The meeting with the carpenters guild would start in half an hour. Jaina was already nodding off.
She was sitting in their tiny meeting room on the first floor of her tower, which doubled as city hall and office for the mages and whatever else they could cram inside it. Sometimes Jaina really felt for the overworked building.
Jaina was seeing Master Carpenter Oddricht Mekkatorque-Jansen before the proper guild meeting of the evening to familiarize herself with the items and clear up things she was too inexperienced to know beforehand. It was useful, it was sensible and Jaina felt it was the most respectful she could do as a ruler who knew far too little about woodworking and construction to have much useful input. Except that now she was stifling a yawn ever so often and blinking furiously as she tried to mentally shake herself out of her daze.
”…and we need to make a major decision now if we are going to shape up the walls or the docks next. Both projects are sorely needed but they will require a good deal different skills and materials, in short more wood for the docks and more stone for the walls. Leading us of course to the old issue of our chronic shortage of good materials. Right now the guild is rationing but that may not be the best state of things, it would make more sense if the ruler – meaning you – did it and we dealt with allocating what we could use. But you’d also need to be aware of what we can do with a set amount of resources so you don’t waste ’em by giving us just too little to be useful, better then to give it all to something else…
Jaina struggled to take in the barrage of issues, of important questions that she knew needed answering and important decisions that would have an impact on so many peoples lives. It was just so overwhelming today.
”…so today I reckoned we’d go over the construction plans in earnest for the new docks and compare them with the ones of the new wall so you know what you’re getting into. My carpenters are sure to have their suggestions too but final decision’s yours of course. But be prepared for a lot of sentiment in favour of new docks, the lads and lasses are itching for not having to go through Ratchet for every barrel of tar…
Constructions plans of…of…new barrels of tar from Rachel? No, Ratchet of course, Jaina berated herself. She squeezed her eyes, trying to bloody focus!
So the lads were itching to have a go at the lasses at Ratchets docks…no, that wasn’t right… Ratchet was…barrels…tar…sticky…thoughts…stuck…
”Are you still with us, Lady Proudmoore?”
Jaina opened her eyes in absolute terror. She had been nodding off, hadn’t she? How long had she slept? Had the meeting already started?
But no, there was only her wizened gnome master carpenter who peered at her with his piercing glare. Jaina shrunk under it, feeling like a new plank being scrutinized for imperfections by a very critical craftsman.
”Am I boring you?”
Jaina blushed, no, practically burned, with embarrassment. She felt so terribly guilty. Here he was, trying to make all this make sense to a complete amateur and she just… Jaina sighed.
”No, no, I…I know this is very important for the city and I very much appreciate the heads-up before we meet the rest, I just… I just haven’t managed to sleep very well for some time.” Jaina confessed. It sounded so feeble. Pathetic. But the least she could do was to be honest about it and let him think her a complete idiot without reservation.
But Master Oddricht just looked at her and then hesitated a little.
”You’re driving yourself into the ground aren’t you, Lady Proudmoore, lass.” he said, not unkindly.
Jaina looked up. Wasn’t he going to be angry? Or at least a bit snide?
The old gnome looked around conspiratorially and then lowered his voice.
”Candied cherries, that’s the trick. They sell ’em by the red-and-yellow striped market stand by the square. It’s my own guilty pleasure. But you have to watch out! Next thing you know you’re practically addicted to it and pot-bellied like a dwarf!”
Jaina wasn’t sure she had heard correctly. Was he pulling her leg?
”Listen, how about you sit this one out and call it a day? We’ll try our best without our lady holding our hands and I’ll scribble a note to you of the main points at stake afterwards?”
”That would be…most kind, Master Oddricht.” Jaina smiled sadly and dragged her tired self off to her rooms.
Jainas rooms at the top floor of her tower were in reality one room and the smallest of them all unless you counted the bathroom or the broom closets. The rest were currently used for storage and laden with piles of books, dozens of half-finished uniforms for the city guard, spare tools for the towers construction, boxes with more books and whatever else could be squeezed in. Her own quarters had one window, that could thankfully be opened, and room for exactly a modest bed, a desk with a chair, a cupboard and a pile of reports and letters that Jaina could swear would secretly grow taller by itself whenever you turned your back on it.
