“If you want your opponents to know you’re about to strike them this badly, why not just announce it?”
Startled, Makasa lost her footing, tumbling out of the tree and landing on her rump with a yelp. Furious, she leapt back up, finding her balance, knowing she couldn’t show another weakness. “You’re infuriating!” she yelled, charging him. “I was being eaten alive by bugs up there, and for what?”
He was ready for her onslaught. “Your swing is perfect, but your footwork is sloppy. What’s the matter with you today?”
Valdread, even with only one arm, was a formidable dueling partner. Sweaty, out of breath, Makasa called for a time-out, dropping her harpoon and putting both hands on her head, trying to catch her breath.
“How much longer?” she asked him, no, implored him. “I’m ready. I feel ready.”
“You’re ready when I say you are. That tree move was smart, but you botched it at the crucial moment. Still, I like where your head is at.”
Blast, but Valdread knew how to get under her skin, and that did it. “Please, remind me again why we’re playing games here in Lakeshire while Aram and Greydon rot in Outland?”
As with every day, their sneak-attack duels had an audience. Galena and Telagos, while talking about whatever higher subjects they liked to talk about, looked up, both of them putting down their books. Hackle and Murky stopped their own duel, though Murky got in one last sly swing, hitting Hackle on the knee with his toy club.
“I’ve been cogitating …” Telagos piped up. “Galena informs me that you arrived here in an airship. First, I would very much like to inspect this contraption, and second, it may prove sufficient to fly us to the Blasted Lands.”
“What’s in the Blasted Lands?” Makasa asked, rolling up her sleeves to vent heat.
“The Dark Portal,” Galena replied. “It is deep in the ruinous valley, surrounded by demons of all sort.”
“And this portal can take us to Outland?” Makasa prompted.
Telagos grinned, adjusting the collar of his doublet beneath his scaly armor. “Ah! Indeed! It is certainly the most expedient route to Outland, unless we were to somehow acquire passage to Northrend, then to Dalaran, and then convince an archmage—”
Makasa held up her hand. “So the Dark Portal is our best bet. And you know the way?”
“I do,” Telagos replied serenely.
She could feel Valdread’s eerie glowing eyes boring into the back of her head. It really wasn’t necessary; she had taken her promise to heart. She was listening, learning, and trying to be patient. She could see in the light of day that they’d have one shot at defeating Malus and his master, and they needed to be clever.
“That still leaves us short an army,” Valdread mumbled.
Not many boys of twelve could boast so many varied and strange friends. Ceya’s words came back to Makasa in a rush. She turned to Murky, who suddenly seemed to have the same idea.
“Murky mirga mmmurloks flegl, amagloo blrrrrrr!” It was Hackle’s turn to get in a quick smack while Murky weighed in on their predicament. The murloc rubbed his injury, pouting at his gnoll friend.
Makasa understood a few choice words in that sentence. Murloc, for example, and army.
“But how?” Makasa asked.
Murky gave one of his short, bubbly laughs and pointed due east. “Mrggl mirga, Evrgil mmmurloks, perlooga legleg. Murky gerla flllrrrla glooga brbrrrg Mrrrla!”
She looked to Hackle on that one; she was still not quite as advanced when it came to Murky’s language. Hackle nodded along, then clawed at his furred chin in thought. “Murky say Everstill murlocs not far to east. He go visit, ask for help. His cousin Merla lost once, end up here, have tadpole that live there.”
“Maybe the familial connection will move them to assist us,” Valdread said, sounding just as thoughtful and intrigued as Hackle.
“Indeed, Mistress Glade rightfully noted the number of unlikely allies your Aramar Thorne made on his journey,” Telagos noted. “The human may have stumbled upon the answer.”
Hackle raised his club, jabbing it excitedly skyward. “Hackle know Woodpaw loyal. Woodpaw brave. Woodpaw gnolls help club Malus to save Aram! Aram help Woodpaw gnolls and yetis be friends, fight Gordunni ogres. Woodpaw gnolls and yetis now help Aram!”
“But how would we reach them?” Galena asked, standing and wandering into the middle of the clearing to stand near Makasa. The tauren had changed out of her heavy Cenarion robes, dressed in a simple, pretty linen frock.
