Thrall: Twilight of the Aspects

10

The world was silent.

There was not a cry of anger, or pain, or delight. Not the soft sound of a breath. Not the single beat of a pair of wings, or a heart. Not the nearly imperceptible sound of a blink, or a plant taking root.

No, not quite silent. The oceans moved, their waves curling upon the shore, then drawing back, although nothing now existed in their depths. The wind blew, rattling the eaves of dwellings that housed nothing, rippling grass that was turning yellow.

Ysera moved, the only living thing in this place, the unease stirring, becoming worry, becoming fear, becoming horror.

The Hour of Twilight had come.

Her paws fell on earth that had ceased to support life. Would not support life, ever again. No longer would a breath from her bring verdancy. She walked on each continent, desperately hoping that someplace, somewhere, had been spared.

Dead, all dead. No dragons, no humans or elves or orcs, no fish, no birds, no trees, no grass, no insects. With each bitter footfall, Ysera trod upon a mass grave.

How was she alive?

She shrank from the question, fearing the answer, and moved on.

Booty Bay, Orgrimmar, Thunder Bluff, Darkshire, Desolace—corpses were everywhere, rotting, uneaten by the carrion feeders as they, too, lay rotting where they had fallen. Ysera felt madness brush her at the enormity of it all and pushed it away ruthlessly.

Our temple …

She did not want to see, but had to see—

And there she was, standing at the base of the temple, her great, once-slumbering eyes now open wide.

There were wing beats here. And breath, and cries of hate-filled victory. The air thrummed with them, the twilight dragons, the last things left alive and utterly triumphant on a corpse of a world. At the foot of Wyrmrest Temple lay the bodies of the mighty Aspects: Alexstrasza, burned to death, her ribs charred and thrusting upward. A blue Aspect whose face she could not see, frozen solid in a spasm of agony. Nozdormu the Timeless One, locked firmly in time now, still as stone. And her own body, overgrown with what had once been green and living, but now even the vines that had wrapped around her throat to choke her were themselves dead. Each Aspect appeared to have been slain by his or her own unique powers.

But that was not what made her grow cold with terror.

Ysera the Awakened stared at a single, massive body. It was illuminated by the dim, somber light of the twilight skies of Northrend, a limp and too-still thing.

It was impaled upon the very spire of Wyrmrest Temple as the swollen red and orange sun set sullenly behind it.

Ysera sank down to the earth, trembling, wanting to tear her eyes away and unable to.

“Deathwing,” she whispered.

She jolted herself back to reality, her mind clearing even as her body still trembled from the vision. She shook her head, whispering, “No, no, no …”

It was a vision, but one she somehow knew was not yet set in stone. One that might yet be changed … but only if one orc changed it.

Thrall, I know not what role you have to play, but I beg of you … please, please, do not fail.

Do not let this world become so very, very silent.

The question was … how did they make the timeway right?

“Tell me everything that happened, starting from when I died,” Thrall said.

“That’s … a lot, but all right,” Taretha replied. “Like I said, Blackmoore threw himself into his goal. He trained and honed his men, and then mercenaries. After the Battle of Blackrock Spire, he didn’t dismantle his own personal military. As soon as the orcs surrendered, he made a secret deal with them—a deal that left the rest of the Alliance horrified. Join with Blackmoore’s private army, turn on King Terenas and the others, slaughter them—and they got to live. Guess what they did?”

Thrall nodded. “Of course they would. All they were doing was still fighting the enemy. And so Terenas fell.”

Taretha nodded. “So did Uther the Lightbringer and Anduin Lothar.”

In Thrall’s timeway, Lothar died fighting Doomhammer at the Battle of Blackrock Spire. “What of Prince Varian?”

“Both Varian and Arthas, Terenas’s son, were too young to fight. They fled to safety and both survived.”

Arthas. The fallen paladin … the Lich King.

“Have there been any strange illnesses in the land? Poisoned grain, plagues?”

Taretha shook her fair head. “No, nothing like that.”

The impact struck Thrall like a blow. This was a world in which Blackmoore lived; that much was true and to be despised. But Taretha lived, too … and so did untold numbers of innocents who would become neither Scourge nor Forsaken.

“Do you know the name Kel’Thuzad?” he asked. Kel’Thuzad, a former member of the ruling council of Dalaran, had sought power in Thrall’s timeline. That lust for power had taken him down dark paths. Paths that had had him experimenting with the lines between life and death. After such a flirtation, it was grimly fitting that Arthas had raised Kel’Thuzad’s body as a lich.

“Oh, yes,” Taretha said, grimacing. “Blackmoore’s chief advisor.”

