The Darkspear chieftain placed a hand on his shoulder, but Zekhan didn’t smile; he trembled instead.
CHAPTER THREE
Dazar’alor
Ahot, dry wind reached Talanji from the north as if Vol’dun itself sighed toward her. She stood atop the Great Seal and inhaled as the breeze came, hoping to absorb the very essence of her home back into her body. This was where she belonged. The jungle. The vast, golden city of her ancestors. Standing there was like standing at the edge of the world, nothing but verdant possibility and life stretching in every direction. On a clear night such as this one, she could see all the way to the tops of the mountains to the west, even above the Temple of the Prophet, to the peaks draped in emerald velvet.
Home. Zikii removed Talanji’s heavy ceremonial bracelets and rings one by one, collecting them in a box lined in fabric as soft-looking as those green, green mountains. With each removed piece, Talanji felt lighter, but also…strange. Vulnerable. For a moment she tore her eyes away from the jungle and instead watched Zikii work with deft little hands. Those serving the royalty of Zandalar were trained to be all but invisible, to move on silent feet, to dress the royal body while barely being perceived. But she perceived the young troll then, her simple plaits of dark blue and sweet young face, unpierced, unscarred, untouched by time and suffering.
Had Talanji ever been that innocent? Had she ever looked so serene?
When Zikii finished, Talanji saw her close the box, set it down, and then unclasp the jade- and jewel-encrusted surcoat the queen had worn to the gathering in Orgrimmar. She then waited, patiently, for Talanji to pull the white satin shift over her head.
“Go,” Talanji told her. “I must be alone now.”
“My queen, your gown is stained—”
“Later. You are dismissed, Zikii.”
She didn’t have to raise her voice. The young troll nodded and collected the queen’s raiment, then disappeared into the throne room, through the hidden servant’s passage.
Talanji turned her back on the jungles and mountains and retreated toward her throne. Sometimes when she only glanced in its direction, she could still see the outline of her father, Rastakhan, seated there, his skin brightened by the ever-burning torches at his sides, his brooding eyes peering out beneath the weighty plumed crown on his head.
But Rastakhan was gone. Dead. Murdered.
Her hands turned immediately into fists as she approached the throne. When she was a child, Rastakhan sometimes let her sit on the massive chair, its sunlike spikes soaring high above her head. His warmth lingered on the cushions, as if he were actually part of the throne.
She cringed then shivered, the hot Vol’dun wind turning cold as daylight slipped away. They had departed Orgrimmar before anyone could convince her to stay, and while Talanji was grateful to be home, she couldn’t escape the feeling that leaving the summit so soon was a mistake. Maybe if she had remained and pressed her case, the Horde Council would grant her reparations for Zandalar’s people. That was all she could expect from the Horde, for their precious armistice meant too much to them, and justice for Rastakhan’s murder would have to be found a different way.
Instead, she had left Orgrimmar with nothing.
No, not nothing, with fear in her heart and a black stain on her dress. Had that red-haired troll not blundered into the assassin and spilled the poisoned cup, she might be dead on the sands of Durotar, flies buzzing about her lips.
“Bwonsamdi,” she whispered, speaking the name of the loa of death. Her father, with his dying breath, had passed his cursed pact with the loa onto his daughter, and now Talanji carried not only their bloodline but their bane.
A gray, curling fog drifted over her feet, colder than the changing night winds. That same mist filled the throne room until at last she heard a familiar sound. Bwonsamdi had come, heralded by the strangled sigh of their realm, less a fanfare and more a dirge.
The loa of graves hovered above the Zandalari throne, coils of blue smoke unfurling around him. A bony, skull-shaped growth covered most of his face, though his permanently smug smile remained unfettered. White tattoos glowed across his chest, wild black hair piled on his head, spiky and stiff as a fern.
“Oh,” Bwonsamdi chuckled. “Oh, oh, oh, oh. The queen is in distress. Why not unload ya problems on ya old friend Bwonsamdi?”
Talanji crossed her arms. “I’m not in the mood, ya old windbag. One of my own people tried to poison me, and he tried it in front of the Horde Council. In broad daylight! My enemies are getting bold.”
