Unity - Chapter 18
And here is the conclusion to my mangling of Zul'Gurub, Take Back the Isles, and WoW lore. Hurrah! There's a side story regarding what Jaina's doing coming up next, and I swear, this one will be written sometime soon.
Title: Unity
Part: 18 of 21+
Word Count: 5991 (of this part)
Includes: Violence, friendship speeches, drama, mentions of polyamory, nakedness, drunkenness, violence, mangling of several different plot threads into one incoherent whole.
Pairings: Thrall/Jaina.
Summary: The Darkspear and Thrall are poised to take back the Echo Isles from the menace of the Hakkari.
Previous Chapters: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 Sidestory: Linguistics
13 14 15 16 17
The sun was sinking below the horizon, staining the sky bloody red. It seemed like an omen, and Thrall’s skin crawled. Boats were being filled with warriors and pushed out to sea, and the waters between Sen’jin Village and the Echo Isles were crowded with them. He could hear drums, pounding in the distance. To him, they felt like nothing less than the pounding of weapons on hard-packed earth, or perhaps, the beating of an immense heart.
Thrall shivered a little, as if a cold breeze had found him. Snowsong whined in concern. His hand dropped to the scruff of her neck, and he thanked the spirits and Shandel’zare both for allowing him to return briefly to Orgrimmar for his spirit familiar. Thrall did not wear his armour, and he could practically hear Garona lecturing him, but if he were to fight in Vol’jin’s stead, he needed to look the part.
Vol’jin had painted his skin with Darkspear sigils, and each one tingled a little from the protective magics mixed into the paint. The bright red, blue and white stood out against his green skin. As a shaman, he merited numerous necklaces of bones, teeth and shells, though he possessed few such decorations himself. Instead, Vanira and the other shamans had each offered him one of their own necklaces, and now he chattered and clattered as he walked. He held a spear in one hand, its tip darkened with soot so that it would not catch the light or draw attention to itself, the shaft decorated with raptor feathers. It felt oddly light in his hand. At his belt was sheathed a wicked looking knife, the hilt wrapped in battered leather. This had belonged to Sen’jin once, and Vol’jin had insisted on giving it to him, saying his father would have wanted it that way.
Thrall was touched and fingered the well-worn hilt. Lend us your strength, old friend, Thrall thought. We do battle with your great foe, and the lives of your people, your son, are at stake. Watch over us, guide us, lest the forces of darkness prevail.
“You wear it well, Warchief.” Thrall turned to look, and raised an eyebrow. Shandel’zare was no longer wearing the close, restrictive robes she wore even in the hottest of Durotar’s summers. Instead, she too was painted with a mix of white and blue, with only a few hints of red. There were two streaks down either side of her face, both red, and she appeared to be draped in strips of blue-dyed cloth. There was a band that went around her neck, and then long strips down each arm, which ended at the bands on her wrists. From the arm strips dangled dozens of strips of blue and white cloth, many of which were hemmed by white beads that clacked as she moved. She bore a staff, topped with a blue-white pearl. Her blue hair was half-braided and half-spiked, and woven through with raptor claws and a few feathers.
Thrall nodded to her. “And you... I didn’t know that you owned such garb. It’s very... fancy.”
“It is the garb of the great mages,” Shandel’zare said, almost reluctantly. “I am one of only a handful of this generation to merit it.”
“You’re an Archmage?” Thrall said. “I didn’t realize, I--”
“It isn’t treated the way it is for the humans, and ‘Archmage’ isn’t quite the right word for it,” she replied, raising one of her arms with a rustling that reminded Thrall of leaves in the fall. “Nor is shaman ever entirely the right word, nor any other term used by the humans, or the orcs. We simply adapt, and use what fits.”
“You had to change a great deal when you joined the Horde, didn’t you?” Thrall asked, his tone wistful with regret.
“We did, and I am glad of it,” Shandel’zare replied, giving him a stern look. “Not all about our ways was good. I can hold onto my title amongst the trolls, treasure it. I also look forward to not starving, nor having to warn my sisters to constantly look over their shoulders. I can look forward to knowing that should Vol’jin, his wives, and any children they have be assassinated by the most vile and evil person imaginable, that our tribe will not suffer because you will not stand for it. You respect our ways, but only so far. We are not to be turned into junior orcs, but we also will not undergo the chain of catastrophes that resulted in the fall of the Twin Empires. You are a good man.”
“And I will choose a good person to succeed me when the time comes, should a vile and evil person assassinate me,” Thrall said. “I will never let your people down.”
“You will live forever, so long as your council watches your back,” Shandel’zare said with a rattling shrug. “Not only Garona... we all would give everything to protect you. I have studied the stories of Blackhand and Doomhammer. There will be no assassination, no lance in the back. Bwonsamedi will not come for you, not for a long time, if we have anything to say about it.”
“If anyone could fight your skull-faced death god, it would be you,” Thrall said, smiling despite the grim topic. “He must be angry with men like Zalazane.”
“He is,” Shandel’zare agreed. “Darkspear souls rightly belong to him. He is not a jealous god, not like Hakkar. He does not demand our lives early, for the most delicious souls are the ones heavy with the experience of living. Hakkar simply demands skulls and blood.”
“And his servants, like Jin’do, bring them to him.” Thrall watched Shandel’zare’s firm expression flicker. “You knew him, didn’t you?”
“We were lovers,” she replied. “He had power, and he vowed to protect my family with it. When we were Gurubashi, female trolls were all but slaves to the males. Unless we were priestesses to one of the loa, we could be traded like bangles or baskets of pearls. Or for bangles and baskets of pearls. Female trolls sought mates as quickly as they could, because the married had more privilege than the single, as did young girls. I have many siblings, many sisters. You know them: Zalzala, Akashala, Zarimuna, and my brother, Yahto. We had parents too, once.” She paused, touching the red streaks on her face, and Thrall realized with a start that the streaks represented tears. “Jin’do had them, my family. He took all of them because he could use the relationship we had to gain access to them. My parents were sacrificed, but my sisters and brother were saved in time. I was exiled for standing with Sen’jin, and I wear it proudly. I never wish to return to Stranglethorn Vale, and I will fight Zalazane or any other who thinks they can bring this poison to Kalimdor.”
“I’m sorry,” Thrall said, feeling woefully inadequate. “Of course the Darkspear will always be welcome here. It isn’t demons or the undead, but we will fight this.”
“Even if it makes you more enemies? Even if Hakkar offers you more? A solution to the Scourge problem, perhaps?”
“There are some prices that are too high to pay. If I accepted his offer, would I have to sacrifice my people? What about my principles and my ideals? Are these the steps that took Gul’dan and Ner’zhul down their dark road? Did Grom think he was helping his people by drinking demon’s blood? I know he did, we spoke at length while he was recovering from being cleansed. If blood is to be spilled, it will be because we are fighting for what’s right. Not because we’re looking for an easy way out.”
Shandel’zare smiled. “Do you know why I constantly oppose your plans until you justify them?”
“I assume because you’re a contrary old troll,” Thrall admitted. “But it helps, I think, to spell out my reasoning. It allows me to form plans that don’t have logical dead ends.”
“That is exactly why I do it,” the troll mage replied, and she gestured, and her beads shivered against each other. “All people are subject to their whims. But the whim to get a muffin instead of a jam roll is very different from the whim of deciding to accept a people into your greater organization. A leader who makes such an important decision on a whim can abandon that whim just as quickly. I want you to be certain of why you’re doing what you’re doing. That you aren’t simply doing it because you feel like it. Not when thousands of people depend on you. Justify yourself. Reason it out. Then, when the final decision is ready, bring it before us and we will see how feasible it is. Your job is to dream. Ours is to make sure that your dream does not become a nightmare.”
“I do think out things very thoroughly,” Thrall said. “I do my best to see from all perspectives. I know I have changed your people. I don’t want your people to simply become different looking orcs. I respect your heritage, but I also respect my people. I will not have them live in conditions I myself would be miserable in. No slavery. Equal opportunities for all. The freedom to wear whatever you like and not fear for your life, and the restrictions on behaviour to assure that other freedoms are not being violated by the vile and evil.” He smiled warmly at Shandel’zare. “You may trust me in this.”
