Thrall: Twilight of the Aspects

7

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 are 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—”

And then Durotan broke off in mid-sentence, suddenly going very still. Before Thrall realized what was happening, the chieftain of the Frostwolves screamed his battle cry and reached for his axe.

It happened so fast.

There were three of them, each charging in a different direction—one to Durotan, one to Draka, and one to the wolf who sprang forward to protect his companions. Thrall cried out hoarsely and reached for the Doomhammer, determined to help his family.

A strong hand seized his arm and jerked hard. “What are you doing?” snarled the guard. And then Thrall realized two things at once as more fragments of his conversation with Doomhammer returned.

Though I do not know for certain, I am convinced that the guard I entrusted to lead Durotan to safety summoned assassins to kill them instead.

The guard was in on the attack. And he had assumed Thrall was too.

The second thing Thrall realized was worse.

He could not stop what was about to occur—not if he wished to preserve the true timeway.

His parents had to die. He himself had to be found by Blackmoore, had to be trained in battle, if he was to free his people from the internment camps. If he was to keep the world as he knew it from destruction.

He froze in mid-step, agonized. Every fiber of his being told him to fight, to destroy the assassins, to save his mother and father. But it could not be.

Draka had placed the infant Thrall on the ground and was now fighting fiercely to defend both her child and herself. She shot Thrall a brief glance filled with fury, contempt, and hatred. He knew he would bear its sting to his grave. She returned her attention to her struggle, uttering curses upon the orc attacking her and upon Thrall for his betrayal. A short distance away, Durotan, blood pumping from a brutal cut in his leg, attempted to choke his soon-to-be killer. There was a sharp howl, cut off abruptly as the wolf fell. Draka continued to struggle.

And the infant Thrall, lying helpless on the earth while his parents fought, wailed in terror.

Sickened, Thrall watched, unable to alter history, as his dying father fought with renewed strength and managed to snap the neck of his enemy.

At that moment, the assassin who had killed the wolf whirled on Grukar. The traitor was so surprised by the turn of events that he didn’t even think to draw his own weapon.

“No!” he cried, his voice high with surprise and fear. “No, I’m one of you; they are the target—”

A massive two-handed sword sliced through Grukar’s neck. The severed head went flying, blood spurting in a pattering spray over Thrall’s robes. Now the assassin turned on Thrall.

It was a grave mistake.

This, at least, Thrall could do: defend himself. His day would come, certainly. But not today. Thrall uttered a battle cry and charged, channeling his grief and horror and outrage into an attack that startled his would-be killer. Still, the assassin was a professional, and he rallied. The fight was close and intense. Thrall swung, ducked, leaped aside, kicked. The assassin hacked, growled, dodged.

His attention focused on his own survival, Thrall’s heart nonetheless ached as he heard Durotan’s cry of pain at the sight of Draka’s mangled corpse. The sound did not weaken Thrall. Instead, he felt a surge of renewed energy and focus. He increased his attack, pushing his now-alarmed opponent back, back, until the other orc stumbled and fell.

Thrall was on him at once. He pinned the assassin to the ground with one foot and lifted the Doomhammer high. He was about to bring the mighty weapon down to smash the orc’s skull, when he froze.

He could not alter the timeway. What if this vile creature needed to live, for some purpose he couldn’t imagine?

Thrall growled and spat in the orc’s face, then leaped off him. He stepped on the huge sword the other had wielded. “Go,” he said, “and never, ever let me see your face again: Do you understand?”

The assassin was not about to question his good fortune, and he took off at a dead run. As soon as he was certain the wretch had truly gone, Thrall turned back to his parents.

Draka was dead. Her body had nearly been hacked to pieces, her face locked in a snarl of defiance. Thrall turned to his father just in time to see the third assassin cruelly lop off both of Durotan’s arms—denying him even the ability to hold his son before he died. Thrall had seen many atrocities, but this horror froze him in place, unable to move.

“Take … the child,” Durotan rasped.

