The mogu stared at the steaming blood pulsing from the stump. Then Vol’jin whipped the glaive around in a forehand cut that sliced cleanly through the mogu’s neck.
One of the loa—for only the loa could have made it happen—stopped the storm for a heartbeat. The winds died. The air cleared. And remained silent and clear for as long as it took for the mogu’s head to slowly slide forward, tip, and bounce off his breastplate. It rolled to a stop in a snowdrift, sightless eyes staring at headless body with the intensity of a spurned lover staring at an unfaithful spouse.
The battle had ceased for just that handful of heartbeats. The trolls and monks all stared at the island. The mogu knelt before the shadow hunter. The mogu’s head appeared to nod; then the body thumped forward in a full and formal bow.
Then the troll captain pointed his sword toward Vol’jin. “He be alone and broken. Kill him. Kill them all!”
Peace shattered along with the silence, and the Zandalari force surged.
33
As he engaged the trolls coming along the bridge and swarming up the edges of the island, Vol’jin consciously realized what he’d unconsciously discovered previously: he wasn’t facing Zandalari. Not all of them, anyway. The tall ones certainly were. Their height—and the fact that more than one sprouted a red-shafted arrow from eye or throat as they came—gave them away. The others, though wearing Zandalari armor, had to be Gurubashi and Amani.
Vol’jin understood the tactic of driving lesser forces before the best, overwhelming defenders. Khal’ak would think herself brilliant for coming up with it. Vol’jin felt compelled to convince her that it wasn’t a workable idea. Since he could not see her in the horde pouring into the monastery, he contented himself with destroying her troops.
Destruction it had to be, because it wasn’t truly a fight. Sheer weight of meat guaranteed her forces would overwhelm him. In addition to the warriors closing in, priests and witch doctors appeared from the grove. Black energy sizzled between their hands. Spells launched, arcing out toward the monks defending the Sealed Chambers. Some of them fell, but the handful of Shado-pan stormcallers responded. Their spells exploded amid the trolls, setting some on fire, opening the chest of at least one other.
His left shoulder already having recovered a minimal amount of utility, Vol’jin swept into the trolls. He considered himself a sharp and vengeful part of the winds swirling blinding snow blankets over the battlefield. Just as the cold wind could cut through clothing to chill the flesh, his glaive sliced deep. It plunged into groins, ripping open femoral arteries. It caressed necks, hot blood spurting to darken falling snow. The blade point punched through the backs of knees, cut heel tendons, and plucked out eyes.
He left his enemies’ throats intact so they could give voice to fear and pain.
Some opposed him bravely, but others came at him slowly and tentatively. They looked for openings and weaknesses. He just made openings. He’d long since counted himself dead, so their little cuts, their thrusts, mattered not at all. If a blow didn’t kill him outright, it was as good as a miss.
Deep down inside, Vol’jin knew he wouldn’t always prevail, but the snarl on his lips, the glint in his eyes, and the eagerness with which he attacked hinted at just the opposite. His enemies saw him as a troll who, despite wearing tattered armor and being bathed in blood, would keep coming. If they weren’t sure they could stop him or kill him, fear froze their guts.
And then Vol’jin opened them.
He spun away from one troll madly trying to stuff ropy intestines back into a ruined belly and found himself completely surrounded. The battle had turned him around, so he faced it as the invaders had. The arcane exchange of spells lit the battlefield to his right. Through sheets of snow, arrows came from off to the left. Half-visible trolls crested over the far gully edge, engaging the monks defending the Sealed Chambers. In that direction lay sanctuary, and Vol’jin knew he’d never make it.
Then, in a burst of light and licking flame, Chen exploded onto the island. As one of the true Zandalari turned toward him, Chen again breathed fire. The troll’s face ran like melting wax, his hair a torch and his flesh sizzling sweetly.
Behind him, Yalia, Cuo, and three other Shado-pan monks raced along the bridge to the island. The crack Chen had burned open was expanded with staves and swords. Yalia’s staff moved so quickly it would have been invisible even if there were no snow. Her blows dented armor and crushed bones beneath. Every thump produced a clank and a curse; every uppercut launched teeth from shattered jaws.
Chen extended a paw. “Hurry!”
Vol’jin, surprised, hesitated. The Zandalari circle might have closed around him again, but the monks drove forward. They surrounded him with their own cordon. Paws and feet blurred. Swords clanged. The monks proved excellent on defense, turning thrusts and blocking slashes. Even though their speed left their enemies open, they didn’t press their advantage. They didn’t seem to think their mission to rescue Vol’jin meant also killing as many of the enemy as they could.
Vol’jin took Chen’s paw and sprinted over the bridge. He had no desire to be leaving the fight, but the island was no place to be fighting. Had he stayed, they all would have stayed. And died. In fact, the monks withdrew in good order, all of them reaching the landing before the Sealed Chambers.
Even as he contemplated stepping up to defend the bridge, the Snowdrift Dojo’s alarm bell pealed loudly. It rang a half dozen times with urgency, then abruptly stopped. He looked over and trolls poured from it—obviously Zandalari despite the shabby clothes they wore.
And there, with them, stood a mogu and Khal’ak.
Taran Zhu appeared at the Sealed Chambers’ main entrance. “Fall back now!” The command contained no panic, nor did it allow for refusal. The monks pulled back immediately, with Chen and Vol’jin the last to retreat.
The Zandalari, confident of their victory, seemed happy to let them go.
Vol’jin paused in the doorway, looking toward the Snowdrift Dojo. Snow stole his sight of it, with the last thing he saw being Zandalari tossing dead monks into the gully. He looked for any sign of Tyrathan, but blood dripped into his eyes.
Two monks closed the ornate bronze doors behind him and dropped a heavy bar into place. Vol’jin went to a knee to catch his breath. He swiped at the blood on his face, then looked up again.
The Thirty-three had become fourteen. All but Taran Zhu showed signs of the fighting. Blood stained many robes. Magic had scorched others. At least two of the survivors had broken bones, and Vol’jin suspected others were hiding injuries. Yalia was definitely favoring broken ribs. The blood dripping from Chen’s right paw did so too fluidly to be anything but his own.
The troll glanced at the Shado-pan leader. “How did they get into the Snowdrift Dojo?”
“I believe they worked their way up through the tunnels.” Taran Zhu examined a fingernail rather distractedly. “Others tried coming up from below here, but were discouraged.” He glanced at a half-open alcove behind the statue of a tiger, and Vol’jin wondered what manner of mayhem lay beyond it.
The shadow hunter winced as he straightened up and worked his left shoulder around. “Khal’ak sent some of her elite troops out in those flanking parties. She be forcing the others into being the brunt of the attackers. We’ve done well. We’ve killed many.”
“But not enough.” The elder monk nodded. The winds howled and he smiled. “Perhaps the winter will kill them for us.”
Vol’jin shook his head. “I doubt they will wait that long.”
The Sealed Chambers had been laid out in the shape of a T. The main door opened onto a circular depression. Three wings spread out from it, opposite him and at right angles. To his left, in the longer of the wings, stood another pair of doors. A heavy fist pounded on them, demanding entrance.