Unity - Chapter 17
It's baaaaaack! I'll give the second chapter a few days, because last time people missed Chapter 15 when I posted Chapter 15 and 16 together. Enjoy, I have been told by my beloved beta-hamster, without whom this would not be possible, that it is quite good.
Title: Unity
Part: 17 of 18-21
Word Count: 4489 (of this part)
Includes: Sap, friendship speeches, sheer adorableness, mentions of polyamory, nakedness, drunkenness, violence, mangling of several different plot threads into one incoherent whole.
Pairings: Thrall/Jaina.
Summary: Thrall attends the Horde's Harvest Festival, and discovers that the Darkspear are under a great and terrible threat.
Previous Chapters: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 Sidestory: Linguistics
13 14 15 16
There was little Thrall loved more than the Harvest Festival, and he believed the vast majority of orcs felt similarly. On Draenor, the orcs had needed to fight every day for food. They had hunted and scavenged, and they had farmed, eking out as much as they could from the dying land. Too often, soil turned dead and sterile under their frantic efforts, driving people away from their ancestral homes in search of more food, sometimes directly into the homes of others. When they were not fighting or gathering food, the orcs put their efforts into weaving cloth, combining the necessity of creating cloth to shelter them from the harsh conditions and protect what little they had and the expression of clan pride, and they shared such efforts at Oshu’gun, the great Spirit Mountain that the orcs had looked to not only as a place of gathering and trade, but also one of great hope.
Durotar was different. Durotar was dry and dusty, but it was framed by an ocean on one side and a river on the other. The blessings of the spirits and the keen intelligence of the goblin engineers had found underground water sources and wells had been dug. Murmured advice from the tauren had given them mills to grind away at grain, turning it into flour and pastes. The hands of the trolls had built irrigation systems for their farms, and of course, the native pig population -- crucially separate from the native quillboar population -- had been tamed and herded. Instead of fighting each other, they fought stubborn boars and persistent weeds. Instead of being driven to conquer their neighbours, they conquered their fear of sailing to bring in fish and seafood, and if, sometimes, they had to fight makrura and murlocs for their coast, well then, so be it. It all came down to this.
In the Eastern Kingdoms, Autumn was heralded by the turning of leaves, by the crunching of grass as it dried out and died. The first hints of cold were coming, the promise of snow and ice on the wind. In Durotar, the year would be warm for some time, though the winds would pick up, driving people indoors and behind sturdy walls. In Lordaeron, Thrall remembered, Autumn also meant that the farmers would be going out to their fields, collecting their golden harvests and preparing them for a long Winter. In Durotar, the Harvest Festival was no less important, and it filled Thrall’s heart with joy for many reasons.
The first was that this was how his people gathered. While the orcs were still closely bound together, there were those who had moved all across Durotar, and some into the Barrens. The Harvest Festival saw people gathered together to trade and to demonstrate their various skills. It was like their own Oshu'gun, though there was no mountain to gather under but the cliffs of Orgrimmar, and nothing to honour but their own accomplishments over the course of the year.
And that is actually a great deal, Thrall thought, grinning. Here were the weaving techniques of his people, some cloth ribbed so that it could be used to grip tools, other weaves so smooth that they could be worn against the skin and feel like air. There was beadwork from the tauren, perfectly picked out images of plains birds and coyotes, under a blue sky. Two booths over were beautiful paintings of Ashenvale, traded from a Kaldorei artist to one of the merchant caravans. Music, too, drifted through the streets of Orgrimmar, the marketplace a riot of smells and sounds and colours. This was why he'd fought for so long. This was what he wanted to accomplish most: trade.
No nation is an island, Thrall thought, accepting a delicious, steaming pastry from one of the merchants and blowing on it to cool it, while one of his guards slipped the merchant a coin. Even an island nation. Especially an island nation. Islands made him think of Jaina, of course. I hope her business will be concluded swiftly. She wasn't clear on why she had to travel to Azeroth so quickly, but she felt it was urgent enough to miss this. A brief chill fell over him, and he frowned.
"It can't possibly be that bad, you haven't tasted it yet," chided a familiar voice, and Thrall looked up, smiling.
"Sergra!" Thrall said, and embraced her, one-armed. His friend, fellow shaman, and one-time lover hugged him back, and then stepped back, moving to stand beside Ak'zeloth. The young warlock smiled at his Warchief, and then at his mate, his gaze lingering on her. "You did have some time to spare after all. All we needed to do was find the right motivation for you."
"The spirits granted me some free time," Sergra replied lightly, slipping an arm around Ak'zeloth's waist. "What of you? I was under the impression you've spent most of your time holed up in Grommash Hold, fighting off the goblins."
"They're remarkably patient, as these things go," Thrall said, and bit into the pastry, letting the taste flood into his mouth. "No one has threatened to toss me into the harbour. Each new harvest brings us closer to paying off our debts." He gestured broadly, beaming in pride at the countless rows of Horde booths, dressed in the colours of the many tribes of the tauren, the clans of the orcs and the-- Wait a minute…
Thrall's eyes scanned the merchant corridor. Tauren, orcs, more orcs, tauren, a handful of goblins, and there… Where are all of the trolls? He frowned with concern. There were a number of trolls that lived in Orgrimmar, and Thrall welcomed them warmly. Shandel'zare was one of them, as was Jes'rimmon, but there were others too, the shamans that joined them in the Valley of Wisdom, the weapon merchants and the fruit sellers. They thrived in the summer months, introducing their shamelessness regarding clothing to the orc populace, and tended to be particularly close-knit during the colder, rainier months, which the orcs found comfortable and the tauren found delightful. The Harvest Festival was just on the edge between warmth and chill, and they should have been in Orgrimmar for this.
It is their city, their celebration, so where are they all? Not even Jazabal is here. Thrall contemplated the pastry in his hand, and lamented how much more delicious it would have been with a banana and strawberry smoothie to complement the taste. Perhaps one of my advisors will know.
