Shadows Rising (World of Warcraft Page 5

  “Your enthusiasm is appreciated, Sira, and noted. However, our task here does not just require precision but utmost secrecy. Do you remember what I told you when we came aboard in Dragonblight?”

  She chewed over the question for a moment, then slumped into a chair. “We were never in Zandalar.”

  “Correct,” Nathanos replied. He joined Sira at the long table, moving aside two chairs and taking a rolled parchment from a stack of them bundled at the center. Unrolling a map of the region, he smoothed it out, carefully removing the creases from each corner. “We are not here right now. We will never be here. Their sloppiness is an asset. Chaos is an asset. Our new friends are the storm, and we are the single bolt of lightning that strikes.”

  His forefinger landed in north Nazmir, leaving a smudge of dirt across a small rectangle and its accompanying label.

  THE NECROPOLIS

  “I still say my talents are better used elsewhere.” Sira twisted and placed her forearms on the table, stacking them. “Like at Windrunner’s side, where the most killing is to be done. I have no taste for discretion, only carnage will satisfy now.”

  Nothing will ever satisfy, he thought, such was the nature of undeath, but he forced himself to smile. “Sira, you are greedy indeed if you consider the death of a god unsatisfying. Bwonsamdi is the last aching thorn in our queen’s side, and it is our job to pluck him out—he is powerful and irritatingly loyal to the Horde. We cannot know his plans, but we can assume he will use his knowledge of death against her. Against us. Was it equal to an errand boy then she would have sent as much. Our queen has determined you will serve her best here, and it is not our place to ponder such decisions.”

  “Are you questioning my judgment?” Sira growled, her red eyes burning with hotter fire.

  “No, you are here, and in being here you have not chosen an easy path but the right one. We must save this world from itself, and that might require us to swallow the bitter with the sweet. I know you crave death, Sira, but you must deliver it here.” Nathanos sat back, letting the map roll itself up and snap shut. “If this was not suited to your talents, Sylvanas would not have chosen you.”

  Sira blew out a long, tired breath. “I will try to consider this mission as the opportunity for mayhem that it is. Still…”

  Nathanos caught a sigh at the back of his throat—he needed Sira to accept her role in the Dark Lady’s plans. He needed her focused and committed.

  “Still, do you not think we should be at her side? Both the Alliance and the Horde hunt her, and if they should succeed in learning her whereabouts—”

  “They will not,” Nathanos interrupted sternly. “She will triumph over them both, and why?”

  Sira stared at him, silent, and yet she shifted forward ever so slightly. At least she was listening.

  “Because the Alliance leaders do not trust each other, they are fractured and in disarray. And the Horde? The Horde will prove even less competent. So many voices, each with their own agenda, their own secrets and needs? Impossible. They will accomplish nothing. No, we are most useful here, that is her determination and so we shall carry out her will.”

  After a moment, Sira gave him a wry smile. “Very well, Blightcaller. I am convinced.”

  “Good, see that you remain so. Bwonsamdi is a menace and knows too much. Once he is dead and the Dark Lady’s plans are in motion, there will be no more pain. We will be free of the cruelties of this world.” He paused and watched the dark warden gather her helmet, standing and preparing to go. “This is an honor, Sira. The queen has so few loyal servants remaining, we who still stand must not disappoint her.”

  “My goddess abandoned me; Sylvanas provides the succor of flesh and blood that will suffice,” she said, pausing at the door. The ship swayed, the timbers creaking softly beneath the crash of the waves. “For the moment.”

  And then he was alone. Nathanos stood and crossed to the curved windows that looked out onto the sea. A chill passed through him as his thoughts drifted, as ever, to his dark queen. To be so far from her was almost a physical pain, as if the tether that bound them grew taut and frayed with distance. Every moment plucked at that string, straining it further.

  Nathanos closed his eyes, imagining the snow blowing in unforgiving white-and-silver drifts, a pair of bright crimson eyes piercing the storm.

  “I will not fail you,” he whispered.

  A sharp knock came at the door, and he frowned, chiding himself for his sentimentality. Only the mission mattered, only the queen’s vision.

  “Enter.”

