The Shining Blade

by Madeleine Roux

  “We have some winter cloaks,” Charnas said. “But they’re small because of our size.”

  “That could work! We take the cloaks and hide Murky, Hackle, and Galena. Even if we just cover their heads, it will be better than nothing. Aram described his house for me a dozen times—he even sketched it. We head straight there and hope his family will let us in.”

  Gazlowe rubbed his narrow chin, sending the others a bleak stare. “It’s … something. If you get yourselves killed out there, don’t blame me.”

  “Stay with the Cloudkicker we can rendezvous in the forest each day,” she said.

  “I’ve got some flares in the storage crates. You send one up if anything goes sideways.” Sprocket trotted away, his containment suit hissing as he disappeared down into the hold.

  “You ready for this, kid?” Gazlowe took her by the elbow, giving a squeeze. “Like I said, this ain’t Booty Bay.”

  Makasa snorted, leaning onto the railing, watching as they left the town behind and began their descent, traveling northeast to set down closer to the mountains. “It’s a bunch of villagers and Aram’s family; I’m sure I can handle it.”

  “Yeah, yeah, you think drunken cutthroats are testy? Wait until a bunch of sheltered humans get a whiff of outsiders in their midst. It’ll make a brawl at the Salty Sailor look like a picnic.”

  * * *

  When would it end? When would they be found? Aram didn’t know if he could endure the torture for one more day, one more hour … A fever crept in. A wound from the beatings on his leg wasn’t healing right. When the fever didn’t burn him up, he was dreadfully cold. Shaking on the floor of his cell, he stared at the apple rotting outside the bars. If he could just reach the knife … If he could just do something.

  When he wasn’t consumed by hopelessness, he was consumed by rage at Malus, reliving the anguish of his last battle each night in his dreams. And yet, through all the pain, Drella’s gift refused to wilt. When the imps left them alone, he held the flower and looked at it and remembered what it was to feel the wind in his hair and the rain on his face.

  How much longer?

  * * *

  “Quiet now, wait for my signal.”

  Makasa led their strange little group, concealed under the goblins’ winter hoods, around the back of the house and toward the brightly painted front door.

  “This is ridiculous.” She heard Valdread’s muffled voice under Galena’s cloak.

  “I said quiet.”

  The sleepy village began to stir all around them. A pair of fishermen in rough-spun shirts and trousers brought their fishing poles to the docks, laughing as they went. The perfume of baking bread weaved through the village, cutting through the fishy smell of the nearby lake. Aram’s house sat not far from the town center and the focal point of the inn, with a market nearby, the tradesmen chatting there, setting up their stalls for the day. She knew they had the correct house when she found the well-used forge built alongside the cottage. An empty doghouse sat a few feet from the forge, as well as a neat garden with rows of growing vegetables and a decorative patch of pretty white daisies.

  “Let me do the talking,” Makasa warned. “Stay here, I’ll let you know when the coast is clear.”

  “Nk—”

  “I’ll be right back,” she promised. “Now hush.”

  She had no idea if they could pull it off, but she had to try. Armed with Aram’s sketchbook, she darted around the side of the house and up to the front door. Lights shone from inside, and through the wood she could hear the telltale sounds of a family beginning their day. Children laughed. A man’s hearty voice boomed through the door. She took a deep breath and knocked, her pulse racing as footsteps hurried toward her.

  A round-faced woman in a knit jumper greeted her with a smile. She dried a wooden bowl with a rag as she opened the door, keeping it open with her hip. At once, Makasa saw the resemblance to Aram, particularly in her full, gentle grin.

  “Hello there,” Ceya Glade said. “Can I do something for you?”

  “I’m … It’s …” So much for the speech she had practiced.

  “Dear? Who’s that at the door?”

  “Just a young woman,” Ceya called back. Her smile didn’t waver. “Is something the matter?”

  “A letter,” Makasa blurted out. “I’m—I’m here to give you a letter. It’s from your son, Aramar.” Who else would it be, idiot? “I served with him on the Wavestrider, but it sank. It’s … a long story, and I just wanted to—”

  “Oh … Oh no. Not Aramar.”