“We do trust you. We all trust you.” She reached out and grasped his arm. He squeezed hers in return.
“So does that mean you’ll stop--”
“No.”
“Very well.”
Vol’jin approached, flanked by Vanira and Zen’tabra, the latter still in her tiger form, and the former painted similarly to Thrall. For Vol’jin, though, they had gone all out: he was adorned with beads in red, blue and white, as well as raptor feathers in yellow and purple. The bristles of his red mohawk had been streaked liberally with black, giving him an even more deadly and intense look, and his face had been painted with a white skull. His brace of potions had been filled up, and Thrall imagined that they hissed. He held a gnarled staff in one hand, festooned with skulls, though these belonged to raptors, and not to trolls.
“You look fierce, my friend,” Thrall said, smiling broadly. Vol’jin gave him a rattling nod in return.
“We be goin’ now, and we be stayin’ until it be done, one way or another.”
“One way or another,” Thrall agreed, and was echoed by the others nearby. Slowly, the painted warriors made their way onto boats, which began to glide through the water as soon as they’d been filled. Snowsong nosed her way to the front of the vessel, her nose high in the air. She whined, softly.
“I smell it too,” Thrall said, keeping his breathing steady, though he could not escape the coppery tang on the wind. “Blood.”
Darkness was gathering over the Darkspear Isles, and it wasn’t simply blood. Thrall could feel the spirits of the dead being called to the Isles. He had visited the home of the Darkspear more than once, and he could feel his heart clench to see the low pyramids appropriated for such terrible purposes. There was low chanting on the wind, coming from the enthralled trolls. It was a name, over and over: Soulflayer. Hakkar comes.
The plan, Thrall thought. We must stick with the plan.
When the boats brushed against the sand, Zen’tabra and Snowsong leapt out of the boats, heading towards the hoodoo piles. Snowsong moved first, her white coat plainly visible in the dying light. A troll, her eyes hazy with the hoodoo control, turned her gaze towards the sight. Snowsong darted along the ground, whining. Slowly, the troll began to follow. Snowsong went quiet, and still. The troll frowned, and made to turn back, when Snowsong whined, and then barked sharply. The troll whirled, and Snowsong took a few bounding leaps. The troll followed.
Zen’tabra crept forward as Snowsong’s antics continued, rippling like a living shadow, moving unerringly towards the hoodoo pile. As the troll reached the apex of her patrol, and was about to be forced to turn back, she struck, massive jaws crunching down on the pile. It shattered, and skulls became dust and then wind. The troll fell to her knees, clutching at her head, and Snowsong went to her side, whining and nuzzling at her. Slowly, the troll grasped at the frostwolf, clinging to her as she gulped down air, trying to keep herself from crying. Snowsong nosed at her cheek.
“We must go, there are at least three more that will need to be destroyed,” Zen’tabra called out, and Snowsong yipped in acknowledgement, nudging the troll towards the beach. Then they moved on, using the same tactics again at the second and third pile. At the fourth, there were two trolls, one controlled, and one not. This troll wore elaborate armour, and on one shoulder, there was a skull, whose smile was widened by long fangs.
As Snowsong distracted the other troll, Zen’tabra pounced on the pile, destroying it easily. While the other troll sank to his knees like the others, the armoured troll’s eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to sound the alarm. Zen’tabra leapt at his throat, sinking her teeth into it and tearing, sending out a spray of blood along the green, waving fronds. The armoured troll gurgled and clawed at her, but Zen’tabra did not stop until his head had left his shoulders, and had rolled towards the broken hoodoo pile.
“Beachhead secure,” Zen’tabra said, licking her jaws. “Warriors, assemble!”
Thrall jumped into the water and waded the last few feet to the shore, offering first Snowsong, then Zen’tabra a scritch. The shapeshifted troll purred, pleased, and licked his fingertips briefly before heading into the shadows. Zen’tabra and Snowsong continued to destroy the outer perimeter, while Thrall looked over the controlled. He could see haunted expressions and a confidence shaken.
Spirits, loa, give these people strength, Thrall called out, and while the spirits did not respond to him, the loa did, touching the trolls with the strength of the raptor, tiger, and scorpion. Backs straightened and expressions cleared, though Thrall did take the time to embrace each of them, and give them a pat on the back.
Once that was done, Thrall followed the warriors marching into the shadows, listening to their whispering steps. Past the perimeter lay the home of the Darkspear. The village was large and sprawling, with low, single-floor huts lining wide streets with dozens of shady alcoves for sleeping in. The village was arranged in tiers, and there were roads leading up to the pinnacle, where there were altars. When Vol’jin ruled, this altar was dedicated to the loa, and the rituals of old were carefully altered and rearranged to honour them with sacrifices of food, drink, and hand-crafted weapons. With the presence of the Hakkari, those altars were soaked in blood and adorned with skulls, and it was beginning to trickle down the slopes, though it dried before long.
If that blood reaches the base... we have not acted soon enough, Thrall thought with a shiver. The Darkspear moved through the village, ambushing the Hakkari patrollers and shoving them towards the dark alcoves that had been once the favoured lounging spot of the indolent and drunk. There was none of the trolls’ usual good humour present on their faces, their eyes narrowed and their expressions grim, mouths turned down in frowns.
Priestesses of Hakkar patrolled with their bodyguards, bearing skull-topped scepters and bony wing constructs that sprouted from their backs, bringing them closer to their god. Fighting warriors was one thing, but fighting the potent magics of the Atal’ai was something entirely different. Vol’jin called forth Shandel’zare and the other mages. The mages worked in groups of two and three, relentlessly pelting the priestesses with frost, fire, and the raw stuff of magic until they collapsed, while their guards were taken care of by the Darkspear warriors. As the Darkspear became injured, they fell back, and other warriors took their place, allowing the Darkspear to heal. Cuts that did not maim scabbed over quickly, and the dried blood became part of their combat paint, making them look fiercer and harder yet.
Thrall and the trolls circled the base of the pyramid, killing all that they could find with grim efficiency. Those who were controlled were taken back to the distant lines if they could not fight, and joined the reinforcements if they could. There was little time for hugs now. Thrall’s head turned at a faint movement, and he threw a dagger with lethal force, though three more warriors advanced, stabbing and then beheading the troll. One returned Thrall’s dagger to him with a nod.
In one sense, it was unfortunate to have to be so brutal, but in another, it was necessary. They could not have enemies at their backs. They could not afford the regeneration of the Hakkari to reinforce Zalazane when the Darkspear had become utterly committed to the fight.
If I believed that it would help the Darkspear, I would urge them to show mercy, but it won’t. I will not allow guilt to be Hakkar’s ally, Thrall thought, and made his way up the tiers. The lowest tier was that of the common people, the hunters and fishers, the harvesters and crafters. The second tier was that of the warriors. Some societies viewed warriors as second only in caste to the noble, but it was not a method of rank, but instead one that placed priority on duty. Those who hunted, fished, and farmed were at the bottom because it allowed them to be the closest to their craft. The warriors, next, were able to watch over the hunters, but also to create a wall between threats coming up the pyramid and those that specialized in certain kinds of magic. This tier was particularly well reinforced, and more of the Darkspear were forced to fall back.
Now it was time for the healers: one of Shandel’zare’s young sisters moved through the injured, murmuring to each of them, touching them. Their wounds began to close rapidly, and they breathed in deeply, taking in the strength of the snake that shed its skin and the turtle that presented a hardened front to the rest of the world. They nodded to one another and charged. The Darkspear were a wave, crashing over the Hakkari with bloodied spears. They stabbed and whirled in a blur, and the Darkspear began to fall, though they took a half-dozen Hakkari with them each time. In and out of the front lines darted other shapeshifters, jaguars and snakes, collecting up the fallen and returning them to the healers to see if lives could be saved, but they were being left behind, guarded by the injured.
