Thrall nodded. “Indeed I do. Thank you for admitting me, Chronalis. I will do my utmost to aid you.”
“Of that, I have no doubt,” Chronalis said. He leaped upward and then suddenly seemed to blur. Then he was gone.
“What …?” Thrall started to ask Desharin, then realized what must have happened. Master of time that he was, Chronalis had simply sped up time for himself and was now back at his post. Thrall shook his head, marveling.
They started walking away from the bronze dragons, who seemed to have pressing duties and tasks, even the children. It was easy to see that these were not real children; their faces and posture revealed the graveness of their roles. Trees grew here and there: evergreens, taking root in sand. It was but one of the oddities of this place, and Thrall shrugged and accepted it. The smell of pine was sharp and fresh. Immediately he was plunged back into his youth, growing up in Durnholde. When he had been permitted outside to train, this had often been the scent he had smelled. It was strange, how powerfully scent brought back memories, both good and bad: of a girl who had sacrificed everything to aid him, of a “master” who had beaten him almost to death in a drunken rage. … In Hillsbrad, Thrall had had his first glimpse of another orc, and deemed his brother a monster.
“You are agitated,” Desharin said quietly. “And, if I am right, by more than these revelations.”
Thrall was forced to nod. “I am reminded of the place of my youth,” he said. “The memories are not necessarily pleasant ones.”
Desharin nodded. “Come, friend Thrall. Let us find a place to be still and meditate before attempting to navigate these timeways. Unlike the bronze dragons, for us, the past is past, and should not be an undue burden. We will have challenges enough without bringing disquieting thoughts with us, I think.”
They walked on for a little while in silence, until Desharin came to a halt. “This place seems quiet,” he said, looking about. “We should not be disturbed here.” He sat down beneath one of the towering trees and placed his hands on his knees. Thrall emulated him.
He was tense, not just because of what he had recently beheld and learned or the memories the scent of the trees were recalling, but because the last time he had attempted to drop into a meditative state with another, it had been an abysmal failure. The dragon noticed this.
“You are a shaman and have been for some time,” he said. “This should be familiar to you. Why do you have such difficulty?”
“Well, you are a green dragon. You’re more used to sleeping than being awake,” Thrall shot back.
Desharin did not take offense, merely took a moment to brush back his long hair while Thrall continued to settle himself. The green dragon closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
Thrall found himself doing the same thing. Desharin was right. This was, of course, very familiar to Thrall. He watched the dragon for a moment, his thoughts not on dropping into a meditative state but on all that had transpired so very recently. Leaving the leadership of the Horde. Traveling to Nagrand and meeting Aggra. Cairne’s death. The Cataclysm that had ripped open the world and turned it upside down. His irritation and inability to focus. Ysera’s task and meeting the ancients … and this dragon, who sat before him, looking nothing like his true self and everything like a meditating night elf.
This place was unnerving, and compelling. Thrall did not want to close his eyes and explore his inner self. He wanted to explore the Caverns of Time.
But he would, and soon. He needed to embark on such an important task as prepared as possible. And so, reluctantly, he closed his eyes, and began to breathe slowly and calmly.
It happened so swiftly that by the time the sound of wind whistling across the flat of a blade alerted him to danger and he opened his eyes, Desharin’s head had already been severed from his shoulders.
Thrall dove to the side, somersaulting and landing on his feet. He did not spare the corpse of his new friend a glance. Desharin was dead, and Thrall would soon join him if he was not careful. He reached for the Doomhammer, grasping it and wheeling it around with the ease and speed of long familiarity. His eyes were firmly fastened on the suddenly appearing threat as he swung: large, but not as large as an orc, wearing heavy black plate mail. Spikes jutted out here and there from elbows and shoulders and knees, and gauntleted hands clasped a huge, glowing two-handed broadsword. But what should have been a blow across the stranger’s midsection, crushing his armor like a cheap tin mug, instead met empty air.
