“At least we’d know the terrain and know where to set traps.” The man lowered his bow. “Given that we’re pitting seven against the elite of two empires, that isn’t the most stupid plan we could have come up with.”
“Agreed.” The troll shifted the pack strapped to his back. “That I can’t be thinking of a better one disturbs me.”
“That’s not the point, is it, Vol’jin?” Chen tugged on his own pack’s straps. “We’re here to disturb them, and I think this plan will do just that.”
22
Though they walked through a golden valley that few outsiders had seen for years uncounted, Vol’jin did not fear. He knew he should have and consciously took every precaution he could to avoid discovery. Still, he didn’t have that little chill cutting at his spine. The fur at the base of his skull didn’t rise. It felt as if he had on a rush’kah mask, insulating him from fear.
And yet… he had no dreams while he slept in the Vale of Eternal Blossoms, but that was because he needed none. Walking through the valley was walking through a living vision. Something about the reality of the place bled into him. An arrogance, in part, resonating with his troll heritage. He was touching a lingering bit of mogu magic, being caressed by the ghost of the mogu empire.
Here, in this place, where great races had wielded great power, he could not know fear. There, on the far distant steps of Mogu’shan Palace—where his enemies likely slept—proud mogu fathers had faced their sons west, sweeping a hand before them to take in the whole of the valley. This land was theirs, and all land that touched it, to do with as they pleased. They could make it over as they willed, shape it to their hearts’ desires. There was nothing here that would hurt them, because everything here feared them.
It was that last bit that saved Vol’jin. He knew what it was to be feared. He liked that his enemies feared him, but their terror was born from what he had done. He had earned it, sword stroke by sword stroke, spell by spell, conquest by conquest. It was not something he’d inherited and not something he saw as his birthright.
It was something he understood, and this separated him from the young mogu princes who beheld their domain. Because he understood this concept, he could use it. He could feel it ebb and flow. But they remained above it, seeing what they wanted to see, hearing what they wanted to hear. And never feeling the need to climb to the heights to see the reality of the world.
When they made camp on the night they’d gotten halfway across the valley, Tyrathan looked at him. “You feel it, don’t you?”
Vol’jin nodded.
Chen looked up from his tea bowl. “Feel what?”
The man smiled. “That answers my question.”
The pandaren shook his head. “What question? What is it you feel?”
Tyrathan frowned. “A sense that this place is mine and that I belong here because the land is soaked in blood and I am steeped in killing. That’s what you feel, yes, Vol’jin?”
“Close enough.”
Chen smiled, pouring himself some tea. “Oh, that.”
The man’s frown deepened. “Then you do feel it?”
“No, but I know you do.” The brewmaster looked at the man and the troll in turn, then shrugged. “I’ve seen that look in your eyes before. You, Vol’jin, more than Tyrathan, but I’ve not fought beside him nearly as much as I have beside you. In every battle, at that point when you are fighting your hardest, you get that expression. It’s just hard. Implacable. I see it and I know you will win. That expression says that you are the best combatant on the field that day. Anyone who challenges you will die.”
The troll cocked his head. “And that’s the expression I be wearing now?”
“Well, no, maybe a little, around the eyes. The both of you. When you don’t think anyone is looking. Or when you don’t realize anyone is looking. It says this is your land, won by right, which you won’t surrender.” Chen shrugged once more. “Given our task, this is good.”
The man extended his cup to the pandaren and nodded when it was refilled. “Then what do you feel here?”
Chen set his waterskin down and scratched his chin. “I feel the peace that is this place’s promise. I think the two of you feel a bit of the mogu legacy. But, for me, the peace, the promise, it’s what I want in a home. It tells me I can stop wandering—but it doesn’t demand it. It’s a welcome that will never be withdrawn.”
He looked at the both of them, and for the first time Vol’jin could remember, Chen’s big golden eyes filled with sorrow. “I wish you could feel that too.”
Vol’jin gave his friend a smile. “It be enough for me that you do, Chen. I have a home, one you helped win. You secured a home for me. Impossible not to be pleased for you.”
Without much inducement, Vol’jin managed to get Chen and the monks to elaborate on their sense of the place. They complied happily, and Vol’jin took some joy in their impressions. However, after the sun set, a cold, dark wave rippled out from the east. The monks fell silent, and Tyrathan, who had been standing watch at the crest of the hill beneath which they camped, pointed.
“They’re here.”
Vol’jin and the others scrambled up with him. There, to the east, Mogu’shan Palace had lit up. Silver and blue lightning played over its faces, defining the structure with ivy-like twists that sparked at the corners. The display of magic impressed Vol’jin, not because of any sense of power but because of the aimless and casual way in which it was being displayed.
Chen shivered. “The welcome is being blanketed.”
“It being smothered.” Vol’jin shook his head. “Buried deeply. No one be welcome here anymore.”
Tyrathan looked at Vol’jin. “It’s more than a bowshot, but we could make it by dawn. Well before any revelers are awake.”
“No. They be baiting us with that display. That be where they want us to strike.”
The man raised an eyebrow. “They know we’re coming?”
“They have to assume we be, just as we have to assume they know we gonna react to the journal you captured.” Vol’jin pointed toward the southern mountain range. “Likely Horde and Alliance scouts be on the ridges. They gonna spot this and react. It gonna just take a while to discuss plans before they be moving.”
“Unless someone does it on his own initiative.” Tyrathan chuckled. “Months ago, that would have been me. I wonder who’ll play the hero?”
“It doesn’t matter to our mission—as long as they don’t be getting in the way.”
“Agreed.” The man ran a hand over his beard. “Still straight in and hook east?”
“Until something be making that plan impossible, yes.”
Vol’jin passed another dreamless night, but it was not a wholly restful one. He considered reaching out to the loa, but as was true of all gods, they could be capricious. If they were bored or annoyed, they could let slip a word that would alert his enemies to his presence. As he’d said to Tyrathan, they had to assume their enemies knew they were coming. The fact that the Zandalari could not pinpoint where they were was an advantage. Given the nature of their mission, any advantage was to be cherished.
The next morning, if the sun dawned at all, Vol’jin had no real way of knowing. The clouds had thickened. The only light coming through, aside from a faint jaundiced glow, was the result of the stray thunderbolts rippling through their depths. The lightning never touched the ground, as if afraid of reprisals from those in Mogu’shan Palace.
The seven slowed their pace out of necessity. Dim light made missteps more common. A trickle of gravel sliding underfoot sounded like thunder. They’d all freeze in place, ears straining for reactions. And their scouts had to shorten their lead on the party simply because darkness made it harder to see. This contributed to more frequent stops.