The world shifted around Vol’jin. Without moving, he found himself standing beside his father. He watched stars explode in a night sky rich with explosions. He watched Azeroth coalesce from nothing. The loa came and granted trolls their very nature, bargaining in return for eternal supplication and worship. Wars and calamities, good and joyful times, all flashed past, shining satin moments on the ribbon of history.
No matter what he saw, no matter how brief the glimpse, Vol’jin picked out a shadow hunter or two or five. Sometimes they had moved to the fore. Often they stood beside or behind a dynamic leader. Occasionally they huddled together as a council. Always was their endorsement sought and the wisdom of their decisions respected.
Until the Zandalari began to pull away. It made sense, really, as trolls became more sophisticated and built cities. They ceased wandering, acquired wealth, and began building. They created temples and shrines, and a class of surrogates arose to offer sacrifices and interpretations of the loa’s messages. Vast populations meant that trolls were removed from occupations that brought them close to nature and the loa, and old precepts had to be revised and interpreted for a new time and civilization. The Zandalari found their full employment in this pursuit, which meant they had to reinforce the necessity of their role, else their caste would have no reason to exist.
This required, however, a redefining of the shadow hunter. Yes, to complete the training and testing was a great thing. A blessing everyone would celebrate. Shadow hunters were raised to be heroes of mythic proportion—respected but also feared, since they walked with the loa and, therefore, could not completely understand the needs of mortals.
Vol’jin shivered. The same innate desire for the approval of the Zandalari was not a failing that the other troll tribes enjoyed alone. Khal’ak was a victim of it too, but in another sense. She sought an alliance with a shadow hunter because of his status. Their working together gave her more legitimacy.
Until I went and ruined that.
History’s parade slowed here and there, at key points. The displays had become more grand, the throngs larger, and the rhetoric more volcanic and vitriolic. Frenzy swept over vast hordes carpeting the landscape.
Yet, in these scenes, Vol’jin saw no shadow hunters. Or, if he did catch a glimpse, it was of a shadow hunter turning away. As I did when asked to join Zul. As I did when breaking with Garrosh.
All of a sudden the last piece slid into place. The Zandalari had set themselves up to be speakers for the loa. Perhaps they came to believe they were the equal of the loa themselves. Certainly they thought themselves a people apart from other trolls. They were better. They were more. And the Gurubashi and Amani, in attempting to emulate the Zandalari and revive their glories, suffered from that same vanity. That sense of self-importance bred hubris, which doomed their efforts.
In each case, a shadow hunter had turned away. The trolls interpreted that as a remnant of the past disapproving of the future. From their point of view, they had no other definition of that action. But their interpretation divorced them from their true nature.
A shadow hunter might counsel, might lead, but that was not his true purpose. This was not the reason the loa came to him and depended upon him. A shadow hunter was the true measure of what it was to be a troll. All trolls, and all of their actions, were measured against the shadow hunter. It was important to see the distinction of actions versus abilities or potential. Shadow hunters certainly were more able than most trolls, but there were no trolls who could not emulate shadow hunters, contributing their efforts to the community. That would be what confirmed them as being trolls.
Vol’jin visualized himself standing on a simple merchant’s scale. Khal’ak and Vilnak’dor stepped on the opposite plate. The scale tipped in Vol’jin’s favor, elevating the Zandalari. He could see how his adversaries, from their vantage point, justified believing he was less of a troll than they.
They vanished, and Chen replaced them. Then Taran Zhu and Brother Cuo stepped up. His old friend Rexxar appeared, and then even Tyrathan took to the scale. With each of them, the scale came to rest at even. Garrosh rose like a goblin rocket when his turn came.
Vol’jin puzzled over what he felt was the true nature of his companions in the monastery or Horde. Certainly the pandaren and the human were not his equal at being a troll, though their efforts on behalf of Pandaria would undoubtedly be equal to his. Their desire for freedom, their selflessness, and their willingness to sacrifice themselves matched those things in him without question. Measured on this scale, their character and heart were every bit as troll as his.
Rexxar, who loved the Horde as much as Vol’jin, likewise embraced those virtues. Vol’jin wished that his mok’nathal friend could be there with them. Not so he could die, but so he could help them destroy the Zandalari. Rexxar would have done so happily, no matter how sad the pre-ordained outcome.
And so would many others in the Horde. The majority, I be thinking.
