Michael Stackpole - Vol'jin - Shadows of the Horde

Many millennia past, back when there were only the Zandalari, back before the mists hid Pandaria, the mogu and trolls met. It was a time when only a quarter of all there was to know even existed. Lion recognized lion. They should have destroyed each other, that first mogu and first troll, but they did not. They understood that in a war, pitting strength against strength, the survivor would be weakened. The survivor might even succumb to creatures far weaker than it. That would be a tragedy that neither race wanted.

With back firmly set against back, mogu and trolls carved out their positions in the world. Yet as events took place, as each race faced challenges, its ally became forgotten. The mogu disappeared along with Pandaria. Trolls found their own world sundered. And as it was with storied races pressed with immediate problems, the distant past dimmed in recollection, and more recent outrages burned blindingly bright.

Khal’ak descended the switchback steps. The steps numbered at seventeen. She did not understand the significance of this for the mogu, but then she did not have to understand. Her job was simply to carry out her master’s orders. He, in turn, sought to accommodate his ally, the Thunder King. Power would drive power until both possessed enough to return to their positions of glory and set the world to rights again.

She walked through a settlement that had been humbled by age yet now awakened to a new youth. The mogu, more and more of them appearing each day, bowed quietly in their way. They understood her significance and acknowledged it because her actions had brought them joy and would bring them more.

Even though they did bow and show her honor, enough reserve remained in their behavior to reveal how much superior to her, and to trolls, the mogu felt. Khal’ak suppressed a laugh, since her training would make it child’s play to kill any of them. The mogu had no understanding of how precarious their position in this alliance was or how vulnerable they could be if the Zandalari decided to destroy them.

Cold waves slapped against pilings, splashing the quay. Gulls wheeled and screamed above. The scent of salt air and rotting fish struck her as remarkably exotic. Cables groaned and planking creaked as the ships rode the harbor’s dark green surface.

She quickly boarded the smaller ship and found a dozen shaman circled in the center of the main deck. A third of them squatted, poking at bones and feathers, pebbles and odd bits of metal. The others stood by, sage and silent—conditions that intensified when they saw her come aboard.

“Why be you not weighin’ anchor?”

“The loa, they be not pleased.” One of the squatting shaman looked up at her, pointing at two bones crossed above a feather. “The storm be not natural.”

She opened her hands and resisted the urge to kick him over the side. “Did you expect it to be? What manner of fool be you? The loa were pleased enough when we set sail for Pandaria. You yourselves said as much. You said you be readin’ the thing same in your bones and bits. Sheer idiocy for the loa to bless our undertaking then, yet protest now because of a blizzard.”

Khal’ak pointed back toward the palace hidden in the island’s interior. “You know what we have done. The Thunder King walks again. Dat storm, it be honoring him. The world rejoices at his return. Of all seasons, he loved winter best. Of all weather, he felt most alive when snow be stingin’ and blindin’ the world. You may not have remembered him, but the world did, and it welcomed him. And now you cast bones to determine what the loa think? If they protested, how could that storm ever have happened?”

Gyran’zul, the youngest of the shaman and the one most given to reason, turned toward her. She favored him for his shock of red hair and the strong thrust of his tusks. He knew that and trusted in it to give him time to speak.

“Honored Khal’ak, what you say be reasonable. The loa could have stopped the storm. They could have stopped our armada sailin’ long ago. While my colleagues may be seeking clarity where none exists, that dey need to seek clarity means confusion exists.”

The fur began to rise at the nape of her neck. “You speak sense. More of it, please.”

“Da loa be demanding and deserving of our worship—the worship of all trolls. They value strength. While we have offered each other as sacrifices, and these sacrifices be accepted and revered, they be not preferred. Da loa, as we reach them, speak to us less because they also speak to others. We be not alone in comin’ to Pandaria. Alliance and Horde be here as well.”

She looked from one to the other of the shaman, taking in the full dozen. “An’ this be what gives you pause? Perhaps you do not fully understand. Perhaps it be not your place to understand. My master has long anticipated others arriving in Pandaria. Vermin always be finding a way to spoil things. To assume we would escape dem here be folly. Contingent plans been made. Opposition will not stand.”

Another shaman with short tusks rose. “This be well for dealin’ with the Alliance, but what of the Horde?”

“What of dem?”

“Trolls be among them.”

“Vermin choosin’ to run in packs does not make them noble. They still be vermin. And if trolls believe joining such a pack benefits them rather than degrading them, more fools they. We be welcomin’ those trolls who come to see the wisdom of our actions and wish ta join us. We always be needing garrison troops and subalterns to organize various details. If the loa be distracted by reachin’ those trolls and tellin’ them to come to us, dis I favor. Perhaps this be what you should entreat da loa to do.”

She snorted. “From dis ship. Out at the breakwater.”

The short-tusked shaman shook his head. “We will be needing time to prepare. A sacrifice.”

“You have six hours. Less. Moonrise.”

“That be not enough time.”

She stabbed a finger at the shaman’s chest. “Den I gonna give the loa a sacrifice. I gonna tie your left ankle and wrist to the dock, and the right ankle and wrist to this ship. I will order the captain to haul anchor an’ sail. Be this how you wish to serve da loa, your fleet, and your people?”

Gyran’zul intervened. “The purity of your faith, Honored Khal’ak, be reflectin’ great esteem upon your master and your family. No doubt your fidelity to the loa be accounting for our great initial success. We gonna communicate that to the loa, and we gonna be prepared to set sail immediately.”

“You be pleasing our master.”

The young troll raised a finger. “Dere be one other thing.”

“Yes?”

The shaman pressed his hands together. Slender and delicate, too much so. His eyes narrowed. “The loa speak to us, and they speak to some among the Horde, but this does not occupy the whole of their attention.”

“What else be there?”

“This be the point. We do not know. The reason the storm concerns us be because when we seek whatever else there be, it be hiding behind a curtain. It could be a ghost. It could be a troll in the distance. It could herald da birth of a troll destined to greatness. We do not know, and we must tell you of it because you seek certainty where doubt exists.”

A shiver ran the full length of her spine. Somehow the presence of this unknown troll concerned her more than learning Horde and Alliance had come to Pandaria. They were known quantities. The Zandalari could deal with them. But how does one lay contingency plans for an unknown? The mogu assured them that the pandaren were, effectively, defenseless. What else could dere be?

Khal’ak looked past the shaman toward the south, where mists gathered just beyond the harbor. Their fleet would sail into the night and through another night. She’d been to Pandaria. She’d chosen the landing zone. A small fishing village with nothing of substance or value save a decent harbor. Once they’d landed and secured the harbor, they’d plunge inland. Troll scouts indicated there was nothing that could stop them. Nothing even to slow the Zandalari down.