by Greg Weisman
One-Eye turned her head toward the boy and nodded.
Thalyss said, “She has agreed to help us—to help you, Aramar—in recompense for services rendered.”
Aram whispered to Makasa, “We’re halfway home.” Then he pointed at the slave pen and shouted, “Free the prisoners!”
With little effort the wyvern smashed down one side of the pen. Before the dust had cleared, Hackle—laughing maniacally—was leading the murlocs out.
Woolbeard took up the rear, shouting, “Boy, you’ve done it!”
Up until this point, the ogres had all been leaderless and rudderless, unsure what to do. But Wordok knew he needed to hold on to his prisoners, and he sprung into action to recapture them, barking orders to his fellow warders. The closest two rushed the prisoners, but the old tauren—energized and inspired by Aram’s survival and success—lurched forward and clocked their heads together. He didn’t exactly “split their skulls for them,” but both dropped, for the moment dazed. Woolbeard laughed triumphantly.
Malus, still holding the morningstar, was crossing the arena, making a beeline for Aram, who was about thirty yards away. But Gordok’s honor guard, who had descended from the stands to marvel at their king’s corpse, intercepted him. He proceeded to make short work of them—but it cost him precious time.
Wordok’s shouting reached the ears of the ogre warriors guarding Ssarbik, Throgg, Zathra, Skitter, and the still-entangled Valdread, who was busy cutting through the cursed nets with his black shale dagger. The Hidden were soon surrounded on all sides by three rows of spears.
Ssarbik began to chant then, but a spear was thrust under his beak, poking into his sensitive throat, and he fell silent.
Valdread sighed and said, “Would someone hand me my leg?”
For the record, no one did.
Wordok’s warders were racing across what remained of the pen, only to come face-to-face with One-Eye. She bit off the head of the first warder, impaled the second on her stinger, while one swipe of her claws reduced the third to shreds and tatters.
The two warders with spears let loose their shafts, which distracted One-Eye enough to allow Wordok past her. But though the spears found their target in her side, they did little real damage to the huge wyvern, and soon she had dispatched both hurlers.
Having finished off the honor guard, Malus saw—as usual—that he’d have to do everything for himself. After dropping the morningstar and pulling his sword out of the dead Gordok’s foot, he rushed forward.
Wordok easily caught up to the limping Woolbeard and smacked him out of the way. Dazed and knocked off balance, the tauren fell and struggled to rise.
With his two massive mitts, Wordok grabbed for murlocs left and right and tossed them back over his shoulders—both to get them out of his way and in the hope that they would soon be recaptured, back in the pen or the pit. But when he grabbed Uncle Murrgly and Aunt Murrl, Murky literally skittered up the ogre’s back, locked his legs around Wordok’s neck, and used his hands to completely cover Wordok’s eyes.
The ogre dropped Murrgly and Murrl to grab at Murky, but the murloc was slippery enough and stretchy enough that it took Wordok a couple of moments to pry the creature loose. Soon, however, he had both of Murky’s ankles in one fist and both of the murloc’s wrists in the other. He began pulling them in separate directions. Murky screamed, and Wordok instantly stopped pulling.
Murky, a bit surprised, looked down. Wordok, even more surprised, looked down, too. There was a wooden stake sticking out of his chest. They both looked up. Murky yelled, “Mrksa!” Wordok said nothing. He simply collapsed to his knees, inadvertently dropping Murky on his head.
The little murloc didn’t seem to mind. He popped right back up and ran to Makasa and gave her a big slimy hug. She tried to tug him off, because she could see that the broad-backed ogre wasn’t quite dead yet.
Wordok of the Dire Maul Gordunni staggered back to his feet. He reached blindly for the war club hooked to his belt, but his hands couldn’t quite find it. So he pulled the bloody stake from his chest and rushed forward, while Makasa was still trying to extricate herself from the happy grateful murloc clinging to her arms.
Fortunately, Hackle appeared. He simply tripped the wounded ogre, and Wordok went down on his face. Hackle took up the ogre’s own war club and ended him with one blow. Makasa nodded to the gnoll in what passed with her for gratitude. He nodded back. Murky finally let go of Makasa, though it was somewhat unclear whether or not he ever realized what kind of danger he and Makasa had been in.
