Shadows Rising (World of Warcraft

by Madeleine Roux

  “Woes upon woes.” Thrall sighed. “Trouble heaped upon trouble.”

  The pandaren simply made a soft sound of confusion.

  A few peons stumbling home drunk from the tavern wandered by Grommash Hold, their laughter echoing off the tall, spiked towers of the city. Four orcish sentinels stood guard, braziers burning outside to aid their watch.

  “The reports from our ambassador in Zandalar are bleak, Ji.”

  “Ah, young Zekhan. Chieftain Rokhan departed for Zandalar yesterday. He was growing concerned about the boy.”

  Thrall let Ji push ahead and into the hold. “The queen is being overrun with rebels opposing her rule, the Zanchuli Council is deadlocked, more assassination attempts have been made, and now the Alliance wishes to confer with us. I cannot help but think all of these things are connected.”

  The pandaren paused, twirling his beard with two fingers. Raised voices drifted to them through the curtain cutting off the main rotunda of the hold from view. Thrall dreaded what came next.

  This is what it means to be just one voice among many. These were your conditions to return and live among the Horde again—the compromises, the arguments, the delegating…

  “We should go in,” Thrall murmured.

  “We did walk all this way. Why hesitate?”

  Thrall might have bored him with a list long enough to fill many hours; instead he simply said, “I am tired, Ji. And I feel…I feel so very old.”

  The pandaren snorted and tossed his beard over one shoulder. “We have a saying where I grew up, in Wu-Song Village—the oldest ginger is the most pungent.”

  Thrall pulled the leather curtain aside. “What an interesting way of telling me I smell.”

  “At last, there you are.” Lor’themar stood at their arrival, as did all those who had been in conference with him. “Where are Baine and Calia? Hurry now and tell us what you make of this request from the Alliance.”

  “They will be here soon to describe our meeting with the night elves.”

  Tugging the message from his belt, Thrall felt the weight of their expectations fall directly on him. It was good that Ji Firepaw had managed to make him laugh, easing the burden of what might come next. Lor’themar, Thalyssra, Gazlowe, and Lilian Voss crowded toward him. As Ji had informed him, Rokhan was absent, and Calia Menethil and Baine Bloodhoof had not yet returned to the hold.

  Before Thrall could continue, Ji Firepaw coughed loudly into his furry fist. “As for the message, we will go. The word from Zandalar is dire—we know this, the Alliance now knows this, and it is our duty to act. If we ignore their summons, then why did we sign a treaty in the first place?”

  He was grateful to his friend for taking the arrow. The last thing Thrall wanted was to appear more like a warchief and less like a single, equal member of the council. He supported Ji’s speech by simply standing at his side, still and tall, nodding occasionally to express his agreement.

  Still, First Arcanist Thalyssra narrowed her eyes at them both. “Thrall, what are your thoughts?”

  “Ji is right. I had hoped to put out the fires in Zandalar before the Alliance noticed, but it appears the conflict has grown too obvious to hide. I know Jaina Proudmoore well; she would not go to these lengths lightly.”

  “But dark rangers?” Lor’themar scoffed, crossing his arms across his red tunic chased in gold. “This sounds far-fetched, does it not? It sounds to me like they got their man arrested for trespassing and now they want our help freeing him. They are abusing our civility.”

  Thrall had not considered that, but he shook his head. “I have no intention of freeing their spy. I go to protect Zandalar; that is my only intent. If the Alliance decides dark rangers are working with Queen Talanji, then they will start another war, and I would have a difficult time blaming them.”

  “How could they think that? We have not been kind to Sylvanas’s loyalists,” Lor’themar spat.

  “We know that,” Thrall told him calmly. “But the Alliance does not. What must our turmoil look like to them? No, I will assuage their fears, and, what is more, I will listen.”

  “Listen? Sounds boring. How about you tell those pesky humans to stay off our lands. Last time I checked a treaty wasn’t just a bunch of gentle suggestions.” The Trade Prince Gazlowe, head just slightly taller than the First Arcanist’s knee, made his position clear. “I say forget it. They can have their spy back when they give us something first.”

