Listen, Makasa. The Voice of the Light split her thoughts, and she winced, grabbing her head. Listen to me, Makasa, and listen to yourself.
That she could do. But how? The quarry was flooded, and any mine shafts that might hold the shard would be impossible to reach. She climbed to her feet, staring down into the dark glass of the water, listening, listening to the nighttime noise of the crickets, to the bugs skimming the pool, to the far-off music seeping out from the Lakeshire Inn, to the voice inside herself that told her to trust. Told her to believe.
Aram’s letter had led them here, and then his sketches had opened a window into Greydon’s mind. Telagos, insufferable or not, was right. Their fates were entwined—with one another, and with this place.
Listen to yourself.
A new star appeared in the water, though this one was gold, not silver. It grew in brightness as she watched. Makasa bent down and picked up a stone, then tossed it into the water where the star had appeared. The ripple passed along the other stars, but not the golden one. A shard. It was there, glowing up at her from deep inside the quarry.
“Your friends are beginning to worry.”
She nearly toppled into the water, but spun instead, heart racing, to find Telagos watching her. His hair shone like the silvery stars above them as he swaggered toward her, then leaned over and looked into the water.
“Now that is fortuitous,” he murmured, seeing what she had.
“No,” Makasa said. “It’s fate. It’s the Voice—it brought me here to find the last shard. It’s probably stuck in a shaft at the bottom of the quarry, like in Aram’s drawing, but how do we get it?” She glanced over at him. “You didn’t happen to bring Murky in that belt of yours, did you?”
“He is rather too slimy. However.” Telagos raised his hands, closing his eyes, his face going slack as the air around them grew charged with magic.
Makasa watched as the shard at the bottom of the quarry blurred, something obscuring it. Then, as she stared, a tunnel grew up toward them through the water, a tunnel of ice, and the shard along with it, rushed through the frozen pipe until it flew up out of the pool. With a laugh, Makasa caught it, feeling its warmth as the icy water dripped away. The other shards, hidden in a pouch on her belt, began to vibrate, then grow warm. One by one, the shards flew out of the satchel, racing to meet their long-lost kin. The final piece. She and Telagos watched, silent, awed, as the scattered shards locked together, drawn by some unseen, blinding force, flashing all in unison before melding into one unbroken, beautiful blade.
It landed in the grass at Makasa’s side with a soft tink.
“I can’t believe it,” she breathed. “We did it.”
“Quite beautiful, a satisfying outcome,” Telagos remarked.
“Thank you. I’m glad they sent you to find me.”
The dragon boy shook his head, pursing his lips. “Oh no, I came of my own volition. I grew weary of listening to the decomposing one fret. He worries about you. He attempts to conceal as much, but the concern is evident.”
Makasa frowned and picked up the reforged blade. The blade in her hands was so warm it was almost too hot to hold comfortably. “He’s …”
Could she say it? Could she admit it to herself, and more than that, state it aloud?
Fate. The Voice of the Light. If it connected them all together, her, Greydon, Aram, Murky, Hackle, Galena, Drella, Telagos, and … Valdread, then her relationship with him was more than just a cruel surprise. It was something more, this knowledge, something meant to be.
“He’s my father,” she said, and strangely, it only hurt a little.
“Then we should hurry you back to the village,” Telagos said, taking her gently by the arm. That he didn’t react with disgust to Valdread being her father was … surprising, but also oddly comforting. Maybe Telagos wasn’t so insufferable after all. Was she going soft? If so, it was Aram’s fault—that boy had rubbed off on her in all sorts of incredible, if sometimes insufferable, ways. “Ceya Glade is preparing an elaborate configuration of meat and noodles, and I do wish to study her technique. Human culinary ingenuity is endlessly fascinating.”
Makasa snorted, and they started back toward the Glade house together in the dark. “It’s a stew, Telagos.”
“And? Is that not extraordinary?”
“Sure,” she said, looking forward to the warmth of the hearth and of Aram’s family, and her friends. “Sure, that is extraordinary. It really is.”