The assassin knelt down beside him and said, “We will leave the child for the forest creatures. Perhaps you can watch as they tear him to bits.”

Later, Thrall would not be able to recall how he had gotten from one end of the small clearing to the other. The next thing he knew, he was shouting so loudly his throat hurt, the Doomhammer moving so fast it was but a blur. This killer, too, he let go, though everything in him burned to tear the bastard to tiny pieces of bloody pulp. Clarity came back to him as, on his hands and knees, he gulped in air in great racking sobs.

“My child,” Durotan whispered.

He was still alive!

Thrall crawled over to the infant and picked him up. He gazed into his own blue eyes and touched his own small face. Then, as he knelt beside his father, Thrall rolled him over onto his back. Durotan grunted once in pain. Thrall placed the infant, wrapped in a swaddling cloth that bore the emblem of the Frostwolves, on Durotan’s chest.

“You have no arms to hold him,” Thrall said, his voice thick, tears filling his own blue eyes as the child that he had been wept. “And so I place him on your heart.”

Durotan, his face drawn in torment that Thrall could barely imagine, nodded. “Who are you? You betray us … you … let me and my mate die … yet you attack our killers. …”

Thrall shook his head. “You would not believe me, Durotan, son of Garad. But I beg you … by the ancestors, I beg you to believe this: your son will live. ”

Hope flickered in the dimming eyes.

Thrall spoke quickly, before it was too late. “He will live, and grow strong. He will remember what it means to be an orc, and become both a warrior and a shaman.”

The breath was coming rapidly, too rapidly, but Durotan fought to cling to life, listening raptly.

“Our people will recover from the darkness Gul’dan inflicted on them. We will heal. We will become a nation, proud and powerful. And your son will know of you, and his brave mother, and name a great land after you.”

“How … can you know …?”

Thrall forced the tears back and placed a hand on his father’s chest, beside the infant version of himself. The heartbeat was fading.

“Trust that I do,” Thrall said, his voice intent and shaking with emotion. “Your sacrifice was not in vain. Your son will live to change his world. This, I promise.”

The words had simply poured forth, and Thrall realized as he uttered them that they were true. He had lived, and he had changed his world—by freeing his people, by fighting demons, by giving the orcs a homeland.

“I promise,” he repeated.

Durotan’s face relaxed ever so slightly, and the faintest of smiles touched his lips.

Thrall gathered the baby and held him to his heart for a long, long time.

The infant slept, finally. Thrall held and rocked him through the night, his mind and heart filled nearly to bursting.

It was one thing to hear that his parents had died trying to protect him. It was another to witness such devotion. As a suckling babe, he had been dearly, deeply loved, without having to do anything. This infant had no accomplishments. Had saved no lives, fought no battles, defeated no demons. He was loved simply for being himself, tears and fussing, laughter and smiles.

More than anything in his life, Thrall wished he could have saved his parents. But the timeways were merciless. What had happened must happen, or else it had to be put right by the agents of the bronze dragonflight.

Put “right.” Letting good people die, innocent people; that was putting things “right.” It was cruel. It was devastating. But he understood.

He glanced up, winced, and looked away from the sight of his butchered family—and blinked. Something was reflected in the water—something gold and shining and scaled—

Thrall tried to see where the reflection was coming from. There was nothing—only trees and earth and sky. There was no mammoth dragon as expected. He rose, holding the infant, and looked into the water again.

One great eye looked back at him.

“Nozdormu?” The river was far too small to house the dragon—it had to be a reflection—and yet …

Thrall’s concentration was broken by a sudden squalling sound. It would seem the infant Thrall was awake—and hungry. Thrall turned his attention to the child, trying to murmur something soothing, then looked back to the water.

The reflection was gone. But Thrall was certain he had seen it. He looked around. Nothing.

A human voice broke the stillness of the forest. “By the Light, what a noise!”

The voice was full of respectful courtesy and apology, although the noise issued by the infant Thrall was none of the speaker’s making. “Might as well turn back, Lieutenant. Anything that loud is certain to have frightened any game worth pursuing.”

