by Greg Weisman
“Mrgle.”
Aram glanced at Makasa, who was watching him intently. Finally, he said, “Makasa and I were on a ship. Pirates attacked. Everyone died. We escaped. That’s my story.”
Murky seemed unsatisfied. Even Makasa seemed unsatisfied. But that, Aram decided, was all “Urum” had to say tonight. After finishing the sketch, he closed the book, turned over, and tried to sleep.
Watching with glowing silver eyes, the stag heard all of this, his curiosity piqued.
But the scorpid had witnessed none of it. As soon as Skitter had spotted Aram and the others sitting around the campfire, she had turned right around to fetch Zathra and the rest of the Hidden.
Come the morning, Makasa seemed in a better humor. She graciously thanked Murky for the salmon and wished him well before saying good-bye.
Murky looked stricken. “Nk, nk. Murky mrrgggrl mmmrgl mmgr Mrksa, Urum, mrgle?”
Aram smiled. “I think he wants to come with us.”
“What? No! Absolutely not!”
“Why?”
“I’ve enough trouble looking after your sorry rear. We don’t need another mouth to feed, especially one we can’t even understand!”
“I’m starting to understand him a bit.”
“That’s not the point,” she growled.
“Well, what is the point?”
“The point?! The point?!” She was shouting, which was bad enough. But then her voice lowered to a whisper, which for Aram was somehow even worse. “The point is Captain Thorne is dead. Our entire crew is dead. These lands are crawling with ogres, blasted snakes, and nothing to eat. You and I are lost and probably doomed. And so the life debt I still owe to your father, will forever owe to him—even though he’s gone—grows more difficult to guarantee with every passing minute. I can’t take it, Aram. I can’t take on one more responsibility. I swear I’m at my limit. That’s the point.” She blinked back tears.
“The point is,” Greydon had said, “home isn’t a place. It’s the people with whom you choose to share your life. Family is what makes a home. Not the other way around. And there are all kinds of families.”
Aram did something odd then. Something spontaneous and honest but bizarre to anyone who had known him and Makasa or had ever seen them together. He embraced her. He wrapped his arms around her—chain, harpoon, shield, and all—and hugged her tight. She stiffened, and her own arms hung at her sides at first, but gradually she raised them and hugged him back. She laid her cheek atop his head and exhaled something suspiciously like a sigh. He thought, We both loved him. And her thoughts mirrored his. There was no need to say the words aloud. For once, each just knew what the other was thinking: they were brother and sister, mourning the same father. Both had their eyes closed and were quiet.
“Mmmrrglllmmm.” Murky hugged them both around the legs, breaking the spell.
Makasa instantly pulled away, wiping her bare arm across her eyes.
Aram wiped his eyes with his dirty sleeve. He shrugged and smiled at her.
She scowled and turned away. But her next words were, “Fine, he can tag along. But he’s your responsibility, Urum.”
“Sure, Mrksa.”
Murky skipped in place. “Mmrgl, Mrksa! Mmrgl, Urum!”
Makasa Flintwill shook her head, but Aram could tell she was at least a little bit amused. She marched on. They followed.
At home, Aram had a sister, a little sister. And a little brother. But he knew now that Makasa had truly become his big sister. Family. It had probably been true for months, though the realization was fresh. He hadn’t recognized it, because he had always been the oldest of his siblings, the one who took care of and watched over—and, yes, on occasion, teased—the younglings. But that was Makasa’s job with him.
He knew how she felt. His stewardship of Robertson and Selya had never been quite so dire, but there had been times—like on trips to the quarry—when trying to keep an eye on both had nearly driven him mad.
He caught up to Makasa and asked, “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
“Why?” she asked suspiciously, without slowing down.
Ignoring the question, he instead volunteered, “I have one younger brother, Robertson, and a baby sister, Selya.”
“I have three older brothers,” she said. “Adashe, Akashinga, and Amahle.”
So that’s it, he thought. I’m not used to being the youngest, and she’s not used to being the eldest. No wonder we’re always tearing at each other.
“Had,” she said quietly.
“What?”
