“Keep that stuff away from me,” Makasa muttered. “Bruiseweed gives me hives.”
She heard a soft grunt from the pack on Galena’s back. Valdread. He was probably already plotting ways to use the weed against her.
“Uh, thanks?” Gazlowe took the shells, spilling a few, which Murky immediately picked up and placed back in the goblin’s arms. “Listen, kid, I know you’re not exactly flush with gold at the moment. Think of this as a favor. This ride? It’s on the house.”
Makasa stared, mouth agape. “Are you sure?”
“Hey, hey, hey. What do you take me for? Of course I’m sure. Now just take the favor before I change my mind! I could be back on the beach sipping a Dos Ogris instead of playing taxi, but for you goofballs I’ll be nice. Just this once. Besides, once we get that Diamond Blade back, you just remember who helped you out in your time of need, right?”
Murky pointed to the bounty of seashells Gazlowe cradled.
“No favor.” Hackle bristled. “Murky pay you good price. Give you bargain.”
“Right. Sure. I’m making out like a bandit.” Gazlowe rolled his eyes and nodded his pointy head toward the zeppelin. “We going or what? Don’t waste my time, kid. Sprocket and I had a real good thing going back on the coast. Drinks! Money! Sprocket crushed the competition again. You shoulda seen the DLVR-E fleet in action! Beautiful, just beautiful! Those things are fast as can be, fly anywhere, deliver anything! A real gem! Anyway, how much baggage you bringing?”
Makasa couldn’t help but flush. Valdread. The Whisper-Man. She had forgotten to mention that bit in her letter to Gazlowe. She scratched at the back of her neck, a nervous habit she had picked up from Aram, and coughed. “It’ll be me, Murky, and Hackle …”
The goblin chuckled. “Obviously.”
“And one more—”
“Two more.” Galena Stormspear closed the distance between them, Valdread’s head and torso bouncing on her back, the Forsaken cursing her every clumsy step. “You’re not going without me. I failed the Circle once; I won’t do it again. If I can’t prove myself by bringing Aramar Thorne back and protecting the Diamond Blade, then I have no business calling myself a druid.”
“Yikes. That’s a tall order. You wanna bring world peace and fix the Cataclysm while you’re at it?” Gazlowe snorted, then turned and began walking back to the ladder, shoving the shells Murky had paid him into his coat pockets. “Fine. Get your stuff. We can sort out your bunks when we’re in the air. Hang on, what’s that you got on your back?”
“How do you do?” Valdread drawled, clearly enjoying the way Gazlowe reeled back in shock.
“Ugh! Your mannequin is talking! And Noggenfogger’s cogs, he stinks.” Gazlowe hauled himself up the ladder as if he could somehow escape the stench.
“I am running precariously low on jasmine water,” Valdread admitted. “And none of these strange fellows have offered to procure more.”
Makasa silenced him with a glance and lowered her voice to the tauren. “You don’t have to do this, Galena. None of us blame you for what happened to Aram and Drella. That was all Malus.”
“A promise is a promise,” Galena stated, meeting Makasa’s eye with no shortage of pride. “Taryndrella would want me to come along, and besides, having a druid with you won’t be so bad. I’ll pull my weight.” She gave a dry laugh. “And his.”
“I resent that,” Valdread muttered from over her shoulder.
“Then welcome aboard,” Makasa told her, clapping the tauren on the arm. “Did you tell the order?”
“I told Master Thal’darah this morning and he approves. He’s releasing me as his apprentice, and he wishes us all luck.”
In fact, the old druid had come out to watch their departure, regarding them with hooded eyes from the safety of the inn’s entrance. He had said little to Makasa since their return, and he kept muttering to himself, fiddling with the top of his walking staff. Occasionally she heard him mention Drella’s name; he must be grieving over her loss just like Galena.
“You coming or what?” Gazlowe called from above, beckoning them aboard. “Next stop: Eastern Kingdoms!”
Makasa felt her heart skip a beat. It was what she wanted, to go and continue Aram’s quest and find the rest of the shards, but she knew it would be difficult, maybe impossible, to face his family. What would the Glades think of this bizarre assortment of creatures showing up on their doorstep, dropping practically out of the air and into their lives?