Nodding to Sergra and Ak'zeloth, Thrall signalled his guards, and they followed him back to Grommash Hold. The Hold was quiet, with most of its occupants still out, haggling with merchants and sampling their wares. The meeting room was empty, though Thrall took in a moment to contemplate the various chairs, from his own high-backed pseudo-throne to the low, sturdy stump-chairs for the tauren, the blocky squares that supported fully armoured orcs like Varok and Naz'grel, to the perches that the trolls used, allowing them to stretch out long limbs and look languid in their own way.
Despite his worry, Thrall smiled. Different people, different faces and voices, different beliefs… one dream. One hope. One driving force. There were few things he loved more than the Harvest Festival, but his council was one of them. Cairne and Vol’jin both were on his council, though they did not have much time to attend. Sometimes, though not often, Gazlowe would attend the meetings. His goblin friend had been instrumental in helping to construct Orgrimmar, he and his engineers. Surely, his people would still be living in tents without them. Gazlowe was often brought in to discuss the various methods of constructing the ideas brought forth by the tauren and trolls, and sometimes orcs who’d studied the human construction in the Camps a bit more closely.
Nara Wildmane was a permanent member, representing both taurens and druids. Shandel’zare, of course, and Jes’rimmon. Varok Saurfang and Eitrigg, son of Vestagg; the former was out enjoying the Harvest Festival, though the latter was still in the Eastern Kingdoms. Thrall missed Eitrigg, and more, he missed Garona’s pointed, sometimes biting comments about Eitrigg’s waistline. Garona, he’d come to learn, tended to be vocal if she was pleased, even if she sounded like she was complaining, and silent when she was angry. She brooded, the silent guardian of Orgrimmar. He hoped her time in the desolate wastes near Feralas was productive.
Ak'zeloth was a member of his council, though Sergra was not. Ak'zeloth, the only warlock to be treated as something other than an enemy. He had been Neeru’s apprentice, and even now the spirits did not like him, but Thrall did. Ak'zeloth remained in Orgrimmar as a councillor for the same reason Jaina sought out necromancers and warlocks to teach in the fledgling school that she’d opened in the late summer, beaming with pride: because threats you refuse to understand don’t go away. No necromancer endorsed by Jaina Proudmoore would serve the Scourge, and no warlock of the Shadow Council -- truly of it -- would be permitted on Thrall’s council. Besides, Sergra would bite him -- and not in a pleasant way -- if Thrall disdained the one who had given so much to help Orgrimmar.
Naz’grel rounded out the circle of advisors, and Thrall was looking for ways to incorporate emissaries of the quillboar and the Forsaken both into his council, and of course... there was Jaina. Jaina had no formal place on the council. She did not possess her own chair or favoured spot that would be occupied by someone other than its owner on pain of withering discourse. She had her own city to run, her own council of mages, engineers, soldiers, fishermen and occasional bold farmers to work at reclaiming the northern parts of Dustwallow Marsh for farming, and yet if she was in Orgrimmar for whatever reason, there was no question that she attended the council. There was no question that when she spoke, people would listen. No question in his mind, even as Garona warned him and Naz’grel and Shandel’zare grumbled. Jaina belonged at his side.
Thrall hesitated. He knew where these thoughts were leading. He loved Jaina. That revelation, after the first time they’d made love, had been startling. Now it felt natural, and he couldn’t disassociate Jaina’s name or likeness from a feeling of warmth, of security, of simple and complex joy. He’d simply never told her. Perhaps he showed her, through his actions. Perhaps the fact that they were lovers, persisting through sometimes prolonged absences, helped solidify this feeling of closeness, but there was trepidation too. It was one thing to take a lover and another to take a mate. Jaina had nearly been married before, and while Thrall fought against Arthas Menethil’s memory, some things might be, could be, a step too far.
He rubbed his face with his hands, sighing deeply. Perhaps I should say something to her. We’ve had so many wonderful conversations, about all kinds of things, perhaps... we need to start making decisions about this now, I--
“We should tell him,” Shandel’zare said, and Thrall’s head jerked up. No one had come into the council chamber while he was wool-gathering, so he walked out of it, following the sound of the conversation.
“It be our own affair, ‘Zare,” Jes’rimmon replied. “You be knowin’ that better than any of us. Vol’jin be expectin’ us, we need t’ be goin’ before the Bossman--”
“Before I what?” Thrall asked mildly. “Shandel’zare, Jes’rimmon. What’s going on?”
Jes’rimmon fell silent. Shandel’zare glared at him. Thrall looked between them and sighed slightly.
“I would have hoped that you would trust me with this,” Thrall said. “I don’t know what is going on, but I can tell you what I do know. I know that the trolls of Orgrimmar have disappeared. I know that the two of you are still here, which means they have not been abducted, but have gone willingly, probably to the Echo Isles. I know that Vol’jin does know what’s going on and has elected not to tell me. I also know that if he is in some kind of trouble, if your people are... your people are my people. That’s what our council represents, that you are a part of the Horde. That’s what the Harvest Festival represents, a celebration of all that the Horde has built together. I am your leader but I am also your friend. I have never once balked at helping one of my friends, one of my allies, when they are in danger, and so I would sincerely ask that you tell me what’s going on.”
“Bossman--” Jes’rimmon began, but Shandel’zare raised a three-fingered, blue hand to silence him.
“We will not tell you, because regardless of how I feel about the matter, we have been forbidden from telling you by Chieftain Vol’jin, may makrura eat his toes,” Shandel’zare said in a clipped tone. “I will, however, show you. Come with us, we were just leaving.”
Thrall nodded to her, and Shandel’zare stepped back. She formed a rune in the air and the rune formed into a serpent, writhing around in the air, which in turn created a passageway through the Twisting Nether. Briefly, Thrall caught the scent of brimstone and old, old rot, and then it was gone as the space peeled open, and instead there were new scents, those of the sea, of dust, and faintly, of metal as it was being sharpened. It occurred to Thrall that Garona would yell at him for leaving his armor behind. It also occurred to him that turning back would cause him to lose this opportunity. He nodded.
