The Spiral Path

by Greg Weisman

  From the deck of Wavestrider, Makasa stood between Joe and One-God, watching her life as a pirate sail away, as minutes earlier she had watched her family sink into the deep. She was too hard, too flinty, to cry. But when Captain Thorne had come up behind her and put a hand on her shoulder, she came very, very close.

  He said, “Come to my cabin, Second Mate, and tell me of your life.”

  And she had. And he listened. And he offered her words of comfort. And for the first time—and from that point on—Makasa Flintwill knew the love of a father. That is, until Malus and his crew had taken Greydon Thorne from both his children.

  Now, she ran from the Bloodsails, as fast as Hackle could row. A part of her would have loved nothing more than to turn Rendow’s boat around and row toward the pirates, sneak aboard each and every ship and take vengeance on their crews for the deaths of her brothers—no matter the consequences to her own life and limb. But her care for her new brother instructed her to take a different course. So she kept her eyes facing west. They’d sneak away and land ashore. It would be a longer trek to Gadgetzan, but a safer one.

  Aram was quiet. Hackle was quiet. Even Murky and Drella were quiet.

  Makasa had held Aram’s eyes throughout her tale. Now she looked away. But careful to block the others’ view with his body, Aramar Thorne took his sister’s hand and gave it a little squeeze. She squeezed his back, offered him up a sad smile … and exhaled, as if for the first time in years.

  They came ashore on the far western edge of the Shimmering Deep. Rendow’s boat had served them well, and Aram walked away from it with some regret. Rendow herself would get a new boat from Daisy, paid for by Gazlowe out of Aram’s share of the Boat Race purse. But Aram had a certain sentimental attachment to things and worried the kaldorei would not be happy that she wasn’t getting her own boat back.

  There was no remedy for it, however, and they left the sturdy craft behind to walk up into the mountains bordering the desert of Tanaris. It took the rest of the day to reach the summit.

  They made camp and even risked a cooking fire. They had plenty of food stores (and other supplies provided—at a cost—by Gazlowe) in Hackle’s leather pack, but water was becoming a problem. They had left the Speedbarge with two full canteens, and Drella had somewhat miraculously homed in on a tiny spring at the foot of the mountains, where they refilled them. But since beginning their climb, they’d found nothing but dry streambeds. Even the dryad sensed naught. They rationed what they had.

  Sitting round the fire, Aram was thirsty but knew better than to complain. Makasa and Hackle said nothing, of course. Even Murky held his tongue, though Aram guessed that their amphibious companion was probably suffering more than any of them.

  Drella said, “I am very thirsty, Aram. Thirsty down to my roots. May I please have another sip of water?”

  Aram handed her a canteen. Makasa warned the dryad not to drink too much, while—to Aram’s mild surprise—handing the other canteen to the parched murloc.

  Murky shook his head. “Nk mllgggrrrr,” he said, which Drella translated as, “Not thirsty.”

  Makasa scowled and said, “It won’t do any of us any good if you collapse on us, murloc. Take a drink.”

  He nodded and breathed out a single, “Mmrgl.”

  He took a swig, and she urgently barked, “Not too much!”

  Aram smiled and pulled out his sketchbook. He attempted to draw Rendow from memory. It came out all right.

  Before dawn the next morning, hoping to beat the heat, they broke camp and continued their trek across the mountains. They did not beat the heat by much. In fact, the heat soon caught up and overcame them mightily.

  Still no water.

  The path beneath their feet was dry and cracked. Aram’s throat felt likewise.

  Ultimately, Makasa decided to stop. “Sleep now—or rest, at least,” she said. “I’ll take the first watch. When the sun goes down, we’re on the move again.”

  Thinking he wouldn’t be able to sleep, Aram sat in the minimal shade afforded by a rock and started to draw Freewind Post from memory. But the oppressive heat began to work on him. He couldn’t hold the pencil straight, gave up, and turned over …

  The Voice of the Light whispered that Aram was getting closer.

  Aram whispered back that he was thirsty.

  The silhouette of Malus chuckled and said quite clearly, “They’ll find your parched bones in the desert.”

  Aram said, “Who’ll find them?”

  This seemed to stump Malus, and Aram laughed …

  He woke up coughing.

  Night fell. They started out again beneath the White Lady in profile. It was definitely cooler. Aram was still thirsty and imagined that Drella and Murky were thirstier still. But the crisp night air made the crossing easier. Traveling at night like this, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

  But come morning, it looked pretty bad.

