The Spiral Path

by Greg Weisman

  And that was when the impulse hit. This wild idea. There was no plan. Almost no thought. Before Shagtusk knew what she was doing, she had wrapped her big mitt over the dryad’s mouth and lifted the little creature bodily off the floor.

  It occurred to her now that Drella hadn’t struggled at all. No muffled screams. And the look in her eyes had been pretty much only a look of … curiosity?

  Anyway, Shagtusk had lowered her head and stampeded toward the hut’s back wall. It was only canvas. She tore right through it without stopping.

  Still carrying the dryad, Shagtusk passed between two tauren totem poles and crossed the rope bridge to the next mesa. There were no sentries on either side. They had probably left their posts to ward off harpies. She found a short length of rope and tied it around Drella’s waist, warning the little thing not to shout.

  The dryad tilted her head and asked, “About what?”

  Shagtusk ignored the question, wondering briefly whether the creature was simple. Then the quilboar led the dryad down a dirt ramp that circled the mesa, crossed another bridge to the next mesa, went down another ramp, across another bridge, and down the final ramp, where she had left her boat on a sliver of shore.

  Shagtusk put Drella in the craft, pushed it off the sand, climbed in herself, and quietly rowed away.

  Two hours later, they docked and came ashore at the entrance to the thorny dome. Whistler and Bristlemaw were on sentry duty but knew Shagtusk and let her pass. They might have raised a couple of eyebrows over Drella, but aside from a belch or two from Bristlemaw, they said nothing.

  Tugging on the rope, Shagtusk led the dryad into the maze of thorns—turning left, then right, right again, then left—until they were no longer within earshot of the sentries.

  Shagtusk stopped, looking around and listening for the sound of approaching quilboar.

  Drella said, “Should I have stayed with Aram? I believe Makasa wanted me to protect him.”

  Shagtusk said, “You’re needed here, dryad.”

  “Am I?”

  Shagtusk nodded. “You see these thorns? Thorns are sacred to the quilboar.”

  “Why?”

  “They just are.”

  Drella nodded sagely. “Many things just are. It is not unusual for things just to be.”

  “These thorns were shaped by quilboar thornweavers. Most of this dome was shaped by Charlga Razorflank.”

  “She must have thought thorns were very sacred.” Drella looked around. “There are many, many thorns here.”

  “Now Chugara Razorflank weaves the thorns. Charlga trained Chugara to maintain the dome, but Chugara has surrendered Razorfen to the Death’s—”

  Drella cut her off with an annoyed wave of her hand. “You have taught me the meaning of boredom, Shagtusk. I do not understand what this has to do with me.”

  Shagtusk’s bristles rose with annoyance. She said, “The magistrix said you can undo unnatural magic.”

  Drella perked up. “Yes!”

  “I need … The quilboar need you to undo that here. Return Razorfen to its natural state.”

  Drella looked around. She said, “I do not see any unnatural magic here in your dome. I do not sense any. The thorns here are extreme but have long been part of these lands. They have as much right to exist as anything in nature.”

  “Not here here,” Shagtusk gruffly pleaded. “In the Spiral of Thorns. In the Caller’s Chamber. In the Bone Pile.”

  Drella considered this. “All right,” she said. “Show me these places. They sound curious, and I like curious things.”

  “And you’ll help?”

  “If you are right, I will help. But after that I really should get back to protecting Aram. Also, he promised to teach me to read.”

  Shagtusk nodded. She still held the rope tied around Drella’s waist. Drella didn’t seem to object to it. So Shagtusk led Drella by this cord and by the dryad’s own curiosity.

  They barely made it ten paces.

  As they approached a T in the maze, Shagtusk knew to turn left, but there was no leftward opening—just another wall of thorns. She stood there, staring. She was raised in these thorny corridors, knew them like the tip of her snout. Turn left at the T. Yet there was no left. This was no T, but an upside-down L. She must have made a wrong turn in her haste to put some distance between herself and the sentries. But where, exactly?

  Well, there was no choice in the matter now. She’d make a right turn instead, positive that soon enough, she’d recognize the pattern. She turned and started forward, but the thorns grew up right in front of her, creating another wall before her eyes.

