The Spiral Path

by Greg Weisman

  “Close enough.”

  Jaggal growled low.

  Seeing a potential problem, Hackle quickly asked Aram to show Jaggal and Sivet his magic book. The boy sat among the three gnolls and revealed the wizardry of his sketchbook’s pages. The brute and the little matriarch were soon marveling at Aram’s portrait of the two of them.

  Hackle whispered something in Aram’s ear, and Aram flipped back to his illustration of Cackle, matriarch of the Grimtail gnolls.

  Hackle said, “This Cackle.”

  Sivet stabbed a finger at the sketch. “Cackle?”

  “Yes!” Hackle said gleefully.

  “Hackle is Hackle!” Jaggal said.

  “Hackle know!”

  Together, the three of them repeated, “Cackle, Hackle! Cackle, Hackle! Cackle, Hackle!” over and over, until their words dissolved into a mutual fit of hysterical laughter.

  Aram never quite understood why gnolls found such a simple rhyme so uproariously funny. But he noticed that no one was calling Hackle a runt anymore. (And not because runt didn’t rhyme with Cackle.)

  Once Jaggal had caught his breath, he looked down upon Hackle with affection, caused, probably, by some combination of the laughter they had just shared, a full belly, the new yeti alliance, and nostalgia for their childhood friendship. But whatever the cause, the brute was ready to make amends. He said, “Hackle is no runt. Hackle is Hackle. Hackle rejoin Woodpaw.”

  Sivet, who was looking at Hackle the way Aram used to look at Duan Phen, grabbed up Hackle’s paw. “Yes,” she said, “Hackle rejoin Woodpaw.”

  Aram didn’t even have time to think, I’m gonna miss that gnoll, before Hackle shook his head.

  “Hackle glad to be Woodpaw. Hackle always be Woodpaw. But Hackle’s place is with Aram now.” He removed his paw from Sivet’s.

  Aram said, “You can stay here—with your people—if you want, Hackle. You will be sorely missed. But any debt you think you owe me is paid in full, my frund.”

  “Hackle know Hackle’s place with Aram.”

  Jaggal nodded. Sivet sighed—then nodded as well.

  Hackle repeated, “Hackle’s place with Aram.”

  Come dawn, dey could all see da wyvern One-Eye circlin’ high overhead. Circlin’ and dancin’ tru da air in da morning sunlight wid her tree wyvern cubs. And unless da Hidden were wantin’ ta fight dem wyverns, dis was a place where dey don’ dare linger.

  Zathra hissed a warning ta da ogres. “Try ta stay outta sight.” Den she glanced back over her shoulder and realized how ridiculous dat request was. Slepgar—all twelve feet a him—yawned mightily before lookin’ round lazily for a tree big enough ta hide his oversize self. Da rest a dem ogres—Throgg, Karrga, Ro’kull, Ro’jak, Guz’luk, and da two-headed Long-Beard and Short-Beard—were nearly as easy ta see. Certainly, from above.

  Karrga leaned over ta whisper what already was obvious: “Hiding no work. Best if ogres no stay long.” Karrga had led dem here, ta da foot a Skypeak, havin’ guessed correctly dat da wyvern would be returnin’ ta her nest wid her cubs. “Marjuk and Wordok and Arkus climb Skypeak, take cubs from nest. Put in dome of thorns. Gordok—old Gordok—use cubs to force Ol’ One-Eye to do what old Gordok want. But One-Eye’s cubs free now. One-Eye free now. One-Eye probably kill any ogre One-Eye see. Maybe kill troll, too.”

  Valdread chuckled and whispered, “Well, thank the gods I’m safe.”

  All but smellin’ da Forsaken’s smug grin floatin’ in from unda his hood, mingled alongside da scent a jasmine, Zathra ignored him and muttered a trio a quick, silent prayers ta her loa—Eraka no Kimbul, Lord a Beasts, and Ueetay no Mueh’zala, God a Death, and even Elortha no Shadra, Mother a Venom (who likely was keepin’ da wyvern’s stinger rich in poison)—askin’ dat da wyvern’s attentions stay focused up high. She drew out a crossbow bolt and pricked her finger, lettin’ tree drops a her own blood fall ta da ground. Dey vanished instantly inta da sand, so she knew her prayers been heard.

  Skitter smelled da blood and woke from her nap, clicking her thirst.

  “Hush, sista,” Zathra said, strokin’ da scorpid dat armored her chest. “Dat blood not for you. Dat blood for da loa, for Eraka, for Ueetay, for Elortha.”

