Michael Stackpole: Vol'jin: Shadows of the Horde

The monks taught him well. He’d watched them shatter up to a dozen boards with a single punch. Vol’jin had looked forward to trying that because he knew he could do it. But when it came time for him to try the exercise, Lord Taran Zhu took over. In place of boards had been arranged an inch-thick slab of stone.

Do you mock me? Vol’jin studied the monk’s face but read no deception. That didn’t mean there wasn’t any there, but the pandaren’s impassive expression could have masked anything. “You be wanting me to break stone. Others break wood.”

“Others do not believe they can shatter wood. You do.” Taran Zhu pointed to a spot a finger’s length beyond the stone slab. “Place your doubt here. Strike through to it.”

Doubt? Vol’jin forced away the thought because it was a distraction. He wanted to ignore it, but instead, he did as the monk had instructed. He visualized doubt as a shimmering blue-black ball spitting sparks. He let it float through the stone to hover behind it.

Then Vol’jin set himself, drew in a deep breath, and exhaled sharply. He drove his fist forward, pulverizing the stone. He continued through, smashing that ball of doubt. He could have sworn that he’d not felt the impact until he’d hit the ball. The stone had been as nothing, even though he brushed its dust from his pelt.

Taran Zhu bowed to him respectfully.

Vol’jin returned the gesture, holding it longer than before.

The other monks bowed as their lord withdrew, then bowed to Vol’jin. Vol’jin returned their bows and noticed, thereafter, that their emphasis on “jian” had changed again.

It was not until later that evening, as he sat alone in his cell, the stone cool against his back, that Vol’jin allowed himself to understand at least some of what he had learned. His hand had not swollen or stiffened, yet he could still feel his fist crushing doubt. He flexed his hand, watching it work, happy he was fully reconnected to it.

Taran Zhu was right to make doubt a target. Doubt destroyed souls. What thinking creature, when entertaining doubt about success, could undertake any action? To doubt that he could punch through stone was to acknowledge that his hand could break, his bones could splinter, his flesh could tear, and his blood could flow. And if he dwelt on that outcome, could there be any but that outcome? That ending would be his target; therefore he would succeed and hit that target. Whereas, if his target was to destroy doubt and he hit that target, then would anything be impossible?

Zalazane returned to his mind, not as a vision but as a series of memories. Doubt had destroyed his soul. The two of them had grown up together, best friends. Because Sen’jin, the Darkspear leader, was his father, Vol’jin had always been considered first between them, but not in his own mind. And Zalazane had known that; they’d spoken of it often, laughing at the ignorance of those who thought of one as hero and the other as benighted companion. Even as Vol’jin concentrated on becoming a shadow hunter, Zalazane became a witch doctor under Master Gadrin. Sen’jin himself had encouraged Zalazane, and there had been those among the Darkspears who thought Zalazane was being trained to lead after Sen’jin, while Vol’jin was destined for greater things.

But even in that people were fooled, for the both of them believed in Sen’jin’s dream of a homeland for the Darkspears. A place where they could thrive without fear, without enemies preying upon them. And even Sen’jin’s death at the webbed hands of murlocs could not kill that dream.

Somewhere, at some time, doubt wormed its way into Zalazane’s soul. Perhaps it was knowing that Sen’jin, a powerful witch doctor, could die so easily. It could have been hearing just one too many times that Vol’jin was the hero and he was the companion. It could have been something that Vol’jin couldn’t even guess at, but whatever it was, it caused Zalazane to savagely lunge for power.

That power made him insane. Zalazane enslaved most of the Darkspears, turning them into mindless minions. Vol’jin escaped with some, then returned with his Horde allies to free the Echo Isles. He’d led the forces that killed Zalazane, felt his blood splash, heard him breathe his last. He liked to think, in that last moment, in the last spark he’d seen in Zalazane’s eyes, that his old friend had returned to sanity and was pleased to be free.

So, I think, it be with Garrosh . Exalted because he was his father’s son but hardly revered for himself or his actions, Garrosh was feared by many. He had learned that fear was an effective lash with which to keep subordinates in line. But not all of them cringed at the whipcrack.

Not me .

Because Garrosh felt his position was due as much to his father’s memory as it was to his own worthiness, he doubted his standing. If he could see himself as unworthy, clearly others could. I did, and I told him so. Doubt could be hidden, so anyone could be a potential enemy. The only way to eliminate them would be to conquer them.

Yet all the conquests in the world would not silence that voice in his head that said, “Yes, but you are not your father.”

Vol’jin stretched out on his sleeping mat. My father had a dream. He shared it with me. He made it my legacy, and I was fortunate enough to be understanding it. Because of that, I can make it come true. Because of that, I can know peace.

He spoke into the emptiness. “But Garrosh gonna never know peace. That means no one else will.”

A storm blew in from the south, with howling winds, dark clouds, and snow flying sideways so hard it stung the flesh. The blizzard hit very fast. Vol’jin had awakened to sunshine, but before he had finished his chores—in this case dusting the tops of shelves in which many ancient scrolls were kept—the temperature dropped, the air darkened, and the storm shrieked as if the monastery were under assault by demons.

Vol’jin knew little enough about blizzards that he didn’t panic. Senior monks combed through the monastery, bringing everyone together in the massive dining hall. Everyone went to their mess area. Being taller than anyone else, Vol’jin could easily see the monks counting heads. It occurred to him that such a savage storm might blind someone and confuse him. To be lost in the storm would be to die in it.

To his shame, Vol’jin did not notice what Chen pointed out even before the head count was completed. “Tyrathan’s not here.”

Vol’jin glanced toward the mountaintop. “He wouldn’t head out when a storm gonna be blowing up big like this.”

Taran Zhu stood on a raised dais. “There is a hollow where he often stops to rest. It faces north and is sheltered. He never would have known the storm was coming. Master Stormstout, you will fill a cask with your Get Well brew. First and second houses will organize themselves to search.”

Vol’jin lifted his head. “What you be having me do?”

“Return to your chores, Vol’jin.” There was no “jian” in Taran Zhu’s use of his name. “There is nothing for you to do.”

“That storm will be killing him.”

“It will kill you, too. Faster than it will him.” The elder pandaren clapped his paws once and his charges scattered. “You know little of snowstorms like this. Shatter stone you might, but the storm will shatter you. It will suck out your warmth and your strength. We would carry you back here before we ever found him.”

“I cannot be standing by…”

“. . . and do nothing? Good, then I shall give you a task, a question to contemplate.” The pandaren’s nostrils flared, but his voice remained even and unemotional. “Is it to save the man that you wish to act, or to preserve your self-conception as hero? I expect much dusting to be done before you have reached the truth.”