Jin’zolo felt the cool winds of the Great Sea on his face again; felt the matted, mangy fur of Razzhala between his knees. He hadn’t felt it for years, but it was familiar, beautiful, and natural. As he began to ask himself why he had neglected Razzhala for so long; why he hadn’t flown over his home and felt the sun on his body as one could only feel it above the clouds, he noticed that the wind was unusually salty, and the fur beneath him cold and unmoving. Even the sun felt… different, somehow.

When he opened his eyes, Jin’zolo knew immediately why.

Because he wasn’t in Durotar; because he had left his home; because Razzhala was dead.

But it was hard to feel miserable beholding the morning sea from Yojamba Isle. The orange skies were hidden by a carpet of cumulus, whose underbellies were soaked in violet. Beneath this sky, the Great Sea offered a distorted, glittering reflection. Accompanying the sights were the sounds of the ocean washing over the sandy beach below his hut, the orchestra of Stranglethorn’s diurnal fauna audible even here, so far from the mainland, and the smell of both the salty sea and breakfast being cooked by the isle’s inhabitants.

Jin’zolo scratched behind his pointed ear and yawned loudly. He stood, stretched, and looked back at the hammock strung up in the corner of his small room, covered in a cured panther pelt. He leaned down, and ran his hand across it; closed his eyes and tried to imagine Razzhala there instead, but it was useless.

Only in dreams.

Jin’zolo instead dressed himself in a ragged toga, buckled on his harness, sheathed his two axes, and then exited his room down the wide, winding stairway. As he descended he saw the rest of Yojamba waking up. The tongueless ferryman rowed new adventurers over from the mainland. Exzhal was casting a complex spell, pouring reagents into a cauldron as he danced around it. Most importantly, Ijunte was waiting impatiently beside her riding raptor at the base of Al’tabim’s hut. Jin’zolo sighed, and picked up his pace.

When he arrived, he saw why she was impatient. A human girl in an overly decorative violet dress was chatting with the troll wizard. Jin’zolo raised a curious eyebrow at Ijunte as he approached. She looked at him but said nothing. Jin’zolo couldn’t understand the human, but let her finish her diatribe before interjecting.

He pointed at her with his thumb. “Who be ‘dis, then?”

Ijunte sighed. “One o’ da humans me met at T’eramore. Her dinna tink o’ us as friends ‘til her had nah company but otha trolls, mon.”

Jin’zolo had been performing tasks for the Zandalar for months, but Ijunte had only come to Yojamba only a week before. They had come to work together in the Zandalar Tribe’s noble service over the last few days, Ijunte’s powerful magics complimenting Jin’zolo’s furious fighting skills.

Ijunte herself was something of an anomaly, as far as trolls went. She knew several languages, including the pompous tongue of the humans, and the dainty language of the elves. But it was not without reason.

Ijunte had a mate: the sorcerer Mau’zashu. She had, then, been an enchantress for the Darkspear Tribe (of which he, too, was a member). Jin’zolo hadn’t gathered the full details, and had felt it impolite to pursue the matter, but the point of the story was that in a failed magical experiment, Mau’zashu had been transformed into a frog. Ijunte had then embarked on a worldwide voyage to uncover the reason for Mau’zashu’s fate and the means for a cure. She had conferred with any top magical mind that would see her, including Lady Jaina Proudmoore in the human island-city of Theramore. The human mages, however, had proven a dead end, with no more insight on the problem than Ijunte herself. When all other avenues had produced similar results, Ijunte had gone to see the Weird Sisters. They had told her that the primal gods had forsaken Ijunte and Mau’zashu, and that until they were appeased through service to their troll wards, Mau’zashu could never return to his natural form.

Mau’zashu, however would not abandon his mate, and accompanied her everywhere. Even now, he perched on her olive raptor’s saddle, lazily tearing the wings off a colourful beetle.

Ijunte heaved another sigh, in reply to something the human said, and then gestured to her. “Jin’zolo, ‘dis be Camille Bradford, o’ de Uplands, Apprentice o’ de Wizards’ Sanctum.”

“Impressive,” Jin’zolo extended a hand, and Camille shook it, nervously navigating his three fingers with her five as Ijunte introduced him to her in the human language, which the humans had arrogantly named “Common.”

Camille said something and laughed.

“What she sayin’?” asked Jin’zolo.

“Her be tellin’ a joke dat isn’t funny,” Ijunte answered quietly.

“Sounds fun,” Jin’zolo chuckled. “I let da two o’ you catch up, while I collect ma gear from Jin’rokh.”

Jin’zolo crossed the square to the hut of Jin’rokh the Breaker. Jin’rokh was a dire troll – gigantic, even by troll standards – and allegedly the mightiest warrior of the Zandalar Tribe. How he came to be so monstrously huge Jin’zolo did not know. Some said he fought the loa Ogoun, and grew to such proportions after he bit off and devoured his finger. Others said he was the result of the Zandalar’s various alchemical experiments. Others still said that all the trolls from Mount Mugamba’s perilous peaks were equally gargantuan. Jin’zolo had never asked. Jin’zolo had thought it impolite to pursue the matter.