She had rehearsed what she would say a hundred times, but none of it seemed quite right. She hefted her pack and Aram’s, as well as the extra bundle of arms she carried—literal arms. Valdread’s various parts had been divvied up among the troop, Hackle given the heaviest bundle with his legs. Each limb and hand and foot was tightly wrapped to dampen the smell, which would test even the most hardened gravedigger. The night elves who had saved them in the Charred Vale were there, watching silently, Iyneath, Llaran, and Aiyell all in a row, and Aiyell’s trusty owl gave a piercing cry at their departure.
Then Makasa gave Master Thal’darah one final wave. He nodded in response, and the Sentinels saluted, their weapons no longer pointed at the Cloudkicker as Makasa boarded, turning at the railing to look her last. Her gaze traveled over the top of the inn’s ornate roof, across the valley and the treacherous path filled with lurking spiders, and at last to the tops of the distant hills, where she fancied she could see the suggestion of a wild pink tree, growing strong, the breeze-rustled leaves waving fair voyage, friends.
* * *
Highlord Xaraax’s dreaded imps had arrived for their daily tormenting of father and son. Aram never knew when to expect them, for the torture varied, and some days he thought they might not come at all. But he was always disappointed. The little laughing demons skipped into the prison, bouncing across the mottled stone floor with their burning torture implements held at the ready. Time had ceased to mean very much, as the cells remained dark constantly, and there was no way to tell if it was day or night.
Aram stood up, backing away from the imps, plastering himself against the back of the cell. But his father put up no resistance, resigned to the cruel punishment. The pair of imps split off, one giggling his way over to Aram’s cell. The demon’s glowing yellow eyes were unnerving, his skin crimson and split all over, cracked as if baked too long over a fire. He had skinny curved horns and a wide mouth fixed in a permanent smile.
“Don’t you ever get tired of this?” Aram sighed, watching as the creature danced around to the opposite side of the cell, taking the hot poker he carried and jabbing it between the bars. But Aram was prepared, and he kicked the poker hard, knocking it out of the imp’s hands. He had been planning this little attempt at rebellion all day, tired of being the amusement for Xaraax’s minions.
Aram dropped down, sweeping up the poker before the imp had a chance to retrieve it.
“You’ll only make them angrier,” Greydon muttered. He hissed, cursing at the imp tormenting him as she drove the burning metal rod into his thigh. “’Tis better to be forgotten than draw your jailor’s ire.”
“I don’t care!” Aram shouted, trying to jab back at the imp, who cackled and dodged away. “I’m sick of this, sick of doing nothing.”
“Well. You had better get used to it, boy.”
It was the first voice other than his father’s and the giggling of the imps that Aram had heard in days. He squeezed up against the back of his cell again, still holding the poker, watching as Malus, his uncle, emerged from the shadowy arch to the left of their holding cells. Aram chided himself for even calling Malus his uncle. He didn’t deserve the title. The rage that had transformed into sadness surged again, and he held the metal rod fast, hoping he could land just one good hit on Malus. Something was different about him. He had always had scars, but the right half of his face was reddened, mottled skin like a bad burn distorting his cheek and brow. Most of his ear on that side was missing. The whole wound was shiny with ointment.
Good,
Aram thought. The man deserved much, much worse.
Aram remembered the smell of the mud and rain mixing, that cold, wormy scent that would forever remind him of their battle at Northwatch Expedition Base. In a flash, he was on the ground again, shivering and bereft, holding Drella while she smiled, her lifeblood seeping out around them. His clothes were still stained with it.
“Come to gloat, brother?” Greydon barely registered the next jab of the imp. He had withstood the torture so many times that he took it far better than Aram.
“That’s enough, leave them be.” Malus waved the imps away, though they only retreated to the shadows behind him, waiting, their yellow eyes glowing like little embers in the dark. The captain meandered closer, using a knife to deftly slice an apple and eat each slice slowly as he studied them. Aram’s mouth watered. They had been given nothing but thin gruel and dirty water, only enough to scrape by and go on surviving.
