As something of an apology, or perhaps thanks, Queen Talanji had filled the ship with food fresh from their celebratory feast. Mathias was hungry enough to eagerly get a taste for the spiced meat heaped as tall as a man in the hold. Prisoners didn’t exactly get the finest cuts. In fact, he didn’t want to know what parts of what animals he had been eating. Maybe that was the real punishment.
“Do you have papers?” Mathias asked the captain, Halfkan, a sour-faced vrykul with shockingly red hair.
“Papers?” Halfkan snorted. “I have you.”
The spymaster grinned. Fair enough.
Speaking of fair, the seas proved mercilessly smooth, no trace of the magical storms darkening the way home. They sailed into Stormwind Harbor four days later, with the feast food dwindling as steadily as Shaw’s patience. He kept dawdling in the brig, checking every hour or so to make sure their prize was still there.
It was.
Another unexpected and generous gift from the Horde. The only catch, outlined to him by the tremendously tall orc warrior Thrall, was this: The prize must be delivered exactly as he instructed, to exactly whom he instructed, with the note he had entrusted to Shaw unopened.
Thrall was not the sort one quarreled with in person. Shaw agreed to all stipulations—he could hardly refuse, given his circumstances—and boarded the craft sailing east.
A bevvy of fluffy white seagulls saw them home, gliding on the winds alongside the ship. Mathias propped one foot on the railing, hand looped through a sail rope, a welcome party standing at the end of the dock flanked by six keep guards.
Jaina Proudmoore, Flynn Fairwind, looking a bit worse for wear, and King Anduin Wrynn were there to greet his return.
The ship bumped gently into the dock, rocking, and Mathias gave his king a long, grateful bow. It was good to be home.
“Did they mistreat you?” Anduin asked, brow drawn down with worry.
“They had bigger problems.” Mathias did not disembark, but instead gestured for the others to board. “I can tell you about that later. There is something you need to see.”
Anduin smirked, then Flynn Fairwind all but shoved the king out of the way, throwing himself at Mathias and wrapping him in a tight, warm hug. Mathias returned it, a greeting he had not expected, but welcomed all the same. He smelled like whiskey and salt and soap. Familiar. Like a dream remembered long after it occurred, like a word that was on the tip of the tongue for an age, and now captured.
“I sailed like a madman.” Flynn pushed his sunburnt cheeks deeper into Shaw’s shoulder. He felt slight in Shaw’s arms, as if he had lost weight. The crazy pirate had nearly killed himself sailing for help, and all for him. While Shaw had been rotting in that Zandalari cell, mourning his lost chance at peace and rest, Fairwind had gone and rescued that shining little chance. Shaw didn’t forget things like that, didn’t take them lightly. “Never…never sailed like that before. But I had to get you back.”
“And here I am,” Mathias murmured.
“Here you are.”
“Flynn…” Shaw started, clearing his throat. “There’s something I’d like to talk to you about. Meet me at the Guilded Rose tonight, will you?” Slowly releasing Flynn from their embrace, Shaw pressed the perfect blade of grass into the pirate’s hand. “Don’t be late.”
Flynn’s expression didn’t seem to register what to do with the grass, but the flush in his cheeks said all that Shaw needed to know.
“What is so urgent?” Anduin interjected, striding onto the boat.
“It is better if I simply show you. Come.”
Mathias led them below, shooing the crew out of the hold, making certain they were all of them alone before opening the brig. The small, low-ceilinged cabin holding the brig was lit only by two meager candles, hardly enough light to see by. The door banged open. A figure slumped in the shadows, bound.
Jaina Proudmoore squinted, leaning forward and opening a gout of flame with her hand, the glow of the fire landing on the battered, gagged face of Sira Moonwarden.
“Sira,” Jaina whispered. Her eyes flew to his. “The Horde gave her to you?”
“No strings attached,” Mathias told her.
Anduin gently moved Jaina aside, squaring himself before the prisoner. She could have burned him alive with the hatred in her eyes.
“There are always strings,” Anduin said. “Even if you cannot see them.”
