Traveler

by Greg Weisman

  But Malus had his strategy ready. “Then I challenge you, Gordok. Intruders have breached your gate. They have killed your warriors. You have failed as king of the Dire Maul Gordunni. The orcs have a rite known as mak’gora, a challenge of single combat. I believe ogres keep this tradition, as well. So I, Malus, challenge you, Gordok, to single combat. I challenge you for command.”

  “Little Malus man challenge great Gordok?!”

  “Yes. Will you deny the rite of challenge? Do you fear to face me?”

  “Man cannot challenge Gordok! Only ogre can challenge Gordok!”

  Malus looked to Throgg, who looked back, confused. Frustrated by the ogre’s brainlessness, Malus shouted pointedly, “Then an ogre will call for the challenge!”

  Throgg finally caught on. He took a step forward and bellowed, “Throgg of Shattered Hand challenge Gordok of Dire Maul Gordunni!”

  Now, every ogre within earshot reacted; the amphitheater was abuzz with whispers.

  For the first time, Gordok’s voice betrayed some hint of concern. “Shattered Hand is orc clan, not ogre clan.”

  Throgg smiled and raised his bloody mace-hand with pride. “Throgg ogre. But Throgg Shattered Hand.”

  Malus smiled, too. Gordok was trapped. If he denied the challenge, he’d instantly lose face with his entire clan, even—or especially—if he ordered Malus’s entire party slaughtered. The ogre king had no choice but to accept the challenge. In which case, Malus liked his odds.

  One-Eye yawned loudly and, lying down, rested her head on her front paws. She flicked Arkus’s head off her tail. It bounced through the arena and landed at the feet of the potbellied ogre. He nervously kicked it out of the way.

  This generated laughter from Hackle and Woolbeard. The laughter became contagious, and the murloc prisoners joined in. So did Murky, Throgg, and Valdread. Malus didn’t see what was so funny, but what he did see was that Gordok was embarrassed, so he forced his own laughter and eyed Zathra and Ssarbik until both joined in uncomfortably. Thalyss and Aram made a similar analysis and began laughing, too. The laughter swept through the entire amphitheater, until everyone was laughing except Gordok, Makasa, and One-Eye herself.

  “Enough!” Gordok thundered. “Challenge accepted! Gordok fight Shattered Hand ogre! Gordok kill Shattered Hand ogre!”

  Throgg started forward, but Malus held up an arm, declaiming, “Throgg chooses Malus to fight as his champion!”

  Aram watched Throgg’s face fall.

  Now, it was Gordok’s turn to laugh. “This true? Great Drogg of Shattered Hand not fight?! Little Malus man fight for Drogg?!”

  Throgg turned to face Malus. “Throgg fight for Throgg,” he whispered.

  Malus thought Throgg could probably beat Gordok, but the odds were still too close to even for his tastes. Malus preferred to rely on himself. In part, because he trusted his own arm, his own sword, his own skill more than those of any other creature, living or dead, in Azeroth or Outland. But in part, it was because he knew that if by some twist of fate he did lose, he wouldn’t have to worry about the consequences; he’d finally be free of any consequences. And that was just fine with him, too. Calmly and firmly, he said, “Malus fight for Throgg. Tell him.”

  Throgg inhaled deeply. His brow furrowed. But he abruptly turned to Gordok and shouted, “Malus fight for Throgg!” Then he quickly added, “Malus fight because Gordok not worthy of Throgg!”

  A furious Gordok roared something unintelligible. Then he shouted, “Gordok kill little Malus man! Then Gordok kill Drogg! Then Gordok kill and eat boy!”

  Aram smiled bitterly. At least he hadn’t been forgotten.

  Within minutes it was all arranged. One-Eye had been shooed from the ring, and was now seated on the side of the holding pen closest to the dome of thorns.

  Murky had been handed over to Valdread, who stood at the back of the amphitheater with Throgg, Zathra, Skitter, and a complaining Ssarbik. “Thiss cccircuss sham izz unneccesssary! We don’t care about the boy! We jusst want the compassss!”

  Valdread eyed him with amusement. “And you have an alternate plan to achieve the compass, I assume?”

  This shut the arakkoa up.

