Shadows Rising (World of Warcraft

by Madeleine Roux

  “Captain! Do we fire?”

  Flynn couldn’t be sure who even asked, but as he cracked open the powder barrel and looked out to the shore, he found Mathias Shaw had drawn his daggers. The man faced impossible odds. Nobody could stand alone against that many soldiers and archers, let alone with only two measly daggers. The trolls charging him were not the white-and-black-clad sort they had seen before. The intricate golden armor and tactics gave them away as royal guards. They spotted Shaw and, worse, the ship.

  Flynn swore. They had been made.

  He watched, heart pounding, as Shaw lifted his daggers and then carefully, obviously placed them down on the sand.

  “Surrendering?” Flynn whispered. He wouldn’t have it. That was their man down there, and he didn’t care how many trolls he had to fire on to save him. He lifted his hand, ready to give the order to fire, but Mathias turned his back on the trolls pelting toward him, seemingly impervious to their war cries.

  “Run,” he said, clear as a bell. “Leave Zandalar, Flynn. Run.”

  “Do we fire, sir?” Nailor trembled, itchy.

  “No…No, don’t fire.” Flynn pried himself away from the powder keg, finding Melli already dashing up toward the wheel. “Do it, Melli,” he said, deadly serious. “Get us out of here.”

  “But Shaw—”

  “He knows what he’s doing, we have to trust him on that. We have to trust our own.” As much as I’d like to wring his neck right now, that is. “Go!”

  The first Zandalari arrow struck the railing inches from Nailor’s arm. The others began to fall quickly after that, peppering the deck like a volley of winter hail. Melli stood tall behind the wheel, eyes closed, hands out before her as she conducted the waves like they were an orchestra and not surf and spray. Flynn didn’t dare break her concentration, dodging each arrow as it whistled down toward him.

  It was agony, leaving a man behind. They had spent countless hours together aboard the Bold Arva, not just sharing strategies but sharing their lives. True, Flynn had been tipsy for some of the more personal confessions, but he couldn’t remember the last time he had told anyone about his mother. She was a sacred memory, a trove he always left buried. No X marked the spot, because he never acknowledged her existence to anyone. But somehow, Shaw had gotten it out of him. Maybe it was Shaw’s quiet, listening nature. Or maybe Flynn had grown to trust him.

  Shaw didn’t flinch at all until he got to the part where she was hanged, a thief and a scoundrel, and the woman he admired most in the whole world. Lyra Fairwind, a thief, definitely, a scoundrel, maybe. A loving mother? Absolutely.

  And now Fairwind was leaving that man behind, the only man in the world who knew about his mother, who listened and knew when exactly to give just that little wince of solidarity. That man. Gone.

  The cannons and guns were loaded. They could fire. They could fire, but Shaw had surrendered and given his order. He remembered the spymaster’s words. An act of aggression. Surely opening fire on the Zandalari would only make things worse and potentially put Shaw’s life in danger.

  Flynn twitched, desperate to pull his blunderbuss and show the trolls what happened when they advanced on his crew.

  The Bold Arva began to slide slowly but surely back out toward the lanes. The outgoing tide caught them, just as Melli predicted, and with the bowsprit angled north they floated steadily away from the beach and toward the river pouring out into the sea. They picked up speed and Flynn ran to the railing, clutching it while Shaw became smaller and smaller, farther and farther away. No cheer went up from the crew, no one spoke a word.

  Mathias Shaw was gone.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Tiragarde Sound

  Jaina had hosted tense dinners before, but this one was swiftly climbing to top the list.

  A small dining room abutted the grand hall where the Proudmoores kept their extensive collection of maps, charts, seafaring gizmos, and nautical artifacts. That long gallery was decorated from floor to ceiling with oil paintings of the Proudmoore family, extended family, and beloved friends. A striking portrait of King Anduin Wrynn was among them. Not included, however, were paintings of her illustrious dinner guests.

