Edited 01/29/2016
Disclaimer: Warcraft is just as much mine as I'm blonde and married to Johnny Depp.
A/N: Another chapter down. I hope to round out this story with another chapter, and an epilogue.
CHAPTER 9
HE NEEDS ME
Even in decay, the rose was beautiful… Standing on the window-sill in a slender vase of finest crystal, the angled rays of the setting sun made the dark, crumpling petals glow a deep, sultry blue.
"Ah, Jaina, why have you not got rid of that?" a refined, haughty voice asked.
"You said its color reminded you of my eyes," the young woman answered, a tad reproachful.
"And it did, my dear. But now it would only be grave insult to even dare compare this withered stick to your wonderful eyes." Tall and lithe, with grace and poise to shame a hawk, he rose from the couch, went to the window and ran a long finger over the petals of the rose.
"Let us see if I cannot remedy it."
He whispered a word of power, and there was a flash of white light. When it faded, the rose was transformed, appearing as fresh as the day it had been plucked in the Royal Gardens in far-away Silverymoon.
With a flourish, he held out the rose to her.
Blushing prettily, she took the flower, noting how cold it was against her naked skin.
"Kael, I cannot accept this," she protested, though her clutching grip belied her words. Ever-observant, he smiled. That maddening, condescending smile that always rubbed her the wrong way, and set her spine to tingling. Being with him was like trying to run in two directions at once. One part of her rejoiced in the attention of this handsome and powerful man, and another part wanted nothing more than to show him her own power, to humble him and have him praise her.
She knew well that he could read her as an open book, and lowered her recently-prized eyes to favor her delicate, silk-stitched slippers with a long look.
"Ah, but have I ever taken no for an answer," he said softly. It was not a question. Had it ever been?
When he had placed the rose in her window, upon his long-planned arrival to attend the Summer Festival, he had told her the story of the Dar'anethelen, or Heaven's Mirror. The roses grew only in the Royal Gardens of the Sunstriders. Not because the flowers were a royal privilege, but rather because they, in some way he had not wanted to elaborate on, held great value to the elven people, and as such the safekeeping had naturally fallen to the Royal House. The roses bloomed only by night and in the most vibrant, shimmering tones of blue, for which they were named.
The rose was a pledge of things she dared not dwell too deeply upon.
"Jaina…" His hand moved to cover hers, squeezing ever so gently, just enough to make the thorns prick her skin with the lightest of pains. His face was very close, and his golden hair spilled down to mingle with her own pale locks, and the colors were as alike as coming from one head. His lips touched hers, and she felt a shiver of nerves, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw that the rose was no longer blue, but glistening like ice, like diamonds…
Jaina sat up, breathing raggedly. Her heart was beating frantically, ecstatically, in her chest, and the dream seemed to cling to her like winter's first thin crusting of ice. Trembling, she lifted a finger to her lips and she was not surprised to find them cold to the touch, even when the memory of his kiss burned still.
"You don't look to have had a pleasant sleep, lady."
With sudden shame, Jaina slapped both hands into her blanket-covered lap, and stared at the elven woman that seemed to have appeared out of thin air next to her bunk.
"Mirasei! What – I mean, yes, he was very pleas – I mean I did -"
Flustered, silently cursing, Jaina managed to reel in her tongue even as Mirasei's finely-wrought face – at that moment all too elven for her comfort – took on an amused expression. Playing the fool on the stage of life, Jaina thought derisively. At least it might boost moral…
"What do you want, Mirasei?" she asked bluntly, and could not deny a certain satisfaction as the amusement slid from the woman's face to be replaced with apprehension.
"It's captain Nazgrel. He has urgent news. He is waiting outside the tent."
Jaina cocked an eyebrow.
"They can't be that urgent, given that he didn't barge in here himself."
Mirasei shook her head.
"Actually, lady, I intercepted him."
"Oh."
