The Spiral Path

by Greg Weisman

  “Yes. Clearer now than before.”

  “Do you know who I am? What I am?”

  “You’re the Light. The Voice of the Light. And I’m to … ‘save you’ somehow. That’s all I know. Can you tell me more? I want to know—need to know—more.”

  “Turn to me. Look upon me, Aramar Thorne, and much will be revealed.”

  Aram turned toward the Light. He had seen it many times before in his dreams—even prior to all his strange new troubles—and every one of those times, it had nearly blinded him. Now, it was brighter still, and yet Aram steeled himself and did not turn away. Did not blink.

  “The answers you seek,” the Voice said, “are in the Light. Approach.”

  Aram walked forward. It wasn’t easy. The Light seemed to have substance, and moving through it was like swimming through molasses. But a determined Aram persisted. “I have so many questions,” Aram said.

  “The answers you seek,” the Voice repeated, “are in the Light.”

  “No,” a new voice said grimly. “Only death lives in that Light.” A looming silhouette interposed itself between Aram and the Light, blocking Aram’s way. “You will receive no answers, learn no secrets here,” the silhouette said in a dark, angry baritone. “You will surrender the compass and give up this quest—or you will die.”

  “No!” Aram shouted defiantly. “My father gave me that compass!”

  Striking like a cobra, the silhouette grabbed Aram by his torn shirtfront and pulled him in close enough so that the boy could make out the features of this obstacle, this opponent. They were nearly as familiar as those of his father. The bushy black eyebrows, the wide forehead and square jaw, the nearly black eyes, glaring at him with a look of pure fury. It was Captain Malus. The man who had killed Greydon Thorne. “Boy,” Malus croaked, “if you miss your father that much, I can easily arrange for you to join him.” His free hand wrapped around the compass and snapped it off its chain.

  Aram woke with a start and a gasp that made Hackle wheel about in place and snapped Makasa out of her light slumber. (Murky, however, bravely bubbled on.)

  “What is it?” Makasa asked as Aram threw off his father’s coat and frantically reached under his sweater and shirt until he could feel the cold metal of the compass in his grip. And even that wasn’t enough. He pulled it out from under his clothes so he could confirm it still remained in his possession.

  To all appearances, it was nothing all that special. The compass, which hung from a gold chain around his neck, had a white face in a brass setting. Gold initials—N, E, S, W—labeled its four points. The only thing at all unusual about it was the crystal needle, which pointed not north but to the southeast. So mostly, it appeared broken.

  But appearances can be deceiving.

  How had Thalyss described it?v

  “It is a shard of pure starlight from the heavens,” the druid had said, “imbued with the celestial spark … Simply put, the crystal needle is not of this world. There is an enchantment of some kind upon it.”

  And that had proven itself true, a hundredfold. Aram’s father had given him the compass in the most desperate of circumstances, as practically his last act on this world. He had charged Aram to protect it at all costs, and had promised it would “lead you where you need to go!”

  Aram had thought that meant it would lead him home to Lakeshire. Then, as now, he desperately missed his mother, Ceya, his stepfather, Robb, his half siblings, Robertson and Selya, and his dog, Soot. Aram missed their old, uneventful life in the cottage beside the forge, where Robb Glade had been teaching him to be a simple town blacksmith—not a sailor, and certainly not some kind of unwilling traveler across the blasted wilderness. He missed his mother’s cooking and her gentle embrace. He missed roughhousing with Robertson and cuddling with Selya and rambling along the shores of Lake Everstill with Soot.

  But the compass was not a ticket home. Its needle had eventually led Aram to another crystal shard, a slightly larger sibling of its own. In fact, the closer the compass had come to the new shard, the more, well … alive the device had seemed. The needle had begun to glow, and when Aram was very close, the compass literally moved of its own volition, snapping off its chain and flying through the air to meet its kin or kind.

  These shards, Aram knew, were part of the Light. The Light he had seen and heard in his dreams and visions. The Light he was somehow meant to save.

  “Another dream?” Makasa asked.

  Aram nodded, not yet able to speak, not yet able to do much more than turn the compass over and over in his hands.

  “Of this Light?” she prompted again.

  Aram swallowed and found his voice. “Yeah,” he said. “But not just the Light. He was there, too.”