When Jin’zolo had first come to Yojamba, Jin’rokh the Breaker had taken an immediate interest in him. After there was some minor robberies at the inn, and adventurers took to hiding their valuables in holes on the beach, Jin’rokh had volunteered to Jin’zolo his hut to house his armour. Jin’zolo had accepted without question, having watched (with no short of amusement) a frustrated dwarf shake the sand from her chain mail one morning. He hadn’t thought to feel uncomfortable until the previous night, when Jin’rokh had told him he had a gift he had been preparing for him.

Jin’rokh had his broad back to Jin’zolo, looking more like a sleeping kodo from that angle than a troll. As the giant troll turned, he revealed that he was sharpening a jagged sword - longer than Jin’zolo was tall - with what would have been to anyone else a small boulder. His tusks were long and thick, which made beholding a smile from Jin’rokh a simulteneously amusing and disturbing experience.

“Hail, Jin’zolo,” he greeted in his low, granite voice. “You come for your armaments. You shall have them. But you shall take from here another thing, too.”

Jin’zolo bowed graciously. “Mah service be its own reward, Breaker-mon,” he said.

Jin’rokh set aside his sword and stone, and shambled across his hut, ignoring Jin’zolo’s humility. “The Gurubashi hope to steal from us the Loa. Your coming here proves they have yet to wholly succeed.” He took from his belt a tiny key - small enough that even Jin’zolo would have trouble maneuvering it. Yet Jin’rokh, who had fingers as thick as Jin’zolo’s arm, seemed to have no trouble inserting it into a small lockbox.

“I have heard stories. I have heard where you come from. I have heard why you have come from there.” Jin’rokh spoke steadily as he plunged a massive finger into his lockbox and began searching through the various trinkets inside. “You flew with the Darkspear on the wings of a bat. The human fleet came. You fought. You were defeated. Your bat friend was killed.”

Jin’zolo’s face darkened. Razzhala’s fate was not something he often spoke of. In fact, since leaving Durotar he had told no one. But Jin’zolo had been one of the Darkspear’s foremost batriders. His defeat had been well-documented amongst the tribe. Many of his tribesmen thought him a fallen legend, now. It had taken a degree of insanity to fling cocktails of liquid fire from a moving bat, and losing Razzhala had, many suspected, pushed him over the brink.

Dying would have been fine. Death was not unheard of. The Darkspear honoured those batriders who dove headlong into their enemies, detonating their concoctions and sacrificing themselves for their tribe. For Jin’zolo to die with Razzhala would have had meaning. But he had survived. He had lain in Darkbriar lodge for three years, praying for Samedi to claim him. But Samedi never came.

He had thrown himself at Tiragarde Keep to find him.

Tiragarde Keep had been the stronghold of Proudmoore’s disenfranchised, yet unquestioningly loyal, Tirassian reserves led by Lieutenant Benedict. By the time Jin’zolo was up and about again, Proudmoore’s daughter Jaina had formalized a treaty with Thrall and the Horde. The Warchief had then made a very clear mandate: Theramore and its people were off limits. The mongrel humans of Tiragarde, however, had rejected the invitation to stay at Theramore by the Lady Proudmoore, and besides, Benedict’s resurfacing in Durotar was a blatant violation of their agreement.

Thrall had been hesitant to attack them. Gar’Thok, his lieutenant in Razor Hill, was not. The forces of the Horde had started slow, at first, picking off advance scouts, ambushing hunting parties, and luring guardsmen into the wild, but they picked up momentum. The fight with Proudmoore’s fleet had been long, bloody, and devestating. Jin’zolo wasn’t the only one who lost loved ones. When Gar’Thok’s recruits were sufficient in numbers, they stormed the keep. Jin’zolo had been a whirlwind of destruction, staining his blades and his teeth with salty human blood. The rest of the raiding party soon grew the sense to give him a wide berth. For when that glint of vengeful bloodlust lit up his eyes, anything within arm’s length was in harm’s way.

In the end, Benedict was slain - brutally, if the stories were true. Jin’zolo himself had taken from the Keep the bloodied head of a human called Zalaphil. The only humans to survive were those who fled, but they were doomed in the harsh wilds of Durotar alone. That night, they had feasted upon the spoils gleaned from the humans’ stores. Nazgrel had insisted that the bodies be properly buried, and had demanded that no trophies be taken. Jin’zolo had kept the head of Zalaphil.

But as Zalaphil’s face sank in decay, tossed in the corner of Jin’zolo’s hut, the troll found himself restless; unsatisfied. Had he avenged Razzhala? Would vengeance be enough? Jin’zolo was no scholar, and wished not to think on such things, but in the lonely solitude of his hut, his mind could be occupied by little else. Somehow, Zalaphil’s last visage, a look of terror and defeat, seemed only a twisted, mocking guffaw.

He had left. He had wandered, and he had found his way to Yojamba Isle.

Jin’rokh spoke again. “I have no quarrel with the humans. I know that you do. I know that you took to them with great vengeance. You were right to. There is a power in vengeance. Only the Zandalari vindicator truly knows such power. Hakkar is not the first to cross the Zandalar. We have had many foes. Crime is old. In such an era, the vindicator ruled the ways of vengeance. Our enemies paid dearly. None dared to provoke the wrath of the vindicator.