Jaina paused for a split-second, as the image of willowy, sway-eared Mirasei dragging on Nazgrel's arm, heels plowing into the mud, flashed before her inner eye; then she shook her head and flung back the blanket.
"My belt, please," she said, pointing at the colored leather slung over a travel-stool. She pulled on socks and boots with practiced ease, as she could hardly remember the last time she had slept out of clothes. Snatching her belt from Mirasei's hand, Jaina ran out of the tent, the contents of the attached pouches clinking and jangling merrily.
A gust of rain greeted her as she stepped outside, and she was about to turn back to grab her cloak, when a large hand landed heavily on her shoulder.
"No time. Come along, lady Proudmoore. I'll fill you in as we go."
Jaina turned to look up at the source of the deep, gruff voice. As usual, a pair of tusks and a square, green jaw was all she could make out of the face of Thrall's second-in-command. At the moment her second-in-command.
Nazgrel's features were hidden under the dripping visage of a giant wolf's eyeless head. But Jaina hardly needed to see the orc's face to realize something she had thought impossible. The tense set of his broad shoulders, the way his fingers curled and uncurled around the handle of his axe, spoke plainly, however.
He was nervous. Nazgrel, the epitome of the brave warrior, one who only scoffed at such human vices as cooked meat and hot baths, and carried out his Warchief's orders – even one as distasteful as submitting to the authority of a human female – without questions, was nervous.
Only the crystal clear knowledge that something had to be very wrong for Nazgrel to expose himself like that, subdued Jaina's smirk when she asked what was going on. The orc ripped his hand from her shoulder with a sneer. For a moment, the dark hollows of his wolf-mask glared at her, and then he simply motioned for her to follow him.
Nazgrel set a brisk pace downhill, away from the main clustering of tents and shelters. Half-running to keep up, Jaina swept a practiced eye over the camp, and at once noted that a great many people seemed to have defied the pouring rain, despite them having set up camp scant hours ago following another exhaustive march tracking down demons. By all rights, most of the men should be resting, not milling around like ants, nor loading gear unto braying pack-mules. A pair of trolls ambled past them, their arms full of what looked to be freshly-cut throwing spears. She frowned.
"The scouts are back –," Nazgrel began, but Jaina cut him off with a sudden flare of temper.
"We are marching out again!" she said accusingly and whirled to face the orc. Nazgrel stopped, and crossed his arms.
"Marching out and leaving the tents!" Jaina went on. "Titans be damned, Nazgrel, the men are exhausted. Yours as well – don't try to buy me off with tales of orcish superiority now. We have wounded, and the supplies are low –," she stamped her foot in sheer exasperation, and pointed a trembling finger at Nazgrel. "I will not allow this!"
Despite the wind and general commotion, her high-pitched outcry drew a good deal of attention. People edged closer, though careful not to get too close, lest they be dragged into a confrontation that seemed to have been brewing since it had been decided to pair up the blonde sorceress and the conservative raider-captain.
The two trolls halted, and squatted down, snickering and grinned at each other.
Nazgrel simply stood there, weathering off the storm and her ranting with equal calm.
"Oh for Light's sake, Nazgrel," Jaina hissed. "You are not a damn snail. There's a person a-knocking, and oh I'm so sorry! It's a human, and she wants some answers. Cough up, or do you want to blast it out of your?" It was pure instinct. The natural defiance of Jaina's soul had finally resurfaced after being pummeled into the ground for days on end.
Blue flames, cold as the dreams of the dead, gathered in her left palm, with an ease that would have astounded more than one of her associates back in Dalaran. So intense was the cold that the rain froze as it passed over her, rattling away on the wind like pebbles. War is an efficient teacher.
"Lady Jaina! Don't do this." It was Merrehen Gildhaft's stricken voice. She could just make out the paladin in his gleaming armor at the edge of her field of vision. He looked to be holding out his hands at her rather imploringly. Perhaps she shouldn't have confided in Solena Gildhaft about that little episode in the second year of her study. The boy got his lower parts defrosted. Eventually.