The momentum was with them, surging like the tides at moonrise, and up they climbed. The third tier was that of the mages, shamans, and priests. Artifacts created by the mages were being used as foci for the Atal’ai, Hakkar’s priest-caste, and they were like rocks, breaking the advance. Thrall’s mind raced. Months -- years -- of talks with Jaina flooded his memories, and he clung to one of them.
“They have a matrix!” he shouted, hoping the Darkspear understood the words. “You must shatter them!”
“We be on it!” cried Vanira, and she raised her arms. Thrall felt the ground rise beneath them, and moved back. An elemental of the earth, a core of magic surrounded by a whirling ring of stone and metal, moved forward, towards the foci. The Atal’ai cried out in alarm, and the elemental punched the nearest magical focus, causing it to crack. Spells seemed to knock away pieces of rock, but it continued, striking again, and again. The focus shattered, and the elemental seemed to add the pieces into itself, and hunted for another. The Darkspear swiftly followed, while Zen’tabra crouched at Vanira’s side, snarling at any who dared approached.
Thrall called out to the earth, summoning his own elemental, with broad ‘shoulders’ and a tall stature, reminding him more of orcs than something of the wild earth, and smiled grimly. He directed it towards more foci, dodging and stabbing. He did not have the regenerative qualities of the trolls, but the elements of wind guided his body, and those of water kept him from adding more blood to the pyramid.
“For the Loa!” Thrall cried. “For the Horde!”
“For Vol’jin! For the Horde!” cried the Darkspear. The Atal’ai began to flee up the pyramid, to the great altar.
“Fools! Cowards!” cried a voice. Thrall looked to Shandel’zare, and though she was angry, she did not curse Jin’do’s name. Vol’jin, on the other hand, looked angrier than ever.
“Zalazane...” he spat. “So, it be true. You be followin’ Jin’do’s path.”
“Ol’ friend,” Zalazane replied, and the blood on his face cracked as he grinned, showing off yellowed tusks. “You be sheddin’ a lot of blood this night. You be joinin’ us to call Hakkar?”
“Never,” Vol’jin said, disgusted. “We be puttin’ an end to you now.”
“Come, try it,” Zalazane said. “My master be puttin’ a stop to you, right quick--” His gaze fell on Thrall, and there was a flash of something there: fear. “Oh, you be bringin’ the whole Horde with you now?”
“I did, yes,” Thrall growled, gesturing to the Darkspear. The mages were already moving, paired off with the shamans, as they began to counter the blood magic all around them. “The Darkspear will never be alone again. They do not need to fear being abandoned by their allies and rejected by their homeland. The Echo Isles belong to the Darkspear. You will leave, now.”
“We won’t be walkin’ out of here, just because you ask pretty,” Zalazane sneered. “You be weak.”
“Who said we’d be asking you? I intend to punt your head into the ocean,” Thrall replied. “Darkspear!”
“Darkspear!” cried the trolls, and they surged forward again. The Atal’ai surrounded Zalazane, and made their final stand. Shouting, the hexmaster pointed at a cluster of warriors. Some of them became toads, hopping around helplessly, while others turned on their fellows. The shamans cried out, fighting Zalazane’s dark magics with that of the loa. Eyes cleared, and they redoubled their efforts. Zen’tabra surged forward, shrugging off the hex with palpable contempt, and drove fang and claw into the first line of the Atal’ai.
“Blood, blood, blood...”
Thrall’s head snapped up, looking for the voices. The Atal’ai were too busy with the Darkspear, and Zalazane, while he spoke, was not chanting. No, the sound was coming from somewhere else, somewhere-- “Vol’jin, look!”
Above the altar was a ghost. No, not a ghost... a spirit, a corrupted loa. It was a huge wind-serpent, and while the wild ones of the southern Barrens were anything from hostile to shy, this one had eyes that were blood red and gleamed with malevolence. As each troll fell, be they Darkspear or Atal’ai or Hakkari, the spirit pulsed, becoming more distinct.
“Blood, BLOOD, BLOOD...”
“It be coming, we must stop it!”
“I’ll handle Zalazane, you get Hakkar!” Thrall cried, drawing Sen’jin’s dagger, and charged headlong into the hexmaster. The Darkspear closed rapidly, protecting Thrall’s back. Zalazane struck out at him with magic, and Thrall called on the spirits, and other memories. Jaina’s lectures had served him earlier, and Sergeant’s would serve him now.
’Jab at his ribs, boy,’ the human urged him as Thrall feinted left and jabbed right. ’If he can’t breathe, he can’t cast spells, eh? Now he’s panicking, punch his jaw, but don’t hit them damned tusks’.
Thrall smiled as Zalazane’s head rocked back. ’Don’t ever give up the advantage. You’re big and strong, and people hate you and what you represent. It makes them angry. Let their anger be your weapon’.
’Do you hate me?’ he’d asked, looking up at him, and Sergeant had paused, and there was no snap of bone, not like now, as Thrall punched again, and again.
’Well, I suppose I don’t,’ Sergeant had replied, after a moment, and put his hand on Thrall’s shoulder. ’But I also don’t want to fight you.’
’Me neither.’
Thrall was fast, faster than it seemed right for an orc of his size to be, and without the heavy armour he’d inherited, it felt like he could walk on air. With Zalazane off-balance, Thrall shoulder-charged him as he staggered, knocking him to the ground, scattering skulls everywhere. Zalazane was afraid, and Thrall recognized the look. Blackmoore. Blackmoore had been that frightened, when he realized he was going to die by a weapon of his own creation. The dagger flashed, and Thrall brought it down, a spray of blood hitting his face and lips. Grimly, he stabbed again.
“BLOOD, BLOOD, BLOOD!”
One more monster never to plague this world again, Thrall thought as the dagger tumbled from his fingertips. For caution, he snapped Zalazane’s neck, and then picked up the dagger. One step closer to the freedom of harvest festivals and celebration instead of fear and violence.
Vol’jin stood on the altar, holding his staff up, until it seemed to touch Hakkar himself. He shouted the words, old when the Twin Empires were young, throwing Hakkar back into the spirit world. The Blood God bellowed in rage, striking out at Vol’jin. Winds ripped away his feathers and the beads. It flattened his hair against the back of his scalp, and his eyes were wide. From behind Vol’jin’s back arose a second spirit.
Thrall opened his mouth to cry out and then stopped as it took form: the spirit was a troll, and its skin was black. A skull was painted over its face, the jaw over the troll’s jaw. It wore nothing but a loincloth, adorned with skulls, and they seemed tiny, until Thrall realized that they were normal sized, it was the spirit that was enormous, expanding rapidly.
“Hakkar, this be not your land, not your place,” the spirit boomed. Vol’jin continued to chant, his voice sounding harsh and raw as the words came out as desperate cries. He held onto his concentration and sanity with a white-knuckled grip. “Go back to the beyond. I be dealin’ with you soon.”
“BLOOD! SKULLS! THIS PLACE IS MINE. THE DARKSPEAR ARE MINE!”
“Go... fuck... yourself... with... a spike,” Vol’jin managed, raising his staff higher, striking Hakkar’s skull with his staff, screaming the last words of the ritual.
Hakkar bellowed, lashing out one final time, and flattening everyone on the altar, Vol’jin included. Thrall forced himself onto his elbows, watching as Hakkar disappeared into a puff of smoke, leaving only Hakkar’s heart, the centre of the ritual, behind. There was silence and stillness. Hakkar’s heart stopped pulsing and lay inert. The scent of blood became old, and then, simply dust. Vol’jin was curled on his side, the staff far from his grip, shattered into a dozen pieces.
The spirit troll leaned over him, curiously, poking him this way and that.
“Bwonsamedi,” Shandel’zare called out. Her garb was stained with blood, and burned, and ragged, but she stood proudly, moving to Vol’jin’s side. “He is not one of yours. He lives yet.”
