Or in general, he thought. The night before as they made camp, Aram could not sleep, not just because he could swear he heard skittering in the trees, but because his head was so stuffed with worries he thought it might pop. He should’ve sent word to his mother saying that he was safe. He shouldn’t have run off, leaving Makasa and his friends behind. He should’ve realized sooner that nothing could ever happen between a human and a dryad. He needed to hurry and find the remaining shards, complete the Diamond Blade, and save the Light. On and on it went, his eyes snapping open whenever he thought of another thing he had forgotten or wasn’t doing quickly enough.
And then there was Silverlaine. That, more than anything else, kept him wide-awake. As much as Aram respected Greydon Thorne, he had no idea what to expect from his brother. He had tried sketching him so many times, but it never quite came together. It was like there was a huge blur over the man’s face whenever Aram tried to imagine him. Maybe that was fear, fear that he wouldn’t be able to help, or that he would reject Aram and not take his mission seriously.
Soon he would know. Soon he would find out if Silverlaine Thorne was the hero he needed him to be, or just another disappointment.
The first drops of rain hit them as they slipped by the barricades set up by the Krom’gar tauren. Galena had been right—they were not friendly, and whenever they spotted a soldier through the trees, Aram could see their backs bristling with sharp spears. Yet the valley remained quiet, and as soon as they found a clear crossing on the road, the travelers tested their luck, running across and hiding in the bushes on the other side. A hill rose sharply upward, a steep path cut into it that, much like at the Overlook, swept its way back and forth up the sandy path. At the bottom of the hill, two war-stained banners greeted them, charred with fire and yellowed by exposure to the sun. Still, they were the gold anchors of the Northwatch livery, and even as the rain beat down harder, Aram felt his spirits lift.
Two hard days of travel, but they had made it, helped by the ram Drella had tamed. The dryad insisted on setting him free with a kiss on his nose when they reached their destination, as was her deal with the creature.
“Where are the guards?” Galena asked as they started up the path. She glanced nervously behind them. Aram couldn’t blame her—they were exposed to anyone in the valley with eyes. A well-aimed arrow from the Krom’gar could end their adventure in a blink.
“It’s about noon, isn’t it?” He glanced up to find the position of the sun, but it was rapidly being covered up by clouds. “Might be the end of a shift.”
Even as he said it, he had to admit that it was very quiet for an outpost. They continued up the steep road, Drella humming softly to them, occasionally making up words to a song she had been composing all day as she picked flowers.
“Can you even believe it?” she said, giving a little spin. “We are going to meet your uncle! Oh! Oh no! I do not have a crown for him. Will he hate me forever?”
“He can have mine,” Aram said with a chuckle, taking off his own elaborate gift from her and handing it across. “I won’t tell him it’s a hand-me-down.”
“That is so generous of you,” she said with a beaming smile. Then she paused her trot to fling her arms around him, squeezing tight. Aram appreciated the gesture, but they needed to get a move on before the cursed rain drowned them. “It will be even more special this way, almost like it is from us both!”
As Drella clutched the crown to her chest, the clouds opened up in earnest, rain pouring down so hard it hurt Aram’s eyes. He blinked rapidly, hurrying up the hill, his boots churning the mud as they picked up the pace, eager to finish the climb and seek shelter. The wind banked, throwing the rain sideways, so dense that Aram could hardly see the way forward. Out of breath, he staggered to the top of the hill with Galena wheezing hard beside him. The climb hadn’t bothered Drella, though her bright, colorful hair was now sodden and stuck to her shoulders.
The Northwatch banners, soaked, hung lifeless on their poles. Not a single fire burned in the camp. The tents, what Aram could see of them, were empty, the rain drumming loudly on the canvas. A crack of lightning split the sky, and for an instant, the Northwatch Expedition Base could be seen in its entirety, abandoned but for a few soldiers gathered near the tents. No, not soldiers … He gasped and reached for Drella, another flash of lightning revealing the cruel, glittering eyes and beak of an arakkoa. Ssarbik.
Aram’s heart stopped. The Alliance must be off fighting nearby, the camp abandoned in the chaos. Perfect timing to set a trap. They had come all this way, drummed up all that hope, and for a trap.