"Back off, Gildhaft," she snarled, flashing him a cutting look. The flame rose higher in her hand, began to lick down her arm.
With a dismayed expression, the paladin lowered his arms.
"You want words, human?" The voice was low, almost soft, and so foreign that Jaina at first did not recognize it as coming from Nazgrel. This, she imagined, was maybe how he spoke to his wolf.
"Yes." Almost negligently, she shook her hand and sent flames spattering over the ground, spot-freezing the muddy pools.
"Then you better listen up…" Quick as a striking snake, flowing like quicksilver in alchemical tubes, the orc had his axe loose and swung it in crisp arch. Right at Jaina's head.
"Light, shield thy children!" A glowing oval, much like heat shimmering over a road in summer, formed at once around the sorceress, a shield of faith as impregnable as one of adamantite. Nazgrel's arm fell heavily to his side.
"Don't waste your blessings," Jaina said tightly. "And all of you, get those weapons out of my sight."
The crowd stirred, almost reluctantly, caught up as they had been in the rising tensions, the violence-laden atmosphere. Slowly, half-drawn swords were sheathed, mouths closed, axes lowered.
"I believe you were getting ready to march out," she added, quietly, sternly. "Get to it."
To a man, they obeyed her. Humans and dwarves and elves; trolls and orcs, they all left at her command.
"You could have killed me," Nazgrel said, still softly, as Merrehen Gildhaft stalked off, his blue cape whipping in the wind.
"And it's only now you realize that?"
With a genuine smile, Jaina laid a hand on the ice encasing the orc's entire arm, locking his fist around the handle of his axe. She whispered, and the ice melted away. For a brief instance, sorceress and wolf-rider captain locked eyes, and the orc lowered his gaze first. In the span of a cast spell, power had shifted, and Nazgrel would never be able to cow her again. His stunned stance the moment before he was hit by her icy blast, as he comprehended the speed with which she had called forth her magic, ensured that.
Nazgrel led her a short way down the slope, to the stony overhang that provided shelter for the dire wolves, well away from the mules and pack horses. Two orcs were tending to a wolf with a bloodied flank, and a dwarf stood nearby, rubbing his arm with something from a small jar. When they sighted their two commanders, they snapped to a somewhat halting attention.
Jaina swept a quick glance over them. "So you were the only ones that made it back…"
"Aye, lady," the dwarf said. He stoppered the jar, and rolled down a dirty sleeve over an arm covered in ugly burn marks. His hair and beard were badly singed, and his shoulder had been punctured by what looked like a rake with four points, right through mail and woolen padding. Only demon claws could rend metal like that. The two orcs did not look much better. Both were covered in muck and soot, and long rips, in parallels of four, ran down their backs. They also reeked so strongly of demonic magic that Jaina was surprised that the nearby wolves did not bury their noses in the mud.
"Had to fight our way through," the dwarf went on. His name was Hermund Hammerfire, Jaina recalled, a rather outstanding hunter and tracker, on the word of Ennon Gemeye.
"Hammerfire, I need to know precisely what took place, and these ones don't speak Common." She indicated the orcs.
"As you bid, milady," the dwarf said, preening a bit at the use of his clan name.
"Me and my group set up camp south o' the ruins, lady, and it was good an' calm all night long," Hammerfire began, his Dun Morogh accent growing heavier as he talked.
"Then by first light, the fliers appear, lady, and they circle for a while, and we keep low, since they are just five or so. But then one o' them cries out, and the whole bunch dives straight at Soldrav's group, and that must have been a signal, for the next I know, this other bunch o' demons, big as boulders, comes charging out o' the forest, straight for Soldrav, and the crazy boy stands his ground." The dwarf shook his head.
"Not that I think running woulda helped much. Those demons had that glassy-eyed look, you know - your ladyship." Jaina nodded. She could vividly remember the erratic, even crazed, behavior of the Legions they had fought earlier on, and she did not care much for facing that again. Insanity added little charm to the horror that was a rampaging demon.
