Thrall - Christie Golden [40]
“There is nothing that points to that,” Kalecgos had said. “Not all the Aspects were kin originally.” He disliked Arygos’s attitude and knew that the son of Malygos felt threatened by one he saw as an “upstart.” If there was division among the dragonflights, there was also division within the blue dragonflight. Malygos’s ghost yet lingered. There were those, like Arygos, who would prefer to follow in that Aspect’s footsteps and withdraw as much from the world as possible, and those who thought as Kalec did: that being in this world, connecting with the other races and flights, only served to strengthen and enrich the blue dragonflight.
It had been a subtle division before the attack of the twilight dragons. But now it was a glaring, open schism, one Kalec did not like but was not naive enough to ignore.
He disliked this whole new concept of a “vote,” of the title of Aspect simply being that: an empty title, without any of the real powers behind it. This was something that had been part of this world since before the memories of nearly anyone or anything, except perhaps the ancients. To turn it into a sort of contest, to reward the blue dragon who was most liked or could sway most of the flight—
He shook his head angrily and moved away from the discussion. Arygos noticed and called out, “Kalecgos! Where are you going?”
“To get some fresh air,” Kalec called over his shoulder. “It is too close in here for me.”
The human, with his heavy armor, sank like a stone, although he struggled valiantly. He released the enormous sword, instead grabbing hold of Thrall’s robe with one gauntleted hand. They sank together. Thrall tried to bring a weapon down on the man’s arm, but his movements were slowed by the water. Instead, he seized the human’s hand and, utilizing his superior strength, bent back the fingers.
Bubbles escaped from the human’s helm as he lost his grip on Thrall’s robe and reached out with his other hand, but Thrall kicked hard and swam out of reach.
That was when he realized that this stream was much deeper than it had appeared. Much deeper than it could possibly be. He caught a glimmer out of the corner of his eye and turned his head.
It was the glittering gold of a great bronze dragon’s scales—the same image he had seen in the water earlier. Thrall suddenly realized that the hot, burning sensation of his lungs craving air had ceased. This was somehow timeways magic, and he knew it and accepted it. He kept his eyes on the alluring scales and struck out toward them.
The water about him shimmered, and he felt a strange, tingling warmth all along his body. The scales disappeared. He shot to the surface—
—of the sea. As he glanced around, trying to orient himself, he recognized several ships. Or, at least, what was left of them.
These were the vessels he, Grom Hellscream, and the other orcs had stolen from the humans in order to follow the advice of a strange prophet—a prophet who had urged them to depart the Eastern Kingdoms to come to Kalimdor.
Thrall was slogging ashore with the rest of them now, glancing at the floating debris. He seized a crate and hauled it ashore. As he set it on the ground, someone called out to him.
“Warchief!” How long, Thrall mused, had it been since he had answered to that title? Nonetheless he turned—only to see an orc striding up to …
“Me,” Thrall said. “It’s me. …” Just as he had seen himself as an infant what seemed like a short while ago, he now realized that he was looking at another version of himself. He listened to the conversation, trying not to get caught staring at the Thrall of this timeway. This was much stranger than when he had simply seen his other versions during his vision quest. This time he was physically standing only a few feet away.
“Our ship sustained heavy damage when we passed through the raging Maelstrom,” the orc reported.
Again a strange twinge. The Maelstrom … the place he had left. The place where Deathwing had ripped through: the place the Earthen Ring was trying so desperately