Jes’rimmon, a rather resigned look on his face, stepped forward first, and Shandel’zare jerked her head towards the portal. Thrall nodded to her. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet, Warchief.” Her reply was nearly lost as he stepped through the portal, and she followed quickly.
Thrall stepped out into Sen’jin Village. This, Thrall recalled, was a point of transition between the Echo Isles and the rest of Durotar. It was a small, seaside village where people, sometimes, processed fish or skins, or trolls taught the fine art of smoothie making, or how not to get their arms bitten off every time they encountered one of the roaming raptors or wild boars of Durotar. Often, though, the place seemed to be quiet and at rest. Not so this time. This time, there was a vast crowd of trolls. Thrall picked out Jazabal from the crowd, and the good-humoured smoothie seller was armed with a killing edge, all traces of pleasantness gone, her usually wild dark blue hair bound back in tight braids. He recognized some of the tradesmen that usually worked the Drag binding spears with dark blades, the signature weapons of the trolls, and handing them off to people he’d only ever seen handling animals.
Master Gadrin, the elder of Sen’jin Village, was murmuring to his students, instructing them on the proper bottling of the contents of the steaming cauldron, though their voices trailed off when they looked up and saw Thrall following Jes’rimmon and Shandel’zare. They looked uneasy. Vol’jin was standing with a circle of other trolls. Thrall recognized some of them: Deeno and Uthel’nay, mages who usually resided in Orgrimmar, as evidenced by their robes, a handful of shamans, including Vanira, her brow wrinkled in concern, and a large, sleek tiger, orange and black fur rippling in the sunlight. She snarled, her lips curling upwards, and Vol’jin glanced over.
“Ah, ‘Zare, Jes, you be here-- Thrall.” His expression narrowed to one of great annoyance. “Jes’rimmon, why he be here? I be tellin’ ya not t’ let him follow, and now here he be! And Shandel’zare, I be expectin’ better of ya, why did ya not let the portal close--”
Shandel’zare moved to him swiftly, and slapped the side of his head sharply, striking first one ear, then the other. “Stop being a fool, Vol’jin. I am not one of your wives, to listen to you whine and posture. Tell him, as I urged you from the beginning.”
The tiger seemed to chuckle. Vanira did as well, even as Vol’jin grumbled. “She be right, my mate.”
“She is right,” Thrall said mildly. “Vol’jin, we have been friends for some time. Longer than I’ve known Jaina, longer than I’ve known Cairne. I am hurt that you did not feel you could trust me with this.”
“It be not a matter of trust--”
“I believe that it is.” Thrall caught his gaze and held it, then looked around at the assembled crowd. “Listen.” His voice was louder, a rolling peal of thunder, and yet he did not yell. It was the spirits that gave him strength, that entered him with every breath. He could feel them watching, peering from Gadrin’s fire and from the waves that lapped onto the shore. “The Darkspear Tribe are members of the Horde. You are my people, no less so than orcs, than tauren, then goblins or ogres or Mok’nathal. Finding your people on the brink of destruction was as much the spirits’ will as it was my total inability to sail.”
This elicited chuckles from the assembled crowd, easing some of the tension. Thrall half-closed his eyes, and held his palms up. “You are the Horde, the spirit and tenacity of your people, your gifts, your contributions. You are missed at the Harvest Festival, and my council chamber is empty without your sound advice. As Warchief of the Horde, your joy is my joy, and your troubles are my troubles. Your burdens are my burdens. As we lifted the walls of Orgrimmar together, let me help you. Let me assist you in ending whatever it is that troubles you. Please, my friends, let us work together.”
“Ya always did have a silver tongue,” Vol’jin grumbled, and knuckled away a tear. “My da, the Bwon keep his soul safe, said so too. Alright... I be tellin’ ya the tale.” He turned, looking towards the crowd. “Form the circles! We be storytellin’!”
The trolls that were waiting for weapons moved obediently into circles, creating rings around Vol’jin. He sat down, forming the first ring with Thrall, Vanira, the tiger, Shandel’zare and Jes’rimmon. The other trolls began to drum on what they had, on the hard-packed ground, or on the sides of shields. Thrall felt a shiver run through him, the sound reminded him of a pounding heart. Vol’jin reached into the pouches at his side and threw a handful of herbs into the air, and they reminded Thrall of dried peppers. His nose twitched a little.
“We of the Darkspear were once of the Gurubashi. They had many tribes, the Skullsplitters, the Bloodscalp, the Shatterspear...the Hakkari. We lived in the jungles of Stranglethorn Vale, in the ruins of the great Gurubashi Empire that fell long ago. We followed the loa of the jungle... the bat, the snake, the spider, the tiger, and the panther. They were great, and they made us strong... but not strong enough. Not for some. We not be proud of this, Thrall. That be why I be keepin’ this from you.”
“You are one of my oldest friends,” Thrall said, his voice quiet, though as before, it reached every pair of ears. “You know as well as I do that orcs have done things in the past that were foolish, dangerous... shameful. I believe that all those who reject the things that make us ashamed are those who should be the most proud. If you were shunned by those who believed in taking some dangerous path, you have nothing to be ashamed of.”
Vol’jin nodded, the stiff bristles of his bright red hair waving. He threw a second handful of spice into the air, and the wind caught it, forming shapes. Thrall blinked, and then narrowed his eyes in concentration. He could see trolls, moving through the jungles, or using ropes to swing from tree to tree or to move down onto unsuspecting travelers. Still others stalked their prey from the shadows, and there were other shapes... goblins, and... orcs. Thrall’s eyes widened in surprise as he saw armour that was as familiar to him as his own skin.
“Orgrim... your people met orcs before we came to the Maelstrom Isles?”
“I be not old enough to remember them, but my Da was. He teach us your language, an’ when he see your armour... he knew.”
It was Thrall’s turn to wipe his eyes, offer a silent prayer to the spirits for the former leader of the Darkspear, and then nod to Vol’jin to continue.
