Thrall - Christie Golden [81]
But now Thrall set his jaw, refusing to let fear weaken him. His body was healed but still deeply chilled, and he knew his movements would be too slow to defend himself without aid.
Spirit of Life, help me, that I may defeat this foe who should not live and that I may carry your visions to those who must know of them!
Warmth flooded through him, gentle yet powerful, granting vigor and suppleness to his limbs. Dimly, Thrall was aware that even his clothing had somehow dried. Energy, sharp and soothing both, strengthened him. He did not question, merely accepted gratefully. Thrall attacked without even needing to think about it, letting years of battle guide his hand and landing blow after blow on the purloined armor Blackmoore dared wear. The human was startled and sprang back, crouching into a defensive stance, mammoth sword at the ready.
“I see why I wanted to train you,” Blackmoore sneered, and now Thrall recognized the voice even though Blackmoore wore his helm. “You’re very good… for a greenskin.”
“Your decision to train me was your death once before, Aedelas Blackmoore, and will be again. You cannot outwit destiny.”
Blackmoore laughed, a loud boom of genuine mirth. “You fell from a nearly impossible height, orc. You’re wounded and barely alive. I think it’s your destiny to die here in the frozen north, not mine to be slain by you. Though your spirit is admirable. I’d have enjoyed crushing it, but I fear I have other business to attend to. Fleshrender hasn’t claimed a life for a while. I’ll make it quick.”
He emphasized the name, as if to strike fear into Thrall’s heart. Instead, the orc laughed. Blackmoore frowned. “What amuses you at the moment of your death?”
“You do,” Thrall said. “The name you have chosen for your sword makes me laugh.”
“Makes you laugh? You should not. It has indeed rent the flesh of the corpses I make!”
“Oh, of course,” Thrall said. “But it’s so blunt—so brutal and unsophisticated. Just like you are, at your core. Just like you tried so hard not to be.”
Blackmoore’s frown deepened as he growled, “I am a king, orc. Remember that.”
“Only of a stolen kingdom. And you will make no corpse of me!”
Furious, Blackmoore again charged, and again Thrall, despite his injuries and near-death fall, parried and went on the offensive.
Blackmoore had said, at the moment of his death, that Thrall was what he, Blackmoore, had made him. It was a statement that had sickened the orc—to think that anything of this man was a part of him was appalling. Drek’Thar had helped put some of it into perspective, but now, as weapons clanged together and struck sparks, Thrall realized that he had never truly shaken Blackmoore’s vile grip on his spirit.
The man before him, swinging the broadsword with powerful arms and a deadly determination, was his shadow side. Under him, at one point, Thrall had tasted utter powerlessness, and he had spent most of his life determined to never again feel so helpless. Too, Thrall realized, with the clarity and insight that still lingered from the twin visions, that Blackmoore represented everything Thrall was fighting against—in himself.
“I feared you once,” Thrall grunted. He held the Doomhammer in one strong green hand, lifted the other, and spread his fingers. He opened his mouth, and a cry of righteous anger ripped through the frigid air. A whirlwind came to his call, swirling and picking up frozen snow like a cyclone made of ice. With a swift, precise motion, it descended upon Blackmoore. It lifted him up, higher and higher, then with another hand motion Thrall hurled the human down. He lay where he had fallen, one arm curled up to his chest, and swiftly Thrall closed the distance between them.
He stared at the limp form, his eyes narrowing. As he spoke, he slowly lifted the Doomhammer over his head in preparation for the killing blow.
“You were everything I hate… weakness lucky enough to be in a position of power. You made me see myself in a way I loathed, in a way—”
Blackmoore surged upward onto his knees,