The Spiral Path

by Greg Weisman

  Aram could barely breathe. He wasn’t sure what else was in the refuse bin with him, but he was positive it must be dead, dead, dead. (Suddenly, the Whisper-Man’s penchant for overusing jasmine water made a lot of sense.) Nevertheless, he waited a good five minutes before peeking out. He looked around and listened. There was no one nearby, and the sound of the ogre’s horn echoed from some significant distance away. He was terribly concerned for Makasa, but he also had a terrible confidence in her abilities. He was quite aware he had held her back during the chase. Without him, she was likely to simply outrun her pursuers. The best thing he could do now was find the new shard fast and then slip back through the streets to Winifred’s.

  He checked the compass, which he’d been gripping tightly all this time, with the expectation that he’d find the needle spinning. It had been pointing and pulling in the direction of the refuse bin, and Aram was prepared to have to dig through it—stench or no stench—to get the crystal.

  But the needle was not spinning. It glowed brightly, but it still pointed in the same direction, that is, toward the wall behind the bin. For a moment, Aram thought the crystal shard must be inside whatever building the bin abutted, and he wondered desperately how he’d manage to get inside. But when he let go of the compass to climb out of the bin, it shot straight up into the air. The heavy chain slipped right over his head, and he watched dumbly as the compass arched upward and landed with a subtle thud on the roof of the two-story building.

  The shard was on the roof?

  Why was that any stranger than one being in the dirt on the Feralas border or another being at the bottom of Thousand Needles’ Shimmering Deep? He couldn’t articulate why a Tanaris rooftop was indeed stranger, but he was quite sure it was.

  Looking around again, he climbed out of the bin and stood in the alley, contemplating how to get up to the roof. He approached the wall and tried to get a grip to climb it. It wasn’t exactly smooth, but there was no way to get any purchase whatsoever.

  I’m so close! There must be a way to climb up!

  He thought maybe there might be access to the roof from inside and turned to walk around to the front of the building to find the entrance.

  There was a stairway to the second floor ten feet away. He slapped himself on the forehead and quickly ascended.

  From the top of the stairs, he was able to climb up on the wooden railing. It was only slightly precarious. From there he could reach the edge of the roof and pull himself up.

  He spotted the compass and the shard instantly. Only this was no tiny shard of crystal. He quickly untied Thalyss’s purple leather pouch from his belt and pulled out the shard he already had: the one that combined the two shards found in dirt and water. Even merged together, they were still only as big as his little finger.

  This new piece was made of the same solid crystal. But it was clearly shaped like the hilt of a sword. And a rather large sword at that. He picked up the hilt, hefted it. It had weight, substance. All that was missing was the blade. No, that’s not quite true. There was a small pinky-size cleft in the hilt. He carefully inserted the merged crystal, and with a flash of the Light …

  “Three have become one,” said the Voice of the Light. It seemed to emerge from somewhere within him. The Voice and the Light, as well.

  “Three have become one,” Aram agreed. “Four left to find?”

  “Seven must become One.”

  “So four left to find.”

  Laughter echoed around him. He saw he was standing in a circle of red flame, climbing higher and higher and higher. He felt strangely unafraid and wondered why. He looked down. He held the hilt of a massive crystal sword in his hand. It felt right. It felt like it belonged there in his hand.

  Malus laughed again. “It always feels right. You think you’re special?” By the end of the question, Malus no longer sounded like Malus. His silhouette—now burning at the edges—no longer matched Aram’s memory of Malus. Malus was tall, but this silhouette was taller. Taller and slimmer. And Aram was quite sure he’d have remembered if Malus had two large horns emerging from his forehead. No, this wasn’t Malus, had never been Malus. Malus was connected to this creature somehow, so Aram had conflated them. Now, he was seeing more clearly.

  The Voice of the Light said, “See? You are special, Aram. Heal the Blade. Save me. Seven must become One.”

  “He will never heal the Blade,” said the Malus-that-was-not-Malus. Wind stoked the flames, and another shadow joined the horned figure.

  “You may heal the Blade. We have no objection,” whispered the haunting black sands of Ueetay no Mueh’zala. “There will be a reckoning. Arm yourself however you prefer. The battle will come.”

