Vol'jin: Shadows of the Horde

25

“Which means some discomfort for me. It be unavoidable,” said Vol’jin.

Khal’ak turned to regard him as troops guided the prisoners out and loaded them back on their wagon. “Meaning?”

“Kao is angry at being defied. Your master fears me. If I be traveling to this Isle of Thunder unfettered, their feelings gonna be encouraged.” Vol’jin shrugged. “You be needing to demonstrate control over me. I be still a prisoner. I must be treated as such.”

She considered for a moment, then nodded. “Plus this gonna put you close to your friends, so you can see after dem.”

“I would be hoping any generosity that extends to me might be shared.”

“They gonna be in irons. I gonna find you shackles of gold.”

“Acceptable.”

She held out a hand. “Your dagger.”

Vol’jin smiled. “Of course. After we have ridden back.”

“Of course.”

Vol’jin allowed himself to enjoy his freedom on the return ride to Khal’ak’s home. The clouds, as if embarrassed by their inability to match Kao for darkness, lightened. The vale again returned to its golden luster. Were I trapped in a tomb for centuries, this be the place I’d welcome for resurrecting.

Khal’ak kept him in her home. True to her word, she produced golden shackles with thick chains linking them. They proved heavier than iron, but she gave him enough chain that he could move freely. She also gave him great freedom, posting no guard, but then they both knew he’d not run while Chen and Tyrathan were being held with other prisoners.

Khal’ak and Vol’jin spent the time constructively, discussing the forthcoming conquest of Pandaria. The decision to refrain from using goblin cannons in taking Zouchin had been hers. Vilnak’dor had disagreed and ordered cannons and gunpowder for the invasion. She felt it was a sign of weakness, but the mogu had made good use of them in the past, so her master said their purpose would honor their allies.

The mogu, it appeared, had done a bit more than daydream since their empire fell. Khal’ak felt they’d done little that could be considered constructive, but despite being unorganized, they had been breeding. The plan for the invasion was straightforward enough. Zandalari troops would support mogu troops in securing the heart of Pandaria, at which point, the mogu apparently believed, everything would magically reset like jihui pieces at the start of a game.

She assumed that the Zandalari would defend the mogu holdings until they organized themselves. Then they would strike at the Alliance or Horde, eliminating it before crushing the remaining faction. The mantid to the west had always been a problem and would be saved for last. Then the mogu empire could use its magic to support the Zandalari in their reconquest of Kalimdor, then the other half of the sundered continent.

In the morning, they set out again, and early this time. The nightly festivities at Mogu’shan Palace had been muted, so everyone was up early for fear that any tardiness would displease Warlord Kao. Vol’jin was allowed to ride a raptor, with his golden chains on full display. Chen, Cuo, Tyrathan, and other prisoners came on in wagons. Vol’jin saw little of them until they reached Zouchin, where he found himself being loaded onto a smaller ship and placed belowdecks in a cabin that was locked from the outside.

His three companions, dirty from the road and bloody from abuses, smiled nonetheless when Vol’jin ducked his head to get through the hatch. Chen clapped his paws. “Just like you to be a prisoner and have chains of gold.”

“They still be chains.” Vol’jin bowed to Cuo. “I be sorry for the loss of your brothers.”

The monk returned the bow. “I am happy for their courage.”

Tyrathan looked up at him. “Who is the female? Why… ?”

“We gonna have time to discuss that, but I be having a question for you, my friend. The truth. It be important.”

The man nodded. “Ask.”

“Did Chen tell you what I said to the man we freed?”

“That I was dead. That you’d killed me? Yes.” Tyrathan half smiled. “Nice to know that nothing less than the Horde’s elite could kill me. But that wasn’t the question you wanted me to answer.”

“No.” Vol’jin frowned. “The man was wanting to know where you were. Fearing and hoping, that be what he was. He wanted you breathing, saving him, and was terrified that you were. Why?”

The man fell silent for a bit, picking at one dirty fingernail with another. He didn’t look up before he began to speak. “You were in my skin at Serpent’s Heart, when the Sha of Doubt’s energy touched me. You saw the man who gave me my orders. The man you saved was Morelan Vanyst, his nephew. My father was a huntsman before me, his before him, and we’ve always been in service to the Vanyst family. Bolten Vanyst, my lord, is a vain man with a scheming harridan of a wife. This is why he is a great comfort to Stormwind—if there is a campaign, he is all for it since it takes him away. Not that he is not manipulative himself. He has only three daughters, each married to an ambitious man with the promise of his realm if they please him. Yet, when he leaves, it’s Morelan who is regent.”

