“Take this.” Rokhan produced a dagger from his belt of many blades. It was light and well balanced, with a series of enameled runes along the crossbar. “We sendin’ ya into a pit of vipers, boy. There will be more assassins, more danger. Ya might have a shaman’s powers, but a blade on ya belt means ya are never unarmed, even when ya strength is spent.”
Zekhan took the dagger, cradling it carefully in both hands. “Thank you, Rokhan, but I don’t know how to fight well with it.”
The Darkspear troll took his thumb and pressed it hard to Zekhan’s temple.
“It’s instinct, all instinct. Think like a shaman, boy.” He nodded to the dagger. “Fight like a soldier. And for your sake: Blend like a shadow.”
CHAPTER SIX
Stormwind
“How many?”
The king of Stormwind listened to the final cathedral bells tolling, the day’s last rays of sunlight spearing the stained-glass windows above, casting mournful blue and purple shadows across the high altar. It was a melancholy image, one that only widened the pit in Anduin’s stomach. He waited in the echo of the bells while the soft-spoken Bishop Arthur, clad all in cream, black and gold, unlocked the door leading to the crypts beneath the Cathedral of Light.
“Six.” The answer came from Anduin’s close friend and trusted adviser, Genn Greymane, king of Gilneas. “Or rather, SI:7 discovered six. No one can say how many were washed away by the tides.”
“More could be in hiding,” High Exarch Turalyon pointed out. He stood tall and broad, his Light-forged armor a polished and impressive silver and gold. Bearded, scarred, Turalyon looked every inch the tried and hardened warrior. The two men followed Anduin down the winding path that snaked into the catacombs. “Shaw sent at least a dozen to monitor the waters between the Zandalari coast and the Eastern Kingdoms.”
“Let us go where there are no curious ears,” Anduin told them in a whisper.
Though the cathedral had largely emptied out after the evening service, a few brothers and priests remained. Of course they looked; who would not be eager to see the king of Stormwind present, and accompanied by two such illustrious warriors? To the people of Stormwind, Turalyon in particular was practically a myth. His noble likeness had been forever commemorated as a statue in the Valley of Heroes, rising above the bridge leading into Stormwind. He had helped forge the Knights of the Silver Hand, companion to heroes of legend and song like Uther the Lightbringer and Tirion Fordring.
All three stowed their conversation, making the long, sober descent into the crypts. Anduin hurried, though he dreaded what awaited him below. Yet he went, for it was his duty to see what had befallen troops dispatched in his name.
The air grew colder, the scent of mud and brick reminding him of rainy autumn days. The fetor of stale air and dust followed, then a light perfume of dried flowers and herbs, a weak defense against the unmistakable odor of fresh rot. Fresh death.
At the very bottom of the crypts, where it was chill enough to bother even a man dressed all in furs, they found a row of bodies. Each was laid out and still in their sodden clothing, skin discolored, lips twisted in the agony of a mortal scream. Turalyon snatched a torch off the wall and charged ahead, sweeping the light over the corpses, his stoically handsome face pinched with concern.
“Look at the precision,” he said, standing before one young dwarf, his reddish beard full of sand and bits of seaweed. “One shot directly to the heart.”
Greymane joined the paladin at that body, carefully inspecting the arrow left sticking from the dwarf’s chest. “They are all like this. A single deadly shot. Mark the fletching on the arrows here and here—it has been shaved down.”
“That was why Shaw ordered them brought here,” Turalyon continued, his eyes fixed on the deceased dwarf lying between them. Anduin had never seen the war-forged paladin look afraid, and it was not fear in the man’s eyes then. Not fear, but rage.
“What am I not seeing?” Anduin asked, frowning.
“Zandalari arrows,” Turalyon replied. “But these are not Zandalari tactics.”
“I should think not! This is some mischief, some…some dark mischief I do not yet understand.” Greymane paced, lips curled as if a low worgen’s growl might emanate from his throat at any second. “There are few archers in the world that could make these shots, my king. The only sort I know are allied with the infernal Banshee Queen.”