The mood was celebratory in the Glade house that evening, at least for the travelers. It took a moment for the Glades to understand the importance of what had happened, and what it might mean. The children couldn’t take it after a spell; impatient for dinner, they scrambled over to the adventurers, lingering just behind Murky and Hackle until they were noticed.
“Dlrga brrlaagrlgl,” Murky said, pointing with his thumb over his shoulder.
“Yes.” Hackle grunted. “Barnacle back.” He swiveled to face the children. “What you want Hackle say?”
“Puppy man!” Selya squealed.
Robb hurried over, wiping his hands on a towel that looked hilariously small in his hands. He had been chopping meat for the stew. “Selya, don’t bother them. Come back over to the fire with us.”
“Is good, she safe,” said Hackle.
“They can be … rambunctious.” Robb smirked, gazing down at Hackle expectantly.
“Less wild than gnoll pups. Hackle like. Hackle have some of his own some day.”
Robb seemed taken aback at that. “You … want children?”
Hackle shrugged. “Why no? Hackle brave. Only brave ones have pups.”
The children would not be dislodged regardless, and they shrieked with laughter while Murky and Hackle entertained them. Valdread couldn’t be sure, but Robb and Ceya seemingly regarded them with less suspicion. The longer the children giggled, the more they laughed, too, even wandering over to listen while Hackle told them all the tale of facing the yetis with Aram.
Their true gesture of goodwill came when Ceya cooked a mouthwatering stew, though Valdread could eat none of it. He dined only on the overjoyed reactions of the humans, dragon, and tauren who ate it. The young boy, Robertson, had been kind enough to fish up a bounty of small lake fish for Hackle and Murky, for they could not do so themselves, the water too exposed and risky for the odd travelers.
Selya regaled them with a song she made up on the spot, the words comprising mainly of praise for Talking Doggy and Frog Friend. Beyond all understanding, the murloc and gnoll had charmed the Glade children, answering a veritable barrage of questions with the utmost patience.
Valdread sat apart, near the window, painfully aware of his own stench and the chilling effect he had on the company. It had ceased to bother him long ago; it was merely a fact of his prolonged, cursed existence. Perhaps it began to irk him, for it had been difficult to watch his daughter avoid him, her nose wrinkling at his approach. He had no idea if he would ever grow to love the girl, or truly be her father in any regular capacity, but he did wish to know her. To have a real connection with life, other than beginning it.
When she returned to the cottage, dragon and final shard in tow, she gave Valdread a thin smile. The time alone seemed to have done her some good, and she sat closest to him of anybody, eating a third helping of stew and laughing along to Selya’s silly songs.
When the food was cleared and the little girl was done giving her concert, Robb Glade produced a mandolin and played a few skilled tunes while Galena and Hackle helped tidy up. Hackle mostly just licked the plates clean. Robertson and Selya pored over their brother’s drawings, trying to pick which they liked best.
“Dead man!” Robertson suddenly screamed.
Ceya spun around, then realized Robertson had found a drawing in Aram’s sketchbook. “What was he thinking, drawing …”
Her voice trailed off as she reached her son and saw what Aram had drawn. Valdread. It was a clean, precise portrait, capturing the mercenary’s roguish sm
ile. Unfortunately, he was seated among Silverlaine and the Hidden. All of their enemies were there, and Valdread unmistakably among them. He winced.
“Oh,” she said, fretting. She paced nervously back toward the basin. “You were siding with Silverlaine? Is this—is what Aram drew—”
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” Makasa protested. “It’s— He’s—complicated. He was betrayed by Malus and left for dead, and if we hadn’t helped, he likely would be. Trust me, he’s no friend to those people, not anymore.”
Ceya stared down at her washrag. “That sounds … very complicated indeed.”
“It could be. It doesn’t have to be, I think,” Makasa said, working it out as she went. “We all have things in our pasts we aren’t proud of. Me. Valdread.” She closed her eyes. “Greydon. But what we do, how we fix things, that’s what matters.”
