Voodoo Child

Chapter 31 – Wheels in Motion

By Genoscythe

AN: Wow. It feels good to be back. Really good. I'm sorry there's no big crazy action-packed chapter ready for you all after that record-breaking hiatus, but I think that was part of the problem. I kept trying to write a big crazy action-packed chapter, and it wasn't coming out right. Fortunately, I think I've kicked the crap out of this titanic writer's block, so you won't have to wait like four months for the next chapter.

Marek Belheim stumbled through the ebony forest. He wasn't sure where he was, only that it was far from Stormwind. After jumping off the outer wall and healing his broken legs, it still took the guards a good five minutes to find the front gate and haul it open. By then, Marek had stolen a horse and was riding north.

Now he was so north he was probably south, and his horse had died long ago. Marek still didn't understand why. Horses didn't have to eat too, did they?

Arthas… An eldritch voice rumbled through the forest. It was the same one that had drawn Marek in the first place.

"Who?"

Arthas… It rumbled again.

"Hello?" Marek wandered blindly around a sickly tree. There was no sign of a pursuer, and Marek was pretty perceptive about those kinds of things.

Arthas, come hither, bitch! It finally snapped. It had ceased echoing, and Marek followed the voice to a tree even stranger than most. From far away, it looked like a thin mushroom.

"Who are you talking to?" Marek asked.

…Arthas?

"My name's Marek," Marek said.

You are kidding me. Where is Arthas?

"I'm not sure. I heard he was shacking up with the Lich King in Northrend."

Ah, that must be why I cannot contact him. Please do not phrase it like that again, it is gross.

"Who are you?" Marek dubiously looked behind the tree, then started running laps around it.

Are you a paladin? It asked.

"Totally," Marek responded.

Very well. I am the source of your power.

"You mean the Light?"

If you prefer.

"You're a tree?"

Nay, dumbass. I am many things, though I was once but a mere sword.

"The Light was coming from a sword?" Marek asked.

Wrong again, fool. The blade Frostmourne was the link connecting my realm to Azeroth. Once Arthas acquired it, he began to spread my influence.

"How did he…" Marek trailed off as he found a carving etched into the gnarled bark. It was a heart, encompassing the words 'Arthas + Jaina'. "Oh."

Yes, he did not exactly do it on purpose, but what the hell.

"Wait a second…" Marek scratched his chin, a signal to all that he was attempting a thought process or two. "I heard Frostmourne was an evil sword."

Only hippie losers believe Frostmourne is evil. You are not a hippie loser, are you what's-your-name?

"I'm Marek."

Yes.

"And I'm no hippie loser."

Then step lively, my child. Good old Uncle G'naarlesh has a gift for you.

Marek was halfway across the distance between himself and the tree when he paused. "Wait, who?"

The Light, is what I said. Yes. The Light will now bestow on you the powers necessary to…look, just come here and touch the goddamn tree.

"Well, I do like gifts…" Marek muttered thoughtfully. He took a tentative step forward. The oddly-shaped tree did not try to eat him. Marek's views on nature were that if it didn't immediately eat you, then there was nothing to worry about. He also believed that nature existed to be exploited by man, which was exactly what he thought he was doing when he pressed his palm against the rotten bark.

Sweet, the tree rumbled as Marek was torn, screaming, into another dimension.

If Vismund Cygnus were prone to the kind of petty emotions that brought on things like discomfort, then he would have hated Westfall. As it stood, he merely saw it as so much dry leaves and rampant superstition. The joy at touching solid ground after a weeklong trip across the ocean in a boat you could spit across was fading fast. Hindrex had already provoked a Harvest Golem into chasing them across a field of dead wheat, and Dillon complained incessantly about all the straw caught in his hair.

However, it could have been worse. They could have actually seen the lighthouse, steered away from the rocks, and floated into the clutches of the Defias Brotherhood. The Harvest Golem could have actually killed Hindrex. The Burning Legion could have actually come back a fourth time, but even the musicians thought this was at least improbable.

It still didn't help them get to Sentinel Hill any faster.

"Why can't we just skip it and go straight on to Duskwood?" Dillon asked Cygnus as they scanned the horizon for highwaymen and Harvest Golems. "There's plenty of towns and cottages and shacks and outhouses there."

"You have a problem with Westfall?" Cygnus returned calmly.

