Traveler

by Greg Weisman

  “You loved him,” he said.

  “What?” she barked back at him, suddenly outraged. She stood and pulled her harpoon out of the ground as if she might skewer him with it.

  “Sorry. I’m asking. Did you love him?”

  Her hand gripped and regripped the iron weapon. When she spoke again, he thought he could hear that her throat had gone dry. “I respected him,” she croaked. “I wanted him to respect me.”

  He thought, Yes, that’s all true. But that’s not the whole truth. She offered him a life debt but hoped—thought—they’d moved beyond it. That much she’s already admitted.

  The rest now seemed almost obvious—or obvious enough that he wondered why he hadn’t seen it months before. After two years aboard ship, standing beside Greydon Thorne, Makasa had come to love him like a father; I know she did. I was his son, but—whether she knew it or not—she wanted to be his daughter. It was one reason why she and I never got along, could never get along. I came aboard and took her place. It didn’t help that I didn’t seem to want it. Nor that I didn’t seem to deserve it.

  He said, “I mattered to him. I know that now.”

  “A bit late,” she said, scowling again and staring down at the fire.

  “It was hard to see,” he said. “Because no matter how much I mattered, it was you he valued.”

  Her eyes snapped up to meet his, to test them for sincerity. But that was an easy test for Aram to pass, because he sincerely believed Greydon valued Makasa more than any person in Azeroth.

  “Get some sleep,” she said, not unkindly. And then more harshly and in character: “We’re up at dawn and walking.”

  He left the sketch unfinished for the time being and put the pencil and book away.

  Days passed. Nights, too. Lord Bloodhorn lasted them a good long time, and Makasa was even able to dry, tan, and sew a crude pack from his hide. Many of their meager supplies were transferred to this pack, including the canteens and oil flask.

  Their long march had begun to climb uphill and carry them above the canopy. The area should still have been lush, but tree after tree had been cut down, leaving only stumps. Makasa examined them and declared with certainty that the damage had been done by axe blades too large to have been wielded by anything smaller than an ogre. Thus, they were constantly—exhaustingly—on the alert and continued to sleep in shifts. Aram awoke one night to find Makasa stabbing at a rock viper that had slithered within five inches of his neck.

  Without the shade of the trees, the heat and humidity grew oppressive. Other plants were scorched and withered by the bright, unforgiving sun. And the lack of flora had clearly had an effect on the fauna. Makasa had flushed out no more game and had seen little sign that more game existed—other than the poisonous snakes, which she was afraid to cook and eat because she couldn’t be certain the snake-flesh would be free of venom. No more palm-apples were to be found, either. Fortunately, despite the heat, water wasn’t a problem, thanks to the occasional runoff from the frequent rains. But when it came to food, they were rationing out the hardtack again.

  Aram had taken to checking the compass with frustrating regularity—frustrating because it told him so little. He studied it, even sketched it. The casing was brass; the face was white with initials—marking north, south, east, and west—filigreed in gold. The needle was a sliver of crystal, which consistently pointed southeast. To Makasa, he said they were maintaining a direct route to Gadgetzan. It wasn’t a lie—their map of Kalimdor confirmed his claim—but in his heart, he felt each step was really bringing him closer to Lakeshire. But there was nothing to consult that could reveal how many days they’d have to walk before reaching Gadgetzan or whether there’d be a ship there to take him home. Nevertheless, whether ascending or resting, he continued to consult the compass, as if maybe this time new information would be provided.

  Makasa observed this new habit and came very close to adding it to her long list of things to harass Aram about—but she didn’t. At first, she couldn’t quite put a finger on why. Eventually, however, she knew: Greydon had checked the compass in the exact same manner. And every time he checked it, the result was the same facial expression of frustration bordering on disappointment that Aram was offering up now. Makasa Flintwill missed her captain, and Aram was bringing the man back to her in some small measure. So she said nothing, lest he stop.