“There be another loa, a... dark spirit. I be not sayin’ that a panther does not kill, or a spider does not toy with their food, but this was... evil. The worst kind of evil, as bad as the worst voodoo. It be a Blood God... Hakkar. He have priests, the Atal’ai, that sacrifice to him and feed his hunger. He be weak though, without body or vessel... and that be because of my Da. The chief among the Atal’ai, he be named Jin’do the Hexxer. He be clever and he be cruel.”
“He is dead, if there is any justice at all,” Shandel’zare muttered bitterly, and Jes’rimmon patted her hand. Thrall made a note to ask about it later, but otherwise pretended not to hear, so as not to throw off Vol’jin’s rhythm.
“Sen’jin be gettin’ word that Jin’do be plannin’ foolishness, to bring Hakkar into this world, and he said ‘no’. He said ‘it be wrong’. He be sendin’ word out to the Zandalari, the First Tribe. The Zandalari be neutral, residin’ on Zandalar Isle, in the south of the Great Sea, not far from Kezan. They be small but strong, and after the Twin Empires be fallin’, the High King Rastakhan be keepin’ his neb out of Gurubashi affairs... but not this.”
“The Zandalari would not have arrived in time had Sen’jin not interfered directly,” Shandel’zare said. “Jin’do took the sacrifices, of which there were many, to the altar inside Zul’Gurub. It was once the seat of power of the Gurubashi Empire, but had since fallen to ruin. There... those with power were gathered... drugged, subdued. We -- they -- were helpless. Sen’jin stopped the ritual. You knew him, briefly, as an addled old man. He was not always this way. He was very sharp, as sharp as a blade. He countered all of Jin’do’s magic with his own. They duelled, and Sen’jin defeated him. Jin’do seemed drained, if not dead. Sen’jin reclaimed Hakkar’s heart, and intended to destroy it. Then the Zandalari arrived.”
Vol’jin nodded. “The Zandalari be takin’ the heart, sayin’ it be too powerful to be destroyed and too dangerous to be left where the Atal’ai could find it. They be takin’ it with them, for safe keepin’... and so that’s what we thought until Zalazane arrive on the Echo Isles.”
“Who is this Zalazane?” Thrall asked. “He was not mentioned previously.”
“Jin’do’s apprentice,” Shandel’zare said. “One of many, there were quite a few who wanted to learn his powerful magics and become powerful themselves. Zalazane was promising and ambitious. I remember him well. According to Zen’tabra, Zalazane arrived on the coast with a number of other trolls, all voodoo masters, and began setting up piles of skulls. Some, but not all, of those skulls belong to fellow trolls. Approaching these skull piles caused the dark spirits within them to be released, seizing control of anyone nearby, and worse... having them compel others to approach these... these...”
“Hoodoo piles,” Zen’tabra snarled. “I be sniffin’ out the bad magics. “They do not work on animals... so they not be wasted. It be cleverer to stay a tiger.”
Thrall nodded to her. “What does he want? Why is he here?”
“Blood for the Blood God,” Vol’jin said grimly. “He has found the heart of Hakkar, and now he be needin’ blood... and skulls for his throne. We be sendin’ word to the Zandalari once more, but... they be unhelpful in the past.”
“But they took his heart away,” Thrall said, frowning. “And this time..?”
“After Sen’jin stopped Jin’do and the Atal’ai from raising Hakkar from spirit to god, the Zandalari left,” Shandel’zare said grimly. “They had to know what would happen next and they did nothing. We were banished by the other tribes. We had invoked the wrath of the Zandalari, and worse yet, some believed that Hakkar was the only way we could become powerful again. Foolishness, of course. A being of Hakkar’s nature does not share its power. It would have consumed them all, but they did not care. We were sent away from Stranglethorn Vale with nothing but curses in our ears.”
The image shifted with Shandel’zare’s words, and Thrall saw the Darkspear, faces he recognized and more that he didn’t climb into wooden boats and begin to paddle as trolls stood on ghostly shores, jeering. He frowned.
“We be goin’ to the Zandalar Isles first, and they be not hearin’ of us stayin’,” Vol’jin added, and stroked his fingers through Zen’tabra’s thick fur. “So we go north to the isles... and of course, there be the Sea Witch. We be havin’ no choice but to stay, and fight, or hide... until you be seen in Sen’jin’s visions.”
“He said as much.” Thrall sighed, sorting it out. “So, Zalazane has come across the sea, seeking out the Darkspear’s lives to fuel the foul rituals that will raise Hakkar up from spirit to god, as you said. He has controlled people who live on the main isle, and will kill them if we do not stop them. How long do we have?”
“I don’t believe we be havin’ a lot of time,” Vol’jin said. “I be... very angry, I send some warriors after him and they all be taken by the voodoo. He mighta gotten the fishermen further out to sea before we even be seein’ him. If Jin’do be comin’ too...”
“Then we must move quickly,” Thrall said, standing. “I can understand why you would want to deal with Zalazane as a people. Sometimes, it’s about proving that you can overcome the impossible odds, the shame of your people... so I won’t insist on bringing in the Kor’Kron. This is for the Darkspear, but...” He took the time to meet Vol’jin’s eyes, and offer his hand to the Darkspear chieftain. “Sen’jin cannot be here in body, though he may be in spirit. He cannot be here, so you must take his place... and I ask, as your friend and as your Warchief, if I might stand in yours, to assist you in any way I can.”
Vol’jin nodded, and put his hand in Thrall’s. “I be honoured, Thrall. Da be honoured too.”
Shandel’zare put her hand over Vol’jin’s, and then Jes’rimmon put his hand over hers. Vanira put her hand over Jes’rimmon’s, and Zen’tabra put her paw over Vanira’s.
“Jus’ one thing,” Zen’tabra added. “You may not be wantin’ to take it too literal, I be thinkin’ Lady Proudmoore not be likin’ it if you decide to ride the tigah.”
