“The fire told me that it was trying to cleanse you. That it felt you were … impure,” Thrall said, trying to recall exactly what it was the fire elemental had communicated to him. “It said you were confused. You did not know what you knew, and what you knew was incorrect. I asked if you could learn what was correct, and the spirit of fire thought you could. That was why it agreed to cease burning you.”
Thrall realized, now that the fire was no longer a threat, that some of the ancients had small creatures nesting in their branches. They looked like tiny dragons with delicate, vibrantly colored wings like a butterfly’s and feathery antennae adorning their bright-eyed heads. One of them flew out from the branches, fluttered about, and landed on Desharin’s shoulder, nuzzling him fondly.
“They are called sprite darters,” Desharin said, petting the small creature. “They are not dragons, but they are magical protectors and defenders of the Emerald Dream.”
And suddenly Thrall understood. He looked at the ancients, at their little magical protector, at Desharin’s green hair.
“You are a green dragon,” he said quietly. It was a statement, not a question.
Desharin nodded. “My task was to watch you.”
Thrall frowned, the old irritation returning. “Watch me? Was I being tested? Did I perform to Ysera’s expectations?”
“Not quite like that,” he said. “It was not an evaluation of your skills. I was to watch and see what was in your heart as you aided us, how you approached the task. You have a journey to make, Thrall, son of Durotan and Draka. We needed to see if you were ready to undertake it.”
The ancients began to speak again in their strange, creaking language. “Long have we kept the memories of this world. Long have we tended knowledge that others have forgotten. But the spirit of fire was right. Something is amiss. The memories we bear are becoming hazy, confused … lost. Something has gone awry with time itself.”
They must learn again what is true. Someone must teach them. If not, then burn they shall. Burn they must.
“That is what the spirit of fire was trying to say,” Thrall said. “It knew that their memories were wrong, incorrect. But it thought they could learn the correct memories again. That means there’s hope.”
Desharin nodded, thinking aloud. “Something is wrong with the memories of the ancients. They are not as we are; their memories cannot be altered unless the things they remember themselves were altered. That means that time itself has been interfered with.” He turned to Thrall, solemn and excited both. “This, then, is your journey. You must travel to the Caverns of Time. You must find out what has happened and help set the timeways right.”
Thrall looked at him, stunned. “The timeways … so they do exist. I had suspected—”
“They exist. Nozdormu and the rest of the bronze dragonflight manage them. And he is the one you must go to with this information.”
“I? Why would he talk to me? Wouldn’t a fellow dragon be a better choice?” It was an almost overwhelming thought: to travel back in time, to alter or adjust history. He felt out of his depth. What had initially seemed like a trivial errand had now taken on dire significance.
“I will accompany you if you like,” Desharin offered. “But the Aspect was adamant that you were important somehow. Do not take offense, but I am as puzzled as you are as to why she thought so.” He gave a sudden grin that made him look much younger than he doubtless was. “At least your skin is green.”
Thrall started to bridle, then found himself chuckling instead. “I would welcome any aid and illumination you care to give, and I am honored that Ysera regards me in such a light. I will do my utmost to help.” He turned to the ancients. “Help all of you, if I can.”
The ancients rustled, and Thrall heard the gentle sound of something dropping on the earth. It rolled down the slight incline and came to a stop at Thrall’s feet.
“That is a gift for you,” Desharin said.
Thrall stooped and picked it up. It was an acorn, looking to his eyes much like any other one. But he knew it was so much more, and felt a shiver as he closed his hand around it protectively for a moment before carefully putting it in his pouch.
“Take good care of it,” Desharin said with sudden solemnity. “That acorn holds all the knowledge of its parent tree, and all the knowledge of that parent’s parent tree … and on and on, back toward the beginning of all things. You are to plant it where it seems right for it to grow.”
Thrall nodded, his throat closing up at the gift and the duty.
“I will do so,” he assured the ancients.
“And now, friend orc,” Desharin said, looking up at the lightening sky, “we head to the Caverns of Time.”