So Kel’Thuzad had succumbed to the lure of power in this timeway too. Except here it was mortal, political power, not an ancient evil, that had seduced him.

“Antonidas and Dalaran have severed all ties with him,” Taretha continued. “They like to appear impartial, but rumor has it that their allegiance is more with Stormwind than Lordaeron, even though they are physically so close to us.” She shrugged. “I don’t know how accurate that is. I just hear things now and then when I venture into Southshore.”

Dalaran was still here, too, then, with Antonidas still at the head of the magi. The city had not fallen; it had not been relocated to Northrend.

“Where are Arthas and Varian?”

“Varian rules Stormwind. Arthas is with him. They are as close as brothers. Varian was best man at his wedding.”

“To Jaina Proudmoore,” Thrall said quietly.

Taretha nodded. “They have a child, a little boy. Prince Uther.”

There was no plague, no Lich King. Not yet, anyway. Arthas was a married man, and a father. Lordaeron had not been transformed into the Undercity, populated by the undead, but instead was ruled by Blackmoore sitting in a good man’s throne.

“To think of him having so tight a grasp on this world,” he muttered.

“Which makes it all that more peculiar that he has suddenly disappeared,” Taretha said.

“Disappeared?”

“Yes. His advisors have tried to cover it up, of course. They said he’s gone on some mission or other, to roust out more orcs, or kill some dragons, or sign a peace treaty, depending on what you want to believe. But he’s vanished.”

“Perhaps someone killed him,” Thrall said. He smiled slightly. “One can hope.”

“If so, then there would be great fanfare,” Taretha pointed out. “That throne would be filled by someone—either Arthas as the rightful heir, or by Blackmoore’s killer. No, something odd is going on. But it won’t last long. I am certain that Arthas and Varian are already planning an attack. They must have spies.”

She was right. Though denied her education, Taretha was still a highly intelligent woman. There would, of course, be spies, and Arthas and Varian would likely move as quickly as they were physically able to take advantage of this mysterious “absence.”

Thrall paused a moment, thinking hard. He knew he had to restore the timeway or else all would unravel. Perhaps it was a good thing that Blackmoore was gone; perhaps this would open up some way for the timeway to restore itself somehow.

And yet—that would mean such great tragedy.

The plague would have to sweep through the land. Thousands would be either corpses or worse.

Arthas would need to become the Lich King. A thought made him break out in sweat: What if, in this world, Blackmoore was to become the Lich King? He had Kel’Thuzad whispering in his ear.

Antonidas would have to die, and Dalaran must fall, as must Quel’Thalas.

And Taretha—

He rested his forehead in his hand for a moment. The task seemed impossible. If only he could find one of the bronze dragons, talk to him or her, explain what was going on. Even a green or red dragon would be of aid. They knew of the charge of the bronzes; they would believe this story of fouled timeways, at least in theory.

“Do … do you think we can make a difference?” Taretha asked quietly.

He laughed hollowly. “I think we need to find a dragon,” he said. “One who would actually listen to an orc without killing me first and—”

His eyes opened wide.

“—and I know where we can find one.”

Krasus sat in his private study, seldom more happily ensconced than here. It was a warm-feeling room, smaller than he could have commandeered given his position in the Kirin Tor, but comfortable. Currently, every flat surface, from desk to small table to top of a bookcase, was covered with an open book of some sort. Only when he was at the side of his mate, Alexstrasza, did joy fill his heart more than when he was here. He disliked the necessity of being away from her, but no one understood “duty” better than the Life-Binder. She understood that his work here among the Kirin Tor would aid the flight, and, more importantly in his beloved’s eyes, aid Azeroth. The humans, high elves, and gnomes with whom he worked might have assumed that dragons, living as long as they did, would grow bored with one another and welcome chances to spend time apart.

They would be wrong.

An orb hovered nearby, its shades of green and brown and blue revealing it to be an accurate and immediately current representation of Azeroth. Scattered hither and thither were tools, trinkets, and other priceless items. At present, he was busily scratching on vellum notes from a very ancient tome that, should it be handled more than was necessary, would crumble into dust. Magic held it together for now, but Krasus was practical, and knew that making a copy of the key elements in the book would be a wise backup against the ravages of time and broken spells. It was a task that an apprentice could accomplish, but Krasus preferred to do it himself. It appealed to his scholarly, magical soul to sit quietly and revisit ancient lore.

There was a knock on his door. “Enter,” he called, not looking up.

“Lord Krasus?” It was Devi, one of the young high elf apprentices.