  “The fire will burn,” said Malus-not-Malus.

  “Mueh’zala will feast.”

  “On all of Azeroth,” they said in chorus. “On all of Azeroth.”

  Aram emerged from his vision with a gasp. He looked down at his hands. He held the hilt in one hand, the compass in the other, and both hands were shaking. He had to concentrate to make them stop. He looked around for the old finger-size shard, and momentarily panicked when he couldn’t find it.

  Then he remembered. He studied the hilt. There was no longer any cleft. The old shard (shards) had merged seamlessly. As if the cleft had never been there. As if the three pieces of crystal had never been apart. He studied the hilt some more. There was a jagged edge right near the base—all that remained … of the Blade. Four shards left to find: pieces of this sword.

  He looked at the compass to see where the next one would be. The needle no longer glowed or spun. It pointed to the east, which meant it pointed toward Lakeshire. Well, that was that. He had to find the next shard. That was clearer now than ever before. Drella had said she wanted to see Lakeshire. Guess she’ll get her wish …

  He crossed to the edge of the roof. He looked east. Of course, he couldn’t see Lakeshire or the Eastern Kingdoms from here. He could see a large dome-like structure at the far edge of Gadgetzan. And he thought he could even hear the muffled roar of a crowd cheering from inside it. For a fleeting moment, he wondered what they were cheering about, whom they might be cheering for …

  But the moment passed. He needed to meet up with Makasa at Winifred’s. He raced across the roof and, with the sword hilt stuffed into the back of his pants, lowered himself down.

  The placing of bets seemed to take some time. Gazlowe himself caused quite a delay by arguing with Baron Noggenfogger over the latter’s cut of the take. For Makasa, it was just another reason to be annoyed with “old Gazzy.” She was champing at the bit to get the fight started. To get it over with. She looked across the arena floor at her four opponents.

  Throgg slowly screwed a mace onto his right wrist. Makasa recognized it as the weapon that had killed her crewmate Cassius Meeks aboard Wavestrider. Meeks was a hard worker who deserved a better end.

  The female ogre drew her broadsword. Makasa thought it an odd weapon for an ogre and guessed she was a rare member of her breed to appreciate precision.

  The troll, Zathra, looked nervous. After Zul’Farrak, Makasa could guess why.

  Only Valdread was inscrutable, his blanched white face completely hidden under his hood.

  Zathra first, Makasa thought. Take her down with the harpoon before she finds her courage. Then dodge the swing of Throgg’s mace and try the edge of my cutlass against the throat of the blue ogre. If I’m fast enough, I can get the chain unleashed and swinging before Throgg’s ready for his second attempt on me. Smash his skull right then. That just leaves the Whisper-Man … Somehow, Makasa knew—or thought she knew—that Baron Valdread would wait his turn patiently. He wouldn’t care whether or not his companions survived, and he’d prefer to test his skills against her once they were out of the way. The chain’ll do well against him. Shatter him into pieces. Then I’ll scatter those pieces so he can’t put himself back together. There were torches placed at intervals, all around the ring. Set fire to each and every bit of the Fors
aken.

  That was the plan. It required a lot of things to go her way, she knew. But she smiled grimly. She liked counting on her harpoon, cutlass, and chain. She liked counting on herself and no one else.

  But some had other ideas.

  Hackle, Murky, and Taryndrella came running into the ’drome, breathless. Out of the corner of her eye, an infuriated Makasa saw the little gnome lead Winifred and Springsong over to Gazlowe’s box. They sat down beside him. Gazlowe immediately sat back and told Noggenfogger that the terms of the wagering were now sufficient.

  “What are you doing?” Makasa hissed as Hackle—war club at the ready—moved in beside her on her right. Murky, holding his tiny spear, took up position on her left. Drella stood between Makasa and her opponents, waving brightly. She said, “We have come to fight beside you, Makasa Flintwill. We would not have you fight our enemies alone.”

  “No,” agreed Hackle.

  “Nk,” said Murky.

  By this time, Noggenfogger had descended back down to the arena floor. He looked around at the newly added combatants and said, “What is this?”

  With a smile playing at his voice, Valdread said, “More aggrieved individuals seeking redress. We stole a significant amount of cheese.”

