Traveler

by Greg Weisman

  Outraged at this stowaway pulling down with all his weight on her chin hairs, One-Eye tossed her head back. Aram was sent flying—and landed on the back of her head, facing rearward, with her stinger-tipped tail swaying before him between her flapping wings. If she tried to sting him now, he could leap off and hope she’d sting herself instead. He had no idea if she could be poisoned with her own venom, but that was his current plan.

  But the stinger didn’t strike. Instead, she tried to shake him off, so he grabbed a fistful of her mane with his free hand and held on for dear life.

  The crowd at this point was on its feet—even Gordok. The sight of the boy atop the wyvern was unprecedented and thrilling. Every time the great beast shook her head, they expected Aram to be sent flying. A few ogres were even holding out their hands to catch him—though what they planned to do with him once caught wasn’t so clear.

  Hackle, Thalyss, Woolbeard, and the murlocs were rapt, too, staring up at Aram and One-Eye with slackened jaws.

  Makasa was so surprised, she briefly found herself standing out in the open for anyone to see. She quickly rectified that error, but her thoughts were still crashing about wildly in her head. She wasn’t quite sure how to save Aram from this particular unforeseeable predicament and prayed he had some idea that might save himself.

  Aram’s only idea was to try to cut off the monster’s head, but he couldn’t figure out how to angle his sword—even assuming he could summon up the force. Yet in studying the problem—while still desperately holding on as the wyvern tried to buck him off—he spotted something beneath her mane. With his sword-hand, he pushed hair aside and saw that it was … a collar of thorns, biting into Old One-Eye’s neck!

  His hand came away sticky with the creature’s blood, and he realized she must be in near-constant pain. Instantly, she wasn’t a monster anymore. Details about the wyvern flooded the boy’s brain, observations Aram the portrait artist hadn’t been able to focus on because Aram the would-be warrior was too busy trying to stay alive. Her muzzle was gray. She was old and tired, thin and covered with scars. She had a ragged energy, slow in general with only short bursts of speed. The thought flashed across the boy’s mind that like him, she might be nothing more than a slave to the arena. Suddenly, he didn’t want to hurt her. Then again, he didn’t want to be killed by her, either. But maybe … He slipped his cutlass flat between the collar and her neck, twisted the blade up, and yanked with all his might, smiling to himself and thinking, It takes a Thorne to remove a thorn!

  The collar snapped apart, and then, as One-Eye shook her head to remove Aram, it dropped off the wyvern’s neck and landed with a thud in the dirt.

  Only two creatures, besides Aram, truly understood what that meant: One-Eye abruptly alighted, and Gordok roared his displeasure!

  Aram slipped off the wyvern, on her left side just to be safe. The massive beast turned her head to watch with her right eye as he backed away, his sword pointed toward the ground to minimize any sense of threat. Hackle, unsure what had changed, but recognizing that something had, moved cautiously to join Aram.

  The crowd, including Thalyss and the other prisoners, remained silent. Makasa forced herself to stay behind the megalith. There was no doubt that One-Eye now seemed considerably less inclined to eviscerate and eat Aram than she had been just a few seconds ago.

  One-Eye approached slowly. Aram, in a grand gesture, threw his sword away.

  Hackle said, “Boy, what are—”

  “Shhhh.” Aram held out his arms, hands open, palms up.

  The wyvern took another step, huffing and puffing. Her tail still weaved back and forth above her, prepared to strike. But Aram took a step forward, and the wyvern … sniffed at him. Her tail sank and thudded softly in the dirt.

  During this display, Gordok had burned and seethed in silence. Finally, he snapped out, “One-Eye!” She ignored him. Furiously, he called louder, “ONE-EYE!”

  Slowly she turned her good eye toward the ogre. His arm jutted out suddenly, pointing toward the dome of thorns—pointing toward the true source of his power over the beast.

  “KILL! KILL NOW!”

  Old One-Eye lowered her head submissively. She turned again to look at her prospective prey. Then with some reluctance—or so it seemed to Aram—her tail rose again to threaten the boy and the gnoll.

  And just at that moment, a horn sounded.

