by Greg Weisman
Aram asked the obvious question: “What if we refuse to fight?”
Woolbeard sidestepped it. “Boy, you do what you like. But if you’re paired with me, I’ll split your skull for you.”
Aram smiled, consciously choosing to keep their discussion light. “You think you can catch me?”
Woolbeard waved the concern away. “Eh, eventually. They keep a wooden leg for me topside, and I get around pretty good. You probably think you’re too fast for me. But the murlocs are too fast for me—and too slippery, too. Except they tire, and I don’t. Or Gordok gets impatient and has one of his warders shove the murloc toward me. It’ll be the same with you, boy. You’ll tire or get shoved my way, and I’ll split your skull.” Then, as an afterthought, he said, “Nothing personal, of course.”
“Oh, of course.”
The old tauren took a long look at Aram and frowned. “Understand, it’s over for us. I’ve tried escaping. They cut off my leg. I’ve tried not fighting. They beat me near to death. All that’s left is to do what they say and hope for a quick end.”
He fell silent.
Thalyss approached with two of the murlocs. Even before the night elf spoke, Aram thought they looked like Murky. But then again, all the murlocs looked like Murky. “Aram, this is Murrgly and Murrl. Murky’s uncle and aunt. The other murlocs are also from Murky’s village.”
Aram swallowed hard. He wasn’t sure how to tell them that their nephew was almost definitely dead—and that it was almost definitely Aram’s own fault.
The druid seemed to sense Aram’s dilemma and said, “I told them Murky was captured by another raiding party, and that we wanted to help him but were captured before we had the chance.”
The larger of the two murlocs—to be honest, Aram wasn’t sure if it was the uncle or aunt—said, “Mmmmrgl nk mrrrgll. Murrgly Murrl mrrrgle Murky mlgggrr flk.”
Aram turned to Thalyss, who listened, struggling to understand. “Hmmm. I believe Aunt Murrl here says not to feel too bad. The truth is they both had assumed Murky was already dead.”
Uncle Murrgly pawed the ground and said, “Murky nk flllurlokkr. Mrrrgle Murky mlgggrrr flk.”
Thalyss translated. “Murky is no fisherman. My impression is they thought he would have starved to death by now.”
Aunt Murrl placed a gentle hand on Aram’s shoulder. “Mmrgl mrrugl Murky.”
“She is thanking you for trying to help him.”
Aram met her gaze and said, “I wish we could have done more.”
She nodded back at him, and they all fell silent. Aram knew he didn’t want to fight any of these creatures, and certainly not for the amusement of ogres. But both Hackle and Woolbeard had made it perfectly clear that an alliance was unlikely. It would take more magic than the druid had in his pockets to change that.
But what about the magic Aram had in his pockets?
He pulled out his sketchbook and pencil.
With all his heart, he wished his father were there to pose for him. His father and Makasa. He longed to hear her say, “You better not be putting me in that blasted book.” But neither Greydon nor Makasa was likely to make an appearance, so instead, he started by showing the book to the murlocs.
Aunt Murrl practically cooed over Aram’s sketches of Murky, and even gruff Uncle Murrgly squinted back a tear.
He sketched them both together, then made rough drawings of the rest of the murlocs as well. By the time he was done, he no longer had any difficulty distinguishing male murlocs from female, old from young, etc. The females were slightly larger than the males. The younger murlocs had bigger eyes and were a brighter green, only growing darker with age. Even their language was beginning to reach him. He heard mmmm mrrrggk over and over, and knew he was on the right track.
After that, Aram sat down with Woolbeard, showing him the sketches of the tauren he had drawn at Flayers’ Point. Woolbeard seemed impressed, and when Aram turned the page to Bloodhorn, Woolbeard actually whistled. He said, “I like the look of her. She have a name?”
“Lady Bloodhorn,” Aram said.
“A lady? Never heard a tauren called a lady before.”
“That’s what my father called her. They were trading partners.”
“Were?”
“My father’s dead.”
Woolbeard grunted his condolences, then said, “My own wife died ten years ago.” He tapped Bloodhorn’s portrait. “Wouldn’t mind meeting a fine lady like this one.”