“You don’t look very well, Greydon,” Malus observed with a smirk. “A bit of sunlight would do you a world of good. Or maybe a hot meal? It’s a pity you’ll never enjoy the simple pleasures of life again. Like an apple, for example …”
“Let me out of this cell, just once, you coward. I’d take your death over all the apples in Elwynn! What happened to your face? I didn’t think it could get uglier.” Aram rammed at the bars, then slammed the poker against them, causing as much noise as he could.
“My face is none of your concern. Goodness, did you raise him in a barn, Greydon? He’s practically feral.” Peeling off another slice of apple, Malus shook his head, clucking his tongue. “Oh, that’s right. You were barely there to parent him, so perhaps it’s that other man’s fault, the one your wife ran to after you abandoned your family. You’re good at that, aren’t you? Betraying those you claim to love.”
“You won’t get a rise out of me, Silverlaine. Say whatever you need to say and be gone.”
Greydon stilled, stoic as a statue, his eyes impassive as he stared out at his brother.
“No more pleas for my return to the side of the Light?” Malus taunted, drawing near enough to Aram’s cage that he could almost be struck. It was only a way to taunt him, and Aram knew it, but it was still tempting to lash out. Aram kept his grasp on the poker, but he also slid one hand into his father’s coat pocket, wrapping his fingers around Drella’s gift. Just feeling it there soothed him, and he breathed deeply, forcing himself not to give Malus the satisfaction of his anger. His father was right. He should have just been quiet, then Malus would never have heard the commotion and come to see them. Anything was better than having Malus in the same room.
“You murdered my friend,” Aram whispered.
Malus nodded, then sliced off a large piece of apple, flicking it expertly with his knife. It landed in Aram’s cell, gleaming and tantalizingly fresh. But Aram didn’t move. He wouldn’t be bribed.
“You don’t want it? Come now, boy, it’s a small act of mercy. Maybe I’m not so irredeemable after all.” Wonderfully pleased with himself, Malus tossed back his head and laughed. His beard had grown in fully, making him look even more like a darkly twisted version of Greydon, or an aging Aram.
“There is nothing you can do to fix what you’ve done,” Aram ground out. He was taking the bait by even talking to Malus, but he couldn’t help it. The anger festering inside him needed an outlet.
“Ahh, now that’s the spirit. But before you place all that blame squarely on me, you might want to have a talk with your dear old dad. He’s as much to blame for your present predicament as I am.” Malus slowly turned, fixing his powerful gaze on Greydon, who bristled, moved at last. Then Aram’s father snorted, rolling his eyes in a way Aram had seen Malus do many times.
“We’re not the same, Silverlaine. We will never be the same. You’re a monster. A monster. You turned your back on everything we worked so hard to achieve. You turned your back on the Light, and on that day, you turned your back on me forever. There is no penance that can repair the harm you have done,” Greydon said, returning Malus’s gaze with equal intensity.
The air crackled between them, and for a moment, Aram was certain Malus would draw his broadsword and end Greydon’s life.
“How?” Aram heard himself say. He was curious, after all, about what had driven the brothers apart. Both men whirled to look at him, and Malus sneered.
“Your father’s arrogance drives everyone away. He can do no wrong. Say no wrong. He’s the chosen one, after all, the favored of the Order of the Seven Suns! Didn’t you know that, Aramar? Don’t you know the myth of the mighty Greydon Thorne?”
“That’s enough.”
They sounded so much alike that Aramar had no idea how he hadn’t put them together as brothers before. Surely, Malus’s voice was lower, twisted with a cold indifference, but it was not so different from Greydon’s when he heard them speak, saw them side by side.
“I … made many mistakes,” Greydon said slowly. “Had I listened to you in our youth, Silverlaine, had I given you your due, things may have turned out very differently indeed.”
At that, Malus laughed, once, spitting at Greydon’s feet. He roared, loud enough to shake the bars on Aramar’s cage. “Far too little, brother, far too late!”
“I cannot change the past, or undo it, or change the way I treated you,” Greydon continued, flinching in the face of his brother’s rage. He then looked sadly toward Aramar, his eyes wet with what looked like genuine tears. “The way I treated both of you. There was always a reason, but that doesn’t make it right. Forsaking my family, ignoring how that hurt you … I suppose I’ll have to work on that.”
