Thrall: Twilight of the Aspects

4

Thrall could not sleep. Aggra drowsed quietly beside him on their sleeping furs, but his mind would not be still. He lay on his back, staring up at the skins that covered the hut, and then finally rose, threw on some clothes and a cloak, and went outside.

He took a deep breath of the moist air and looked up at the night sky. The stars, at least, seemed to have some sort of peace about them, and the two moons—the White Lady and the Blue Child—were unaffected by Deathwing’s violent rebirth into Azeroth. For the moment, the elements were as stable as they ever could be here in the Maelstrom—due in no part at all to Thrall’s help, he knew, and he frowned to himself.

He began to walk, with no destination in mind. He simply wanted to move, in silence and solitude, and see if that calmed his thoughts enough so that he could finally sleep.

What had transpired during the spellcasting and afterward—both with the other members of the Ring and with Aggra in particular—had shaken him. He wondered if they were right. Was he truly helping here? He had given up everything to come—and yet it seemed that not only did he have no aid to offer, but he was disruptive. He had stayed behind today, “resting,” while the others did workings all day. It was humiliating and painful. He growled low in his throat and picked up his pace.

He did not want to believe that Aggra was right—that he hid behind the mantle of leadership and was a “thrall” to duty. If that were so, then why could he not lose himself in the work here?

“What is wrong with me?” he muttered aloud, slamming one great green fist impotently into the palm of his other hand.

“That,” came a lilting feminine voice, “I do not know the answer to. Maybe I will, at some point.”

He turned, startled. A few feet away stood a tall but slender cloaked figure. The cloak, wrapped about her frame, revealed it to be a female, but her face was hidden in the shadow of the cloak’s cowl. Thrall did not recognize the voice and frowned slightly, wondering who this stranger might be.

“Maybe I will too,” he said. He inclined his head in greeting. “I am Thrall.”

“I know. I’ve come for you.” Her voice was musical, mesmerizing.

He blinked. “For me? Why? Who are you?”

“It’s … hard to explain,” she said, and cocked her head as if listening to something he couldn’t hear.

“It’s hard to explain your name?”

“Oh, that … no. It’s the other that is challenging. You see … I have a small task for you, Thrall.”

He found himself more amused than annoyed. “A task? Something for the Ring?”

“No, something for the villagers.”

“The villagers?”

“In Feralas. It is little more than a small camp called”—she chuckled as if at a private joke—“Dreamer’s Rest. There is suffering there. Suffering of the land, and an old-growth grove that has seen many years, and the druids who live near it. The elements there are out of control, as they are in many parts of this poor wounded world, and they are going to destroy the village if something isn’t done. Only a shaman can talk to the elements and soothe them into harmony.”

Thrall’s amusement faded. He was beginning to suspect a joke. And he did not like it.

“Then let the shaman of the village do so,” he said, somewhat sharply.

“There are no shaman there. It is too small, and there are only druids,” the stranger said simply, as if that explained everything.

Thrall took a deep breath. What she was asking of him was trivial. It was the sort of thing novice shaman could handle. Why she had come to find him for such a task, he did not know and did not care.

“Surely there are others who can do that,” he said, reining in his irritation and trying to maintain courtesy. If this was some sort of bizarre test by the Earthen Ring, he did not want to explode with erratic anger, no matter how much this dithering female was annoying him.

She shook her head vigorously, walking toward him. “No,” she insisted, seemingly quite earnest. “ No others. None like you.”

This was getting ridiculous. “Who are you, to set me to such a task?”

Her face was still in shadow, but the glow of radiant eyes illuminated a smile of haunting sweetness. Was this a night elf? “Perhaps this will clarify.”

Before he could retort, she had sprung into the air—high, higher than any true elf could go, the cloak falling from her as she spread her arms wide, offering her face to the sky. Her body began to shift faster than the eye could follow, and where before he thought a night elf had been, now there was a huge dragon gazing down upon him, wings beating steadily as she lowered herself to land.

“I am Ysera … the Awakened.”

Thrall took a step backward, gasping. He knew the name Ysera. She had been the Dreamer, the guardian of the Emerald Dream. But now she dreamed no longer.

Much had changed with the recent Cataclysm, it would seem.

“Do this thing, Thrall,” Ysera said. Her voice was still pleasant, though deeper and more resonant in her dragon form.

