Aram had written to his mother in Lakeshire, recalling their adventures, well, the not-so-scary ones, anyway, and promising her he would be all right. He was safe, he said, because he had his good friends with him. She glanced between the letter and the shard. The compass had been pointing to Lakeshire all that time, telling Aramar that the next shard they needed was there. And now she had found a letter, a letter that needed to go to Lakeshire.
That was enough for Makasa. Sometimes, she thought, it was better to just do the obvious and right thing. But how would they get there? Thal’darah Overlook was far, far from Aram’s home, on an entirely different continent! Makasa couldn’t even fathom the distance, or the proper way to get there. A journey back to the coast, naturally, and then a ship, but how would they find a vessel large enough to survive a sea journey that long and dangerous? Unless …
Unless.
They hadn’t gotten to the Stonetalon Mountains by sea, but by air. Would Gazlowe come to their aid once more if she asked? And how would she find him? She searched Aram’s sketchbook, finding fond sketches of all their MEGA friends, including a lively scene of Gazlowe, Sprocket, Daisy, and Hotfix. Sprocket. The MEGA event, that was where they and the zeppelin Cloudkicker would be. Saying a silent apology to Aram for using his sketchbook, Makasa began composing a letter, hoping that a bird sent by the Sentinels would reach Gazlowe in time and give them, at last, just one meager dash of good luck.
“Here goes nothing,” she murmured, sealing up the letter. She waited until the mournful singing in the glade dissipated, and then she dressed, going in search of a bird to take the letter, and with it, all their hopes.
Life was good. No, life was great, for Gazlowe and Sprocket. Charnas couldn’t stop drawing every insignificant little thing he saw at the MEGA event, but for Gazlowe and Sprocket? Things couldn’t be better.
“Now this?” Gazlowe kicked up his heels, sipping a fruity drink and admiring the trophy they had won, a trophy nearly as tall as Charnas, and much, much better to look at. “This is paradise.”
Paradise was maybe a stretch, considering the event was in the smoldering remains of the Charred Vale, the stink of it palpable, but still … A cold drink in his hand, the waves lapping at the edges of the deck, a trophy to kiss and admire, a substantial cash prize to enjoy, the adoration of so many fans—Paradise. Gazlowe sighed, adjusting a pair of sun-blocking spectacles and shimmying down into his cushioned lounger.
Their winning inventions, a fleet of DLVR-E drones, whirred above them, floating metal disks kept aloft by an ingeniously rigged fan blade and a propelling system harnessed to the bottom. The obstacle course was on the water, a series of detachable and moveable flotillas floating off the coast of the Charred Vale.
The waters there were smooth and easy, the perfect place for a pop-up competition. It was a challenge just getting there and docking a vessel, so even entering the event required a measure of genius.
For days, Gazlowe had watched the other competitors fussing over their inventions. The obstacle course was rumored to be a real doozy that year, but Sprocket was ready. In the end, they had cleaned up, their little drone machines speeding past the competition, zigging and zagging through the hoops suspended over the water, and dropping off colored balls into coordinating goals spaced throughout the course. It was seamless. Magnificent. Poetic. Their machines performed so well, in fact, that there were already goblins muttering about cheating.
Let ’em grouse, Gazlowe thought, slurping his drink. They had won fair and square.
“Charnas!” Gazlowe shouted. His cousin sat on the edge of their private cabana on the winner’s flotilla, his legs dangling over the edge, feet just above the water line. “Get over here! Drink your drink! Gah, look at that. All the ice has melted! Leave the birds alone; they’ll be there later.”
“Not this one,” Charnas called over his shoulder. He was dressed all formally, trying to impress everyone with his style. And blast it all, but he wouldn’t shut up for one second about being the official MEGA event artist. Whatever. Sprocket’s brains had won them the day, the trophy, and the prize.
Paradise.
“Look.” Charnas set down his pencil for half a second, pointing at a small dark shape in the sky. It was growing bigger, getting closer, diving down toward the MEGA flotilla. Music on steel drums still played on the main party barge. Now that the competition was over, everyone relaxed, and the music and merry-making would last long into the night. Gazlowe took one glance at the bird and shrugged. He didn’t want it to mean anything.