Vol’jin watched emotions play over the man’s face as he spoke. Pride shone brightly at his family’s service, only to be swallowed by disgust for his master’s family drama. Tyrathan had clearly served as best as he was able, but a master such as Bolten Vanyst could never truly be satisfied or trusted. Not unlike Garrosh.

“With anyone else, the Sha of Doubt would have ripped them wide open. They’d have doubted their worthiness to live. They would have doubted their own minds and memories. They would have unmade themselves in the blink of an eye, unable to make a decision because the sha would convince them each choice was wrong. Like a mule placed between two equally appetizing piles of hay, they’d starve amid plenty simply because they could not make a choice.”

The man finally looked up, weariness softening his shoulders and etching years onto his face. “To me, the Sha of Doubt came as a candle in the darkness of my life. I doubted everyone else and, in that instant, saw the truth of everything.”

Vol’jin nodded encouragingly but remained silent.

“I have a daughter, just four years old. Last time I was home, she wanted to tell me a story at her bedtime. She told me of a shepherdess who had to deal with an evil huntsman and did so with the aid of a kindly wolf. I recognized the story and put the altering of roles down to the influence of some Gilnean refugees who have taken up residence in our town. But when the sha touched me, I saw the truth.

“My wife was that shepherdess, so kind and so gentle, so innocent and loving. Oddly enough, I met her when I went out to destroy a pack of wolves preying on her flock. What she saw in me, I am not certain. For me, she was perfection. I pursued her and won her. She is the greatest prize of my life.

“Unfortunately, I am a killer. I kill to provide for my family. I kill to keep my nation safe. I create nothing. I just destroy things. That fact ate at her soul. It terrified her, knowing that if killing came so easily to me, I could kill anything. My life and what I had become were slowly leaching away her love of life.”

The man shook his head. “The truth, my friends, is that she was right. In my absences, as I attended to my duties, she and Morelan became close. His wife died in childbirth years ago. His son is friends with my children. My wife has been a caretaker. I suspected nothing or, perhaps, wanted to see nothing because if I did see, I’d know he’d been a better father to my children and a better husband to my wife than I was.”

Tyrathan gnawed his lower lip for a moment. “When I saw him, I knew he’d decided, on hearing of my death, that he needed to prove he could be brave too. So he came to Pandaria, and his uncle used him like any other playing piece. His escape will prove all that needs proving. He will be a hero. He can go home and be with his family.”

“But they be your family.” Vol’jin studied the man’s face. “You still be loving them?”

“Completely.” The man ran his hands over his face. “The idea of never seeing them again will kill me by degrees.”

“And yet you gonna surrender your happiness for theirs?”

“I’ve always done what I’ve done to give them a good life.” He looked up. “This is perhaps for the best. You’ve seen me. You saw my shooting that night. Part of me was shooting better than I ever have just so Morelan would know it was me. Killing is what I do, Vol’jin, and I do it very well. Well enough to kill my family.”

“This be a very difficult decision you’ve made.”

“I question it every day, but I will not turn back.” Tyrathan’s green eyes narrowed. “Why this line of questioning?”

“I, too, have a very difficult decision to be making. Similar to yours but of a bit greater magnitude.” The troll sighed heavily. “No matter my choice, nations gonna bleed and people gonna die.”

Proving themselves to be better friends than he felt he deserved, Vol’jin’s three companions contented themselves with the knowledge that he would share more with them when he was ready to do so. They trust me to make the right decision. I gonna. And I gonna bear the consequences. But they are not mine alone to bear.

The Zandalari crew took some delight in tormenting Vol’jin, but within limits. They served decent food for the four prisoners, coming out of the same pot, but they served the two pandaren and the man first. Vol’jin got the leavings, which were not much, burned to the bottom of the pot and cold by the time he ate. If his companions balked, no one would eat, so Vol’jin encouraged them to get their fill.

Likewise, they were taken up on deck for some fresh air at noon, whereas he was placed at the bow before dawn and the ship turned so crashing waves would soak him. Vol’jin endured the water and bitterly cold winds without complaint, secretly pleased that the time he’d taken to become accustomed to the chilliness in the monastery served him well.