“Yes, what is it, Devi?” Krasus inquired.

“There is a young lady here to see you. With her slave. She insisted I bring you this. But … may I speak freely?”

“You always do,” he said, smiling a little. “And I always value it. Please.”

“There seems something … off about her. Nothing hostile, but …” She shook her raven head, frowning a little, gnawing on the problem. “She told me to give you this.”

Krasus was instantly alert. Devi had good instincts about people. The apprentice approached and dropped something small and brown and completely ordinary-looking into his outstretched palm. A simple acorn.

Krasus inhaled swiftly.

Knowledge—so much knowledge! Aeons of knowing, of witnessing, contained in this tiny, deceptively unimportant thing. It tingled against his palm, and he closed his hand about it for a moment, not wanting to release it.

Devi watched him intently. Of course, she was still an apprentice. She wouldn’t be able yet to recognize what Krasus had—that this was the acorn of an ancient. It was like a whisper that only trained, sharp, and listening ears could hear.

“Thank you for your observations, Devi. Show her in,” Krasus said, revealing nothing.

“You should be aware that she insists on bringing her orc,” Devi said.

“Why do you think she wishes to do so?”

Devi tilted her head, analyzing. “Honestly, sir, I cannot think why. He seems completely cowed, and the woman says it is very important. I do not think they are planning to harm you in any way, but I cannot even hazard any other guess. It is puzzling.” A frown marred the beauty of her dark-skinned face. Devi did not like puzzles.

“Then show the orc in too. I think I might just be a match for a girl and a broken-spirited orc.” Their eyes met and she grinned. Others might deem the sharp-tongued elf impertinent, but Krasus liked that she did not seem intimidated by him.

“Right away, sir,” she said.

The acorn of an ancient. Krasus unfolded his long fingers and regarded it again. A rare thing, a beautiful and powerful thing. Who was this girl, to have come by it?

The door opened again, and Devi brought in his guest, bowing and closing the door as she left. Krasus rose and looked at the young, fair-haired girl searchingly.

She was slender, and would have been pretty had she not borne the unmistakable signs of having lived a very hard life. The dress she wore—a simple frock and cloak—was clean, but had obviously been mended more than once. She was well groomed, but her hands had calluses and broken nails. She stood straight but was clearly very nervous. She dropped a deep curtsy.

“Lord Krasus,” she said, “my name is Taretha Foxton. I thank you for seeing us.”

The name meant nothing, but what an interesting choice of words. …

“‘Us’?” Krasus said mildly, walking over to them, hands clasped behind his back. In truth, the orc was more impressive than the human. Larger than most, he was powerfully muscled, yet wore a simple brown robe. His hands, too, looked callused—but from grasping weapons, not from working in fields. There was a difference in how one gripped a weapon versus a tool, and Krasus had seen enough human warriors to recognize the signs of one when he saw him. Too, the orc was not as stooped as most of his kind were, and he met Krasus’s gaze evenly.

With blue eyes.

“Remarkable,” Krasus murmured. “And who might you be?”

“My name,” the orc said, “is Thrall.”

“An apt name for a slave, but frankly, I deem you none such,” Krasus said. He held out his hand, which still contained the acorn. “Very clever, to use this to gain admittance to me. You knew I would be able to sense the knowledge contained within. How did you come by such a precious thing?”

He was not surprised when Taretha looked to Thrall for a reply.

“I have … a tale to tell you, mage,” Thrall said. “Or perhaps I should call you … my lord dragon?”

Krasus kept his face calm, but shock shuddered through him. Very few knew of his true identity as Korialstrasz, consort to Alexstrasza. And until this second he had been certain that he knew every one of those individuals.

“This day,” Krasus said with forced mildness, “is getting more and more interesting. Come sit, and I will have something to eat brought in. I suspect this tale you speak of will be long in the telling.”

He was right. Taretha and Thrall sat—the latter rather gingerly, in one of the larger chairs—and began to speak. There was a pause for food—simple tea and cakes, which the poor girl fell upon like a starved wolf—but other than that, the story unfolded with little interruption for the better part of the afternoon. Krasus interrupted occasionally to ask questions, or to clarify something, but for the most part he simply listened.

It was mad. It was absurd. Ludicrous.

It also made perfect sense.

Mad tales, Korialstrasz had learned, having heard his share of them in his many millennia of life, had holes in them. They had notes that did not ring true. But while this strange orc, Thrall, spoke of things that seemed impossible, Korialstrasz knew they were not. As Krasus did, Thrall knew the nature of Ysera the Dreamer and of her flight. Thrall said that the acorn Krasus still held was a gift. Krasus could tell: there was a peace about it that would not be present had it been randomly picked up or taken by force. The orc knew how the timeways worked. He even knew names of bronze dragons who were friends to Korialstrasz and his queen.

