by Greg Weisman
Quickly and nervously, Aram reached into the druid’s robes, found the inner pocket, and removed the purple pouch. He fumbled to open it, but the night elf’s hand closed over Aram’s and the pouch.
“Listen …” His voice was very faint. “You have to promise me …”
“But—”
“Listen!” he said, now with some urgency. “You are traveling … to Gadgetzan … to catch that ship home … There is a druid tender … another night elf … in the city … Her name is …” He swallowed and coughed up more blood. Aram wiped off his friend’s mouth with a corner of his sleeve. “Her name is Faeyrine … Faeyrine Springsong … Promise me you will bring her the pouch … the seed …”
“I promise, but—”
“I am not a plant, Aram,” Thalyss said gently. “There is … no magic in the seed … for me. You must take it … to Springsong.” He turned his head then, resting his blind eyes on Murky as if he could clearly see the murloc before him. “You will help him … do this for me?”
“Mrgle, mrgle. Murky mrrugl Urum, Duluss. Murky mrrugl.”
Thalyss smiled again. “That is … good … my murloc … frund … But I thought … I was looking at …”
Makasa said, “We will deliver the pouch. You have all our words and may consider it done.”
“Thank you … dear friends … You see … there is a … destiny to things … A way … a flow … The compass … It drew my path … to join with yours …”
“Sorry, sorry,” Aram said—though what he might be apologizing for was unclear.
“I have … no regrets … I see it now … Your path is a wide road … It will draw in many souls … I am … honored to be among … the first … Guard that compass well …” His tongue tapped his upper lip one last time.
“I will. I promise.”
“Oh, and one … more thing … The seed … Do not … let it … get … wet …”
And then he was gone.
“Gordok is dead! Long live Gordok!” Malus’s pronouncement brought only a prolonged silence from the Dire Maul Gordunni filling the amphitheater.
Finally, an immense hunchbacked ogre named Kor’lok—one of the young warriors who had been holding a spear in Throgg’s face—turned toward Malus. Kor’lok, born with a single central eye in his brow, had been told his entire life that this rare feature marked him for greatness, like the ogre lords of yore. Often, he had dreamt of challenging Gordok for clan supremacy. He was certain he could kill the old king. But he feared that Wordok or Arkus or both would challenge him in turn, and that—exhausted from the first battle—he might fall. But now all three obstacles were corpses. All that remained was this human. And, yes, the little creature had skill. But now he was weary and bleeding from a prior challenge. Now—without a doubt—it was Kor’lok’s turn to rule.
He took a step forward and shouted down at Malus, “Who Gordok? You?!”
Malus raised his sword and shouted back, “I killed Gordok! Now, I am Gordok of the Dire Maul Gordunni!”
Kor’lok scoffed. “Human not Gordok! Only ogre Gordok!”
“Do you challenge me?” Malus smiled, though perhaps Kor’lok was too far away to see.
Kor’lok raised his spear. “Kor’lok challenge! Yes!”
“Whom do you challenge?!”
“Little Malus man!”
“Why would Kor’lok challenge Malus, if Malus is not Gordok of the Dire Maul Gordunni?!”
This stumped Kor’lok briefly. His brow furrowed; his single eye squinted as he tried to work this puzzle out. Eventually, he said, “Little Malus man can be Gordok ’til Kor’lok kill little Malus man!”
“So Malus is Gordok now?!”
“Now! Yes! Soon! Dead!”
“Do all the Dire Maul Gordunni agree that Malus is Gordok?!”
At first, no one spoke. Then Kor’lok shouted out, “Agree! Agree!”
A somewhat halfhearted chorus of voices rose to confirm Malus’s current—though theoretically temporary—status. In any case, no one challenged the notion.
Malus raised his sword again, and the arena fell silent. He shouted, “Then Malus is Gordok! I am Gordok! And Gordok accepts Kor’lok’s challenge!”
Kor’lok grinned, quite pleased with himself. He raised both his arms in triumph—expecting a cheer—and was extremely disappointed when none was forthcoming. But that would change once he became the new Gordok.