  When the sun rose, it shone down on a vast expanse of desert to the east. (It looked much vaster now, in any case, than it had on the map.) They’d have to cross that desert to reach Gadgetzan.

  “We will definitely need more water,” Makasa said.

  Drella, for once, said nothing. She looked around, then closed her eyes and reached out with her dryad senses—or whatever they were—and found nothing. She shook her head.

  Hackle panted, tongue hanging out of his mouth.

  Murky tried to suppress a moan.

  Aram said, “Let’s look for some shade.”

  They continued on, and the path began to slope back downhill. Before they spotted any shade, they spotted structures, buildings—a village surrounded by sandstone walls—at the foot of the mountains, half a day’s walk away.

  Aram said, “The village must have a water source.”

  “Yes,” Makasa said hesitatingly. “But whose village is it? And will they be friends or foes?” Her dark tone made it fairly clear which she thought likely.

  Aram racked his brain, trying to remember whether the answer existed among the many lessons his father had tried to teach him aboard Wavestrider. Perhaps it was the heat, already soaring under the morning sun, but he was drawing a blank.

  Drella stated the obvious. “We cannot cross this desert without water.”

  Makasa nodded, saying, “But we approach with caution.”

  They didn’t wait for nightfall but continued their descent.

  By late afternoon, they were at the base of the mountain. They hid behind some rocks and stared toward the village. Aram pulled out his map. He thought the village might be Zul’Farrak, though the map made Zul’Farrak look like a huge city, and this wasn’t that. At least, not anymore. No inhabitants came into view, and he wondered if the place was as deserted as the rest of the landscape. Zul’Farrak, he now remembered from Greydon’s lessons, was home to the Sandfury trolls. Aram recalled with clarity the Sandfury troll with the orange-gold skin who was among Malus’s crew. She’d killed Thom Frakes and Thalyss Greyoak both. He whispered, “Maybe we should go around it.”

  “We’re not going anywhere,” Makasa whispered back, “until nightfall.”

  At sundown, Aram finally spotted some movement. He looked to his left … and saw three giant turtles—desert tortoises, most likely—crossing the sand. He watched them saunter past the village. He smiled. When he and Makasa were lost at sea aboard Wavestrider’s dinghy, giant sea turtles had helped guide them to shore. He thought, They’re my lucky charms!

  He said, “I think the village is deserted. We can risk checking for water.”

  Makasa said, “If it’s deserted, it’s probably because there is no water anymore.”

  Drella said, “There is water. I feel it.”

  Murky’s cracked voice said, “Mrgle, mrgle,” though it might have only been wishful thinking on his part.

  “All right,” Makasa said. “We’ll check it out. Once it’s dark.”

  It never got all that dark. The White Lady was still only at half strength. But on this clou
dless night, she shone down brightly on the village sandstones. “This is as dark as it’s likely to get,” Makasa said. “Let’s move. Carefully.”

  She led the way. Hackle took the rear. Everyone had his or her weapons out and at the ready, except the unarmed Drella.

  It didn’t matter.

  They cautiously entered the walled village through its lone gate. Aram barely had time to register a cold central firepit and a few sandstone huts before a voice said, “Oh, my loa gonna be likin’ dese treats, brudda.”

  They were completely surrounded by two dozen adult trolls, all heavily armed with short swords, long spears, or crossbows. Makasa reached for her chain, but a female troll, backed by twin ogres, aimed her own crossbow between Makasa’s eyes. Aram could barely breathe. There she was. Thalyss’s killer. Malus’s troll. And because of those stupid tortoises, I convinced Makasa to lead us right into the troll’s hands! Her breastplate shimmied, and Aram realized that what he had taken at first to be armor plating was actually some kind of living creature.

  The troll poked the air with her crossbow and said, “I not be likely ta miss you from here, sista.”

  “I’m not your sister,” Makasa said darkly. But she lowered her hand from the iron chain’s clasp.

  “No,” said the troll. “You be my sacrifice ta da loa. You all be dat. Right, Chief?”

  “Ya, Sista Zathra,” said a huge male troll with dark skin and a ponytail. His face was painted white. He turned to the travelers and said, “I be Ukorz Sandscalp. Chief Ukorz Sandscalp. And y’be prey for Eraka no Kimbul, morsels for Elortha no Shadra, an’ subjects ta Ueetay no Mueh’zala. Y’belong ta da loa now.”