  Alleria Windrunner picked listlessly at her food, spending more time spinning her wine goblet than drinking from it. Despite this, a fleet of servants brought in course after course, prolonging Jaina’s torment by refusing to just skip to dessert. Instead, she, Alleria Windrunner, Lord Commander Turalyon, and Jaina’s mother, Katherine, endured an appetizer course of blood sausage and roasted peppers on toast, followed by a savory pie glistening with honey, nearly rupturing its crust from the sheer amount of fragrant boar sizzling within.

  Currently, Jaina watched the high exarch wolf down a monumental pile of grilled fish. While Alleria’s approach was to eat nothing, Turalyon instead kept his mouth as full as possible, perhaps giving him an excuse to avoid conversation. They had come at Anduin’s behest, charged with concocting a secondary plan should Mathias Shaw find nothing on the Zandalari coast.

  “I hear Hackney has whipped up a scrumptious ravenberry tart for dessert,” Katherine Proudmoore announced in a painfully sing-song voice, one Jaina only heard when her mother was nearing the end of her patience. Jaina had to admire her mother’s tenacity, her uncanny ability to weather even the most awkward supper with absolute poise.

  “That is very thoughtful, but I fear it will be impossible for me to partake,” Alleria murmured. “I could not possibly eat another bite.”

  Jaina told herself not to drink too deeply of the excellent wine, even if it was tempting. She longed to return to the strategy hall, to stand among the paintings and brass compasses and study her evolving map of Azeroth. Wherever they had searched for Sylvanas, a blue pin pierced the leather. When they at last found her, Jaina planned to drive a dagger into the spot.

  But her mother insisted on being a good host, and that meant detaining them with this exorbitant, unending feast. At least if Anduin or Greymane had been there the conversation might be light enough to enjoy. Turalyon and Alleria undoubtedly detected Jaina’s dislike of their methods, the manner in which they had tortured first an apothecary and then a smuggler for vital information.

  It was vital, Jaina. Vital. Do not let your squeamishness cost us the goal.

  She caught herself glaring at Alleria Windrunner. Once, Jaina had held nothing but pure admiration for the ranger; now, however, with Alleria infested with the Void, Jaina held her actions and her words to a higher level of scrutiny. Was it Alleria speaking to her now, lying about her full stomach, or some twisted monstrosity from the Void? Did she sit there, still as a statue, while her mind worked hard, churning with dark machinations? After all, Queen Azshara was still missing after N’Zoth’s defeat, last seen escaping in a portal made from the Void. Perhaps Alleria knew where the dangerous queen had gone. N’Zoth might be defeated, but many servants of the Void remained, and they too might seek to overtake Azeroth as the Corruptor had. Would Alleria even know if she had passed the point of no return? How did one separate thought from the Void’s twisted influence?

  “Well!” Katherine chirped, resplendent in a deep purple frock embellished with gold admiral’s fringe on the shoulders. Her iron gray hair had been coiffed into a sleek dome on her head. “I think more wine would suit us all, wouldn’t it? Yes, yes, much more wine…”

  “My lady!”

  The double doors leading into the dining room from the gallery were already open, flanked by two Proudmoore guards wielding pikes. Yet a third guard slid into the room, panting, his helm crooked as he struggled to catch his breath.

  “By wind and by sea, speak, Cormery,” Katherine Proudmoore demanded in her precise, cool way, a former admiral even at rest. She stood along with Jaina, alarmed at the intrusion. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “They took him!”

  Of all the people Ja
ina expected to come careening into her family keep, Flynn Fairwind was not one of them. But there he was, the sea dog, shoving Cormery aside and barely making it to the dining table.

  “Who did they take?” Jaina asked, abandoning her wine and her plate to go to Fairwind’s side.

  Alleria and Turalyon joined, and soon all four of them stood circling the man, who looked as if the sea had ravaged him for months. A fine crust of salt cracked across his forehead, his swarthy skin blistering with sunburn. His auburn hair tumbled out of its ribbon in a snarl.

  “We sailed…” He heaved again for breath. One of the servants appeared, handing him a glass of water. He knocked it away and grabbed the wine bottle off the table, swigging for ten unbroken seconds. “We sailed as fast as we could, back through the storm…Melli damn near killed herself, but she knew this route so well, said it was the best port to take us.”

  “Is Melli all right? What is going on?” Katherine pressed, snatching the bottle out of his hand.

