Traveler

by Greg Weisman

  “Whole clan?” Throgg asked.

  “Yes, all of them. Empty Dire Maul and scatter them across every deer trail, mountain path, road, and waterway to help us search. These ogres belong to me now, and that means they’re not Gordunni anymore. They’re Hidden. So we might as well make decent use of them.”

  Throgg looked miserable and angry but nodded his acquiescence.

  Malus continued. “We all rendezvous in Gadgetzan.” He turned to Ssarbik. “Send a message to your sister on the Inevitable. I want the ship to meet us there.”

  “What if you’re wrong?” the arakkoa asked bitterly.

  “I’m not.”

  “And what if the boy uzzezz the compassss? What if he findzz shardzz of the sssword?”

  “Then we’ll have that many fewer to secure ourselves.”

  Ssarbik spoke to Malus with his mind. “Our masster will not be pleazzed.”

  Malus scowled his silent response. “No one said this would be quick. Tell him the game isn’t over yet.”

  “Ukul.”

  “Hackle.”

  “Ukul …”

  “No. HACK-le.”

  “UK-le. Ukle.”

  “Close enough,” Makasa said, stopping Murky and Hackle’s exchange before it drove her to kill them both.

  Aram was drawing Old One-Eye in his “magic” book, having acquired what he guessed was her permission, through pantomime and a flip through the pages, to portray the wyvern’s likeness. It wasn’t at all clear whether or not she understood. But she didn’t fly off and, in any case, remained still enough for him to sketch her well. He gravely thanked her for the honor.

  For good measure, he sketched in her three cubs as well. He tried to draw them from memory, but as he hadn’t seen enough of them to have any solid recollection, he instead wound up drawing three little two-eyed One-Eyes.

  When finished, he displayed the illustration to her, again on the off chance she might be pleased with the result. Maybe she was. Maybe she wasn’t. But she seemed to be in an unusually cooperative mood—or perhaps she still felt some obligation toward the boy. At his mimed request, she was now digging a large, deep hole in the soft soil where Aram had found the crystal shard.

  While she worked, he worked … on the memory sketch of his father. It had given him much trouble previously, but now he found his recollection of Greydon’s features had improved considerably. Perhaps he understood his father more now. Perhaps, as his mother had once advised, he had found the Greydon Thorne within himself. Or at least a shard of him. He wasn’t sure he’d ever quite complete the drawing to his own satisfaction, ever quite do justice to the man. But now he could look at it and not feel ashamed. Good magic, indeed.

  When One-Eye was done digging, Makasa and Hackle lowered the night elf into the grave. Aram thought he should try to say a few words over the body, but before he could speak, the wyvern used her tail to begin pushing the earth back into the hole.

  So Aram waited. He looked around him. A slight breeze played through the leaves on the nearby trees; they swayed gently. A bored Hackle was furiously scratching his neck with a hind leg. But Murky was very sad and attentive—until he spotted a spider advancing down a web and lunged for it. He missed the spider and was left spitting out the sticky web with no little difficulty. Makasa just shook her head, appalled.

  Once the wyvern had finished tamping down the earth, Aram gathered the others around. He began: “I don’t think there’s much to say. Thalyss lived a long life, and we were only a very small part of it. But in that short time, I believe Thalyss made a conscious choice to care about each and every one of us. I believe he would be glad we were here with him at this moment. Glad we were here together. My father once said there are all kinds of families. And I believe Thalyss helped us forge this one out of sweat, blood, and a little magic. Oh, and I believe Thalyss would have liked this spot, surrounded by green and under good clean earth.” He lowered his head.

  Then, struck by an afterthought, Aram suddenly leaned forward and spit on Thalyss’s grave. “But a little moisture never hurts,” he quoted.

  Makasa stared. “You spit … on his grave?” she whispered, as if afraid the kaldorei might hear her.

  “Um, yeah.” Only now did it occur to him how disrespectful that must seem. He spoke quickly. “But it’ll help things grow! And I really think it would have made him smile.”

  “Everything made him smile,” she said, her scowl lifting only slightly, like a ray of sunlight peeking out from behind a stormcloud.

  Aram shrugged. “Exactly.”

  Murky spit, too, though perhaps he was still trying to get the spiderweb out of his mouth. But Hackle took it as custom and spit on the grave. All eyes turned to Makasa. She met Aram’s gaze … and spit.