He almost answered, Yes, of course. But his recent failures haunted him. What she was asking seemed trivial indeed, but considering who she was, he guessed that it had to be very important. And he was not sure he could be trusted with something important right now.

“Mighty Ysera … may I meditate on this?”

She looked disappointed. “I had hoped you would say yes.”

“It is … only a small camp, isn’t it?”

Her disappointment seemed to deepen. “Yes. It is a small camp, and a small task.”

Shame heated his cheeks. “Still, I would ask: Come again in the morning. I will have an answer for you.”

She sighed, a great, melancholy bellow, and her breath smelled of fresh grass and mist. Then Ysera the Awakened nodded, leaped upward, and vanished with a few beats of her wings.

Thrall sat down heavily.

He had just been asked by a Dragon Aspect to do something, and had told her to come back tomorrow. What was he thinking? And yet—

He placed his head in his hands and pressed hard on his temples. Things that should be easy were difficult, too difficult. His head was not clear, and it seemed neither was his heart. He felt … lost and indecisive.

Thrall had largely kept to himself since the argument with Aggra last night. But now, as he sat alone with only the moons and the stars for company, he knew he needed to seek her out. Aggra had wisdom and insight, although recently he found that he often disliked what she had to say. And he was clearly in no position to make a decision without support, or else he would have been able to say yea or nay at once to the mighty Aspect.

Slowly he rose and walked back to the hut.

“Did the moons give you guidance?” Aggra asked softly in the darkness. He should have known better than to think that his movements, however quiet, would not have awakened her.

“No,” he said. “But … this shaman would like to ask something of you.” He expected a sarcastic response, but instead heard the furs rustle as she sat up.

“I am listening,” was all Aggra said.

He sat down next to her on their sleeping furs. Quietly he told her of the encounter, and she listened without interrupting, although her eyes widened at several points.

“This seems … almost insulting,” Thrall said at last. “This is a minor task. To remove me from here, where my help is sorely needed, to save a tiny village in Feralas …” Thrall shook his head. “I don’t know if this is a test, or a trap, or what. I don’t understand any of it.”

“You are sure it was Ysera?”

“It was a large green dragon,” Thrall snapped, then added more quietly, “and … I felt that it was she.”

“It doesn’t matter if it is a test or a trap. It doesn’t matter that this seems like a trivial task. If it is Ysera asking something of you, you should go, Thrall.”

“But my help here—”

Aggra covered his hand with her own. “Is not needed. Not now. You cannot do what you need to do in order to be of aid to us here. You saw that yesterday—we all did. You are no good to anyone here at this point. Not to the Earthen Ring, not to the Horde, not to me, and surely not to yourself.”

Thrall grimaced, but there was no scorn or anger in Aggra’s voice. Indeed, it was gentler than he could remember it being in some time, as was her hand on his.

“Go’el, beloved,” she continued, “go and do this thing. Go and obey the Aspect’s request, and do not concern yourself as to whether it is a large thing or a small. Go, and bring back what you learn.” She smiled a little, teasingly. “Did you learn nothing from your initiation?”

Thrall thought back to his initiation in Garadar, which seemed so long ago. He recalled the plain robes he had been asked to wear, how he was reminded that a shaman balanced pride with humbleness.

He was most assuredly not being humble in thinking of refusing the request of an Aspect.

Thrall took a deep breath, held it for a moment, then let it out slowly.

“I will go,” he said.

The Twilight Father found himself a trifle disappointed at how quickly the reds, blues, and greens had fled. He’d expected that they’d put up more of a fight. Nonetheless, it made his task easier, and made him even more adored by the cultists, who obeyed his every command. Such was good, even if it lacked the sweetness that a more hard-fought victory would have provided.

He had watched, along with the girl, as the dragons had flown away, sometimes singly, sometimes in pairs or in groups. Now the only dragons that remained were quite lifeless, save for the ones directly under his command.

He had sent his lieutenants ahead to summon his followers, and now they gathered at the foot of the promontory and shivered in the cold. Their faces were so diverse, belonging to orc and troll, human and night elf—indeed, many of the races of Azeroth—and yet had a deep similarity in their expression of rapt adoration.