Vanira laughed, and Vol’jin chuckled. Even Shandel’zare, despite the levity of the situation, managed a faint smile.
Thrall blushed.
[Chapter 18]
Title: Unity
Part: 17 of 18-21
Word Count: 4489 (of this part)
Includes: Sap, friendship speeches, sheer adorableness, mentions of polyamory, nakedness, drunkenness, violence, mangling of several different plot threads into one incoherent whole.
Pairings: Thrall/Jaina.
Summary: Thrall attends the Horde's Harvest Festival, and discovers that the Darkspear are under a great and terrible threat.
Previous Chapters: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 Sidestory: Linguistics
13 14 15 16
There was little Thrall loved more than the Harvest Festival, and he believed the vast majority of orcs felt similarly. On Draenor, the orcs had needed to fight every day for food. They had hunted and scavenged, and they had farmed, eking out as much as they could from the dying land. Too often, soil turned dead and sterile under their frantic efforts, driving people away from their ancestral homes in search of more food, sometimes directly into the homes of others. When they were not fighting or gathering food, the orcs put their efforts into weaving cloth, combining the necessity of creating cloth to shelter them from the harsh conditions and protect what little they had and the expression of clan pride, and they shared such efforts at Oshu’gun, the great Spirit Mountain that the orcs had looked to not only as a place of gathering and trade, but also one of great hope.
Durotar was different. Durotar was dry and dusty, but it was framed by an ocean on one side and a river on the other. The blessings of the spirits and the keen intelligence of the goblin engineers had found underground water sources and wells had been dug. Murmured advice from the tauren had given them mills to grind away at grain, turning it into flour and pastes. The hands of the trolls had built irrigation systems for their farms, and of course, the native pig population -- crucially separate from the native quillboar population -- had been tamed and herded. Instead of fighting each other, they fought stubborn boars and persistent weeds. Instead of being driven to conquer their neighbours, they conquered their fear of sailing to bring in fish and seafood, and if, sometimes, they had to fight makrura and murlocs for their coast, well then, so be it. It all came down to this.
In the Eastern Kingdoms, Autumn was heralded by the turning of leaves, by the crunching of grass as it dried out and died. The first hints of cold were coming, the promise of snow and ice on the wind. In Durotar, the year would be warm for some time, though the winds would pick up, driving people indoors and behind sturdy walls. In Lordaeron, Thrall remembered, Autumn also meant that the farmers would be going out to their fields, collecting their golden harvests and preparing them for a long Winter. In Durotar, the Harvest Festival was no less important, and it filled Thrall’s heart with joy for many reasons.
The first was that this was how his people gathered. While the orcs were still closely bound together, there were those who had moved all across Durotar, and some into the Barrens. The Harvest Festival saw people gathered together to trade and to demonstrate their various skills. It was like their own Oshu'gun, though there was no mountain to gather under but the cliffs of Orgrimmar, and nothing to honour but their own accomplishments over the course of the year.
And that is actually a great deal, Thrall thought, grinning. Here were the weaving techniques of his people, some cloth ribbed so that it could be used to grip tools, other weaves so smooth that they could be worn against the skin and feel like air. There was beadwork from the tauren, perfectly picked out images of plains birds and coyotes, under a blue sky. Two booths over were beautiful paintings of Ashenvale, traded from a Kaldorei artist to one of the merchant caravans. Music, too, drifted through the streets of Orgrimmar, the marketplace a riot of smells and sounds and colours. This was why he'd fought for so long. This was what he wanted to accomplish most: trade.
No nation is an island, Thrall thought, accepting a delicious, steaming pastry from one of the merchants and blowing on it to cool it, while one of his guards slipped the merchant a coin. Even an island nation. Especially an island nation. Islands made him think of Jaina, of course. I hope her business will be concluded swiftly. She wasn't clear on why she had to travel to Azeroth so quickly, but she felt it was urgent enough to miss this. A brief chill fell over him, and he frowned.
"It can't possibly be that bad, you haven't tasted it yet," chided a familiar voice, and Thrall looked up, smiling.
"Sergra!" Thrall said, and embraced her, one-armed. His friend, fellow shaman, and one-time lover hugged him back, and then stepped back, moving to stand beside Ak'zeloth. The young warlock smiled at his Warchief, and then at his mate, his gaze lingering on her. "You did have some time to spare after all. All we needed to do was find the right motivation for you."
"The spirits granted me some free time," Sergra replied lightly, slipping an arm around Ak'zeloth's waist. "What of you? I was under the impression you've spent most of your time holed up in Grommash Hold, fighting off the goblins."
"They're remarkably patient, as these things go," Thrall said, and bit into the pastry, letting the taste flood into his mouth. "No one has threatened to toss me into the harbour. Each new harvest brings us closer to paying off our debts." He gestured broadly, beaming in pride at the countless rows of Horde booths, dressed in the colours of the many tribes of the tauren, the clans of the orcs and the-- Wait a minute…
Thrall's eyes scanned the merchant corridor. Tauren, orcs, more orcs, tauren, a handful of goblins, and there… Where are all of the trolls? He frowned with concern. There were a number of trolls that lived in Orgrimmar, and Thrall welcomed them warmly. Shandel'zare was one of them, as was Jes'rimmon, but there were others too, the shamans that joined them in the Valley of Wisdom, the weapon merchants and the fruit sellers. They thrived in the summer months, introducing their shamelessness regarding clothing to the orc populace, and tended to be particularly close-knit during the colder, rainier months, which the orcs found comfortable and the tauren found delightful. The Harvest Festival was just on the edge between warmth and chill, and they should have been in Orgrimmar for this.
It is their city, their celebration, so where are they all? Not even Jazabal is here. Thrall contemplated the pastry in his hand, and lamented how much more delicious it would have been with a banana and strawberry smoothie to complement the taste. Perhaps one of my advisors will know.