  Skitter clicked again but settled.

  Now, Zathra scanned about, lookin’ for signs, lookin’ ta find exactly where da beast had left da Thorne boy and his friends. “If dey not be up in her nest, den dey be leavin’ for Gadgetzan from somewhere round here.”

  Quickly and easily, she found plenty a evidence a da fugitives. Near da waterfall was a fresh grave. From da length a da disturbed earth, she knew it ta be da grave a da night elf. “Been tinkin’ I killed dat druid,” she murmured, sportin’ a serious grin. Two bolts ta da kaldorei’s back from her crossbows had put him in da ground.

  Leadin’ away from da grave, she found tracks: da boy, da woman, da murloc, and da gnoll. Clear as day ta someone who knew how ta look.

  “Dis way,” she whispered, and led dem forward.

  Karrga, Throgg, Valdread, and da rest a Gordok’s Elite followed.

  Zathra glanced up one last time. Da four wyverns continued deir dance round Skypeak, none a dem even bodderin’ ta look down. “Tank you, my loa,” the troll whispered. “Next chance I get, I be feedin’ you more dan just a few drops. Maybe I be feedin’ you da Thorne boy and all his friends …”

  The Thorne boy and all his friends breakfasted on fresh sliced palm-apple. It was sweet and juicy, light and refreshing.

  By this time, Jaggal was a changed gnoll. All notion of Hackle not deserving Woodpaw grub had vanished. Now, the brute was practically forcing supplies on his old friend. He gave Hackle a leather pack with two whole palm-apples already inside, not to mention two good-size packets of Aram’s favorite boar jerky and a thick slab of bear steak, roasted the night before and wrapped in a giant gunnera leaf, for that night’s supper.

  Everyone seemed to be in a very good mood. The yetis had left during the night, but the gnolls scampered about the village as if a pall had been lifted, which, in fact, it had. Now the yetis were the gnolls’ friends and, better still, their allies against the ogres. (Plus, the worst ogre slavers—Wordok and Marjuk—were no longer a threat.) The adult members of the clan went about the business of the morning with a significant spring in their collective steps. Pups smaller than Sivet raced about, some with diminutive weapons, pretending to be grown warriors, while others brandished their little claws, pretending to be their new yeti friends. (Honestly, few sights are quite as adorable as a tiny gnoll pup imagining himself as Feral Scar while fighting off invisible ogres.) Cries of “ROAR! ROAR!” and peals of cackling laughter crackled throughout the camp.

  Aram was fairly proud of himself for having negotiated the peace between gnoll and yeti. Makasa was clearly proud of him, too, though she was semi-desperate not to show it, lest it go to his head—and semi-desperate to get on with their journey, lest Malus catch up with them. Jaggal and Hackle were laughing together and cuffing each other (with relative gentleness). Sivet took turns showering admiring looks upon Makasa and Hackle and her father. And though she didn’t throw the same looks toward Aram, she had stopped regarding him with contempt, which was something, anyway.

  Murky was off to the side, slurping up the occasional slice of palm-apple, but mostly concentrating on weaving new nets for himself.

  Karrion studied his work and nodded approvingly.

  Aram smiled, quite self-satisfied.

  Within the hour, they were off, once again following the compass southeast toward Gadgetzan. They had walked a good mile before Aram noticed that Murky didn’t have his nets. Instead, he was carrying an extremely short spear. The kind the gnoll pups had been play-acting with.

  “Murky, your nets? Where are your nets? Did you forget them?”

  “Nk, nk. Murky fllmm Kureeun mgrrrrl fr mmmm mrrugl mrrruggl.”

  Makasa grumbled, “What did he say?”

  “I’m not sure,” Aram said. “But … Murky, did you trade
your nets to Karrion … for that spear?”

  The murloc said, “Mrgle, mrgle,” and began pantomiming his own battle against invisible ogres. “RRRgrrrs nk mlgggrrrr Urum mmgr Murky lggrm!” He poked at the air with his new spear.

  “Those were good nets,” Makasa said with bewilderment. “He traded them for a toy?”

  Aram considered this for a moment, then said, “Makasa, those nets were very important to him. But he traded them so he’d have a weapon to help us fight.”

  Hackle nodded. “Spear look like toy to Makasa, but spear a real spear. Small but real.”

  Makasa’s expression changed then. She nodded to the murloc, who grinned broadly at the tiniest hint of approval from her. But there was something else in her expression …

  Aram guessed, “You’re thinking you should have traded for a long spear.”

