Shadows Rising (World of Warcraft: Shadowlands)

by Madeleine Roux

  The dark rangers emerged from the treeless shadows at his side, their drawn daggers slashing the air louder than their actual footsteps. He cried out, dodging backward, ducking, finding himself teetering on the edge of the tar pit, and then, as the closest ranger sliced at him again, in it.

  They holstered their daggers and drew their bows, and Zekhan pushed farther into the tar and away from them. Where else could he go? The children were still there, behind him, wiggling helplessly on the shrine. The Zandalari regrouped, honing in on the two rangers that had knocked him into the pit.

  The going became harder and slower. Slower. Zekhan couldn’t move. Death hovered like a thin shroud over his head. Death. Not Bwonsamdi, not the loa of graves, but a cold and unfeeling end. The tar pulled him downward, froze his feet in place so that it hurt even to try to move. He saw, at the edge of the tar pits, the torches moving toward the very edge, the killing flame that would set the tar ablaze and burn them all to ash.

  “Turn back!” Juho screamed.

  Behind him on the southern bank of the tar pit, he heard Talanji’s soldiers calling him back. But he pressed forward. There, straight ahead, huddled on the ruins of Bwonsamdi’s shrine, sat the two troll children, shaking with fright, their bodies tied together. Target practice for the heartless.

  While the dark rangers continued firing toward the children, Nathanos Blightcaller swiveled and walked toward the road leading east and deeper into Nazmir, going at the languid pace of a completely unbothered man.

  “Leave the children!” he heard one of the soldiers scream. “They are lost!”

  No. Zekhan wouldn’t accept that. He had volunteered to lead this detachment of Talanji’s forces, and he would be damned if he let her warriors see him turn away from innocent villagers. And he was close, so close now, he could see the terrified dance of their eyes as they caught sight of the torches, too. They squirmed to the edge of the shrine, a toppled pillar sapped of its magic, a skull carved into its face. The children’s feet were tied, too, and if they fell into the pit they would drown in the sticky tar. Zekhan pushed through the sludge, forcing himself to look at the children, only the children.

  Arrows began to fall from the far side of the pit, persuading Talanji’s already sparse forces to fall back, abandoning Zekhan to his fate. They had managed to fell two dark rangers, but now they were the focus of a dozen more.

  There. It would have to be enough. He stopped, chest-deep in the stinking tar, black ash falling like snow all around them. Vultures circled, perhaps sensing an available meal. Stained white ridges rose like sharp mountains from the tar, the long-dead remains of immense beasts.

  Closing his eyes, Zekhan summoned the power of the wind again to his hands, hoping the gust he conjured would be strong enough to carry the children safely to him. The children shrieked, but Zekhan only heard the wind pouring from his hands. He warped it, giving it spin, lifting it at a careful angle until it scooped the captives up in a chill embrace and whisked them over the tar to his arms. The gust died down as he opened his eyes again and reached for the little trolls, hoisting them awkwardly across his shoulders.

  “Stop ya squirmin’!” he grunted. “I’ll get ya to safety now.”

  The torches had come. He heard the fire rip across the tar, a sound like a rockslide, the children slung over his back as he summoned the wind once more and let it speed his feet. Nothing happened. No sudden speed, no saving burst of wind to carry them to safety. Heat roared toward them, and the night sky was suddenly bright. Talanji’s soldiers screamed. The Widow’s Bite trolls screamed. They had too far to go. The fire would burn them up long before they ever reached the shore.

  What now, ancestors, what now?

  A voice answered, but not one of his kin.

  You know.

  Saurfang. Zekhan did know. He slowed and then stopped, the children beating his back black and blue with their fists, urging him forward. But he found the power of the winds once more, less careful this time, more desperate. The children soared above his head, carried on the last magic he could conjure. They hit the ground with a thump, but they were safe. Talanji’s soldiers rushed in to grab the little ones, and two stayed behind, finding a long sliver of dinosaur bone to shove out into the tar, pushing it toward Zekhan while dodging the hail of arrows. A lifeline.

