by Greg Weisman
“I should hope so,” Makasa said, “since it’s Aram’s money you’re spending.”
Gazlowe laughed. “True enough. So what’s it gonna be? The Eastern Kingdoms or northwest Kalimdor?”
All eyes turned toward Aram.
“You can’t take her?” he asked Springsong, half hoping the answer would be …
“I cannot separate her from you.”
“I would not allow it,” Drella said, stamping her left front hoof. “But I do not see any need to go to Thal’darah, either. I am happy to be your bondmate, Aramar Thorne.”
“Yeah, me too,” he replied honestly, smiling at her. “Then we could all go to Stormwind. To Lakeshire.”
“Yes,” said Drella. “You speak of Lakeshire often. And I would like to see it.”
Faeyrine looked down … then slowly raised her head to meet Aram’s eyes. Again, her voice spoke to his ears and deep into his soul. “She will never reach her full potential with you, Aramar Thorne. That is not a crime. But it is … a sadness. A sadness she is too young to recognize now. But one that, with time, will overtake her.”
Aram wondered what that meant, what Drella’s full potential might be. But before he could ask, Makasa whispered, “What about the shards?”
Aram nodded. There was a shard here in Gadgetzan. Once he had collected it, the compass would tell him which direction he would need to go next. He said, “I have a day to decide, then?”
Springsong nodded. Gazlowe shrugged.
“All right,” Aram said with considerably more decisiveness than he was feeling. “Makasa and I have an errand to run here in Gadgetzan. And we’ll have to wait ’til after dark. So tonight, after that’s done, I’ll make my decision.”
He glanced at Makasa. She nodded.
Drella walked right up to him and touched his cheek. “Whatever you decide, I am with you, Aram. Always.”
He rested his forehead against hers. “It seems so,” he said.
“And you are glad of it,” she told him confidently.
He chuckled. “That seems so, as well.”
Gazlowe cleared his throat. When Aram looked his way, the goblin said, “Hate to interrupt the touchin’ scene, my boy, but I promised my cousin I’d meet him for a drink or twelve. And that was hours ago. So here’s the other stuff you ordered.” He handed Aram a burlap sack. “I’ll come back late tonight to hear your decision.”
Gazlowe bowed to the druid, kissed Winifred on the cheek, and, swinging wide to avoid Makasa, was gone.
Faeyrine said, “I suppose I should leave you travelers to get some rest. Unless there is anything else I might do?”
“Is there anything else you can do?”
“I will contemplate that, and I, too, will return tonight.”
She headed for the door. Aram looked down at the burlap sack, and it spurred a memory. He said, “Wait!”
She stopped and turned.
He said, “I think … I think Thalyss cared for you deeply.”
“He did,” she said with a slight bow of her head, though otherwise keeping her feelings to herself. “And I for him, as well.” She turned to leave again.
“Wait!”
She stopped and turned again.
“There was something he said once. I mean, we saw him turn into a stag and a bear …”
“Yes …”
“But he said he could also turn into a feathered moonkin …”
“Of course.”
“Could you show me?”
“Show you a moonkin? Transform into a moonkin for you? Are you serious?”
“Um. Yes.”
She bristled and then stalked toward him with an air of one who had never been so insulted. “I am to do this here, as a parlor trick for your amusement?”
He swallowed hard over her displeasure but pressed on: “And for my education. And because I never had the chance to see Thalyss turn into one.”
She scowled down at him. He smiled up at her hopefully—and perhaps a little longingly. And that smile melted her scowl. Soon enough she was looking on him tenderly. She said, “A feathered moonkin?”
“If it’s not too much trouble.”
“No,” she said. “No trouble at all.”
They spent the day indoors.
With dawn’s light streaming in through the window, the night elf demurred, opting not to shift into a moonkin just then, but promising to do so when she returned that night to hear Aram’s decision about his next destination. She departed, instructing them all to get some sleep.
Aram found he was still carrying the burlap sack. He untied the thick brown twine that held it closed and pulled out, first, his new cutlass. It looked suspiciously like the cutlass he had given up the day before, and he didn’t think it unlikely that Gazlowe might have handed him Cobb’s cutlass back, while charging him a fee for the “exchange.” Even so, as he hefted it and sheathed it on his belt, he felt as if he had exorcised Cobb’s demons by the exercise. This cutlass now belonged to him.
