World of Warcraft: Vol'jin: Shadows of the Horde (22 page)

She leaned forward, lifting Nir’zan’s pointy chin with a crooked finger. “And to you, Nir’zan, be going a great privilege. You identified the man’s part in dis. You and your company gonna range farthest. You gonna find where the Alliance lines are drawn. You gonna, without revealing yourself, capture prisoners. Humans preferably, worgen even, elves if you must, two dwarves or three gnomes. I be wantin’ a dozen equivalent in man weight to pay for our dead. With them, release no survivors. They gonna soon enough know why their people be missing.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“You gonna bring them to the warlords’ tombs. I gonna find a use for them there.” She straightened up. “Go now, all of you. Report back when you have success.”

Sand flew as a dozen troll captains raced to their units. She watched them go, suppressing a laugh of satisfaction. They would not fail her, but only because the mission she’d given them was one at which they could not fail. Success was necessary to build their confidence, which they would need when later she demanded they do the impossible.

She turned, having felt the mogu’s shadow fall over her before she saw it darken the sand. “Fair morning, Honored Chae-nan.”

“You value your dead too little. I would slay a hundred pandaren for each of your dead.”

“I considered dat, but we have located too few crossroads, and there be a shortage of sticks.” She shrugged easily. “Besides, we can always be killin’ more, and I would do so at your master’s pleasure.”

“I doubt dead pandaren would amuse him, but men, these might.” The mogu smiled in a way that demonstrated why executioners often wore hoods. “The man you seek, the pandaren, and, I believe, a troll from before—these would greatly please my master.”

“Den I gonna do all in my power to obtain them.” She bowed to him. “I gonna deliver them myself, and da Thunder King can suck out their souls and sup on their agonies.”

V
ol’jin found himself trapped in a dream or a vision. He wasn’t certain which. The dream he could have dismissed as his mind digesting what he had seen and been told. The vision—which had all the signs of being a gift from the Silk Dancer—had to be given weight, and that meant he had to see it through.

He hid his face behind a rush’kah mask. He was glad of that. It meant any chance reflection would hide whether or not he truly was within a Zandalari body. It wasn’t like wearing Tyrathan’s skin. Vol’jin felt very much a troll—more so than even when he was in his own skin. As he looked around, he realized he stood in a time before there were any trolls who were not Zandalari.

He stood farther back in time than he had ever been.

He recognized Pandaria but knew if he uttered that name, his host would not acknowledge it. Pandaria was the vulgar name for the place. The mogu so guarded its true name that even though he was an honored guest, it would not be shared with him.

Pandaren, though none of them as prosperously portly as Chen, ran and fetched and carried. His host, a mogu Spiritrender of equivalent societal rank, had suggested they climb a mountain to survey the land better. They’d stopped near the top to lay out a midday meal.

Vol’jin, though his body remained thousands of years in the future, recognized their stopping place as the monastery’s eventual home. He sat, nibbling on sweet rice cakes beneath his mask, in the same spot where his body now slept. He almost wondered if, somehow, he was being allowed access to memories from a previous life.

The thought thrilled him and revolted him.

The thrill came, though he resisted it, simply because of the troll culture in which he was raised. The Zandalari looked down on the other trolls, and though trolls such as the Darkspears made jokes about how far the Zandalari had fallen, being denied Zandalari respect was like a child being denied a parent’s love. It left a hole that, no matter how undeserving the parent might be, was easily filled by the least possible kindness. So, to find himself having once been a Zandalari, or to at least feel somewhat comfortable in a Zandalari’s flesh, answered a longing he sought to deny.

Acknowledging its existence be not enslaving myself to it
. The aspect that revolted him made it easier to remove himself from that longing. His mogu host, in not having had his cup filled quickly enough, gestured at a servant. Blue-black lightning struck the hunched pandaren. The creature stumbled, spilling wine from a golden pitcher. His mogu master blasted him again and again, then turned.

“I am a bad host. I deny you this pleasure.”

Vol’jin’s heart leaped at the invitation to torture the pandaren. It wasn’t about being able to prove himself superior to the broken servant. No. It was to prove himself his host’s equal in being able to inflict pain. They were arcane archers shooting at a target, each seeking to get closer to the bull’s-eye. Only the contest mattered, not the target.

No one be mourning the target
.

Mercifully, before Vol’jin discovered whether he would indulge in the sport, the scene shifted. He and his guest lounged atop a pyramid in the jungles now known as Stranglethorn. The city that spread out before them had covered a vast plain in stone, much of
which had been hauled from afar, from throughout the world the trolls dominated. So ancient was the city that, in Vol’jin’s time, no trace remained, save for those few stones that had been plundered from city after city and now were ground to rubble to fill walls overgrown with vines.

From his guest, Vol’jin caught the faintest hints of contempt. The pyramid was hardly as lofty a perch as the mountain had been—and they’d never made it to the top—but trolls did not need mountains to see their realms. When one could communicate with the loa, when one was graced with visions, the need for physical—mortal—height vanished. And trolls had not slave races to use as personal servants, but then what species was worthy enough to be allowed to touch a troll? They had their society ranked by caste, each with its role and purpose. All things were ordered under the heavens.

They were as they should be, and loa pity the mogu who failed to understand why this was the way of reality.

Vol’jin tried to sense any trace of the titan magic on his guest but could not. Perhaps they’d not discovered it yet. Perhaps they only used it to create the saurok late in their empire’s life. Perhaps the Thunder King had been insane enough to order its use, or had been driven insane by its use. It hardly mattered.

