by Greg Weisman
The first loa stepped forward, and his form began to take shape. It was a jungle cat, massive and muscular, black with even blacker stripes. The whispering sand called him Eraka no Kimbul, God of Tigers, Lord of Beasts, King of Cats, Prey’s Doom. He stalked forward on four silent paws, approaching the first two sacrifices, Makasa Flintwill and Hackle of the Woodpaw clan. He knew their names and whispered them, too, as if—in his hunger—they were his own loa. Then he did something rather odd for a god. He … bowed his head. The trolls gasped.
The whispering sand of the tiger loa said, Kimbul bows to Makasa Flintwill, and to Hackle of the Woodpaw clan. Kimbul is Prey’s Doom. But Kimbul is the Doom of no Predator. I bow to honor you as my fellows. You have nothing to fear, Makasa Flintwill, from the God of Tigers. You have nothing to fear, Hackle of the Woodpaw clan, from the Lord of Beasts. Eraka no Kimbul salutes you both …
And the black tiger melted down into the black sand.
Makasa and Hackle exchanged confused glances—then nods of mutual admiration.
There were murmurs from the trolls that were quickly hushed when the second loa approached, taking the form of a huge black spider that skittered forward across the black sand, straight toward Drella. Aram wanted to step in front of the dryad and defend her. That was his job, his duty. But the spider—oh, why did it have to be a spider?—paralyzed him with fear. He couldn’t move. Aram couldn’t even turn his head. But he managed to turn his eyes within his head and catch a view of Drella in profile. She looked very pretty, very sweet, very naïve. She was smiling, clearly unaware, as usual, of the danger she faced.
The whispering sand called the loa Elortha no Shadra, God of Spiders, Mother of Venom, Death’s Love. She skittered forward on eight black legs—then pulled up short. She reared back on six legs, and her two front legs swept the air, flailing like a child having a tantrum. The sand whispered, No. No. You are not for Shadra. You are not for me. The trolls gasped again.
Drella strode forward with confidence. Aram still couldn’t move to stop her. She said, “I am Taryndrella, a daughter of Cenarius. I am of that which grows, an avatar of bounty. There is no venom on this world that can harm me. No spider who is not my friend. And death is as natural as life. It is spring with me, spider god, and I am not for you.”
The loa attempted to turn toward Murky, attempted to take a different sacrifice.
Murky swallowed audibly and took a step back, but Drella took another few steps forward, saying, “He is not for you, either, Mother of Venom. You will not take him. You will not have him. Not now. Not ever. So says Cenarius’s daughter.” And the spider loa backed away from them both, nodding her head out of genuine respect—or genuine fear. The trolls began to murmur again. Some shouted objections or expletives or both. Some of them seemed to be crying. Aram felt his muscles release and unclench. He remembered Thornweaver Chugara, sobbing amid the Bone Pile. And he thought that Taryndrella contained wonders …
The sand whispered over and over, No, no, no, no, no … And the black spider melted into the black.
That left only one loa to whisper his names and titles: Ueetay no Mueh’zala, Son of Time and Father of Sleep, Night’s Friend. God of Death. His shadow grew and grew and grew, towering above them. The trolls sighed with rapture—and, perhaps, with some relief. Aram tried to see what form the shadow was taking, but the loa remained indistinct. Or rather, his form kept shifting, his shadow melting from one shape into another and another. He was a twelve-foot troll. He was a giant lizard. For a second, he was Captain Malus. Then a creature of burning black flame. Aram scrunched his eyes closed, and by the time he had reopened them, the loa—now a floating whale shark—was approaching a brave Murky, who stood his ground.
The sand whispered, A snack. A snack. This is but a little snack. Yet Mueh’zala will feed tonight …
Aram had not been able to help Drella, but he’d be blasted if he was going to let this thing eat Murky. Maybe it was the form the loa had taken. Murky had saved Aram from a whale shark’s maw. It was a favor he was determined to return. With more effort than it had taken to move the slab of stone upon the crystal shard in the Shimmering Deep, Aram moved his feet, one step, two steps, three—until he stood between Death and the murloc.