  Shagtusk turned around fast. Drella was staring at the new thorn-wall, too, looking a bit queasy. She said, “Oh, that does feel unnatural. The thornbushes were screaming over being grown so fast and so large. They do not like it.”

  But Shagtusk wasn’t listening—because standing behind the dryad were five quilboar. And not just any quilboar, but Thornweaver Chugara, Death Speaker Blackthorn, and three of his Death’s Head minions in their black leather uniforms. One of these relieved Shagtusk of her battleaxe.

  Blackthorn spoke, his voice a low rumble. “You bring this creature into our sacred space?”

  Shagtusk said nothing.

  Blackthorn said, “Then you must have brought her as a gift to me.”

  Shagtusk said nothing.

  Blackthorn turned to Drella and said, “You my prize?”

  “No,” Drella said. “I am no quilboar prize. I am the dryad Taryndrella. I have been brought here to undo your deviant work. I was unsure such twisted magicks truly existed. But you reek of the unnatural. And you reek of death. Or something worse than death.”

  Blackthorn chuckled then and said, “I am Death Speaker Blackthorn, and you have value to me here. Thank the traitor for bringing such value, Thornweaver.”

  Chugara chanted, and the thorns grew up and around Shagtusk, arching over her head to enmesh themselves with more thorns growing from behind. The spurs slashed at her hide, tore at her ears. The thorns grew downward, forcing her down onto her backside, forcing her to draw her knees up tight to her chest, forcing her to hold them there, and forcing her to lower her head. They weren’t as dense as a wall; Shagtusk could see out. But they admitted no possibility of escape.

  Blackthorn watched Chugara at work, smiling his death’s-head grin. He thanked the thornweaver and turned back to Drella, who looked ill and on the verge of tears.

  Shagtusk watched him gesture his arcane gestures and chant his arcane chants at the dryad.

  Perspiration was forming on Drella’s forehead, but she attempted to laugh it all off bravely. “You seek to enslave me with your spells, but I am immune to your unnatural powers, Death Reeker Blackthorn.”

  He bristled—literally—and growled out, “But you’re not immune to Death’s Head steel.”

  The first minion brandished Shagtusk’s axe.

  Blackthorn snatched up the rope still tied to Drella’s waist and handed it to the minion. “Take her to the Bone Pile. But don’t kill her. She is not for you. She is for the Coldbringer.”

  The minion nodded obediently and—flanked by his two fellows—led Drella away. As usual, Drella didn’t struggle. She simply followed where she was led.

  Farting loudly, Blackthorn turned to face Shagtusk and Chugara. He smiled unpleasantly. He said, “We leave you here to think on your betrayal, Shagtusk.”

  Chugara said, “We leave you here to starve.”

  Then they turned and walked away.

  The story related, a deal was proposed: if the four travelers released Shagtusk, she would lead them to Drella and fight beside them to free her.

  As usual, Makasa didn’t care for the idea of partnering with anyone, let alone Drella’s abductor. Makasa was initially more inclined to trust Hackle’s nose and leave Shagtusk to rot.

  But Hackle shook his head. “Hackle only smell death now.”

  “Then follow the smell of death.”

  “De
ath smell everywhere. All directions.”

  Shagtusk said, “That is Blackthorn. He belches death. He farts death. Death for everyone. In all directions.”

  Aram spoke the obvious, needful truth: “Makasa, look what they did to her. I don’t like trusting her, either, I promise. But we need her, and it’s clear she’s no friend to Drella’s kidnappers.”

  “She’s Drella’s kidnapper!” Makasa whispered (in order to keep herself from yelling).

  “Drella’s new kidnappers, then.”

  So Hackle slipped back to the dome’s entrance and liberated two battleaxes from the sleeping sentries. Then he and Makasa went to work, freeing Shagtusk. Bits of thorn went flying, sticking the quilboar over and over. Makasa not only didn’t care, but she smiled, grimly pleased.

  Aramar said, “We have seen thorns like this before. In Dire Maul.”

  Shagtusk was keeping her head down but answered, “Yes. The ogre king Gordok paid Chugara to build his dome of thorns around the wyvern cubs. I was there, a scout in her honor guard.”

  “What did Gordok pay her with?” Aram asked, wondering if it might be a crystal. He pulled out his father’s compass and cupped his hand over it to hide its glow. The needle still pointed southeast toward the next crystal shard (and toward Gadgetzan), but the glow had faded some. There were no crystals here.

