by Greg Weisman
“No, no, it is quite empty. Even my spices were spent,” he said with a glance at Murky.
Murky sank a bit more and muttered, “Mrrrgll.”
“No worries, little frund. I can find us all the food we might need.”
Makasa eyed the old druid. “What part of ‘barren wasteland’ did you not understand?”
The kaldorei laughed. “Care to make a wager on who brings home dinner?”
“I don’t gamble,” she replied flatly.
He laughed again. “Of course not.”
So Makasa departed upriver to hunt, and Thalyss downriver to gather, leaving Murky and Aram alone. Aram said, “I suppose it would help if we looked for firewood. You go upstream; I’ll go downstream.”
Murky nodded enthusiastically, happy to be of some service. They split up.
Aram headed downriver. The light rain had stopped for the moment. As the minutes passed, he expected to catch up to Thalyss pulling fungus off a rock. Instead, he spotted the night elf sitting cross-legged in front of a patch of damp soil.
Aram started to speak, but something held him back. He didn’t approach. He watched.
The druid reached a hand into his pack and pulled out a small brown leather pouch. He carefully poured … something … out of the pouch and into his open palm. Then he tilted his hand over the soil. Aram realized the pouch had been full of seeds, as Thalyss pushed one after another into the dirt with a finger and then covered the small holes with soil.
The druid reached into an inner pocket of his robe and drew out another leather pouch, this one dyed purple. From it, he drew out something wrapped in oilskin. He carefully unwrapped it, revealing what appeared to Aram to be an enormous acorn, big as the night elf’s fist.
The druid waved the acorn over the planted seeds, while chanting quietly in a language Aram couldn’t understand.
Within seconds, shoots popped out from the soil.
And within minutes, Thalyss had harvested a large assortment of good-size yams and turnips, senggin root and carrots. Even multiple handfuls of windblossom berries. Aram watched the night elf carefully rewrap the giant acorn, then put it back in its purple pouch and in his pocket.
Then the boy doubled back to camp before he could be noticed.
What goes on in the mind of a murloc?
He had been told in no uncertain terms not to go fishing with his nets, and it’s not as if he didn’t understand why. He knew he had a tendency to get tangled in them. All right, fine: hopelessly tangled in them. This wasn’t some new discovery of Urum and Mrksa’s, either. His uncle Murrgly often complained of Murky being more trouble than he was worth. It was why Murky fished alone, rather than with his uncle and the other flllurlokkrs. It was why Murky alone wasn’t taken when the RRRgrrrs raided.
So perhaps the little creature thought he had something to prove.
Or perhaps it was the rumbling in his tummy, and the fact that Mrksa had said that neither she nor Duluss was likely to find meat or vegetable.
Yes, Urum had sent him to find firewood. But he had as yet found none, and might he not also net some driftwood along with the fish that would warm his tummy and theirs?
He owed them for the food they had already shared. He owed them for his very life. And then, of course, as his gurgling stomach continued to remind him, he owed himself a meal. By murloc standards, he had barely eaten over the last few weeks. He was quite, quite hungry.
He would be careful this time. Very careful. He would not get tangled. He would do as Uncle Murrgly had taught him: he would anchor himself carefully and maintain a good grip; he’d swing the nets out over the river, let them fall across the water, let the weights drag the bottom edge down, and let the flow expand the nets’ reach. He’d wait, wait, wait. Then he would slowly draw them back, maintaining his footing with suction and claw against the pull of the river. He would then pour out his catch onto the rocks. He would do all this, he was sure.
It was raining in earnest now, but the cold downpour didn’t bother him. He found a likely spot on the shore where he could brace himself against a sturdy stone. He slowly played out his nets. He swung them back and forth, back and forth, preparing to let them fly. He released his nets!
But his thumb-claw caught an edge. The large stone stopped him from following the nets’ momentum into the water, but without the ability to spread forward, the nets chose to swing back around on Murky. He saw them coming and, eyes wide, threw up a hand to stop them. But the hand somehow managed to go right through a square empty space in the webbing. The balance of the net whipped around him like a cocoon.