“Ha! I nearly had ya soul then! So is that why you summoned me?” He floated closer, and Talanji could see him batting his lashes like a fool behind his skull-like brow. “Thoughts of death made ya think of ya best friend on the other side? How flatterin’, ya majesty.”
“No, no, Bwonsamdi, it’s nothing like that,” Talanji insisted, turning away with a grunt. “I want to speak to my father. You are the keeper of souls, the lord of death, surely you must know where his soul resides. Can you not arrange an audience?”
The loa laughed uproariously, and the palace shook beneath her feet, rattled as if by thunder. He appeared above her, contorted, his face upside down as he came almost nose to nose with her. “What am I? Some servant to do whatever ya bid? Think I keep ya fa’da in my back pocket? The spirit of a king is no trifle, girl.”
“Everything is a trifle to you,” Talanji bit back, refusing to shrink. “Everything is a game.”
Bwonsamdi’s smile faded. He sniffed loudly at her, snuffling like a hog. “You reek of death. It came close to ya, didn’t it? Real close. Maybe you be wantin’ to ask your fa’da what it’s like on the Other Side.”
Talanji waved him off, marching forward and through the loa, who popped out of sight. She returned to the balcony, where the whole of her city and the jungles beyond waited. Hundreds of torches glittered as night approached, bright and curious, like a field of eyes staring up at her. Needing her. “No. I will find that out on my own terms, and no time soon. I ask as a queen who needs the council of her elder, nothing more, Great Spirit. Bring me the king; bring me his spirit so that I might know his wisdom.”
“I can do no such thing, girl.”
Bwonsamdi reappeared at her side, reclining casually against one of the large golden pillars crowned with a cauldron of fire.
“You don’t control me,” he reminded her. “And I don’t control you.”
“Not according to my enemies,” Talanji muttered. She hugged herself tighter. “Half of Zandalar thinks I answer to you. If they keep thinkin’ that way I will never keep control. Pah. No wonder that assassin came for me today—I have my father’s blood, his crown, his loa, and now his rebels. If I can’t be rid of them my reign is as good as over.”
“ ’Tis now all doomin’ and gloomin’,” Bwonsamdi said, gesturing to the large stain on her hem. “Who do ya think protected you today? You might show a little gratitude to your savior.”
Talanji snorted, shooting him a sideways glance. “You cannot take credit for one troll’s clumsiness.”
Bwonsamdi grinned, a twinkle in his eyes behind the mask-like bone around his orbits. “I gave him a little shove. Just a teensy one. But no action taken by the powerful is ever little, ya see? And now ya be learnin’ what it really means to be powerful. Everyone always wanting something from ya, always asking, just like ya be askin’ me now. That assassin wanted ya death but I wouldn’t give it to him, and I won’t give you ya fa’da neither. Unless…”
Bwonsamdi held on to the word until it sounded like the warning hiss of a snake.
“Unless what?” Talanji snapped.
“Unless you be wantin’ to make a deal? It seems fair, no? I save your life, you make a deal with your friend Bwonsamdi…”
Talanji scoffed, pacing to the very edge of the terrace while the loa’s eyes burned into the back of he
r skull. To be bound to him was a curse, and she would thank him for nothing. “And will you be there to give a little shove the next time? And the time after that?” She sighed. “There is unrest in my city and the Horde will do nothing to stop it. They will not send me ships or troops, they will do nothing. The fate of Zandalar is in my hands, but how can I bring prosperity and peace to people who do not trust me? My father would know what to do. He always knew what to do. Or perhaps his loa, Rezan, would have known even better.”
Silence. The torches spat and flared, the watch changed below, and the clank of armor and footsteps rose up to meet them. The city, to her, seemed ominously quiet. Just like her loa. She expected a jab, a joke, some taunt meant to twist the knife of her doubts, but he simply stared at her.
Either she was mad, or there was a flicker missing from his eyes then. He seemed…dimmer. Sad.
“What?” she prodded. “Nothing to say? Not a single sly word? That is not like you, Bwonsamdi.”
