The Spiral Path

by Greg Weisman

  Come dawn, Aram, Makasa, Murky, and Hackle broke camp, taking inventory of their stores and possessions. Well, of their possessions. They had no stores at all.

  Hackle didn’t have much to reckon: just the large ironwood war club, studded with three or four iron nails, that he had liberated from the brutal Wordok after Makasa had wounded the broad-backed ogre, giving Hackle the opportunity to finish him off. Considering Hackle’s history with that particular ogre, it had been a moment of tremendous satisfaction for the gnoll, and Wordok’s club was Hackle’s spoils. True, it was a tad too big, a tad too heavy for the adolescent gnoll, but Hackle was already growing broad of shoulder, and he would grow into it yet.

  Murky had nothing to reckon at all. He just looked around the camp, again muttering, “Nk mgrrrrl, nk mgrrrrl …” Now, Aram understood. To entangle and delay Valdread the Whisper-Man during their escape from Dire Maul, Murky had sacrificed his fishing nets. Thalyss once said that a murloc has no more valuable possession than his or her nets. Murky’s nets had been his only possession, and he was more than a little bereft without them.

  Makasa had her shield, chain, cutlass, hatchet, two gold coins, Thalyss’s canteen, and her abiding longing for her harpoon. (She looked around the campsite much as Murky did, as if somehow it would yield up to them the items that had never been there in the first place. In fact, Aram would not have been surprised to hear her murmuring, “Nk harpoon, nk harpoon …”)

  Aram, by far, had the most to keep track of. Of chief importance was the compass on the chain around his neck. The chain’s fastening had snapped the other day and had been only crudely repaired, so Aram confirmed it was sure.

  Next, he pulled on his boots and, as the day was already growing steamy, tied both his mother’s sweater and his father’s coat around his waist. His linen shirt was shredded in back and sliced open in front, but the pocket was intact, and his coal pencil was still safe inside it.

  The four pockets of his breeches contained two more gold coins, his oilskin-wrapped sketchbook, an oilskin-wrapped case of flints, and three oilskin maps. A used cutlass, taken from the dead hand of a pirate and traitor, hung at his belt.

  A purple-dyed leather pouch was also securely tied to his belt. In it was the newly found crystal shard and an oilskin-wrapped acorn the size of his fist. This last item was the “Seed of Thalyss,” which Aram had seen the night elf use to magically grow everything from tasty vegetables to a massive oak tree. As life was slipping away from the druid, he had extracted a promise from Aram and the others to bring the Seed to Gadgetzan and deliver it safely to a night elf druid tender named Faeyrine Springsong. Along with that final request, Thalyss Greyoak had used his final breath to relay a final admonition: “Do not … let it … get … wet …” Aram wasn’t sure why that mattered—but he was determined to keep the acorn safe and dry, and to honor his friend’s dying wish.

  Aram unfolded the oilskin map of Kalimdor and knelt to consult it with Makasa. After a little study, she reckoned it would take their small band about two weeks to walk to Gadgetzan along the shore of the Cataclysm-flooded Thousand Needles. Less time, if they somehow managed to find a way to convey themselves via water.

  Aram stood, folded the map, and returned it to a pocket. Then he checked the compass, which pointed to the southeast—toward Gadgetzan, though perhaps only incidentally. Aram now knew the crystal needle was actually pointing toward the next crystal shard. But perhaps the next shard was in Gadgetzan (or perhaps somewhere en route).

  In any case, their course was clear enough for now.

  Looking over Aram’s shoulder, Makasa stated, “It still points southeast toward Gadgetzan.”

  “Uh huh,” he said as he slipped the compass down between his shirt and his slim chest.

  “Then southeast we will go, as Captain Thorne would have us go.” She spoke as if their captain—their father—were still alive and had given the order half an hour past.

  “Southeast,” Hackle said.

  “Mrgle, mrgle.”

  They headed out.

  As they hiked along the Feralas–Thousand Needles border, the rain forest to one side and the flooded canyon to the other, Aram still wished he were on a true path home to his native Lakeshire. Yet everything he’d been through over the last seven months suggested it would be a long time before he’d see his family cottage again.