He stifled a mournful cry. He didn’t want the others—especially Mrksa, who might come back this way anytime—to find him like this, to have to set him free yet again, especially after they had told him not to fish. No, this time he must free himself. He leaned back against the rock and tried to push the strands of net up over his head. That didn’t work. He then tried to push them down so he could step out of the mess. That didn’t work, either. Frustrated, he struggled every which way he could, but that only made the situation worse.
And worst of all … he wasn’t alone.
Aram was the first back to camp. He had collected a few pieces of damp driftwood off the shore, but he hadn’t searched too hard. He wanted to look well ensconced by the time Thalyss returned.
And Thalyss returned next, leaning on his stick, his pack full of his newly harvested crop. The rain had picked up, and Thalyss used a bit of simple druidic magic—simple according to him, anyway—to spark a small fire beneath the rocky ledge with Aram’s damp wood. He stuck the yams in the coals, took out a small knife, and began to cut the other vegetables into his stewpot.
Aram watched all this, and Thalyss watched him watching. “Are you not curious?” the night elf asked.
“ ’Bout what?”
“Where I found our feast!”
“Oh, well … I just assumed you druids know where to look.”
The druid looked slightly disappointed, losing his smile for perhaps the first time since Aram had met him, but he said, “That we do, my boy. That we do.”
Makasa came then, with no meat but more wood.
She saw Thalyss’s vegetables and demanded, “Where did all that come from?”
Thalyss’s smile returned as he said, “Druids just know where to look.”
Makasa shook her head, dropped her small pile of wood near the fire, and moved in under the ledge on the other side of Aram. “Where’s the murloc?” she asked.
“I sent him to gather wood,” he said. “He went upriver. You didn’t pass him on the way back?”
“No,” she said, trying to remember if there was a spot where she might have missed him.
Aram more or less read her mind. “You don’t think … you don’t think he’s in the river, do you?”
All three of them contemplated the likelihood of this and found it not implausible.
Aram said, “Do we give him a few more minutes or go look for him now?”
The storm punctuated the question with an ominous rumble of thunder.
All three of them stood as one—sighing as one, as well.
Aram smelled a whiff of jasmine on the breeze, just before a fourth voice whispered, “Sit back down, my friends.”
Aram knew that voice even before he spotted the Whisper-Man silhouetted by a flash of lightning. Instantly, Makasa was on the attack.
She lunged with her harpoon; the Whisper-Man dodged, but she was prepared, and as he reached to draw his own black sword, her cutlass sliced his arm off at the elbow.
This seemed to catch him off guard, though it didn’t seem to bother him much. His remaining hand drew out a black shale dagger, and he sliced at her backhanded. She was forced to retreat, but Aram was there to take her place, swinging his cutlass, forcing the undead swordsman to parry with his dagger, and leaving him open to Makasa’s harpoon, which stabbed into his gullet.
“Whisper now,” she dared him, but he emitted no
sound.
But silence did not indicate surrender. He wrenched himself sideways, yanking the hilt of the harpoon from a surprised Makasa’s grip. He stabbed his dagger into his own left thigh for safekeeping and tore the harpoon free of his neck. He flipped it and was prepared to throw, when a booming voice backed by thunder shouted, “MOVE!”
Instinctively, Makasa and Aram cleared a path, turning in time to see Thalyss rush forward while rapidly transforming into a mighty ice-colored, rune-marked, silver-eyed bear! The beast slammed into the Whisper-Man, who practically shattered into pieces against the granite side of the ravine. Here was a leg, there was another. His head lolled off his torso, only held in place by the pocket of his hood. One forearm still lay where Makasa had cut it off.
“Is he dead?” Aram asked. “Can he die that way?”
The bear shook his great head.
Makasa said, “We should burn him.” Cautiously, she approached the meager fire, while the other two remained on alert to see what would happen next.