“Ah, Frostmaster Shandel’zare,” the spirit said, and Thrall winced. “Do you challenge me? That be unwise.”
“I do,” Shandel’zare said, setting her jaw. “Shoo.”
“Shoo?” the troll loa of death said, disbelievingly. “That be what you be sayin’ to Bwonsamedi?”
“It be what she says,” Vanira said, moving to her side, her fists clenched. “Vol’jin be our greatest leader, aside from the Bossman. Shoo.”
Thrall felt a flush of pride at her words. Zen’tabra moved up, relaxing her shape into that of a troll, and her green hair fell over her shoulders in a shaggy, wild fall, and she wore a necklace of tiger claws, a loincloth, and little else. “Shoo.”
Jes’rimmon limped up to Shandel’zare’s side. “Shoo, Bwonsamedi. Shoo.”
The Darkspear, injured and limping, crowded the pinnacle, placing themselves between their leader and their loa. Thrall moved up too. “Shoo. I will not let you take my friend.”
“Eh, I be only curious anyway, and you all be comin’ to me in the end.” The spirit looked around. “I be takin’ my own skulls this day, from the brave and the foolish alike. See you ‘round.”
Bwonsamedi disappeared, fading out, and the world seemed to grow brighter. Vol’jin stirred, muttering and swearing.
“Get you... stupid... buck-toothed... butterfly...”
Vanira fell to her knees and kissed him, grasping each of his ears and giving him a shake, starting in on a lecture about his recklessness. As Vol’jin batted at her, helpless as a kitten, Zen’tabra took up the task. Vol’jin searched pleadingly for Thrall, and while exhausted, he seemed as sharp as ever.
Thrall laughed in sheer joy, holding his arms up to the skies. There was a crack of thunder, a flash of lightning, and it began to rain.
~ * ~
It took three days to clean up the rest of the Isle. Those the least injured, accompanied by shapeshifters, or mages, or shamans, patrolled the isle, destroying the last of the hoodoo piles and hunting down the Hakkari and Atal’ai that attempted to flee. The rain, which had not stopped until the third day, cleansed the altar and the pyramid of blood, leaving puddles behind for troll whelps to splash in, expressing their joy in a simple, yet meaningful way.
Once all traces of the invading force was erased, then it was time to celebrate. Thrall lounged on a mat of straw and wood, sipping a banana and strawberry smoothie. Jazabal winked at him, and walked off. Thrall sighed happily.
I am going to be very drunk by the end of today, Thrall thought, tasting the kick behind it. Fortunately, I had little to do anyway, other than enjoy myself.
At war, the Darkspear were all business. At peace, they went all-out, and he could hear drums, and bells, and thrumming strings. Laughter chased away the last of the ghosts of the dead, and the trolls were doing a great deal of that, telling each other stories about their combats, and the Hakkari that they had slain. The stand of Vol’jin’s friends against Bwonsamedi was told over and over, and each time, they were toasted. Darkspear lounged in shady alcoves, most of them naked, and sometimes, a companion would rouse enough to want to celebrate in a different, but no less enthusiastic way. Thrall was not far from Vol’jin, and he had been toasted a number of times as well for his own efforts regarding Zalazane, and it had been with great, ritual pride that he had thrown Zalazane bodily into the ocean to be eaten by crabs.
It was hot, the last trace of Summer before Autumn truly hit them, and the Darkspear were enjoying the heat. Thrall had to admit, dressed in only a loincloth, with a cold drink in his hand and nothing better to do, the heat was quite nice.
We did it, Thrall thought, taking another sip. We fought Hakkar, and we won. No one, but no one, messes with my people. His gaze drifted over a trio of nearly-naked troll women, and he sighed again, though wistfully. If only Jaina were here...
“Chieftain! Bossman!” called one of the less drunk trolls, and Thrall looked over. The youth looked worried as he addressed them both. “We be seein’ ships comin’! Lots of them!”
“Ah... the Zandalari, I be thinking,” Vol’jin said, and not even alcohol could lubricate his tone into something other than bitter. “They be wantin’ the heart.”
“I’ll come with you,” Thrall said, and moved to his feet. He gave the ground a stern look, ordering it to remain steady. It remained obdurate in its silence. Fine, then. Be that way.
It was not so much a march, as the party moved out of the village and spilled onto the beach, displacing some of those who had chosen to celebrate there. As they approached, Thrall could see the descendants of the first trolls. Their dress was like that of the formal battlegarb of the Darkspear, though it was different too, or perhaps... It is the Darkspear that have changed and adapted, and the Zandalari that have held onto their roots as tightly as they could.
A trio of Zandalari stepped onto the water, leaving nothing but light impressions as they made their way to shore. Vol’jin, with Vanira and Zen’tabra at his side, and Shandel’zare, Jes’rimmon and Thrall at his back, met them.
“Chieftain Vol’jin of the Darkspear Tribe,” began the lead troll. “We have come to retrieve the Heart of Hakkar, and return it safely to the vaults of King Rhastakhan, long may he reign. I see that you have succeeded in ending the threat of Zalazane, so you must have it yet.”
“We be havin’ it,” Vol’jin said, though his tone was sour. “You be needin’ to pay better attention to it, hm? It got away from the vaults.”
“The concern has been taken care of,” the Zandalari said. “Now--”
“No,” Thrall said, startling them all. “We will not give it back, and I will tell you why.”
“Warchief,” Shandel’zare hissed softly. “You speak to Molthor, the hand of the High Chieftain himself.”
“Is this the hand he uses to scratch himself instead of being useful?” Thrall demanded, and the trolls stiffened.
“You are not Zandalari, you know nothing of our ways,” Molthor said, annoyed. “We know of the history of the orcs.”
“Good for you,” Thrall spat. “Now you will know of the present. We fought Zalazane and the Hakkari. We fought the Atal’ai. We fought Hakkar. We sacrificed. We lost warriors. We did so because the Darkspear had lost two homes and would not lose a third. We did so because when there is evil in the world, we must fight it, not sit around and do nothing until everything is over, and you claim the final prize.”
“We are neutral, we must provide a place for all of the tribes to gather, to speak and to negotiate. We cannot take sides.”
“That’s not what being neutral is,” Thrall insisted. “When you are neutral you must defend the suffering, regardless of who is doing that suffering. What if Zalazane had won here? Would you still be neutral then? Would you let the Atal’ai destroy all that has been built here? Would you let them invade the human lands once they were empowered by the Blood God? Do the humans deserve to die more than the trolls do? Or the orcs? No, they do not. You are not neutral... you are lazy. This is the Darkspear’s victory. This is the Horde’s victory. Get back in your boats and leave. You cannot be trusted to do what is right.”
“Will you let the blood of Hakkar pollute you?” Molthor demanded. “Vol’jin, will you allow this?”
“I be trustin’ Thrall more than I be trustin’ you, Molthor,” Vol’jin declared. “I be standin’ with my Warchief. Don’t be makin’ us shoo you.”
“And I know someone I can trust that will be able to contain this threat, and she will not allow it to be stolen by fanatics. She knows how to keep an evil artifact safe.” Thrall crosses his arms over his chest, keeping a careful eye on his smoothie. “Go.”
Molthor looked around, and his lips were set in a grim line. “Very well. You are making a mistake.”
“No, we are not,” Shandel’zare said, her voice firm now. “Tradition is not a shackle, it is a frame for something greater. You use it as a crutch. We use it when we need to, and we create new traditions when the old have outlived their usefulness. If you care to maintain the tradition of keeping Hakkar out of this world, look into Jin’do and his followers. Then this need not happen again.”
“The High Chieftain will know,” Molthor said and turned away, heading back to his boat and snapping orders.
“Do you be thinkin’ Jaina can handle it?” Vol’jin asked quietly as the Zandalari rowed away.
“Of course I do, I believe in her,” Thrall replied, drinking deeply. “I’m sure she’ll return soon.”
Thrall raised his gaze to the skies, smiling to himself. The enormity of speaking out against the Zandalari would hit him in time, but for now, as alcohol simmered in his stomach, he would simply enjoy the rest of the day as it came.