She fell down on her bed, not even bothering to get under her blankets, and was asleep the next moment.
”This entire city must be purged!”
Arthas’ words resonated in Jainas head. She wanted to speak out, to make him see reason, to make anyone question the brutality in murdering innocent victims of the plague of undeath. But her throat constricted and no sound came out. All around her, she saw Alliance soldiers clutching their weapons and readying themselves, their faces set with grim determination to stop Mal'Ganis at any cost. But the more Jaina looked, the more did those grimaces twist into bloodthirsty grins and their skin looked ever greyer and less alive each moment. She turned her eyes back to Arthas and his features were drawn into a mocking sneer that froze on his face, all taut lines and deep creases where it had once been beautiful and proud and open. His beloved horse stared at her with hollow eye sockets and a wave of rotten stench washed over Jaina as Arthas reached down with a hand that was all bone and withered remnants of skin.
Jaina shook herself out of her sleep with a sob. Only it hadn’t been her doing it, she realised and looked up on Paineds dark silhouette and faintly glowing eyes in the darkness of her room.
”What time is it?” Jaina asked in a low voice. She wouldn’t get any rest this night either, apparently.
”It is an hour to midnight. I heard you cry out in your sleep.” Paineds calm voice answered. So perhaps Jaina had managed to make more sound in the waking world than in her dream at least. Great. Now they were both kept up at night.
”I’m so sorry.” Jaina murmured apologetically. ”You can go back to sleep, I’m fine. I…I’ll close the door better.”
”Will you humor me and please stop acting like an idiot now, my lady?”. Pained had crossed her arms and was all but tapping her foot in annoyance.
Jaina stared at her, too tired to retort.
”Have I ever asked you to keep it to yourself if you are hurt, or in pain or discomfort? Have I asked to be relieved of my duties? If so, pray remind me of when my lady, for it seems to have mysteriously slipped my mind.”
Jaina looked down into the floor. Had she offended Pained now too? Tides, couldn’t this miserable night just go away?
”Let me help.” Pained said, more softly than Jaina had ever heard her. ”Tell me how to make it better.”
”I don’t want to impose on you.” Jaina said quietly. ”You stand watch almost all day - and evening with the hours I keep – and you need time to train and tend to your equipment too. And you need to eat and rest too.”
And Pained really did all of that and more. And she still managed to find time to brew Jaina tea and make sure that she took time to eat properly, which in all honesty Jaina knew she was terrible at. On top of all that Pained was probably expected by Tyrande to keep an eye on Jaina as well, and Jaina did not envy her that conflicted position. If that really was the case Jaina had promised herself not to be angry at Pained for being caught up in the middle of something she had little say over. And frankly, as far as such things went, asking Pained to write home about how Jaina was doing was more akin to the actions of a nosy aunt rather than an ill-intentioned spymaster.
Jaina suddenly realised how much she missed Tyrande. Tyrande had made Jaina feel calm and the time she had spent with the night elves directly after the Burning Legions defeat at Mount Hyjal had been so serene, like something out of a fairytale but without the monsters. Tyrande had taken Jaina with her and showed her some of the most breathtaking parts of Ashenvale. Unused as she were to ride on a frostsaber even if it was with someone else, and overwhelmed by the multitude of sights and impressions, Jaina would usually get tired late in the day and Tyrande would let Jaina sleep on her arm with her cloak as bed. Drifting off as the moon priestess told stories about the Kaldoreis past or sang to her in Darnassian secretly became Jainas favourite part of the day.
Was Pained any less kind and gentle than Tyrande?
”Could you, maybe, sit here for a while?” Jaina asked hesitantly in a small voice.
Pained placed Jainas uncomfortable chair next to the bed and sat down without hesitation. It creaked slightly when she stretched her legs.
Paineds glowing eyes looked down on her, calm and steady. Jaina tried her best to keep her mind on them and to think of Ashenvale and the sound of Tyrandes voice, and her frostsabers thick fur and coarse tongue that had once tickled Jainas toes when those had apparently been found too dirty for frostsaber standards.
