Shadows Rising (World of Warcraft

by Madeleine Roux

  “And you are the finest hunter I know,” Anduin said through clenched teeth. “And not one I expected to fail. You know her best, Alleria. You were our greatest hope.”

  Shaw joined them silently, his gaze trained on the void elf. For a moment, none of them spoke, the storm speeding toward the grasslands whipping the winds into a frenzy. A small herd of goretusks screeched in alarm and galloped away from the fields. A gryphon soared overhead, destined for Sentinel Hill. The wood still creaking in Anduin’s grasp shuddered in his palm, and still he wanted it to snap.

  It would feel cathartic to break something.

  They had overcome the Legion, the terror of Sargeras raining fire and doom upon their world. Yet they had persevered. How many had fallen to that same Legion? How many minds had been corrupted and shredded into ribbons of madness by N’Zoth? Yet even an Old God fell to their strength. But one woman…one woman evaded justice. It seemed such a small thing, to find her, and yet it was proving a costly—perhaps impossible—task.

  “We will keep trying,” Alleria said with mollifying confidence. “She cannot hide forever, soon enough she will have to show herself, and when she does, she will have the full might of her enemies bearing down upon her.”

  Anduin opened his eyes slowly, turning his head toward the blonde elf, and as their eyes met he felt a jolt, an unpleasant whisper from the dark recesses of his memory. Once Alleria had suggested to him that Sylvanas face N’Zoth. She and her sister Vereesa had been convinced it was the wisest course of action. To Anduin the request seemed absurd; it still did. Blood was blood, of course, and they had every right to believe in their sister’s prowess. Why not let their most pressing threat fight yet another pressing threat? But Anduin had refused. Her power was not in question, but now…

  He thought perhaps Shaw had said his name, but he felt lost in the dark power of that memory. Why had Alleria asked such a thing of him? How could she be so blind as to extend a chance, any chance, to someone as treacherous as Sylvanas Windrunner? And now she had failed in her one explicit task, to track her sister and help him bring her to justice.

  Maybe she was hiding something. Maybe the cold glow of her eyes concealed more than just the boundless mysteries of the Void. How could he be certain of Alleria’s loyalty? Was it a risk, a foolish, reckless risk to keep her at his side?

  A foolish, reckless risk just like trusting Sylvanas in the Arathi Highlands, when a naïve boy-king had believed the words of a snake…No. Alleria had proved herself many times, and she spoke true—Sylvanas was no simple quarry. The hunt would continue, and he, as king, would find a way to keep faith in their odds of victory. That was his duty. A man had to know his limits, but he could not reach that limit, not yet; too many depended on him now.

  The fence beam snapped. Just another thing to fix.

  Another in a long, long line of things to mend.

  “Come,” he said quietly, turning his back on them both. “The gale is nearly upon us. Let us return to Stormwind and decide our next approach. Sylvanas will not rest, and so neither will we.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  Orgrimmar

  Much as it surprised him, the dry heat and endless noise of Orgrimmar felt like home. Perhaps it was like returning to a wayward, peculiar family, one Thrall had not necessarily chosen, but that he had come to respect. Thrall, son of Durotan, former warchief, had expected to recoil at the familiar scents and mayhem of the Horde city, but he slipped back into its rhythm with surprising ease.

  In a way, the familiarity of it frightened him. Things had changed, of course; the Horde itself had changed. It had to. No longer could a single warchief rule them all. No, like a strange family, the Horde had grown, suffered, expanded, retracted, and finally, he thought, they were beginning to find their feet not as different nations united by a single voice, but as a chorus of strong voices raised as one.

  Wolves grew stronger as a pack, in numbers, and there in Grommash Hold, among the Horde Council, he saw many fine wolves at his side.

  Do not fear this, he thought, gazing around at those assembled. You lead no one. You simply sit among equals.

  His pride did not chafe at the thought; in fact, he welcomed it.

  Thrall placed his hands on his knees, leaning forward as the two young tauren braves giving report in the center of the rotunda finished recalling their tale. They had sighted two dark ranger spies on a ridge in the Northern Barrens, and after alerting a senior patrol in the area, the rangers were tracked and captured. The spies had swallowed some foul concoction and died before they could be questioned, but still, they would no longer be allowed to be the Dark Lady’s eyes in Durotar.

