Traveler

by Greg Weisman

  “Aram fight or Hackle kill Aram,” the gnoll said quietly, looking unhappy. Then he shook his head and corrected himself: “Hackle kill Aram anyway. But better Aram die fighting.”

  “But if we both refuse to fight—”

  Now Hackle shouted, “Hackle never refuse fight!”

  And, finally, from his throne, Gordok shouted impatiently, “Fight NOW!”

  The gnoll rushed wildly at Aram, swinging his club. The whole crowd instantly roared its approval. It wasn’t a precision attack, and Aram was able to duck and roll out of the way. He wished for a different weapon. Something he could hit Hackle with, maybe stun him without killing him. But those kinds of thoughts were quickly pushed from his mind, as Hackle swung his club back around and the tip of one nail snagged on Aram’s shirt, tearing it open just below where the compass hung on its chain and nearly slicing open his belly at the same time.

  Aram leapt back; the gangly gnoll advanced on him, swinging—or rather, overswinging—his club wildly. This time it didn’t even come close. Aram thought he saw a pleading look in Hackle’s eyes. In any case, he knew the gnoll didn’t really want to hurt him. He just needed to give Hackle a reason, an excuse not to fight.

  Hackle continued to swing his club in long sweeping arcs that forced Aram back but never really came close enough to inflict any damage. At first, this show thrilled the ogres, who cheered on the gnoll more with every swing. But the swings led to no impact, no blood, no carnage, and the crowd began to turn, hissing and taunting both combatants. From Aram they got no reaction, but Hackle seemed to feel every shouted slight like a blow brought down on his shoulders. Somehow, the ogres could sense this and turned against him completely. Worst of all, they began to laugh at him and his wildly ineffective swings.

  He couldn’t abide it and tightened up his game. He advanced more quickly; the swings of his club came shorter and faster and with more specific intent.

  Aram was forced to deflect a swing with his sword, and the jolt rattled him all the way back to his shoulder socket. He hesitated to parry again, afraid the cutlass would be shattered into fragments by the force of Hackle’s blows. Again he wished for a different weapon, this time not out of any desire to be merciful, but because this was not his sword, not the sword his father had given him the day he first boarded Wavestrider. That weapon had been torn from his grip and left inside the chest of the Whisper-Man. The cutlass he held now had been pried from the grip of a dead pirate, and Aram superstitiously questioned its loyalty.

  From her vantage, Makasa watched as all of Greydon Thorne’s lessons seemed to abandon his son. The boy wasn’t even trying to use his sword; he was simply dodging the gnoll’s war club, which came closer to braining Aram with every swing.

  She glanced over at Thalyss, who was watching intently from inside the holding pen, hoping the druid would intervene so she wouldn’t have to. But the night elf suddenly started to smile. What had he seen?

  She looked back at Aram. He was running. Running away from the gnoll at top speed.

  The crowd, which had fallen silent when Hackle had stepped up his attacks, began to laugh again. Belatedly, Hackle gave chase. Aram ran all the way around the ring, and Hackle loped after him, his embarrassment increasing with every step and his fury rising in concert.

  Aram wasn’t trying to escape the gnoll so much as buy himself some time to think, to come up with a strategy, a plan—or one halfway decent notion of what to do next. Then, on his second time around the ring, a wild idea entered his head. It wasn’t much, but it was all he had, so he immediately attempted its execution.

  He stumbled, rolling over in the dirt. In order not to overrun him, Hackle stopped short. Aram looked up. Their eyes met. Again, Hackle looked miserable. But he raised his war club over his head and was prepared to bring it down to crush Aram’s.

  Just as the club began its descent, Aram—who had already pulled his oilskin-wrapped sketchbook out of his back pocket—whipped the book forward, holding it up in front of him like a talisman, shouting, “Beware my magic!”

  Hackle hesitated, his club frozen midswing. The crowd gasped audibly. Aram quickly scampered to his feet. He unwrapped the book and held it out, keeping it between himself and the gnoll.

  From his throne, a confused Gordok shouted at Wordok, “Boy have magic book?!”

  An equally confused Wordok took all this in, shrugged to himself, and shouted back, “That how Kerskull die! Fun, yeah?!”

