Michael Stackpole - Vol'jin - Shadows of the Horde

But will the loa believe that?

Bwonsamdi’s cold chuckle rippled through Vol’jin’s chest as the troll spun to face the loa. Have you not listened to your father, Shadow Hunter? The loa came before the troll. Your father be asking what trolls were called before they were called trolls. I be asking what they were called before that, or before that. What you are be a river. Some will say that means you be water. They would have you stagnate. You be more, as a river be more than water.

And the Horde?

The loa spread his hands. River be river. Wide and shallow, narrow, deep, and fast—it does not matter. We be spirits. Our concern be for your spirit. Abide by our compact, be true to your spirit and obligations, and you gonna prosper.

You gonna have your fill of Zandalari souls soon.

The loa’s laughter rang mirthlessly. You never gonna sate my appetite.

I gonna soon follow.

And I gonna welcome you. I be welcoming all trolls.

Vol’jin found that comment oddly comforting. Not because he had any desire to be dead, but because it meant he would not be separated from his friends. It didn’t seem like much with death looming so large, but for the shadow hunter, it was, at the moment, enough.

Chen felt sorry for the little bush behind which they’d hidden the pyramid of rocks. Each of the rocks—averaging the size of a troll’s skull, though far rounder in shape—would have been enough to snap the bush in half. All of them combined would be an avalanche, would scour the land, uprooting the plant and, with any luck, mowing down a half dozen Zandalari climbing up toward the monastery.

Chen set his rock on top, then squatted and sighted down the slope. The stones would funnel into a narrow channel, where the trail got steep. Warriors would stack up there as they climbed, which made it a rather obvious point for an ambush. While the bush might screen the rocks from most watchful eyes, the Zandalari wouldn’t miss them.

And we’d not want them to miss this, either . From a pouch on his belt, the pandaren pulled a pawful of small wooden disks. He inserted them into the gaps between stones. When the pile went rolling down the hill, the disks wouldn’t travel far, but the Zandalari would discover them in the aftermath.

Farther up the trail, back behind where Chen stood, Yalia knelt by a hole in the ground. She’d had to reach all the way down into it to firmly plant the sharpened bamboo stake that now pointed up at the sky. Chen had helped carve many of those stakes, first slashing the bamboo into a sharp point, then undercutting the edges to form solid barbs.

He trudged up the mountainside, being careful to stay off the trail. A tripwire had been stretched across it a foot in front of Yalia’s pit. The thinking had been that the trolls would send one scout up past the steep point. He’d continue on, probably spotting the stones once he drew parallel to them. He’d then see the tripwire, which wasn’t well hidden, and assume it would somehow trigger the stones to go crashing down. He’d cleverly step over the wire, plunging his foot into the pit. He’d scream, or his friends would see him go down, and they would rush to his aid.

At which time a small trebuchet farther up the mountain would launch rocks. They’d smash the area and trigger the avalanche, catching yet more trolls.

Chen offered Yalia his paw. She took one last glance at the thin slate shingle she’d placed over the pit, then accepted his aid and stood.

Chen liked it that she didn’t immediately release her grip. “That looks great, Yalia. The way you blew that dust on it makes it look like it’s been there forever. Tyrathan would be proud of that trap.”

She smiled but too fast and too briefly. “We’re not setting traps for dumb animals, are we, Chen?”

“No, the Zandalari are quite clever. That’s why we’re seeding them with the disks, too. But don’t worry; your preparation will fool them.”

She shook her head. “I have no concern over that. This will catch them, and catch them well.”

“Then… ?”

“I asked because I must ask.” Yalia sighed, partly weary but mostly something else. “I found myself being proud of my work, even though I know it will cause pain. And when I made that realization, I justified my feelings by seeing the Zandalari as animals. They were mindless killing machines. I transformed them into something unworthy of life, and that judgment of one is easily spread among the many. It can’t be true of all of them, can it?”

“No.” Chen gave her paw a squeeze. “You do well to think of that and remind me of it. Your willingness to see value in life, even of those who are opposed to you, is the mark of wisdom. It is one of the reasons I love you.”

Yalia glanced down shyly, but only for a moment. “That you listen to me and think about what I say are among the reasons I love you, Chen. I wish that we had more time. Together, yes, but also for you. You have sought a home for so long. I have hoped that you found one here. For you to lose it so soon, this makes me sad.”

He reached up and brushed away a brimming tear before it could dampen her silken fur. “Don’t be sad. Finding a home is to be made whole. That is a pleasure so wonderful that more time can’t increase it. I know all of it because I now have a sense for who I am and what I’ve been meant to be.”

“How so?”

“All these brews and concoctions I made were my attempt to capture a place or a time. A bard might do that with a song, or a painter with a picture. They play to ear and eye, whereas I play to nose and palate and, perhaps, touch too. I always sought the perfect brew, hoping to find that one which would describe the emptiness in my life. It could fill it. But here, now, I know I am whole. And while I can capture a place and time in what I do, now I possess joy and happiness—both of which are compounded by your presence in my life.”

Yalia moved to him, circling his neck with her arms. “Perhaps, then, I am the selfish one. I wish for more, Chen. I want eternity.”

“We will have that, Yalia Sagewhisper.” Chen pulled her close, holding her firmly. “We’re already eternal. Our images may drop from the mountain’s bones, but the mountain itself will fall before we are forgotten. Bards will sing of us. Painters will splash our images from here to Orgrimmar and back. Brewmasters will claim for eons that they have my secret recipe for the brew that sustained the Thirty-three. They’ll probably just call it that: ‘Thirty-three.’ ”

“And we will be united forever in their memories?”

“There won’t be a boy in Pandaria who doesn’t seek his Yalia, and count himself lucky when he’s found her. Girls will be happy when they tame their wandering Chen.”

Yalia pulled back, raising an eyebrow. “Is that what you think I think?”

Chen kissed the tip of her nose. “No. You have shared your peace with me. You are the anchor and the ocean. And any cub who finds his Yalia and is given the benefit of those things will be the most fortunate pandaren alive.”

She kissed him full on the mouth, passionately, desperately. It took his breath away. He crushed her to him, hugging her fiercely, stroking the back of her head as they kissed. It was a moment he never wanted to end, and he hoped the artists and bards would do it true justice.

When they pulled back, Yalia laid her head on his shoulder. “I could only wish it would be our cubs doing that looking.”

“I know.” He stroked her fur. “I know. I take solace in knowing that many other cubs will do the searching.”

She nodded wordlessly and kept her head there for just a bit longer. Then they parted and began the trek back up the mountain, laying more traps, adding more verses to the songs that would be sung of them, and preparing lessons for the Zandalari that they should have long since learned.