Jaina wouldn’t keep Pained for long, she told herself, just until she had calmed down a bit. Then she could tell Pained she could leave. Just a little while…a little longer…
”Sleep well, child.” Jaina didn’t know if it was Tyrandes or Paineds voice she heard.
***
Anya Eversong listened to Sylvanas instructing Areiel. She liked it. For once there was a task that was not hurriedly desperate and for once it was not something that the dark rangers had to do alone.
And for once it was something that might actually get them somewhere.
”I want you to be in charge of this as it is of the highest priority, but there is no need to engage the rangers, anyone who can read Common and possess a smatter of brains should do. You are to scour the archives and library for any information regarding Jaina Proudmoore and the Alliance expeditionary force to Kalimdor. Officially, and especially if Varimathras or his lackeys wonder, this is an attempt to gauge the military strength of remaining Alliance forces with strong national ties to our territory and to Dalaran.”
Areiel grinned at the last bit and saluted, already on her way. Anya didn’t even have time to nod at her, but then again she had a mission on her own on her mind right now.
”Dark Lady?”
”Yes, Anya? Is something the matter?” Sylvanas answered with a barely recognizable tiredness behind her even tone.
”If it’s alright, I would like to talk to Sylvanas Windrunner.”
Sylvanas raised an eyebrow.
”If I’m not much mistaken, you already are.”
”Am I?” Anya asked softly and looked intensely at Sylvanas.
Sylvanas sighed. ”Anya, I don’t intend to pull rank on you when it’s just you and me. Out with it now. What’s on your mind?”
”You.”
”Me?”
”Our Dark Lady does everything she can and more to keep us safe. Our sister Sylvanas suffers alone.”
”What is left of her.” Sylvanas replied depreciatingly.
Anya had heard more than enough of that hated litany.
”Everyone is encouraged to take time off sometimes. Ordered, I would say. When did you last take a moment to yourself, Sylvanas?”
Sylvanas’ jaw seemed to clench a bit.
”I have too much to do.” she said curtly.
”Of course.” Anya agreed. ”Lucky for the rest of us that our tasks are so unimportant that we can slack off at our leisure at least…”
Sylvanas narrowed her eyes.
”Mind your tone, Anya.” she warned. ”And you all need your rest, whether your bodies crave sleep or not, to keep your mind sharp and you know that well enough. And it’s still my job to see to it that you get it.”
”I used to have this Ranger-General who badgered me about the same being true for commanders.” Anya remarked absent-mindedly. ”Who told me that I would get my rangers killed if I made decisions with fog in my head.”
”Leave me alone.” Sylvanas muttered, not meeting Anyas stare. It was a testament to the deep bond between them that she didn’t literally throw Anya out. But doing that would violate a trust that ran far too deep to be broken in a moments irritation. Rangers did not back down from difficult things. Rangers did not turn their backs on one another.
But now Anya was the one getting irritated.
”Excuse me, but for a moment it sounded like you were thinking we should entrust our safety to someone refusing to take even a moments pause to recover her wits. Or perhaps to someone so overconfident she believes herself so superior to everyone else that she is completely above the need to rest and recover.” she pointed out, with a hint of steel behind the sarcasm.
Sylvanas stared back, then she slumped and admitted defeat as if tiring of their nagging game.
”Fine, have it your way, Anya! What the fuck would you have me do? Sit in a corner weaving baskets? Whittling? Tin smithing?”
”You did stitch my cloak once…” Anya remarked, her tone unconsciously growing a little warmer.
”Only because we were in the field and your arm was torn up by a troll.”
Anya smiled inside herself at the memory. It was a sad little smile but a smile none the less.
”You kept watch over me all night. Allow me to return the favour, Sylvanas.”
”Anya, you owe me no favours, you have done all I could ask for and more.” Sylvanas replied, no longer hiding her tiredness.
”Will you stop being so damned stubborn? Just come with me! The water’s getting cold.”
That at last seemed to pick Sylvanas interest.
”The water?”