  Gordok considered this, then nodded sagely. All this seemed to impress the other spectators, and they remained silent, eager to see what would happen next.

  Aram kept his eyes locked on Hackle’s. He spoke directly to the gnoll, while simultaneously attempting to put on a show for the audience. “You know this is good magic, don’t you?!” he shouted, knowing his words would mean one thing to Hackle and something entirely different to the crowd.

  Hackle nodded, still holding his club in the air.

  “You don’t want to hurt me and risk the magic, do you?!”

  Hackle shook his head.

  But from the crowd, a one-eyed ogre shouted, “Puny gnoll afraid of book!”

  Each word struck Hackle like a slap across the face. A low growl began emanating from his throat. He advanced.

  But Aram was ready for this. He had already opened the book to its last sketched page, the page with Hackle’s picture. Turning his back to the crowd, Aram showed the likeness to the gnoll—and only the gnoll. “Take another step, and I rip this out. That’s bad magic. Trust me, Hackle, you don’t want the bad magic. You want the good magic.”

  Hackle nodded dumbly. Aram advanced a few steps. Hackle backed away just as many.

  Aram shouted, “Then lower your war club! We were not meant to be enemies, you and I!”

  The club slowly sank.

  Makasa could not believe her eyes or her ears. It was working! She could hear the ogres whispering that Aram was casting a spell on the gnoll with his magic book.

  And in a way, he was.

  Taking his biggest risk yet, Aram tossed his sword across the ring and called out, “Throw away that club! You must not use it against the good magic!”

  And Hackle, almost smiling, complied with Aram’s command. The club thunked into the dirt a few inches from Aram’s cutlass.

  The ogres were all now silent as the grave. But Gordok was still confused and not a little frustrated. He looked around at his fellow ogres. He stared at Aram and the book. He shot a look at Wordok, who was grinning stupidly at all the “fun.” Finally, he slammed his fist down with so much force, it shattered the stone armrest of his throne. “Use magic!” he commanded. “Kill gnoll wid magic book!”

  Aram tried not to visibly cringe, but he briefly glanced away from Hackle, breaking the “spell.”

  “Kill gnoll wid magic book!” Gordok shouted again.

  Hackle turned a contemptuous look toward the ogre king and shouted back, “Not that kind of magic! Not that kind of book!”

  “WHAT?!” roared Gordok, rising to his feet. “WHAT?!”

  He turned again to Wordok, who shrugged sheepishly at his king. A growling Gordok resumed his seat and smacked his right fist into the palm of his left hand with enough force to shatter twenty stone armrests. He shouted down at Hackle, “DEN KILL BOY!”

  Aram looked at Hackle. Hackle looked at Aram. Then both of them made a mad dash for their weapons.

  Hackle was faster but at the end slowed down so as not to overrun his club. Aram didn’t slow, didn’t go for his sword. Instead, he leapt, using his momentum to slam into the gnoll, tackling him and rolling with him beyond both club and cutlass. The pain in his back reminded Aram he was still at a disadvantage against Hackle’s natural weapons, so before the gnoll could strike with tooth or claw, Aram brought both his legs under him and, with all the strength he could muster, kicked the gnoll away.

  The stunned crowd finally snapped out of its collective stupor and cheered the action. This briefly distracted Hackle—but not
Aram. In a flash, he was on his feet; he scooped up his cutlass, kicked away the club, and—before the gnoll could rise—had the tip of his sword pressed against Hackle’s throat.

  Makasa could almost read Aram’s mind. Can I do this? he was thinking. Can I take this poor creature’s life?

  Kill him, she urged with all her heart. But deep down, she knew—despaired—that such an act was not her brother’s way.

  The crowd again was hushed. Many of the ogres were smiling. To them it had been an entertaining—if unorthodox—show.

  Gordok was less enthralled. In fact, he looked completely disgusted. He shook his head and said with a dismissive wave, “Fine. Boy kill gnoll.”

  “No.”

  Instantly, Gordok was back on his feet and bellowing, “NO?! NO?!”

  Aram smiled triumphantly—thinking he might as well take his triumphs where he could find them—and said, “This gnoll is not my enemy. I will not harm him.” Of course, he still kept the blade to Hackle’s throat, just in case.