  Old One-Eye yawned then. She seemed impatient to go. The thought occurred to Aram that traveling by wyvern would certainly get them to Gadgetzan faster. But he already felt like he had pushed his luck with the great beast. So Aram thanked One-Eye and said good-bye, and they watched her lift off and soar away toward her nest and her young.

  Aram looked around. There didn’t seem to be much reason to linger. The compass and chain, its clasp crudely repaired, were back around his neck. He checked the needle. Then he pointed the way for the others.

  “Gadgetzan?” Makasa asked.

  “I think so,” Aram replied, tucking compass and chain back under his shirt. “The compass’ll let us know if we need to make any other stops along the way.” He felt for the purple leather pouch inside his coat pocket, where the crystal shard was stowed alongside Thalyss’s giant acorn.

  “It is … intriguing,” Makasa said.

  “Oh, at least that,” he agreed.

  They started walking downhill alongside the runoff from the waterfall, which was sparkling in the distance. The rain forest was opening up into the wide, bright vista of the great flooded canyon as they finally stepped across the border into Thousand Needles.

  They. Aram, Makasa, Murky, and Hackle. Even Aram thought it an odd group. Yet somehow he knew they all belonged together.

  Out of nowhere, Makasa said, “You better not be putting me in that blasted book.”

  It was only then Aram realized he was still holding his sketchbook in one hand. He wrapped its oilskin back around it and stuffed it in his back pocket, saying, “I promise I won’t sketch you unless you ask me to.”

  She nodded, satisfied. They walked on for a time in silence. And then she said, “I might ask you. I’ve heard it’s good magic.”

  Aram looked up at his sister, and they smiled.

  First off, I’d like to thank my old friend, Andrew Robinson, for making the initial introduction that led to this astounding gig.

  Thanks also to James Waugh and the brain trust at Blizzard: Stephane Belin, Michael Bybee, Samwise Didier, Cate Gary, Logan Laflotte, Logan Lubera, Chris Metzen, Byron Parnell, Matthew Robinson, Robert Simpson, Jeffrey Wong, and the Lore Team.

  At Scholastic, I’d like to thank my original editor Elizabeth Schaefer for her support, Associate Publisher Samantha Schutz for ably jumping in when Elizabeth set sail on her own travels, and Jenna Ballard, Katie Bignell, Rick DeMonico, Danielle Klimashowsky, Charisse Meloto, Monica Palenzuela, and Maria Passalacqua for their help bringing things home.

  At the Gotham Group, thanks to Tony Gil, Ellen Goldsmith-Vein, Julie Kane-Ritsch, Peter McHugh, Julie Nelson, Hannah Shtein, and Joey Villareal. At Bay Sherman, Mike Sherman and Baerbel Struthers.

  Appreciation also to my Rain of the Ghosts AudioPlay partner, Curtis Koller, and to my Shimmer & Shine work family—Farnaz Esanaashari, Carin-Anne Greco, Michael Heinz, Elizabeth Jordan, Julie Kinman, Crystal Leal, Ian Murray, Dave Palmer, Jackie Sheng, Pragya Tomar, Chad Woods, and especially Andrew Blanchette, Dustin Ferrer, Rich Fogel, Kevin Hopps, Cisco Paredes, and Stephanie Simpson—for their patience with my sea chantey, etc.

  A word of gratitude to the “tall women” who helped inspire Makasa Flintwill: Jennifer L. Anderson, Van
essa Marshall, and Masasa Moyo.

  And, of course, extra special thanks to my real family: my large extended clan of in-laws, laws, and outlaws—especially my parents, Sheila and Wally; my siblings, Robyn and Jon; my wife, Beth, and my amazing poppers, Erin and Benny.

  Greg Weisman has been a storyteller all his life. He’s best known as the creator of Disney’s Gargoyles and as a writer-producer on multiple animated series, including The Spectacular Spider-Man, Young Justice, Star Wars Rebels, and W.I.T.C.H. He’s written several comic book series and two young adult novels, Rain of the Ghosts and Spirits of Ash and Foam. Greg lives in Los Angeles, California.

  ©2016 Blizzard Entertainment, Inc. All rights reserved. Traveler is a trademark, and World of Warcraft and Blizzard Entertainment are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Blizzard Entertainment, Inc., in the U.S. and/or other countries.

  All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  First printing 2016

  Cover and interior illustrations by Samwise Didier

  e-ISBN 978-0-545-90668-5

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.