“I thank you for your concern,” he said, “and I know you have only the good of our people in mind when you speak so. Please believe that I do as well. I can—I must—handle this on my own.”
He waited. If there was too much of a protest, he would acquiesce to what the rest of the flight wished. He certainly had not done a faultless job by himself thus far.
Fortunately, most of the blues did not share Kiry’s opinion. Kalec suspected that it was because they discounted Jaina, a single human, as a true threat. It was because Kiry recognized Jaina’s abilities as being exceptionally strong that the dragoness did not follow suit.
“Then it is settled,” Kalec said. “I will not fail you again.”
He spoke the words with conviction, hoping beyond hope that he was right. This wounded world could not bear it if he wasn’t.
Not so long ago, the former warchief of the Horde had held a celebration to welcome home the veterans who had fought against Arthas and in the Nexus War in Northrend. Garrosh well remembered the glorious parade to Orgrimmar—he himself had suggested it. It was at this celebration that Thrall had honored him, given him his father’s weapon, which now rested securely against Garrosh’s broad back.
Garrosh was proud of how he had fought in those wars. But he was even prouder of what he had done at Northwatch Hold and Theramore. In Northrend, at least part of the victory had been owed to the Alliance. The thought filled his mouth with ashy loathing. Now things were as they should be. Now the battle was against the Alliance. It was a war Thrall had had the power to start, but he had been too cowed by the fair-haired female mage. Instead, Thrall had fought for “peace,” whatever that could possibly be between the orcs and their former oppressors. Garrosh was determined to be to the Alliance what Grommash Hellscream had been to the demons. As the father had overthrown obedience and enslavement to fel creatures by slaying Mannoroth, so the son would overthrow the subtler chains of “peace” with the Alliance. He was sure that even stubborn Baine and Vol’jin would come around eventually, and a true peace—on the Horde’s terms, bought with blood and enforced with the same—would occur.
And so, he had given instructions that this celebration, this victor’s triumphal march to the capital of the Horde, would put Thrall’s to shame. Nor would the march and a single feast be all. No, Garrosh had ordered six days’ worth of festivities. Raptor fights in the arena!
Sparring battles, with heavy purses to the greatest warriors of the Horde! Feast after feast, set to the accompaniment of lok’tras and lok’vadnods, while the streets would flow with good orcish grog.
At one point, as Garrosh and his retinue headed toward the gates of Orgrimmar, he saw with satisfaction that the throngs of cheering Horde members would not part for him. They chanted his name until it rose like thunder, and Garrosh gave Malkorok a delighted look as he drank it in.
“Garrosh! Garrosh! Garrosh! Garrosh!”
“They love you too much to let you through, my warchief!” said Malkorok, shouting to be heard over the noise. “Tell them of your victory! They wish to hear it from your lips!”
Garrosh looked again at the crowd and cried, “Do you wish to hear my vision?”
He had thought it impossible, but the crowd roared even louder. Garrosh’s grin widened and he waved them to silence.
“My people! You are blessed among orcs to live in a time of history. A time when I, Garrosh Hellscream, am poised to claim Kalimdor for the Horde. The human contagion that had taken foul root in Theramore has been cleansed by the essence of arcane magic. They are no more! Jaina Proudmoore will no longer emasculate us as a people with her soft-mouthed words of peace. They fell on deaf ears, and now she and her kingdom are but dust. But that is not enough. The night elves are next. For so long they have denied us the basic needs of life. We will deprive them of their lives, of their cities, and send what few we spare to become refugees of the Eastern Kingdoms. I, Garrosh, will humble them and reduce them to begging for mere morsels of food and a place to sleep, while the Horde avails itself of their riches. Their cities are cut off from aid by stout Horde battleships, and when we are ready to invade, they will fall before us like wheat before the scythe!”
More cheering, more laughter and clapping. And another chant arose, spontaneous but inspired by his words:
“Death to the Alliance! Death to the Alliance! Death to the Alliance!”
Baine sat in the corner of the dank, dark inn at Razor Hill. What light came in through the door did nothing to illuminate the place, indeed only showed thick clusters of dancing dust motes. The beer was poor and the food worse. A few miles due north, he could have been enjoying a feast the likes of which he had never tasted. He was more than content here.
Garrosh had forbidden the army to disperse. All Horde fighters had to stay in Durotar, but the warchief had not commanded Baine to attend the feasts in Orgrimmar. The “oversight” was an insult, and Baine was intelligent enough to know it. He also knew he was thankful for it. He feared that if he were forced to spend another moment listening to cheers for Garrosh—cheers for placing the Horde needlessly in harm’s way, cheers for mass murder enacted in the most cowardly of fashions—he would be unable to stop himself from challenging the green-skinned fool. And if he did, no matter who walked away from the fight, the Horde itself would be the loser.
He was not to be alone in his dark brooding. As he nursed the poor beer, he watched the doorway. More tauren came in, nodded to Baine, and took their seats. After a time, he saw Vol’jin. The troll did not sit with him, but their eyes met. Then, to his surprise, he saw the bright gold-and-red garb of sin’dorei… and the tattered clothing of Forsaken. His heart lifted. Others saw what he saw, felt what he felt. Perhaps there might be a way to halt Garrosh’s madness after all. Before the Horde ended up having to pay the price.
The salt-tinged sea air was filled with sound. It had not ceased since it began two days ago, when word of Theramore’s fall had reached Varian, and would not cease until the task was complete. It was the sound of feverish activity—boards being cut to size, nails being pounded, engines being tinkered with. The barks of dwarves and the cheerful voices of gnomes punctuated the noises of industry.
Not a citizen of Stormwind complained of the noise, for it meant hope. It was the sound of the Alliance refusing to be broken by a single deadly but cowardly act.
Broll Bearmantle, Varian, and Anduin stood together, gazing out at the harbor. The day had only just dawned, and the sails being carefully raised on one of the great new vessels were tinged with the pinkness of a sun peeking over the horizon.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen quite so many workers all in one place—not even in Ironforge,” said Anduin. Per his own request, Anduin was to remain in Stormwind until the fleet had sailed, at which time he would return to his studies with the draenei. Varian smiled down at his son, glad that the youth had chosen to remain. The encounter with Jaina had startled and upset both of them. Anduin in particular reeled with the shock of seeing peace-loving “Aunt Jaina” so full of hatred. They had talked long into the evening, the man who had once identified with Jaina’s new attitude and the boy who quailed from it, talked about what grief and loss could do to someone, talked about what war and violence, as well, could do.