Mueh’zala stopped. He shifted into a new form, a red-rimmed spectre in black, towering over all he surveyed. Aram girded himself for whatever was to come. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Makasa, Hackle, and even Drella, ready to come to his aid. He felt Murky’s hand on his shoulder, gently urging him aside. But Aram was a stone that would not budge. It might not have been bravery, he knew. It quite easily might have been nothing more than paralyzing fear that kept him rooted to the spot. Still, whatever the cause, Aramar Thorne did not stir.
Ueetay no Mueh’zala swayed back and forth hypnotically before Aram. Trolls and sacrifices held their breath. Finally, the sand whispered, Not yet, Son of Thorne. Not yet. This is not the day. That day comes. It comes. But Mueh’zala will not engage you here or now. Our battle is yet to come, yet to come … But it will come, child. It will come. And if you lose that battle, Mueh’zala feasts on all of Azeroth. All of Azeroth. All of Azeroth. All of Azeroth …
And Mueh’zala sank from view and was gone. Aram was so stunned, he didn’t even see the final loa melt back into the sand. Or notice the torches brighten and the moon shine down. The whispered words, It will come. It will come, echoed in his mind.
He wasn’t the only one stunned by what he’d witnessed. When Mueh’zala had stopped before Aram, the trolls hadn’t even gasped. They were shocked into silence. They were rocked by these unprecedented events. Sandscalp just stood there. Zathra just stood there. They all just stood there, like statues, like trees, maybe, staring at these sacrifices-that-would-not-be-sacrificed.
Drella smiled at Aram, and he found himself smiling back. Grinning foolishly. Happy.
He walked right up to Zathra. She looked down at him in something like horror. He took the compass from her hand, unwinding the chain from around her wrist. She made no move whatsoever to stop him. No one did.
He turned to face his companions. Now, all four were smiling foolishly. Even Makasa. Makasa, Hackle, and Murky had gathered up their weapons and supplies. Murky handed Aram his cutlass. Then, in full view of all the trolls, Hackle tied a harness of rope around Drella, and he and Makasa lowered her down the back side of the pyramid. The rest of them descended after, hand over hand, down the rough stones. But given the way they felt, they might as well have floated down.
They made their way into the hills, and like the loa, vanished into the night.
Ro’kull gaped. A flummoxed Ro’jak said, “Ro’jak no understand. Zathra have boy. Have compass. How Zathra lose both?”
Zathra herself was none too sure ’bout dat. Da loa … Da boy … Death sayin’ da battle be yet ta come …
She tried ta focus an’ looked up. Dem two ogres were starin’ down at her, confused. An’ deir confusion seemed ta snap her outta her own. She barked out, “We never found da boy. We never found da compass.”
The twins both said, “Huh?”
She raised her crossbow, aimed it at one ogre, den da udder. “Listen, bruddas,” she said. “You tell your new Gordok dat we had da compass and lost it, den dat mon be killin’ all tree of us, see?”
Dis dey seemed ta grasp. Ro’kull nodded. Ro’jak said, “Old Gordok the same way.”
“An’ maybe,” she offered, “if we be leavin’ now, we catch up ta boy an’ compass an’ da rest in da desert. I be a Sandfury troll. You be big Gordunni ogres wid long strides. We can outpace dat lot, yeah?”
Dey both said, “Yeah.”
And wid Skitter fretful on her chest, dey set off after da fugitives. But over an’ over in her mind, Zathra heard da sand whispering, All of Azeroth, all of Azeroth …
The Sandfury troll and the twin Gordunni ogres set out with such deliberate speed that a night later they passed the five travelers without ever laying eyes upon them. Zathra, mas
ter tracker though she was, was so distracted (if not distraught) by what she had witnessed in Zul’Farrak, she never noticed clear signs indicating her quarry had taken a slight detour to the south.
There had been fresh water in Zul’Farrak. A stone fountain built over a deep spring. Makasa and Aram had filled their canteens and even found a jug, which they filled and stole away in recompense for the blood they’d lost atop the pyramid.
They set out across the desert, trudging all through the night. They rested all the next day and began walking again at sundown.
On this second night, with water running low again, Drella sensed fresh water to the south. It would lengthen their journey, but with little choice, they bent their path as she suggested.
Frankly, it could hardly have turned out better.