  “Dat true,” said Zathra. “But first …” Keeping her crossbow aimed at Makasa, she approached Aram and—without looking—reached her dry hand under his shirt, pulled out the compass, and yanked its chain from his neck.

  She held it up. The White Lady’s light glinted off its brass case. “It be over, brudda. Over an’ done.”

  In a procession a torches, dey marched dem sacrifices west ’cross da sands from da old village ta da older, sacred city. Zathra thought, Been too long since dis one seen Zul’Farrak. Her ancestors were buried here. Grandmutha afta grandmutha afta grandmutha. An’ her own mutha, too. Dat was when she left. Dat was da last time she was here. When her mutha died, Zathra had left ta make her way.

  Now she returnin’ in triumph. Wid dem ogre bruddas flankin’ her, Zathra passed tru da first gates and unda da holy arch.

  Zathra had da compass in her grip, right in her hand, wid da chain wrapped twice round her wrist. She knew she and dem ogres should be takin’ da ting ta Gadgetzan and takin’ it now. Malus was waitin’ on it and waitin’ hard. She knew dat.

  But Chief Ukorz Sandscalp was doin’ his ting tonight. Zathra done served up dese sacrifices on a platter fo’ da chief. Dere gonna be gratitude fo’ dat, fo’ sure. Whispers ’mong da udder trolls told her as much. Hadn’t been a sacrifice in four times four moons. But tonight, a few drops a blood at midnight when da White Lady was right above dem all, an’ da loa, her loa, would almost certainly appear. She longed ta see ’em, too. Eraka no Kimbul, God a Tigers, Lord a Beasts, King a Cats, Prey’s Doom. Elortha no Shadra, God a Spiders, Mother a Venom, Death’s Love. An’ most of all, Ueetay no Mueh’zala, Father a Sleep, Son a Time, Night’s Friend, God a Death.

  Was it hunger, too, dat kept her dere? Fine. Maybe. Da loa gonna take da sacrifices’ blood fo’ sure. Da blood an’ some meat. But dem loa fill up easy; dem loa generous ta her people. Wid five sacrifices, dere’d be leftovas aplenty. And after da loa and Ukorz, she’d be gettin’ da first share. Prime cuts, fo’ sure.

  So as dey walked ’em tru da second arch, an’ da third, an’ da fourth, she found herself runnin’ her reasonin’ tru her mind once again: Where be da harm, Zathra? One more night. Ol’ Malus’ll never know. He be glad ta get da compass at all. Be givin’ me a bonus a gold for it. One more night. Twelve more hours. Dat’s all. Stay.

  So she stayed.

  She left Ro’kull and Ro’jak outside da last arch. No ogres—none dat were not sacrifices, anyway—allowed at da sacred ceremony. Den dey all—trolls an’ sacrifices—climbed da long sandstone stairs a da pyramid a da sacred city. Da pyramid a Zul’Farrak. When she was but a little sista, too little ta be allowed at da ceremonies, she thought da pyramid must stretch all da way ta da clouds. Even now, she could feel da strength a da Sandfury trolls dat built da ting in every step she took. It felt good walkin’ up dem sandstone stairs. It been too long.

  Sandscalp’s retainers piled da weapons a da sacrifices togedder in front a da sacred fire: a shield, a couple swords, a club, a hatchet, da human woman’s iron chain, even da murloc’s tiny spear. Dey not gonna be needin’ dem weapons anymore, but dey’d be buried in da sandpit wid deir skulls, outta respect for da sacrifice a da sacrifices.

  Dere was a bit a shovin’ ta get dem all in just da right spot. Ta line dem sacrifices up right where da Lady’d shine down on ’em clean, lightin’ dem up for da loa ta find ’em. After dat, da loa not gonna be needin’ no light for what followed. Now, all dat remained was da waitin’. Zathra’s mouth was waterin’; she could almost taste da blood.

  They waited.

  Aram couldn’t believe it was ending this way. Blood sacrifices to the gods of the trolls? After all they’d been through?

  There were bloodstains on the stones, some dark, some faded. Scratch marks, too. Scratches of desperation, of humans and others dragged away against their will. And great claw marks in the solid stone made by whatever had done the dragging. Sand had been scattered across those stones to soak up that blood, to fill in those scratches.