“Deeeeliverrrrggeeeeee!” Murky hopped up and down, miming something like a bird with his free hand.
“What is he trying to say?” Makasa asked, but Hackle was helpless.
“Sprockle deeeeliverrrgeee! Deelivergee!”
Makasa was growing impatient, which she was working on, and knelt, beckoning the little murloc closer. “Are you saying delivery? Yes, Murky, that’s what we need to do, deliver messages to the gnolls, the yetis, everyone who helped us along the way.”
“Hackle know!” The gnoll pointed to the north, toward the mountains. “Metal gnome man, he make machine, win big prize. Goblin man no shut up about it at Overlook.”
It struck her like lightning. Makasa gasped, whirling to face Valdread, all of her impatience gone, replaced with hope. “Gazlowe and Sprocket won the MEGA event with some kind of delivery contraption. DLVR-E. Hackle’s right; he was babbling on about it when he picked us up. They have a whole fleet of them. They might be fast enough to deliver the messages in time.”
Valdread smirked, nodding once. She hated to admit it, but the look of pride he gave her felt pretty nice. “It could just work, especially if it means we get an army of angry yetis.”
“Then it’s settled.” Makasa stood, pointing to each of her companions in turn. “Murky, you sneak off east, ask the Everstill murlocs for help. Hackle? You prepare a message for your clan. Galena? I need you to fetch Gazlowe and tell him our plan. Telagos will guide us to the Dark Portal, and with any luck our friends will be there to fight with us.” Then she glanced over her shoulder at Valdread. “And then—”
“And then we’re ready,” he said solemnly. “Let the final preparations begin.”
The fever didn’t abate. The pain was spreading. Aramar Thorne clutched his leg, gritting his teeth. He was going to die in that cell, taken by infection. His eyes closed on their own, and he was too weak even to call out to his father, who slept fitfully in the neighboring cell.
This was not how he wanted to die. What was it his father had said? A Thorne should die with a sword in hand … How could the Voice of the Light have been wrong? How could it lead him here?
The pain was blinding. Incredible. He rolled onto his back, desperate, hot beads of perspiration rolling down his cheeks. Then he was freezing cold. Then hot again. He tried to go somewhere else, anywhere else, to escape the pain.
How? he thought. How can it end this way?
It does not end this way.
Ha. He really was dying, he thought. He was even hallucinating! Drella’s voice echoed around the chamber, as clear as a bell.
Everything is dark. I’m sorry, Drella, I’m sorry. I failed you, just like I failed everyone else.
There in the darkness, gripped with fever, Aram could swear he felt Drella’s hand take his and squeeze. Then her voice flashed through him again, just as powerful as when the Voice of the Light called.
Use your gift, Aramar. Use our bond.
Aramar shivered, wishing he could understand … the gift. The gift! With the last of his strength, he reached into his pocket, drawing out the flower. It glowed warm at his touch, soothing. Without thinking, he pressed it hard against the tear in his trousers near the knee, smashing it against the cut that had gotten so swollen and infected. For a moment nothing happened, but then, gradually, he felt a cool sensation spread across his skin. The fever lifted, the weakness in his limbs easing. As he held the flower there, he felt the swelling go down, the wound no longer sweltering to the touch.
Aramar smiled in the darkness, taking the gift and clutching it to his heart. Drella was with him there in his cell; she was with him so long as he cherished her last gift.
* * *
“You really think this will work?”
Sprocket turned with a whirring of gears and mechanical clicks toward Gazlowe. They stood in the hazy, glow-bug-filled gloom of twilight, the DLVR-E systems calibrated and ready to fly.
“This is an award-winning invention—”
Sighing, Gazlowe shoved his hands into his pockets. “Not that, the … this! This harebrained plan. You think it’s got a shot of working? Because I’m not feeling any closer to my diamonds.”
Sprocket considered his question for a long time. Serious questions deserved measured thought. This was how he approached his inventions. One careful decision, one methodical experiment at a time.
“The odds are difficult to calculate,” Sprocket replied.
“Yeah? Not for me. What did Flintwill say again? A dreadlord of the Burning Legion? I wouldn’t want to go up against whatever that is.” Gazlowe had brought a bottle of his favorite port from the Cloudkicker, and it rested on the storage crates for the DLVR-E systems. He pulled the cork with his teeth and took a swig. “Kinda … kinda feels like these kids are doomed.”