Next, he pulled out a new shirt. The fabric was light and sturdy and of the same off-white color that his old shirt had once been—yet considerably less shredded, considerably less tattered.
Then he looked deep into the sack and smiled. He beckoned Murky over and, with a flourish, pulled out a brand-new set of fishing nets!
Murky practically swooned! “Mgrrrrl fr Murky?!”
“Of course they’re for you, my frund. Do you like them?”
Murky danced around the room, bubbling and purring with glee.
Makasa tried to grumble that now they’d be back to spending all their time untangling the murloc, but even she couldn’t help smiling at Murky’s rapture.
Carefully, Murky wrapped the nets round and around his waist until he was wearing them like a vest. Or almost. His thumbnail got caught in one of the loops, and soon enough—as Makasa had predicted—he was hopelessly tangled, turning in circles to get free, reminding Aram of Soot chasing his tail.
Makasa ignored the murloc and told Aram to try to get some sleep.
“After tonight? There’s no way.”
“You always say that. And you always fall right asleep. Try.”
That was true, so he tried. For a good hour, anyway. But for once, he was right. He gave up and spent an hour turning the pages of Common Birds, with Drella by his side and Murky and Hackle looking over his shoulder. He remembered his promise to teach them to read and used Charnas’s volume as a kind of textbook. The exquisite pictures of birds seemed to help connect the idea of, say, the image of a grackle with the sound of the word grackle with the letters that composed g-r-a-c-k-l-e. In any case, he was positive Drella was learning something, certain Hackle was enjoying the lesson, and satisfied Murky was happy to be among his f-r-u-n-d-s.
Afterward, inspired by Charnas’s work and their earlier conversation, Aram pulled out his sketchbook and one of his new pencils—which Murky and Hackle oohed and ahhed over as if they were brand-new magic wands—and got to drawing. From recent memory, he drew Springsong looking down kindly on Drella. Then he went further back and drew their underwater salvage mission being interrupted by the attack of the whale shark. Further back still, to the Bone Pile, and the Whisper-Man fighting the skeletons while Blackthorn shook his rattle and chanted over Taryndrella. He sketched Shagtusk in her prison of thorns. He sketched Feral Scar about to swallow Sivet whole, with Hackle hanging off the yeti and Makasa at the ready with her chain. (He even put himself in that one, looking much braver and more competent with his cutlass than he had any right to look. Well, Charnas had told him to use his imagination, so why shouldn’t he imagine himself competent and brave?) He sketched his memory of the view of Thousand Needles from Skypeak. He sketched the ogre king, Gordok, with his young female ogre servant. He sketched the entrance to Dire Maul. And then he pulled out the compass with its new iron chain and sketched that.
By this time, he truly was exhausted. He put the book away and quickly began to drift off, certain that he’d soon h
ave another vision of the Light, another conversation with the Voice, and probably another confrontation with Malus.
But, no. Makasa roused him from a sound, restful sleep at sunset. Winifred, who had spent the day with her baroness, returned in time to serve them all a hearty meal of wild fowl (with plenty of yams and mushrooms for Drella) paid for by Gazlowe from Aram’s winnings.
Then it was time to venture forth again. He put on his new shirt—Winifred insisted on disposing of the old one, saying you couldn’t even make a decent set of dust rags from it—and slid his (presumably) new cutlass through his belt. With the compass in his tight fist, bucking and shifting, glowing and spinning away, he and Makasa set out to find the next crystal shard.
Far as Zathra could tell, Malus had no notion a da truth. Da twins kept deir traps shut, an’ she’d managed not ta show nuttin’ on her face. It hadn’t hurt dat Valdread an’ Throgg had both had near misses, too. She was lookin’ good by comparison, just by sayin’ she’d not laid eyes upon da boy.
