Thrall - Christie Golden [80]
But this time he was not scattered or unfocused. He held Aggra’s face before him, like a torch in the darkness of the unknown future. With his eyes closed, he saw her, smiling with a hint of playfulness in her gold eyes, holding out her hand.
This strong hand in yours—
Oh, how he wanted that. How right that seemed to him now. A little thing, yet greater in his heart now than any fear of death or destruction could be.
And even as he opened his heart to both her and the Spirit of Life within him, another vision came to him.
This vision was not of Aggra, nor of his own life. Like a scene in a stage play, it unfolded in his mind: hero, villain, a shocking twist, tragedy, and misunderstanding. His heart, full with wanting and missing Aggra, now ached not with sympathy but with the empathy of sharing an experience.
This knowledge… Alexstrasza…
“She must know,” he whispered. “I must find her and tell her.” In the end, these connections were what mattered most. In the end, they were truly all that mattered. They were what inspired songs and art, what drove those in battle to fight: love of country, or culture, an ideal, or an individual. It was this feeling that kept hearts beating, that moved mountains, that shaped the world. And Thrall knew, through both visions, that he and another who also grieved were loved truly and deeply—loved for who they were, not what they could do. Not what title or power they wielded.
Aggra loved Thrall for who he was at his core, and he loved her the same way.
Alexstrasza was loved so, and she needed to be reminded of it. Thrall knew, knew deep in his bones and blood, that he was the only one who could let her know that.
The Spirit of Life opened to him. It flowed through him, warming and soothing and strong. Energy surged through nearly frozen limbs, and he began to claw his way upward through the snow that had caved in upon him. He worked with the rhythm of his own breath, resting upon inhaling, moving snow with his exhalation. He was calm, clear, focused as he had never been, his heart full with the new revelations that needed to be shared.
It was not easy, but the Spirit of Life buoyed him. Its energy was strong but gentle, and at last he pulled himself out of the hole and sat, catching his breath. Slowly he got to his feet and began to think about his next move.
His robes were soaked. He needed warmth, a fire, and to remove his saturated clothing before it killed him—and in this weather, it would, and quickly. He looked about for any dragons who might be searching for him, but saw nothing in the skies save clouds and the occasional bird. He did not know how long he had been unconscious; the battle was clearly over—one way or another.
Shelter first, then fire. He looked about for any likely spot. Over there—there seemed to be a cave or at least a hollow in the stone, a darker smudge against the gray.
And it was his focus, his clarity, not his senses, that a heartbeat later saved his life.
He whirled, the Doomhammer at the ready, and was barely in time to block the blow from the shadow that had been haunting him for so long.
Blackmoore!
Wearing pieces of plate that Thrall now completely recognized, swinging the massive, glowing broadsword that was almost bigger than the one who wielded it, Blackmoore pushed the attack with what seemed like more than human strength.
But it wasn’t.
The first time the dark assassin had sprung out of the shadows, to attack so completely unexpectedly and slice Desharin’s head from his body, Thrall had been taken by surprise. When Blackmoore had followed him through the timeway, manifesting with his brutal solution of slaying the infant Thrall, the orc had been unsettled. And when he had discovered the mysterious assassin’s true identity, he had been dismayed.
The fact that Blackmoore had not only lived but grown to such power had shaken Thrall’s faith in everything he had done. It had cast shadows on the