  The candles hanging in the great cabin illuminated the soft, pale face of Visrynn as she bowed and then pulled back her hood. She was a kaldorei dark ranger, the leaves tattooed on her face as crimson as her piercing eyes.

  “Ah. There you are. Were you spotted?” Nathanos had long awaited word from the ranger, and seeing her safely returned put him more at ease.

  “I believe I traversed the highlands unseen,” Visrynn replied smoothly.

  “You believe?” he scoffed, that ease tarnished. Examining her more closely, he noted a tattered and bloodied bandage around her left wrist. “Your belief is not satisfactory. There can be no mistakes, Visrynn. How exactly were you injured?”

  “I ran afoul of some beasts in the highlands, nothing serious. I beseech you, Ranger Lord, there are more pressing matters. Lelyias tells me word has come from the rebels.”

  “And?”

  “Apari’s plan has failed. Our spies report Queen Talanji has returned to the palace this night, though some report a large stain on her gown. She may have been injured in the assassination attempt.”

  Nathanos refused to show his disappointment, though a single twitch in his jaw could not be stopped. For a moment, he considered the most effective approach. They were already conspiring with rebels; why not fan those flames hotter with the right misinformation. “Then come dawn we have much to do. Gather the rangers, Visrynn, and contact our eyes in the city. Have them spread rumors that the Horde has lost faith in the queen. Perhaps they are even seeking to usurp the kingdom for themselves.”

  “But—”

  “We are not here to spread a campaign of truth,” he snapped, whirling to face her. His fist fell with a deafening thump on the table. “We are here to create a campaign of fear. Let them doubt and debate, let them panic. We will make this girl regret ever turning her back on the Banshee Queen.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Orgrimmar

  High above the dusty thoroughfares of Orgrimmar, Zekhan found himself face-to-face with a demanding audience. He had hoped to spend the afternoon communing at the Western Earthshrine, a pocket of peace and tranquility, humming with the power of ancient stones and pillars shining with blue flames, bright with the laughter of fledgling shaman learning their craft.

  Even under the shade of a low tent, the sun seemed to scorch. Zekhan sat cross-legged on the ground, wiping at the perspiration on his brow. He often yearned for the cool shelter of trees on the Echo Isles, the pockets of jungle there like oases, where an afternoon’s work could be rewarded with a dip in the sea.

  But those homey jungles had never felt farther away, and Zekhan couldn’t shake the feeling that he had done something wrong. For one, he couldn’t stop sweating.

  “Was she really going to die!?” a young orc boy, no higher than Zekhan’s knee, begged to know.

  His interrogators were fierce indeed. Word had spread of his proximity to the assassination attempt, and every child shaman shirked their lessons to crowd around Zekhan and herd him into a corner. Now they stared at him with wide eyes, hands tucked up curiously under their chins.

  “I bet she’s the most beautifulest troll ever!” a pandaren girl murmured.

  “I heard you got stabbed!”

  “Let us see where they stabbed ya!”

  “Children, children…�
�� Zekhan chuckled, tamping down their flurry of questions with both hands. “Zekhan will tell ya the tale, though it might be too shockin’ for your young ears…”

  “Pfft, no! We can handle it,” the orc boy, Aggu, cried. “Except maybe Yu Yi. She’s a big stupid baby.”

  “Am not!” Yu Yi stuck out her tongue at him, her dark fur ruffled with irritation.

  “Are too!”

  Zekhan laughed again, taking a scrap of linen from his pocket to wipe at his brow. “I won’t be tellin’ ya nothin’ if this bickering keeps up.”

  The future pride of the Earthen Ring fell silent, though Zekhan remembered his youth well enough to know retaliatory pranks would come later. All six of the children and Zekhan jumped as a tear forced itself open in the bushes near the tent. The portal widened, crackling with electric blue energy, a pair of purple-silk-clad legs appearing an instant later, and then the whole nightborne as he emerged from the portal, dusting off his pristine livery.