“We have not had a vindicator within the Zandalar for thousands of years. We have not needed a vindicator. But we are not decadent. We are not complacent. The call for this new revenge must be answered. We must find a new generation of vindicators. You must be among them. That is why the Loa brought you to me.”

Jin’zolo gulped.

Jin’rokh made a delighted grunt, and pulled from his lockbox, hooked on a black, twisted fingernail, a large, intricate pendant. It was a miniature facsimile of a wooden voodoo mask, festooned with charms along the hemp chain. The eyes of the mask seemed to leave a faint trail of light as it moved, and seated within its mouth was a small piece of stone.

“This is a gift to you. Mount Mugamba is a symbol of strength to all the Zandalar.” Jin’rokh thrust the amulet towards Jin’zolo. “Take Mugamba with you. Let the strength of Mugamba flow through your being.”

Jin’zolo took the amulet from Jin’rokh with both hands. “Breaker-mon, I be greatly honoured.”

“So should you be,” Jin’rokh nodded. “But you know vengeance. You understand that power. It is a power that frightens even me. And I fear not even Hakkar.”

Jin’zolo put the pendant around his neck. He looked at the stone set in the mask’s mouth - the stone taken from Mount Mugamba.

Jin’rokh slung a thick arm beneath a table and withdrew a bundle bound in skins - Jin’zolo’s armour. He handed it to him.

“Go now. Be empowered as you strike down our enemies!”

When Jin’zolo left Jin’rokh’s, fully outfitted, he found Ijunte missing from the town square, leaving a very nervous Camille alone with her horse, Ijunte’s raptor, and, of course, Mau’zashu. She got a little more panicked as he neared her. But Jin’zolo didn’t hate her. Being a jungle troll, it was easy for him to understand that the people of the same race could serve different allegiences. He blamed Proudmoore’s cowards for Razzhala’s death. He felt it a disservice to spread that blame and hatred to their entire race, when they deserved all of it.

Jin’zolo was about to  begin the awkward process of attempting conversation through the language barrier when Ijunte mercifully called his name. He turned to see her walking towards them with another troll woman. She was dressed in dark mail, and slung across her shoulders was a blackened longbow. She stood a head taller than Ijunte, and from that Jin’zolo could guess that she likely stood taller than even himself. She had an air of notoriety about her. Jin’zolo didn’t recognize her, but he felt like she expected him to. Camille, he noted with a sidelong glance, looked terrified.

Ijunte smiled awkwardly, “‘Dis be Jin’zolo an’ Camille Bradford,” she told the tall troll woman, then, to him: “Jin’zolo, ‘dis be Sen’zir Beastwalker, ‘de Darkspear huntress.” She repeated the introduction to Camille in her language.

Sen’zir, meanwhile, had been staring Camille down the whole time. When Ijunte was finished, the Darkspear huntress wrinkled her nose. “Leave her here. We not be takin’ hoo-mans wit’ us.”

Ijunte glanced at Sen’zir with some consternation. “Hakkar be enemy of all, Beastwalker. We not have hands enough ta take on Zul’Gurub wit’out-”

“Ah don’t work wit’ hoo-mans,” said Sen’zir forcefully. “It be a simple matta. Exzhal put me in charge o’ ‘dis mission, and Ah not be fool enough ta risk it on some hoo-man. ‘Dey be traitors an’ liars.”

“Wit’ all due respect, Sen’zir,” Ijunte began patiently.

Sen’zir cut her off again. “It be final.”

Ijunte paused, obviously annoyed, but turned to Camille and relayed the news. Jin’zolo raised his gaze to Sen’zir. “Mission?”

She nodded. “When ‘de news o’ Hakkar first reached Zuldazar, Rastakhan sent word to ‘de greatest champions of all ‘da trolls - de high priests of ‘da Primal Gods. Dey stormed Zul’Gurub together, and made war on ‘da Hakkari. They did not return.”

Jin’zolo was mostly already aware of all this, but listened nonetheless. Ijunte had finished her explanation to Camille, who made a gracious, apparently happy reply, then took her white steed and moved away from them at a hastened pace.

Sen’zir continued: “Exzhal and Molthor believed da priests dead. Tragic ‘dough dat would be, ‘dere be some’tin darker at work here. Since dey’s disappearance, Exzhal and Al’tabim have not been able ta speak to the Primal Gods, nah invoke dey’s blessing. ‘Da Zandalar have not yet breached da city walls. We dinna know what be wit’in. We dinna ‘tink it possible, but perhaps Hakkar has sweet-talked ‘de high priests ta his cause.

“However, da Zandalar spies around Gurub have sighted da high priestess o’ Hakkar - Hai’watna. Her be second only ta de Hexxer himself. We mean ta find Hai’watna, question her, and exact de vengeance o’ da Zandalar upon her.”

Her austere gaze turned now to him, and she leaned her face in close to his. Had either of them so desired, they could have hooked tusks. “Ijunte has vouched for you. If you choose ta accompany us, do not let us down.”

