Vol'jin: Shadows of the Horde

10

Khal’ak refused to huddle beneath the tiger-fur cloak, though she was glad for its warmth. The storm had long since shrieked away its fury in battering the wooden ramparts surrounding the harbor on the Isle of Thunder, sharp breezes and brisk gusts still cut at her exposed flesh. She’d hoped she’d actually consumed enough ice troll flesh that their comfort with the cold would have been transferred to her, but this was not the case.

Little matter. I be preferrin’ Sandfury flesh. The desert environment gave it more flavor. It did not do her much good here, north of Pandaria, but there would come a time. When we retake Kalimdor.

That time would come. She knew it. All of the Zandalari did. All troll tribes had descended from their noble lineage, corrupting themselves as they pulled away. One needed to look no further than physiology to prove it: she stood taller than any other troll she’d met who was not pureblood Zandalari. Their worship of the loa was a game compared to the devotion she showed the spirits. And while some trolls might reach back and honor those traditions—the shadow hunters a rare example among them—they did not possess the traditions as the Zandalari did.

There were times, in her travels through the world, doing the bidding of Vilnak’dor, that she thought she had found a hint, perhaps a spark of the ancient ways amid the corrupted ones. She sought those who were throwbacks to the old days, searching often in vain. Many were the pretenders to a mantle they claimed to have inherited from the Zandalari, as if she and her tribe no longer existed. All too often—always, in fact—these self-anointed saviors of trollkind were the pathetic product of a degraded society.

That they failed so often no longer surprised her.

Vilnak’dor had risen from among the Zandalari, from a long line of trolls steeped in the lore and traditions that had faithfully been maintained and practiced for millennia. He had not allowed himself the distractions that others had. He did not look upon the Amani and Gurubashi empires as things to be reestablished and then elevated. He accepted that their failure marked their inherent instability. To reestablish them was to court failure, so he reached further back into history, to resurrect an alliance that had borne fruit.

A mogu captain approached her, respectful despite her standing on the walls of his city. A head and a half taller than she, ebon skinned, strongly built, he possessed a leonine aspect that was uniquely suited to Pandaria. His brows, beard, and hair were as white as his flesh was black. When she’d first seen statuary depicting the mogu, she had thought it highly stylized. Meeting them in the flesh dispelled that notion, and seeing them in action suggested that any round softness of form hid only a sharpness of purpose and courage.

“We have, my lady, completed all but the last of the loading. When the tide begins to go out, we will sail south.”

Khal’ak looked down at the black fleet bobbing in dark waters. Her troops, including her own elite legion, had boarded in good order. The assault force, save for mogu scouts, consisted primarily of Zandalari. No lesser trolls, none of the lesser races—though she would have entertained the notion of goblin artillery or a handful of their war engines.

Only two ships remained on the quay. Her flagship, which would be last off but would lead the way, and a smaller ship. It should already have been anchored near the breakwater. “What be the delay?”

“Concerns have been expressed, of signs and portents.” The mogu captain stood up straight, hiding massive fists behind his back. “The storm, they do not understand.”

Her eyes tightened. “Da shaman. Of course. I gonna attend to it personally.”

“The tide runs in six hours.”

“It gonna be takin’ but six minutes once I be down there.”

The mogu bowed sincerely enough that Khal’ak almost accepted the sentiment as genuine. It was not that she thought he or any of the other mogu hated or resented the Zandalari. They regretted needing Zandalari help and, secretly, wondered why it had taken so long for it to be offered.

Many millennia past, back when there were only the Zandalari, back before the mists hid Pandaria, the mogu and trolls met. It was a time when only a quarter of all there was to know even existed. Lion recognized lion. They should have destroyed each other, that first mogu and first troll, but they did not. They understood that in a war, pitting strength against strength, the survivor would be weakened. The survivor might even succumb to creatures far weaker than it. That would be a tragedy that neither race wanted.

With back firmly set against back, mogu and trolls carved out their positions in the world. Yet as events took place, as each race faced challenges, its ally became forgotten. The mogu disappeared along with Pandaria. Trolls found their own world sundered. And as it was with storied races pressed with immediate problems, the distant past dimmed in recollection, and more recent outrages burned blindingly bright.

