Shadows Rising (World of Warcraft

by Madeleine Roux

  She had left Orgrimmar in such a hurry that she had never learned the troll’s name. Now it struck her as a mistake, for while her relationship with the Horde Council remained in flux, this one jungle troll had saved her life.

  “Come,” she called down to him. “State your business.”

  The red-haired troll bowed artlessly but with enthusiasm. “I am here to serve as ambassador to the Horde. My name is Zekhan. A-Ambassador…Zekhan.”

  Talanji lifted a brow.

  “Ambassador?” General Rakera spat. “Try spy.”

  Zekhan nodded, pointing to the stunned general. “Yes. Spy. Ambassador. Spy. Eyes. Ears.” He shrugged, laughing helplessly. “Nose. Mouth? The Horde worry about ya. More than that, they want your friendship, Queen Talanji, and they won’t be givin’ up.”

  “Evidently,” she drawled, looking him up and down. “Well. They could have sent worse.”

  They could have sent Thrall. Thrall, whom she might never trust for his stubborn loyalty to Jaina Proudmoore.

  The troll below her let out another nervous guffaw. “I’ll take it.”

  “You want Jo’nok smash him?” Jo’nok offered, more than capable of doing so, his bulk making him look like a direhorn among ants.

  “No, Jo’nok, he is under my protection.”

  Talanji pressed her palms together, inspecting the “ambassador” for a long moment. Her instinct was to send him away, but then what courtesy would that show when he had knocked the poisoned cup from the assassin’s hand and then tossed himself in front of a deadly blade? She felt the burning gaze of her father spear through her. Burning and disapproving. He had trusted her judgment when she invited the Horde to Zandalar, believed her even after she went behind his back to do so. Even if it pained her to admit as much, Zekhan deserved a chance. The troll fidgeted, nervous, young. She could find some use for him or simply use his inexperience to gain information about her allies that he did not mean to give.

  “Approach, Ambassador Zekhan, if you are going to serve in this palace, then you must know its many twisting halls.” She clearly heard General Rakera inhale with disgust through her teeth. Talanji ignored her. “Come, climb the stairs. I will be your guide.”

  * * *

  —

  “I thought Orgrimmar was impressive but this…this…”

  Talanji smirked, watching the jungle troll spin in a circle, his mouth open in a perpetual O of wonder. Sometimes she forgot the beauty of the palace, its halls of gold and turquoise, the restful pools filled with fragrant lilies and the tiles underfoot that sparkled like cut gems. And she was not immune to the delight of seeing a provincial jungle boy step into halls of ancient splendor.

  “Nothin’ like this in the Echo Isles,” Zekhan added. “Ruins, sure. This be like somethin’ from a dream!”

  The lower halls of the palace retained a cavelike shaded cool, away from the glaring sun that provided light for the upper chambers and throne room. There, shallow gutters trickling with water ran alongside them, colorful mosaics spreading out below their feet. The jungle troll possessed a seemingly endless capacity for astonishment, and more than once Talanji felt the urge to reach over and clack his lower jaw shut.

  “The palace has always been my home,” Talanji told him. Two royal guards flanked them, maintaining a cautious distance. “I forget what it must look like to outsiders.”

  “Ha.” Zekhan clutched his belly and laughed. “My palace was sand and shrub. My whole village could fit in ya royal closet.”

  Talanji grinned as they rounded a corner and, distracted, she had not realized they had reached the heart of the pyramid. Her steps stuttered, and she struggled to keep her smile plastered on. She did whatever she could to avoid this wing of the palace. Just glancing down the corridor and into the tall, golden hall filled her heart with dread.

  “Somethin’ the matter?” Zekhan asked, frowning. “Your majesty?”

  “I remember loving this place. This hall…” Talanji forced herself to take another step and then another, trembling as memory overtook her, plunging her into darkness. The floors had been cleaned, of course, and the mess long ago sorted, but the place where her father died would forever be tainted. She could still feel the warmth leaving his flesh as she held him, the star-bright strength in his eyes fading, his hand becoming limp as Bwonsamdi claimed his soul.

