Shadows Rising (World of Warcraft: Shadowlands)

by Madeleine Roux

  Thrall nodded, bobbing in the saddle of his wolf. “Perhaps with our forces divided, we can attack from two sides, send the cavalry up the center, and try to trap Blightcaller in the middle.”

  “That will be difficult,” Talanji warned him. “The Necropolis is surrounded by swamp. The safest approach is from the Zo’bal Ruins, which Blightcaller holds.”

  “That will pose no challenge to our shaman,” Baine interjected. “They can pass on top of the water.”

  “And with some recovery I can teleport a number of us wherever you desire,” Thalyssra said in her soft yet direct way. “It will increase the element of surprise.”

  “No surprises here,” Talanji told her. “If you reach the Necropolis, there is a clear view in every direction.”

  “Then speed will be our greatest asset,” Thrall said. He twisted to regard Thalyssra, who looked weary, her shoulders slumped, her hands only loosely gripping the reins of her feline mount. “How long? Could you send some of our warriors ahead?”

  Thalyssra straightened and quirked her lips to the side. “I shall endeavor to try.”

  They crossed the bridge beyond the great pyramid and west of the terraces, the Zandalari forces visible down the road. Rokhan had kept the trolls marching, the colored frills of their feathered helmets dancing with each step. A million thoughts and ideas assaulted Talanji’s brain. Thrall’s arrival had changed everything. She should have believed. She should have trusted.

  That her eventual trust in him had brought this boon filled her with hope. Perhaps Bwonsamdi was right—all the broken hearts, spirits, and minds in her kingdom could be mended, if only the proper effort was put forward. Friends and allies made, bonds and promises honored and kept. They had come for her, come for her people, in the hour when she needed them most. They had come even after she refused their well-meaning aid and their ambassador—

  Their ambassador.

  “Zekhan was badly wounded,” Talanji blurted. “He tried to lead my men and defend one of the loa’s shrines. He was caught in a blaze at the tar pits. My healers have seen to him; they say he will live.”

  “He is a strong boy,” Thrall replied simply. “And if he volunteered to lead, then he understood the risks.”

  Talanji nodded. Still. Her thoughts wouldn’t quiet down. How would they ever reach the Necropolis in time? How could they organize a proper attack when every minute of hesitation might cost them? How could she so much as lift her staff when her body felt so broken?

  “Thalyssra, how many of us can you safely bring to the Necropolis?” Baine asked. He rode atop a towering, furry beast, a kind of stag with pale horns as impressive as Baine’s. They were a motley assortment of folk and animals, and Talanji wondered what they must look like, strange allies tied by a common cause.

  “And how quickly?” he added with a huff.

  “Why do I get the sense you are annoyed with me, Bloodhoof?” Thalyssra said with a lilting tease to her voice.

  “Those pretty feathers of yours will droop in the jungle heat; it is not a short march,” he snorted.

  “Fair point.” The First Arcanist uncorked a flask tucked into a pocket of her elaborate runed saddle, taking a long swig. Her eyes brightened as if she had taken a drink of pure light. “Give me a moment, and I can teleport the entire host.”

  Thrall banged his fist on the pommel of his saddle, and the gray wolf beneath him gave a long, chilling howl. “Then it is settled. We divide into three forces and give them no chance to retreat.”

  “The sea…” Talanji frowned. “The Necropolis lies along our northern border. They could escape by sea. The storms surrounding these lands are under their control.”

  “That is why we target their mages first,” Thalyssra said.

  “And why Lor’themar and Gazlowe are sailing with all speed,” Thrall added, eyes fixed on the road to the north. “Once the storms break, they will cut off any retreat by sea.”

  Talanji couldn’t help but gaze in admiration at each of them. Apparently, they had thought of everything. Perhaps that accounted for their delay in coming. Thrall leaned down in his saddle, sending a warrior running ahead to speak with Rokhan and stall the Zandalari armies, preparing them for Thalyssra’s magic to whisk them away.

  “Then it is settled,” Talanji echoed Thrall’s words. “They will soon know the strength of the Horde.”

  “For Zandalar,” Thrall agreed, raising his axe. “And for Zekhan.”

