by Greg Weisman
Ultimately, though, he knew he had no choice. “Greydon—my father—gave it to me.” He turned to Makasa. “During the pirate attack, just before he ordered us into the dinghy. He told me to protect it at all costs.”
“Then that settles it,” said Makasa immediately and firmly. “We must not hand it over. Had it been worthless, I wouldn’t give it to the murderers of our crew. But now, there’s no question.”
“But Murky?” Aram had no more desire to give up the compass than Makasa. But what other choice do we have?
“I am sorry about the murloc,” Second Mate Flintwill replied. “But he means nothing to us when compared to following the final orders of Captain Thorne.”
Aram shook his head. “Those may have been his final orders, but they don’t match up with his many lessons. Lessons of loyalty to his crew, his onboard family. Makasa, you know this.”
“I do. But Murky is not crew. Not family.”
“Isn’t he, though?” Aram asked. “Are the four of us not a crew on this voyage across Feralas?”
“No! A crewman has worth. Serves a purpose. What has this murloc done to prove himself worthy? Given us one fish, caught by accident?”
“He’s done nothing to prove himself worthy,” Aram agreed. “But everything to prove himself loyal. Besides, this isn’t about proof. What did I ever do aboard Wavestrider to prove my worth—beyond being our captain’s son?”
He could see he had scored a point. She had spent too many months believing Aram to be as worthless as she now regarded Murky. She grumbled, “It’s only been a few days. It’s not the same at all. We are no crew here.”
“Murky signed on with us as surely as if he’d penned his name on a manifest.”
“I doubt he can write his name, Urum.”
“Stop it,” Aram said, getting angry. “I know you better than that.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I don’t know your story, but I know your heart, sister. Don’t pretend otherwise.”
The word sister worked its magic on her. She stopped arguing.
He didn’t. “We don’t rescue shipmates because they’ve proven their worth. We rescue them to prove our own.” It sounded like something Greydon would say—though Aram had never exactly heard Greydon say it.
Just then, Thalyss held out his hand. “May I see it, Aram? May I hold it?”
Aram, his head still swirling from his argument with Makasa, looked at him uncomprehendingly.
“The compass,” Thalyss said.
Aram felt that same hesitancy.
The kaldorei said, “I may be able to discern some sense of its purpose, its value to your father and to his slayers.”
“I think its purpose is to point my way home, to Lakeshire. My father told me as much when he gave it to me.”
The night elf frowned. “Any compass—any map, for that matter—could help get you home.” He still held out his hand.
Aram glanced at Makasa, but she was looking inward. So he relented and lifted the chain off his neck, offering it to Thalyss.
The druid held the compass in the palm of his left hand. He felt the weight of it. He closed his eyes. He held his right hand, palm down, a few inches above it. He chanted something brief in Darnassian and felt a power—weak but definitely present—magnetizing the compass in some anomalous manner.
He opened his eyes and spoke. “The needle is made of crystal. But not the crystal of the deep earth. It is a shard of pure starlight from the heavens, imbued with the celestial spark.”
Aram said, “What does that mean?”
“Simply put, it means the crystal needle is not of this world. There is an enchantment of some kind upon it. Unfortunately, this is beyond my expertise. My powers favor the flora of the clean earth, its plants and trees. I can discover nothing else of this device.”
He handed the compass back to Aram, who quickly hung the chain back around his neck and tucked it under his shirt. Aram’s thoughts were a jumble. Thalyss was right. A working compass and the maps from the dinghy would have done just as much to point him homeward as this enchanted thing.
But then what was his father thinking?
If the compass held more secrets, Greydon knew them. He must. How many times had his father hinted there was more to their journey than met the eye? (Even his mother had hinted as much the day she sent him from Lakeshire!) At the end, Greydon Thorne had regretted being out of time, but there had been six months to tell Aram the truth! Captain Thorne could make time for daily lessons in trivia and humiliation, but not for the essential reason he had brought Aram on the voyage in the first place?!