Before dawn, they had reached the eastern tower of Sandsorrow Watch, a poor structure of wood and canvas, which as it turns out was pretty much the only safe haven in Tanaris west of Gadgetzan. Here, they met the tower’s master, a tall, muscular high elf with a jagged scar across his face. He was nothing short of flabbergasted to see two humans, a murloc, and a gnoll traveling across the desert with a daughter of Cenarius, and he quickly offered them shelter from the sweltering heat. The quel’dorei said his name was Trenton Lighthammer and that he was a blacksmith of the Mithril Order. Aram didn’t know anything about any order, but he had apprenticed with his smith of a stepfather, so he and the elf spoke the same language of the forge. They hit it off immediately.
Sandsorrow Watch had fresh water and stores of food, carted in by the high elf and his trio of goblin friends. The travelers quenched their thirst and sated their hunger. Then, in the relative safety of Lighthammer’s tent, they slept the entire day away.
On the travelers’ next night at Sandsorrow, Lighthammer and Thorne sequestered themselves in the forge. Murky, Hackle, and Drella wondered why, but Makasa waved off their questions. “We all know the boy misses Lakeshire. If this makes him feel closer to home, there’s no harm.”
No. No harm indeed. Aramar emerged the next morning with a newly forged iron harpoon for his sister. Upon seeing it, her eyes went very wide. He put it in her hands. The balance was perfect, and so were the weight and the length. The barest touch of the tip drew a drop of blood from Makasa’s index finger, which made her smile broadly. It was ten times the harpoon her first one had been, and she said as much in a quiet voice of gratitude. He thought for a moment that she was actually going to cry. Well, no. No tears from Makasa Flintwill. But the look she gave him and the whispered but heartfelt, “Thank you, brother,” were more than compensation enough.
She was understandably in very good spirits for the rest of their stay and rarely let that harpoon out of her grip for more than a few seconds at a time.
Almost as an afterthought, Aram pulled the compass out of his pocket and showed its gold chain to Lighthammer. The clasp was broken. Aram had managed to repair it once, below Skypeak, but when the troll had yanked it off his neck, links from the chain were lost and the clasp was completely bent out of shape. It would no longer fasten, and he could no longer wear the compass around his neck.
Trenton grimaced and said it was not worth fixing. Aram nodded sadly—but brightened considerably when the high elf opened a crate and pulled out a good stout iron chain. Aram offered the old chain as payment, but Lighthammer wouldn’t hear of it. He tossed it to Makasa, who without argument stowed the valuable (if nonfunctional) gold chain in Hackle’s pack. Then Lighthammer replaced it with the chain of iron, which would never be pulled off Aram’s neck unbidden.
Lighthammer even added a few iron spurs to Hackle’s war club and gave Drella a small pouch of apple seeds, leaving only Murky bereft of a gift. (There wasn’t much call for fishing nets in the middle of the desert.) But Murky was a good sport about it all.
When not in the forge, Aram spent his time sketching. He sketched the quel’dorei at his anvil. He finished his memory sketch of Freewind Post. He sketched Murky and Hackle laughing and wrestling over a strip of tortoise jerky. He even sketched the troll Zathra and her twin ogre companions. Then Chief Sandscalp and the pyramid of Zul’Farrak.
And he sketched the loa—though it sent chills down his spine to even think of them. He shook the shivers off and finished. He studied the drawing as if studying to avoid his own death. Then he shut the book and tightly bound it in its oilskin wrapper, as if the shadows on the page might try to escape if allowed. It darkened his mood. But not for long. It would be churlish not to enjoy this literal and figurative oasis to the fullest. And Aramar Thorne was no churl.
The following night, well rested and well supplied with both food (including apples miraculously grown by Taryndrella) and water (in five canteens now), not to mention the other gifts provided, they reluctantly said their good-byes to Trenton Lighthammer and Sandsorrow Watch … to begin their final push across the desert toward Gadgetzan.
Unfortunately, the Hidden were already there.
The Inevitable had docked at Gadgetzan, and Malus had come ashore with Ssarbik, Ssavra, and half his crew. He scattered the Hidden across the city, placing watchers unfamiliar to Aram at every gate.
Baron Valdread arrived first. He gave an honest report of his adventure in the Bone Pile. He seemed to consider himself quite heroic for having stopped the Coldbringer from getting a foothold in Azeroth.
