Traveler

by Greg Weisman

  One-God’s outburst had attracted attention across the deck, including that of Captain Thorne. He called out to Aram, “Get my cutlass from my cabin, son, and we’ll start your lesson.”

  Aram turned and marched off, deeply resenting his father’s command. In one sentence, Greydon had managed to pack in nearly everything Aram hated about his current situation. He was aboard Wavestrider against his will. Pressed into service like a galley slave at Captain Thorne’s beck and call, without even enjoying the benefits—the camaraderie—of being a true member of the crew! Technically, his role was that of cabin boy. But Greydon Thorne wasn’t the type of man to need or want a personal servant or valet, and Aram would hardly have passed muster in that position on any other vessel. Yes, he did odd jobs here and there—usually whatever Makasa Flintwill demanded of him. But his lack of function on a ship where function defined the perception of others couldn’t possibly endear him to the rest of the crew.

  No, Aramar Thorne’s true role was that of “the captain’s son,” set apart from the other men and women aboard ship. No one—except Makasa—actually seemed to dislike him. But only One-God was open with him and free. The rest were, at best, guarded. Of course, they’d never criticize the captain in front of his only son. And the one time Aram himself had attempted to criticize Greydon Thorne, they had fallen silent fast. He was sure they thought he was trying to trap them. (It never crossed his mind they might love, admire, and respect the man.)

  And just in case that wasn’t enough, Aram was also subject to Greydon Thorne’s own personal course of study: endless lessons in swordplay—interspersed with recitations and quizzing on the history of Azeroth, its races and cultures, even its flora and fauna—all held on deck with Aram’s many shortcomings on display to every member of the crew, from Duan Phen in the crow’s nest down to Old Cobb in the galley.

  Aram entered the captain’s cabin—slamming the door shut behind him—before realizing he wasn’t there alone. Jonas Cobb was standing over Greydon Thorne’s desk, having apparently collected a tray of dirty breakfast dishes, and Aram’s violent entrance had practically made the old codger jump out of his skin. Cobb covered his embarrassment with a healthy dose of curmudgeon: “Whatcha doin’, slammin’ your way in here? That how they teach ya to be enterin’ an officer’s room in the sticks?!” And so on. The tirade continued for some time. Ultimately, Cobb departed the cabin, carrying the tray and a grudge against “brainless boys with no manners and no proper upbringin’.”

  Greydon’s cutlass was in plain sight, hanging on a bulkhead, but Aram was in no hurry to return with it, so he allowed his eyes to wander about the room.

  The captain’s cabin was much like the captain’s hold: full of worthless junk. Only this junk was on display. Despite the satisfaction it would probably give his father, Aram found himself trying to see these “treasures” the way Greydon would.

  There was a crude clay model of some ancient city. All kinds of battered weapons, including the broken war club. Maps and charts with Greydon’s notations and calculations on the desk. A large pewter beer stein full of dice. In one corner, deck upon deck of cards, each separately wrapped with twine. A carved wooden dragon. An ivory kraken. A small iron stallion, rearing up on its hind legs. A wooden crate full of rocks. No, not rocks. Something in the crate caught the light, and Aram knelt to investigate. One of the “rocks” was split in half, revealing it to be a polished geode of sparkling white crystal. Other geodes of blue, orange, and red held their own subtle beauty. He briefly thought about smashing open one more stone to see what it held inside. He stood and stepped away to remove the temptation.

  A built-in bookshelf lined one wall. One book, larger than the rest, stuck out several inches. Aram glanced over his shoulder, half expecting Flintwill to be there watching him. When he found the room otherwise uninhabited, he pulled the book off the shelf and flipped through it, finding page after page of handmade drawings of common birds: wrens and sparrows, grackles and jays. Aram marveled. Someone had taken the time to sketch and even color each winged creature in meticulous detail. There were also notations about the birds’ habitats and habits under each drawing. “This saltspray gull dives for fish off the coastlines of Kalimdor”; “that raptor nests in the Redridge Mountains,” etc. The skills of the artist—someone named Charnas of Gadgetzan, according to the frontispiece—made him envious, and the fact that this Charnas had traveled all over the world to find all these birds made Aram, perhaps for the first time, consider his current journey as an opportunity rather than a punishment.