What did matter was the rift between Zandalari and mogu. Therein lay the fertile ground that had allowed the mogu to fall. The hints of contempt Vol’jin felt would grow into polite indifference between the peoples. They trusted each other not to attack because they were confident that they could destroy their partner. While they stood back to back, they did not watch the other and did not see the other falter.

Curiously enough, each society did stumble. The slaves that the mogu cherished and relied upon were the creatures who rose up and overthrew them. The castes that maintained the Zandalari on top grew to be their own people. As they became diminished, the Zandalari were content to let them go away—abandoning unruly
children until they saw the folly of the youthful rebellion and came back begging. . . .

Begging for Zandalari approval.

Vol’jin awoke with a snarl in his cell, surprised that he wore no mask but instead had a single strand of spider silk stretched over his eyes. The air was pregnant with the hint of snow. He sat up, hugging his knees to himself for a moment, then pulled on his clothes and headed out. He bypassed the courtyard in which monks exercised—each wearing silk or leather armor—and headed for the mountain.

While neither Zandalari nor mogu had felt the need to reach the summit, Vol’jin’s heart demanded he attain the heights they had been too lazy to discover. It occurred to him that, by the pandaren way of thinking, their talking themselves into the belief that they didn’t need to reach the top had convinced them they’d attained balance in their lives.

Their self-deception doomed them.

Three-quarters of the way up the mountain, he found the man waiting for him. “You’re awfully damned quiet, even when you’re lost in thought.”

“But you be detecting my approach anyway.”

“I’ve spent much time here. I’m used to the sounds. I didn’t hear you. I just heard everything else reacting to the fact that they had.” The man smiled. “Had a bad night of it?”

“Not until the end.” Vol’jin stretched his back. “Have trouble sleeping?”

“I slept astonishingly well.” Tyrathan rose from his rock and started up the narrow trail. “Surprising, since I’ve agreed with your plan, which is pretty much of a suicide mission.”

“It would not be the first for you.”

“That you can say that and be correct casts my sanity into serious doubt.”

The troll loped along, pleased that he could neither detect any
trace of Tyrathan’s limp nor feel anything but the ghost of a twinge in his side. “It be testament to your survival skills.”

“Not much of one.” The man glanced back, his eyes tight. “You saw how I survived Serpent’s Heart. I ran.”

“You crawled.” Vol’jin raised open hands. “You did what you had to for surviving.”

“I was a coward.”

“If it be cowardice to avoid dying with your men, then every general be a coward.” The troll shook his head. “Besides, you be not that man. That man had no beard. He dyed his hair. He never be running while those who depended on him still lived.”

“But I did, Vol’jin.” Tyrathan laughed but did not share the joke. “As for the beard and letting my hair grow back in its natural color, I have found that my encounter with death leaves me unwilling to delude myself. I understand myself much better now. Who and what I am. And have no fear; I won’t run.”

“Be I fearing that, I would not allow you to come.”

“Why are you letting Chen come?”

Anger simmered in Vol’jin’s blood. “Chen not gonna run.”

“I know that and did not mean to suggest it.” The man sighed. “It’s because he won’t run that I don’t think he should come. The monks, few have family beyond this place. I am alone. I don’t know of you. . . .”

Vol’jin shook his head. “She gonna understand.”

“Chen’s got his niece and Yalia. And, frankly, he’s got too big a heart to witness what we’re going to do.”

“What was it happened out there?”

As they climbed the rest of the way to the top, the man described in very precise detail exactly what had happened. Vol’jin understood perfectly. He’d chosen to kill the silent one first because he’d not removed his armor. That meant he’d be the hardest to eliminate. The other two soldiers were just that: soldiers. And conversation had indicated that their leader wasn’t a warrior.

The man had made the same decisions Vol’jin would have made, and for the same reasons. Finding a way to trap the trolls had been critical. It took them out of the fight, and the pain and terror also rendered them useless.

And yet, as much as he understood what Tyrathan had done and why, he also now understood Chen’s uncharacteristic taciturnity. Many people who went to war refused to look at what they were doing. War was defined by cultures in terms of heroic tales of bravery. Those stories skipped over the horror of it all in favor of praising courage and fortitude against overwhelming odds. A thousand songs were sung of the warrior who held off a thousand hated enemies, yet not a single one of the fallen merited even a memorial note.

Chen was one of those who had always been able to mythologize battles, primarily because he was at a distance from them. It wasn’t that he was never threatened. He was, often, and acquitted himself well. But any fighter who allowed himself to dwell on his personal danger was one who went mad or threw himself at the enemy to end his madness.

Until now, Chen had fought for his friends, supporting them in their battles. But here, he was fighting for a place he could call home. Out there, he was the only pandaren. None of the dead looked like him. Or his niece or his friend.

When they reached the pinnacle, Vol’jin crouched. “I be understanding your questions about Chen. Neither of us be doubting his courage. Neither of us be wanting him hurt. But this be why he must come. It gonna hurt him more not to have acted, whether we fail or succeed, than to watch us slay thousands in ways that leave them screaming out their last. He be pandaren. Pandaria be his future. This be his fight. We cannot be protecting him from this, so it’s better to have him with us so he can be saving us.”

The man considered for a moment, then nodded. “Chen told me some stories of you, of your past. He said you were wise. Did you
ever imagine, during those times, that the tables would be turned, and you’d be fighting for his home as he did for yours?”

“No.” The troll looked out over Pandaria, studying mountains that nudged their way through clouds, and forests peeking out from gaps below. “This be a place worth fighting for. Worth dying for.”

“A fight so we can stop others from doing here what they’ve done to our homes?”

“Yes.”

Tyrathan scratched at his goatee. “How is it that a leader of the Horde and an Alliance soldier are united in fighting for a people who have no claim on our allegiance?”