Suddenly, the hairs on the back of Jaina's neck stood on end, as she thought she recognized the woman. They had never met, of course, but she'd read descriptions during her apprenticeship, and all the accounts made mention of her great height, her blond hair held simply with a silver diadem—and her eyes. Everyone was sure to mention those jade eyes.
Certainly, if it was her, it explained the wards. Yet she was supposed to have died long ago…
The woman put her hands on her hips. "I know you're there, so you might as well not waste that concealment spell." She shook her head as she moved to the well and lowered a bucket by letting down the rope hand over hand. "Honestly, they don't teach you young mages anything these days. Violet Citadel's gone to pot, and that's the truth."
Jaina dropped the concealment. The woman barely reacted beyond making a tsk noise while lowering the rope.
"My name is Lady Jaina Proudmoore. I rule Theramore, the human city on this continent."
"Good for you. When you get back to this Theramore place, work on that concealment spell. Couldn't hide from a bloodhound with a cold with that thing."
Her mind reeling, Jaina realized that this woman couldn't possibly be anyone but who she thought it was, impossible as that might have been. "Magna, it's an honor to meet you. I had thought that you were—"
"Dead?" The woman snorted as she started pulling the rope back up, her mouth showing the signs of the greater strain of lifting a water—filled bucket. "I am dead, Lady Jaina Proudmoore of Theramore—or as close as makes no never mind. And don't go calling me ‘Magna. That was another time and another place, and I'm not that woman anymore."
"The title is not one you lose, Magna. And I cannot bring myself to call you anything else."
"Balderdash. If you're gonna call me anything, call me by my name. Call me Aegwynn."
Nine
For many years, Rexxar, last of the Mok'Nathal Clan, walked the continent of Kalimdor alone, save for the company of the big brown bear, Misha. Born of orc and ogre blood both, as most of his now—defunct clan, he had grown weary of the squabbling and ruthlessness and endless war that characterized what was laughingly referred to as civilization. In truth, Rexxar found more civilization in Misha's fellow bears or the wolves of Winterspring than in any of the human, dwarven, elven, or troll cities that marred the landscape.
No, Rexxar preferred to wander, living off the land, and being answerable to none. If he ever felt the urge to call a place home, he knew that he had one in Durotar. During the founding of the orc nation, Rexxar had come to the aid of a dying orc who was charged with bringing a message to Thrall. Granting the warrior his final wish, Rexxar had brought Thrall the report, and found himself amid orcs who had gone back to the old ways, before Gul'dan and his Shadow Council destroyed a once—great people.
But, though Rexxar was honored to call Thrall a comrade and swear fealty to him, and was happy to fulfill that oath by aiding the orcs against Admiral Proudmoore's treachery, among other services, in the end, Rexxar preferred to wander. Even as great a nation as Durotar had towns and settlements and order. Rexxar was built for the chaos of the wild.
Without warning, Misha broke into a run.
Hesitating for but a second, Rexxar followed his companion. He couldn't hope to keep up with the four—legged animal's loping gait, of course, but the half—breed's powerful legs were enough to keep him within sight of her. Misha wouldn't bolt from her companion's side without good reason.
They were in a region near the coast, filled with high grass. Though lesser beings might have found the terrain difficult to cross, Rexxar and Misha had sufficient strength to bend the grasses to their will.
It was only a minute later that Misha came to a halt, her snout invisible as it dipped into the shoulder—high blades. Rexxar slowed down and put his hand to the hilt of one of the axes strapped to his back.
What he found—what Misha had scented—was the body of a full—blooded orc. Rexxar knew this because a considerable amount of its blood had been shed.
His hands falling to his side, Rexxar shook his head. "A fallen warrior. It is only a pity that he died alone, without comrades to aid him in battle."
Before the half—breed wanderer could contemplate putting the brave orc's soul to rest, he heard a whisper.
"Not…dead…yet…"
Misha made a yowling noise, as if surprised that the orc could speak. Peering down closely at what he had believed to be a corpse, Rexxar saw that the orc had lost an eye. The dead socket was healed over, so the wound had not been inflicted by the same hand—or hands—that had brought him to the brink now.
"Burning…Blade…must…get…to…Orgrimmar. Thrall…warned. Burning…Blade…"
Rexxar knew not what was so important about a blade that burned, but this warrior was obviously clinging to life only because he had yet to provide the necessary intelligence to Thrall. Recalling the oath he had sworn to the Warchief, Rexxar asked, "What is your name?"
"By—Byrok."
"Fear not, noble Byrok. I am Rexxar of the Mok'Nathal, and I swear to you that Misha and I will see you brought to Orgrimmar to deliver your warning to the Warchief."
"Rexxar…you…are known…to me…We…must…make haste…"
The half—breed could not say the same of this Byrok, but it mattered not. With a gentleness he rarely had cause to employ, he lifted Byrok's bleeding form and lay him across Misha's expansive back. The bear bore the weight with no protest—though they had sworn no actual oath, the bond between Rexxar and Misha was unbreakable. If Rexxar desired it, Misha would do it.
Without another word, they turned westward toward Orgrimmar.
The first time Rexxar came to Orgrimmar, it was still being built. Around him had been many dozens of orcs building structures, clearing pathways, and transforming the harsh wilderness of Kalimdor into a home.
Upon his return now, that work had been done, but there were still many dozens of orcs visible through the gates, engaged in the day—to—day business of life. Though he had little use for civilization, Rexxar did feel pride and joy in what he saw. Since coming to this world, his mother's people had either been cursed tools of Gul'dan's demonic masters or broken slaves of their human enemies. If orcs were to live in this world, better it be on their own terms.
Surrounded on three sides by hills, a massive stone wall had been built on the city's fourth side. Reinforced with giant wooden logs, the wall was broken only by a large wooden gate, currently open, and two wooden watchtowers. Atop the wall were more logs, sharpened to a point to discourage enemies from storming the gates, and poles with pointed ends. The crimson flag of the Horde hung from both towers and from some of the poles.
It was, Rexxar thought, a fearsome sight, fitting for the home of the mightiest warriors in the world.
A guard wielding a spear approached from the gate. "Who goes there?"
"I am Rexxar, last son of the Mok'Nathal. I bear Byrok, who has been injured, and carries a message for Warchief Thrall."
The guard scowled, then looked up at one of the watchtowers. The warrior stationed there yelled down, "It's all right, I remember that one—and his bear. Know that wolf's—head mask anywhere. He's a friend to the Warchief. Let him in!" Rexxar wore the hollowed—out head of a wolf he had slain on his crown. It served as protection for his head and an image of fear for his enemies.
Satisfied with that, the guard stepped aside, allowing Rexxar, Misha, and the bear's burden to enter Orgrimmar.
The orc city was built within a huge ravine, with traditional hexagonal structures built into the sides of the ravine as well as the recesses. As he walked through the Valley of Honor, where the gate was built, toward the Valley of Wisdom, where Thrall's throne room was housed, Rexxar was both fascinated and appalled. The former because the orcs had come so far in a mere three summers. The latter because it was yet another city in a world that had too many of them already.