundo, Rehgar, Muln Earthfury, and others—took each little sign to heart. Just as with healing an injured body, it would take time to heal Azeroth. But the elements would, eventually, recover—as long as the care was maintained throughout the lengthy and grueling process.

Thrall stood strongly and securely on the shivering earth, at once rooting himself and drawing its pain from it. He envisioned his spirit, his union with the great Spirit of Life, soaring boldly upward to touch the very sky. He drew spray-damp air into his lungs, purifying it and breathing it out cleansed. It was hard work, demanding work, and, thus far, ceaseless work. But it was the most profoundly rewarding and, yes, joyous thing he had ever done in his life.

Calmed now, like a frightened child gradually drifting to sleep, the earth’s trembling subsided. The winds, angrier, died down more sullenly. But the rain ceased. The shaman opened their eyes, returning to
the simple physical reality, and exchanged weary smiles. It was time to rest.

Aggra’s strong brown hand curled around Thrall’s, and she looked at him with approval and admiration. “My Go’el has become a rock instead of a whirlwind,” she said. “Since your return, we have made great strides.”

He squeezed her hand. “If I am a rock, then you are the sturdy soil it rests upon, my heart.”