Thrall Twilight of the Aspects (27 page)

“Say whatever makes you feel better, orc,” said Blackmoore, “but you are still about to join your ancestors.”

The voice was slightly fainter, and the blow was weaker than earlier ones had been. Thrall must have wounded Blackmoore more than he had initially thought.

Thrall snarled and swung the Doomhammer, targeting his adversary’s legs. Blackmoore had been expecting him to struggle to rise, not attack from a fallen position, and cried out as the Doomhammer slammed into him. The armor took much of the impact, but the blow was powerful enough to knock Blackmoore completely off his feet.

This was no giant among men. Just as Taretha had still been her true self even in the corrupted timeway, so was Blackmoore. He might not have succumbed to drinking, or misspent his energy
leaning on another’s strengths. But he was still Aedelas Blackmoore—a small-spirited man, a bully who thrived on treachery and manipulation.

And Thrall was still who
he
was.

Blackmoore might have intimidated Thrall as a youth, might have unnerved him when he reappeared as a seemingly stronger individual. But although Thrall wore only robes, he had new armor; though he wielded the familiar Doomhammer, he had new weapons. He felt his love for Aggra burning within his soul. It was not a distraction but a steady, calming ember, constant and true—truer than the hatred offered by the man who thrashed frantically in the snow, trying to rise on two wounded legs, wielding a sword with an arm that was weakened and rapidly becoming useless. Aggra’s love was like armor and weapon both, protecting him, shielding him, enabling him to bring the very best of who he was to this battle, which was as much about spirit as it was about the body.

Thrall understood, in a way he had never known before, that those moments when Blackmoore had won, when he had intimidated Thrall and undercut his resolve and made him feel less than who he was—those moments were in the past.

And that made them powerless over him. Thrall was in
this moment,
and in
this moment
he was unafraid.

In this moment Blackmoore would not win.

It was time to end this. To send Blackmoore to his destined fate: death at Thrall’s hands. To send all those doubts and insecurities and fears where they belonged: truly, forever, in the past.

His wound was bleeding freely, the warmth of his own red-black blood saturating his robes. The pain helped him to focus. Thrall began to swing the Doomhammer like the master of weapons he truly was as Blackmoore somehow managed to get unsteadily to
his feet. The hammer knocked Fleshrender aside, Blackmoore’s weakened arm unable to effectively wield a two-handed sword. In the same movement, following through on the swing of the great weapon, Thrall lifted one hand from the shaft and up to the skies. There was a sudden cracking sound.

A huge icicle had broken free from its place beneath a rock overhang. It flew, like a dagger hurled by a skilled hand, toward Blackmoore. It was only frozen water; it could not pierce armor.

But it could—and did—knock the human down like a giant fist. A cry of pain and alarm escaped Blackmoore as he fell to his knees in the snow. Weaponless, nearly knocked unconscious, Blackmoore raised his hands imploringly to Thrall.

“Please…” The voice was rasping and faint, but on the clear air Thrall could hear him. “Please, spare me. …”

Thrall was not without compassion. But greater than compassion in his heart was the need for balance and justice—both in the twisted timeway that had birthed this Aedelas Blackmoore, and in Thrall’s own timeway, where the human did not belong.

Thrall raised the weapon, lifting it high above his head. His gaze was caught and held not by the begging gesture but by the gleam of plate armor that Orgrim Doomhammer had once worn. That he, Thrall, had once worn and since had reverently discarded.

The snake shedding its skin. The spirit growing ever purer and stronger. It would seem that such a discarding of one’s old self was a lifelong process. Now Thrall was prepared to discard any lingering remnants of power this human held over him.

He shook his head. His heart felt calm. It was not joy or vengeance that filled it, for there was no delight in the act. But there was a sense of freedom, of release.

“No,” Thrall said. “You should not be here, Blackmoore. You should not be anywhere. With this blow, I make things right.”