And what happened next was the sound of choking. Choking that segued into hoarse laughter, adding a chilling touch to an already chilling scene.
His remaining hand reached up to right his head, to lock it back into place with an audible snap, followed by a disgusting squelching noise. The laughter stopped, replaced by the now too familiar sound of his voice. Raising his hand slowly, he pointed at Makasa and whispered, “I told Malus you could fight. I saw your skill on the boat.” The pointing finger moved toward Aram. “You didn’t do badly, either, young squire. Strife has improved your instincts.” Then the Whisper-Man lowered his hand back down to his side and lolled his head toward the bear. “But I must say, night elf, you were the true surprise tonight. I’ve killed many a druid over the years, and I’ve never seen one who could shift quite so fast. You caught me completely off guard. And that’s no easy feat.”
“Why do you follow us, pirate?” demanded Makasa. “What could we possibly have left that you still want?”
But Aram had other concerns. “Where’s my … my captain?”
“Your father, you mean? I’m afraid you’ll never see him again in this world, my boy.”
Immediately, he wished he hadn’t asked the question. If I hadn’t asked, I wouldn’t know the answer. And as long as I didn’t know, there was a chance … He realized all eyes were on him. He was afraid he’d cry in front of the enemy, but Aram’s anger held back any tears. He said, “I’m not your boy.”
“No, of course not. And I can understand why I’m not a welcome sight. But the truth is I didn’t come here to fight you. Any of you.”
“Just to kill us,” Makasa said.
“No, not that, either. You’ll recall I didn’t even have my sword out when you attacked me. And if I wanted you dead, I’d have hardly announced myself before striking.”
Aram smelled the Whisper-Man’s jasmine water—mixed with the stench of death—and thought the undead killer couldn’t help but announce himself. But Aram glanced at Makasa, who was running the battle back through her mind, confirming the truth of the Forsaken’s words.
The Whisper-Man continued. “In addition, if a fight to the death was the plan, I wouldn’t have kept my friend Throgg waiting in the wings. You can come out now, Throgg.”
Makasa, Aram, and the bear whipped around. Throgg was crossing the river. His pike-hand caught the glint of another bolt of lightning, which was instantly followed by a crack of thunder that practically seemed to thrum the ogre’s name.
When he reached shore, the Whisper-Man spoke again. “That’s close enough, Throgg. We don’t want to initiate another conflict. As I said, that’s not why we came. And it would be seriously counterproductive.”
Makasa turned back to him and said, “What. Do. You. Want?”
“To make introductions. I am Baron Reigol Valdread. Or at least I was, once upon a time. My companion, as I mentioned, is Throgg. We work for Captain Malus. We know from the Wavestrider’s manifest that you are Makasa Flintwill and Aramar Thorne. But perhaps you would be so good as to identify your night elf friend.”
There was silence.
“Well, perhaps not,” whispered Valdread. “That’s fine. In any case, my message is not for him, but for you, Squire Thorne.”
Aram glanced from the Whisper-Man to Makasa to Thalyss to Throgg and back. “What message?” he asked finally.
“Captain Malus wanted me to tell you that he does not seek your life. He wants one thing and one thing only: the compass.”
“Compass?” Aram asked. “What compass?”
“Protect this compass at all costs,” his father had said.
“The one you wear around your neck. The one you received from your father. Please, now, let’s not play games. We’ve been watching you. We know you have it.”
“All right, fine. I have it,” Aram said. “But it doesn’t work. The needle doesn’t even point north.”
“Then parting with it will not be a hardship.”
“He’s not inclined,” Makasa stated grimly, “to give you or your captain anything. Ogre or no ogre.”
Throgg growled behind her, and thunder rumbled behind him, as if nature itself had sided with the Hidden.
Valdread was reaching for a leg and seemed—or at least pretended—not to have heard her. “Hm? Oh. No, we didn’t think you’d want to cooperate. And that’s eminently understandable. But we do have an inducement.”
Makasa crouched, ready for another fight.