  “Here, Flynn, sit,” Jaina told him, gently easing him into the chair Alleria had vacated. “Try to calm down, catch your breath, and tell us exactly what happened. Who is gone?”

  “It’s Shaw. They took him. The…the Zandalari trolls caught us, they saw our ship and Shaw was still on shore.” He pulled at a satchel on his belt, unhooking it with a grunt before spilling the contents across the dinner table, spoiling Hackney’s platter of tenderloin with a spiced duxelle. That didn’t bother Fairwind, who began shoveling food into his mouth with more gusto than Turalyon, almost choking himself as he chewed.

  “This arrow.” Turalyon held up one of the items from Fairwind’s pouch. At once, the Lord Commander’s brow darkened, his lips turning into a firm line. “I’ve seen these before. This fletching…These are the arrows we found in Shaw’s spies.”

  “It’s all right,” Jaina said, still trying to soothe Fairwind. His eyes bulged, red with tears and sunburn as he reached for the potatoes. “Mathias Shaw is a high-ranking member of the Alliance forces. If they took him prisoner then Queen Talanji will not execute him without cause.”

  “Read,” he stammered around his food. “Read these…” He shoved the bits of curled and bleached paper toward Alleria. “Because I can’t.”

  She deftly picked one up with thumb and forefinger. “I somewhat doubt that trolls would communicate to one another in Thalassian. These are valuable pieces of evidence he has brought us, proof that the dark rangers are indeed infiltrating Zandalar.”

  “Then it’s true,” Jaina breathed. Thalassian. The language of the high and blood elves…

  “Notes on the region,” Alleria continued, flipping through the various messages. “Troop movements, patrol routes, nothing that might tell us what they want on the island—”

  “But proof enough that the dark rangers are there,” Turalyon interrupted. He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose with irritation. “We should have acted sooner. Sylvanas could be in Zuldazar right now. She could be conspiring with the trolls.”

  Jaina sensed the conversation moving far beyond her control. Of course she wanted to find Sylvanas, of course these clues must be taken into consideration, but she heard the far-off drums of war echoing in Turalyon’s voice. His anger, his frustration, was completely justified, but she worried now what that justification might become. Anduin had already sent his sly messenger Valeera Sanguinar to the one member of the Horde he unfailingly trusted, Baine Bloodhoof, questioning whether they might have spotted Sylvanas in Zandalari lands. Carefully he prodded, mentioning only that dark rangers had been seen departing the Eastern Kingdoms and sailing in that direction.

  But Baine Bloodhoof’s response had been swift and certain: They had no knowledge of Sylvanas hiding anywhere on Zandalar.

  Perhaps it was naïve of Anduin to believe him, but Jaina knew Baine well, too. There would be no reason for him to lie—Baine wanted Sylvanas captured and tried as much as they did.

  “I will take these missives to the king,” Alleria stated, gathering up the bits of parchment. “He must be informed at once and a new strategy approved. If the Horde is harboring Sylvanas on Zandalar then we must be quick and quiet, the cunning blade never seen and only later felt.”

  “No.”

  Even Fairwind fell silent at Jaina’s single word. The room stilled, Alleria gazing into Jaina’s eyes with ill-concealed disdain. “You disagree that time is of the essence? The time for action is now!”

  The timbre of her voice changed. Jaina heard her mother gasp and draw back. The pale blue light in Alleria’s eyes flamed higher, a dark nimbus of purple vapor surrounding the ranger’s body. Jaina could lose her temper, too. She could shout and rail and teleport Alleria to the very top of Mount Neverest, but she did not.

  Jaina breathed in, feeling ice gather on her tongue. No. No magic. Breathe.

  “I disagree with your conclusions,” Jaina replied, voice hardly above a whisper. “Think, Alleria. Think carefully. Shaw and Fairwind were already seen by the Zandalari, so we can assume they were also identified. Zandalar will be expecting more Alliance soldiers on their doorstep. Do not reward their paranoia, do not add fuel to an already kindling fire. I beg of you: Do not risk the treaty we worked so hard to achieve.”