  In the pen, Uncle Murrgly was trying to calm Aunt Murrl, who was crying happy tears over Murky’s survival. He tried to tell his wife that her idiot nephew would most certainly be dead soon, but the foolish female wouldn’t listen to reason. (And secretly, this gave Murrgly hope.)

  Woolbeard limped over to Aram and whispered, “Well, boy, so much for your plan.”

  “Nothing’s changed,” Aram whispered back.

  Hackle cackled loudly and slapped Aram on the back, knocking the air from the boy’s lungs.

  Meanwhile, Thalyss had finally made eye contact with Makasa. Wordlessly, with nothing but a few subtle hand gestures, he communicated that she should wait for his signal, and he pointed toward the section of the pen flanked by One-Eye as her angle of approach. She tried to balk at this, but he was insistent, and she acquiesced.

  Gordok was in the ring, effortlessly hefting his two-handed battleaxe in one hand and the handle of his morningstar in the other. His long curved dagger was tucked into his belt. He faced Malus, who hadn’t even unsheathed his sword.

  “Winner gets the clan and the boy,” Malus said.

  “Winner keep clan and eat boy,” Gordok corrected. He was supremely confident now. Throgg might have been a problem. Gordok had heard things about the Shattered Hand. But this foolish little Malus man could never be a serious opponent. Gordok was eager for blood, and his only worry was that the fight might not last long enough for him to work up an appetite. He had fed on two whole boars before coming to the arena. It would be an embarrassment if he were still too full to finish eating the entire boy before the night was over.

  “As long as the stakes are clear,” Malus said calmly.

  Wordok and his warders, including a handful with spears, still guarded the holding pen. Three concentric circles of ogre warriors surrounded Throgg and the others. The rest of the Dire Maul Gordunni clan was quite literally on the edge of their seats, as Gordok signaled the potbellied ogre, who puffed out his cheeks and blew a clarion call, signaling the start of the mak’gora.

  With a flourish, Malus unsheathed his broadsword but, otherwise, wasn’t there to give the ogres a show. Gordok had longer arms, a longer weapon, and once he began swinging his morningstar in circles, an extremely long reach. So Malus was content to slowly back away, to maintain his distance, to wait for his moment. He counted on the ogre king’s impatience, and his strategy was soon rewarded.

  Gordok quickly wearied of pursuing the human round the ring. He remembered the crowd laughing at the gnoll for chasing the boy and had no desire to become anyone’s object of scorn. With his left hand, he swung the morningstar to drive Malus to the edge of the arena, then rushed him.

  Malus was ready. His sword deflected the morningstar downward and to Gordok’s right. Its spiked iron ball slammed into the dirt, putting the chain across the ogre’s body, restricting his forward momentum, and allowing Malus to easily lean away from what was designed to be Gordok’s quick attempt to use his battleaxe to end the contest by beheading his opponent.

  With both of Gordok’s arms fully extended and awkwardly crossed over each other, Malus had a clear opening to slash upward with his sword. The tip of Malus’s blade caught the ogre just above his armor, severing the strap on Gordok’s helm and slicing a thin red line along the side of his neck. Malus had drawn first blood, and the crowd of ogres was instantly on its feet with a roar. They weren’t exactly rooting for the human—but they always rooted for blood.

  The “little Malus man”—who was easily six and a half feet tall and no maypole—leapt forward, slamming his entire fifteen stone right into Gordok’s chest and gut. The ogre stumbled back—only a few steps—but Malus landed both feet on the morningstar’s chain, and its handle was yanked from the king’s hand. In addition, Gordok’s loose helm slipped down over his eyes. In th
e two seconds it took him to snag it off his head and throw it away, Malus was practically behind him, stabbing his sword into the ogre’s unarmored rear left thigh.

  Here, however, Malus miscalculated. He had thought the wound would be enough to force the ogre down to one knee. He didn’t think it possible a creature that big could support so much weight on an injured limb.

  But Gordok had not become king by surrendering to injury or pain. The curved dagger was out, and while Malus was still expecting the ogre to buckle, it found a new home between two of Malus’s ribs.

  Furious with himself for being careless and overconfident, he spun away, pulling the slippery blood-soaked dagger free of Gordok’s hand. Malus left the knife sticking out of his side. For the time being, it would stanch any greater flow of blood. As for the pain … well, Malus hadn’t become leader of the Hidden by surrendering to such a thing, either.