  Thrall breathed in sharply through his nose, but Ji Firepaw cut in, taking the tiniest step forward to place himself between the orc and the rest of the council. “They will give us something. They will give us their knowledge. Thrall speaks true—whatever we learn, we will use it to protect Zandalar.”

  Lor’themar, stewing over it all, tapped his boot impatiently. He tossed up his hands in frustration and gestured to Thalyssra. “Might you conjure them a portal to Zandalar, let them go to this meeting and question the Alliance for information? In truth, I want to know more of these dark rangers. If by chance Sylvanas truly is in Zandalar then we could have her in our snare tomorrow.”

  “Do it.” Lilian Voss, who was still finding her footing at the meetings and rarely spoke, sounded unusually confident. “Any chance we have to capture the Banshee Queen cannot be wasted.”

  Kiro, the diminutive foxlike creature draped in beads and leather, warmed his paws at the central brazier. Just like Lilian, he was still finding his place among the council, the vulpera still a new addition to the Horde. “While many of us have left Zandalar, it is still our home. If it is sick with treachery, I would see it healed.”

  Optimism from Lor’themar, decisiveness from Lilian, and now the vulpera leadership agreed, too. Thrall had no idea where Sylvanas might be, but if the Alliance had information that would lead them to her then all the better. Only Gazlowe remained unsure, but his single “nay” could not overrule the decision.

  But it mattered to Thrall that they reach a consensus. He stared at the goblin, patient yet impatient, a familiar knot of anxiety building in his stomach. Surviving as many battles, cataclysms, earth-shaking disasters, and invasions as he had, Thrall had cultivated a honed warrior’s instinct for danger. Time is of the essence, his senses screamed at him, but consensus mattered.

  The council mattered. Gazlowe mattered.

  “Oh, fine, what the hell.” The goblin rolled his eyes, waving Thrall away. “Just capture Sylvanas so we can all shut up about her already and get back to worrying about Horde problems. Our problems. Goblin problems.” He winked. “Obviously.”

  Thalyssra tried to hide her amused smile, but Thrall noticed it. Once she had it back under control, the portal opened, slashing itself across Gazlowe’s unimpressed grimace. On the other side, a ship in the middle of a strait waited, a small patch of calm at the center of a brewing storm.

  * * *

  —

  Thrall did not like to be kept waiting, but his companion Ji Firepaw liked it even less. The restless pandaren stood at the edge of the ship without sails, a bobbing wreck left to float in the waters between the Eastern Kingdoms and Zandalar. Without a crew, without any means of transporting itself, it felt like the immense skeleton of some long-dead ocean beast. Scraps of rigging hung from the masts like dried entrails left to flap in the breeze, the deck as bleached as a desert corpse.

  “Quite the storm…” Ji pointed to the west, where blackened thunderheads hung low and threatening over the sea. The waves crashing below surged high enough to tickle the bottoms of the clouds.

  Thrall frowned. “Yet it isn’t moving.”

  Ji glanced up at him. “Hm.”

  “Storms move. That looks more like a wall to me.”

  “Perhaps we should be glad. This old hulk wouldn’t survive a sunshower let alone…whatever that is.” The pandaren shuddered. “Just add it to the list.”

  “The list
?”

  “Of curiosities and coincidences that must be explained,” Ji replied with a growl. “Of links that make up a chain we cannot yet see the end of.”

  There was no arguing with that. “I had at least hoped to better understand the disruption in the Spirit Realm, to remove one link from that infernal chain, but the night elves were not willing to lend us a single priestess or even discuss the nature of the disturbance.”

  Squinting toward the storm clouds, Ji clucked his tongue with disappointment. “Then you learned nothing in Nordrassil.”

  “I wouldn’t say that.”

  The mage’s portal pulled at the air around them before a reverberating crack split the silence on that forlorn stretch of ocean. Ji Firepaw whirled around with his hands up, his fighter’s stance at the ready. But Thrall took his time, staring for a moment longer at the band of shadowy purple clouds wrapping around Zandalar like a bruised fist. Footsteps, soft ones, then a louder pair clad in armor. Just as Jaina had promised, only two had come. Thrall turned to face them wearing a thin smile.

