Michael Stackpole - Vol'jin - Shadows of the Horde

He gathered his paws at the small of his back. “You all came here for different reasons. You have learned lessons as one. Yet it is this crisis, this noble cause, which makes you one.”

Taran Zhu held up one of the wooden tokens. “Master Stormstout has prepared a brew to share. He calls it ‘Thirty-three’ in our honor. And, as the Thirty-three, we shall forever be known. While people will think of us and remember us with pride, I wish you to know I have never been prouder than to be one among you.”

He bowed deeply and held it as long as respect demanded. The monks, as well as Vol’jin and Chen, returned the salute. Vol’jin’s throat became thick. Part of him found it remarkable that he was bowing so to a creature he would have once considered beneath him, and yet his heart swelled at being numbered in the same company with them all.

They were the Thirty-three, what he had always imagined the Horde to be. Their strength came from diversity united by common vision. Their spirits—the kind of spirit Bwonsamdi would see as troll—had fused through their purpose. Yes, Vol’jin still saw himself as a troll, but that was no longer the whole of his being, just an important part of it.

The monks straightened, and then the assembly broke and headed over to feast. Providing food and drink on the eve of battle made good sense, and Chen’s brew ran light on alcohol simply to prevent any disasters. The monks had laid out a great deal of food, and the idea of eating enough that the enemy would find the larder bare was the source of grim humor for all.

Chen, accompanied by Yalia, brought Vol’jin a foaming tankard of his brew. “I have truly saved my best for last.”

Vol’jin raised his tankard, then drank. Berry and spice scents tickled his nose. The brew, warmer than it was cold, felt full yet had the bite of a hard cider. Odd tastes, some soft and sweet, others tart and piercing, danced over his tongue. He would have been hard-pressed to identify even half of them, but they fit together so well he was inclined to do no analysis at all.

Vol’jin wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “It be reminding me of the first night I slept in the Echo Isles after we’d retaken them. Warm evening, soft breeze, tang of the ocean. I had no fear because that was the place I was meant to be. Thank you, Chen.”

“I owe you thanks, Vol’jin.”

“Because?”

“Because you have told me that my best did all I intended.”

“Then you be the greatest among us, for you have given us all heart. This be the place we be home. Without fear.” Vol’jin nodded and drank again. “At least until the Zandalari be arriving, hauling their fear, at which time we gonna load them down with more.”

It occurred to Vol’jin that this moment, that infinitesimally short pause before violence erupted, might be the very last one he remembered as he died. His heart leaped at that idea. The Zandalari had made their approach into the Grove of Falling Blossoms even as dark clouds brought the day to an early end. The first snowflakes fell like ash, slowly drifting, driven by capricious breezes. The trees, full of pink blossoms, hid the enemy, but not to their benefit.

On his right, a dozen yards farther along, Tyrathan’s bow groaned as the man drew it. He shot. Time slowed enough for Vol’jin to see the arrow itself bend a split second before it sped from the bow. Red shaft, blue feathers and stripes, with a barbed head designed to punch through ring mail, the arrow disappeared into the pink curtain of blossoms. Only two small petals drifted down with snowflakes, marking its passage.

Farther out, something coughed wetly in the twilight’s gloaming. A body thudded to the ground. And then, shrieking war cries and curses ancient and vile, the Zandalari dashed forward in a massive wave assault.

Some fell as they moved through the grove. Feet again plunged into hidden pits. Even if there hadn’t been upward-pointing spikes to wound them, or downward-pointed spikes to trap them, the speed and force of the trolls’ sprint would have snapped legs and twisted knees. The Zandalari did not pause for the fallen but instead sailed over them in great bounds.

Because of the seriousness of their situation, Taran Zhu had exhorted his monks to push their skills to their utmost. He had selected a half dozen of his best archers and, in conjunction with Vol’jin, had devised a strategy that would allow any single arrow to kill a handful of the enemy. At Vol’jin’s solemn nod, as the invaders filtered through the trees, the monks loosed arrows.

Preparations for the grove had included more than just digging pits. Branches had been trimmed and sharpened into spikes. Some had scythe blades bound to them. A few had chain nets fixed with barbs furled along their lengths. All of them, well hidden within the pink canopy, had been drawn back and bound with ceremonial knots.

The monks shot arrows with a V-shaped head. The interior had been sharpened. The blades cut the cords quickly, letting the branches spring back into place.

Chain netting wrapped one Zandalari in a lover’s metal embrace. He shook himself to pieces trying to wriggle free. Scythe blades swept through necks or stabbed deep, lifting their victims from the ground. One slashed a troll midface, ruining his eyes, clipping an ear, and leaving him seated beneath the tree, trying to reassemble himself with bloody fingers.

From the north side, in front of the Sealed Chambers, small siege machines clacked. Tens of dozens of tiny earthenware jars tumbled through the sky. They shattered all along the approach to the narrow rope-and-plank bridge leading to the island at the monastery’s heart. Some reeked of the toxins that had been smeared on stones. Others had been filled with oil, making footing slick. Others burst, splashing fluids that mixed with the residue of other jars, producing bitter vapors of white, purple, and green.

Vol’jin hoped that the scent might slow the trolls. Unfortunately the rising wind thinned the vapor. The sheeting snowflakes that came to replace it still gave Vol’jin far too easy a view of the Zandalari pouring through the grove. The bridge did lead to an island, and he waited there in the open pavilion at its heart, but the gully the bridge spanned wouldn’t slow the Zandalari.

“Tyrathan, pull back. They not gonna stop unless I be stopping them.” The troll shook his glaive free of its scabbard. “Retreat, everyone, as planned. And thank you.”

The monks and human withdrew from the island along another bridge to where the siege machines waited. They looped back around to the Snowdrift Dojo to the south, meeting Brother Cuo and his command there.

Across from Vol’jin, the Zandalari reached the edge of the gully. They hesitated, either wanting a moment’s rest before charging on or surprised to see him, a Darkspear, a shadow hunter, waiting alone on the island. He told himself it was the latter, since Zandalari would never hesitate otherwise.

He raised the glaive in both hands over his head and shouted above the rising wind. “I be Vol’jin of the Darkspears, son of Sen’jin of the Darkspears! I be shadow hunter! Any of you believes his blood and courage and skill can best me, I invite here to duel! If you have any honor, or believe you be brave, you will be accepting my challenge!”

The trolls looked at one another, surprised and astounded. Jostling on the line pitched one down into the gully. He landed in a heap, fully dusted with snow, and looked up at Vol’jin. He scrabbled at the gully wall, and his compatriots just laughed at him. It seemed rather odd behavior for a Zandalari, but Vol’jin had no time to think about what that might portend.

Fools be not believing me . Vol’jin looked at the troll in the pit. Snow had covered him, but the spell Vol’jin cast wreathed him in frost. The troll collapsed, shivering, slothfully clawing at the pit’s wall to escape.