Khal’ak descended the switchback steps. The steps numbered at seventeen. She did not understand the significance of this for the mogu, but then she did not have to understand. Her job was simply to carry out her master’s orders. He, in turn, sought to accommodate his ally, the Thunder King. Power would drive power until both possessed enough to return to their positions of glory and set the world to rights again.

She walked through a settlement that had been humbled by age yet now awakened to a new youth. The mogu, more and more of them appearing each day, bowed quietly in their way. They understood her significance and acknowledged it because her actions had brought them joy and would bring them more.

Even though they did bow and show her honor, enough reserve remained in their behavior to reveal how much superior to her, and to trolls, the mogu felt. Khal’ak suppressed a laugh, since her training would make it child’s play to kill any of them. The mogu had no understanding of how precarious their position in this alliance was or how vulnerable they could be if the Zandalari decided to destroy them.

Cold waves slapped against pilings, splashing the quay. Gulls wheeled and screamed above. The scent of salt air and rotting fish struck her as remarkably exotic. Cables groaned and planking creaked as the ships rode the harbor’s dark green surface.

She quickly boarded the smaller ship and found a dozen shaman circled in the center of the main deck. A third of them squatted, poking at bones and feathers, pebbles and odd bits of metal. The others stood by, sage and silent—conditions that intensified when they saw her come aboard.

“Why be you not weighin’ anchor?”

“The loa, they be not pleased.” One of the squatting shaman looked up at her, pointing at two bones crossed above a feather. “The storm be not natural.”

She opened her hands and resisted the urge to kick him over the side. “Did you expect it to be? What manner of fool be you? The loa were pleased enough when we set sail for Pandaria. You yourselves said as much. You said you be readin’ the thing same in your bones and bits. Sheer idiocy for the loa to bless our undertaking then, yet protest now because of a blizzard.”

Khal’ak pointed back toward the palace hidden in the island’s interior. “You know what we have done. The Thunder King walks again. Dat storm, it be honoring him. The world rejoices at his return. Of all seasons, he loved winter best. Of all weather, he felt most alive when snow be stingin’ and blindin’ the world. You may not have remembered him, but the world did, and it welcomed him. And now you cast bones to determine what the loa think? If they protested, how could that storm ever have happened?”

Gyran’zul, the youngest of the shaman and the one most given to reason, turned toward her. She favored him for his shock of red hair and the strong thrust of his tusks. He knew that and trusted in it to give him time to speak.

“Honored Khal’ak, what you say be reasonable. The loa could have stopped the storm. They could have stopped our armada sailin’ long ago. While my colleagues may be seeking clarity where none exists, that dey need to seek clarity means confusion exists.”

The fur began to rise at the nape of her neck. “You speak sense. More of it, please.”

“Da loa be demanding and deserving of our worship—the worship of all trolls. They value strength. While we have offered each other as sacrifices, and these sacrifices be accepted and revered, they be not preferred. Da loa, as we reach them, speak to us less because they also speak to others. We be not alone in comin’ to Pandaria. Alliance and Horde be here as well.”

She looked from one to the other of the shaman, taking in the full dozen. “An’ this be what gives you pause? Perhaps you do not fully understand. Perhaps it be not your place to understand. My master has long anticipated others arriving in Pandaria. Vermin always be finding a way to spoil things. To assume we would escape dem here be folly. Contingent plans been made. Opposition will not stand.”

Another shaman with short tusks rose. “This be well for dealin’ with the Alliance, but what of the Horde?”

“What of dem?”

“Trolls be among them.”

“Vermin choosin’ to run in packs does not make them noble. They still be vermin. And if trolls believe joining such a pack benefits them rather than degrading them, more fools they. We be welcomin’ those trolls who come to see the wisdom of our actions and wish ta join us. We always be needing garrison troops and subalterns to organize various details. If the loa be distracted by reachin’ those trolls and tellin’ them to come to us, dis I favor. Perhaps this be what you should entreat da loa to do.”