SIX
The trip would be swift on dragonback, Desharin said, and Thrall had to agree. Snowsong perforce was left behind. Telaron himself assured Thrall that she would be well taken care of. “Your friendship with the lady Jaina is well known,” the night elf had said. “We will care for your wolf friend until arrangements can be made to return her safely. Snowsong is a noble beast, and deserves no less.” Of course—druids would care greatly about an animal’s welfare, and Jaina would be able to arrange a peaceful transfer. Snowsong could not be in better hands. Thrall gave Snowsong a final scratch behind the ears before turning to Desharin.
Desharin had assumed his true form and regarded Thrall as he approached.
“You honor me by bearing me,” Thrall said to the green dragon.
“You are charged with a task by Ysera,” Desharin replied. “The honor is mine. Do not fear. I will bear you swiftly and safely. You have my word. It would be more than my life is worth to disappoint my lady Aspect.”
“She is terrible in her anger?”
“She can be, when she is roused to anger. She is an Aspect. The power she wields is tremendous. But her heart is gentle,” Desharin said. “We serve her not out of fear but out of love. It would destroy me to give her any kind of sorrow.” The words were filled with respect and admiration, and the deep loyalty that Ysera inspired in her flight touched Thrall.
Strange though this adventure was, he was glad he had agreed to accept it.
He climbed slowly atop the great being and then, with less of an effort displayed by any other creature Thrall had ridden, the dragon was airborne.
Thrall’s breath went away at the feeling of magic and power that emanated from Desharin. His wings beat strongly, the breeze cool on Thrall’s skin, and he rose upward seemingly effortlessly. When he could breathe again, Thrall almost wanted to laugh. Before, he realized, he had ridden beasts that could fly. Now he felt as if he were one such creature himself.
“Can you tell me more of yourself? Of the other dragons?” Thrall asked. “I know some, but to be honest, I do not know what is myth and what is fact.”
Desharin chuckled, a deep, warm sound. “I will, friend Thrall, though as to most recent history, you must remember that I have been in the Emerald Dream and have only just awakened. But I will share what I know. One thing is for certain: Aspects only rarely intervene in the affairs of the short-lived races. The rest of my kind? Many are intrigued by what some arrogantly call the ‘lesser races.’ We sometimes enjoy taking your forms.”
“Such as a kaldorei.”
“Exactly,” agreed Desharin, “although I may assume any one I wish. While we are individuals, of course, and each of us has a preferred shape, you’ll find each flight gravitates toward a certain appearance more often than not. For instance, we green dragons tend to prefer kaldorei, because of our relationship with the great druid Malfurion Stormrage, who for so long shared the Dream with us.”
Thrall nodded. It made sense.
“I have observed the reds are partial to the sin’dorei, and the blues often opt for human form. As for the bronzes, while their task necessitates a variety of shapes, they seem to enjoy appearing as … gnomes.”
Thrall laughed. “Perhaps they enjoy being tiny and harmless-looking, given their natural form.”
“Perhaps. Maybe you can ask.”
“I … no, I don’t think I will.”
“You are wise.”
“I have learned a few things,” Thrall said. “Do any of you ever …” How to word it? He shrugged and said bluntly, “Take positions of power among the short-lived races?”
“Generally not, although Deathwing tried, and his daughter, Onyxia, actually succeeded,” growled Desharin. “And Krasus is … was … a powerful member of the Kirin Tor.”
“Was?”
“He met his end,” was all Desharin said, and he fell silent. Clearly, it was a delicate matter.
Thrall changed the subject. “I have heard that there are other types of dragons than these five flights.”
“Indeed, and these are the enemies of all of us, save the blacks whom they serve,” Desharin said. “Deathwing’s son, Nefarian, tried to create a new type of dragon called a chromatic dragon. He used magical experiments to combine qualities of all the other dragonflights. The resulting whelps were often deformed, and always short-lived, fortunately. None of them exists any longer. The twilight dragons had a similar sort of origin, except their creatrix, Sinestra, used ancient dragon artifacts and the powers of the nether dragons. They proved more stable and longer-lived … and also have an advantage in that they can turn incorporeal at will.”
