CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Nazmir
“What a pit,” Sira Moonwarden sneered, pulling her foot up out of the mud and listening to the resounding squelch. “A blessing that this post is only temporary.”
Beside her, Nathanos stood stalk still, ignoring the visible cloud of flies gathering around his head. He often wore a subtle cologne to ward off the scent of being neither living nor dead. Many found the complete absence of scent unnerving. Sira had only just grown accustomed to it herself. She did not handle the bugs as gracefully, batting at them while they gathered in ever thickening swarms.
“Where are they?” Sira added, annoyed.
“Patience, Warden. Patience.”
She had little on a good day, even less when she was forced to stand knee-deep in rotting mud, the Frogmarsh a strangely painful reminder of how undead she truly was. Here, life roared at her from every direction, from the damp trees draped with green curtains of moss to the crabs clicking their way up and down the shore behind them, to the deafening chorus of frogs and insects robbing any chance of a peaceful thought.
Life. It was everywhere there. Brash, audacious life. It probably smelled green. Not an inch of it went uncovered in vines or nests or pond scum. Through the trees ahead, a herd of riverbeasts snorted and huffed, the brass section of the teeming band of chittering, birdsong, and ribbets.
It was, in a word, loathsome.
“We’ll be eaten alive,” she huffed, swatting a dozen bugs before all the words had left her mouth.
“There.” Nathanos pointed to the same trees that concealed the riverbeasts. Long, dripping strands of moss made the beach feel claustrophobic. The four dark rangers spread about to stand watch dutifully endured the stinging of bugs and stinking of the bog.
“Do you see them?” he asked.
Sira squinted.
“They move like shadows along the forest floor, and being shadows they will continue being very useful to us.”
She marked movement among the tall roots jutting out from the base of the trees. Trolls cleverly smeared in mud crept toward them, nearly invisible in the jumble of bushes and fallen logs in the swamp. Sira would not argue about their usefulness—they had already had to move the Banshee’s Wail out of deep water to avoid the deadly storms raging along the coasts.
“They can come out of hiding,” she snapped. “They called for this meeting.”
“I happen to agree.” With a smirk, Nathanos whistled with his fingers in his mouth, alerting the Zandalari rebels that he had noticed their presence. They stood one by one, their leader among them, slowly making her way to their location with a pronounced limp. Sira somewhat liked the witch, Apari, for they had both been betrayed by the one thing that had always defined their lives. For Sira, it was her worship of the goddess, Elune. For Apari, it was her loyalty to the Zandalari crown.
For the seriousness of her injury, Apari navigated the swamp deftly. They met in a clearing not far from the sands, the Widow’s Bite leader arriving with her bulbous tick pet on her shoulder, a small entourage of twelve or so guards, and her ever-present lieutenant, the tall, black-haired troll called Tayo.
Apari’s white hair had been streaked with mud to hide her identity. None of the trolls wore the distinctive white-and-black robes of the insurrection but rather nondescript rags and bits of armor.
Only Apari and her bodyguard Tayo broke away to speak with them. The troll witch leaned her weight onto her good leg and pressed her palm to her heart. “Greetings, pale rider.”
“At last,” Nathanos replied shortly. “I realize it must have been difficult, given your limitations, but next time I expect promptness.”
Her eyes flashed. “I’ve no limitations ya need worry about, pale rider.”
“Indeed. At least you have understood our need for secrecy. We cannot risk venturing further inland. If Zandalari loyalists lay eyes on us then our plans are forfeit.”
The witch waved away his words impatiently. “Have ya brought our payment?”
“You are hardly in a position to make demands.” Nathanos snorted. “But I am eager to be out of this swamp.”
He twisted at the hip and gestured Ranger Visrynn forward. The dark-haired ranger brought forward a small enameled chest, silently placing it on the neutral ground between the trolls and Blightcaller. Aboard the ship, Sira had seen them preparing the payment, a collection of gems, jewelry, beautifully hammered metal necklace plates, small flagons of rare spirits, and daggers. It struck Sira as slightly excessive given their dwindling resources, but Nathanos had made clear that this was the price of a successful mission.