“What about it?” Sprocket asked. The leper gnome had nicely jazzed up his mechanical containment suit, managing to wedge a pair of swim trunks over the long, metal legs. Itching at his nose, but really just tapping the jar around his head, Sprocket snapped at the barman to refresh his drink. “Gaz is right. Get up here and relax. You work too much.”
Instead of waiting for him, Sprocket reached for the remote controlling the DLVR-E devices. One of the disks whirred louder, lowering, and Sprocket dropped a fresh drink on it for Charnas, sending it speeding over to him at the edge of the barge.
But Charnas just waved it away. “That isn’t a seagull. What do you think it’s doing out here?”
“Sightseeing? Who knows?” Gazlowe sighed. His cousin was a lost cause. “Who cares?”
Charnas climbed to his feet, sketching furiously, probably capturing eighteen different poses of the stupid bird as it dove down and down, then flattened out its course, sailing toward them. Wait? Toward them? Gazlowe sat up straighter, watching as a brown owl glided to a stop, perching right on their trophy.
“Hey! Get off that! It’s ours!” Sprocket tried to shoo the owl away, but it nipped at his gloved fingers and shook out its wings.
“It’s carrying something!” Charnas tucked his sketchbook into his belt and trotted forward, carefully unhooking a message tied to the owl’s leg.
“Think it’s for us?” Gazlowe muttered, finishing his drink.
“Who else?” His cousin unfolded the note, then handed it across to Gazlowe.
So much for paradise.
“Maybe it’s for someone who doesn’t want to be bothered,” Gazlowe said. But he took the note. It might be urgent, and after all, the important bit was done. They had won the contest, the trophy and purse were theirs, and soon the MEGA event organizers would pack up the flotilla until the next year. He wiped his hands on his shorts and scanned the letter, feeling paradise slip farther and farther away with each word. It was bad. No, it was a mess.
“Oof,” he murmured. Sprocket and Charnas gathered close, waiting. “It’s from the Flintwill girl. The kid—Aramar’s been kidnapped. That dryad friend of theirs is … gone. Dead.”
“We have to do something,” Charnas said at once. Gazlowe wasn’t so sure. He liked Aram fine, he was a good kid, but where was the profit in it? They had a good thing going on the beach, and trouble, particularly violence, could get expensive.
“She wants us to take the Cloudkicker to the Overlook, then to Lakeshire,” Gazlowe said, then gave Charnas the letter to peruse. “Well, that’s not happening.”
“Is Aramar being held there?” Charnas tilted his head to the side, scratching his chin. “That doesn’t seem right …”
“Nah, but it sounds like she has a plan. Can you believe how needy these kids are? Let’s see, yadda yadda, Malus is really Silverlaine, he tricked us, etcetera …”
“Gazlowe …”
“What?” He glared at Charnas.
Charnas shifted toward him, and he hadn’t seen the goblin look that serious or disappointed in a long time. He felt a lecture coming on. “Do you not want to do the right thing? I thought you were fond of Aram.”
“I am,” Gazlowe conceded. “And?”
“And I … might be somewhat responsible for the predicament they find themselves in.” At that, Charnas glanced away, sheepish. “I was the one who told Aram where he might find Silverlaine. He—I—led Malus right to them.” He hande
d the letter back to Gazlowe.
“In an extremely roundabout way,” Sprocket suggested. “Is that it? Is that the whole letter?”
“Nah, there’s a bit more.” Scanning lower, Gazlowe’s eyes grew three sizes bigger. “Hang on, there’s something about a legendary artifact in here. Something very valuable to them. Think it’s worth anything?”
“Sounds like profit to me,” Sprocket said, tapping at his nose through the jar again. “Our combined genius and expertise might come in handy for a joint business venture.”
“And Aram is our friend,” Charnas reminded them.
Gazlowe slid out of his lounger and stretched, fetching his shirt from where he had left it next to the chair. “Sure, sure, profit and friendship! The perfect match. What would they do without us, eh? Goblins and leper gnome to the rescue. Again.”
