THRALL TWILIGHT OF THE ASPECTS
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WORLD OF WARCRAFT®
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by Keith R. A. DeCandido
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by Richard A. Knaak
DAY OF THE DRAGON
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THE LAST GUARDIAN
by Jeff Grubb
Gallery Books
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2011 by Blizzard Entertainment, Inc. All rights reserved. Warcraft, 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 other trademarks referenced herein are the properties of their respective owners.
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First Gallery Books hardcover edition July 2011
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Interior art by James Ryman.
Manufactured in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
ISBN 978-1-4165-5088-4
ISBN 978-1-4391-7143-1 (ebook)
Since this is a book about healing a wounded world,
I would like to dedicate it to some of the teachers and healers
who have given of themselves to help heal this one.
Jeffrey Elliott
Greg Gerritsen
Kim Harris
Peggy Jeens
Anne Ledyard
Mary Martin
Anastacia Nutt
Katharine Roske
Richard Suddath
David Tresemer
Lila Sophia Tresemer
Monty Wilburn
Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Notes
Further Reading
The Battle Rages On
THRALL TWILIGHT OF THE ASPECTS
ONE
Thrall, former warchief of the great and mighty Horde, now a shaman no greater than any of those with whom he currently stood, squeezed his eyes shut and struggled to stay on his feet. Beneath them, the earth bucked, a pathetically small piece of land jutting upward from an ocean roiling furiously around it, shaking and shivering in its pain.
Not long ago, an insane Dragon Aspect had torn his way into Azeroth, rending the world profoundly. The mad Deathwing was once again loose upon this world, and the violence of his return had left Azeroth with a gaping wound. To those whose minds were not beyond hope, Azeroth was not beyond healing, but it would never be what it once was.
In the heart of the world, a place called the Maelstrom, longburied earth had been shoved violently to the surface. And it was here that those who were trying desperately to mend the broken lands had assembled.
They were shaman, each one powerful, members of the Earthen Ring who had left behind other serious duties and responsibilities to gather here. One alone could do little. Many, especially as highly trained and as wise as each one was, could do more.
There were dozens of them, standing alone, or in pairs or small groups on the slippery skerries, trying to stay on their feet on the bucking, shuddering earth. Their arms were lifted in gestures of both command and pleading. Though not linked physically, they were joined on a spiritual level, eyes shut, deep in the working of a healing spell.
The shaman were attempting to soothe the elements of the earth, as well as encouraging them to help heal themselves. True, it was the elements who were harmed, and the shaman who were not, but the elements had more power than the shaman. If the earth could be calmed long enough to remember this, it would be able to draw upon its own vast power. But the earth, the stones and the soil and the very bones of Azeroth, also wrestled with another wound: betrayal. For the black Dragon Aspect, Deathwing, once known as Neltharion, had been the Earth-Warder. He had been charged with protecting it and keeping its secrets. Now he cared nothing for the earth, casually and insanely ripping it to pieces, heedless of the havoc he wrought and the pain he caused it.
The earth mourned, and heaved violently.
“Stand straight and true!” cried a voice, somehow audible in Thrall’s ears even over the rumbling of the earth as it quivered beneath them and the crashing of angry waves that sought to dislodge them from their precarious perches. The voice belonged to Nobundo, the first among his kind, the Broken, to become a shaman. This time it was his turn to lead the ritual, and so far he had done it masterfully.
“Open to your brothers and sisters! Sense them, feel them, see the Spirit of Life gleaming brightly inside them like a glorious flame!”
Standing with Thrall on one of the larger of the newly formed skerries was Aggra, a Mag’har and descendant of the Frostwolf clan Thrall had met in Nagrand and grown to love. Brown-skinned, her reddish-brown hair pulled back in a ponytail from an otherwise shaved head, she had strength in her hand as it grasped Thrall’s own tightly. This was no gentle, subtle working they were doing now: this was triage.
They stood, daringly, close to the edge of sheer cliffs. Wind whipped up the ocean below them, sending the waves crashing to boom hollowly against jagged stone. All needed to calm before the healing could begin, but it was a risky choice.
Thrall felt his muscles lock, trying to hold him in place. It was much to juggle: staying upright on the wild earth, not toppling forward to the hungry ocean and sharp stones, and still trying to find the center of peace within that would enable him to connect on a deep and profound level with his fellow shaman. This was the space where, if the shaman was skilled and properly prepared, the Spirit of Life co
uld enter—that energy that enabled the shaman to reach the elements, to interact with them, and to unite with others who were doing the same.
