Tyrathan glanced up, then waved Chen down the rest of the way. “I think, my friend, we will wait out the storm in fine style.”
Tiny though the storage cellar was, it had been built with shelves, each containing dozens of jars filled with pickled turnip and cabbage. Carrots had been gathered and stacked in baskets. Dried fish, clearly obtained in trade for vegetables, hung in long chains from rafters.
And, in the corner, a small oaken keg, just waiting to be tapped.
Chen looked at it, then at Tyrathan. “Just a taste?”
The man thought for a second, and was about to answer, when the wind howled above them. The door crashed open, which could have been due to the storm.
The tramp of heavy feet on the floor overhead, and harsh troll curses against the weather, pointed to another cause entirely.
Chen and Tyrathan exchanged glances.
The man slowly shook his head. There would be no tapping the keg, even though it was likely to be a very thirsty night.
17
Vol’jin hunched over, one knee on the ground, his right forearm pressed to his side. He’d made it farther up the mountain than the spot where he’d spoken to Tyrathan, but not much beyond. It was steep going past that point. He wasn’t unfamiliar with climbing, but the pain in his side wouldn’t let him attack the mountain the way he wished.
He’d very much wanted to join Chen and Tyrathan on their scouting mission and was looking forward to their reports, but he was happy that Taran Zhu had agreed with the man’s assessment that Vol’jin was needed to plan defenses. Not only had he more experience in that discipline, but, being a troll himself, he also knew trolls and their behavior better than anyone else.
“Do you not find it curious, Vol’jin, even after the poison has left your system, why you have not fully healed?”
The troll’s head whipped around, his chest still heaving.
Taran Zhu stood there, a half dozen yards down the trail, looking as if he’d been out for a simple stroll.
Vol’jin decided that was because the monk was in far better shape than most, not because Vol’jin was in much worse shape. “It be not unknown. Zul’jin lost an eye, cut off his own arm. They did not heal.”
“Regrowing a severed limb or a complex organ is not the same as healing a cut.” The pandaren slowly shook his head. “Your throat makes it difficult for you to speak. Your side, for you to run and endure in battle. We both know that had you gone with your friends, you would have slowed them down.”
Vol’jin nodded. “Even with the man’s leg.”
“Yes. He’s had more time here, granted, but he has recovered better than you have.”
The troll’s eyes tightened. “Why do you think that be?”
“On some level, he thinks he is worthy of recovering.” The monk shook his head. “You, on some level, do not.”
Vol’jin wanted to roar a denial, but his throat simply wouldn’t allow it. I be not having enough breath either. “Go on.”
The pandaren smiled in an infuriating way that could have justified the Zandalari invasion. “There is a species of crab that appropriates shells for a carapace. Once a pair of them, brothers, grew side by side. As they got bigger, one found a skull. The face had been smashed, and he made his way inside. The other found the helmet that had guarded the skull. The first loved the skull and grew into it perfectly. The second regarded the helmet as just another shell. But when it came time to move on, the first did not want to leave the skull. It had defined him, so he stopped growing. The second, though reluctant, had to leave the helmet and his brother behind. He could not stop growing.”
“Which brother be I?”
“It would depend on your choice. Are you the skull-crab who is content to have trapped himself?” Taran Zhu shrugged. “Or are you the crab who continues to grow, seeking a new home?”
Vol’jin scrubbed a hand over his face. “Be I a troll, or be I Vol’jin?”
“After a manner. I would reverse them. Are you the Vol’jin who nearly died in a cave, or are you a troll seeking a new home?”
“Home, that being an allegory.”
“More and less.”
Have I trapped myself in that cave? When he thought of how he’d been lured there, shame roared through him. Yes, the fact that he’d not died was a victory, but he never should have been in that battle anyway. Garrosh had tossed out bait and Vol’jin had swallowed it. Had Garrosh invited him to dinner, just the two of them, he’d have expected treachery and arrived with the entire Darkspear tribe.
The troll shivered.
I’ve trapped myself in that shame. As he looked at it, Vol’jin saw the terrible cycle. No self-respecting troll should have been taken in like that. Even a man like Tyrathan wouldn’t have fallen for so transparent a ruse. His shame anchored him, and the fact that he couldn’t remember how he’d gotten away meant he didn’t have the tools to cut himself free. In that, Tyrathan had been right. Vol’jin feared what he didn’t know.
Yet, in looking at the cycle, he noted the weakness in it. How he survived was immaterial. He could have been dragged from the cave by virmen to be washed up in the river and eaten, and it didn’t matter. What mattered was that he was still alive. He could still grow. He could continue. He didn’t have to be trapped.
And there it is. Because no troll should have been trapped the way he was, and because he had been, Vol’jin had mentally exiled himself from being a troll. He’d fought hard, as a troll would and could, but only to prove his trollness to the pandaren and the Zandalari. And a man. How far gone be I?
He shook his head. Trapped like that be no place for a troll. But only a troll could have survived being trapped like that. Garrosh had sent a pet orc assassin to kill him. Only one. Did not Garrosh know better? Had not Vol’jin threatened to send an arrow through him? How dare he be sending anything less than trolls or titans against me?
Taran Zhu raised a paw in caution. “You are at a critical juncture, Vol’jin, so listen to the rest of the crab’s tale. That other brother, in searching for his new home, found a skull, a larger skull, and the helmet that had housed it. He had to choose. Skull or helmet.”
The troll slowly nodded. “But those be not the only choices.”
“For the Shado-pan, they are the most convenient to consider. You, on the other paw, have other choices available.” The monk nodded. “If you wish more parables, I should be pleased to provide them. You will, I hope, be willing to continue to advise me on matters of military strategy.”
“Yes. Skull-crab or not, it be part of me.”
“Then I shall leave you to your considerations.”
Vol’jin shifted from a crouch to sitting on the ground. In deciding that no troll should have been trapped as he had been, he’d convinced himself that he was not a troll. Proving that to be a lie to outsiders did nothing to change what he thought within. But I be a troll. I survived. I be everything I was before. And wiser.
He chuckled for his own benefit. And wise enough to see how foolish I been.
Vol’jin gathered himself and moved within, opening himself to the loa. He slipped into the gray landscape, noting shadows within shadows, dim silhouettes of plants and trees from the jungles of home. He took this as a good sign, then spun, finding Bwonsamdi looming up over him.
I be not taken blind again.
Not by orcs, anyway. The guardian of the dead laughed from behind his mask. Who be this I see before me?
A troll. That be enough for now. Vol’jin extended a hand toward him. I be needing it back.