Aram’s mother glanced up at her, eyes unreadable.
“I spent many years in service to King Varian Wrynn, before this curse befell me and I fell in with Malus.” He looked Ceya in the eye. “I will use the information I know, the skills I have, to find your son.” Valdread said it quietly, and for a moment he was sure she would still turn him out of the house.
“Well, I suppose I owe you just as much as the others for helping to bring my boy home.” She sighed. “What’s past is past.”
From her spot near the washing basin, Ceya remarked that it was amazing how many people Aramar had met, and how they had all come to embrace him. Not many boys of twelve could boast so many varied and strange friends. Telagos studied the mandolin, awed by its apparently complex design. Everything, it seemed, was fascinating to the dragon.
The dragon. Valdread did not trust him, but he could not deny the usefulness of such a creature. Nothing struck fear into the hearts of enemies like a dragon—even one as young as Telagos—taking to the field, and his frost breath would prove helpful in controlling the battle. Valdread indulged in a brief moment of whimsy, imagining himself charging blade first at Ssarbik, Telagos soaring above, laying down icy justice while Valdread prepared to make the killing blow—
A blow he could not make without first committing further honesty. What an exhausting day. First, confronting Makasa with their strange connection, and now it was time to come clean, and tell her where Aram and Greydon were being held. It was the final piece, the final card he had to play. Maybe, just maybe, it would win him back his other arm.
All throughout dinner, Makasa could talk of nothing else. They had the shards; it was time to prepare for the final assault and bring Aram and Greydon home. But how? Her eyes had traveled deliberately toward Valdread over the course of this discussion, and the reason was plainly evident: Valdread was one of the Hidden, and surely, cunning as he was, he would have eavesdropped enough to absorb the details of Malus’s plans.
Just like her father, she was a quick study. And she was right.
Valdread stood and stretched his one arm over his head, then moved toward the back door. “I believe I shall take some air.”
“Not so fast.” Makasa, as he knew she would, jumped up to follow. “You’re still technically our prisoner. Wouldn’t want you wandering off.”
“Oh goodness, I had no idea you cared.”
She rolled her eyes and followed him out the back. They were safely concealed by the darkness, and the coldness of night drove most villagers inside. Valdread wandered toward the woodshed, taking his time.
“What’s this really about?” Makasa asked.
Valdread turned west, imagining he could see the tops of Stormwind’s towers, the familiar, comforting sight of them soaring above the trees. When he closed his eyes, he could still smell the sulfur of the forges outside SI:7 headquarters, and the oily tang of sword polish, and the leather of so many well-worn boots. The canals of the city sometimes stank, but that didn’t make it any less of a home. That was long ago, and the nostalgia only filled him with anger, anger for what he had lost in service to King Varian Wrynn. What he had lost … Valdread sighed out of dead lungs. It was time to let go of what had been taken from him, and turn his attention toward what he still had to gain.
The respect of a daughter. The revenge of a wronged man. The dignity of a soldier.
“Before I tell you what I know, I need you to promise me something,” Valdread said, turning his back on Stormwind and facing her.
“And what’s that?”
“The hour of battle approaches, Makasa, and you must be ready. Knowing now how we’re connected …” By the Lady, that was bizarre to say. “I feel a duty to you, a responsibility to make certain that you are prepared in every way. This will not be like the Thunderdrome, or the scuffle at the Northwatch base. This will be the bloodiest battle yet, and many of your friends are likely to die.”
“Where are you going with this? We have the shards, we have a dragon. It’s time to take the fight to Malus.”
Just like her mother. He had not known Marjani long, but she had left quite an impression. Impulsive, strong, with a sharp tongue that could slice the flesh off a man’s bones if need be … and impatient.
“It is time to form a plan. And … if you’re interested, there are some things I might teach you,” he said. “But only if you promise to be patient. To strike when the time is right, not when the time is convenient.”
She took a step toward him, furious, her hands curling into fists at her sides. “We have no time. I never asked this of you, and what could you teach me anyway?”