  “For the safety of my people,” Talanji agreed. “And for the Horde.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The Necropolis

  “Where is he?” Sira Moonwarden demanded, stalking in tight circles around the altar facing the Necropolis temple. Her temper flared as high and red as the blood moon only then fading into the dawn light. “Why does he not appear?”

  Nathanos allowed a cooler mood to prevail, studying the scattered carvings and drums on the altar. Perhaps they had missed something. Every shrine of Bwonsamdi’s had been desecrated; surely that would be enough to enrage the loa and inspire him to retaliate. Yet an eerie silence persisted in the Necropolis, that whispering, taunting wind still swirling in unnatural configurations, the suggestion of spirits hiding at the corner of his vision.

  He would not be denied victory—the Banshee Queen’s victory—when it seemed so tantalizingly close.

  “Ya must know Bwonsamdi is a trickster.” Apari slumped toward them, her tick pet pulsating like a boil on her shoulder. She drew her greasy white braid of hair over one shoulder and gestured toward the pit on the other side of the altar. It formed a kind of amphitheater, or court, and it seethed with dark promise. Even Nathanos found its presence unnerving.

  “Where is he, witch?” Sira demanded, impatient.

  “I honor our friendship,” Apari assured her, smiling. “I honor our bargain.”

  “Ha! We are not friends. Do not waste our time with flattery! We desire only the loa. How do we summon him?” Sira crowded the witch, looming, her crimson eyes flashing behind her strange horned helm.

  Apari did not shrink away, but her bodyguard, Tayo, bared her teeth. They were filed into hideous points. “Like this.”

  Nathanos had assumed Apari sending her rebels into the temple had been only to scavenge for offerings and treasure. Instead, he found them returning in groups, bringing with them bound and squirming hostages.

  “Supplicants,” Nathanos murmured. “Yes. This will do nicely.”

  “These are Bwonsamdi’s faithful worshippers,” Apari explained. The Widow’s Bite fanatics had rounded up six: two old troll females, three elderly troll males, and a young troll girl no older than nine.

  The child would go last, and only if Bwonsamdi had a mind to resist.

  “That one first.” Nathanos pointed to an older troll male, his hair stark white, his ears drooping from time and the heavy bone jewelry adorning them. He was the strongest of them, aged but still with all his teeth and both eyes. The other elders appeared one footstep from the grave.

  Two rebels dressed in the white-and-black tunic of the Widow’s Bite shouldered the old troll forward. He didn’t fight. “Good morning, sir.”

  “Darkness take you,” the troll spat.

  Nathanos sighed and wiped the spittle from his chin. “I see. In that case, I too shall dispense with pleasantries. There is no need to torture you and kill the child. You are Bwonsamdi’s faithful, are you not? Prove your belief sufficient, summon the loa here, and all of you will live.”

  Over the troll’s shoulder, Sira scoffed. Nathanos gave her the tiniest shake of his head. Don’t be stupid; of course they will not live.

  “What is your name?” Nathanos asked. The witch, Apari, circled closer, reaching into the medicine satchel around her waist and producing a small pouch.

  “Tezi.”

  “Very well, Tezi. Let us be rea
sonable. Help us reach Bwonsamdi and you will all be spared.”

  Tezi sighed and heaved his shoulders, eye to eye with Nathanos. “We worship the loa of death, strange one. We come each day to this place. You don’t frighten us. Nothin’ frightens us.”

  “Do not break, Tezi! They are scum! Bwonsamdi will protect us,” the little girl shouted. One of the rangers slapped her silent.

  Apari chose that moment to intervene. “Make ya offerin’, old man, or this goes in the girl’s mouth.” She reached inside the pouch and held up a pinch of black powder. Captive, the troll girl gave a yelp. “Retchweed and riverbud root. Her insides will be comin’ out her eyeballs. Is that what ya want?”

  Tezi drew back. Out of the corner of his eye, Nathanos noticed someone diving toward the witch.

  “She’s just a child!” Tayo clamped her hand around Apari’s wrist, the one holding the powder. She twisted and pulled, and the weak, septic Apari had no choice but to let go. Tayo threw the pouch in an arc, sending it splashing into the swamp, lost.