“Haven’t you learned anything I’ve tried to teach you, Tammis? It’s as much about getting away from that damned fortress as bringing back supper. Let whatever it is caterwaul all it likes.”

Thrall knew that voice. Had heard it offering praise. More often had heard it hurling curses, lowered in angry contempt. This man had helped shape his destiny. This man was the reason he still bore the name of Thrall—a name to show everyone precisely what the orc no longer was.

The voice belonged to Aedelas Blackmoore.

Any moment now, Blackmoore and his companion—who had to be Tammis Foxton, Blackmoore’s servant and father to Taretha Foxton—would come to this clearing. Blackmoore would find the baby Thrall now held in his arms and take him for his own. He would raise Thrall to fight, to kill, to learn strategy. And then one day Thrall would kill him.

Gently, Thrall placed his infant self down on the ground. His hand lingered a moment on the tiny black head, caressed the not-yet-worn fabric of the swaddling cloth.

“Such a tender yet bizarre moment.”

Thrall whirled, seizing the Doomhammer and placing himself between the infant and the owner of the voice.

The mysterious assassin who had attacked him in the Caverns of Time now stood a few paces away. Thrall had thought the bronze dragons would have dealt with this man, but it would seem that, despite his words of frustration as Thrall had escaped earlier, he had eluded the bronzes and found a way into this timeway after all. And a way to Thrall.

Again Thrall could not shake the strange sense of familiarity. The armor—the voice—

“I know you,” he said.

“Then name me.” It was a pleasant, booming voice, tinged with humor.

Thrall growled. “I cannot name you—not yet—but there is something about you …”

“I should thank you, really,” the assassin continued to drawl. “My master set me a task. To slay the mighty Thrall. You’ve already slipped through my fingers once. And you might again. But you’ve forgotten one … little … thing. …”

With each of the last three words, the assassin took a step forward, and Thrall suddenly realized what he meant. He tightened his grip on the Doomhammer and drew himself up to his full height. The human was large for his race, but nowhere near as large as an orc.

“You shall not harm this infant!” he snarled.

“Oh, I think I shall,” said the black-armor-clad figure. “You see … I know who is just a few moments away from being here. And it’s someone you won’t want to harm—because then this timeway would be just as violated as if you’d let your parents live. You know Aedelas Blackmoore will be here, and that he’s going to pick up this little green baby and raise him to be a gladiator. And you most certainly don’t want to be around for that particular reunion.”

Curse the bastard, he was right. Thrall couldn’t let himself be seen. And he couldn’t fight Blackmoore and risk injuring or even killing him.

Not yet.

“So you need to go. But you also need to protect your younger self. Because if my job is to kill you … it’s ever so much easier to chop a baby in two than it is a full-grown orc. Although I’ve done that quite a lot, if I do say so myself. What to do, what to do …?”

“It’s not going away,” complained Blackmoore. He was closer now, though he was still a few steps away from the clearing.

“It could be an injured creature, sir, incapable of crawling away,” Tammis suggested.

“Then let’s find it and put it out of our misery.”

The stranger laughed, and suddenly Thrall realized his course of action.

Silently, though his whole soul ached to shout his battle cry, he lunged at the assassin. Not with his hammer but with his powerful body. The human was clearly not expecting such an attack and did not even manage to raise his weapon before Thrall slammed into him, the force propelling them both into the briskly flowing stream.

“What’s that splash?” Lieutenant Aedelas Blackmoore took a long drag from the bottle.

“Probably one of the large turtles that live in the area, sir,” Tammis said. Already tipsy and about to head into drunk, Blackmoore nodded. His horse, Nightsong, came to an abrupt halt. Blackmoore stared at the bodies of no fewer than three adult orcs and that of a huge white wolf.

Movement drew his eye, and Blackmoore suddenly realized the source of the horrible noise. It was the ugliest thing he had ever seen—an orc baby, wrapped in what no doubt passed for a swaddling cloth among the creatures.

He dismounted and went to it.