  Shagtusk responded, “Slaves for the Murder Pens. For the Caller’s Chamber. In the end, for the Bone Pile.”

  By this time, Makasa and Hackle had hacked through the thorny cell. The hole wasn’t quite big enough for Shagtusk, and Aram thought Makasa probably knew that. But he said nothing, merely wondering why he could not bring himself to temper Makasa’s ire. He realized belatedly he was angrier with Shagtusk than he had known.

  Seeing that her egress wasn’t likely to get any wider, Shagtusk crawled out of her tiny prison. Thorns and spurs tore at her sides, but within a minute she was free and standing. She held out her hand for one of the axes.

  Makasa shook her head. She said, “When we have a common enemy, you will have a weapon. Until then, you will have none.”

  Shagtusk scowled but nodded. Then she strode forward. Makasa kept one of the axes. Hackle hefted his new battleaxe over one shoulder and hefted his war club over the other. They followed close behind the quilboar. Aram, his cutlass drawn, and Murky, brandishing his tiny spear, followed close behind.

  Shagtusk indeed knew the passages in the dome like the tip of her snout. Aram was positive he’d have been hopelessly lost within seconds, and a glance up at Makasa’s face suggested it wouldn’t have been much different for her. In fact, the real difference between their expressions was that his revealed his begrudging gratitude for Shagtusk’s presence, whereas his sister’s revealed her resentment that the quilboar was necessary to their success at all.

  Ten minutes later, the five of them stood before a fork in the maze, where Shagtusk turned leftward but hesitated. “This is the fastest way to the Bone Pile,” she said.

  Makasa glared at her. “But?”

  “Takes us through the Caller’s Chamber.”

  “And … ?”

  “And Arachnomancers are there. Maybe Aarux.”

  “Who’s Aarux?” Aram asked, while wondering whether or not he should know what an Arachnomancer was.

  “Giant spider,” Shagtusk answered. “Arachnomancers grow them like thornweavers grow thorns. Aarux is the biggest spider of them all.”

  Aram swallowed hard. He had never liked spiders. Willy and Stitch, his best friends in Lakeshire, both collected dead spiders—mostly, Aram suspected, because they knew spiders made him jump. And those were just dead spiders. Little spiders. Little dead spiders. So the giant living variety had even less appeal.

  Makasa jerked her head to the right, asking, “And this way?”

  “Takes longer. But no spiders.”

  “How much longer?”

  “Another hour.”

  Aram said, “It could take us at least that long if we have to fight our way past this Aarux.”

  Makasa nodded, and Shagtusk led them to the right. They walked on carefully and quietly, the five of them—plus Aram’s sense of guilt. Had he nudged Makasa onto the rightward path because he believed in the practicality of what he’d said to her … or because he was too afraid of spiders to go to the left? And what if that added hour cost Drella her … He couldn’t bring himself to finish the thought.

  They walked along a long, wide, arcing passage with walls of thorns to either side. Every hundred feet or so, a low-burning torch lit the way. But the curve of the corridor meant that very little light reached them for long stretches at a time. Though he knew they had avoided the path of the spiders, the idea of the arachnids was now firmly lodged in Aram’s head. He felt—or thought he felt—cobwebs brush across his face. He felt—or thought he felt—tiny spiders drop down into his hair and scamper down his neck beneath his shirt. He was itchy all over. Twitchy all over, too. It was going to be a long hour.

  As soon as Death Reeker Blackthorn entered the chamber known as the Bone Pile, he took Drella’s rope from his minion and tied it to an iron post upon which hung the skeleton of a kaldorei. Suddenly, Drella did not like the rope. Though it had seemed of no consequence moments before, it now felt constricting, like the air in this section of the dome, like the iron and sulfur taste of the dark and twisted magicks that suffused the space. Taryndrella knew the word nauseated from Thalyss Greyoak and now understood what it meant. She untied her end of the rope from around her waist and let it fall.

  Blackthorn and Thornweaver Chugara stared at the rope, still tied at the other end to Blackthorn’s post, as if they could not quite fathom how she had escaped it. Then they stared at her as if she had performed some sort of miraculous sorcery by untying it. She wanted to laugh at them, but bile rose in her throat. She choked it back and swallowed. Acid burned her esophagus. She wished she were with Aram and the others. Perhaps she should not have left them alone.