  He’d lived in that cottage—and hardly gone two miles’ distance from it—for the first twelve years of his life. For the first six of those years, his existence had been nothing short of idyllic, snugly ensconced between his mother, Ceya, and his father, Greydon Thorne. Then, early on the morning of Aramar’s sixth birthday, his father had abandoned his small family to return to the sea. Years passed with no word from the man. Years passed before Aram could bring himself to believe that his father had really chosen to leave—and had not been spirited away by orcs or murlocs. Years passed before Ceya Northbrooke Thorne gave up on waiting for her husband’s return and married the kind blacksmith Robb Glade.

  Robb had moved into their cottage—and had even built his new forge alongside it—so that Aram’s life would not be further disrupted by having to relocate all the way around the corner to Robb’s own cottage and forge. (That was the kind of man Robb was. His own convenience meant nothing when reckoned against the needs of his family.) But at the time, Aram hardly appreciated the gesture. The burly, ash-covered smith seemed an interloper, casting a wide, dusky shadow between Aram and Ceya, and—if the boy was being honest—between Aram, Ceya, and the vain hope that Captain Thorne might someday return from the glistening sea.

  When Aram’s little brother, Robertson, was born nine months later, Aram was sure he’d be out on the street. After all, isn’t that what evil stepfathers do? Yet through it all, Robb was a paragon of patience, always attentive to Aram, whether the boy was ready for those attentions or not. The broad-shouldered blacksmith with the strong hands and warm heart eventually won Aram over, and by the time his baby sister, Selya, was born, the five of them—or six, if you counted the coal-black dog Soot—were quite the happy little family.

  Still, Aram dreamt of someday seeking out and joining his father for great adventures on the high seas! Instead, the lad drew in his sketchbook, apprenticed at the forge, and settled into his comfortable life.

  Then one day, about a month after his twelfth birthday, all his dreams came true—and not at all to his liking. Greydon returned, without explanation or apology, to take Aram with him to sea. Suddenly, all of Aram’s dreams felt foolish (on the rare occasions when he acknowledged ever having dreamt them at all). He loved Lakeshire, loved his family, and owed no loyalty whatsoever to the man who had abandoned him. Aramar Thorne flat out refused to go with his father.

  But Ceya and Robb actually sided with Greydon!

  They insisted Aram spend a year as a cabin boy aboard his father’s ship. His mother had all sorts of reasons: “You need to get to know your father, understand him, see the world … Explore that piece of you that is just like Greydon Thorne … Open your heart to him again … Know him to know yourself.”

  Aram was unconvinced and thus determined to spend his year on Wavestrider proving to all three of his parents that they had been dead wrong. During his first six months aboard ship, Aram was—as he now realized—a resentful brat, at war with Captain Greydon Thorne, at war with Second Mate Makasa Flintwill, at war with his own childhood fantasies. Yes, there were members of the crew he was fond of: the brawny, jovial dwarf, First Mate Durgan One-God, who rarely failed to bring a smile to Aram’s face; and the lithe and beautiful ship’s lookout, fifteen-year-old Duan Phen, who rarely failed to bring a very different kind of smile to Aram’s face.

  But for the most part, Aram had resisted smiling. He resisted the lessons Robb and Ceya had imparted upon his departure. He resisted the many lessons Greydon tried to teach him. (Or so he believed at the time. He now found that much of his father’s teachings had somehow sunk in despite the boy’s efforts to ke
ep them at bay.) He had felt acutely that Greydon’s attempts at parenting were too little, too late.

  Now, he felt nothing more acutely than regret. There was so much he didn’t appreciate then that he desperately missed now. He felt nostalgia for the smell of the ocean, for the sound of Wavestrider’s iron bell, and for the elegant, angular lines of her unusual figurehead. He missed and mourned nearly every member of the crew. Not just One-God and Duan Phen, but also Third Mate Silent Joe Barker, cook’s assistant Keelhaul Watt, helmsman Thom Frakes, and all the rest. He could barely think of any of them without crying.

  Well, all save Old Cobb.

  For Greydon had a secret. A reason why he had left his family behind in Lakeshire. A reason why he had wanted his son aboard ship now. All the training, all the lessons, was designed to prepare Aram. Prepare him, Aram now knew, for something to do with the compass and the crystal shards and the Light-That-Needed-Saving. But time had run out before Greydon had taken the opportunity to explain.