  Zekhan recognized the white-haired, narrow-faced elf; he often ran errands or delivered messages for the First Arcanist. If Zekhan had been nervously sweating before, now he was practically drenched. Whatever the man had come to say, it must be urgent, else he would have simply walked the distance from Grommash Hold to the shaman enclave.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” Lorlidrel smirked. He did not look very sorry. “The council requires your presence, Zekhan. Now.”

  “Noooo!” Yu Yi whined, turning and scowling at the nightborne. “You can’t take him now!”

  “He was just getting to the good part,” Aggu added. “Let him finish the story!”

  “I will not.” Lorlidrel’s lip curled as he matched Yu Yi’s frown. She glanced away, frightened. “Zekhan has more pressing matters to attend to than the whims of children. I suggest you all return to your studies and forget this foolishness.”

  Zekhan hurried over to the elf and his portal, telling him in a low voice, “There’s no need to scare them, yah? They’re just kids.”

  The nightborne said nothing, and Zekhan knew better than to argue. Every bit of him wanted to stay at the shrines and entertain the fledglings, but he didn’t dare keep Thrall and the others waiting. He squared his chest and stepped into the portal, bracing for the yank in his stomach that felt like it was pulling him inside out as they materialized in Grommash Hold an instant later.

  Their arrival interrupted nothing. The hold sat strangely still and quiet, a sign, Zekhan thought, that they had been waiting only on him. The full might of the Horde Council sat before him in a half circle: the short, pointy-eared green goblin Gazlowe, followed by Baine Bloodhoof, First Arcanist Thalyssra, the hunched Forsaken Lilian Voss, Huojin monk Ji Firepaw, the former warchief Thrall toward the center, then finally the blood elf Lor’themar and Rokhan of the Darkspear trolls to Thrall’s left.

  They made for an intimidating sight.

  “Thank you, Lorlidrel,” First Arcanist Thalyssra told him smoothly. “Efficient as ever.”

  “Welcome, Zekhan.” Ji Firepaw, speaker for the pandaren on the council, extended his hand graciously. Firepaw’s red leather tunic shone brilliantly in the torchlight. Zekhan’s interactions with the pandaren monk were limited, but Firepaw had always treated him with respect. “You performed a great service yesterday by protecting the Zandalari queen, but now, I’m afraid, we must ask even more of you.”

  “I only did what felt right,” Zekhan said, a bit nervously. He felt his youth then, faced with the combined power and wisdom of all the Horde leadership. Even if he counted some of them as friends, his knees shook and his gut tightened, as if he were no more than one of those tiny shaman fledglings being disciplined for oversleeping or lighting a rival’s hair on fire.

  “And I told ya already,” he went on, “it was mostly just an accident.”

  A chuckle of amusement rose from the eight assembled leaders. Thrall, sitting near the center of the crescent of chairs, rested his elbows on his knees, leaning forward. “Perhaps. But when that troll drew a knife, you did not hesitate to put yourself between that blade and the queen. An honorable instinct. An honorable act.”

  Zekhan smiled a little, releasing a pent-up breath. So he wasn’t exactly in trouble, then. That was good. Maybe they wanted to give him a commendation of some kind. Or a promotion.

  “No good deed goes unpunished,” Lor’themar said, reclining with relaxed grace back in his spiked chair, fingers tented.

  Zekhan gulped.

  “P-punished?”

  “Don’t terrorize the boy,” First Arcanist Thalyssra chided gently, her eyes sparkling as she gazed across the room at Lor’themar. “We are extending a great honor, an opportunity to prove yourself to the council, and to serve the Horde as ambassador to Zandalar.”

  Ambassador? Him?

  Zekhan snorted, but nobody laughed along with him. “Oh. Oh, you’re serious.”

  “Serious as an assassination attempt.” To his left, Gazlowe, the goblin trade prince, did at least humor him with a chuckle. “Yes, kid, we’re serious. Pack your bags, you’re going to Zuldazar.”

  His immediate instinct was to look first to Thrall, then to Rokhan, the two council members he knew best. Rokhan held his gaze for a moment; the old veteran shadow hunter with his massive tusks and beady black eyes gave him a single nod of confidence.

  “I’ve never been an ambassador before,” Zekhan replied, squeezing his hands together behind his back.