  She almost shrugged. But then she shook her head. “No, I’ll wait until I can find a real harpoon to trade for. Assuming I have anything to trade.”

  They walked on.

  Baron Reigol Valdread slid his hood back off his head and looked up at the display before them. As always, his thin, pale skin was stretched taut over his skull into a skeletal grin, which matched his mood. He was, in a word, delighted by what he saw, which made for a nice change—given how dull he found most sights generally. A headless ogre was hanging from a tree, a thick rope looped under his armpits and wrapped around the trunk.

  The others in his party were not half so pleased by the sight.

  Except, perhaps, Karrga, who whispered in Throgg’s ear, “That Marjuk.”

  Throgg’s face darkened with confusion. He said, “Karrga know Marjuk even though Marjuk no have head?”

  “That Marjuk,” she repeated with certainty.

  Throgg nodded and said, “Huh. Throgg no kill Marjuk then.” He sounded disappointed that he couldn’t do Karrga this favor.

  “It be a warning ta da Gordunni,” Zathra said. She was studying the body. “Hmm. Head cut off with axe. One swing. After death.”

  “And before death?” Valdread asked in his cheerful whisper.

  “Before death … claw marks … from a yeti.”

  “Interesting,” the baron murmured slyly. “I’ve never known a yeti to use an axe before.”

  “No, mon. Yetis not be usin’ no axes. But a yeti not be killin’ dis ogre by his lonesome. Here, on da arm, dere be bruises from da human woman’s iron chain.”

  “Ah. Our Miss Flintwill does always seem to be in the thick of things, doesn’t she?”

  Zathra nodded, frowning. “Ogre also hit wid war club …”

  Karrga interposed, “Like club gnoll take from Wordok.”

  “… and fingers cut off by a smaller blade. Maybe da boy’s cutlass. Maybe.”

  Valdread whispered, “So a real team effort, then.” The undead swordsman sounded absolutely tickled—mostly because he was. “And young Squire Thorne and his friends now number a yeti in their company?” He was trying very hard not to laugh—since a good laugh tended to dislocate his jaw.

  “Don’ know, mon. Dis not be da battle site. No human tracks round here. No murloc tracks, eider. Only gnoll and yeti.”

  Guz’luk said, “Gnolls and yetis working together? Gordok no like that.” The old ogre thought about this for a moment before adding, “’Cept Gordok dead now.”

  “I hardly think the new Gordok will much care for the news. Please say I can be the one to tell him? Oh, and I simply must be the one to tell Ssarbik just as soon as we rendezvous. I’m sure the arakkoa’s reaction will be absolutely apoplectic. And absolutely priceless.”

  “Put your hood up and stop your grinnin’, Valdread,” a chagrined Zathra barked. “I lost deir trail. And dis corpse been hangin’ here for at least two days.” The baron watched her waken the scorpid and send the creature off to search for signs of their prey. This afforded some mild amusement as each of the ogres, save Throgg, shrunk from the skittering Skitter and seemed to be attempting to simultaneously pick both feet up off the ground to avoid her.

  Valdread looked up at Marjuk one last time. “Do we cut the poor fellow down?”

  Slepgar yawned and said, “Why? Valdread hungry?”

  The Forsaken laughed so hard he did indeed dislocate his jaw.

  For once, they had an actual plan. Their map of Kalimdor had shown a night elf outpost, New Thalanaar, right along their route, on the coast of the flooded Thousand Needles canyon. They’d stop there for the night, inform the night elves of Thalyss Greyoak’s passing, resupply again, and maybe hire a boat to take them across the water to Gadgetzan. Even Makasa thought it a good plan, nodding with satisfaction as Aram folded the map.

  But as Wavestrider’s first mate, the odd and cheerful dwarf Durgan One-God, used to say, “We plan. The Life-Binder laughs.”

  Now, two days later under a midmorning sun, our quartet stood on a hill overlooking New Thalanaar, having found the outpost under siege. Three contingents of warriors surrounded New Thalanaar on three sides—that is, every side but the side facing the waters of Thousand Needles. Elf sentries and archers manned New Thalanaar’s makeshift battlements, but no arrows were being loosed, at least not currently.

  Hackle pointed at the raiders and said, “Grimtotem tribe. Tauren.”