  A part of her still prayed that Captain Thorne had somehow defeated the pirates and retaken Wavestrider, that the ship had limped to port and was now undergoing repair of the mainmast, that it would set out in search of them soon. But the former second mate knew she’d never have allowed Aram to talk her into heading inland—away from any chance of regaining their ship and rejoining its crew—if for one moment she truly believed any of that fantasy possible. No, Makasa was too practical to lie to herself. By now, Greydon Thorne and the rest of the crew were dead at the pirates’ hands.

  Assuming the pirates were pirates at all. Makasa had her doubts on that score. There were still too many unanswered questions. For starters, she was forced to agree with Aram’s earlier observation: in possession of Cobb’s intelligence, it seemed unlikely that a standard pirate crew would have much interest in Wavestrider’s cargo. The ship itself was a prize, but she had witnessed how little concern the pirate captain had had for leaving said prize undamaged. And what about that pirate captain? He had known Captain Thorne, and Thorne had known him, had called him a “traitorous dog.” What was their history? And when Greydon Thorne had told her and Aram, “There’s more at stake than either of you realize,” what had he meant? What was at stake? She longed to know but despaired of ever finding out. Maybe the pirates weren’t pirates at all. Yet it changed nothing.

  The “pirates,” meanwhile, made landfall in Feralas. The tar-ship, called the Inevitable by its crew, was anchored off the coast, while a longboat carried its elite toward shore.

  Malus, their leader, watched as the muscle of the group, the ogre Throgg, rowed fiercely, using—in lieu of his missing hand—an iron clamp tightly screwed into the rapidly splintering wood of the oar’s handle. They’d be lucky if the oar made it to shore intact, and it frustrated Malus that—short of rowing himself—he could get no one else to take on this mundane chore. Their swordsman, the undead Reigol Valdread, had made a great show of offering his services—only to tear his left arm completely off his shoulder with his very first pull of the oars. He was all whispered apologies as he reattached the arm. But Malus could clearly hear the amused insincerity in Valdread’s barely audible protestations of regret. Malus had then looked to their tracker, Zathra, but the troll simply curled her lip into a scowl and said, “Da sea be no place for a sand troll. I not be rowin’ for you, mon.” That left only their sorcerer, Ssarbik. But Malus hadn’t even bothered to ask the strange robe-enshrouded arakkoa, now hissing relentlessly to himself through his sharp, curved beak in the boat’s stern. To begin with, the foul creature’s birdlike body and feathered limbs weren’t well suited for the task, and neither was his arrogant demeanor. Ssarbik barely paid beak-service to being under Malus’s command. And Malus was too practical to fool himself into thinking otherwise. So he watched Throgg row and watched the oar handle splinter.

  The longboat drew near the rocky coastline. From the deck of the Inevitable, Zathra had spotted bits of wreckage among the shoals, and now that they were closer, she was able to confirm they were the remains of a small boat or dinghy.

  “The dinghy from Thorne’s ship?” Malus demanded.

  She glared at him. “Now, how I ta know dat?”

  “How long has the wreckage been there?”

  “Get me closer, and I tell you.”

  Malus seethed at her casually insolent tone. This group was deadly and efficient. The successful attack on—and sinking of—the Wavestrider had demonstrated that. But they were hardly a cohesive unit. Ssarbik, of course, had his own agenda. Zathra was a mercenary, a professional. She took the job and would complete it. But she had no interest in Mal
us’s cause, and he knew it. And Valdread? Like the troll, he was for hire, accepting gold in exchange for his services and his sword. But truth be told, Valdread had only signed on out of sheer boredom: not a motivation Malus could count on if things got uninteresting—or too interesting. He hadn’t forgotten or forgiven that Valdread had nearly blown the entire operation by approaching Greydon Thorne prematurely in Flayers’ Point. No, only Throgg the Truly Dim was truly loyal to his master.

  In fact, loyalty all but defined the ogre. Even his missing hand was a symbol of that quality, having been taken years ago as proof of allegiance to the orcs of the Shattered Hand clan.

  Throgg rowed as close to shore as he dared without scuttling them on the rocks.

  Crouching in the bow, Zathra leaned forward, her sharp eyes taking in every detail of the wreckage.

  “Been dere a week,” she said. “It be da boat from da ship …”

  “Or a startling coincidence,” whispered Valdread.