“If we ever get out of here, I could introduce you both.”
For a brief moment, Woolbeard had forgotten where he was. But now the tauren looked down his snout at Aram and shook his head. “That’s not likely, boy.” But he said it with more kindness and less of a tone of doomed inevitability than before. (In any case, he didn’t repeat the threat to split Aram’s skull for him.) It was clear Aram’s acquaintance with Lady Bloodhorn had raised his stock with the old tauren. When Aram asked permission to sketch him, Woolbeard shook his head. “Not sure I want this version of me captured in your book.”
“What’s your real name? I could try to capture him.”
He said nothing for a long time. Then he muttered something too low for Aram to hear. Aram waited patiently. Finally, Woolbeard shook his head and said, “You survive the night, and maybe I’ll try to remember my true name.”
“And in the meantime?”
“In the meantime, I’ll try to remember what I used to look like, and you can try to put that memory in your book.”
Minutes later, with the drawing complete, Woolbeard nodded his approval, saying, “Boy, I haven’t looked that good in years. If you do get out of here, you show this to that Lady Bloodhorn of yours. It’ll cast my spell on her good.”
“No doubt,” Aram said, pleased that in the time it took to execute the sketch, his chances of escape seemed to have improved considerably in the tauren’s mind.
Thalyss watched all this with bemused amazement. “You are a natural,” he said. “You and that book, anyway. You can reach most anyone with that, can you not?”
“We’ll see,” Aram said. He turned to face the fissure and began sketching. Over the past hour, he had snuck the occasional glance at Hackle and always found the gnoll’s glowing eyes upon him. And, still, all Aram could see were those eyes, so he mostly drew Hackle from memory, occasionally turning the pages back to the gnoll brute to augment his recollection. And he took his time with it, too, weaving his spell on the young gnoll.
That sorcery began to do its work. A curious Hackle emerged slowly from the fissure, allowing Aram to improve his drawing with more and more of its subject in view. He captured the patterns of the gnoll’s dark spots against his fur, including the spot around his light blue left eye, which contrasted starkly with his dark brown right eye. He captured the leather skullcap Hackle wore and the single incisor that stuck out even when the gnoll’s mouth was closed.
At last, the gnoll began to warily circle, sometimes on all fours, sometimes upright. But gradually, with each pass, he drew closer and closer to Aram.
Finally, Aram felt he was done. He put his pencil down and beckoned Hackle. At first, the gnoll pretended not to notice. He quickly sat down where he was and rapidly scratched the back of his neck with his foot in much the way Soot was wont to do. But when the scratching stopped and Hackle glanced back over, Aram’s eyes were still upon him. Aram beckoned again.
So in the end, Hackle approached. Aram showed him the sketch and watched Hackle smile. Aram flipped back through the leaves to reveal the drawing of the small gnoll pup, which Aram had sketched a lifetime ago. He could hear Hackle’s swift intake of breath. Aram turned the leaf back, and Hackle lingered over the drawing of the Grimtail brute.
Aram said, “In a year or two, you’ll look much like him.”
Hackle grinned broadly. Then his expression fell, and he shook his head. “Hackle runt of litter. Too small for a Woodpaw brute.”
“It’s not always about size,” Aram told him. “It’s about who�
�s the fiercest warrior.”
Hackle smiled again. “Hackle plenty fierce,” he said, straightening his back.
Aram flipped the leaf. “This is Cackle. Matriarch of the Grimtail clan.”
The young gnoll stabbed a finger at the sketch, confirming. “Cackle?”
“Yes.”
“Hackle is Hackle!”
“I know.”
The young gnoll giggled then, and the giggle soon expanded into peals of laughter punctuated by him repeating over and over, “Hackle, Cackle! Hackle, Cackle! Hackle, Cackle!” The coincidence of the rhyme seemed to supply the gnoll with an endless source of glee. It took him an easy five minutes to settle back down and left him panting loudly. He grinned at the sketchbook and then at Aram.
“Good magic?” Aram prompted.
Hackle nodded. “Good magic!”
“Maybe we can be friends then.”
