“Defeat?” said Runetotem, spitting the word like acid.
Again Garrosh laughed, that inexplicable and inappropriate laughter that only threw fuel on the fire of Baine’s grief and fury. He thought again of those he had lost, to no real purpose other than to satisfy Garrosh’s ego. But before Baine could speak, Garrosh dropped the amused expression and drew himself up to his full height.
“Behold what happens to those who dare stand against the will of the warchief of the Horde!”
To Baine’s confusion, he pointed again, but not toward Theramore or the harbor in which the ruins of Horde ships were sinking. Garrosh Hellscream pointed up.
So engrossed in his pain and anger had Baine been that he hadn’t even noticed that they had had to shout to be heard above a whirring, buzzing noise. It was coming closer, and Baine could feel it shaking his very bones. Far off, now a fair distance from the docks but drawing nearer with each moment, flew not a dragon—as might have been an expected sight in a previous war—but a giant goblin sky galleon. Beneath it, fastened securely to the hull, was a large spherical object. So shocking was the sight that for an instant, Baine didn’t even know what he was looking at.
And then his eyes widened in horrified comprehension.
Garrosh continued to rant, almost screaming to be heard. “We waited. On my orders, we waited. We waited until the 7th Legion’s fleet, almost in its entirety, came to Theramore Harbor. We waited until the greatest generals of the Alliance—Marcus Jonathan and Shandris Feathermoon among them—came to the aid of poor Lady Jaina to offer their best soldiers and their brilliant strategies. We waited until Kalecgos of the blue dragonflight came, until five members of the Kirin Tor, including their leader, Rhonin, came. Ships and soldiers, magi and generals, all at Theramore. We threw ourselves at the gates, which our friend Thalen Songweaver weakened for us—and his loyalty was rewarded. While the Alliance focused on us, a small team infiltrated Theramore. Their accomplishments were twofold—they rescued Thalen and were able to cripple the Alliance aerial defenses. And now—we shall wait no longer!”
Each of the races, it seemed to Kalec, had its own way of honoring the slain. Sometimes grim necessity, in which the needs of the living came before those of the dead, dictated that these healing rituals be delayed and that the corpses of the fallen be dealt with in a more perfunctory manner than grieving hearts would wish. But here there was no need for a mass grave, or a bonfire for expediency. There was both time and a place to care for the dead. Kalec joined the survivors of the Battle of Theramore in lifting the broken bodies, identifying them, and gently placing them in wagons. The honored dead would be bathed and clad in clean clothing that did what it could to hide the hideous rents in the flesh. There would be a formal ceremony, and the fallen would be laid to rest in the cemetery outside the city.
He was engrossed both in melancholy and in a sort of solemn joy. They had rebuffed the Horde’s attack. He had survived, and Jaina had survived. There would be—
His heart spasmed in his chest. Kalec stumbled to a sudden stop and had to catch himself in order to not drop the body of the slain soldier he was bearing in his arms.
It had been flitting on the edge of his consciousness during the battle: the essence of the Focusing Iris. He had feared that it had fallen into the hands of the Horde, but it had stayed stationary a ways to the south, and so Kalec had ceased to give it more thought and instead placed his attention on the immediate battle.
Now it was moving. Fast.
And it was moving northwest. Toward Theramore.
Quickly and carefully he placed the body he bore on the wagon and hastened to find Jaina.
Jaina was tending to the still injured. Kalecgos found her standing outside Foothold Citadel. There was a sea of wounded lying on the square where once they had trained with combat masters. Jaina walked among them, teleporting them to safety. Several who were clearly not Theramore guards had come to help her with her task. Where the wounded would arrive, Kalec didn’t know—perhaps at Stormwind, or Ironforge, but any major city deep in Alliance territory would be safer than here.
But even as he approached, something went wrong. The portal opened, then collapsed. Jaina frowned, that little furrow that was so uniquely hers appearing between her brows. “Something is preventing the portals from stabilizing,” he heard her say to her assistants.
Jaina turned a weary but smiling face to Kalec and extended a hand. “Kalec, I—” The words died as she saw his expression. “Kalec, what is it? What’s wrong?”
“The Focusing Iris,” he said. “It’s heading here. Now.” Kalec felt fear clawing at the back of his throat and forced it down.
“But how? From the Horde? Kalec, that doesn’t make sense. If they were the ones who stole it, why did they not use it immediately?”
He shook his head, his blue-black locks flying wildly. “I don’t know,” he said. And he realized that was the source of his fear. The not knowing, the not comprehending the why.
The frown deepened. “Perhaps that’s why the portals aren’t working,” she said. She turned to her friends. “Maybe the Focusing Iris is causing interference—or maybe the Horde has figured out some kind of trick we don’t know about. Please… go find Rhonin and bring him here. Between the two of us, he and I just might be able to keep a portal open despite this nullifying field.”
They nodded and raced off. Jaina turned back to Kalecgos. “Where is it?”
“I can’t pinpoint it. But it’s coming. I have to find it. If the Horde is using it as a weapon…” He couldn’t bear to speak it. He wanted more than anything to pull Jaina into his arms and kiss her, but he refused to let himself.
He refused to kiss her good-bye.
Jaina was familiar enough with what was about to happen to hasten a few steps back. Swiftly, but mindful of the injured littering the ground, Kalecgos changed into his dragon form and sprang upward, flying straight up, then toward the harbor—and the Focusing Iris.
He could only hope that he wasn’t too late.
Rhonin was helping search amid the rubble that had been the keep, where he, Jaina, and the others had strategized for battle. He listened with half an ear to the pleas of the five Jaina had sent, putting the pieces together as they spoke with rising apprehension. If Kalec had sensed the approach of the Focusing Iris, they were in more danger than they realized. Rhonin was certain that Garrosh and the Horde had somehow tricked all of them—including Kalecgos, including himself—and were indeed the ones who had absconded with the artifact. The ways they could harness so much magic once it was in their firm possession were almost quite literally infinite.
A noise distracted him from his pondering. It was faint at first, then grew louder—a whirring, chopping, mechanical sound. Rhonin glanced up, and for an instant, his heart stopped.
A goblin sky galleon was making its way toward them from the southeast. Its distinctive silhouette gave it away, but it seemed to have something strapped to its hull, hidden at first by the galleon’s shadow. Then the airship altered course slightly, and Rhonin saw a reflective glint of late afternoon sunlight.
It was a mana bomb.
Blood elves had created the cursed things—bombs fueled by pure arcane energy. Death was immediate. The size varied, but the bombs with which Rhonin was familiar were as large as a human male. This bomb, looking like delicate spun glass, ran the entire length of the galleon. And if it was being fueled by the Focusing Iris—
Vereesa—
He felt a sudden shudder of relief through the horror that gripped him. Vereesa was already well on her way west. There had been no report that she was heading back to Theramore. She would be out of the blast radius. His wife would be safe.