No orc slave would know of such things.

When Thrall had finished, Krasus took a sip of tea, examined the precious acorn in his hand, then reached over and dropped it into Thrall’s palm.

“This is not for me,” he said quietly. “Not really. Is it?” It was a statement, not a true question.

Thrall looked at him for a moment, shook his head, and returned the acorn to his pouch. “I was to plant it where it seemed right,” he said. “I do not think Dalaran is the place.”

Korialstrasz nodded. He had sensed the same thing from the acorn.

“I dislike Aedelas Blackmoore heartily,” the dragon mage continued. “Nearly everyone does, unless they are in his pay, and I would wager that even they love the money, not the man. I would not mourn his loss if he were sliced from stem to stern, as you described doing. But simply doing that is not going to correct things, Thrall. While I understand the need to restore the true timeway, I will tell you that you will find few who think your world superior to their own. Plagues, a Lich King, Dalaran destroyed and remade, orcs having their own homeland—you have an uphill battle, my friend.”

“But it is the right thing to do,” said Thrall. “If it is not corrected, then my timeway—the real one—will be destroyed! And this one is already doomed!”

“I know that. You know that. A few of my fellow Kirin Tor members know that. The bronze dragonflight certainly knows that. But you are talking about mass upheaval of an entire world.” He gestured to the hovering sphere that was Azeroth.

Thrall rose and walked over to the globe, watching as wispy, miniature white clouds passed over the surface. He regarded it intently, but made no effort to touch it.

“This … is real, isn’t it?” he said. Curious, Taretha rose and joined him, her eyes widening as she regarded the slowly turning globe.

“In a manner of speaking,” Krasus said. “You couldn’t wipe out the world by smashing it with your fist, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“No … but that would solve the problem, would it not?” Thrall said wryly.

“It might at that,” Krasus agreed, his lips twitching in slight amusement.

“But … are we on it? Or representatives of us?” Thrall asked.

“Yes, right here,” Krasus said. “Our … spirit essence, for want of a better term, can be detected.”

“And you could find Arthas, or Varian?”

“Not specifically. I know where we are because … well … I know where we are,” Krasus said. “I can detect that Arthas is in the world, but—” His dark eyes widened. “I see what you’re getting at.”

“Do the dead leave … signature traces?”

“They do,” Krasus said. “You want me to look for Blackmoore.”

The orc nodded. Krasus raised an eyebrow, then lifted a hand. He spread his fingers gently and held them about six inches over the white clouds as the representation of Azeroth turned. He frowned. He stepped around the globe slowly, holding his hand over it, moving it about. Finally, he lowered it and turned to Thrall.

“Your hunch was right,” Krasus said. “Aedelas Blackmoore is nowhere to be found on this world.”

“What does that mean?” asked Taretha in a small voice.

“Well, it could mean any one of several things,” Krasus said. “He could have found a way to hide his signature. Or his spirit could have been stolen. It does happen from time to time. He could physically not be on this world. We both know there are gateways to others that could exist.”

Krasus glanced at Thrall as he spoke, and frowned. The orc looked very unsettled and was making a visible effort to calm himself. “Thrall, what is it?”

Thrall didn’t answer him. He turned instead toward Taretha, putting a huge hand gently on her shoulder. “Tari … you said that Blackmoore defeated Orgrim Doomhammer in single combat.”

She nodded. “Yes, that’s right.”

“Did he … take the Doomhammer? Or Orgrim’s armor?”

“The hammer was shattered in combat, or so everyone says,” Taretha said. “And the armor was too big for him.”

Thrall relaxed slightly. He seemed relieved. “Of course it would be. He couldn’t possibly wear it.”

Taretha nodded. “That’s why he only took a few symbolic plates of it. He had them be part of a new set of armor designed especially for him.”

The orc’s hand fell from Taretha’s shoulder, and he stared at her.

“Thrall?” she asked, worried. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

The orc slowly turned his head to regard the spinning miniature Azeroth. For a long moment he didn’t speak.

Finally, he said in a heavy voice, “I know what happened to Blackmoore.”

Taretha and Krasus exchanged glances and waited for Thrall to continue.

“He’s not here because he’s not in this timeway anymore. He escaped. He’s free of it. He doesn’t have to obey its laws any longer. And he’s got a purpose. One thing that’s driving him.”

He turned to face them. “And that one purpose is to kill me.”