Chapter Text
Thunder rolling across stormy clouds; waves crashing against the storm silver hull; these form her mantra as she concentrates. The sailors on her flagship knew to leave her be in her cabin for the duration of the voyage. They busied themselves tending to the sails straining against the unnatural winds that drove the fleet forward. The masts of every ship groaned and creaked endlessly as the boats themselves voiced their complaints to her pushing them ever faster.
Jaina Proudmoore, Lord Admiral of Kul-Tiras, did not care.
She cared for her people, for the Alliance, and for victories against the Horde – whatever that meant these days. Her ships could suffer a little to deliver their cargo as fast as possible: Soldiers, food, ammunition, medical supplies and Azerite weapons in quantities too massive or volatile to move with magic alone.
Azerite especially was the focus of this new war with the Horde. The supposed ‘life blood’ of the planet manifested as a liquid or mineral with a golden glow, fading to azure at its edges. In typical fashion, the first thing all arcane researchers noticed was its vast energy capacity and potential for use in enchantments, as a fuel source … and as a weapon.
The war for control of the substance began almost immediately.
The burning of the Night Elves’ home and the subsequent destruction of the Undercity at Lordaeron left the Alliance and Horde in control of their respective continents and without any true adjoining borders. Their skirmishes thus fell to the islands between – islands rich in Azerite.
Kul-Tiras, a nation formed of precisely such isles, now functioned as the staging area for the Alliance war effort. It meant a large influx of gold and trade to bolster her beleaguered peoples’ economy and spirits, and constant use of her powerful fleet.
The orders of the day never truly changed: Claim new islands, fortify defenses; mine and transport Azerite. Skirmish with the fleets of Zandalar, an island nation of trolls that meant to the Horde what Kul-Tiras did to the Alliance. Assault islands under Horde control, stealing their Azerite stocks as possible. Rally to the defense of islands attacked by the Horde, saving the Azerite and as many soldiers as possible.
That last part rankled in Jaina’s mind. Saving the Azerite, as though it was the soldiers who sprouted fully-grown from the ground while the stupid rock was grown lovingly in a mother’s arms for two decades. How many champions and friends had she already lost to endless years of battle?
The halo of energy around her staff surged in response to her emotion, followed by the chilling crackle of wood pushed just a little too far. In the mirror on the far wall, she caught sight of her blue eyes aglow with power more suited to the battlefield than the mere moving of ships.
Closing them, she forced herself to be calm, to immerse herself in her surroundings: Every window was open, and a salty breeze ruffled the sheets on her bed. An adventurous sparrow sat right in front of her at the table, the unapologetic stowaway happily devouring the crumbs of her small lunch. She balanced her staff in her lap, then gathered her long hair and began to braid it, the rote action stealing the last of her anger.
She felt much like her hair these days. Overexposure to mana had bleached the color from it, leaving just a single lock of her original blonde along the front. The rest was a bright, shocking white that made her look far older than her thirty-some years of life.
She felt much, much older.
From the naïve and lovestruck girl who apprenticed herself to an archmage; to a refugee, the founder of a nation and a traitor to her own, complicit in her own father’s death; to the sole voice of peace between Alliance and Horde; to the bitter sorceress, now an archmage in her own right, avenging her fallen nation upon that same Horde; and now, returned to her homeland, convicted, pardoned, and named its leader.
Lord Admiral.
Yes, she felt old. But her mother’s embrace and forgiveness brought a spark of light to her darkened heart. The reconciliation eased her pain and gave her some of her old hope that the world might yet right itself.
Perhaps it would – but not if the Alliance valued minerals over lives.
No, breathe. You’re casting, silly girl. Brooding while casting means overloaded mana constructs, broken masts and scared sailors. Be good.
“Land ho!” came the cry from the crow’s nest, and with it a flood of relief. The trip was almost over. The ship turned slightly as the captain adjusted his course and Jaina shifted her working, allowing the winds to match. They’d spend a day just offshore unloading troops and supplies, and then make for home laden with raw Azerite and men and women eager to see their families.
A smile tugged at her features, thoughts of a warm dinner and perhaps a nap banishing her bad mood. They had arrived a full two days ahead of schedule – perhaps in payment she could spend those days relaxing and return on schedule instead.