“Thrall wanted her delivered to Tyrande Whisperwind and Malfurion Stormrage, along with this letter.” Mathias drew the sealed missive from his coat and handed it to the king.
Anduin blinked with confusion. “That is…oddly generous of him.”
“I agree,” Mathias replied.
“It will be done.” Anduin tucked the message under one arm, returning his attention to Sira. “But first, I will have a word with the prisoner. Remove her gag.”
Something had changed in her at the mention of Tyrande and Malfurion. The rage in her eyes did not ebb, but there was something more there. Fear, perhaps. Or anticipation.
“Where is she?” Anduin wasted no time. “Where is Sylvanas Windrunner?”
Sira Moonwarden rolled her eyes and glanced away. “Nowhere you will find her. Even if you did, it is far, far too late. You have lost.”
“My spies tell me the opposite is true,” the king told her. “They say you were not successful in destroying Bwonsamdi, that your dark ranger forces were annihilated and Nathanos Blightcaller escaped only because your mistress intervened.”
She said nothing, but her lip curled at the mention of his name.
“Do you know how many deaths you have caused? How much misery you have brought upon my kingdom?” Anduin crouched, crowding her. “Do you know? Do you care?”
Sira smiled.
“Smile all you like, creature, there is little hope for you now. Your people will want to speak with you, want to understand how you could serve Sylvanas. You realize this, yes?”
The dark warden considered that for a moment, Jaina’s magicked flame dancing across her pale, pale face. “I know it, yes, and I feel nothing. I will give them nothing. Once more you waste the little time you have left.”
Anduin made a soft sound of disgust and stood, hovering over her, considering her for a long and tense spell. A wisp of purple energy traveled down his arm, gathering in his palm. It happened in a blink, coming and going, dissipating before Mathias could see for certain what the king had done.
It startled Anduin enough to make him stumble backward. Shaw felt Jaina’s eyes upon him, and he glanced her way. If he was rattled before, the fear etched upon Jaina’s brow shook him to the core. Anduin winced, breathing hard, shaking out his hand before leaning back against the wall. Shaw knew better than to be staring when the king’s eyes began to roam their faces for a reaction.
Sira threw back her head and laughed herself hoarse. “Tell me,” she mocked in a singsong voice. “How does it feel to know you have lost? For time will prove it so. Ah well, take heart, Falling Lion, you will serve well. You will serve well.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Stormwind
“She is through there. Nobody will disturb you.”
Tyrande Whisperwind alighted the portal on silent feet, plunged at once into the damp, unforgiving cold of the Stormwind Stockades. She glanced to her left at the kaldorei mage who had offered to give her a portal from Nordrassil to the Eastern Kingdoms. Anduin’s message of invitation had arrived, along with the sealed note from Thrall.
Come with all haste to Stormwind, Anduin wrote. I have in my possession a gift from the Horde. It is meant only for you and awaits you in the Stockades.
Intrigued, Tyrande came that same day, whisked magically from the World Tree and all its quiet beauty to the dank drip-drip-drip of Stormwind’s dungeons, home to the very dross and dregs of Azeroth. Tyrande did not pinch her nos
e shut, but breathed in the stench. To her left, Shandris Feathermoon appeared, and to her right, Maiev Shadowsong. They had insisted on coming along, perhaps sensing that Tyrande should not be left alone.
The mage departed, leaving them completely alone in the outer corridor of the western wing of the stockades. It was a place rich in painful memories, redolent with sorrow, as if the years of wasted life locked in those cages had glazed the stones, hope turning to despair, despair leaking from every crack and crevice in the walls. One could contemplate it later.
Tyrande ducked through the short, human-sized arch and into the inner room of the cell, opening the iron-barred door, its lock mysteriously malfunctioning.
My thanks at least for that, lion son.
Maiev and Shandris followed wordlessly. She couldn’t decide yet if their presence rankled or soothed her. The winding, hollow halls of the prison seemed engineered to send the cries of lonely prisoners from one wing to the other. Tyrande shivered, reminded of a different sort of howl and fury, the screams of the burning carried on hot, ashen winds.