So she was safe enough. But dat didn’t put her mind at ease. Da loa. Da loa. She’d nevah seen nuttin’ like dat before. Nevah! Da human woman and da gnoll had da respect—respect—a Eraka no Kimbul. Da dryad had put fear—fear—inta Elortha no Shadra. And da boy Aramar had a reckonin’—reckonin’—due wid Ueetay no Mueh’zala. What right did Zathra have ta get between such tings?
“What we ta do, sista?” she whispered as she stroked Skitter. Da scorpid was fast asleep on her chest, but it comforted Zathra some ta talk ta her.
“What?” Guz’luk said. He was walkin’ a few feet behind her. Malus still had his crew watchin’ all da gates an’ da docks, but he was tinkin’ da boy shoulda been here by now if he’d taken a boat from da Speedbarge. (An’ Zathra was tinkin’ he shoulda been here by now, too, assumin’ he wasn’t lyin’ dead in da desert.) So da Hidden an’ da Elite were patrollin’ da city day an’ night.
“Nuttin’,” Zathra said. “Keep an eye out, brudda, an’ be quiet.”
Da potbellied ogre grunted his acknowledgment.
Zathra thought, Dis all be beyond poor Zathra. I be no loa. I just be a troll. Dem loa can sort dis out for deir own selves. I been paid ta do a job. So dat’s what I be doin’. If da boy come in my sights again, he be one sorry human.
And den, as if ta test her, dere he was.
Following the compass through the uncooperative twists and turns of Gadgetzan’s streets, Aram and Makasa turned a corner and found themselves face-to-face with Malus’s troll and Throgg’s potbellied ogre. For a long moment, the four of them just stared.
Then Makasa grabbed Aram by his new shirt (tearing the collar just a bit) and pulled him back, yelling, “Run!”
They ran. Behind them they could hear the ogre’s horn, waking half the city and probably putting all of Malus’s dangerous crew on their tails. In any case, it was certain that Zathra was on their tails. Aram glanced back over his shoulder to see the troll coming round the corner, fast upon them.
Makasa had always had an excellent memory. She’d been to Gadgetzan before with Wavestrider and already knew the city a little. But these last two nights—in their attempt to follow the compass to the shard—had been a true education. They had slinked their way through so many byways and alleys of the place, she now knew exactly what route she wanted to take. Twists and turns, sharp lefts and hard rights. She was able to keep ahead of the enemy, despite being burdened with Aram. Without him, she’d have lost the troll by now. Or have turned and killed her. But she didn’t want to take that risk with her brother beside her. She was faster than Zathra, but Aram wasn’t. Fortunately, that potbellied ogre was slower still. He attempted to give chase but had fallen behind. The biggest danger from him was his horn. He’d puff his cheeks and blow at regular intervals. Malus and the others would be coming soon. She and her brother needed to get away.
Turning another corner, they were presented with an opportunity: a small two-wheeled horse cart (sans its horse). Makasa got behind it and pushed, just as the troll came around the bend. The cart slammed into Zathra. Makasa and Aram ran on.
They’d have to find the shard some other time. Right now, Makasa was just trying to get them back to Winifred’s. But she needed to do it when she was sure they were no longer followed. She pulled Aram down another alley, but just before they emerged from the other end, Aram stopped short and whispered, “Look!” He held up the compass; it glowed brighter than ever and tugged hard on its chain to the right. The needle also pointed to the right, toward a refuse bin against a wall. He said, “The crystal shard’s right over there somewhere!”
Makasa looked back over her shoulder. The troll and the ogre hadn’t turned down the alley yet, but she knew they would any second. This was it. This was the moment of truth. She grabbed Aramar by his breeches and hefted him up and over into the refuse bin. “Stay here,” she whispered. “Hide ’til they pass. Find the shard. Return to Winifred’s. I’ll lead them away.”
“Wait, no!”
“I don’t have time to argue.” She shoved his head down below the level of the refuse and said, “Do what I say, brother.” And off she ran.
When she got to the end of the alley and could hear the pounding of troll and ogre footsteps, she called out ahead, “Aram, keep moving! I’m right behind you!” And she turned the corner, slowing down on purpose to confirm they weren’t stopping to search the refuse bin. But seconds later, first Zathra and then the ogre emerged from the alley. Her ploy had worked. They were following her and assuming Aram was just ahead.