  “Then what do you suggest?” Turalyon still held the Zandalari arrow with dark ranger fletching, the sharp end pointed toward her. His other hand went to Alleria’s, and Jaina saw him give a tight squeeze.

  “That we put our trust in that very same treaty,” Jaina murmured. An idea formed in her head, her gaze fixed on Fairwind and his stunned expression, wind-chapped lips hanging open. “All I beg of you is time. Time to let me try this one last thing. If this fails, then perhaps you are right, Alleria; perhaps then we must become the blade.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Orgrimmar

  Thrall stared in dumb wonderment at the message Ji Firepaw had just passed into his hands.

  “I was only gone for two days,” Thrall muttered. “Clearly I missed something.”

  Ji vented a tired laugh. “Forgive me for ambushing you this soon after your return, Thrall, but I believed the urgency demanded your immediate attention.” The pandaren bowed, righting himself with a less tired and more mischievous smile. “That and I wanted to see your reaction.”

  Together they walked the long path down from the tallest heights of Orgrimmar to the seat of the council, Grommash Hold. While they waited for the elevator that would take them to the ground level of the city, Ji bounced his fingers impatiently off his own belly, one eye turned always toward Thrall.

  “Well?” he pressed. “What do you make of it?”

  “I cannot say it is surprising,” Thrall scanned the message again, feeling the exhausted headache pinching the back of his scalp sharpen. While it was an invitation to meet with the king of Stormwind, the letter was written in Jaina’s distinctive hand. The fact did not go unnoticed, and it must be taken for what it was: a brazen attempt to manipulate him with their friendship. He did not begrudge it. If he needed a favor from the Alliance, he might do exactly the same. She opened with general polite introductions to the council and addressed the missive to them as a collective—but one section in particular was just for him.

  Please, Thrall, if ever you valued our friendship then meet with King Anduin and myself. I share with you now sensitive Alliance intelligence in the hope that you will see it not only as a gesture of good will, but as a call to action.

  “I had hoped to resolve the unrest in Zandalar before the Alliance could learn of it,” he finally answered the curious pandaren. “But this…”

  Dark rangers prowl the jungles of Zandalar, and our spymaster is now in the custody of Queen Talanji. Some among us believe that the Zandalari queen may be conspiring with Sylvanas. If this is so, I refuse to believe you had knowledge of it. Meet with us, old friend, and help me protect this fledgling
armistice—it feels as if it might be torn to shreds before the ink has even dried on the page.

  “This cannot be ignored.” Thrall folded the message and tucked it into his belt for safekeeping. There was no need to read it again; he had already made up his mind.

  “May I attend the meeting?”

  Thrall lifted a brow. “You want to come?”

  “The letter was addressed to us all. Besides, when lightning strikes the wrong tree, the whole forest burns,” Ji replied, following Thrall out onto the road after the elevator stopped at the bottom. “Zandalar is the tree. These dark rumors are the lightning. Perhaps a monk’s wisdom might stem the blaze.”

  “These negotiations will require a delicate touch, Ji, and your wisdom generally involves acting as swiftly as possible,” Thrall said. “But then I suppose going at all would be action. You know, agreeing to this might be unpopular with the rest of the council.”

  The monk tugged at his long black beard. With the hour very late, the streets of Orgrimmar stood nearly empty, a full moon lighting their path as vividly as any torch. “That is so,” Ji agreed. “But popular or not, the Horde’s previous rogue warchief almost cost my people the soul of their homeland, so you will of course forgive my insistence.”

  Hellscream. Thrall had defeated Garrosh Hellscream in a mak’gora, justice for his dizzying list of crimes. Hellscream’s lust for power had led to him using an Old God’s heart to gain unnatural strength, making him an enemy of not just the pandaren and the Alliance, but the Horde as well.

  “The Vale of Eternal Blossoms has nearly healed,” Ji concluded. “But the pandaren will forever wear the scars of Hellscream’s cruelty.”

  Thrall glanced down at the stout monk master, finding a familiar tenacity in the pandaren’s eyes. He had seen that same pain, that same determination, in the eyes of Tyrande Whisperwind. The burning of Teldrassil, the destruction of the Vale of Eternal Blossoms…It was all so pointlessly selfish and callous.