He could feel them reaching out to him, their essences an oasis of calm in the chaos, and he struggled to drop deep into his own inner core. With an effort, Thrall gained control of his breathing, refusing to surrender to the quick, shallow breaths that would only cause his body to taste worry and apprehension, instead forcing his lungs to inhale and exhale the damp salt air.
In through the nose … out through the mouth … extend from the soles of the feet into the earth, reach out with the heart. Hold tightly to Aggra, but do not cling. Close the eyes, open the inner spirit. Find the center and, in the center, find peace. Take the peace found there and link it to the others.
Thrall felt his hands sweating. His weight shifted and, for an instant, he slipped. Quickly he caught himself and tried to start breathing deeply again, to begin the centering ritual. But it was as if his body had a mind of its own and would not listen to Thrall’s instructions. It wanted to fight, to do something, not stand and breathe and be calm. He—
A sudden light, so bright the orc could see it even with his lids tightly closed, flashed. A terrible crack shattered their ears as the lightning struck far, far too close. There was a deep rumble, and the earth quivered even more violently. Thrall opened his eyes in time to see a huge hunk of earth, scorched from the lightning strike only a few yards away, crumble beneath the feet of a goblin and a dwarf. They cried out in surprise, clinging to each other and the shaman on either side, swaying over the crashing waves and jagged rocks.
“Hang on!” shouted the tauren who had a death grip on the goblin’s hand. He braced his hooves and pulled. The draenei clutching the dwarf did likewise. Gasping, the two shaman were dragged to safety.
“Pull back, pull back!” cried Nobundo. “To the shelters—quickly!” The gathered shaman needed no urging as a nearby skerry crumbled to pieces. Orc and tauren, troll and goblin, dwarf and draenei, all raced for their mounts, clambering atop the shivering beasts and urging them back to the shelters on one of the larger skerries as the skies cracked open and hurled stinging, fat raindrops upon the shaman’s skins. Thrall hesitated long enough to make sure Aggra had climbed atop her winged mount, then he urged his own wyvern skyward.
The shelters were little more than makeshift huts, located as far inland as possible and protected by warding spells. Each individual and mated pair had their own. The huts were arranged in a circle around a larger, open ritual area. The warding spells protected the shaman from smaller manifestations of angry elements such as lightning, though the earth might open up beneath. But such was always a threat, no matter where the shaman were.
Thrall reached the shelter first, holding up the bearskin flap long enough for Aggra to charge inside, then dropping it and tying it closed. The rain pounded angrily on the skins as if demanding entrance, and the structures trembled slightly from the onslaught of the wind. But they would hold.
Thrall quickly began to remove his drenched robe, shivering slightly. Aggra did likewise in silence; the wet clothing would kill them more surely than a random strike of lightning, if not as swiftly. They dried their wet skins, one green, one brown, and then donned fresh, dry robes from a chest. Thrall set about lighting a small brazier.
He felt Aggra’s eyes upon him, and the air in the tent was heavy with unsaid words. Finally she broke the silence.
“Go’el,” she began. Her voice, deep and husky, was laden with concern.
“Say nothing,” Thrall said, and busied himself heating water for hot beverages for them both.
He saw her scowl at him, then roll her eyes and almost visibly choke back her words. He disliked speaking to her so, but he was in no mood to discuss what had happened.
The spell had failed, and Thrall knew it was because of him.
They sat silently and awkwardly as the storm broke about them and the earth continued to rumble. At last, almost like a child that had cried itself to sleep, the earth seemed to subside. Thrall could feel that it was not at peace and far from healed, but it was still.
Until the next time.
Almost immediately Thrall heard voices outside their shelter. He and Aggra emerged into the gray day, the ground wet beneath their bare feet as they walked. Others were assembling in the main area, their faces reflecting grave concern, weariness, and determination.
Nobundo turned to Thrall and Aggra as they approached. He was a former draenei. His form was not proud and strong and tall, but bent, almost deformed, caused by exposure to fel energies. Many Broken were dark and corrupted, but Nobundo was not. Indeed, he had been blessed, his great heart opening to the shamanic powers, and it was he who had brought these powers to his people. Beside him were several draenei, their blue forms undamaged, sleek, clean. Yet, to Thrall and many others, Nobundo outshone them all because of who he was.
When the high shaman’s gaze fell upon Thrall, the orc wanted to look away. This being—indeed, all the other shaman gathered here—was someone Thrall respected deeply, and had never wished to disappoint. And yet, he had.
Nobundo beckoned Thrall to him with an oversized hand. “Come, my friend,” he said quietly, regarding the orc kindly.