"They ran them down, lady, ripping them apart like one o' these gnomish harvesters, an' then…" Hammerfire's voice began to tremble, and he wrung his hands as the memories and his hurts seemed to get the better of him.
Jaina slapped him. Her small, pale hand connected hard with the dwarf's sooty cheek, sending his head reeling to the side.
"The demons, Hammerfire," she said, doing her best to keep her growing annoyance out of her voice. That dwarf had a descriptive streak she could ill tolerate right now.
Hammerfire barely flinched at the blow.
"Aye, lady…"
Behind the dwarf, one of the orcs mimicked Jaina's action, and his buddy responded with a rather crude trusting movement of his arm. Nazgrel snarled three words in orcish, and the scouts froze on the spot, showing all the shock Hammerfire didn't. Though there were no doubt that Nazgrel had put them in place, something about the exchange bothered Jaina. Ikaiz srul tagga. She tugged the words away for later use, and turned her attention back to Hammerfire, who had regained his composure.
"While they had their fun with Soldrav's group, Rattletail had led his group out of the ruins, and that was not a meeting of old friends," the dwarf said, referring to the leader of the group of demons they had been chasing, a squat creature with a desiccated, sting-adorned tail.
"A lot of hissing and growling, and they get at each other like rams in heat. Those newcomers were fresh in strength, though, and when Rattletail's head went flying, his followers turned meek like kittens. I can't say what happened after that, lady, for it was then the demons turned on us. I swear that we mice in the field, but they sniffed us out anyway. And yes, we were all that made it back." Hammerfire tugged at his beard, and eyed Jaina uneasily.
The sorceress idly tapped her fingers against her chin.
"Those other demons, from precisely which direction did they appear?" she asked.
"South - southeast, lady."
Jaina let out a string of words so caustic that even the two orcish scouts got the gist of it, and turned to stare at her.
"Oh, grow up," she muttered, as the thoughts flew through her mind.
There could only be one explanation as to how that new cadre of demons had slipped past the scouts. It just didn't make any sense. Since they decided to split up the army, she and her troops had swept the lowlands for stragglers, in particular a group of Legion-spawns led by the now-dead Rattletail, a tiresome, but otherwise blessedly uncomplicated affair. Like wolves on the prowl, they had harassed the demons and killed those that fell behind. Easy, bloody work, and when the scouts had reported that the demons, driven into exhaustion, had squatted down in one of the ancient elven ruins that dotted the corrupted forest, Jaina had risked setting camp and earn a few hours of rest. Then nemesis had struck, and gifted her with this waking nightmare, all her worst fears come true. The fiends had made it into the Barrow Dens, and not even the best of Tyrande Whisperwind's maps showed the full extent of that ancient network of tunnels and caves. No wonder Nazgrel's composure had suffered.
So.
She turned abruptly on her heel. "We'd better get back," she told Nazgrel. The raider-captain followed her promptly, letting out a low call as he went. "And you, keep up as best you can," she yelled at the scouts over her shoulder Or die trying.
A forced march was a dreary reward for bringing back such vital information, but there was nothing she could do about it.
Feeling strangely agitated and calm at the same time, Jaina sloshed uphill with a newfound vigor.
"The maps didn't show any tunnels this far in?" she asked, rhetorically. Her memory on anything drawn or written was exceptionally good.
"Not if you trust the priestess' maps, there isn't."
She blinked. No, that was too ridiculous a notion. "Keep your misgivings to yourself, Nazgrel," she snapped. "I trust Whisperwind. Better try and figure out how the demons managed to sneak up on us."
Tongue lolling between one and a half oversized canines, a sand-colored dire wolf came galloping up, to lope easily along at Nazgrel's side. Lacktooth, the beast was aptly named, a resent replacement for the slain wolf whose skin Nazgrel now wore. The orc swung up on Lacktooth's back with that fluid grace Jaina still found amazing when associated with a seven-foot brute in furs, armor and weapons.
