By Beth Bovard
The chanting was dying away into the silent blanket of night. The fires would burn a while yet, its eerie light dancing on the ancient stone walls of the inner temple. The Headmaster was drinking thirstily from the bowl proffered by the human slave, his tusks still sparkling with fresh blood. The smell of the ritual smoke still filling her nostrils, the young troll rose to her feet and prepared to leave the Hall. She took a deep breath and tried bravely to calm her heartbeat.
Gathering her herb bags and ritual tools, she was glad she was not required to attend the monthly rituals very often, for they brought a darkness on her soul she could not cleanse. She thought quickly of the details of her plan, hoping with a force even greater than the thudding of her heart that it would succeed this night.
She was halfway to the main doorway, when her path was suddenly blocked by a towering figure. His fine robes were musty and worn at the hem, and his black eyes were cruel. His headdress was an artfully preserved green dragonkin head, with the neckscales cascading down his back, making dull clicks as he moved. His clawed hands held tight to his skull staff; a long golden rod topped with a kaldorei skull which held many small objects in the braincase. The staff was decorated with scalps of blue and purple. She halted abruptly, looking up into those eyes that seemed to probe her very soul. She swallowed the bile in her throat and waited for the Headmaster to speak.
“Sardassa, mah gurl, ah been feelin dat someting be on yah mind lately.” His voice came like the breath of a lion, with the smell of death.
She tried desperately not to stammer, and the spirits seemed to be on her side, at least for the moment.
“Headmaster Dash’ek, you honor me with your notice. I am but a hard-working student, and I pray my progress will satisfy you on the Proving Moon.”
“Hmmph,” he snorted. “Ah tink yah be spendin too much time with dat slave, gurl. Yah be soundin moe like an elf, an less like a troll dese days. Dontcha be forgettin wheah yah came from, and who yah people be. Da Soulflayah be comin soon, an yah don’ wanna be on da wrong side, heah?”
Sardassa lowered her gaze and replied, “Yes Headmaster, I am loyal to the Order of The Serpent. It is my duty to master the arcane secrets, and give my life in service to the Troll Nation Reborn.”
“Yah best be know dat in da deep places of ya spirit, gurl,” he spat. “Yah life belong ta me!”
The gnarled old troll snorted again, and with a rattling of his skull staff, he stalked off without another word.
Sardassa dared to breathe again, and strode out into the hall. Several trolls in flowing robes bowed their heads in respect as she passed. Human slaves fell to their knees and kowtowed as she hurried down the hallway. The sounds of tortured screams reached her ears from deep below, and she even heard the elven word for “mercy” once. She wondered if she would ever cleanse the taint of those sounds from her soul. She tightened her fist around her scrolls, painfully aware of how her lessons had been obtained, and forced her revulsion back into its corner in her heart. She pictured her calming vision in her mind’s eye: that of a beautiful, seaside village, breezy and fresh, far from the reach of the Serpent Mages. She no longer knew if it was a fantasy or a memory.
“Slave! Fetch Saleth’ril to me immediately,” she commanded the cowering human who served as her personal attendant. As the girl scurried off to obey, she felt sorry that she could not save the humans who would live out their lives in this wretched place, bred to serve and bred to die.
Alone for a moment in her chambers, Sardassa cared nothing for the silken robes in her wardrobe, nor the jewels on her vanity. She had no love for anything in this room, nor anything in this crumbling hidden temple. Except for one thing.
From a locked drawer she took a plain wooden box. She unlocked the small clasp and drew back the lid. Inside, a crystal shard glowed faintly from within its glassy depths. “You will save my soul tonight,” she breathed, her eyes lit up from its power.
She caught a glance of herself in the mirror.
Amber eyes looked back at her from within a face worn from too many secrets and too much death. How many nights had she lain in the darkness, hearing the screams of the tortured and the sacrificed? So many years has she been ensconced in this evil place, this crumbling fortress that housed only the spirits of the damned, among those trolls whose hatred keeps them alive far beyond a normal lifespan.
The Order of the Serpent long ago stole the knowledge of magic from their hated enemy, the elves of Quel’Thalas. The ways of the Order were cruel and merciless, for they captured the exiled Kaldorei and tortured them for their arcane power. Elves have strong spirits, and it took many captives to comprise the body of knowledge that the Order commands today. The trolls’ ways never changed, as evidenced by the number of unwilling visitors from Dalaran who added to the library’s scrolls before adding their heads to the décor.