On to Unity Sidestory: Defiance
Title: Unity
Part: 18 of 21+
Word Count: 5991 (of this part)
Includes: Violence, friendship speeches, drama, mentions of polyamory, nakedness, drunkenness, violence, mangling of several different plot threads into one incoherent whole.
Pairings: Thrall/Jaina.
Summary: The Darkspear and Thrall are poised to take back the Echo Isles from the menace of the Hakkari.
Previous Chapters: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 Sidestory: Linguistics
13 14 15 16 17
The sun was sinking below the horizon, staining the sky bloody red. It seemed like an omen, and Thrall’s skin crawled. Boats were being filled with warriors and pushed out to sea, and the waters between Sen’jin Village and the Echo Isles were crowded with them. He could hear drums, pounding in the distance. To him, they felt like nothing less than the pounding of weapons on hard-packed earth, or perhaps, the beating of an immense heart.
Thrall shivered a little, as if a cold breeze had found him. Snowsong whined in concern. His hand dropped to the scruff of her neck, and he thanked the spirits and Shandel’zare both for allowing him to return briefly to Orgrimmar for his spirit familiar. Thrall did not wear his armour, and he could practically hear Garona lecturing him, but if he were to fight in Vol’jin’s stead, he needed to look the part.
Vol’jin had painted his skin with Darkspear sigils, and each one tingled a little from the protective magics mixed into the paint. The bright red, blue and white stood out against his green skin. As a shaman, he merited numerous necklaces of bones, teeth and shells, though he possessed few such decorations himself. Instead, Vanira and the other shamans had each offered him one of their own necklaces, and now he chattered and clattered as he walked. He held a spear in one hand, its tip darkened with soot so that it would not catch the light or draw attention to itself, the shaft decorated with raptor feathers. It felt oddly light in his hand. At his belt was sheathed a wicked looking knife, the hilt wrapped in battered leather. This had belonged to Sen’jin once, and Vol’jin had insisted on giving it to him, saying his father would have wanted it that way.
Thrall was touched and fingered the well-worn hilt. Lend us your strength, old friend, Thrall thought. We do battle with your great foe, and the lives of your people, your son, are at stake. Watch over us, guide us, lest the forces of darkness prevail.
“You wear it well, Warchief.” Thrall turned to look, and raised an eyebrow. Shandel’zare was no longer wearing the close, restrictive robes she wore even in the hottest of Durotar’s summers. Instead, she too was painted with a mix of white and blue, with only a few hints of red. There were two streaks down either side of her face, both red, and she appeared to be draped in strips of blue-dyed cloth. There was a band that went around her neck, and then long strips down each arm, which ended at the bands on her wrists. From the arm strips dangled dozens of strips of blue and white cloth, many of which were hemmed by white beads that clacked as she moved. She bore a staff, topped with a blue-white pearl. Her blue hair was half-braided and half-spiked, and woven through with raptor claws and a few feathers.
Thrall nodded to her. “And you... I didn’t know that you owned such garb. It’s very... fancy.”
“It is the garb of the great mages,” Shandel’zare said, almost reluctantly. “I am one of only a handful of this generation to merit it.”
“You’re an Archmage?” Thrall said. “I didn’t realize, I--”
“It isn’t treated the way it is for the humans, and ‘Archmage’ isn’t quite the right word for it,” she replied, raising one of her arms with a rustling that reminded Thrall of leaves in the fall. “Nor is shaman ever entirely the right word, nor any other term used by the humans, or the orcs. We simply adapt, and use what fits.”
“You had to change a great deal when you joined the Horde, didn’t you?” Thrall asked, his tone wistful with regret.
“We did, and I am glad of it,” Shandel’zare replied, giving him a stern look. “Not all about our ways was good. I can hold onto my title amongst the trolls, treasure it. I also look forward to not starving, nor having to warn my sisters to constantly look over their shoulders. I can look forward to knowing that should Vol’jin, his wives, and any children they have be assassinated by the most vile and evil person imaginable, that our tribe will not suffer because you will not stand for it. You respect our ways, but only so far. We are not to be turned into junior orcs, but we also will not undergo the chain of catastrophes that resulted in the fall of the Twin Empires. You are a good man.”
“And I will choose a good person to succeed me when the time comes, should a vile and evil person assassinate me,” Thrall said. “I will never let your people down.”
“You will live forever, so long as your council watches your back,” Shandel’zare said with a rattling shrug. “Not only Garona... we all would give everything to protect you. I have studied the stories of Blackhand and Doomhammer. There will be no assassination, no lance in the back. Bwonsamedi will not come for you, not for a long time, if we have anything to say about it.”
“If anyone could fight your skull-faced death god, it would be you,” Thrall said, smiling despite the grim topic. “He must be angry with men like Zalazane.”
“He is,” Shandel’zare agreed. “Darkspear souls rightly belong to him. He is not a jealous god, not like Hakkar. He does not demand our lives early, for the most delicious souls are the ones heavy with the experience of living. Hakkar simply demands skulls and blood.”
“And his servants, like Jin’do, bring them to him.” Thrall watched Shandel’zare’s firm expression flicker. “You knew him, didn’t you?”
“We were lovers,” she replied. “He had power, and he vowed to protect my family with it. When we were Gurubashi, female trolls were all but slaves to the males. Unless we were priestesses to one of the loa, we could be traded like bangles or baskets of pearls. Or for bangles and baskets of pearls. Female trolls sought mates as quickly as they could, because the married had more privilege than the single, as did young girls. I have many siblings, many sisters. You know them: Zalzala, Akashala, Zarimuna, and my brother, Yahto. We had parents too, once.” She paused, touching the red streaks on her face, and Thrall realized with a start that the streaks represented tears. “Jin’do had them, my family. He took all of them because he could use the relationship we had to gain access to them. My parents were sacrificed, but my sisters and brother were saved in time. I was exiled for standing with Sen’jin, and I wear it proudly. I never wish to return to Stranglethorn Vale, and I will fight Zalazane or any other who thinks they can bring this poison to Kalimdor.”
“I’m sorry,” Thrall said, feeling woefully inadequate. “Of course the Darkspear will always be welcome here. It isn’t demons or the undead, but we will fight this.”
“Even if it makes you more enemies? Even if Hakkar offers you more? A solution to the Scourge problem, perhaps?”
“There are some prices that are too high to pay. If I accepted his offer, would I have to sacrifice my people? What about my principles and my ideals? Are these the steps that took Gul’dan and Ner’zhul down their dark road? Did Grom think he was helping his people by drinking demon’s blood? I know he did, we spoke at length while he was recovering from being cleansed. If blood is to be spilled, it will be because we are fighting for what’s right. Not because we’re looking for an easy way out.”
Shandel’zare smiled. “Do you know why I constantly oppose your plans until you justify them?”
“I assume because you’re a contrary old troll,” Thrall admitted. “But it helps, I think, to spell out my reasoning. It allows me to form plans that don’t have logical dead ends.”
“That is exactly why I do it,” the troll mage replied, and she gestured, and her beads shivered against each other. “All people are subject to their whims. But the whim to get a muffin instead of a jam roll is very different from the whim of deciding to accept a people into your greater organization. A leader who makes such an important decision on a whim can abandon that whim just as quickly. I want you to be certain of why you’re doing what you’re doing. That you aren’t simply doing it because you feel like it. Not when thousands of people depend on you. Justify yourself. Reason it out. Then, when the final decision is ready, bring it before us and we will see how feasible it is. Your job is to dream. Ours is to make sure that your dream does not become a nightmare.”
“I do think out things very thoroughly,” Thrall said. “I do my best to see from all perspectives. I know I have changed your people. I don’t want your people to simply become different looking orcs. I respect your heritage, but I also respect my people. I will not have them live in conditions I myself would be miserable in. No slavery. Equal opportunities for all. The freedom to wear whatever you like and not fear for your life, and the restrictions on behaviour to assure that other freedoms are not being violated by the vile and evil.” He smiled warmly at Shandel’zare. “You may trust me in this.”
