The Spiral Path

by Greg Weisman

  Once topside, Amberhide led them first to a small market, where Aram—before Makasa could stop him—pulled out a gold coin and tried to use it to pay for Drella’s vegetables. But the grimacing quilboar peddler couldn’t come close to making that much change. He seemed impatient—not to make a sale but to end the transaction, one way or another. Thalia generously used a single copper to purchase more than Drella needed.

  Drella was very pleased. Pleased to have something she could eat and pleased to finally see a tauren—any tauren—up close. The dryad thought Thalia particularly beautiful. Then again, the dryad also thought the grimacing and impatient quilboar beautiful, so as usual, her standards of beauty didn’t seem particularly exacting.

  The quilboar, all bristles and snout, kept glancing toward the descending sun and pawing the ground with his right hoof. As soon as they moved from his stall, he began packing it up for the day.

  Thalia invited the five of them to her home for supper. She claimed to be eager for news of the world beyond Freewind Post and thought she’d also invite some friends who would be just as interested. She pointed out her canvas hut and told them to meet her there at sundown. She took off at a fast jog—then looked back and noticed her new acquaintances watching. She slowed to an amble, as if in no particular hurry to extend her other invitations.

  Before Makasa could reprimand him, Aram said, “I shouldn’t have shown that gold coin. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s done,” she said. “But it means we have to stay alert. Amberhide saw you had gold. So did the quilboar and another tauren, the female lingering by the fish stall.”

  “They might not be thieves.”

  “They might not. But they might mention your gold to one who is. Plus …”

  Hackle finished her thought. “Amberhide too nice.”

  Drella said, “I did not know one could be ‘too nice.’ Thalyss never mentioned such a thing.”

  Murky nodded. “Mrgle, mrgle.” He was agreeing with someone, but it wasn’t too clear with whom.

  Aram was silent. He looked at Drella. Like her, he wanted to believe Thalia Amberhide was exactly who she appeared to be. But his responsibility to the dryad had made taking anyone at face value difficult. He turned to Makasa. “We have the vegetables. Should we skip supper and go?”

  Now, Makasa was silent for a time. When she did speak, she chose her words carefully: “There are questions I want to ask. Or at the least, answers I want to get. Something in this place is not right. I can feel it. Taste it.”

  “What does ‘not right’ taste like, Makasa?” Drella sounded slightly cross.

  Makasa ignored her but continued. “I want to know what’s not right. Want to be sure that whatever it is won’t follow us if we leave.”

  “When we leave,” Aram said.

  “Yes. I’m going to look around. Ask around. But I want you four to stick together. Do you understand that, Drella? Stay with Aram, Murky, and Hackle.”

  Drella said, “Yes, you want me to protect them.”

  “If necessary. Please.”

  “I can do that, Makasa.”

  “Thank you, Drella. I’ll meet you all back here before sundown.”

  Makasa moved off, but not before shooting a look at Hackle, who nodded back to her, clearly taking responsibility for protecting the others.

  Aram’s cheeks burned. After all this time, his sister still didn’t trust him. Not really. She was still his babysitter, the way he was now Drella’s. This hurt. He knew he wasn’t the greatest fighter in the world, but hadn’t he proven himself in one dangerous situation after another? “C’mon,” he said, revealing more anger than he cared to. “We’re looking around, too.”

  The four of them came to a rope bridge that connected the Freewind mesa to another across the water. And—visible on this clear day—to another mesa and another beyond, reaching perhaps all the way back to Darkcloud Pinnacle, held by the Grimtotem. Was that what was wrong with the place? Was the bannerless Freewind some kind of bait, luring in unsuspecting travelers? And if it was, if Thalia was secretly Grimtotem, and her dinner party the spring of the mousetrap, what would the Grimtotem want with the likes of them? Their gold? Their freedom? Their lives? The questions multiplied and threatened to drive him mad. He hated thinking this way. He knew that Greydon had always taught him to see the best in everyone. But Aram also knew Makasa was right. He too could taste something in the air. What was it? Fear? Yes, fear. Everyone—from the kind and obliging Thalia to the gruff and grimacing quilboar merchant—was afraid of something.