  Holding him there, the cold tiles biting into her knees, rage making her choke, she knew true loneliness. All her life, Rastakhan had watched over her, taught her, loved her, fighting to protect their legacy and their land, afraid, she came to see, of only one thing: disappointing his daughter.

  And in the end…In the end…

  “I played here as a child,” Talanji said softly. Other memories came, happier ones. Her tutor strumming a harp while she held her breath and tried her best to hide under the water of the pools. “With my friend, Parri. She and I would chase each other here for hours. Play hide and seek. She always won, always held her breath under the water longer…” She sighed and shook her head. “I think I was that little girl again when my father died here. It made me feel small, a child taking a crown, just playing at being a queen.”

  The ambassador said nothing, staring at her.

  “This is where I learned the true cruelty of the Alliance and their cursed witch, Jaina Proudmoore. She has always been a snake, treacherous and selfish. I spit on this armistice your council has negotiated. It ignores the pain of my people, it ignores our suffering.”

  Wringing his hands, Zekhan hesitated, then rushed into his speech. “B-but Proudmoore helped us free Baine. And she was there to stand with us against Azshara. You said you felt like a little girl when you took up your father’s crown, but you changed. Folk…change.” Zekhan hung his head, hands clasped loosely in front of his belt. “You be a real queen now. I saw it with me own eyes. The way you commanded your people, the way you speak…your people listen. The Horde be listenin’, too.”

  Talanji spun to face him. “And you will tell them about this, then?”

  The jungle troll shrugged, walking slowly toward her and then deeper into the chamber at the heart of the pyramid, his eyes turned up to the ceiling as he gazed around. “No, ya majesty. Your grief is your own.” He stooped to push his hand through one of the crystalline pools. She thought she saw a far-off smile flash across his face for an instant. “I lost people, too. One father, and then another.”

  “Another?” she asked.

  “Our high overlord who fell at the mak’gora to the Banshee Queen’s magic. He…he wasn’t perfect, he was a killer, I know that. Not just a killer. What he did to the elves, to their tree, that is something too big for me to judge. But he taught me how to be a soldier. How to stand tall. His lessons are firm, but me? I…I’m not so steady: I see the mak’gora over and over again in me head, and each time I be wonderin’ if it could be different. If I could have changed things.” Zekhan stood, wiping the clean water on his face. “But Saurfang is gone and nothin’ will change that. I only hope Bwonsamdi helped him to his rest, maybe you could ask. He is close to ya, after all.”

  Talanji stiffened. “Not that close.”

  “No?” Zekhan tilted his head to the side. “Ya throne is tied to the loa of graves, or that’s what they say.”

  “And who is they?”

  The troll’s eyes widened in confusion. “Everyone, ya majesty. Everyone.”

  The queen sagged, tired. It was foolish to argue with him, to rage against the truth. She only wondered just how much the Horde knew of her blood pact to the loa.

  “Hm. You’re smarter than you look, ambassador,” Talanji said, eyeing him closely.

  Before the troll could respond, she noticed movement over his shoulder. The two royal guards stationed at the open doorway to the chamber snapped to attention. One slid into the corridor, tall, bladed weapon at the ready.

 
; “What is it?” Talanji demanded, pushing past Zekhan and toward the guards.

  “My queen—”

  The spear struck the guard in the unlucky gap between helm and breastplate. The protector still living swiveled to block the entrance to the chamber, keeping well clear of the sightline that had been her partner’s doom.

  Talanji shrieked. Her first thought was: How? How could rebels make it so deep into the palace? The thought immediately following was one of determination. I will not fall here, not where my father breathed his last…

  “Stay behind me!” the guard called back to them. Talanji scrambled to recall her name. She scrambled to remember anything. Breathe. Breathe. Her name was Mah’ral, and she had stood in the vanguard during both the blood troll invasion and later the Alliance raid on the palace. A veteran. Reliable.

  Talanji sprang forward, joining Mah’ral at the door, and Zekhan followed, close on her heels. The corridor filled with voices, bloodthirsty whoops that quieted eerily into a single, unified chant.

