by Greg Weisman
And at this time, Aram’s heart was full and troubled. Yes, Makasa would come. She’d come for him, for her brother, the last brother she had on this earth. He knew this, and he knew that meant she had not risked attempting to rescue poor Murky.
Sunrise had come and gone, and Malus did not have the compass. By now, the funny little murloc was dead. Aram bit his lip and wiped his eyes. Surrounded by ogres, he couldn’t afford to shed any overt tears. But in his heart, he lit a candle for Murky and hoped the murloc’s gods would treat him well.
Sunrise had found Malus, Ssarbik, Valdread, and Throgg standing over the cold firepit beneath the ledge.
“Sssatissfied?” the arakkoa complained. “You and your gamezz! Why would you think the boy would ever trade the prizze for a lowly murloc? Were you afraid to take the compasss by forcce, or are you jusst that big of a fool?”
Malus moved so suddenly, Ssarbik was caught completely off guard. The big man grabbed the sorcerer by the throat and lifted; Ssarbik’s feet quickly cleared the ground. “Try to chant your way out of this,” Malus said.
Ssarbik choked and struggled in his captain’s grip.
“I don’t care whom you serve, bird-man. Forget your place again, and I will wring your neck like a chicken’s.” He opened his hand, and the arakkoa dropped to the ground, gasping for breath, wheezing through his beak. Ssarbik shot Malus a murderous look, but Malus ignored it.
Baron Valdread chuckled audibly. Throgg looked away. He was secretly pleased, but not so secretly frightened of the sorcerer’s magic; he didn’t want to give Ssarbik reason to take revenge later.
Murky noticed few of these details. He was still hanging off the ogre’s shoulder, wrapped in his own nets and his own thoughts.
He saw that his friends were gone, that they had left him with his abductors. He realized sadly that he wasn’t too surprised. He had only just met the kuldurrree, and Mrksa had stated more than once that she wanted to leave Murky behind. But he had thought Urum would try to help, had hoped that maybe his new friend would not abandon him. And it broke his heart just a bit to learn he was wrong.
When Malus sighed and said to Throgg, “Kill the murloc,” a small piece of Murky thought his death now would be a mercy. He had lost his family, his village, and now his new friends. There was no place for him in this world …
Just then Zathra returned. Malus turned to her. “Did you find their trail?”
“In a way,” she said, smiling grimly and pausing for effect.
Malus was in no mood for guessing games. “Well, out with it.”
“Dey be ambushed not far from here. Ogres.” She glanced at Throgg. “Some branch a da Gordunni clan.”
Throgg harrumphed loudly.
Malus mused on this revelation. “I know of the Gordunni. Their king is Gordok. Actually, that’s what they call all their kings. Not that it matters.” He returned his focus to the troll, saying, “What did you find?”
“Da human female killed tree a dem ogres. Deir bodies be left behind, and I can tell by da wounds.”
“Can you track them?”
“Ogre tracks be clear ta see. Be leadin’ up into da mountains toward Isildien. But dere be no tracks for da elf or da humans. No bodies, eider. So dey be taken and carried off.”
“Carried off, alive or dead?” asked Malus.
“Dere be no human blood dere, and only a speck a elf blood. So unless da ogres strangled dem, dey probably alive.”
Throgg said, “Ogres not take dead humans or dead elf along.”
“Not even to eat?” whispered an amused Valdread.
Throgg considered this and shrugged. He said, “Elf-meat taste horrible. But stag-meat and bear-meat good. Human-meat stringy. But stringy good sometimes. If Throgg in mood.” He started to drool.
Valdread encouraged him. “How would you prepare the boy? Would you use spices?”
Throgg started to answer. “Cook with blood in carcass,” he said.
Zathra shook her head in disgust. “You insane, brudda,” she said. “You gotta drain da boy first. Dey be hardly any meat, so you be wantin’ ta strip what dere be off da bones. Maybe make jerky outta him.”
Throgg shrugged again. “Still better to take alive and eat fresh.”
“Foolzzzz! What of the compassss?!” gasped an exasperated Ssarbik, each syllable painfully tearing up his still sore throat.
