The Spiral Path

by Greg Weisman

  Walking between Gazlowe and Sprocket, Aram tried not to trip as the three of them joined the line waiting to register with the gnome Fizzle Brassbolts and the goblin Pozzik. The cofounders of the Speedbarge sat behind a long wooden table and entered names in a large tome.

  “Boat?” Fizzle asked.

  “The Guzzler,” said a goblin.

  “Sponsor?” Pozzik queried.

  “Razzeric,” said the goblin, now sounding slightly annoyed.

  “Engineer?” Fizzle inquired.

  “Razzeric,” the same goblin said again, with frustration.

  “Pilot?” Pozzik demanded.

  “Razzeric!” the goblin roared. “You know blasted well who I am, the both of you!”

  “Move along,” Fizzle said, with a dismissive wave.

  Aram watched a grumbling Razzeric move to stand in front of his green-and-red speedboat. Another goblin—older but quite distinguished, even handsome—took up position in front of Razzeric and began sketching him and his boat! This goblin artist worked quickly. It didn’t seem as if he was trying to finish the sketch; rather, he was just putting enough lines—enough information—on the page so he could finish it later.

  “Boat?” Fizzle asked.

  “The Annihilator,” said another goblin, this one with a nose ring.

  “Sponsor?” Pozzik queried.

  “Griznak,” said the nose-ringed goblin.

  “Engineer?” Fizzle inquired.

  “Mazzer Stripscrew,” said a gnome.

  “Pilot?” Pozzik demanded.

  “Rizzle Brassbolts,” said another gnome, one who looked an awful lot like …

  “Move along,” said Fizzle Brassbolts, with a dismissive wave.

  Griznak, Stripscrew, and Rizzle then went to stand in front of their yellow-and-black speedboat. And once again, the distinguished goblin moved in to sketch the trio. And once again, Aram marveled at the goblin artist’s speed and efficiency.

  “Boat?” Fizzle asked.

  “Freebooters’ Fire,” said a male troll, wearing a black bicorne hat with a white skull-and-crossbones painted on it.

  “Sponsor?” Pozzik queried.

  “Admiral Tony Two-Tusk,” said the troll pirate.

  “Engineer?” Fizzle inquired.

  “Jinky Twizzlefixxit,” said a petite female gnome.

  “Pilot?” Pozzik demanded.

  “Rugfizzle,” said a well-dressed goblin with a topknot.

  “Move along,” said Fizzle.

  This was the oddest racing team yet. (Almost as odd as Steamwhistle’s.) The troll, gnome, and goblin moved in front of their black-and-white speedboat (which also bore the skull-and-crossbones), and again the handsome older goblin went to work on their picture. Aram looked forward to meeting and talking with another artist. His own sketchbook was burning a hole in his pocket, and on the one hand, he was dying to show it to the distinguished goblin. But on the other hand, he was a little bit afraid to show it, too. What if it’s not any good?

  Gazlowe interrupted the boy’s growing crisis of confidence by nudging Aram forward.

  “Boat?” Fizzle asked.

  “The Steamwhistle,” Gazlowe and Sprocket said in competitive unison. They glared at each other briefly.

  “Sponsor?” Pozzik queried.

  “Gazlowe,” said Gazlowe.

  “Engineer?” Fizzle inquired.

  “Gimble Sprysprocket,” said Sprocket.

  “Pilot?” Pozzik demanded.

  “Wait,” Fizzle said, looking up from the tome to glare at the leper gnome. “You need to be a member in good standing of MEGA to register as an engineer in this race.”

  “I am a member in good standing of MEGA,” Sprocket growled.

  “Maybe you were once,” Fizzle growled back. “But I don’t know no leper gnomes that can keep their heads together long enough to—”

  Before he could finish the sentence, one of Sprocket’s mechanical arms slapped a card down on the wooden table. Fizzle picked it up and studied it. He eyed Sprocket again. “All up to date,” Fizzle acknowledged, and held the card out for the mechanical arm to snatch it back. Fizzle wrote Gimble Sprysprocket down in the tome.

  “Pilot?” Pozzik demanded again.

  “Aramar Thorne,” whispered Aram.