Sprocket lowered his mechanical legs a touch, bringing himself face-to-face with one DLVR-E that didn’t seem to be quite level. The machines needed to be in perfect condition before leaving, or risk never reaching their destinations. “And you will have taken a risk with no reward. I see your hesitation.”
“Right? I’m right, right?” Gazlowe snorted. “Don’t tell Charnas about this. He’s too sentimental.”
“He is fond of Thorne; it’s true.” The DLVR-E leaned back to the right, perfectly flat as it hovered, waiting to be dispatched. Sprocket glanced over at Gazlowe. He could see the goblin working on more reasons to drop out of the plan. “And if I understood Makasa correctly, they can’t really get the Diamond Blade unless they confront this Xaraax.”
At that, Gazlowe groaned. “Sure. Of course. There’s always a catch. I’m starting to think this diamond thing isn’t even real.”
Sprocket turned away, smirking. “But you know, there are benefits to sending out the fleet. Lucrative benefits.”
Gazlowe’s ears perked up at that. “Say again?”
“Well, usually when you help, you know, save the world, people give you some kind of reward. Can you imagine the kinds of treasure we might get for helping with their little quest?”
It was partially true, of course, what he had just told Gazlowe. Sprocket didn’t really care much about the Diamond Blade. He had easily inferred, with his superior and scientific mind, that the Diamond Blade was likely a magical relic, and not simply a sword made from precious stones. But dispatching these systems was a challenge—one that might bring fame to his inventions—and Sprocket loved a challenge. Plus, these were good kids, and they were trying to do the right thing. Yet if Gazlowe decided not to lend assistance, then Sprocket would have no reason to send the machines at all.
A minor deception, Sprocket reasoned, for the greater good. Or maybe just his good. He looked toward the village, thinking of the strange children that were so determined to risk everything for their mission. Yes, the greater good.
“Gazlowe.”
“Yeah?” He joined Sprocket at the machines, gazing up at them.
“I have made a calculation. Your odds of coming into a fortune—diamond or otherwise—increase by sixty-seven percent if we assist Makasa and her companions.”
Gazlowe rubbed his chin, his eyes suddenly glittering, filled with the dream of diamonds. “Sixty-seven percent, eh? Huh. I’m liking those odds better. All right, fine, Sprocket, send your little machines out.”
Grinning inside his suit, Sprocket felt a twinge of glee, sending the first of the DLVR-E machines soaring into the air. “I’m going to be famous,” he murmured.
At his side, Gazlowe gave a hoot. “And I’m going to be rich!”
* * *
The candles burned low, the shadows on the kitchen table growing longer and longer until at last, it was night. Makasa stared at the parchment laid out before her—their approach, their strategy, who would rush who and what weapons they would use, the best-case scenarios and the far bleaker contingencies. All of it had been carefully planned.
Makasa at last understood why Valdread wanted her to be patient, because now they had two meticulous plans. If their allies arrived in time for the battle, then they would proceed one way; if not? Well …
Makasa glanced at her crew. At Hackle, curled up near the hearth, sharing a rug with Soot, whom he had grudgingly come to tolerate, even if he couldn’t understand why the dog took orders from the family. Galena and Telagos dozed in the corner, books open and propped on their legs. Murky was still gone, and Makasa could only hope he returned soon and in one piece. The undead man sat across from her, who’d offered many valuable and unexpected insights as she plotted out each step.
All the pieces were on the board; now it was time to put them in motion.
“Makasa …”
She nodded, hanging her head.
“It’s not great,” she said, motioning to their contingency plan. “But it’s something. We can’t expect anyone to help us, and I just don’t think we can wait any longer.”
The messages had been sent. Sprocket was more than happy to put his DLVR-E fleet to the ultimate test, plugging in locations remotely so the speedy little disks could fly to the delivery points across the sea. Six, nearly seven days had passed. So much time. Would Aram still be alive by the time they reached Outland? Of course he would be. Makasa had decided long ago that if her brother died, she would sense it. Their connection through the shards, the Voice, and as family would tell her. She couldn’t explain it, but she knew he was still out there.
Waiting.
“Do you think Malus will expect us to come after him?” she asked.