  “We need Talanji in this accord,” Thrall explained to him steadily, slowly, as if the shock of the appointment had addled Zekhan’s wits. “She has lost faith in us, but you…you risked your life to protect her. Your youth and inexperience will be an asset, Zekhan.”

  “She will most likely underestimate you. Use that to your advantage. Be our eyes and ears,” First Arcanist Thalyssra suggested.

  “Report to us as often as you can,” Lor’themar continued. “Any shifts in mood, any strange happenings in the city, any information at all you can gather on her is useful. We cannot lose her as an ally; her city is strategically vital as a resupply point for our ships.”

  Zekhan listened so carefully he felt his ears twinge. The room fell silent again, and he forced himself not to shrink back.

  “Do you accept?” Thalyssra pressed. “We would know your answer. Time is of the essence.”

  Did he have a choice? Zekhan didn’t ask, but he knew that question lingered between them. Making his way to Orgrimmar and earning the favor of Thrall had seemed like the accomplishment of his life. The war had carried him so far, from crumbling battlements in the company of a legendary soldier like Varok Saurfang to the cruel mak’gora before the gates of Orgrimmar that finally took the orc’s life.

  It felt like a lifetime had passed between his first taste of battle on the fields of Tirisfal Glades and the moment when he watched Saurfang fall to the Banshee Queen’s foul magic. He wondered what the grizzled old veteran would say if he could see Zekhan standing there before the council, struggling to accept an honor he might have earned but was not sure he deserved.

  As if in answer, he felt, as he sometimes did in moments of confusion, the echo of his ancestors, a voice and a presence there with him, bolstering his spirits. A heavy hand with a heavier gauntlet landed on his shoulder, but it was not his father’s energy urging him to hold his head high. Instead, he felt Saurfang’s presence, his strength and his experience solid as a bulwark. Even if he had sometimes spied weariness or regret in Saurfang’s eyes, he had never sensed weakness.

  “Is…is this all right? Talanji is our friend, no? But now we’re spyin’ on her?” Zekhan asked, fidgeting.

  “We do not send ya to do harm,” Rokhan assured him. “We cannot help her if we do not know her mind.”

  Zekhan stared at him for a long moment, but Rokhan looked so calm, so confident. There wasn’t a glimmer of mischief anywhere in his eyes. “T
hen I accept.”

  “The council is dismissed,” First Arcanist Thalyssra declared. “We wish you all haste and good fortune, Zekhan. We know you will not fail us.”

  Before he could respond, everyone was standing. After Talanji’s unhappy exit from the summit, the leadership had locked themselves inside Grommash Hold, no pages or advisers or assistants allowed. His mother would do something similar to him and his brothers when they bullied one another, forcing them to sit down in the family hut and argue and scream until all of it was out, and life could go on. They were in the hold for hours and hours, but apparently all the screaming and arguing had worked. One by one the leaders walked by him and out of the hold; some clasped his forearm in a show of confidence, others simply nodded. Gazlowe gave him a wink.

  Thrall and Rokhan of the Darkspear came last, staying a moment with him as the hold grew empty and the only sound inside became the blood pounding in Zekhan’s ears and the spit and crackle of the torches. Rokhan heaved a great sigh, then shot Thrall a sidelong glance.

  “Ya think he can do it?” he asked, as if Zekhan were not there at all.

  “I think the young queen will find his presence less revolting than mine or yours,” Thrall said, half teasing.

  “Why?” Zekhan’s mouth had gone bone dry. “Why can’t you go? I’m…I’m nobody.”

  “Saurfang didn’t think so,” Thrall replied. “I don’t think so, either. There are things I must do, places I must go. Yukha brought dire news from the Earthen Ring, and while you take your place among the Zandalari, I will be taking my own journey. The council has decided that some of us must join Yukha in Nordrassil, to better understand the unrest in the spirit realm. There I…well. It is best simply to go and not to hope.”

  Thrall put his hand on Zekhan’s shoulder, and it felt almost exactly like the grasp of the presence that had joined him just a moment before. Then the orc left, braids swaying with each heavy tread, his chest canted forward slightly, as if the mantle of burdens and exhaustion he wore had finally grown too heavy to shoulder.