The Shining Blade

by Madeleine Roux

  “That’s Murky under the ice!”

  “You may call me Telagos, and I will retrieve your amphibious friend.”

  The dragon—Telagos—gracefully dropped down from the ledge, then placed his hands on the ice. A perfectly round hole melted away, revealing Murky’s huge eyes. He flopped out of the water and onto the ice, then looked to Makasa as he shivered and shivered.

  “Mrksa? Blggr lerg?”

  “Telagos, he’s the one from Aram’s drawing. I think trapping you under the ice was a mistake,” she said with a shrug.

  “Absolutely. And I apologize for the error, young Murky.” Telagos swept the murloc a deep bow, the scrolls on his belt rustling softly.

  “Frund?” Murky asked, peering at the curious young man.

  “I’m … not sure,” Makasa said.

  Galena closed her hands around Makasa’s wrist and squeezed, the druid clearly casting her vote for friend. “We don’t want any trouble, Telagos. We just want the shard.”

  “I wouldn’t trust him,” Valdread whispered, leaning in. “Look in the shadows. Those are skeletons. They’re picked clean.”

  “And nobody asked you,” Makasa replied. She regarded the dragon. “So? What will it be? Friend or foe?”

  Telagos placed an open hand on his chest, fluttering his silvery lashes. “I’m offended. Were we foes, this conversation would not be taking place. I am intrigued by your brother’s vision, and by your knowledge of the shards. The shard here was entrusted to me by a friend, a man, a Thorne, who sought to protect Azeroth. The shard has remained here with me for some years …”

  “Did I just hear you say a Thorne?” Makasa reeled back for a moment. “As in Greydon Thorne? This sketchbook belongs to his son, Aramar Thorne.”

  The young man’s pale eyes widened and he smiled, then his expression shifted to one of deep concern. “That is the very man. He said the shards would need to be protected, but he did not say they would be reunited.”

  “I’ve been hearing a voice—the Voice of the Light,” Makasa hurried to tell him. “And so has my brother. That can’t be a coincidence, can it? It has to mean something, it just has to. We’ve come so far, and you’ve seen the sketchbook! You knew—know—Greydon. Trust me, when we get him and his son back, he can tell you everything.”

  Galena was beginning to wonder more and more about Aramar’s father—he had known dragons?

  Telagos watched Makasa with keen, bright eyes. “Greydon Thorne is similarly kidnapped?”

  “Yes,” Makasa said. “And part of our mission is to get him back, but for that we’re going to need the shard.”

  “Indeed …” It was not the dragon agreeing, and for a long time he said nothing.

  “Then you’ll give us the shard?” Valdread asked. It sounded pushy to Galena, but sooner or later they would need to ask.

  “It is yours”—Telagos bowed again—“but I go with it. Greydon Thorne asked me to watch over it, and watch over it I shall. If you are truly a friend to him, then you will accept my presence.”

  Now Makasa paused. “Are you sure?”

  Galena squeezed Makasa’s arm harder, and she suddenly felt like her human companion was about to push her into the icy water hole. “This will get messy and dangerous, and I’m going to stop at nothing to find my brother, wherever that leads.”

  “Well, ’tis fortunate, then, that I can fly.” Telagos grinned, coolly, and Galena realized that, true to the lore she’d studied, there was a cunning beneath his smile, a cunning that her group would be foolish to underestimate. Maybe Valdread was right. The skeletons in the shadowy recesses of the cavern were spotless. A dragon had to eat, after all. But they needed the shard, and she knew Makasa wasn’t about to tangle with a dragon who could freeze them all with a single breath. Besides, Telagos knew Aramar’s father, and if Greydon trusted him, then she imagined Makasa did, too.

  “I suppose you can come,” Makasa said, though there was an unspoken but I don’t like it to her tone.

  “Of course I can,” Telagos stated. “Do not look so fretful—you have asked a great deal of me, and now, in turn, I ask a great deal of you.”

  He had a point.

  “Shard, then,” Makasa said. “I guess that means you’re coming with us.”

  Galena gave a not so subtle, “Yes!” under her breath.

  “Hackle no club?”