  Every step felt harder, the tar an unforgiving impediment. The flames engulfed him as he reached the tip of the bone and he lunged for it, but he saw the fire reflected in the eyes of the trolls trying to help. He saw their mouths drop open in horror as Zekhan felt the first vicious kiss of the flames and smelled burning hair.

  The pain made him spasm and then gasp, his hands trembling and blistering up as he grabbed hold of the lifeline and the trolls pulled.

  Go, he wanted to shout, but he couldn’t form words around the agony. There’s no savin’ me. There’s no use helpin’ a corpse.

  * * *

  —

  He expected death to be different. Slower perhaps, and kinder, more like turning away from a sunset and walking into the night. But death came on like one of his conjured whirlwinds. Zekhan watched the world fall away, ripped out of his body by some unseen hand flinging him toward a vortex that disappeared down and down. A down that never ended, a plunge over a waterfall of pale souls. Others fell with him, their images ghostly thin, and he wondered if he looked as shocked and afraid as they did. Chains snaked up from the pit below, ghostlike and silver, clamping over his shoulders, clanking over his wrists and dragging him down, down…

  Time became meaningless. There was no telling how long he and the others fell. The void below him growled, shaking and rumbling like the belly of a hungry world. Whatever lay below him, Zekhan did not want to go. Every ounce of sense left in his soul cried out in protest. The spirits plunging toward the void began to cry and moan, wailing, a rising dirge of terror that drowned out all thoughts, all desires. There was only fear, and one truth that occurred to him as he hurtled toward a morass of black and purple that swirled at the end of their long drop. Whatever lurked behind the veil of that murky pit stirred, and it wanted him to break. Something was there watching him. Something noticed him, only him. An evil too terrible to name waited there for Zekhan, ready to consume. This was death. It was nothing like the sun-drenched reunion he had experienced through Saurfang’s eyes, no joy, no paradise, just endless suffering, a darkness that obliterated all the life that had come before it.

  “Summon the healers! We must attend to his burns at once!”

  The voice rippled on the fringes of his consciousness. It wasn’t like the mournful howls of the spirits, but clearer, almost sweet…Zekhan flailed, trying to move toward it.

  “How did this happen?” the voice, a familiar voice, demanded.

  “The…the dark rangers, my queen, they were waitin’. They set a trap for us at the pits. It was a bloodbath.”

  A queen…It was too hard to think of names; they were slipping away like water through his fingers.

  She spoke again, louder, more forceful, traces of lightning streaked across the sides of the vortex, glittering in time with her words.

  “Where are those healers!?”

  “Ya can do nothin’ for him, child. But there’s somethin’ I can do.”

  A new voice, stronger even than hers. The souls tumbling down around him grew quiet, as if they wanted to hear that voice in particular. Zekhan felt something reach around his ankle and pull, hard, speeding him toward the nameless evil seething in the swirling black and violet pit. He clawed at the air, but he couldn’t fight it.

  “Not yet, my boy. Not yet. I need ya services a little while longer…”

  Now he was pulled in both directions at once. A more insistent hand wrapped around his right hand and guided him up. Neither force wanted to let go, and for a moment he was sure they would break him in two. But at last he was free, rocketing upward, f
lying with dizzying speed away from the lights below, a glimmer that grew fainter and fainter.

  But the thing lurking in the shadows had seen him, and he didn’t hear it speak so much as feel it, a sensation like a cruel idea unfurling inside, a shadow hatching in his mind: all-consuming, never-ending suffering.

  Zekhan flew faster and faster, yanked back toward a pinprick of light that he hadn’t noticed before. Had it always been there? It was approaching very quickly, and he didn’t know if he could fit through it, but he wasn’t slowing down…He closed his eyes and braced, and with the force of a slap inhaled breath on Azeroth once more.

  Blinking erratically, he found himself on his side, curled up on a cot in a small house. His entire body ached, feverish and trembling, but a smooth, cold substance had been smoothed all over his many, many burns. Zekhan didn’t want to look, but he did, shuddering at the sight of his charred and blackened hands, the skin peeling up in angry red blisters. Even shuddering was agony, and he winced. Wincing hurt, too.

  “Ow.”

  “He’s alive!” Talanji stared down at him, hands covering her mouth. “You really did it.”

