Vol'jin: Shadows of the Horde

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 forward. “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.”

Vol’jin surveyed the pieces. Black’s warrior, with the change of a face, could crush his warlord. The fireship would have to come back to counter that threat, but in doing so would come into range of Tyrathan’s kite. Both pieces would be destroyed, leaving the warrior and the cavalry on the right to crumple that flank. Even the best draw out of the canister, even if it fell well, could not save things. If he reinforced the right, the man would renew his assault on the left. If he reinforced the left, the right would go.

Vol’jin let the canister drop into Tyrathan’s hand. “For my honor. Thank you.”

The man set the canister down on the table. “I know what you were doing. I would win, but I would have defeated a student whom I allowed to make a frightful mistake. So you would have won. And you have won, because you forced me to act at your whim.”

And should it not be so, manthing? Vol’jin’s eyes narrowed. “You win. You read me. I lose.”

Tyrathan shook his head and sat back. “Then we both lose. No, this is not a semantic game. They are watching. I read you. You read me. They read the both of us. They read how we played the game and how we played each other. Taran Zhu reads them all and how they read us.”

A chill ran down Vol’jin’s spine. He nodded once. He’d hoped it was all but imperceptible, but Taran Zhu would know. It was enough, however, that the man caught it, and, for the moment, the two outsiders were united.

Tyrathan’s voice shrank as he scooped pieces back into the canisters. “The pandaren are used to the mists. They see through them and are unseen within them. They would be a terrible force unleashed were they not so balanced and concerned with balance. In it they find peace and, with reason, are reluctant to surrender that peace.”

“They be watching. Looking at how we balance.”

“They would like us to balance.” Tyrathan shook his head. “On the other hand, perhaps Taran Zhu wants to know how to unbalance us so much that we destroy ourselves. It is my fear that this is something he’ll learn all too easily.”

That night, visions mocked Vol’jin. He found himself in the midst of fighters, each of whom he recognized. He’d gathered them for that final assault on Zalazane, to end his madness and free the Echo Isles for the Darkspears. Each of the combatants took on aspects of a jihui cube, faced to be at their maximum power. Not a fireship among them, but this did not surprise Vol’jin.

He was the fireship, but not yet turned to display his maximum power. This was not a fight, though desperate, in which he would destroy himself. Aided by Bwonsamdi, they would slay Zalazane and reclaim the Echo Isles.

Who be you, this troll, who be having memories of a heroic effort?

Vol’jin turned, hearing the click of a cube snapping to a new facing. He felt trapped inside that cube, translucent though it was, and shocked that it had no values on any face. “I be Vol’jin.”

Bwonsamdi materialized in a gray world of swirling mists. “And who be this Vol’jin?”

The question shook him. The Vol’jin of the vision had been the leader of the Darkspears but was no longer. Reports of his death would just now be reaching the Horde. Perhaps they had not yet gotten there. In his heart, Vol’jin hoped his allies had been delayed, just so Garrosh could dwell one more day wondering if his plan had succeeded.

That did not answer the question. He was no longer the leader of the Darkspears, not in any real sense. They might still acknowledge him, but he could give them no orders. They would resist Garrosh and any Horde attempt to conquer them, but in his absence, they might listen to envoys who offered them protection. They could be lost to him.

Who do I be?

Vol’jin shivered. Though he thought himself superior to Tyrathan Khort, at least the man was mobile and not wearing sick-robes. The man hadn’t been betrayed by a rival and assassinated. The man had clearly embraced some of the pandaren way.

And yet, Tyrathan hesitated when he should not have. Some of it was a game to make the pandaren underestimate him, but Vol’jin had seen through that. The other bits, though, such as when he’d hesitated after Vol’jin complimented a move, those were genuine. And not something a man be allowing in himself.

Vol’jin looked up at Bwonsamdi. “I be Vol’jin. I know who I was. Who I gonna be? That answer only Vol’jin could be finding. And for now, Bwonsamdi, that be enough.”