  At once, Apari struck her across the face. She didn’t have much strength left, but the slap left Tayo stunned. “I am on the very precipice of death, zagota. I will live. I will live just to see Bwonsamdi and Talanji fall. Nothing, not this girl, nor you, will stop me.”

  Whatever “zagota” meant, Nathanos didn’t fancy it was anything friendly. Tayo marched away, back toward the Zo’bal Ruins. Dark ranger Visrynn moved to follow.

  “Let her go,” Apari muttered. “She will come crawlin’ back. She always does.”

  “We have no need of her now,” Nathanos drawled. “Now, where were we? Ah, of course. Tezi, my new friend, you will cooperate or the troll girl will be harmed. We have many resources beyond the witch’s powders and potions.”

  “Do it!” the girl screamed, unafraid. Nathanos almost admired her spirit.

  He drew a dagger from his belt. “For example, I will take her brash little tongue.”

  “I will do what ya ask,” Tezi growled. “But I’ve no more power over a loa than a mouse over a snake.”

  “Scamper over to the altar, then, mouse, and be quick about it.”

  Nathanos grabbed the troll by the bone talisman around his neck and shoved him roughly toward the drums and relics strewn about the dais. Below, the mist of fog and spirits swirled, and either it was his imagination, or the silvery muck had grown thicker. Was this Bwonsamdi’s wrath? Even a loa must find it difficult to stomach the mistreatment of “mice” such as Tezi.

  The old troll dropped to his knees. The girl cried out for him, and Apari cuffed her, subduing her to silent tears. Tezi picked up one of the ancient drums and began to thump it with the heels of his hands, chanting in a low, haunting rasp, his song rising and falling above the constant buzz of insects filling the marsh.

  It went on for some time, until Tezi’s voice grew hoarse.

  Sira paced faster. Nathanos couldn’t help but concur.

  “We know you are watching, Bwonsamdi,” Nathanos called. Nothing. “Appear to us, loa, or your followers will soon be walking your spirit realm!”

  Nothing.

  “The girl,” Nathanos sneered. “Start with her fingers. Flay them first, remove them slowly. After that, the ears.”

  The other captured worshippers fell to their knees, joining Tezi in his chant, but the girl simply trembled, tossing her head from side to side as she sobbed once more.

  Nathanos took no delight in it; this was simply what was required. The Banshee Queen wanted Bwonsamdi gone, and they could not destroy him if he remained forever in hiding.

  “Wait.” Sira had come to a halt, peering over the edge of the altar and down into the court. The soup of mist and spirits began to spin, creating a vortex that shot up into the air and dispersed with a ripple, sending the columns of the Necropolis shaking, unseen tombs deep in the ground rattling; the skeletons dotting the ruin shook themselves to slivers. Dust rose from the ancient stones under their feet. The blast knocked Nathanos back a few steps, his ears ringing from the force of it.

  “Old Bwonsamdi is here, friends. What be all this racket now?”

  The loa floated high above the court, ankles crossed casually, head cocked to the side. The tall bone harness he wore on his back swayed lightly, the ribs etched into his chest glimmered like stars, streaming blue vapor rising from the slits in his bone mask. His followers gasped, falling flat onto the ground.

  “Dark rangers at the ready!” Sira screamed.

  “At last.” Nathanos sauntered to the edge of the altar, staring up at the larger-than-life loa.

  It might have been an intimidating sight, but they had him surrounded, and the loss of his shrines would weaken him considerably. The recessed court simmered with glittering white fog again, spirits of trolls drifting out from their graves to gather around their master.

  “I have my own army, little dead thing.” Bwonsamdi chuckled. “And soon my queen will be here. Ya been sneaky so far, can’t deny it, but ya won’t stand a chance against her armies.”

  “Armies?” Sira whispered, her eyes flying to Nathanos.

  “He’s bluffing,” Nathanos replied calmly. “By the time she arrives, you will be destroyed. Sira, give the command.”

  “Fire!”

  “Widow’s Bite! My followers! My friends! No loa of death will rule us and corrupt our crown!” Apari’s words were met with two dozen war cries. The arrows began to fall, screaming toward Bwonsamdi from dark rangers circling the court.

