The Spiral Path

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The Spiral Path Page 7

by Greg Weisman


  But Hackle yelled, “No! Feral Scar no kill Marjuk! Marjuk kill Gnaw! Kill Hackle’s mother! Hackle kill Marjuk!”

  The yeti actually stepped back. Makasa might have wondered then how much the beast understood, but at that moment, she was too busy mourning once again the loss of her harpoon. Her preference would have been to ignore Hackle’s demand and kill Marjuk from a safe distance before things got out of hand.

  Still, she was semi-prepared for this. She had planned to help Hackle kill the yeti. The same plan would work even better on the ogre commander. The next time the ogre swung his axe, Makasa swung her chain. The iron links cracked against Marjuk’s elbow and wrapped around his arm. She pulled the bellowing ogre off balance, and Hackle slammed his club against Marjuk’s knee. The knee buckled. Marjuk dropped onto it. Hackle swung the club upward; it cracked against the ogre’s jaw. Feral Scar’s claws slashed at Marjuk’s back. The ogre roared again—this time in pain. Sivet raced in, swinging her little hatchety-axe. Marjuk brought his free hand up to protect his face and lost a couple of thick fingers.

  Aram had been forced to scramble a dozen yards to recover his sword. An ogre had easily—too easily (and not for the first time)—knocked the blade from his hand. It was embarrassing, and Aram preferred to blame the cutlass itself. It’s not really mine, he told himself. It had belonged to Old Cobb, the sailor who had betrayed Aram’s father to Malus. During the battle for Greydon Thorne’s ship, Cobb had cornered Aram and was about to run the boy through—when instead, Wavestrider’s mast had come crashing through Cobb. As Aram had already lost two cutlasses in the battle, he had been forced to pry the one he now carried from Cobb’s dead hand. Yet a somewhat superstitious Aram didn’t quite trust the blade. Deep down, he thought it still loyal to Cobb, that maybe it liked slipping from his hand and still longed to fulfill Cobb’s last desire: to see Aramar Thorne dead.

  Nevertheless, it was the only sword he had, so he ran to recover it. By the time he turned, the others were already engaged in fighting the ogre commander. From his vantage behind and to the left of Makasa, Aram grimaced. He had little sympathy for any ogre—particularly one who had killed Hackle’s mother—but in his heart, he knew this was hardly a fair fight. Four against one was bad enough, but when one of those four was the yeti of all yetis and another was Makasa Flintwill and a third was a vengeful Hackle, he couldn’t help feeling a little bad for this Marjuk. But only a little. Barely a little. Still, he was about to intervene, to say … something. But as he struggled to find the words, the means to reconcile everyone, Marjuk turned his head to the left and to the right, taking a last look at the odd collection of species bent on taking his life. Then he turned toward Hackle and spat out, “Gnaw easy kill.”

  Hackle brought down Wordok’s club as hard as he could, and it was over. Commander Marjuk was over. And Aram never did find the words.

  There was a pause. Then Makasa moved in to release her chain from around the dead ogre’s arm.

  Feral Scar moved toward his fellow yetis to free them from their chains.

  But Hackle called out, “Feral Scar!”

  Everyone turned. Hackle had Marjuk’s axe now. He faced Feral Scar, who—grumbling irritably—raised himself to his full height to face the gnoll.

  Sivet watched eagerly, ready to see if Hackle could regain his name once and for all. With nearly the same fervor with which she had quite recently held the “runt” in contempt, she now seemed to be silently rooting for him.

  Makasa stepped back to allow this last conflict to run its course.

  But Aramar Thorne had other ideas, and this time he was ready with the words …

  “Sugl.”

  “Jaggal.”

  “Sugl.”

  “No. JAG-gal”

  “SUG-gul. Suggul.”

  Jaggal growl out, “Close enough.” But not close enough. Only been one day and one night, but Jaggal starting to hate little murloc hostage. All day and all night, jabbering murloc follow Jaggal, scampering behind Jaggal all over Woodpaw village. Come morning, when Jaggal bring wood to woodpile, find murloc sitting on woodpile, jabbering. Jaggal burn wood in hearthfire; murloc jabbering at hearthfire. Jaggal fetch water from river; murloc sleeping beneath river. (Murloc not even swim away! At least murloc no jabber while asleep.) Jaggal go to nap in hut; see murloc dancing and jabbering on roof of hut!