“Dark rangers?” Anduin murmured, eyes darting between the two men. “Can we be certain?”
“Certain? No, but I’ve seen a damned mess of their arrows in my time, and the style matches, and so does the accuracy,” Greymane huffed, pacing faster, every bit the caged and furious wolf.
“What would the dark rangers be doing in Zandalar? The Zandalari are allies of the Horde, and that would not make them friend to Sylvanas or her rangers.” Anduin had nearly put his hand down on one of the soldiers’ boots. Distracted, he had forgotten they were in the presence of the dead. But now he looked closer and felt keenly the stab in his chest. By the Light, they were all so terribly young…
He took small, cold comfort in the thought that at least the soldiers were home and protected in a sanctuary of the Light.
“It could be a warning from Sylvanas; perhaps she sent her rangers to punish the new queen. The Dark Lady was still warchief when they made their alliance, but our spies believe Queen Talanji has pulled her support and remains largely independent. We all know how well Sylvanas takes betrayal…” Turalyon said gravely.
Anduin nodded, considering the paladin’s point of view, but Greymane had other ideas, tossing up his hands in frustration.
“This is our opportunity, Anduin, don’t you see it? Where Sylvanas goes, her dark rangers are sure to follow. She may be close at hand, and these murders her critical mistake. We should gather what forces we can spare and sail west. Whether she is in league with the Zandalari or moving against them matters not, we must not squander a chance to finish this.”
He ended with a resounding note to his already galvanizing baritone, but Anduin didn’t move. Instead, he stared resolutely at Turalyon, who appeared unconvinced at best. The paladin shifted in his heavy golden plate armor, a crease of worry between his brows.
“Now is the time to think, my king, not the time to react. There are still spies unaccounted for in the field, and we must not forget the armistice. Zandalar is a vast continent, certainly, but the eyes there are friendly to the Horde, not to the Banshee Queen.” He tucked a fist under his chin thoughtfully. “The Horde wants her dead as much as we do. The armistice you signed is meaningless if we cannot rely on the Horde to share intelligence of this nature.”
“The armistice,” Greymane hissed, obviously not enthused. “We can rely on the Horde for nothing. How many times must we learn this lesson, Anduin? I know you know better.”
Anduin did. He did not necessarily trust the Horde, but he did weigh their actions. Were they untrue to their words, they would have assassinated him and his Alliance generals outside the gates of Orgrimmar before or after the mak’gora.
He waited a moment, hoping Greymane would calm down, but the man’s face had turned red with fury, his thick white whiskers bristling.
“Genn.” Anduin tore his eyes away from his adviser and friend, instead raking his gaze across the bodies laid before them. “Rash action has harmed us far more often than care and caution. I will not overcommit to what could be a diversion.”
High Exarch Turalyon nodded his agreement.
“We must ask ourselves: Why would Sylvanas go to Zandalar? What would she want there?”
“What does it matter?” Greymane thundered. “You said it yourself, Turalyon, the Zandalari queen pledged herself to Sylvanas first. Perhaps that vow remains true. Perhaps she has turned her back on the Horde and even now shelters the traitor and her soldiers.” He gestured to the fallen spies. “Perhaps these
brave few were killed for discovering the truth.”
Anduin had a duty to the truth, whatever it might be. Both men provided opinions he valued, but he could not deny that Turalyon offered the more tempting take. Still. Still.
“I am reminded, my noble friends,” Anduin began softly, “of a day not so long ago, and not so far from here. A placid place in the Arathi Highlands. A gathering meant to be peaceful, a gathering meant to reunite families torn asunder by forces they could never have foreseen…” He sighed, leaning forward, resting his knuckles on the edge of the stone slab. “Human and Forsaken families met in good faith, trying to find common ground and common love, and many did. For their trust, for their grace, they received only slaughter.” He lifted his gaze to Greymane, who had gone mercifully still, the flush in his face fading. “I give your recommendations equal weight. Turalyon, take Alleria Windrunner and investigate these deaths.”