He brought the Doomhammer crashing down. It crushed the metal helm and the head inside it. Blackmoore fell beneath it, dead from the first instant.

Thrall had slain his shadow.

B
lackmoore was silent as he died. The snow beneath his corpse turned slushy and red. Thrall took a deep breath, exhaled, and then stumbled to the side before sitting down heavily. The pain of the battle and the fall surged forward, and Thrall felt a small smile creep across his face as he realized, in this moment, that he hurt very badly indeed. He closed his eyes, asked for healing, and felt an answering warmth seep through his body. He was exhausted and still hurting, but he had tended to the worst, and he would survive.

Still, there was no question in his mind about giving up. After a moment to steel himself for the pain, he rose. He still needed to find shelter. He still needed to start a fire and find sustenance. He was not going to die here, not when he had to return to Aggra—and to another being who needed Thrall’s help.

He had been trudging slowly for some time before the shadow fell on the snow. Thrall looked up, eyelashes crusted with ice, to see a huge reptilian shape hovering above him. It was between him and the sun, and he could not see its color. His body almost numb, barely able to move, he nonetheless lifted the Doomhammer. He
was not about to let something as trivial as a twilight dragon stand between him and Aggra.

“Hold, friend orc,” came a slightly amused voice. “I’ve come to bear you back to warmth and food. I confess, I thought I would bear you back for a hero’s funeral, but instead I will gain the gratitude of my Aspect.”

It was a blue! The relief that swept through Thrall was so profound, he felt his legs give way. The last thing he felt before unconsciousness claimed him was powerful talons closing gently around him.

An hour later, Thrall found himself back in the now-familiar conjured space in the Nexus. He sat in the chair, wrapped in a warm blanket, holding a steaming cup of some beverage that was both sweet and spicy and seemed to restore his strength with each sip.

The brazier burned brightly, and Thrall extended his hands to it. He had come close to death today more than once—the death of more than the body. But he had refused to die and now was here, alive and glad of it, grateful for the warmth of the fire and the friendship of the blues, who had continued to look for him long past the time when they should have abandoned hope.

“Thrall.”

The orc rose to greet his friend Kalecgos. A relieved smile was on the dragon’s half-elven face, and both hands clasped Thrall’s upper arms.

“You are a sight for sore eyes,” said Kalecgos. “Discovering you was a blessing on an otherwise dark day. Tell me how it is we came across you. My heart was wounded when you fell: I could not find you.”

Thrall smiled a little, though his eyes were somber. “The snow
broke my fall, but also hid me from your sight. It would seem the ancestors are not ready for me to join their numbers yet.”

“Narygos, the one who found you, told me there was a body not far away,” Kalec said.

“Blackmoore,” Thrall said. He had expected to spit the word angrily, and was more than a little surprised to find no more anger or hate in his heart as he spoke the name. Blackmoore was well and truly defeated. Not only was he gone from this timeway, where he never should have been, but his influence was gone as well. Any power he had held over Thrall had died with him.

Kalec nodded. “I suspected as much when the body was described to me. I am glad you were victorious—and surprised, if I may say so. To have suffered such a fall, and such cold, and then have to fight—well, it seems you orcs are even tougher than I thought.”

“I was not alone in my fight,” Thrall said quietly. “But I know one who is.”

Kalec looked at him curiously, and Thrall explained. “There is one I left behind in order to do as Ysera asked. I would see her again, whatever happens in this world.”

Now the blue dragon nodded. “I understand,” he said. “I hope you will, Thrall.”

“I know I will. I am certain of it.” He eyed Kalec. “But I think… you are not so certain.”

Kalec frowned and turned away, pacing. “You fell partway through the fight, Thrall,” he said quietly. “You did not see what followed.” He fell silent, and Thrall waited patiently.

“This being, this—Chromatus, as I heard the Twilight Father call him… do you understand what he is?” Kalec asked.