  Jaggal yell up at murloc. Murloc come down. Jaggal grab murloc to tie murloc up. Murloc see rope. Dumb murloc happy. Murloc say, “Murky flllurllog mgrrrrl!” Dumb murloc dance around some more. Take rope from Jaggal. Murloc start tying rope in knots. Dumb murloc making mess of rope.

  Karrion say, “Murloc want nets. Make nets. Fishing nets important to murlocs.”

  Murloc say, “Mrgle, mrgle. Murky flllurllog mgrrrrl! Mmmurlok flllur mgrrrrl!”

  Jaggal throw up arms, say, “Give murloc rope. Let murloc make nets. But keep murloc away from Jaggal!”

  Jaggal go in hut. Jaggal lie down for nap. Jaggal no nap. Jaggal no sleep. Jaggal hear murloc jabbering with Karrion outside hut.

  “Kurun.”

  “Karrion.”

  “Kuron.”

  “No. KAIR-ee-on.”

  “Kur-EEE-un. Kureeun.”

  “Close enough.”

  Inside hut, Jaggal growl.

  Murloc is hostage. Jaggal know Jaggal need to trade hostage for Sivet. But murloc is dumb hostage. Jaggal think maybe Jaggal let murloc hostage go free. Or maybe Jaggal kill murloc hostage. Killing murloc hostage risk Sivet. But murloc no make only nets. Murloc make Jaggal crazy, too.

  Jaggal no nap. Jaggal go outside, to kill murloc hostage, probably.

  “Suggul!” murloc call when murloc see Jaggal. Dumb murloc happy to see Jaggal.

  Jaggal pick up axe and stalk toward murloc … just as Sivet emerge from forest …

  If I can pull this off, Aram thought, it’ll be my best magic yet!

  He had told Sivet to go first. And she practically skipped into the lead. She wasn’t simply compliant; she was enthusiastic. It hadn’t taken much to convince her, either. When Aram had started to explain—as best as he understood—why Feral Scar had attacked her, why the yeti had felt the need to protect his people from hers, Sivet had quickly grown impatient, had interrupted him, had said, “Sivet know this, dumb boy.” She’s a convert, he thought. A convert to the teachings of Captain Greydon Thorne.

  Entering the gnoll village, she called out to Jaggal and ran to him, rubbing her furry head against his furry side.

  Aram and Hackle followed in time to see Jaggal’s expression change—or rather melt—from aggravation to pleasure. Jaggal did shoot one last evil glance Murky’s way, but Murky was already loping past the brute and his daughter to embrace his friends.

  “Urum! Ukle! Frunds! Nrk mlggrm Mrksa?!”

  “Shhh,” Aram said, patting the murloc on the head as he watched Jaggal saunter over with Sivet wedged under one arm.

  Jaggal smirked down at Hackle, who carried something in a large burlap sack. “Runt carry head of Feral Scar?” he asked, voice dripping with what passed for gnoll sarcasm.

  Hackle shook his head slowly.

  “Ha! Jaggal knew! Runt not even find Feral Scar!”

  “Hackle find Feral Scar,” Hackle said, his voice quiet, calm, and even.

  Jaggal snorted again, and looked down at little Sivet, expecting her to deny it.

  But she said, “Hackle find Feral Scar.”

  This clearly caught Jaggal off guard. He stared at her, and she nodded. Slowly, he turned back toward Hackle. Once again, he said, “Hackle carry head of Feral Scar?” But this time the question was sincere, and—whether he noticed it or not—he had followed Sivet’s lead and called Hackle by name.

  Hackle shook his head again.

  A disgusted Jaggal waved him off. “Then runt still runt,” he said.

  So far it was going exactly as Aram had planned.

  Hackle said, “Hackle no kill Feral Scar …” He opened the burlap sack and dumped the
head of Marjuk onto the ground at the brute’s feet. “But Hackle kill Marjuk.”

  Jaggal stared down at Marjuk’s head. So did Aram at first. But he quickly turned away. The sight of the thing, with its semi-crushed skull and mayflies buzzing around it, was, frankly, nauseating.

  Slowly, the brute shook his head. “No. Runt no kill Marjuk. Human woman kill Marjuk. Where is woman?”

  But Hackle said, “Hackle kill Marjuk.”

  And again, Sivet confirmed Hackle’s truth: “Marjuk kill Gnaw. Gnaw Hackle’s mother. So Hackle kill Marjuk with club of Wordok.”