He took another step forward but stopped when the current little Gordok raised his sword yet again, repeating, “I am Gordok! And Gordok accepts Kor’lok’s challenge!! And Gordok chooses Throgg to fight for Gordok!”
Kor’lok’s brow furrowed again. This was not part of his plan. Still, this unexpected twist wouldn’t trouble him for long—as Throgg immediately stepped forward and impaled young Kor’lok from behind on his sword-hand.
Kor’lok, destined for greatness, collapsed dead in the aisle of the amphitheater.
Malus raised his sword and said, “Who else challenges Gordok?”
There was general silence. He scanned the arena, looking for potential troublemakers. For a moment, his eyes lingered on Throgg himself. The Shattered Hand ogre did not look happy. Malus could guess the reason. Deep down, Throgg was something of a traditionalist, and Malus was perverting the ways of the ogre, the laws of the Gordunni, to serve and suit his own needs. Or in any case, to serve and suit the needs of the Hidden. In the end, Malus knew it was this last notion that prevented Throgg from challenging his master: the ogre had pledged an oath to serve the cause of the Hidden. Throgg lowered his head in submission.
No one else stepped forward. The double threat of the previous Gordok’s killer and the Shattered Hand ogre was more than enough incentive to keep the rest in line. Malus raised his sword one last time and shouted, “Gordok is dead! Long live Gordok!”
And as one, the Dire Maul Gordunni shouted, “LONG LIVE GORDOK!”
Dawn was approaching. There was light in the east.
Aram looked down at the pouch in his hand.
I have a life debt of my own now, he thought.
As if reading his mind, Makasa said, “We will share this burden, brother. The compass of your father and the seed of Thalyss.”
He looked up at her and tears welled in his eyes. Was he mourning the loss of Thalyss, or of Greydon Thorne, or was he grateful for the loyalty of his new sister, Makasa? Even he wasn’t sure. It was probably all of it. Everything. He felt supremely tired and leaned against her. She put an arm around him, and they were silent for a time.
All that remained was to get out of the wyvern’s nest and down off the mountain. There were none left among them who spoke Taur-ahe, let alone knew the words of permission, but Aram was confident enough in One-Eye’s gratitude to ask the wyvern through gesture, pointing, and pantomime if she would fly them down at least as far as the northwest slope of Thousand Needles.
Old One-Eye squinted at Aram crossly for not observing the proper forms. But what other choice did she have? She had to get them out of her nest one way or another. That meant eating them, pushing them off the cliff, or acquiescing to the boy’s request. She looked over at her cubs, happily roughhousing, and thought about the painful months she had gone without laying her eye on them inside their thorny prison. Aram had been right. She was too grateful to the boy to do anything but aid him.
Once Thalyss was dead, Makasa had carefully removed the crossbow bolts from his back. That was the tradition of her people. For how could a soul rest if he must carry the cause of his death with him forever?
Hackle had found this quite odd. The tradition of his people called for them to eat Thalyss. After all, the night elf was carrion now. The gnoll suggested as much to Aram—who briefly looked quite appalled.
But Aram didn’t get upset; he put a hand on Hackle’s shoulder and said, “That’s, uh, not the kaldorei way.”
Together, the four young travelers carefully wrapped the druid up in his robes. Aram put on his father’s coat, now stained with some o
f the night elf’s blood. I’ve lost too many people on this voyage, he thought, quite determined not to lose anyone else. The lesson that Makasa and Thalyss had tried to teach him—that you cannot save everyone—had not truly sunk in at all. Despite the losses, he wouldn’t let it sink in. Not now. Maybe not ever.
Aram and Murky climbed up onto One-Eye’s back. Makasa and Hackle handed Thalyss up to them, then climbed up behind.
Aram checked one more time to confirm that the acorn pouch was safe in his coat pocket, that the compass was safely tucked under his shirt, and that his sketchbook was securely stuffed into his back pocket. Yes, he thought, I have many burdens. Then he leaned forward to whisper into the wyvern’s ear, “He’ll want to lie in soft earth, in good soil, where things may grow. Can you take us somewhere like that?”