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To Sylvanas Windrunner, boredom and sailing went hand in hand. When she lived, she had been a creature of the forest; a swift hunter and scout, rising to the title of Ranger-General of Silvermoon. There had always been something to do, somewhere to go, something – or someone – to hunt.
Death stole from her much of her joy and comforts. Pain, pleasure, hunger, thirst, lust, breathing… all taken from her. Her golden hair now lay limp and pale, her features gaunt and grey. Her blood no longer sang in her ears, her heart silent as the grave. If she strained she could make out the faint hum of the death magic that permeated her being, but that was it.
Her only joy now lay in duty – the preservation of those transformed like her by the Lich King. She gathered them to her — her Forsaken. She was their Dark Lady; the Banshee Queen. She nurtured them, protected them. Grew them. Enemies in life would serve her in death.
That protection now extended to the entirety of the Horde. They called her ‘Warchief’ now; they all followed her lead, even if reluctantly. It did not matter to her if they could not see the plans that lay behind her seemingly-wanton cruelty. It certainly did not matter if her decisive actions impinged upon their misguided sense of ‘honor.’ All that mattered is that they served her so that she could protect them. The loyal that fell in the line of duty would rise and serve again.
A rare smile found its way to her lips, her iridescent eyes sparkling a slight crimson as her emotions roused. Honor, history, balance, love, freedom, power, wars, even this Azerite that made such beautifully destructive weapons; none of it mattered. In the end, everything died and wasted away. In the end, everyone became fuel for her Val’kyr necromancers.
In the end, everything and everyone would come to her. Everyone would serve.
Her eyes glowed brighter as she processed this thought. Was she stuck in some perverted loop from her Ranger-General days, committed to serving her people even if she knew only hate? Did she take such pains to grow the ranks of undead just to fuel that desperate need to protect someone, to have someone – anyone – need her?
Yes. Probably. Undeath was its own special torment, after all. Sanity was a thing for the living. After all, a sane leader would also remain well behind the ranks, rather than risk themselves just for the sake of some sport.
But she was not sane. She was, if anything, bored.
Pushing forward silently on enchantments, its sails tightly furled, the Windrunner made no noise above the regular crashing of waves. Running no lights, it slipped along the water like a shadow, its undead crew motionless as the rails they held. Other Horde ships would be visible, the battle they waged predictable. Hers was the flanking ship; the sneak attack to ensure victory and an easy retreat from the island ahead of them.
Stolen Alliance correspondence put their next shipment in two days’ time. By the time Alliance vessels reached the harbor, they’d find their camp in ruins, their people dead and the Azerite gone. Another swift victory, some fun for herself and her Dark Rangers, and another feather in her cap to silence the persistent whispers that questioned her leadership of the Horde.
Finding the origin of those rumors was as simple as looking in the mirror. Even Nathanos, her most dedicated Forsaken Champion, had balked when she’d ordered the world tree Teldrassil burned when they sacked Darnassus. A terrible command to give, with consequences the world would no doubt suffer.
Hindsight, as is often the case, proved her at least partially right. The loss of Darnassus and the world tree sent the Kal’dorei and Gilnean survivors fleeing to Stormwind. The night elves’ retreat robbed the Alliance of a secure staging area on Kalimdor, securing the continent and its Azerite for the Horde. Now the race was on to secure the remaining deposits scattered across the islands. There was precious little of the material in the Eastern Kingdoms themselves according to her spies; decisive naval victories would guarantee the military superiority of the Horde for decades at the least.
Of course, naval victories against the Kul-Tiran and Alliance fleets were hard-won. Even with Zandalar’s ships, the enemy had a slight advantage in terms of pure fleet power. The key lay in gathering useful intelligence and executing swift, precise operations that avoided engaging the fleet directly and keeping their Lord Admiral busy and passive.
As the ship turned towards the island the setting sun pierced the shadows of her room for a moment, bathing her in its light. A fleeting memory of warmth flickered at the back of her mind – an afternoon stroll through the trees along the northern shore of Quel’Thalas.
It was gone as quickly as it came. The shadows enveloped her again, and the ship continued its silent course toward land.
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“All’s proceeding apace, Lord Admiral,” the captain said from beside her. Jaina favoured him with a smile and turned her attention back out over the harbour as he made his way below deck.