Aramar Thorne was dreaming, dreaming of a thriving glade filled with flowers and trees. Pollen and bees danced on the air, the sweet scent of blossoms and dewy grass so thick he felt more alive with each breath, as if nature itself was breathing life into him, reviving him. He longed to hear the Voice of the Light, but it never came. He lay on his back, staring up at the stars, listening to the hum of the bees and the soft rush of wind through the flowers. He wanted to stay there forever, for all of it, from the colors to the softness to the perfume, reminded him keenly of Taryndrella, daughter of Cenarius.
The edges of the glade began to burn and burn quickly. The fire spread, speeding toward him, making red cinders of everything in its path. It reached him as he leapt to his feet and he felt the terrible heat lick at his toes, shocking him awake.
“Aram? Aram, by the Light, it really is you.”
He knew that voice. But how? Was he still dreaming? No matter how much or how hard he blinked, the vision didn’t change. His father, Greydon Thorne, was there, kneeling at the bars of the cell next to his. Greydon Thorne. Alive.
“But you’re—you’re dead.” Was he still dreaming? The trip through the portal had been disorienting, and either Malus had knocked him out flat or the journey had left him too exhausted to go on. And now he was looking at his father’s weathered face, his kind, sad eyes, and his scarred hands, and Aram had no idea whether to be relieved or suspicious. He glanced outside the cell, though it was difficult to make out a single feature of their prison. The bars on his cell were twisted and strange, made of a blackened material that oozed and stank. Even the floor he sat on was hot, as if they were being slowly cooked.
“Malus merely took me captive,” Greydon explained.
“I … don’t trust this. Tell me something only you would know,” Aram demanded.
“Each night on the Wavestrider, you would stay up late to sketch,” he said. “You would hum the same song—one I remember your mother singing to you each and every night. How did it go? When my love comes home, from the storm-tossed seas …”
“You … saw me do that?” Aram gasped. “But—I was so sure you were gone. All this time you were here, and you were …” Trailing off, Aram covered his face with his hands, looking at his father through trembling fingers. “You were being tortured.”
He hadn’t even been looking for Greydon. All that time, his father was alive and in pain.
“Now you.” Greydon’s eyes hardened. For a moment he looked distant, even cold. His right hand shaking was the only indication that he might believe Aram, that he might give in to the relief. “Tell me something only you could know.”
Aram swallowed hard, thinking. The perfect memory eased through the jumble of thoughts in his head. “Back home, back in Lakeshire, you scratched your name into the dock, the east dock, the shorter post. You got tired, though, I think, because the last few letters are hard to read.”
His father’s mouth turned up in a smile, tears gathering in his eyes. “Aram. My son.”
“It’s really you … I’m so— But how? How can this be true?”
“I know, Aramar, I know … It’s good to see your face again, son. Wish it were under better circumstances, though.” Greydon sighed, rubbing at his ribs. His father was not being well taken care of. There were burns and scars all over his visible skin, and his clothes were in tatters, burned away in places, revealing red, livid welts. “I can’t tell you it will be easy here. They will try to torture you like they’ve tortured me. I’m sorry that I cannot … that I did not protect you from this.”
Aram hugged himself, leaning against the confines of the cell. His skin had gone cold, even if the place they were being kept was boiling hot. He slid his hands into his father’s coat pockets, finding the strange gift Drella had given him before he was pried away. In the shadows, he took it out, setting it on his lap, finding that it was a painfully bright blossom. By then it should have looked wilted and dead, but it remained alive, buttery pollen clinging to the insides of the vivid turquoise petals.
“Where are we?” Aramar asked, hoping that whatever the answer, holding that gift from Drella would make it easier to hear.
“Outland,” Greydon said. “We dwell in the darkest pit of Highlord Xaraax, a demon of the Burning Legion, a nathrezim fiend I’ve been fighting since before I can remember.”
“Outland?” If it was possible for Aramar’s heart to sink lower, it did. “But where? Isn’t Outland huge? An entire world … How will Makasa find us?”