“And so our long journey has come, if not to its end, at least to a place where we pause, gather our forces, and grow strong. Wyrmrest Temple was once a symbol of the unconquerable power of the unified dragonflights. It has been said it was made by the titans themselves, and the dragons regarded it as inviolable and sacred. Today, we saw them abandon it—including two of their Aspects. It is our home now, for as long as we choose to make it so. This ancient place of power, like all things, must fall!”

Cheers erupted from hundreds of throats. The Twilight Father raised his hands, accepting the wave of adoration that poured off of the crowd.

“It is fitting that part of this place is broken,” he continued when the delighted uproar had started to die down. “The end of things is always with us, even at our moment of triumph. Now … let us take what has fallen to us, that it may serve our cause.”

One of the great twilight dragons that had been hovering obediently came in for a landing. Like a subservient pet, she prostrated herself before him, pressing her pale purple belly to the cold stone so that he would have no difficulty in climbing atop her back. He stepped forward, and the chain binding the girl to him grew taut. He turned, mildly surprised.

The girl did not move at once, regarding the dragon with a mixture of loathing and pity.

“Now, now, my dear,” he said, his voice making a mockery of kind words, “you mustn’t hesitate. Although”—he smirked from beneath the cowl—“I daresay that this is not quite the homecoming you expected, eh?”

Kirygosa, daughter of Malygos, sister to Arygos, looked from the twilight dragon to the Twilight Father, her blue eyes narrowed in contempt, and kept her icy silence.

As they approached Wyrmrest Temple, Kirygosa noticed that something else was heading that way as well. Below her, an enormous sled, large enough to accommodate several dozen humans, moved across the landscape. The white snowfall elk that pulled it strained visibly at the task. Even as Kirygosa watched, one of them collapsed. The sled came to a halt. Four acolytes of the Twilight’s Hammer moved forward, unbuckled the pathetic creature, and replaced it with another elk. The exhausted animal half walked, half stumbled as they tugged on its reins, leading it away from its fellows. When it again collapsed in the snow, lifting its head imploringly, one of the acolytes gestured. Several orcs dismounted from their large black wolves. The beasts waited, obedient, eyes fixed upon their masters until the command was given. Then the great beasts sprang as one, falling upon the hapless elk with shocking speed. Smooth white snow was churned up beneath the elk’s struggles and suddenly blossomed with crimson, and the elk’s pathetic cries were drowned out beneath savage growling.

Kirygosa looked away. No doubt such a fate was a trifle more merciful than simply leaving the elk to freeze to death, and the wolves did need food. They, at least, were innocent and natural creatures. Unlike their masters.

She returned her attention to the sled. A large canvas covered the top of it, revealing only a huge, lumpy form. It was the first time Kirygosa had seen it, and there was something about the shape—

“Curious, my dear?” said the Twilight Father, pitching his voice to be heard over the beating of their dragon mount’s wings. “All will be unveiled in due time. This is the purpose of our being here. You will recall, I told you: the wise man always has another plan.”

The tone of his voice chilled Kirygosa. The twilight dragon bore her steadily onward toward Wyrmrest Temple. She looked back over her shoulder at the sled fading into the distance below her. If its cargo was the sort of thing that the Twilight’s Hammer considered its “other plan,” she didn’t want to know what it was.

The Twilight Father slid off the dragon’s back onto the inlaid floor of Wyrmrest Temple, now covered here and there with the scarlet hue of dragon blood and the small, scattered, glittering shards that were all that remained of the Orb of Unity. Kirygosa followed in stony silence.

He handed Kirygosa’s chain to an acolyte. They all knew how to control the dragoness: a single tug, in a certain way, with a certain firmness, would cause exquisite pain. The chain also prevented her from assuming her true form—a much more troublesome shape than that of a mere human female.

“Make sure she stays quiet, but do not hurt her for sport,” he added to the troll, who looked disappointed. If Kirygosa was tormented too much, she might become desensitized to the pain, and that simply would not do. The troll led Kirygosa to a pillar and shoved her to the floor, then stood awaiting further commands from his Father.

