Michael Stackpole - Vol'jin - Shadows of the Horde

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.”