Michael Stackpole: Vol'jin: Shadows of the Horde

A mogu bearing a stabbing spear shouldered his way to the far end of the bridge. “I am Deng-Tai, son of Deng-Chon. My family has served the immortal emperor since before the Darkspears existed. I know my blood makes me superior. I do not fear you. My skill will leave you weeping blood from a thousand cuts.”

Vol’jin nodded, stepping back to invite the mogu forward. The bridge’s ropes drew taut as Deng-Tai advanced. Boards creaked. Vol’jin wished for cord-cutting arrows to part the cables, but the short fall would only anger the mogu and dishonor Vol’jin.

Had the drop been sufficiently lethal, Vol’jin could have survived the dishonor. He wasn’t so certain about the spear, which had a fairly short haft with a long blade that curved at the tip and appeared to be sharpened all around. A single, casual blow with that weapon could easily decapitate an ox.

Fortunately, I be not an ox .

The mogu, a foot taller than Vol’jin, half again as wide, and encased in ring and plate, did not slow when he hit the small island. He drove straight at Vol’jin, coming with surprising speed. His armor, though clearly heavy, encumbered him not at all.

Deng-Tai thrust. Vol’jin twisted to the left. The spear’s blade struck sparks off a stone column on the island’s pavilion. Vol’jin whipped the glaive down and around. One blade’s tip clawed the mogu’s right wrist. It punched down through the mail, connecting bracer to gauntlet. Black blood spurted.

Any joy the troll might have taken at drawing first blood vanished as the mogu thrust back with the spear. The blunt end, which had been capped with a steel ball, slammed into Vol’jin’s ribs. The blow lifted him from his feet. He bounced back and landed in a crouch, bracing to parry a slashing blow as the mogu spun.

And vanished as wind-whipped snow snaked in a curtain between them.

Vol’jin flattened and slashed with his sword. The mogu’s blade sliced air bare inches above him. The glaive hit something—an ankle most likely—but not solidly. It skipped off armor.

Vol’jin tucked his right arm under and rolled right. He stayed low, fearing another sweeping slash with the spear. Instead, as he’d hoped, the mogu loomed large through the snow and stabbed down where Vol’jin had previously lain. The spearhead plunged into the rock, cracking it, burying itself five inches deep.

Seeing his chance, Vol’jin rose and spun. He slashed his glaive upward, from low left to high right. The curved blade struck through the mogu’s left armpit. Mail rings pinged as they parted. Blood gushed, but neither rings nor drops came away in a flood sufficient to signify true damage.

Vol’jin’s slash brought him around in a half circle, facing him back toward the grove and the trolls waiting on the gully lip. A Zandalari officer appeared, gesticulating wildly. Though Vol’jin saw him only in brief flashes between whiteouts, and the wind snatched his commands away, there was no doubt he was exhorting his soldiers to attack.

Into the gully the wave descended.

Vol’jin would have shouted a warning, but the mogu spun. He’d not freed the spearhead from the ground. Instead, he’d twisted the haft, splintering it, and swung it around. The blow caught Vol’jin across the belly, smashing him back into the pavilion’s column. Stars burst before his eyes as his head hit. The shadow hunter, stunned, slumped to his knees.

Deng-Tai rose above him, the haft reversed, the steel cap poised for an overhand blow that would crush his skull. The mogu smiled. “Why they fear you, I do not understand.”

Vol’jin grinned. “Because they be knowing a shadow hunter be always lethal.”

Deng-Tai stared at him, non-comprehending. Snow whirled around the island, hiding the combatants as well as the mists of Pandaria had hidden the continent. Despite that, a blackened arrow pierced the storm. Had Tyrathan intended to kill the mogu, he missed. Still, the arrow passed as a veil before Deng-Tai’s eyes, causing a moment’s hesitation.

And that be all I need.

The spear haft descended.

The distraction bought Vol’jin time to shift to his right. The steel cap missed his head but caught his left shoulder. Vol’jin heard bones shatter more than he felt them. His left arm went dead. Another time that would have concerned him, but now he felt disconnected from the pain and had no worries about the future.

In fact, the only connection he felt was to the monastery and the monks and the training he’d been given. Nothing else mattered. Nothing else could matter. The Zandalari be unworthy of this place and be fools for thinking they can destroy me.

Spinning on his knees, he came around and scythed the glaive through the inside of the mogu’s own left knee. Blackness gushed fluidly. More important, the knee buckled.

Deng-Tai stumbled to the left and went down. He landed heavily on his wounded knee. Pain laced his grunt. He caught himself with his left hand and straightened his right leg for balance. He swept the spear haft around, trying to catch Vol’jin pressing his advantage.

That trick hadn’t worked on Vol’jin since before he’d been entrusted with herding small raptors as a child. He leaned back, the steel cap whistling past his chin, then darted in. With a savage kick, he crumpled the mogu’s right knee from the side, then stomped down to crush the ankle as well.

Deng-Tai’s reverse blow snapped the spear haft against Vol’jin’s hip. The troll had anticipated it and braced himself. The mogu’s right hand swept past; then a flick of the glaive took it off at the wrist. It, and the broken fragments of spear, spun off into the blizzard.

The mogu stared at the steaming blood pulsing from the stump. Then Vol’jin whipped the glaive around in a forehand cut that sliced cleanly through the mogu’s neck.

One of the loa—for only the loa could have made it happen—stopped the storm for a heartbeat. The winds died. The air cleared. And remained silent and clear for as long as it took for the mogu’s head to slowly slide forward, tip, and bounce off his breastplate. It rolled to a stop in a snowdrift, sightless eyes staring at headless body with the intensity of a spurned lover staring at an unfaithful spouse.

The battle had ceased for just that handful of heartbeats. The trolls and monks all stared at the island. The mogu knelt before the shadow hunter. The mogu’s head appeared to nod; then the body thumped forward in a full and formal bow.

Then the troll captain pointed his sword toward Vol’jin. “He be alone and broken. Kill him. Kill them all!”

Peace shattered along with the silence, and the Zandalari force surged.

As he engaged the trolls coming along the bridge and swarming up the edges of the island, Vol’jin consciously realized what he’d unconsciously discovered previously: he wasn’t facing Zandalari. Not all of them, anyway. The tall ones certainly were. Their height—and the fact that more than one sprouted a red-shafted arrow from eye or throat as they came—gave them away. The others, though wearing Zandalari armor, had to be Gurubashi and Amani.

Vol’jin understood the tactic of driving lesser forces before the best, overwhelming defenders. Khal’ak would think herself brilliant for coming up with it. Vol’jin felt compelled to convince her that it wasn’t a workable idea. Since he could not see her in the horde pouring into the monastery, he contented himself with destroying her troops.

Destruction it had to be, because it wasn’t truly a fight. Sheer weight of meat guaranteed her forces would overwhelm him. In addition to the warriors closing in, priests and witch doctors appeared from the grove. Black energy sizzled between their hands. Spells launched, arcing out toward the monks defending the Sealed Chambers. Some of them fell, but the handful of Shado-pan stormcallers responded. Their spells exploded amid the trolls, setting some on fire, opening the chest of at least one other.