Aram had no idea if she could understand him—but he could have sworn Ol’ One-Eye rolled her one eye. He assumed that from Makasa’s place in back, she had been unable to catch it. This made him smile just a little, as the wyvern barked a command to her three cubs—presumably to stay put—before spreading her wings and taking to the sky …
One-Eye’s flight arced gently to the southeast as she gradually descended from atop Skypeak, down the last mile toward the border of Feralas with Thousand Needles and a verdant slope just west of the flooded canyon.
Suddenly, something grabbed Aram and yanked him forward, nearly flipping him right over the top of the wyvern’s head. Caught off guard, he let go of Thalyss and grabbed two fistfuls of mane. Once secured, he looked back to confirm that Murky, Hackle, and Makasa still held the night elf’s body. Then Aram looked down to see what was still attempting to pull him off One-Eye’s neck.
It was his shirt! No, not his shirt—it was the compass beneath his shirt, pulling hard on the chain around his neck and straining against what remained of the torn, stained, and ragged fabric that covered his chest. Without thinking, he reached up with one hand and pulled the compass out. He let go of it, bracing himself again by grabbing the wyvern’s mane with both hands.
Behind him, Makasa shouted, “Aram?”
He didn’t answer. The compass was pulling—and pulling hard—just a few degrees to the south of Old One-Eye’s current heading, as if it had a mind of its own.
And then the clasp on the chain snapped! The compass flew off, passing close enough over One-Eye’s good right eye to startle her into a brief dive.
Before she had completely recovered, Aram shouted, “FOLLOW THAT COMPASS!”
He instantly thought it a ridiculous thing to say—especially to a beast who might not even understand the words—but the wyvern hated to be startled and had no issue with giving chase to whatever it was that had even momentarily upset her. She wasn’t sure what had zipped past her, but she was sure she would kill and eat it. She veered south.
The only problem was that their quarry was such a little thing. It was easy for the boy and the one-eyed beast to lose sight of it.
Aram scanned the air, spotted the compass, pointed, and shouted, “THERE!”
She turned her head back and grunted at him. He had to lean way forward over the wyvern’s head so she could actually see where he was pointing.
Makasa, whose own view was partially blocked by Hackle, shouted out, “What’s going on?! Did you drop the compass?!”
“No, it flew away on its own!”
“Don’t take that tone with me, boy!”
He realized she thought he was being sarcastic, and if he hadn’t been out of reach, he knew she’d have slapped him on the back of the head.
Aram didn’t care. He was desperately trying to maintain focus on the little compass. By this time, it was heading steeply down, angling toward the base of a waterfall. One-Eye tucked her wings and dove down after it—as the sun chose just that moment to rise over the eastern edge of the canyon. The glare caused Aram to briefly shut his eyes and look away.
When he looked again, he couldn’t immediately find the compass. Then a flash of light—perhaps the sun reflecting off the compass’s brass setting—caught his eye. He saw a second flash of light, farther down, on the ground just to the left of the falls. What could that be?
He wasn’t sure—but the first light beelined directly toward the second, and both reminded him of something, something …
The wyvern saw the lights, too, and maintained her steep and fast descent.
Murky screamed, and Hackle howled. Makasa remained silent.
Aram saw the first light hit the second light and the floor of the canyon; they were close enough to see a cloud of dirt poof up from the impact.
Long after it seemed too late, One-Eye extended her wings, which caught the air and arrested their dive. Still, this landing wasn’t gentle. She put down hard on her rear feet, with her body at a forty-five-degree angle. The force of the contact shook the elf’s body loose from the trio holding him. Thalyss thumped brutally against the soft ground.
Aram quickly slid off the wyvern.
Makasa was right behind him. “Aram!”
“The compass flew off on its own,” he said again, but this time she could tell he meant it.
The sound of the falling water was almost deafening. He glanced up at the falls, and the artist in him briefly registered them as magnificent. But they couldn’t hold his attention. Not now.