“Soon,” he had assured her aboard the Banshee’s Wail not an hour earlier, “where we will be going none of these trifles will matter at all.”
Sira slapped at another swarm of insects buzzing around her head, watching as the witch’s bodyguard knelt and flicked open the chest with one finger. No smile. No thanks for their generosity. No reaction at all. Sira simmered, looking to Nathanos, who revealed as little as the black-haired troll.
“This is not what I want.” Apari shook her head, sneering. “This is not what we agreed upon.”
Clearing his throat, Nathanos calmly signaled for Visrynn to return. She did and with equal serenity picked up the chest and returned to her sisters behind them.
“Insulting,” Sira murmured. Perhaps she should not have. At once, the witch fixed her piercing turquoise eyes upon Sira. An instant later, Sira felt a sensation like a thousand spiders skittering down her back. She shivered but refused to tear her gaze away. Just a witch’s trick, she told herself, nothing more.
“Now, now,” Nathanos intervened. “This is a simple misunderstanding. What would you have from us instead?”
Apari grinned, showing a set of yellowed teeth sharpened to points, the ends blackened by the foul, strong spirits the Zandalari distilled in charred vats. She hobbled forward, looking Nathanos up and down as if he were a prize cut of meat. Whatever came next, Sira mused, would not make him happy.
“Your messenger said ya want to kill a loa.” Apari nodded. Her eyes lit up, the idea clearly exciting her. “You want to kill Bwonsamdi, but ya can’t, not without us. ’Tis no easy thing, what ya ask. He must be weakened first. Believers and tribute keep him strong, but without faithful followers he be vulnerable. His shrines be protected by powerful magic, the tribute I need from ya will dispel that magic.”
Nathanos hurried her along, at last reaching a state of visible impatience. “Go on.”
“It will require somethin’ precious,” she continued. Pointing to Visrynn and the chest, she flapped her hand and shrugged. “That might be precious to some, but not to you. Ya must give up somethin’ painful, somethin’ irreplaceable.”
“What we offer should be more than sufficient.” Nathanos stood firm. “You are not in a position to bargain.”
The witch was stunningly bold, Sira could give her that. With a theatrical sigh, the troll witch began to turn around, avoiding her bad leg and refusing help from her bodyguard as she began rounding up the members of the Widow’s Bite. For a moment, Sira remained certain it was just a bluff, but no, the trolls regrouped and slowly disappeared back into the dense foliage of the swamp.
“A moment.”
The trolls paused, looking to their leader. Apari waited, only offering a glance over her right shoulder. Before Nathanos could relent and submit to their demands, Sira took him by the elbow, lowering her voice and tilting her head toward him. “Wait…”
But he was already pulling a chain out from under his heavy black coat, a green-and-gold badge, warped and faded with time, hung from the tarnished necklace. An officer’s badge? A remnant from a war long since forgotten? Sira couldn’t say. Nathanos and Sylvanas had once served Silvermoon, he so tactically gifted that he had been raised to the rank of ranger lord in the Farstriders, an achievemen
t no other human had managed. The Dark Lady herself had been the one to give the promotion, the dark rangers serving Sylvanas had told the tale many times at sea. It seemed to be a favorite. Was this the badge recognizing as much? Though his eyes always pulsed with the same steady crimson glow, Sira saw that dim for a moment, fading just like the old, etched memento.
“What are you doing?” Sira whispered. “We cannot simply give in to every demand and roll over like trained dogs. They will think you weak.”
At that, Nathanos curled his lip, eyes now as hot and bright as his flaring rage. He seemed to collect himself, breathing hard. His strength, it seemed, was not to be questioned. Sira nearly recoiled, but he only pushed the hair back off his forehead, his gaze burning into her with the same furious intensity.
“You will learn the value of silence, or I will teach it to you.” That seemed to satisfy his fury, and when he looked at her again it was as if she were no more than a pustule on his foot, something he loathed to notice but must.