  A smattering of applause went around the room, and the two braves stood tall, puffing out their furred chests and holding their spears straight. Thrall couldn’t stop himself from wondering how long they would live, what cold, bleak place far from here would be their end, what families they would leave behind as they gave themselves over as grist to the mill of war.

  No. No. They were putting a stop to all of that. That was the purpose of the council, to eschew the bloody whims of one in favor of more tempered policies. And while many still flinched at the mere mention of the armistice, Thrall thought it a reprieve the Horde sorely needed.

  “Well done!” Lor’themar Theron called to the two braves. The leader of the blood elves with his long, pale hair, scarred and dead left eye, and painstakingly groomed beard raised a chalice. “Bravely done. A toast to these fine soldiers of the Horde. Lok-tar!”

  “Lok-tar!”

  Thrall raised his own cup, but his eyes fell on an empty seat beside the crimson-clad leader of the blood elves. Other pairs of eyes and Lor’themar’s good one had wandered to that spot throughout the afternoon. It seemed almost too ironic—here they were, a council in response to Sylvanas Windrunner’s controversial leadership and self-exile, and nobody sat in her place to speak for the Forsaken.

  Even the new queen of Zandalar, Talanji, had come from her far-off nation to meet with the council. She sat almost exactly across from Thrall in the circle of chairs making up the council in the hold, and she had said little so far, something, he knew, that was uncharacteristic of the brash young queen.

  Beside her, nearest to the entrance, sat the also newly risen trade prince of the Bilgewater Cartel, and while Gazlowe might have been diminutive in size, he had made his larger-than-life presence known throughout the day’s reports, discussions, and disagreements.

  The goblin had just poured himself more ale when two figures burst through the open archway, startling the tauren braves and Gazlowe, who slopped half of his drink down his shirt. He grumbled and swore, his single tuft of brown hair wobbling back and forth as he wiped furiously at the stain.

  Their conspicuously missing council member had at last appeared. A slight, blue-eyed undead woman ran breathlessly into the hold, her gaze flicking in every direction, her posture suggesting she was not at all sorry for their tardiness. Behind her, a ghostly pale woman, also undead, stood with far more poise. They could not have been any more different, the two ladies, one ravaged by her affliction to the bones, the other smooth and unblemished, glowing from within with an arresting light.

  Lilian Voss, interim leader of the Forsaken, and Calia Menethil had arrived, stealing the attention of every breathing creature in the hold, and leaving the two reporting braves to shift awkwardly in the sudden silence. Calia seemed to be watching Lilian’s every move, as if she might be tested on it later. Finally, Baine Bloodhoof gestured for them to step away, and the two tauren shuffled toward him, kneeling on the floor behind their high chieftain.

  Nobody spoke, and nobody seemed to know what to say, least of all the new arrivals. Lilian Voss adjusted the worn pack on her shoulder, her boots, grieves, and cloak spattered in fresh mud.

  To Thrall’s right, the white-haired and white-tattooed First Arcanist Thalyss
ra coughed delicately into her fist.

  I am not their leader. The silence stretched painfully on. Thrall stood and opened his arms wide to the newcomers, conjuring a warm smile.

  “Your absence was keenly felt,” Thrall boomed. “The Horde is not the Horde without the Forsaken.”

  Lilian nodded, biting down so hard on her lower lip that Thrall worried she would break the skin. Her companion, the luminous Calia Menethil in priestly garb, glided forward, inclining her silver head toward him. “Graciously said.”

  “Join us, please.” Thrall returned to his seat and indicated the open set of high-backed chairs reserved for their party.

  “You will find Orgrimmar’s finest foods and all the wine or mead you can…er…I mean, we are at your disposal,” the vulpera Kiro said, paws washing over one another after the mistake. They were new to the Horde, after all. More softly, he added, “Please take a seat.”

