Chen sat back and scratched at his chin. “That’s why I brought you here. There wasn’t any other choice for your care anyway, but your safekeeping . . .” The brewmaster sat forward, lowering his voice. “Garrosh leads the Horde now that Thrall is away, yes? He’s eliminating his rivals.”
Vol’jin let himself sink back on the pillows. “Not. Without. Reason.”
Chen chuckled, and try as he might, Vol’jin could detect no hint of reproof. “There’s not an Alliance head that’s touched a pillow that’s not had a nightmare of meeting you. Not surprising the same is true of a few in the Horde.”
Vol’jin tried to smile and hoped he succeeded. “Never. You?”
“Me? No, never. People like me, like Rexxar, we’ve seen you in battle being fierce and terrible. We’ve also seen you mourning your father. You’ve been loyal to Thrall and the Horde and the Darkspear tribe. Thing is, those who can’t be loyal never believe when others are. I trust in your loyalty. Someone like Garrosh figures it’s a mask over treachery.”
Vol’jin nodded. He wished his voice worked enough that he could tell Chen of his threatening to kill Garrosh. It wouldn’t have mattered to the pandaren; of this the troll was certain. Chen’s loyalty would have led him to rationalize a dozen justifications for the threat. Vol’jin’s current state would prove each of them true.
Only thing proved by that be the depth of Chen’s friendship.
“How. Long?”
“Long enough for me to do a spring ale and be halfway into a late spring shandy. Or early summer. Pandaren are a bit looser about time, and those from Pandaria looser still. A month since we found you, two and a half weeks here. The healers poured a draught down your throat to make you sleep.” Chen raised his voice for the benefit of those who had begun to come closer. “I told them that I could brew you up a hot black tea with some kelp and berries that would have you up and about in no time, but they don’t think a brewmaster knows enough about healing or you. Still, they did pour nourishment into you, so they’re not completely without hope.”
Vol’jin made the effort to lick his lips, but even that seemed to exhaust him. Two and a half weeks and this be all I have mended. Bwonsamdi released me, but I be not progressing as I should.
Chen leaned in again, his voice dropping. “Lord Taran Zhu leads the Shado-pan. He has agreed to allow you to remain here to recuperate. There are conditions. Given that both the Alliance and Horde would be quite happy to see to your further care, each in its own ways . . .”
Vol’jin shrugged as much as he was able. “Helpless.”
“. . . and given that you’re on the mend, listening won’t hurt.” Chen nodded, holding a paw palm out in a calming gesture. “Lord Taran Zhu wishes you to learn of us. Well, not us really. Most pandaren from here see pandaren who grew up on Shen-zin Su as ‘wild dogs.’ We look like them, sound like them, smell like them, but we’re different. They aren’t sure what we are. Puzzled me, at first, all that, until it struck me that a lot of the other trolls might see the Darkspears the same way.”
“Not. Untrue.” Vol’jin closed his eyes for a moment. If Taran Zhu wishes me to learn of the pandaren and their ways, then he gonna study me. As I would be doing with him.
“He thinks you’re Tushui—more thoughtful and stable. I’ve told him a lot about you, and I think that, too. Tushui’s not a trait he’s seen in the Horde. He wants to understand why you’re different. But this means he wants you to learn the pandaren way. Some of our words, our customs. It’s not like he wants you to be one of those trolls who go to Thunder Bluff and become blue tauren. He wants you to understand.”
Vol’jin opened his eyes again and nodded. Then he caught a moment’s hesitation in Chen’s recitation. “What?”
Chen looked up and away, nervously tapping his fingertips together. “Well, see, Tushui is balanced by Huojin. That’s more impulsive, kind of kill them first, sort the hides out later. Like Garrosh deciding to kill you. Very Hordish thing to do these days. Not what the Alliance normally does.”
“And?”
“These things are in balance now. Taran Zhu talked to me about water and anchors and ships and everything. Very complicated, even without mentioning crews. But the important thing is balance. He really likes his balance, and, you see, until you got here, they were out of balance.”