“We do trust you. We all trust you.” She reached out and grasped his arm. He squeezed hers in return.
“So does that mean you’ll stop--”
“No.”
“Very well.”
Vol’jin approached, flanked by Vanira and Zen’tabra, the latter still in her tiger form, and the former painted similarly to Thrall. For Vol’jin, though, they had gone all out: he was adorned with beads in red, blue and white, as well as raptor feathers in yellow and purple. The bristles of his red mohawk had been streaked liberally with black, giving him an even more deadly and intense look, and his face had been painted with a white skull. His brace of potions had been filled up, and Thrall imagined that they hissed. He held a gnarled staff in one hand, festooned with skulls, though these belonged to raptors, and not to trolls.
“You look fierce, my friend,” Thrall said, smiling broadly. Vol’jin gave him a rattling nod in return.
“We be goin’ now, and we be stayin’ until it be done, one way or another.”
“One way or another,” Thrall agreed, and was echoed by the others nearby. Slowly, the painted warriors made their way onto boats, which began to glide through the water as soon as they’d been filled. Snowsong nosed her way to the front of the vessel, her nose high in the air. She whined, softly.
“I smell it too,” Thrall said, keeping his breathing steady, though he could not escape the coppery tang on the wind. “Blood.”
Darkness was gathering over the Darkspear Isles, and it wasn’t simply blood. Thrall could feel the spirits of the dead being called to the Isles. He had visited the home of the Darkspear more than once, and he could feel his heart clench to see the low pyramids appropriated for such terrible purposes. There was low chanting on the wind, coming from the enthralled trolls. It was a name, over and over: Soulflayer. Hakkar comes.
The plan, Thrall thought. We must stick with the plan.
When the boats brushed against the sand, Zen’tabra and Snowsong leapt out of the boats, heading towards the hoodoo piles. Snowsong moved first, her white coat plainly visible in the dying light. A troll, her eyes hazy with the hoodoo control, turned her gaze towards the sight. Snowsong darted along the ground, whining. Slowly, the troll began to follow. Snowsong went quiet, and still. The troll frowned, and made to turn back, when Snowsong whined, and then barked sharply. The troll whirled, and Snowsong took a few bounding leaps. The troll followed.
Zen’tabra crept forward as Snowsong’s antics continued, rippling like a living shadow, moving unerringly towards the hoodoo pile. As the troll reached the apex of her patrol, and was about to be forced to turn back, she struck, massive jaws crunching down on the pile. It shattered, and skulls became dust and then wind. The troll fell to her knees, clutching at her head, and Snowsong went to her side, whining and nuzzling at her. Slowly, the troll grasped at the frostwolf, clinging to her as she gulped down air, trying to keep herself from crying. Snowsong nosed at her cheek.
“We must go, there are at least three more that will need to be destroyed,” Zen’tabra called out, and Snowsong yipped in acknowledgement, nudging the troll towards the beach. Then they moved on, using the same tactics again at the second and third pile. At the fourth, there were two trolls, one controlled, and one not. This troll wore elaborate armour, and on one shoulder, there was a skull, whose smile was widened by long fangs.
As Snowsong distracted the other troll, Zen’tabra pounced on the pile, destroying it easily. While the other troll sank to his knees like the others, the armoured troll’s eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to sound the alarm. Zen’tabra leapt at his throat, sinking her teeth into it and tearing, sending out a spray of blood along the green, waving fronds. The armoured troll gurgled and clawed at her, but Zen’tabra did not stop until his head had left his shoulders, and had rolled towards the broken hoodoo pile.
“Beachhead secure,” Zen’tabra said, licking her jaws. “Warriors, assemble!”
Thrall jumped into the water and waded the last few feet to the shore, offering first Snowsong, then Zen’tabra a scritch. The shapeshifted troll purred, pleased, and licked his fingertips briefly before heading into the shadows. Zen’tabra and Snowsong continued to destroy the outer perimeter, while Thrall looked over the controlled. He could see haunted expressions and a confidence shaken.
Spirits, loa, give these people strength, Thrall called out, and while the spirits did not respond to him, the loa did, touching the trolls with the strength of the raptor, tiger, and scorpion. Backs straightened and expressions cleared, though Thrall did take the time to embrace each of them, and give them a pat on the back.
Once that was done, Thrall followed the warriors marching into the shadows, listening to their whispering steps. Past the perimeter lay the home of the Darkspear. The village was large and sprawling, with low, single-floor huts lining wide streets with dozens of shady alcoves for sleeping in. The village was arranged in tiers, and there were roads leading up to the pinnacle, where there were altars. When Vol’jin ruled, this altar was dedicated to the loa, and the rituals of old were carefully altered and rearranged to honour them with sacrifices of food, drink, and hand-crafted weapons. With the presence of the Hakkari, those altars were soaked in blood and adorned with skulls, and it was beginning to trickle down the slopes, though it dried before long.
If that blood reaches the base... we have not acted soon enough, Thrall thought with a shiver. The Darkspear moved through the village, ambushing the Hakkari patrollers and shoving them towards the dark alcoves that had been once the favoured lounging spot of the indolent and drunk. There was none of the trolls’ usual good humour present on their faces, their eyes narrowed and their expressions grim, mouths turned down in frowns.
Priestesses of Hakkar patrolled with their bodyguards, bearing skull-topped scepters and bony wing constructs that sprouted from their backs, bringing them closer to their god. Fighting warriors was one thing, but fighting the potent magics of the Atal’ai was something entirely different. Vol’jin called forth Shandel’zare and the other mages. The mages worked in groups of two and three, relentlessly pelting the priestesses with frost, fire, and the raw stuff of magic until they collapsed, while their guards were taken care of by the Darkspear warriors. As the Darkspear became injured, they fell back, and other warriors took their place, allowing the Darkspear to heal. Cuts that did not maim scabbed over quickly, and the dried blood became part of their combat paint, making them look fiercer and harder yet.
Thrall and the trolls circled the base of the pyramid, killing all that they could find with grim efficiency. Those who were controlled were taken back to the distant lines if they could not fight, and joined the reinforcements if they could. There was little time for hugs now. Thrall’s head turned at a faint movement, and he threw a dagger with lethal force, though three more warriors advanced, stabbing and then beheading the troll. One returned Thrall’s dagger to him with a nod.
In one sense, it was unfortunate to have to be so brutal, but in another, it was necessary. They could not have enemies at their backs. They could not afford the regeneration of the Hakkari to reinforce Zalazane when the Darkspear had become utterly committed to the fight.
If I believed that it would help the Darkspear, I would urge them to show mercy, but it won’t. I will not allow guilt to be Hakkar’s ally, Thrall thought, and made his way up the tiers. The lowest tier was that of the common people, the hunters and fishers, the harvesters and crafters. The second tier was that of the warriors. Some societies viewed warriors as second only in caste to the noble, but it was not a method of rank, but instead one that placed priority on duty. Those who hunted, fished, and farmed were at the bottom because it allowed them to be the closest to their craft. The warriors, next, were able to watch over the hunters, but also to create a wall between threats coming up the pyramid and those that specialized in certain kinds of magic. This tier was particularly well reinforced, and more of the Darkspear were forced to fall back.
Now it was time for the healers: one of Shandel’zare’s young sisters moved through the injured, murmuring to each of them, touching them. Their wounds began to close rapidly, and they breathed in deeply, taking in the strength of the snake that shed its skin and the turtle that presented a hardened front to the rest of the world. They nodded to one another and charged. The Darkspear were a wave, crashing over the Hakkari with bloodied spears. They stabbed and whirled in a blur, and the Darkspear began to fall, though they took a half-dozen Hakkari with them each time. In and out of the front lines darted other shapeshifters, jaguars and snakes, collecting up the fallen and returning them to the healers to see if lives could be saved, but they were being left behind, guarded by the injured.