  Aram’s mouth was dry as sand. He was afraid. When the ogres had taken him to Dire Maul, he had not been this afraid because Makasa had remained free to save him.

  He kept looking over at Makasa now, and he could see her turning the problem over and over in her mind. Waiting for her moment. Waiting for her chance. But logically he knew that moment wouldn’t come. That chance wouldn’t appear. Her weapons were tantalizingly close. Twenty paces wasn’t far when compared to the distance they had already covered. And yet those twenty paces might as well have been twenty leagues. There were probably fifty armed trolls atop that pyramid with them. And easily a hundred more on the stone steps. Probably twice that many at the pyramid’s base. Zul’Farrak—for now they must certainly be in Zul’Farrak—had emptied through that final arch to witness their end.

  The trolls had lined them up. Makasa was on one end. Hackle next to her. Drella in the middle. Then Murky. And Aram at the other end. He had brought them all here to their deaths. He had failed Hackle and Murky, who had followed him out of loyalty. He had failed Taryndrella and had thus failed Thalyss. He had lost the compass and failed his father, as well. And Makasa? He had urged her into the village. Stupid turtles! Stupid Aram! He had failed them all.

  He looked at his companions. Hackle’s shoulders were straight, his head lowered slightly, the gnoll ready to pounce, to attack, or maybe just ready to die with honor. Drella, no surprise, seemed more curious than frightened. Aram was unclear if either she or Murky truly understood what they now faced. Murky’s big eyes glanced back and forth between Aram and Makasa, waiting for one or the other to issue a command. But no command was forthcoming.

  At midnight, with the moon directly above them, the troll chief approached Makasa with a wavy ceremonial dagger. He grabbed her arm roughly, perhaps expecting resistance. But the sister of Captain Adashe Flintwill would not lower herself to a feeble show of cowardice. Sandscalp cut her—barely nicked her, really—on the palm of her left hand. She didn’t even flinch. He held her hand out, palm down. A few drops of blood dripped into the scattered sand.

  He moved on to Hackle and repeated the process. Hackle also didn’t flinch. Aram hoped he could be as brave.

  Chief Sandscalp moved on to Drella, who smiled at him. When he pricked her hand, she cried out, “Ow! I do not like that
at all! This is no longer amusing.” Ignoring her, the troll let the drops of her blood fall and moved on …

  Murky hissed when cut but was otherwise as brave as Hackle and Makasa.

  When it was Aram’s turn, he felt the sting of the blade, but it wasn’t bad. He’d pricked himself worse on his mother’s sewing needle. He guessed it wasn’t hard to be brave for this part. But he knew staying brave through what was to follow would be much more difficult.

  Ukorz Sandscalp began chanting in the language of the trolls. Aram didn’t understand, but heard the names of the trolls’ loa repeated over and over: Eraka no Kimbul, Elortha no Shadra, Ueetay no Mueh’zala.

  “Eraka no Kimbul, Elortha no Shadra, Ueetay no Mueh’zala. Eraka no Kimbul, Elortha no Shadra, Ueetay no Mueh’zala. Eraka no Kimbul, Elortha no Shadra, Ueetay no Mueh’zala.”

  Soon Malus’s troll, whose name appeared to be Zathra, joined in. “Eraka no Kimbul, Elortha no Shadra, Ueetay no Mueh’zala. Eraka no Kimbul, Elortha no Shadra, Ueetay no Mueh’zala. Eraka no Kimbul, Elortha no Shadra, Ueetay no Mueh’zala.”

  Soon all the trolls were chanting, “Eraka no Kimbul, Elortha no Shadra, Ueetay no Mueh’zala. Eraka no Kimbul, Elortha no Shadra, Ueetay no Mueh’zala. Eraka no Kimbul, Elortha no Shadra, Ueetay no Mueh’zala.”

  The moonlight faded away. Aram looked up. He could no longer see the White Lady or any of the stars. Yet he saw no clouds covering her or them. There was only darkness. And the torches? They still burned, but they burned low. Shadows seemed to spread across the sand like oil, dyeing it black, and out of this black sand rose three black forms, amorphous and pulsing. The trolls fell silent and bowed before their loa.

  The loa didn’t speak, and yet words were somehow formed. Aram could hear them, like sand blowing across the desert of his suddenly vacant and terrified mind. The words were ancient names, Eraka no Kimbul, Elortha no Shadra, Ueetay no Mueh’zala, and the names contained something more: a promise of blood and meat.