  “Ya be in my world now! My house!” Bwonsamdi thundered, lifting his skeletal hands high. His arms shook, his image flickering like a dying candle about to sputter out. The spirits massing around him charged at terrifying speed, rolling out from him like a grisly tide. They swarmed the narrow stairs leading up from the pit, more resistance than Nathanos had anticipated.

  On the east side of the court, he watched Visrynn and Lelyias spring back on agile feet, firing into the mob of spirits while the Widow’s Bite rebels joined in with slings, bows, and blow guns. Apari let her head drop back on her weak neck, raising shaking arms to the clouds, calling down a surge of lightning that struck the stones between the rangers and the mass of spirits.

  “Destroy him!” Nathanos roared, reaching for his own longbow. “For Sylvanas!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Nazmir

  The Horde leadership arrived first, landing outside the Zo’bal Ruins on animals agitated from the unusual journey.

  “Whoa there,” Talanji soothed Tze’na, stroking the raptor’s coarse scales. A single fall from the saddle and Talanji might be done for. “Find ya feet. There is war to be waged.”

  At that, the raptor let loose a shrill bellow. Thrall’s wolf joined in the call.

  The First Arcanist dismounted from her manasaber, batting away a bothersome cloud of gnats with an elegant hand. “Go to the ruins. Our armies will follow.”

  “Will you be all right alone?” Baine asked from atop his painted and beaded thunderhoof.

  “Oh yes, I am quite capable.” Thalyssra nodded. “Go!”

  As if to punctuate her haste, a crack of lightning rippled down from the sky, hitting somewhere inside the Necropolis.

  “They are already attacking him!” Talanji cried, urging Tze’na to carry her toward Zo’bal. “There is no more time!”

  Thrall and Baine raced toward the Necropolis with her. The ground shook, not from the lightning this time, but from the combined weight of twenty orc warriors, armed and thirsty for a fight, landing in the road. Talanji glanced over her shoulder as they rode, Rokhan and her vanguard of Rastari enforcers and civilian militia arriving next. They immediately broke into a run, following the cavalry through the central approach to Zo’bal, through the ruins and across the shattered bridge leading to the Necropolis.

  Baine’s shaman and the orc troops would continue eas
t down the road, then swing north and cross the swampy barrier with their power to walk across the water. Lastly, Thalyssra’s nightborne archers would head immediately north toward the Necropolis, taking the western approach, teleported into the battle once the first wave of screaming orcs and magic-wielding shaman had ambushed the enemy.

  “Stop! Ya must stop!”

  Thrall had almost trampled the troll that popped out from behind a fall of rocks in the open courtyard of Zo’bal. The orc drew his axe, and Talanji summoned a crackling bolt of death magic to her hands, recognizing the ugly black-and-white spider design on the troll’s tunic.

  The Widow’s Bite.

  She was thin but muscular, tall, with leather straps hanging from her shoulders holstering dozens of poison darts. Her long hair had been slicked up into a tail and streaked with black mud or paint. She put up both hands in surrender and dropped to her knees.

  “Give me a good reason not to take your head,” Thrall muttered.

  “My name is Tayo,” the troll spoke quickly and clearly, without a hint of fear. “I served the witch Apari.”

  “Served?” Talanji pressed.

  “I can serve her no longer.” The troll, Tayo, sighed. “She is not the leader I knew. The leader I admired. This—this cruelty is not her, and I cannot follow this Apari. Her hate for you, ya majesty, is all she has.”

  “Then fight with us,” Baine encouraged. “Help us stop her.”

  Tayo stood, slowly, wary of Thrall’s sharpened axe. “I will. All I ask is that ya give her a merciful end. Death is already about to claim her, just make it swift.”

  “Done,” Thrall said, and Talanji bit her tongue.

  “The bridge is riddled with traps and mines.” Tayo turned and swept her arm back toward the Necropolis. “Too many to count. They knew ya might come. Do not go that way.”

  “That sounds like Blightcaller, all right.” Sheathing his axe, Thrall leaped down from his wolf and produced a few silver orbs from his pack. “A little gift from our clever trade prince.”