  They found more rope and restrained her hands, tying her securely to the post of iron. For a second, it almost felt as if the rope were afire, searing her skin, burning her leaves, scorching her fur. She nearly screamed, but when she looked down, she saw no flames, felt no actual heat.

  She began to admit to herself that she was scared.

  She looked around. The space was cavernous, but there was not much to see. The thorny dome arched over the dirt floor. The iron post stood beside something she believed might be an altar. And, of course, there was the immense pile of bones that filled more than half of the chamber and gave the place its name. She peered at it with curiosity. (She took refuge in her curiosity, for it seemed to tamp down her fear.) Most of the bones were quilboar. But there were human bones and tauren bones, centaur bones and animal bones (mostly boar, hyena, and bear). She thought maybe she saw the bones of a harpy. Maybe the bones of a wyvern. Maybe yeti bones and gnoll bones. And was that the skull of a dragon? She had never seen a dragon, so she could not be sure. But she decided that if she did ever see a dragon and then got to see the dragon’s skull, it would look much like that.

  She asked, “Are there any dryad bones in your Bone Pile?”

  Blackthorn laughed ominously.

  Drella continued, “Because if there are, I would very much like to see them.”

  Blackthorn stopped laughing abruptly. Once again, he looked stunned.

  Drella frowned at him. She wondered if he was of low intelligence. He seemed so easily shocked. She said, “Do you not understand? I am very curious to see what my bones look like.”

  Chugara grumbled darkly, “That can be arranged.”

  “Good,” Drella said.

  Huffing angrily, the thornweaver advanced on the dryad. But Blackthorn held up a hand to stop Chugara. “No! She is for the Coldbringer.”

  “I am hardly ready for winter yet. It is still spring.”

  One of the minions scrunched up his snout and said, “It’s summer.”

  “Silence!”
Blackthorn bellowed. He turned to Drella. “No one speaks of seasons. You and your power are to be sacrificed to Amnennar the Coldbringer, a lich of the undead Scourge!”

  “Ah,” Drella said, considering this. The truth was she did not truly understand Blackthorn’s words. “Amnennar” and “Coldbringer” and “lich” and “undead” and “Scourge” all meant very little to her. Thalyss had never used such words when whispering to her, at least not in any context that made much sense now. She thought she could decipher “Coldbringer” and “undead.” (The perverted magical energy of this place was cold and unnatural, like a withered plant forced back into the green.) She decided Amnennar must be this Coldbringer’s name. She wondered if “lich” might be short for “lichen.” She liked lichens. If this Amnennar was a lichen, perhaps he would not be so terrible. And Scourge? Was Blackthorn talking about some kind of blight? It was all very confusing. She shook her head and flatly stated, “No, thank you.”

  Chugara said, “You sure Chugara can’t kill her now?”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” Blackthorn said, though he seemed to regret the fact. “The ceremony doesn’t take long to prepare. Less than an hour. Watch her.”

  He turned his back on them to face the altar and began to chant in a baritone whisper. He raised a mask painted to look like a bleached white quilboar skull and donned it over his own quilboar head.

  Drella’s throat had gone dry, but she squeaked out, “Makasa will not be happy that I am not protecting Aram.”

  Makasa was not happy.

  She didn’t like following Shagtusk, didn’t like trusting her not to lead them into a trap. Yes, we found the quilboar imprisoned in a cage of thorns, but what if that was merely a show for our benefit? What if that was done specifically to engender our trust? Shagtusk must have known we’d be coming after Drella, so putting herself in that position was a sure way to ensnare us.

  This is Aram’s fault, she thought. He insisted we trust Drella’s abductor—as he insisted on trusting blasted near everyone! Makasa glared at Aram. He caught the look and absorbed it with a little shrug. He was used to such looks from her. It’s too commonplace, that’s the problem. I need to be stingier with my disapproval so he’ll feel it on occasion … that is, when it counts. But it’s hard to be stingy when he earns my scorn so often. I know deep down that my brother is a good kid. Even a bit of a miracle-worker, if truth be told. But being a miracle-worker and a fool isn’t mutually exclusive!