“Fifth run this month,” a sailor on the docks muttered.
“Aye, Lor’ Am’ral’s magics’re strong,” another commented. “Good thing the ships’re plated, the way she cuts the waves.”
Someone voiced their agreement as the group walked off, cargo in tow. Jaina closed her eyes, thanking the Light, the Tidemother, and anyone else who cared to be listening. Not too long ago, it was nothing but ‘Daughter of the Sea’ comments from a people used to thinking of her as Kul-Tiras’ most notorious criminal. That had died off rather quickly, but she’d had a slew of awkward conversations with sailors she’d just as soon forget.
The footfalls of someone approaching with purpose drew her away from her thoughts. Jaina straightened and adjusted her cloak, then turned —
“Mishan?”
The woman in question gave a slight bow, then joined Jaina at the ship’s rail. “Lord Admiral. How are you today?”
“I’m … well, I think. Obviously distracted if I didn’t notice you were captaining one of my ships. But I thought you were with Tandred. What are you doing out here?”
“Getting some fresh air.” Mishan looked to Jaina, then quickly away. “Thinking.”
“Must be some heavy thinking to require a trip to the frontlines,” Jaina joked, grasping for some levity. Her brother, Tandred, took their mother’s tale at face value and welcomed Jaina home with open arms; her dramatic summoning of his lost fleet back to Boralus Harbour played no small part in that. Her brother’s not-so-secret lover was highly protective of him, however. An influential captain in the Kul-Tiras navy, Mishan Waycrest was a little slower to warm to her than most. Jaina marked it as progress that Mishan approached her at all.
The woman stared back at her, dark eyes through dark locks. Jaina silently congratulated Tandred on choosing a strong woman.
“Your brother’s going to propose,” Mishan offered eventually. “I saw the ring.”
“That’s wonderful!” Jaina gushed, a giddy happiness blossoming. “This is amazing news!” She clasped her hands together, bouncing in place and just barely restraining herself from hugging her soon-to-be sister-in-law. They weren’t at hugging yet.
“It is, yes.” The wan smile Mishan gave stole some of Jaina’s joy and replaced it with concern.
“Are you not ready for that? You seem less than enthused.”
The captain blew out a sigh, looking back out at the ocean. “I love Tandred,” she said eventually. “I love him more than any other. But I’m not ready to give up my life on the waves.” Mishan gestured towards Jaina in a you-know sort of way. “If we get married, Tan’ll expect a child sooner or later. I…”
Oh. Oh.
Mishan went silent as memories good and bad assaulted Jaina. The pain of recollection warred with her desire to bond with her almost-sister. Fighting through the swamp of her emotions, Jaina found her voice again.
“The last time I contemplated children, Tandred was still a child himself…” she paused, drawing a steadying breath, “…and I loved Arthas with all my heart.”
Mishan whipped her head around to look at her again, eyes wide. Jaina offered her a rueful smile. One just didn’t mention the name of the former Lich King so casually, even if they were once your lover.
“I remember Arthas. The simple joy of riding together, the quiet agony of first love. I remember Theramore, the hope and joy of the people as they helped build the city; those were probably the best years of my life.” She brushed a tear away and focused her power on a quick spell to dry her eyes and prevent her crying. “Life… Life moves quickly, Mishan. Don’t let it pass you by. There will never be a moment where you’ll truly be ready; and then all the moments will be gone.”
The hug was small; Mishan stepped forward and tucked her chin over Jaina’s shoulder, placing one hand against her waist. Jaina wrapped her arms carefully around the captain and swayed gently, and moments passed as one wrestled with the present while the other mourned the past.
“This calls for whiskey at the very least,” Mishan said as she broke away. “Join me with the boys? There’s bound to be some drink and food in the mess.”
“Of course,” Jaina laughed, taking Mishan’s arm. “That sounds wonderful.”
---== {(0)} ==---
“My Queen,” Nathanos called, drawing Sylvanas’ attention from the map in front of her. “Mages from the strike fleet have sent word. They are now close enough to begin their run on the Alliance docks. They are hidden from view just around the north lip of the cove, right on schedule.”