“Aramar!” Drella called out as the crushed, wet flower crown slid out of her hands and into the mud. The next bang came not from the sky, but from Ssarbik, a bolt of purple energy shooting across the camp, aimed at Aram and his friends. Too swift to dodge, too cunningly cast to withstand.
A trap. Did they have Silverlaine? How did they know to come there? None of it made any sense! His temper flared, and as the magic hissed toward them, he reached for the hilt of the Diamond Blade. But his rage was not enough, and the shadow magic surged around them, Galena falling in a heap at his feet.
The glow of the Diamond Blade’s hilt lit a small pool of golden Light around them, and by that glow, the remainder of his enemies emerged. First Throgg, massive and snarling, a mace slung over his shoulder, his other hand, a stump, protected by an enormous wooden shield carved into a hideously roaring war pig. There was no sign of Valdread, but that didn’t matter; Aram knew the Forsaken mercenary could be lurking anywhere in the rain-darkened shadows. Ssavra and Zathra, both in oiled leather hoods, emerged from the tents on either side of Ssarbik. Zathra, the orange-skinned Sandfury troll, guarded something in her arms that moved, swiftly, crawling up her shoulder and then curling around her arm. Aram shuddered at the sight of it—Skitter, her trusty scorpid and living weapon.
Aram raised his cutlass, ready to charge, knowing that it was up to him to be brave now that they were already down to just the two of them. He had never missed Makasa more in his life—it would be so much easier to dash into battle with even a hint of confidence if his sister were there, letting loose a war cry and raising her harpoon.
But Drella didn’t fail him. She was there at his side as they raced toward Ssarbik. The others were dangerous, of course, but the arakkoa’s magic could reach them from the farthest distance. He watched as Zathra pulled two small crossbows from inside her cloak and Throgg hefted his deadly mace, but it wouldn’t matter. Ssarbik cackled, throwing his birdlike head back in glee as more tendrils of purplish black magic shot from his feathered hands.
Aram shouted, the breath forced out of his lungs as he fell at once to the ground, using what little strength he had left to keep the cutlass from flying out of his grasp. He tried to gulp down air, tried to flail, but the shadow magic kept him in place, squeezing hard, as if the tentacle of a great beast had wrapped around him. Blinking through the rain, he saw that same long horrible magic flowing from Ssarbik’s robes to Galena. She lived, but she could not move.
“Be careful!” he whispered, still fighting for air. With both Aram and the tauren frozen in place, Drella remained their last hope. But that hope quickly withered, and Aram cursed, watching Throgg dodge the roots that Drella was summoning from the ground, knocking her down with one precise jab of his shield.
“NO!” Aram twisted in the mud, but it was no use. Drella crumpled, falling to her side, but not before she covered her head with both arms protectively. “Leave her alone! Fight me! Fight me, you cowards!”
“Foolissssh boy.” Ssarbik chuckled again, clearly enjoying himself. “There will be no esssscape thiss time.”
Throgg bent down and scooped up Drella as if she were no more than a leaf, her slender fawn’s legs dangling as she hung dazed in his arms.
“Throgg smash now, one hit, she go to sleep.”
“No, Throgg. Not yet.”
Aram shivered. He knew that voice. Of course, the Hidden wo
uldn’t just appear like this without their callous, sneering leader. Malus. The tall, dark, heavily armed murderer ducked out from one of the tents, cleaning his teeth with the point of a dagger. His left hand was covered in a heavy iron gauntlet. He pulled up his collar against the rain, glancing first at Aram, and then Drella, and finally the subdued druid behind them.
“Well, well, if it isn’t little Aramar Thorne and his traveling zoo.” His lackeys ate that up, laughing, Ssarbik a little too enthusiastically, to the point that Malus had to shoot him a look to get the arakkoa to shut up. “Where are the rest of your friends? Don’t tell me the Krom’gar got them. I wanted to finish off your whole band of fools myself, just like I finished your father’s.”
Aram gritted his teeth. It was tempting to bite back with something smart, but he didn’t want to give Malus anything.
Malus stomped over to him through the mud, kneeling, bringing the sailor’s scent of tobacco, salt, and rum with him. Reaching for Aram’s chin, he forced the boy’s head upward, until he had no choice but to stare into the man’s cold, black eyes.
