Thrall - Christie Golden [35]
“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