Sira stewed in indignant silence as he pulled at the chain around his neck, breaking it, before closing the gap between them and the troll witch, holding out the badge for her to take. Apari might have been severely injured, but she moved swiftly then, her arm but a blur as she tried to snatch the necklace from his palm. Nathanos, however, was ready for her, and quickly trapped her hand there before she could take the payment.
“This is no trinket, witch. If you fail to destroy the loa’s shrines as you have promised, then there will be severe consequences. You may have conjured a few clouds off the coast, but payment this dear demands results.”
Sira grinned. There. That was the Blightcaller she knew. While the witch threw back her head and laughed, Sira noticed a shadow moving just behind Apari and her bodyguard. Had that always been there? Sira moved her hand to her side, tucking her fingers around a dagger, preparing to strike. The thing suddenly propelled itself up into the air and then flopped back down, landing in a puddle with a plop. Sira smirked. Just a frog. It waited for another moment before taking another graceless leap.
“This…” Apari nodded, a serene smile concealing her sharpened teeth. Even her tusks were yellowed and muddy, but she seemed strangely beautiful in that moment, almost angelic, as if by just touching the necklace she had been imbued with a new bloom. “This is what the spell requires. There be the power of longin’ in it, of pain. It will do, pale rider, it will do. We assault the first shrine tonight. Bwonsamdi’s effigies will burn, and every loss hastens his final hour.”
She turned to her bodyguard with a cackle, showing her the badge and necklace.
“What was that?” Sira asked, following Nathanos as he rounded up the dark rangers and headed for their dinghy. He could threaten to teach her the value of silence all he wanted, she was not going to stop speaking her mind. His shoulders were slumped forward as if he had suffered a defeat.
“It doesn’t matter now.”
“It belonged to her, didn’t it?”
Nathanos stopped and sneered, adjusting the quiver buckled across his chest. “Remind me when this is over to drown the witch in this bog.”
A rustling in the swampy undergrowth made them both freeze, and all eyes fell on the tumbled shrub in the muck not far from Apari’s feet.
“Assassin!” one of her followers shouted. Sira drew her blade, the rangers nocked arrows, Nathanos reached for his immense carved longbow.
Then a single spear soared across the reeds and into the bush, loosed by Tayo with perfect, deadly aim. She stalked over to the spear and tore it out of the undergrowth. A fat, wet toad hung limp from the sharp end.
“Krag’wa the Huge inhabits these swamps, and he be sympathetic to the traitor queen,” Tayo spat, lifting up the skewered frog for all to see. “His little spies are everywhere. Could be this one is just a toad, could be he hoppin’ away to make mischief for us.” She snickered and licked her muddied lips. “Either way? Lunch.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Orgrimmar
Thrall pushed away the platter of steaming roast meat in front of him, losing his appetite the moment Yukha arrived at his table. Already he had received word from Zekhan in Zandalar that the assassins who had come after Queen Talanji at the council feast had struck again. They were organized enough to have taken a name, the Widow’s Bite, and they had managed to wound several guards at the palace before kidnapping two civilians.
The message from Zekhan lay curled next to his untouched plate of food. He had taken a small residence in the Valley of Spirits, little more than a lodge to keep his belongings and a bed. The other council members had agreed to more luxurious accommodations, but Thrall preferred the modest house; a larger home would simply amplify the emptiness, the absence of his wife, Aggra, and his children, Durak and little Rehze.
No, a simple hut would do until his family could join him or the Horde no longer needed him.
“Not going to eat that?” Yukha leaned against his carved shaman’s staff, twirling his gray beard thoughtfully.
“Have you come to steal my supper or do your job, Yukha?”
The shaman smiled, but it didn’t reach the wrinkles at his eyes. “Old friend, your missive reached Nordrassil and I carry with me the reply. The Night Warrior bids you come on one condition.”
Thrall shifted, even less hungry than before. “And? Spit it out.”
“She says you must bring what is owed.”
Frowning, Thrall scratched his chin. “What else did she say?”
“Nothing.” Yukha shrugged and reached for the haunch of boar growing cold on the table, tearing off a piece of charred skin and eating it. “She claimed you would know what that meant.”
“I see. And how does she seem?”
