The Spiral Path

by Greg Weisman

The goblin Gazlowe was about forty years of age. He was a muscular four feet tall, with bright-green skin, bloodshot yellow eyes, a prominent chin, an impressive nose, long pointed ears, steel-toed boots, and fingerless gloves. He didn’t look up from his watch but said, “Not a good time, Daisy. Come back in nine minutes.”

  Daisy said, “It seems to me you have nothing to do for at least eight of those minutes except listen to what they have to say. Especially since they’d like to pay you for your services.”

  He chuckled. “Ain’t that the truth?” He looked up at Daisy’s new acquaintances and said, “You got seven minutes and thirty seconds.”

  Daisy quickly made introductions.

  Gazlowe said, “Ugh. Too many names. I’ll never remember ’em all. Just state your business.”

  Makasa nodded to Aram, who—acutely aware of the time pressure—took a deep breath and tried to speak clearly and to the purpose: “We’ve lost something in the Shimmering Deep about a mile up the lake. It’s trapped under a slab of stone that’s too heavy for our murloc friend to budge. Daisy tells us you’ve performed salvage operations here before. This one should be fairly straightforward, I’d think.”

  “Sounds like it,” Gazlowe said. “So here’s the deal. I take a thirty percent cut of whatever we find. Plus a ten percent equipment fee and a ten percent finder’s fee. Deal?”

  Aram shot Makasa a panicked look and said, “It’s … it’s not something we can split. It’s one thing. And it’s little. Honest.”

  Gazlowe studied the boy, perhaps trying to divine whether that one word, honest, was, well … honest. “Let’s say I believe you,” he said. “What makes you think that in this great expanse of water, we could find your little thing in less than a thousand years?”

  “We know exactly where it is. Murky, here”—Aram turned to indicate the murloc—“can guide us right to it.”

  “Mrgle, mrgle.”

  “We just need a way to move the stone.”

  “This must be a pretty valuable little thing.”

  “It is to me. It’s part of a gift my father gave me before he died.”

  Gazlowe chuckled again. “Your father gave you a gift, then died; then the gift wound up at the bottom of this flooded canyon; then a slab of stone landed atop it? That’s awwwwwwfully complicated, kid, and not a little bit unlikely.”

  “But it is the truth,” Drella said. “You can trust Aram. He would not lie.”

  Gazlowe looked extremely unconvinced, so Aram raced to say, “I might lie. But I’m not lying now.”

  Drella looked appalled. “Well, I do not lie. Ever.”

  “Of course you don’t, Drella,” Aram said while maintaining eye contact with the goblin.

  “All right,” Gazlowe said. “But if I can’t get my cut, how would this work? I don’t work for free, boy.”

  “We can pay you.”

  “How much?”

  “A gold piece.”

  “You mean twenty.”

  “We don’t have twenty.”

  “How much do you have? And keep in mind, we’re talkin’ ’bout a very valuable gift from your father. So don’t hold out on ol’ Gazlowe.”

  Aram looked to Makasa, who was scowling but said curtly, “We can pay you three gold coins. We have a fourth, but we need some portion of that to pay Daisy for services and accommodations, some of it for passage from here to Gadgetzan, and some for passage from Gadgetzan to Stormwind Harbor.”

  The goblin exhaled. “Five of you traveling from Gadgetzan to Stormwind for less than one gold coin? Where you plannin’ to bunk, with the bilge rats?”

  “If necessary,” Aram said.

  “Murky mrrrgle rrrdhs mmm,” Murky said, licking his lips.

  They all ignored him, but Gazlowe said, “It don’t matter. Or put another way, that part ain’t my business. Here’s the part that is: I mount salvage missions for entire pirate ships, where my take is somewhere in the neighborhood of a thousand gold coins and at least as many silver.”

  Aram pleaded: “But our mission would be much easier, don’t you think?”

  “That’s why I was willin’ to do it for twenty gold pieces. Anything less just ain’t worth my time.”

  “But—”

  “Look, kid, I can see you’re sincere, and I’m even sympathetic. But three gold pieces wouldn’t cover my expenses for this sorta thing. The answer’s no.”

  “But—”

  “And your seven and a half minutes are up.” Gazlowe turned back toward the water, checked his pocket watch, and growled, “Long past up, blast it all!”

  Aram turned to Daisy. “Isn’t there anyone else we can talk to?”