That only enraged Malus further. He stuck the knife in the remainder of the apple, stabbing it as hard as he might wish to stab Greydon in the heart. Then he took two steps back, placing it on the floor, just out of reach of either him or Aram.
“You’ll never get the chance, Greydon. This place is your fate and your tomb, and I will enjoy every minute of your well-earned suffering.”
With that, he was gone, stalking away, Xaraax’s imps following in his wake. Greydon was trembling, but Aramar knew not what to say. He knelt and took up the piece of apple his uncle had flicked into the cell. His stomach growled, desperate for real sustenance. But he tossed the fruit away.
I won’t take anything that monster gives me.
Dawn broke across the red roofs of Lakeshire, Lake Everstill sparkling silver like a polished blade slicing through the emerald grass, dividing the banks. Only a handful of Alliance soldiers were awake, patrolling across the quaint stone bridge. An abundance of thick trees surrounded the village, cradling it in lush growth, the Redridge Mountains spearing through the forest to the north.
In the far distance, hazy through the clouds, the tall towers of Stormwind City could be seen, smaller towers and cottages dotting the landscape like sheep as the forest swept from the Alliance capital to the more provincial town of Lakeshire.
It was just as Aram described, just as he sketched and annotated in his sketchbook. She had shown the drawings to Galena, Murky, and Hackle, hoping it was all right to share, knowing that Aram would understand that she just wanted them prepared for what was to come. How ironic, how bitter, that they had at last arrived at their original destination, the place they had always meant to go, only they arrived without Aram.
“And there are no druids there?” Galena asked.
“I don’t know,” Makasa confessed. “But Aram never mentioned any.”
“Brrl mrgle mer mrgy nerg.”
Makasa nodded, frowning with concentration. She and Murky had been trying to find a way to communicate more efficiently. He had asked, and Makasa agreed to learn what she could of his language after their nightly reading lessons. Murky would never be able to speak her tongue, but there had to be some way they could understand each other better. Picking up where Aram left off, Makasa had gathered up Galena, Murky, and Hackle for a teaching hour. Aram certainly proved the more patient teacher, but Galena, more educated t
han all of them put together, helped out where she could, politely interrupting Makasa’s lessons to expound on a word’s etymology, and then explaining to them all what etymology meant.
“Where a word comes from,” Galena had said, to Murky’s wide-eyed appreciation, “how it came to be, and how it’s changed over time. I would love to know where murlocs got their words.”
“Gllgh lug!”
Murky had slapped his little knees, finding his answer hysterically funny.
“The sea,” Hackle provided helpfully. “Hackle no see why funny.”
Even less funny was the predicament presented by not only their mode of transportation, but their destination. As Lakeshire spread out beneath them, Gazlowe summoned Makasa to the deck, where he, Sprocket, and Charnas waited for her near the captain’s wheel.
“You got a plan for this?” Gazlowe asked, taking a watch out of his pocket and consulting it before nodding toward the edge of the zeppelin. “Please tell me that you’re aware of the political scorpid’s nest you’re dropping us into.”
“Not … really.”
Charnas intervened before Gazlowe could, calmly unfolding his hands, leading Makasa over to the railing and pointing to the shimmering lake below. “These folks aren’t exactly fond of our kind. Or gnolls. Or murlocs, for that matter. And they’re not going to welcome a tauren or an undead torso with open arms, either.”
Makasa worried her lower lip. This was problematic. Nothing Aram had told her could prepare her for what life was like in Lakeshire. She knew it was tranquil, but she also didn’t really know what that meant. All her life she had lived on the sea, in busy ports, or on the road, journeying from post to post, where trade was encouraged, and that meant folks from all over Azeroth were welcome or at least tolerated.
“We’re a stone’s throw from Stormwind City, kid, it’s not Booty Bay down there,” Gazlowe added.
“Got it. Maybe we should find a quiet spot to put down, then you can take the Cloudkicker and hide it somewhere in the mountains.” That was as far as she got.
The Shining Blade Page 14