Anya nodded towards the door and led the way, silently cherishing the quiet sound of dark red boots behind her.
They navigated the unstable maze of half-ruined stairs and corridors that remained of the keeps upper levels to the room Anya had laid claim to and prepared. The wall had a large hole in it and the roof had fallen in, but it had a working fireplace and a mostly intact floor at least. In the middle of it stood Anyas prize, scavenged and bolted together again during hours of thankless toil with rusting tools and worse materials.
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A huge, barrel-like bath tub, filled nearly to the brim with water that she had painstakingly climbed the walls with. Hung over the crackling fire was Anyas other discovery, a miraculously whole cauldron she had traded many hours of work for, filled with boiling water.
Sylvanas raised an eyebrow.
”Do you intend to cook me, lieutenant?” she asked dryly, amused and clearly surprised even if she tried to hide it.
”Yes, I discovered an absolutely fabulous recipe for boiled mule, I just need to get some salt and root vegetables. In you go!” Anya ordered and used her ranger cloak to keep her hands wrapped up as she dragged the cauldron over to the tub and heaved its steaming content into the rest of the water, which thankfully hadn’t cooled too much.
”I will keep watch.” Anya promised and mockingly began to parade back and forth across the small unlittered floor area. ”I will guard you with my last breath against Scarlet peepers, Scourge squatters and dreadlord busybodies.”
”With your last breath?” Sylvanas quirked an eyebrow as she loosened the straps of her pauldrons.
”Petty details!” Anya smirked and presented arms before an imaginary visiting officer.
”Alright, I yield, just stop that incessant pacing and sit down, will you?” Sylvanas smiled.
Belore, how long it was since Anya had seen that smile. Sylvanas was removing her breastplate and Anya promptly busied herself with picking up the discarded parts of her ranger armour and arranging them orderly, wiping the dust from some places. She knew that the scar on Sylvanas’ chest where Frostmourne had pierced her heart was a sensitive thing for her and one she preferred to neither discuss nor display.
Bent over her task, she could hear Sylvanas removing her boots and pants and slide into the bath.
”How’s the water?” Anya asked and tried to not sound as nervous as she felt.
”Not bad, lieutenant… Why, I’m almost thinking you mean to butter me up to whisk a promotion out of me…” Sylvanas drawled.
”Don’t get any ideas now, I am not Areiel. The horror…” Anya almost shuddered which earned her an amused chuckle form Sylvanas. Sylvanas’ insistence that Anya would make a fine ranger captain one day was as old as Anyas unbridled dread at the very thought.
And for a fleeting moment, everything was almost like before.
”My lady, I have a present for you.” Anya said and held out a lump of something distorted with a sickly colour and not particularly pleasant smell.
”And what is that?”
”Soap, my lady!” Anya announced and couldn’t hide her pride. She beckoned for Sylvanas’ left arm and for once the stubborn woman did not protest. Anya dipped the piece of soap in the water and rubbed her hands with it, silently relieved that i actually seemed to work and turn out to be soap and nothing else. She followed the outside and inside of Sylvanas upper arms, admiring their toned muscles and the intriguing myriad of scars that told the history of the Ranger-General of Silvermoon. Anya thought they had faded a little, but it was hard to tell of course with the stark difference in skin colour compared to before. She gently lifted Sylvanas’ elbow and slid down around and along her forearm with the other hand. Sylvanas sat still as a statue, watching Anyas hands wrap around hers and then slowly lower it into the water again.
”How much can you feel?” Anya asked, partly curious and partly concerned about keeping Sylvanas’ mind on something else than her awkwardness with someone doing something nice for her.
”More than most of us, I believe. Physically. I feel the heat of the water, not just that it is water. Some sense of smell and taste remain I guess. It seems to be rather random. I know that Kalira claims to be able to taste sweetness and Velonara could tell the difference between fresh and blighted grass without looking.”
Typical Sylvanas, Anya thought as she worked on the other arm. Deflecting any personal questions at the first opportunity. She currently didn’t give a damn about whether Kalira snacked on an entire cake or if Velonaras was growing a rose garden.
Still, so far it was going fine. Anya was here and Sylvanas was here and that was all that mattered.