Sylvanas nodded; that was the first step complete. The glow of early dawn touched the treetops of the island, giving them a golden sheen. “What of our position?” she asked, her voice betraying its deadly potential with its unnatural reverberation.
“The captain assures me we are less than thirty minutes away. We will be shielded by the southern lip until the final run. The lookouts report no scout sightings or watch towers away from the encampment in keeping with previous intelligence.”
Step two complete. “Good. The crews are briefed?”
“They are aware: We will engage the ships that sail to meet our attack, surprising them and flanking to prevent escape. Once the Alliance ships are destroyed, we will make immediately for shore while the rest of our fleet bombards the Alliance camp.”
Everything was ready. Sylvanas gave her champion a grin, her fangs catching the limited light in the room. “Then send the signal, Nathanos. Let us begin.”
Nathanos bowed and left, and Sylvanas stood and retrieved her bow, stringing it with a careless flex of her arms. Her hunt would begin soon.
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The sound of an alarm bell jolted Jaina from sleep. “To arms!” called a guard’s voice. “Horde ships on the horizon! To arms!”
“Shit,” Jaina cursed as she rolled out of her bed, calling up familiar spells as she walked. One step and her hair braided itself neatly; another and oils and sweat purged themselves from her face, a touch of makeup applied to her eyes and mouth. Two more steps and her leather boots, leggings and corset solidified, sliding along her skin and tightening into place even as her nightgown vanished into the ether. Her cloak and pauldrons appeared next, draping around her as the leather straps fastened themselves with a series of clicks.
She strode out of her cabin into the chaos of sailors stumbling from sleep to prep the ship, a sweeping figure in the blues and whites of Theramore parting the Kul-Tiran sea of green and bronze worn by her crew.
“Captain Robards,” she called to the man as she climbed the stairs to the quarterdeck. “What’s going on?”
“We have a Horde fleet incoming, Lord Admiral,” he growled, working an enchanted spyglass. “Three orcish, four Zandalari.” He snapped the spyglass closed and turned to face her. “They’re all sitting heavy in the water – shore parties for certain.”
Jaina gestured for room, then sent spell threads out to each of her ships. Several portals opened at once, and the captains all stepped through in varying degrees of preparedness. A mixed chorus of “Lord Admiral” and “Lady Proudmoore” greeted her as they arranged themselves in a rough semi-circle. Mishan smiled at her.
“Fleet of seven incoming,” she said as the portals closed, returning Mishan’s smile quickly. “Obviously a strike at the outpost. Strategy?”
Eyes turned to Robards, the senior captain in the fleet. “We can defend the docks with the three Stormwind ships stationed here and keep them out of cannon range of the shore. Then, with your permission, our five ships are better armed and armored; we can sail to meet them and take them in a skirmish.”
“If I may,” Mishan said, “I’d appreciate if you remained on shore, Lady Jaina. We have capable enough mages on our ships, and with you near the docks you could call any damaged ships back behind the Stormwind blockade to minimize our losses.”
Jaina frowned for a moment but nodded. It made sense; she was unfamiliar with their tactics and the specific spells the captains would expect. Live combat was not the place to learn.
“Very well,” she said. “I’ll watch for flares, then?”
The captains all agreed, and Jaina reopened the portals to their ships.
“We’ll handle them, Lord Admiral!” Mishan said as she stepped through her portal. “Come on, boys,” she called to her crew, “let’s make ‘em regret being born!”
The portals closed and Robards saluted her before walking off. Jaina made her way back to the main deck. She passed by her ships’ Tidesage as she made her way to the boarding ramp.
“Tides bless you, Lady,” the woman said, a gnarly hand reaching out to hold hers. The unusual contact shocked Jaina, but she gave the woman’s hand a comforting squeeze, her response already flowing from her young years amongst them.
“Tidemother keep you, sister.”
The grip on her hand tightened like a vise. “The depths whisper strange things,” she said, leaning close to Jaina. “So often now they call for death and violence. The studies of your young years are gone, Lady. The tides hold naught but danger for you now.”
The old woman raised her sight, a far-off, alien look that whispered secrets just beyond hearing to her arcane senses.
“Beware your anger,” the Tidesage whispered. “They will use it against you, Lady. They know you. They know.”