Jin’zolo narrowed his gaze, but said nothing. After a moment, Sen’zir backed away, but was still staring at him. Ijunte looked on with mild interest.

“If ‘dere be not’in else,” said Sen’zir finally, “we should be leavin.”

The three trolls raced through the Vale under the shade of its heavy canopy atop their swift raptors. Zallagra, Ijunte’s raptor, was fully decked out in wooden plates of armour on her legs and tail, complete with an ornate mask on her face. These, crudely painted purple and adorned with decorative magenta feathers, contrasted smoothly with the raptor’s olive-coloured skin, mottled with splotches of pale pink. Jin’zolo had not opted for these trappings, but then, he didn’t have to, for Ibli’wana was impressive by himself, being a rare breed of raptor. His skin was sheet white with dark blue stripes running off his spine, decorated only with black war paint on his thigh and under his eye. Sen’zir, meanwhile, rode bareback on her blood-red raptor, aplty named Bloodclaw. Hers was a raptor of the Barrens, and as clever as their mounts could be, Bloodclaw’s eyes betrayed a fierce cunning outmatched by theirs.

The Gurubashi may have been the most dire threat within the depths of the Vale, but they were far from the only one. Apart from, of course, the indigenous wildlife, the Venture Company had begun an operation at Lake Nazferiti and were very hostile to anyone who dared intrude upon their mysterious plans, and Colonel Kurzen’s maniacal minions, empowered and driven insane by the potent drugs found within the forest, attacked anything in their line of sight with a fury that impressed even the trolls. Naturally, the various tribes of jungle trolls who hadn’t been exiled with the Darkspears knew outsiders when they saw them, and were unforgiving at the best of times. The tensions reignited by the return of Hakkar had exacerbated those hostilities further.

However, their raptors tread quiet on the forest floor, and Sen’zir’s keen senses allowed them to give potential threats a wide berth. They reached the outskirts of Zul’Gurub just as the sun was approaching its zenith.

While Bloodclaw was slavering to enter combat at his master’s side, Ibli’wana and Zallagra were less suited for battle. Though capable hunters, both, they lacked the capacity to work in conjunction with their troll companions’ tactics, whereas Bloodclaw and Sen’zir shared an unnerving dichotomy. Ijunte once told Jin’zolo of an occasion when she had attempted to unleash Zallagra on her foes, but her usually faithful raptor simply attacked chaotically, moving from one target to the next, actually forcing Ijunte to forestall her spells for the sake of Zallagra’s safety. They had survived, but it had, Ijunte stressed, been an experiment she was unwilling to attempt again.

So they opted instead to leash their mounts nearby. Zallagra’s bright colours allowed her to blend seamlessly into a multi-coloured flowering bush, but Ibli’wana’s camoflage took some more work. Jin’zolo lashed large fern leaves to Ibli’wana, then tied his reins to an exposed root from a sturdy tree. Raptors of many breeds were native to Stranglethorn, however both Ibli’wana’s rarity and Zallagra’s decorations would have drawn attention. While the Gurubashi were unlikely to kill them, at the very least they would be wise to the invading trolls’ presence. It took almost an hour to properly conceal the raptors, and another twenty minutes for Ijunte to convince Mau’zashu to remain with Zallagra, until they were finally ready to leave them. They removed their supplies from the raptors - Sen’zir’s backpack of supplies, her bow, axes, and arrows; Ijunte’s staff and pouch of reagents; and Jin’zolo’s axes.

It was both impressive and disturbing that the vast city could be so easily concealed by the jungle. They couldn’t tell it was there until they were nearly at the foot of the tall, yellowed city walls. The walls protected and hid the city interior, and the guardsmen atop the ramparts, accompanied by various Razzashi beasts, discouraged any daring climbers. But even from the ground, they could hear the faint sounds, every now and then, of the city within: the beating of ritual drums, the eager chatter of the trolls, spiked by the occasional bloodcurdling scream - another victim sacrificed to the Blood God, Hakkar. They followed the edge of the wall until they came to the city gates.

The entrance to Zul’Gurub was a well-trod ramp flanked by two ancient walls of yellowed stone, built in the shape of two undulating serpents. Gurubashi sentries meandered about on a loose patrol route at the foot of the pathway. Bloody footprints dotted the ground, and even from their vantage point, they could see the faces of the Gurubashi trolls smeared with dried blood. Even their armour seemed to have been tempered with it.

Wordlessly, Sen’zir prodded the other two and pointed to the north of the entrance. On either side of the ramp, the walls curved out briefly to protect a tall wooden scout tower, the hut atop the thick struts clearly visible above the edge of the wall. Sen’zir nodded at the tower, and then stole away into the underbrush, Bloodclaw following her with unerring silence. Jin’zolo and Ijunte followed suit.

Jin’zolo continually feared that he had lost Sen’zir, and he begrudgingly knew that had she wished it, she could have with ease. But whenever he floundered, she reappeared for a moment, and once she was sure he saw her, she would vanish again. They circled the edge of the entrance, avoiding the patrols, and arrived at the base of the wall under the tower. Sen’zir knelt down, unslinging and opening her backpack. She removed from it a grappling hook tied to a long rope - thin but sturdy - which she handed to Jin’zolo, and a bundled up cloth which possessed a faint odour of sweet grass.