“Had three brothers. They’re gone now. Dead. All of them. I’d be with them, too, if not for your father.”
She risked a glance at him. He swallowed, too stunned—thankfully—to offer up a look of pity, which would have truly set her off.
Murky came up on the other side, saying, “Murky mrrrgllle mmrrrrggg mrrrgll, Mrksa.”
She stared at him, then offered up an unsure “Thank you?”
The murloc nodded, satisfied.
Aram was staring at the ground as they walked, three abreast, in silence. He knew he had led a sheltered life. The attack on Wavestrider was literally the worst thing that had ever happened to him. The only other thing that even registered on the scale was Greydon’s desertion. And those two things were bad enough for any child’s lifetime. But he had been so self-centered, it had never even occurred to him to consider Makasa’s story and what she had been through. She had the same tragedy of the Wavestrider to equal his—because hadn’t Greydon been as much her father aboard that ship as Aram’s?—and she had an entire past Aram knew nothing at all about. Nothing except this: she had had three older brothers, who were all now dead.
He said, “Do you want to—”
“No!” she said fiercely. But then she added more softly, “Not now.”
So they walked on, following the gorge and the river, across the ravaged land of tree stumps and seared grass.
Late that afternoon, Murky proved his worth to Aram—and even a little bit to Makasa—by leading them down a steep but walkable path to the river to drink. They had skipped breakfast and lunch, so Makasa broke out the very last of the hardtack, reluctantly sharing it with Murky. “That’s it,” she said. “No more.”
Murky started to unfold his nets from around his waist. Both Aram and Makasa considered this sensible. Another fish dinner would do nicely. But twelve seconds later, Murky had hopelessly tangled himself in the mesh again.
While trying to negotiate his freedom—twisting the net over, sliding it under, and pulling this limb free of that loop, tugging that limb free of this loop—Murky suddenly screamed. Aram thought at first that the murloc was in pain, but as soon as he could get a hand free, Murky pointed up to the top of the gorge, shouting, “RRRgrrr! RRRgrrr!” They looked but saw nothing.
Murky growled in frustration and reached for Makasa’s cutlass. She slapped his hand away. “Don’t touch!”
“Mrksa mrrugggl!” He swung an imaginary sword around. “Mrksa mrrugggl!” He then pointed at Aram’s cutlass and said, “Urum mrrugggl!”
They both got the message and drew their swords. “What did he see?” Aram asked.
“I don’t know,” Makasa said, scanning the cliffside. “But I trust it scared him. Stay on guard.” She glanced back at Murky. “And get him out of that net, or we’re leaving him behind for whatever’s out there!”
“We’re not leaving him behind, when he’s the one who warned us,” Aram said, knowing she had no real intention of leaving anyone behind.
She did, however, seem to be all right with the idea of cutting him free of the net. This also made Murky scream in horror: “Nk! Nk! Murky mmrrgggleee mrrugggl mgrrrrl nk mmmurlok!”
“A murloc must always protect his nets,” said a booming voice behind them. Makasa and Aram both wheeled about. A tall figure in dark hooded robes was standing behind them, close enough to make Makasa curse herself under her breath for allowing the stranger to draw so near.
“Have no fear,” he said. “I mean no harm.” He spoke softly, but this was no Whisper-Man; his voice was fuller, warmer.
It was a still-tangled Murky who whispered, “Kuldurrree,” while bowing very low.
Aram didn’t understand, but Makasa hadn’t put up her sword, so Aram kept his out and at the ready.
Makasa said, “Druid.”
And now Aram understood. He felt his throat go dry and was suddenly very conscious of trying to swallow. This, as Greydon had taught him, was a kaldorei. A night elf. A druid. A shapeshifter.
As if confirming Aram’s unspoken thoughts, the stranger reached up to lower his hood.
“Slowly,” Makasa demanded.
“Of course,” said the druid, complying. The hood came down, revealing a thin and ancient face with lined indigo skin, long hair the color of ice tucked behind pointed ears, glowing silver eyes that reflected the starlight, and massive brown antlers.
“Ten, twelve points, at least,” murmured Makasa. Then at full volume: “You’re the stag, aren’t you?”