  A blue-and-gray-masked figure hovered behind her, eyes seething with turquoise fire. Zekhan whimpered. He didn’t want to think about, see, hear, or smell fire ever again.

  “I…I saw something…But nothin’ like I expected! It was…t-terrible. Ya lied, Bwonsamdi. Ya lied!”

  “What did ya see?” Bwonsamdi demanded, tripping over his words, breathless with panic. “Tell me!”

  “Save ya strength,” Talanji gently chided. Next to her knees, six empty earthenware pots held the remnants of the herbal paste used to treat his burns. “The healers will return soon, but Bwonsamdi wanted them out.”

  The loa sagged, so transparent it was hard to make out the movements of his hands and feet, as if he was collapsing from the outside in. “It’s an ugly business, shoving a troll’s soul back into his body. Almost didn’t reach ya.”

  “I…I saw a pit, or a portal, purple and black, a place I would never escape. Torment, suffering…”

  Bwonsamdi sucked in a breath through his teeth. “What else did ya see, boy?”

  It was too much. His head wouldn’t stop spinning. “I…just saw spirits, chains, darkness, everything felt so…cold, cruel. Like I would never know peace again. A place where only evil belongs.” Zekhan coughed. Even just clinging to life, the fleeing memory of that place broke his heart. He somehow felt simultaneously hot and freezing.

  “Ya be right about the suffering. ’Tis the place for the ‘unredeemable’.”

  “What did I do to deserve that abyss?”

  Talanji shook her head, leaning over him. “Ya saved those little ones, Zekhan, they are already callin’ ya the Light of Shoal’jai.”

  Bwonsamdi cackled. “Then they be old enough to know a good joke when they hear it, eh?”

  But the queen didn’t laugh, and neither did Zekhan. She glared up at him, pointing an accusatory finger. “Why did he go to this horrible place, oh wise loa of graves?”

  The loa glanced down and to the side. Zekhan noticed then how weakly his vision appeared, almost as thin as a trail of old smoke. He heaved a weary sigh and spread his hands open, palms up, as if presenting them something.

  “Ya saw the Maw, boy. A hopeless place that holds the darkest spirits. But now it be consumin’ every soul, no matta their deeds in life. Good or evil, thief or prince, they all go to the Maw. Nothin’ is as it should be. And I be keepin’ as many trolls away from there as I can, and at no small cost. It’s takin’ all I have left just to keep them safe.” He held up one of his translucent hands and grimaced. “Which is why ya must stop these rebels and Blightcaller. If they have their way, nothin’ will stop all souls from enterin’ the Maw. For good.”

  Both trolls fell silent, as if the word itself had stolen their ability to speak. The queen herself grew wide-eyed and pale.

  Talanji stood, her skirt overturning one of the clay pots. “How long?” she asked when resolve finally found her. “How long has this been happening?”

  “I saved your fa’da from this fate,” Bwonsamdi growled. “If that is what ya askin’.”

  “The Spirit Realm…” Zekhan managed to choke. He wanted more than anything to just close his eyes and sleep, but he feared what dark dreams of the Maw might await him there. His teeth wouldn’t stop chattering. The pain. He needed something for the pain…“Thrall knew. The shaman t-told him it was broken.”

  “Yes, he said as much in the throne room,” Talanji agreed, still jabbing her finger at Bwonsamdi. “You are the loa of graves, you must know what has gone wrong. Sylvanas and the Forsaken are here for you, Bwonsamdi. You will tell me why.”

  The loa’s gaze drifted past her, landing on Zekhan.

  “They be workin’ with forces I cannot see, but whoever be givin’ the orders wants me gone—it wants all obstacles gone. I will tell ya more, Talanji, but not here, not like this. The boy needs rest and all the relief ya priests can muster. He has earned that much.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Stormwind

  Anduin’s hair felt like old, wet ribbons, bootblacked and slicked into a tight braid, hanging greasy and limp over his right shoulder. The hood stayed high around his face, ragged and patchwork, something he had fished out of the rubbish left behind by fresh recruits joining the Alliance ranks. Many of them gave up their old civilian clothes, trading in everything for the bold gold and blues. Rebirth, he thought, into a chosen family.