Valdread considered this with his chin propped in his one hand. “No, I don’t think he will. He’s arrogant. It doesn’t matter that you’ve nearly stopped him so many times. He left you alive at the Northwatch encampment, and that tells us much. He doesn’t consider you all a threat. More than that, even if he knew I was alive, he doesn’t have the imagination to consider we would ever make an alliance.”
“It is pretty unlikely,” Makasa teased.
“All the better for us. Unpredictability may win us the day.” Valdread’s voice dropped, growing hoarser. “May.”
They both knew victory lived in the slim margin between extreme luck and almost assured catastrophe.
“You don’t have to help us,” she reminded him. “We … The odds aren’t in our favor. You could just leave.”
“Now, why would I do that?” Valdread chuckled and nudged her shoulder, a nudge she should have minded more. “Ssarbik needs to be taught a lesson. Malus had me flung off a cliff and left me for dead. And I’m not so keen on letting Azeroth be destroyed anymore; I rather like some of the people here. Besides, I’m already dead, Makasa; what could be worse?”
“Torture? Prolonged, eternal torture at the hands of a demon army?”
Valdread raised both shabby brows. “Our resemblance becomes more unmistakable by the day.”
Makasa rolled up their battle plan, tucking it under one arm. A chair screeched behind them, and she turned to find Ceya Glade watching them from the kitchen. Her eyes fell on Makasa and Valdread as they pushed away from the table, nodding toward the back door.
“I’ll just be outside; someone should keep watch for the murloc,” Valdread said.
He dodged around Ceya, then vanished silently into the night. Aram’s mother slid up to the table, a dishrag flopped over one shoulder. For a moment, she just drank in the sight of the strange children she had temporarily adopted. Every meal, she cooked. She helped them with laundry. She let her children play
fight with Hackle and Murky. Her home was open to them, and Makasa still marveled at her generosity. Her strength.
Drella was right. Strength could be soft. It could be a warm slice of bread with honey in the morning. It could be lovingly made stew at night. It could be the offer of shelter and the kindness of a hearth.
“We’ll be out of your hair soon,” Makasa said quietly. “Thank you, Ceya, for everything you’ve done.”
Ceya nodded, biting down on her lip. “Just tell me how many meals I should pack.”
“You don’t have to—”
“But I do. You’ve all been working so hard. You don’t think I see it, but I do. My son is out there somewhere. Greydon is out there. The day you showed up on our doorstep, you promised to bring Aramar home.”
Makasa risked putting a hand over Ceya’s on the table. “And I will keep that promise.”
“The way you bring him home is with your feet, with your hands, with that harpoon you carry everywhere. My way of bringing him home is with this.” She took her free hand and flipped it palm up. “Food. Shelter. Hope. If I can give you all those things, then I will.”
“We have a good plan,” Makasa assured her. “It will work.”
“I saw you dashing off all those messages,” Ceya said with a smile. “Who are they for?”
“It was your idea.”
Ceya blinked. “Mine?”
“Yes. You were telling us at supper one night how Aramar made all these unusual friends, and he put them in his sketchbook to remember forever. Well, we’re hoping they remember him, too. We sent a fleet of flying machines to his allies, and we asked them for help. For Aramar.”
Ceya’s eyes filled with tears, and she pressed her knuckles to her lips. “Do … do you think they’ll come?”
“If they can, then they will. That’s why we haven’t left yet,” she explained. “We’re giving them time to meet us in the Blasted Lands.”
“That doesn’t sound very cheery.”
Makasa smirked. “They’ll do it,” she said. “For your son.”
* * *
It was hard to say good-bye, but the zeppelin was waiting, and Murky’s gamble had paid off: Every available Everstill murloc in fighting form agreed to help, mustering in the hills near the Cloudkicker. (Apparently, the murlocs were less impressed with Murky’s familial connection than they were with his heroic exploits as “Murky the Unstung.” They wanted to seek glory, too, and they couldn’t get that by harassing the humans of Lakeshire.) Even if no one else came, at least they would have a small army of murlocs helping them fight. Gazlowe needed to return to Gadgetzan, and he agreed to drop them off at the Dark Portal, but that was it. After all, he was a lover, not a fighter, and he had already performed too many favors.
The Shining Blade Page 20