Vol’jin, though the effort cost him mightily, arched an eyebrow.
“Well . . .” Chen glanced over his shoulder toward an empty bed. “About a month before I found you, I found a man wandering, hurt badly, his leg broken. And I brought him here too. He’s a bit further along than you are, but trolls heal faster. And the thing is that Lord Taran Zhu is putting you in his care.”
A jolt ran through Vol’jin’s mind, and though he was weak, he attempted to rise. “No!”
Chen reached out, pressing the troll down with both paws. “No, no, you don’t understand. He’s here under the same restrictions you are. He won’t—I know you’re not afraid of a man, Vol’jin. Lord Taran Zhu hopes that in helping you heal, this man will help heal himself. That is part of our way, my friend. Restore the balance and you encourage healing.”
Even though Chen kept his paws soft and strength gentle, Vol’jin could not struggle against him. For a heartbeat he imagined that the monks had made certain that whatever potion they’d poured down his throat would leave him this weak. That, however, would have required Chen to be part of the deception, and he never would have agreed to that.
Vol’jin forced his anger away and let frustration go with it. Lord Taran Zhu wanted to study not only him but also his dealings with a man. Vol’jin could have easily given him a long history of troll-human relations and why they pulsed with hatred. Vol’jin had killed more men than he cared to think about. Far from losing sleep over it, he slept better for it. And he was willing to bet the man in the monastery felt much the same way.
The troll realized that while Taran Zhu might have had access to all that history, those accounts would be tainted by the nature of the tellers. By putting troll and man together, he would watch, learn, and make his own judgments.
A wise course, I be thinking. Vol’jin reminded himself that no matter how much Chen had told Lord Taran Zhu about him, to the pandaren monk, Vol’jin was nothing more than a troll. Doubtless the man’s pedigree mattered little either. Who they were had nothing to do with how they reacted to each other. That was the information the pandaren wanted. Knowing that, and realizing he could control the information, gave Vol’jin power.
He looked up at Chen. “You. Approve?”
Surprise widened Chen’s eyes; then he smiled. “It is best for you and for him, for Tyrathan. The mists have hidden Pandaria for a long time. You and he share common bonds that the pandaren never will. You will heal better together.”
“To. Later. Kill.”
Chen’s brows arrowed down. “Likely enough. He is no more happy about this than you are, but he will abide so he can abide here.”
Vol’jin cocked his head. “Name?”
“Tyrathan Khort. You won’t know him. He’s not risen as high in the Alliance as you have in the Horde. But he was an important man. He was a leader among the Alliance forces here. And his wounds were not from the king’s assassins. I only know he was hurt in a battle that helped Pandaria. This is why Lord Taran Zhu agreed to tend to him. He has great sadness, which nothing seems to cure.”
“Not. Even. Brew?”
The pandaren shook his head, his eyes focusing distantly. “He drinks and holds his liquor well. But he’s not a boisterous drunk. Introspective and quiet. Another trait you two share.”
“Tushui, no?”
Chen threw his head back and roared with laughter. “They cut your body but could not hurt your mind. Yes, that would seem to be Tushui, which would cause the balance to be off. But every day, every day since he has been able to stand with crutches, he heads out to climb the mountain. Very Huojin. And then he stops. A hundred yards, two hundred, and returns, spent. Not
physically, but in will. Very Huojin.”
Very curious. I wonder why— Vol’jin caught himself, then gave Chen a tiny nod. “Very. Good. Friend.”
“Maybe you can find the answer.”
Which means I have to abide the man, being exactly what everyone wants. Vol’jin slowly exhaled and let his head rest on the pillows. And, for the moment, I be including myself in that group.
5
The monks did not require that Vol’jin allow the man to see to his bodily care, for the troll would not have tolerated that. Vol’jin could sense no malice in the firm efficiency with which the pandaren washed him, dressed his wounds, changed his bedding, and fed him. He did note that the monks on the team, in turn, would deal with him for a full day, then not return for two days before repeating their term of duty. After three days spent caring for him, they left the rotation and did not attend him again.