  All eyes turned toward the potbellied ogre. But he pointed to the horn resting on a nearby stone and said, “Not me!”

  The horn sounded again, and now everyone understood that the sound came from the gate to Dire Maul …

  The Hidden had opted not to hide.

  Zathra had tracked the phalanx of ogres. Soon enough, she spotted clear signs that the human female was pursuing the ogres as well.

  “So she got away,” whispered Valdread. “Impressive.”

  “You are too eazzily impresssed, Forssaken one,” hissed Ssarbik. “Esscaping ogrezz requirezz no great ssskill.”

  Throgg frowned, but said nothing.

  Malus said, “March on.”

  They marched a league and were rewarded when the boy’s tracks and the night elf’s suddenly appeared among the ogres’.

  “Well, they’re not dead, at least,” Malus said coldly.

  “Might be dead by now,” Zathra corrected. “We still be tree hours behind.”

  “Then go faster,” Malus said. “The boy will keep the compass safe and hidden as long as he’s alive to do so. Once he’s dead, it could wind up anywhere.” And without it, he thought, I’ll never be certain it’s over. And if it’s never over, then I did what I did for nothing.

  Zathra picked up the pace—until Ssarbik himself begged for “resspite.” Malus was tempted (and grimly threatened) to leave the arakkoa behind. But as night was falling, thus limiting Zathra’s abilities, Malus ultimately settled for sending Skitter ahead.

  Before dawn, they were on the move and on the trail. Ssarbik continued to complain of “exxhausstion,” so Malus had Throgg put the murloc down in order to carry Ssarbik on his shoulders instead. As Valdread extricated Murky from his nets, Malus threatened the murloc with death if he didn’t keep up, but the creature quickly wrapped his nets around his waist and followed—with no little enthusiasm—at a rapid pace just behind the troll, who took point.

  They finally caught up with Skitter at the ridge of wooden stakes. Zathra communicated with her pet, then confirmed the scorpid’s information by observing the various tracks herself.

  “Da ogres took da boy and da elf straight along dis ridge. Skitter be sayin’ dere be guard posts furda along.”

  “What of Flintwill? The young woman?” asked the baron.

  “Her tracks disappear into dis here.” She pointed at the thicket of spikes.

  Ssarbik scoffed. “Thozze? Imposssible!”

  Valdread smiled beneath his hood. “As I said, she’s quite impressive.”

  “Keep your jaw attached,” Malus growled.

  Zathra agreed. “No one wants ta be seein’ da undead drool.”

  Valdread nodded to acknowledge her point. “Yes, drooling makes us corpses look particularly mindless. On the other hand, you charmers could, I’m sure, pull off the look without losing any further sign of intelligence.”

  Throgg was trying to reach for the machete attachment in his quiver, but the arakkoa was in the way, and he grabbed Ssarbik’s neck by accident.

  “Let go! Let go!” squealed the bird-creature.

  “Sorry,” said the ogre nervously. “But Throgg can cut through small spikes. Pull up big ones.”

  Malus shook his head. “We’d be spotted. So we might as well make our lives easier and proceed the fast and direct route.”

  And thus, the Hidden had chosen not to hide.

  The first few guard posts were passed with hardly any incident. That is to say, Zathra’s crossbows dispatched their sentries silently.

  But the fourth sentry was particularly alert and rather handy with the quanti
ty of spears at his disposal. The greater range of his first throw kept Malus’s troop back, but before the ogre could blow a warning on his horn, Ssarbik began to chant. “We are the Hidden, the voyagerzz of Shadow. We ssserve and will conquer. What we conquer will Burn. Burn azz the masster willzz. Burn for the Hidden. Burn. Burn.”

  Shadow flames of indigo and dark purple began to engulf the guard post, which was rapidly set ablaze. The sentry was forced to leap to safety but in his panic jumped the wrong way, into the forest of wooden stakes. They left him there, a gruesome but ineffective scarecrow. Within minutes, the carrion birds flew down to keep him company.

  And so it went until they arrived at the gate. There, they were spotted, and a horn was sounded twice. The gate was barred against them. On either side of it, the sentries in the guard towers rained down multiple thick spears and thin javelins that kept the Hidden at bay.

