Thrall - Christie Golden [37]
The breath was coming rapidly, too rapidly, but Durotan fought to cling to life, listening raptly.
“Our people will recover from the darkness Gul’dan inflicted on them. We will heal. We will become a nation, proud and powerful. And your son will know of you, and his brave mother, and name a great land after you.”
“How … can you know …?”
Thrall forced the tears back and placed a hand on his father’s chest, beside the infant version of himself. The heartbeat was fading.
“Trust that I do,” Thrall said, his voice intent and shaking with emotion. “Your sacrifice was not in vain. Your son will live to change his world. This, I promise.”
The words had simply poured forth, and Thrall realized as he uttered them that they were true. He had lived, and he had changed his world—by freeing his people, by fighting demons, by giving the orcs a homeland.
“I promise,” he repeated.
Durotan’s face relaxed ever so slightly, and the faintest of smiles touched his lips.
Thrall gathered the baby and held him to his heart for a long, long time.
The infant slept, finally. Thrall held and rocked him through the night, his mind and heart filled nearly to bursting.
It was one thing to hear that his parents had died trying to protect him. It was another to witness such devotion. As a suckling babe, he had been dearly, deeply loved, without having to do anything. This infant had no accomplishments. Had saved no lives, fought no battles, defeated no demons. He was loved simply for being himself, tears and fussing, laughter and smiles.
More than anything in his life, Thrall wished he could have saved his parents. But the timeways were merciless. What had happened must happen, or else it had to be put right by the agents of the bronze dragonflight.
Put “right.” Letting good people die, innocent people; that was putting things “right.” It was cruel. It was devastating. But he understood.
He glanced up, winced, and looked away from the sight of his butchered family—and blinked. Something was reflected in the water—something gold and shining and scaled—
Thrall tried to see where the reflection was coming from. There was nothing—only trees and earth and sky. There was no mammoth dragon as expected. He rose, holding the infant, and looked into the water again.
One great eye looked back at him.
“Nozdormu?” The river was far too small to house the dragon—it had to be a reflection—and yet …
Thrall’s concentration was broken by a sudden squalling sound. It would seem the infant Thrall was awake—and hungry. Thrall turned his attention to the child, trying to murmur something soothing, then looked back to the water.
The reflection was gone. But Thrall was certain he had seen it. He looked around. Nothing.
A human voice broke the stillness of the forest. “By the Light, what a noise!”
The voice was full of respectful courtesy and apology, although the noise issued by the infant Thrall was none of the speaker’s making. “Might as well turn back, Lieutenant. Anything that loud is certain to have frightened any game worth pursuing.”
“Haven’t you learned anything I’ve tried to teach you, Tammis? It’s as much about getting away from that damned fortress as bringing back supper. Let whatever it is caterwaul all it likes.”
Thrall knew that voice. Had heard it offering praise. More often had heard it hurling curses, lowered in angry contempt. This man had helped shape his destiny. This man was the reason he still bore the name of Thrall—a name to show everyone precisely what the orc no longer was.
The voice belonged to Aedelas Blackmoore.
Any moment now, Blackmoore and his companion—who had to be Tammis Foxton, Blackmoore’s servant and father to Taretha Foxton—would come to this clearing. Blackmoore would find the baby Thrall now held in his arms and take him for his own. He would raise Thrall to fight, to kill, to learn strategy. And then one day Thrall would kill him.
Gently, Thrall placed his infant self down on the ground. His hand lingered a moment on the tiny black head, caressed the not-yet-worn fabric of the swaddling