And now it was time to go.
She was startled out of her thoughts by the arrival of her slave tutor, Saleth’ril.
The servant was kowtowing out the door and Saleth’ril’s rich lilting voice filled the room. “You summoned me, mistress?”
She slipped the crystal shard into her pocket as she turned to face the blood elf.
His red slave robe was well-worn, but clean. His golden hair spilled over broad shoulders and fell to his waist. His perfect features were millenia old, yet looked utterly smooth and pale. His bright eyes held a pain unspoken, and a secret pride within. He waited patiently for Sardassa to speak, as if fully aware of the turmoil inside her.
“Yes, Saleth’ril, I wish to discuss the nature of magical frost. Let us go outside, so that I may demonstrate my understanding.”
The ancient one nodded silently and turned at the door to offer her the lead. She walked past him and back out into the torchlit hall; the smell of smoke and blood resumed its feeding of her resolve.
Sardassa had long since learned to ignore the blatent looks of disgust for her tutor from the other trollish students. She strode regally through the temple, her demeanor carefully posed into its icy facade.
Outside, the jungle night was quiet, and a quarter moon shone its pale silvery light down upon the mage and her unlikely mentor.
Sardassa turned to face the blood elf.
“I have made all my preparations. I have memorized the incantation you taught me. I am left with only one last question. Why have you not used this teleport spell yourself, teacher?”
Saleth’ril smiled. “What makes you think I do not already use it, mistress?”
The full understanding of his meaning blossomed into Sardassa’s mind, and she merely nodded in return. Then she pulled the shining shard from her pocket.
“I have what you asked for. Do you have my heart’s desire in return?”
The elf pulled a rolled-up parchment from his sleeve. “I do, mistress.”
“Then consider this my farewell, dear teacher. I must be free of this place tonight, or I fear my soul may already be too far lost. One day I shall return and burn this cursed place to the ground.”
“Please remember that I am grateful for all you have taught me, and will use your lessons well.”
Saleth’ril inclined his head at her words. “You have been a most brilliant pupil, Sardassa. Now go to the land of the orcs, and become the seed of change for your people. While the Order of the Serpent seeks to corrupt the hearts of their brethren, you must lead the Darkspear out of their savage ways. Without every pair of capable hands, Azeroth cannot prevail against the power of the Burning Legion. I have taught you our history. You know the precarious nature of our existence.”
“Your father would be proud of you,” he said as he handed her the worn scroll. An excited gasp escaped her lips.
Her fingers shook as she placed the crystal into his outstretched palm. At last, oh at last! Her heart hammered in her chest she clutched the paper that would reveal her true name.
Her masters had taken her name from her as an initiate, and she knew she would never be whole until she had it back.
“I will leave you in peace now. Farewell and good luck, troll mage.”
His voice became a whisper on the breeze as he vanished from view.
She knew she should get far and fast away from this place, but she could not stop herself. She unrolled the parchment. It was old, creased and worn from being crumpled and smoothed many times. She held her breath as she read the letter, addressed to Zeljani Rin’Tala:
Zeljani, my daughter, the war with the Vilebranch has been long and harsh. I have been seriously wounded in battle, after taking a poisoned blade between my ribs. I bathed in the blood of my killer after cutting out his heart, but still I will not ever come home. So I entrust you with my secret before I join the spirits.
Many years ago, when our warriors aided the Revantusk, I sated my lusts upon a priestess there. Unintentionally, I sired a female child. Five summers later, I learned that the child had been sent to the Order of the Serpent, to be taught the ways of magic. I was very angry, but I could do nothing to save her then, as our chief commanded us back to the warpath.
The Order of the Serpent seeks to restore the might and power of the Troll Nation. They use anyone and everyone in their gathering of that power. And may the spirits forgive me for thinking so, but I cannot feel right in enslaving our people to a dark god in return for the illusion of power. For in serving a god, daughter, you are still a slave.
The Serpent Mages have an ancient temple deep in the Stanglethorn jungle. In secret and in darkness they sacrifice our people to the dark god, raping forbidden knowledge from its helpless keepers. If they have not already slain my youngest child, they will twist her mind to do their hateful bidding. You must not let that happen!
Perhaps it is too late, but if somehow it is not, it is my dying wish that you seek out your sister, and retrieve her from the Order. This you will do to bring honor to the Rin’Tala clan. This you will do to honor your father’s dying wish, Zeljani.
