Shadows Rising (World of Warcraft

by Madeleine Roux

  “Because ya guilt is real.” Bwonsamdi appeared before her, the azure fire eyes behind his mask glowing dimly. “Take a look outside, my queen, ya nightmare is not over. Somethin’ must be done, and soon.”

  Talanji hissed, clutching the blanket to her chest and padding on bare feet to the balcony’s edge. She tried not to look at her visibly withered hands. The loa of graves spoke true. Fires burned bright in the jungles below, eight pinpoints of light in the darkness. Either she was still emerging from sleep or Bwonsamdi appeared shaky, translucent, as if he were only half present.

  “How is it possible?” Talanji bit down hard on her lip, a rage building inside that would soon spill out or consume her. “My soldiers patrol the jungle tirelessly, yet somehow they slip by. They raid my city, attack my palace, attack me…How did they grow so strong so quickly?”

  Bwonsamdi floated beside her, surveying the work of the Widow’s Bite. Talanji had not been idle, meeting with her council each day to discuss new approaches, new tactics. They had the superior force and superior resources, but their own land worked against them. The Widow’s Bite could use the jungle to stay hidden, their scattered numbers an advantage against an army spread thin by the size of Zuldazar. And many even in the city, she knew, remained suspicious of her rule. Those sympathetic ears might become sympathetic mouths, spreading the lies and terror of the group, eating away at the stability of Talanji’s rule.

  “What do we do?” Talanji murmured. “How do I stop what I cannot see? They have no fortress, not even camps. By the time my guards find them, they are already gone. We are chasing vapor, fighting fires that are already smoldering coals.”

  “They attack you because of the pact ya fa’da made,” Bwonsamdi told her, waving his hand toward the chaos below. “They think I control ya, and they fear what my queen, a queen of death, might become.”

  Talanji glared. “I am not your queen.”

  “Tell them that.” He gave a dark laugh. “They be burnin’ my shrines, breakin’ the magic that protects them, killing my priests where they stand. If they burn many more, I won’t be much help to ya. A loa is nothin’ without believers and prayers.”

  “It’s harming you,” Talanji gasped. “You’re growing weaker.”

  The loa nodded gravely. “And you.”

  “Me?” She collapsed back against the balcony wall, hopelessly frustrated. Holding up her hands to the light of the braziers, she forced herself to look at them. “My…my hands. What is happening to me, Bwonsamdi?”

  “We share a bond, little queen.” He sighed. “We share a fate. If I have no followers, if there is no tribute and no faith, then I will be all but gone. My strength weakens, and tethered together, yours weakens with it.”

  Talanji swore, stuffing her hands under the blanket to hide them. “Then these shivers, this pain in my chest…”

  “It will get worse, Talanji, unless ya protect me. Ya must protect me.”

  She heard the true fear in his voice, and wondered how she was to stand tall and courageous when even a god was afraid. “I…I cannot accept this.”

  “Accept it or not.” Bwonsamdi bowed his head, the flames in his eyes even dimmer. “It is the truth.”

  Talanji inhaled shakily. “If true, if, then…then how do I fight these rebels? Can you not help me?”

  The loa chuckled, but it was utterly mirthless. “You have the soldiers, Talanji, and ya could have many, many more. I think ya already know how to fight the rebels.”

  The Horde. Of course. That ambassador Zekhan wouldn’t stop pressing her to return to Orgrimmar and accept a place on the new Horde Council. A position that would give her what, exactly? She needed troops and ships, not empty promises. But her stubbornness wouldn’t put out fires, and the Zanchuli Council had offered no solutions, just repeated concerns. It was up to her. It was always up to her. And now her life was on the line.

  “I will never accept peace with the Alliance,” she said, stony. “But I will ask for the Horde’s help. This is…this is growing beyond us.”

  “Good, good.” Bwonsamdi grinned at last. “An attack against me is an attack against you; if they destroy us both, who will protect Zandalar?”

  Talanji narrowed her eyes, suspicious of that grin. “This is no small thing you want from me. The Horde is working with the witch that killed my father. The Horde is content to ignore the crimes of Jaina Proudmoore, but I never will be. So if you get what you want, loa, I will not go empty-handed.”