  So Zathra sent her armored pet into the thicket of spikes. Unseen, Skitter crossed to one of the guard towers and, still unseen, scurried up to the top to sting its sentry. Within seconds, the ogre was gasping for breath and violently thrashing about before collapsing dead.

  An unhappy Throgg scrunched up his face at the waste of ogre lives but said nothing.

  Malus nodded to Valdread, who brashly raced forward and began climbing up the other guard post. He was rewarded by being turned into a virtual pincushion of javelins, which hardly slowed him down. The ogre sentry seemed to find this astounding and so kept throwing until the bitter end. Thus the baron had his sword out and the ogre’s head off in no time at all.

  Zathra had followed Skitter up the first tower and was soon firing both her crossbows down on the ogres manning the other side of the gate.

  This provided cover for Valdread, who began by climbing down the ladder but got impatient and jumped the rest of the way. His right leg snapped off on impact but landed within reach. Ogres watched dumbfounded as he reattached it, and they kept those expressions permanently once the baron was mobile and had set to work with his sword.

  Malus, who had followed Valdread, soon climbed down as well. While Zathra and Valdread kept the last few sentries busy, their captain opened the gate. Throgg came barreling through, closely followed by the murloc, which actually gave Malus and the others pause.

  Valdread tilted his head as he yanked a javelin from his shoulder and said what Malus was thinking. “Strange little creature. He could have taken this opportunity to run the other way and escape us all: Hidden and ogres alike. Instead, he follows Throgg right into the thick of things.”

  Malus nodded. Of course, the amphibian wasn’t fighting—mostly, he was simply trying not to get killed. Still, Malus wondered, why hasn’t he run … ?

  Malus’s musings were interrupted by Ssarbik, who sauntered through the gate last, after Throgg had brained the final ogre sentry with his mace-hand. The arakkoa shot a contemptuous glance at Malus and hissed, “You jusst ssstand here? I don’t sssuppozze it occurred to you to lead the charge?”

  Malus casually backhanded Ssarbik and started down the hill into Dire Maul. An amused Valdread helped the bird-creature back to his feet, saying, “You really never learn. Honestly, I can’t thank you enough for providing so much entertainment.” Zathra laughed openly, and Throgg hid his smile by scratching at his forehead horn with his mace.

  “Keep up!” Malus demanded.

  They all followed.

  “Arkus, to da gate! Kill intruders!” Gordok shouted. “Wordok, get slaves back in pen!” The king then called for his armor and weapons, slapping the young ogre girl when he decided she was responding too slowly.

  A large armored ogre with a spherical head—Arkus, presumably—led a contingent of ogre warriors uphill toward the gate.

  Ignoring Old One-Eye completely, Wordok and three other armed warders raced toward Aram and Hackle. The latter seemed ready for a fight, but Aram glanced back over his shoulder and saw that the two warders guarding the holding pen were prepared to launch their spears at the backs of the boy and the gnoll. Aram put a hand on Hackle’s arm, whispering, “Not now. But soon. I promise.”

  Almost against his will, Hackle lowered his war club.

  Wordok quickly relieved Hackle of his weapon, and then after scooping up Aram’s sword, dumped both into a nearby barrel. The other warders ushered Aram and Hackle back into the pen with Thalyss, Woolbeard, Murrgly, Murrl, and the other murlocs.

  Woolbeard hobbled over and rubbed Aram on the head. “My boy, that was truly something!”

  The old tauren then shouted a few words in Taur-ahe. One-Eye turned her head and growled back in response.

  “She can understand you?” Aram said, stunned.

  “Well, of course she can, boy. Did you think she was a dumb animal?”

  “Then why does she stay? She’s not chained.”

  “I believe I can answer that.” It was Thalyss. He approached Aram and drew him away from the others. “Makasa is here,” he whispered.

  “She is?! Where?!”

  The druid hushed him. “She is hiding behind that standing stone over there. She has been trying to catch my eye.”

  Aram snuck a look but couldn’t see her. “Trying?”

  “There have been a few times when she nearly came running to your rescue—and only needed to be sure of my cooperation. But she would have gotten herself killed, and you were busy making friends anyway.”