Nodding to Sergra and Ak'zeloth, Thrall signalled his guards, and they followed him back to Grommash Hold. The Hold was quiet, with most of its occupants still out, haggling with merchants and sampling their wares. The meeting room was empty, though Thrall took in a moment to contemplate the various chairs, from his own high-backed pseudo-throne to the low, sturdy stump-chairs for the tauren, the blocky squares that supported fully armoured orcs like Varok and Naz'grel, to the perches that the trolls used, allowing them to stretch out long limbs and look languid in their own way.
Despite his worry, Thrall smiled. Different people, different faces and voices, different beliefs… one dream. One hope. One driving force. There were few things he loved more than the Harvest Festival, but his council was one of them. Cairne and Vol’jin both were on his council, though they did not have much time to attend. Sometimes, though not often, Gazlowe would attend the meetings. His goblin friend had been instrumental in helping to construct Orgrimmar, he and his engineers. Surely, his people would still be living in tents without them. Gazlowe was often brought in to discuss the various methods of constructing the ideas brought forth by the tauren and trolls, and sometimes orcs who’d studied the human construction in the Camps a bit more closely.
Nara Wildmane was a permanent member, representing both taurens and druids. Shandel’zare, of course, and Jes’rimmon. Varok Saurfang and Eitrigg, son of Vestagg; the former was out enjoying the Harvest Festival, though the latter was still in the Eastern Kingdoms. Thrall missed Eitrigg, and more, he missed Garona’s pointed, sometimes biting comments about Eitrigg’s waistline. Garona, he’d come to learn, tended to be vocal if she was pleased, even if she sounded like she was complaining, and silent when she was angry. She brooded, the silent guardian of Orgrimmar. He hoped her time in the desolate wastes near Feralas was productive.
Ak'zeloth was a member of his council, though Sergra was not. Ak'zeloth, the only warlock to be treated as something other than an enemy. He had been Neeru’s apprentice, and even now the spirits did not like him, but Thrall did. Ak'zeloth remained in Orgrimmar as a councillor for the same reason Jaina sought out necromancers and warlocks to teach in the fledgling school that she’d opened in the late summer, beaming with pride: because threats you refuse to understand don’t go away. No necromancer endorsed by Jaina Proudmoore would serve the Scourge, and no warlock of the Shadow Council -- truly of it -- would be permitted on Thrall’s council. Besides, Sergra would bite him -- and not in a pleasant way -- if Thrall disdained the one who had given so much to help Orgrimmar.
Naz’grel rounded out the circle of advisors, and Thrall was looking for ways to incorporate emissaries of the quillboar and the Forsaken both into his council, and of course... there was Jaina. Jaina had no formal place on the council. She did not possess her own chair or favoured spot that would be occupied by someone other than its owner on pain of withering discourse. She had her own city to run, her own council of mages, engineers, soldiers, fishermen and occasional bold farmers to work at reclaiming the northern parts of Dustwallow Marsh for farming, and yet if she was in Orgrimmar for whatever reason, there was no question that she attended the council. There was no question that when she spoke, people would listen. No question in his mind, even as Garona warned him and Naz’grel and Shandel’zare grumbled. Jaina belonged at his side.
Thrall hesitated. He knew where these thoughts were leading. He loved Jaina. That revelation, after the first time they’d made love, had been startling. Now it felt natural, and he couldn’t disassociate Jaina’s name or likeness from a feeling of warmth, of security, of simple and complex joy. He’d simply never told her. Perhaps he showed her, through his actions. Perhaps the fact that they were lovers, persisting through sometimes prolonged absences, helped solidify this feeling of closeness, but there was trepidation too. It was one thing to take a lover and another to take a mate. Jaina had nearly been married before, and while Thrall fought against Arthas Menethil’s memory, some things might be, could be, a step too far.
He rubbed his face with his hands, sighing deeply. Perhaps I should say something to her. We’ve had so many wonderful conversations, about all kinds of things, perhaps... we need to start making decisions about this now, I--
“We should tell him,” Shandel’zare said, and Thrall’s head jerked up. No one had come into the council chamber while he was wool-gathering, so he walked out of it, following the sound of the conversation.
“It be our own affair, ‘Zare,” Jes’rimmon replied. “You be knowin’ that better than any of us. Vol’jin be expectin’ us, we need t’ be goin’ before the Bossman--”
“Before I what?” Thrall asked mildly. “Shandel’zare, Jes’rimmon. What’s going on?”
Jes’rimmon fell silent. Shandel’zare glared at him. Thrall looked between them and sighed slightly.
“I would have hoped that you would trust me with this,” Thrall said. “I don’t know what is going on, but I can tell you what I do know. I know that the trolls of Orgrimmar have disappeared. I know that the two of you are still here, which means they have not been abducted, but have gone willingly, probably to the Echo Isles. I know that Vol’jin does know what’s going on and has elected not to tell me. I also know that if he is in some kind of trouble, if your people are... your people are my people. That’s what our council represents, that you are a part of the Horde. That’s what the Harvest Festival represents, a celebration of all that the Horde has built together. I am your leader but I am also your friend. I have never once balked at helping one of my friends, one of my allies, when they are in danger, and so I would sincerely ask that you tell me what’s going on.”
“Bossman--” Jes’rimmon began, but Shandel’zare raised a three-fingered, blue hand to silence him.
“We will not tell you, because regardless of how I feel about the matter, we have been forbidden from telling you by Chieftain Vol’jin, may makrura eat his toes,” Shandel’zare said in a clipped tone. “I will, however, show you. Come with us, we were just leaving.”
Thrall nodded to her, and Shandel’zare stepped back. She formed a rune in the air and the rune formed into a serpent, writhing around in the air, which in turn created a passageway through the Twisting Nether. Briefly, Thrall caught the scent of brimstone and old, old rot, and then it was gone as the space peeled open, and instead there were new scents, those of the sea, of dust, and faintly, of metal as it was being sharpened. It occurred to Thrall that Garona would yell at him for leaving his armor behind. It also occurred to him that turning back would cause him to lose this opportunity. He nodded.