"Coming, lady Proudmoore?" he asked, and for a moment, Jaina was sharply reminded of another seven-foot brute, though not in furs, that had given her a rather forced ride. But Nazgrel did not hold out a hand to her, and she knew that there would never be trust, only power, between them. Same race, worlds apart.
Breaking off that train of thoughts, as she felt a stirring she was far from prepared to face, Jaina cast the spell of levitation, the first time in quite some days she had dared, and it was with old joy she felt her feet leave the sloppy ground.
"Let's go."
Merrehen Gildhaft reined in his warhorse, Greysteel, and squared his shoulders like a man expecting bad news, when Jaina arrived at the point of the column with Nazgrel. She came to an easy rest, and hung in mid-air in front of the paladin and his horse.
"My lady," he said, inclining his head.
"To an order well executed," she replied, shifting her position teasingly to hover just above Greysteel's rump. The paladin arched his neck, but didn't rise to the bait. With a shake of her hand, Jaina seated herself squarely behind his saddle.
"The demons have found their way into the Barrow Dens," she said quietly. Gildhaft had enough discipline to remain rooted in the saddle, not displaying any outward anxiety that might infect the troops.
"All our fears have come true, then," was his reply.
"Yes, and now pray to the Light we can catch them before they reach their destination."
"Amen, lady." With those words, he kicked Greysteel into a trot. Jaina abandoned her seat, and took her usual place next to the paladin. There wasn't anything to say. Not before they caught up with the demons.
The rain fell with undiminished strength, rich drops that wetted through even the thickest of oil-cloth, dripped down metal cuirasses and ran along grimly-set jaw-lines. The landscape did not change much, the diseased firs only becoming lower and more decrepit as they moved up the low ridge that separated them from the ruins in which the demons had sheltered.
Slick, mossy stones replaced mud, hardly making progress easier, and when a pack-mule slipped and tumbled down the incline, dragging with it two men and a load of goblin explosives that threatened to set off, Jaina had to encapsulate the poor beast in ice.
"This is going too slow," Nazgrel hissed under his breath, as the column made its precarious way across a tumbling whitewater stream. For once, Jaina was in complete agreement with the orc.
"Merrehen, I think – ghaa!" The paladin's eyes widened in alarm as Jaina suddenly cringed, and clutched at her chest. It felt like her heart was caving in on itself, abandoning hope and leaving behind a dark and cramped space filled with malice and seeping slime. Her lungs cramped, and the magic fled, dropping her heavily to the stony ground.
"Lady Proudmoore!" This time, Jaina did not scold Gildhaft for using his Light-given powers on her. The healing surged through her, and she sucked in a greedy gulp of air.
"What happened?" Gildhaft asked softly, and warded off the nearby soldiers with a swift hand.
"I –," Jaina swallowed. The horrible impulse was gone, as quickly as it had come, and though shaken, her mind was calm. Which meant the attack had not been aimed at her. Oh, Light let me be wrong!
Her hands flew to her belt, and she tore open one of her pouches, and snatched up a piece of crystal. In the murky light and heavy rain, the inside of the stone blazed and flickered like a flame in red and orange. Jaina closed her fingers so tight the flesh turned white, and scrambled to her feet.
"He needs me…"
She cried out the spell, desperately.
"My chieftain have no need of a filthy human!" There was pure loathing in that outcry, poisonous hatred so strong that Jaina instinctively flew into a rage, halted her dematerialization and lashed out.
"Don't you dare order me around! I love whom I want to!" She was hardly aware of what she said, or of the utter shock her words caused. The dream was still lurking in her mind, and the past swam before her eyes.
"Jaina…" His hand moved to cover hers, squeezing ever so gently, just enough to make the thorns prick her skin with the lightest of pains. His face was very close, and his golden hair spilled down to mingle with her own locks, and the colors were as alike as coming from one head. His lips touched hers, and she responded with a wantonness that felt so right she grinned like the proverbial cat in the creamery, and then her hands were free on the rose, as he moved to slide long fingers down her cheeks, down her neck, trailing fire on her skin that charred down through all the layers of flesh and bone and into her heart and mind.