Greydon shifted and Aram saw his skin grow pale. “Makasa? Aramar, your faith in her is admirable, but these are not forces she alone could face. Even if she could reach Outland itself …”
“I know,” Aram muttered. “I get it. It’s stupid to hope.”
“Hope is never stupid, Aramar. I thought I taught you better.” He vented a hollow laugh, then released a very long sigh. “We face a dire fate, son, but we will face it together. But the compass—”
“Malus has it, and the hilt of the Diamond Blade,” Aram told him, shaking. “And it’s my fault. But Makasa—”
“Aram. Are you not listening to me? You cannot expect that a girl of her age, alone, could storm the Dark Portal and—”
“I know,” he whispered. His own words surprised him, shook him. “I … know.”
Outland was another world altogether. He and his father couldn’t be harder to find. Drella was gone, their bond severed in the cruelest possible way, and now he would face nothing but torture and despair. At least he had his father, at least he had …
Aram closed his hand around the flower Drella had left him. A flower. That was all. His wounded, battered father and a flower. What good was that? The Light had abandoned him, choosing Makasa instead. She was the better fighter. The stronger leader.
“We’re together,” Greydon said gently. “We do have that. To see you lifts my heart, and I had never thought to feel relief again.”
Aram nodded, but he felt empty. Lost.
“I’m glad you’re not alone anymore.” It was the only thing he could think to say. Even Drella’s gift brought him little comfort. “I’m glad.” Aram said the words like a reflex, but stopped. He wasn’t glad. Not about anything.
“Rest, son,” he heard his father say.
Yes. Rest. Sitting. Sleeping. They were useless now, and Aram could do nothing but hope that Makasa served the Light better than he had.
A broad ring of Sentinels aimed their bows to the sky, a less than warm welcome for the Horde zeppelin lowering through the clouds, its propellers blasting the trees that bended and swayed as the balloon landed at Thal’darah Overlook.
“I appreciate your understanding.” Makasa watched the Sentinels carefully. Not a single shot was fired, but they remained vigilant, keeping their promise to her not to engage with the Horde vessel, even if it went against their direct order from Darnassus.
“We will understand,” Master Thal’darah told her solemnly, “so long as they prove friendly.”
“They will,” Makasa assured him. She couldn’t believe how swiftly they had come, and it was hard to contain her relief. Finally, some good luck. Aiyell’s owl ha
d returned, making the trip to the coast and back in less than a day. The reply from Gazlowe lifted all their spirits, even Galena, who now gasped in wonder at the sight of the Cloudkicker idling in the glade.
“How does it work?” she breathed.
“I rode on the thing and I still have no idea,” Makasa muttered. “But it flies, and that’s all that matters. Gazlowe!”
The green-skinned, yellow-eyed goblin slid down the ladder that unrolled from the deck. He landed smoothly, with a flourish, casting a wary eye at the armed Sentinels before strolling over to Makasa. The wind from the Cloudkicker mussed her hair, and only she, Murky, and Hackle were brave enough to approach.
Above them, hanging over the embellished wooden railing, Sprocket and Charnas appeared, waving.
“Well, we’re here!” Gazlowe stuck out his hand for Makasa to shake, and she did, warmly. “Sorry to hear about the kid. Kids. That’s a real kick in the teeth. And I hear you lost some kind of legendary artifact?”
“Yes, the Diamond Blade,” Galena interjected. Makasa elbowed her in the ribs.
“Diamonds?” The goblin’s eyes lit up. “Man, that’s gotta feel real bad. We’re gonna get that back, though. And your friends.”
Makasa nodded, but squared her shoulders, steeling herself. There would be time to tell the goblin the full story, but for now they had no time to waste. They needed to be on their way to Lakeshire, and fast. “Aram’s compass was telling us to go to Lakeshire; can you take us? We don’t … we don’t have any money.”
“Nk! Flggrlm mur slrrrgl blem!” Murky hauled up one of his nets, fishing out a handful of scrubbed seashells and a bundle of bruiseweed. He thrust them toward Gazlowe expectantly, smiling.
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