  He could have spent hours going through the large tome, studying the linework, even memorizing its contents, but he was expected on deck. He started to put the book away, when a loose piece of parchment fell from its pages. He tried to catch it, as the page fluttered to the ground. But he missed.

  He stooped to pick it up. It was another picture of a bird—not elegant like Charnas’s bound images—but crude, a child’s drawing. And not just any child. This was the work of a specific child: Aramar Thorne, age six. Seconds earlier, he could never have summoned the memory, but the parchment in his hand brought it all back in a rush …

  Aram on the rug by the fire, drawing with charcoal and handing that drawing to his father.

  “It’s a bird,” the boy had said.

  “I can see that,” Greydon had replied. “It’s a fine bird.”

  “It’s for your birthday.”

  “But it’s not my birthday. It’s yours. Or at least it will be tomorrow.”

  “No, my BIRTH-day is tomorrow. Your BIRD-day is today!” And Aram had laughed, finding this statement uproariously funny—to Greydon’s and Ceya’s mild amusement. But the more the child laughed, the funnier his parents found his joke. Soon they were all rolling on the hearthrug with Aram’s contagious laughter. (Some tickling may also have been involved.)

  Aram was stunned. Greydon Thorne had kept the picture. This awful and worthless little drawing was a treasure Greydon had elevated to the level of Charnas of Gadgetzan by preserving it in that master’s book.

  Carefully, Aram placed it between the book’s pages and returned the volume to its place on the shelf. Then he grabbed his father’s cutlass off the wall and rushed out to join him.

  The day’s instruction started off well enough.

  Warmed by the mere fact that Greydon had kept his childhood drawing, Aramar was more open than usual to his father’s teaching. They began, of course, by crossing swords. Though Aram had, over the last six months, shown little interest in the cutlass, he had—almost despite himself—demonstrated some aptitude. So today, with a new willingness to learn, he countered or parried Greydon’s first five thrusts. And then his next five. And his next.

  The crew began to take notice. Makasa’s scowl seemed more automatic and less pointed. Helmsman Thom Frakes nodded approvingly. Six or seven deckhands—Cassius Meeks, Desamir Ferrar, Mary Brown, Schuyler Li, the gnome Cog Burnwick, and others—gathered round to watch (whereas usually they were so embarrassed by Aram’s performance, they made a less than subtle effort to turn away). One-God laughed, warning that his captain “looked tae be in danger o’ workin’ up a sweat.” Pleasantly surprised by how well he was doing, Aram wondered—even hoped—that perhaps Duan Phen might be watching him from her perch in the crow’s nest above.

  As the sparring continued, Greydon began the day’s lesson, starting with the gnolls: “They’re a warlike people,” the captain said, “prone to fighting, even among themselves. I’ve seen two gnolls pull out axes with serious intent over the question of which one’s shadow is longest.”

  “Their shadows? But that’s …”

  “Exactly. So is there any point in trying to work with them, trade with them, befriend them? Perhaps it would be best to simply exterminate the lot of them. Put them down like dogs. I mean, after all, to us, they look and even behave like drooling, foaming packs of rabid mongrel curs.”

  “Wait, wait … ,” Aram said while parrying another blo
w—this time with a bit less grace and ease. Aram knew where this was going, of course. This wasn’t the first race of creatures his father had brought up using this approach. Greydon Thorne’s point was always, always that there was something worthwhile—something to treasure—in every species. The trouble for Aram was trying to find the answer while simultaneously keeping his sword up. Aram wasn’t good enough with a cutlass to allow himself to get distracted.

  “Wait?” queried Greydon. “Why? What do gnolls have to offer us?”

  Aram exhaled. His mouth was dry. But he managed to block another attack and squeak out, “Dogs are loyal.”

  Greydon—who was about to lunge—hesitated, a smile already tugging up the corners of his mouth. “Excuse me?” he said.

