Thrall - Christie Golden [33]
SEVEN
Beneath his running feet, the sand that had so treacherously slowed Thrall down abruptly became solid earth and grass. Above him, instead of the bizarre skyscape of the Caverns of Time, he saw pine trees, black sky, and twinkling stars. Thrall slowed and came to a halt, attempting to get his bearings.
The familiar smell of pine and earth, the scents made all the sharper for being borne on the misty and slightly chilly air, confirmed Thrall’s location. A stream splashed a few feet away, and Thrall caught sight of the white-tufted tail of a fox. Thrall had never been to this specific place, but he knew the area. He had grown up here.
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