  Hackle groaned loudly as the entire crowd began to shout down their scorn. He looked up at Aram with pleading eyes. “Please,” he growled despairingly, “kill Hackle. End Hackle’s shame.”

  Aram continued to work his magic. “No. You are brave and honorable and my friend. I cannot—will not—kill a Woodpaw gnoll who gives his all as you have, a Woodpaw gnoll who has proven his skill as you have! I will not kill a Woodpaw gnoll with the true heart of a warrior as you have!”

  Hackle growled again, but this growl was a growl of pride. Their eyes met. There was indeed magic between them.

  Nor were they the only ones affected. In the pen, Thalyss smiled, quite impressed. And Woolbeard … Aram’s words reached something deep inside the old tauren, something long forgotten. He found that he was slumped over the fence and raised himself up to his full height.

  Farther off, Makasa shook her head. Aram was simply … unbelievable. But the piece of him she found most incredible was the piece that reminded her most of Greydon Thorne. She wouldn’t smile. He wasn’t out of danger yet. But for once, not smiling took some real effort.

  Hackle whispered resignedly, “Aram should kill Hackle. Worse for both if Aram don’t.”

  Aram frowned and shook his head minutely, whispering, “Don’t forget the good magic. Luck is on our side tonight …” He trailed off, realizing he had dropped his sketchbook while tackling Hackle. He looked around and spotted it lying in the dirt about ten feet away. He felt terribly anxious to pick it back up and stow it safely in his back pocket. His sword point drifted an inch or two away from Hackle’s throat.

  Hackle saw an opportunity to jump his opponent—but was far past mustering up the will to kill this human. Instead, he muttered, “Worse for both then.”

  Aram turned back to Hackle and again shook his head.

  Throughout this brief exchange, Gordok seethed. Then a smile crept over his face. He sat down once more. Calmly, he asked, “Boy won’t kill gnoll?”

  “No,” Aram repeated, disturbed by Gordok’s change of demeanor. Suddenly, the ogre king seemed strangely sanguine about this turn of events.

  Gordok smiled and offered up a warning. “Slaves who won’t kill slaves must face Ol’ One-Eye.”

  The ogres erupted with their largest cheer yet!

  Aram mustered up his courage and shouted his defiance for all to hear: “FINE! SEND OLD ONE-EYE!” Then he looked down and whispered to Hackle, “Who’s Old One-Eye?”

  Gordok’s grin seemed to stretch across his entire face. “Summon One-Eye,” he said with barely suppressed glee.

  A potbellied ogre standing near Broadback lifted a massive ram’s horn up to his lips, puffed out his cheeks to a degree Aram would not have thought possible, and blew! The sound of the horn echoed across the entire valley of Dire Maul and beyond.

  Almost immediately, the horn was answered by a thundering roar that Aram imagined could be heard in Flayers’ Point—if not in Lakeshire.

  In the silence that followed, Aram’s sword arm went slack, falling away completely from the gnoll’s throat. Hackle didn’t budge; he only groaned mournfully.

  Aram glanced Hackle’s way and—seeing the gnoll was disinclined to rise, let alone attack again—raced across the ring to retrieve his sketchbook. He had just rewrapped and stowed it in his back pocket, when from behind him, he heard the sound of wings. He turned around, and his jaw went slack. This was no common bird of Azeroth. He stood paralyzed, terrified.

  From the holding pen, Thalyss called out a warning. “Wyvern!”

  It had the face of a wolf, the mane of a lion, the tail of a scorpion, and giant, giant bat wings. And it was approaching fast. After flapping once to get more height, it tucked its wings and dove straight down toward the amphitheater and the ring.

  Aram glanced back toward Hackle; he still lay prone on the ground, resigned and waiting for death. Aram sprinted back over to him and yanked the gnoll to his feet, pulling him away seconds before the wyvern’s rear claws stabbed down into the dirt where Hackle had lain.

  The crowd roared. There was no longer any question as to whom they would root for now. They cheered the wyvern on, urging it to “SQUASH THE GNOLL!” or “EAT THE BOY!” and suchlike.