The momentum was with them, surging like the tides at moonrise, and up they climbed. The third tier was that of the mages, shamans, and priests. Artifacts created by the mages were being used as foci for the Atal’ai, Hakkar’s priest-caste, and they were like rocks, breaking the advance. Thrall’s mind raced. Months -- years -- of talks with Jaina flooded his memories, and he clung to one of them.
“They have a matrix!” he shouted, hoping the Darkspear understood the words. “You must shatter them!”
“We be on it!” cried Vanira, and she raised her arms. Thrall felt the ground rise beneath them, and moved back. An elemental of the earth, a core of magic surrounded by a whirling ring of stone and metal, moved forward, towards the foci. The Atal’ai cried out in alarm, and the elemental punched the nearest magical focus, causing it to crack. Spells seemed to knock away pieces of rock, but it continued, striking again, and again. The focus shattered, and the elemental seemed to add the pieces into itself, and hunted for another. The Darkspear swiftly followed, while Zen’tabra crouched at Vanira’s side, snarling at any who dared approached.
Thrall called out to the earth, summoning his own elemental, with broad ‘shoulders’ and a tall stature, reminding him more of orcs than something of the wild earth, and smiled grimly. He directed it towards more foci, dodging and stabbing. He did not have the regenerative qualities of the trolls, but the elements of wind guided his body, and those of water kept him from adding more blood to the pyramid.
“For the Loa!” Thrall cried. “For the Horde!”
“For Vol’jin! For the Horde!” cried the Darkspear. The Atal’ai began to flee up the pyramid, to the great altar.
“Fools! Cowards!” cried a voice. Thrall looked to Shandel’zare, and though she was angry, she did not curse Jin’do’s name. Vol’jin, on the other hand, looked angrier than ever.
“Zalazane...” he spat. “So, it be true. You be followin’ Jin’do’s path.”
“Ol’ friend,” Zalazane replied, and the blood on his face cracked as he grinned, showing off yellowed tusks. “You be sheddin’ a lot of blood this night. You be joinin’ us to call Hakkar?”
“Never,” Vol’jin said, disgusted. “We be puttin’ an end to you now.”
“Come, try it,” Zalazane said. “My master be puttin’ a stop to you, right quick--” His gaze fell on Thrall, and there was a flash of something there: fear. “Oh, you be bringin’ the whole Horde with you now?”
“I did, yes,” Thrall growled, gesturing to the Darkspear. The mages were already moving, paired off with the shamans, as they began to counter the blood magic all around them. “The Darkspear will never be alone again. They do not need to fear being abandoned by their allies and rejected by their homeland. The Echo Isles belong to the Darkspear. You will leave, now.”
“We won’t be walkin’ out of here, just because you ask pretty,” Zalazane sneered. “You be weak.”
“Who said we’d be asking you? I intend to punt your head into the ocean,” Thrall replied. “Darkspear!”
“Darkspear!” cried the trolls, and they surged forward again. The Atal’ai surrounded Zalazane, and made their final stand. Shouting, the hexmaster pointed at a cluster of warriors. Some of them became toads, hopping around helplessly, while others turned on their fellows. The shamans cried out, fighting Zalazane’s dark magics with that of the loa. Eyes cleared, and they redoubled their efforts. Zen’tabra surged forward, shrugging off the hex with palpable contempt, and drove fang and claw into the first line of the Atal’ai.
“Blood, blood, blood...”
Thrall’s head snapped up, looking for the voices. The Atal’ai were too busy with the Darkspear, and Zalazane, while he spoke, was not chanting. No, the sound was coming from somewhere else, somewhere-- “Vol’jin, look!”
Above the altar was a ghost. No, not a ghost... a spirit, a corrupted loa. It was a huge wind-serpent, and while the wild ones of the southern Barrens were anything from hostile to shy, this one had eyes that were blood red and gleamed with malevolence. As each troll fell, be they Darkspear or Atal’ai or Hakkari, the spirit pulsed, becoming more distinct.
“Blood, BLOOD, BLOOD...”
“It be coming, we must stop it!”
“I’ll handle Zalazane, you get Hakkar!” Thrall cried, drawing Sen’jin’s dagger, and charged headlong into the hexmaster. The Darkspear closed rapidly, protecting Thrall’s back. Zalazane struck out at him with magic, and Thrall called on the spirits, and other memories. Jaina’s lectures had served him earlier, and Sergeant’s would serve him now.
’Jab at his ribs, boy,’ the human urged him as Thrall feinted left and jabbed right. ’If he can’t breathe, he can’t cast spells, eh? Now he’s panicking, punch his jaw, but don’t hit them damned tusks’.
Thrall smiled as Zalazane’s head rocked back. ’Don’t ever give up the advantage. You’re big and strong, and people hate you and what you represent. It makes them angry. Let their anger be your weapon’.
’Do you hate me?’ he’d asked, looking up at him, and Sergeant had paused, and there was no snap of bone, not like now, as Thrall punched again, and again.
’Well, I suppose I don’t,’ Sergeant had replied, after a moment, and put his hand on Thrall’s shoulder. ’But I also don’t want to fight you.’
’Me neither.’
Thrall was fast, faster than it seemed right for an orc of his size to be, and without the heavy armour he’d inherited, it felt like he could walk on air. With Zalazane off-balance, Thrall shoulder-charged him as he staggered, knocking him to the ground, scattering skulls everywhere. Zalazane was afraid, and Thrall recognized the look. Blackmoore. Blackmoore had been that frightened, when he realized he was going to die by a weapon of his own creation. The dagger flashed, and Thrall brought it down, a spray of blood hitting his face and lips. Grimly, he stabbed again.
“BLOOD, BLOOD, BLOOD!”
One more monster never to plague this world again, Thrall thought as the dagger tumbled from his fingertips. For caution, he snapped Zalazane’s neck, and then picked up the dagger. One step closer to the freedom of harvest festivals and celebration instead of fear and violence.
Vol’jin stood on the altar, holding his staff up, until it seemed to touch Hakkar himself. He shouted the words, old when the Twin Empires were young, throwing Hakkar back into the spirit world. The Blood God bellowed in rage, striking out at Vol’jin. Winds ripped away his feathers and the beads. It flattened his hair against the back of his scalp, and his eyes were wide. From behind Vol’jin’s back arose a second spirit.
Thrall opened his mouth to cry out and then stopped as it took form: the spirit was a troll, and its skin was black. A skull was painted over its face, the jaw over the troll’s jaw. It wore nothing but a loincloth, adorned with skulls, and they seemed tiny, until Thrall realized that they were normal sized, it was the spirit that was enormous, expanding rapidly.
“Hakkar, this be not your land, not your place,” the spirit boomed. Vol’jin continued to chant, his voice sounding harsh and raw as the words came out as desperate cries. He held onto his concentration and sanity with a white-knuckled grip. “Go back to the beyond. I be dealin’ with you soon.”
“BLOOD! SKULLS! THIS PLACE IS MINE. THE DARKSPEAR ARE MINE!”
“Go... fuck... yourself... with... a spike,” Vol’jin managed, raising his staff higher, striking Hakkar’s skull with his staff, screaming the last words of the ritual.
Hakkar bellowed, lashing out one final time, and flattening everyone on the altar, Vol’jin included. Thrall forced himself onto his elbows, watching as Hakkar disappeared into a puff of smoke, leaving only Hakkar’s heart, the centre of the ritual, behind. There was silence and stillness. Hakkar’s heart stopped pulsing and lay inert. The scent of blood became old, and then, simply dust. Vol’jin was curled on his side, the staff far from his grip, shattered into a dozen pieces.
The spirit troll leaned over him, curiously, poking him this way and that.
“Bwonsamedi,” Shandel’zare called out. Her garb was stained with blood, and burned, and ragged, but she stood proudly, moving to Vol’jin’s side. “He is not one of yours. He lives yet.”
“Ah, Frostmaster Shandel’zare,” the spirit said, and Thrall winced. “Do you challenge me? That be unwise.”