Emboldened by Thrall’s disinterest, Yukha tore off a larger piece of boar meat. “Her rage has not lessened, if that is what you mean.”
Of course not. Were it me, my rage would simmer for a thousand years.
“Very well. I can linger here no longer waiting for messengers and quelling council squabbles.” He sighed. “And this will only cause another one.”
Thrall pushed himself up from the table, lumbering over to the door. “Boy!” he called.
The head of a skinny orc page appeared, shoving aside the leather curtain protecting the doorway.
“Run to the hold quick as you can. Summon Calia Menethil and Baine Bloodhoof—we depart for Nordrassil before sundown.”
“Right away!”
The boy vanished, and Thrall crossed to the large, ancient chest of his belongings next to his spare bed. He fished out a clean leather harness and a woven red cloak, one Aggra had made while teaching their children to weave. A subtle design of yellow and darker crimson ran along the border, and Thrall traced it with his fingers. Home.
He shrugged on the harness and draped the cloak around his shoulders while Yukha rubbed his chin. “Hm. The undead woman and the high chieftain. Are you certain that’s wise? Will they not both remind her of the Banshee Queen in their own ways?”
“Baine despises Sylvanas, and the feeling is mutual,” Thrall replied, leaving the hut with the shaman trailing close behind. It was well known that Sylvanas Windrunner considered Baine a softhearted liability, even before he sought to overthrow her. Her hatred of the tauren struck Thrall as a ringing endorsement, and now that he had come to know Baine better and witness his devotion to the Earth Mother and to the spirits, his respect for the chieftain only grew.
Sunlight dampened by a haze of dust roasted the city, and Thrall found himself longing for the cool, shaded pools dotting the land on his farm in Nagrand. He could almost hear the laughter of his children splashing in the water…
“And the woman?” Yukha asked.
“Calia Menethil wishes to bridge the divide between the Forsaken and the kaldorei that have recently found themselves raised into undeath.
I see no harm in it.”
They stood side by side, the old shaman leaning heavily on his staff while Thrall surveyed the warren of streets under the shaman’s quarter packed with shops and forges, anvils ringing day and night as blacksmiths tried to replenish the deficit left by the Blood War.
Yukha cringed at his words.
“You disagree?” Thrall’s eyes followed the page, Gunk, as he wound his way through the mundane chaos of the commerce below.
“It would be better if you came alone.”
“Half the council is already convinced that I will be ambushed in Nordrassil; some small concessions must be made,” Thrall said. At last, Gunk vanished, bare little feet flying, out of sight and well on his way to the Valley of Strength. “Go back inside and finish the rest of my supper if it bothers you so.”
At that, Yukha barked with mirth. “Ha, Earthbinder, to go without me would indeed be your downfall. I have negotiated safe passage with the druids protecting the World Tree, I am to escort you and your chosen companions.”
Thrall flinched at the old title. It did not fit him anymore. “Well. I feel safer already.”
Yukha ignored the jab. “Tiala assured me that passage to the World Tree would remain safely open for us. I am to guide you there and then to Tyrande’s location. After that? After that, you’re on your own.”
You must bring what is owed.
Thrall was no fool. Surely Tyrande Whisperwind and Malfurion Stormrage desired some gesture, some remuneration for the war crimes visited upon Teldrassil. Even in Nagrand, even cut off from his connection to the powers of a shaman, he had felt the moment the world shifted and the wrath of Sylvanas Windrunner set the kaldorei capital ablaze. It was quiet, it was distant, but he heard a collective cry, and for a brief, terrifying moment he tasted smoke on the air where none had been before.
What did he owe?
How did he answer that? He had not been part of the Horde war that led to the atrocity and that, perhaps, was why Tyrande and Malfurion were willing to meet with him at all. Innocence in one specific crime felt like a weak shield. But perhaps he had more. He gazed over the raised plateaus and flying banners of Orgrimmar and imagined it aflame, imagined the city that had been the source of so much life and joy and war and pain reduced to smoldering rubble. What would he want if such a thing were to happen? What would he need?
Shadows Rising (World of Warcraft: Shadowlands) Page 12