“No, no, not violence, young lady. Must you always jump to that conclusion?” He laughed then, still a very unpleasant sound. “Well, I suppose that’s understandable, as well. In any case, we offer young Aramar a simple trade. The compass for the murloc.”
“What murloc?” Makasa said before Aram could speak.
“More games? Really? Again, my companions have been watching you. I’ll admit to some surprise that a murloc, of all things, is of any value to you. But to each his own. What say you, squire? Which do you value more? The compass or the creature? You have my word that if you hand over our prize, the murloc will be set free and none of you will be harmed.”
“You think I’d trust your word?” Aram spat.
“I haven’t lied to you yet, have I? In any case, I’m not sure what choice you have, if you want your pet back.”
“He’s not a pet! He’s—”
“I meant no disrespect. And I don’t mean to put you on the spot. You have until sunrise to decide. But let me be clear. The only way you’ll ever see the murloc again is by turning over the compass. If you don’t, it dies. And that won’t stop us from coming after you, either. In the end, Malus will have that compass. So be smart, young squire. And this can all end come the dawn.”
It was an exit line, but Valdread still couldn’t quite reach his leg. He drummed his fingers in frustration against his chest. Finally, he called out, “Throgg, help me gather up my parts!”
Throgg started forward. Makasa, Aram, and the bear stayed on the alert, but they cleared a path as the ogre attempted to pick up Valdread’s loose arm and two legs. But three limbs were too many for a one-handed ogre, and he kept dropping one or another.
Valdread whispered, “Just give me one of them. Any of them!”
Throgg threw him an arm, which slapped the Whisper-Man across the face, knocking off his hood, revealing his pale skull-like head with a now dislocated jaw. He quickly snapped the jaw back into place, and then, scowling, reattached the arm with a click of bones and further unearthly squelching.
The scent of jasmine wafted strongly, and Aram felt his gorge rise. He managed to swallow it back down, but he thought he’d never be able to bear even a hint of jasmine again.
The ogre, meanwhile, had managed to spear both of Valdread’s legs on the tip of his pike-hand. He clomped over to the undead swordsman and pushed both legs off the pike into what there was of the Whisper-Man’s lap. Valdread spent some time reattaching them, clicking the bones in place and allowing what passed for h
is skin to squelch back together, all while biting his thin lip between his teeth in concentration. Then, he pulled his hood back over his head and stood with surprising ease. Almost as an afterthought, he removed the shale dagger from his left thigh and resheathed it. Finally, he was prepared to depart.
Makasa said, “You are resilient, Baron. But also fragile. One of these nights, you may find—”
“Yes, yes,” Reigol Valdread said with a hint of impatience. “In the end, I’m a dead man.” He and Throgg walked right past them, but he paused to speak again. “We’ll leave you to your decision. But, please, young squire … make it the right one.”
And then they were gone, leaving Aram, Makasa, and the bear Thalyss standing in the rain.
The three of them were back beneath the ledge and out of the rain. Lightning still lit the sky on occasion, but the thunder came only after a great delay. The storm was moving on.
Thalyss, having shifted back into his elven form, asked, “What is this compass? What is its significance?”
It was a question Makasa wanted an answer for as well. She had seen the compass many times, of course, around Aram’s neck and, before that, around her captain’s. But she’d never thought much about it until now. She favored Aram with a penetrating look, one that caused him to turn away.
With a reluctance he couldn’t quite understand, Aram pulled the compass out from under his shirt and showed it to the other two.
On this cloudy night, there was no sun or constellation to compare it to, but both Makasa and Thalyss instantly saw the needle did not point north.
“This is the prize?” said the druid with no little confusion. “The prize for which these pirates, who are clearly not pirates, killed your captain and crew?”
“It’s not even working,” Makasa said darkly. “It’s pointing … southeast?”
“Yeah, I know,” Aram said.
They were all silent. Thalyss’s tongue tapped against his upper lip thoughtfully, but he and Makasa were stumped. Aram had more information, but again felt a bizarre disinclination to speak.