“Still wid da boy, I be bettin’,” said the troll. “No reason ta tink it be a any interest ta da Gordunni.”
Throgg added, “Ogres can’t eat compass.”
Valdread, who was enjoying the conversation immensely, cocked his head and said, “Then Thorne’s ‘cabin boy’ may have been ready to accept your bargain, Captain.”
Malus nodded, lost in thought. Contrary to Ssarbik’s frustrated assumptions, Malus had not forgotten the compass for one second. The need for it filled his every waking thought—and a good portion of his dreams, as well. He had to have it. And not as a prize or gift to the arakkoa’s master. No, he had his own designs, his own purposes. For in the end, he was determined to finish what he had started fourteen years ago. And to accomplish that, the compass was absolutely essential.
Throgg said, “Throgg hungry now. Does Throgg still kill murloc? Can Throgg eat murloc? Murlocs taste like chicken.”
Malus shook his head. “No, don’t kill him.”
Throgg looked disappointed.
A sympathetic Malus patted the ogre rather gently on his good arm, explaining, “Not yet. He might still be of use. It seems we find ourselves in the odd position of having to mount a rescue mission for Aramar Thorne.”
“Resscue?!” There was outrage in the arakkoa’s hissing. But when Malus glanced at him, Ssarbik lowered his head submissively and said no more.
Murky, who just barely understood the gist of the exchange, found himself torn. On the one hand, thoughts of a merciful end no longer seemed appealing, especially since feeding an ogre was not exactly his idea of an appetizing way to go. So he was glad his own death had now been postponed. Moreover, he was thrilled Urum and his new friends hadn’t actually abandoned him. But he was also horrified to learn the GRRundee had taken Urum, Mrksa, and Duluss. Uncle Murrgly and Aunt Murrl had been taken and never seen again. And though he knew his current abductors were hardly benevolent, he was practically giddy over the fact they were planning to give chase.
He called out, “Murky mrrugl!”
But none of them understood he was offering to help in any small way he could, so they ignored him.
Following Zathra’s lead, the Hidden proceeded up into the mountains in pursuit of the ogres, the captives, and their prize.
Night fell, and the trail leveled off some. The ogres and their captives kept up their march for another hour or two until the moons were high and the travelers had reached a line of trees. The creatures made a crude camp, chopping down an entire pine to build a bonfire. They roasted a whole pig, which one of their number had pulled from another burlap sack.
Aram and Thalyss were pushed to their knees and bound with thick ropes. In fact, the ropes were so thick, they couldn’t be tightly secured around Aram’s slim wrists, and the boy quickly realized he could slip out of them at any time, which might come in handy if Makasa made an appearance.
And Makasa considered it.
The river had not been overly kind. It had carried her away from the ogres’ spears, but it had also slammed her against a number of rocks and torn Lord Bloodhorn’s rawhide pack from around her waist with what remained of their supplies. In the end, she had also been forced to choose between her iron chain and her harpoon; she couldn’t hold on to both without drowning. And this time, she wasn’t able to throw the harpoon for some future retrieval. She let it go.
Minutes later, she managed to achieve the shore, battered, bruised, and bleeding. She paused to catch her breath. In that moment—while fighting a sudden wave of exhaustion—she actually considered ditching the troublesome cabin boy. She told herself she wanted to, tha
t the only reason she couldn’t was because of the life debt she still owed his fallen father. But the lie wouldn’t take, wouldn’t hold. Aram was her brother now; she knew that. There had been no possibility of saving Adashe, Akashinga, or Amahle from the Horde. But saving the life of Aramar Thorne might still be within her power. Exhaustion could wait.
She doubled back. The ogres—save the three dead ones—were already gone, and so were Aram and Thalyss. But their trail wasn’t hard to follow. They were moving swiftly. It was a challenge for Makasa to catch up. But free of companions, Makasa could maintain an extremely brisk pace. A few hours after sunrise, she had spotted the raiding party up ahead.