  “Hunt the queen! Hunt the queen! Hunt the queen!”

  “Is there another way out of here?” Zekhan murmured, glancing over his shoulder several times.

  “No.” Talanji closed her eyes, gathering her powers to her hands. The loa would protect them. This was her ground, her territory, and the strength of her ancestors and their gods would fly to her side. “We stand here and we fight.”

  “As the queen commands.” Zekhan was not without defenses, pulling a dagger from his belt, the blade igniting with lightning as he held it high, imbuing it with power.

  “They’re comin’!” Mah’ral shouted.

  Too many, Talanji thought. There are too many!

  In the chaos she wasted no time counting, but at least a dozen lightly armored, spear-wielding trolls barreled into the chamber. The first two slammed hard into Mah’ral’s halberd, jolted back, falling into their brethren and creating an opening for a counterattack.

  “Loa protect us!” Talanji cried, a shimmering shield bubbling forward from her open hands, enveloping her, Mah’ral, and Zekhan. A spear bounced uselessly off it, clattering to the floor.

  Mah’ral swung her halberd down and out, striking the first two trolls, their faces streaked with white and black paint, to the floor. Blood leaked around them. It was no deterrent to the others, who did not hesitate to step on their fallen brethren and leap toward the royal guard. They dropped their weapons, both clinging to the long, sturdy handle of Mah’ral’s halberd, twisting against her until her grip failed and she was forced to retreat behind Talanji’s protective shield.

  “Watch ya head!” The flames building on Zekhan’s dagger shot forward, taking one of the halberd thieves by surprise. The other kept hold of the weapon, using it like a spear to jab at Mah’ral, but she dodged, grabbing a small knife from the golden belt around her waist.

  Furious shouts echoed from down the hall and Talanji’s heart sank. They might hold off these few rebels, but if reinforcements arrived, they would surely be overtaken.

  But the rebels did not rally, and they did not cheer. She watched them try to scatter, panicking as royal guards from elsewhere in the palace descended. The halberd thief swore, darting forward, trying to clear a path, but Mah’ral disarmed him, taking back her weapon and using the handle to swat him hard in the forehead.

  Talanji called out to her guards before the slaughter could begin. “I want them alive!”

  But none surrendered. They hurtled toward the guards, impaling themselves on the sharp and ready halberds aimed in their direction. Talanji gritted her teeth, furious and frustrated, then gasped as the final rebel left standing careened toward them. He wore a curious black mask streaked with white, his eyes flashing crazed behind the slits as the edges of his body erupted in strange green flames. Her protective shield cracked down the middle, and with another stride he was upon her, jagged little knife pressed to her throat.

  “The Widow’s Bite be here, traitor queen,” he whispered, tackling her roughly to the ground. “They be all around ya!”

  A sudden plume of blue smoke rose behind him. The room grew colder, a strange rattling exhale like a final breath…One huge, bony finger tapped on the masked troll’s shoulder and he jumped, turning.

  The gruesome visage of Bwonsamdi hovered right before the troll’s face.

  “Boo.”

  As abruptly as he had come, he was gone. Bwonsamdi vanished. But the distraction was enough. The troll’s mouth twisted, hanging open, the light in his eyes extinguished. Talanji heard the squelch of a dagger, but it was not slicing into her own throat, rather into his. His mask sizzled with lightning and then his hair, Zekhan’s blade jutting out from the rebel’s neck.

  Talanji pushed him off, rolling, gasping for air as the heavy body slumped lifeless to the floor.

  The Widow’s Bite. She shook her head, disbelieving. They were followers of Shadra, of Yazma, but both the loa and the high priestess were dead.

  “The queen!” her guards were crying, swarming to her side. “The queen!”

  “Pah. I’m fine,” she grunted, sitting up. “Tell me there are survivors.”

  “None.” Mah’ral offered Talanji her hand. “They all rushed our blades, killed themselves.”

  Talanji climbed to her feet with the guard’s assistance and glared around at the blood and death heaped once more on the floors of the Heart of the Empire. Thrall was right. Bwonsamdi was right. The assassins would not stop coming. How could she call herself a true queen of the Zandalari when her people remained divided? While the insurrection remained, all that she had hoped to protect and build remained in danger.