Of course, when Ssarbik understood that the Forsaken had been within yards of the compass and had let it go to focus on “lesss ssssignificant concccernzz,” the bird-man was apoplectic.
Reigol considered the arakkoa’s reaction a bonus.
Malus considered running the baron through with his sword. But it was a tiresome exercise to kill a dead man, so his captain let it pass.
Throgg arrived next with Karrga, Guz’luk, Slepgar, and the Beard Brothers. They, too, had their near miss to relate.
Now, Malus thought he really would have to kill somebody. Set an example as a caution against future failure. But as he was about to draw his sword, Ssavra whispered in his ear, independently urging him on to just such a course. This stopped him. He could not be seen—even if it was just by the bird-woman—as subservient to another’s wishes. He growled, “I don’t waste manpower needlessly,” and turned his back on her.
Thus, when Zathra, Skitter, and the ogre twins arrived, looking quite dejected, Malus was actually glad to hear they had never laid eyes on the boy or his companions. It kept the issue of punishment for failure at bay.
Marin Noggenfogger, baron of Gadgetzan and a leader of the Steamwheedle Cartel, was soon informed of the cascading arrival of a virtual army of humans, ogres, and more, all being led by the captain of the Inevitable. To say it didn’t sit well with the goblin master was a bit of an understatement.
This Captain Malus was summoned to Noggenfogger’s office. And this Captain Malus didn’t come.
So putting in his monocle and putting on his top hat, Noggenfogger sought out Malus himself, backed by thirty hobgoblins. He found the captain at the wharf in front of his ship. The man looked slightly familiar to the goblin, but he couldn’t quite place him.
“Are you Captain Malus?”
“I am,” Malus said with a touch of hesitancy.
Noggenfogger thought perhaps that Malus had recognized him, too. Marin wondered if he had met this man before—maybe long before—but under another name. Still, the baron couldn’t be bothered with such trivial matters now. He was a goblin on a mission. He said, “And these ogres belong to you?”
Malus looked back over his shoulder at Throgg and the others and said, “I am their king.”
“Their king?”
“Yes.”
Noggenfogger had never heard of a human who was king over ogres. It sounded apocryphal, but the ogres themselves had let it pass, so the goblin did, too. He squinted his good eye at Malus and said, “I am Marin Noggenfogger, baron of Gadgetzan.”
Malus’s troll said, “Anudda baron? Mon, dey must be givin’ dat title away
.”
“I certainly was given mine,” whispered a hooded man who stunk of jasmine water.
Malus smiled at this exchange and smugly asked, “Can I be of some service to you, Baron?”
“You can be of service by causing me no trouble.”
“Trouble?”
“I don’t care how many men or ogres you have, Captain. I’m putting you on notice. There’s to be no trouble in my city. Is that clear?”
The human did not respond. He simply stared down at Marin with the most disconcerting sneer.
“Captain—” Noggenfogger began.
“There will be no trouble, Baron,” Malus stated, before turning his back on the goblin and walking up the gangway to his ship. “No trouble. No trouble, at all.”
And why should there be? thought Malus. When Aram and his friends arrive, they will be scooped up instantly. The compass will be mine. And it will be no trouble at all.
Fortunately, Noggenfogger wasn’t the only goblin on the scene. (Blast, gaining a title had turned Marin into one pompous little baron.) Gazlowe, who had arrived in town days before, was leanin’ against a moorin’ post not ten yards away. His face was shadowed by a trade ship behind him, a precaution he took in case the ogres recognized him and connected him with the kid. But the creatures never looked his way. Not even the female, who seemed brighter than the rest.
Gazlowe didn’t much care for this Malus, his ogres, his troll, his arakkoa, his Forsaken, his humans, or his elven destroyer. That is to say, they were all plenty intimidatin’, and he didn’t much care for what their presence boded for his young friends.
Course, if these rapscallions did get the boy, Gazlowe could always keep Aram’s share of the prize money …
Ah, but that’s chicken feed, all things considered. And the goblin liked the boy well enough to expend a little effort to see him safe. Assumin’ the kid finally arrived—or in any case, arrived before Gazlowe and Sprocket had to board the Cloudkicker for their next MEGA competition in three days’ time.