  The ship’s cook, Jonas Cobb, had betrayed his captain, his ship, and his crew by selling Wavestrider’s route to Valdread, Malus, and their fellow piratical compass-seekers. Malus’s ship attacked. Aram witnessed the horrible deaths of Keely, Thom, and many others. He saw the ogre Throgg chop down Wavestrider’s mainmast. (The only saving grace being that when the mast came down, it squashed the traitorous Cobb just as he was about to run Aram through. In fact, it was Cobb’s villainous cutlass that Aram now wore upon his belt.) He saw his father’s ship set aflame; he saw its powder stores explode.

  In those last seconds, Greydon had put Aram in the ship’s lone dinghy, had given his son his coat and the compass, and had commanded Makasa to go with the boy and protect him, overcoming her objections by invoking the life debt she owed her captain, saying, “There’s more at stake than either of you realize.” The dinghy was lowered into the water. A storm quickly separated it from the ship and its attackers. The fates of Greydon, One-God, Duan Phen, and the rest were left to the gods. (But Valdread later acknowledged that the gods had not been kind. “Your father … ?” he had whispered. “I’m afraid you’ll never see him again in this world, my boy.”)

  Aram and Makasa had come ashore in Feralas. The compass, which Greydon had said would lead Aram where he needed to go, seemed to point straight to Lakeshire. And also toward Gadgetzan, where Aram was sure he could book passage on a ship home. He had convinced Makasa to take him there, and she had agreed, mostly so she could be free of him. But somewhere along the way, Aram and Makasa had found common ground, had become—both of them—Greydon’s children. Aram had been the eldest of three; Makasa, the youngest of four. But now she was truly his older sister in every way but blood.

  During their travels, they had stumbled upon Murky and Thalyss. (Stumbled, unless one credited Thalyss’s theories on destiny: “There is a harmony to nature,” the druid had said. “A way and a flow. Like the path of a river, like the path through the soil that a stem takes to find the sun. Do you think it is any different for beings such as we four travelers?”) The murloc and the night elf became traveling companions, much to Makasa’s initial frustration.

  Then Malus and his minions had resurfaced, abducting Murky and offering to trade the murloc for the compass. Before Aram could comply or resist, he and Thalyss were captured by the Gordunni ogres. They were taken to Dire Maul, where Aram was forced to fight Hackle in Gordok’s arena. Instead, the boy and the gnoll had formed an alliance. When Malus showed up with Murky to get the compass, Aram and his friends took advantage of Malus’s battle against Gordok to free all of the ogre king’s slaves and escape.

  But there was a cost.

  Malus’s troll had fired off two crossbow bolts at Aram’s back. Thalyss had intervened, taking the fatal injuries meant for the boy.

  Thalyss died that night, but even in his final moments, he attempted to soothe Aram’s torment. Thalyss had called Aram’s path “a wide road,” saying, “It will draw in many souls. I am honored to be among the first.”

  Now, as Aram walked behind Makasa and between Hackle and Murky, the night elf’s words seemed to hold much truth. Aram had known Murky for less than a week; Hackle, for less than two days. Yet he already counted both as fast friends. When the time finally did come to leave them behind and return to Lakeshire, he knew he’d miss them terribly …

  As morning turned to afternoon, and the sun began to sink low in the sky, its light filtering through the tall trees, Aram remained lost in thought, focused on memories of the recent past and a painful longing for home—most especially, thanks to the growling of his stomach, for his mother’s cooking.

  Preoccupied as he was, Aram hadn’t noticed Hackle’s growing anxiety over their current forested location. But Makasa was more astute. She could feel the fear—practically smell it—as it washed over her in waves from behind. She glanced back over her shoulder, expecting to see Aram looking nervous. But her brother’s eyes looked inward. Murky glanced up at her and grinned cheerfully.

  So Makasa glanced back over her other shoulder at Hackle, and his face instantly revealed the source of what she had felt. The one lower incisor that stuck out even when his mouth was closed was working his upper lip. His head jerked left; it jerked right. His eyes scanned the area relentlessly.

  They found themselves crossing a wide-open road between virtual walls of trees, and Makasa dropped back, even with the others. As they continued forward, Hackle shifted the war club from his left shoulder to his right. Then back. Then back again. He sniffed the air with every other step. When a low growl vibrated in his throat, beneath the level of his own awareness, she grabbed the young gnoll by the shoulder and wheeled him around to face her.

  “What?” she said.

  Aram and Murky stopped. Hackle growled again.