"Jaina… WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?!" Their lips parted and both looked up, Kael paling while she flushed red as a ripe apple. Standing in the open door, filling the frame admirably, was Arthas Menethil, prince of Lordaeron, soon-to-be-knighted, her suitor. His ruggedly handsome features were twisted in open disbelief and then he took a step forward, fist raised.
In the ensuing chaos, the rose got trampled into a purple pulp.
Jaina gritted her teeth. That afternoon had been one of the pivots of her life. Those ruggedly handsome features illuminated by the corpse-fires of Stratholme had been another.
"Dammit, I am trying to save his soul," she spat out, and stared defiantly at the orc and the paladin. A long moment passed, and then Gildhaft simply shook his head, clearly washing his hands on the matter. Go, his stance said, go to your foolish needs, and leave the troops to me.
Jaina looked at him incredulously. Foolish? She was going to regret her hasty words later, but there was only one fool here. Could Gildhaft not see that while they might win this battle without Thrall, there could be no lasting peace in this new land without him?
Fool, indeed.
"No, Merrehen," she said tightly. "I know my place and my powers. You walk the troops, and I'll serve those demons on a silver platter when you get there. Nazgrel! I'll need your speed."
The orc's jaw tensed almost imperceptible. His aversion was palpable, but Jaina leaned in and muttered: "He'll be lost."
That settled it. Levitating, Jaina grabbed hold of Nazgrel's shoulder, and pretended not to notice how he shuddered at the contact. Then Lacktooth was running flat out, and there was only the wind in her face.
The ruins were painted with blood. The thick, dark demon-blood clung to the age-pitted stones in great spatters, and torn bodies were sprawled around like rag dolls. An acrid stench hung about the place. Jaina sniffed – the smell blotted out the moist rot of the surrounding woods, and it was almost a relief. Other things, in particular the arrangement in front of her, had her on the verge of hysterical laughter.
"This is a mockery." Nazgrel's sense of humor clearly didn't stretch as wide as hers.
"At least we know for sure which way they went," Jaina said lightly. "Let's go."
The decapitated head of Rattletail was staked to the ground, and a human hand was stuffed into the wide, toothy mouth, and one finger pointed due south.
As shown by his sandy coat, Lacktooth was native to the plains of Kalimdor. The wolf had a leaner build and sleeker fur than the white dire wolves from the Alterac Mountains that Thrall's clan had brought over the sea. And while Lacktooth could outpace any frost-wolf on level ground, he wasn't as big-pawed or sure-footed. Unfortunately, the wolf compensated with a recklessness that would have suited a demented troll, and while she was grateful for the speed, Jaina would be even more grateful if she survived this trip with her arms intact. Clinging to Nazgrel's shoulder-harness for dear life, she felt like a banner caught in a storm – Lacktooth changed direction with an abruptness that pulled on her arms so she feared they would be ripped from their sockets.
Despite the messy weather, she caught glimpses of dark smears on ground and trees, trampled vegetation, and once Lacktooth jumped a prone figure, horned and green-furred.
"That was a satyr!" she yelled into Nazgrel's ear. "But – we haven't fought them for days…" Suddenly, it clicked. They had indeed met and fought some of Sai'Arihaso's more savage relatives when they had doubled back to cover more ground. The satyrs had laired in a deep complex of caves, and the creatures had been most tedious to clear out. Down there, in the damp darkness, they had missed a tunnel, a connection to unknown passages that the demons had exploited to sneak in unnoticed.
"Watch out!"