”Would you care to lean forward, my lady?” Anya asked quietly. To her relief, Sylvanas obliged her without a word. She traced the back muscles up and down, smooth and hard and…far too hard. Tense from months of neglect followed by months of monstrous pressure without a moment of relief.
”Apothecary de’Urden claims that soap could be weaponized to make things explode. Like the dwarves’ black powder. He seems a bit unhinged in my opinion.” Anya remarked.
Sylvanas snorted and shook her head.
”At least it would be clean shot if it could be made to work…” Anya mused innocently.
”Ugh, that was worthy of Areiel. I tell you, captain material…” Sylvanas mumbled with her head resting against her knees. But she put no real effort into sounding annoyed.
Now came the hard part. Anya almost bit her lip.
”Would you like me to…wash your legs?” she nearly whispered.
Sylvanas was silent so long that Anya thought that she would say no, but then the banshee queen sunk back into the water and lifted a dripping leg to rest on the uneven edge of the tub. Anya could see her shrinking into herself and hiding under the surface. Of course. Sylvanas did not care about showing her her leg, she was worrying about the scars on her chest. No, Anya corrected herself, Sylvanas was worrying about The Scar.
The Amani had left their marks along Sylvanas’ thighs and calves nearly as much as on her arms. Reminders of spears, axes and arrows crisscrossed all along her skin but Anya could not care less. Sylvanas was still the finest ranger of them all. Sylvanas still had the most gorgeous calves Anya knew. She ran her soapy fingers along them almost reverently, and not especially efficient for an impromptu chambermaid, but it didn’t earn her any complaint. In fact, Sylvanas was leaning back a little and Anya felt the leg stretching under her and then relaxing against the wood. She grabbed Sylvanas’ calf with one hand to keep in off the uncomfortable surface as she ran her fingers over the foot and between the toes. She had to restrain herself from outright caressing that leg or doing something silly like pinching Sylvanas’ toes.
”I’m going to get something.” Anya said, careful to look at Sylvanas eyes and not down her chest. ”You can wash the rest of you in the meantime if you like.” When I am not watching, so you don’t need to think about that.
Anya deliberately took her time readying her last surprise, listening for the sound of water splashing to stop before turning around with a clay jar, or at least a broken half of it as the top had been smashed.
”This is something the apothecaries have been working on. It’s basically a simple oil but seems to do the trick to keep Forsaken skin from drying and cracking.” Other Forsaken skin, was the unspoken addendum. The rangers and the most powerful other undead were spared from those particular ills. ”Soon enough a flaking hide will be soo last month, and it wouldn’t do for the dark lady to be unfashionable, would it?” Anya chattered, trying to distract them from the present tension.
Sylvanas looked at the broken jar.
”You should not be wasting it on me.” she said flatly. ”Others will need it more.”
”We still get stiff, and if we get stiff and fail to pull our bows fast enough the others die. Besides, this one is mine to do as I please with.” Anya countered, soft but insistent.
Sylvanas’ gaze locked on Anyas, who found herself caught in it. They may all have red eyes now but Sylvanas’ were mesmerizing. They did not glow so much as burned, smouldering deep inside or openly when she was furious.
”Then do as you please, Anya.” Sylvanas breathed, her voice now dark and hoarse.
Anyas hand cradled Sylvanas neck, gentle as if the merest pressure would shatter it into pieces. She tried to feel every knot and every hurting, strained muscle that Sylvanas would be all too eager to dismiss and ignore. Her hands ran down the broad shoulders, much firmer than when she had merely been washing them, and upper arms that Sylvanas let hang out of the tub. It wasn’t a massage in the proper sense, although Anya did her best to knead the stiffness out of the shoulders and neck as best she could, but rubbing and caressing and caring until Sylvanas leaned back just barely into her hands and Anya felt her unbeating heart soar. It was working. Belore, it was working.
Folding a part of her cloak to a small pad, Anya tentatively guided Sylvanas’ head to rest and tilted it back to allow her access to her face. Her thumbs rubbed tenderly around the too often clenched jaw and followed Sylvanas sinewy but slender throat down along her shoulders and up again, along her collarbone, up and then carefully down the middle of her chest and…
Shit.