The prisoner raised her head at the squeak of the iron door.
Sira Moonwarden’s crimson eyes flared fire-bright in the gloom. No such brightness came from Tyrande’s eyes, though if the blackened pits there could twinkle and dance, they would. Her prize. Thrall’s gift.
This is not what was owed, he wrote. But I hope it is a start.
“A start,” Tyrande murmured.
“You.”
“Sira.”
“Security measures in Stormwind seem somewhat lax of late.” Sira glanced toward the wide-open cell door, then back to the three night elves who had come. Her armor had been stripped from her, leaving her in a threadbare linen shift and rough-spun trousers. Her cheeks were sunken, the undead pallor of her skin uglier than Tyrande remembered.
“I am the Night Warrior,” Tyrande told her. “No way is shut to me.”
“No?” Sira balled her hands into fists. “No way…Is that so? What about the way of compassion? Of loyalty.”
Tyrande observed as her terror transformed into anger, then boiled into a rage. “Are you finished?”
“No!” Sira snapped. “Wait…I am. I suppose I am finished. You have come here to kill me, is that it?” She snorted, laughed, mad, perhaps, beside herself, snot running freely down her lips and chin. “Elune abandoned me. You abandoned me. My sister-warriors, and you did nothing to save me…” That seemed to stir a more raw, more recent memory. She pressed her knuckles into her eyes. “I have nothing left to fear.”
Tyrande took a single step toward her. “You have me.”
“Fear you?” Sira’s hands dropped away, bluish marks blossoming over her eyes where her knuckles had dug in. “Do not be ridiculous. You, with all the rage of the dark moon, you have done nothing to avenge your people. You are wind, Tyrande. Impotent, worthless, cowardly wind!”
“I wish I could have done more to protect you,” Tyrande said, cold. “But some natures prove too evil to curb. Too ambitious to abide. Sylvanas has such a nature, and I will not forget that. You are her servant now, Sira, I have not forgotten that, either.”
She drew the long, curved sword at her side, letting Sira see it plainly.
“Tyrande.” Shandris’s voice was gentle as silk, as if Tyrande might startle and do something they would all regret. “Think. Look.”
“I see a sad and defeated thing that has chosen a path,” Tyrande replied. “Nothing more.”
“I chose nothing!” Sira shrieked, and Maiev stepped forward, so close her shoulder brushed Tyrande’s. “I did not choose to return. I would never choose to return. Everything inside me is ugliness and rage, and the only thing that quiets the scream is death. For what was done to me, I will see a hundredfold done upon this cursed realm!”
Maiev’s hand fell on Tyrande’s forearm, but the Night Warrior shrugged it off. Her wrist twitched, the blade shimmered.
“I knew you once to find a fawn with two snapped legs,” Maiev whispered. “A fawn everyone, even I, claimed was beyond healing, beyond help. Many offered to end its suffering, but you saw inside of it a spark of life. A hidden light.”
“It died,” Tyrande murmured, squinting down at Sira. “I could not save it.”
“How long did you try?” Maiev asked. “And would you try again? If you continue down this path, Tyrande, you will find yourself no better than Sira. She is in pain, can you not see it? She is in agony. The only relief comes from spilling blood. Is this what you want? To find your only comfort in the suffering of others?”
“And so I should do nothing?” Tyrande seethed.
“That is not what I suggest and you know it. Listen, Tyrande.” Maiev went to stand beside Sira, a warden she had considered more than a friend. A sister. “I have lived as one consumed, and though there is no great love between us, Tyrande, I would not see you become what I was. What Sira is now. You are more than just rage and vengeance, you are more than simply the Night Warrior: you are a priestess and a leader. Can you not, as a priestess, take pity on this creature?”
Tyrande raised the blade again, considering it.
The corrupted, undead warden flattened herself against the wall, then hissed. “You will not,” Sira spat. “You lack the—”
A single strike, swift and true, cut an opening in Sira’s neck, but shallow, no deeper than the width of a fingernail. There would be no blood, for she had none to shed. Sira grabbed for her neck, sure it was the blow of death.
