World of Warcraft: Traveler by Greg Weisman

Author:Greg Weisman
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Scholastic
Published: 2016-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

Late that afternoon, Murky proved his worth to Aram—and even a little bit to Makasa—by leading them down a steep but walkable path to the river to drink. They had skipped breakfast and lunch, so Makasa broke out the very last of the hardtack, reluctantly sharing it with Murky. “That’s it,” she said. “No more.”

Murky started to unfold his nets from around his waist. Both Aram and Makasa considered this sensible. Another fish dinner would do nicely. But twelve seconds later, Murky had hopelessly tangled himself in the mesh again.

While trying to negotiate his freedom—twisting the net over, sliding it under, and pulling this limb free of that loop, tugging that limb free of this loop—Murky suddenly screamed. Aram thought at first that the murloc was in pain, but as soon as he could get a hand free, Murky pointed up to the top of the gorge, shouting, “RRRgrrr! RRRgrrr!” They looked but saw nothing.

Murky growled in frustration and reached for Makasa’s cutlass. She slapped his hand away. “Don’t touch!”

“Mrksa mrrugggl!” He swung an imaginary sword around. “Mrksa mrrugggl!” He then pointed at Aram’s cutlass and said, “Urum mrrugggl!”

They both got the message and drew their swords. “What did he see?” Aram asked.

“I don’t know,” Makasa said, scanning the cliffside. “But I trust it scared him. Stay on guard.” She glanced back at Murky. “And get him out of that net, or we’re leaving him behind for whatever’s out there!”

“We’re not leaving him behind, when he’s the one who warned us,” Aram said, knowing she had no real intention of leaving anyone behind.

She did, however, seem to be all right with the idea of cutting him free of the net. This also made Murky scream in horror: “Nk! Nk! Murky mmrrgggleee mrrugggl mgrrrrl nk mmmurlok!”

“A murloc must always protect his nets,” said a booming voice behind them. Makasa and Aram both wheeled about. A tall figure in dark hooded robes was standing behind them, close enough to make Makasa curse herself under her breath for allowing the stranger to draw so near.

The newcomer’s face was hidden by his hood, instantly reminding Aram of the Whisper-Man. But this clearly wasn’t him. If the hood was any indication, this stranger had a preposterously wide head. And although he stooped, bent nearly halfway over and leaning on a walking stick, he was still taller than Makasa by at least half a foot.

“Have no fear,” he said. “I mean no harm.” He spoke softly, but this was no Whisper-Man; his voice was fuller, warmer.

It was a still-tangled Murky who whispered, “Kuldurrree,” while bowing very low.

Aram didn’t understand, but Makasa hadn’t put up her sword, so Aram kept his out and at the ready.

Makasa said, “Druid.”

And now Aram understood. He felt his throat go dry and was suddenly very conscious of trying to swallow. This, as Greydon had taught him, was a kaldorei. A night elf. A druid. A shapeshifter.

As if confirming Aram’s unspoken thoughts, the stranger reached up to lower his hood.

“Slowly,” Makasa demanded.

“Of course,” said the druid, complying.

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