He caught sight of Taran Zhu only now and again. He felt certain the old monk watched him far more often than Vol’jin noticed, and Vol’jin noticed only when the old monk wished to be seen. It seemed to Vol’jin that the people of Pandaria were much like their world—shrouded in a mist that allowed only glimpses. While Chen had bits and pieces of that, he was a clear and sunny day compared to the elusive complexity of the monks.
So Vol’jin spent much of his time watching and determining what he would reveal of himself. His throat did heal, but scar tissue made speaking difficult and somewhat painful. Though it might not have seemed so to the pandaren, the troll tongue always had a melodious flow, but the scars had stolen that. If the ability to communicate be a mark of life, then the assassins may have succeeded in murderin’ me. He hoped the loa—who had been quiet and distant as he recovered—would still recognize his voice.
He did manage to learn some words in the Pandaren language. The fact that the pandaren seemed to have a half dozen words for almost everything meant he could pick one that he could pronounce with minimal discomfort. The fact that the pandaren had so many words to begin with fed back into the difficulty of knowing their race. The language had nuances an outsider would never understand, and the pandaren could use them to mask their true intent.
Vol’jin wished he could have overplayed his physical weakness when dealing with the man, but it would have mattered little. Though tall by human standards, Tyrathan didn’t have the physical bulk of human warriors. More lithe, with faint scars on his left forearm and calluses on the fingers of his right hand, which marked him as a hunter. He wore his white hair short and unbound. The man maintained a mustache and goatee, also white and begun recently. He had donned the simple clothing of a novitiate—homespun and brown, cut for a pandaren, so it hung on him. Yet it was not so large—Vol’jin suspected it had actually been sewn for a pandaren female.
Though the monks did not have the man tend Vol’jin’s body, they did require he launder the troll’s clothes and bedding. The man did so without comment or complaint, and was efficient. Everything came back spotless and sometimes scented with medicinal herbs and flowers.
Vol’jin noted two things that marked the man as dangerous. Most would have taken what he’d already seen—the calluses, the fact that the man had survived with not too many scars—to prove that much. But for Vol’jin, the man’s quick green eyes, the way he turned his head at sounds, and the way he paused for a heartbeat before answering even the simplest of questions—all of these marked the man as being incredibly observant. Not a trait unknown among those of his avocation, but only so pronounced in those who would be very good at it.
The other aspect the man displayed was patience. Vol’jin, until he realized his attempts were fruitless, repeatedly made simple mistakes that would cause the man to do more work. Dropping a spoon and smearing food over his clothes to create a stain did not perturb the man. Vol’jin had even managed to conceal a stain so it set, but the robe returned spotless.
This patience manifested in how the man dealt with his own wound. Though his clothes hid scars, the man walked with a limp—stiffness in the left hip. Each step had to be incredibly painful. He couldn’t conceal all of the grimaces, though his effort to do so would have done Taran Zhu credit. And yet each day, as the sun slowly crept over the horizon, the man would head out and up the trail toward the mountain summit above them.
After Vol’jin had been fed, he sat up in his bed and nodded as the man approached. Tyrathan bore with him a flat, gridded game board and two cylindrical canisters—one red and one black—each with a round hole in the middle of the lid. The man set them on the side table, then retrieved a chair from next to the wall and sat.
“Are you ready for jihui?”
Vol’jin nodded. Though each knew the other’s name, they never used them. Both Chen and Taran Zhu had told him the man was Tyrathan Khort. Vol’jin assumed they’d informed the man of his identity. If the man bore him any enmity, he gave no sign. He must know who I be.
Tyrathan picked up the black cylinder, twisted off the lid, then poured the contents onto the board. Twenty-four cubes rattled and danced on the tan bamboo surface. Each had symbols inscribed in red on a black background, including dots to indicate movement and an arrow to indicate facing. The man nudged them into four groups of six to prove the count, then made to sweep them back into the canister.
Vol’jin tapped one piece. “This face.”