Your sister’s name is Kata’Mai. Find her, and bring her home.
May the spirits guide you both.
Jintha Rin’Tala
With renewed passion, the troll mage chanted her incantation, gathering the energies to create the doorway to freedom. With a final word, the circle of sizzling light before her grew opaque. She could see the reinforced buildings of the orcish city as if in a dream; the city of Thrall himself, the Liberator, the Freedom-Bringer, the Warchief of The Horde.
“I am Kata’Mai, and I am free,” she whispered to herself with a smile. She had nothing but her clothing and a few coins as she left her world behind in a flash of arcane light.
She didn’t look back as she stepped through.
20 Sep 2016
The Serpent Mage
By Beth Bovard
The chanting was dying away into the silent blanket of night. The fires would burn a while yet, its eerie light dancing on the ancient stone walls of the inner temple. The Headmaster was drinking thirstily from the bowl proffered by the human slave, his tusks still sparkling with fresh blood. The smell of the ritual smoke still filling her nostrils, the young troll rose to her feet and prepared to leave the Hall. She took a deep breath and tried bravely to calm her heartbeat.
Gathering her herb bags and ritual tools, she was glad she was not required to attend the monthly rituals very often, for they brought a darkness on her soul she could not cleanse. She thought quickly of the details of her plan, hoping with a force even greater than the thudding of her heart that it would succeed this night.
She was halfway to the main doorway, when her path was suddenly blocked by a towering figure. His fine robes were musty and worn at the hem, and his black eyes were cruel. His headdress was an artfully preserved green dragonkin head, with the neckscales cascading down his back, making dull clicks as he moved. His clawed hands held tight to his skull staff; a long golden rod topped with a kaldorei skull which held many small objects in the braincase. The staff was decorated with scalps of blue and purple. She halted abruptly, looking up into those eyes that seemed to probe her very soul. She swallowed the bile in her throat and waited for the Headmaster to speak.
“Sardassa, mah gurl, ah been feelin dat someting be on yah mind lately.” His voice came like the breath of a lion, with the smell of death.
She tried desperately not to stammer, and the spirits seemed to be on her side, at least for the moment.
“Headmaster Dash’ek, you honor me with your notice. I am but a hard-working student, and I pray my progress will satisfy you on the Proving Moon.”
“Hmmph,” he snorted. “Ah tink yah be spendin too much time with dat slave, gurl. Yah be soundin moe like an elf, an less like a troll dese days. Dontcha be forgettin wheah yah came from, and who yah people be. Da Soulflayah be comin soon, an yah don’ wanna be on da wrong side, heah?”
Sardassa lowered her gaze and replied, “Yes Headmaster, I am loyal to the Order of The Serpent. It is my duty to master the arcane secrets, and give my life in service to the Troll Nation Reborn.”
“Yah best be know dat in da deep places of ya spirit, gurl,” he spat. “Yah life belong ta me!”
The gnarled old troll snorted again, and with a rattling of his skull staff, he stalked off without another word.
Sardassa dared to breathe again, and strode out into the hall. Several trolls in flowing robes bowed their heads in respect as she passed. Human slaves fell to their knees and kowtowed as she hurried down the hallway. The sounds of tortured screams reached her ears from deep below, and she even heard the elven word for “mercy” once. She wondered if she would ever cleanse the taint of those sounds from her soul. She tightened her fist around her scrolls, painfully aware of how her lessons had been obtained, and forced her revulsion back into its corner in her heart. She pictured her calming vision in her mind’s eye: that of a beautiful, seaside village, breezy and fresh, far from the reach of the Serpent Mages. She no longer knew if it was a fantasy or a memory.
“Slave! Fetch Saleth’ril to me immediately,” she commanded the cowering human who served as her personal attendant. As the girl scurried off to obey, she felt sorry that she could not save the humans who would live out their lives in this wretched place, bred to serve and bred to die.
Alone for a moment in her chambers, Sardassa cared nothing for the silken robes in her wardrobe, nor the jewels on her vanity. She had no love for anything in this room, nor anything in this crumbling hidden temple. Except for one thing.
From a locked drawer she took a plain wooden box. She unlocked the small clasp and drew back the lid. Inside, a crystal shard glowed faintly from within its glassy depths. “You will save my soul tonight,” she breathed, her eyes lit up from its power.
She caught a glance of herself in the mirror.