  “What? Speak up, boy.”

  “Aramar Thorne,” Aram said in a fuller voice.

  “Move along,” said Fizzle Brassbolts, with a dismissive wave.

  And move along he did. But not over to the distinguished artist. Suddenly, Murky was standing before him, shouting, “Urum! RRRgrrrs! Flllurlog!” A stunned Aram turned and locked eyes with a potbellied ogre he recognized from the arena in Dire Maul. The rotund ogre lifted a ram’s horn to his lips, distended his cheeks to an impossible degree, and blew. Seemingly from every side, more ogres rushed toward Aram, Murky, Sprocket, and Gazlowe. So the little murloc did the only thing he could do: he grabbed Aram and pulled him over the side.

  Aram hit the water, struggling to swim in the long, hooded cloak. He managed to take a deep breath—just before Murky yanked him down below the surface, deep below the surface. Murky pulled Gazlowe’s prized spy cloak off his friend and then swam with him underwater toward the yacht—and under it!

  Aram was pretty desperate for air when Murky finally guided him back toward the surface. Light-headed, Aram cleared the waterline, gasping for breath. Why am I always on the verge of drowning?! They had swum to the far side of the yacht and could no longer be seen from the Speedbarge.

  Murky said, “Urum mmmm?”

  “I’m good,” Aram said, breathing hard. “Thank you … my frund.”

  Murky smiled.

  “You gave me your word you’d keep him safe!” Makasa’s voice was low, barely above a whisper, which—if you knew her—was measurably scarier than when she yelled.

  Gazlowe didn’t know her that well but got the message anyway and backed up a step, saying, “I promised nothin’ would happen to him. And nothin’ did.”

  “Nothing?” Her outrage was palpable.

  Still not trusting the goblin completely, Makasa had ordered Murky to swim over to the Speedbarge during registration, with instructions to remain in the water, watching for signs of trouble or ogres.

  If she hadn’t …

  “Okay,” Gazlowe was saying. “So the kid got a little wet. Big deal. I’m the one who lost my spy cloak.”

  Makasa actually started to draw her sword then, but Aram put his hand on hers and stopped her. He turned to Gazlowe and said, “Make it up to us.”

  The goblin cocked his head, intrigued. “I’m not adverse. Whatcha got in mind?”

  “Salvage. Tonight.”

  “That wasn’t the deal, kid.”

  “His name is Aram,” Makasa growled.

  “Fine. That wasn’t the deal, Aram. I help you salvage your father’s whatchamacallit after the race.”

  “You have my word I’ll still pilot the Steamwhistle. I want to. But with those ogres lurking, we’re not going to be able to stick around after the race is over. We need to get the crystal tonight.”

  “Crystal?”

  “Never mind,” Aram said, kicking himself over the slip. “Are you still not adverse?”

  Gazlowe smiled.

  Throgg not happy. Throgg say, “Boy gone. Compass gone.”

  Karrga say, “Boy not gone. Boy in race. Boy race in blue boat-thing. Blue boat-thing with red stripe. Throgg still get boy when boy come to race.”

  Throgg smile.

  Murky was back in the water—this time with Aram’s compass—leading the unanchored yacht back to where the crystal shard was trapped. When he signaled they had arrived, Gazlowe broke out two diving suits for Makasa and Aram. They looked a bit like Sprocket’s containment suit, but even larger and bulkier, despite having no mechanical appendages. Aram and his sister exchanged nearly identical glances of discomfort.

  Gazlowe said, “It’s perfectly safe.” Makasa frowned, distrusting the goblin more or less
on principle now. But she and Aram allowed Gazlowe and two members of his goblin crew to fit them out.

  It took time. Aram and Makasa would not be seated (like Sprocket) inside the suits’ chest units. There were arm sleeves and gauntlets. Leg sleeves and boots. Chest plates and helmets with a single caged glass panel in front. And all of it required careful fitting to make sure the seals were watertight. Partway through the process, Sprocket joined them. He had made some adjustments to his own containment suit in preparation for the dive.

  The last step was attaching long tubes—air hoses—to each of the three divers. The hoses were fastened to a steam pump aboard the yacht, which would pump fresh air to the trio after they hit the water.