“You called him a chromatic dragon. Desharin told me of such creatures. He said they were all dead.”

Kalec nodded his bright blue head. “So we thought. They are
nothing natural, Thrall. They are creations. Made things. And this one—I have never heard of him before, but he was clearly Nefarian’s success, and his greatest one. Never have I seen a beast with five heads.”

“Five heads,” mused Thrall. “Each one the color of a different flight.” It was a hideous image, one he could not seem to banish, hard as he tried.

“Five heads,” repeated Kalecgos in growing horror. “That’s it. Thrall, chromatic dragons never lived very long. But maybe that was the secret Nefarian learned: five heads, five brains. Perhaps this is what makes Chromatus so powerful, even though… even though he seemed weak.”

Now Thrall could not hide his astonishment. “Weak?”

Kalec turned and locked gazes with him. “Weak,” he repeated. “He stumbled; he faltered. Sometimes his wings would not bear him. And yet my flight was unable to stand against him and the twilight dragons. He defeated me, Thrall. I am an Aspect now, and I am not being arrogant to say that, barring other Aspects, no single dragon should be able to defeat me. But I had to order retreat, or he would have killed me and my entire dragonflight. We brought everything we had to bear against him. And he was
weak
.”

Kalec was, Thrall knew by now, someone who attempted to think positively. He did not give in easily to negative emotions such as anger or despair. And still Thrall noted resignation and worry and, yes, hopelessness in his mien and voice.

Thrall understood why. “He was not at full strength for some reason,” he said. “And when he is finally healed…”

Kalec’s blue eyes held a universe of pain. “It does not seem as if anything will stop him,” he said quietly.

“No,” Thrall agreed thoughtfully, “not any
one
thing.”

“We are scattered at a time when we most need unity,” Kalec
said. “This Chromatus at the head of the twilight dragons… he will defeat—he will
obliterate
—both me and my flight if we approach him a second time without reinforcements.”

“Ysera and Nozdormu will come,” Thrall said confidently. “They and their flights will join you.”

“It won’t be enough,” Kalec said dully. “We need the reds. No… more than that, we need the Life-Binder herself. My flight was frightened, Thrall, and I admit it: I was too. To see such a thing, to know you cannot win…” He shook his head. “We need the hope she could bring us, but she has none even for herself. And without her, I truly believe we will fall.”

“I will speak to her again,” Thrall said.

“She did not listen to you the last time,” Kalec said, uncharacteristic bitterness poisoning his pleasant voice. “She will not listen this time. We are lost, Thrall, and… I do not know what to do. I am an Aspect. I have… new insights, new ways of understanding things. It is hard to explain. I am more than I ever was, and yet in so many ways I feel that I have not changed. I feel that I am simply Kalecgos, and I do not know what to do.”

Thrall walked over to his friend and placed a large green hand on Kalec’s shoulder. “It is that humility in your heart that turned the hearts of your flight to you. You may have all the power of the Aspect of Magic, but it has not changed who you are at your core. I know you have courage, Kalec. And I know that this seems almost impossible. But… while I was lying in the snow, halfway between living and dying…” He hesitated. “… I had a vision. One I know in my own heart is true, not the last gasp of a dying orc’s hope.”

Kalecgos nodded, believing him completely. “What was this vision?”

Thrall shook his head. “It is not to be shared with you, not yet. It is for Alexstrasza’s hearing before any others’. And this is why I
think perhaps I may be able to bring her back to herself. And with the Life-Binder and her reds at your side—well, I think Chromatus might just start to feel a bit uneasy.”

And they grinned at one another.

The Twilight’s Hammer cultists were being kept busy.

Chromatus had been given the spark of life, although his body remained abhorrent and decaying. He had fought fiercely and triumphantly even while still weak and new to this life. Now he lay on the snow outside the temple, ravenous and demanding, and they brought in flesh for him to feed upon, each set of jaws feasting greedily.