Thrall - Christie Golden [31]
Thrall nodded. “Indeed I do. Thank you for admitting me, Chronalis. I will do my utmost to aid you.”
“Of that, I have no doubt,” Chronalis said. He leaped upward and then suddenly seemed to blur. Then he was gone.
“What …?” Thrall started to ask Desharin, then realized what must have happened. Master of time that he was, Chronalis had simply sped up time for himself and was now back at his post. Thrall shook his head, marveling.
They started walking away from the bronze dragons, who seemed to have pressing duties and tasks, even the children. It was easy to see that these were not real children; their faces and posture revealed the graveness of their roles. Trees grew here and there: evergreens, taking root in sand. It was but one of the oddities of this place, and Thrall shrugged and accepted it. The smell of pine was sharp and fresh. Immediately he was plunged back into his youth, growing up in Durnholde. When he had been permitted outside to train, this had often been the scent he had smelled. It was strange, how powerfully scent brought back memories, both good and bad: of a girl who had sacrificed everything to aid him, of a “master” who had beaten him almost to death in a drunken rage. … In Hillsbrad, Thrall had had his first glimpse of another orc, and deemed his brother a monster.
“You are agitated,” Desharin said quietly. “And, if I am right, by more than these revelations.”
Thrall was forced to nod. “I am reminded of the place of my youth,” he said. “The memories are not necessarily pleasant ones.”
Desharin nodded. “Come, friend Thrall. Let us find a place to be still and meditate before attempting to navigate these timeways. Unlike the bronze dragons, for us, the past is past, and should not be an undue burden. We will have challenges enough without bringing disquieting thoughts with us, I think.”
They walked on for a little while in silence, until Desharin came to a halt. “This place seems quiet,” he said, looking about. “We should not be disturbed here.” He sat down beneath one of the towering trees and placed his hands on his knees. Thrall emulated him.
He was tense, not just because of what he had recently beheld and learned or the memories the scent of the trees were recalling, but because the last time he had attempted to drop into a meditative state with another, it had been an abysmal failure. The dragon noticed this.
“You are a shaman and have been for some time,” he said. “This should be familiar to you. Why do you have such difficulty?”
“Well, you are a green dragon. You’re more used to sleeping than being awake,” Thrall shot back.
Desharin did not take offense, merely took a moment to brush back his long hair while Thrall continued to settle himself. The green dragon closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
Thrall found himself doing the same thing. Desharin was right. This was, of course, very familiar to Thrall. He watched the dragon for a moment, his thoughts not on dropping into a meditative state but on all that had transpired so very recently. Leaving the leadership of the Horde. Traveling to Nagrand and meeting Aggra. Cairne’s death. The Cataclysm that had ripped open the world and turned it upside down. His irritation and inability to focus. Ysera’s task and meeting the ancients … and this dragon, who sat before him, looking nothing like his true self and everything like a meditating night elf.
This place was unnerving, and compelling. Thrall did not want to close his eyes and explore his inner self. He wanted to explore the Caverns of Time.
But he would, and soon. He needed to embark on such an important task as prepared as possible. And so, reluctantly, he closed his eyes, and began to breathe slowly and calmly.
It happened so swiftly that by the time the sound of wind whistling across the flat of a blade alerted him to danger and he opened his eyes, Desharin’s head had already been severed from his shoulders.
Thrall dove to the side, somersaulting and landing on his feet. He did not spare the corpse