Michael Stackpole - Vol'jin - Shadows of the Horde

“Three if it’s complete.” The war leader dismissed him with a salute.

Tyrathan sped off and Vol’jin cataloged every sensation. As they descended a rocky hill trail, the troll noticed the leaps that the man refused. He sought a sense of doubt in those choices but instead found confidence. Tyrathan knew himself well, and to make those leaps, which would not have concerned a troll, would snap a leg or twist an ankle.

The sheer fragility of being human surprised Vol’jin. He’d always rejoiced in it. It made breaking them so very easy, but now it made him wonder about them. They knew death could come quickly, yet they fought and explored and showed no lack of courage. It was as if mortality was so well-known a companion that they could embrace it easily.

As Tyrathan arrived amid a squad of twelve hunters like himself, Vol’jin noticed that the man had no companion animal with him. The others did, marking their travels throughout the world. Raptors and turtles, giant spiders and bloodseeker bats—the humans chose their companions through a logic that escaped Vol’jin.

With concise hand signals, Tyrathan gave his soldiers their orders, then split them into small groups. Just as he splits the cubes in jihui. His own group he took around to the south, to the farthest objective. They moved quickly and quietly—equal in stealth to the velvet-footed pandaren monks. Tyrathan had an arrow nocked but not yet drawn.

When the scream came from the west, the reality of things changed. Vol’jin would have been lost save that he understood battle and how it shifted perception. Time slowed as he watched disaster unfold; then it sprinted as disaster erupted. It would take forever to watch an arrow fly toward a friend and yet only an instant for her life to pump out in a great crimson spurt.

Where there had been no enemies, now a legion beset his people. Odd spirit creatures raced among them, touching, rending, ripping shrieks from them before opening those same throats. Companion animals roared and snarled, biting and clawing, only to be swarmed over and ripped apart.

And Tyrathan, for his part, tried to remain calm. He loosed arrow after arrow with smooth, strong draws. Oh, da monks, they would be so shamed were he to touch a bow . Vol’jin did not doubt that Tyrathan could shoot so quickly and accurately that he could split a monk’s arrow before it ever hit the target, and then drive its head straight through.

Then a woman went down. Dark haired and sleek like the cat accompanying her. Tyrathan shouted, darted toward her. He sped arrows at the sha attacking her. He killed one, then a second, but a stone rolled beneath his foot. He missed the third.

From his vantage point, Vol’jin knew that shot would not have mattered. She stared at the both of them with glassy eyes in a red mask. Blood spurted, her tabard drinking it all in. If there was anything to be remembered at all of her death, it was the way her hand lay easily on her dead companion’s broad head.

Tyrathan went down to a knee; then something hit him hard in the flank. His bow flew from his hand as he sailed through the air. He smashed into a stone serpent, hitting just below his left hip. The leg snapped, arcing argent agony through him. He bounced once, then rolled to a stop. He faced the dead woman.

If not for me, you would be alive.

There it was, the root of doubt. Vol’jin looked down and caught a black thread stuck to a thorn. It pierced him once, just missing his heart, then burst out his back. It came around again, poised like a viper to strike once more.

But Vol’jin reached out with a spirit hand and caught it beneath the thorn as he might grab a snake. With the caress of a thumb, he decapitated it, then reached down and broke off the longer thread.

The middle section slithered quickly and deep into Tyrathan. It wrapped tight round his heart and began to squeeze. The man’s body tightened, his back bowed, but the broken thread could not squeeze hard enough. It twisted down and away, threading itself into his spine, and rode his pain up into his brain.

There it struck and wrung from the man a soul-rending howl. Vol’jin’s image of Tyrathan vanished like a reflection swallowed in a vortex. All light drained into a black hole, and then silver suffering burst back out, shocking man and troll alike.

Vol’jin jerked, face wet with sweat, his hands searching his body for wounds. He grabbed his thigh, feeling the pain of its breaking fade. He gasped, then looked at Tyrathan.

Hints of color had returned to the man’s flesh. He breathed more easily. He no longer struggled beneath the blankets.

Vol’jin studied him. Still so weak and far more frail than the troll could have imagined before walking in his skin, the man had steel in him that would allow him to recover. Part of Vol’jin hated that, since he recognized it as a trait that many humans shared. It was trouble for trolls. And yet, at the same time, he admired it because of the spirit it took to fight hard against death.

The troll looked up at Lord Taran Zhu. “Some escaped me. I be not able to get it all.”

“You got enough.” The pandaren monk nodded solemnly. “And for now, that will have to suffice.”

The storm broke along with Tyrathan’s fever, causing Chen to wonder if the weather wasn’t somehow supernatural in nature. It certainly was a sinister notion, but it didn’t stay with him too long. It really found no purchase in his heart, for even as the last snowflake fell, Chen saw signs of snow lilies fighting their way up toward sunshine. Surely something evil never would have allowed that to happen.

Taran Zhu did not pass judgment on the nature of the storm’s origin but dispatched monks south, west, and east to assess damage. Chen volunteered to head east, since that would take him toward the Temple of the White Tiger. He’d be able to see his niece and learn how she’d fared. Taran Zhu had agreed to allow him to go and promised that Tyrathan would have the best of care in his absence.

For Chen, it felt good to be out of the monastery. Traveling fed his wanderlust. He was certain most of the monks put his willingness to descend the mountain down to that and that alone. It fit with their sense of the world and their idea that those who dwelt on Shen-zin Su were, by their very nature, out of balance and tilted toward Huojin.

Chen wasn’t going to deny that he liked travel and exploration. Others might have itchy feet because they feared being trapped, but not Chen. He turned to his traveling companion and smiled. “I just feel that every time I move on, I’m making room for someone else to rest and enjoy for a while.”

Yalia Sagewhisper graced him with a quizzical expression, yet not one devoid of mirth. “Master Stormstout, are we having another conversation of which I’ve not been part of the first half?”

“My apologies, Sister. Sometimes thoughts rattle around in my head and just tumble out like jihui cubes. Never know which face will be up.” He pointed back toward the monastery hidden beneath a cloak of clouds. “I like the monastery perfectly well.”

“But you could not dwell there forever?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Chen frowned. “Have we had this conversation before?”

She shook her head. “There are times, Master Stormstout, when you pause while sweeping, or when you watch the man head off for his trek up the mountain, and you get lost. You focus elsewhere, just as you focus when you are preparing a concoction.”

“You’ve noticed that?” Chen’s heart beat a bit faster. “You’ve been watching me?”

“It is difficult not to pay attention when the love of enterprise shines so brightly in one.” A sidelong glance lingered, and a smile joined it. “Do you wish to know what I see when you work?”