  Meeting up with Makasa a good twenty feet from Amberhide’s hut and a good twenty minutes before sunset, they compared notes. Most of Freewind Post’s inhabitants were either tauren or quilboar, two races that couldn’t well stand each other—and it showed. And yet, there was no open fighting. Makasa had seen a large male of each species nearly come to blows, before begrudgingly refraining at the last second.

  “Is that not good?” Drella asked irritably. It wasn’t Freewind putting her in a bad mood; it was her companions’ responses to it.

  “It would be,” Makasa answered, “if we knew why they were suddenly behaving so well.”

  “Fear,” Aram said.

  “Fear, yes,” Hackle said. “Hackle smell fear everywhere.”

  Murky shook his head violently. “Murky nk mrrrgle. Flggr flllur mmml?”

  Drella answered him, “Mrgle, mrgle. Fear does have a smell. But I smell nothing, and I have a very sensitive nose.” She crinkled and twitched it, as if to prove her point. It was, once again, adorable—but not particularly convincing.

  Aram put a hand on her shoulder and spoke as reasonably as he could manage. “Is it possible you haven’t been around enough fear to recognize the scent … yet? I mean, you’ve never been afraid.”

  She considered this. “That is true.” She straightened her back. “Nothing scares me, Aramar Thorne.”

  “Everyone just stay ready,” Makasa said. She led them into the hut.

  Thalia was there, wearing a new dress of brown and red and blue, setting the table with the help of an ageless, tall, and graceful female high elf, a quel’dorei, whose presence took Aram’s breath away. Before he could speak, she said, “I have seen you before, boy.”

  Aram nodded and pulled out his sketchbook. “In Flayers’ Point.” He was soon searching its pages for a particular sketch.

  “Yes,” the elf said, her light-grey eyes widening with some surprise. “You have a good memory for a human. You could not have laid eyes on me for more than a few seconds.”

  “You make an impression, Lady …”

  “Elmarine. Magistrix Elmarine.”

  He found the page he was looking for and showed it to her, saying, “It doesn’t do you justice, I’m afraid.”

  Drella said, “You do not smell afraid.”

  “It is a good beginning,” Elmarine said, smiling down at Aram’s unfinished sketch of herself.

  “I drew what’s there from memory, but I always do better when my subject’s in front of me. Perhaps, Magistrix, you would allow me to finish it now?”

  He glanced at Makasa, expecting some disapproval, but she nodded. She knew the power of Aram and his book. Together, they might just loosen some tongues.

  Thalia said, “I can finish setting the table. Sit, Elmarine. Pose for the boy.”

  Just then a young and burly quilboar female entered in a bit of a rush. She had rust-colored bristles, bulging muscles, and mismatched tusks. Her right tusk pointed up, but her left angled outward dramatically.

  Thalia said, “Ah. Shagtusk. I’m glad you were able to come.”

  Makasa said, “Is everything all right?”

  Shagtusk stared at Makasa without speaking.

  Thalia stepped between them. “Shagtusk, this is my new friend, Makasa Flintwill. You know Magistrix Elmarine. And this is Hackle, Murky, Taryndrella, and Aramar Thorne.”

  Shagtusk still said nothing. She stared at Thalia’s other guests, studying each in tur
n.

  Once again, Aram made use of his father’s lessons, and when Shagtusk’s eyes fell on him, he snorted loudly, the traditional quilboar greeting.

  Almost automatically, she snorted back. Then she scowled—more at herself than at him—and took a seat at the rear of the hut, facing the doorway. It was the seat Makasa would have chosen, which was somewhat telling.

  Makasa sat beside the quilboar and said, “Aram, after you’re done drawing the magistrix, you might want sketches of Thalia Amberhide and Shagtusk, too.”

  “I would like that, if both are agreeable.”

  “Certainly,” Thalia said with a slight declination of her head.

  Shagtusk looked confused, but she nodded.

  Aram turned to the high elf. “Magistrix?”

