Michael Stackpole - Vol'jin - Shadows of the Horde

“The Darkspears have survived. We have survived because we be living in the world that is, not in the world we lament having lost. They be measuring everything against a standard that be imagined. They do not know what the past empires were like, not truly. They only be knowing the romantic fantasy of those empires. Their standards be unrealistic, not only because they be based on lies but also because those standards have no place in the world of today.”

Seeing Vilnak’dor in mogu clothing, dwarfed by mogu architecture, had crystallized in Vol’jin’s mind a thought that had haunted him through dream and vision. If one looked at the whole history of trolls, it could only be seen as a descent from heights. The trolls had once been unified, but since those days, their society had fractured, and then the shards had tried to re-create the imagined glory of the whole. Not only was that impossible, but to make it happen, they preyed upon each other. Even now the Zandalari collected a unity of trolls less to re-form what trolls once had been than to confirm their place at the apex of troll civilization. Each shard, in its drive to shape an empire and dominate the world, did so to prove it was the best.

But all they do confirms they don’t believe they be the best .

Vol’jin’s father, Sen’jin, had never seen it that way. He’d wanted what was best for the Darkspears. That was for them to be given a home free from fear, where they could see to their wants and needs without stress. For those obsessed with power, the past, and dreams of empire, this seemed a very tiny ambition.

And yet, that ambition be the only seed for empires . Tyrathan had framed it in terms of his wife’s fears that all he knew how to do was to kill and destroy. Vol’jin felt she underestimated him, but her assessment certainly applied to the Zandalari and the mogu. A need for revenge drove them, but once they had destroyed all their enemies, what then? Would they be driven to create an idyllic society, or just to find new enemies?

Tyrathan was ready to sacrifice himself for family. Chen would do it in a heartbeat for Li Li and Yalia. Cuo and the Shado-pan would do it for Pandaria. Vol’jin’s father had, and Vol’jin himself would. But who be my family?

When King Rastakhan’s agent, Zul, had tried to gather all the trolls together, Vol’jin had withdrawn and told him that “the Horde be my family.” Garrosh’s attempt to kill him seemed to put the lie to that statement, but then Vol’jin realized that this act was not in furtherance of the Horde’s goals. The murder had been to further Garrosh’s goals. That he could murder Vol’jin marked the point of divergence between what the orc wanted and what was good for the Horde.

The Horde be my family. It be my duty to give everything for my family . Vol’jin nodded. Just sitting back in Pandaria, licking his wounds, was letting the Horde suffer. To do that was a betrayal of his family and his responsibilities.

As a troll and as a shadow hunter .

He’d not lied when he told Vilnak’dor that his duty as a shadow hunter was to do what was best for trolls. Joining a bloody effort to attempt to reestablish centuries-old empires was not best for trolls. This was not because it would cost lives; it was because the project had nothing to do with the realities of the world. The Horde was his family. The Darkspears were part of the Horde. The Horde was part of the current reality. The fates of the Horde and of trolls were undeniably tangled together. To act as if that wasn’t the truth would be complete folly.

Vol’jin took hold of the golden chain between his hands. “The past be important. We can and must be learning from it, but it cannot shackle us. Ancient empires built by legions would be vanishing if up against a single company of goblin cannoneers. The old ways be valuable, but only as a foundation for the future we choose to be building.”

The troll pointed a finger at Tyrathan. “It be like you, my friend. You be good at killing. But you can learn to be good at building—though, I gonna admit, killing be of more use right now. And you, Chen, you desiring a home and family, that be very powerful. Many a warrior has died opposing a fighter who seeks to defend just that. And you, Cuo, and the Shado-pan with your desiring balance. You be the water that lets the ship sail, and the anchor that stops it going too far.”

Tyrathan looked at him. “I know you value my skill at killing, but I’m not using it in the employ of the Zandalari.”

“I be hoping, my friend, you would be using it in my employ.” With a simple twist of his wrist, Vol’jin wrenched apart the soft gold link centering the chain. “They built this prison to hold Zandalari. I be more. I be Darkspear. I be shadow hunter. Time we be informing them just how bad a mistake they’ve made.”

Relief came off the others in waves. A tightness in Vol’jin’s chest eased. He’d surprised himself when he didn’t reject Khal’ak’s offer out of hand. He would have liked to believe that his hesitation was simply based on her having power over his friends, but that was no more true than his rejection being because accepting her offer wouldn’t save them from Warlord Kao. Hers was an offer he couldn’t dismiss without due consideration. Acceptance became impossible until he identified the family for whom he would be fighting.

The troll nodded, keeping his voice low. “Now, the first thing we need to be doing—”

“We have it covered.” Tyrathan stared out over his head. “Twelve guards. Eight split into pairs at the four points of the compass. Gurubashi given this detail as punishment. Four more, Zandalari, very young and new, out by the road, where it’s a bit warmer, a lot drier, and with fewer bugs.”

Vol’jin arched an eyebrow.

“I understand Zandali, remember? Guards complain, and the slurs that pass between the groups are horrible.”

Chen stretched. “The door has been set in posts that are still green. Lock side is solid, but not the hinge side. Bottom screws are almost out, and top screws cracked the wood.”

Vol’jin looked at the monk expectantly.

Brother Cuo nodded. “Inspections starting at north in fifteen minutes, with the circuit complete in twenty. Shifts change every eight hours. Next change at midnight, if what Tyrathan has overheard is true.”

Vol’jin rested his hands on his thighs, then stood and bowed to them. “You gonna be escaped in two hours.”

“Kao wants them dead, and I don’t like the view.” The man returned the bow. “We were off to find you, mind, maybe kill a Thunder King or two to pass the time.”

“The Thunder King has mogu, saurok, and massive quilen for guardians. Magics too. It would be taking an army to be getting an audience with him.”

Chen frowned. “Then we run?”

Vol’jin nodded. “If we be about stopping an invasion.”

Brother Cuo raised an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t killing the Thunder King be more likely to succeed?”

“Remember, emperors command armies, but they not be so good at taking or holding land.” Vol’jin smiled coldly. “If we be killing those who would win back his empire, we be hobbling him worse than a return to the grave.”

Midnight came and went, and with it the predicted change of guards. The new shift’s soldiers settled in quickly enough, wrapping themselves in blankets and cursing duty that left them without a fire. Vol’jin had heard such complaints in every military camp. Complaining about the cold or the food or overweening officers constituted ninety percent of conversation, meant only to stave off boredom or fear. Soldiers fell easily into patterns, and their worlds closed down into a tiny space where nothing existed outside their conversation.