“Guilty, I am afraid.” There was a smile audible in the druid’s voice to match the visible one on his face.
“You’ve been watching us.” It wasn’t a question.
“Guilty, again.” He still seemed mildly amused by the interrogation.
“Following us.”
“Well, hold on now, young lady. Mostly, I was just heading in the same direction. But keeping an eye on you made the journey more diverting.”
“I nearly had you for dinner,” Makasa said grimly.
“You nearly tried, yes. No hard feelings.”
Aram was too busy staring to say anything. Those glowing silver eyes were disconcerting at first. But within seconds they radiated an infectious calm.
“The kaldorei are a sight to behold, surely,” Greydon had said. “Merely laying eyes on one can take the most hardened warrior’s breath away. And that is something they count on. You may not see it, but you’ll feel it. They have … an aura. Power. It surrounds and infuses them. It’s blasted irresistible. But resist you must. A night elf can be a great friend. Or a terrible foe. I can’t say you’ll ever meet one in the flesh, son. But if you do, find out which you’re facing before you lower your guard.”
Aram struggled to follow his father’s advice. Then the night elf smiled again and, raising an eyebrow, said, “My name is Thalyss Greyoak. And you are?”
And just like that, words poured forth unbidden from Aram’s mouth before he had the thought to form—let alone censor—them. “I’m Aramar Thorne, but you can call me Aram.” Makasa scowled at him. He shrugged sheepishly but babbled on: “This is Makasa Flintwill, and this is Murky.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you all. And it would be nice to have some company for a time.”
“Our party,” Makasa growled, “is already larger than originally planned.”
“So one more should not matter. Especially one more with a pack full of food he is willing to share.”
Makasa and Aram exchanged a telling glance, and Thalyss’s eyes twinkled with pleasure.
“The sun is setting, and I have been this way before. I know a good place to make camp for the night. And if you follow me, it will be easier to keep your eyes sharp and your swords leveled at my back.” The druid chuckled then and walked with casual impunity, right between Aram and Makasa. Without stopping, he gave a short tug on one end of the nets, and Murky rolled scot-free.
Murky promptly scooped up the nets and scrambled after the night elf, saying, “Mmrgl, mmrgl, kuldurrree.”
Aram looked to Makasa. She nodded with some reluctance, and they followed. But Aram saw that her cutlass remained in her hand and at the ready.
She didn’t trust the idea that the night elf just happened to be going their way. Makasa’s memory was long, but it required no long memory to recall that the pirate captain had a troll, an ogre, and one of the Forsaken under his command. Why not a druid, as well?
They sat around the campfire, while Thalyss prepared a stew of wild carrots and snap peas and potatoes and spices that the night elf had produced by emptying his pack. (“No venison,” the druid had said, with a wink at Makasa.) As he stirred the stew, Thalyss spoke of gathering each of the vegetables, carefully and in turn, so that more would grow. “That, of course, is my function as a druid. I do what I can to protect the wild.”
Aram was instantly fascinated. “Like the birds and the beasts?”
“Well, my specialty is flora, not fauna. But, yes. We so-called sentient species do an incredible amount of quite insentient violence to the natural order. Druids try to balance that with restoration, recovery, and care.”
“Magic,” Makasa grumbled darkly.
“When a flower blooms, is that not magical? When a lamb is born to an ewe, are mysteries not revealed? Yes, I am a magic user of a kind. But trust me, my magics are of the natural order—certainly when compared to the forged axe that has so unnaturally cut down nearly every tree in these parts.”
Thalyss only had one small stewpot and one large spoon, so they took turns passing the concoction around atop a folded strip of blanket to save their hands (if not always their tongues) from being burnt. When divided by four, the quantity fell short of a feast, but the fare was warm and rich and zesty. Murky seemed quite impressed with the spices, and he poured the remaining contents of the spice vial down his gullet. Instantly, his eyes bugged out—even more than usual. He spat out so much slimy saliva, he nearly put out the fire. Fortunately, the kaldorei seemed prepared for this and whipped the stewpot and its precious contents out of harm’s way.
