Michael Stackpole - Vol'jin - Shadows of the Horde

Through watching and helping Tyrathan, Chen got a better understanding of Vol’jin and why he did the things he did. The man pointed out that the lack of Zandalari foragers and skirmishers meant that the invasion force had come prepared with ample supplies. He guessed that two-thirds of the ships had contained supplies and support personnel. Since no one had headed south yet, it meant they were building up for a sustained campaign. While this gave pandaren forces a chance to rally, it meant their task would be that much harder.

And yet you say you are not good at the strategic . Chen got the sense that Tyrathan had not wanted to return to the monastery. Out here, in the field, he had constant distractions. He didn’t want time to think about Zouchin. Chen had no idea why, save for that haunting memory of the man’s wide smile in its aftermath.

Though the man might have downplayed his ability to think on a strategic level, Chen had seen Vol’jin digest the sort of information they were gathering and weave it into exquisite battle plans. It was one thing to be able to estimate the size of an army but yet another to know what a good general could do with it. Vol’jin was the sort who could see all that and see that little flaw in planning that could make even the best plan fall to pieces.

Chen found Tyrathan most eager to share his thoughts about their mission in the evening, during those silent times when a possible change of subject could have led back to questions about the man’s family. Chen would have pursued that line out of natural curiosity but suspected Tyrathan’s counterattack would have been to ask about Yalia and then tease him about his plans.

The pandaren knew the teasing would be in good fun. Another time, over a mug of ale or steaming bowl of tea, Chen would give as good as he got. But he didn’t want to spoil thinking about Yalia. He wanted to cherish his thoughts and memories. Even though he knew he was being fanciful in how he thought of her, he didn’t want to be reminded of that fact.

So, the two of them let conversation lapse, each happy in the darkness for his own reasons. And then each morning, they would hide all signs of their camp and move on.

On the third day, they spied a croft built into a hillside. The hills around it had been terraced. They’d also once been well tended, but weeds had just sprouted, and some crops had been nibbled by wildlife. Dark clouds were slowly gathering to the north, pregnant with black rain. Without exchanging a word, and less than cautiously, they made their way to the croft just before the rain began to fall.

The farmhouse had been built solidly from stone, with a wooden roof that kept the rain out. The farmer and his family must have evacuated when alerted by refugees or monks. Despite some things having been packed hastily, the house remained neat and clean. In fact, aside from squeaky floorboards, Chen found the place to be perfect.

Tyrathan had other ideas. He rapped a fist against the back wall, including a pantry next to the fireplace. It thumped hollowly. He felt around and found some sort of lever that, when he pulled it, slid the pantry in behind the fireplace. Beyond it lay a black hole, with steps leading down into a storage cellar.

The man went first, a drawn dagger in his right hand. Chen followed, carrying a small club in one paw and a glowing lantern in the other. He reached the middle of the stairs by the time Tyrathan hit the landing. One or the other of them stepped on a switch, for the pantry slid back behind them and clicked shut.

Tyrathan glanced up, then waved Chen down the rest of the way. “I think, my friend, we will wait out the storm in fine style.”

Tiny though the storage cellar was, it had been built with shelves, each containing dozens of jars filled with pickled turnip and cabbage. Carrots had been gathered and stacked in baskets. Dried fish, clearly obtained in trade for vegetables, hung in long chains from rafters.

And, in the corner, a small oaken keg, just waiting to be tapped.

Chen looked at it, then at Tyrathan. “Just a taste?”

The man thought for a second, and was about to answer, when the wind howled above them. The door crashed open, which could have been due to the storm.

The tramp of heavy feet on the floor overhead, and harsh troll curses against the weather, pointed to another cause entirely.

Chen and Tyrathan exchanged glances.

The man slowly shook his head. There would be no tapping the keg, even though it was likely to be a very thirsty night.

Vol’jin hunched over, one knee on the ground, his right forearm pressed to his side. He’d made it farther up the mountain than the spot where he’d spoken to Tyrathan, but not much beyond. It was steep going past that point. He wasn’t unfamiliar with climbing, but the pain in his side wouldn’t let him attack the mountain the way he wished.

He’d very much wanted to join Chen and Tyrathan on their scouting mission and was looking forward to their reports, but he was happy that Taran Zhu had agreed with the man’s assessment that Vol’jin was needed to plan defenses. Not only had he more experience in that discipline, but, being a troll himself, he also knew trolls and their behavior better than anyone else.

“Do you not find it curious, Vol’jin, even after the poison has left your system, why you have not fully healed?”

The troll’s head whipped around, his chest still heaving.

Taran Zhu stood there, a half dozen yards down the trail, looking as if he’d been out for a simple stroll.

Vol’jin decided that was because the monk was in far better shape than most, not because Vol’jin was in much worse shape. “It be not unknown. Zul’jin lost an eye, cut off his own arm. They did not heal.”

“Regrowing a severed limb or a complex organ is not the same as healing a cut.” The pandaren slowly shook his head. “Your throat makes it difficult for you to speak. Your side, for you to run and endure in battle. We both know that had you gone with your friends, you would have slowed them down.”

Vol’jin nodded. “Even with the man’s leg.”

“Yes. He’s had more time here, granted, but he has recovered better than you have.”

The troll’s eyes tightened. “Why do you think that be?”

“On some level, he thinks he is worthy of recovering.” The monk shook his head. “You, on some level, do not.”

Vol’jin wanted to roar a denial, but his throat simply wouldn’t allow it. I be not having enough breath either . “Go on.”

The pandaren smiled in an infuriating way that could have justified the Zandalari invasion. “There is a species of crab that appropriates shells for a carapace. Once a pair of them, brothers, grew side by side. As they got bigger, one found a skull. The face had been smashed, and he made his way inside. The other found the helmet that had guarded the skull. The first loved the skull and grew into it perfectly. The second regarded the helmet as just another shell. But when it came time to move on, the first did not want to leave the skull. It had defined him, so he stopped growing. The second, though reluctant, had to leave the helmet and his brother behind. He could not stop growing.”

“Which brother be I?”

“It would depend on your choice. Are you the skull-crab who is content to have trapped himself?” Taran Zhu shrugged. “Or are you the crab who continues to grow, seeking a new home?”

Vol’jin scrubbed a hand over his face. “Be I a troll, or be I Vol’jin?”

“After a manner. I would reverse them. Are you the Vol’jin who nearly died in a cave, or are you a troll seeking a new home?”

“Home, that being an allegory.”

“More and less.”

Have I trapped myself in that cave? When he thought of how he’d been lured there, shame roared through him. Yes, the fact that he’d not died was a victory, but he never should have been in that battle anyway. Garrosh had tossed out bait and Vol’jin had swallowed it. Had Garrosh invited him to dinner, just the two of them, he’d have expected treachery and arrived with the entire Darkspear tribe.