The Zandalari lunged forward, smashing his forehead into Vol’jin’s face, knocking the Darkspear back a step. He tossed the longsword aside and swept in, grabbing the shadow hunter by the chest. The Zandalari lifted him high, thumbs driving in at the center of Vol’jin’s chest. He squeezed, hard, then shook Vol’jin.
Iron fingers dug into ribs, reigniting aches. The troll’s thumbs even punched through the breastplate and tore at the silk beneath. The Zandalari roared, defiant and angry. He shook Vol’jin even harder, teeth bared, and looked up.
Their gazes met.
That moment of time stretched forever. The Zandalari’s widening eyes betrayed his disbelief at having found a troll fighting against him. Doubt creased his brows. Vol’jin read it easily and clearly.
He knew what to do.
As Taran Zhu had instructed, Vol’jin cocked his fist. His eyes narrowed. He visualized the Zandalari’s doubt as a shimmering ball. It sank beneath the troll’s face, lodging right behind his eyes. Nostrils flaring, Vol’jin drove his fist through the Zandalari’s face, smashing bone shards through the doubt.
The Zandalari’s grip broke. Vol’jin fell to his knees. He caught himself with one hand. The other snaked around his chest, hugging ribs. He tried to draw a full breath, but something ground in his side, stabbing sharply. He pressed a hand over the hurt, but couldn’t concentrate enough to invoke healing.
Tyrathan hooked a hand under his arm. “Come on. We need you.”
“Did any escape?”
“I don’t know.”
Vol’jin rose slowly, stooping only to recover his weapon and wipe his bloody hand off on a body. Straightening up, he surveyed the bowl. The battle signs read easily enough. The blues had sped along the goat path and come up the hill, engaging the Zandalari waiting in ambush. The reds had blown through the troops set to guard the southern approach. Vol’jin and the others had hit the Zandalari in the flank, rolling them up.
Vol’jin freed his arm from the man’s grasp and hurried after him as best as he was able. They descended the hill to the road and found Chen talking with a young female pandaren leading a group of refugees.
“These are the first ones, Uncle Chen. There are more to fetch. Trolls have hit them before, so they’re desperate to get away.”
Chen, whose fur already dripped with Zandalari blood, firmly shook his head. “You’re not going back, Li Li. You’re not.”
“I must.”
Vol’jin reached out, resting a hand on her shoulder. “You must listen.”
She leaped back into a defensive crouch. “He’s one of them.”
“No, he’s my friend. Vol’jin. You remember him.”
Li Li took a closer look. “You look better with your ear back on.”
The troll stood tall, arching his back. “You must be taking these people south.”
“But there are more trolls coming, and more people need rescuing.”
Chen pointed toward the sea. “And most of them have never been outside their village. Take them to the Temple of the White Tiger, Li Li.”
“Will they be safe there?”
“More easily defended.” Vol’jin waved the flight master over. “You need to ferry people. Slow people. The blues gonna gather them.”
“Good plan.” Tyrathan looked over at the reds. “I’ll use the other monks to harry the Zandalari.”
“You?”
The man nodded. “You’re hurt.”
“You limp and I heal fast.”
“Vol’jin, what has to be done here is my kind of war. Slow them down. Delay them. Sting them. Hurt them. We will buy you the time to get these people clear.” Tyrathan patted a quiver of Zandalari arrows. “A number of the skirmishers dropped these and I mean to return lost property.”
“Very kind.” Vol’jin smiled. “I be helping you.”
“What?”
“Many arrows, and the refugees, they be trusting everyone else. We be providing them cover.” Vol’jin nodded to both squads of monks. “Gather people, arrows, and bows. We gonna retreat south and east. We gonna draw them off.”
Tyrathan smiled. “Use their pride to deflect them?”
“Zandalari always need to be learning humility.”
“Right.” He addressed the monks. “Look, stash arrows and bows at standing stones, like those, all the way up into the mountains.” The man gave Vol’jin a half smile. “I’m ready to die when you are.”
“Then it gonna be a long time.” Vol’jin turned to Chen. “You command the blues.”
“You’ll have the left; he’ll have the right. I should have the center.”
“Ours gonna be thirsty work, Chen Stormstout.” The troll rested both hands on the pandaren’s shoulders. “Only you can brew what gonna slake it.”
“You will be terribly alone.”
“What he’s trying to say, Chen, is that we’re not going to be fighting out there so you can die with us.”
The pandaren looked at Tyrathan. “What about the two of you?”
The man laughed. “We’re fighting to spite each other. He’d be mortified if he died before I did, and I feel the same way. And we will be thirsty. Very thirsty.”
Vol’jin nodded toward the refugees. “And they, Chen, be needing leadership of a pandaren.”
The brewmaster paused for a moment, then sighed. “I find a place I wish to call home, and yet it’s the two of you who fight for it.”
The troll accepted a Zandalari war bow and quiver from a monk. “When one be without a home himself, then fighting for a friend’s home be the most noble act.”
“Ships have dropped anchor. They’re lowering boats.”
“Let us go.”
Vol’jin for a moment found it curious to be stalking down a cobbled road with pandaren monks fanned out before him on both sides and a man apace with him. All he had known in his life had not prepared him for this. Hunted and hurting, homeless and believed dead by many, yet he felt completely alive.
He glanced at Tyrathan. “We should be shooting the tallest first.”
“Any special reason?”
“Bigger targets.”
The man smiled. “And it’s four and a half inches.”
“You know I not gonna wait on you.”
“Just get the one that gets me.” Tyrathan tossed him a salute and cut east, following the blues as they moved into the village.
Vol’jin kept on straight as reds hustled shocked pandaren from shadows and doorways. They’d clearly seen trolls before and, given how they cringed from him, it had been commonly in nightmares. Even though they might understand he had come to help, they could not help but fear.
Vol’jin liked that. He realized it wasn’t because, as with the Zandalari, he wanted to rule by fear, or felt that his inferiors should fear him. It was because he had earned their fear. He was a shadow hunter. He was the slayer of men and trolls and Zandalari. He had liberated his home. He led his tribe. He had advised the warchief of the Horde.
Garrosh so feared me that he had me murdered.
For a heartbeat, he considered marching straight to the quay that several longboats of Zandalari were approaching, and revealing himself. He’d fought against them before but doubted his presence would surprise them. Worse, it might alert them to the fact that their understanding of their enemy was incomplete.
Part of him realized that, in the past, he might have done just that. The same way he confronted Garrosh and threatened him while taking the Darkspears out of Orgrimmar, he would have roared his name and dared them to come after him. He would let them know that he wasn’t afraid and that his lack of fear should inspire fear deep in their hearts.
He nocked an arrow. This be what they need deep in their hearts. He drew and let fly. The arrow, with a barbed, flesh-rending head, arced out. His target, the troll hunched at the bow, waited to jump out as soon as keel scraped sand. He never had a chance of seeing the shaft. It flew straight out at him, a lethal flyspeck. It caught him in the shoulder, nicking the backside of his collarbone. It slid into him, running parallel to his spine, burying itself to the feathers in his body.