Malus, meanwhile, drew nigh. Hackle turned with his club, but Makasa stepped in front of the gnoll, swinging her chain to keep Malus at bay; she had seen him fight aboard Wavestrider and wasn’t about to take any chances.
Neither was Aram. He yelled out, “One-Eye!!”
Malus barely turned in time to parry the wyvern’s striking stinger. Put on the defensive, Malus was forced back by One-Eye, away from Aram and the others.
From the moment Malus had arrived on the scene and spotted the wyvern, this had been the one battle he hadn’t wanted to fight and the main reason he had challenged Gordok to single combat. So much for his plans.
Like Aram, Malus tried to take advantage of the beast’s visual limitation, but he didn’t have a Hackle—or even a Throgg—to create distractions for him. (Surrounded by ogres, the rest of the Hidden made no move to come to their master’s aid.) Malus lunged for the wyvern’s throat—after all, it had worked on Gordok—but one of the giant beast’s paws smashed him hard through the thick wooden fence of the slave pen. Stunned by the blow, he collapsed in a heap among the shattered timbers.
Most of the ogres in the amphitheater remained in their seats, watching the action by the pen as if it were further entertainment being presented on a slightly less visibly convenient stage. A few others—those not guarding the Hidden—began to slowly leave their seats to stand over Gordok’s corpse. None were making any attempt to join the battle. With their leader dead, they seemed at a collective loss as to what to do next.
Still, Hackle and Makasa stayed on the alert in case the crowd decided to rush them. Makasa called out, “Aram, whatever we’re doing, we’d better get to it!”
But Aram and Thalyss were busy helping Woolbeard to his feet, and Murky was trapped midembrace by his aunt and uncle. The three murlocs babbled rapidly in their native tongue. The gist of their exchange was that even Uncle Murrgly was proud of his nephew. Murky might not be much of a flllurlokkr—in fact, he was a disaster in that area of expertise—but there was no doubting his bravery. Aunt Murrl slobbered all over him, still somewhat shocked that he was alive.
The small crowd of former prisoners gathered together. Aram said to Woolbeard, “There won’t be any sentries left at the gate. Take the murlocs; lead them home. I don’t think anyone’s going to follow.”
“Why tell me? You can show us the way. You’re our leader, after all!”
Aram stared at the old tauren with genuine surprise. “Me?”
“Who else?” said Woolbeard and Thalyss in perfect unison.
“Well, uh … I’m not going that way.”
“Murky nk mga fllm. Murky mga Urum!”
Thalyss translated: “Murky says he goes wherever Aram goes.”
Hackle called back over his shoulder, “Hackle go with Aram, too!”
Makasa gritted her teeth, not exactly gladdened by yet another increase to their party. But both Murky and the gnoll had shown her something this day, and in any case, this was no time to argue. “Whoever’s going, it’s time we go!”
Murky quickly reassured his aunt and uncle that he was doing the right thing, that his place was now by Urum’s side. Their general admiration for Urum helped smooth this over, though Uncle Murrgly felt morally bound to ask if his nephew was sure Urum wanted Murky by his side. With confidence, Murky assured his uncle that he and Urum were great frunds.
After Duluss had translated, Urum chimed in a confirmation: “Murky’s on my crew!�
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Murrgly liked seeing this new confidence in the little mmmurlok and gave his blessing. Aunt Murrl gave her blessing and much slobber.
They left Murky and joined the other murlocs heading up the hill.
Woolbeard started after them. But before he’d gone five yards, he stopped, turned, and called out, “Aramar Thorne of Lakeshire!”
Aram turned.
“I am Wuul Breezerider of the Mulgore shu’halo!”
Aram shouted back, “An honor to finally meet you!”
“No, boy! It’s been my honor to meet you.” Then Wuul Breezerider turned to limp after the murlocs.
Almost immediately, these escapees were intercepted by the young ogre girl who’d been Gordok’s servant. The old tauren brandished a war club and made it clear he was prepared “to split her skull for her.” But she simply requested to be allowed to go with them. Having seen the treatment she received under the ogre king, Breezerider and the murlocs quickly welcomed her into their number. In fact, she proved immediately useful, putting an arm around the old tauren’s shoulder and helping him climb the hill.