  The gaffe broke the tension, and Gazlowe got a good chuckle out of the tawny vulpera’s misstep. The undead had no need of food or drink, and Thrall was glad to find their new Forsaken leadership did not take offense. Instead, they were welcomed by the immense and feather bedecked Baine Bloodhoof and Lor’themar, sitting on either side of the empty chairs.

  “May we ask what detained you?” Lor’themar inquired as the ladies were seated.

  “Our people can’t stay in Orgrimmar forever,” Lilian replied, at last finding her tongue. Once she had sat down and unburdened herself of her pack, she appeared more at ease. Her blue eyes flashed brighter as she straightened her back and removed her leather cloak. “It’s too hot. We prefer the shadows and the damp. Perhaps in time the ruins of Lordaeron can be reclaimed and our home there restored. Things are a little less heated with the armistice, but that doesn’t mean Alliance ships are happy to see our flags at sea.”

  Across from them, sharpening a knife beside the trade prince, the Darkspear troll Rokhan hissed and leaped to his feet. His tusks gleamed as readily as his dagger. “They give you trouble?”

  “We took the long way ’round,” Lilian rasped. “Added a few days to our journey.”

  “Better to be careful in these tense times,” Calia added softly. “Lest we cause a diplomatic incident.” Then she shrugged, weary, and removed her sun-faded blue shawl, folding it neatly. “I am sure if we were intercepted, Derek Proudmoore could intervene on our—”

  “The Proudmoores can do nothing for us.”

  Just when Thrall felt the thrum of nerves in the room dissipating, the young Zandalari queen was on her feet, icily rigid. Talanji slashed her hand through the air, her many golden piercings twinkling softly as she did, her tall, jewel-encrusted headdress casting a looming shadow that reached across the hold and flickered in the firelight.

  Leather squeaked and iron jangled as the murmurs and shifting began. Behind him, Thrall heard his page, Zekhan, blow out a long breath.

  “The Horde could not stop the attack on Zandalar, a failure I took in stride, believing that when we had recovered, we could take the fight to the Alliance, to the Proudmoores,” Talanji continued, her voice shaking with emotion. “Peace with the Alliance means peace with the Proudmoores, with Jaina. I was foolish to believe my people would have their revenge.”

  Thrall squeezed the bridge of his nose. And it had all been going so smoothly. Perhaps he should have expected this. They were all so different, these assembled leaders, with conflicting ideas on what it meant to be part of the Horde, and no doubt their visions of the future varied as well. The tide of uneasy voices in the room began to crest.

  Before he could offer something mollifying to the new queen, Lilian was quick to respond. “Derek is one of us now. You will have to accept that.”

  Talanji snarled, taking a single menacing step toward the Forsaken leader. “I have to accept nothing. You need me, and I had thought we had need of the Horde; now I see you will not help us seek justice for the siege of Zuldazar.”

  Without blinking, Lilian stood up, poking a bony finger in the troll’s direction. “Zandalari justice is not the only justice that matters! The Forsaken have been cast aside, spat on, and ignored for long enough. Derek is Forsaken and the Forsaken are the Horde.”

  A smattering of agreeing noises traveled around the hold.

  “Are the Zandalari not the Horde?” Talanji replied hotly. It was her time to hold court, apparently, and she strode to the center of the room, raising her voice above the many muted discussions that had broken out. “Where is the Horde response? Where is the support for my people? When will you acknowledge our wounds?”

  “If we act rashly then we endanger the armistice,” the nightborne arcanist, Thalyssra, interjected, wisely in Thrall’s opinion. She sat calmly with one calf resting on her knee, her hands propped gracefully on her thigh as she observed Queen Talanji and Lilian Voss inching closer to blows.

  “Our resources are stretched thin as it is,” Lor’themar put in reasonably. “We must be thoughtful if we are to commit our navy to your struggles. Perhaps diplomacy is the answer here, and a delegation could be dispatched to Kul Tiras to—”

  “Delegation? Diplomacy?” Rokhan thundered, shaking his head. “Pah. My ancestors be weepin’ to hear this cowardly talk in Grommash Hold.”