  “I do not believe in coinccidenccessss,” hissed Ssarbik. His sibilant voice—unusual even for an arakkoa—grated on everyone aboard, even the Whisper-Man.

  “No place to land,” Throgg stated. “Throgg head south ’til we—”

  But already the arakkoa had begun his chant: “We are the Hidden, the voyagerzz of Shadow. We ssserve and will conquer. What we conquer will Burn. Bend to the masster’ss will. Bend to the Hidden. Bend. Bend.”

  The water darkened and swirled around the boat. The air seemed charged with static. Shadows in the bottom of the boat twisted and writhed. Throgg and Zathra growled low in disturbed unison. Malus scowled, the hair on his arms prickling up to attention. Valdread’s opinion was unknowable under his hood.

  And still, Ssarbik intoned, “Bend. Bend. Bend.”

  With a lurch, the dark water lifted the boat upward. It landed with a crack of its keel upon the shore, just above the dinghy’s wreckage—and, in fact, smack atop where Makasa’s harpoon had struck earth. Malus couldn’t help noting that the damage to Throgg’s oar hardly mattered now that the entire longboat had been rendered unsound.

  Valdread removed his hood, revealing blanched-white skin stretched tight over his skull-shaped head with its somewhat permanent skeletal grin. “Well, that saved some time,” he whispered.

  Throgg unclamped himself from the oar and stood up in the boat, tipping it. The others were quick enough to leap clear—all but Ssarbik, who was tossed out, face first, into the mud.

  Scampering up and trying to cover the indignity with fury, the arakkoa hissed, “Fool! You will sssuffer!”

  “Enough,” Malus said. Ssarbik might not like it, but Malus was still in command. “We haven’t the time to fight among ourselves. Zathra, earn your keep.”

  “Dat be some trick, mon. Since da mud-bird here wiped out deir traces wit dis boat and his clumsy self.”

  Ssarbik wheeled on the troll, but she leveled a crossbow between his eyes, and the arakkoa shrunk back, hissing.

  Malus tried not to smile. “Find new traces,” he said.

  Zathra scanned the surrounding area. Then she smiled and strode toward the edge of the rain forest. They followed.

  At the treeline, she nodded to herself and said, “Here. Dey entered here, headin’ southeast.”

  “What’s southeast of nothing?” asked Valdread. His lidless eyes surveyed their surroundings and found them wanting. He raised his hood again.

  Malus considered. “If you march far enough, Gadgetzan. But why head toward Gadgetzan when Feathermoon Stronghold is so much closer?”

  Throgg shrugged. “Maybe they don’t know where they are.”

  Malus waved him silent. “Just because you don’t know where we are.”

  But Throgg took some umbrage and would not be silent even for his captain. “Throgg know where we are. This is Feralas. Ogre land.” He twisted the clamp off his wrist and replaced it with a machete.

  “They follow the compassss,” hissed Ssarbik, catching Malus’s eye.

  “Perhaps,” Malus said, before turning to Zathra and asking, “What’s their lead?”

  “Seven, eight days.”

  “Send it ahead,” he ordered.

  “Her,” the troll corrected. “She be a she.” Zathra tilted her head, clicked her tongue several times, and began stroking her body-armor lovingly. “Wake up, little one,” she said, with something like affection. The armor clicked in response and moved and then abruptly skittered off her torso and down one leg. Throgg and Ssarbik took a step back. Malus didn’t, only because he refused to show weakness. Valdread leaned against a tree and yawned.

  The sand troll knelt beside her pet: a three-foot-long, tan scorpid with black markings. She stroked her the way a human child might stroke a kitten. The creature brandished her stinger and emitted a few clicking noises. Zathra clicked back. The others waited impatiently.

  When the troll finally spoke, her dry desert voice had a loving quality that was almost disturbing. “Skitter, my sista. Follow deir trail. Find dem. Den return ta me.”

  They clicked at each other a few more times—and then Skitter whipped around and skittered into the rain forest.

  Zathra was still smiling after her scorpid when Malus said, “Lead the way.”