“Go on,” Malus said softly, almost kindly. “It’s all right.”
Don’t fall for it; don’t forget who he is.
“Go on. Ask what you want to ask. I know you’re just dying to spit it out.”
Aram seethed, but Malus was right. Twisting, Aram tried to move his hands enough to free the crystal shard hilt, but there was no way to move, not with Ssarbik’s magic holding him so tightly in place.
“Where is he?” Aram muttered. The shadow magic squeezed him harder and he coughed, feeling as if his rib cage would shatter at any moment. “Where’s my uncle? What did you do with him?”
Ssarbik gave another shrill cackle, and the others followed his lead, laughing in Aram’s face. But Malus didn’t even crack a smile. He let go of Aram’s face and clucked his tongue, then stood, leaving Aram with a cold swipe of mud across his chin.
“How did you manage to slip my net so many times when you’re this stupid?” Malus sighed, wiping the mud on his gloved hand onto his trousers. “Aggravating, is what that is.”
“Tell him!” Ssavra clapped her feathered hands, the arakkoa’s head tipping to the side. “Say it.”
“Yeah, boss, tell da boy,” Zathra chimed in.
Malus silenced them with a single glance. “Why, Aram, I’m disappointed. You ought to be thrilled, boy, you ought to be giving me a nice, big hug.”
“If I touched you, it would only be to shove my cutlass through your guts!” Aram shouted. But he didn’t like the look on Malus’s face, the quiet, easy smile, the expression of a man who had won and won big. Aram didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of his panic, but he could feel cold nausea spreading through his stomach the longer he stayed frozen there in the mud. There was more here that he didn’t see, not just the trap, not just the ambush …
“Now, now,” Malus chided, again gentle and calm. “Is that any way to speak to your uncle?”
Reigol Valdread had to feel sorry for the boy.
He himself knew despair. He knew anguish. And now, crouched in the protective boughs of a nearby tree, Valdread watched the young man experience the deepest kind of betrayal. The wail Aramar Thorne gave stirred his sympathy, even if he had no real opinion on the kid one way or another … It was hard to watch someone so young suffer that way. It would have been less painful if Malus had stuck a knife in his back and ended this for good.
The rain muffled their voices, but Valdread bent his ear to hear them better, a sick, icy feeling spreading across his chest.
Just have done with it. No sense dragging it out.
But this was Malus he was looking at, a man who had become increasingly self-obsessed and erratic. He watched as Throgg, the immense, horned ogre, almost dropped the stunned dryad he held. The big oaf shifted from foot to foot, impatient, about as uncomfortable as Valdread himself. Ssavra and Ssarbik seemed to be enjoying themselves, which only made Valdread despise them more. This was a child, not some all-powerful foe they had brought low. The gloating was just vulgar.
“You’re a liar!” the boy shouted, thrashing.
Malus indulged in yet another laugh with his compatriots, crouching again to get in the boy’s face and really rub it in. “Did you really think nobody would notice those letters you sent? I have eyes and ears everywhere, fool.”
Like up a tree, for example. Valdread winced, being the one to spearhead and manage Malus’s network of spies. Malus had already gotten wise to the boy’s ruse with the Crustacean. After that, Valdread merely had to pay off enough weak-willed goblins in Gadgetzan to pick up the real trail. It led to the Stonetalon Mountains, then went cold, but Aramar Thorne had been thoughtful enough to send missives to every corner of northern Kalimdor, giving Valdread an easy solution.
“I don’t believe you. I’ll never believe you!”
The boy was covered in mud, still struggling against the black tendrils of magic pinning him to the ground. The tauren girl stirred, awake, tossing furiously against her magical bonds. He would watch that one closely, for her robes gave away her connection to the Cenarion Circle. A druid. She would be formidable in a fight. But where was the young woman he traveled with, who carried the chain and the harpoon? Surely everyone here knew she was the real threat.
“What have you done with my uncle?”
Malus stood and slicked the rain back off his dark hair. “I am your uncle. I’m sure you can see the family resemblance, even if you don’t want to. Listen, Aramar, it won’t give me any pleasure to kill you and your friends, but the Diamond Blade is mine, and you’ve given me too much trouble. I know better than to let you roam free; you’ll just keep sticking your nose into my business.”