She knew exactly where she was going. Somewhere she could put an end to this long, long chase once and for all. Yes, she had a plan now. But in order for it to work—truly work—she actually had to give Malus’s crew time to gather. So she didn’t take the most direct route. Confident now—with Aram gone—in her speed advantage, she moved the race onto larger thoroughfares and streets. Soon Throgg and the blue ogre female had joined the chase. Then the Whisper-Man. She was hoping to wait for Malus himself, but she was running out of road. It was time. Or would have to be. She made one last turn and led them right inside the Thunderdrome.
Makasa had seen the show here once, some months before she had ever met Aramar Thorne. Her captain was off on a private errand (which she now realized was his visit with Charnas), so she had allowed Durgan One-God to drag her to the Thunderdrome. Here, Baron Noggenfogger supervised the settling of scores by combat. No fighting on the streets, unless you wanted a squad of Noggenfogger’s mooks aiming hammers at your head. But fighting could and did take place in the ’drome every night. This was supposed to keep the peace in Gadgetzan, though Makasa soon suspected the true purpose was to encourage locals and visitors to bet on the outcomes and to allow the baron to take his cut of every wager.
Makasa didn’t gamble, but One-God wagered a silver piece on a burly goblin, who felt her shorter but equally burly goblin neighbor had cut her wash line on purpose, dumping clean clothes in the mud. The shorter goblin eventually triumphed, and One-God lost his silver but had seemed entertained.
Yes, the Thunderdrome was a kind of gladiatorial arena, not too different in spirit from the one in Dire Maul, where Aram and Hackle had fought for the ogre king’s amusement. Now, she stood in the center of the caged pitch, in the center of the ’drome, before nine rows of bleachers in the round, crowded with goblins, gnomes, humans, worgen, trolls, and a few dwarves. Another fight had just ended, with even the winner being carried out by mooks, when Makasa had entered the cage—followed quickly by her opponents. Facing Baron Noggenfogger, she stated for all to hear that “these pirates” had stolen her cheese. (It was the first lie that popped into her head.) She demanded satisfaction.
Noggenfogger leaned sideways to look beyond the tall human woman standing before him. He stared at Zathra, Valdread, Throgg, and the blue ogre. (The potbellied one was nowhere in sight, and Makasa theorized he had gone to get Malus or had finally run out of breath blowing his horn and chasing her.) Noggenfogger scra
tched his head and turned back to Makasa, asking, “What? All four of them? How much cheese we talking about?”
“Enough.”
Standing at the edge of the ring, Noggenfogger leaned again to address the cheese-stealers. “Will you return this woman’s cheese or make restitution?”
The troll and the ogres looked extremely confused. But the Whisper-Man chuckled dryly and said at the top of his rather ineffective lungs, “We will never return the cheese!”
“Then,” Noggenfogger shouted to the cheers of the crowd, “we have a contest! Four against one! Place your bets!”
The crowd cheered, calling out wagers and odds. Makasa saw Gazlowe lean down to place a bet, handing a coin to a young gnome about the size of Hotfix. She wondered briefly whom the goblin had pegged for victory and at what odds.
In any case, Makasa liked her odds. Malus hadn’t shown his face, but she could take out his troll and ogre, and maybe even do enough damage to the Forsaken to keep him from ever rising again. The female ogre worried her just a little. There was something in her eyes. And four opponents were, admittedly, one more than she cared to face at any one time. She thought it likely she might fall here. But at least she’d rob Malus of his top lieutenants in the process. That would be her gift to her brother, even if it was her final gift ever.
Malus liked the odds, too. He had slipped in at the back of the ’drome and scoped out the situation. He reasoned he might lose a minion or two—maybe even three. After all, he had seen the Flintwill woman fight. But in the end, his undead swordsman would bring Makasa Flintwill down. That was inevitable. Aram would be (permanently) separated from his greatest ally, and in the meantime, Malus and the two arakkoa could continue to search for Aram and the compass, which he now absolutely knew was somewhere in the city.
He slipped back outside the Thunderdrome.