Sylvanas jolted as if struck by some mages lightning spell and inhaled for air she did not need. Her eyes, almost heavy-lidded a moment ago, flared and she became rigid as a post.
Anya pulled her hands away as if Sylvanas had burned them, no, worse, as if she had burned Sylvanas.
I’m sorry! Please don’t go. Let me fix this. Let me…
”I have to go.” Sylvanas’ curt tone tore into Anyas soul.
Anya said nothing. She knew when she had lost.
She had brought no towels but a ranger cloak would have to do. Anya mutely held out one piece of armour after another for Sylvanas to don in equal silence. She averted her eyes.
”It…must have taken an effort to prepare.” Sylvanas mumbled.
”It was nothing.” Anya mumbled back, almost unintelligible, and stared straight ahead at the floor as Sylvanas left.
She did not tell Sylvanas how long it had taken her to obtain the ingredients and the materials for making soap and oil, or how greasy and unpleasant the ordeal was even for her. She did not tell Sylvanas how thankless it was to saw plank after plank with a bent saw that broke after the first tries and forced her to chop them into shape with a spare dagger and a piece of firewood for a hammer.
Anya kicked angrily at the bathtub, but filled with water it was too heavy to topple. Instead her foot crunched through it effortlessly, the wood no match for ranger legs and undead strength.
Stupid scar. Stupid stubborn Sylvanas. Stupid damned everything.
Anya sank down on the floor against the wall and watched indifferently as the water pooled around her and soaked through her pants and cloak.
Her eyes itched. Something wet dropped on her hand. A blackish liquid, like too diluted ink.
Huh, so apparently she could do that too.
***
Theramoore. It was called Theramoore. A newly founded town on a rocky island going by the same name, divided from Durotar by swamps and rocky coastland. Presumably lacking in resources but incredibly hard to assail from land due to the marshy ground. As far as the previous occupants of Lordaeron knew almost all Alliance survivors in Kalimdor had congregated there and they followed Jaina Proudmoore with devotion. The city was not an official monarchy but the archmage appeared to be the de facto ruler of the humans, elves and dwarves from mainly Lordaeron, Dalaran and Quel’Thalas.
Proudmoore hailed from Kul Tiras, but the island nation remained unmentioned in any current correspondence. As far as Sylvanas could discern the islanders had isolated themselves almost completely from the Alliance but the reasons were unclear. The mighty Kul Tiran fleets had held the seas against the Horde during the Second War and with the recent events in Kalimdor that would seem like a still highly relevant asset, but perhaps they both lacked the resources to effectively aid one another.
The mention of Dalaran tugged at a bitter knot of hurt deeply buried inside Sylvanas as Areiel concluded her report.
Vereesa.
Little Moon.
Sylvanas insufferable, mewling, adorable and so very dear little sister.
Vereesa and her husband Rhonin Redhair had lived in Dalaran the last time Sylvanas heard from her. Before. She knew it was stupid, and most likely vain, but a tiny part of her still hoped they and Allerias son Arator had somehow survived.
Vereesa would probably detest what she had become, not to mention done as Arthas’ shackled servant. Sylvanas would find a way to bury those memories for good, she resolved. One way or another.
”My lady, there was one other thing.”. Areiel had an unusual air of thoughtfulness about her. If it were anyone else Sylvanas would have interpreted it as hesitation. She looked up.
”We found one other thing amongst the books and documents the dwarves researched. I think you had best take a look at it yourself.” Areiel said and handed Sylvanas a folded document, not looking very old judging by the lack of yellowing of the paper.
”…Kul Tiras and Lordaeron have this day agreed…”
Marriage contract.
Jaina Proudmoore.
Arthas Menethil.
”What in all rotten hells is this Areiel!?” Sylvanas almost snarled.
”A draft. And authentic, as far as we can guess.” Areiel shrugged. ”He was a human prince once, after all and this is maybe the human way of doing these things.”
Sylvanas’ mind was spinning, working on its own volition to process the new information. What did this mean?