  Ceya dropped the bowl, sinking to the floor. A moment later, a mountain of a man—it must have been Aram’s stepfather, Robb—thundered up to the door, followed by about eighty pounds of drooling, sniffing fur. Aram’s dog, Soot. Soot smashed through the barricade of humans, tackling Makasa to the ground and licking her face in exuberant greeting. Then he sniffed her some more, and nosed along her arm until he found Aram’s sketchbook, barking and pouncing.

  “Who are you?” Robb demanded, kneeling and comforting his wife.

  “Just let me explain!” Makasa cried out. She pulled the sketchbook away from Soot, holding it up for them both to see. “Aram’s alive, but he’s in a lot of trouble. I came to deliver his letter, and … and to let you know that he’s been kidnapped.”

  “Kidnapped!” Robb’s big brown eyes grew wider. “Who would kidnap our boy?”

  “Where is he?” Ceya clutched her husband, staring in disbelief at Makasa and then the sketchbook.

  “If you would just let me come inside, I could explain … everything. It’s a long tale, and you deserve to hear all of it. I’m not alone; his friends are with me, too. We’re going to get Aram back, I promise you that. We won’t stop until he’s safe, of that you have my word.”

  It didn’t take a mystic to divine that the Glades were suspicious of their unexpected guests.

  Makasa led her companions in slowly, removing each hood as they came and making introductions. They had quite the audience: the slobbering, utterly overjoyed Soot, black as his namesake and eager to sniff each newcomer; the inconsolable Ceya Glade attached permanently to her husband; and Aram’s younger siblings, Robertson and Selya, miniatures of Robb and Ceya, respectively. Selya sat on the ground next to Soot, one hand tugging on her pigtails, the other clutching the dog’s collar. Robertson planted himself at the front of the family, armed with his play wooden sword, prepared to cut them down, it seemed, though his little hands trembled with fear.

  “First you tell me my son is kidnapped,” Robb boomed, “and now you bring Horde scum, a gnoll, and a bloody murloc into my home?”

  Murky cowered behind Makasa’s leg, peering out at the Glades with huge, rapidly blinking eyes.

  “Now just one minute—”

  “I told you to let me do the talking,” Makasa snarled at Valdread. She turned her attention back to the Glades. “He’s … not a threat, I promise.”

  “He’s not even ambulatory,” Galena chimed in. “Able to walk,” she added shyly. “That is. And I’m with the Cenarion Circle. Druids, you see, not the Horde.”

  “We’re all in the sketchbook,” Makasa promised the Glades, nodding toward the book, which Robb now held. At that, he flipped through the pages, glancing up whenever he stumbled upon one of the group as if to confirm the wild story.

  Good magic, Makasa thought as she saw a hint of the earlier suspicion leave Ceya’s face.

  “We know all about you; Aram loves to tell stories about his home.”

  “Urum nalerga brk lrka,” Murky chimed in, breaking Makasa’s single rule. No. Talking. But he smiled, pointing at each of the children in turn. This delighted them to no end. “Rrrbrsun ekal nrga Srrla!”

  “Rrrbrsun!” the young boy cried out. “That’s me!”

  “Right,” Makasa said. “We know your names, and we’re in Aram’s letter, too. He explains quite a bit, but not everything. And he definitely doesn’t get to the part where Malus—Silverlaine—takes him prisoner.”


  “Greydon’s brother?” Ceya had gone ghostly white. She crossed slowly toward Makasa, then took the letter held out to her. Her lips had gone bloodless as she unfolded the parchment and began to read. “I haven’t thought of Silverlaine Thorne in years.”

  “He’s been going by a different name, and captaining a ship, the ship that sank the Wavestrider,” Makasa said. They all stood awkwardly at the front of the kitchen, the first room in the house, spacious but not with that many people and creatures crowded into it. Behind Robb there was a pantry, with stairs leading down into a cellar. The hearth blazed just near the stairs of the front room, and a large supper table with settings and chairs separated the Glades from their guests. A full breakfast of toast, eggs, dried fish, and potatoes was there, uneaten.

  “You’re Makasa,” Ceya said slowly, stumbling over her name.

  “Yes. Makasa Flintwill. Second mate on the Wavestrider. I knew Greydon well. He’s … gone.”

  “D-Dead?” Ceya murmured.