  What would those stalwart recruits think of him now, he wondered, dodging from shadow to shadow, swallowed up by an abandoned cloak that still smelled of its former owner? The clothes underneath were his own, just a plain, dark tunic, loose trousers, and a nondescript belt. His boots looked too expensive, and so he brushed them with mud, just like he had tried to conceal his memorable golden hair. Even if he smelled questionable and looked even worse, he felt exhilarated, leaving his chambers behind, and then the castle, and then the gated city altogether, soaking up the crisp night air as he followed the winding path down to the Goldshire Inn.

  Sometimes he felt like a coin satchel, and every worry, every problem, every mistake, every crisis was another fat, heavy coin falling into that bag. It got heavier and heavier, but usually it was manageable. After a while, however, the fabric started to strain. Some of the coins had to go or the satchel would rip, the bottom falling out, the coins spilling everywhere. Every breath he drew in, every moment that passed, another coin came—Sylvanas evading them—plink—Alliance soldiers washing up on shore—plink—Alleria and Turalyon—plink—Jaina questioning him—plink—Tyrande—plink—Teldrassil—plink—the Forsaken in the Highlands—his spymaster taken prisoner—plink, plink.

  Another coin had fallen right in before he returned to his chambers to don his disguise. Prisoners from Alleria and Turalyon’s search arrived in Stormwind, and he had been summoned to watch their procession into the stockades. He commanded they be treated fairly, that once they were thoroughly questioned, they could be set free. An old Forsaken in a robe caught his attention, a tortured bend to the man’s spine, a crazed and haunted glint to his eye.

  When the coins spilled, Anduin found himself before the great carved fireplace in his bedroom on the floor, legs tucked up to chest, catatonic, eyes unable to close, mind unable to clear, the flames just inches before him searing into his vision until tears poured down his cheeks.

  Now he sensed when the coins were piling up, and he took measures to alleviate the strain. This was acting out, and stupid, he knew it, but it was what he needed. To be a nameless face in a tavern, if only for a few hours, to escape the duties and the pressures that haunted him. A priest was never without his power, and he had brought a dagger, hidden it on the back of his belt, not wanting to provoke a fight but ready for one nonetheless.

  Two girls rushe
d passed him, hurrying back to Stormwind and probably back to worried parents. They both had long, dark hair, coiled over their heads in intricate braids. One glanced up at him as he passed, her face delicate and soft. She almost recognized him, frowning and squinting, her interest so keen then that he was sure he had been made. It nearly made him trip and fall down the slope.

  But the girls ignored him and carried on. He breathed a sigh of relief—the last thing he needed was the scandal of being found out, of having to drag himself into the keep looking like a mess and explain to his advisers and Jaina why he had been skulking around in a disguise. Anduin pulled his hood down lower and pressed on. Jaina. He didn’t want to think about her scolding him, or how her questions lingered, just more coins for the satchel. Those weren’t the kind he could pluck out with a stunt like this. Those stayed around forever.

  She had every right to worry, of course, but the passion in her voice and the fear in her eyes had burrowed into him deep. Two men outside the inn were arguing, drawing a crowd. That was good. Anduin used the distraction to duck inside and take a table near the door, but put his back to it. When the barmaid came by, plump and beautiful, dark-skinned, with a ready, brilliant smile that would’ve made another boy blush, he slid her a normal sum of money and asked for an ale.

  Then he remembered that he wasn’t Anduin just then, so it was all right to glance at her, admire her smile and blush, so he did.

  He let himself sink into the delirious joy of anonymity. When the barmaid stayed a little and flirted, asking his name, he winked, still swathed in the hood, and said, “Jerek. And what do I call you?”

  “Amalia.”

  “That’s a lovely name,” the king of Stormwind said. Amalia curtseyed and went to see to another table. Anduin felt incredible. Free. And then, of course, he felt guilty. One coin slid out the top of the satchel, and another dropped right in. He hovered over his ale, letting the foam gather on his upper lip, letting himself be gross and coarse, burping, drinking too fast, burping some more.