Cold. Dreadfully cold. Valdread had wondered, idly, how Malus planned to spring the news on Aramar Thorne. Malus had told them all his approach and his intentions as they sailed up the coast toward the Stonetalon Mountains. The others, of course, found it riotously funny.
“Perhapss I missssjudged you, Maluss,” Ssarbik had hissed, giddy, apparently, at the thought of a young boy’s life being turned upside down. “Thiss plot of yourss is cruelty itssself. Marvelousss.”
Zathra was for it, too, and even her pet scorpid picked up on the excitement in the ship’s cabin, clacking and chattering its spiny tail.
Throgg had been in a foul mood since the Crustacean, sulking in the shadows, drinking far too much and then clumsily muttering about his growing dislike of Malus. Malus paid him no attention, underestimating whomever he considered stupid, which was a grave weakness in Valdread’s eyes.
As the rain slowed to a more bearable dribble, Aramar Thorne seemed to be struggling in the dark grip of belief. He clenched his jaw, obviously holding back tears, shaking his head constantly. Sometimes his lips moved, but no sound came out. Malus pulled out his broadsword, examining it, taunting the boy with his imminent demise.
“You would kill your own nephew,” Aramar shouted. “If you’re Silverlaine Thorne, you don’t deserve the name!”
“Watch it.” Malus swept his broadsword low, the blade flashing dangerously close to the boy’s cheek. “What would you know about the Thorne name? Why even care about it? Your father abandoned you; he only ever saw you as a nuisance. A burden.”
Aramar thrashed. “That’s not true! In the end, he tried. He tried to save me. He wanted me to carry on his work, and it’s only because you took him from me that I won’t know him better!”
Valdread winced. Ah, yes. He had told the boy he would not see Greydon Thorne on this world again, and that was the truth. Greydon Thorne lived, imprisoned on Outland, but the boy had no idea. The arakkoa and troll behind Malus fidgeted. They wanted blood, and they wanted it soon. Malus was dragging this out, and Valdread read plainly the hesitation in the man’s stance. The broadsword inched away from Aramar Thorne, and Ssarbik made a disgusted noise.
“Let me go, Malus. This is wrong. There must be some part of you … some small part that kn
ows this is wrong.” Aram bit out most of his words, then took a deep breath, trying his best to crane his neck and look Malus in the eye. Valdread wondered what the boy saw. Did he, like Valdread, see a man who was losing control of himself, or did he truly see a man capable of redemption?
Was it possible that Malus might really listen to the boy? After all, fighting a man of one’s own age was fair, but cutting down one’s own nephew while restrained … that took a different degree of viciousness.
“Malussss!” Ssarbik half screamed. “I cannot hold them forever. Do it!”
But Malus shook his head, running one hand thoughtfully over his stubble-darkened chin. There was a resemblance there, between man and boy, more so than Valdread had noticed between Greydon and Aramar. For Aramar, it might have been like looking into a twisted mirror of time, seeing a future version of himself weathered by age and unkind choices. They had the same dark hair and arresting eyes, the same strong chin and noble nose.
“You can’t be my uncle,” Aram sputtered, pale with denial.
“He is.” It was the dryad. Still held by Throgg, she looked suddenly calm. “He is your blood, Aram. And there is something … Conflict! So, so much conflict. It must be painful inside his heart—”
“Shut up,” Malus spat, shooting her a glance. “This is nonsense.”
“No. I can sense it, Aram, through our bond. Through the blood you share. There is still a man in there, twisting from his true nature. Corrupt and set on a path he feels he must see through, but in so much pain! A creature in pain can be healed, Aram. A creature in pain can change!”
“Change,” he echoed her in a whisper. He went still for a moment, then gave Malus a steadier look. “Listen to her. Listen to me! It doesn’t have to be like this,” Aramar said, soft but determined. “She’s right. You can change. You can always change. That’s what Greydon taught me. Maybe he wasn’t always the best father, but he tried, and in my eyes he changed.”
Valdread had to give the young man and the dryad credit—it was a stirring speech, and one that seemed to ring all too true of Malus.
The Shining Blade Page 9