Hackle kept nodding unconsciously. But shortly his mind and his memory caught up to his current warm feelings toward Aram. He stepped back abruptly. “No,” he growled. “Ogres want fight. Ogres want victory. Hackle warrior. Prove in arena. Prove every time!” Then he muttered, “Show them they wrong.”
Aram struggled to make the gnoll understand. “The ogres keep Hackle as a slave. Why does Hackle care what ogres think?”
Hackle shook his head. “Not ogres. Gnolls! Woodpaw think Hackle not warrior. Not worthy. Drive Hackle away! Ogres catch Hackle! Think he die in arena first night! But Hackle show ogres, show gnolls! Show them all they wrong!”
“Hackle is a warrior!”
“Yes!”
“But that doesn’t mean he has to fight everyone, friend and foe alike. It doesn’t mean he has to fight tonight.”
Then, directly across from them, the rope ladder unrolled down the wall of the pit. And from above, Wordok’s voice bellowed, “All climb! All climb now!”
Makasa carefully made her way through the jungle of wooden spikes. It was treacherously slow going; nevertheless, she couldn’t resist a grim smile. To creatures as large as ogres, the dense thickets of oversize stakes must have seemed impenetrable. And without a doubt, they were intimidating; every single spike was sharp enough to impale. But when Makasa Flintwill had looked at them more closely, it had immediately become clear that if you weren’t as wide as an ogre, there was considerable … wiggle room.
It was an intricate dance. She basically advanced stake by stake, sliding around one, ducking under another, oozing and undulating between each spike. She had removed her shield to give her greater flexibility and to use it to force aside the occasional stake impeding her progress. She kept the hatchet handy, too, for when one couldn’t be avoided and required removal. But mostly, she relied on herself. She had excellent muscle control and a good eye, and even in the rapidly fading light, she rarely miscalculated. Still, every few minutes, the point of a spike would snag on her clothes or catch at the iron chain wrapped around her chest or slip between her leg and her sword, lifting the cutlass up awkwardly, requiring Makasa to extricate herself with delicate finesse.
And then there were the cuts. On her left cheek. On her right thigh and knee. On both ankles. All over both arms. The cuts were shallow but stinging and left drops of blood behind. There were moments when she actually wished she were more like Aram—smaller, shorter, slimmer—but these moments were fleeting. She valued her size and strength and knew she’d need both for what was to come.
She had avoided the main ridge—its guard posts, gate, and sentries—though the steep slope below the crest had made the stake-dance that much more challenging. This maneuvering had taken her most of the day, but by sunset, she had come over the top to descend through these “thorns” into the Dire Maul valley. By nightfall, she had reached the edge of the final thicket of spikes and scoped out the ruins before her. Feeling triumphant, Makasa became briefly careless, scratching herself against a long slim spike, carving a long shallow cut into her forehead. Like the other cuts, this one stung and, worse, dripped blood into both eyes. She blinked several times and carefully raised an arm to wipe the blood away. Then, in a rare moment of pure spite, she used her shield to force the offending thorn upward until it snapped off at the base. It fell at her feet. She stared at it in the moonlight, and a thought occurred. Keeping to the shadows, she emerged from the thicket, carrying the long thin stake like a spear—or like a harpoon. With her shield once again strapped to her back, her free hand quietly drew out her cutlass, and she silently proceeded from shadow to shadow into the heart of the ogre clan’s territory.
She was initially surprised to find nearly every structure empty. She peeked into a hut and could see signs of recent habitation. But there were no ogres in sight, not in the hut, not anywhere.
A helpful cloud concealed the White Lady, the larger of Azeroth’s two moons. The second moon, the Blue Child, was but an azure sliver that night and gave off just enough of a glow to aid Makasa, without putting her at much risk.
But there were lights up ahead: multiple torches converging near a large dome of actual thorns. She thought the dome might be some kind of prison, which meant the prisoners might be on display there. It was as sound a hypothesis as any. She didn’t dare take a direct route but silently and stealthily made her way by fits and starts through the ruins toward the dome.
