Michael Stackpole - Vol'jin - Shadows of the Horde

“This be a very difficult decision you’ve made.”

“I question it every day, but I will not turn back.” Tyrathan’s green eyes narrowed. “Why this line of questioning?”

“I, too, have a very difficult decision to be making. Similar to yours but of a bit greater magnitude.” The troll sighed heavily. “No matter my choice, nations gonna bleed and people gonna die.”

Proving themselves to be better friends than he felt he deserved, Vol’jin’s three companions contented themselves with the knowledge that he would share more with them when he was ready to do so. They trust me to make the right decision. I gonna. And I gonna bear the consequences. But they are not mine alone to bear.

The Zandalari crew took some delight in tormenting Vol’jin, but within limits. They served decent food for the four prisoners, coming out of the same pot, but they served the two pandaren and the man first. Vol’jin got the leavings, which were not much, burned to the bottom of the pot and cold by the time he ate. If his companions balked, no one would eat, so Vol’jin encouraged them to get their fill.

Likewise, they were taken up on deck for some fresh air at noon, whereas he was placed at the bow before dawn and the ship turned so crashing waves would soak him. Vol’jin endured the water and bitterly cold winds without complaint, secretly pleased that the time he’d taken to become accustomed to the chilliness in the monastery served him well.

It helped more that while he stood there, the Zandalari themselves retreated to warmer and drier places.

Vol’jin chanced to be on deck when the ship arrived at the Isle of Thunder. The harbor facilities looked newer than anything else and bore signs of Zandalari construction. To the left, crews appeared to be moving gunpowder and other supplies to warehouses. He couldn’t tell if the low buildings were full or empty, but even half-full they would keep an army in good supply for a long time. He suspected, since they were arriving with Warlord Kao, that supplies just being off-loaded would soon be reloaded, preparatory to a trip to Zouchin.

Once their ship had docked, the four prisoners were hustled down the gangway and into a cart drawn by oxen. It was really little more than a hay rig, but sailcloth had been used to shroud it, so the prisoners lay together in close darkness. The canvas had a few worn spots that were enlarged into holes with a thumb. Vol’jin and the others studied the island as the wagon made its way along roads paved with more broken stones than whole.

To his frustration, Vol’jin could see far too little, which conveyed far too much. Given that he’d been on deck when they arrived, it should have been midmorning. Instead, it seemed an hour past midnight, with the only useful illumination coming through lightning flashes. The lightning revealed a soggy, swampy landscape in which every patch of dry ground featured a troop tent or pavilion. He could read some of the standards as they traveled and found them more varied than he liked.

It could have been that the Zandalari had arranged a charade by putting so many tents along the route for their wagon, but Vol’jin doubted it. The need for such deception wouldn’t occur to the Zandalari. They’d never believe an enemy who had gotten this far would ever be able to escape with the false data, and they didn’t think any enemy could stand against them. Deception under those conditions was simply a dishonorable waste of time.

A foolish thing to be thinking, but they might well be right. While what Vol’jin knew of the Horde presence in Pandaria was months old, and Tyrathan’s information was even older, the sheer numbers of Zandalari and allied trolls might be enough to drive the others back into the sea. Played well, and Khal’ak would see to it that they were, the Horde and Alliance might even be induced to turn on each other—or intensify their efforts against each other—guaranteeing success for Zandalari plans.

And if they gonna succeed, this tips the balance of my decision .

The cart trundled on slowly to their destination. This turned out to be a hastily erected detention cage, with strap-iron bars on a lockable door that looked as if it had been salvaged from one of the ships and pressed into service. The cage had been placed on a small hillock in a swamp, the only virtue of which was that a stinking moat separated the prisoners from their nearest guards.

Before Vol’jin could be tossed in with his three comrades, a coach arrived and carried him swiftly along a high road snaking through the swamp. One soldier drove; the other stood on the groom’s board at the rear. They quickly made their way to a stone building set near a low, dark complex to the northeast.

His guards conveyed him inside. There he reacquainted himself with Khal’ak’s servants. They did their thorough job of making him presentable, including the removal of the gold chains and the return of his ceremonial dagger. Then back into the carriage and on to the larger building, with paired quilen statues warding the front door and Khal’ak waiting for him.

“Good, you be quite presentable.” She gave him a quick embrace. “Kao be in talking to the Thunder King now. If there be saving to be done of you and your friends—again, my apologies over the monks—my master will be having to intercede.”

Khal’ak guided him through twists and turns that defied his ability to catalog. He didn’t feel any magic at work but couldn’t discount it. He suspected the complex had been cunningly restored to welcome the Thunder King back from the grave. The layout likely had significance and resonance for the mogu emperor, feeling familiar to him. It would ease his transition back into a world that had forgotten him, a world that would be given cause to dread his return.

Two guards snapped to attention beside a portal as Khal’ak swept into the room. At the far end waited Vilnak’dor, attired in mogu-style robes clearly tailored to fit his expansive girth. The Zandalari general had gone so far as to bleach his hair white, then have it curled in the manner of the mogu. It looked to Vol’jin as if he’d even started growing his fingernails into talons.

Khal’ak paused and bowed. “My lord, may I present—”

“I know who dis be. I be smelling his stench before he got here.” The Zandalari leader waved her introduction aside. “Tell me, Vol’jin Run-in-Fear, why I shouldn’t be killin’ you where you stand.”

The Darkspear smiled. “In your position, I probably would be doing just that.”

Vilnak’dor stared at him, his eyes as wide as if they’d been trapped behind some pilfered gnomish goggles. “You would?”

“Certainly. It would appease Warlord Kao.” Vol’jin opened his hands. “Your dress. Your styling. Clearly keeping the mogu happy be your primary concern. Killing me would help.” The Darkspear let the Zandalari’s gasped disbelief hang in the air for a moment, then continued. “It would also be a gross error. It would be costing you victory.”

“Would it?”

“Absolutely.” Vol’jin kept his voice low and as ragged as it had first been during his recovery. “The Horde believes me dead. Murdered. People know I have survived. If you be killing me and claim it, the Darkspears gonna never join. Your king’s dream of one pan-troll empire be dead. You also be setting the Horde against you. You be freeing Garrosh from internal dissent. While I live, he be fearing my telling the truth of what happened. Khal’ak knows. Rumors run rife. I be the arrow that can be shot into Garrosh’s heart when the time comes.”

“An arrow in his heart or a thorn in my side?”

“A thorn in many sides.” The shadow hunter smiled carefully. “You use me and my position to be goading the Gurubashi and Amani to do more. You use me as a promise of advancement for the smaller tribes. Motivation through fear works, but only if hope be balancing it.”