  And so, their tracker led the way, noting bends in the leaves and hatchet-hacked vines that marked their quarry’s path, while leaving not a trace herself. Not that it mattered. The ogre followed the troll, using his machete-hand to hack a wider lane for himself and the others. Captain Malus went next, and the arakkoa scampered after him, as if not trusting their leader otherwise. Valdread took up the rear, one hand on the hilt of his black sword. The cracked longboat and the Inevitable itself were left behind, practically forgotten, as the Hidden vanished into the forest, hot on the trail of Aramar Thorne.

  Since fleeing Wavestrider, they had been three days at sea and fourteen, now, hiking across Feralas, and most of the latter uphill. Lord Bloodhorn was but a memory, and they were almost out of hardtack. The land they traversed continued to be barren and devoid of even small game. And Makasa was on the verge of testing out the moss on the rocks for sustenance.

  The days were hot, even steamy. But the nights were cold—and colder still since firewood had grown scarce. Aram would wrap himself tight in his father’s coat and still find himself shivering.

  Even water was becoming a problem. Their palm-apple canteens had started to rot and had to be thrown away. There was still the occasional brook but no way to carry water with them. Aram didn’t like to leave their southeasterly course, but Makasa was no longer willing to risk abandoning a water source. The next time they found a trickle, she insisted on following it upstream, even though it bent to the northeast.

  Aram checked the compass and sighed but didn’t argue. They marched on.

  The sound swelled so gradually, it was practically a roar before it registered on their brains, and they had practically stumbled upon the river before they understood what they were hearing.

  The river’s churning rapids carved a deep, forbidding gorge into the canyon. There was plenty of water here—but reaching it was not without its danger. Makasa—as usual, making the decision for the both of them—skirted the edge, hoping for a safer way down eventually.

  Aram pointed to a crevasse. “What about there?!” He had to shout over the din of the flow.

  She said nothing until they were closer, but she didn’t like the look of it and shook her head. Makasa was far from timid and might have been willing to try her luck if she’d been alone. But the burden of watching out for the Greydon-son had made her cautious. If he fell—or even if she did—she knew the boy would never survive.

  They continued on, Aram a few steps behind Makasa. The low roar of the river filled Aram’s ears, but something higher pitched began to play along the edge of his consciousness as he walked along the edge of the gorge. What was that? Shouting?

  He leaned over the side, scanning for the source of the strange noise. He saw nothing. And at times h
e couldn’t even hear it.

  Makasa, who had walked on, glanced back to see Aram grasping a rock and bending almost horizontally over the gorge. “What are you doing?!” she shouted. It startled him, and she watched with horror as his grip on the rock seemed to slip. But he held on and still persisted to lean over the edge.

  She stalked over to him, ready to pull him back by his earlobe—when she heard it, too: some strange cry emanating from below.

  “There!” Aram called out, pointing with his free hand down into the gorge. It was some kind of creature, small—probably only a few feet tall—and green, entwined and trapped in what looked like an immense spiderweb at the river’s edge below. No, not a web. Nets, fishing nets. The river kept tugging the beast under the water before it would emerge again and scream. On either side were jagged rocks, churning up more white water, and every time the current pulled the poor thing under, the nets stretched or tore, taking it closer to a braining against the stones.

  “What is it?!” Aram shouted.

  “A murloc!” she shouted back.

  “That’s a murloc?!” It wasn’t at all what he’d pictured as a six-year-old, searching Lake Everstill for signs of the “devious monsters” and his missing father. “I thought a murloc was more … terrible!”

  “They’re terrible enough! Let’s go!”

  The creature’s head emerged then above water and screamed plaintively. The words themselves were unintelligible, but Aram knew a cry for help when he heard one.

  “We can’t leave it like that!” he shouted.

  “We can! There’s no way down here! Besides, murlocs can breathe underwater. The thing’s in no danger of drowning!”

  “It’s in danger of getting crushed on those rocks!” And just then the nets chucked the murloc against them. It cried out sharply in pain. “See!” Aram shouted, and then raced off, saying, “C’mon, there was a way down back here!”