  “If you wish. Should I sit or stand?”

  “Stand, if you don’t mind.”

  “I do not.”

  Aram sat and immediately got to work.

  Drella, Hackle, and Murky helped Thalia finish laying the table. It was a generous supper: firefin snapper on a bed of spinach leaves, mashed yams with melted butter, and fresh-baked bread. Aram ate while sketching Elmarine first, and then Shagtusk and Thalia together. It seemed odd to see a quilboar and a tauren breaking bread side by side. Thalia appeared quite comfortable, however. And Shagtusk appeared equally uncomfortable.

  Makasa leaned past Shagtusk to question their hostess under the guise of giving her the desired news of the world beyond Freewind Post, saying, “The Grimtotem lay siege to New Thalanaar.”

  “Yes,” said Thalia Amberhide, “Thalanaar has been besieged for months.”

  “We also saw Grimtotem banners flying over Darkcloud Pinnacle. At least, we thought it was Darkcloud.”

  “I’m sure it was,” Thalia confirmed.

  “Any problems with them here?”

  “Who?” Thalia said, darkening.

  “The Grimtotem.”

  Aram leaned forward to see if Thalia showed any indication that she was hiding something. Or to see if she’d exchange conspiratorial glances with either Shagtusk or Elmarine.

  But she didn’t hesitate or consult the others in any way, speaking as if it was all old news and not particularly interesting news at that. “Oh, we’ve had our problems with the Grimtotem. Without a doubt. They laid siege to Freewind, as well. But the Grimtotem are so universally …” Here, she did pause.

  Shagtusk spoke for the first time all evening: “Despised.”

  “I was going to say ‘feared,’” Thalia corrected. “The Grimtotem are dangerous enough that all of Thousand Needles is wary of them. The other shu’halo and the local quilboar banded together to expel them from Freewind.”

  Makasa said, “Quilboar and tauren working together. And now living together. How … rare.”

  “Yes,” said Elmarine. “As you can imagine, it is an extremely uneasy détente. A delicate and fragile détente. In part, that is why I am here. To help keep the peace.”

  Aram looked up from his sketchbook to study the tauren and quilboar. “I suppose it helps to have a common enemy. But if gnolls and yetis can live side by side …”

  Elmarine scoffed, “Gnolls and yetis? Impossible.”

  Hackle said, “Not impossible. True. Aram make peace.”

  The magistrix turned from Hackle to study the boy again. She said, “Have you drawn a self-portrait, Master Thorne?”

  Aram frowned but nodded, saying, “It’s a poor likeness.”

  “Might I see it?”

  He nodded again, but instead showed her the finished portrait of herself. He thought it had turned out nicely and wanted to make a better impression first.

  “Very good,” she said. “Perhaps slightly exaggerated. But I will not complain about that, since it works in my favor.”

  Aram felt stricken. “Exaggerated—”

  “And the self-portrait?”

  Sulking a bit, he flipped the leaves back to himself.

  “It is a fine likeness,” she said. “Very telling.” She held her hand, palm down, an inch or so over the page as if trying to glean something of its essence. “Yes, very telling, indeed. But I should not be surprised. Two humans traveling with a gnoll and a murloc is hardly commonplace.”

  “Hardly,” Makasa said.

  “But for the four of you to be in company with a dryad … well, it is nothing short of astounding.”

  “Is it astounding?” Drella asked. “Why?”

  “You are a daughter of Cenarius, Taryndrella.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “It makes you sacred to the druids, and it is odd enough to find you out of their company, and out of their protection.”

  “I do not require protection.”

  “Is it spring or summer, Taryndrella?”

  “Spring!” Drella answered, grinning.

  “I thought as much.”

  Aram started to ask about this, but a look from Makasa stopped him. She subtly tugged down on her ear. Listen first, she was saying. So Aram listened.

  “When summer comes, Taryndrella, your powers will begin to mature. You will be largely immune to magicks. You will be able to abolish harmful sorcery and mystic affronts to nature. Formal training from a druid tender will help with that, as well.”