His foe lurched away, missing the Doomhammer’s heavy head by less than a finger’s breadth. Surprised, Thrall lost a precious second in attempting to halt the powerful swing and bring the hammer around for a second strike. His attacker had already recovered and now bore down on him with the massive broadsword, which gleamed with enchantment. The strike was much swifter than Thrall would have given him credit for, encumbered by armor as he was. The orc knew a flicker of apprehension. Who was this unknown enemy? Fierce, fast, strong—
Acting on instinct, he let the swing of the Doomhammer carry him out of the path of the charging adversary. Releasing one hand, he lifted it and summoned a strong, concentrated gust of wind. The human—for Thrall was starting to guess it was one, based on the size and style of armor—stumbled and nearly fell in the soft sand. Another request to the spirits of air, and several handfuls of sand suddenly rose to scour the front of the helm. It offered some protection, but not enough: the sand, precisely directed by Thrall, penetrated the eye slits and would temporarily blind. A shout came from behind the helm, the voice of a human male snarling in agony and anger, lifting his sword not to attack but to shield his face.
The broadsword’s glowing aura pulsed, red and as angry as its master, and then it was descending toward Thrall.
Thrall realized that he was facing, not just an enemy surprisingly agile and strong on his own, but one who held a weapon that might be as powerful as the Doomhammer.
Desharin had been taken unawares—but he should not have been. What had this man done to so cloak his presence, to hide himself from a green dragon and the former warchief of the Horde? Where were the other bronze dragons? Thrall thought about calling to them, but they would likely be too far away: he and Desharin had—foolishly, in retrospect—sought an out-of-the-way location for their meditation.
Spirits of earth, will you aid me?
A sinkhole opened beneath the black-armored man’s feet. He stumbled and fell to one knee, all his grace and power turned into desperate clumsiness as he fought to free his leg. Thrall snarled, lifting the Doomhammer and bringing it smashing down—
—to clang and halt against the blade of the two-handed sword. One gauntleted hand grasped the blade. Magic crackled along the weapon, and the human shoved hard enough to send Thrall hurtling backward as if thrown by a giant’s hand.
The human was on his feet now, standing over Thrall and lifting the glowing weapon. He plunged it down toward the earth.
Thrall rolled to the side, but not fast enough. The sword missed spearing his torso but still carved a groove along his side. Thrall leaped to his feet.
At that moment, a huge shadow fell over them. Before he even realized what had happened, Thrall had been caught up in a giant claw. The dragon was far from gentle.
“We will deal with the intruder!” the dragon cried. “Your task is to find Nozdormu!” And indeed, Thrall saw that the dragon was heading straight for the whirling, churning outline of a portal to one of the timeways—which one, he did not know.
Before Thrall could say anything—could even draw breath in his compressed lungs to speak—the bronze dragon dropped close to the earth and all but threw the hapless orc into the portal.
Before he disappeared inside it, though, Thrall could hear his foe shouting behind him in a voice that sounded strangely familiar.
“You will not escape me so easily, Thrall! You cannot hide in there for long, and when you emerge, I will find you! I will find you and I will slay you! Do you hear me?!”
SEVE
N
Beneath his running feet, the sand that had so treacherously slowed Thrall down abruptly became solid earth and grass. Above him, instead of the bizarre skyscape of the Caverns of Time, he saw pine trees, black sky, and twinkling stars. Thrall slowed and came to a halt, attempting to get his bearings.
The familiar smell of pine and earth, the scents made all the sharper for being borne on the misty and slightly chilly air, confirmed Thrall’s location. A stream splashed a few feet away, and Thrall caught sight of the white-tufted tail of a fox. Thrall had never been to this specific place, but he knew the area. He had grown up here.
He was in the foothills of Hillsbrad, in the Eastern Kingdoms.
So, he mused, I know where I am. But the more important question is … when?
He had done something few had ever done, something he hadn’t been sure was possible until a short time ago.
When was he?
