His robes were soaked and clung to him, threatening an ignoble death from freezing as he picked his way through snow and over rocks, past the fallen body, to a small overhang. The small orb he used to speak with Deathwing was still intact; it would take more even than so great a fall to damage this artifact. With numb fingers he removed it from a pouch at his waist and regarded it for a moment. He debated simply trying to vanish—but how? He was alone, in the middle of nowhere, with red, green, bronze, and blue dragons everywhere the eye could see—not to mention four Aspects who had somehow managed to tap into more power than he could ever have believed.
No. Deathwing had invested much time and effort in the making of the Twilight Father. He would not destroy such effort on a whim. Chromatus was not alive—but he was not dead, either. That might be enough.
Huddled beneath the pathetic shelter, the Twilight Father placed the orb in the snow and knelt before it, shivering violently. The clear globe filled with an inky blackness, relieved only by the orange-yellow gleam of an eye. An instant later the orb cracked open. Thick black smoke wafted up, filling the limited space. The image of the monstrous black dragon was contained, but the terror he inspired was in no manner lessened.
“They are not destroyed,” Deathwing said without preamble. “I would have felt it.”
“I know, my m-master,” stuttered the Twilight Father. “They did … something, and they d-d-defeated your champion. He lies without life, but not in death.”
There was a long, terrible moment. “Abysmal failure, then.”
The cold words were worse than a bellow of anger. The Twilight Father cringed. “Nay, Chromatus cannot be slain! He is defeated, but only for the moment.”
He heard the sound of wings above him and peered upward. His eyes widened and he crouched back in his poor shelter. “My lord, I would continue doing your work in this world. But I will not be able to do so for much longer. They are searching for me, and—and it seems as though the twilight d-dragonflight is fleeing. …” He tried and failed to keep the panic out of his voice.
“You are a serious disappointment,” rumbled Deathwing. “We had certain victory within our grasp. Yet the Aspects live; Chromatus is … damaged; and the cult has been dealt a severe blow. Why should I not throw you to my enemies?”
“I—I know much that is still of use!” the Twilight Father cried, clutching the orb as if he were clutching a master’s hand. “I have those who trust me—you know I do. Let me return to them. Let me lead them eventually to you. The cult is all over this world; even if the dragonflights destroy it here, they will not destroy it entirely! Think how much time you would waste putting someone else in my position!”
“Humans are pathetically greedy and easy to manipulate,” growled Deathwing. “And yet you speak sense. We have already lost enough time. I do not need another setback. Come, then. Surrender to the smoke,” he said, letting his image, formed of the dark, silky smoke the orb had emitted, dissolve. Shadow tendrils reached out and caressed the Twilight Father, and even he shivered. “The portal will take you home. There, you may continue betraying the trust of those who honor you, and work my will again when next I ask it of you.”
The Twilight Father cast off his cowl and embraced the transporting shadow-smoke, clad in his more familiar, traditional clerical robes.
“Thank you, my lord,” whispered Archbishop Benedictus. “Thank you!”
TWENTY-TWO
They stood on the topmost level of Wyrmrest Temple as dawn approached: four Aspects and an orc. All were weary yet triumphant. The intervening hours between the fall of Chromatus and this moment had been filled with the grim necessities that accompany the aftermath of battle: counting and naming the dead, healing the wounded, and searching out any stragglers.
Many—too many—had fallen with each attack, and the solemn task of gathering and disposing of the bodies would commence once the sun raised its head over the horizon. For now, though, all that could be done had been.
They had not found the Twilight Father among the slain cultists—although Thrall had pointed out that there were quite a lot of charred bodies, some of them clearly human and male. Kirygosa had shaken her blue-black head. “No,” she said. “I would know him. I would know him anywhere.”
Kalecgos had regarded her with a worried expression. Only time would tell if Kirygosa would heal from her months of torment. But she had returned to her flight, and was held dear in the heart of the Life-Binder. Thrall suspected she would be all right.
