“I have a reputation to protect!” he told Makasa. “But I’ll do this one last thing for ya. Let’s bring that kid home.”
The Glade family joined them at the clearing where Gazlowe, Sprocket, and Charnas had been hiding the Cloudkicker. It was yet another astonishing sight for the Glades, particularly Robertson and Selya, the little boy proclaiming that he would make one of those someday, but bigger and covered in swords.
The airship hovered just off the ground, the massive spinning turbines flattening the sparse grass in the rocky clearing. Gazlowe, Charnas, and Sprocket helped the Everstill murlocs board. A line of yellow and green murlocs, decked out in their finest armor, spears, and nets, steadily filed up the ladder and onto the ship. Murky watched over their progress proudly, his little chest puffed out as he helped them up onto the ladder.
Makasa waved him over, and the murloc joined their group, the Glades on one side, the odd assortment of travelers facing them.
Ceya darted forward to hug Makasa, holding her for a long time. “I think I shall miss having you all here.”
“The larder certainly won’t miss them,” Robb teased, clapping Hackle on the back.
“Just think of it! What other woman in Lakeshire can boast of hosting a tauren, a dragon, a pirate, a gnoll, a murloc, and a—” She glanced precariously at Valdread.
“A baron,” he supplied with a polite half bow.
“Yes,” Ceya said. “A baron.”
“Thanks again for everything; we couldn’t have done this without you.” Makasa hugged the woman back, seeing in her such warmth. Aram really was lucky. Murky burst into tears, throwing his slender, slimy arms around Selya and Robertson, who also were inconsolable at their parting.
“The next time we see you,” Makasa said, pulling away and hefting her harpoon, “it will be with Aram and Greydon.”
“Please be careful, and thank you. I know Greydon and Aram would be touched to know you were risking so much for their sakes,” Ceya said, waving as the group gave their last hugs and good-byes, Robb eventually peeling his children away from Murky and Hackle.
A palpable bittersweetness hung in the air. Makasa boarded the ship last, hesitating, not only because she hated flying but because she would genuinely miss the Glades. They were nothing like her family. Less exciting, maybe, but steady, more reliable. If she could have Ceya’s stew for dinner every single night, she would.
And beyond missing them, she knew what boarding the Cloudkicker meant for her personally, and for Aram’s chances. Even if she promised Ceya over and over again that her son would be okay, Makasa knew there was a good chance none of them would ever see Lakeshire again. Valdread was right—a bloody and terrible battle loomed, and it would take equal parts luck and skill to get out of it alive.
With tears stinging her eyes, Makasa left the safety of the ground, watching from the deck of the Cloudkicker as the Glades grew smaller and smaller, the ship roaring into the air, Robertson and Selya waving, she knew, until long after they could see the zeppelin.
With so many new companions, the Cloudkicker felt a mite cramped, but they managed, dividing into cabins as best they could, Murky deciding to stay with his brethren and get to know them better.
“You have to hand it to the little guy,” Valdread said as a dozen or so murlocs crammed into one small cabin and began chattering away. “He came through.”
“Murky once saved Aram from a whale shark in the Shimmering Deep,” she said. “He’s small, but he always comes through.”
“What do you think we’ll find at the Dark Portal?” he asked, leaning onto the railing as the Cloudkicker looped over the town and headed south. They had a long way to go, and Makasa was just thankful they didn’t have to make the journey on foot.
“Hope for the best; plan for the worst,” she said. The verdant forests of Lakeshire gave way to the darker green smudges of a swamp. Makasa closed her eyes, feeling the cool air rush fast against her face, rustling her hair and the gold hoop earrings she wore every day. “But I just—I just …”
“Yes?”
“I’ve been to exotic places, met fascinating people, seen wondrous things in my travels. Each new experience I thought of as isolated: a pretty bead in a jeweler’s drawer—separate, never strung together to mean something bigger. But since the Wavestrider sank, since the Voice of the Light began guiding me and Aram, I’ve started to think about it more.”
