Michael Stackpole - Vol'jin - Shadows of the Horde

Taran Zhu approached the battlement where the troll sat running a whetstone along the curved edge of the first of his glaive’s blades. “You cannot make it sharper with any more strokes. It can already split night from day.”

Vol’jin raised the blade and watched golden sunlight spark from the edge. “Sharpening the fighter who be wielding it wants more time than we have.”

“I think he, too, is honed to a fine edge.” The elder monk looked toward the south, where the vale’s mountains trapped a lake of clouds. “Back when the last mogu emperor fell, monks led the rebellion. I doubt the monks then would recognize the Shado-pan as their heirs, and we might not recognize them as our inspiration. We revere their legends too much, and they would have hoped for much more from us.”

The monk frowned. “In that rebellion, they had more than pandaren fighting with them. The jinyu, the hozen, even the grummles participated. It could be, though the Lorewalkers never mention it, that even men and trolls fought with the pandaren.”

The troll smiled. “Hardly likely. Unrefined, men were at the time. The Zandalari would still be seeing the mogu as allies then, too.”

“But there are always the exceptional among every population.”

“You be thinking of the insane and the renegades.”

“The point being that our fight for our freedom is a fight you could have understood then, and do understand now.” Taran Zhu shook his head. “That war, and the time before, our time of enslavement, was so terrible that it scars our souls. Perhaps that wound only had the chance to fester, never to heal.”

Vol’jin flipped his sword around and rasped the whetstone over the other curved edge. “Wounds that foul need cutting and draining.”

“In our desire to forget our nightmare, we might have lost that knowledge. Not of how to do such things, but the why of their necessity.” The elder monk nodded. “Your presence here and your conduct so far have contributed greatly to my seeing that.”

A chill ran down Vol’jin’s spine. “I be glad but also saddened. I’ve seen enough war not to like it. Not like some, who live for it.”

“Like the man?”

“No, not even him. He be good at it, but were he the sort to need war, he’d have long since quit this place.” Vol’jin’s eyes became slits. “One thing he and I share be the willingness to shoulder responsibilities others are not. The same be true of the Shado-pan, and now you know why it be so important.”

“Yes.” The pandaren nodded. “As per our discussions, I have sent envoys to the jinyu and hozen. I hope they will stand with us.”

“The grummles seem willing.” A small knot of the tiny, long-armed creatures had gathered around Chen, each being fitted with sacks to haul. They would bring the team’s gear to the vale, then head back to the monastery to let Taran Zhu know the team had gotten that far. Given the grummles’ stamina and great strength, they would save the team’s energy for the second half of the expedition, into the vale itself.

“They are compliant and wiser than they would seem.” The monk smiled. “We, and I mean the peoples of Pandaria, will never be able to thank you for all you’ve done. I have sent my master carvers into the mountain to carve your likenesses into the bones. If you die…”

Vol’jin nodded. For him, the dropping of a statuette would be a matter of military intelligence, but clearly, for the Shado-pan, it was another matter entirely. “You be honoring me greatly.”

“Yet inadequately memorializing what you are doing for us. Monks led the rebellion and now will write a new ending to it.”

The troll lifted an eyebrow. “You know we just be buying time. We can slow them down. We can set them back, but seven, or forty-seven, won’t be enough to be stopping the Zandalari or the mogu.”

“But time is what we need.” Taran Zhu smiled. “Almost no one will remember the time when we were slaves, but no one wishes to be enslaved. As the mogu rise, they bring with them the rebirth of the reason we threw them down. Time is what we need to organize. Time to remind people of their past and teach them the value of their future.”

As they set off the next morning for the Vale of Eternal Blossoms, Vol’jin took a look back toward the Peak of Serenity. There the first monks had trained in secret, their privacy guaranteed because the mogu were too lazy to climb to the top. His memory of lounging farther down with a mogu comrade burst with his remembrance of climbing to the top with the man. Another ally, a comrade, but circumstances that felt so much different.

And so proper, despite how strange.

Vol’jin studied the group and smiled. For each one of them came two grummles bearing weapons and rations and other supplies. Five pandaren, a man, and a troll. Had Garrosh been there to see it, to see how easily Vol’jin got along with them, he’d have yet more charges of treason to lay against him.

And it wasn’t as if this company replaced the Horde in his mind or heart. It was a company of necessity, and in that way, it reminded him of the Horde. A diverse company united to preserve freedom. It was that unity of purpose that defined the Horde he knew and loved, the Horde that had fought under Thrall.

The purpose of Garrosh’s Horde came from him, from his need for conquest and power. His desires would fracture it, perhaps beyond repair. That would be as great a tragedy, in Vol’jin’s mind, as the Zandalari-mogu alliance returning the mogu to power in Pandaria.

They headed south and, after several days, reached the heights above the Vale of Eternal Blossoms. The clouds seethed and curled like ocean waves heralding a coming storm. If the grummles felt any foreboding, they said nothing. They made camp as before and segregated themselves.

Though he knew better than to do it, he had made a point of learning each pandaren’s name, as had Chen. Tyrathan had adopted the wiser course, addressing each one as “brother” or “sister” or “my friend,” keeping some distance between them. Not knowing their names, not knowing their hopes and dreams, would make it easier if… If their statues drop from the mountain’s bones.

Vol’jin didn’t want it to be easy. He never had, but in the past he had been fighting with and for his tribe. Here it would be easy to distance himself, since it wasn’t his people, wasn’t his home, wasn’t his tribe. But if the fight be worth fighting, then these be my people, this be my home, and they be my tribe.

It occurred to him that the mogu might be thinking exactly the same thing, though rooted in the past. This was their land. These were their people. Even after centuries and tens of centuries—even after they’d all but been forgotten—they burned with a hunger to have rights wronged. It was one thing for trolls to desire to return to the past because they, at least, had explored a future. The mogu had done little to organize or reestablish their domain. They remained shut off from the future because they clung so tightly to the past they’d lost.

Despite having made their camp in a cave facing south and west, the group lit no fire. They supped on rice balls, dried berries, and smoked fish. Chen had managed to steep tea in a waterskin, which made it all more than palatable.

Tyrathan drained his small bowl and held it out for a refill. “I always wondered what my last meal would be.”

Chen smiled with genuine joy. “It’s a question you’ll ponder for a long time yet, Tyrathan.”

“Perhaps, but if this is it, I can’t imagine a better meal.”

The troll raised his cup. “It be the company, not the food.”

Vol’jin slept solidly until just before dawn, having taken the first watch after supper. He suffered no visions or dreams—at least, none he could remember. For a heartbeat, he wondered if the loa had abandoned him again. He decided, quite to the contrary, that Bwonsamdi had kept the others distant so Vol’jin would be rested enough to send more trolls his way.