  At that, the Mag’har orcs clustered next to the Darkspears grabbed their weapons and slammed the pommels on the ground in agreement. One managed to raise his voice even above Rokhan’s protests.

  “There!” Talanji pointed to Rokhan. “At least there is still one among you who has not been left toothless by this talk of peace!”

  “We all have our grievances,” Baine Bloodhoof reminded her. “But those must be weighed against the interests of the Horde now. It is not easy, your highness, nobody thought it would be. In time, we can seek to right the wrongs done to the Zandalari.”

  “In time,” she whispered, aghast.

  It was then that Thrall realized he was one of the few left sitting. The room erupted into splintered arguments, fragments of those long-simmering grievances reaching him as he locked eyes first with Baine Bloodhoof and then Lor’themar. Leader or not, it seemed the unpleasant task of restoring order would fall to him. Baine had tried his best, but he required solidarity.

  Thrall stood, then Baine, then Lor’themar, finally Thalyssra, each of them silent, and it took only a moment for the others to notice. One by one the voices died down until all gazes turned toward them. Before Thrall could call for quiet, Talanji stormed out of the assembly, her bodyguards scrambling to keep pace, making nervous, half-apologetic bows to Thrall as they fled after her.

  “Perfect,” he said with a sigh. “Meeting adjourned. We will eat and drink and come together again.” If we can come together, he added silently.

  It was a warning wrapped in silk, but it was not misheard. Sheepish eyes slid away from him as he cut a path through the leaders and their entourages, the crowd parting silently for him as he made for the door. He was not yet an old orc, but each one of those steps through the hold intensified the exhaustion settling in his bones.

  What had he agreed to? He pinched his nose again, warding off the searing headache brewing at the base of his skull. Physical brawls left him feeling less bruised. The scents of prairie grass and churned earth carried on the hot afternoon sun flooded him with memories. He blinked his way into the brightness outside, shielding his eyes, remembering a moment not long ago when he stood with the same smells blowing around him, high above the scooped valley of Mulgore, perched on the cliffs of Thunderbluff. Jaina Proudmoore, Talanji’s nemesis, had stood beside him, assuring him that a fragile alliance between them was worth the blood and strife it would surely cost.

  “Horde. Alliance,” he had said to her. “We’ve come to this crossroad again and again, Jaina; it always falls apart. What’s different this time?”

  Her hand had lain softly on his arm, and perhaps more
than her words, that one simple gesture moved him. “We are.”

  Thrall had believed her, but now he wasn’t so sure, with his head being split in two by the council’s argument ringing in his ears.

  A haze of dust over Orgrimmar dulled the relentless sun. Ceremonial torches outlined a smoky trail out of Grommash Hold and toward a dozen or so feasting tables laid out beneath makeshift red tents painted with the Horde emblem. Predictably, a crowd of curious onlookers waited outside the hold, filling the valley with their curious whispers and gasps of interest as the other council members filed out behind him. There was a festive spirit in the air, drums and flutes, pennants shaped like winged, horned wind riders flapping at the ends of sticks held by eager toddlers’ fists. Parents had pressed their children up close to the perimeter of the tents, and some little ones had been hoisted onto shoulders.

  Thrall stood for a moment with the sunshine warming his bare shoulders and smiled ruefully at one of two young orcs, each balancing on one of their father’s shoulders. As he waved to them, Zekhan ambled up to his side. Lor’themar drifted by with First Arcanist Thalyssra at his side, listening, rapt, as she extoled the virtues of the fine nightborne wines she had secured for the feast.

  “What is it?” Thrall asked. He could always tell when the brave young troll shaman had something on his mind. The boy was good for a lot of things, but hiding his emotions was not one of them.

  “There’s a messenger from the Earthen Ring here,” Zekhan told him. The other council members overtook them, making their slow procession toward the feasting tents. Lor’themar took his time, basking in the adulation and interest of the crowd.

  “I said it was feast time,” he growled.

  “You’ll be wantin’ to hear this.”

  Thrall had known during his time as warchief that “What now?” could in fact become a perpetual state of being. Turning away from the crowd, he found himself standing before a gray-faced old orc, pockmarked and bearded, with a scar slashed through his lips.