  Daisy smiled sadly. “There is. But none who’d offer to do it for less. Or if one did offer, it would only be to stab you in the back and take your prize.”

  Gazlowe chuckled and said, “Ain’t that the truth?”

  Aram slumped down onto a mooring post and looked up at Makasa. “What do we do?”

  “We’ll come up with something,” she answered with a determination that offered no concrete solutions.

  And just as she said that, Aram had an idea. He stood again and pulled his sketchbook from his back pocket, hoping it could work its magic one more time. But before he could show it to Gazlowe, one of the speedboats, fantailing water in its wake, pulled to a stop right in front of the goblin, dousing him, Murky, Hotfix, and Hackle. Aram was partially drenched, too, and just barely managed to save his sketchbook by whipping it behind his back.

  With a hiss of steam, the speedboat’s carapace flipped upward, revealing the pilot: a head inside a large glass jar! The head looked vaguely gnomish, but the skin was a brighter green than any goblin skin Aram had ever seen. It almost seemed to glow. The eyes, however, definitely glowed, green and luminous in the night. The head had short dark-green hair and looked … young.

  Drella backed away, moaning, “No, no, no, no, no, no, no …”

  The head frowned at her and spoke crossly, its voice echoing slightly within the glass jar: “I’m coming out.” Aram could hear something pumping within the jar and the harsh, in-and-out echo of the head’s steady breathing.

  “No!” Drella practically screamed.

  “Of the boat. I’m coming out of the boat,” said the head.

  Aram, who had seen the undead Whisper-Man and scores of animated skeletons, still couldn’t quite fathom a severed head—jar or no jar—scowling and speaking aloud. But then the head-in-a-jar began to rise, and Aram realized that it wasn’t only a head. The jar was attached to a metal body that unfolded long, steam-driven metal arms and legs. Whatever it was climbed out of the speedboat and onto the dock. Straightening to its full height, the head’s eyes were now an inch or two above Aramar Thorne’s.

  Aram looked around at his companions. Murky was hissing. Hackle growled low. Makasa was silent and stoic, of course, but she had one hand on her sword and the other on the latch to her chain. Daisy smiled benevolently. Hotfix looked bored. Gazlowe looked just as cross as the metal man’s head.

  Drella was covering her face, still moaning softly. Then she looked up at the head and took a couple tentative steps forward, murmuring, “I should … I think I should …” But she seemed to lose her courage and turned away. Aram thought he heard her crying.

  He was about to say that he didn’t understand, didn’t understand what this creature was, didn’t understand why it upset Drella so. (Drella, who was so curious and naïvely imperturbable about nearly everyone and everything she encountered.) He didn’t understand any of it—and then, suddenly, he did!

  “It’s a suit! A suit of metal and steam and glass!” Excited by his epiphany, he turned to Makasa, almost beaming. “And there’s a little gnome inside the suit’s, uh … chest!”

  The gnome growled, “I’m not little!”

  Makasa said, “Leper gnome.”

  Horrified by those words, Aram quickly turned to look at the gnome again. His father had told him of leper gnomes: irradiated and driven insa
ne, they were locked away or banished. And they were potentially contagious! Aram saw a small blister on the gnome’s face burst, and he took a few steps back himself.

  Gazlowe held up his hands in a calming motion. “It’s fine. It’s fine. The suit contains the bad stuff. The suit protects him, us, and the world.” Then he turned to the gnome and barked, “What it don’t do is let you pilot that boat at anythin’ like a winnin’ speed!”

  “Gazlowe, listen … ,” the gnome began, but the goblin wasn’t in the mood.

  “No, Sprocket. You said one more chance, and I gave it to you. C’mon, now. Be realistic. You built us a terrific little filly here, but the jockey’s too blasted heavy. We both know you need to run this course in less than twelve minutes to win. The boat can do it. But not with you in it. That was your best time just now. You wanna know what it was?”

  “Fifteen minutes and fifty-two seconds,” said the gnome mournfully.

  “Fifteen minutes and fifty-two seconds,” said the goblin angrily, and he pounded a fist against the gnome’s metal chest.

  Daisy stepped between them. She said, “Where are my manners? Gimble Sprysprocket, I’d like you to meet my new friends, Aramar Thorne, Makasa Flintwill, Hackle of the Woodpaw clan, Murky, and Taryndrella, daughter of Cenarius. Ladies and gentlemen, this is Gimble Sprysprocket.”