Standing tall again, Anduin pressed his hand over his heart, finding that Turalyon regarded him with a sure smile. He approved. “I name you Lord Commander of the Alliance forces. Your task—your only task—is to find Sylvanas Windrunner so we might bring her to proper justice. Hunt her day and night; use whatever means you must.”
Turalyon bowed his head with practiced gentility, accepting the honor and the charge with a humble, “My heart and my sword to the cause.”
Together, the kings of Gilneas and Stormwind watched the paladin go, his mail and plate clanking quietly, the torchlight gilding him from head to foot as he left on his sworn mission.
“A wise choice, your majesty.” Greymane clasped his hands together when they were alone in the gloom and chill. “Who knows what devil’s tricks Queen Talanji learned from Sylvanas. There are insects under every rock in every kingdom, even your own.”
“I pray you are wrong,” Anduin replied. He strangely wanted to stay in the crypt, to sit there among the dead and know their pain, their stories. It seemed easier than facing another day of frustration and failure. But the bodies had to be washed and the proper rites given. “By the Light, Genn, I will see them given all due honor. How can I write the name of every soldier in stone, on the stars, so that they are never forgotten?”
“They knew what it was to serve, Anduin. They were not expecting the life of a baker or tailor,” Genn said, placing a mollifying hand on Anduin’s back. “They knew.”
Anduin turned away, shrugging off the man’s hand. He felt the cold in his marrow as he left the safety of the torches. “No, Genn, I don’t think they did know. None of us do. None of us know what awaits us in death, what awaits us in the dark without a dawn.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Dazar’alor
“The petitioner’s request is hereby…” Talanji felt every onlooker and gawker inhale with anticipation. She let the moment hang, enjoying the undivided attention. Of all the many tasks assigned to a queen, this might be her favorite. “Granted.”
The word rained down from the throne like a handful of generously tossed coins. The audience in the council chamber erupted in cheers. And then there was the petitioner in question, a young girl no more than seventeen years old. She blushed at the resounding appreciation of the crowd, her family rushing to embrace her. Her father, Bezime, hugged her tightest of all, having just given a heartfelt speech in his daughter’s defense. “If you must, punish me, Queen Talanji, but do not punish my daughter. She is my light, she is the heart of our family, and all of our hopes go with her.”
His clear devotion to his daughter’s happiness moved Talanji, reminding her of her own deeply missed father. Soldiers and ships Talanji might not have had to give, but gold she possessed, and gold the girl had needed.
The girl now beaming ear to pierced ear, Nav’rae, bowed several times toward the throne, carried out of the chamber on a tide of good will. She belonged to one of the struggling noble houses that had been punished and shamed for their ties to the traitor Yazma. While Talanji traveled to Orgrimmar to treat with the Horde, the Zanchuli Council, comprised of warriors, priests, and advisers loyal to Talanji, had found the family cleared of any wrongdoing. That pronouncement did not, however, fill their depleted coffers with gold, and left the young troll Nav’rae too impoverished to honorably marry her love, whose rich and admired family had avoided the stain of betrayal.
Outside on the balcony, Nav’rae’s betrothed, Khila, waited, hands clasped nervously under her chin, her shoulders draped in a beautifully beaded cloak, preemptively celebratory. Now nothing stopped the two young girls from marrying, and Talanji felt a blossom of warmth over her heart as the petitioners made their triumphant exit, flowers and seeds tossed joyfully in the air. Khila had worn the right cloak after all.
“Fortune and health to them both,” the first and only tortollan on the council, Lashk, murmured.
“Happy small things,” Jo’nok, Bulwark of Torcali, added. The dire troll, far too large for any of the council seats, simply stood to Lashk’s side. “Good to see. Boring, but good.”
Two dozen or so Zandalari mingled still in the council chambers, separated from where the council itself sat by tall steps. A series of more manageable stairs ran up the center toward where Talanji and the others heard cases and claims and handed down decisions. A spotless blue sky fell like a curtain behind the petitioners, the chamber open to the outside and to the skyterrors circling majestically over the city.