“A challenging enemy,” Thrall said.
“Very,” agreed Desharin, “especially when controlled by the black dragonflight.”
Thrall watched as the greenery of Feralas gave way to the vast stretch of water that was now Thousand Needles. Thrall shook his head, gazing down at the dozens of small islands that used to be the pinnacles of the spiky rock formations that gave Thousand Needles its name. The world had changed so very much. He knew it had, of course; he had heard all the reports. But to see so much from the air … he wondered whether the others of the Ring had witnessed what he was seeing now, and if they had not, if perhaps they should.
Then Thrall and Desharin were flying swiftly over the desert of Tanaris, and Thrall could see the jagged teeth of sharp stones, part of a series of hills, jutting upward, and what looked like the tilted ruins of various strange structures. There was an angled tower, a broken domed structure, what appeared to be a typical orcish hut, and … the ragged sail of a ship? Overhead, Thrall could see two bronze dragons wheeling and turning.
“This area,” said Desharin solemnly, “serves as the courtyard to the Caverns of Time. I will land and go in on foot. They will want to find out why we have come.”
“I am sure they will,” Thrall said.
Desharin alighted but remained in his dragon form. Thrall started to dismount, but Desharin said, “Stay where you are, friend Thrall. No sense in tiring your shorter legs unnecessarily.” Desharin began to walk along the soft sand, heading for the arch of a domed building that appeared to manifest half inside, half outside of one of the jutting stones they had glimpsed earlier. Almost immediately, one of the wheeling dragons came to ground close to them.
“This is not your realm, green dragon,” the bronze said in a low, angry voice. “Go, and go quickly. You have no business here.”
“My bronze brother,” said Desharin, with deep respect, “I am here on my lady Aspect’s business.”
The great eyes narrowed, and the bronze turned to glance at Thrall perched atop Desharin’s back. He looked slightly surprised, then returned his attention to Desharin.
“You say you are here on behalf of Lady Ysera,” he said, his voice slightly less intimidating. “I am Chronalis, and I am a gatekeeper of the Caverns of Time. Tell me why you have come, and perchance I may admit you.”
“My name is Desharin, and I am here to aid this orc. He is Thrall, once warchief of the Horde, now member of the Earthen Ring. Ysera the Awakened believes he needs to find and speak with Nozdormu.”
The bronze dragon laughed slightly. “Oh, I know of Thrall,” he said, then addressed the orc directly. “And from what I do know of you, you are a not-inconsiderable personage for a short-lived being. But I do not think you can find Nozdormu, if his own dragonflight cannot do so.”
Having been the warchief of the Horde, Thrall was not surprised to hear that he was known to the bronze dragonflight. What did startle him was the revelation that Nozdormu was missing.
“It may be that he can do what the rest of us cannot,” said Desharin affably.
“She came to you? Ysera the Awakened?” Chronalis asked Thrall curiously.
Thrall nodded and explained his meeting with Ysera. He did not attempt to paint himself as better than he was, admitting fully that he had initially thought the task trivial, but that he now understood the importance of it, having realized that the grove was home to ancients. Too, he told Chronalis about the fire elemental’s response to his plea to cease damaging the trees. Chronalis nodded, listening intently.
“I do not know how I will be able to find Nozdormu where others have failed,” Thrall said bluntly. “But I give you my word, I will do the best that I can.”
Chronalis considered. “We have let others into the Caverns ere now, to assist us in keeping the timeways true,” he said, thinking. “Though the irony amuses me. If you wish to accompany him, Desharin, then you both may follow me.”
“Irony?” Thrall asked, as the two huge dragons strode along a sandy walkway that seemed at first to lead into one of the listing buildings but quickly proved to enter the heart of the mountain.