  “Just like the assassin,” she murmured, kneeling to inspect the masked rebel. The fire had gone out, but not before consuming half of his face. “They die for their cause. Die…to kill me.” She inched back from the dead troll’s blood pooling toward her. Slowly, she turned and regarded the ambassador of the Horde. The Horde. When her father died in that chamber she had been alone, but now she saw an ally staring back at her. One who had now protected her twice.

  “Double the patrols. Seal the palace. I must speak to the council, Zekhan, and then we have much to discuss.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Dazar’alor

  “Now look at us! We make quite a team, little zappy boy.”

  Zekhan flattened himself against the council chamber door. Instinctively, he held out the dagger to the loa before him, a meager but last-minute tribute. He trembled. Did…did the loa of graves just call him zappy boy? Who was he to argue? Especially with a god. Voices drifted out from inside, but his only concerns at the moment were the blood drying on his hand and the loa of graves, Bwonsamdi, levitating with a smile in front of a golden flowerpot. Talanji had commanded Zekhan to wait outside while she addressed the Zanchuli Council’s concerns about the attack; she had not warned him that a god would be keeping him company.

  “You’re…you’re Bwonsamdi. What c-could ya want with me?” Zekhan stammered. Bwonsamdi didn’t seem interested in his dagger, and it felt weird to hold it out to him still, so Zekhan gingerly tucked it back into his belt.

  “Ah, so ya mouth does work. And ya eyes. That’s good, boy. I could want one thing from ya, and that’s to give my thanks.”

  Zekhan wasn’t certain he had heard him right. “Thank me? For what?”

  “Protectin’ my investment.”

  Zekhan’s mouth felt bone dry. A high whining noise in his ears sounded a constant warning, and so he resorted to staring, worried he might say or do the wrong thing. He was, after all, speaking to a loa. Growing up with tales of the trickster god had not left Zekhan prepared to deal with the real thing. He was gigantic, and Zekhan felt slightly nauseated in his presence, an aura of rot and darkness swirled around the loa.

  Bwonsamdi snorted and then sighed dramatically. “Ya lives are all so ad
orably fleetin’. Ya come and go, but some of you be comin’ and goin’ in more interesting ways.” He tilted his head toward the council chamber.

  Talanji.

  “I don’t know if that’s true…” Zekhan scratched nervously at the back of his head, then remembered his hand was covered in blood and stopped. “It feels like I’m just in the right place at the right time.”

  “And?” Bwonsamdi bellowed out a laugh. “How do ya think the powerful become that way? It ain’t always their smarts, let me assure you.”

  Zekhan shook his head, still pinned against the council door. The voices from within grew louder, more agitated. “I don’t want power, I just want to make the Horde Council happy. They sent me to watch the queen, that’s all I aim to do.”

  Stroking his chin thoughtfully, Bwonsamdi leaned closer to the flowerpot to his left, the flowers there recoiling, wilting. “So what do you think of her, then, our queen?”

  Zekhan held out his hand, the one still coated in the masked assassin’s blood. “I think she’s in trouble.”

  “Ya see clearly, boy,” the loa replied. His blue fire eyes burned hotter, and Zekhan felt that sourness in his gut worsen. “There is trouble everywhere. A sickness festers. Here, with ya Horde, and in me own domain…”

  Zekhan swallowed around a bundle of thorns. The loa drew closer, sizing him up; the stench of decay followed the god, clinging to him as strong as a blood elf’s perfume. His eyes must have betrayed his fear. The loa chuckled softly, bearing down on the troll until they were nose to nose.

  “Ya eyes tell me everythin’, boy,” Bwonsamdi growled. “ ’Tis time I showed you my gratitude. Ya helped save the queen twice now, and that deserves a gift. Will you accept?”

  The ringing in Zekhan’s ears intensified. Never in his life had he expected to be dealing with a loa directly, but he could practically hear his wise granny screaming at him from beyond the grave. How many stories had she told him that featured Bwonsamdi’s legendary talent for tricks?