Valdread nodded, silent.
“Flipping through Aram’s sketchbook has made me string the beads of our adventures together and look at the whole of it. I don’t know if I believe in fate or anything like that, but I have to think this is all happening because something or someone is making it happen. That we’re meant to stand against Malus and reforge the Diamond Blade, that we’ve done what we’ve done and met who we’ve met so that we’ll have allies in our fight.”
“Your optimism is impressive,” Valdread said with a short laugh. “But better to expect the worst, like you said. Even if those flying contraptions delivered every single message—”
“I know,” she murmured. “I know. They would have to cross an entire sea, and I’m not sure how good gnolls are with seafaring. Or yetis, come to think of it. Perhaps Magistrix Elmarine can portal them, if she gets the message in time.”
“If we can free Aramar and Greydon, then we can add two more to our number,” he pointed out. “That’s why it’s in our battle plan, Makasa: It could be enough to tip the balance. And I’m confident Throgg is winnable to our side; Malus disrespected the ogres’ traditions when he declared himself king of Dire Maul, and then he used the ogres for his own ends. His friend Karrga is less certain; she’s inexplicably loyal to Malus. How anyone can still follow him after they saw him just cast me aside …”
“What you did was hard,” Makasa said. “Standing up for Drella, trying to save her life—I never properly thanked you for that. You should give yourself more credit.”
Valdread stared. “Was that a compliment?”
“I’m going belowdecks. This might be our last chance to rest up.”
Her words proved prophetic. A storm thundered over the Swamp of Sorrows, rocking the ship so badly Makasa feared it might fall out of the sky. Makasa clung to her cot, listening to the army of murlocs on board burble and shout with fear. Side to side, side to side, the ship tossed, then dipped up and down. The wind whistled hard, tearing at them from the north.
“It’s our lucky day, boys! We ride this squall all the way past Nethergarde!”
Gazlowe whooped and hollered on the deck, and she heard him prancing around in the storm, doing a little jig. She had no idea what Nethergarde was or how the goblin could be so cheerful about the storm until she felt the whole ship accelerate, pushed along at speed by the wind gusting from the north. They were going to reach the Dark Portal in a day if they kept up that pace.
But eventually the storm ceased, leaving them all in sudden and eerie silence. Makasa crawled, woozy, out of her cot and peered out the porthole. The last sludgy pocket of water from the swamp oozed against a rising set of hills, the soil turning from dark, loamy brown to red. The whole landscape to the south looked as if it had been dyed with blood, nothing but the hardest scrub bushes daring to grow. Night fell slowly around the ship, and Makasa returned to her cot, forcing herself to close her eyes and sleep. By the time dawn came, they would have reached the portal, and she had every intention of meeting the enemy rested and strong. Trained. Prepared. She was a better fighter now, honed by Valdread, and she was ready to show Malus all the deadly tricks she had learned.
Closing her eyes, she concentrated on the gentle hum under her head. She had placed the reforged blade of the Diamond Blade under her pillow for safekeeping. The blade seemed to warm under her as she pulled the blanket up around her neck and tried to sleep. Maybe it sensed it was almost time to become whole, to end Xaraax and the threat to Azeroth.
“I’m coming, Aram,” she whispered to the darkness. “Just hold on. I’m com
ing.”
The dry red stones of the Blasted Lands seemed even more bleached and desolate under a cloudless sky. The sun beat down on them mercilessly, baking all the passengers aboard the Cloudkicker as it eased southwest, passing over sharp hills, red boars, and pockets of Alliance patrols traveling the roads. They looked tiny from the sky, those soldiers, like toys. Valdread closed one eye and placed his thumb out in front of him, pretending to rub out the patrol. The view from the Cloudkicker made one feel godlike, and everything below inconsequential.
Valdread was getting a taste for air travel, but sadly it was soon to be over.