He leaned heavily against a tree, letting the Doomhammer slip to the earth as the realization sank in. He had been too distracted by Desharin’s sudden death and the violence of the attack to truly notice and appreciate the magnitude of what he was doing.
The slice in his side demanded attention. Thrall placed a hand over the wound, asking for healing. His hand glowed softly, tingling with warmth, and the wound closed beneath it. He removed his robe, rinsed it clean of blood in the stream, bundled it up in his pack, and had just finished shrugging into a fresh robe when voices came to him.
The voices of orcs.
Quickly he wrapped the too-recognizable Doomhammer in the old robe and stuffed it as best he could into his pack, hoping to catch a glimpse of the orcs while also desperately thinking of a plausible story. His eyes widened slightly, and he was suddenly very glad that the Doomhammer was in his pack, safely out of sight. He recognized the banner one of them bore. A black mountain silhouetted against a red background. It was the banner of the Blackrock clan. That meant one of two things, depending on when in his world’s history he was. Most of the members of the Blackrock clan were not individuals for whom Thrall had respect. He thought of Blackhand, cruel and domineering, and his sons, Rend and Maim, who had gone on to dwell inside Blackrock Mountain.
But there was one Blackrock who, in Thrall’s opinion, redeemed the clan. That orc’s name was Orgrim Doomhammer. Thrall’s heart lifted as the thought occurred to him that he had perhaps gone back to a point in time when his mentor and friend still lived. The orc who had picked a fight with him while disguised as a simple traveler. Who had gulled him into attacking with good, honest orcish anger … and who had been pleased to have been bested by Thrall. Who had taught him orcish battle tactics and who, with his last breath, had named Thrall warchief of the Horde and bequeathed to the younger orc his famous armor … and the Doomhammer.
Orgrim. Thrall was suddenly seized with a longing to see the mighty orc—his friend—once more. And such a thing was possible, here … now.
The approaching orc drew an axe. “Who are you?” he demanded.
“Th-Thra’kash,” Thrall said quickly. He could not announce himself as a shaman, not here, not in this era. How could he? “A warlock.”
The guard looked him up and down. “With an interesting taste in robes. Where are your skulls and embroidered cloth?”
Thrall drew himself up to his full height and took a menacing step toward the guard. “The purpose of operating in the shadows is to not be noticed,” he said. “Trust me. It is only the insecure who must announce how dangerous they are with black clothes and bones. The rest of us know what we can do, and do not need to boast of it.”
The guard took a step backward, then looked around carefully. “You were … sent to assist with the mission we are to carry out later?”
There was an edge to his voice that Thrall did not like, but he needed to divert suspicion quickly. So he nodded and replied, “Yes, of course. Why else would I be here?”
“Odd, to send a warlock,” said the guard, his eyes narrowing for a moment. Thrall endured the scrutiny, and then at last the guard shrugged. “Oh, well. My job is not to ask questions, just to carry out my orders. My name is Grukar. I have some things to attend to before it is time. Come with me up to the fire near the tent. It’s a cold night.”
Thrall nodded. “My thanks, Grukar.”
Thrall followed Grukar as the other orc took him up farther into the foothills area. There was a small tent erected in hues of red and black. The entrance flap had been pulled down, and two orcs stood guard on either side of it. They looked curiously at Thrall, but as he was clearly with Grukar, they soon lost interest in him.
“Wait here for me,” Grukar said quietly. “I will not be long.” Thrall nodded and went to the bonfire a few feet away. Several other guards huddled there, holding out their hands to the flame. Thrall imitated them, trying to draw as little attention to himself as possible. And then he heard voices.
Or rather, a single voice. Thrall could not catch all the words, but someone was speaking of Gul’dan. Thrall’s eyes narrowed as he listened. Gul’dan had betrayed the orcs. He had allied with demons in order to increase his own personal power and formed the Shadow Council to undermine the clans. Worst of all, he had persuaded the highest-ranking orcs of Draenor to drink demonic blood. It was this stain that had hounded them for so long. Even those who had not partaken found themselves developing an unquenchable thirst for slaughter, their skin turning green with the taint, until Thrall’s friend Grom Hellscream had finally, fully freed the orcs by slaying the demon Mannoroth, whose blood had been the cause of so much torment.
