Little went as Makasa had imagined.

Zathra, perhaps overcompensating for her fears, instantly fired both her crossbows at Makasa as soon as the bell was sounded. Makasa just barely managed to twist her shoulder in time for both bolts to sink into her shield as opposed to her flesh. Not stopping to reload, the troll attacked aggressively, pulling a dagger and rushing at Makasa—only to be intercepted by Hackle.

Unlike the slaves pitted against each other in the Dire Maul arena, those settling conflicts in the Thunderdrome were not supposed to fight to the death. But clearly, someone had neglected to inform these particular combatants.

With her unerring aim, Makasa threw her harpoon at the female ogre. But Throgg reached in and deflected it with his mace. Both ogres advanced on Makasa, but her swinging chain kept them at bay.

The only one of Makasa’s predictions that seemed to be coming true was her assumption that Valdread would hang back, waiting. He did, watching Makasa and whispering, “Most impressive. You do remind me of someone. If only I could remember who …” But no one heard him over the roar of the suddenly bloodthirsty crowd.

On the opposite end of the arena, Taryndrella also hung back—her head tilted at an angle, one finger tapping upon her lips—as if listening, listening …

Zathra’s nerves were still brittle. Hackle swung his large war club, driving her back. And with unloaded crossbows and a short dagger, there was little the troll could do to prevent his advance. Little except this: she clicked her tongue twice, and Skitter leapt off her chest to sting Hackle.

Out of nowhere, Murky—having dropped his little spear—caught the scorpid in his webbed hands. Skitter stung Murky three or four times in quick succession, as indicated by Murky’s annoyed, “Ur, ur, ur!” But the scorpid’s venom seemed to have no effect on the little murloc. Apparently, he was immune. Whether this was a feature common to all murlocs or something uniquely, well, Murkian, hardly mattered to Zathra, who remembered Drella’s words about the murloc to the Mother of Venom. Already superstitious about Aram’s little band, she began shivering involuntarily. While Murky held Skitter over his head, Hackle advanced. The troll barely managed to back away.

Valdread started laughing his dry, sandy laugh and said, “All right, all right. I suppose we should finish this.” He finally drew his black sword and shale dagger.

But by this time, Makasa had seen their enemies’ true weakness. They were impressive fighters as individuals, but they had no cohesion. They were mercenaries. Not a crew.

But Makasa had a crew. She called back over her shoulder, “Go low!” and brought the arc of her swinging chain down. Knowing exactly what she meant, Murky and Hackle—armed with a scorpid and a war club, respectively—were both short enough to safely advance directly beneath the circular spin of Makasa’s chain. Not so for ogres, troll, or Forsaken.

Hackle measured the pace of the chain’s rotation and swung his club upward between revolutions. It clobbered Zathra and sent her flying back.

“Murky,” Makasa called, “introduce your new friend to the ogres!”

Murky raced forward and turned Skitter toward Throgg. The confused scorpid lashed out and stung the large ogre. The female ogre tried to poke at both Skitter and Murky with her broadsword, but the reach of Makasa’s chain was longer than the reach of the ogre’s arm and sword combined. She was forced to retreat. Throgg, reacting to the venom in his system, dropped to one knee—and was slapped across the jaw by the chain’s iron links. He went down and stayed down.

This was mostly good news. Two of their opponents were laid out on the sand and sawdust. But the chain’s impact with Throgg’s jaw also served to disrupt its rotation, and both Valdread and the remaining ogre moved in to take advantage—with enough speed to put Makasa on the defensive, parrying the baron’s sword thrusts with her cutlass, while Murky and Hackle were forced to retreat from the female ogre’s now considerable reach.

It was at this crucial moment—with the crowd hushed and eager for a kill—that Drella could be heard saying, “Yes. Thank you. That would be lovely.” She waited patiently for one second, two seconds, three. Then there was a ripple in the earth before her, and tiny sinkholes began to form. Perhaps if one held one’s ear to the ground, a low rumble might have been heard. Then again, perhaps not. The dryad raised her arms, and all of a sudden, thick vines burst from the ground, snaring and entwining Valdread and the female ogre—and even the unconscious Zathra and Throgg. This was so shocking that Murky dropped the squirming Skitter, but before the scorpid could skitter very far, the vines had caught her up, too.

The vines snapped off Valdread’s left arm and right leg, but otherwise he was held tight and immobile. They wrapped around the female ogre’s arm and the entire length of her sword, preventing her from even attempting to cut herself free.

Makasa, Murky, and Hackle all turned to look at a triumphant Drella, who said, “I am very helpful! In fact, I am impressive! I am Taryndrella the Impressive, daughter of Cenarius!”

“Indeed, you are, young one.” Makasa stared at the dryad, who no longer looked quite as young as Makasa remembered. Drella seemed suddenly older, more mature. “Are you … taller?” Makasa asked.

“Summer has come,” Drella said. “Or nearly.”

Baron Noggenfogger declared them winners. Much coinage was exchanged among the spectators. (Gazlowe, as always, seemed to have done particularly well, though, of course, no one did quite as well as Marin Noggenfogger, who collected from winners and losers alike.) Four silver pieces were even—begrudgingly—shoved into the hands of the four victors, who snatched up their weapons and rushed out of the ’drome, not waiting for Gazlowe, Springsong, or Winifred. And certainly not waiting for their enemies to be cut down from their green bonds.

Once outside in the cool night air, Makasa stopped them. With a touch of formality, she repeated her prior sentiment: “I am honored to serve on this crew with Hackle, Murky, and Taryndrella.”