  “No ambush?” Thrall said by way of greeting. “Shame. It’s a damn good place for one.”

  Jaina Proudmoore, redeemed pride of Kul Tiras, blonde-and-white hair braided over one shoulder, her crystal-topped staff aimed placidly at the deck, gained her feet on the gently rocking ship without a hitch. One might conclude she had sea legs while still in the womb.

  “I’m full of surprises today, Thrall,” she replied, echoing his expression. She dropped a leather satchel on the ground. “But not that kind.”

  “Thank you for coming.” The king of Stormwind, by contrast, did not seem so at ease on the ship, his initial steps out of the portal wobbly before he planted himself with the expected dignity of a royal. His skin looked worn and blue around the eyes, exhausted smudges painted beneath.

  Thrall knew that look well, had experienced it himself many times—the sleepless, sallow ravages of leadership. It had been mere months since he had last clapped eyes on the king of Stormwind, yet he seemed to have aged a full year.

  “Ji Firepaw…” Jaina lifted a brow.

  “Greetings, Lord Admiral. Your majesty.” The pandaren bowed. “Disappointing that we meet under such unhappy circumstances.”

  “Unhappy isn’t the half of it,” the king muttered.

  Before he could say more, Thrall put up his hand, interrupting. “There is something you should know. If there are to be no great secrets between us, if we are to trust, then I should tell you that I met with Tyrande and Malfurion.”

  Jaina and Anduin stared at him, both in stunned silence.

  “O-oh,” was all Jaina could muster.

  Thrall bowed his head, ruffling the hair at his nape in frustration. “It…did not go well. I tried to put forward an apology from the Horde, but they did not accept it. They are interested only in revenge against Windrunner.”

  “That is also foremost on our minds,” Anduin replied, impatient. He sliced his hand across the air between them. “Let us cut to the chase, shall we?”

  Jaina reached into the pack she had dropped, producing an arrow that looked to be of Zandalari make and colors, and several scraps of parchment. Crossing the narrow distance between them, she handed the arrow to Ji and the papers to Thrall, then returned to Anduin’s side.

  “We intercepted members of the Horde aiding a dark ranger called Visrynn; she took passage from Faldir’s Cove to Zandalar, warning of the storms you now see on the horizon, which speaks to organization. A plan. My spymaster and Lord Commander Turalyon are also confident that the arrow you hold has been fletched by dark rangers,” Anduin barreled on. To business, Thrall approved. “It appears quite different from the fletching you see on the average Zandalari arrow. We have many left over from the war for comparison.”

  Thrall had begun perusing the notes but shifted his gaze to the king at that.

  “The messages say—”

  “I can read them,” Thrall growled, silencing him. And reading them filled his heart with dread. His warrior’s senses prickled along the back of his neck. More links to add to that chain. This was bad. It was bad for the Horde, but worse for Talanji. There was no mistaking the script, the language, the content. Dark rangers had written those notes, and while Thrall was not intensely familiar with the fletching those archers used, he saw no reason to doubt the accusation. The letters themselves were damning enough.

  “Are you betraying us?” Anduin’s voice hit the deck with the weight of an anchor. The words lingered, sea winds whistling between them for an agonizing moment that stretched on until the king broke it again. “Is Sylvanas Windrunner seeking refuge on Zandalar? I have come for answers, Thrall, and I will have them.”

  Beside him, Ji Firepaw straightened, huffing with outrage.

  “There is no love left for Sylvanas Windrunner among our Horde, only hatred. No conspiracy exists to shelter her. Baine Bloodhoof would not abide such a gutless plot, and neither would I. Fires burn in the jungles outside Dazar’alor,” Thrall began softly, his voice rising word by word as he discovered, in that moment, the true depth of the shadows spreading around Talanji. “Rebels have been assaulting the palace, attempting to assassinate the queen, and now burning down loa shrines all over Zuldazar and Nazmir. Her council does nothing, and the queen refuses to set aside old vendettas and ask for our help.”

  He saw the briefest flicker of relief pass across the human king’s face. Thrall understood that to other humans Wrynn was said to be pleasing-looking, but to the orc, Anduin simply looked like a small, pink boy swallowed by clunky armor. At least the small, pink boy had the grace to nod and accept his words.