  Hackle reached into the sack again and pulled out Marjuk’s massive double-bladed axe. Dropping the sack, the young gnoll knelt before Jaggal and lowered his head submissively; he offered the weapon up to the brute. “Hackle take Marjuk’s axe. Hackle no keep axe, though. Hackle give axe to Woodpaw brute. Hackle give Marjuk’s axe to Hackle’s old friend Jaggal.”

  Putting down his own axe, Jaggal took a halting step forward and slowly reached for the weapon. He wrapped his paws around it, clearly liking the feel of the thing. He lifted it over his head and laughed.

  But when he looked at Hackle again, his smile faded—not into anger or contempt, but into regret and sadness. He lowered the axe and shook his head. “Runt do good, killing Marjuk. But that not deal. Runt promise Feral Scar to regain name, to save friends. Runt no deliver Feral Scar. Runt and friends must die.”

  Hackle shrugged and said, “Hackle bring Feral Scar.”

  As every revelation left Jaggal more and more amazed, he looked around and howled out, “Where? Where body of Feral Scar?!”

  On cue, Makasa emerged from the trees, leading the body—the very large and very alive body—of Feral Scar. Karrion and the other gnolls backed away from the huge yeti.

  But Hackle, Sivet, and Jaggal did not. The latter stared at the beast, then gazed down at Hackle with a look of pure, almost beatific, gratitude. He swallowed and spoke the following words of love: “Hackle give Jaggal axe of Marjuk so Jaggal can kill Feral Scar. Hackle true friend.”

  It was finally Aram’s turn. He said, “Jaggal cannot kill Feral Scar. Or yetis will kill gnolls.”

  Feral Scar let out a low growl, and on every side of the village, yetis emerged from the forest, leaving Jaggal and his gnolls completely surrounded.

  Jaggal, angrier now than he had been happy moments before, roared out, “Traitor!” He raised the axe to strike at Hackle. “Jaggal kill traitor runt. Jaggal kill humans. Jaggal kill murloc! Jaggal kill Feral Scar! Jaggal die! All gnolls die! But traitors and humans and yetis die, too!”

  “No,” Aram said. “No one dies. The yetis aren’t here to kill you. They’re not here to kill a single gnoll. Yetis are not the gnolls’ enemies. Ogres are the gnolls’ enemies. Ogres are the yetis’ enemies. So gnolls and yetis should be friends. Allies. They should fight together against the Gordunni ogres. They should share lands without killing.”

  “No!” Jaggal snarled.

  A small but confident voice said, “Aram right, Jaggal.”

  “What?!” The brute turned and raised his paw to cuff his daughter.

  Sivet didn’t flinch. She said, “Sivet saw. Sivet saw gnolls, humans, yetis fight together against Marjuk and Gordunni ogres. Twenty ogres. Gnolls would die fighting twenty ogres. Humans would die fighting twenty ogres. Yetis did die fighting twenty ogres. But together, humans, gnolls and yetis kill twenty ogres. Gnolls and yetis and humans are stronger together. Aram right, Jaggal.”

  Hackle nodded. “Aram right, Jaggal.”

  Murky said, “Urum mmmml,” which nearly set Jaggal off again. But he swallowed his annoyance and looked around the village, unsure.

  Sivet slipped out of his reach and strode over to Feral Scar. She took his huge paw and pulled the beast toward her father. Feral Scar followed mildly, stopping when she stopped.

  Here was the moment of truth. Feral Scar and the Woodpaw brute, Jaggal, face-to-face. One holding his newly gifted battle-axe. The other with practically every natural weapon one could conceive. Everyone seemed to be holding his or her breath …

  Then Jaggal nodded.

  And Feral Scar grunted.

  And just like that, an alliance was sealed.

  The gnolls all cheered. The yetis roared to the heavens. Aram breathed a heavy sigh of relief. It was good magic, indeed. But he hadn’t accomplished the trick alone. He put an arm around Hackle’s shoulder, and they exchanged grins.

  Sivet approached, also grinning. Aram said, “Sivet, you’ll make a great matriarch someday.”

  Hackle said, “Yes.”

  Even Makasa, shaking her head in sheer disbelief at what had been accomplished, said, “A great matriarch.”

  Sivet beamed.

  And finally, there came the feast.

  The yetis had brought gifts: bear meat and venison. For a second, Aram felt a slight qualm. Thalyss the druid had taken the shape of a bear and a stag while in Aram’s company. But that second passed quickly. It can’t be a night elf, he told himself. As the gnolls said, meat is meat, and Aram had never in his life been quite this starved.