  Despite the error, the ogre was now down to one weapon; the leader of the Hidden still liked his odds.

  What Aram liked was that the battle had completely captured everyone’s attention, especially that of Wordok and the other warders guarding the slave pen, not to mention the Whisper-Man and the rest of Malus’s crew. Even that strange bird-creature was staring at the contest and licking his beak at the sight of blood.

  Aram tapped Hackle and Woolbeard on their shoulders. They closed ranks as Aram and Thalyss slipped away to the back of the pen.

  Thalyss signaled, and Aram was thrilled to see Makasa for the first time, as she emerged from behind the megalith and quickly skirted the distance to the pen, using the wyvern’s bulk for cover.

  Old One-Eye spotted Makasa immediately, but Thalyss whispered something in Taur-ahe: a promise. The great beast turned her head full around to eye the night elf. Her gaze then turned to Aram, who nodded, taking the promise on as his own. The wyvern’s rear left paw reached up to scratch at her neck—still free of its thorn collar—and then she nodded back at Aram and turned to face the battle again, as if Makasa weren’t there.

  Seconds later, Makasa was there. “Now’s our time,” she whispered. “Climb over.”

  They did. Aram dropped down quietly right before her. For half a second, she almost smiled at the sight of him—but covered quickly. Aram made no attempt to hide his own grin, so she gave him an annoyed little slap on the cheek, saying, “This is serious. We have to move. With any luck, we’ll be long gone by the time they’re done killing each other.”

  Aram nodded but said, “We can’t leave quite yet. Not without the other prisoners and not without Murky.”

  Makasa had spent the last two days and nights alone with only one single overriding thought to keep her company: She would rescue Aram (and maybe Thalyss if it wasn’t too inconvenient). Now, she was instantly at her wit’s end. She shook her head and growled, “Someday, boy, you’ll have to learn you cannot save everyone!”

  “Maybe,” Aram stated, “but not today.”

  Makasa looked about ready to knock the kid out and carry him off unconscious, but before she could, a smiling Thalyss whispered, “Follow me.”

  And before an exasperated Makasa could say another word, the elf and the boy had taken off, and all she could do was race after them toward the dome of thorns.

  Malus and Gordok’s battle had come down to a swordfight (even if Gordok was using an axe). Swing and parry. Lunge and deflect. Gordok was favoring his right leg, and Malus still had a dagger sticking out of his side, but neither seemed much perturbed by his condition. Gordok was stronger, but Malus wasn’t weak. Malus was swifter, but Gordok wasn’t slow. Gordok had the longer reach, but Malus was the more talented swordsman. And so on. They were quite evenly matched. Much more evenly matched than either had thought when the contest began. Their faces were grim masks of concentration. This was work.

  Murky had seen Urum and Duluss slip away, but he no longer feared their leaving without him. He wanted to be ready. He wanted to help. So slowly and silently, he began letting his nets unfold onto the ground in front of himself and the undead Forsaken, who at the moment was completely focused on and quite amused by the conflict in the ring.

  Standing behind the dome—out of sight of the amphitheater—the druid studied this latest thorny problem up close. Multiple bushes of sharp, spiky thorns rose up out of the ground. They twisted and entwined about each other, creating a solid curved dome of thorns too thick for even a wyvern to tear apart. After reaching into his robes, Thalyss removed the large acorn from its purple pouch and oilskin wrap. Then he waved it near the roots of the thorns, chanting quietly.

  Aram and Makasa watched as the thorns in the immediate vicinity receded slowly. Too slowly for Thalyss’s tastes. “This is taking too long. Plants are meant to grow, not shrink.” He began rooting around in his pockets.

  Makasa asked, “What are we doing?”

  “Gaining a valuable ally,” Aram explained without explaining much else.

  “A ha!” Thalyss said—a bit too loudly, but they looked around and no one seemed to be coming after them. The night elf pulled another acorn—small by comparison, but normal size actually—from another pocket. “This should do the trick. Stand back.”

  He shoved the second acorn into the soil between two thornbushes and covered it over with a bit of dirt. He stepped back to join Aram and Makasa—then seemed to change his mind and knelt once more in order to spit on the soil-covered acorn. He grinned at the others and whispered, “A little moisture never hurts.” Then he stepped back again, held out the first acorn, and began to chant.