  Aram found this nearly incomprehensible. He thought of his friends, the night elf Thalyss Greyoak and the tauren Wuul Breezerider, and saw no reason why night elves and tauren shouldn’t get along famously. He said, “I know the kaldorei are Alliance, and the tauren are Horde, but—”

  “Most tauren are Horde, yes,” Hackle said, “but Grimtotem hate Horde.”

  “So the Grimtotem joined the Alliance?” Aram asked, more confused than ever.

  “No,” Hackle said, sounding bored. Then he knelt down so he could scratch the back of his neck with his hind foot. Eventually, he stopped and added, “Grimtotem hate Alliance. And Grimtotem hate Horde. Grimtotem hate everyone. Grimtotem even hate tauren.”

  “Well, that makes it all as clear as mud,” Aram said, frowning. But the frown faded quickly. The wheels were already turning. Without being conscious of it, he took a half step forward.

  Makasa grabbed him by the collar, growling out, “Oh, no you don’t!”

  “What?” Aram asked, only somewhat disingenuously.

  “I can read your mind, brother. See it on your face. You’re thinking you united the gnolls and the yetis. Now, flush with that success, you think you can march down there and broker a peace between night elves and tauren.”

  “Is that so impossible?”

  “We’ll never know. Because I’m not letting you anywhere near either side, even if I have to hog-tie you to stop you.”

  “But—”

  “No.”

  “You don’t even have any rope,” Aram said mopily.

  “I’ll wrap my chain around your neck and drag you away behind me.”

  Aram looked at both Murky and Hackle for support, only to find both nodding absently, as if Makasa’s proposal made indisputable sense.

  “You will not risk your life and ours on a fool’s errand,” she continued evenly. “You cannot bring peace and palm-apples to all of Azeroth simply because you think that’s the way it ought to be.”

  “You wouldn’t say that to our father.”

  “Captain Thorne was an idealist. But he was never naïve. Not that naïve, anyway.”

  “Makasa—”

  “You forget. Malus is likely still after us, and we’ve already lost enough time. There are limits, Aramar, to what even a Thorne can accomplish.”

  Aram was trying hard not to sulk as they walked west, some distance out of their way, in order to skirt the raid. They crested a hill and looked down on a very wide stream (or a very thin river) that they could see ran south around New Thalanaar before turning east to feed Thousand Needles just below the outpost. If they remained in the trees on the far side of the stream, they could avoid all the tauren and continue on to Gadgetzan.

  But
here, that meant fording the rushing water to get to the western side. Aram’s reluctance was palpable—and not caused by any lingering desire to bring peace and palm-apples to elves and tauren. Rather, the water itself made him nervous. In the last month, he had nearly drowned twice. Once, while attempting to swim ashore from the Wavestrider’s dinghy, and once when trying to rescue Murky from a stream (or river) much like this one. Aram felt he didn’t have good luck with water, but he said nothing. He figured he was being, well, silly.

  Murky enthusiastically swam across on his back, holding his little spear out of the water, above the flow. Makasa, the tallest of them, followed, carrying the majority of their supplies, including Hackle’s war club, which he had reluctantly relinquished to her. The water was up past her knees, but she was always surefooted. Hackle nodded to Aram, who nodded back, smiling uncomfortably, and waded in. After three steps, the water was practically up to Aram’s waist, but he kept walking forward. The riverbed stones felt slippery under his boots, and once he nearly lost his footing before recovering. He swallowed hard and looked up. His eyes met Makasa’s, and he thought he could see her dawning realization that he was afraid.

  She called out, “Take it slow, one step after another!”

  He nodded to her and took it slow, one step after another. He glanced back over his shoulder. Hackle had followed Murky’s lead and was swimming—dog-paddling—across. He paused, treading water, waiting for Aram, who was now about halfway to the other side.

  Suddenly, Aram thought of the sketchbook in the back pocket of his breeches, which was currently right at the waterline. It was wrapped in oilskin, which had always preserved it before, even when diving off the dinghy or rescuing Murky had completely submerged him. So he continued forward, feeling confident it would survive this, too.

  But what of the acorn?!

  The Seed of Thalyss was in a leather pouch tied to his belt. It, too, was wrapped in oilskin. But how well wrapped? Thalyss had used his dying breath to warn Aram not to let the fist-size magic acorn get wet. Now, Aram was dragging it through the water. He stopped and reached for the pouch. Then he stopped himself from doing that, too. The pouch was already damp. Either the oilskin was doing its job—or it was already too late. Checking on it now would only risk soaking a seed that was potentially still dry.