  “And in spring?” Drella asked. When the magistrix hesitated, Drella implored her to go on: “Please. I am very curious. Very curious about all things, really. But I am especially curious about myself. I find myself quite fascinating. In fact, I believe I am the most fascinating individual on Azeroth.”

  Elmarine smiled. “You may be at that, child.”

  “Then please tell me about spring.”

  “In spring, Taryndrella, you are immature and untrained. You are unsure of your abilities.”

  “I am not.”

  “That is untrue, little dryad. You have great potential, certainly. But like any babe in the woods, you are not yet who you will be.”

  “I am not yet who I will be,” Taryndrella repeated, not unpleased with the pronouncement.

  Aram said, “We’re taking her to a druid tender in Gadgetzan.”

  “Springsong?” the magistrix asked. And when Aram nodded, she said, “It is well.”

  Drella giggled at this, which seemed odd to Aram—but before he could even form a question, his thoughts were interrupted by a prodigious screeching!

  Amberhide slammed her fists down. “No, no, no, no, no, no, no!”

  She pushed away from the table, reached behind her cookstove, pulled out about a dozen long spears bound together by a wide leather strap, and stampeded outside. Aram and Makasa exchanged glances and followed. They all followed.

  Aram emerged into the night, unsure what to look for. Then another screech from above snapped his eyes upward. Four female creatures—with light-green skin, winglike arms, taloned feet and hands, and rows of dark-green feathers running down their scalps, backs, arms, and legs—circled above Freewind as if riding upon the moonlight. Suddenly, one swooped down behind a hut and swooped back up holding a young male tauren in the talons of her feet.

  “Corewind! That harpy’s got Corewind!” Thalia growled. She snapped off the leather strap and dumped the spears on the ground—all but one, which she threw with all her might (and a deep, angry grunt) at the kidnapper.

  The spear pierced the harpy’s left wing, and she dropped the tauren. He landed with a soft thud on the thatched roof of another hut. A second later, the roof collapsed under him, and he vanished from sight. But assuming he didn’t break his neck falling that last distance, Corewind had to be better off out of the harpy’s grasp.

  But their little dinner party wasn’t better off. All four harpies turned their attention toward Amberhide and her spears. They swooped down in a tight aerial phalanx. Murky ducked. Hackle swung his club but missed. Staring upward at the terror-birds, Aram was reaching blindly for his cutlass, then glanced down briefly to find its handle. He heard Makasa call out, “ARAM!” and looked up in time to see her using her
shield to block a harpy’s talons from snatching him away. He drew his sword as Makasa grabbed up one of Thalia’s spears and threw it with all her might (but no grunt).

  The spear pierced the back of the offending harpy who had tried to grab Aram. The harpy seemed to hang in the air for a good three seconds before crashing to the ground dead, ten feet in front of them.

  The magistrix stepped forward, chanting something brief in Thalassian. Suddenly, a second harpy burst into flame. She flew off, screeching and burning, diving down below Aram’s line of sight—presumably into the canyon waters to douse herself.

  By that time, Thalia, Makasa, and Hackle were all throwing spears into the sky. (Thalia threw two at a time!) None of them found their targets, but the barrage was enough to chase the two remaining harpies into the night.

  Aram breathed a sigh of relief. He exchanged grateful smiles with Makasa and Hackle. He looked over at Murky, who held his short spear at the ready. Then he turned to check on Drella.

  But the young dryad was nowhere in sight.

  Gordok’s Elite stood over the bodies of the Grimtotem they had just killed. Five dead tauren and barely a scratch on even one ogre. Baron Reigol Valdread had lost an arm, but he was already reattaching it. That was one of his special skills. Most of the undead Forsaken could survive losing a limb, but Valdread knew of very few capable of reattaching theirs, of making the skin turn briefly liquid, of making muscle knit and bones click back together. Most Forsaken were, quite frankly, a mess. Valdread held no illusions about how pleasing he was to the eye: he knew he was a walking, waking nightmare. But he was a functioning walking, waking nightmare. And he had, for the most part, maintained his sense of humor about the whole thing.