“Don’t be flippant. You know my skill set. You know my past. Hate me if you will, but do not discard my advice. You’re smarter than that.”
“You keep saying that,” Makasa muttered. “It’s annoying. Maybe I’m not smarter than that, hmm? Maybe I will discard your advice.”
“You won’t. You’re smart.”
She fell silent, staring at him through the thick darkness. He could see the temptation to scream written all over her face. Her brows were pulled down, her mouth puckered, and those fists of hers were practically banging against her legs in frustration. But Valdread waited. He had meant what he said: She was smart.
“Fine. Fine! I promise to be … patient. Whatever that means. Now what did you want to tell me?”
Now came the difficult bit. Valdread coughed into his one hand and glanced at the sky, but nothing was going to give him more courage, and a stiff drink certainly wasn’t an option. He had only just somewhat won Makasa to his side; she didn’t need to watch wine pour out of every hole in his throat.
The truth, then. It was time.
“I haven’t been completely transparent about certain things,” he began. “The Thornes, for example. I know where Malus is holding them. They’re in Outland, likely near the southern border of Hellfire Peninsula. Malus is too reliant on arakkoa support to go anywhere devoid of their strongholds.”
Even in the dark, he saw the hurt flare in her eyes.
“What? How could you keep this from me?” Makasa demanded. She looked ready to hit him. “You’re … you’re … my father.”
“Yes, and like I was in my youth, you’re stubborn, impulsive. I knew you would rush out the door without a plan and get yourself killed.” Valdread threw up his hand, aggravated.
Makasa’s lip quivered, but she somehow managed not to shout. “So what are we up against?”
“Malus isn’t who you should be worried about. He’s human, and I understand his weaknesses. No, you should be concerned about his master. Xaraax. He’s a dreadlord of the demonic Burning Legion, powerful beyond your comprehension, and by comparison Malus is a dimwitted ogre sixteen pints deep.”
Her anger quickly turned to unease. “A dreadlord?”
“Of the Burning Legion, yes.” He sighed and pushed on. “He’s determined to annihilate Azeroth with some kind of magical catastrophe. He called it the Darkstorm, a way to spread the corruption of the Legion across all of Azeroth, wipe out life as we know it here completely.”
“Then he has to die.”
That stopped her dead in her tracks. Makasa turned slowly to peer at him, her face strangely absent of a scowl. She looked only shocked. Or perhaps unnerved.
“What?” he asked. Unseen gears turned in her head and then, unexpectedly, she nodded.
“All right. I’m listening. I’ll … try to listen. To you. I’ll try. But you can’t blame me for wanting to hurry. If this is true, our advantages in the battle, like Telagos, mean little.”
Valdread nodded, wishing he could put his hand on her shoulder, but he knew neither of them were anywhere near ready for that. He needed to take his own advice. Patience. “Indeed. There is so much to do, and the preparations start now. They start with you. We need to reforge that Diamond Blade; without it Xaraax will never be defeated.”
“Xaraax. Diamond Blade. Outland, all right. We need a way to get there. And we’ll need support, lots of it. Any ideas?”
At that, Valdread’s thin lips widened into a smile. “Plenty. Which is why, daughter, we need a plan.”
Makasa had planned the attack before Valdread even met her in the clearing. He had taught her to study her foes closely, and so she did, noting that he was always on time to their meetings. And so she climbed the tree a quarter of an hour before he arrived, waiting in tense silence, finding a strong but well-concealed branch as her perch. When the time was right, she would slip gracefully out of the tree and finally—finally—get the drop on Valdread.
Just as she expected, he sauntered into the clearing at the appointed hour, a heavy cloak drawn up around his head to hide his rotting face. She could smell the jasmine water on him from her hiding spot, and she nearly coughed. Instead, Makasa held her breath and carefully slid onto a lower branch, trying to get the perfect foothold before she dropped. The leaves around her rustled, but only a little, no more noise than a squirrel might make.
The Shining Blade Page 19