They were as they should be, and loa pity the mogu who failed to understand why this was the way of reality.
Vol’jin tried to sense any trace of the titan magic on his guest but could not. Perhaps they’d not discovered it yet. Perhaps they only used it to create the saurok late in their empire’s life. Perhaps the Thunder King had been insane enough to order its use, or had been driven insane by its use. It hardly mattered.
What did matter was the rift between Zandalari and mogu. Therein lay the fertile ground that had allowed the mogu to fall. The hints of contempt Vol’jin felt would grow into polite indifference between the peoples. They trusted each other not to attack because they were confident that they could destroy their partner. While they stood back to back, they did not watch the other and did not see the other falter.
Curiously enough, each society did stumble. The slaves that the mogu cherished and relied upon were the creatures who rose up and overthrew them. The castes that maintained the Zandalari on top grew to be their own people. As they became diminished, the Zandalari were content to let them go away—abandoning unruly children until they saw the folly of the youthful rebellion and came back begging… .
Begging for Zandalari approval.
Vol’jin awoke with a snarl in his cell, surprised that he wore no mask but instead had a single strand of spider silk stretched over his eyes. The air was pregnant with the hint of snow. He sat up, hugging his knees to himself for a moment, then pulled on his clothes and headed out. He bypassed the courtyard in which monks exercised—each wearing silk or leather armor—and headed for the mountain.
While neither Zandalari nor mogu had felt the need to reach the summit, Vol’jin’s heart demanded he attain the heights they had been too lazy to discover. It occurred to him that, by the pandaren way of thinking, their talking themselves into the belief that they didn’t need to reach the top had convinced them they’d attained balance in their lives.
Their self-deception doomed them.
Three-quarters of the way up the mountain, he found the man waiting for him. “You’re awfully damned quiet, even when you’re lost in thought.”
“But you be detecting my approach anyway.”
“I’ve spent much time here. I’m used to the sounds. I didn’t hear you. I just heard everything else reacting to the fact that they had.” The man smiled. “Had a bad night of it?”
“Not until the end.” Vol’jin stretched his back. “Have trouble sleeping?”
“I slept astonishingly well.” Tyrathan rose from his rock and started up the narrow trail. “Surprising, since I’ve agreed with your plan, which is pretty much of a suicide mission.”
“It would not be the first for you.”
“That you can say that and be correct casts my sanity into serious doubt.”
The troll loped along, pleased that he could neither detect any trace of Tyrathan’s limp nor feel anything but the ghost of a twinge in his side. “It be testament to your survival skills.”
“Not much of one.” The man glanced back, his eyes tight. “You saw how I survived Serpent’s Heart. I ran.”
“You crawled.” Vol’jin raised open hands. “You did what you had to for surviving.”
“I was a coward.”
“If it be cowardice to avoid dying with your men, then every general be a coward.” The troll shook his head. “Besides, you be not that man. That man had no beard. He dyed his hair. He never be running while those who depended on him still lived.”
“But I did, Vol’jin.” Tyrathan laughed but did not share the joke. “As for the beard and letting my hair grow back in its natural color, I have found that my encounter with death leaves me unwilling to delude myself. I understand myself much better now. Who and what I am. And have no fear; I won’t run.”
“Be I fearing that, I would not allow you to come.”
“Why are you letting Chen come?”
Anger simmered in Vol’jin’s blood. “Chen not gonna run.”
“I know that and did not mean to suggest it.” The man sighed. “It’s because he won’t run that I don’t think he should come. The monks, few have family beyond this place. I am alone. I don’t know of you… .”
Vol’jin shook his head. “She gonna understand.”
“Chen’s got his niece and Yalia. And, frankly, he’s got too big a heart to witness what we’re going to do.”
“What was it happened out there?”
As they climbed the rest of the way to the top, the man described in very precise detail exactly what had happened. Vol’jin understood perfectly. He’d chosen to kill the silent one first because he’d not removed his armor. That meant he’d be the hardest to eliminate. The other two soldiers were just that: soldiers. And conversation had indicated that their leader wasn’t a warrior.
The man had made the same decisions Vol’jin would have made, and for the same reasons. Finding a way to trap the trolls had been critical. It took them out of the fight, and the pain and terror also rendered them useless.
And yet, as much as he understood what Tyrathan had done and why, he also now understood Chen’s uncharacteristic taciturnity. Many people who went to war refused to look at what they were doing. War was defined by cultures in terms of heroic tales of bravery. Those stories skipped over the horror of it all in favor of praising courage and fortitude against overwhelming odds. A thousand songs were sung of the warrior who held off a thousand hated enemies, yet not a single one of the fallen merited even a memorial note.
Chen was one of those who had always been able to mythologize battles, primarily because he was at a distance from them. It wasn’t that he was never threatened. He was, often, and acquitted himself well. But any fighter who allowed himself to dwell on his personal danger was one who went mad or threw himself at the enemy to end his madness.
Until now, Chen had fought for his friends, supporting them in their battles. But here, he was fighting for a place he could call home. Out there, he was the only pandaren. None of the dead looked like him. Or his niece or his friend.
When they reached the pinnacle, Vol’jin crouched. “I be understanding your questions about Chen. Neither of us be doubting his courage. Neither of us be wanting him hurt. But this be why he must come. It gonna hurt him more not to have acted, whether we fail or succeed, than to watch us slay thousands in ways that leave them screaming out their last. He be pandaren. Pandaria be his future. This be his fight. We cannot be protecting him from this, so it’s better to have him with us so he can be saving us.”
The man considered for a moment, then nodded. “Chen told me some stories of you, of your past. He said you were wise. Did you ever imagine, during those times, that the tables would be turned, and you’d be fighting for his home as he did for yours?”
“No.” The troll looked out over Pandaria, studying mountains that nudged their way through clouds, and forests peeking out from gaps below. “This be a place worth fighting for. Worth dying for.”
“A fight so we can stop others from doing here what they’ve done to our homes?”
“Yes.”
Tyrathan scratched at his goatee. “How is it that a leader of the Horde and an Alliance soldier are united in fighting for a people who have no claim on our allegiance?”
“You be referring to the people we once were.” Vol’jin shrugged. “My body survived assassination, but who I was did die in that cave. The Vol’jin they meant to kill be truly dead.”
“You’re no closer to deciding who you now are than I am.”