She closed her backback and tossed it under a fern, then stood. A rare smile crept onto her face, as she stalked towards Bloodclaw with what seemed to be trust and affection. She delicately stroked under his chin, and he growled in happy response. She held out the cloth bundle. Bloodclaw’s eyes went wide as his nostils flared. He sniffed it thoroughly for a moment more before letting out a low roar, and then aprubtly turning and darting off into the underbrush. Sen’zir knelt down, and unfurled the cloth, tying it about her ankle. When she rose, her face bore its usual grimace. She followed the wall along until they came to the corner where the curved wall met the wall of the ramp. Here, they were secluded from view from both the guards in the tower and along the wall. Wordlessly, she took the rope and grappling hook from Jin’zolo, and bid them to stand back. She swung the hook in one hand for a moment, then launched it into the air. Her first attempt struck the wall below its edge and fell back down to the ground. The second lodged, but pulled free after a hearty tug. Her third caught successfully and wouldn’t budge, even after she pulled on it repeatedly. Satisfied, she slung her bow across her back, hooked her axes on her belt, and, holding the rope tight in her hands, began to walk up the wall.

Jin’zolo and Ijunte had assumed they would take turns, not wanting to stress the rope too much, but after several yards up the wall, Sen’zir turned and gestured impatiently for them to begin. Jin’zolo shrugged at Ijunte and, with some trepidation, followed Sen’zir up the wall.

Sen’zir, it became obvious, had done this before. She climbed up the wall as easily as she might climb a flight of stairs. Jin’zolo and Ijunte, however, were first-timers, and took their time. Ijunte’s magics could be enough to save her, but were they to both fall or the rope to break... Jin’zolo opted not to think about it until his feet were on firm, horizontal ground once again. But though the going was slow, their climb was otherwise uneventful. Soon Sen’zir was helping him over the top of the wall, right beneath the wooden tower.

Sen’zir dropped to the ground as lightly as a cat, and Jin’zolo followed with considerably less grace, his chain mail rattling and he stumbling to one knee. Ijunte faired little better. Sen’zir put a finger to her lips, and was motionless, her eyes darting to and fro and her ears attentive for any detection of their presence. Satisfied after a moment, she peeked out from behind the strut. Low to the ground, Jin’zolo did the same.

The planks encircling the tower were guarded by two Gurubashi trolls, both men. Though alert, it looked as though their shifts were already several hours long. One leaned up against one of the tower’s struts while the other cut blades of grass on his axe. There was another support strut between them, but the guards had their backs to Jin’zolo and his company.

Without a sound, Sen’zir broke her hiding place and loped over to a small jut in the wall, one just large enough for her to remain concealed behind. She gestured to Jin’zolo, pointing to the leaning guard, and putting an arrow to her bow. Jin’zolo nodded, and drew a small throwing axe from the cluster on his belt. He reared back, then held up his free hand and counted down on his fingers.

Three, two, one.

There was a soft twang of Sen’zir’s bowstring, and the oscillating hum of Jin’zolo’s axe whirling through the air. Sen’zir’s arrow impaled the guard leaning against the strut through the head. He made no sound, and slid down the strut, coming to rest on his knees. The other guard stood for a few seconds more, staring in disbelief at the throwing axe sticking out of his chest, squirting a few weak spurts of blood before he collapsed backward with a soft crash.

Sen’zir immediately broke hiding, and Jin’zolo and Ijunte followed suit. Sen’zir’s bow was lowered, but she nevertheless had an arrow pulling the string taut. The three trolls scanned the area intently for any disturbances.

The path from the tower descended a hill and curved into the larger road that went from the city gates to the ramp they had seen earlier. At the bottom of the hill were a group of soldiers accompanied by an Atal’ai priest. They were relaxed and casual. The attack on the tower guards had not alerted them. Nor, it seemed, did it alert Hai’watna herself, for no sounds of scuffle came from the hut atop the tower.

Confident that the area was secure, Sen’zir motioned for Jin’zolo and Ijunte to come close. She leaned in to them and whispered with an unnerving smile, “You two stan’ watch. I finish ‘dis wit’ a single arrow.”

Sen’zir Beastwalker drew one such arrow from her quiver. She brought the feathered end to her lips, and licked a feather sharp. She twirled the arrow around and kissed the barbed arrowhead.

Jin’zolo and Ijunte took flanking positions on either side of the path leading down the hill. Sen’zir turned her back to them, and arched backwards, squinting into the sun and up at the hut. Jin’zolo chanced a backward glance, and attempted to follow her gaze. He made out vague movement atop the tower, but resumed his guard duty before he had time to make out anything specific.

Behind him, Sen’zir put arrow to bow, and took steady aim. She grinned, made a soft, triumphant chuckle, and loosed her arrow with a soft twang.

A sharp, loud scream pierced the air for a moment, and a dark shape toppled from the edge of the tower. It spun down without form or pattern, flailing, bouncing off a strut on the way down. Only when it landed in a broken heap at the base of the tower could Jin’zolo discern that it was a female troll.