  Aram said, “Makasa … ?”

  “Something troubles this gnoll,” she said, her voice nearly as low as Hackle’s vocalizations. Her eyes maintained their focus on his.

  “What is it, Hackle?” Aram asked. “What’s wrong?”

  Hackle didn’t respond. But Makasa saw his eyes shift back and forth, on the alert. He sniffed the air again.

  “You know this territory,” she stated. It was more accusation than question.

  Aram said, “Sister, leave him alone.”

  Makasa recognized that Aram had taken to calling her “sister” as a way to influence her. It made her cross, for it seemed an abuse, a cheapening of their genuine fealty to each other. But she also recognized it as a trick she herself had used as a child with her older sibling Akashinga, calling him “brother” when she wanted a ride on his back. She thought Aram a little old to be using such a ploy, even unconsciously, but her memory of one brother tempered her annoyance with this other. So she ignored Aram.

  To Hackle, she repeated, “You know this territory.”

  He nodded curtly but said nothing still.

  Murky said, “Ukle flllur mmmrrglllmmm?”

  They all ignored the murloc. Now, Aram was studying the gnoll, too.

  Makasa asked, “Is this your homeland?”

  Aram chimed in: “Is it? Is this Woodpaw clan territory?”

  Hackle nodded absently. Then shook his head violently. Then sighed heavily.

  Makasa barked, “Do I have to pry open those jaws? Speak, gnoll. Your silence puts us all in danger.”

  Hackle nodded sadly, grunted to himself, and finally found his voice. “This not Woodpaw lands, but this where Woodpaw clan live now. Gordunni drive us east to here. To the west, ogres chop down our trees. Drive out our game. Take gnolls as slaves. So Woodpaw come here.”

  Aram said, “But you’re free now! You can go back to your people.”

  The gnoll scowled. “No.”

  Aram started to speak, but there was something in Hackle’s tone that Makasa recognized. She put a hand on her brother’s shoulder to silence him. She waited. But like Hackle, she scanned the area, on the alert for trouble.

  Finally, the gnoll told his
story …

  Hackle was pup. Hackle not pup now! But Hackle was pup back in Woodpaw lands. Not so long ago.

  Woodpaw lands sweet then. Much game. Boars. Many boars. Deer. Even bear sometime. Much game. Enough game for hyenas to run with gnolls. Not just follow gnolls and eat leavings, but run with gnolls, hunt with gnolls. Share camp with gnolls.

  Then hyenas leave. Hackle wonder where hyenas go. Hackle pup, but Hackle wonder. But Matriarch Greasefang no care. Woodpaw brute Claw no care. “Hyenas in way. Good that hyenas gone,” Claw say. “Gnolls no have to share Woodpaw grub with hyenas no more.”

  But gnolls should have known then.

  Hackle walk in woods—in forest. Not so long ago. Hackle like woods. Woods cool on hot day. Streams run through. Hackle drink. Squirrels run through. Hackle eat. Woods give shade. Hackle sleep. Easy life for pup.

  But Hackle train, too. Hackle’s father, Jawstretcher, and mother, Gnaw, were great warriors for Greasefang, for Claw. Gnaw was Claw’s littermate. Gnaw and Claw were close. Gnaw train pups to be warriors. Train Hackle. Train Jaggal, son of Greasefang. Jaggal older than Hackle. Jaggal bigger than Hackle. But Jaggal and Hackle good friends. Jaggal and Hackle were close. Not so long ago.

  But hyenas gone. Then trees gone. Not all trees. But many. Then more and more. Gnolls should have known then.

  But gnolls blame yetis. Greasefang blame yetis. So Claw blame yetis. Jawstretcher blame yetis. Gnaw blame yetis. Jaggal blame yetis.

  Hackle no see that. Yetis push down trees. Sometime, yes, yetis push down trees. But more and more trees chopped down. With axes. Not yetis, Hackle say.

  “What, then?” Jaggal say.

  Hackle no know. But not yetis.

  “Greasefang say yetis,” Jaggal say.

  “Greasefang say yetis,” Jawstretcher say.

  Gnaw silent.

  Hackle say, “Greasefang not right.”

  Jaggal cuff Hackle then. Hard. Hackle small pup. Mouth bloody. And knocked back hard. Hackle smack back of head on den wall. Much blood from back of head. Hackle silent then.