The only twilight dragons they had found were corpses. The rest had fled, leaderless and afraid. And Chromatus—
Concerned that some other dark power might try to revive Chromatus, the dragons had attempted to destroy the corpse.
They had failed. Some powerful spell, probably woven into the dark marriage of magic and technology that had animated him in the first place, protected the body from all their efforts to obliterate it.
“Then he must be guarded until such time as we can find a way to completely destroy him,” Alexstrasza had decided. “Representatives from our flights will stand watch over him. He is not dead … but if he lies without the spark of animation, he will harm no one again.”
“During the Nexus War, Malygos created arcane prisons,” Kalecgos had said. “We know how well they worked. We can construct one large enough—and strong enough—to hold him.”
Now five figures stood, four dragons and one orc, gazing to the east. “We will go our separate ways shortly,” Nozdormu said quietly. “But we will never be truly apart. Never again.” He lifted his head to regard them. “Thrall … I told you something of what I had learned.” Thrall nodded, and listened as Nozdormu shared with the other Aspects the dire news he had imparted to Thrall earlier.
“Thrall found me becaussse I was attempting to find the answer to sssomething. You all know that I was given the knowledge of the hour and manner of my own death. While I would never sssubvert what I know to be true and right—in my travels, in one timeway—I became leader of the infinite dragonflight.”
They stared at him, horrified. For a long moment no one could even summon the ability to speak. Then Alexstrasza said very gently, “You said one timeway. Is it the true one, my old friend?”
“I do not know,” he said. “I was searching to discover that very thing. To—to find some way to avoid becoming something so antithetical to all that I stand for. And it was while on that quest that I learned what I asked Thrall to share with you: that all of the suffering we have had to deal with—the madness of Malygos and Deathwing, the Emerald Dream turned to a nightmare, the Twilight Cult … everything—it is all intertwined. This much I shared with Thrall. And the reason I was late in coming to your aid was that I was following another thread of information. I have discovered who is behind this vast and dreadful conspiracy.”
His eyes gleamed, brilliant with righteous anger in the coming dawn. “It … I can barely ssspeak of it, even now. It is”—his mighty voice dropped to a low whisper—“the Old Gods!”
The three other mighty Dragon Aspects stared at him, their own eyes wide with shock and worry. At their expressions, Thrall’s own heart sped up with dread. He knew something of these figures, ancient and evil; two of them lurked in Ulduar and Ahn’Qiraj. “I have heard of these beings,” Thrall said, “but you clearly know more.”
For a moment no one spoke, as if to speak of them might cause them to appear. Then: “You have heard old tales, Thrall,” said Alexstrasza, her vibrancy subdued. “Tales of evil whisperings in one’s mind, that urge one to do dark and terrible things. Subtle whispers that sound like one’s own thoughts.”
And Thrall realized he had. “The tauren say that the first time evil ever left its mark on them was when they heard and harkened to dark whispers.”
Ysera nodded, looking miserable. “The whispers penetrated even into the Emerald Dream,” she said.
“Even,” Kalecgos said, “into Deathwing’s mind, when he was still Neltharion the Earth-W
arder. It is the Old Gods who drove him mad, Thrall. Drove all the black dragons mad.”
“They are old, older even than we,” said Nozdormu. “They were here even before the titansss came, and would have ruined this world had not our creatorsss intervened. A battle sssuch as this world has never seen since raged. They were locked away—hidden in the dark placesss of the earth, drowsing in enchanted slumber.”
“Only with their whispers could they reach us,” said Alexstrasza. “At least … until very recently.” She lifted stricken eyes to Nozdormu. “And you say they are the ones behind everything? Neltharion’s corruption, we know of, and at least one rift in the timeways—but everything? For so many millennia?”
“To what end?” asked Kalecgos.
“Do they need one?” asked Ysera. “Who knows how the Old Gods think, or dream? They are evil, and even in this slumber, that evil seeps out.”