"Yeah, I have a problem with Westfall. It's like being on the ass of a dead fat guy."

"Have you ever been to Duskwood? For that matter, have you ever been on the ass of a dead fat guy?"

"I bet it's hot and itchy," Dillon shot back.

"And covered in little brown strands," Hindrex added.

"What, you mean the wheat?" Cygnus asked. The two marines withered under his logic. "Duskwood is hardly any better. Like Westfall, most of its settlements have been overrun by unfriendly forces. Besides, I know a man at Sentinel Hill."

"Like that guy you 'knew' in Tanaris?" They both remembered the fisherman Cygnus had gotten the boat from. He went from being a complete stranger to Cygnus's best friend in a matter of words.

"No, Judas and I are on more familiar terms."

"Met before, have you?"

"Yes."

The priest's skeletal honesty was getting on their nerves, but neither soldier dared bring it up.

"So…is this Judas a priest too?" Dillon asked as Hindrex shouldered the equipment. The fields were clear, and would probably remain so for a good few minutes. They had to hurry if they were to avoid the Brotherhood – or worse, the things rumored to lurk in the wheat fields.

"Yes," Cygnus answered simply, sliding down their lookout knoll. "He was allowed to establish a church at Sentinel Hill, to help with the marines' morale. I warn you, he is Different."

"He is?" At that point in history, there weren't many different kinds of Different.

"Flagrantly. He believes he is keeping it secret, however. The poor man." Something jittered in the bronze fuzz at their feet, and Dillon screamed. This aggravated the something, and it promptly launched itself out of the dying wheat and onto his face.

Hindrex prepared to surgically remove it with his broadsword, but Cygnus merely reached over and grabbed the creature by the scruff of its neck. It was a possum, and having failed to cling to Dillon's face for dear life, it spun about and grabbed Cygnus's arm.

"It's scared out of its mind," Cygnus murmured. He stared at it for a moment, and it went slack in his grasp. With a sigh, he let it go gently on the ground. Immediately, the possum darted away through the wheat.

"Huh. Wonder why," Hindrex mused as the three Stormwind Marines continued toward Sentinel Hill. In the distance, a mass of straw and reaping blades shifted its deadly mass. Seeming to come to a decision, it lurched after the retreating humans with deliberate speed. Like an avalanche in slow motion, dozens of similar mounds whirred to life and followed the first.

"Do you always talk this much?" Melchiah growled, tenting his claws and creating an unnerving clacking sound with them.

"We don't get visitors, well…ever," their host answered, painfully aware of the fact that his fellow Forsaken had murder in his eyes, and that it was obviously one of the natural states he occupied (in much the same way that water is usually liquid).

Skinny was an oddball among the Forsaken because he didn't feel hopelessly depressed all the time. He even set up a discreet checkpoint for traveling Horde soldiers in the Alliance-dominated forest of Duskwood out of the kindness of his heart – and the emptiness of his pockets. It usually cost money to stay the night or eat the meals that Skinny's associate, Cook, conjured up. Unfortunately for Skinny, their new guests qualified for the 'I'll let you stay as long as you don't stab me in the face' discount.

The three soldiers tucked silently into their food, grateful for Melchiah's interference as the greasy Forsaken's strange, nasally voice had begun to take its toll on their nerves. Skinny really didn't get many visitors – most soldiers trying to reach the Swamp of Sorrows on foot did so in a flat-out run, and the Horde never came to Duskwood for any other reason. It was lonely, and Cook was no company at all.

"I must commend you, this pheasant is legendary!" Granik boomed, carefully directing his praise to Cook so as not to start another rant on how the trees changed shades of black if you stared at them long enough. The Forsaken toiled away at a cauldron propped against a burnt-out house some distance away from their meager campfire, and he seemed to pay them no mind.

"I'm kinda curious, actually…" Zuridan began.

"About what?" Skinny jumped on the opportunity before Zuridan could continue. "How I managed to gather five different kinds of firewood for this here bonfire?"

"No, no. What? Can't I just talk to that guy over there?" Zuridan pointed to Cook, who gurgled something inaudible.

"I'm afraid not, snapdad. He's a little short on words at the moment," Skinny answered cryptically.