Now the challenge was not being seen. There was very little cover at this elevation. Fortunately, the Gordunni weren’t expecting pursuit; they rarely looked back. So Makasa was able to gain a bit more ground, to get close enough to spot Aram and Thalyss between the ogres. She saw the boy struggle to keep up, and saw the broad-backed ogre shove him forward. She thought she’d like to kill that ogre.
Aram and Thalyss maintained their silence as they watched the ogres fight over the best parts of the pig. It never occurred to either of them to ask for some. Instead, Aram fed himself on memories. Even the least pleasant served to carry him away, offering some small measure of freedom …
They rode in silence. Aram and this man who had returned to claim his rights as Aram’s father. Rights that Greydon Thorne had voluntarily relinquished. He offered no explanation, no apology. And every step of the horses took them farther away from Aram’s home and true family in Lakeshire.
They stopped at an inn and ate in silence. They slept side by side in silence. The next morning they rode off again in silence.
But each one’s silence was of a different flavor. Aram’s was bitter. He resented being forced to leave his family and Lakeshire against his will, and though his mother and Robb had been complicit in the decision, Aram was determined to punish Greydon for it … probably for the entire next year.
Greydon’s silence was different. It was the silence of indecision. It was a silence of struggle. He didn’t know what to say or when to say it. He didn’t know how to break through his son’s righteous anger—the more so because Greydon knew it was righteous. What right did he have to come back into Aram’s life now? What right did he have to make demands of the boy he had abandoned?
So, in the end, it wasn’t the father but the captain who broke the silence. He said, “You’ll like Wavestrider. She’s a fine ship.”
Aram turned his head slowly and gave his father a look of such contempt it nearly shut the man up for good. But he braved the boy’s ire. “She has a fine crew,” he said next. “However mad you are at me, remember that they don’t deserve your anger or contempt. Nor will they put up with it.”
Aram looked down. He had to admit it was sound advice, even if he didn’t care for the source. Besides, he soon found a way to ignore the source. Hadn’t Ceya told him to open his heart to strangers? Hadn’t Robb told him to feed his fire? They had already given Greydon Thorne’s advice in so many words.
Thus, when they arrived at port, Aram allowed himself to be impressed by the Wavestrider. She was old, true. A bit beat-up, with a hull that had been patched over and over. But the artist in Aramar recognized her graceful lines, her elegant design. She was beautiful, he thought, even if she was under his father’s command.
A girl descended the gangway and approached, and Aram decided right then and there that he would offer her his friendship openly. She was tall and imposing and a few years older than he was. She had black skin and short black hair, and she was armed with a cutlass and carrying a harpoon.
Greydon said, “Aramar Thorne, this is Second Mate Makasa Flintwill. She’ll show you the ropes aboard ship.”
Aram stuck out his hand and said, “I’m sure we’ll be great friends.”
She looked at him as if she found the notion extremely unlikely. She said, “We’re not friends. I’m an officer. You’re a cabin boy. Do everything I tell you, and maybe we’ll get along well enough.”
He had rolled his eyes then.
Instantly, she grabbed him by his shirtfront, pulled him in close—nose to nose—and said, “Don’t roll your eyes at me, boy. Don’t roll your eyes in my sight.”
Shaken, Aram had glanced over at his father. But his captain seemed more amused than concerned and nodded his approval to Makasa.
She nodded back, released Aram, and turned on her heel, striding back toward the gangway. Without looking back, she said, “Follow me. Keep up.”
He raced after her.
Now he waited for her.
When the ogres stopped to make camp, Makasa knew the bright light from their bonfire would make the surrounding darkness that much darker. It allowed her to close in and consider her options.
Thirteen ogres. She still had her cutlass and shield and chain and a hatchet. But she felt the loss of the harpoon acutely, as if—like the Whisper-Man—a length of her arm had been removed, which in a way it had. Her unwavering confidence wavered.
Thirteen ogres were just too many. She knew she could slip up silently and kill two or three before the others were aware of her, but that still left at least ten to fight, which was at least seven more than she could handle at once. And worse, the broad-backed ogre knew her weakness. While the others kept her at bay, he could threaten—even kill—Aram.