  Once sealed in, Aram felt like he could barely move. The five clunky steps to the portside rail nearly did him in right there. The suit was so heavy, and movement in it was so awkward, he didn’t see how he’d be able to accomplish anything down there. He said as much, but his voice was so muffled behind the glass plate of his helmet that no one could clearly understand what he was saying. Communication was largely limited to flashing a thumbs-up or a thumbs-down.

  Looking over the side, Aram saw Murky directly below him. He looked up again to see Gazlowe waving the murloc out of the way. He had to turn his head and shoulders to look to the other side and see Hackle and Drella watching. The dryad was staring at Sprocket with her usual discomfort. The gnoll was shaking his head. Although Aram heard no distinct sounds beyond his own breathing, he imagined he could hear Hackle growling low.

  Sprocket went first, demonstrating what he had already told them: that the best way into the water was to face away from it and gently fall backward. He vanished beneath the surface. Makasa immediately followed.

  Despite all the piloting Aram had done over the last few days, he still maintained a morbid fear of drowning—but he swallowed hard and leaned back. The weight of the suit tipped him all the way over instantly—and he was in the water. He felt a moment of panic! But he recovered quickly. In fact, the buoyancy of the water seemed to help. Basic movement was no longer such a struggle. He looked over and saw Makasa and Sprocket. Due to the weight of their suits, all three were sinking rapidly. Murky swam around them in fast circles as they descended, with the compass chain wrapped around the top of his head, and the compass itself once again glowing like a third eye on his brow. Sprocket, who had never seen the compass before, stared from inside his suit and reached out a mechanical arm to touch it. Murky slapped the metal hand away with his webbed foot.

  Aram’s level of anxiety was high. It didn’t seem like he was in mortal danger—not as when ogres or skeletons were trying to bash his brains in. On the other hand, everything—the suit, the water—seemed to be crushing in on him, and he could feel his heart racing in his chest. But slowly, as he descended, he listened to the regular inhale and exhale of the air pump, and it calmed him considerably.

  In no time at all, they were at the bottom. Murky led the other three over to the pile of stone slabs and pointed out the one they needed to move: it was immense. On land, it would have taken a team of horses to drag it even a foot. But underwater, the four of them just might have a chance.

  They set to work. They couldn’t lift it but found that by rocking the slab back and forth, they could slowly inch it off the other slab beneath. Aram was nervous that the crystal might get smashed into dust between the two slabs, but the glow from the slab-covered shard continued steadily.

  Murky helped Urum, Mrksa, and the strange, sickly gnome-in-a-box to rock the stone back and forth, but he couldn’t help thinking he had forgotten something. Just then a small perch swam past, and Murky remembered … with the summer sun warming the water, she had been sluggish and lazy and had let him swim by. But now it was night. The water was cool. It was feeding time.

  Something grabbed Aram from behind. Grabbed him and shook him violently. Aram had no peripheral vision inside the suit and no idea what was attacking. He struggled to free himself, but he was being shaken so hard, his head was banged around inside his helmet, leaving him stunned. His diving suit’s metal reinforcements seemed to be protecting him somewhat, but water was seeping inside the suit from multiple punctures. He caught glimpses of Makasa, Sprocket, and Murky coming to his aid, but he quickly lost sight of all three. Someone screamed and kept screaming. Who was screaming? And how was he able to hear it? Suddenly, he realized he was the one screaming …

  Makasa had never seen anything like it. After a moment of stunned horror (and half again as much time to mourn her missing harpoon), she sprang into action, pushing off with her feet and swimming over to free Aram. But Murky intercepted her. Grabbed her hand and pulled her above Aram and the mouth of the creature. He let go of her and slammed both his fists down on the beast’s long, flat, squared snout. Makasa got the message and did the same. It didn’t seem to have much effect. Then the leper gnome joined them and began slamming his metal mechanical fists down on the creature’s snout over and over. Murky and Makasa redoubled their efforts.

  Just as he stopped screaming, it was over; Aram was released from the grip of whatever had held him.