  “Empty-handed?” Bwonsamdi cackled at her, an unkind sneer twisting his mouth. “Ya get a kingdom and ya life, I’d say that’s more than fair.”

  “And I am rid of this bond between us, Bwonsamdi. Rastakhan’s deal. I want it no longer, and if I am to abandon my pride to the Horde then you will abandon this pact. My life is my own, tied to no other’s.”

  Talanji felt her breath catch in her throat. It wasn’t often she gave an ultimatum to a loa. And from the grimace on Bwonsamdi’s face, he clearly disapproved. But she did not back down from the loa of death. If he needed her so badly, then he could compromise. It was only fair. It was time, at last, for her to be making the deals.

  “Ha. I don’t think so, little queen.”

  “Why? It cannot be undone? Our pact?” she asked. “Will it kill me to break it?”

  “No, Talanji, but ya would regret it. Ya have the loa of graves on your side, the loyalty of a god—did ya really think there would be no drawbacks?”

  The breeze whistled between them, then a crackle as the flames spreading through the jungle claimed a stand of trees and sent them toppling over. Screams punctuated the night.

  The room behind her grew frosty and fogged, a blast of energy sending her toppling against the bed as Bwonsamdi mustered what little strength he had, thundering, “Foolish girl, nothin’ to say?”

  Talanji whirled to face him. She did not cower. She did not speak. Let him throw his tantrum, the high ground was hers to keep.

  “Reckless child of a reckless king! Consider yaself lucky you be workin’ with me and not another loa,” Bwonsamdi spat. In his rage he had expanded to fill the room, his hair brushing the ceiling. Then he diminished, his eyes once again dimmer and less blue. “Mueh’zala would eat ya alive.”

  Even the mention of the other loa’s name made Bwonsamdi’s image waver and blur.

  “I would tell him the same thing,” Talanji stated, defiant. She might have only been a young troll in a bed sheet without crown, without jewels, without a weapon, but she was still the queen.

  “Ya will regret this,” Bwonsamdi assured her, shrinking further. “Consider the deal struck, girl. Protect my shrines, keep us safe, and when I am strong again our pact will be no more. Ya will have your life back, all your own, but ya may not like what it means to be all alone.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Dazar’alor

  Zekhan hopped lightly from foot to foot, waiting for his moment to speak. The Zanchuli Council had put him down on their schedule, an emergency meeting called at dawn to address the growing threat of the Widow’s Bite.

  He had never before presented officially in front of a crowd of important strangers, and the pressure squeezed him from every direction. The answer, he felt, was plain. Talanji needed help from the Horde, the Horde wanted to give it, and she simply had to be convinced that her personal vendettas mattered less than the safety and security of Zandalar.

  However, the likelihood of swaying her to his point of view seemed less and less as she paced before the council in their lofty golden chairs, her voice clear and decisive, the council nodding in agreement with nearly every word.

  “The Widow’s Bite would have us believe that they are everywhere and nowhere,” Talanji was saying. “But this is not true. They have made a mistake. Now we know what they want: They want to weaken Bwonsamdi because they believe it will weaken me.”

 
Servants in glittering headdresses and feathered skirts took vigorous notes behind the council members, scribbling frantically on tablets while Talanji continued her speech to the silent, enthralled audience.

  “They will continue to target places of Bwonsamdi’s power. His shrines, of course, and more importantly, the Necropolis. It must not fall, but knowing where the rebels will strike means we can put a stop to this now.” She stilled, facing her council with her head held high. “We protect the shrines, we protect the Necropolis, and the Widow’s Bite will be forced into open conflict.”

  Zekhan began to applaud, moved, but realized he was alone in doing so. Not only that, he was not there to support her plan, not really; he needed her to ally with the Horde, that was the primary reason Thrall had sent Zekhan in the first place. He cleared his throat and slipped further into the shadows behind the pillars of the great council chamber.

