“Warchief!” shouted Malkorok. His blades dripped scarlet, and there were no fewer than four bodies at his feet. “Behind you!”
He barely turned swiftly enough to get Gorehowl up between him and the large, black-haired, nearly impossibly fast human who came at him, wielding a massive sword—Shalamayne. Varian uttered a loud, furious howl, more suited to the ghost wolf for which he had been named than a human. Garrosh grunted as the unique blade bit his arm and drew blood. He parried in time to halt the blow from cutting deeper, and shoved hard. Varian staggered back, but Shalamayne descended again.
“The ancestors bless us indeed!” shouted Garrosh. “I knew you would die today, but I did not hope to have the luck to be the one to slay you!”
“I am surprised you have the guts to take me on,” Varian snarled. “You’ve grown cowardly since we last met. First magnataur, then elementals, then kraken to do your dirty work. Did you run and hide when you dropped the mana bomb? I’m sure you were a safe distance away!”
Gorehowl sang again, sweeping low in a blow designed to cut off Varian’s legs. The human jumped and whirled in midair, only to have Gorehowl nearly slice off his head as Garrosh followed through with the axe’s movement.
“You are slower than you were the last time we met,” sneered Garrosh. “You are growing older, Varian. Perhaps you should let that sniveling son of yours be king. I will march on Stormwind when the kraken have reduced your mighty ships to kindling. I will take your precious boy, slap him in chains, and parade him through Orgrimmar!”
He had thought to so anger the king of Stormwind that the human would explode in fury, fighting wildly instead of well. To his astonishment, Varian merely grinned, dodging the swing of the axe, measuring his next step. “Anduin might surprise you,” he said. “Even lovers of peace despise cowards.”
Garrosh suddenly grew tired of the taunting. “Thrice before have we fought,” Garrosh snarled, “and it is three times too many. This time, you die—and so does all that you love.” Garrosh charged, swinging Gorehowl, and Varian danced away. Garrosh followed, all finesse and strategy gone. The world had narrowed to this one man and his impending death. As the two closed in tight, their faces mere inches from each other, they were abruptly hurled into the air.
Garrosh flailed, holding on to Gorehowl by sheer will. He landed hard on the deck and then was suddenly sliding down it. He heard a massive cracking sound and then was falling toward the blue surface of the ocean. His armor was no friend now, and he sank like a stone as bits and pieces of the Lion of the Waves threatened to pin him to the ocean’s floor.
Stubbornly, Garrosh refused to surrender to what seemed to be certain death. Still clutching his father’s weapon, he used the sinking wreckage to his advantage, climbing up piece by piece as each one drifted. His lungs burned but he continued on, his face up toward the light until at last he burst through the surface and gasped sweet air, coughing violently.
Hands reached down and pulled him up, guiding him toward rope ladder that had been tossed down the side of one of the ships—he knew not which—and, still holding Gorehowl, hauled himself up until he stumbled onto the deck.
“Warchief!” It was Malkorok, who had also survived. The two clasped each other’s arms.
“V-Varian,” gasped Garrosh. “What of him?”
“I know not,” Malkorok said. “But look!”
Still coughing up seawater, Garrosh turned to gaze where Malkorok was pointing, and pride swelled inside him.
Everywhere he looked, Alliance ships were broken, burning, or desperately engaged in attacking the kraken. The water was littered with the debris of dozens of vessels. Garrosh threw back his head, roaring his victory.
“Behold the might of the Horde!” he cried. “Four ships against dozens! And it is we who triumph! For the Horde! For the Horde!”
Kalecgos held Jaina gently in his right forepaw, while she cradled the Focusing Iris next to her body. They headed north. Jaina was unsure why she wished so fiercely to see the Horde capital, but Kalec clearly trusted her change of heart and did not speak a word of objection. Did she want to reassure herself that there were indeed still innocents there and her choice was the right one? Did she wish to see if she could somehow spy Garrosh and blast him to pieces? She was uncertain.
Below them, following obediently and keeping pace with the swift flight of the dragon, were the bound water elementals. She could summon and dismiss them as she wished; Kalec had not asked for the Focusing Iris back, either. Jaina was more grateful for his unspoken, and apparently unshakable, trust in her than he could ever know.
Up they went, past the Echo Isles and the aptly named Scuttle Coast, where Jaina summoned a few angry, out-of-control elementals to join with their kin. The wreckage, though old, saddened and angered her, and she wished she knew where Varian had chosen to direct the Alliance attack.
As they approached Bladefist Bay, Jaina gasped, her eyes wide with shock and horror. The fleet—she had thought it would be attacking Feathermoon Stronghold or Darkshore, but it was here. Here… and under attack.
I would have destroyed the fleet, she thought. If I had sent the tidal wave… I would have destroyed both Orgrimmar and the whole Alliance fleet…
Nausea swept over her, and gratitude to both Thrall and Kalecgos. But now was not the time to feel faint and weak. She had to act. For the fleet was not under attack from mere Horde warships—Garrosh, it would seem, had summoned kraken to dispatch the fleet for him. As he had done with the molten giants in Northwatch Hold and the mana bomb in Theramore, he was acting in a cowardly and dominating fashion—wrenching the natural world or magic artifacts to obey him.
“Fly closer!” she called to Kalecgos. Kalec folded his wings and dove, opening them just in time and almost anointing them with seawater as he skimmed swiftly over the waves. Jaina held the Focusing Iris close with one arm and, murmuring the incantation, moved the fingers of her free hand.
Varian shoved the soaking mass of wet hair back out of eyes that stung from seawater. He clung to the wreckage of a ship—which one, he didn’t even know—and tried to assess the situation.
So many ships had gone down, victims of the angry embrace of the kraken. He had watched, helpless, as sailors made it to the surface and struck out for shore or ship, only to have a gleaming, slimy tentacle reach out and pull them down into the creature’s hungry maw.
He had no idea what had happened to Telda, or the white-haired warlock, or indeed any of the brave crew of the Lion of the Waves. Bitterly he amended that. It wasn’t entirely true. He knew, had seen impotently, that some of them had met their violent ends. He could only hope that Garrosh and that hulking Blackrock orc were keeping those good people company in the bellies of some kraken.
A few ships were still intact and firing upon the sea beasts. But Light, there were so many of the cursed things, and each one wreaked such horror. Screams and the sounds of cracking timber filled the air. He recognized panic and despair trying to overcome him, and ruthlessly pushed the useless feelings back. They would not serve him now; even anger would not serve him now. He leaped to another remnant of a ship, his eyes now fastened on one of the few surviving vessels. He would be an easy target for a misplaced cannonball from one of his own ships, and only a morsel for a kraken. But he was one man and did not attract the notice of the great monsters, and by sheer will he made his way close enough to the ship called the Ocean’s Lady. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he called out.