World of Warcraft: Vol'jin: Shadows of the Horde by Michael A. Stackpole Read Free Book Online

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. Hehoped 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