“You loved them very much,” Kalec said gently. “Your father, Daelin, and your brother, Derek.”
“Of course I did,” Jaina said. She suddenly couldn’t look into those kind blue eyes and instead glanced down at her booted feet, moving slowly across the sand and driftwood. “I felt… very guilty when they died.”
“Your father perished at the hand of an orc, and you later became great friends with Thrall. And your brother,” he said, his voice even softer and turning sad, “was slain by one of the red dragons the orcs rode.”
“And now I am friends with a dragon,” Jaina said, attempting to lighten the moment. Kalec smiled a little, though it didn’t reach his eyes.
“And you wonder what your father would think of your choices now,” Kalec said. Jaina nodded, stunned by how well he seemed to understand. “Do you think there was any merit to his beliefs?”
“No,” Jaina said, shaking her blond head. “But it is difficult—hearing the same hate-filled rhetoric now. It’s… like an echo of the past. And I don’t think I was expecting or prepared to hear it. But how can I tell them that their anger and pain are wrong, when they have seen so much and lost so many?”
“It is not their anger or pain that distresses you,” Kalec replied. “No one can say that you have not had more than your fair share of both. You do not agree with the conclusion they have drawn from their experiences. There is nothing wrong with disagreeing. But do you think their hatred will make them unreliable commanders in battle?”
Jaina considered the question, then said, “No.”
“Then I believe it likely that they do not think your propensity toward peace would affect your ability to fight and defend your city.”
“So—it doesn’t matter. How they feel, how I feel?”
“It matters a great deal. But you are all in agreement that the city must not fall. And for the moment, that is what matters most.”
There was something about the way he said this, an urgency that seemed quite separate from the topic of conversation, that made her pause and look up at him quizzically. “Kalec… I know it’s vital that you locate the Focusing Iris. I didn’t expect you to return if you did so—indeed, that you’d even return at all. Why did you come back?”
The question, which she had thought would be simple, seemed to rattle him. He didn’t answer at once, nor did he meet her gaze, looking away as if at something she couldn’t see. She waited patiently. At length, he turned to face her, taking both of her hands in his.
“I had a choice as well. I could continue to follow the Focusing Iris, hoping, likely futilely, that it would come to a stop. Or I could return here and tell you that I stand ready to help you defend Theramore.”
Her lips parted, but no words came out for a moment. “Kalec… that is very kind of you, but—this should not be any of your concern. You need to find the Focusing Iris.”
“Do not think I have forgotten the duty to my flight,” he told her. “I will keep searching until the last possible moment. But then, Jaina Proudmoore—if you, mage that you are, will have a blue dragon as your ally in this coming battle… have one you shall.”
Gratitude and fresh hope made Jaina feel a little weak. She clung tightly to Kalec’s hands as he gazed down at her. She couldn’t even think of the words to thank him. Her heart felt full and happy in a way that seemed as though it should be familiar. She dismissed that at once. Kalecgos was the leader of the blue dragonflight. She knew from their talks that he was an “odd one,” as he had often phrased it. This was no more than his quirky interest in the younger races’ affairs. She did not permit herself to think it could possibly be anything else. Light knew, she had never been a good judge of men. Yet… why then did he continue to hold her hands, his fingers warm and strong as they closed protectively over hers?
“Theramore and the Alliance will be forever grateful,” she managed to say, unable to meet his eyes.
He placed a forefinger under her sharp chin, tilting her face up so she was forced to look at him.
“I do not do this for the Alliance, or for Theramore,” Kalec said gently. “I do this for Theramore’s lady.” Then, as if he felt he had said too much, he stepped back quickly. “I must resume my search, but I will not be far,” he said, sobering. “I will return before the Horde arrives. This, I swear.”
He pressed a kiss into the palm of her hand, then retreated several paces in order to shift into his mighty dragon form. The great blue lowered his massive head almost to the ground, a few feet from Jaina, in a courtly draconic bow. Then Kalecgos leaped skyward.
Jaina watched him go, slowly curling trembling fingers closed over her palm, as if to protect the kiss that still lingered there.
At long last, the orders came down.
The Horde was on the march.
Campsites, inhabited by impatient soldiers for too long, were eagerly and swiftly struck. Weapons, refletched or sharpened in an effort to while away the boredom and restlessness of enforced inactivity, were loaded into quivers, sheathed, or otherwise prepared to taste Alliance blood. Armor, glinting in the red light of dawn or rendered supple with oil, was donned, and the Horde began to move.
Like beasts straining at the lead, at first the separate divisions seemed to jockey for position, but Garrosh appeared to have expected such a desire. The Kor’kron, led by Malkorok, rode their great black wolves in between each section. Accompanying the orcs were drummers, who pounded out a steady marching rhythm. Gradually the anticipatory chaos calmed and each group—orcs in the forefront, followed by tauren, trolls, Forsaken, and blood elves, with goblins and their various nefarious contraptions interspersed throughout—began to fall into step.
The very earth seemed to tremble beneath so many marching to the thrumming sounds of the war drums—drums that had, in battles past, unsettled the enemy long before the mighty Horde was even glimpsed. The Alliance liked to think of the members of the Horde as “primitive,” so that they might think of themselves as “civilized” and, thus, superior. But what dwarf, safe in his halls of stone, knew what it was like to feast upon the fallen foe as a Forsaken did? What human, in his complacency, could be so lost in battle lust that, minutes later, he would find himself blinking blood out of his eyes, his voice hoarse with screams as he stood over the corpse of his enemy? What little gnome had tasted the joy of seeing the spirits of her ancestors fight alongside her in a spectral echo of the very real battle?
None.
This was the Horde. This was its glory. Beneath feet bare and shod and hoofed and two-toed, the ground yielded to them as they marched. Muscles moved beneath taut green or blue or brown or pale pink skin or fur; throats were opened in song. Spear and sword, bow and blade, were already out and ready to strike.
The vast wave flowed south toward Theramore, thousands strong, with a single purpose.
To fight, and perhaps to die, with all honor and glory.
For the Horde.
It made no logical sense, and Kalecgos was too wise not to know it, but nonetheless, his parting from Jaina filled the dragon with new hope. The surprise and happiness on her face as he kissed her hand—not daring anything more, not yet—made him see the world with new eyes. He had spoken of the joy of the humans; now he truly felt that he could taste it himself.
Theramore would stand against the Horde; he knew it. The arrogance that was Garrosh would be exposed for the Horde to see. Wiser heads would come to the negotiating table—Baine, perhaps, or Vol’jin—and a new era could begin.
All things were possible, if Jaina Proudmoore felt as he did. And Kalec dared hope it was so.
As if his very ebullience had willed it into being, the hitherto random motions of the Focusing Iris slowed and all but ceased. Kalecgos paused, beating his wings strongly as he hovered, extending his magical senses.