The soft purple glow heralded the blanket of arcane energy that enveloped Theramore. The mana bomb, so thoughtfully provided by the blood elves—who stood cheering with other Horde members who somehow felt that what Garrosh had wrought was a good thing—had exploded over an entire city and had not just harmed its citizens and buildings but crushed them utterly. Baine had watched both friend and foe perish from arcane magic attacks far too often to feel anything but fury at what he beheld. The people caught in the blast had been blown apart inside, as magic distorted and reformed them down to the last drop of blood. The buildings, too, were remade from the inside. So great had the blast been that Baine knew that every creature, every blade of grass, every handful of soil was now rendered dead and worse than dead.
And the awful magic would linger. Baine did not deal with magic. He did not know how long the eerie violet glow that marked Garrosh’s calculated brutality would pulsate around the city of the slain. But Theramore would not be livable for a long time.
Tears ran down his muzzle, and he made no effort to wipe them away. He stood surrounded by throngs of cheering Horde, but as he looked around, he saw, illuminated by the ghostly arcane glow, faces that wore his own expression of shock and revulsion. What had happened to the warchief who had once said, “Honor… no matter how dire the battle, never forsake it”? Who had hurled another orc, Overlord Krom’gar, off a cliff to die, for dropping a bomb on innocent, druids and leaving nothing but a crater? The similarity was eerie and struck Baine to the marrow. Garrosh had gone from decrying such murders to committing them.
“Victory!” shrieked Garrosh, standing atop the highest ridge of the small islands in the channel. He lifted Gorehowl, and the axe’s sharp blade caught and flashed the purple light over the assembled Horde.
“First, I gave you a glorious battle in which we claimed Northwatch Hold for our own. Then, I harnessed your patience, so that we could fight an even more honorable fight—against the finest soldiers and minds the Alliance had to offer. Each one of you is now a veteran of a battle against Jaina Proudmoore, against Rhonin, General Marcus Jonathan, and Shandris Feathermoon! And to secure our victory, I snatched from beneath the very noses of the greatest magic wielders in this world an arcane artifact so powerful it has destroyed an entire city!”
He pointed at Theramore, as if any of those standing there were not riveted by the evidence of mass destruction. “This is what we have wrought! Behold the glory of the Horde!”
Did none of them see? Baine couldn’t understand it. So many, too many, seemed happy at beholding the dead city, crowded with corpses of people who had died in a horrible and painful fashion. They were happy at being tricked into a battle against Theramore when all along, Garrosh had had the means to win without sacrificing a single Horde life. Baine was not sure which act he despised more.
The cheers were deafening. Garrosh turned and caught Baine’s gaze. He held it for a long time. Baine did not look away. Garrosh’s lip curled in a sneer. He spat on the ground and stalked off. The swell of the cheers followed him.
Malkorok, however, lingered. And then he began to laugh. It started slow and soft, rising to a maniacal cackle. Baine’s sensitive ears were awash in insane laughter, in cheers at suffering, and in the imagined sounds of a whole city crying out in torment before obliteration mercilessly descended.
Unable to bear it, unable to bear his own self-loathing at having been a reluctant and even ignorant part of it, Baine Bloodhoof, high chieftain of the tauren, covered his ears, turned his back, and sought what illusion of respite he could in the warm dampness of the swamp.
Morning was unkind to the ruins of Theramore.
Without the gentling of the darkness, the stark devastation was blatant. Smoke still curled upward from the mostly dead fires. The arcane anomalies that had provided a show of lights at night were revealed to be evidence of realities and dimensions ripped asunder. One could even glimpse other worlds. Hovering in the air were not only rocks and chunks of earth that had been torn free, but the debris of buildings and weapons. Bodies turned slowly in the air, like grotesque puppets floating in water. The crackling and thundering were ceaseless.
Gharga surveyed the city with a chest that swelled with pride for his part in the battle. Surely lok’tras were already being composed about the glorious fight. He had heard that there were some mutterings about Garrosh’s choices—rumor had it that they were coming mainly from the tauren and the trolls—but by and large, Gharga was proud that his orcs seemed as delighted as he by the outcome of the battle.
He waited on the bridge as the emissary from Warchief Garrosh was rowed over to the Blood and Thunder. Gharga stood even taller with pride as he realized that it was no ordinary orc but one of Garrosh’s own Kor’kron, who now stood in the small boat and quickly climbed up the rope ladder.
The Kor’kron saluted him. “Captain Gharga,” she said, “I have two missives for you as day dawns on the ruins of Theramore.” The orcs could not suppress smiles as they regarded each other. “One is a private message from Warchief Garrosh. The other contains your new instructions. You, Captain, have a pivotal role to play in the next stage of the Horde’s conquest of Kalimdor.”
His eyes flashed in pleasure, but otherwise Gharga gave no response other than a polite bow. “I live to serve the warchief and the Horde.”
“So it seems, and such loyalty has not gone unnoticed. I am instructed to wait while you read your orders and return with your response.”
Gharga nodded and unrolled the second scroll. His eyes flickered over the brief message, and he found he could no longer suppress his delight. Garrosh was no idle boaster. He had backed up his promise to destroy Theramore in a fashion so dramatic and so utter that he had stunned everyone, even his most loyal followers. The Horde navy that now floated in Theramore Harbor was to disperse and form a blockade at every point on the continent. There would not only be no aid sent to Theramore—there would be none sent to Lor’danel, or Feathermoon Stronghold, or Rut’theran Village, or Azuremyst Isle.
Gharga’s first stop would be Feathermoon Stronghold. And from there, he was to send word via his swiftest messengers to Orgrimmar that the Horde had been victorious beyond imagining and that the city was to prepare for the greatest celebration it had ever seen upon Garrosh’s return.
Rerolling the scroll, Gharga said with confidence, “Tell our warchief that his orders are understood and the fleet will sail within the hour to obey them. And that I feel certain that, when I deliver the news to Orgrimmar, he will be able to hear the cheering all the way from here.”
The first thing Jaina noticed as consciousness returned was the pain, although she had no memory as to why she was hurting so terribly. Every drop of blood, every muscle and nerve and inch of skin, seemed to be coldly aflame. Her eyes still closed, she moaned slightly and shifted position, only to hiss as the pain trebled. Even breathing hurt, and her breath seemed oddly cold as it escaped her lips.
She opened her eyes, blinking, and sat up. She brushed sand from her face, enduring the agony with gritted teeth, and tried to remember. Something had happened… something terrible beyond words, and for a second, she was cognizant enough to realize that she didn’t want to remember.
A sudden wind blew her hair in front of her face. Instinctively she lifted a hand to brush it back, and as she did so, she froze, staring at the lock held captive in her fingers.
Jaina’s hair had always been fair. “The hue of sunshine,” her father had said when she was a child.