  “Is that what I was doing?”

  Thalyss laughed loudly. “What would you call it?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Listen, there is something inside that dome of thorns over there. It is what keeps One-Eye subservient to Gordok. In fact, at this point, I would guess it is the only thing keeping her subservient. Certainly the thorny collar you removed did not hold her here. I think that was placed on her neck as a reminder of what the ogres do hold in that dome.”

  “Which is … what?”

  Thalyss told him. Aram nodded, struggling to absorb all this new information. Then something seemed to click into place for him, and he waved the rest of the prisoners over. Every single one obeyed his summons without protest or question.

  “Listen,” he said. “Are you ready to leave this place … ?”

  By now, the ogre king was almost completely strapped into his armor. Five ogre females stood nearby with his weapons. It took two of them to bear his double-bladed battleaxe and two more to carry his morningstar. The fifth—the young girl—held a curved dagger almost as long as a short sword. Gordok beckoned her forward—but immediately shoved her back roughly, as the sounds of battle reached his ears.

  He smiled broadly. “Sound like Gordok won’t need weapons. Arkus doing job.”

  Something round went soaring out of the darkness over Gordok’s head and landed with a bounce or two in the ring, before rolling to a stop in front of Old One-Eye.

  Over by the holding pen, Wordok couldn’t see what it was. “What’s that?” he called out. Gordok didn’t answer. No one who could see it clearly did.

  The wyvern squinted down at it with her one good eye. Suddenly, her stinger lashed out and punctured the sphere. She held it aloft on her tail for all to see.

  It was Arkus’s head.

  The not-so Hidden emerged into the torchlight, stopping at the top of the amphitheater to size up the situation. Malus had been fairly confident, even against an entire clan of ogres, but the huge wyvern—able to attack from the sky with tooth, claw, and venomous stinger—gave him pause. Still, the boy was in a slave pen, looking not too worse for wear. Odds were good he still had the compass. The Hidden’s leader quickly began to formulate a plan.

  But one of the largest ogres spoke first. “Gordok, king of Dire Maul Gordunni, demand to know why intruders come here to die.”

  Malus eyed the heavily armored Gordok and instantly had his strategy mapped out.

  “We come for the boy,” he said, pointing toward Aram. “He is all we require. Isn’t that right, boy?”

  Aram knew what that meant. Captain Malus had a ha
nd on Murky’s shoulder. Murky, who was alive and grinning, foolishly happy to see Aram, Thalyss, and his aunt and uncle.

  And the truth was, Aram was foolishly happy to see Murky. Murky, who would be dead if Malus didn’t get the compass. After all the losses Aram had suffered, Murky’s survival meant all of Azeroth in that moment. Aram smiled at the murloc and said, “Yes. I’m all you require.”

  But Gordok had his own requirements. He pointed uphill toward the gate. “Intruders raid Gordok’s lands!” He pointed at Arkus’s head, still piked atop One-Eye’s stinger. “Intruders kill Gordok’s warriors!” He pointed at Aram. “Now, intruders demand Gordok’s slaves?”

  “Yes,” Malus said.

  “What intruder called?” Gordok growled.

  “Malus.”

  “There’s your problem, right there,” Aram shouted out. “Being named Malice. No wonder you turned out rotten.”

  At this, Malus actually chuckled. He said, “You are much like your father, Aramar Thorne. Like the man he was, before I brought him down.”

  In the slave pen, Aram felt the blood rising in his cheeks. Behind the megalith, so did Makasa. But both held their places and their tongues.

  For his part, Gordok didn’t care for being left out of the conversation and ignored; he expected and commanded all attentions to be paid to him. The fact that his wyvern was within shouting distance and his ogres had now completely encircled Malus’s party demanded nothing less. He called out, “Malus ready to die now?”

  “No one else need die if you give me the boy.”

  Gordok made a great show of counting the Hidden. (He counted Murky, but did not count Skitter, who was back in place as Zathra’s armor.) “One, two, dree, four, five, six need die. Den Gordok kill and eat boy, for boy is Gordok’s to kill, Gordok’s to eat. Boy is not for Malus.” He raised an arm, knowing that when he brought it down again, the strangers would die.