"Well, I was wondering how you two got all this food for us. I mean, pheasant? Granik asked for one and you just happened to have it? And after that, I asked for roast raptor as a joke." To emphasize his point, Zuridan bit off a hefty, scaly chunk of roast raptor from his plate. "There aren't any goddamn raptors in Duskwood, so where is this stuff coming from?"

Skinny took a deep breath. Melchiah groaned.

"Okay, snapdad, let me tell you something 'bout my friend Cook. Would you believe he's one of the greatest wizards of all time?"

"No."

"That's too bad, 'cause he is. He's such a fantastic mage that he can polymorph people indefinitely, and into whatever critter he wants."

Zuridan looked to his more experienced companions, and both of them shook their heads. "They're telling me that's impossible."

"Ordinarily, yes. But just ask that sonsabitch you're digging into right now, he'll tell you."

Zuridan turned over the burnt raptor in his hands, and realized for the first time that it had a large, braided beard. He shrugged and took another bite. If he could cannibalize a fellow orc, eating a former dwarf was easy.

Granik was less than okay with that. "You mean…this pheasant used to be…"

"Yeah. Lots o' little humans and dwarves run around Duskwood. Nobody notices when a few go missing."

"But you can't cast a permanent polymorph spell!" The burly orc protested. "If you could, we'd all be ruled by scrawny wizards. It's bad enough turning into a sheep for thirty seconds, I can't imagine…"

"I told you, snapdad, Cook's a one-of-a-kind. Nobody else can do what he does with magic."

Zuridan turned around and found the world's greatest mage gnawing on one of his own exposed femurs.

"I'll bet it has something to do with why he's dumb as a kodo."

"Right you are. Y'see, the reason why you don't hear about all them really great magicians, is 'cause they got so much knowledge in 'em there's not room for much else. Find a ramblin' hobo on the street, there's a good chance he can make it rain ice cream if'n he had some incentive.

"What happens is, the real dedicated wizards like ol' Cook learn so much that stuff literally starts spillin' out their ears. When you know how to make the planet spin a diff'rent direction, you kinda forget about all the little things, like how to talk."

Zuridan scratched his head. Granik looked equally puzzled. Melchiah hadn't been paying attention, so he remained unaffected. "But I've seen people who spent their lives trying to unlock the secrets of magic," Zuridan insisted. "None of them have gone stupid or learned anything more spectacular than a Pyroblast."

"That's 'cause most people's brains don't let 'em get that far. Only reason this happened to Cook was 'cause he got killed by the Scourge at the battle of Dalaran. He's one of the only dead mages that didn't fall in under Arthas after it was all over, so's he kept his free will unlike the other poor sonsabitches. Before the Alliance came an' started rebuilding, he grabbed as much as he could and took off like a rat out of an aqueduct. Found him wandering around Hillsbrad, makin' chickens' heads explode."

With that, Skinny turned toward Cook and started speaking gibberish. As if dragged by a magnet, the bony Forsaken sloughed over to the campfire. It was only then that the three Horde soldiers could see a large iron pipe sticking out of Cook's right eye socket.

"Are you sure he's not just stupid?" Zuridan asked, reaching out and tugging on the pipe.

"You crazy, snapdad!" Skinny bleated, smacking Zuridan's hand away. "No tellin' what'll happen if'n you pull that out!"

The hunched Forsaken began to drool, and the sickly liquid eventually reached Melchiah's shoulder. Granik and Zuridan sucked in their breath, making an effort to move away as inconspicuously as possible. Skinny didn't seem to notice the change in the winds, nor did he notice that his partner was still drooling on their guest.

"See, I think this pipe's what let's him learn all the magic stuff he – "

"He's still drooling on me," Melchiah observed.

" – an' if you pull it out, he might just up an' – "

"And you're still talking," he added, a hiss of ethereal steam rising from his clenched jaws.

" – which reminds me, in a kinda roundabout way, what brings you all to my neck o' the woods?"

Granik and Zuridan were gone, and just in time. Melchiah stood up slowly, in a way that practically demands dramatic camera angles. He didn't bother turning around.

"Answer this question correctly," he suggested darkly, purposely leaving the 'Or I'll…' to Skinny's imagination. It sent a quiver through the Forsaken's rotten frame. "Have you seen a Lich around here?"

"I, uh…yes?"

"Where?"