  There were many mouths to feed this night, so the bear meat was cut into thick steaks for the yetis and Jaggal. For the rest, the venison was transformed into a huge iron stockpot of Karrion’s Dragonbreath Chili. Aram watched longingly, greedily, as Karrion poured oil into the stockpot and added peppers and onions. For five lonnnnng minutes, she cooked the vegetables until they were brown and soft. Then she added the meat—the venison chopped fine, square chunks of bear meat, and sliced pork sausages from the gnolls’ own stores—stirring it all until brown (another torturous five minutes).

  Spices next: cumin and chili pepper and a pinch of something Aram couldn’t identify. Then a paste made from tomatoes, some kind of gnoll ale, and a broth that had been simmering in a separate kettle. Next, beans and more tomatoes.

  And then the interminable waiting. Waiting those last two hours for the chili to simmer—with the luscious smell of it emanating from the stockpot on the hearthfire—provided greater torment than being in the ogres’ slave pit. And it was all made worse by the sounds of Feral Scar and Jaggal tearing into their (respectively) raw and rare steaks. Aram was so tempted to sneak one off the platter, Makasa actually had to stay his hand, saying, “Aramar Thorne, do you really want to wreck the impossible alliance you yourself have forged this day, simply for the sake of eating some few minutes sooner?”

  “Yes!”

  She glared at him.

  “Yes,” he insisted, but with less volume and enthusiasm.

  She glared some more.

  “Maybe …”

  Her glare did not abate.

  “No.”

  So they waited. And waited. And waited some more. After a quarter of an hour of waiting, he said, “This is longer than a ‘few minutes.’”

  He knew she could have said, “Brat, I’m hungry, too.” Instead, she said, “Take out your sketchbook.”

  The sketchbook! Of course! That’ll get me through this!

  And it did. Beginning with Feral Scar, he noticed details about the yeti that he hadn’t been able to focus on during the earlier conflicts, when all he could take in were the creature’s immense size, immense horns, and immense claws. Now, he noticed that Feral Scar had thick brown fur with a slight red tinge covering his entire body, except for a snow-white belly and a snow-white beard. His face was otherwise hairless, and he had a long, eponymous scar that ran in a jagged diagonal from above his right eye to the left-hand corner of his mouth. He had crooked teeth and pointed ears, and his horns possessed subtle rings that reminded Aram of the rings on a tree.

  Aram had many other fascinating subjects besides Feral Scar, including Sivet and Jaggal together, and Karrion stirring chili. He filled pages with yetis and gnolls, and while he drew, his desperate hunger and need faded—as Makasa had known they would.

  Thus, before he knew it, Karrion was scooping the chili into a bowl, sprinkling cheese (made from th
e milk of some unknown mammal) atop it, and holding the bowl out to Aram.

  He was so hungry, he nearly dropped his sketchbook into the fire. But he forced himself to carefully wrap the precious book and return it to his pocket before wolfing down his first bowl—without truly tasting a mouthful—and asking for another.

  Karrion ignored him until everyone else had been served. But she served him seconds before she served herself firsts. She said, “Pace yourself, boy. This Dragonbreath Chili.”

  Aram tried to slow down. He took a bite and savored the meaty concoction. Oh, this is heaven! he thought. It definitely had a little kick. But both his father and his stepfather enjoyed spicy foods, and he was accustomed to the heat. (Or so he believed.) Meanwhile, he was still too hungry to truly take his time. He shoveled spoonful after spoonful into his mouth—without noticing the cumulative effect of Karrion’s secret ingredient.

  No, he didn’t notice it at all—until he did! And then suddenly his mouth was aflame! He grabbed Thalyss’s canteen and downed gulp after gulp of water, but somehow that only made it worse.

  Karrion and Sivet and Hackle and Jaggal all laughed their hyena laughs at him. Finally, Hackle offered him a cornmeal biscuit, saying, “Water just swirl Dragonbreath around Aram’s mouth. Aram chew biscuit. Biscuit absorb Dragonbreath. Then Aram swallow Dragonbreath. Make Aram strong.”

  Aram chewed gratefully, and as predicted, the burning sensation subsided.

  “Furlskr,” Murky was saying.

  “Feral Scar,” said Sivet.

  “Furlskr …”

  “No FAIR-al SCAR,” she corrected.

  “FUR-ul SKUR. Furul Skur.”

 

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