Thrall Twilight of the Aspects (11 page)

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 ordinary 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 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?!
”

B
eneath 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.