Jes’rimmon, a rather resigned look on his face, stepped forward first, and Shandel’zare jerked her head towards the portal. Thrall nodded to her. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet, Warchief.” Her reply was nearly lost as he stepped through the portal, and she followed quickly.
Thrall stepped out into Sen’jin Village. This, Thrall recalled, was a point of transition between the Echo Isles and the rest of Durotar. It was a small, seaside village where people, sometimes, processed fish or skins, or trolls taught the fine art of smoothie making, or how not to get their arms bitten off every time they encountered one of the roaming raptors or wild boars of Durotar. Often, though, the place seemed to be quiet and at rest. Not so this time. This time, there was a vast crowd of trolls. Thrall picked out Jazabal from the crowd, and the good-humoured smoothie seller was armed with a killing edge, all traces of pleasantness gone, her usually wild dark blue hair bound back in tight braids. He recognized some of the tradesmen that usually worked the Drag binding spears with dark blades, the signature weapons of the trolls, and handing them off to people he’d only ever seen handling animals.
Master Gadrin, the elder of Sen’jin Village, was murmuring to his students, instructing them on the proper bottling of the contents of the steaming cauldron, though their voices trailed off when they looked up and saw Thrall following Jes’rimmon and Shandel’zare. They looked uneasy. Vol’jin was standing with a circle of other trolls. Thrall recognized some of them: Deeno and Uthel’nay, mages who usually resided in Orgrimmar, as evidenced by their robes, a handful of shamans, including Vanira, her brow wrinkled in concern, and a large, sleek tiger, orange and black fur rippling in the sunlight. She snarled, her lips curling upwards, and Vol’jin glanced over.
“Ah, ‘Zare, Jes, you be here-- Thrall.” His expression narrowed to one of great annoyance. “Jes’rimmon, why he be here? I be tellin’ ya not t’ let him follow, and now here he be! And Shandel’zare, I be expectin’ better of ya, why did ya not let the portal close--”
Shandel’zare moved to him swiftly, and slapped the side of his head sharply, striking first one ear, then the other. “Stop being a fool, Vol’jin. I am not one of your wives, to listen to you whine and posture. Tell him, as I urged you from the beginning.”
The tiger seemed to chuckle. Vanira did as well, even as Vol’jin grumbled. “She be right, my mate.”
“She is right,” Thrall said mildly. “Vol’jin, we have been friends for some time. Longer than I’ve known Jaina, longer than I’ve known Cairne. I am hurt that you did not feel you could trust me with this.”
“It be not a matter of trust--”
“I believe that it is.” Thrall caught his gaze and held it, then looked around at the assembled crowd. “Listen.” His voice was louder, a rolling peal of thunder, and yet he did not yell. It was the spirits that gave him strength, that entered him with every breath. He could feel them watching, peering from Gadrin’s fire and from the waves that lapped onto the shore. “The Darkspear Tribe are members of the Horde. You are my people, no less so than orcs, than tauren, then goblins or ogres or Mok’nathal. Finding your people on the brink of destruction was as much the spirits’ will as it was my total inability to sail.”
This elicited chuckles from the assembled crowd, easing some of the tension. Thrall half-closed his eyes, and held his palms up. “You are the Horde, the spirit and tenacity of your people, your gifts, your contributions. You are missed at the Harvest Festival, and my council chamber is empty without your sound advice. As Warchief of the Horde, your joy is my joy, and your troubles are my troubles. Your burdens are my burdens. As we lifted the walls of Orgrimmar together, let me help you. Let me assist you in ending whatever it is that troubles you. Please, my friends, let us work together.”
“Ya always did have a silver tongue,” Vol’jin grumbled, and knuckled away a tear. “My da, the Bwon keep his soul safe, said so too. Alright... I be tellin’ ya the tale.” He turned, looking towards the crowd. “Form the circles! We be storytellin’!”
The trolls that were waiting for weapons moved obediently into circles, creating rings around Vol’jin. He sat down, forming the first ring with Thrall, Vanira, the tiger, Shandel’zare and Jes’rimmon. The other trolls began to drum on what they had, on the hard-packed ground, or on the sides of shields. Thrall felt a shiver run through him, the sound reminded him of a pounding heart. Vol’jin reached into the pouches at his side and threw a handful of herbs into the air, and they reminded Thrall of dried peppers. His nose twitched a little.
“We of the Darkspear were once of the Gurubashi. They had many tribes, the Skullsplitters, the Bloodscalp, the Shatterspear...the Hakkari. We lived in the jungles of Stranglethorn Vale, in the ruins of the great Gurubashi Empire that fell long ago. We followed the loa of the jungle... the bat, the snake, the spider, the tiger, and the panther. They were great, and they made us strong... but not strong enough. Not for some. We not be proud of this, Thrall. That be why I be keepin’ this from you.”
“You are one of my oldest friends,” Thrall said, his voice quiet, though as before, it reached every pair of ears. “You know as well as I do that orcs have done things in the past that were foolish, dangerous... shameful. I believe that all those who reject the things that make us ashamed are those who should be the most proud. If you were shunned by those who believed in taking some dangerous path, you have nothing to be ashamed of.”
Vol’jin nodded, the stiff bristles of his bright red hair waving. He threw a second handful of spice into the air, and the wind caught it, forming shapes. Thrall blinked, and then narrowed his eyes in concentration. He could see trolls, moving through the jungles, or using ropes to swing from tree to tree or to move down onto unsuspecting travelers. Still others stalked their prey from the shadows, and there were other shapes... goblins, and... orcs. Thrall’s eyes widened in surprise as he saw armour that was as familiar to him as his own skin.
“Orgrim... your people met orcs before we came to the Maelstrom Isles?”
“I be not old enough to remember them, but my Da was. He teach us your language, an’ when he see your armour... he knew.”
It was Thrall’s turn to wipe his eyes, offer a silent prayer to the spirits for the former leader of the Darkspear, and then nod to Vol’jin to continue.
