Vol’jin kicked his beast once more in the ribs. The raptor responded, knowing that was a promise of worse if it did not go faster. Claws shredded golden ground cover. Vol’jin leaned forward over the beast’s neck, laughing harshly, hoarsely, as he caught his hostess and passed her.
He raced on, giving the raptor its head. It knew where they were going, and Vol’jin didn’t care where. Just for that short time in the saddle, he forgot everything: his mission, the Horde, Garrosh, the monastery. With those burdens still back in the bloody dust of the Zandalari outpost, Vol’jin was able to breathe free. He couldn’t remember when it was that he’d last felt like that, only that it had been far too long ago.
“Dis way!”
Their course had been taking them toward Mogu’shan Palace, which was nearing the height of its nightly cycle. She reined her mount off to the east and down between two hills. Vol’jin followed, bringing his ride to an end at a long, low building with high-pitched roofs and wings that enclosed a courtyard in the back. He dismounted, tossing the reins to the groom who had taken the same from his hostess, then followed her through the front door.
Khal’ak clapped her hands loudly, and trolls scurried from doorways and halls, heads lowered. Gurubashi mostly, if the tattoos were correct, but clearly serving under a handful of Zandalari.
His hostess pointed at him. “This be Vol’jin of the Darkspears. If you be ignorant of who he be, I gonna break my fast with your heart at dawn. You gonna bathe him and then attire him appropriately.”
The foremost of the servants sniffed as she looked at Vol’jin. “He be Darkspear, mistress. He should wallow with pigs and steal clothes from a swineherd.”
Vol’jin’s hostess moved so fast and struck her so hard that the backhanded slap couldn’t have been avoided even if the servant had a week to prepare. “He be shadow hunter. He be revered of the loa. You gonna see to it dat he shines like a god. Tomorrow, when the sun reaches its zenith, if he does not make the mogu weep for his beauty and the Zandalari wail in envy, you all gonna feel my wrath. Go!”
Save for the insensible crone stretched out on the floor, the servants scattered. His hostess turned and smiled slightly. “I trust your pandaren be serving you more faithfully. There be times I think even men like your archer might be more suited to serving. We gonna discuss these things, and others, when you have completed your ablutions and be properly attired.”
Vol’jin, though he had no love lost for the Zandalari as a general rule, found her intriguing. “And then you gonna help me remember your name.”
“No, my dear Vol’jin.” Her smile broadened. “You have no chance of rememberin’ because you’ve never heard it. But later I gonna tell it to you and be giving you good cause never to forget.”
Vol’jin would have refused to go along with her having him cleaned up, save that her minions so clearly hated tending to his needs that it tortured them far more than it ever would him. For Zandalari and Gurubashi to wash him, trim his hair and nails, rub unguents into his hands and feet, and then dress him in a fine silken kilt with a raptor-leather belt, their torment had to be all but unendurable. To make matters worse, they were forced to grant him the honor of wearing a small dagger, a ceremonial one, in a sheath bound to his upper-left arm. Such was his right as a shadow hunter. As much as they might like to dismiss him as being from an ill-begotten and disobedient tribe of fallen mongrels, the lowest of them knew they never could have won the honors they now bestowed upon him.
The magic of the place also played on him, convincing him that, indeed, he was due honors and accolades. A small part of him welcomed his hostess’s attentions because he had earned consideration. The Gurubashi and Amani may have dismissed the Darkspear with a sneer, but when the Zandalari king Rastakhan had sought to unite all the trolls, Vol’jin had been summoned to represent the Darkspears. He had refused to join the other tribes, noting that the Horde was now his family, but the fact was that he’d still been invited.
Once he’d been prepared, a long-faced servant led him to the central courtyard. A fire blazed at its heart in a simple circle of stones. A small table with two golden goblets and a matching pitcher filled with dark wine stood beside it and back a bit. Two lounging mats had been placed between the table and fire, allowing easy access to refreshments.
She knelt on one mat, poking the fire with a stick, then stood as he entered. She’d changed from leather to silk, a darker blue that caught lighter tones from the Mogu’shan Palace display. A simple gold-linked belt gathered her sleeveless gown at the waist. It had been fashioned from coins minted throughout the known lands and in a variety of eras. The ends dangled as far down as her knees, and he assumed she would simply double-loop it when conquests added more links.
She pointed toward the wine with a hand. “I be offering you refreshment. You be choosing the cup. You pour. I gonna drink from whichever or both. I want you to be knowing I mean you no mischief or deception. You be my guest.”
Vol’jin nodded but kept the fire between them. “You pour and choose. You have done me this honor. I gonna trust you.”
She poured, but both cups remained untouched on the table. “I be Khal’ak, servant of Vilnak’dor. He be to King Rastakhan what you be to Thrall, and more. He sees to the pandaren situation. Though he be not wholly aware of it, he owes you a great debt.”
“How would that be?”
Khal’ak smiled. “Some history first. I served Vilnak’dor and he served our king when Rastakhan allowed Zul to propose all trolls be uniting under one banner. Of all the leaders dere, only you, only Vol’jin of the Darkspears, refused the offer to be joining. As you turned away and stalked off, you walked right past me. I watched you leave. After you’d gone from sight, I be spending a long time studying your footprints in the sand. I wondered which would erode first: Zul’s dreams or your footprints.”
She glanced down into the fire for a moment. “So I found myself surprised, dere at Zouchin, when one of my warriors be showing me a footprint I recognized so easily. By that time, of course, our spies within the Horde had passed on stories of your disappearance. The rumors about you do you great credit. Most of the Horde believes dat you perished performin’ a secret mission of ultimate importance for their benefit. You be widely mourned. And, yet, dere be those who claim you’ve been murdered.”
Vol’jin raised an eyebrow. “No one be considering that I have survived?”
Khal’ak picked up the goblets and approached, offering him equal choice. “There be lunatics who suppose that, and the odd shaman who be claiming you have ascended to be one of the loa. A few pray to you, and some have had a tattoo of a dark spear inked into their flesh. Usually flank or inside of the biceps, since the orcs do not favor such displays.”
He accepted one of the goblets. “And your master be enjoying himself a ghost story? This be why he should thank me?”
“Oh, no, he owes you far more greatly.” She sipped her wine, then turned. She walked to her lounging mat casually, the muscles of her lean body fluid beneath the silk. She knelt, almost like a supplicant before a god, then drank. “Please, join me.”
Vol’jin did, returning his wine to the table before sitting. “Your master?”
“One thing, Vol’jin. I do you the honor of supposing you are not a fool. You gonna learn many things in our conversation, many important things. Understand that I be fully aware I am sharing them with you. I do have a purpose. I gonna treat with you honestly. Ask, and if I be able, I will respond.”
He took up his goblet again and drank. The dark wine tasted of fruit and spices, some from Kalimdor, but more from Pandaria. He liked it yet did not let it put him at ease. “You were saying…”