Michael Stackpole: Vol'jin: Shadows of the Horde

The magic, however, was not. Magic that could remake a thing so completely came from the dawn of time, from the beginning of everything. The titans, the shapers of Azeroth, had used such magic in their acts of creation. The incredible power of such sorceries could not be understood by a sound mind, let alone mastered. Yet dreams of it fueled insane flights of fancy.

In experiencing the making of the saurok, Vol’jin grasped a core truth of the magic. He could see a way—just the glimmer of a path—he could pursue its study. The same magic that had made a saurok could unmake the murlocs that had killed his father, or cause men to regress back to the vrykul they clearly had been crafted from. Doing either of those would be a worthy use of such power and would justify the decades of study its mastery would require.

The shadow hunter caught himself. There, in thinking just that, he was falling prey to the trap that had doubtlessly ensnared the mogu. Immortal magic would corrupt a mortal. There was no escaping it. That corruption would destroy the wielder. And, likely, his people.

Vol’jin reopened his eyes and found Rak’gor standing there with the group’s survivors. “Be about time you caught up.”

“The warchief says there is a connection between these creatures and the mogu.”

“Dese mogu, dey be da creators. Dey workin’ wicked, dark magic here.” Vol’jin’s flesh crawled as the orc sauntered forward. “Dis be the blackest of magics.”

The orc offered a quick, feral grin. “Yes, the power to shape flesh and build incredible warriors. This is what the warchief wants.”

Vol’jin’s guts knotted. “Garrosh playing god? Dis ain’t what the Horde be about.”

“He didn’t think you’d approve.”

The orc struck viciously and without mercy. The dagger caught Vol’jin in the throat, spinning him away and to the ground. All around him his companions leaped into battle. Rak’gor and his allies fought with a reckless abandon, heedless of their own safety and dying for their efforts. Perhaps Garrosh be convincing them that his new magic gonna bring them back and make them better .

Vol’jin rose to a knee and waved his companions back. He pressed a hand to his throat, closing the wound. “Garrosh betrays himself. He gotta believe we be dead. It be the only way to get time to stop him. Go. Watch him. Find others like me. Swear a blood oath. For the Horde. Be ready when I return.”

He’d honestly thought, as they abandoned him there, that what he’d told them was true. But as he tried to stand, black agonies shot through him. Garrosh had planned in depth. Rak’gor’s blade had been steeped in some noxious poison. Vol’jin wasn’t healing as he should be, and he could feel his strength ebbing. He fought against it, against the fog that drifted through his mind.

And he might have made it had more saurok not found him. He dimly recalled fighting them, blades flashing in the darkness. Pain from cuts that refused to close. Cold seeping into his limbs. He ran blindly, smashing into walls, tumbling down passages, but always forced himself up and to keep moving.

How he’d gotten out of the cave, and how he’d gotten to wherever he was now, he couldn’t say. It certainly didn’t smell like a cave. He did catch something hauntingly familiar in the air, but it hid beneath the scent of poultices and unguents. He wouldn’t go so far as to assume he was among friends. His being cared for suggested it. Or his enemies could be treating him well in hopes of ransoming him back to the Horde.

They gonna be disappointed with Garrosh’s offer .

That thought almost made him laugh. He couldn’t quite muster one, though. His stomach muscles tightened but relented from fatigue and pain. Still, that his body could react involuntarily reassured him. Laughter was something for the living, not the dying.

Just like remembering.

Not to be dying, that was enough for the moment. Vol’jin drew in as deep a breath as he could manage, then slowly exhaled. And was asleep before he finished.

Chen Stormstout, overlooking a courtyard of the Shado-pan Monastery, felt the cold but didn’t dare give any sign of it. Below where he’d been sweeping a light dusting of snow off steps, a dozen of the monks, all barefooted and some stripped to the waist, exercised. In unison, with a discipline he’d not seen in even the world’s finest troops, they went through a series of forms. Punches flashed by, blurry, and crisp kicks crackled through chilly mountain air. The monks moved both fluidly and strongly, with the power of rivers raging through canyons.

Except they didn’t rage.

Through these most martial of exercises, the monks somehow drew peace. It made them content. Though he’d watched them often, and hadn’t heard too many laughs among them, Chen had not detected anger. That certainly wasn’t what he expected from troops finishing training, but then he’d never seen anyone quite like the Shado-pan before.

“If I might, Brewmaster, have a word?”

Chen turned and went to lean the broom against the wall but then stopped. That wasn’t really the place for it, but Lord Taran Zhu’s request wasn’t really a question, so he couldn’t go to put the broom where it should go. Instead, he just pulled it behind himself and bowed to the monastery’s lord.

Taran Zhu’s face remained impassive. Chen couldn’t tell how old the monk was, but he’d believe the pandaren had been born well before the Chiang sisters. That wasn’t because he looked old. He didn’t, not really. He had the powerful vitality of someone Chen’s age, or even Li Li’s. It was something else about him, and something he shared with the monastery.

Something he shares with all Pandaria .

Pandaria had an elusive sense of antiquity. The Great Turtle had been old, and the structures on him were old, but none of them felt as venerable as the monastery. Chen had grown up among buildings that harkened back to Pandaria’s architecture but were to the original what a cub’s sand castle might be to its inspiration. Not that they weren’t wonderful; they just weren’t the same.

Chen, having held the bow a respectfully long time, straightened up again. “What can I do for you?”

“A missive has arrived from your niece. She has, as you requested, visited the brewery and made sure they know you will be away for a short while. She is proceeding to the Temple of the White Tiger.” The monk inclined his head slightly. “For this latter thing I am grateful. Your niece’s strong spirit is… irrepressible. Her last visit…”

Chen nodded quickly. “Will be her last. It’s good to see that Brother Huon-kai is no longer limping.”

“He has recovered, both in body and spirit.” Taran Zhu’s eyes tightened. “Half as much can be said of your latest refugee. There are signs that the troll has regained his senses, though he still heals slowly.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful. I mean, not that he is healing slowly, but that he is awake.” Chen made to transfer the broom to Taran Zhu, then hesitated. “I’ll just put this away on my way to the infirmary.”

The elder monk raised a paw. “He sleeps at the moment. It is concerning him, and the man you brought previously, that prompts my desire to speak with you.”

“Yes, Lord.”

Taran Zhu turned and, in an eyeblink, had progressed along a windswept walkway that Chen had not gotten around to clearing. The monk moved so gracefully that his silken robes didn’t even whisper. Chen couldn’t see the least little sign of his spoor in the snow. Hurrying after him made Chen feel like a stone-footed thunder lizard.

The monk led him downstairs through dark, heavy doors, into dim corridors paved with carved stone. The stones had been fitted together in interesting patterns that united both each block and the designs carved on them. The few times Chen had volunteered to sweep them, he had spent far more time being lost inside the lines and their weavings than actually using his broom.