But that heroic act was many years in the future, Thrall knew. In this timeway, Gul’dan’s treachery was still new. And someone had come to persuade Orgrim Doomhammer to overthrow Gul’dan.
At last, the grim tale wound down. For a moment there was silence.
And then Thrall heard a voice he had never thought to hear again. It was younger, slightly higher than what Thrall remembered, but he knew it at once, and a lump crept into his throat.
“I believe you, old friend.”
Orgrim Doomhammer.
“And let me reassure you, I will not stand for Gul’dan’s plans for our people. We will stand against the darkness with you.”
Thrall suddenly wondered: Had he even been born when this conversation took place? Who had had the courage to come to Doomhammer with such—
And then he knew, and the knowing suddenly took his breath away.
“One of my personal guards will escort you to a safe place. There is a stream nearby and much game in the woods this time of year, so you shall not go hungry. I will do what I can on your behalf, and when the time is right, you and I shall stand side by side as we slay the great betrayer Gul’dan together.”
But that wasn’t what had happened. What had happened was—
The tent flap was drawn back. Three orcs emerged. One was Doomhammer—younger, fit, strong, and proud. In his face Thrall could see the older orc he would one day become. But although he had thought just a moment ago he would hunger to look upon Orgrim’s face once again, he found his eyes riveted on the other two orcs.
They were a mated pair, donning fur clothing that was much too heavy for this climate as they emerged from the tent. With them was a large white wolf—a frost wolf, Thrall knew. They stood tall and proud, the male powerful and battle-toned, the female every inch the warrior that her mate was.
And in her arms, she bore an infant.
Thrall knew the child.
It was he … and the orcs who stood before him now were his parents.
He simply stared at them, joy and shock and horror racing through him.
“Come, Durotan, Draka,” said Grukar. “Thra’kash and I will escort you to your safe camp.”
The baby fussed. The female—…
Mother …
—looked down at the child, her strong, proud orcish features softening with love. She then looked back at Thrall. Their eyes met.
“Your eyes a
re strange, Thra’kash,” she said. “I have only seen blue eyes in this little one before.”
Thrall reached for words, but Grukar suddenly looked at him oddly. “Let us make haste,” he said. “Surely a discussion of eye color can wait until you are safely at your new location.”
Thrall had never felt so lost before in his life. He followed mutely as Grukar led his parents down to the same spot where he had entered this timeway. His mind reeled with the implications.
He could save his parents.
He could save himself from being captured and raised as a gladiator by the cruel yet pathetic Aedelas Blackmoore. He could help them attack Gul’dan, perhaps free them from the demonic taint decades before Hellscream would do so. He could save Taretha.
He could save them all.
He had spoken with Orgrim Doomhammer about the murder of his family. Words came back to him from that conversation—long ago to him now, but still in the future in this timeway.
Did my father find you? Thrall had asked.
He did, Orgrim had replied. And it is my greatest shame and sorrow that I did not keep them closer. I thought it for the good of both my warriors and Durotan as well. They came, bringing you, young Thrall, and told me of Gul’dan’s treachery. I believed them. …
He knew he was staring at the pair, but he could no more stop doing so than he could stop breathing. He was famished for this sight—a sight he should have been granted growing up, a sight that would be forever taken from him by the actions that were about to occur shortly if he did not prevent them.
They finally noticed. Durotan seemed curious but not hostile, and Draka was openly amused. “You appear interested in us, stranger,” she said. “You have never seen Frostwolves before? Or perhaps this blue-eyed babe intrigues you?”
Thrall still could not find words. Durotan saved him the trouble. He had looked about and judged the site to be good. It was secluded and verdant. He turned to Draka, smiling. “I knew my old friend could be trusted. It will not be long before—”
Thrall Twilight of the Aspects Page 8