The loa finally shook his head, and the mist that gathered at his feet grew thicker, obscuring him until only his strange blue-flame eyes remained visible. “Our bond is strong, little queen, but that does not make me your servant. I will not summon your fa’da’s spirit. I’m afraid you’re on your own tonight.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Nazmir
There was no shame in retreat: Sylvanas had taught him that. Retreat prevented outright failure, which Sylvanas had also made clear, along with her utter contempt for the concept. Nathanos Blightcaller spurred the winged lizard faster, digging his heels into its leathery sides and ignoring its pained shrieks. The Zandalari rebels who had gifted him the thing called it a pterrordax, but that mattered little. He only cared if it could fly fast enough to lose the patrol that had spotted them in Nazmir. The thing flew fast and reckless, and he closed a hand over his coat pocket again, making certain the vial was still there, that it hadn’t tumbled out into the jungle canopy. Ah. There it was. He buttoned his pocket tighter just to be safe.
Retreat. A familiar concept. It didn’t irk him, but he was annoyed that the rebel leader, Apari, had been sloppy enough to miss the Zandalari patrol approaching their position.
“Use only their own arrows!” he shouted, the wind carrying his voice to the dark rangers flying in a V pattern behind him. Their aim proved true, and he watched the rain of brightly colored arrows descend with cruel precision, striking first one mounted Zandalari and then another. Eight of the patrol remained, growing wise and ducking off the path, riding under the dense tree cover.
“We cannot allow them to reach the Banshee’s Wail!” Sira called. She had sprung ahead, but carefully reined in her beast, its wings slapping the air rhythmically as she waited for Nathanos to catch up. “Allying with these rebels was a mistake.”
Nathanos kept his head low, avoiding the sight lines of the ground patrol racing after them.
“Go sharply south; the mountains are impassable on foot.”
The rangers escorting them east to the sea broke formation, diving down at breakneck speed toward the canopy. They wore the coarse, torn rags of jungle villagers, but even so, if any of the Zandalari patrol came near they would surely see that these were not trolls fleeing toward the South Seas.
“Blast,” Nathanos cursed, pulling his nondescript brown hood higher over his head. A beast much like the one he rode burst from the canopy, a spray of leaves fluttering in its path as it careened toward Lelyias, the dark ranger to his right. The cursed Zandalari must have been druids, springing into a creature’s form more fit for their pursuit.
“Bring it down!” Nathanos bellowed. He pulled his own bow from his back and twisted in the saddle, risking recognition or, worse, an interminable tumble down to the rocky hills below.
Lelyias joined him in peppering the green, winged creature with arrows. Her hand blurred from the speed of her pull and fire, and at last two shots struck the Zandalari in the wings. It let out a piercing cry, then fell, its body shimmering strangely before reverting to its troll form, arrows prickling its shoulder.
He lost sight of Lelyias and the others, pouring his attention into reaching the beach with all haste.
“It’s no use!” Sira spat. “They’re going to discover us!”
“Never,” Nathanos assured her. “The queen’s will must be done. Fly ahead. Alert the crew, bring her around and into the bay, have archers at the ready.”
“Take the ship to shore!? Are you mad?”
“Just do as I say!”
Even under her hood and through the narrow slits in her helmet, Nathanos detected a flicker of resentment. Sira Moonwarden never enjoyed taking his barked orders. She never enjoyed anything, as far as he noticed. Sira did little but balk and glare at him, her willingness to follow orders contingent on a high enough body count to keep her satisfied. She raged, at everything, at him, at her goddess, Elune, at a world that had left her in isolating darkness. He knew the feeling, but had chosen to embrace it and grow stronger. What she had grown in, he could not say. But from what he had observed, she had her anger, and nothing else. He often found himself wondering if she was truly loyal to Sylvanas, or if her loyalty was simply to killing itself, and its way of distracting the mind, granting a heady if fleeting catharsis.
After giving him one last glare, Sira did as he commanded, leaving him behind and sailing down in a remarkable spiral, becoming little more than a speck against the blue canvas of the sea, and farther on, the ship anchored far offshore.