Twenty feet from where the cascading water fell to earth, Aram soon found a small crater in the soil, and, at the bottom of it, half-buried by dirt, he found the compass. The crystal needle was spinning in circles and glowing brighter than it ever had before. Carefully, with Makasa and One-Eye both looking over his shoulder, Aram lifted up the compass. As soon as One-Eye got a good look at it and saw it was a piece of inedible metal, she harrumphed and turned away. But Murky and Hackle joined Makasa as Aram felt something hard on the underside of the compass’s metal housing. Aram turned it over. It was another glowing shard of crystal, like the needle, only slightly bigger. Tentatively, he poked at it. It slid around to the front of the compass, resting just on the glass above the needle, which suddenly stopped spinning. Now, both crystals—needle and shard—pointed southeast.
Still tentative, Aram touched the glowing, diamond-like sliver …
The Voice of the Light called to him: “Aram, Aram, it is you who must save me!” The Light got brighter and brighter, but this time Aramar Thorne did not turn away …
“Aram! Aram!” Makasa was shaking him out of his stupor.
He looked down at the compass. Neither the needle nor the new shard was glowing anymore. Slowly, he turned to look at Makasa. “It’s calling to me,” he said quietly.
She didn’t understand, but she took him seriously. “What? What’s calling?”
“The Light. I’m supposed to save the Light.” Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he couldn’t be making much sense to her. None of it made much sense to him. But it felt right.
With something approaching clarity, he could see why his father was so determined to protect the compass. Greydon had said it would lead Aram where he needed to go. Aram had assumed that meant home to Lakeshire. Now, that seemed not simply unlikely but even a little ridiculous. Something larger was at stake. Something so important, Greydon Thorne had wanted his son ready to face it, had been training him to face it before time had run out. This Light-That-Needed-Saving was now Aramar’s responsibility. It was another burden, true. Yet it also felt like an honor, a great privilege, which his father had bestowed upon him. Aram no longer wondered why Greydon Thorne had brought his son aboard Wavestrider or why he had given him the compass instead of throwing it into the sea. Whatever anger, whatever resentment Aram had once felt toward the man had completely and forever melted away. And in his heart, Aram thanked his father for having that much faith in him. In the Greydon-son and in his sister Makasa Flintwill.
The compass needle once again pointed southeast. Was there another shard of crystal there? Perhaps it lay hidden somewhere along that path? Thalyss had theorized that the compa
ss was tracking someone or something heading from south to north. Now, Aram thought it more likely that their trek with the ogres had brought them close enough to this particular sliver of the Light to attract the compass’s attention. With the sliver found, the compass was back to pointing in its original direction, southeast toward Gadgetzan. He’d promised Thalyss to take the acorn to Gadgetzan, just as he’d promised his father to safeguard the compass. He told Makasa, “All roads lead to Gadgetzan.”
She nodded and repeated, “All roads lead to Gadgetzan.”
Hackle said, “To Gadgetzan.”
Murky said, “Mrgle, mrgle.”
A sulky One-Eye merely harrumphed again.
“The boy?” Malus asked.
“I can’t be trackin’ him tru da sky, mon,” Zathra said, scowling with undisguised frustration.
The Hidden had triumphed over the Dire Maul Gordunni. Malus ruled the ogres as their new Gordok. Yet, despite these victories, none of them was particularly cheerful.
None except Valdread. The Forsaken removed his hood to reveal his stretched grin. “Tsk, tsk, tsk,” he said. “So the young squire and the compass have escaped us again. Even got away with the ever-impressive Flintwill and our murloc leverage.”
“I tink I killed da elf,” Zathra said.
“Perhaps,” said Valdread. “But night elves are notoriously difficult to kill, so it’s hard to say for sure. Still, the boy’s not short on allies. I believe he has a gnoll with him now. And, let’s see, am I forgetting anything?”
“Enough,” Malus said, not amused.
Valdread ignored him. “Oh, yes, that’s right. He has a wyvern!” The baron laughed heartily at that. It was a somewhat chilling sound, and it dislocated his jaw for him. But he quickly clicked the bone back into place and said, “He may even have four!”
“What now?” Throgg asked gloomily.
Malus considered this for a time. Finally, he said, “From the beginning—aside from the detour here, which wasn’t by choice—they’ve maintained a fairly direct heading. Toward Gadgetzan. That’s where they’re going. That’s where we’ll go. If we don’t catch up to them en route, we’ll find them in the city. We’ll send out the ogres, too.”