“I be not a skull-crab.” Vol’jin read a lack of comprehension in Tyrathan’s eyes. “An allegory Taran Zhu told me.”
“He used the Room of a Thousand Doors on me. Some I can squeeze through, but only one will be a perfect fit, and the one I entered through has vanished.”
“Have you chosen your door?”
“No, but I think I am coming close to choosing. My choices have narrowed.” The man smiled. “You know, of course, that once I do go through, I’ll find myself in another room of a thousand doors.”
“And I gonna be outgrowing whatever shell I find myself in.” Vol’jin swept a hand over the expanse of Pandaria and the green valleys. “Promised yourself to be looking again on the valleys of your homeland before you died. Be these a worthy substitute?”
“Let me lie to you and tell you no.” The man gave another smile. “If I say yes, then my oath would allow me to die.”
“I gonna, as I promised, get the one who kills you.”
“Then let that be a long time from now, when I’m too old to remember why but still young enough to be grateful.”
The troll looked at him, then away. “Why be our races hating each other so much, when we be reasonable, the two of us?”
“Because finding the differences upon which we can hang hatred is much easier than discovering the common ground that can unite.” Tyrathan chuckled quickly. “If I return to the Alliance and tell tales of what we have done together…”
“You gonna be thought a madman?”
“I’ll be tried for treason and executed.”
“More common ground between us. Execution be cleaner than assassination.”
“And yet rooted in the ease of finding differences.” The man shook his head. “You realize that if we do this—when we do this—were all the world to see and understand, they’d still never sing the songs or tell the stories of what we accomplished.”
Vol’jin nodded. “But do we be doing this to have songs sung about us?”
“No. They won’t fit through my door.”
“Then, my friend, let the songs be sung as Zandalari lamentations.” He stood and started down the mountain. “Let them be sung for a thousand generations and serenade us into eternity.”
21
The Shado-pan monks prepared for war with laudable focus, though their actions lacked the hints of grim humor that Vol’jin had seen accompany the same preparations among other peoples. Four monks, two from the survivors of the blue squad and two from the red, were chosen by lottery to join Vol’jin, Tyrathan, and Chen. At least, their choice was supposed to be by chance, but Vol’jin suspected that the lottery was just to allow those who could not handle the mission to withdraw from it without any loss of esteem.
Assaulting the Vale of Eternal Blossoms would not be a simple thing. Shrouded in shadow and warded by impassible mountains, the place was a fortress that had remained unexplored for thousands of years. If he took any comfort in the difficulty in actually entering the place, it was only that the Zandalari, with their much larger force, would find passage that much more troublesome.
I be hoping.
Each of the seven set about the preparations in his or her own way. Tyrathan searched the monastery’s armory, chose the best arrows, broke them down, and fletched them himself. He painted the shafts bright red and made the feathers blue—in honor of the red and blue monks, he said. When asked why he blackened the arrowheads with soot, he said it was to honor the Zandalari’s black hearts.
Chen set himself on the task of victualing the expedition. To the monks, in their inexperience with the kind of war the Zandalari would bring, this might have seemed almost a frivolous pursuit, but Vol’jin understood his friend’s twin purposes. Not only would having proper food, fluids, and bandages be critical for the mission’s success, but it was also Chen’s way of taking care of the others. No matter what war had shown him or would make him do, Chen would be true to his nature. Vol’jin was grateful for that.
Taran Zhu approached the battlement where the troll sat running a whetstone along the curved edge of the first of his glaive’s blades. “You cannot make it sharper with any more strokes. It can already split night from day.”
Vol’jin raised the blade and watched golden sunlight spark from the edge. “Sharpening the fighter who be wielding it wants more time than we have.”
“I think he, too, is honed to a fine edge.” The elder monk looked toward the south, where the vale’s mountains trapped a lake of clouds. “Back when the last mogu emperor fell, monks led the rebellion. I doubt the monks then would recognize the Shado-pan as their heirs, and we might not recognize them as our inspiration. We revere their legends too much, and they would have hoped for much more from us.”
The monk frowned. “In that rebellion, they had more than pandaren fighting with them. The jinyu, the hozen, even the grummles participated. It could be, though the Lorewalkers never mention it, that even men and trolls fought with the pandaren.”
The troll smiled. “Hardly likely. Unrefined, men were at the time. The Zandalari would still be seeing the mogu as allies then, too.”
“But there are always the exceptional among every population.”
“You be thinking of the insane and the renegades.”
“The point being that our fight for our freedom is a fight you could have understood then, and do understand now.” Taran Zhu shook his head. “That war, and the time before, our time of enslavement, was so terrible that it scars our souls. Perhaps that wound only had the chance to fester, never to heal.”
Vol’jin flipped his sword around and rasped the whetstone over the other curved edge. “Wounds that foul need cutting and draining.”
“In our desire to forget our nightmare, we might have lost that knowledge. Not of how to do such things, but the why of their necessity.” The elder monk nodded. “Your presence here and your conduct so far have contributed greatly to my seeing that.”
A chill ran down Vol’jin’s spine. “I be glad but also saddened. I’ve seen enough war not to like it. Not like some, who live for it.”
“Like the man?”
“No, not even him. He be good at it, but were he the sort to need war, he’d have long since quit this place.” Vol’jin’s eyes became slits. “One thing he and I share be the willingness to shoulder responsibilities others are not. The same be true of the Shado-pan, and now you know why it be so important.”
“Yes.” The pandaren nodded. “As per our discussions, I have sent envoys to the jinyu and hozen. I hope they will stand with us.”
“The grummles seem willing.” A small knot of the tiny, long-armed creatures had gathered around Chen, each being fitted with sacks to haul. They would bring the team’s gear to the vale, then head back to the monastery to let Taran Zhu know the team had gotten that far. Given the grummles’ stamina and great strength, they would save the team’s energy for the second half of the expedition, into the vale itself.
“They are compliant and wiser than they would seem.” The monk smiled. “We, and I mean the peoples of Pandaria, will never be able to thank you for all you’ve done. I have sent my master carvers into the mountain to carve your likenesses into the bones. If you die…”
Vol’jin nodded. For him, the dropping of a statuette would be a matter of military intelligence, but clearly, for the Shado-pan, it was another matter entirely. “You be honoring me greatly.”
“Yet inadequately memorializing what you are doing for us. Monks led the rebellion and now will write a new ending to it.”
The troll lifted an eyebrow. “You know we just be buying time. We can slow them down. We can set them back, but seven, or forty-seven, won’t be enough to be stopping the Zandalari or the mogu.”
“But time is what we need.” Taran Zhu smiled. “Almost no one will remember the time when we were slaves, but no one wishes to be enslaved. As the mogu rise, they bring with them the rebirth of the reason we threw them down. Time is what we need to organize. Time to remind people of their past and teach them the value of their future.”