What kind of father brings his son aboard ship, knowing there would be danger from those seeking the compass? What kind of father gives that compass to his son and adopted daughter, knowing that danger would follow wherever they went? If the compass must be kept from the hands of this Malus, why had he not simply thrown it into the sea?!
Like Aram, the other two were lost in their own thoughts. Thalyss emerged first. He said, “I cannot tell you more of the compass, but I can tell you this. I believe it is why I was drawn to you both in the first place.”
Makasa raised her eyes to Thalyss like two daggers. “I thought you were traveling to Gadgetzan.”
“And so I was. I did not speak false. Nor did I reveal all.”
“Reveal it now,” she demanded.
He nodded and spoke. “You know what I am: a druid, at one with this world, in synch with its energies. Some nights past, I felt a presence, a detour in my own road. If I have calculated correctly, I believe that must have been the night you two made landfall. It drew me forward, drew me to you both, like—well, like the needle of a working compass. From the moment I first laid eyes on you both, I felt a kinship. To be perfectly honest, the feeling was so intense, I did not quite trust it. I watched you for a time, to see how you lived off the land. Then I saw you rescue Murky, observed how you behaved toward the poor little creature, and I knew our encounter was destiny.”
“There’s no such thing,” Makasa growled.
“There is, young warrior. There is a harmony to nature, a way and a flow. Like the path of a river, like the path through the soil that a stem takes to find the sun. Do you think it is any different for beings such as we four travelers?”
She didn’t respond.
He continued. “I am not talking of guarantees. A river may be dammed. A stem may be chewed away by aphids or grasshoppers. And a traveler may be diverted in any number of ways. But the flow exists, and we are without a doubt a part of its whole.”
Aram mused on flows for a time. He was still angry with Greydon, but it was not an anger he could easily sustain when he remembered what the Whisper-Man had said: I’m afraid you’ll never see him again in this world …
Greydon Thorne was dead. His father was dead. This wasn’t about obeying the man’s final orders as a captain. This was about honoring—or at least attempting to honor—his final wishes as a father.
Makasa said stubbornly, “We’re not giving them the compass.”
“Maybe not,” Aram said. “But one way or another, we have to rescue Murky.”
It’s a shame they never got the chance.
They came up with a decent plan a good hour before dawn and broke camp, though they left the fire burning under the ledge so that anyone watching from a distance would still believe they were waiting for Malus and his crew. Makasa and Thalyss might not be quite the trackers Zathra was, and they could find no trace whatsoever of Valdread’s footsteps, but the ogre was not being half so careful. Throgg’s was an easy trail to follow.
Silently as possible, they moved through the gorge, upriver. Thalyss heard something first and signaled the others to hide behind some rocks. Seconds later, a huge form—the ogre—emerged in silhouette, not five yards ahead of them. They scanned about for the Whisper-Man or the troll or Malus. Then Aram glanced back at the ogre as he turned. He managed to swallow his gasp. This ogre had two hands!
The three ogres murmured to one another, too quietly for Aram or Makasa to make out. But Thalyss’s pointed ears were sharper, and he clearly didn’t like what he was hearing. He signaled their need to get out of there.
Easier signaled than done. Thalyss pointed to a slim crevice between two large stones and led the way. Aram followed, and Makasa, her harpoon and cutlass at the ready, took up the rear.
But choosing the crevice turned out to be a significant tactical error. Thalyss emerged from between the rocks to find a fourth ogre standing with his broad back to the gap. The night elf had moved silently and had not yet been discovered, but this was no way out. He signaled Aram to turn around. The boy complied and signaled Makasa to do the same.
Unfortunately, by this time, the sky was clearing and the light of a full moon glistened off Makasa’s sword as she turned. It caught the eye of one of the ogres, and roaring, he charged at Makasa Flintwill. She strode forward to meet that charge, ducked under the swing of the brute’s massive club, and slashed him from belly button to breastbone with her sword. But the other two ogres were upon her.
“Run!” she called to Aram as she threw her harpoon between the eyes of the second ogre—but her newly declared brother wasn’t about to leave her behind, even assuming there was anywhere to go. He drew his sword but wasn’t sure what to do with it.