  He turned in the water and saw what “whatever” was: the biggest fish he’d ever seen in his life, grey and immense, with a mouthful of long knives for teeth. He could hear Greydon’s voice in his head, telling him it was a whale shark, and he felt like telling his father to shut up, shut up, shut up! That thing nearly ate me! The creature was so big, he couldn’t take it all in from any one angle …

  Snack have hard shell. Hard to crack. Bit down, but snack have no taste. No blood. Murloc attack with other snacks. Murloc hit snout. Pain. Snacks hit snout hard, over and over. More pain. Not like this kind of snack. And not that hungry, anyway.

  The whale shark turned and swam away into the dark water. With a new urgency, Aram swam back over to the stone slab. He wanted to get the crystal shard fast and get back aboard Gazlowe’s yacht faster. Makasa swam to him and held on to his helmet so she could look through her glass and into his, into her brother’s eyes. He could feel water slowly seeping into his diving suit, but she seemed unaware of this, so he nodded and gave her a thumbs-up. She looked understandably dubious. But he pointed to the slab, and she and Sprocket and Murky got back into position.

  Together, they rocked it back and forth some more. And then Murky vanished from view, popping back up a second later with the glowing crystal between his claws!

  By the time they surfaced, Makasa could see that Aram’s faceplate was a third full of water. It had risen over his mouth, and her brother was struggling to keep his nose from submerging as well. When Gazlowe’s crew—straining due to the added weight of the water-filled suit—finally managed to pull the boy out of the lake and dump him roughly onto the deck, everyone could see half the Shimmering Deep leaking out of multiple puncture holes in Aram’s suit.

  Gazlowe said, “What happened to my diving suit?! That thing costs, y’know?!”

  Makasa was seriously ready to kill the goblin—even as Aram’s diving suit drained and his risk of drowning ebbed—but was hampered by her own diving suit. In the time it took for her and Aram to get out of their suits, Makasa had managed to bury her more murderous impulses toward Gazlowe. But everything about the entire day had added to her frustrations. She hadn’t been with Aram on the Speedbarge when the ogres attacked. She hadn’t known how to save him from the whale shark when it attacked—especially without her harpoon at hand. In both scenarios, she had been completely dependent on Murky. Murky, of all creatures!! Sucking on her lower lip, then biting it between her white teeth, she was more determined than ever to regain control over their journey. Only she could truly keep Aramar Thorne safe. She would not, could not continue to depend on others. Period.

  Alone in their cabin, the five travelers gathered by candlelight. Gazlowe had sent cookies and milk in a minor attempt to smooth things over. (Belatedly, he had realized that “the kid” had nearly died, again, while doing something the goblin ha
d promised was “perfectly safe.”) He wanted to keep his pilot happy, and his pilot’s sister nonviolent. A midnight snack was the best idea he could come up with.

  Aram sat on the floor with the new crystal shard, comparing it to the shard gathered from below Skypeak. The new shard was bigger, almost as long as the boy’s pinky finger. Both shards glowed, as did the crystal needle on the compass, which was back around Aram’s neck and pulling toward the other two pieces of crystal.

  “Stop it,” Aram said (having been through this before), and the compass obeyed. Its needle continued to glow and point toward the other shards, but it ceased pulling and yanking on him.

  Drella was excited. “It does what you tell it to do!”

  “Mostly,” Aram said. He was studying the two shards, turning them over and over in either hand.

  Drella said, “If all things did what I told them to do, I am quite sure the world would be a better place.”

  Hackle said, “What Drella tell things?”

  “Hmmm,” she murmured, clearly not having thought that far ahead.

  Suddenly, something clicked for Aram. He turned the larger shard over, turned the smaller shard around, and placed them next to each other. They fit together perfectly, their glow increasing in intensity, shining brightly, until …

  Light. All was Light. The Voice of the Light said, “Do you see, Aram? Do you see?”

  “All I see is Light,” he responded.

  “See what brings the Light,” said the Voice. “See what makes the Light.”

  “See your death,” said the silhouette of Malus, backlit by something other than the bright white Light. Backlit by red and orange flames.

  The Voice said, “Fear him not. You are on your way. Two have become one. Soon Seven will become One.”