The man nodded, then turned and called a monk over in halting pandaren. They spoke quickly—the man hesitantly, and the monk as if indulging a child. Tyrathan bowed his head and thanked her.
He turned back to Vol’jin. “The piece is the ship. The face is the fireship.” Tyrathan placed it so the pandaren glyph was sitting the right way for Vol’jin to see it. The man then repeated the word “fireship” in perfect Zandali.
And his eyes flicked up just fast enough to catch Vol’jin’s reaction.
“Stranglethorn. Your accent.”
The man pointed to the playing piece, ignoring his comment. “The fireship is a very important piece to the pandaren. It can destroy anything but is consumed in the destruction. It is removed from play. I am told some players burn the piece. Of the six ships in your navy, only one can become a fireship.”
“Thank you.”
Jihui encapsulated much of pandaren philosophy. Each piece had six sides. A player could move as indicated by the uppermost face and attack, or could change the face by one side, then either move or attack. It was also possible to pick the piece up and roll it, randomly selecting a new side, then return it to its facing and play. This was the only way the fireship face could come up for a ship.
Most interesting, a player could also decide not to move at all, but instead could draw a new piece from the canister by chance. It would be shaken and upended. The first piece to fall out would be put into play. If two fell out, the second would be removed from play, and the opposition would be allowed to draw a new piece without penalty.
At once jihui was a game that encouraged thoughtfulness yet incorporated impulsiveness. It balanced deliberation with chance, and yet chance could be punished. For a player to lose to a foe who had more pieces on the board was not a great loss. To yield to a superior position, regardless of the pieces in play, was not considered a loss without honor. While the game’s aim was to eliminate all of these opposition pieces, to play to that point was considered ill-mannered and even barbaric. Usually one player found himself out-maneuvered and surrendered, though some relied on chance to shift their fortunes and go on to victory.
And to play to a standstill, to have forces balanced, this was the greatest victory.
Tyrathan handed Vol’jin the red canister. Each shook out a half dozen cubes, centering them on the last row of the twelve-by-twelve grid. They oriented them to their lowest value and faced them toward the opposition. Then each shook out one more cube and compared the highest side. Tyrathan’s beat Vol’jin’s, so he would move first. Those cubes returned to the canister, and they began playing.
Vol’jin nudged a piece forw
ard. “Your Pandaren. Good. Better than they be knowing.”
The man raised an eyebrow without lifting his gaze from the board. “Taran Zhu knows.”
Vol’jin studied the board, watching the man’s flanking maneuver develop. “You hunt. His track?”
“Elusive but strong where he means you to see it.” The man nibbled at a thumbnail. “Interesting choice in refacing your archer.”
“Your kite move too.” Vol’jin had seen no hesitation in making the move, but his praise of it caused Tyrathan’s glance to flick toward that piece again. He stared hard, searching for something, then glanced at the canister.
The troll anticipated him. He shook out a cube, which spun and clattered to a stop. The fireship. He placed it contiguous to the archer, strengthening that flank. The game’s balance shifted—not in either player’s favor, but away from that side of the board.
Tyrathan added another piece—a warrior that did not fall on its strongest side, but strong enough. Knights, which could move far, came up quickly on that other flank. Tyrathan played his moves swiftly, but not in haste.
Vol’jin picked up the canister again, but the man grabbed his hand. “Don’t.”
“Remove. Your. Hand.” Vol’jin’s grip tightened. One twitch of his hand and the canister would shatter. Game pieces and splinters would fly everywhere. He wanted to shout at the man, asking how he dared touch a shadow hunter, the leader of the Darkspears. Do you know who I be?
But he didn’t twitch. Because his hand couldn’t tighten any more than it had. In fact, that brief exertion was enough to fatigue his muscles. Already his grip was failing, and only the man’s hand kept the canister from crashing onto the board.
Tyrathan opened his other hand, dispelling any hint of malice. “I am given to teaching you this game. You do not need to draw another piece. Were I to allow you to draw, I would win and your draw would inflate the value of my victory.”
World of Warcraft: Vol'jin: Shadows of the Horde Page 4