“What is sure is that all those dark events—they caused. Did they do it sssimply because they hate, or because they plot? We may never know. All we need to know is that they happened, and they had terrible consequencesss.”
He looked at them intently. “Think of how each of these things wounded us ssso. They tore us apart. They made us mistrust one another. Recall how quickly we turned on Korialstrasz, when in reality his deed was ssself-sacrificing and heroic. Even you doubted, my dear,” he said gently to Alexstrasza, who lowered her crimson head.
“I think that even my becoming leader of the infinite dragonflight, if it mussst happen, is traceable to them. But today … we learned. We, so old, so ssseemingly wise.” He chuckled slightly. “We discovered that we must work together as one if we are to ssstand firm against what is coming.” He turned to Ysera. “Will we stand otherwise?” he asked very gently.
She shook her head. “No,” she said. “Without the unity we have found—without the unity we must continue to find, again and again and again—we will never be able to stand against the coming Hour of Twilight and—and the vision I saw.”
“I thought this was the Hour,” Thrall said, confused.
She shook her head again. “Of course it wasn’t,” she said tolerantly, as if he were simple. Thrall’s only comfort was that the other dragons assembled seemed to be as confused as he. Ysera was powerful, and benevolent, but she did truly exist slightly apart from other beings.
“You have helped us, as I saw that you would,” the green Aspect continued. “I wasn’t sure how … but you have. The mosaic is no longer simple chips of colored stone. It is taking shape and form now. The visions and dreams I have had—they will manifest. It has taken one who is not one of us to bring us together so. And because we are together … when the true Hour comes … we shall not fail.”
“I came here with a hope for unity among the dragonflights in my heart,” said Alexstrasza. “And after so much pain and loss and struggle … it has happened in a way that I could never have foreseen. My reds will always welcome you, Thrall, son of Durotan and Draka. Take this, as a token of that pledge.” Delicately, using one massive foreclaw, she scratched at her heart. A single small scale fell to the floor, glittering crimson. Thrall picked it up and respectfully put it in his pouch—the same pouch that had once held the acorn of an ancient, and still held the necklace given to him by a young human girl.
“As will my bronzes, friend to the timeways,” said Nozdormu. He, too, gifted Thrall with a precious, gleaming scale.
“The Emerald Dream is not your realm, shaman, but know that, from time to time, I will send you dreams of healing. My scale, too, you may have. With all my heart, I thank you for accepting my request,” said Ysera.
Kalec bent his great head down, and in the first hints of the warm rose light of dawn, Thrall was certain he saw a single tear shining in the bright eyes as the blue Aspect offered a scale from over his heart.
“You, without any doubt or exaggeration, have saved the blue dragonflight. Anything you ask of me, you will have.”
Thrall was almost overcome. He took a moment, struggling for composure.
“While I am grateful for the gift of a scale from each of your flights, truly, I ask only your friendship,” he said to them all. “And”—he smiled a little—“a way to return to my beloved.”
Thrall mused wryly that he was becoming used to traveling on dragonback. Particularly the back of this dragon. He and Tick had grown to become friends over the last several weeks of traveling and fighting together, and Thrall knew he would miss her. Thrall had been curious when Tick had offered to return him, concerned that the flight from the continents to the Maelstrom would be too far for an ordinary dragon to travel. Tick had chuckled.
“We have the ability to slow or speed up time, remember?” she told Thrall. “I will speed it up for us … and will therefore fly much faster and farther.” Thrall was, again, astonished and humbled by even the abilities of so-called ordinary dragons. And sure enough, after only what felt like a few moments, they were flying over the Maelstrom. Thrall felt the bronze inhale swiftly as she beheld the churning, angry whirlpool.
“So this is where Deathwing entered our world,” Tick muttered. “It is no wonder the earth is still in so much torment.”
“You sound like one of my tauren friends grieving for the Earth Mother.”
The great creature craned her neck to regard Thrall closely. “Who is to say they are wrong?”
