Thrall Twilight of the Aspects (12 page)

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.