  Aram was trying very hard not to roll up into a little ball. He had never seen a wyvern before but had heard they were about as big as a horse. This one was easily three times that size. Its stinger with its two venom sacs arched upward on the wyvern’s long ridged tail, preparing to strike. It swung back and forth hypnotically. Aram couldn’t tear his eyes away. He thought, Now I am going to die …

  Still he had managed to keep his sword arm up and his other arm around the gnoll, practically supporting Hackle’s entire body weight. The gnoll’s head hung down in defeat. He muttered, “Hackle told Aram. Better to kill Hackle …”

  This snapped Aram out of his stupor. “C’mon!” he shouted. “Hackle never refuse fight!”

  Hackle’s eyes met Aram’s; then he grinned; then he laughed; then he shoved Aram with all his strength, sending him flying halfway across the ring—and thus saving him from a strike from the stinger.

  Aram rolled to a stop, somehow managing to hold on to his cutlass. Rising up on one knee, Aram saw the wyvern turn its head all the way to the left to find him. There was something familiar about the gesture. Something that reminded him of a Lakeshire tomcat that was always skulking around the forge. He had sketched that cat. It only had … Of course! Old One-Eye! The wyvern’s left eye-socket was empty!

  As the beast slowly turned its bulk to face its prey, Aram stood; his two eyes found Hackle, still grinning as he picked up his war club.

  “It’s One-Eye!” Aram shouted.

  “Hackle know!”

  “No, listen, he has only one eye!”

  “She has only one eye!” shouted Thalyss from the pen.

  Aram shot the night elf a look. “Really?! Now?!”

  The druid shrugged. “You wanted to be wrong?!”

  “Fine! She! She only has one eye!”

  But Hackle understood. The beast had a blind spot, one that Hackle and Aram could exploit. Together.

  And that’s when it happened. Makasa watched from behind the megalith—still ready, if necessary, to make her presence known and felt. And though she was not a woman to be easily impressed, she was mightily impressed by what she now beheld: without another word or thought, the boy and the pup had become partners, a team.

  One-Eye lunged toward Aram—but was pulled up short as Hackle grabbed hold of her tail.

  The crowd gasped.

  The wyvern turned her good right eye toward the gnoll, lifted her tail—gnoll and all—and slammed the whole package down hard against the ground. But before she could sting the stunned Hackle, Aram was at the beast, slashing his cutlass across the wyvern’s shoulder.

  She roared in pain—as the ogres roared their disapproval—but One-Eye had to turn again to locate the boy.

  And so it went. Aram and Hackle had
little chance of actually finishing off the wyvern, but they were doing a decent job of keeping her distracted enough to prevent her from actually finishing off either of them. One would attack her, then the other.

  Gordok was finally enjoying the show. He liked that the slaves were putting up a respectable fight at last. Usually, Ol’ One-Eye made short work and a quick meal of anyone she was summoned to dispatch. Still, the ogre king had little fear of an unpleasant outcome. The damage they were doing to the wyvern was minimal relative to her size. This game of theirs couldn’t last. He knew his creature would win in the end; he knew the rebellious slaves would die horribly.

  Makasa knew it, too. And she thought this might just be her moment. If she went in now and killed the monster fast by driving her stake-harpoon through the beast’s heart, the resulting chaos would give her and the boy a chance to escape on the back of Thalyss’s stag form. She moved out a bit from behind the megalith, trying to catch the druid’s attention without attracting anyone else’s.

  But Thalyss’s attentions were focused elsewhere. His back to Makasa, he was crouching before Uncle Murrgly, speaking to him in the murloc tongue. The druid knew wyverns and ogres had no history as allies. So why was Old One-Eye serving Gordok?

  In response, Murrgly pointed to the nearby dome of thorns …

  Meanwhile, as One-Eye turned to swipe at Aram with her claws, Hackle swung his club against her soft and sensitive venom sac just below the beast’s stinger.

  The wyvern let out a blood-curdling scream that sounded almost human. She leapt upward and flapped her wings as she turned in midair to pounce upon the gnoll. Aram found himself beneath her and stabbed upward with his sword. The monster was too high—or the boy was too short—for the wyvern to feel more than a slight pricking, but feel it she did. Wings flapping to keep her aloft and hovering, she rotated her body perpendicular to the ground. Her jaws snapped at Aram, barely missing. The wyvern’s huge head was wheeling upward again, but without thinking, Aram reached out and grabbed hold of One-Eye’s beard, which dragged him up and off his feet.