"Wha –" Steel flashed, and a winged body flapped past her with a shriek. Gargoyle! She pushed back from Nazgrel's shoulder, and rolled with the movement, just in time to avoid a sweeping claw. Another dark shape hurtled out of the rain, and in a surge of adrenalin, she punched it in the face with a blast of arcane energy. Screeching, the gargoyle latched on to her in a tight embrace, and they tumbled through the air while the magic ate its way through stony flesh. Jaina hissed in pain as her back was raked by claws, but her concentration held, and the gargoyle soon ceased struggling.
In desperation, she untangled from the heavy carcass, and came to a hard stop against the trunk of a tall tree. Panting, she clutched at the rough bark, distantly aware of her own warm blood running down her back, and tried to get her bearing. Except for the dead gargoyle five feet below her, she was alone at the base of a small, rocky knoll. Tall firs, their feathery branches swaying in the strong wind, formed ominous silhouettes against the dark sky.
Jaina suddenly narrowed her eyes as she pulled a small vial of healing from her belt, and quickly chugged it down. The familiar feel of warmth spread with a rather bitter reminder of the saying that wetting your pants is a lousy way to keep warm. She had forgotten to restock on healing potions, and she had a good feel she was going to pay for that bit of forgetfulness.
Gingerly, she stepped into the shadow cast by the knoll, and her heart skipped a beat. A dark hole bigger than a well yawned in front of her, beckoning, mocking. The upturned soil was filled with smeared prints from clawed feet. To Jaina's untrained eye, it looked like the tracks led into the hole. So how much of a lead did the demons have? The sorceress stood in the rain, unsure of how to proceed. The assault bothered her. While the gargoyle had been out for blood, she had a nasty suspicion that she had been brought here on purpose. Only she.
Very well, she was sick and tired of playing tag.
"You're a big boy, Nazgrel. Take care," she muttered, held out her hand, and said: "Zhia'zhyyre." A glistening, vaguely man-like shape condensed out of the pouring rain. Broad bands of green glass set with blue cabochon stones encircled the massive arms, symbols of submission, and two slits of pale fire stared at Jaina.
"We have a mission," she said, and the water elemental inclined its head once. It was said that most elementals had no mind, and little understanding for the wants of warm-blooded creatures, but Jaina had taken a fancy to her elemental, even so far as naming it in old elvish.
With the elemental in front, Jaina scrambled down the tunnel with her senses strained to the utmost. The first part of the tunnel was raw earth, and so sharply angled she had to use her hands to break her descent, but after some 20 feet it leveled out, widened and became rock.
There was rubble on the tunnel floor. Jaina guessed that the demons had broken through a dead-end, and dug the last part of the tunnel from the below.
She shuddered. The whole forest was potentially holed-through like a cheese. There was several life-times worth of work down here. Not to mention other things… Old lore told of ancient beings of immense power that ruled the world before time began. And told of the coming of the Titans, shapers of the all, and the gigantic struggles by which they drove the ancient powers into the earth, to fester and rage in eternal darkness. Gnawing like worms through the bed-rock, no place safe – ah, what was she doing? Jaina bit down hard on the inside of her cheek, drawing blood, to derail her mind.
The only light was the faint glow coming from Zhia'zhyyre's armbands, but Jaina could have made her way in total darkness. There was old magic in this place, refined and honed through millennia, deeply etched into the rocks, and to her, it stood out like a fine tracery of silver.
And she needed no light because the stench of evil was so strong it made her head hurt.
She rounded a bend, and stopped. The tunnel expanded into a high-vaulted cave, from which many other tunnels radiated out. The floor was a hedgehog's back of stalagmites and she could hear running water up ahead. The place practically twinkled with magic, and Jaina let out an exasperated sigh. She could not determine which way the demons had gone. She would have to back-track and wait for the troops. Thrall, don't do anything I wouldn't do, I beg of you.
She turned around.
Fire broiled down from the ceiling and engulfed Zhia'zhyyre in a heat so intense the elemental exploded in a shower of scalding water. In defense, Jaina raised a shield of freezing air, and the water turned to ice that broke on the cavern floor.