“Indeed,” Chronalis said, peering back at him over his folded wings. “You see, as I said before, sometimes we permit certain mortals to aid us in restoring the true timeway. The timeways have … come under attack recently, by a mysterious group called the infinite dragonflight. The bronze dragonflight, and particularly the Timeless One, Nozdormu, is charged with keeping the timeways as they are meant to be. If they are damaged or altered, the world you know could cease to exist. For reasons not yet known to us, the infinite dragonflight has infected various timeways, trying to alter them to their own ends. And your escape from Durnholde Keep, Thrall, is one of the events they sought to change.”
Thrall stared at him. “What?”
“If you had never escaped from Durnholde, the world would not be as it is today. You would never have rebuilt the Horde or freed your people from the internment camps. And so you would not have been able to bring aid against the Burning Legion when the demons came. Azeroth could have been destroyed.”
Desharin looked at Thrall with a new respect. “Well, no wonder the Aspect thought you important,” he said.
Thrall was shaking his head. “Such knowledge might make me think more of myself, but instead … I feel humbled. Please … thank those who fought to preserve that timeway. To help me. And …” His voice trailed off. “If they see Taretha, tell them to be gentle to her.”
“If they see Taretha, and all goes well, you will get to part with her as you once did,” said Chronalis.
They went deeper into the mountain. Thrall felt as if he had imbibed a draft intending to send him on a vision quest, yet his mind was clear. To one side, a house looked as if it had materialized partway inside the stone of the cavern. Another house loomed at an awkward angle, the sky above it—sky? In a mountain?—purple and magenta and ribboned with strange energy. Columns jutted upward, supporting nothing; trees flourished in a place with no water or sunlight. They passed a graveyard on one side. Thrall wondered, but did not ask, who was buried there. On another side, he could see strange chunks of floating rocks, varied in shape. Here was a tower of orcish make; over there was a ship.
Too, there were beings that he realized were most likely bronze dragons. There were several children and adults of nearly all races, six-limbed golden-scaled dragonspawn patrolling against possible intruders, and of course, bronze dragons in their natural form flapping silently above them.
At one point Thrall looked over his shoulder and realized that after a few moments the dragons’ pawprints had vanished.
“This is no ordina
ry sand,” said Chronalis. “Your presence here does not leave a trace. Look there.”
And Thrall’s eyes widened.
It hovered in the air before him, a contraption worthy of a goblin or gnomish mind. It was an hourglass, but like none he had ever seen before. Three containers poured sand endlessly down.
And three containers poured sand endlessly up.
Wrapped about all six and their bases was a twining, twisting frame that embraced without touching. Slowly it turned, and the sands of time—for such Thrall now understood them to be—poured up and down.
“This is all so …” He groped for words, could not find them, and simply shook his head in amazement.
Desharin came to a stop, and Thrall took this as a cue to slip to the ground. Once he had done so, the green dragon assumed his elven form and placed a gentle hand on Thrall’s shoulder.
“It is difficult for those who are not dragons to grasp,” he said, adding with a grin, “It is difficult even for dragons other than bronzes to grasp. Do not worry. Your task is not to understand the vagaries of the timeways.”
“No,” Thrall said, letting a slight sarcasm creep into his voice. “I just have to find the Timeless One, who does understand the vagaries of the timeways, whom no one else can seem to locate.”
Desharin clapped Thrall on the back. “Exactly,” he said, laughing. Their eyes met and Thrall grinned. He decided he liked this green dragon. After Ysera’s eccentric behavior and the clinical detachment of Chronalis, Desharin seemed very down-to-earth.
“I do not know how you wish to proceed,” Chronalis said.
Thrall looked at Desharin. “I think perhaps some time to settle our minds before we begin would help,” the green dragon said. “Clarity is often found in stillness, and Thrall is likely and rather understandably overwhelmed by all he has just beheld.”
Chronalis dipped his golden head. “As you wish. You may roam wherever you like, but please—the timeways are nothing to enter carelessly. To do so may doom you. Under no circumstances should you enter them without speaking with one of us. I’m sure by now you can understand why.”
Thrall Twilight of the Aspects Page 7