Hai’watna was dead.

Jin’zolo sighed in quiet. He felt himself a tad cheated. Nevertheless, he clapped Sen’zir on the shoulder and smiled at her. “A mighty fine job, mon.”

When he turned to her, however, she had turned a pale cyan. Her lips trembled around her tusks, and she whispered. “‘Dis not be her.”

“Us got troubles, mon,” said Ijunte, backing towards them, pointing down the hill. Sen’zir and Jin’zolo followed her outstretched finger to see the trolls at the base of the hill advancing forward warily. Ijunte looked quizzically at Sen’zir. “What you say?”

“‘Dis be not Hai’watna,” Sen’zir said around a choke.

Ijunte’s eyes flared upwards, and she gasped, then shot out her hands. Jin’zolo was suddenly drawn backward, pulled from behind by an invisible tether. Sen’zir and Ijunte had similarly shot backward, just in time to dodge a ball of black fire that descended like some hellish comet from above. Though Ijunte’s magic had pulled them free from the brunt of the attack, the fireball exploded as it slammed into the ground, and the three trolls were blasted off their feet.

There was a trollish cackle from above. Jin’zolo looked up and saw the silhouette of a tall troll woman for a brief moment before it disappeared behind the rim of the rampart.

Shouts were coming in increasing volume from the hill, and a rumble of footsteps were coming down the ramp of the tower. Ijunte shot them both a panicked look, but Sen’zir merely backed away from the tower, pulling another arrow from her quiver. “Be ready,” she said quietly.

Jin’zolo nodded, tightening his grip on his axes and widening his stance.

“Ijunte!” Sen’zir called to her. “Stan’ wi’ us.”

Ijunte gestured wildly down the hill. “What about ‘dem, mon?” she asked, exasperated.

“Don’ trouble youself, mon,” Sen’zir shook her head.

The trolls, however, had just crested the hill. The Atal’ai priest roared, and the soldiers batted their shields with the flats of their swords. It was then that a loud, gutteral roar rent the air.

 Bloodclaw jumped the priest from behind, tearing his head from his neck in one swift, brutal motion. The other trolls turned to face the raptor, but he had disrupted their preparations completely. He whipped them in the face, raked them across the chest with his claws, bit any offending arms with his jagged teeth. One almost managed to strike Bloodclaw’s flank, but he was stopped short by an arrow through the eye.

 Jin’zolo’s attention was diverted to the tower as four heavily-armoured guardsmen thundered down the ramp. One caught an arrow in the throat and tumbled forward, but the second charged into Sen’zir before she could loose a second arrow. The other two went for Ijunte.

Ijunte thrust her hand forward, and a blast of fire erupted in front of one of the trolls, like an invisible bomb had collided with his chest, and he flew backward. He was still in mid-air when Jin’zolo charged him.

The guard’s armour clanked against the ground as they tumbled. Jin’zolo made a quick strike for his face but the guard caught it on his jagged sword, then bashed Jin’zolo across the face with his shield. Winded, Jin’zolo jumped off of him and onto his feet, throwing a smaller axe at the guard as he staggered to his feet. The axe deflected off the plate across his shoulder, but the force left a dent. As the troll stood upright, Jin’zolo rushed forward again, swinging his axes in a twin flurry. The guard caught one on his shield but the other struck him in the side of the face with a crash. His helmet dented and cracked under the blow, and a substantial fragment of his tusk, covered in blood, flew past Jin’zolo’s shoulder. The guard resisted the urge to clutch the wound, though his mouth hung half-open and strings of blood and drool seeped from within. Jin’zolo allowed himself a grim smile.

The guard made no forward move, instead going on the defensive. Jin’zolo was just fine with that.

He made a quick survey of his companions. Ijunte was keeping adequate distance between herself and the guard who had engaged her, and judging by the burns her foe suffered, the fight was going her way. Sen’zir was still wrestling with her guard. It looked like potential trouble, but Jin’zolo estimated she would be fine for the time being.

Bloodclaw, meanwhile, had one remaining soldier on his feet. The rest were either dead, or on the ground waiting to be. When Jin’zolo saw them, Bloodclaw and the soldier were tracing a circle around each other. The soldier’s left arm hung limp at his side, mangled beyond repair. Bloodclaw had a number of wounds along his body, and a gash across his snout, but he didn’t seem to be impaired. The soldier looked terrified. Jin’zolo didn’t give him long.

He returned to his own guard. The troll had been trying to close his mouth with the butt of his fist, clasped around his sword, but when he found himself back in Jin’zolo’s gaze, he raised his weapon and allowed his jaw to hang open. Jin’zolo decided to make this quick. He lunged at the guard, and as he expected, the guard braced himself for the attack. He struck him with the right on his shield, then with the left to be parried by the sword, then he raised the left, and jabbed him through the nose-slit between the eyes with the point of the axe.

It didn’t go deep, but it didn’t need to.

The guard fell backward with a crash of plate armour, and his helmet rolled off his head.