The Dark Portal bled into view: a tall, strange window set against the mountainside. From that distance, it simply looked like a massive door, but the unsettling, swirling mass inside it hinted at its dangers and its mysteries.
He had heard plenty of tales of Outland, some from those that had been there and seen it with their own eyes, but he had never thought to go there himself. The portal itself was far larger than he expected, flanked by two solemn statues, hooded figures with hidden faces and glowing eyes. A massive snake was carved along its top, coiled as if ready to strike.
Soon they would know the odds. Soon, at least, the wondering would be at an end.
“Here.”
Valdread turned to find Makasa Flintwill standing behind him, holding a familiar hand out to him. Familiar because it was his own. Smiling, he accepted the gift, then with a mighty twist, reattached the arm at the shoulder socket. Flexing his hand and then stretching, he felt, at last, whole.
“You earned it,” she said. “You’re part of the crew now. Don’t make me regret it.”
Nodding, he turned back around, and she slid up to the railing next to him. He noticed more things about her every day. She had her mother’s hair and dark, even skin, but she had his narrow, elegant nose and proud chin.
“Look at that thing,” she breathed, catching sight of the portal. “I didn’t think it would be so, so—”
“Intimidating?”
“Yeah.” She gulped. “I can’t believe we have to walk through that.”
“Close your eyes when we do,” he suggested. “Traveling through portals is disorienting. You can get turned around, twisted. You’ll feel less nauseous on the other side if you just keep your eyes closed.”
“I don’t think I’d want to look anyway.”
He watched her squint into the distance and knew at once what she was searching for. She cupped a hand over her eyes, worrying her bottom lip.
“You didn’t really think they would come, did you?” he asked softly.
“I guess I did. Stupid, huh?”
Valdread shook his head. “A good leader tries for every advantage. You did the right thing, trying to acquire their aid.”
“I just hope they tried to get here, you know? Even if they couldn’t quite make it in time, I hope they tried.”
“Tell yourself they did, if that makes it easier to face the fight ahead.”
She was tough for a kid. Tougher than he had been at seventeen. She would have trounced him easily in a fight, were they of the same age. Makasa had inherited her mother’s build, excellent for one-on-one combat, a brawler’s stature. Somehow that didn’t make her any less quick with a blade, or harpoon, and he admired that.
“Ready the others,” he said. “This is your command, not mine.”
Makasa gave a weak smile. “An army of murlocs at my beck and call. Think they’ll name me queen?”
“That depends. How are your net-mending skills?”
She chuckled and turned away, going to muster the full might they had brought aboard the Cloudkicker. It wasn’t much, Valdread thought, but if they were smart, fast, and coordinated, they might just surprise Malus before he could mount a proper defense. There was always a chance that Malus had sent some of his agents away. It would make sense, in fact, for him to send out seeking fingers, looking, looking, spying to try and divine just where Makasa had gone with the missing shard from Aram’s compass.
That must have put him in quite the rage, Valdread thought, arriving back in Outland only to discover that the compass didn’t have any of its magic left. He only hoped he got to rub it in the captain’s face, and let him know it was stuck to Valdread’s boot all along.
The ship began its descent, the portal growing in size and doom as they drew up closer to it. A few scattered and abandoned command tents littered the field in front of the portal. Loud, throbbing energy hummed from the depths, its strange, black surface tinged with pale green along the edges, where portal met stone. He shivered, dreading it, wishing there had been another way to their destination. It would be a story for the ages, though, provided he survived long enough to make use of the tale.
“Hey, where’s the welcome wagon?” the goblin Gazlowe shouted from the helm. He, like Valdread, had noticed the emptiness of the valley below. No gnolls. No yetis. Help had not come.
“Where is everyone?” the artist, Charnas, added, hoisting himself up to the railing to look over the edge. “Aram took the time to draw them all, to help them, that must mean something!”
“Try telling that to a yeti,” Valdread drawled, strolling up to peer over the tops of their green heads. “Perhaps young Aramar should have given them a few bear carcasses instead of the gift of his talent.”