Jaina held the gaze, reaching in vain for the whispers as they danced beyond her perception. With a sigh, she closed her eyes and took the woman’s hand in both of hers. “Thank you for your wisdom, sister. Please help me see to the safety of our sailors.”
The old Tidesage smiled kindly, apparently satisfied. She released Jaina’s hands with a final squeeze and reached up to pat her cheek, repeating her blessings before turning away. Jaina hurried across the boarding ramp and made her way to the encampment’s watch tower, soldiers scurrying around her.
But now, wary and warned, she kept her ear on the rhythm of the tides, struggling to recall the lessons of her youth long buried beneath her formal training.
---== {(0)} ==---
Sylvanas heard the rustle of the lookout’s clothing and the adjustment of the spyglass far above her before anything. Then, a deep breath and: “Warchief, there are ships leaving the docks!”
Sylvanas smiled – right on time. The ships stationed here represented no real threat; at worst they’d try to make a run for it. At best they’d make a stand and die quickly once she maneuvered in behind them. They were just rounding into the cove now. Her fingers played with the arrow already nocked in her bow.
“Two – no, three! They’re at half-sail, circling around!”
A blockade, then? Bold of them, considering the number of ships approaching. Her smile lessened slightly as flickers of irritation ate at her mood. This was unexpected behavior.
“More ships, Warchief! Five at full sail! Kul-Tiran ships of the line! Green sails and silver prows!”
“Damn it!” she cursed, the power in her voice throwing an unsuspecting crewman to the ground as she spun around. Already her mind wheeled through tactics. A flanking tactic was pointless now; she’d be blown out of the water before inflicting any damage. Five warships would make mincemeat of her fleet. There would be no naval victory, but the Azerite was a priority.
“Captain! Bring us about and take us away from the cove and ashore quickly! Full sail! Use every spell you can! Nathanos, get a message off to the other ships to disengage; they should remain at a distance unless I order otherwise. Once we reach shore, we will set up a portal between the ships and unload troops.”
“Yes, Warchief!” the captain shouted, barking orders and setting the crew into motion.
Nathanos approached, a lich beside him muttering communication spells. “What of our surprise attack, my Queen? Could we not board and dismantle whatever ships are in the blockade before the Kul-Tiran ships can come about?”
Sylvanas thought only a moment before shaking her head. “We cannot. The presence of the Kul-Tiran fleet means our own ships are unlikely to fare well. Even if we remove the blockade they may not even make landfall.
“No. We must first reach the shore, then we can amass a proper assault. Once we have scouts on the ground, we can determine flanking options. The forests will be our ally more so than the waves at this point.”
“I shall see to it,” Nathanos said, turning to speak to the Lich.
Sylvanas stowed the dangling arrow and stalked back to her cabin. Her hunt was now a good hour off again; her frustration exuded from her eyes, bathing the walls in a dull crimson glow.
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“Lady Proudmoore, the Horde is routing!” shouted the watchman, a Sergeant Molson. Jaina lacked his spyglass, but she could see their sails as they turned about and ran, mages or shamans clearly augmenting the ships’ speed.
Jaina rubbed her furrowed brow. “What tactic is this? They don’t gain anything from it. Are they just retreating?”
“Didn’t expect you here, I’d imagine,” Sargent Molson said, still following the action. “You were early, after all.”
“So, we have a security leak.” Jaina sighed as weariness crept up her bones again. Blind luck and her sour mood had apparently saved this island. “One more thing to add to the pile of things to do.”
But the Tides whispered. She made no sense of their mutterings, but that did not matter. They whispered, and she heard; and she had a great many ways with which to gain insight.
Relaxing her vision, Jaina pulled at her mana and began threading together a farsight spell. The watchtower faded around her as she cast her sight across the harbor, then the surrounding forests. Higher and higher she climbed, striving for the birds-eye-view that she needed to make sense of things. She saw the Horde fleet, a mixture or orcish and Zandalari vessels. She saw the Kul-Tiran fleet as they gave chase and the Stormwind blockade outside the docks. She saw the soldiers as they fortified the base perimeter of the camp, setting up blockades and fortifications around the dockside buildings in case any forces made landfall. Higher and higher she went, reaching for the clouds, then looking down.