It had been a long day. A grueling day. Petitioner after petitioner, request upon request. A queen’s time was never truly her own. It was a sacrifice she made gladly—her people were her greatest pride.
“The light of the loa shine on us, I think that was the last one.” High Prelate Rata sighed, standing with a stretch. Yellowed bones protected her rib cage and shoulders, an unwashed spill of blue hair tumbling over one eye. Talanji had watched her nearly doze off as Nav’rae presented her case. Minor house love stories were not the compelling cases Rata enjoyed adjudicating.
Yet the crowd below them parted, a cry going up. Someone forced their way through, arms waving over their head as they shouted, grabbing the attention of all those left milling in the chamber.
Wardruid Loti sighed, slumping back in her chair, her tusk-adorned pauldrons clacking against the gold-enameled seat. “Gonk carry me away, it never ends…”
“Is it true?” The troll shoving his way forward was tall, thin, four spikes of green hair jutting forward from his head. He had the sunburned, coarse look of a laborer, a heavy pack strapped to his back. “Is it true what they say? The Horde tried to kill the queen! They want to depose her, take the city for themselves!”
Whatever peace they had hoped to bring to the chamber was broken. To her right, Lashk audibly groaned, his green beak falling into the cushion of his palm.
“Justice!” someone below shouted. “Is it true? Justice!”
“Horde defilers! Traitors!”
Talanji leaped to her feet. “Silence, now. Silence. These rumors are just that. Rumors.” Tired, exasperated, she fought for the right words. The quelling words. The last thing she needed was more unrest in the city. General Rakera had greeted her that morning with dire news—word of the assassination attempt had reached Dazar’alor, and worse, whispers of missing patrols, violence encroaching on the northern borders.
“But we part of de Horde!” a voice carried from below.
“Who tried to kill our queen?” came another.
“You want me to stab them all?” General Rakera whispered with a snort.
Talanji glanced her way, managing a wry smile. “Yes, we are part of the Horde, but only if they support us as we deserve.” She raised her voice, but the irritating gossipy whispers persisted. They smelled scandal, more potent than blood. “They will meet our demands, the demands of Zandalar. We will not serve them unless they serve us, too.”
“There!”
“Look! One of them, not our kind, not Zan
dalari…”
“An assassin!”
The cries and shocked calls crested again, an indignant tide, the petitioners below swarming, forming a shifting barrier around a new arrival. Talanji squinted, trying to make out just who had entered the council chambers. He had come flanked by two royal guards, their armor as embellished and beautiful as the stranger’s clothes were simple and nondescript. Yet something about him scratched at Talanji’s brain. She knew him. How did she know him?
“Horde! He’s from the Horde! Make him explain! You did not protect our queen, why did ya not protect her!?” The troublemaker who had come with the pack and sunburned face turned quickly on the stranger. He shoved him, making the troll’s shockingly red hair sway as he stumbled to the side. The guards intervened, but that only made the crowd rowdier. Soon, all Talanji could see of the new arrival was the top tufts of his hair and the royal guards’ halberds towering above the throng.
A strangled cry came from within the swirling mass of bodies. Talanji could not afford to have the death of a Horde ambassador on her hands. A rebellion grew in her city, and the death of her father had not yet been repaid. She might yet need the Horde, as much as it chafed her pride.
“Stop!”
Another cry. Even her own guards seemed swallowed by the chaos.
“Stop. Let him pass.”
At last, Talanji’s voice had the desired effect, freezing everyone in the room, resonant with a queen’s power. The crowd stilled, then parted, and a narrow lane appeared, allowing the Horde troll to hurry forward. He brushed off his shoulders and arms, throwing a wary backward glance at the swarm before taking a few shuffling steps toward the council stairs.
“I know you,” Talanji said softly, her memories of him at last becoming clear. She gestured toward the guards still stationed behind him. “Remove the petitioners. This meeting of the council is at an end. I will meet with this…this traveler.”
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