World of Warcraft: Vol'jin: Shadows of the Horde (33 page)

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.

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.

C
hen 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.”

“Nor will the mogu allow this place to stand. They’ll hurl all the stones into the ocean, let the vultures eat their fill, then grind our bones into dust and let the winds scatter us.” Tyrathan shrugged. “Good enough gust, and I might make it back to my home mountains after all.”

“I gonna hope for good winds, then.” Vol’jin squatted, pulling a fingernail along a seam between stones in the floor. “Tyrathan Khort, I be wanting to say . . .”

“No.” The man shook his head. “No good-byes. No fond farewells. I don’t want things settled. I don’t want to think I’ve said all there is to say. If I do that, I’ll give up a little bit sooner. That desire to tell you one more thing, to laugh when you find one of my swords, or to see your face when one of my arrows kills someone fixing to slit your throat—those things will keep me going. We know we have no future. But, we can have one more minute, one more heartbeat, and that’s enough time to kill one more of the enemy. They steal my future; I steal theirs. Fair trade, though I’ll be buying in bulk.”