  The main thing Malus had going for him was his patience—or in any case, Gordok’s lack thereof. Malus had no one to impress, whereas Gordok couldn’t be seen taking too long to dispatch one lowly human. Each combatant was waiting for his opportunity, but Gordok couldn’t afford to be too picky, and Malus knew it. So he set about creating an opportunity Gordok couldn’t refuse.

  Malus had his sword in his left hand. Gordok had his battleaxe in his right. Malus lunged to Gordok’s left, leaving the human’s back exposed by his intentionally overextended thrust. It was the moment Gordok had been waiting for—the moment Malus had created for the ogre.

  Gordok raised his right arm high to bring his axe down hard and fast to slice Malus completely in two.

  But Malus simply dropped his sword from his left hand into his right and stabbed upward. Malus’s sword plunged deep into the Gordunni king’s side, arresting the ogre’s swing. As Gordok grimaced in pain, Malus yanked the curved dagger out of his own torso and slashed the blade across the ogre’s neck. Only a tiny bit of blood oozed from Malus’s wound, but Gordok’s throat was another story.

  Mortally wounded by his own dagger, the ogre was dying but not yet dead. The battleaxe slipped from his hand, but his fist swung up, catching Malus on the chin and sending him flying.

  Gordok staggered after, desperate to kill his killer before time and his lifeblood all ran out.

  Though Malus had been rocked by the blow, he had held on to both his sword and Gordok’s dagger. He didn’t quite have time to stand up, but as soon as Gordok got close, he stabbed the two blades down through Gordok’s feet and into the ground, pinning the dying king in place.

  The crowd was silent as Malus rolled away from Gordok’s powerful but impotent grasp. Malus stood, ran across the arena, scooped up the handle to the morningstar, and turned to face the ogre king’s back. Swinging the heavy morningstar tore at the wound in Malus’s side, but he ignored the pain. When he’d worked up the proper momentum, he advanced. Gordok stood with his back to Malus, trying to free his feet, trying to turn his head. But every effort made at this point was too little, too late. Malus swung the morningstar around one last time, making lethal contact with Gordok’s skull. It was over. The king of the Dire Maul Gordunni was dead.

  Still, for a good ten seconds, his body remained standing. The entire amphitheater was hushed, waiting. Then the ogre’s left leg collapsed beneath him, and Gordok came crashing down into the dirt, making a s
ound like distant thunder heard through a blanket.

  Malus was breathing hard, but slowly a dangerous smile bloomed on his face. He turned to face the crowd, declaring, “The challenger has triumphed! The boy is mine!”

  It was only then that all eyes turned toward the pen and found the boy wanting. Valdread started forward, but Murky quickly lifted the nets up as high as he could, which was quite high enough to completely entangle the baron and even snap off his brittle right leg at the knee. Ssarbik, Throgg, and Zathra stared. Throgg even laughed.

  After pulling the nets down over the fallen Valdread’s head, Murky ran off—and for once managed to escape without hopelessly tangling himself. He hated to leave his nets behind—he could hear his uncle shouting, “Nk! Nk! Murky mmrrgggleee mrrugggl mgrrrrl nk mmmurlok!”—but he would sacrifice even his prized (and pretty much only) possession to help his frund Urum.

  Zathra and Throgg started after Murky, until Malus, holding his side, heaved out, “FORGET THE MURLOC! FIND THE BOY!!”

  And just at that moment, a giant oak tree grew—or rather, exploded—right out of the ground, ripping the dome of thorns to absolute shreds!

  Everyone froze in place. Where the dome had been there was now just the great oak and the THREE WYVERN CUBS who had been trapped inside!

  One-Eye was up on her feet and roaring. The cubs—small compared to their mother but each as big as a bear—answered her call and immediately took to the air, flying east into the distance.

  Grinning broadly, as he watched the astounding cubs fly away, Aram stepped out from behind the oak tree, flanked by Thalyss and Makasa, who had her stake-harpoon in one hand and her cutlass in the other.

  A smiling Thalyss was carefully rewrapping his acorn and returning it to its purple pouch. He spoke to the mama wyvern in Taur-ahe.