The cloud of dust and ice crystals had not yet settled from the cave-in by the time that the Skybreaker was pulling away from Icecrown Citadel and into the stormy skies above the great glacier. There was no sign of Arthas Menethil below them on the mountainside.
“I can barely believe we’re still alive,” Lady Jaina Proudmoore panted to no one in particular, shivering as her sweat was wicked away by the frigid wind. “It was foolish of me to follow him. I’ve made that mistake too many times.”
A grumbling from the surviving troops from her expedition indicated agreement, although not so loudly that anyone could be singled out and written up by Master Nightsong, who would then have the report passed on to Field Marshal Snowfall, the Supreme Commander of Alliance Forces in Northrend. It was unlikely that Snowfall had time for any of the night elf’s officiousness, but no one wanted to take any unnecessary chances.
Apparently realizing this, Proudmoore turned to the survivors as they were being herded below decks by the Skybreaker’s crew.
“And you, it was reckless of you to come after me instead of escaping with the information! But, well, thank you. You truly are heroes.”
“Ah keep tellin’ Beli that when she yells at me fer not takin’ out th’ trash, but it don’t seem to impress her none,” Ringo Flinthammer muttered as a wool blanket was wrapped around his shoulders.
“With Uther’s guidance, we may stand a chance at defeating Arthas,” Proudmoore said, turning back toward the spire of Icecrown Citadel. “All the lives lost today were not in vain.”
“‘Woman, o’ course I ain’t taken out the bloody trash! I been bandaging up the bear and cleanin’ me gun! I ain’t got time to take out the damn trash!’ She ain’t interested in hearin’ it, though.”