  The chieftain of the Darkspear tribe had arrived just hours before dawn, alarmed by what he had read in Zekhan’s messages. A brutal storm had begun to rage off the coast, the way unpassable by sea, air the only available route. Even that was dangerous. One of Gazlowe’s flying machines had been able to safely drop him off in the harbor, but only just, damaged by the electricity brewing in the clouds, crashing offshore the moment Rokhan set foot on dry land. Zekhan had greeted his arrival with relief, thrilled to have support from not only a member of the Horde Council itself but a close friend of the queen’s.

  Chieftain Rokhan stood, blood-red tabard and leather armor a stark contrast to the blue- and purple- and gold-clad council members.

  “I agree with ya assessment, Queen Talanji,” he said. “But we best send those patrols now. Sentiment in the city is not good, ya majesty. These attacks make you look incompetent and weak.”

  To her credit, Talanji did not flinch.

  Wardruid Loti, enameled armor blazing under the brazier hanging above the council, stood and grunted her agreement. “The rebel threat ends today.”

  “Then let a force be assembled,” Natal’hakata, blue-haired and golden-tusked, roared. “The Necropolis is vast, with many tunnels where little spiders might hide; it will take a great deal of resources to secure it.”

  It was time to step in. Zekhan wasn’t on the schedule until after Zolani was slated to speak, but he knew this was his one opportunity to intervene before their enthusiasm and certainty grew too powerful to overcome. He not only had a duty to the Horde to represent their interests, but the loa of graves himself had bid him change Talanji’s mind.

  No pressure whatsoever now. Ancestors protect me.

  “I-if I may?”

  Zekhan swore he heard a parrot flap its wings six miles away in the abrupt, chilling silence. He tiptoed around the pillar concealing him and stood in Talanji’s shadow, her arms crossed expectantly.

  “Ah, Zekhan. Come forward, boy. What do ya have to say?” Rokhan gestured him forward. “Let us hear from our Horde ambassador.”

  “Do we really have time for this?” Natal’hakata muttered.

  “I can be brief.” Zekhan hurried to the center of the great chamber. It reminded him of the grandeur of Grommash Hold. How many great decisions had been made there? How many executions decided? How many wars declared? Just a jungle boy from the shores of the Echo Isles…

  Varok Saurfang had taught him to see war differently, to see it as the preventable horror it truly was. Zekhan made a fist, holding that thought in his hand like a talisman. What he said next might save the lives of many Zandalari warriors, and further on down, it might save lives in the Horde if Talanji were to join her strength to theirs.

  “Speak, boy,” Natal’hakata demanded, impatient.

  “Don’t send your soldiers to the Necropolis,” Zekhan blurted. Bad start. He winced and tried again, this time slower. “The queen is right. Bwonsamdi must be protected, and all the people of Zandalar, too. But you can’t do it alone.”

  “This is a Zandalari problem.” Talanji stalked up to him, nearly butting against his tusks. “I am not unreasonable, I can bend. The Horde may send their troops, if and when they agree to lend me those same troops against the Proudmoores.”

  “No, no, no, they will never agree to that!” Zekhan countered. “And what then? Ya people think ya weak now, what will they think when ya can’t protect ya own shrines and temples from a band of rebels?”

  Rumbling from the council. Interest from the council.

  Zekhan pushed on, sensing his moment. “You will get one chance to write the endin’ of this story. So far your people have only witnessed defeat, can ya stand to show them one more? Why take that chance? The Horde is willin’ to stand with you. With their help, with their strength, we can write that endin’, a victorious endin’, right now.”

  Talanji looked ready to throttle him, but she kept her temper, her chest rising and falling faster and faster. “This is propaganda!”

  “The boy has a point.” Rokhan stroked his chin thoughtfully. “The only propaganda I be seein’ is what the Widow’s Bite spreads against us, my queen. That tide is turnin’ and without a decisive victory the rebels could raise the whole city against you.”

  “If the queen’s rule is truly threatened,” the tortollan, Lashk, spoke up, head craning farther out of his shell, “then inviting the Horde forces back here could be a mistake. I mean no insult to you, Rokhan, but what if your generals see an opportunity to invade?”