More ogres, meanwhile, were starting to leave their seats. Old One-Eye roared and most of them sat right back down. Thalyss then spoke to the wyvern in Taur-ahe, making all the formal and proper requests for permission to climb up onto her back. The wyvern grunted a response, and the night elf waved the others forward. Aram climbed up first, straddling One-Eye just behind her neck. Thalyss got on behind him. Then Murky and Hackle. It was only now that Makasa understood how they’d be departing. She didn’t relish the idea, but again this was no time to argue. She jumped on behind Hackle.
The wyvern extended her wings and launched herself up into the sky. The whole band glanced back over their shoulders as they left the ground, the Hidden, the Gordunni, and Dire Maul behind.
Malus was shaking the wool out of his head and only just pulling himself up to his feet. He looked up just in time to see Aram flying away on the back of the wyvern and shouted, “STOP THE BOY!!”
Zathra clicked her tongue twice. The scorpid leapt from the troll’s chest onto the face of the ogre who had been pointing a spear at her mistress, allowing Zathra to raise her crossbows. She aimed and fired at Aram. With a little luck, he’d fall more or less at Malus’s feet with the compass still on him.
But the night elf’s sharp eyes caught all this. The druid pushed Aram down and took the two crossbow bolts meant for the boy in the center of his back.
One-Eye flew them all up into the sky, out of range of crossbows, the Hidden, and the Gordunni, on an easterly heading. Aram, confused over why the night elf had suddenly pushed him down, popped right back up. Turning to look behind him, Aram found Thalyss smiling benignly. Murky was shouting something, but Thalyss shushed him. “Look about you,” said the druid. “You will not get many chances like this.”
Nodding, Aram glanced over One-Eye’s head and marveled in absolute wonder at the view laid out before him. The two moons of Azeroth shone down on Feralas below. The view was astounding. The land beneath, which had seemed a wasteland from a boy’s-eye view, was a paradise of potential from above. Stones and stumps, interesting in and of themselves from this vantage, soon gave way to treetops divided into discrete sections by stripes of sparkling water reflecting moonlight. The vista went on forever, and Aram imagined he could see all of Kalimdor from atop the wyvern’s back. He imagined that maybe, with just a little more height, he could see all the way to Lakeshire. And on top of it all, there was the soaring. This amazing sensation of flight, of speeding over the landscape without attention to terrain or obstacle. It reminded him of something … something …
Aram shook off the vague memory and turned to smile back at Thalyss—just in time to see the druid slump over silently. Only then did Aram see the crossbow bolts in the kaldorei’s back! He called out, “Thalyss!” The night elf started to slide off the wyvern, but Aram and Murky held their friend in place.
Makasa, whose view of the night elf was largely blocked by both Hackle and Murky, shouted, “Aram, what is it? What’s wrong?”
“It’s Thalyss! He’s been shot! Two arrows in the back!”
“Is he alive?!”
Aram leaned down over Thalyss’s face. He could just barely hear the night elf breathing—wheezing, really—with great difficulty. Aram turned to call back to Makasa, “He’s alive. But I don’t know what to do! Do I pull the arrows out?!”
“No!” Makasa warned. “Not yet! They may be all that’s keeping him alive. I can’t reach him. Can’t see from here. We need to land!”
Aram shouted, “One-Eye, land! Find somewhere safe to land!”
If One-Eye took any notice, she gave no indication. She just kept flapping her wings at a horrifyingly moderate pace as she followed the flight path of her three cubs, whom Aram could just make out in the far distance.
“She won’t land!” Aram yelled, panicked. “I don’t know how to make her land!”
“Then try to keep him comfortable ’til she does! Try to keep him conscious!”
Aram tried to rouse Thalyss. The night elf grumbled as Aram might have grumbled aboard Wavestrider when Makasa was trying to rouse him. After some shaking, Thalyss opened his eyes and said again, “Look about you, Aramar Thorne.”
“I’ve looked! Listen, you’re hurt. Can you tell One-Eye to land?!”