  “Just call me Sprocket,” Sprysprocket said with a dismissive wave of his large metal hand. “My full name takes too long to say.” Then to the goblin: “Gazlowe, I’ll cut the weight. I’ll streamline my containment suit.”

  “You did that already.”

  “I’ll do it again.”

  “How? By takin’ out some of them gears and motors that let you move? You do that, how you gonna steer?”

  “The breathing apparatus—”

  “What, you gonna hold your breath for fifteen minutes and fifty-two seconds?”

  “Then I’ll increase the engine’s output.”

  “If you could do that, you’d’ve done it by now.” Gazlowe shook his head. “Kid, I’m sorry.”

  “Fine,” Sprocket said, looking away. “Razzle’s still on his way.”

  “Nah, kid. I ain’t buyin’ that line no more. You lied to me.”

  “No, I—”

  “Stop. I get it. You built her; you wanted to pilot her. So you tell me you got your cousin Razzle lined up for the gig. And I fall for it. That’s on me. Shoulda hired my own guy. Didn’t.”

  “Razzle will be here. Tomorrow or the next day.”

  “Yeah. For a record-holdin’ pilot, somehow Razzle’s always runnin’ late. And while we wait, you’ll just put our baby through her paces. Maybe convince me you’re just the gnome for the job. But Razzle ain’t comin’. Was never comin’. And you ain’t gonna convince no one. Meanwhile, I got three hundred gold coins invested in this boat and two thousand wagered on this race. And now I only got five days to find a new pilot.”

  “I’ll do it,” Aram said.

  All eyes turned to stare at him. He had almost surprised himself with the offer. He swallowed hard and tried to speak the goblin’s “language,” saying, “You got a lotta coin riding on this, right? If I pilot your boat, it’s gotta be worth the twenty gold pieces you were gonna charge us to salvage my father’s gift.”

  Gazlowe chuckled. “Ain’t that the truth?”

  Belatedly, a stunned Sprocket and an even more stunned Makasa shouted, “NO!”—practically in unison.

  Ignoring the gnome, Aram turned to his sister. “Why not?”

  “It’s too dangerous.”

  “It’s a boat race. Compared to everything else we’ve faced over the last few weeks, it’ll be the safest thing I’ve done.” Given his recent experiences in water, he sounded considerably more confident than he felt, but he said, “This gets us the … thing. And it won’t cost us a copper. Then in five days we can be back on our way to Gadgetzan.”

  “And if the Whisper-Man or one of the others gets here in less than five days?”

  “That’s always a risk. But …” He didn’t feel the need to add, what choice do we have?

  To her frustration, Makasa couldn’t find fault with his argument.

  But Gimble Sprysprocket could. “What do you know about being a pilot?”

  “I’ve raced boats before.”

  “Where?!”

  “Lake Everstill.”

  “What kind of boats?”

  “All kinds.”

  “All kinds of rowboats, I’m guessing.”

  “And rafts.”

  Sprocket turned his metal body back to Gazlowe, who was thoughtfully sizing Aram up. “You can’t be considering this.”

  “Can’t I? The boy’s gutsy. Knows what he wants and knows how to get it. I like his style.” Gazlowe stepped forward and wrapped his arms around a surprised Aram, who at first thought the goblin was giving him a hug. Instead, Gazlowe lifted Aram off his feet and held him in the air for a good five seconds before putting him down. “But mostly, I like that he weighs almost nothin’!”

  “No!” Sprocket shouted, his voice echoing inside his jar. “He knows nothing! Nothing about piloting a speedboat—let alone the fastest speedboat ever engineered!”

  “Aw, c’mon, Sprock,” Gazlowe said with a mocking tone. “You sayin’ a genius like you can’t figger out a way to train him with five whole days left before the race?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “But that’s it, ain’t it? You’re not up to it. Okay, I’ll find someone—”

  “I didn’t say I couldn’t train him. I could train the murloc if I wanted to.”

  Murky nodded. “Mrgle, mrgle.”

  Gazlowe rolled his eyes and muttered a sarcastic, “Sure you can.”

  “Of course I can!”

  “Please. I’ll bet you fifty in silver you can’t make a winnin’ pilot outta the boy.”

  “You’re on!”

  Gazlowe turned to Aram, waggled his brow ridges, and whispered, “Too easy.” Then louder: “Kid, you got yourself a deal!”

  They shook on it, and Gazlowe said, “What’s your name again?”

