Christie Golden: Jaina Proudmoore: Tides of War

Jaina began to move her fingers in a weaving motion. Beside her, the other members of the Council of Six and Kalecgos did likewise, as did all the magi assembled. Jaina thought of a conversation she had had with Kalec, so long ago it seemed now, and again smiled slightly as a small, pale lavender ball of arcane energy formed in her hand.

“There is a rhythm, a cycle. There is—a pattern.” She drew her fingers through the globe of arcane magic. It fragmented and reformed, a whirl of signs and symbols and numbers. “All things change, whether from the inside out or the outside in. That is what magic is. And we are magic too.”

She lifted her palm and sent the small orb floating upward. It was joined by dozens of its fellows, and then hundreds, as even those denizens of Dalaran who were unable to find space at the ceremony were still able to join in this gesture of farewell. The lights continued to rise, like fireflies of lavender magic against the deepening twilight, and despite everything—despite the tragedy of Theramore and the disaster she had almost been responsible for, despite the sorrow of losing Rhonin—Jaina felt her own heart lift with them.

All things change, she thought. I, Thrall, Garrosh, Varian… Azeroth.

A warm hand clasped hers, and she smiled up at Kalecgos. She was more than ready for the changes that awaited her.

Tink. Tink. Tink. Hisssssss…

A dwarf stood naked to the waist, firelight glinting off his sweaty torso, as he worked at the Great Forge of Ironforge. The forge had always burned, but it had seldom been utilized as it was now. There was no daytime or nighttime underground, and there was no cessation of the work to be done. War was in the wind, and the Alliance had to be prepared. The dwarf set aside the completed weapon, then placed his hands on his lower back as he stretched, wincing as he heard things pop and creak. He reached for a waterskin, wiped his red beard, and continued.

In Stormwind, they were building new ships. With each one the designers refined the task of construction, more and more, turning out crafts faster and faster. And Light knew they would be needed. While Garrosh had blinked, he could not be counted on to do so a second time. The Horde fleet was still intact, although it had retreated; the Alliance could not say the same thing. Varian stood near the harbor for a long moment, watching the activity, then returned to the keep.

He had a war to plan.

Garrosh paced in Grommash Hold. The orders were already being posted:

ATTENTION ALL ABLE-BODIED MEMBERS OF THE HORDE! WARCHIEF GARROSH HELLSCREAM HAS ISSUED A CALL TO ARMSFOR ALL CITIZENS! MALE AND FEMALE ADULTS! YOU WILL TRAIN TO FIGHT THE ALLIANCE IN A WARIN WHICH WE SHALL BE TRIUMPHANT! CHILDREN AND OTHERS WHO CANNOT BEAR ARMS—YOU WILL ASSIST IN CRAFTING WEAPONS AND TENDING TO THE NEEDS OF THE WARRIORS! ANYONE FOUND SHIRKING HIS OR HER DUTY WILL BE ARRESTEDFOR TREASONBY THE KOR’KRON.

NO EXCEPTIONS.

FOR THE HORDE!

The activity that had been afoot in Orgrimmar over the last several months had increased a thousandfold. Fires burned at all hours of the day and night, and the Kor’kron were rounding up conscripts.

Garrosh Hellscream stood alone in Grommash Hold. He stared down at a map of the Eastern Kingdoms spread on one of the tables, illuminated by the gleam of candlelight. He played idly with a dagger, thumbing its tip. His eyes flickered over the letters:

Then he lifted the blade high over his head and brought it down nearly to the hilt in the middle of the M.

“I will watch your city burn around you, Varian Wrynn,” he muttered. He grinned around his tusks. “After all… there can only be one victor in this war.”

Special thanks must go to Ed Schlesinger, James Waugh, Micky Neilson, and Russell Brower for their patience and support during a very difficult time. Thanks, guys.

Thanks must also go to the Puckett family—Rob, Bev, Chris, and Ryan. All authors should have such a place to go for a writing retreat.