Thrall laughed. “Not I,” he said. “Never I.”
There was a stable-looking spot some distance away from the main settlement. Carefully, mindful that the earth was unhappy, Tick made a gentle landing. Thrall slipped off the bronze’s back and regarded her for a long moment.
“You have earned the gratitude of our flights,” Tick said soberly. “You have the scales. Use them if you are in need of our aid, and you shall have it. I can only hope that this wounded Azeroth can benefit as much from your care and focus as we have.”
“You embarrass me, my friend. I only did what I could.”
A wry, amused expression crossed the scaly face. “You would be surprised at how few even attempt to do that much. You are home now, Thrall. I must return. The Hour of Twilight is still to come one day, and I must be ready to stand with my lord, Nozdormu, when that time comes. Thank you again … for helping us find ourselves and one another.”
She bent her head low, only a few short feet from the ground, in what Thrall knew to be a deep obeisance. He felt his cheeks grow hot and nodded, then watched as Tick gathered herself and leaped skyward. Squinting against the brightness of the sun, Thrall watched until the mighty dragon dwindled to the size of a bird, then an insect, and then vanished altogether.
Then, a solitary figure, he closed his eyes and, sending a whisper on the wind, called a wyvern to him. Patting the creature, Thrall climbed atop him and headed for the encampment.
Guards spotted him, and by the time Thrall reached the Earthen Ring encampment, many shaman were already gathered there.
“Welcome home,” rumbled Muln Earthfury, striding forward to grasp the orc’s shoulders. “Long have you been gone, but at last you are returned to us.”
Thrall smiled up at the tauren. “Sometimes lessons take time to learn,” he said quietly. “I think you will find that I have settled my own … demons, and return to you with knowledge and information that will benefit our workings—and our world.”
“I am even better pleased to hear that,” Muln replied. “Not just for the benefit it will bring to us, but from what I can sense from you, my friend. You are”—he cocked his horned head, searching for the right words—“settled. Calmer.”
Thrall nodded. “Indeed I am.”
“You have returned!” It was Nobundo, who approached and squeezed Thrall’s shoulder affectionately. The Broken smiled warmly, his homely face alight with pleasure.
“Welcome back,” Nobundo said. “I overheard some of what you told Muln. And I am so pleased to hear of this. Are you hungry? Your journey must have been arduous, and there is meat roasting on the
fire even as we speak.”
“Thank you all,” Thrall said. “And while it is good to see you, there is one here I do not see. Excuse me, I must find her.”
He bowed to his colleagues.
Aggra was not here; she would have come out if she had been. He suspected he knew where she was.
There was a small rise that seemed less harmed than most places in this area. Certain herbs grew here, struggling but surviving, and Aggra often came here to harvest carefully and, Thrall knew, simply sit and meditate.
She was there now, sitting calmly on the rise, legs crossed, eyes closed.
For a moment Thrall permitted himself to watch her while he remained unseen. For so long he had dreamed of this moment: returning to this amazing, inspiring female, who filled his heart and soul with a love so bright and strong he could barely contain it. This was the face—brown, strong-boned, tusked—that had kept him from surrendering to the cold. This was the body, muscular and curvaceous and powerful, he wanted to hold in his arms for the rest of his life. Her laughter was the music of the universe to him; her smile his sun, moons, and stars.
“Aggra,” he said, and his voice broke on the word. He was not ashamed.
She opened her eyes, and they crinkled around the edges in a smile. “You have returned,” she said quietly, though joy hummed in the words. “Welcome home.”
Thrall crossed the space between them in two huge steps and before she could say a word, he had swept her up into his arms and held her tightly to his chest.
She laughed in pleased surprise, and her arms encircled him. Her head was nestled on his shoulder, where it fit perfectly. He could feel her heart beating against his chest, rapid with excitement and delight.
For a long, long time he held her thus. He didn’t ever want to release her. She, too, clung to him and didn’t protest as the moment lasted.
Thrall Twilight of the Aspects Page 26