Thrall - Christie Golden [2]
“Hang on!” shouted the tauren who had a death grip on the goblin’s hand. He braced his hooves and pulled. The draenei clutching the dwarf did likewise. Gasping, the two shaman were dragged to safety.
“Pull back, pull back!” cried Nobundo. “To the shelters—quickly!” The gathered shaman needed no urging as a nearby skerry crumbled to pieces. Orc and tauren, troll and goblin, dwarf and draenei, all raced for their mounts, clambering atop the shivering beasts and urging them back to the shelters on one of the larger skerries as the skies cracked open and hurled stinging, fat raindrops upon the shaman’s skins. Thrall hesitated long enough to make sure Aggra had climbed atop her winged mount, then he urged his own wyvern skyward.
The shelters were little more than makeshift huts, located as far inland as possible and protected by warding spells. Each individual and mated pair had their own. The huts were arranged in a circle around a larger, open ritual area. The warding spells protected the shaman from smaller manifestations of angry elements such as lightning, though the earth might open up beneath. But such was always a threat, no matter where the shaman were.
Thrall reached the shelter first, holding up the bearskin flap long enough for Aggra to charge inside, then dropping it and tying it closed. The rain pounded angrily on the skins as if demanding entrance, and the structures trembled slightly from the onslaught of the wind. But they would hold.
Thrall quickly began to remove his drenched robe, shivering slightly. Aggra did likewise in silence; the wet clothing would kill them more surely than a random strike of lightning, if not as swiftly. They dried their wet skins, one green, one brown, and then donned fresh, dry robes from a chest. Thrall set about lighting a small brazier.
He felt Aggra’s eyes upon him, and the air in the tent was heavy with unsaid words. Finally she broke the silence.
“Go’el,” she began. Her voice, deep and husky, was laden with concern.
“Say nothing,” Thrall said, and busied himself heating water for hot beverages for them both.
He saw her scowl at him, then roll her eyes and almost visibly choke back her words. He disliked speaking to her so, but he was in no mood to discuss what had happened.
The spell had failed, and Thrall knew it was because of him.
They sat silently and awkwardly as the storm broke about them and the earth continued to rumble. At last, almost like a child that had cried itself to sleep, the earth seemed to subside. Thrall could feel that it was not at peace and far from healed, but it was still.
Until the next time.
Almost immediately Thrall heard voices outside their shelter. He and Aggra emerged into the gray day, the ground wet beneath their bare feet as they walked. Others were assembling in the main area, their faces reflecting grave concern, weariness, and determination.
Nobundo turned to Thrall and Aggra as they approached. He was a former draenei. His form was not proud and strong and tall, but bent, almost deformed, caused by exposure to fel energies. Many Broken were dark and corrupted, but Nobundo was not. Indeed, he had been blessed, his great heart opening to the shamanic powers, and it was he who had brought these powers to his people. Beside him were several draenei, their blue forms undamaged, sleek, clean. Yet, to Thrall and many others, Nobundo outshone them all because of who he was.
When the high shaman’s gaze fell upon Thrall, the orc wanted to look away. This being—indeed, all the other shaman gathered here—was someone Thrall respected deeply, and had never wished to disappoint. And yet, he had.
Nobundo beckoned Thrall to him with an oversized hand. “Come, my friend,” he said quietly, regarding the