The Twilight Father removed a small orb from beneath his cloak and placed it almost reverently on the bloodied floor. At once it began to pulse, glowing darkly, as if there were a seething black mist trapped inside it. Suddenly, as if the small orb were too tiny to contain something so powerful, it cracked open and the mist—no, no, not mist, smoke, thick and acrid and glinting here and there with orange-red embers—billowed upward. It formed a cloud, blacker than night and infinitely more unnatural, that swirled angrily until at last it took on shape and form. Baleful orange-yellow eyes, looking like liquid fire, peered out, impaling the Twilight Father with their gaze. A mammoth jaw, made of black metal, opened slightly in the hint of a mad, sly smile, and Kirygosa could not help but recoil.

Deathwing!

The Twilight Father knelt before the orb. “My master,” he said humbly.

“You have succeeded?” said Deathwing without preamble. The deep voice seemed to shake the temple, shiver through the body, as if Deathwing were actually present.

“In … a manner of speaking,” said the Twilight Father, fighting to control the slight stammer in his voice. “We have driven out the dragons from Wyrmrest Temple, including Alexstrasza and Ysera both. I have claimed it in the name of the Twilight’s Hammer cult. It is your stronghold now, Great One.”

The great, mad eyes narrowed. “That was not the plan,” he hissed. “The plan, which you have failed to execute, was to destroy the dragons, not merely capture their temple!”

“This—this is true, my lord. The plan was … thwarted by something we could not possibly have foreseen.” Quickly he explained. Deathwing listened with a silence that was worse than his angry shouting would have been. His features remained clear, though the smoke that formed them shifted, and once there was even heard a flapping of tattered, fire-limned wings. When the Twilight Father had finished, there was a long, uncomfortable pause. Deathwing cocked his head, appearing to consider.

“This changes nothing. You have failed.”

The Twilight Father began to sweat despite the cold. “It is a setback, Great One, nothing more. Not a failure. And there may be positive repercussions from it. It did drive the dragons away, and the Life-Binder—your greatest enemy—appears shattered by events.”

“That is irrelevant,” rumbled Deathwing. “You will find another way to achieve the goal I have set you, or else I will replace you with a general who does not fail me at a crucial juncture.”

“I … understand, Great One.” The Twilight Father’s eyes flickered to Kirygosa; they narrowed in thought, then returned to regard Deathwing. “Leave it to me. Things are already in motion. I will begin right away.”

“Do not think to cut me off, lesser creature,” growled Deathwing.

Beneath his cowl, the Twilight Father felt himself paling. “I would never do such a thing, Great One. I am merely eager to be about serving you.”

“You will serve me when I tell you to, and not a heartbeat before. Is that clear?”

The Twilight Father could only nod. But despite Deathwing’s anger at having been interrupted, now he paused for a long moment before finally speaking.

“There may be … a new obstacle. I had expected that the dragonflights would not be able to stand against the combination of you, the Twilight’s Hammer cult, and the one whom we seek to aid. I expected victory. You have told me that Ysera fled. It would have been better if she had not.”

“My lord?” He couldn’t help it: he swallowed hard.

“She lives, because of you,” Deathwing snarled. “And because she lives, she has had the opportunity to speak with one who is destined to oppose me. His interference may tip the balance.”

The Twilight Father’s mind reeled at the news and its implications. What had the Awakened Dreamer done? Who, or what mighty power, had she summoned? Deathwing was deeply concerned—and that terrified the Twilight Father.

His throat dry, he managed, “What kind of being has she allied with?”

“A lesser creature,” Deathwing said, biting off the words harshly.

The Twilight Father wasn’t sure he had heard correctly. “What? But surely—”

“An orc!”

Both were silent now. Those mere two words told the Twilight Father all he needed to know. Once, long ago, Deathwing had been warned that an orc—seemingly the lowest of the low—would rise to challenge and possibly defeat him. No one, least of all the Twilight Father, had given it much heed.

He tried to shrug it off. “My lord, prophecies are notoriously cryptic. You are the mighty Deathwing. You have ripped this world asunder. We battle dragons—not just dragons, but the Aspects themselves! Mighty beings, not dust-eating orcs. Even a powerful one is no match for you.”

“This one is different. He always has been. He has a remarkable variety of experiences to draw upon. He does not think like dragons do … and precisely because he does not, he might be able to save them.”

The Twilight Father was dubious, but he did not let it show. “Tell me the identity of this short-lived enemy, my lord. Tell me that I may destroy him.”