She knew better than to try and sort out her thoughts right now. She returned the paper to the improvised dossier that Areiel – thorough as always – had compiled with information on Theramoore and its ruler and forced herself to mentally put the matter away for later as well.
Areiel took her silence as a cue to move on to the next issue.
”The Scarlets are advancing. They aren’t moving fast, or like they know exactly what to look for, but they are coming. Their main stronghold is Hearthglen. With the Scourge to the south and the sea to our north and west we are pinned down neatly. If we are going to do something else than repare for a siege of the Undercity it will soon be high time, Dark Lady.”
”Do we know where they are currently?”
”More or less. Our raid shave taught them to protect their supply trains. They advance at a snails pace now but gather in palisaded encampments and keep those as strongpoints behind their lines to fall back to. Supplies are, we think, ferried between these to limit their time in the open.”
Areiel indicated the sketchy map on the table, a pitiful example of cartography by elven standards but growing in detail every day. Red stones dotted the eastern flank of the Forsaken territory.
”How well manned are these forts behind the Scarlet lines?”
”We cannot tell. But all logic points to them being lightly garrisoned, anything else would detract too much form their sweeps at the front lines.”
”Indeed.” Sylvanas pondered. ”This is just like with their patrols, but scaled up. The big picture mirrors the small…”
Areiel scowled at the dismaying situation indicated on the map.
”You have something on your mind, Dark Lady.”. It was not a question but a statement.
” I have a very bad and very dangerous idea, Areiel. I want you to assemble all banshees and all the rangers except two squads and create a diversion along the Scarlet lines upon your signal. The banshees will help you relay that signal to everyone.”
”Belore, how crude!” Areiel scoffed. ”And then?”
”You concentrate your forces upon one single weak point where the enemy lines can be penetrated and you go in, punching through and going deep into their rear. Your target are their supply encampments. You do as much damage as you can and then circle south through Scourge territory, preferably letting the Scarlets know where you are going but not letting them catch up. After that you break off north in secret.”
Areiels eyebrows rose almost to the ceiling.
”The Scarlets are blinded by their beliefs but they are not fools, Dark Lady. They have priests with them, knights and paladins. They will not let us get away with something so…reckless!”
Sylvanas just stared down among the pieces on the table, as if her scalding gaze would make them crawl back in their box and cease bothering her. Areiel looked a second time at her, scrutinizing Sylvanas with an evaluating gaze.
”What is it that you’re not telling me? Wait…just what kind of diversion did you have in mind?”
”You will be running with the wind, Areiel. No stops. No looking back.” Sylvanas jaw was set. ”It is late summer and blighted trees dry as everything else. You will wait for the wind to blow eastward. Set the woods on fire. Set their camps on fire. That will be your diversion.”
If Areiel had been alive she would very likely have paled. Then again, if any of them had been alive Sylvanas would never have issued such an order.
”It will be done, Dark Lady. And where will you be?”
”Hopefully, far away by then.”
”No, my lady.”
”No?” Sylvanas smooth tone was dangerous.
”We will be far away by then.” Areiels voice was grave. ”I do not know what you intend but I know a diversion when I see one. You have something else planned in the meantime. Kalira or Amora can handle themselves in the woods as well as I can. I am coming with you, wherever you are off to.”
Sylvanas opened her mouth to utter an adamant no, but Areiels determined look gave her pause. She thought about it. And as much as she loathed herself for feeling so, the more she thought about it the less appealing it seemed to be without Areiels steady presence and comforting practicality. Besides, they could take the time to properly plan the next moves after the return.
”Fine, you can come along.” Sylvanas said with a barely perceptible smirk.
”Lovely! Perhaps you’ll even tell me where we’re going some day, my lady.” Areiel replied flippantly.
”Perhaps.” Sylvanas’ smirk grew a little. If Areiel felt like being stubborn with her today then Sylvanas would at the very least give as good as she got.