Charnas muttered, “So ungrateful.”
“It was a long shot,” Valdread reminded them. “Powerful as your invention may be, Sprocket, Kalimdor is halfway across the world. We will simply have to rely on ourselves, and thankfully, you all have me. I’m practically a one-man army.”
“Sure. Good thing you got all your parts back or you’d be a one-armed army,” Gazlowe muttered, holding his nose while Sprocket and Charnas chortled.
“Would you four get serious? This isn’t funny.”
Makasa had a point. She had organized their small force, the murlocs in uneven ranks behind Murky, spears at the ready, Galena, Telagos, and Hackle waiting in a line by the ladder. The druid fidgeted nervously, tugging on her dark braids, while Hackle smacked the butt of his club, ready for battle.
“Taking us down. Hold on to your butts,” Gazlowe called.
The Cloudkicker jerked to the side, then lowered more elegantly, at last hovering several feet off the ground, red dust rising in a hazy circle around them.
“This is as far as I go,” Gazlowe said, leaving the helm to say good-bye to Makasa and the others. He extended his hand, but Makasa swooped down, pulling him into a hug. “Unless you’re hiding diamonds somewhere. That’s my price, you know? I don’t do things for free.”
“You’ve done more than enough,” she said. “We wouldn’t have made it here without you. I promise you’ll get … We’ll pay you back somehow.”
“Have courage!” Charnas called, watching as the murlocs began scampering down the ladder. Galena and Telagos followed, then Hackle and Murky, who had been delayed saying good-bye to their friends.
Valdread went last, weapons strapped to his back, the dry red dust obscuring the way down, making it look as if they were climbing into a sandstorm. Well, they were dropping into a storm, certainly, for nothing but chaos and uncertainty awaited them on the other side of the Dark Portal. From below, where the ladder disappeared into the gritty haze, he heard Makasa cry out. Had she fallen?
He dropped down nimbly, waiting for the dust to clear as the Cloudkicker rose again, hovering above them. Slowly, Valdread saw the veil of red dust lift, revealing the command tents he had seen from the sky. He had seen the tents, certainly, but not what was inside.
Makasa had not fallen and hurt herself, no. She had called out in joy, finding squads of volunteers waiting for them. The messages had not been sent in vain. The gnolls had come, and so had the yetis, and the four bat-winged wyverns, one larger and three younger beasts, waiting under the tents, making camp, no doubt seeking reprieve from the harsh sun.
“Who are all these people?” Valdread asked, noticing a mismatched pair
that had marked their arrival—a gloriously bearded tauren and a rather glamorously beautiful high elf. A stout, dangerous-looking quilboar stepped out from behind the elf, bristling.
“Friends,” Makasa whispered. “That’s … The tauren is Wuul Breezerider, and the elf is Magistrix Elmarine. The spiky one is Shagtusk. You might remember her from the Bone Pile.”
Valdread noticed that the tauren was missing one leg. Where have I seen him before? When Wuul caught the undead’s lingering gaze, the tauren beat his hand against his chest and shouted, “I survived the gladiator arena of Dire Maul. Keep looking at me like that, dead man, and I’ll split your skull for you!”
Valdread smiled. “Impressive.”
The group rushed ahead, but Valdread took his time, aware that his presence might only arouse suspicion.
“Sivet!” Hackle hurled himself into the yipping and cackling gnoll army. “Jaggal! You come!”
“Yes, we come; we not miss battle!” Sivet called. She had a more feminine voice than Hackle, and wore a charming necklace of severed fingers and ears of various origin. She wielded a club, too, as well as the larger gnoll, whom Hackle had called Jaggal. They all embraced warmly, though none quite shed a tear. That would have been a sight to see.
The yetis emerged from their larger, taller tent, roaring with eagerness. They were led by the largest creature Valdread had laid eyes on—larger than Throgg or Karrga, brown-furred and heavily scarred, with giant, sweeping horns rising from his head, the color of a cloudy sky.
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