Thrall Twilight of the Aspects (8 page)

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.”

I
t was a long and arduous journey from the Maelstrom to Feralas. Thrall had emerged, as he had promised, to give Ysera his answer, only to find no sign of the green Dragon Aspect. He was at first bemused and irritated, then ashamed of his reaction: Ysera doubtless had many vital duties other than waiting on a simple shaman’s answer. He was charged with this duty, had accepted it, and would see it through—though he could have wished Ysera had thought to leave one of her great green dragons behind to speed the journey. She had not, so he did the best he could with wyvern, ship, and wolf.

Ysera had told him that Dreamer’s Rest was nestled against one of the great Twin Colossals. He rode along the overgrown road on his beloved, loyal frost wolf Snowsong, feeling the moist heat—so different from the temperate climes of Lordaeron where he had reached adulthood, and the dry heat of Orgrimmar—leach away at his energy.