Many were not so charitably minded, and Thrall felt angry gazes being cast his way as he approached Nobundo. Others came silently to join in this informal gathering.
“You know the spell we were attempting to work,” Nobundo said, his voice still calm. “It was to soothe and comfort the earth. It is admittedly a difficult working, but one that all of us here know how to do. Can you tell us why you—?”
“Stop dancing around the subject,” growled Rehgar. He was a massive orc, battle-scarred and hulking. One would not look at him and think “spiritual,” but whoever made that assumption would be very wrong. Rehgar’s life journey had thus far taken him from gladiator to slave owner to loyal friend and advisor to Thrall, and that journey was far from over. Now, though, a lesser orc than the former warchief of the Horde might have quailed before his anger. “Thrall … what the fel was going on with you? We could all feel it! You weren’t focusing!”
Thrall felt his hands curl into fists and forced them to relax. “Only because you are my friend will I permit you to speak so to me, Rehgar,” Thrall said quietly, but with an edge to his voice.
“Rehgar is right, Thrall,” Muln Earthfury said in his deep, rumbling voice. “The working is hard, but not impossible—not even unfamiliar. You are a shaman, one who has been through all his people’s true rites. Drek’Thar hailed you as the savior of his people because the elements spoke to you when they had been silent for many years. You are no inexperienced child, to be coddled and sympathized with. You are a member of this Ring—an honored and strong one, or else you would not be here. And yet you crumbled at a crucial moment. We could have silenced the quakes, but you shattered the working. You need to tell us what is distracting you so that we may aid you.”
“Muln—” Aggra began, but Thrall lifted a hand.
“It is nothing,” he said to Muln. “The work is demanding and wearying, and I have a great deal on my mind. Nothing more than that.”
Rehgar uttered an oath. “You have a great deal on your mind,” he spat. “Well, the rest of us do as well. Trivial things like saving our world from ripping itself apart!”
For a second, everything went red in Thrall’s vision. Muln spoke before Thrall could. “Thrall was leader of the Horde, Rehgar, not you. You cannot know what burdens he bore and perhaps still does bear. And as one who until recently owned slaves, you cannot sit in moral judgment upon him!”
He turned to Thrall. “I am not attacking you, Thrall. I am merely seeking to see how we can aid you, that you can better aid us.”
“I know what you are doing,” Thrall said, his voice close to a snarl. “And I do not like it.”
“Perhaps,” Muln said, striving for diplomacy, “you are in need of some rest for a while. Our work is very
demanding, and even the strongest must tire.”
Thrall did not even grace the other shaman with a verbal reply; he merely nodded curtly and stalked off to his shelter.
He was angrier than he had been in some time. And the person he was most angry with was himself.
He knew he had been the weak link in the chain, had failed to put forth the ultimate concentration at the moment when it was most desperately needed. He could not yet drop deep into himself, touch the Spirit of Life within, which was what had been required of him. He didn’t know if he would ever be capable of doing so. And because he could not do this thing, the effort had failed.
He was unhappy with himself, with the working, with the petty arguments—with everything. And he realized with a start that this unhappiness had been with him for a long time.
A few months ago, he had made a difficult decision: he had chosen to leave the rank of warchief of the Horde in order to come here, to the Maelstrom, to follow the path of shaman rather than leader. He had thought at first that it would be temporary. He had relinquished command to Garrosh Hellscream, son of the late Grom Hellscream, in order to travel to Nagrand to study with his grandmother, Greatmother Geyah. This was before the great Cataclysm that had shaken Azeroth; Thrall had sensed the uneasy elements and had hoped to be able to do something to calm them and prevent what had eventually transpired.
There, he had studied and learned with a beautiful but often irritating and frustrating shaman named Aggra. She had pushed him, forcing him to dig deep for answers, and the two had fallen in love. He had returned to Azeroth and, once the Cataclysm had struck, decided to continue on to the Maelstrom to serve with his beloved.
It had sounded like the right thing to do—the hard choice, the best choice. To leave something familiar and loved, to work for the greater good. But now he was having doubts.
While Thrall had been traveling in Nagrand, Garrosh had killed Thrall’s dear friend, the tauren chieftain Cairne Bloodhoof, in ritual combat. Thrall had later learned that Garrosh had been tricked by Magatha Grimtotem, a longtime rival of Cairne’s, into fighting Cairne with a poisoned blade. Thrall could not shake the thought that had he not left Azeroth, Cairne would never have felt the need to rebuke Garrosh’s leadership and would still be alive.
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