The Horde, the Shado-pan, even Tyrathan were truer to the fundamental essence of being a troll than were the Zandalari. The Zandalari and their ilk were curl-tailed curs whining to the wolf that because they had once been like the wolves, but were now different, that they were better. True, their coats might be brighter; they might perform tasks better; they might live longer; but they had forgotten that none of those things meant anything to a wolf. A wolf’s purpose was to be a wolf. Once that truth was forgotten, new truths had to be forged. No matter how clever the work, however, they would be but a shadow of the one truth.
Vol’jin cocked his head and looked at his father. Being a troll has nothing to do with shape or bloodlines.
Those things cannot be wholly discounted, my son, but the spirit which be making us trolls, which be making us worthy of gaining the notice of the loa, predates the forms we now wear. His father smiled more broadly. And, as you have seen, the shadow hunter turns away from paths that shear us from that spirit. Since spirit be defining us, discovering that same spirit in others be a cause for celebration.
Vol’jin laughed. You would be allowing me to believe that the Horde be more troll than the Zandalari.
There may be truth in that. Do you be knowing what we called ourselves before we called ourselves trolls?
I never . . . Vol’jin frowned. I don’t know, Father. What?
Neither do I, my son. The troll spirit bobbed his head. It be certain we were something before we became trolls, and likely gonna be something after. The Zandalari have always tried to shape what we be, and others have used circumstance to be reinforcing those ideas. However, I be not doubting that twenty millennia from now the question will be asked, “Do you know what they called us before we called ourselves Horde?”
Be that your vision for trolls, Father?
Sen’jin slowly shook his head. My vision for trolls was a simple one: for us to return to being a people following a shadow hunter. That required something special, however—a shadow hunter who could lead. Many shadow hunters be content to refuse a journey which leads to disaster. You, my son, be a shadow hunter who can lead away from disaster. If this means that you be leading us to a place where race matters less than the content of the heart, where deeds matter more than intent, then this be where we gonna thrive.
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.
&n
bsp; 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.
30
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.
• • •
“The mogu could be searching forever, and they would still never be finding all the arrows you’ve hidden.” Vol’jin folded his arms as the human straightened up. “You’ve got one for every soldier on the isle.”
“And two each for the officers.” Tyrathan shrugged. “And it’s not just quivers I’ve been hiding. There are knives and swords and sticks and bows. Outside I have heavier bows, perfect for use with long arrows to hit targets at range. In here, compact bows, shorter arrows, easier to employ in close quarters.”
Vol’jin looked around the White Tiger shrine. “If fighting ever gets in here . . .”
“You mean when. . . .” The man slapped the stone shoulder of a sitting tiger statue. “You’ll be glad to know his tail’s curled around a half dozen throwing knives.”
“Or that there be a sword up there, where I could be reaching it but you could not.”
“Remember, you promised to get the one that gets me. I just want to make sure you have the tools.”
“I do.” Vol’jin reached behind him
and pulled around the new glaive, which had been strapped across his back. “Brother Cuo worked the forge hard. Chen described the weapon I normally be carrying. Cuo put together something suitable for fighting Zandalari.”
“That’s the way he said it, yes, as if fighting wasn’t the same as killing?”
Vol’jin nodded. “It be giving him peace to make the distinction.”
Tyrathan studied the weapon and smiled. “He’s made the blades longer, with a nastier hook to them. They’ll slash well, either end, and stab. But the center, the grip is a bit more stout, it seems.”
“Yes. A single tang be running all the way through.” Vol’jin freed it from the scabbard and spun it around so quickly it whistled. “Perfectly balanced. He says he sized it for my forearm. It suits me better than the one I lost.”
“A pandaren monk creating a traditional troll weapon.” The man gave a grin. “The world as we knew it has changed.”
“His work be as remarkable as a man and a troll joining together to keep other people free.”
“We’re dead. Rules don’t apply.”
“I be thinking I appreciate human glibness now.” Vol’jin slid the glaive back into the scabbard. “Being of a different temperament, trolls do not speak as quickly. We be giving things more time.”
Tyrathan gave him a look. “So, your telling Garrosh you’d kill him, that wasn’t glib?”
“Rash, no doubting. Thinking on it, though, be not changing what I said or meant.” The troll opened his arms. “No changing, even if I’d been knowing the future. I won’t be dying here without regrets, but they won’t be consuming me.”
The man smiled wryly. “I’m sorry I won’t keep my oath to see my home one more time, but this is now my home. I’ll happily haunt it forever.”
Vol’jin looked around. “Not much of a tomb, really. Though the Zandalari won’t bury us.”
World of Warcraft: Vol'jin: Shadows of the Horde Page 24