  Zathra, Throgg, and the female ogre stared at him.

  So did Murky and Hackle and Makasa.

  Drella said, “I do not eat cheese.”

  Noggenfogger said, “Betting is closed. Four against one. Those were the terms of the wagering.”

  Gazlowe shouted, “So now it’s four against four! I’ll take the newcomers and the human woman at ten to one!”

  Instantly, the entire crowd began shouting to adjust their bets. Noggenfogger scowled, but hurried to record each new wager in order to guarantee his cut.

  Makasa looked down at Hackle and said, “I do not require anyone’s help.”

  Hackle looked up at her. “Makasa no ask for help. Makasa get help.”

  “Mrgle, mrgle.”

  “Murky agrees,” Drella said. “And so do I.”

  Makasa exhaled—and briefly wondered just how long she’d been holding her breath. She looked at Hackle and admitted to herself that he might be useful. She didn’t need him, but he was a tough little gnoll and not without skill. She glanced over at Zathra, who clearly didn’t like facing them both together. Makasa said, “Drella, go sit with Springsong.”

  “No,” said Drella simply. She was still standing with her back to the enemy.

  “Murky,” Makasa commanded, “take Drella and go sit with Gazlowe and Springsong.”

  “Nk,” said Murky, staring daggers at the enemy while poking the empty air with his spear.

  “Blast it!” she yelled. She was about ready to ignore Valdread and his lot and turn her ire against her three friends.

  “Aram say we are crew. Aram’s crew and Makasa’s crew. Crew stand with Makasa,” Hackle said calmly.

  “No, I—”

  “Crew is crew,” Hackle said. “Makasa must learn this. Aram know this. Makasa must learn. Crew is crew. Crew stand together. Crew stand with Makasa even if Makasa no want.”

  Crew, she thought, calming at the word. She sucked on her lower lip, then bit it between her white teeth. The gnoll was right. Aboard Wavestrider or Sea King, she would not have hesitated to stand with her crew. She would have expected them to stand with her.

  She had spent her entire odyssey with Aram resenting every addition to their crew. Resenting her need for others. Why? Her life had never been one lived in solitude, had never been one lived on a lifeboat. She was a creature of ships. And aboard ship, every deckhand depended on every other. Crew.

  In a voice meant for them, but loud enough for all to hear, she said, “I am honored to stand with Hackle, Murky, and Taryndrella.”

  Taryndrella skipped around to stand beside Murky. “It is about time,” she said.

  Yes, thought Makasa, feeling as if a great weight had suddenly been lifted. It is about time. She smiled.

  Hidden in the shadows, Malus had seen Aram’s murloc and gnoll enter with the dryad that Valdread had mentioned, plus yet another night elf and a goblin. Where does he pick up these people? He’ll be traveling with a yeti next.

  Ssarbik had blustered up some more outrage over Malus’s lack of interest in the group. Malus had simply said to Ssavra, “Tell him.”

  The bird-woman explained to her less intelligent brother that there was no point in following Aram’s allies inside. The point was that Aram wasn’t with them. Meaning, they also were not with him.

  “So unless he’s brought that wyvern into town without anyone noticing,” Malus concluded, “he’s alone and friendless in this city. Now, find him.”

  The siblings then stood side by side—holding hands, feathered fingers intertwined—and chanted together. Malus hardly listened to the words. He felt the hairs on his arm stand at attention and watched the dark, oozing magic flow from beneath the two arakkoa’s feet. It created a trail of black that burned red at the edges. It zigged and zagged along the streets, searching for what Malus and the dreadlord of the demonic Burning Legion sought.

  Malus said, “Stay here. Maintain the path until it leads me to the compass, or I’ll throw both your corpses at the feet of your Master.”

  He followed the magic, alone.

  For Aram, unfamiliar with the streets of Gadgetzan, finding Winifred’s house required a little luck and a lot of trial and error. But find it, eventually, he did. He entered and ran upstairs. Makasa wasn’t there. Neither was Hackle, Murky, or Drella. For some reason, he was afraid to call out for them. So he ran back downstairs but couldn’t find Winifred, either. He checked the kitchen, the root cellar, the attic. He went back to his room, as if they might have magically appeared in his absence.

