Michael Stackpole: Vol'jin: Shadows of the Horde

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 .

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.