It helped more that while he stood there, the Zandalari themselves retreated to warmer and drier places.

Vol’jin chanced to be on deck when the ship arrived at the Isle of Thunder. The harbor facilities looked newer than anything else and bore signs of Zandalari construction. To the left, crews appeared to be moving gunpowder and other supplies to warehouses. He couldn’t tell if the low buildings were full or empty, but even half-full they would keep an army in good supply for a long time. He suspected, since they were arriving with Warlord Kao, that supplies just being off-loaded would soon be reloaded, preparatory to a trip to Zouchin.

Once their ship had docked, the four prisoners were hustled down the gangway and into a cart drawn by oxen. It was really little more than a hay rig, but sailcloth had been used to shroud it, so the prisoners lay together in close darkness. The canvas had a few worn spots that were enlarged into holes with a thumb. Vol’jin and the others studied the island as the wagon made its way along roads paved with more broken stones than whole.

To his frustration, Vol’jin could see far too little, which conveyed far too much. Given that he’d been on deck when they arrived, it should have been midmorning. Instead, it seemed an hour past midnight, with the only useful illumination coming through lightning flashes. The lightning revealed a soggy, swampy landscape in which every patch of dry ground featured a troop tent or pavilion. He could read some of the standards as they traveled and found them more varied than he liked.

It could have been that the Zandalari had arranged a charade by putting so many tents along the route for their wagon, but Vol’jin doubted it. The need for such deception wouldn’t occur to the Zandalari. They’d never believe an enemy who had gotten this far would ever be able to escape with the false data, and they didn’t think any enemy could stand against them. Deception under those conditions was simply a dishonorable waste of time.

A foolish thing to be thinking, but they might well be right. While what Vol’jin knew of the Horde presence in Pandaria was months old, and Tyrathan’s information was even older, the sheer numbers of Zandalari and allied trolls might be enough to drive the others back into the sea. Played well, and Khal’ak would see to it that they were, the Horde and Alliance might even be induced to turn on each other—or intensify their efforts against each other—guaranteeing success for Zandalari plans.

And if they gonna succeed, this tips the balance of my decision.

The cart trundled on slowly to their destination. This turned out to be a hastily erected detention cage, with strap-iron bars on a lockable door that looked as if it had been salvaged from one of the ships and pressed into service. The cage had been placed on a small hillock in a swamp, the only virtue of which was that a stinking moat separated the prisoners from their nearest guards.

Before Vol’jin could be tossed in with his three comrades, a coach arrived and carried him swiftly along a high road snaking through the swamp. One soldier drove; the other stood on the groom’s board at the rear. They quickly made their way to a stone building set near a low, dark complex to the northeast.

His guards conveyed him inside. There he reacquainted himself with Khal’ak’s servants. They did their thorough job of making him presentable, including the removal of the gold chains and the return of his ceremonial dagger. Then back into the carriage and on to the larger building, with paired quilen statues warding the front door and Khal’ak waiting for him.

“Good, you be quite presentable.” She gave him a quick embrace. “Kao be in talking to the Thunder King now. If there be saving to be done of you and your friends—again, my apologies over the monks—my master will be having to intercede.”

Khal’ak guided him through twists and turns that defied his ability to catalog. He didn’t feel any magic at work but couldn’t discount it. He suspected the complex had been cunningly restored to welcome the Thunder King back from the grave. The layout likely had significance and resonance for the mogu emperor, feeling familiar to him. It would ease his transition back into a world that had forgotten him, a world that would be given cause to dread his return.

Two guards snapped to attention beside a portal as Khal’ak swept into the room. At the far end waited Vilnak’dor, attired in mogu-style robes clearly tailored to fit his expansive girth. The Zandalari general had gone so far as to bleach his hair white, then have it curled in the manner of the mogu. It looked to Vol’jin as if he’d even started growing his fingernails into talons.

Khal’ak paused and bowed. “My lord, may I present—”

“I know who dis be. I be smelling his stench before he got here.” The Zandalari leader waved her introduction aside. “Tell me, Vol’jin Run-in-Fear, why I shouldn’t be killin’ you where you stand.”

The Darkspear smiled. “In your position, I probably would be doing just that.”