As he returned to his dusting, Vol’jin realized that he felt beholden to the man, and this did not sit well with him. Trolls and men had never been true to each other except through hatred. Vol’jin had killed more men than he cared to count. The way Tyrathan had studied him said the hunter had killed his share of trolls. They had been born enemies. Even here, the pandaren kept them because they were so opposite that they balanced each other.
And yet, what have I been having from this man but kindness? Part of Vol’jin wanted to dismiss that as weakness. It was supplication based in fear. Tyrathan hoped that when Vol’jin was well, he would not kill the man. While it was easy to imagine this was true, and countless were the trolls who would believe it as if it were a message delivered by the loa, Vol’jin could not accept it. Tyrathan might have been tasked with his care, but the kindness with the tunic, that was not a servant fulfilling a duty.
It was more. It deserves respect.
Vol’jin had finished the high shelves and begun the lowest before the search parties returned. Excited voices suggested they’d been successful. At the noon meal, Vol’jin looked for Tyrathan first, then Chen and Taran Zhu. When he failed to see them, he looked for the healers. He saw one or two but for only as long as it took them to grab some food and disappear again.
The storm’s occupation of the mountain meant a grim dark day, the end of which was heralded by greater darkness and more cold. As monks gathered for the evening meal, a young female monk found him and brought him back to the infirmary. Chen and Taran Zhu awaited him, neither looking happy.
Tyrathan Khort lay in bed, his flesh gray yet with sweat dappling his brows. Several thick blankets covered him to the throat. He thrashed against them, but so weakly they imprisoned him. Sympathy flashed through Vol’jin.
The monastery’s lord pointed at Vol’jin. “There is a task you will perform. If you do not do it, he shall die. And before an ignoble thought can root itself in your mind, I tell you this: if you refuse, surely you shall die. Not by my action or by that of any of the monks here. Because that thing you shattered beyond the stone will be allowed back into your soul, and it will kill you.”
Vol’jin dropped to a knee and watched Tyrathan’s face. Fear, hatred, shame—these emotions and more passed over his features. “He sleeps. He dreams. What can I do?”
“It is not what you can do, troll; it is what you must do.” Taran Zhu exhaled slowly. “Away from here, to the south and the east, there is a temple. It is one of many in Pandaria, but it and its companions are special. At each the emperor Shaohao, in his wisdom, trapped one of the sha. The sha are of a similar nature to your loa. They embody aspects of intelligent nature—the darker ones. At the Temple of the Jade Serpent the emperor trapped the Sha of Doubt.”
Vol’jin frowned. “There be no spirit of doubt.”
“No? Then what was it you destroyed with that punch?” Taran Zhu gathered his paws at the small of his back. “You have doubt; we all have doubts, and the sha uses them. It makes them resonate within, paralyzing us, killing the soul. We, the Shado-pan, are trained, as you now understand, to deal with the sha. Unfortunately, Tyrathan Khort encountered them before he was prepared.”
Vol’jin stood again. “What can I be doing? What must I be doing?”
“You are of his world. You understand it.” Taran Zhu nodded to Chen. “Master Stormstout has prepared a draught from our apothecary. We call it memory wine. Both you and the man will drink, and then you will be guided into his dreams. As the loa sometimes work through you, so you shall work through him. You have destroyed doubt, Vol’jin, but doubt still infects him. You must find it and drive it out.”
The troll’s eyes narrowed. “You cannot?”
“If I could, do you not think I would do it rather than entrust it to someone who is barely a novitiate?”
Vol’jin bowed his head. “Of course.”
“One caution for you, troll. Understand that what you see and experience is not reality. It is his memory of what happened. Were you to speak with every survivor of that battle, none would tell the same tale. Do not strive to understand his memories. Find his doubt and uproot it.”
“I be knowin’ what to do.”
The female monk and Chen dragged over another bed, but Vol’jin waved it away. He stretched out on the stone floor next to Tyrathan. “Better to remember I be a troll.”
He accepted the wooden bowl from Chen’s paw. The dark liquid tasted greasy and stung as if laced with nettles. It soured quickly on the tongue save where the tannic bite numbed him. He swallowed twice to get the memory wine all down, then lay back and closed his eyes.
He projected his senses as he would when reaching out to the loa, but found the landscape distinctly Pandaren—all green and warm gray, though flecks of snow flashed through it. Taran Zhu stood there, a silent ghost. His right paw pointed toward a dark cave. Pandaren footprints also pointed the way but stopped at the stone mouth.
Vol’jin twisted sideways and ducked to get through. The stone walls squeezed. For a heartbeat he feared he wouldn’t make it. Then, with what felt like a tearing of his flesh, he made it.
And almost screamed.
He looked out at the world through Tyrathan Khort’s eyes and found it too bright and too green. He raised a hand to shield his eyes. Surprise raced through him. The arms were too short, the body broader and yet weaker. He could take only tiny steps. Everywhere he looked, men and women, wearing the blue tabards trimmed in gold of Stormwind, sharpened weapons and adjusted armor while jinyu conscripts gaped in awe.
A young soldier appeared in front of him and saluted. “The war leader requests your presence on the hill, sir.”
“Thank you.” Vol’jin rode along with the memory, getting used to the sensation of being in a human body. Tyrathan wore his bow over his back. A quiver slapped against his right thigh. A few bits of mail rustled, but otherwise leather encased him. He’d taken every part from beasts he’d killed. He’d tanned it and sewn it, trusting in nothing others had prepared.
Vol’jin smiled, for he recognized that sentiment.
Tyrathan ran up the hill easily—leaving Vol’jin little doubt why he enjoyed time on the mountain here. He stopped before a massive hulk of a man with a thick beard. The war leader’s armor gleamed blindingly, and the white of his tabard had no hints of blood.
“You asked to see me, sir?”
The man, Bolten Vanyst, pointed to the valley below. “That’s our objective. The Serpent’s Heart. Seems peaceful enough, but I know better than to trust that. I’ve culled a dozen skirmishers from my force—the best of the hunters. I want you to scout and report. I won’t have us ambushed.”
“Understood, sir.” Tyrathan saluted smartly. “You’ll have my report in an hour, two at most.”
“Three if it’s complete.” The war leader dismissed him with a salute.
Tyrathan sped off and Vol’jin cataloged every sensation. As they descended a rocky hill trail, the troll noticed the leaps that the man refused. He sought a sense of doubt in those choices but instead found confidence. Tyrathan knew himself well, and to make those leaps, which would not have concerned a troll, would snap a leg or twist an ankle.
The sheer fragility of being human surprised Vol’jin. He’d always rejoiced in it. It made breaking them so very easy, but now it made him wonder about them. They knew death could come quickly, yet they fought and explored and showed no lack of courage. It was as if mortality was so well-known a companion that they could embrace it easily.
As Tyrathan arrived amid a squad of twelve hunters like himself, Vol’jin noticed that the man had no companion animal with him. The others did, marking their travels throughout the world. Raptors and turtles, giant spiders and bloodseeker bats—the humans chose their companions through a logic that escaped Vol’jin.