  Aram heard the implicit praise in Greydon’s change of tone and grew more confident. “You called them dogs, mongrels, curs. But our dog, Soot, was very loyal. Robb said Soot’d give his life rather than let anyone hurt the family.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning if we treated the gnolls like family, showed ourselves worthy, we might earn their loyalty …”

  “And why would we ever want that?”

  “‘Gnolls are a warlike people,’” Aram quoted. “So wouldn’t we rather have those fighting skills on our side?”

  One-God clapped his hands and shouted, “That’s it!” Greydon shot his first mate an exasperated look, and One-God laughed, held up his hands, and said, “Sorry, sorry.”

  Still, it was clear Greydon was pleased, too.

  Aram knew it and continued, “Besides, they have other positive qualities. They like to laugh almost as much as One-God—”

  A laughing One-God couldn’t resist piping in with, “Now, now, let’s nae get carried away.”

  Both Thornes ignored him. “What else?” Greydon asked.

  “Well,” said Aram as he parried once, twice, and again. “They can appreciate art. At least the matriarch could. Any species that sees the value in something so, so …” He struggled to find the right word.

  “Useless!” shouted Thom.

  “Pointless!” shouted One-God.

  “Fascinating!” called out Duan Phen from the rigging.

  In spontaneous unison, nearly the entire crew sighed a mock “OOOOOOO” over the young female sailor’s “fascination” with their captain’s son.

  Aram’s cheeks blushed red, but he was not displeased. Duan Phen was petite and slim and almost boyish. But throughout the voyage, she had smiled at him now and then and had seemed pleased the time he showed her the sketches he had drawn of her from a distance. Feeling slightly triumphant at having “fascinated” her, Aram parried again and said, “Enriching. Any species that sees the value in something so enriching can’t be all bad.”

  “Plus they make great jerky,” Desamir Ferrar said, and everyone shouted their agreement.

  Greydon was pleased. This was their best training session yet. He felt as if he and Aram had turned a corner—and, truth be told, Aram was starting to feel the same way.

  So, of course, it couldn’t last.

  Greydon praised his son for his analysis and for his defensive skills. He instructed the boy to go on the offensive occasionally and then became more aggressive himself.

  Aram kept up at first—until the quizzing on past lectures started: “Which goblin cartel joined the Horde after the Cataclysm?” “In what season do the giant turtles of the Veiled Sea return to shore to lay their eggs?” “What’s the cause of the ongoing strife between centaur and tauren?” “How do you tell the difference between the clinging vine and the blueroot vine?” “What is the most common food source of the sea otter?”

  The captain was relentless, unintentionally exposing gaps in his son’s knowledge and, worse, exposing Aram’s complete inability to think and fight at the same time.

  “How do gnolls initiate trade with members of another species?” Greydon thought he was tossing his son an easy one: something that would be fresh in the boy’s mind.

  And, in fact, Aram knew the answer. But as he struggled to find the right words, his father saw an opening and slapped the boy’s cheek with the flat of his sword. Aram turned scarlet and attacked recklessly. The captain easily parried his son’s thrust, swung around, and slapped his nether-cheeks.

  Now, Aramar’s face shone an angry crimson. Blindly, he swung his cutlass around. It was a blow that had it landed could not have helped but slice a second smile into Greydon Thorne’s throat. But the captain leaned away and the blade whistled harmlessly through the air. “Careful,” Greydon said, seeing his son was losing control.

  “Careful?” Aram growled. “How can I be careful when you’re determined to shame me?!” (And with that, Makasa’s scowl became pointed. Helmsman Thom Frakes shook his head sadly. Six or seven deckhands—Cassius Meeks, Desamir Ferrar, Mary Brown, Schuyler Li, the gnome Cog Burnwick, and others—made a less than subtle effort to turn away. Duan Phen retreated to the crow’s nest. And One-God stopped laughing.)

  “That’s not what this is about,” Greydon said, putting up his sword. “You need to be able to overcome distractions during a fight. Do you want me to coddle you?”