On the other hand, the situation would hardly improve once the creatures reached their destination. She was facing thirteen now. How many would she face when they rejoined their clan? Fifty? One hundred? Twice that many? Five times? Still, she knew that in a village—no matter how primitive—there would be places to hide and more distractions in play for Aram’s jailors. Possibilities might arise.
But on the third hand, she would stay at the ready. Who knows? Ogres weren’t known for their brains or caution. Perhaps all thirteen would sate themselves and fall asleep. If she could permanently silence eight or nine before an alert was sounded, that would be an entirely different story—especially if one of those silenced was the broad-backed ogre.
So Makasa waited in darkness, not twenty yards from Aram, longing—despite the dire situation and her usual discipline—for roast pig.
The ogres completely devoured the beast, bones and all. There was literally nothing left, and nothing offered, of course, to either Aram or Thalyss.
Broadback tied one end of the rope that bound them to his own wrist and settled back against a rock. He shouted something guttural to three of the ogres, clearly placing them on watch. Then he closed his eyes. Within a couple minutes, he was snoring loudly. A few other ogres slept as well, but more than the three on guard duty stayed awake, grunting at each other, shouting, guffawing, and snorting. The cacophony, all put together, was considerable enough to allow Aram and Thalyss to whisper to each other without drawing attention.
“Where is Makasa?” Thalyss asked first.
Aram jerked his head toward the darkness. “Out there, somewhere. She’s waiting for the right time.”
Thalyss nodded, never questioning or doubting Aram’s certainty on this point. “And Murky?” he whispered.
Aram shook his head. There wasn’t much hope in that corner.
Thalyss nodded again, though more sadly. “Do you still have the compass?”
“Yes.” Aram glanced around to make sure none of the Gordunni was watching. Then, with little effort, he slipped a hand free and reached under his shirt.
The night elf offered a surprised smile at Aram’s dexterity—and then his surprise doubled as they both looked at the compass. The crystal needle on the compass—after so many days of consistently pointing southeast—was now pointing to the northeast! And it was glowing!
Thalyss swallowed hard, tapped his upper lip with his tongue, and whispered, “Has it ever done that before?”
Aram, too stunned to speak, shook his head—then quickly tucked the compass back under his shirt, lest its glow catch other
eyes. He tried to put what little he knew of the compass into some context that would or could explain this. But no explanation emerged. He offered Thalyss a questioning look.
The druid could only shrug. He said, “Try to get some sleep. I will keep an eye out for Makasa.”
Aram slipped his hand back between the loops of rope and whispered, “There’s no way I could ever sleep.”
“You would be surprised. Try.”
Aram rolled his eyes then, something he hadn’t done in weeks. He felt instantly guilty and wondered if Makasa was close enough in the darkness to have seen it.
“Try,” Thalyss repeated.
So Aram closed his eyes, thinking, There’s just no way …
They paraded past him, one after another.
Matriarch Cackle said, “Good magic,” and held up a sliver of crystal.
Baron Reigol Valdread, the Whisper-Man, whispered, “Good magic,” and held up a sliver of crystal.
Ceya Northbrooke Thorne Glade said, “Good magic,” and held up a sliver of crystal.
The ship’s lookout, Duan Phen, said, “Good magic,” and held up a sliver of crystal.
Robb Glade said, “Good magic,” and held up a sliver of crystal.
Throgg the ogre said, “Good magic,” and held up a sliver of crystal.
Robertson Glade said, “Good magic,” and held up a sliver of crystal.
Selya Glade said, “Good magic,” and held up a sliver of crystal.
Makasa Flintwill said, “Good magic,” and held up a sliver of crystal.
Thalyss said, “Good magic,” and held up a sliver of crystal.
First Mate Durgan One-God said, “Good magic,” and held up a sliver of crystal.
Even Murky said, “Good magic,” in clear and understandable Common, and held up a sliver of crystal.
Third Mate Silent Joe Barker said nothing, but held up a sliver of crystal.
Captain Greydon Thorne said, “Good magic,” and held up a sliver of crystal.