“I do,” Shandel’zare said, setting her jaw. “Shoo.”
“Shoo?” the troll loa of death said, disbelievingly. “That be what you be sayin’ to Bwonsamedi?”
“It be what she says,” Vanira said, moving to her side, her fists clenched. “Vol’jin be our greatest leader, aside from the Bossman. Shoo.”
Thrall felt a flush of pride at her words. Zen’tabra moved up, relaxing her shape into that of a troll, and her green hair fell over her shoulders in a shaggy, wild fall, and she wore a necklace of tiger claws, a loincloth, and little else. “Shoo.”
Jes’rimmon limped up to Shandel’zare’s side. “Shoo, Bwonsamedi. Shoo.”
The Darkspear, injured and limping, crowded the pinnacle, placing themselves between their leader and their loa. Thrall moved up too. “Shoo. I will not let you take my friend.”
“Eh, I be only curious anyway, and you all be comin’ to me in the end.” The spirit looked around. “I be takin’ my own skulls this day, from the brave and the foolish alike. See you ‘round.”
Bwonsamedi disappeared, fading out, and the world seemed to grow brighter. Vol’jin stirred, muttering and swearing.
“Get you... stupid... buck-toothed... butterfly...”
Vanira fell to her knees and kissed him, grasping each of his ears and giving him a shake, starting in on a lecture about his recklessness. As Vol’jin batted at her, helpless as a kitten, Zen’tabra took up the task. Vol’jin searched pleadingly for Thrall, and while exhausted, he seemed as sharp as ever.
Thrall laughed in sheer joy, holding his arms up to the skies. There was a crack of thunder, a flash of lightning, and it began to rain.
~ * ~
It took three days to clean up the rest of the Isle. Those the least injured, accompanied by shapeshifters, or mages, or shamans, patrolled the isle, destroying the last of the hoodoo piles and hunting down the Hakkari and Atal’ai that attempted to flee. The rain, which had not stopped until the third day, cleansed the altar and the pyramid of blood, leaving puddles behind for troll whelps to splash in, expressing their joy in a simple, yet meaningful way.
Once all traces of the invading force was erased, then it was time to celebrate. Thrall lounged on a mat of straw and wood, sipping a banana and strawberry smoothie. Jazabal winked at him, and walked off. Thrall sighed happily.
I am going to be very drunk by the end of today, Thrall thought, tasting the kick behind it. Fortunately, I had little to do anyway, other than enjoy myself.
At war, the Darkspear were all business. At peace, they went all-out, and he could hear drums, and bells, and thrumming strings. Laughter chased away the last of the ghosts of the dead, and the trolls were doing a great deal of that, telling each other stories about their combats, and the Hakkari that they had slain. The stand of Vol’jin’s friends against Bwonsamedi was told over and over, and each time, they were toasted. Darkspear lounged in shady alcoves, most of them naked, and sometimes, a companion would rouse enough to want to celebrate in a different, but no less enthusiastic way. Thrall was not far from Vol’jin, and he had been toasted a number of times as well for his own efforts regarding Zalazane, and it had been with great, ritual pride that he had thrown Zalazane bodily into the ocean to be eaten by crabs.
It was hot, the last trace of Summer before Autumn truly hit them, and the Darkspear were enjoying the heat. Thrall had to admit, dressed in only a loincloth, with a cold drink in his hand and nothing better to do, the heat was quite nice.
We did it, Thrall thought, taking another sip. We fought Hakkar, and we won. No one, but no one, messes with my people. His gaze drifted over a trio of nearly-naked troll women, and he sighed again, though wistfully. If only Jaina were here...
“Chieftain! Bossman!” called one of the less drunk trolls, and Thrall looked over. The youth looked worried as he addressed them both. “We be seein’ ships comin’! Lots of them!”
“Ah... the Zandalari, I be thinking,” Vol’jin said, and not even alcohol could lubricate his tone into something other than bitter. “They be wantin’ the heart.”
“I’ll come with you,” Thrall said, and moved to his feet. He gave the ground a stern look, ordering it to remain steady. It remained obdurate in its silence. Fine, then. Be that way.
It was not so much a march, as the party moved out of the village and spilled onto the beach, displacing some of those who had chosen to celebrate there. As they approached, Thrall could see the descendants of the first trolls. Their dress was like that of the formal battlegarb of the Darkspear, though it was different too, or perhaps... It is the Darkspear that have changed and adapted, and the Zandalari that have held onto their roots as tightly as they could.
A trio of Zandalari stepped onto the water, leaving nothing but light impressions as they made their way to shore. Vol’jin, with Vanira and Zen’tabra at his side, and Shandel’zare, Jes’rimmon and Thrall at his back, met them.
“Chieftain Vol’jin of the Darkspear Tribe,” began the lead troll. “We have come to retrieve the Heart of Hakkar, and return it safely to the vaults of King Rhastakhan, long may he reign. I see that you have succeeded in ending the threat of Zalazane, so you must have it yet.”
“We be havin’ it,” Vol’jin said, though his tone was sour. “You be needin’ to pay better attention to it, hm? It got away from the vaults.”
“The concern has been taken care of,” the Zandalari said. “Now--”
“No,” Thrall said, startling them all. “We will not give it back, and I will tell you why.”
“Warchief,” Shandel’zare hissed softly. “You speak to Molthor, the hand of the High Chieftain himself.”
“Is this the hand he uses to scratch himself instead of being useful?” Thrall demanded, and the trolls stiffened.
“You are not Zandalari, you know nothing of our ways,” Molthor said, annoyed. “We know of the history of the orcs.”
“Good for you,” Thrall spat. “Now you will know of the present. We fought Zalazane and the Hakkari. We fought the Atal’ai. We fought Hakkar. We sacrificed. We lost warriors. We did so because the Darkspear had lost two homes and would not lose a third. We did so because when there is evil in the world, we must fight it, not sit around and do nothing until everything is over, and you claim the final prize.”
“We are neutral, we must provide a place for all of the tribes to gather, to speak and to negotiate. We cannot take sides.”
“That’s not what being neutral is,” Thrall insisted. “When you are neutral you must defend the suffering, regardless of who is doing that suffering. What if Zalazane had won here? Would you still be neutral then? Would you let the Atal’ai destroy all that has been built here? Would you let them invade the human lands once they were empowered by the Blood God? Do the humans deserve to die more than the trolls do? Or the orcs? No, they do not. You are not neutral... you are lazy. This is the Darkspear’s victory. This is the Horde’s victory. Get back in your boats and leave. You cannot be trusted to do what is right.”
“Will you let the blood of Hakkar pollute you?” Molthor demanded. “Vol’jin, will you allow this?”
“I be trustin’ Thrall more than I be trustin’ you, Molthor,” Vol’jin declared. “I be standin’ with my Warchief. Don’t be makin’ us shoo you.”
“And I know someone I can trust that will be able to contain this threat, and she will not allow it to be stolen by fanatics. She knows how to keep an evil artifact safe.” Thrall crosses his arms over his chest, keeping a careful eye on his smoothie. “Go.”
Molthor looked around, and his lips were set in a grim line. “Very well. You are making a mistake.”
“No, we are not,” Shandel’zare said, her voice firm now. “Tradition is not a shackle, it is a frame for something greater. You use it as a crutch. We use it when we need to, and we create new traditions when the old have outlived their usefulness. If you care to maintain the tradition of keeping Hakkar out of this world, look into Jin’do and his followers. Then this need not happen again.”
“The High Chieftain will know,” Molthor said and turned away, heading back to his boat and snapping orders.
“Do you be thinkin’ Jaina can handle it?” Vol’jin asked quietly as the Zandalari rowed away.
“Of course I do, I believe in her,” Thrall replied, drinking deeply. “I’m sure she’ll return soon.”
Thrall raised his gaze to the skies, smiling to himself. The enormity of speaking out against the Zandalari would hit him in time, but for now, as alcohol simmered in his stomach, he would simply enjoy the rest of the day as it came.
On to Unity Sidestory: Defiance