She snorted. “From dis ship. Out at the breakwater.”

The short-tusked shaman shook his head. “We will be needing time to prepare. A sacrifice.”

“You have six hours. Less. Moonrise.”

“That be not enough time.”

She stabbed a finger at the shaman’s chest. “Den I gonna give the loa a sacrifice. I gonna tie your left ankle and wrist to the dock, and the right ankle and wrist to this ship. I will order the captain to haul anchor an’ sail. Be this how you wish to serve da loa, your fleet, and your people?”

Gyran’zul intervened. “The purity of your faith, Honored Khal’ak, be reflectin’ great esteem upon your master and your family. No doubt your fidelity to the loa be accounting for our great initial success. We gonna communicate that to the loa, and we gonna be prepared to set sail immediately.”

“You be pleasing our master.”

The young troll raised a finger. “Dere be one other thing.”

“Yes?”

The shaman pressed his hands together. Slender and delicate, too much so. His eyes narrowed. “The loa speak to us, and they speak to some among the Horde, but this does not occupy the whole of their attention.”

“What else be there?”

“This be the point. We do not know. The reason the storm concerns us be because when we seek whatever else there be, it be hiding behind a curtain. It could be a ghost. It could be a troll in the distance. It could herald da birth of a troll destined to greatness. We do not know, and we must tell you of it because you seek certainty where doubt exists.”

A shiver ran the full length of her spine. Somehow the presence of this unknown troll concerned her more than learning Horde and Alliance had come to Pandaria. They were known quantities. The Zandalari could deal with them. But how does one lay contingency plans for an unknown? The mogu assured them that the pandaren were, effectively, defenseless. What else could dere be?

Khal’ak looked past the shaman toward the south, where mists gathered just beyond the harbor. Their fleet would sail into the night and through another night. She’d been to Pandaria. She’d chosen the landing zone. A small fishing village with nothing of substance or value save a decent harbor. Once they’d landed and secured the harbor, they’d plunge inland. Troll scouts indicated there was nothing that could stop them. Nothing even to slow the Zandalari down.

Other than succumbin’ to the suspicions of those who stand to lose the most if we succeed. She glanced at Gyran’zul again and felt certain he wasn’t playing a game. If he wanted power, she would give it to him. The both of them knew that. Therefore his concerns were real.

Khal’ak nodded. “You gonna prepare to sail. You gonna bend your will to determining what be hidden in da void, in that pale shadow. All of you. If you do not be satisfyin’ me on this point, I gonna feed you to the loa until they be satisfied. No thwarting us, something that does not exist.”

That night, far to the south, Vol’jin found his sleep disturbed by a vision. This surprised him. After Hir’eek’s visit, the loa had ignored him, and he had affected to ignore them in turn. He’d realized that to reach out to them before he knew who he was would only be an attempt to mimic who he had been. As Tyrathan’s companion would not come to a summons from someone he did not recognize, it would not do for Vol’jin to reestablish a bond with the loa if he was not going to be the troll who had created it in the beginning.

He couldn’t identify the loa sending him the vision. He soared through the air effortlessly, so it could be Akil’darah. Still, he flew at night, and the eagle would not. Then he realized he was actually floating and seeing through many eyes. He decided that Elortha no Shadra, the Silk Dancer, had made him into one of her children. He floated high, suspended from spider-silk threads carried by the wind.

Below him clouds parted. Ships under full sail made haste south. It had to be ancient times, for the broad, square sails carried Zandalari crests. He couldn’t call to mind any time in history when the Zandalari had launched such a powerful fleet.

He looked up at the night sky, expecting to see the constellations arranged in different ways. That he recognized them shocked him.

And he laughed.

Very good, Mother of Venom. You be showing me a vision of a now where I could assemble such a fleet. You be showing me the glory I could win for you and the loa. So generous a vision. I could even be believing it would further my father’s dream. The problem be, am I still Sen’jin’s son?

The breeze failed.

The spider fell.

And Vol’jin brushed it and its web away from his face, before turning onto his side and sinking back into a dreamless sleep.