“Why?” Baine said aloud. He thought of his people, steady and solid, and his oath of loyalty to Garrosh as leader of the Horde. And he thought of them lying as stiffening corpses, slain more truly by Garrosh’s foolishness and utterly inexplicable decisions than by Alliance weapons. He lifted his muzzle to the sky, sharp, stinging tears filling his eyes, and, alone with his ancestors, shook his fists furiously and cried with all his confused and aching and angry heart, “Why?”
15
Nothing. No luck. The Focusing Iris continued to zig and zag around Kalimdor as if it was on a tour of the continent directed by madmen. Emotions buffeted Kalecgos—worry, fear, frustration, anger, and worst of all, a dreadful, gnawing sense of impotent helplessness.
He was not usually given to the arrogance displayed by many dragons, his own flight in particular. But he was a blue dragon, once the blues’ Aspect, and the Focusing Iris belonged to them. How was it that so powerful a thing not only could be stolen, but could keep eluding him?
And why did he feel more driven to return to Theramore and protect it against the coming onslaught than to continue his search? The answer to that was simple, but he refused to acknowledge it. He snapped his tail in frustration, dove, wheeled, and turned again toward the east.
The Horde continued to stay where it was: a massive sprawl of small, stationary forms, tiny tents, miniature engines of war. Even during the day, Kalec saw the tiny glowing dots that indicated campfires.
Was the army… larger than before? Was that why Garrosh was playing a waiting game—to gather more reinforcements? Or was it merely spread out?
Clarity came upon him like a thunderclap, and with it a sense of peace at finally knowing his path. He flapped his massive wings, once, twice, thrice, tilting his sinuous azure form and wheeling back the way he had come.
The Focusing Iris was, of course and still, the most important thing. The damage to this world could be staggering if its abductors chose to use it for destruction. But the Focusing Iris would not be obtained, not as long as it was being moved so erratically. It was a great danger, but not an immediate one.
The Horde was.
It was not the decision he should have made, he knew. Not the decision another blue dragon would have made.
But another blue dragon was not Kalecgos. And the heart of Kalecgos lifted with every beat of his powerful wings.
The planning session, complete with maps, miniatures, sandwiches, and often heated debate, had gone on for four and a half hours when Marcus Jonathan finally called for a break.
Jaina had made certain that she would have a chance to spend those precious minutes of recovery alone. For too long, it seemed, she had lurched from crisis to crisis where everyone needed her attention, her wisdom, her advice, her skills. Most recently it had been the search for the Focusing Iris—a search that she did not dare think of overmuch, as she was fighting a growing fear that it would prove futile, even for the former blue Dragon Aspect. And then this—the Horde destroying Northwatch and now turning its eyes toward her own city.
Jaina had never been a particularly social young woman, preferring the solitary delights of books and scrolls to the more cacophonous and energetic diversions of balls or parties. Nor had she been such as an adult woman, though as a diplomat of note she had attended more than her share of formal functions. She liked to negotiate personally, one-on-one if possible. And when the negotiations were done, and the treaty signed, and the toasts raised to it, she returned home, to Theramore, eager for its comparative isolation and slower pace. Now Theramore was filled with more activity than Jaina ever remembered encountering at Lordaeron. It was crowded with men and women who exuded power and authority and decisiveness. Jaina’s solitude had been shattered like a broken mirror, reflecting only sharp shards of chaos and urgency.
Not everyone in Theramore appreciated the pungency of the nearby swamp, but as she stepped outside and took a deep breath, Jaina found herself smiling. It was hardly the exquisite scent of apple blossoms and flowers of the Dalaran of her childhood, nor was it the clean, piney fragrance of Lordaeron. But for her, it was the smell of home.
A large shadow fell over her. She looked up, shielding her eyes, and saw a small shape blocking the sun. It circled, growing larger and larger as it descended, and Jaina felt a smile curve her lips as she waved to Kalecgos.
There were fewer areas for him to land since the arrival of so many troops, and she saw him veer off toward the sandy beaches of Dreadmurk Shore. Jaina began to walk toward the gates—closed and guarded constantly now—and impatiently waved for them to be opened. She hurried over the hills to the shore, dodging the many large, slow-moving turtles that trundled in and out of the ocean.
The sandy spit was not a true beach but a narrow area upon which Kalecgos landed very carefully. He transformed into his half-elven form as Jaina hastened up. Jaina slowed as she approached him, suddenly aware that her impulsive, rather girlish decision to quicken her pace was quite unseemly in a woman of her age and position. Her cheeks were hot, whether from embarrassment or exertion, she couldn’t tell.
His smile at the sight of her lit up his handsome face, and she felt hope rise in her as she clasped his outstretched hands. “You found it?”
Kalec’s smile faltered. “Unfortunately, no. It’s still behaving far too erratically for me to properly trace.”
She winced in sympathy. “I’m sorry,” she said, “for all of us.”
“As am I. But tell me… you seem distressed. Are the talks not going well? I would think with so many wise advisors, you would have figured out how to beat the Horde, send them home to their mothers, and convince them to take up knitting and adopting kittens.”
She had to laugh at that. “We are indeed fortunate to have so many who are so experienced. But… that might be the problem.”
Kalec glanced back toward the gates of Theramore. “Must you hasten to return?”
“I have a little time.”
He squeezed her hands and dropped one, still holding the other, and indicated that they should walk down the beach a ways. “Tell me,” was all he said.
“They are… very warlike.”
“They are generals.”
Jaina waved a hand in frustration, wondering as she did so why she continued to hold on to Kalec’s hand as they walked. “Of course, but—there is not just the grim necessity of war. For many of them, it’s personal. And I know I should have expected that too. But… you know my history, Kalec. I lost my father and my brother to the Horde. I chose not to follow his path, but to strive for peace. If anyone should be bitter and hateful, it should be me. Yet I hear the things some of them call the Horde—insulting, cruel terms—and I feel so much regret. I want to defend my home, yes. I want to drive the Horde back, so that they aren’t an immediate threat. But I don’t want to—to gut them, or mount their heads on pikes!”
“No one could blame you overmuch if you did,” Kalec said.
“But I don’t! I don’t…” She fell silent, searching for the right words. “My father didn’t just want to win. He hated the orcs. He wanted to crush them. Wipe them off the face of Azeroth. And so do some of these generals.” She looked up at Kalecgos. His face was in profile to hers, his features clean and straight as if they had been drawn by a few perfect strokes of an artist’s pen, his brow furrowed as he listened with deep attention even as his gaze stayed on the ground to avoid missteps for either of them. Feeling her regarding him, he turned to look at her. She hadn’t realized just how intensely blue his eyes were.