Along the coast to the south, a lone Forsaken ship sat with its skull-shaped prow beached, its crew pouring across the sands and into the forest. Jaina swooped down, racing towards the ship. Scores of undead; mostly warriors, some Dark Rangers, a few casters, and…
And behind them, the crimson gaze of a dead elven woman whose identity could never be mistaken, blackened trails of tears burned permanently into her greyed, scowling face.
Sylvanas Windrunner was here!
The distraction left her unfocused and her spell work collapsed, pulling at her mana pool. She stumbled forward with a painful gasp, momentarily blinded.
“Lady Proudmoore?”
Jaina felt strong hands at her waist and shoulder, steadying her. She stumbled clumsily until she found the railing and leaned heavily on it.
“Lady Proudmoore, are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” she mumbled, annoyed at the black spots still blocking her vision. “I saw what I needed to see. We have an attack to the south of the base. We’ll need reinforcements.”
“But you just brought us more soldiers, Lady Proudmoore!” Sergeant Molson protested. “Surely, we have enough to repel them?”
“The Warchief is here, Sergeant. This is no ordinary attack.”
Colour drained from the man’s face as he saluted. “Yes, ma’am! I’ll tell the Major right away!”
Jaina carefully made her way down the stairs in the wake of the panicked soldier and out into the center of the base, mindful of her spotty sight. The appearance of the Warchief was a serious threat. Sylvanas Windrunner was both unhinged and a brilliant tactician, and Jaina did not feel remotely secure in her position. There was no better counter to the threat of a Windrunner than another Windrunner. With luck, she could facilitate exactly that.
Reaching for her power again, she fell into an easy portal spell, her pattern worming across space to Boralus. When she felt her destination, she willed the tendril of energy to expand. Like a curtain parting to a stage, reality itself opened. Taking one step forward, Jaina crossed from the sandy dirt of the camp to the cobblestone of her home city. The familiar cold, humid air rushed across her face and body like a bucket of water.
“Soldier!” Jaina called, waving to the nearest person wearing Alliance blues. “Fetch me Alleria Windrunner, or whoever’s in charge of the Alliance garrison! Hurry!” As the woman saluted and rushed off, Jaina repeated a similar order to a Kul-Tiran guard, who rushed off towards the Proudmoore barracks. Her messages sent, she tried to relax and focus on the portal.
“Lady Jaina, you sent for me?”
Alleria Windrunner shared family traits with her sister the Warchief. Thin, aristocratic features and a symmetrical beauty almost painful to look at directly. Alleria, however, was alive: Long, blond hair in loose curls; pale skin unmarked by over a thousand years of life; arcane energy dancing in her eyes. She had been a hero to the Alliance the entirety of Jaina’s life and likely would long after, too.
At another time Jaina would surely draw Alleria into conversation, hoping to sound like the learned scholar she was and not the starstruck child she must certainly be in this woman’s eyes. But the impending battle made that impossible now – something that Jaina found rather irritating.
“Sylvanas is attacking the island I was resupplying,” Jaina said bluntly. “She’s there right now, and I need reinforcements.”
The soft glow of Alleria’s eyes focused to a dangerous gleam. Her shoulders squared, and her long ears stood straight and turned slightly back in anger. Jaina was somewhat tall for a human woman; as a quel’dorei-born elf, Alleria stood a few inches shorter than Jaina herself. But as she donned the guise of the Ranger-General, a woman who’d fought a thousand years and more across this world and others, she seemed to grow ten feet tall.
She was inspiring, intimidating, and captivating.
“Hold the portal, Lady Jaina. I’ll rally everyone I can.”
Then she turned and stalked off, her forest-green cloak billowing out behind her.
With a deep breath, she turned her attention away from admiring the retreating elf and stepped back through the portal to wait.
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“There is a portal open in the courtyard,” the lich beside Sylvanas stated, lost in his farsight. Another stood nearby holding a portal to the Horde ships as warriors poured out in a parade of foul language and clanking armor. “A mage is holding it open and Alliance reinforcements are coming through.”
“Show me.”
With a gesture, the Lich conjured an illusion in the air beside him, matching his vision. Sylvanas’ ears pinned backwards as she snarled.
“Jaina Proudmoore. Fuck.”
