They headed for a tall, stoop-shouldered mountain and rode around it. Here things had gone to ruin, though not through natural aging. The area had been broken by war long ago. Though weather might have washed away blood and soot, and golden plants buried bones and detritus, the remains of arches marked the violence that had shattered them.
As they came up the road through the mountains, dim though the day was, Pandaria’s majesty made the place beautiful despite the signs of destruction. Vol’jin felt he had been here before, though it could have been that he understood from his time in Orgrimmar the power that had once resided here. While the Darkspears were content with modest dwellings that served their purposes, he recognized the needs of others to prove their superiority through grand works. He’d heard of the tall statues at Ironforge and Stormwind, and knew this place would similarly memorialize the mogu past.
The mogu did not disappoint.
The road led to a rough-hewn opening in the mountainside, providing the glimpse of a massive gray statue on a bronze base. The statue depicted a mogu warrior standing tall, his hands on the haft of a huge mace. Reduced to normal proportions, the weapon would have defied Garrosh’s ability to lift it. Though the statue’s impassive mask provided no clue as to the personality of the mogu, the weapon spoke of power, cruelty, and the desire to crush all opposition.
Khal’ak and Vol’jin did not enter the tomb, for in the distance, proceeding toward them at a stately pace, came a parade. Zandalari troops with pennants flying from spears led the procession. Behind them, in an elegant pandaren coach drawn by kodos, a half dozen Zandalari flanked three mogu. Behind them came a smaller coach with a dozen Zandalari witch doctors. Fourth, right before the Zandalari troops bringing up the rear, came a rickety wagon bearing Chen, Tyrathan, the three monks, and four humans, all male. Wood creaked and draft beasts grunted as their hooves thunderously shook the ground.
When the procession stopped before the tomb, the witch doctors took possession of the prisoners and hustled them within. Zandalari and their mogu hosts followed. Khal’ak snapped commands to the captain leading the remaining troops. They fanned out to take up defensive positions as she and Vol’jin stepped into the tomb’s dark precincts.
One of the mogu—a Spiritrender, if Vol’jin would have been forced to guess—pointed two fingers at the prisoners. The Zandalari witch doctors brought Dao and Shan forward, positioning them at the near-left and far-right corners of the statue’s base. The mogu pointed again, and two men were hauled into position at the other two corners.
Vol’jin felt a wave of shame for Tyrathan. The pandaren monks held their heads high as their captors led them to their positions. They didn’t have to be shoved or coerced. The monks had a quiet dignity about them, completely denying the reality of what they had to know would happen. The men, on the other hand, whether lacking balance or being possessed of an acute sense of their own mortality, wept and had to be dragged into place. One could not stand and had to be held upright by two Zandalari. The other blubbered and urinated on himself.
Khal’ak half turned to Vol’jin and whispered, “I tried convincin’ the mogu dat all they needed were men, but when they saw the Shado-pan fighting, they insisted. I was able to make Chen and your man off-limits, but . . .”
Vol’jin nodded. “Leadership be demanding uneasy decisions.”
The mogu Spiritrender approached Brother Dao at the near-left corner. With one hand, the Spiritrender yanked the monk’s head back, exposing his throat. With the other, using a single talon, the mogu stabbed Dao’s throat—not a killing blow, not anything more than annoying. The nail came away heavy with a droplet of pandaren blood.
The mogu touched the drop to the corner of the bronze pedestal. A tiny gout of flame shot up. It shrank again into a small blue guttering tongue.
The Spiritrender moved next to the man at the front. His blood drop, when deposited at the corner, caused a small geyser of water to spurt upward. It calmed down into a tiny puddle. Its surface rippled in time with the flame’s dance.
The mogu then came around to the second man. His blood produced a small cyclone, red in hue. It became invisible after that, save for the slight flutter it introduced to the man’s dirty robe. Again, the flutter matched the water’s ripple.
Last the mogu came to Brother Shan. The monk lifted his own chin, exposing his throat. The mogu took his blood, and when it touched the bronze, Vol’jin interpreted the resulting volcanic eruption as being fueled by Shan’s anger. The molten earth did not quiet but continued to flow. It extended in lines toward the water and the cyclone.