Nathanos searched among the trees for the rangers, but both they and their assailants were running out of jungle. Fighting in the open could be a mistake. If any of the Zandalari escaped, their plans would be in jeopardy, but this was their land, and they knew how to defend it. He doubted that they could best the dark rangers stationed on deck in a fair conflict. He pressed two fingers to his lips and gave three sharp whistles. The dark rangers gathered to him, re-forming and leaving behind the skirmish in the trees.
“We take them out in the open.” Nathanos gestured to the beach below. “No survivors.”
It proved a quick if messy solution. The Zandalari, perhaps too committed and proud now to give up, did exactly as Nathanos expected. They raced out of their hiding places in the jungle, their raptor mounts eating up the sand quickly as they followed Nathanos and his escorts, taking the bait. Nathanos ducked down again, avoiding the occasional arrow that managed to zing near him.
The Zuldazar jungle gave way to a sloped sandy hill spotted with jagged rocks, a long stretch of open beach dividing the hills from the foamy shore. Hungry birds circled, expectant of a big meal, and Nathanos so hated to disappoint.
“Slow down,” he called to the riders, whistling again. “Draw them out.”
He watched the Banshee’s Wail, sails replaced with simple merchant’s colors, careen toward them, the long bowsprit bobbing gamely as the waves hit the boat with full force. Captain Deliria Dawes brought her around beautifully, the broad side of the purple-chased hull now near enough for the naked eye to see a dozen dark rangers perched on the railing, bows at the ready.
“Land,” he gave the order. “Fearless, now, let them think they have a chance.”
The three dark rangers with him obeyed at once, and together they hit the sand, then spun around to face the seven riders bearing down on them, blood up, curved swords raised, their eyes aglow with the promise of battle.
It was a promise that would never be fulfilled. They fell before coming in striking distance of Nathanos and the others. The trolls had taken the bait, and it doomed them. A storm of arrows arced over him and the other dark rangers, fired from the ship, landing in a deadly and precise cluster. He watched the trolls smash into the ground one by one, then dispatched Lelyias to the Banshee’s Wail.
“Tell Moonwarden of our victory here, and have the ship made ready to sail. We cannot anchor here again for a time,” he explaine
d.
Lelyias gave a sharp nod and kicked at her beast, soaring into the air and sprinkling them with a fine arc of sand.
“Strip the bodies, recover the weapons, and put them into the sea. Make sure they are not found.” He prepared to follow Lelyias, trusting the rangers to carry out his orders. “Remember, rangers: We were never here. Fly north to find us when you are finished.”
On deck, Sira commanded things tidily, as he imagined she always did when he was absent. The skyterrors were seen to, fed, watered, and kept below deck for further inland incursions.
“Adequate sailing as always, now take us out,” he told Captain Deliria as he found his way quickly to the spacious great cabin at the stern. The captain snapped him a sharp salute, her long, black hair whipped wildly by the sea winds. She stood taller than many of the other rangers, with strong features and delicately arched brows. So far, serving with her onboard had proved a tolerable experience.
“That was close,” Sira hissed, removing her helmet and shaking out her hair as she followed him through the ship’s narrow corridors. “Much too close. I am beginning to think this Apari is not reliable. This might have been a trap.”
“I do not think so,” Nathanos replied calmly. He shook the sand from his cloak and then plucked it off. It would take hours to get all the grit out of his coat and boots. “I looked in her eyes, and the hatred I saw there is real. She wants to be rid of Talanji and the Horde as much as we do, and we cannot succeed here without her help.”
He opened the door to the cabin smoothly, but Sira appeared ready to kick it down. The dark warden stalked to the bright, mullioned windows and glared out at the waves.
“We do not need a bunch of unorganized, desperate rebels.” Sira slammed her helmet down on the banquet table, shaking the candelabra. “One squadron of dark rangers is worth two hundred farmers with pitchforks.” She snatched off her gloves, examining her fingernails. “And I alone am worth twice that.”
Shadows Rising (World of Warcraft: Shadowlands) Page 4