  “Not exactly!” Valdread, of course, had to poke his decaying nose into things. Makasa’s urge to shut him up, however, quickly faded. Even Galena chirped with surprise, turning so that the Forsaken could speak more clearly, facing the family. Nobody particularly wanted to look at him, but Makasa wanted to hear what he had to say.

  “Malus—Silverlaine, as you know him—has Greydon, too. He wouldn’t have killed him. He’s too cunning for that; he would never cut down an adversary that might be useful to him later. Greydon and Aramar Thorne handled the shards, the compass … They have information and insight Malus will want. I’m guessing he has them together somewhere, and I’m certain he’s enjoying the irony of the reunion.”

  “Greydon is alive?” Makasa wanted to holler, but instead she remembered their surroundings. It was hard to believe, harder still because it was coming from Valdread. Would he lie about such a thing?

  “Slipped my mind,” Valdread said with a snort. “Probably from my untimely tumble.”

  Robb glowered at him, an intimidating man under the best circumstances, more so when he puffed up his broad chest and loomed over Makasa and Valdread. Bearded and brawny, freckled and brown from the sun, his blacksmith’s forearms were the size of ham hocks. His voice shook the timbers of the house. “Do you find this funny?”

  “I said Malus—Silverlaine—would enjoy the irony. Not me. No, I find this all rather depressing. My condolences, on the disappearance of your family members.”

  Makasa didn’t interrupt him, and did not add that Valdread had been part of the Hidden, the vicious enemies that had abducted the Thornes in the first place. They would figure it out eventually, she thought, if they studied Aram’s sketchbook with a careful eye. Valdread’s apology seemed to quell them for the moment, and Makasa admitted that he sounded sincere. Layers and layers, she thought, shooting him a curious glance.

  “I … don’t know what to say,” Ceya murmured, shaking her head. “I need time.”

  “Doggy!” Selya, meanwhile, had none of her mother’s hesitation. The little girl shot up, noticing Hackle tucked away by the door, and toddled over to him, passing by Makasa before she could stop her, and hurling herself at the gnoll.

  Hackle froze, putting his paws up as if in surrender.

  “Human puppy,” he barked out. “Why you touch leg?”

  “Doggy!” Selya screamed, enchanted. “Talking doggy!”

  “Selya! Get away from that mangy thing!” Robb thundered, knocking Makasa and Galena (and by extension, Valdread) out of the way.

  But he had no need to fret. Hackle patted the girl’s head gently, giving a quiet hyena cackle as she wrapped herself around his leather-clad leg and squeezed, holding on for dear life.

  “Doggy talk! Doggy talk! Doggy talk!” she chanted.

  And Hackle obliged.

  “What me say, human puppy? Your den smell good. Smell meat in home, and Hackle starving. Goblin ship have stinky food, not smell as good.”

  “Srrla drlll lerga tergrl brrlaagrlgl,” Murky pointed out.

  “Yes,” Hackle agreed. “Human puppy very like barnacle on leg.”

  Soot joined in the inspection of the gnoll, padding over to sniff at the canine creature’s fur.

  “Goblin ship?” Robb repeated. He exchanged a look with his wife, who held Aram’s letter to her chest, and she shrugged in apparent resignation. “There are goblins now, too?”

  “And a gnome. Like I said”—Makasa tried to smile, helpless—“it’s a long tale, and complicated. You might want to sit down.”

  * * *

  By the time Makasa had taken the Glades from Aram’s adventures aboard the Wavestrider to his exploits in Thousand Needles, the mood had shifted dramatically. Selya patently refused to dislodge herself from Hackle’s leg, and the gnoll didn’t force her away, only asking after a while if he could sit down because his poor leg was beginning to cramp. Not long after, little Robertson challenged Murky to a duel, for the honor and protection of Lakeshire, and to the murloc’s credit, he faked a good fight, but ultimately let the little boy win.

  “Mama? Papa? Can’t they at least have breakfast?” the boy asked.

  That softened Robb and Ceya right up. They relented, and the whole mess of them settled down to breakfast. Ceya put the kettle on, still keeping Aram’s letter with her, and prepared more food, realizing that much of the spread had gone cold and they would need more plates and many more boiled potatoes.