Murky ran to the river and completely submerged his head for several minutes. Finally, he came back, dripping and drooling and apologizing. “Murky mrrrgl, kuldurrree. Mrrrgl, mrrrgl, kuldurrree.”
“Call me Thalyss.”
“Dlus.”
“Thalyss.”
“Dlus …”
“No. THAL-yss.”
“DUL-uss. Duluss.”
“Close enough,” Thalyss said.
“Hello, Duluss,” Aram said with a smile. “I’m Urum. This is Mrksa.”
“Duluss, Urum, Mrksa, n Murky!” Murky said, clapping his hands together and smiling gleefully. “Duluss, Urum, Mrksa, Murky mmmrrglllms!”
“Mrgle, mmmrrglllms,” Thalyss said, nodding.
Makasa and Aram both sat up, saying in virtual unison, “You speak murloc?”
“Of course. You do not?”
“No,” said Makasa, glowering. Aram just shook his head.
“Oh, it is a wonderful language. True, it can be very difficult to get one’s tongue around the subtleties of pronunciation. But well worth the effort. It is so beautifully expressive, would you not agree?”
“It’s gibberish,” Makasa stated.
Thalyss raised a slim white eyebrow. “As is every language to those who know it not, correct?”
Aram was getting drowsy, but he fought it, intrigued. “What did he say?”
“Hmm?” Thalyss asked.
“Before,” Aram replied. “He said our names and something else, and you agreed.”
“Oh. Yes. He called us all friends. Mmmrrglllms. Friends.”
“Mmmrrglllms,” Murky parroted. “Furunds.”
“Friends,” Aram corrected.
“Furunds …”
“Friends.”
“Frunds. Frunds.”
“Close enough.”
Murky grinned broadly, and Aram did, too. Thalyss twinkled considerably.
Murky prompted Aram: “Urum, Murky, frunds. Mmmrrglllms.”
Aram said, “Aram, Murky, murguhlums.”
Murky scrunched up hi
s face. Thalyss said, “You just called the two of you ringworms.”
“I did? Say it again, please.”
“Mmmrrglllms.”
“Mmm-murguhlums.”
Murky laughed and shook his head. “Frunds. Frunds. Frunds mmmm.”
“He has given up. He says ‘frunds’ is good enough.”
“What’d I say this time?”
“Tasty ringworms.”
“Ugh.”
“Indeed.”
Aram pulled out his sketchbook. Instantly, Makasa said, “You better not be putting me in that blasted book.”
Aram said, “I promise I won’t sketch you unless you ask me to.” But for the first time, he wished she would ask him to.
Instead, he swallowed, turned to the night elf, and asked, “Do you mind?”
“Not at all,” said Thalyss, striking an intentionally comic noble pose. “Which is my best side?”
Murky came around behind Aram to watch him draw. “Uuaaa,” the murloc said, “mmmm mrrrggk.”
“What did he say?” Aram asked.
“Good magic,” said Thalyss nonchalantly. “He means your drawing.”
Aram felt his heart sink. He tried to focus on capturing Thalyss’s likeness, but it was suddenly hard to concentrate. He had to get back to redrawing his father. He felt it strongly now, as if Greydon Thorne’s life depended on it. Greydon Thorne, who’s probably already dead. That’s what Makasa said. He’s dead. Except we don’t know for sure. And as long as we don’t know, then maybe he is alive. And maybe “good magic” can make the difference.
He ceased drawing the elf midline and flipped back a couple pages to the failed, incomplete memory sketch of his father.
He struggled with it, drawing lines, rubbing them out. It was no use. Drawing from memory was always difficult enough, but he could almost physically feel Greydon’s visage withdrawing from his mind, growing distant and indistinct.
He turned back to the drawing of Thalyss, wanting to finish something, anything.
And wanting to change the subject of his own mental discussion, he asked, “The other night, Murky tried to tell us a story. But we couldn’t understand.”
Murky, still behind him, began hopping up and down. This made Makasa uncomfortable for some reason, and she shifted on the dirt, her hand unconsciously straying to her harpoon.