Makasa unleashed her iron chain, swinging it in tight circles to keep the third ogre at bay. Thalyss whispered to Aram to move. The boy was blocking the night elf from emerging from the crevice, which was too tight to allow him to shapeshift into either bear or stag. Suddenly, the two stones Thalyss stood between were pulled asunder from behind by the broad-backed ogre. Thalyss tried to turn to face this new threat, but the ogre’s club came down on the back of the night elf’s head, and antlers or no antlers, the druid fell unconscious at “Broadback’s” feet. The ogre put two pinkie fingers in his mouth and whistled, loud and shrill.
Aram turned, but Broadback slapped the cutlass from the boy’s hand and grabbed him up, tucking him under one massive arm. Aram called out, but Makasa was still trying to keep her own opponent at bay. With some effort, the boy managed to draw the hunting knife from his belt and stab the ogre in the ribs. But Broadback simply shifted Aram to his other arm, pulled the knife out, and tossed it into the nearby river.
Seeing she had no choice, Makasa changed tack, intentionally allowing the chain to slacken as if her arm were tired, luring the ogre in. The instant he took a step forward, she swung the chain upward, shattering the monster’s jaw. He roared in pain and dropped to his knees. She stepped forward and quickly ended his life.
That just left Broadback, who stood over an unconscious Thalyss and had a struggling Aram tucked under one arm. With his free hand, the ogre scooped up Aram’s cutlass. Without a word or a grunt, Broadback held it against Aram’s neck, forcing the boy to become still.
Broadback and Makasa faced each other grimly. Neither made a sound. But within seconds, heavy footsteps approached from upriver and down, summoned by Broadback’s whistle. Ogres, more than Aram could count from his current, rather limited vantage, came to a stop on either side of the standoff.
Makasa quickly did her own math. She sheathed her bloody cutlass and let her chain hang limp. Broadback chuckled, guttural and dark. Then Makasa reached for the harpoon that still stuck out of the second ogre. Ogres on both sides took a threatening step forward. Broadback stopped chuckling. She pulled her harpoon free and launched herself backward.
She fell into the river with a splash and went limp, allowing the current, swift from the recent rains, to carry her downstream. A few of the ogres threw spears. Aram couldn’t see, but he heard no cry and had to hope the ogres had missed their target.
He did not for one moment feel abandoned. He knew in his soul Makasa would never leave him to die. She had done what she had to do to escape and fight another day. His sister would come for him, attempt a rescue. Of this, he had no doubt at all.
In the meantime, Aram’s job was to stay alive. He tried to speak, but no sound came out. But that was unacceptable. He couldn’t allow himself to fall silent every time he was in crisis—not if crises continued to come upon him so fast and furious. He cleared his throat and—trying to keep his voice from cracking—said, “Fine. You caught me. Bring me to Malus. We’ll make our trade.”
Broadback lifted Aram up so they could look each other in the eye. The ogre leaned in. His rank breath filled Aram’s nostrils. His single horn came close to grazing Aram’s forehead. Aram swallowed hard and repeated, “Bring me to Malus.”
Broadback snorted and threw the boy over his shoulder as if he were a sack of flour—and not a particularly full sack, at that.
“Bring me to Malus! The Whisper—Valdread promised we’d be safe if we agreed to Malus’s terms.”
Broadback finally spoke; rather dismissively he said, “I know no Malus, no Valdar’d. We bring you to Gordok, king of the Dire Maul Gordunni.” He stepped away from Thalyss and pointed him out to another ogre. “You and night elf will please Gordok well. He tired of watching murlocs die. He seek fresher sport.”
Finally, Aram understood. These were not Malus’s ogres. These were of the marauding clan that had raided Murky’s village, taken his uncle, his aunt, and everyone he knew. Hanging behind Broadback, Aram could just see another ogre heft the unconscious Thalyss onto his shoulder before the march began.