  “Who? Your father?”

  “No. Malus.”

  Fury flooded over her face at the mere mention of the name. But she said nothing.

  “I know why he wants the compass now,” Aram said. “He wants to stop me—stop anyone—from saving the Light.”

  And that, as far as it went, was true. But when it came to Malus, it wasn’t going nearly far enough.

  At that very moment, torches blazed in Dire Maul, the Gordunni ogre stronghold, as Captain Malus marshaled his now considerable forces to hunt Aram down.

  Having killed the ogre king Gordok in single combat, the human Malus had declared himself the new Gordok, putting every single ogre under his single command, in service of his single-minded cause.

  The one ogre that Malus had brought with him, Throgg of the Shattered Hand clan, had been tasked with supervising the complete and total evacuation of Dire Maul: emptying each and every hut and stone dwelling, and scattering each and every ogre—male and female, ancient and child—into the wilderness, across the rain forests of Feralas, the flooded canyon of Thousand Needles, and the simmering desert of Tanaris, to search for Aram and the compass.

  Throgg performed these tasks, for Throgg was loyal to Malus. Of this, there could be no question. But Throgg also believed in the traditions of Throgg’s people, and Throgg knew Throgg’s captain had abused those traditions by declaring Malus king. And, yes, Throgg would follow Malus to the ends of Azeroth and into the very jaws of death—whatever jaws there might be. But pledging Throgg’s service to Malus had been Throgg’s choice.

  This was different.

  For as Throgg watched females, infants bundled on their backs, ushering their young from their homes for the cold night’s forced march, Throgg knew deep in Throgg’s substantial chest that this was not right!

  Throgg of the Shattered Hand slowly screwed Throgg’s mace attachment onto the metal stump of Throgg’s right wrist, as Malus—Gordok—approached to supervise Throgg’s supervision. As Gordunni ogres marched past, Malus said, “I know we killed most of their elite warriors last night, but pull out the best of what remains and bring them to Gordok’s throne room. I’ll meet you there.”

  Throgg nodded, but Throgg’s discomfort—even resentment—was plain to see on Throgg’s face.

  Malus patted Throgg on Throgg’s arm and said, “When we have the boy—or, at any rate, the compass—this will all be over. I will hand Gordok’s crown to whichever ogre you choose, Throgg. And the Gordunni will return to Dire Maul.”

  Throgg considered this for a little while, slowly screwing the notion into Throgg’s brain. Finally, Throgg nodded again, satisfied. For now.

  Malus turned away before Throgg could see the contempt in his captain’s eyes. Malus needed to maintain the loyalty of Throgg the Truly Dim, since he was the only member of the Hidden who was truly loyal to Malus. Thus, it was no great sacrifice to be reasonable with the ogre and feign respect for what Throgg held sacred. But it was a genuine annoyance, not to mention a distraction from the man’s greater concerns.

  The rest of the Hidden had already gathered before the old king’s massive stone throne. Here was Zathra, their tracker; Valdread, their swordsman; and Ssarbik, their sorcerer. The first two were mercenaries, loyal only to Malus’s
purse. The last wasn’t loyal at all. Or at least not to Malus. Ssarbik served the same master Malus served and could rarely go five minutes without expressing his contempt for the substance and style of Malus’s command.

  “What do you hope to accomplish with theezze brainlesss ogrezz?” Ssarbik hissed through his beak.

  Malus had covered this ground already. He glared down at the hunchbacked, birdlike arakkoa and growled his explanation again: “We know the boy heads for Gadgetzan.”

  “You do not know thissss. You merely sssurmizze it.”

  “And you surmise something different, I suppose?” asked Valdread in a whisper, emerging from the shadows of his hooded head like sand blowing across the desert. The overstrong scent of jasmine water also emerged from under his hood, hiding the stench of his decay. For Baron Reigol Valdread was one of the Forsaken, raised into undeath by dark sorcery—but with his mind and free will restored by further magicks.

  His whispered query to Ssarbik had held more than a hint of a wry smile. The baron had little respect for the arakkoa, but Malus hardly appreciated the support. Valdread’s greatest enemy was boredom, and Malus knew that his undead swordsman would do anything to break up the monotony of his undead existence. Sowing dissent among the Hidden was one of his favorite pastimes, which—like Throgg’s scruples or Ssarbik’s insubordination—was just another distraction that Malus didn’t need.