  He had no idea what to do.

  Still at a loss, he decided to go downstairs again, though whether he intended to go out looking for them or wait by the door was still an open question in his mind. But the decision was taken from his hands. Halfway down the stairs, he heard the front door open. He practically leapt the rest of the way down.

  Malus stood in the doorway, looking directly at Aram with a satisfied smile. There was something at the tall man’s feet, something black with red-rimmed edges. In an instant, it swept past Malus and swept over Aram …

  Little went as Makasa had imagined.

  Zathra, perhaps overcompensating for her fears, instantly fired both her crossbows at Makasa as soon as the bell was sounded. Makasa just barely managed to twist her shoulder in time for both bolts to sink into her shield as opposed to her flesh. Not stopping to reload, the troll attacked aggressively, pulling a dagger and rushing at Makasa—only to be intercepted by Hackle.

  Unlike the slaves pitted against each other in the Dire Maul arena, those settling conflicts in the Thunderdrome were not supposed to fight to the death. But clearly, someone had neglected to inform these particular combatants.

  With her unerring aim, Makasa threw her harpoon at the female ogre. But Throgg reached in and deflected it with his mace. Both ogres advanced on Makasa, but her swinging chain kept them at bay.

  The only one of Makasa’s predictions that seemed to be coming true was her assumption that Valdread would hang back, waiting. He did, watching Makasa and whispering, “Most impressive. You do remind me of someone. If only I could remember who …” But no one heard him over the roar of the suddenly bloodthirsty crowd.

  On the opposite end of the arena, Taryndrella also hung back—her head tilted at an angle, one finger tapping upon her lips—as if listening, listening …

  Zathra’s nerves were still brittle. Hackle swung his large war club, driving her back. And with unloaded crossbows and a short dagger, there was little the troll could do to prevent his advance. Little except this: she clicked her tongue twice, and Skitter leapt off her chest to sting Hackle.

  Out of nowhere, Murky—having dropped his little spear—caught the scorpid in his webbed hands. Skitter stung Murk
y three or four times in quick succession, as indicated by Murky’s annoyed, “Ur, ur, ur!” But the scorpid’s venom seemed to have no effect on the little murloc. Apparently, he was immune. Whether this was a feature common to all murlocs or something uniquely, well, Murkian, hardly mattered to Zathra, who remembered Drella’s words about the murloc to the Mother of Venom. Already superstitious about Aram’s little band, she began shivering involuntarily. While Murky held Skitter over his head, Hackle advanced. The troll barely managed to back away.

  Valdread started laughing his dry, sandy laugh and said, “All right, all right. I suppose we should finish this.” He finally drew his black sword and shale dagger.

  But by this time, Makasa had seen their enemies’ true weakness. They were impressive fighters as individuals, but they had no cohesion. They were mercenaries. Not a crew.

  But Makasa had a crew. She called back over her shoulder, “Go low!” and brought the arc of her swinging chain down. Knowing exactly what she meant, Murky and Hackle—armed with a scorpid and a war club, respectively—were both short enough to safely advance directly beneath the circular spin of Makasa’s chain. Not so for ogres, troll, or Forsaken.

  Hackle measured the pace of the chain’s rotation and swung his club upward between revolutions. It clobbered Zathra and sent her flying back.

  “Murky,” Makasa called, “introduce your new friend to the ogres!”

  Murky raced forward and turned Skitter toward Throgg. The confused scorpid lashed out and stung the large ogre. The female ogre tried to poke at both Skitter and Murky with her broadsword, but the reach of Makasa’s chain was longer than the reach of the ogre’s arm and sword combined. She was forced to retreat. Throgg, reacting to the venom in his system, dropped to one knee—and was slapped across the jaw by the chain’s iron links. He went down and stayed down.

  This was mostly good news. Two of their opponents were laid out on the sand and sawdust. But the chain’s impact with Throgg’s jaw also served to disrupt its rotation, and both Valdread and the remaining ogre moved in to take advantage—with enough speed to put Makasa on the defensive, parrying the baron’s sword thrusts with her cutlass, while Murky and Hackle were forced to retreat from the female ogre’s now considerable reach.