“There be another loa, a... dark spirit. I be not sayin’ that a panther does not kill, or a spider does not toy with their food, but this was... evil. The worst kind of evil, as bad as the worst voodoo. It be a Blood God... Hakkar. He have priests, the Atal’ai, that sacrifice to him and feed his hunger. He be weak though, without body or vessel... and that be because of my Da. The chief among the Atal’ai, he be named Jin’do the Hexxer. He be clever and he be cruel.”
“He is dead, if there is any justice at all,” Shandel’zare muttered bitterly, and Jes’rimmon patted her hand. Thrall made a note to ask about it later, but otherwise pretended not to hear, so as not to throw off Vol’jin’s rhythm.
“Sen’jin be gettin’ word that Jin’do be plannin’ foolishness, to bring Hakkar into this world, and he said ‘no’. He said ‘it be wrong’. He be sendin’ word out to the Zandalari, the First Tribe. The Zandalari be neutral, residin’ on Zandalar Isle, in the south of the Great Sea, not far from Kezan. They be small but strong, and after the Twin Empires be fallin’, the High King Rastakhan be keepin’ his neb out of Gurubashi affairs... but not this.”
“The Zandalari would not have arrived in time had Sen’jin not interfered directly,” Shandel’zare said. “Jin’do took the sacrifices, of which there were many, to the altar inside Zul’Gurub. It was once the seat of power of the Gurubashi Empire, but had since fallen to ruin. There... those with power were gathered... drugged, subdued. We -- they -- were helpless. Sen’jin stopped the ritual. You knew him, briefly, as an addled old man. He was not always this way. He was very sharp, as sharp as a blade. He countered all of Jin’do’s magic with his own. They duelled, and Sen’jin defeated him. Jin’do seemed drained, if not dead. Sen’jin reclaimed Hakkar’s heart, and intended to destroy it. Then the Zandalari arrived.”
Vol’jin nodded. “The Zandalari be takin’ the heart, sayin’ it be too powerful to be destroyed and too dangerous to be left where the Atal’ai could find it. They be takin’ it with them, for safe keepin’... and so that’s what we thought until Zalazane arrive on the Echo Isles.”
“Who is this Zalazane?” Thrall asked. “He was not mentioned previously.”
“Jin’do’s apprentice,” Shandel’zare said. “One of many, there were quite a few who wanted to learn his powerful magics and become powerful themselves. Zalazane was promising and ambitious. I remember him well. According to Zen’tabra, Zalazane arrived on the coast with a number of other trolls, all voodoo masters, and began setting up piles of skulls. Some, but not all, of those skulls belong to fellow trolls. Approaching these skull piles caused the dark spirits within them to be released, seizing control of anyone nearby, and worse... having them compel others to approach these... these...”
“Hoodoo piles,” Zen’tabra snarled. “I be sniffin’ out the bad magics. “They do not work on animals... so they not be wasted. It be cleverer to stay a tiger.”
Thrall nodded to her. “What does he want? Why is he here?”
“Blood for the Blood God,” Vol’jin said grimly. “He has found the heart of Hakkar, and now he be needin’ blood... and skulls for his throne. We be sendin’ word to the Zandalari once more, but... they be unhelpful in the past.”
“But they took his heart away,” Thrall said, frowning. “And this time..?”
“After Sen’jin stopped Jin’do and the Atal’ai from raising Hakkar from spirit to god, the Zandalari left,” Shandel’zare said grimly. “They had to know what would happen next and they did nothing. We were banished by the other tribes. We had invoked the wrath of the Zandalari, and worse yet, some believed that Hakkar was the only way we could become powerful again. Foolishness, of course. A being of Hakkar’s nature does not share its power. It would have consumed them all, but they did not care. We were sent away from Stranglethorn Vale with nothing but curses in our ears.”
The image shifted with Shandel’zare’s words, and Thrall saw the Darkspear, faces he recognized and more that he didn’t climb into wooden boats and begin to paddle as trolls stood on ghostly shores, jeering. He frowned.
“We be goin’ to the Zandalar Isles first, and they be not hearin’ of us stayin’,” Vol’jin added, and stroked his fingers through Zen’tabra’s thick fur. “So we go north to the isles... and of course, there be the Sea Witch. We be havin’ no choice but to stay, and fight, or hide... until you be seen in Sen’jin’s visions.”
“He said as much.” Thrall sighed, sorting it out. “So, Zalazane has come across the sea, seeking out the Darkspear’s lives to fuel the foul rituals that will raise Hakkar up from spirit to god, as you said. He has controlled people who live on the main isle, and will kill them if we do not stop them. How long do we have?”
“I don’t believe we be havin’ a lot of time,” Vol’jin said. “I be... very angry, I send some warriors after him and they all be taken by the voodoo. He mighta gotten the fishermen further out to sea before we even be seein’ him. If Jin’do be comin’ too...”
“Then we must move quickly,” Thrall said, standing. “I can understand why you would want to deal with Zalazane as a people. Sometimes, it’s about proving that you can overcome the impossible odds, the shame of your people... so I won’t insist on bringing in the Kor’Kron. This is for the Darkspear, but...” He took the time to meet Vol’jin’s eyes, and offer his hand to the Darkspear chieftain. “Sen’jin cannot be here in body, though he may be in spirit. He cannot be here, so you must take his place... and I ask, as your friend and as your Warchief, if I might stand in yours, to assist you in any way I can.”
Vol’jin nodded, and put his hand in Thrall’s. “I be honoured, Thrall. Da be honoured too.”
Shandel’zare put her hand over Vol’jin’s, and then Jes’rimmon put his hand over hers. Vanira put her hand over Jes’rimmon’s, and Zen’tabra put her paw over Vanira’s.
“Jus’ one thing,” Zen’tabra added. “You may not be wantin’ to take it too literal, I be thinkin’ Lady Proudmoore not be likin’ it if you decide to ride the tigah.”
Vanira laughed, and Vol’jin chuckled. Even Shandel’zare, despite the levity of the situation, managed a faint smile.
Thrall blushed.
[Chapter 18]