Within minutes they were out of the gorge and still climbing. Within the hour they were already heading northeast into the mountains. Aram had no idea where Makasa was now, how close she was or how far. And though he still had the compass tucked under his shirt, he knew that with each step the ogres took, Murky’s chances of rescue—and survival—receded farther into the distance …
Aram spent the first miles draped over Broadback’s shoulder. It was uncomfortable and humiliating, but he’d be blasted if he was going to cooperate with his own abduction. Let the ogre tire himself out carrying me!
But step after jarring step, mile after tortuous mile, it gradually became clear Broadback wasn’t likely to tire soon. By the time Thalyss regained consciousness and asked—rather politely, Aram thought—to be put down to walk on his own, Aram was ready to add his voice to that particular chorus.
Without stopping, Broadback addressed them both: “Slaves try to run, slaves travel rest of way in sack. Slaves go too slow, slaves travel rest of way in sack. Slaves talk at all, slaves travel rest of way in sack. Understood?”
Thalyss said, “Understood.”
Aram said, “Yeah.”
Both were unceremoniously dumped on their rear ends on the stony ground. One good shove from Broadback made it instantly clear they could rub their backsides as they marched, not before.
So, they marched—in the center of a diamond-shaped phalanx of six ogres, including Broadback directly behind them. There was no way Aram could attempt escape, even if he was willing to risk the sack, which hung limply over the shoulder of one of the ogres he followed. The large burlap sack might have been currently empty, but the threat of it clearly was not. The pace they maintained was brutal, unmercifully based on the longer stride of the large ogres heading up the relatively steep incline. But slowing had earned him another rough shove from Broadback, so breathing hard, he made very sure he matched their gait.
They passed ruins to the south. Aram’s eyes widened over broken towers, broken columns, and semicollapsed sections of palaces—or perhaps temples—grander than any intact structure he had ever seen in his life. Even as he marched between ogres in clearly dire circumstances, he found himself wishing he had his freedom, not simply to run but to explore these fallen edifices. He racked his brain to access his father’s lessons in order to identify the decaying buildings passing on his right. He thought maybe they were the ruins of Isildien. He assumed the night elf would know, but there was no way to confirm his guess
without speaking, and no way to speak without winding up in a burlap sack.
The kaldorei, meanwhile, lowered his head to mourn. It was not the first time—or even the hundredth time—he had seen Isildien in the ten millennia since the city had been destroyed. But every time was just as painful as the first. Ten thousand years ago, Isildien had been nothing short of glorious. And now it was reduced to this fractured shadow of itself. And the worst part, he knew, was that the night elves had brought this fate upon themselves by abusing the very arcane powers they had believed were their birthright. It was why he, like many of his people, now shunned the arcane and used only the druidic magic of nature. It was balanced. It was safe. And it was his penance.
Thalyss looked up, and he and Aram exchanged glances. It suddenly occurred to Aram that the druid no longer had his staff to rest upon—the ogres had left it behind by the river—yet it didn’t seem to trouble the kaldorei. Aram wondered if the druid ever really needed it at all. He also wondered if Thalyss, who offered Aram a sympathetic smile, considered shapeshifting his way out of their captivity. Aram briefly fantasized grabbing hold of an antler and swinging himself up onto the great stag’s back as the transformation caught the ogres off guard, allowing their hostages to make a break for it. But many of the ogres had spears, and there was no cover in sight. The fantasy ended unpleasantly as Aram pictured himself in the sack while the ogres enjoyed venison for supper.
He ran a similar scenario with Thalyss’s bear form—and it ended with similar results. He wondered what other animals the night elf might be capable of, but no creature he could think of—shy of a dragon—seemed to promise success.
He wondered about Makasa. He knew with absolute certainty she would come for him, and he tried to calculate when she might make her move. As he marched, he counted the ogres in the company. In addition to Broadback and the other five surrounding Aram and Thalyss, numerous glances over his shoulder revealed seven more ogres taking up the rear. Thirteen ogres in the cold light of dawn seemed too many even for the mighty Flintwill to chance an assault. She was a warrior—the three ogres she had dispatched before sunrise proved that—but she was also smart enough to wait for her moment. This would not be the time.