“You must do more than destroy. You must completely undo the one called Thrall—or this orc will be the undoing of everything. Everything! ”

“It shall be done, I swear.”

“Yes,” agreed Deathwing. “It shall. You are running out of time”—he gave a macabre imitation of a draconic grin, lower jaw gaping open to display acres of jagged, metallic teeth—“Father. But do not despair. I may have aid for you. I am ancient, but I do not have limitless patience. Contact me again with better news.”

The smoke that had formed Deathwing’s image lost its solidity, becoming swirling black mist again. Slowly it settled to the floor, then coalesced into a black sphere. A moment later, even the darkness had disappeared. It was now, once again, a small, crystal-like orb. Frowning, the Twilight Father tucked it away and rose.

“You thought it would be so easy,” came a clear female voice. “You and your huge, overly complicated plans. And now, as your master says, you are running out of time to undo this Thrall. The currents are shifting, Twilight Father, and your beard is gray. You are fooling yourself. You won’t last long serving him. You will not win.”

He turned to the enslaved dragoness and closed the distance between them. She gazed up at him defiantly while he regarded her for a long moment.

“Foolish little wyrm,” he said at last. “You know but a small portion of my plans. Thrall is a flea that will soon be smashed more fittingly than you can imagine. Come,” he said, and took her chain. “I have something to show you, and then we will see if I am fooling myself … or if you are the one being fooled.”

He led her to the edge of the circular floor, and pointed. The mysterious sled had reached the foot of Wyrmrest Temple. Now that their services in hauling the vast vehicle were no longer needed, the snowfall elk had all been turned loose to feed the wolves. The hungry predators had done their job well: little was left now save bones. The acolytes were peering up, awaiting the signal from their adored Father. He lifted his hand, and with a flourish, the dark-robed cultists yanked off the fabric that had concealed what the wagon bore.

Kirygosa gasped, her hand flying to her mouth in horror.

Stretched out on the giant wagon was the corpse of a dragon. But just not any dragon: this body was enormous, far larger than even a Dragon Aspect. And it was misshapen, its dull scales the color of an ugly purple bruise on pale skin. And the most obscene, most horrific thing was that it did not have one head.

It had five. Even in the dim light with her human eyes, she could see that each head was a different color—red, black, gold, green, and blue.

Kirygosa knew exactly what it was.

“A chromatic dragon,” she said in a choked voice.

Chromatic dragons were an abomination, a violation against everything natural. The monstrosities had been created by Deathwing’s son, Nefarian. A mighty black dragon almost as evil as his father, Nefarian had tried to create a new dragonflight that would combine the powers of all five of the other flights—a dragonflight that could conceivably destroy all the others. The experiments were considered failures. Many whelps had died before hatching. Most of those that had survived long enough to hatch were unstable, volatile, and deformed in many ways. Only a few had reached adulthood, artificially aged by twisted magical processes.

The one before them now was definitely a mature dragon. Yet he did not stir.

“I thought they seldom survived to adulthood. Still … he too, is dead. Why should I fear a corpse?”

“Oh, Chromatus is quite dead,” the Twilight Father said airily. “Technically. For the moment. But he will live. He was Nefarian’s final experiment. There had been many failures, as I am certain you know. But that is how one learns, is it not? By trying and failing?”

His beard parted in an avuncular smile as she continued to stare sickly at him.

“Chromatus exemplified the pinnacle of all Nefarian had learned through his various experiments,” the Twilight Father continued. “Nefarian was, tragically, slain before he could give Chromatus the spark of life.”

“A better deed was never done than the killing of Nefarian, that monster,” muttered Kirygosa.

The Twilight Father gave her an amused look. “You might be surprised to know that just as the creation before you shall soon taste life, his creator does already. Yes—Nefarian has returned … in a manner of speaking. He is undead, but quite definitely active. For Chromatus … I have other plans.”

Kirygosa could not tear her eyes away. “So this … thing … was the reason for everything you’ve done?” Her voice broke. “Bringing to life a monster who had no right to exist in the first place?”

“Come, now, Kirygosa!” chided the Twilight Father mockingly. “You should show more respect. You might prove to be very important in this task.”

Her eyes widened. “No … no more experiments. …”

He leaned closer to her, handing over the chain to the troll acolyte who hastened up. “You see, my dear,” he said gently, “the only one running out of time … is you.”