Vol'jin: Shadows of the Horde

32

It occurred to Vol’jin that this moment, that infinitesimally short pause before violence erupted, might be the very last one he remembered as he died. His heart leaped at that idea. The Zandalari had made their approach into the Grove of Falling Blossoms even as dark clouds brought the day to an early end. The first snowflakes fell like ash, slowly drifting, driven by capricious breezes. The trees, full of pink blossoms, hid the enemy, but not to their benefit.

On his right, a dozen yards farther along, Tyrathan’s bow groaned as the man drew it. He shot. Time slowed enough for Vol’jin to see the arrow itself bend a split second before it sped from the bow. Red shaft, blue feathers and stripes, with a barbed head designed to punch through ring mail, the arrow disappeared into the pink curtain of blossoms. Only two small petals drifted down with snowflakes, marking its passage.

Farther out, something coughed wetly in the twilight’s gloaming. A body thudded to the ground. And then, shrieking war cries and curses ancient and vile, the Zandalari dashed forward in a massive wave assault.

Some fell as they moved through the grove. Feet again plunged into hidden pits. Even if there hadn’t been upward-pointing spikes to wound them, or downward-pointed spikes to trap them, the speed and force of the trolls’ sprint would have snapped legs and twisted knees. The Zandalari did not pause for the fallen but instead sailed over them in great bounds.

Because of the seriousness of their situation, Taran Zhu had exhorted his monks to push their skills to their utmost. He had selected a half dozen of his best archers and, in conjunction with Vol’jin, had devised a strategy that would allow any single arrow to kill a handful of the enemy. At Vol’jin’s solemn nod, as the invaders filtered through the trees, the monks loosed arrows.

Preparations for the grove had included more than just digging pits. Branches had been trimmed and sharpened into spikes. Some had scythe blades bound to them. A few had chain nets fixed with barbs furled along their lengths. All of them, well hidden within the pink canopy, had been drawn back and bound with ceremonial knots.

The monks shot arrows with a V-shaped head. The interior had been sharpened. The blades cut the cords quickly, letting the branches spring back into place.

Chain netting wrapped one Zandalari in a lover’s metal embrace. He shook himself to pieces trying to wriggle free. Scythe blades swept through necks or stabbed deep, lifting their victims from the ground. One slashed a troll midface, ruining his eyes, clipping an ear, and leaving him seated beneath the tree, trying to reassemble himself with bloody fingers.

From the north side, in front of the Sealed Chambers, small siege machines clacked. Tens of dozens of tiny earthenware jars tumbled through the sky. They shattered all along the approach to the narrow rope-and-plank bridge leading to the island at the monastery’s heart. Some reeked of the toxins that had been smeared on stones. Others had been filled with oil, making footing slick. Others burst, splashing fluids that mixed with the residue of other jars, producing bitter vapors of white, purple, and green.

Vol’jin hoped that the scent might slow the trolls. Unfortunately the rising wind thinned the vapor. The sheeting snowflakes that came to replace it still gave Vol’jin far too easy a view of the Zandalari pouring through the grove. The bridge did lead to an island, and he waited there in the open pavilion at its heart, but the gully the bridge spanned wouldn’t slow the Zandalari.

“Tyrathan, pull back. They not gonna stop unless I be stopping them.” The troll shook his glaive free of its scabbard. “Retreat, everyone, as planned. And thank you.”

The monks and human withdrew from the island along another bridge to where the siege machines waited. They looped back around to the Snowdrift Dojo to the south, meeting Brother Cuo and his command there.

Across from Vol’jin, the Zandalari reached the edge of the gully. They hesitated, either wanting a moment’s rest before charging on or surprised to see him, a Darkspear, a shadow hunter, waiting alone on the island. He told himself it was the latter, since Zandalari would never hesitate otherwise.

He raised the glaive in both hands over his head and shouted above the rising wind. “I be Vol’jin of the Darkspears, son of Sen’jin of the Darkspears! I be shadow hunter! Any of you believes his blood and courage and skill can best me, I invite here to duel! If you have any honor, or believe you be brave, you will be accepting my challenge!”

The trolls looked at one another, surprised and astounded. Jostling on the line pitched one down into the gully. He landed in a heap, fully dusted with snow, and looked up at Vol’jin. He scrabbled at the gully wall, and his compatriots just laughed at him. It seemed rather odd behavior for a Zandalari, but Vol’jin had no time to think about what that might portend.

Fools be not believing me. Vol’jin looked at the troll in the pit. Snow had covered him, but the spell Vol’jin cast wreathed him in frost. The troll collapsed, shivering, slothfully clawing at the pit’s wall to escape.

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.