  “So if I’m not up to the level you think I should have achieved by now, then my choices are humiliation or coddling?”

  “No, it’s—”

  “Maybe the problem is I started training too late in life. Maybe twelve’s just too old. Maybe you should have begun giving me this gift of your endless knowledge when I turned six.”

  Greydon swallowed hard. His sword arm sank slowly. If Aram’s goal was to cut him to the quick, he could hardly have done a better job with his cutlass.

  “Son, you know there’s nothing I—”

  “That’s enough for today, don’t you think?”

  “Yes,” Greydon said hoarsely.

  Aram turned on his heel and stalked away. He was still thinking of the drawing of that bird. Only now he saw it in another light. Not the warm firelight of the night before his sixth birthday. But the cold light of day on the morning of …

  The boy woke, blinking his eyes a few times against the light—and then, in an instant, recalled what day it was.

  Full of excitement, he leapt from his bed—practically shot out of it like a crossbow bolt—and ran to the hearth. There was no fire burning, which was strange for that time of year. But stranger still was the noise coming from outside. Cautiously, he ventured out in his nightclothes to investigate. His mother was sitting on the cold, wet turf outside, and the strange noise came from her. She was crying, sobbing. It was his birthday, and Aram’s mother was crying.

  Aram didn’t know what to do. Even after Ceya had wrapped her arms around her son and drawn him in close, all he could think to do was pull away to find his father so that Greydon could help Aram’s mother stop crying …

  But that was something Greydon Thorne would never do. Eventually, Ceya had managed to explain that Greydon was gone, had left, had packed a rucksack and walked out the door to return to a seafaring life. Refusing to believe his mother, Aram was positive his father must have been taken, stolen away from Lakeshire by orcs or trolls or ogres. A few months later, an older boy from south of the village repeated rumors of murlocs living on the far side of the lake. Having never seen a murloc, Aram imagined his father at the mercy of devious monsters with razor-sharp teeth and claws, slick, oily green skin, and fetid breath. The boy spent days and days searching for the creatures’ lair, though he never saw a single murloc, let alone any sign that his father was a prisoner somewhere, anywhere. It probably took two or three years before Aram was truly willing to believe that his father had actually left of his own accord, that Greydon Thorne had actually abandoned his wife and son—on his son’s sixth birthday—by choice.

  But what was once impossible to believe was now impossible to forget—let alone forgive. That abandonment loomed like a wall between father and son, and both of them knew it.

  In his cabin, the captain of the Wavestrider h
ung his cutlass up on the wall. Then he sat down heavily in the chair behind his desk. He glanced at the charts in front of him and the course they plotted—then angrily shoved them all out of the way onto the floor. With a sense of desperation, he lifted up the compass that hung on the chain around his neck. Greydon gazed down at it and was once again disappointed. He let the device drop against his chest and stared into his empty hands.

  “Land ho!”

  To avoid a violent storm along the shore, Wavestrider had sailed into only slightly calmer waters farther out to sea, out of sight of Desolace and western Kalimdor. It had delayed their arrival at Flayers’ Point by two days. And it had left Aramar Thorne more seasick than homesick for the first time in months. (When he first came aboard, the need to hang his head over the railing was a daily occurrence. But after a few weeks of acclimation, it had rarely troubled him until now.) The ship had swung around the storm and raced it to port.

  So Duan Phen’s cry from above made his heart soar—and not just because he liked the sound of her voice. He ran to the rail, while Thom Frakes—under Captain Thorne’s supervision—guided Wavestrider into the harbor.

  Docking beside one other small, lonely trade ship, the crew weighed anchor and quickly tied Wavestrider off. From the rail, Aram heard the clomping of heavy steps on the pier below. He turned in time to see the approach of muscle and fur, of hoof, snout, and horn. It took a second or two to see it as more than an upright bull, but of course it could only be a tauren. A large tauren male. “The harbormaster,” whispered a voice by his ear. It was Greydon, who had silently taken a place at the rail beside the startled Aram. It took another second or two for the boy to connect his father’s words with the creature.