Ijunte appeared in front of him so suddenly that he almost sliced her head off. “Jin’zolo!” she cried, pointing behind him. He whirled around to see the guard who had been pursuing Ijunte charge forward. Her burnt flesh was hanging off of her in places, and when she opened her mouth to issue a defiant roar, the charred skin of her face cracked, revealing the crimson tissue beneath. She swung her massive sword at Jin’zolo, but he dodged aside, caught the blow on the flat of his axe, and deflected it to the ground. It lodged in the dirt with a soft thunk.

To his surprise, the troll abandoned the sword punched him in the face with her gauntleted hand. He staggered back only to recieve another blow to the eye. He ducked under a third punch, and swiped at her knee with an axe. She avoided the blow, and attempted a rabbit punch. He dodged aside and kneed her in the stomach. His knee connected with the edge of a plate of armour covering her belly, and it likely hurt him more than her.

She tried for another punch, and Jin’zolo caught it on his elbow. Before she could try for another, however, a bolt of fire flew through the air and exploded in her face. She fell to the ground. Her hair had caught fire and she was trying to beat out the flames. Jin’zolo backed away, to avoid being hit from her flailing.

Ijunte had a grim look of pity on her face, and she looked almost pleadingly to Jin’zolo. He nodded, and with one quick swipe, slashed the guard’s throat open.

A grunt from Sen’zir drew their attention as she thrust the guard she had been wrestling off of her. Bloodclaw heard her too and looked up from his latest kill, rags of troll flesh hanging from his mouth. As the troll struggled to his feet, Bloodclaw ran at him and pounced. Jin’zolo and Ijunte turned away, not eager to watch.

Their gaze met with another’s.

Another troll woman, her blue-black hair framing an azure face, stood before them. She wore a tunic of crow’s feathers and a tribal kilt. The staff at her side was enshrouded in the same black fire that fallen from the tower. Jin’zolo had no doubt in his mind that this was High Priestess Hai’watna.

Before either of them could do anything, Hai’watna slammed the butt of her staff into the ground with a shrill cry, and a wave of shadow erupted from the feathered headpiece. The wave struck Jin’zolo across the chest. Though it had no physical force behind it, it sent ripples of anguish coursing through his body. It brought him to his knees, and glancing around, he saw it had had the same effect on his fellows. Even Bloodclaw was cowering away from her, though he had a look of terrible contempt in his blood-flecked eyes.

“You all be terribly fools,” said Hai’watna. “Had ya ‘de stuff to giva ma masta pause, ‘den he’d turn ya to his side. ‘Dis be ‘da will o’ Hakkar.” She gestured to them with a wave of her staff. “But you be weak peon o’ de Zandalar. Not wort’ ‘is time. Barely wort’ mine.”

From her knees, Ijunte threw her hand forward with a cry and a fireball shot out at Hai’watna. The High Priestess batted the flames away with her staff as easily as one might swat an offending bee. With a grimace, she flicked her free hand at Ijunte. The mage fell to the ground like she had been struck in the face.

“Why ya gotta give me such grief, mon?” she asked. “Hakkar woulda swept trough ’da Vale even wit’out da Primal Champions. Now ’twill be a small task.”

“Primals?” Sen’zir struggled to speak, but spoke nonetheless. “‘Dey ‘ave chosen Hakkar?”

 Hai’watna cackled. “Chosen? ‘Da will o’ Hakkar is nah one you chooses. ‘Da will o’ Hakkar is one placed upon ya.” She sighed wistfully. “‘Dey be ent’ralled; enslaved, an’ trough ‘dem ‘da Primal Gods ‘demselves. Zandalar grows desperate, ya. ‘Dey search for allies amongst former foes. But I nah blame ‘dem. Hakkar is mighty, an’ wit’out the Primal Gods Zandalar will fall before Gurubashi. ‘Dey can search as ‘dey will, scrape every corner o’ dis world. But no one will come to save ‘dem.”

Jin’zolo grunted and glared up at her. “How do we free ‘dem?”

Hai’watna turned to him, exasperated for a moment, and she laughed aloud, putting a hand to her side.

Jin’zolo spat amidst her cackling. “I’ll chew ‘da secrets outa your flesh!”

“Oh, it be no secret, mon,” said Hai’watna, still recovering from her whooping guffaw. “‘Dere be one cure for ‘dem. One an’ one only. ‘Deir flesh will be ‘deirs again when it fails - when ma mastah has no need for it. ‘Dey will buy freedom wit’ death!” She launched into another fit of hysterics.

Bloodclaw leapt forward, startling Jin’zolo, and Sen’zir screamed in agony as she forced herself to her feet. Jin’zolo did the same, though every movement set his joints on fire. Hai’watna cut her laughter short and raised her staff. Instantly, an oscillating bubble of light surrounded her, and Bloodclaw’s sharp claws raked through it as if it were a physical force. Hai’watna was unharmed. She twirled her staff in her hands, and black lightning erupted from the head, connecting with Bloodclaw and sending him backward, slamming him into a strut before it dissipated. Bloodclaw dropped to the ground - breathing, but still.

An arrow stuck in the field around Hai’watna, then another. The High Priestess turned her glare to Sen’zir just as she fired a third arrow. It pierced the field, but was still inches from her face. With a wave of her hand, the bubble disintegrated and the arrows snapped in two.