  Makasa smirked, watching as Telagos lifted his right hand, then reached into his left sleeve and, with a flourish, produced a gleaming sliver of the blade.

  The shard.

  Two found, one more to go, and a dragon ally to boot? Now they were getting somewhere. Makasa’s grin deepened. “Hackle no club.”

  Tucked against the large, gnarled roots of an oak, Makasa had been studying Aram’s sketchbook for clues. Galena had found them a secluded grove in an area of the forest not far from the Glades’ cottage. With Ceya’s help, Galena brought them into the safest part of the forest, using her abilities to scout a spot away from the prying eyes of the villagers.

  Makasa glanced up from the book, finding Valdread looming over her. He did so love to loom. He also loved to get a rise out of her. In an unusually good mood (two shards already, and they had only been there for less than three days!), she decided not to take back the arm they had granted him after returning from the cave.

  Valdread had, after all, been on his best behavior. And Makasa was not a fool—there was a dragon in their midst now, and even with just one arm, Valdread could hold his own in case Telagos turned traitor.

  Valdread grinned. “Going soft, are we?”

  “A pretty wise dryad once told me that it was good to be soft. Not all the time, but I think she was on to something.”

  Valdread nodded.

  Behind him, Hackle practiced club moves with Murky, showing the murloc how to give a good swing. Murky was using one of Robertson’s toy weapons as a stand-in for the real thing. The two slid back and forth across the grass, Hackle solemnly giving instruction while Murky, face screwed up in concentration, did his best to impress his “frund.” Cross-legged in the grass not far from that, Galena and Telagos sat in deep conversation, heads together while Galena showed him her CCAMP manual. Every once in a while a little sparkle of magic came from their direction as they showed off to each other.

  “I do believe someone has a crush.” Valdread chuckled. “Not a match I’d ever expected to see. A tauren and a dragon.”

  “He’s easy on the eyes,” Makasa said with a snort. “But not exactly my type.”

  “Too verbose?”

  “Too proud,” she said. If that was what “verbose” meant, anyway. “I think they might just be bookish.”

  “Dragons tend to be like that. My old SI:7 colleagues would tell me stories of those they had met. More and more had been migrating to Winterspring, and the Alliance needed to be ready to tangle with them, if need be.” Valdread turned his attention back to Makasa. “Any luck with the book?”

  “Not yet.” She sighed. “There are plenty of drawings, but some of them are just … nonsensical. Look, this one is just some rock. Thanks a lot, Aram.”

  The Forsaken gave a hearty laugh, and Makasa had to admit it felt good to impress him. She didn’t exactly crave his approval or anything, but he was unmistakably dangerous and capable, and every once in a while, he could bring a smile to her face, too.

  “I’m beginning to think Greydon must have scattered these pieces all over Lakeshire. If I were him, I wouldn’t hide them too far from one another, making it easier to check on them quickly if need be. And if he was the only one aware of the locations, there would be no real danger to his family here.” Makasa flipped through the sketches again, finding the same nondescript locations Aram had depicted. “I just keep thinking if I look at these long enough, Aram will, I don’t know, speak to me or something. He’s been my only family for months; you would think I could read this stuff like tea leaves.”

  Valdread cleared his throat, moving almost imperceptibly near
er. “You’re going to go blind to the information,” he said. “Look at anything long enough and it just becomes a blur. Sometimes you need to take a step back.” His tone was light, but he seemed oddly intent. “What you need, I think, is a distraction. Like a game. I know, perhaps a game of questions.”

  “Is this your idea of a joke, old man?” Makasa chuckled. “How are questions a game?”

  Sighing, he scratched at his bony chin. “I thought you were smarter than this. Think of how much you can learn, with the right tool applied in the right way.”

  Makasa studied him. He was a spy. This wasn’t just a way to clear her head; he had ulterior motives. He always had them. Still, she relished the thought of getting inside his mind, maybe learning a few deep spy secrets. The temptation won out over the quiet voice warning that he was up to something.

  “Huh. All right. Who goes first?” she asked, putting down the sketchbook.

  “I do,” Valdread said, a little smug. “Tell me, how do you take your coffee?”