***
Lorderons capital lived by its sheltered position and proximity to Lordamere Lake and the rivers that connected it to the sea. As the fledgling human settlements grew over the centuries so did maritime trade and like most other inland cities Lordaeron now had a sprawling and chaotic harbour town to tend to larger vessels and ferry goods up and down the river and roads. Or had had such a town. It had not escaped the destruction of the Scourge and the Legion, but the damage was less than Sylvanas had expected. Feral ghouls had been scouring the abandoned sheds and ramshackle houses but a company of their new deathguards aided by dark ranger scouts had cleared them out effortlessly.
Sylvanas entered the town at midnight. They were heading straight to the docks, more specifically the It was raining slightly, and a biting wind blew through the muddy streets and heralded the coming end of summer in a few weeks. Sylvanas cursed under her breath. If the rain increased it would hamper Kalira and the rest. They had marched out a couple of days ago, laden with prepared torches and axes to fell trees for pyres and cut through Scarlet palisades and gates. The picture was sickening, no matter how much Sylvanas tried to squash that useless emotion. She was not a Ranger-General anymore. She was not alive.
But they were setting fire to a forest. She could try as much as she liked to convince herself that it was all blighted and rotting but that was simply not true. Boughs withered and dried upon greying pines but they clung to life. Birds and beasts hid in terror from the undead and their foul aura of death but they were still there. Not all of Lordaeron was corrupted, but she was setting fire to it all the same and would not even do the deed herself but flee the scene and disappear for who knew how long exactly.
The world did not allow Sylvanas Windrunner to be the Ranger-General of Quel’Thalas. So she would be the Dark Lady of the Forsaken and do what was needed to keep them safe. Even if it meant setting the forest on fire.
Sylvanas turned her thoughts towards the man coming to greet her. The Forsaken was truly a mariners nightmares and superstitions given form. With a tangled and wild beard, fraying and tattered greatcoat and gaunt face with eerie pale yellow light shining from the sockets of his skull, the old sailor only lacked a peg leg and a few barnacles clinging to his temples to be the consummate ghost ships captain risen from the depths to drag more lost souls down with him, or however the human ghost stories tended to go. Sylvanas was no expert. What she did know far better however, was that the he and his motley crew comprised virtually all of the few Forsaken with experience sailing ships larger than river boats.
”Captain, have the preparations proceeded as planned?” Sylvanas asked in formal manner.
”Aye, Dark Lady. We have managed to replace the mizzen mast and fixed up the bowsprit like intended. She’ll be able to handle herself against the wind now, but she’s no sloop mind you. If the wind won’t turn we’re not getting far any time soon.”
”And if the wind is with us?”
”Then she’s in her right element an’ we’ll see what this lady’s really built for. But our biggest problem are sails and rope. Without good tacking an’ sheets these masts are just useless skeletons standin’ there lookin’ pretty.”
”Last we spoke you claimed we had the supplies we needed, captain.” Sylvanas pointed out and couldn’t help sounding quite accusing.
”An’ we do, we have rope and sailcloth enough, an’ some decent timber too in fact. Loaded and stowed. Those Scourge landlubbers let it all be, couldn’t tell a spritsail from top gallant if their unlives depended on it.”
Neither could Sylvanas but she refrained from mentioning that.
”But it turns out my me and my lads aren’t as nimble with our hands as we used to be…back in the day... Skin’s bruising more’n it used to…”
Sylvanas couldn’t see his hands but she recognized the tone well enough. Every Forsaken mourned his or hers own losses and she could well imagine that for a sailor to be unable to pull rope would be as for a ranger to no longer manage to draw her bow.
”I am bringing a dozen dark rangers with me. Put them to work with whatever your crew has the most trouble with.”
”Music to me ears, Dark Lady! We are short-handed as ye well know, we’re almost but a skeleton crew, heh!”
Sylvanas summoned all her discipline not to sigh and pinch the ridge of her nose. Belore. Her ships captain and her ranger captain would get along just fine. She could be looking forward to a very long journey.
And it would indeed be a long journey. They were out of options, this was one last toss of the dice to find one single miserable nation willing to at least talk to them. She would go herself this time, with two ranger squads as an escort. An envoy too dignified to ignore and an escort too powerful to assassinate.
”Prepare to cast off then, captain. Set course for Theramoore.”