  Leper or no leper, Gimble Sprysprocket was one clever gnome. And not just clever. He was brilliant. Too smart to be fooled—or to fool himself—for very long. Half a second before his boss had said, “Too easy,” Sprocket realized he had been shamelessly manipulated into training this human boy. It was a sad little bit of self-knowledge, but Sprocket knew he was practically incapable of passing up on a dare. Now, he had silver riding on it. Silver he didn’t have—and wouldn’t have—unless his boat, his invention, the Steamwhistle, won the race and he received his ten percent cut of Gazlowe’s prize. That meant Sprocket had to either (1) turn this boy into a winning pilot or (2) convince Gazlowe the boy was a disaster so that Sprocket could pilot instead. (Gazlowe had been right about Cousin Razzle, whom Sprocket had never contacted at all.) Sprocket’s clear preference was (2). But in another morsel of unhappy self-knowledge, the gnome had to admit that his mechanized suit was indeed too heavy to score a winning time.

  He was proud of the suit. Most leper gnomes were slobbering wretches, unable to interact with society, unable to accomplish anything at all. But Sprocket had engineered and constructed a thing of genius—if he did think so himself. Actually, he had engineered and constructed an entire series of brilliant devices that together made up the complex containment suit that allowed him to safely walk among his fellows and continue to prove his extraordinary talents. He could do almost anything with it. He could do almost anything in it. (Except, of course, cure his cursed and shameful condition.)

  But even his amazing suit had its drawbacks. It was too heavy. And five days’ time wasn’t going to be long enough to fix that problem. So (1) it was. But that didn’t mean he was going to make it easy on this Thorne.

  They began bright and early the next morning. Thorne seemed eager to hop into the Steamwhistle and test her out. But Sprocket wanted to make sure the kid was sufficiently impressed with—or in
timidated by—the magnitude of what he was undertaking. So he pulled out the boat’s blueprints and insisted on going through every intricate detail of his invention. To Sprocket’s surprise, Thorne was impressed, studying the blueprints with extreme focus, praising their draftsmanship, and asking numerous pertinent questions. Instead of being pleased, Sprocket felt strangely disappointed, even mildly annoyed. And he became more annoyed when Gazlowe made an appearance, forcing the gnome to allow the boy to finally step into the boat. Instantly, Sprocket could see that the Steamwhistle was sitting considerably higher in the water than it had for himself, meaning Thorne weighed considerably less than Sprocket in his containment suit, meaning Thorne might theoretically be able to race considerably faster than Sprocket.

  This just might work. Which was somewhat annoying as well.

  Makasa watched Aram work with the leper gnome. She didn’t like seeing her brother so close to the contagious creature, suit or no suit. Drella’s clear … distaste for the gnome didn’t help. The young dryad couldn’t seem to stand being anywhere near Sprysprocket, so Makasa asked Hackle and Murky to take Drella for a walk around the Speedbarge.

  Minutes later, Murky and Drella were back. Murky was dripping wet and frantic, and Hackle was nowhere to be seen.

  “What happened?” Makasa demanded.

  Murky said, “RRRgrrrs! DRRRugg n RRRgrrrs!” And Makasa knew exactly what he meant.

  Throgg, Karrga, Guz’luk, Slepgar, Short-Beard, and Long-Beard spend three days aboard Grimtotem boat. Boat cramped, not comfortable. Slepgar too big. Slepgar too sleepy. Throgg spend much time with Slepgar’s big feet in Throgg’s face. Only good bit is boat so crowded, Karrga forced close to Throgg. Throgg like when Karrga close.

  Boring on boat, too. Give Throgg time. Time for Throgg to think. Throgg no like thinking. When Throgg think, Throgg remember. Throgg no like remembering.

  Throgg young. Throgg strong. Throgg fight for Horde with Throgg’s clan. With Mahrook ogre clan. Mahrook warriors kill many Alliance soldiers. But Mahrook warriors fooled. Mahrook warriors cornered in box canyon by Alliance. By many humans and dwarves. Too many. Mahrook warriors kill many Alliance soldiers. But more Alliance soldiers come. Too many. Mahrook warriors slaughtered by Alliance. Only Throgg left. Only Throgg alive to fight. Throgg keep fighting. Arrows in Throgg. Many arrows. But Throgg have two hands then. Pull arrows out and stab humans with arrows. Smash dwarves with mace. But too many Alliance soldiers. Throgg know Throgg will die. Die with rest of Mahrook warriors. Throgg think this death good death.