But the torches, the ogres, weren’t actually converging on the dome. Her heart sank as she saw where they were headed: a large amphitheater being used as a gladiatorial arena. From the shadows, she first heard and then spotted the broad-backed ogre acting as master of ceremonies, playing to the crowd at times, but mostly to what could only be the king of the clan. Enthroned on a massive stone chair, this was the biggest ogre Makasa had ever seen. His servant, a rather small ogre girl, made him look bigger still, and he slapped her periodically to prove his dominance. Yet it wasn’t the king who gave Makasa pause. It was Aram (dragged out with the night elf, a crippled tauren, a young gnoll, and a dozen or so murlocs) being placed into a holding pen, a slave pen, in plain view of all the ogres in the arena. Makasa had confidence she could kill any ogre—probably even one as large as this nasty-looking king. But she couldn’t kill a hundred ogres. Once again, she’d have to watch and wait.
An ogre handed a thick wooden peg leg to Woolbeard, who carefully strapped it on to his knee stump and then tested it by lurching about the pen with surprising speed.
Meanwhile, Wordok was proclaiming loudly to the assembled throng, “Fun match tonight! Old tauren skull-splitter fight elf can change to great bear!”
Aram watched Thalyss shake his head and chuckle. Somehow, the night elf was still amused by their predicament—or at least by some of its details. With another chuckle, he leaned toward Aram and whispered, “What do you suppose would happen to Wordok if, instead of a bear, I changed into a feathered moonkin?”
Aram found himself shrugging, though for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why he or Thalyss should care about Wordok’s likelihood of survival when their own seemed so much in question. Also, Aram had never seen a “moonkin” and was suddenly dying to know what one looked like.
“But first,” Wordok shouted, while holding up Aram’s cutlass, “we see little killer of Kerskull fight gnoll pup!”
A few yards away, Hackle began to growl. Aram heard him grumble, “Hackle no pup …” before shooting a murderous look Aram’s way.
Aram swallowed hard and tried to take a deep, calming breath. He was looking everywhere for Makasa, but he couldn’t see her, couldn’t be sure that she was anywhere near—or that there was anything she could do even if she were.
The holding pen was opened, and Hackle strode out. Aram didn’t move at first, but a warder with a long spear poked him in the rear and his still-smarting back until the boy complied and entered the ring.
Once the crowd got a good look at him, they began hooting their disdain. Aram couldn’t make out most of it, but he did hear, “That flea kill Kerskull?!” and “Kerskull worthless!” plus a handful of
other remarks disparaging Aram, Kerskull, or both.
Wordok approached and handed Aram his bloodstained cutlass. For a brief moment, the boy fantasized about stabbing the ogre and making his escape during the resulting confusion. But he knew it would never work.
Another ogre handed Hackle an ironwood war club accented with three or four iron nails. Aram couldn’t help wondering if Greydon Thorne had purveyed the weapon that was about to kill his son. But he shook the thought away.
With no ceremony, Wordok and the other warders promptly abandoned the ring. The arena grew silent.
Watching from the shadows, hidden behind an ancient stone megalith that stuck out at an angle from the turf between the amphitheater and the pit, Makasa debated internally whether to intervene. She was prepared to intervene—even at the cost of her own freedom or life. But her preference was to wait. If Aram could survive the contest, she felt considerably more optimistic about rescuing him from whatever cell they stuck him in—after the bulk of the ogre population had gone to sleep. And Aram surviving didn’t seem impossible.
The murlocs are probably from Murky’s village, and they have survived the arena for some weeks. If they can survive that long, can’t Aram survive one night? After all, he managed to survive the attack on Wavestrider. Plus, that gnoll he’s supposed to fight is a real runt of a thing.
But she realized she was trying to talk herself into expecting an outcome that most of Aram’s history wouldn’t support. So she waited—but remained at the ready, knowing that one way or another, she would save her brother.
The two young gladiators faced each other. Aram, frankly, was terrified. He felt his knees go weak, and the only thing that was preventing his teeth from chattering was the fact that his jaw seemed to have locked. He didn’t want to kill the gnoll, but he really didn’t want to die, and—despite the months of his father’s training aboard Wavestrider—recent events had more than demonstrated that his fighting abilities in a life-or-death struggle were insufficient. He held his sword off to the side, forced his jaw to unclench, swallowed, and whispered, “I don’t want to fight you.”