Jin’zolo sprinted toward her, rearing back with both axes ready to strike.

Hai’watna batted another arrow from Sen’zir away just as Jin’zolo leapt at her. She turned, swinging her staff low, and catching him on the knee. His trajectory was compromised, he knew immediately, but managed to salvage the attack as he fell to the ground. He drove his axe into her foot, between her two toes. He made of it a bloodied bird’s talon.

Hai’watna shrieked through gritted teeth and feel forward, leaning on her staff for support. Sen’zir fired another arrow that Hai’watna quickly turned to catch on her arm. The arrow impaled her forearm and Hai’watna cried out again.

Jin’zolo hauled himself to his feet, but Hai’watna was quick. She lifted her staff and swung it at him, the black, glowing head connecting with his knee.

There was a flash of black fire, and a pain like Jin’zolo had never imagined flashed through his thigh, so intense that he didn’t notice, for a second, that his shin was not in pain. He collapsed, and looked down at himself.

His knee had erupted like a bomb. bits of his flesh and bone littered the ground, and his disconnected shin twitched several feet away. His thigh ended in a blackened mass of ragged muscle tissue, his shattered, bloodied bone jutted out. Hot tears were flowing down his face into his mouth, leaving a salt taste on his tongue. He could feel shock setting in, felt his grasp on consciousness failing, but still the pain was overwhelming - it hurt too much to scream. His eyes crossed, his vision blurred, an indecipherable buzz filled his ears, and his axe grew slack in his hand.

“No,” he said it quietly, but he said it aloud.

His hand grew tighter around the handle of his axe.

His eyes opened and focused. The sound grew specific. It was a scream. He saw Sen’zir, her back arched, wreathed in a bullwhip of lightning issuing from the tip of Hai’watna’s staff. Sen’zir’s jaw had locked, her eyes were wide open, and she gripped her bow so tightly that blood dripped down the polished wood. The arrow in her other hand she had snapped.

Hai’watna was cackling maniacally, the glow from the lightning giving her an ethereal pall. Jin’zolo thought he had never before seen anyone look so insane than she did in that moment.

The lightning poured from the staff like water from a broken dam, but there was a ball coalescing at the headpiece. Hai’watna was shaping it with her free hand. It made the glow brighter - made her look crazier still.

Sen’zir saw it, and what little of her face she could still control contorted in horror. Yet she was frozen in place by the electricity ripping through her body.

Jin’zolo dropped his axes, and stuck his hands into the ground. He pulled himself up, every muscle exploding inside him, every movement threatening to crush his bones. He forced himself onto his one remaining knee. Steeling himself, clenching fists, jaw, and leg, he leaned his broken stump onto the ground. Pain exploded anew, but it was a pain he was ready for. Loose fragments hanging off the end of his bone crunched under the rest of his weight. He staggered onto his one remaining foot. He felt one of his molars crack.

He hadn’t the strength to leap. He had only the strength to stand, and not for long. But he would not need long.

Hai’watna let out a final cry of triumph, and the ball of lightning shot down the bolt she had been feeding into Sen’zir.

Jin’zolo stood up, directly in its path. As he cut into the beam, it broke from Sen’zir, and she fell to her knees, coughing and crying. Jin’zolo felt the lightning stiffen every muscle. He barely felt the pain, now. He was losing feeling.

He saw the ball flash before him only briefly, then he was thrown backward, landing on his back on the grass, next to one of Bloodclaw’s mangled trolls. Jin’zolo sighed.

Hai’watna growled in contempt, readying another spell.

Sen’zir stood, like nothing had happened at all, and fired her bow so fast he couldn’t even see her draw the arrow.

It pierced Hai’watna through the heart and out her back. It stuck, dripping with blood, into one of the tower’s supports.

Hai’watna looked down at herself, the wound hidden beneath the feathers of her tunic. A drop of blood travelled along the edge of a feather, paused at its tip, then fell to the ground. Many drops followed.

Satisfied that she had been hit with a fatal wound, Hai’watna raised her head. Her eyes rolled upwards, and she fell to the ground.

Jin’zolo saw Ijunte stir. He saw Sen’zir walk up to him, and lean over him. He heard her say what might have been his name. But it was so hard to hear, with the strong wind in his ears. Difficult, too, to see, with the bright sun in his eyes. It was a sunlight he knew. It was a wind he was well-acquainted with.

He tugged the scruff of Razzhala’s neck beneath him. The bat let out a welcome, affectionate screech. The wind picked up, and Jin’zolo tightened his knees against Razzhala’s body. The bat flew on, dipping and rising with every beat of his leathery wings.

The white sun in the orange sky was warm and bright, but not blinding. And brighter it grew. Razzhala screeched again. Jin’zolo patted his head. He had missed him so much. He wondered why he had neglected him for so long.

The sun above Durotar grew ever-brighter. It continued to do so until it consumed the sky in a sheet of iridescent white. Jin’zolo could not see where he was going.

But as he gripped Razzhala’s coarse mane beneath him, he realized that he didn’t care.