  “Black,” she said, but Valdread answered the same in unison.

  “I thought I was supposed to ask you something,” she said, narrowing her eyes. Valdread shrugged, glancing away.

  “My mistake. All right, you ask something,” he prompted.

  It wasn’t hard to come up with her first question for him. “Why are you really helping us?”

  He grinned, and it looked something like admiration. “Good question. I always pick the winning side.”

  Flattery, probably, but Makasa didn’t press him on it. Instead, she tried to think like he would. What would flattery get him? What was this game really about? She had to laugh. It was ridiculous, playing a child’s game with a lifelong spy and one-time enemy.

  “Do you really not know where my brother is?” she asked, not caring if it was her turn or not.

  “I may have an idea,” Valdread replied. He was skillful in the art of manipulation. All spies were, but to her he seemed genuine. Or at least, like he wasn’t trying too hard to lie. “It’s my job to understand my enemies and my friends. Ssarbik wouldn’t like to know how far I dug into his past. The same goes for Malus. In the end, I’ve drawn conclusions on how they would proceed.”

  He cleared his throat, glancing over at Murky and Hackle before asking, “Any strong feelings on bruiseweed?”

  “I … break out into little bumps.” But he already knew that … Why bring up bruiseweed again? Oh. She sat up, quickly, spinning to see if she had accidentally plopped down in a bush of it.

  “Interesting,” he commented, ignoring her panic, no longer scratching his rotting chin but stroking it. “Very interesting. And how do you feel about venison?”

  “Can’t stand it.”

  “Seasickness?”

  “Not a problem.”

  “Webbed toes?”

  Makasa was going to vomit. This was getting creepy. “How did you know that? Nobody knows that. I’ve never even shown Aram my weird toes.”

  Valdread grinned, tilting his head to the side, one piece of dark hair falling roguishly in front of his eyes. “It’s your turn,” he told her, “to ask a question. That’s the game.”

  Her stomach churned, but she knew what question had to come next. “When we dueled … you mentioned the captain of the Makemba. How did you know my mother?”

  His shrug was all too casual. “I happened to meet her … about eighteen years ago.”

  Eighteen. Eighteen. Before she could say another word, Valdread took his turn.

  “Tell me,” he said softly. “Did you know your father?”

  Makasa covered her face with both hands, struggling to breathe. Eighteen years. Her mother. A father. Her father. Reigol Valdread, the Whisper-Man, her father. It wasn’t possible, and yet … She knew in her souring gut that everything he said made sense. But just because something made sense didn’t mean it was fun or exciting. The truth could be comforting, but it could also burn.

  No … No. She wasn’t ready to accept that.

  “How?” she asked, peeling her hands away and glaring up at him. “You’re— You’re—”

  “The curse of Lordaeron befell me after I happened to meet your mother,” he said, no longer so glib. An eerie, haunted light came into his eyes at the mention of his undead nature. “It was part of my job, as an SI:7 operative, to investigate rumors of a plague. It was my sworn duty that bound me to this body. For a time, I was a mindless servant of the Lich King, until my mind was restored to me by Lady Sylvanas. None of this”—he gestured at nothing in particular—“was planned. I was not so monstrous. Once.”

  She found that hard to imagine. And yet, if he was really her father, she wanted to believe that was true. “And Malus? You claim you were not always monstrous, but how did he come to feature so prominently in your life?”

  Sighing, he turned away, then paced back toward her. “What life was I to have in this form? I took my leave of Sylvanas, and Stormwind wanted nothing to do with me. I had no choice but to take work where I could find it, to become a mercenary. My only connection to Malus is through coin, and now, through my desire to see him brought low.”

  Makasa leapt to her feet, dizzy, and stumbled away from Valdread and the tree. Everything he was saying, everything she now knew, was crashing over her like a wave. The truth ought to be illuminating, but she felt plunged into darkness.

  “I—I need to be alone.”

  “Makasa! Wait!”

  But he couldn’t follow her out of the grove and risk being seen by the village guards. She ran, clutching Aram’s book, her feet carrying her a long, long way, until it was dark and she couldn’t run anymore, as if somehow, someway, she could outrun the knowledge that an undead mercenary and all-around villain was her father.