The grass and shrubs behind the illusion moved with the force of her voice, kicking up a small cloud of dust. The lich stepped away from her, its exposed ribs quivering slightly in fear. He held the illusion well, though, and Sylvanas glared at the image of a much-hated enemy.
Behind her, the noise of the soldiers lessened considerably, and soft footsteps that could only be a Dark Ranger approached.
“My Queen, all of our soldiers are here and ready,” Nathanos said as he came to stand beside her. His eyes narrowed, glowing like embers as he scrutinized the image.
“Take half the rangers and all the other troops, but leave me the Forsaken,” Sylvanas decided. “I will be the smaller initial strike. Scout the terrain as best you can. Wait a full two minutes after I strike before starting your own. Be swift.”
Nathanos nodded but continued to stare at the image, stroking his dark goatee in a habit he kept from his living days. His eyes darting around at the Alliance troops organizing themselves. “Should we not strike in force? They have an impressive force now.”
“The heart of the issue is the woman holding their portal. She alone is worth a division of soldiers.”
Nathanos scowled. “Proudmoore is a diplomat at heart, not a warrior. We can easily outmaneuver her.”
The urge to strike out at Nathanos was great; in her frustration she very nearly did. As it was, the man took a step back and bowed, recognizing the increasing glow in her eyes as a threat. Clearly, he chose not to remember exactly now powerful the mage was.
Once, Proudmoore had marched alone from her newly-destroyed city to the Horde capital of Orgrimmar, an army of water elementals at her command. Only a desperate appeal to her virtues by a former Warchief and Proudmoore’s then-lover had prevented her from drowning everyone.
Then only months ago, Proudmoore almost single-handedly won the Battle of Lordaeron, flying in on a warship she had enchanted and using its cannons and her magic to rout the Horde, freezing her unleashed Blight to the ground and killing scores of soldiers with each volley. With the Blight’s threat neutralized, their walls in ruins and a great number of them dead, the Alliance army had crushed their defenses and swarmed the Undercity. The actions of one woman had chased Sylvanas from her home.
Sylvanas understood Proudmoore’s rage; the rage of betrayal. It resonated very closely with her own. She would never underestimate that rage and the power the woman could bring to bear. But she also wanted vengeance.
“Proudmoore has already noticed us and summoned help, Nathanos. It would be foolish in the extreme to think her unprepared. No, our only advantage now is that they are still gathering while we are ready to strike.
“Go. Quickly. She is distracted and must maintain her portal; she will focus on me and be unprepared for you.”
“Of course, my Queen.”
She and Nathanos quickly divided the troops, and then Nathanos commandeered a lich and transported his forces to the north. In seconds, there was silence as her undead Forsaken stared at her in fear and adoration. This was no simple raid, but an attack in which many of them would die a True Death, unable to be raised again – and they knew that.
“This is no longer a fight for resources,” she said, pacing back and forth in front of them. “This is now a fight for revenge! The bitch that cost us our Undercity is here, my Forsaken!”
Loud grumbles and curses echoed through the air.
“Jaina Proudmoore is more than just a symbol to the Alliance; Jaina Proudmoore IS the Alliance! Their leaders are weak, and their armies wounded, Blighted and frail. Their fleets are reliant on her power and leadership! Without her, they are nothing! Kill Proudmoore and we win this war! Whoever brings me her head will know great rewards!”
Cheers and shouts erupted, eager boasts and promises! “I shall, my Queen!” “She is dead, Dark Lady!” “She will not survive!”
The lich still near to her glanced up from his scrying and tapped her on the shoulder; Nathanos was in position. It was time.
“We are ready! Dark Rangers to the front! Form your battle units! Mages, your portals!” Sylvanas hoisted her bow above her head. “Death to the Lord Admiral! For our home! For the Forsaken! For the Horde!”
With a deafening cry, her armies surged forward through portals straight into the Alliance camp, murdering several who were slow to react. Sylvanas followed through, running towards Jaina Proudmoore, a Blighted arrow already flying towards the startled mage’s head.
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From far out at sea, a many-eyed head bobbed in the water, watching the mortals clash in their pointless battle. Influential leaders were present, and that meant an unprecedented opportunity to weaken both factions.
Silently he sunk below the waves. His Queen would want to know, and maybe even allow him to kill in her name.