Amber eyes looked back at her from within a face worn from too many secrets and too much death. How many nights had she lain in the darkness, hearing the screams of the tortured and the sacrificed? So many years has she been ensconced in this evil place, this crumbling fortress that housed only the spirits of the damned, among those trolls whose hatred keeps them alive far beyond a normal lifespan.
The Order of the Serpent long ago stole the knowledge of magic from their hated enemy, the elves of Quel’Thalas. The ways of the Order were cruel and merciless, for they captured the exiled Kaldorei and tortured them for their arcane power. Elves have strong spirits, and it took many captives to comprise the body of knowledge that the Order commands today. The trolls’ ways never changed, as evidenced by the number of unwilling visitors from Dalaran who added to the library’s scrolls before adding their heads to the décor.
And now it was time to go.
She was startled out of her thoughts by the arrival of her slave tutor, Saleth’ril.
The servant was kowtowing out the door and Saleth’ril’s rich lilting voice filled the room. “You summoned me, mistress?”
She slipped the crystal shard into her pocket as she turned to face the blood elf.
His red slave robe was well-worn, but clean. His golden hair spilled over broad shoulders and fell to his waist. His perfect features were millenia old, yet looked utterly smooth and pale. His bright eyes held a pain unspoken, and a secret pride within. He waited patiently for Sardassa to speak, as if fully aware of the turmoil inside her.
“Yes, Saleth’ril, I wish to discuss the nature of magical frost. Let us go outside, so that I may demonstrate my understanding.”
The ancient one nodded silently and turned at the door to offer her the lead. She walked past him and back out into the torchlit hall; the smell of smoke and blood resumed its feeding of her resolve.
Sardassa had long since learned to ignore the blatent looks of disgust for her tutor from the other trollish students. She strode regally through the temple, her demeanor carefully posed into its icy facade.
Outside, the jungle night was quiet, and a quarter moon shone its pale silvery light down upon the mage and her unlikely mentor.
Sardassa turned to face the blood elf.
“I have made all my preparations. I have memorized the incantation you taught me. I am left with only one last question. Why have you not used this teleport spell yourself, teacher?”
Saleth’ril smiled. “What makes you think I do not already use it, mistress?”
The full understanding of his meaning blossomed into Sardassa’s mind, and she merely nodded in return. Then she pulled the shining shard from her pocket.
“I have what you asked for. Do you have my heart’s desire in return?”
The elf pulled a rolled-up parchment from his sleeve. “I do, mistress.”
“Then consider this my farewell, dear teacher. I must be free of this place tonight, or I fear my soul may already be too far lost. One day I shall return and burn this cursed place to the ground.”
“Please remember that I am grateful for all you have taught me, and will use your lessons well.”
Saleth’ril inclined his head at her words. “You have been a most brilliant pupil, Sardassa. Now go to the land of the orcs, and become the seed of change for your people. While the Order of the Serpent seeks to corrupt the hearts of their brethren, you must lead the Darkspear out of their savage ways. Without every pair of capable hands, Azeroth cannot prevail against the power of the Burning Legion. I have taught you our history. You know the precarious nature of our existence.”
“Your father would be proud of you,” he said as he handed her the worn scroll. An excited gasp escaped her lips.
Her fingers shook as she placed the crystal into his outstretched palm. At last, oh at last! Her heart hammered in her chest she clutched the paper that would reveal her true name.
Her masters had taken her name from her as an initiate, and she knew she would never be whole until she had it back.
“I will leave you in peace now. Farewell and good luck, troll mage.”
His voice became a whisper on the breeze as he vanished from view.
She knew she should get far and fast away from this place, but she could not stop herself. She unrolled the parchment. It was old, creased and worn from being crumpled and smoothed many times. She held her breath as she read the letter, addressed to Zeljani Rin’Tala:
With renewed passion, the troll mage chanted her incantation, gathering the energies to create the doorway to freedom. With a final word, the circle of sizzling light before her grew opaque. She could see the reinforced buildings of the orcish city as if in a dream; the city of Thrall himself, the Liberator, the Freedom-Bringer, the Warchief of The Horde.
“I am Kata’Mai, and I am free,” she whispered to herself with a smile. She had nothing but her clothing and a few coins as she left her world behind in a flash of arcane light.
She didn’t look back as she stepped through.
by Beth in Fan-fiction Tags: mage, troll, warcraft, wow