“Taryndrella the Impressive!” the dryad corrected.

Makasa smiled and nodded and repeated the word, “Honored.”

Sensing the importance of this moment to Makasa—and to all of them—Hackle and Drella both said, “Honored.” And Murky solemnly intoned, “Uuua.”

Still smiling, Makasa said, “Come on. Aram will be wondering what happened to us.”

They ran off to Winifred’s …

None of them noticed the two entranced arakkoa, chanting quietly in the shadows before a trail of smoking red-rimmed blackness that snaked off toward Aramar Thorne …

Back at Winifred’s, the dark magic wrapped around Aram, binding him tighter than Drella’s vines. He was alone. Without Makasa. Without Thalyss or Hackle or Murky or Drella or his father or his mother or Robb. Never in his life had Aramar Thorne felt so alone—and so terrified.

A satisfied Malus advanced slowly, saying, “I gave you every opportunity, boy. You brought this on yourself. Like father, like son.” Malus had killed his father. And now Malus was going to kill him.

But Greydon Thorne hadn’t made it easy for Malus. He hadn’t perished without a fight. The least Aram could do was try.

Aram still had one arm free. It was the wrong arm, but with some twisting of his body, he managed to draw his cutlass and point it in Malus’s direction.

Malus rolled his eyes in contempt, and, oh, did Aram wish Makasa were there to see it and respond as she was wont. Almost languidly, Malus drew his own broadsword—as if it was hardly worth the effort.

And it hardly was. The ribbons of black, burning magic were constricting around Aram and pulling tighter. It was getting hard to breathe. He tried to sever them with the cutlass, but the blade was useless against this sorcery.

Malus flicked his wrist so quickly, Aram was disarmed—his cutlass clattering against the floor—without him ever really seeing any movement of the broadsword. Malus reached his iron-sheathed left hand toward Aram’s new shirt and the compass that wasn’t particularly well hidden beneath it.

Desperate for air—and just plain desperate, period—Aram grabbed for the only other thing he could reach: he pulled the hilt of the crystal shard sword out from behind him and brought it into view, with some vague notion of wedging it in between the magic and his chest.

But it was Malus who briefly stopped breathing. He drew back his hand, froze, and hissed out, “The Diamond Blade!”

Of course, there wasn’t any actual blade. Or was there? Before Aram’s bulging eyes, a shining beacon emerged from the hilt, coalescing into a blade of pure, shining Light!

This shocked Malus out of his stupor. Recovering a bit, he reached for the hilt. But the Light just kept getting brighter and brighter, and eventually Malus had to use the hand he was reaching with to shield his eyes.

But Aram, trained by his dreams, did not need to look away. No matter how bright the Light became, Aram could still see. And hear. The Voice of the Light spoke inside his mind. Once, the Light was yours to bear. Now, you cannot bear the Light.

It took Aram a couple seconds to realize the Voice wasn’t speaking to him. It was talking to Malus, who groaned miserably.

Building on Malus’s misery, the Voice spoke again: You forfeited the Diamond Blade with your betrayal. You will never possess it again.

Malus began to growl. He struggled to raise his head, but the bright, bright Light blinded him. Moreover, it seemed to have substance that pressed down upon his head.

And yet the Light had no such effect on Aramar Thorne. He felt weightless within it. He could breathe again as the brilliance began to eat away at the dark ribbons of magic that had all but strangled him. As he had with his cutlass, Aram tried to cut his mystical bonds with this blade of Light—with much better results. The Light cut through the shadow magic like a white-hot knife through moldy black butter.

Better still, the Light continued to get brighter and brighter. Malus dropped his sword so he could use both arms to shield his vision. Again, Malus groaned deeply. And, again, the groan became a growl. The growl became a roar. And the roar became a scream of intense inner pain.

The Voice said, Tell your Master that the Light is not yet whole. Nevertheless, it possesses more than enough power to chase away these pathetic shadows. Within seconds, the dark ribbons were retreating as if even they were in excruciating pain.

Brighter and brighter. Brighter and brighter.

And Aram still had no need to look away …

By the time the Light had faded, Malus had recovered sufficiently to open his eyes, blink them furiously, and wipe the tears away. He found himself alone in the boardinghouse. There was no one there. No Aram, no Diamond Blade, no compass. Just an abandoned cutlass on the floor.

He felt exhausted, fundamentally exhausted right down to his bones. He couldn’t remember ever feeling quite this tired before. He staggered forward and slumped down to rest on the stairs.

But his strength returned rapidly—and with it, his outrage. He lurched to his feet and, knowing Aram would never come back to this place, staggered out of the boardinghouse and away.

He hadn’t given up. He wouldn’t give up. Not now. Not ever. He had been caught off guard by how much of the Diamond Blade the boy had already recovered. That was why he’d faltered. But Malus would be ready next time. He would be ready. He would be ready. He flexed his left hand beneath its iron gauntlet. The pain brought him some satisfaction. Next time, nothing would stop him. He would be ready.

Within two minutes of fleeing Winifred’s, Aram ran smack into Makasa, Murky, Hackle, and Drella. He rapidly told them what had occurred and explained why they could never go back to Winifred’s.

“Where to, then?” Makasa asked.

Aram thought about this. Then he pulled out the compass to see if its last reading had changed at all. It had not. Aram thought about this for half a second at most, before deciding with a firm and steady confidence exactly where they should head next …