  So he didn’t wait for the flustered, sputtering Ssarbik to respond. As Throgg entered the chamber, followed by half a dozen more ogres, Malus said, “We are confident of the child’s destination, but not of his route. By scattering the Gordunni across three regions, we reduce the risk of missing him.”

  “And if dem ogres catch da boy? Or if we grab him up?” asked Zathra, the sinewy, orange-skinned Sandfury troll.

  Ssarbik perked up, happy to have been handed a new club with which to bash his captain. “Then our fearlesss leader will find another exxcusse to ssspare him!”

  “No,” Malus shot back, cold and merciless. “I gave Aramar Thorne every chance to hand over the compass and walk away with his life. But he’s as stubborn as his fool of a father and has made his choice. So I wash my hands of him. We’ve told the ogres. Now I’m telling all of you. Find the boy. Do what you have to do. But bring me that compass.”

  The troll seemed pleased with that response. She stroked her breastplate and it shimmied and clicked, causing a couple of the new ogres to take a step back. Malus smiled darkly. He knew Zathra’s living armor was actually a three-foot-long scorpid female, which the sand troll called Skitter and treated as a beloved pet.

  Zathra said, “Good ta know, mon. I gonna feed my loa wid dat boy’s blood. Dat boy an’ all a his friends make some meal for da gods. Wid maybe a bit left over for Skitter an’ me.” She licked her lips, hungrily.

  Malus ignored her bloodlust. He was studying the six ogres Throgg had collected. One of them—a striking female warrior, seven feet tall with ashy blue skin—stepped forward, her hand resting easy on her broadsword’s hilt. Throgg nodded his head toward her, saying, “This Karrga. Karrga got …” He searched for the word.

  “Information,” she prompted.

  “Yeah. That.”

  Malus liked her already. First word out of her mouth and it has four syllables. As ogres go, she must be a genius.

  Karrga bowed her head slightly and spoke: “New Gordok know old Gordok like his fun.” There was no love for her former king in her tone. “Fun mean slaves to fight, so old Gordok send raiders to get more slaves. Send Wordok west. Send Marjuk east. Wordok come back with your boy.”

  “He’s not my boy,” Malus said, slightly cross.

  She shrugged but otherwise ignored the interruption. “Boy’s friends killed Wordok last night. But Marjuk still not back. Marjuk big stinking ogre. Won’t serve human Gordok.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” the human Gordok asked.

  She smiled. “Marjuk wanna be Gordok. But Karrga no want that. Marjuk killed Karrga’s father over a pig. Human Gordok be ready, so human Gordok can kill Marjuk, right?”

  “Right,” Malus said. They understood each other. “Except tonight you will be heading east with Throgg of the Shattered Hand. Your path may cross Marjuk’s before his crosses mine. So I give you my permission. You may kill Marjuk.”

  She frowned slightly and slid her sword—an unusual weapon for an ogre—a few inches out of its scabbard. “Karrga may kill Marjuk. Or Marjuk may kill Karrga. Karrga not afraid. But Karrga not sure.” She slid her sword home again.

  She’s even smart enough to know her limitations.

  Throgg stepped forward stiffly and declared, “Throgg of Shattered Hand will kill Marjuk. Throgg sure.”

  Karrga glanced at her new king for confirmation. Malus nodded, glancing with amused curiosity at Throgg. Was Throgg being … chivalrous?

  Karrga seemed satisfied. “Throgg kill Marjuk. Karrga sure now.”

  Throgg smiled stupidly … more stupidly than usual. To hide it, he scratched his forehead horn with one of his mace spikes. It belatedly occurred to Malus that this Karrga was capable of wrapping Throgg around her not-so-little finger. Still, Malus liked her. She was smart, which meant she could be useful. Plus, if Throgg killed her blood enemy under the flag of the new Gordok, that could cement her loyalty to both Throgg and Malus. Nevertheless, he’d have to keep his eye on her. It’s a fine line between useful and dangerous.

  Malus turned to face the other five newcomers as Throgg made introductions. The new Gordok wasn’t particularly interested in learning his subjects’ names—but was canny enough to fake it.