  “Lashk speaks wisdom.” Talanji nodded, reiterating, “There are already rumors of such in the city, if the Horde is to come then we must have certain promises in return. Justice for our city, revenge for the Alliance siege.”

  “These rumors…” Standing, the chieftain Rokhan stepped down from the raised platform where the council members sat. He regarded first Talanji and then Zekhan, his voice low with weariness. “I have my doubts about these rebels. They be too fast, too smart. Maybe a loa be helpin’ them. Or maybe somethin’ else.”

  Zekhan blinked. “Like what?”

  “I don’t know yet, boy. But I intend to find out.” Rokhan pushed by them both, separating them, leaving the council chambers with slow, deliberate steps. On his belt, his red dagger flashed with cunning magic. “Ya won’t have my support either way until we know more, Queen Talanji. The ambassador here be right—we only get one chance.”

  Talanji went after him and then the others, arguments erupting between the council as they adjourned without any official call to do so. Everyone and everything was in an uproar. Zekhan stared, speechless, buffeted this way and that by the leaving council, trying to drop a word in on conversations he was not welcome to join. Before he could think of something that might keep them all there, the chamber was empty, even the note-taking pages fleeing.

  Scratching his head, Zekhan tried to piece together what had just happened. He had persuaded some of the members, at least a little, but Talanji remained impossible to reach. And here he thought she was growing more sympathetic to the Horde. What would it take? What would make her see that she need not stand alone?

  “Thanks for listenin’!” Zekhan called after the long-gone council. “I think.”

  “Oh, they heard ya, boy. They heard ya. And ya did well.”

  The voice wrapped around him like a vise, wringing all the joy and lightness out of his body before he could breathe again. Bwonsamdi. The loa had come to visit, his unsettling, masked presence somehow weaker, as if he was stretched thin, a well running dry.

  “I didn’t do well.” Zekhan slumped his way to the platform, sitting on the edge of it, just below where the council chairs gleamed with hammered gold and jewels. “Talanji won’t trust me, she won’t trust the Horde, and we’re runnin’ out of time.”

  Bwonsamdi floated down to meet him, sitting to his right, his bones and armor rattling as he descended. His presence cast a shadow over everything; even the sun outside lost some of its heat and
shine. Still, his image was thin, worryingly so, like linen breeches almost worn through. “Ya new at this. Don’t be so hard on yaself, boy. Some of the council be listenin’ to ya, and that’s no small feat. They see somethin’ powerful in you, they see what I see.”

  At that, Zekhan straightened. A loa, a god, thought he was doing a good job? That he was powerful? It didn’t seem real. But no, he had heard the words and he felt them lift his sinking spirits. What had he done to find his way into the presence of so many influential beings? Maybe Bwonsamdi was right. Maybe he truly was powerful.

  Ancestors, you never let me down.

  “And what do they see?” Zekhan chuckled. “Besides a failure.”

  “Someone they want on their side.”

  Zekhan jumped up and straightened the Horde colors draped over his shoulder. “You’re right. The council did listen, and if they can listen to me, then so can the queen. I can’t give up.”

  He felt the loa walk in stride with him toward the wide-open archway that showed the carpet of green jungle blanketing Zandalar. The fires had gone out, but the smoke still rose in pillars of dire warning. The loa walked in step with him. Zekhan closed his hand into a fist again, holding on to that moment, holding on to the faith and trust of a god.

  “Don’t give up, boy.” Bwonsamdi’s amused chuckle filled the chamber, but there was a note of sadness to it. That only strengthened Zekhan’s resolve. The loa needed protecting, and Zekhan would see it done.

  “Don’t give up.” The loa’s words drifted down to him as Bwonsamdi gradually disappeared, nothing but his blue flame eyes remaining in the blinding light of dawn. “That’s the spirit.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Nazmir

  The sound of a flute infiltrated the captain’s quarters, made thin and muted by the layers of timber separating Mathias Shaw from the crew below deck. Across from him, down the considerable length of a well-used and lacquered table, Flynn Fairwind tapped his foot to the music, boot bouncing as he sang along under his breath.