As they set off the next morning for the Vale of Eternal Blossoms, Vol’jin took a look back toward the Peak of Serenity. There the first monks had trained in secret, their privacy guaranteed because the mogu were too lazy to climb to the top. His memory of lounging farther down with a mogu comrade burst with his remembrance of climbing to the top with the man. Another ally, a comrade, but circumstances that felt so much different.
And so proper, despite how strange.
Vol’jin studied the group and smiled. For each one of them came two grummles bearing weapons and rations and other supplies. Five pandaren, a man, and a troll. Had Garrosh been there to see it, to see how easily Vol’jin got along with them, he’d have yet more charges of treason to lay against him.
And it wasn’t as if this company replaced the Horde in his mind or heart. It was a company of necessity, and in that way, it reminded him of the Horde. A diverse company united to preserve freedom. It was that unity of purpose that defined the Horde he knew and loved, the Horde that had fought under Thrall.
The purpose of Garrosh’s Horde came from him, from his need for conquest and power. His desires would fracture it, perhaps beyond repair. That would be as great a tragedy, in Vol’jin’s mind, as the Zandalari-mogu alliance returning the mogu to power in Pandaria.
They headed south and, after several days, reached the heights above the Vale of Eternal Blossoms. The clouds seethed and curled like ocean waves heralding a coming storm. If the grummles felt any foreboding, they said nothing. They made camp as before and segregated themselves.
Though he knew better than to do it, he had made a point of learning each pandaren’s name, as had Chen. Tyrathan had adopted the wiser course, addressing each one as “brother” or “sister” or “my friend,” keeping some distance between them. Not knowing their names, not knowing their hopes and dreams, would make it easier if… If their statues drop from the mountain’s bones.
Vol’jin didn’t want it to be easy. He never had, but in the past he had been fighting with and for his tribe. Here it would be easy to distance himself, since it wasn’t his people, wasn’t his home, wasn’t his tribe. But if the fight be worth fighting, then these be my people, this be my home, and they be my tribe.
It occurred to him that the mogu might be thinking exactly the same thing, though rooted in the past. This was their land. These were their people. Even after centuries and tens of centuries—even after they’d all but been forgotten—they burned with a hunger to have rights wronged. It was one thing for trolls to desire to return to the past because they, at least, had explored a future. The mogu had done little to organize or reestablish their domain. They remained shut off from the future because they clung so tightly to the past they’d lost.
Despite having made their camp in a cave facing south and west, the group lit no fire. They supped on rice balls, dried berries, and smoked fish. Chen had managed to steep tea in a waterskin, which made it all more than palatable.
Tyrathan drained his small bowl and held it out for a refill. “I always wondered what my last meal would be.”
Chen smiled with genuine joy. “It’s a question you’ll ponder for a long time yet, Tyrathan.”
“Perhaps, but if this is it, I can’t imagine a better meal.”
The troll raised his cup. “It be the company, not the food.”
Vol’jin slept solidly until just before dawn, having taken the first watch after supper. He suffered no visions or dreams—at least, none he could remember. For a heartbeat, he wondered if the loa had abandoned him again. He decided, quite to the contrary, that Bwonsamdi had kept the others distant so Vol’jin would be rested enough to send more trolls his way.
The seven bade farewell to their grummle bearers. Tyrathan gave each of them one of his arrows as a remembrance. When Vol’jin threw him a glance, he shrugged. “I’ll replace them with Zandalari. Face it: my supply of arrows was bound to run out well before their supply of Zandalari did.”
Not to be outdone, and feeling the same level of gratitude, Vol’jin shaved the sides of his head. He presented each grummle with a lock of his red hair. The grummles looked as if they’d been handed fistfuls of jewels, and then they melted back into the hills and mountains.
The seven made their descent through the mountains easily enough. Brother Shan led the way, finding footholds on sheer faces and having the strength to anchor ropes as others followed. He recounted a story that said monks had, at the time of the rebellion, rappelled down these very mountains to surprise the mogu. Vol’jin took some comfort from that legend and hoped they would be equally successful.
By the middle of the day, they got below the clouds. The sun had burned off none of the mist, but the clouds glowed with a subtle golden light, which came as much from the ground reflection as it did from the sun’s rays. Vol’jin crouched at the edge of a clearing on a mountain’s southern face and studied the valley below.
Had the troll been pressed before to pick a color to define Pandaria, it would have been green. So many shades of green, from the light buds of new grasses to the deep emerald of forests; the continent was green. But here, in the Vale of Eternal Blossoms, green gave way to gold and red. These were not the colors of autumn—though in places they came close—but the exploding hues of plants in full flower. They were in their glory, springtime frozen in a world that did not age. The diffuse light cast no sharp shadows, and what little moved below did so with a dreamlike, languid quality.
The vale looked the way it felt to stretch luxuriously and long upon waking.
From the heights they could see some buildings but had no clue as to who lived there or maintained them. Their antiquity could not be disputed, but vegetation had not risen up to consume them. The vale’s timelessness preserved them. Vol’jin wondered if that quality would keep all of them alive.
Or keep us dying forever.
Sister Quan-li, a pandaren with liver-colored fur to contrast with the white, pointed southeast. “The invaders would approach from that direction. The mogu palace lay there, and Lord Taran Zhu says the emperor’s warlords were buried directly south of our position.”
Tyrathan nodded. “The journal would have had them seeking passage in the east part of the valley. I don’t see any signs they’ve made it yet.”
The troll chuckled. “What would you expect, my friend? That we be seeing a black stain pouring over the landscape? Smoke from villages being burned to the ground?”
“No. There should, however, be makeshift camps. So we can choose to wait here until dark and see if fires reveal the enemy to us…”
“Or be slipping down and looking more closely just in case they, too, are keeping cold camps.” Vol’jin stood. “I be favoring the latter.”
“Easier to shoot by daylight. Not impossible at night. Just easier.”
“Good. We gonna come out on this little plateau above that road. Keep to the heights.”
Tyrathan pointed with the end of his bow. “If we can head straight south and curl back around east, we could come in behind their line of march. They wouldn’t be looking for us in ground they’ve already secured. Plus, those folks who are critical to accomplishing their ends are not likely to be at the front line but somewhere back, away from perceived danger.”
“Yes. Identify them and kill them.”
Chen glanced over, his eyes tight. “And slip away again.”
The troll and the man exchanged looks. Then Vol’jin nodded. “Probably back south and west. We be going back out the way we came in.”