He wanted to see her again. Before the end of all things.
And unlike Alexstrasza, broken and alone in Desolace, surrounding herself with an ashy emptiness reflective of her own devastated heart… he could see his beloved again.
He was cold, his body rapidly growing numb, but the thought of being with Aggra—so vibrant and alive and warm and real—began to push that lethargy aside. Thrall forced his lungs to work, to breathe the frigid air as deeply as he could, and tried to tap into the Spirit of Life that he felt was now dormant inside him.
This was what gave the shaman his connection to the elements, to others, and to himself. All beings had this; shaman, though, understood it and could work with it. For a moment Thrall was terrified of failure. This was the part he could not work with before, back at the Maelstrom. This was where he had failed the other members of the Earthen Ring: he had been too distracted to focus, to drop deeply into himself and bring forth that deep, rich knowing.
But this time he was not scattered or unfocused. He held Aggra’s face before him, like a torch in the darkness of the unknown future. With his eyes closed, he saw her, smiling with a hint of playfulness in her gold eyes, holding out her hand.
This strong hand in yours—
Oh, how he wanted that. How right that seemed to him now. A little thing, yet greater in his heart now than any fear of death or destruction could be.
And even as he opened his heart to both her and the Spirit of Life within him, another vision came to him.
This vision was not of Aggra, nor of his own life. Like a scene in a stage play, it unfolded in his mind: hero, villain, a shocking twist, tragedy, and misunderstanding. His heart, full with wanting and missing Aggra, now ached not with sympathy but with the empathy of sharing an experience.
This knowledge… Alexstrasza…
“She must know,” he whispered. “I must find her and tell her.” In the end, these connections were what mattered most. In the end, they were truly all that mattered. They were what inspired songs and art, what drove those in battle to fight: love of country, or culture, an ideal, or an individual. It was this feeling that kept hearts beating, that moved mountains, that shaped the world. And Thrall knew, through both visions, that he and another who also grieved were loved truly and deeply—loved for who they were, not what they could do. Not what title or power they wielded.
Aggra loved Thrall for who he was at his core, and he loved her the same way.
Alexstrasza was loved so, and she needed to be reminded of it. Thrall knew, knew deep in his bones and blood, that he was the only one who could let her know that.
The Spirit of Life opened to him. It flowed through him, warming and soothing and strong. Energy surged through nearly frozen limbs, and he began to claw his way upward through the snow that had caved in upon him. He worked with the rhythm of his own breath, resting upon inhaling, moving snow with his exhalation. He was calm, clear, focused as he had never been, his heart full with the new revelations that needed to be shared.
It was not easy, but the Spirit of Life buoyed him. Its energy was strong but gentle, and at last he pulled himself out of the hole and sat, catching his breath. Slowly he got to his feet and began to think about his next move.
His robes were soaked. He needed warmth, a fire, and to remove his saturated clothing before it killed him—and in this weather, it would, and quickly. He looked about for any dragons who might be searching for him, but saw nothing in the skies save clouds and the occasional bird. He did not know how long he had been unconscious; the battle was clearly over—one way or another.
Shelter first, then fire. He looked about for any likely spot. Over there—there seemed to be a cave or at least a hollow in the stone, a darker smudge against the gray.
And it was his focus, his clarity, not his senses, that a heartbeat later saved his life.
He whirled, the Doomhammer at the ready, and was barely in time to block the blow from the shadow that had been haunting him for so long.
Blackmoore!
Wearing pieces of plate that Thrall now completely recognized, swinging the massive, glowing broadsword that was almost bigger than the one who wielded it, Blackmoore pushed the attack with what seemed like more than human strength.
But it wasn’t.
The first time the dark assassin had sprung out of the shadows, to attack so completely unexpectedly and slice Desharin’s head from his body, Thrall had been taken by surprise. When Blackmoore had followed him through the timeway, manifesting with his brutal solution of slaying the infant Thrall, the orc had been unsettled. And when he had discovered the mysterious assassin’s true identity, he had been dismayed.