  * * *

  Makasa dangled her legs over the edge of the quarry, picking up pebbles and tossing them into the water that filled the abandoned pit. On the Wavestrider, Aram had told her about swimming there with Soot, and she could just imagine the two of them, scruffy and ridiculous, paddling around, splashing in the summertime pond until sundown. It was dark, and she couldn’t much see the rocks plopping into the surface of the pool, but the sound was satisfying. The rhythm soothed her, the simplicity of it.

  Throw. Splash. Plop. Predictable. She did it over and over again, until the nervous churning in her stomach ebbed and she no longer felt the urge to cry. Those days on the Wavestrider with Aram and Greydon felt a thousand years away, and almost surreal, as if she had imagined it all—the wind on her face and the salt-sea air filling her lungs. It was hard work, living on a ship, but just like the rocks going into the water, there was a system to it, the same chores day in and day out, the same calluses from the rigging, the same food, and the same shanties.

  This was why she hated surprises. She didn’t need to know Valdread was her father. What did it change? Nothing. Greydon Thorne was the father she chose, and that was what mattered. But to know, finally, that Valdread was her kin? She laughed, then spit into the waters of the quarry. “He worked for Malus,” she whispered, closing her eyes. “He could have killed us. He would have killed us.”

  Then again, he hadn’t. When Drella was threatened, he tried to save her. He seemed truly disgusted at Malus’s actions, and had been helpful, if stubborn, since joining their side. She had never allowed herself to really trust him. Could she?

  No. He was the enemy. It didn’t matter that he had become briefly useful; he had willingly worked for Malus, and that was a black mark that might never be removed. Then again, he had seemingly tried to guide her, mold her, even, into more of a leader. It made sense now, she thought, that he took such an interest in her decisions. He must have known for some time. Stupid. That was the word. She felt stupid. There she was, thinking herself so tough, so smart, and all along Reigol Valdread had been untangling the truth, piecing the facts together, and waiting to see if she might make the connections herself.

  She hadn’t, and now … now it was nothing but confusion a
nd emptiness.

  Greydon was the father she chose. What did that make Valdread?

  It made him a distraction, and coming at the worst possible time. They were still desperate to find the last shard—upon which the very fate of Azeroth relied, apparently—and Aram and Greydon were still missing. The victory of finding the cave, Telagos, and his precious guarded shard began to vanish. That boost of excitement didn’t last long, she thought with a sigh, hurling another pebble into the quarry.

  She had brought Aram’s sketchbook with her when she ran, but it would be impossible to see his sketches in the dark. She realized suddenly that it wasn’t the sketches she wished for company, but Aram himself. Her brother, who had similarly been abandoned by one father only to find comfort and guidance in another man, one whose influence had shaped him in more important ways than blood. Was this how Aram felt about Greydon when he first came aboard the Wavestrider? Suddenly, his anger, his petulant behavior in those early days, felt somewhat reasonable, at least while she picked through her own feelings about Valdread.

  It was growing darker. Soon the lights of the town twinkled in the distance. The wooden houses with their red roofs and glowing windows seemed so cozy and inviting, but she craved solitude. They were wasting time. She was wasting time. This trip to Lakeshire was about so much more than just delivering a letter or finding the shards; it was a bridge, a bridge connecting her back to Aram, wherever he was. They had started the journey of the Diamond Blade together, and they would end it that way, too. She promised herself, and him, that.

  Aramar’s strange drawings filled her head. The rock, the cavern, the dragon, the patch of grass with footprints under the tree, the mine shaft. The rock, the cavern, the dragon, the patch of grass with footprints under the tree, the mine shaft—

  The mine shaft.

  Makasa stared down into the water; the stars and slivers of moons reflected back, and nothing else. It was like black glass, unbroken now that her pebbles no longer rippled it. She was sitting on the edge of a quarry. The mine shaft … It had to be right. She was certain that Aram’s sketches were so much more than just mindless doodles. No, they were magic accidents, seemingly random visions that were so much more.