“I could tell her. But she is hardly likely to comply. She will want to join her cubs in their nest. Until we arrive, we might as well enjoy the ride and the view.”
But Aram had had his fill of the view. He kept his focus on the kaldorei. Talked to him, worried him, urging Hackle and Murky to do the same, until the night elf would respond with some pleasantry that seemed to take no special notice of his condition.
Thalyss began to shiver. Belatedly, Aram realized it was cold up in the heights of the sky. His father’s coat was tied around his waist, and he quickly removed it and laid it over the night elf, who whispered, “Usually have my own fur coat to keep me warm. Thank you.”
An hour passed. Then another. And another. Thalyss, still breathing, closed his eyes, and nothing Aram could say or shout generated any response whatsoever. Off and on, Aram made another appeal to the wyvern, who continued to ignore him and fly on, approaching one of the highest peaks from above. Then, abruptly and without any kind of warning, she tucked her wings and dove down steeply. Aram had one hand grasping her mane and another holding tight to Thalyss. Murky did the same, whispering, “Duluss, Duluss, nk mlgggrr, Duluss …”
The wyvern turned sharply, leaving her passengers nearly perpendicular to the ground. Thalyss started to slip again, but Hackle reached over Murky to help secure the night elf.
Makasa wanted to help but couldn’t reach.
One-Eye extended her wings again, riding a powerful updraft skyward into the rocky terrain overlooking Thousand Needles.
Then suddenly, she pulled up short and landed—more gently than Aram would have imagined possible—on what was clearly her nearly inaccessible rocky nest, where the three wyvern cubs were already waiting and grooming one another.
One-Eye turned back and growled to indicate her impatience.
Aram, Murky, and Hackle slid off her back, supporting Thalyss. Makasa was already beneath them, waiting to take the elf in her arms. She laid the old druid down on his side upon a flat slab of stone and began looking at his wounds. The bolts were deep in his back. Makasa knew they had barbed heads; she didn’t dare try to remove them.
The night elf coughed.
“He’s alive!” Aram quickly knelt beside his head.
“I am forced to disagree,” Thalyss whispered with a smile. “I am pretty well finished, Aram.”
“No. We can—”
“You cannot.” The elf coughed again. Bloody spittle dribbled from between his teeth. His breathing was shallow and ragged, and the smile faded from his lips—though not from his voice, which still sounded vaguely amused. “Makasa tried to tell you … You cannot save e
veryone, my friend … It is a lesson you are slow to learn … and perhaps … that is just as well …”
“Don’t talk. Save your strength.”
“For what? Besides … when have you known me … not to talk?”
“You kept your mouth shut when we were marching with the ogres.”
“Well … I am not much … for burlap sacks …” He gasped for air, then raised a hand and pointed past Makasa. “Look at that …”
As one, they all turned—Aram, Makasa, Murky, and Hackle—to see One-Eye’s reunion with her cubs. She had her poisonous tail wrapped around one, rubbed her sharp-fanged muzzle against another, and hugged—practically cradled—the third in her talon-clawed paw and wing.
The druid said, “You see that, Aram … You did that …”
“We did that,” Aram replied.
“Maybe we did at that … Lift me up … I want to see where we are. I want to know where I am going to end.”
With Makasa and Hackle’s help, Aram raised Thalyss up. All five of them looked about for the first time since landing. Spread out beyond and below, Aram could see the great Thousand Needles canyon, flooded by the Cataclysm, with its tall, narrow flat-topped spires emerging from the water. Some of these spires were so large, there seemed to be entire towns built upon them.
“Ah.” Thalyss sighed. “We are atop … Skypeak. I had a memorable night near here … once upon nine thousand years ago. Well … it would have been memorable except … for the drinking.” He tried to laugh but barely managed another cough.
Aram turned to look back down into Thalyss’s eyes. The silver had gone gray, reflecting no light. They were clouded, blind, perhaps seeing that long-ago night—but certainly not seeing the boy in front of him.
“Aram,” he said, each breath an effort now. “This is important. You … have a … a talent for … for bringing people together with … your magic …”
“Your magic!” Aram said, grasping at straws. “The acorn! It brings life!”
“Yes … please … get it for me …”