Tyrande raised the weapon again, a shudder passing through her body. She had thought to feel nothing, to know nothing but perfect rage. She was the Night Warrior, revenge made flesh, but now with that one shallow cut, she felt suddenly, horribly alive again.
“Mercy,” Shandris murmured, taking the blade easily from Tyrande’s hand. “Mercy for that little hidden light.”
“Mercy,” Maiev added, “for a sad, defeated thing.”
Tyrande simply nodded, no longer armed. Shandris and Maiev had more things to ask, but the Night Warrior was finished. She had seen what she needed to see. Turning to go, she paused at the door, opening and closing her fist around the blade that was no longer there. “Alas, Sira, I do possess the courage,” she said. “And that is what frightens me. That is what should frighten us all.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Dazar’alor
“After that meal I am tempted to linger and see what golden delights your city holds,” Thalyssra preened, spreading her arms wide and ripping a tear in the world before their eyes, magic crackling from its center in hypnotic blue torrents. The First Arcanist summoned her portal and stepped aside, ushering her archers through.
The port of Zandalar was busier than ever, with the skies cleared, the lanes for commerce by sea safe once more. Bwonsamdi’s shrines were already being rebuilt, and word of his heroic stand in the Necropolis had spread, bringing more supplicants and pilgrims to his places of power and worship. He was not yet at his full strength, but Talanji knew it would only be a matter of time. For her part, she felt whole once more. Nearly. The wounds left behind by Jaina’s assault on the city still throbbed, and one day Talanji knew the Proudmoore witch would have to answer for her crimes. But patience would win that war, she thought, and any wars that came before that would be fought in the company of her new allies.
“Thank you for your hospitality, my dear.” Thalyssra took Talanji’s hand just by the tippy tips of her fingers and gave it a shake. “Do vow to visit us in Orgrimmar soon. There is much the council will wish to discuss with you and much I wish to show you, all that can endear a woman of your taste to a…Well, an acquired taste of a city. You may trust that I know all the best places.”
Talanji bowed her head respectfully. “You saved my city, First Arcanist. I will never forget your feats of magic, and I promise to visit soon.”
“Excellent.
”
She stepped aside, waiting for the others to say their goodbyes. A bandaged but very much alive Zekhan hobbled toward her, supported on one side by Thrall. While the orc had spoken in glowing terms of their victory at the feast, Talanji sensed within him a private sorrow. Losing Nathanos Blightcaller clearly angered him, but he was doing his best to conceal it.
“Brave, honorable ambassador.” Talanji beamed at Zekhan. “How do I thank you for your sacrifice?”
“With a kiss?” He chuckled and winced. “On second thought, no. I’m crispy all over. Was my pleasure to serve, ya majesty. I hope we meet again soon.”
“You packed your salves, yes? And your special poultices. Say you have, do not make a queen fuss so in public.” She sighed and frowned at his many, many bandages. “I must see to my people here. We must heal and learn to trust one another again. When Zandalar is strong, you will see me in Orgrimmar, Zekhan, and I will be bringing my royal physicians, just in case you try any more heroics!”
Thrall clasped her around the wrist, a sign of a warrior’s approval. “The Horde is united and our purpose is clear. When you feel ready, join us in the hunt.”
The hunt. Sylvanas Windrunner remained at large. It seemed like an impossible task, to search the entirety of Azeroth, and Talanji already felt weary with the scope of it. She felt weary, too, of fighting so hard for the soul and safety of her people. But she had made a promise. She had joined the Horde. They would need her now, just as she had needed them.
“Oh! And I hope you do not mind taking one more with you.” Talanji spun, searching the endless crowd behind her for a specific face. She saw her there, Tayo, her hair shining long and ebony, no longer caked in mud. The glittering, enameled garb of the Zandalari fit her well, though she insisted on wearing her same old bone jewelry and bandoliers of poisoned darts.
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