World of Warcraft: Vol'jin: Shadows of the Horde

by Michael A. Stackpole

  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 t
he 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.

  33

  As he engaged the trolls coming along the bridge and swarming up the edges of the island, Vol’jin consciously realized what he’d unconsciously discovered previously: he wasn’t facing Zandalari. Not all of them, anyway. The tall ones certainly were. Their height—and the fact that more than one sprouted a red-shafted arrow from eye or throat as they came—gave them away. The others, though wearing Zandalari armor, had to be Gurubashi and Amani.

  Vol’jin understood the tactic of driving lesser forces before the best, overwhelming defenders. Khal’ak would think herself brilliant for coming up with it. Vol’jin felt compelled to convince her that it wasn’t a workable idea. Since he could not see her in the horde pouring into the monastery, he contented himself with destroying her troops.

  Destruction it had to be, because it wasn’t truly a fight. Sheer weight of meat guaranteed her forces would overwhelm him. In addition to the warriors closing in, priests and witch doctors appeared from the grove. Black energy sizzled between their hands. Spells launched, arcing out toward the monks defending the Sealed Chambers. Some of them fell, but the handful of Shado-pan stormcallers responded. Their spells exploded amid the trolls, setting some on fire, opening the chest of at least one other.

  His left shoulder already having recovered a minimal amount of utility, Vol’jin swept into the trolls. He considered himself a sharp and vengeful part of the winds swirling blinding snow blankets over the battlefield. Just as the cold wind could cut through clothing to chill the flesh, his glaive sliced deep. It plunged into groins, ripping open femoral arteries. It caressed necks, hot blood spurting to darken falling snow. The blade point punched through the backs of knees, cut heel tendons, and plucked out eyes.

  He left his enemies’ throats intact so they could give voice to fear and pain.

  Some opposed him bravely, but others came at him slowly and tentatively. They looked for openings and weaknesses. He just made openings. He’d long since counted himself dead, so their little cuts, their thrusts, mattered not at all. If a blow didn’t kill him outright, it was as good as a miss.

  Deep down inside, Vol’jin knew he wouldn’t always prevail, but the snarl on his lips, the glint in his eyes, and the eagerness with which he attacked hinted at just the opposite. His enemies saw him as a troll who, despite wearing tattered armor and being bathed in blood, would keep coming. If they weren’t sure they could stop him or kill him, fear froze their guts.

  And then Vol’jin opened them.

  He spun away from one troll madly trying to stuff ropy intestines back into a ruined belly and found himself completely surrounded. The battle had turned him around, so he faced it as the invaders had. The arcane exchange of spells lit the battlefield to his right. Through sheets of snow, arrows came from off to the left. Half-visible trolls crested over the far gully edge, engaging the monks defending the Sealed Chambers. In that direction lay sanctuary, and Vol’jin knew he’d never make it.

  Then, in a burst of light and licking flame, Chen exploded onto the island. As one of the true Zandalari turned toward him, Chen again breathed fire. The troll’s face ran like melting wax, his hair a torch and his flesh sizzling sweetly.

  Behind him, Yalia, Cuo, and three other Shado-pan monks raced along the bridge to the island. The crack Chen had burned open was expanded with staves and swords. Yalia’s staff moved so quickly it would have been invisible even if there were no snow. Her blows dented armor and crushed bones beneath. Every thump produced a clank and a curse; every uppercut launched teeth from shattered jaws.

  Chen extended a paw. “Hurry!”

  Vol’jin, surprised, hesitated. The Zandalari circle might have closed around him again, but the monks drove forward. They surrounded him with their own cordon. Paws and feet blurred. Swords clanged. The monks proved excellent on defense, turning thrusts and blocking slashes. Even though their speed left their enemies open, they didn’t press their advantage. They didn’t seem to think their mission to rescue Vol’jin meant also killing as many of the enemy as they could.

  Vol’jin took Chen’s paw and sprinted over the bridge. He had no desire to be leaving the fight, but the island was no place to be fighting. Had he stayed, they all would have stayed. And died. In fact, the monks withdrew in good order, all of them reaching the landing before the Sealed Chambers.

  Even as he contemplated stepping up to defend the bridge, the Snowdrift Dojo’s alarm bell pealed loudly. It rang a half dozen times with urgency, then abruptly stopped. He looked over and trolls poured from it—obviously Zandalari despite the shabby clothes they wore.

  And there, with them, stood a mogu and Khal’ak.