"Er – " At the first sign of a stutter, Melchiah's sword flashed into existence. Holding it to the ground, he spun to face them, dragging the blade through their campfire and cutting a fiery swath between himself and the two Forsaken. He held the burning sword where it had completed its arc as the sudden motion stirred embers and tiny wisps of flame around him.

"I've had enough of both of you," he snarled, the fire in his eyes matching that of the embers.

"But you'll let us live if we help you find a Lich?" Skinny added hopefully.

"No. I'll let you live if I never have to hear that annoying voice of yours again."

Skinny opened his mouth, but Cook abruptly slapped it shut. Self-preservation was one of the things he hadn't yet forgotten.

"Wonderful. Load up a bag of edible stuff, I don't give a damn what, and give it to the big green guy."

Granik and Zuridan appeared out of the foliage. The larger orc was about to remind Melchiah about his name, but Zuridan stopped him. Nobody knew self-preservation better than a member of Xan's group.

Skinny moved to fulfill Melchiah's request, but the former colonel laid his still-glowing sword flat on Skinny's shoulder. The Forsaken trembled as his shoulder sizzled with pain, but bravely fought back words.

"I'm sorry, I didn't know you could polymorph people into food. Maybe I'm getting you confused with someone else."

Skinny quietly muttered a command to Cook, who shambled to the ruined house where Melchiah guessed they kept their prisoners before turning them into delicious animals. After some strange sounds issued from the house, Cook returned with a lumpy burlap sack.

"Everybody rested up?" Melchiah asked as Granik and Zuridan shouldered the gear. They both shook their heads sadly. "Good. The Lich hunt hasn't even started yet."

Meridia Darkwater gave Xan an experimental squeeze, hoping against hope that she wasn't dreaming. He felt solid enough – a little different, almost furry, but solid. Without opening her eyes, she yawned contentedly. It was the first time she had ever made love without being ashamed immediately afterward, and she wanted to chase that feeling. Settling back on the tree branch, she pulled Xan in tighter.

"For a second, I was afraid it was all a dream," Meridia said.

"Ook," Xan replied.

Her eyes shot open and aimed down. A monkey was nestling against her chest, and quite enjoying it despite the obvious species discrepancies. Angrily, she grabbed the mammal by the tail and hurled it toward the ocean. Before it even touched the water, five different kinds of carnivorous fish leapt out and each of them got a piece of it.

In retrospect, it seemed like an overreaction, but she probably wouldn't have done it if she had known what lurked beneath the waves.

So where the hell is Xan? She mused. Swinging her legs over the edge of the branch, she scanned the beach. Signs of the troll rogue were nowhere to be found, and neither were their clothes. He took off? With both our clothes?

Meridia didn't buy it. This scene screamed 'tragic romance', in which she, the hapless maiden believing her lover to have taken flight, kills herself out of grief. The charming gentleman returns from a perfectly reasonable errand to find her dead, and takes his own life as a result.

No. Meridia knew better than that. She knew that Xan couldn't have stolen her clothes, because Alliance armor doesn't go for much with Horde traders. She knew that Xan wouldn't leave her, because he knew she was the best he could ever get. She knew he had no reason to leave her, and that Xan needed at least a flimsy reason to do anything foolish. She couldn't think of anything more foolish than leaving a beautiful, intelligent night elf who understood him more than anyone else on Azeroth.

The only answer left was that he had been abducted by something, and that was far easier to believe.

Almost instantly, she discovered a mess of tracks in the sand made by webbed feet that led from the ocean to where they had dropped their clothes.

Murlocs, Vile Fins if I remember that seminar on fighting amphibious enemies…Meridia's first instinct was to dive into the surf, but then she remembered the monkey. With a groan, she leapt nimbly back into the canopy layer. Hopping from branch to branch like she used to do in the admittedly nicer foliage of Ashenvale, she stopped when she came upon a recently-deceased raptor.

"Time to put your survival training to the test," she murmured quietly. Dropping from the branch like a shadow, she grabbed the dead raptor's biggest claw and tugged it out. Decomposition had been swift in arriving, as only the jungle could deliver. Even so, a considerable amount of night elf strength was necessary to dislodge it.

Meridia traveled by treetops once more, just as a safety precaution for herself and for any heterosexual soldier that might see her naked. Once she had returned to the beach, she clenched the raptor claw in her teeth and dove beneath the waves.

End