The fact that Blackmoore had not only lived but grown to such power had shaken Thrall’s faith in everything he had done. It had cast shadows on the inevitability of who Thrall was, all he had achieved, become.
But now Thrall set his jaw, refusing to let fear weaken him. His body was healed but still deeply chilled, and he knew his movements would be too slow to defend himself without aid.
Spirit of Life, help me, that I may defeat this foe who should not live and that I may carry your visions to those who must know of them!
Warmth flooded through him, gentle yet powerful, granting vigor and suppleness to his limbs. Dimly, Thrall was aware that even his clothing had somehow dried. Energy, sharp and soothing both, strengthened him. He did not question, merely accepted gratefully. Thrall attacked without even needing to think about it, letting years of battle guide his hand and landing blow after blow on the purloined armor Blackmoore dared wear. The human was startled and sprang back, crouching into a defensive stance, mammoth sword at the ready.
“I see why I wanted to train you,” Blackmoore sneered, and now Thrall recognized the voice even though Blackmoore wore his helm. “You’re very good… for a greenskin.”
“Your decision to train me was your death once before, Aedelas Blackmoore, and will be again. You cannot outwit destiny.”
Blackmoore laughed, a loud boom of genuine mirth. “You fell from a nearly impossible height, orc. You’re wounded and barely alive. I think it’s your destiny to die here in the frozen north, not mine to be slain by you. Though your spirit is admirable. I’d have enjoyed crushing it, but I fear I have other business to attend to. Fleshrender hasn’t claimed a life for a while. I’ll make it quick.”
He emphasized the name, as if to strike fear into Thrall’s heart. Instead, the orc laughed. Blackmoore frowned. “What amuses you at the moment of your death?”
“You do,” Thrall said. “The name you have chosen for your sword makes me laugh.”
“Makes you laugh? You should not. It has indeed rent the flesh of the corpses I make!”
“Oh, of course,” Thrall said. “But it’s so blunt—so brutal and unsophisticated. Just like you are, at your core. Just like you tried so hard not to be.”
Blackmoore’s frown deepened as he growled, “I am a king, orc. Remember that.”
“Only of a stolen kingdom. And you will make no corpse of me!”
Furious, Blackmoore again charged, and again Thrall, despite his injuries and near-death fall, parried and went on the offensive.
Blackmoore had said, at the moment of his death, that Thrall was what he, Blackmoore, had made him. It was a statement that had sickened the orc—to think that anything of this man was a part of him was appalling. Drek’Thar had helped put some of it into perspective, but now, as weapons clanged together and struck sparks, Thrall realized that he had never truly shaken Blackmoore’s vile grip on his spirit.
The man before him, swinging the broadsword with powerful arms and a deadly determination, was his shadow side. Under him, at one point, Thrall had tasted utter powerlessness, and he had spent most of his life determined to never again feel so helpless. Too, Thrall realized, with the clarity and insight that still lingered from the twin visions, that Blackmoore represented everything Thrall was fighting against—in himself.
“I fe
ared you once,” Thrall grunted. He held the Doomhammer in one strong green hand, lifted the other, and spread his fingers. He opened his mouth, and a cry of righteous anger ripped through the frigid air. A whirlwind came to his call, swirling and picking up frozen snow like a cyclone made of ice. With a swift, precise motion, it descended upon Blackmoore. It lifted him up, higher and higher, then with another hand motion Thrall hurled the human down. He lay where he had fallen, one arm curled up to his chest, and swiftly Thrall closed the distance between them.
He stared at the limp form, his eyes narrowing. As he spoke, he slowly lifted the Doomhammer over his head in preparation for the killing blow.
“You were everything I hate… weakness lucky enough to be in a position of power. You made me see myself in a way I loathed, in a way—”
Blackmoore surged upward onto his knees, thrusting Fleshrender toward Thrall’s exposed torso. Thrall threw himself backward, but the very tip struck home. Thrall hissed as two inches of steel pierced his belly and he fell into the snow.
“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.
SEVENTEEN
Blackmoore 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.”
Thrall Twilight of the Aspects Page 19