"I am admiring, and I am content," came a low, completely inhuman voice from above. Jaina whipped her gaze up, and fell back in shock, nearly tripping herself. What was clinging to the stalactites above her was like nothing she had ever met before, and it was not the wonder of an unknown horizon or the new taste of an exotic treat. No, it was peeking through fingers when the criminals where tortured in the town square, cracking an egg and finding a dead chicken.
Jaina had seen death and decay before, but this scaffold of veins and organs placed like no anatomy she knew of, and held together by pinkish-yellow stretches of transparent skin filled her with nausea. The eyes, silvery-red and large as a man's fist, seemed to hook into her heart and pull her towards a hungry maw. Such hunger… it was crushing, and unbearable.
"W – who are y-you?" she managed to gasp.
"I am left behind, I am hollow, and I am hungering," was the answer.
"Hollow…" she breathed. "Hollow One." Her heart was leaden, and her body felt like it was being peeled away. This terrifying specter was the very thing that had snug into their minds and spread its poison. A being that could affect thousands of people, drive demons to insanity and corrupt evil, and here she stood – silly little girl that thought she could take on the whole world alone. Silly little girl that did not have the decency to lover properly. Hands had strayed, and her skirts had been too high-slitted and her bodice too low. Silly girl… A lover of princes, all three of them…
"You, I am liking, him I am breaking. Go to him, do liking, and after, come to me." The eyes rolled and spun and Jaina had an impression of silent, self-satisfactory laughter.
"Go, and come back. Even more to me, in the cave under trees and iron." She was released, and staggered away from the hungering presence, and the memories it invoked in her, and right now she would willingly have swum back to Lordaeron, if only to get away. But luckily, she had a much easier option. For the first time in her life, Jaina jumped blind.
Leaves brushed against her cheek, and the sudden return of the lashing rain and howling wind was a revitalizing shock to her senses. She was back outside, sprawled against a fallen fir-tree, and her left leg throbbed unpleasantly, but the dark sky above her was such a relief she almost cried.
Fire fell from the sky.
Jaina watched, wide-eyed, as greenish fire-balls trailed across the grey clouds.
"Oh no," she whispered. "Oh no, no… You don't need to, please, I will come –" She jumped up, but the moment she put weight on her left leg, it felt like it was cleaved down the middle.
With a thin whimper, she fell on her side, one hand raving at her leg, the other hand clawing at the ground. Mercifully, the pain receded before she passed out and Jaina could dare a look at her leg.
Bloody splinters protruded from just below her knee, surrounded by raw, rain-washed flesh. The rest of the branch was still attached to the fir. It had broken when she had moved, and she supposed she was damn lucky it hadn't gone any worse. It was a staple in the initiation of first-year students at the Citadel to get casually pointed out certain suspiciously human-like structures in walls and floors. Teleportation was a precarious art.
A fire-ball roared overhead, so close her skin singed, and hit the forest floor in an inferno of flames. From this miniature hell, a giant unfolded and began to lumber east-ward. Away from her and towards the coming troops.
Gritting her teeth, Jaina propped herself up against the tree, one inch at a time. She didn't care anymore. She couldn't save them. She retrieved the crystal beacon, and began to chant.
"Proudmoore, stop!" Like vengeful spirits, Nazgrel and Lacktooth raced out of the flames.
"You gonna stop me?" she flung at him, more than ready for another battle. Smoke drifted between them and the flickering light of the greedy flames sent shadows dancing over fur and wounds and teeth.
"No. Take me with you."
She smiled. She had won. Ultimately, Nazgrel served Thrall, not the Horde. Decision taken, he reached out and pulled her onto the back of the exhausted Lacktooth.
The sounds of distant battle were barely audible above the roar of the fire, the crackling and booming of trees collapsing and exploding in the supernatural heat. The greenish flames of the infernal were slowly disappearing as the demon did its master's command.
"Cast the spell, human."
She did so, and happily, the words running over her lips like a string of pearls. The magic gripped them, and hurtled them through the darkness.