  Jaina, however, gave no hint of her feelings. “Why?” she asked.

  “Why what?”

  “Why won’t she ask you for help? She agreed to join the Horde ages ago.”

  Thrall sighed, holding her gaze and waiting until memory and pain brought wisdom. “You know why.”

  Jaina looked down at her feet. “I see.”

  “Are we to believe them?” Anduin asked her, not in a whisper.

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I think we are. What he says is true—Baine Bloodhoof would rather die than be part of some plan to hide and help Sylvanas. We must find these dark rangers and make sense of their being on Zandalar. Whatever the reason, it cannot be good.”

  “It appears the lightning has already struck,” Ji murmured quietly.

  Thrall shut his eyes tight. It had indeed. A wave of hopelessness nearly overcame him, but he stood tall. All was not lost yet. They still had Zekhan embedded with the queen and earning her favor; they now knew better what they were facing. A picture began to form in his mind, hazy and shaky, but still there, an image of Queen Talanji. She was young and brash, vulnerable because of her inexperience and her isolation, crippled by the grudge she held against Jaina, the perfect target for someone seeking to unseat a queen.

  But why? What did Talanji possess that the dark rangers or Sylvanas might want? Without asking, Thrall stuffed their evidence into his pack. Anduin raised a brow but said nothing. No doubt the Alliance spies had made copies of the missives; it was what Thrall would do.

  “I will go to Dazar’alor myself.” Thrall looked to first Anduin, then Jaina. “We have tried the careful approach, the quill and soft words.” He gave a single, grave nod. “Now it is time for the hammer and fist.”

  “There is also the matter of our spymaster,” Anduin replied. The wreck seesawed harder from side to side, but the king managed to stay upright. “While he trespassed on Zandalari shores, he was not there without cause. His mission brought us these indelible clues, proof that Sylvanas or her agents have infiltrated the continent. We are of course willing to use all accepted diplomatic channels to recover him, we only ask that he is not harmed until order is restored to the throne of Zandalar. The Alliance recognizes this was badly done,
that we should have brought our suspicions to you directly and not sought to position our spies in your territory.”

  Ji Firepaw rumbled with appreciation. “That is well spoken, your majesty, and the Horde Council can assure you that we do not execute prisoners without a trial.”

  The king of Stormwind narrowed his eyes. “We would like to have him returned. Soon.”

  The boat rocked again, hard, and Thrall would have toppled over if not for Ji Firepaw. The monk’s superior balance kept him upright, and he caught the orc before he could tumble overboard. Jaina reached for Anduin, steadying him.

  “Give me two days,” Thrall said, struggling to stand with stronger and stronger waves battering the wreck. “I will see about your spy, and I will take these matters to the queen herself. Just as you said, King Anduin, there will be answers.”

  “If we survive to see the next two days.” Ji had turned back to face Zandalar and the ring of storms shrouding it. Those storms had spread, or at least, a fragment had, a cluster of angry clouds racing toward them, bringing the misty gray fringe below that signaled rain.

  Thrall could not believe the size of the waves gathering.

  “That storm nearly killed Fairwind,” he heard Jaina hiss. “Three times.”

  “A portal, Jaina, quickly!” the king demanded.

  Thrall whirled to face them, taking a few precarious strides forward. “Two days; do not invade before then. Trust that we will see to Zandalar. Trust.”

  Ostensibly he asked them both, but he looked to Jaina.

  “Granted!” King Anduin shouted. The storm rushed upon them with unnatural speed, hurling the wreck from side to side, tossing it like a piece of driftwood. “Two days, Thrall, but we cannot afford to lose the Banshee Queen’s trail!”

  “Thrall!” Ji pointed frantically at the thunderous waves, the drumming of the rain like a hail of arrows upon the sea. “Thrall! We are stranded!”

  “Jaina!”

  She had already begun channeling her magic, opening a portal to whisk herself and the king to safety. But she heard him above the din of the storm and turned, her blonde halo of hair stirred by the shock of winds from the west. Without another word, she swiveled, the portal she had been making for herself and Anduin sputtering out into a single blue sparkle.