All things change, Jaina, whether from the inside out or the outside in. Sometimes with only a single shift in a variable, he had once said to the woman he fell in love with.
And… we are magic, too, she had replied.
“Yes,” he murmured. “We are.”
And he knew what he had to do.
Jaina had done what she could to disguise herself and had traveled by the usual methods to Ratchet rather than simply teleporting. Once there, she bought a gryphon from a traveler who seemed down on his luck and flew south. She fully realized that she was flying over the path the Horde had taken to march on Northwatch, and she let that bitter knowledge fuel her anger.
When the ruins of Northwatch Hold, now occupied by the Horde, came into view, she had to choke back a lump in her throat. The sight of the red-and-black banners of the Horde soldiers left behind to guard while the rest of the ships formed the blockade turned the pain cold.
She brought the gryphon to the earth and dismounted, taking care to hold the small pouch she always carried close to her. She then gave the gryphon a smart smack on his leonine rump. He flapped upward in irritation, and Jaina nodded. He would soon find his way back to Ratchet and a new rider, who would be very pleased at having him.
Jaina had no further need of the beast. She turned to the east and murmured a teleportation spell. A few seconds later, Jaina arrived on Fray Island.
“Eh there, missy,” said a rough voice. The human addressing her had cutoff breeches, an open shirt, and a cutlass. “Come to play with the pirates, have ye?”
She turned her glowing white eyes to him. “I’ve no time for this,” she said. Almost absently, she directed a fireball at the thug. He screamed as his whole body caught fire, stumbled a few feet, and then fell, writhing.
Jaina was unmoved by the sight, turning her attention to the fellow’s comrades as they rushed up, shouting angrily. They were not Horde—not all of them—but they were cutthroats and murderers and deserved no one to mourn them. Ruthlessly Jaina marched through the encampment, blasting her would-be killers with fire, ice, and arcane energy. She slew humans and trolls, dwarves and an ogre, who looked ridiculous with a tiny hat perched on his bald pate.
She scoured the buildings clean, so that she would have no distractions. Jaina turned toward the north. Her hand slipped down into the pouch and held the Focusing Iris—perfectly miniaturized, thanks to information gleaned from perusal of the tome she had stolen from the Dalaran library—and began to make her plans.
The Earthen Ring was exhausted. The elements seemed angrier today than usual, and while no one spoke the words aloud, Thrall was certain that he was not the only one to wonder if their efforts were starting to have less effect.
It did not make any sense. Progress had been very slow, it was true, but it had been measurable and consistent. The weary shaman retreated back to their encampment, in need of food and rest. Muln Earthfury, as the former leader of the Earthen Ring, seemed to be the most affected.
Aggra watched the tauren, frowning a little. “The silence troubles me,” she said. “We all think the same thing, but no one speaks it. Come, let us talk to Muln.”
Thrall smiled and shook his head. “We think along the same lines, my heart, but always you press for action first.”
She shrugged. “Growing up in Nagrand will teach you to act quickly when you see trouble,” she said, squeezing his hand as they walked.
Muln looked over at the two orcs and sighed. “I already know what you are going to say,” he said. “And I do not know the answer as to why we seem to be backsliding. The elements are so distressed, and have been for so long, it is hard to hear them clearly anymore.”
Thrall said, “Perhaps we should—”
Pain shot through him and he fell to his knees, clutching his skull.
Aggra dropped beside him, hands on his shoulders. “Go’el, what is it?” she cried.
His lips moved, but nothing came out. Aggra’s face faded away. Thrall saw nothing for a moment, and then suddenly, he saw too much.
Water, blue-green and cold and angry, crashed over him. He choked, gasped, struggled to breathe. It lifted him up and then thrust him under, tossed and turned him. It was a great wave, and yet—Thrall saw here and there small, furious eyes, the shape of an arm, a head, the glitter of a manacle. This was more than a simple ocean wave—Thrall was at the mercy of enslaved elementals.
He was not alone. There were dozens, hundreds, of orcs caught up in the wave as well, all struggling to survive. Debris, too, was a danger in addition to the water itself. A hand made of seawater pushed Thrall downward, and he saw below him—
The roofs of Orgrimmar! How was that possible? But he could see the gate, the debris of the iron scaffolding that he had heard Garrosh had erected.
Help us, voices whispered.
Thrall couldn’t breathe. He felt water filling his lungs.
Help us. This is not what we wish to do!
He felt the watery hand holding him down tremble, as if it was struggling itself against something, and then release. Thrall shot to the surface, coughing and gasping in clean air.
Stop this. Or else your people will die while we slay them and grieve, and we will live forever in servitude.
Thrall gathered his wits and, still coughing, asked, “Where?”
No words filled his mind, but there was an image: a chunk of land off the coast of the Northern Barrens. It was a long way from Orgrimmar, but what did the point of origin matter to the ocean, which touched all shorelines?
“Go’el,” said the beloved voice, calling him back to the present. “Go’el!”
The horrifying image of drowned corpses and a ruined city faded. Thrall blinked, feeling a surge of relief at seeing Aggra’s face instead of the vision—for such it had to be. She smiled and stroked his cheek.
“What did you see, my friend?” asked Muln. Others had gathered around now. Thrall struggled to rise, but Muln pushed him down. “Rest and speak—then rise and eat.”
Thrall nodded. “You are right, of course, Muln,” he said. “The elements granted me a vision. This may explain why they have grown so suddenly distressed.” Quickly, succinctly, but leaving out no important detail, Thrall recounted what he had seen.
“Do you know the island?” asked Nobundo.
“I do,” he said. “It is Fray Island, located due south of Durotar.”
The shaman exchanged glances. “If the elements cry out so poignantly for aid, we must answer,” said Muln.
But Nobundo shook his head. “No,” he said. “If they wished aid from us all, we would all have had the vision. They know we cannot leave here. But… they did call for help.”
Thrall nodded slowly. Aggra looked pained but resigned. “They spoke to me,” he said. “And me alone. So it is I who must answer their cry and stop this slaughter of my people. Aggra, beloved, you know I would have you with me, but…”
She smiled around her tusks. “The task is yours, Go’el,” she said, “and I will strike anyone who dares say in my presence you are not up to it.”
He smiled wanly. “Up to it” indeed. Up to freeing hundreds of enslaved water elementals so that they did not eradicate an entire city? He hoped so. The elements were wise; he would trust them. Thrall got to his feet, embraced his mate, then headed to his small tent to pack what little he would need for the journey.
Vol’jin had had enough.
When word of the “accident” at Razor Hill Inn had reached him, he had seen it as a sign. He would risk no more “accidents” to his people. Long had he liked and trusted Thrall, and when that orc had urged him to stay with the Horde, he had agreed. Caution also had seemed to dictate such a choice, despite the insult Garrosh had offered him by forcing his people to live in the slums. Now the trolls were on the Echo Isles, and so too close for comfort.