The hurt, numbed by horror, moved again like the awakening of a limb gone to sleep. Jaina forced it down and kept moving. Here were dear Aubrey, and Marcus Jonathan, Tiras’alan, and the two dwarves. On the top of one of the broken roofs was sprawled the body of Lieutenant Aden, his shining armor turned purple-black from the blast.
Suddenly Jaina’s mind was clear, and rational, and her own.
You should stop. Kalec was right. Get out, Jaina. You’ve seen enough to know no one survived. Get out now, before you see too much.
But she couldn’t. She had found Pained. She needed to find the others. Tervosh, who had been her friend for so long—where was he? And the guard Byron, and Allen Bright the priest, and Janene, the innkeeper who had insisted on staying—where were they? Where was—
The shape looked like a child at first, which was what drew Jaina’s eye. The children had all been evacuated safely. Who—
And then she knew.
Jaina stood, barely breathing, wanting to look away but unable to. Slowly, jerkily, her feet moved, almost of their own accord, taking her to the body.
Kinndy lay face down in a still puddle of her own blood. The crimson stain had tainted her pink hair, matting it, and Jaina realized she wanted to plop Kinndy into a hot bath and help her scrub herself clean, get her a fresh new robe—
She fell to her knees and placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder, to turn her over. Kinndy’s body crumbled into shining violet dust.
Jaina screamed.
She screamed in utter horror, frantically gathering up the crystalline powder that was all that remained of a smart, lively young woman. She screamed in loss, in grief, in guilt, and then most of all, in rage.
Rage at the Horde. Rage at Garrosh Hellscream, rage at those who followed him. Rage at Baine Bloodhoof, who had warned her but had nonetheless permitted this to happen. Had perhaps known this was going to happen. Her screaming turned to racking, hoarse sobs that ripped her throat. She kept lifting handfuls of the purple sand, trying to hold on to Kinndy, her sobbing increasing as the dust persisted in trickling through her fingers.
This wasn’t war. This wasn’t even murder. This was obliteration, done at a comfortable distance. Killing in the most brutal and cowardly fashion Jaina could conceive of.
Something glinted, like a sort of signal, on the dead earth. She stared at it for a moment, then slowly, unsteadily got to her feet. Staggering like a drunk, she made her way toward the strange gleam.
The shard of silvery glass was no larger than her palm. She picked it up. In her shocked state, Jaina didn’t realize at once what she was looking at, and then pain stabbed her afresh. So many memories—Anduin’s lively face as he chatted with her. Varian’s scarred visage. Kalec standing out of sight in the corner when she used this mirror. Rhonin—
She caught movement out of the corner of her eye and whirled to look, hoping against all rationality that maybe someone had survived.
They were large, and covered in armor, and green. There were at least twenty-five, perhaps more than thirty of them, all orcs, and they were busily poking around the debris. One of them dropped something in a pouch, spoke to the others, and harsh orcish laughter punctuated the ceaseless ripping and popping sounds.
Jaina clenched her fists, including the one that clutched the shard of broken glass. She was only vaguely aware of the pain as the shards sliced open fingers and palm.
It took a minute, but one of them noticed her standing in the midst of the devastation. He pulled back thick green lips from yellowed tusks in a grin and nudged one of his comrades. The biggest one in the best armor—clearly the leader of the little scouting party the coward Garrosh had no doubt sent to make sure everyone was quite dead—grunted, then said something in thickly accented Common.
“Little lady, don’t know how you survive. But we correct mistake.”
They all drew their weapons—axes, broadswords, knives that glinted dully with the slick of poison on their blades. Jaina felt her own lips stretch in a rictus of a grin. They looked at her more closely, at first clearly puzzled by her unexpected reaction, and then their leader began to laugh. “We get to kill Jaina Proudmoore!” he said.
“Bring her head back to Warchief Garrosh!” asked another orc.
Garrosh.
Jaina didn’t even deign to reply. She tossed away the mirror shard and simply lifted her hands. A wave of arcane energy, augmented by the lingering effects of the mana bomb, struck them all. They stumbled back, shaking and weakened. One of those clutching a dagger dropped the blade from nervous fingers and struggled to maintain her balance. Stronger orcs shook it off and again brandished weapons, hastening to close the distance.
A smirk curved across Jaina’s face. The orcs froze, literally, in their tracks, their lower legs encased in ice. Jaina’s fingers danced in the air, weaving a spell, calling fire out of nothing and hurling an enormous whirling ball of crackling flame right in their midst. Weakened from the blast of arcane energy, six of them succumbed at once, screaming in torment as they were burned alive. Ten more were severely scorched and spasmed in agony. They too would be dead shortly. The spell wore off, and the remaining orcs, somewhat more cautiously this time, continued to approach.
A cone of frigid air encircled them. They now moved as if through mud, and Jaina picked four more of them off with fireballs. They fell instantly. Another arcane blast, which felt almost effortless to Jaina, slew more.
Ten were left. Six of them were struggling; four were largely uninjured. Again fire sprang from her fingers, and all ten of them fell to the ground. She sent out another blast of arcane energy.
When she finally lowered her hands, sweat plastering strands of white hair to her face, they were all still. All save one. His chest heaved with ragged breaths, and he twitched and shuddered.
Jaina bent and picked up the mirror shard. She didn’t look at it. Slowly, stiffly, a cold pleasure growing in her, she stepped over and on the bodies until she reached the lone survivor.
He was coughing, red-black blood streaming from his tusked mouth. Most of his body was covered in burns, the plate mail melted to his skin. It had to be terribly painful, Jaina mused.
Good.
She leaned over the orc, bringing her face close enough to his that she could smell his fetid breath as he gasped for air. He looked up at her, tiny eyes wide with fear. Fear of Jaina Proudmoore, the friend to orcs, the diplomat.
“Your people are despicable cowards,” she hissed. “You are nothing more than rabid dogs, and you should be put down. You spit on mercy? Then you will have none. You want carnage? Garrosh will get more blood than ever he bargained for.”
Then, with a savage cry, she brought the shard of mirror down into the small space between the orc’s gorget and his shoulder armor. Blood spurted up, covering her hand, splashing her face.
The dying orc tried to roll away, but she held his head between her hands, forcing him to look at her as life ebbed with each heartbeat. When he at last was still, she rose. She left the shard of glass from the broken mirror embedded in the orc’s throat.
Jaina continued her grim perusal of what the Horde had left of Theramore. The cold rage inside her burned stronger with everything she beheld. The dock was completely gone. Oddly, she felt better here, looking at the wreckage, than she did near the crater where—
She blinked. Not wanting to, but feeling compelled, she turned and walked back to where her tower had stood. She felt the tingling that was the hallmark of arcane energy growing stronger. The whole city was bathed in its residue, but she realized she was approaching the source of the disaster. Her heart rate sped up and she quickened her pace. She closed her eyes, then opened them. She did not want to look into the crater, but she knew she had to.