  Makasa watched her watching them. Some color had come back into Ceya’s face, and she even managed a thin smile or two as the meal began. Robb, perhaps sensing that Hackle and Murky were harmless if they were willing to put up with his rambunctious children, turned his attention instead to Valdread, keeping a close eye on the dismembered Forsaken.

  Galena wisely positioned herself and the undead at the far end of the table, nearest to an open window, allowing Valdread’s troubling aroma to filter out into the open air. The morning stretched on and on, Makasa still weaving her complex story for Aram’s family. Then afternoon came, Robb deciding not to open the forge that day, and Ceya preparing yet more food for the weary and hungry travelers.

  “You’re kind even to listen,” Galena remarked at one pause in the story. “I haven’t known Makasa and the others long, but they astounded me, too, when first we met.”

  They were just reaching that part of the journey, and Makasa left nothing out. Robertson and Selya, their eyes wide with wonder, leaned in close, forgetting their lunch altogether.

  “Then, out of nowhere, this black drake swooped down and picked me up!” The children gasped and shivered. “Its claws went deep, and I couldn’t get free. I thought I would be finished then and there, carried off to be a meal for some ravenous whelps!”

  Another round of gasps.

  Makasa pulled down the top shoulder of her travel-stained shirt, showing them the proof of the encounter, the still-healing wounds from the drake that had just begun to scab. “But then, a band of night elves from the Overlook appeared, and shot the drake right out of the sky. They were riding massive sabers, and one had an owl!”

  It was harder to recount the story whenever Aram was in danger, and she stumbled when they reached Drella’s death. Thalyss had been a hard person to lose, and Greydon, too, but thanks to Valdread, she now knew she could stop mourning his loss—though learning of his imprisonment still shocked her. That was a conversation for another time. There was no getting around it. She had to describe the battle on the hill, and she did, keeping the more violent aspects to herself, so as not to frighten the little ones too gravely.

  When it was over, and the Glades fully informed, they stared at her in stunned silence. Robertson and Selya clapped, but their parents were not so eager to show their appreciation. Ceya’s eyes filled with tears, but she somehow managed to keep them at bay, pressing the backs of her hands to her pale cheeks.

  “It’s hard to believe it all,” Ceya murmured. “But Aram’s sketchbook … Those are his works, unmistakabl
y, and you put your lives at risk to bring us his letter. If the Alliance soldiers saw some of you, they’d swing a sword and ask questions later. I—I don’t know if I can say I like this, but if Aram trusts you, then I will do my best to help where I can.”

  Murky audibly gulped.

  “I know … but it was the right thing to do. It’s what Aram would do,” Makasa explained. “And as I told you, Aram’s compass was pointing here. We were bound for Lakeshire no matter what, but it was important for you to know Aram’s story. And ours. And to know that we’ll do whatever it takes to find him.”

  Robb narrowed his eyes, casting a cold glance around the table. “You mean whatever it takes to find those bloody shards.”

  Makasa’s immediate instinct to go on the defensive made her hands clench, but she closed her eyes and begrudgingly recalled Valdread’s advice. This was the hard, uncomfortable part of being the “leader.” Even if she wanted to take a tone, and tell him how far they had come and how tired they were, she stowed it.

  “The shards, reassembling the Diamond Blade, it’s the only way we’ll be able to take on Malus, to free Aramar,” she said. “It’s all connected, and I mean no disrespect, sir, but the faster we find those shards, the faster we find your boy—our friend.”

  “Robb,” Ceya interrupted, putting a hand on his shoulder. It looked tiny on the blacksmith’s muscled shoulder. “You heard the same tale as I, and you can see plain as I can that these folk were put down in his hand. He mentions most of them in the letter. Our boy’s gone; now we must be brave for him and … do what we might not otherwise do.” And here she glanced at Galena and Valdread, swallowing uneasily. “They must be guests in our home, and we should help them however we can.” A tear escaped her eye, sliding down her cheek.

  “And what do we do if someone so much as peeks in our window?” Robb demanded. His face had gone red. “We’re at war. We would be harboring enemies and fugitives, Ceya; it puts our family at risk! I want to help Aram, too, but this is asking too much.”

  “Nothing is asking too much if it means saving Aram’s life. It’s the best we can do for him right now. It will have to suffice until he’s brought home to us. Please, Robb. This is our son.”