  Throgg identified two eight-foot-tall male identical twins as Ro’kull and Ro’jak. Both were ruddy-skinned and held massive identical battleaxes.

  Next was Short-Beard and Long-Beard, a two-headed ogre with skin the color of a mottled peach. Each head was bald and sported a single thick horn from its brow. They had white beards of eponymous lengths. Long-Beard, on the right, also had a long neck, topping him out at about nine feet tall. On the left, Short-Beard was a couple of inches shorter. He (or they) held an iron mace in either hand.

  Slepgar was a pale-red giant of an ogre, easily twelve feet in height, with muscles piled upon muscles. He cradled a tremendous war club in his arms and yawned as if Malus were keeping him up past his bedtime.

  Last, there was Guz’luk, an older, potbellied ogre with dark-grey skin and a round, jowly face. He was small relative to the others at only six feet. Guz’luk had a ram’s horn tied to his belt and a morningstar that Malus recognized as the former property of the late Gordok. Obviously, the potbellied ogre had salvaged it from the arena after Malus had taken it from Gordok and used it to end his predecessor’s life. Well, what of it? Malus himself had kept Gordok’s long curved dagger. No sense letting a perfectly good weapon go to waste.

  Malus knew that in their rapid conquest of the Gordunni, the Hidden had been forced to kill most of Gordok’s best warriors. Nevertheless, he was impressed with Throgg’s selections. They were still ogres and—perhaps with the exception of Karrga—probably as dim as Throgg himself, but as warriors (or, if necessary, as cannon fodder), they had real potential.

  Malus addressed them now, Gordunni and Hidden alike: “The boy travels with a gnoll, a murloc, and a human woman.”

  “A human woman of no little skill,” Valdread whispered.

  Malus nodded. He didn’t want them underestimating Thorne’s allies. “They may also be in the company of a night elf shapeshifter and perhaps even a wyvern. Together, they may be a match for the rest of the Gordunni hunting parties. But you are my Elite. You will find the boy, and no matter who protects him, you will bring me the compass he carries. Head southeast. Make your way to Gadgetzan. One way or another, we’ll rendezvous there.”

  Eight ogre heads nodded solemnly. The troll nodded, too, while absently stroking Skitter. Valdread was enigmatic under his hood. The arakkoa grumbled something unintelligible.

  “Zathra, you’re
in command,” Malus said.

  “Yes, mon.”

  “Zzathra? Zzathra?!” Ssarbik squawked. “Why put her in command?!”

  “Because you and I will be aboard the Inevitable, sailing into port. The Thorne boy has a substantial head start and may still be riding that wyvern. If he avoids the hunting parties and reaches his destination, I want to be waiting in Gadgetzan … to greet him. Open a portal.”

  Now, finally, the arakkoa smiled. “A portal to the ship musst needzz take uhss through Outland,” he said, barely concealing his glee. “And if we passs through Outland, the Masster will want a report. He will demand one.”

  “Why do you tell me what I already know?” Malus asked rhetorically. “Open a portal.”

  Ssarbik’s head bobbed happily, and he began to chant: “We are the Hidden, the voyagerzz of Shadow. We ssserve and will conquer. What we conquer will Burn. Burn down the barrierzz that divide uhss from the Masster. Burn azz the Masster willzz. Burn for the Hidden. Burn. Burn.”

  The very air before the arakkoa burst into dark flame. The ogres and troll stepped back. Zathra’s breastplate skittered up and over her shoulder to armor her back. Only Valdread, Ssarbik, and Malus didn’t retreat. But Malus could feel Ssarbik’s borrowed power, and as the hairs on his arms stood at attention, the new king of the ogres willed himself not to move a muscle, not to reveal any weakness or trepidation—not at Ssarbik’s display of magic or in anticipation of facing Ssarbik’s “Masster.”

  The airborne flames expanded swiftly into a purple-black oval, a portal just big enough for Malus to walk through if he ducked his head a bit.

  Rubbing his feathered hands together, Ssarbik shuffled through the mystic gate, disappearing into the black. Malus watched Long-Beard stretch his neck, expecting to see the arakkoa emerge out the other side. But the bird-man did not emerge. He had vanished into the portal.

  Malus strode forward and through, and an instant later the portal collapsed upon itself. The sorcerer and the ogre king were gone.