Air, fire, and water also expanded. Where they met, they warred. The power of their collisions rose straight up in semitransparent, opalescent walls of force. They shot to the roof, quartering the statue. Sharp thunder sounded. Cracks appeared in the stone, huge rents as keen as those that remained on the broken stones outside. They radiated out like roots from a tree, and as Vol’jin figured it, when that statue collapsed, the tomb itself would be filled to a depth of ten feet.
Enough to bury us all.
But the statue didn’t collapse. The energy lines shrank back down and drew into the cracks. For a handful of heartbeats, they coalesced at the center, where the mogu’s heart would have been. They pulsed twice, maybe four times; then energy pumped out through invisible veins. An opalescent blush suffused the entire statue, and beneath it the statue cracked and cracked again. It was as if the glow put the statue under incredible pressure, like a millstone grinding it into dust.
And yet the power let it retain its shape.
Then, from ankle and wrist, an ethereal tendril flicked out. It looked like fog. It wrapped around Brother Dao’s face. The monk had thrown his head back to scream, and the fog flowed into his body. In the blink of an eye, the glow had surrounded him. And crushed him like a grape.
The slurry of what Brother Dao had been flowed back up through the tendril. Only after his horror ended did Vol’jin notice that the other three had vanished as well. The glow returned to the statue and grew brighter. It pulsed and intensified. Two spots burned where the eyes had been.
Then the magic contracted in a rippling series of pops and cracks. As the glow blazed, heat flared, then dropped off abruptly. The outline began to shrink. At the same time, the statue’s arms spread. Lifeless stone compressed itself into thick muscles sliding beneath black skin. The light drew itself into the statue, the flesh healing along the jagged lines where stone had broken. It left no scars, only a peerless mogu warrior, naked and invincible, standing on a bronze dais.
The other two mogu hurried forward. They both dropped to a knee before him. With bowed heads, one offered a thick golden cloak trimmed in black. The other held up a golden baton of office. The mogu took the baton first, then stepped to the floor and allowed the other mogu to dress him.
Vol’jin studied the mogu’s face intensely. He assumed that were he dragged out of the grave after millennia, he might be unguarded in his first few moments as he assessed what had happened. He caught a flicker of contempt when the warlord saw Zandalari present, and pure fury at a pandaren presence.
The warlord took a step toward where Chen and Brother Cuo stood, but centuries of death had made him a bit slow. Khal’ak interposed herself between him and the prisoners. As Vol’jin stood beside her and back one step, he realized that she’d chosen their vantage point for the ceremony anticipating this eventuality.
She bowed but did not go to a knee. “Warlord Kao, I be welcoming you in the name of General Vilnak’dor. He awaits your pleasure at the Isle of Thunder, where he resides with your resurrected master.”
The mogu looked her up and down. “Killing pandaren will honor my master and will not delay us.”
Khal’ak gestured with an open hand toward Vol’jin. “But it would be spoiling the gift Shadow Hunter Vol’jin Darkspear wishes to make of these two to your master. If it be pandaren you wish to slay, I gonna arrange a hunt as we travel. But dese two be promised.”
r /> Kao and Vol’jin exchanged glances. The warlord understood what was happening but was not prepared to deal with it at the moment. The hatred flaring in his dark eyes, however, informed Vol’jin that his part in this play of manners would not be forgiven.
The mogu warlord nodded. “I wish to kill a pandaren for every year I have been in the grave, and two for every year my master has been dead. Arrange it, troll, unless your shadow hunter has promised more of them to my master.”
Vol’jin’s eyes narrowed. “Warlord Kao, you would be slaying thousands upon thousands. Your empire fell for the want of pandaren labor. What you want may be just. The result would be tragic. Much has changed, my lord.”
Kao snorted and turned away, stalking off to where the other mogu stood with Zandalari officials.
Khal’ak cautiously exhaled. “Well played.”
“And you, for anticipating him.” Vol’jin shook his head. “He gonna demand the lives of Chen and Cuo.”
“I know. The monk I gonna likely have to give him. The mogu be hatin’ the Shado-pan to the depths of their dark souls. I gonna find another to replace Chen. To the mogu, they all be lookin’ alike anyway.”
“If he discovers the deception, you gonna be killed.”
“As you and Chen and your human gonna be.” Khal’ak smiled. “Like it or not, Vol’jin Darkspear, our fortunes now be hopelessly intertwined.”
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.”