Michael Stackpole - Vol'jin - Shadows of the Horde

The seven bade farewell to their grummle bearers. Tyrathan gave each of them one of his arrows as a remembrance. When Vol’jin threw him a glance, he shrugged. “I’ll replace them with Zandalari. Face it: my supply of arrows was bound to run out well before their supply of Zandalari did.”

Not to be outdone, and feeling the same level of gratitude, Vol’jin shaved the sides of his head. He presented each grummle with a lock of his red hair. The grummles looked as if they’d been handed fistfuls of jewels, and then they melted back into the hills and mountains.

The seven made their descent through the mountains easily enough. Brother Shan led the way, finding footholds on sheer faces and having the strength to anchor ropes as others followed. He recounted a story that said monks had, at the time of the rebellion, rappelled down these very mountains to surprise the mogu. Vol’jin took some comfort from that legend and hoped they would be equally successful.

By the middle of the day, they got below the clouds. The sun had burned off none of the mist, but the clouds glowed with a subtle golden light, which came as much from the ground reflection as it did from the sun’s rays. Vol’jin crouched at the edge of a clearing on a mountain’s southern face and studied the valley below.

Had the troll been pressed before to pick a color to define Pandaria, it would have been green. So many shades of green, from the light buds of new grasses to the deep emerald of forests; the continent was green. But here, in the Vale of Eternal Blossoms, green gave way to gold and red. These were not the colors of autumn—though in places they came close—but the exploding hues of plants in full flower. They were in their glory, springtime frozen in a world that did not age. The diffuse light cast no sharp shadows, and what little moved below did so with a dreamlike, languid quality.

The vale looked the way it felt to stretch luxuriously and long upon waking.

From the heights they could see some buildings but had no clue as to who lived there or maintained them. Their antiquity could not be disputed, but vegetation had not risen up to consume them. The vale’s timelessness preserved them. Vol’jin wondered if that quality would keep all of them alive.

Or keep us dying forever.

Sister Quan-li, a pandaren with liver-colored fur to contrast with the white, pointed southeast. “The invaders would approach from that direction. The mogu palace lay there, and Lord Taran Zhu says the emperor’s warlords were buried directly south of our position.”

Tyrathan nodded. “The journal would have had them seeking passage in the east part of the valley. I don’t see any signs they’ve made it yet.”

The troll chuckled. “What would you expect, my friend? That we be seeing a black stain pouring over the landscape? Smoke from villages being burned to the ground?”

“No. There should, however, be makeshift camps. So we can choose to wait here until dark and see if fires reveal the enemy to us…”

“Or be slipping down and looking more closely just in case they, too, are keeping cold camps.” Vol’jin stood. “I be favoring the latter.”

“Easier to shoot by daylight. Not impossible at night. Just easier.”

“Good. We gonna come out on this little plateau above that road. Keep to the heights.”

Tyrathan pointed with the end of his bow. “If we can head straight south and curl back around east, we could come in behind their line of march. They wouldn’t be looking for us in ground they’ve already secured. Plus, those folks who are critical to accomplishing their ends are not likely to be at the front line but somewhere back, away from perceived danger.”

“Yes. Identify them and kill them.”

Chen glanced over, his eyes tight. “And slip away again.”

The troll and the man exchanged looks. Then Vol’jin nodded. “Probably back south and west. We be going back out the way we came in.”

“At least we’d know the terrain and know where to set traps.” The man lowered his bow. “Given that we’re pitting seven against the elite of two empires, that isn’t the most stupid plan we could have come up with.”

“Agreed.” The troll shifted the pack strapped to his back. “That I can’t be thinking of a better one disturbs me.”

“That’s not the point, is it, Vol’jin?” Chen tugged on his own pack’s straps. “We’re here to disturb them, and I think this plan will do just that.”

Though they walked through a golden valley that few outsiders had seen for years uncounted, Vol’jin did not fear. He knew he should have and consciously took every precaution he could to avoid discovery. Still, he didn’t have that little chill cutting at his spine. The fur at the base of his skull didn’t rise. It felt as if he had on a rush’kah mask, insulating him from fear.

And yet… he had no dreams while he slept in the Vale of Eternal Blossoms, but that was because he needed none. Walking through the valley was walking through a living vision. Something about the reality of the place bled into him. An arrogance, in part, resonating with his troll heritage. He was touching a lingering bit of mogu magic, being caressed by the ghost of the mogu empire.

Here, in this place, where great races had wielded great power, he could not know fear. There, on the far distant steps of Mogu’shan Palace—where his enemies likely slept—proud mogu fathers had faced their sons west, sweeping a hand before them to take in the whole of the valley. This land was theirs, and all land that touched it, to do with as they pleased. They could make it over as they willed, shape it to their hearts’ desires. There was nothing here that would hurt them, because everything here feared them.

It was that last bit that saved Vol’jin. He knew what it was to be feared. He liked that his enemies feared him, but their terror was born from what he had done. He had earned it, sword stroke by sword stroke, spell by spell, conquest by conquest. It was not something he’d inherited and not something he saw as his birthright.

It was something he understood, and this separated him from the young mogu princes who beheld their domain. Because he understood this concept, he could use it. He could feel it ebb and flow. But they remained above it, seeing what they wanted to see, hearing what they wanted to hear. And never feeling the need to climb to the heights to see the reality of the world.

When they made camp on the night they’d gotten halfway across the valley, Tyrathan looked at him. “You feel it, don’t you?”

Vol’jin nodded.

Chen looked up from his tea bowl. “Feel what?”

The man smiled. “That answers my question.”

The pandaren shook his head. “What question? What is it you feel?”

Tyrathan frowned. “A sense that this place is mine and that I belong here because the land is soaked in blood and I am steeped in killing. That’s what you feel, yes, Vol’jin?”

“Close enough.”

Chen smiled, pouring himself some tea. “Oh, that.”

The man’s frown deepened. “Then you do feel it?”

“No, but I know you do.” The brewmaster looked at the man and the troll in turn, then shrugged. “I’ve seen that look in your eyes before. You, Vol’jin, more than Tyrathan, but I’ve not fought beside him nearly as much as I have beside you. In every battle, at that point when you are fighting your hardest, you get that expression. It’s just hard. Implacable. I see it and I know you will win. That expression says that you are the best combatant on the field that day. Anyone who challenges you will die.”

The troll cocked his head. “And that’s the expression I be wearing now?”

“Well, no, maybe a little, around the eyes. The both of you. When you don’t think anyone is looking. Or when you don’t realize anyone is looking. It says this is your land, won by right, which you won’t surrender.” Chen shrugged once more. “Given our task, this is good.”