  Taran Zhu appeared at the Sealed Chambers’ main entrance. “Fall back now!” The command contained no panic, nor did it allow for refusal. The monks pulled back immediately, with Chen and Vol’jin the last to retreat.

  The Zandalari, confident of their victory, seemed happy to let them go.

  Vol’jin paused in the doorway, looking toward the Snowdrift Dojo. Snow stole his sight of it, with the last thing he saw being Zandalari tossing dead monks into the gully. He looked for any sign of Tyrathan, but blood dripped into his eyes.

  Two monks closed the ornate bronze doors behind him and dropped a heavy bar into place. Vol’jin went to a knee to catch his breath. He swiped at the blood on his face, then looked up again.

  The Thirty-three had become fourteen. All but Taran Zhu showed signs of the fighting. Blood stained many robes. Magic had scorched others. At least two of the survivors had broken bones, and Vol’jin suspected others were hiding injuries. Yalia was definitely favoring broken ribs. The blood dripping from Chen’s right paw did so too fluidly to be anything but his own.

  The troll glanced at the Shado-pan leader. “How did they get into the Snowdrift Dojo?”

  “I believe they worked their way up through the tunnels.” Taran Zhu examined a fingernail rather distractedly. “Others tried coming up from below here, but were discouraged.” He glanced at a half-open alcove behind the statue of a tiger, and Vol’jin wondered what manner of mayhem lay beyond it.

  The shadow hunter winced as he straightened up and worked his left shoulder around. “Khal’ak sent some of her elite troops out in those flanking parties. She be forcing the others into being the brunt of the attackers. We’ve done well. We’ve killed many.”

  “But not enough.” The elder monk nodded. The winds howled and he smiled. “Perhaps the winter will kill them for us.”

  Vol’jin shook his head. “I doubt they will wait that long.”

  The Sealed Chambers had been laid out in the shape of a T. The main door opened onto a circular depression. Three wings spread out from it, opposite him and at right angles. To his left, in the longer of the wings, stood another pair of doors. A heavy fist pounded on them, demanding entrance.

  Chen laughed. “I don’t think we should answer that.”

  “Agreed.” Vol’jin looked from one door to the other. “I be suspecting Khal’ak gonna concentrate her attacks there, to the far side, to attract our attention. She gonna then hit this door, quickly and hard. Chen, if you wanted to be preparing her a warm welcome . . .”


  The pandaren nodded. “My pleasure.”

  “Brother Cuo, the far door be yours.” Vol’jin crossed over to where Tyrathan had hidden a quiver and a compact horse bow. He strung it and tested the draw. “I gonna position myself here, in the middle, to see what I can do.”

  Taran Zhu nodded, then ascended the stair and seated himself at the heart of the wing opposite the door Chen would defend. He composed himself, serene and pristine, the antithesis of the other thirteen. Vol’jin would have protested, but Taran Zhu’s apparent peace and lack of concern buoyed the troll’s heart. If he be not worried, why should I be?

  The Zandalari began their assault on the west-wing door. Spells pounded it with the relentless monotony of a blacksmith hammering a horseshoe. The metal opposite the wooden bar soon glowed a dull red. The wood smoked. Monks fingered their weapons. Chen and Yalia hugged.

  Then came a heavy explosion. Molten metal sprayed out into the room. One of the doors sagged in; the other twisted outward. The oaken bar had been reduced to smoke and glowing cinders that created a red carpet for the invaders.

  Vol’jin drew and shot as quickly as he could. Tyrathan had been right. The short bow sped arrows with enough power to pierce armor at such close range. So thick was the mass of Zandalari that he couldn’t help but hit a target. The difficulty was that they moved so quickly that wounding was as likely as a kill shot, and were packed so close that wounded or dead, they took their time falling to the floor.

  The monks fought valiantly. Blades flashed silver and gold in the building’s warm lamplight, drinking deeply of troll blood. The same overwhelming rush of bodies that made it impossible for him to miss also restricted the monks’ movement. On a more open battlefield, they could have carved great swaths through the Zandalari. The carnage made apparent that trolls had died in droves outside not because they had been Gurubashi and Amani, but because they had dared attack the Shado-pan.

  Spears and swords hungrily sought them and, one by one, the monks fell. Brother Cuo was one of the last. He spun, his face cleaved in half. Others just vanished in a sea of troll flesh, dying perhaps content in the knowledge that they had taken many trolls with them.