Christie Golden: Thrall: Twilight of the Aspects

The Twilight Father began to sweat despite the cold. “It is a setback, Great One, nothing more. Not a failure. And there may be positive repercussions from it. It did drive the dragons away, and the Life-Binder—your greatest enemy—appears shattered by events.”

“That is irrelevant,” rumbled Deathwing. “You will find another way to achieve the goal I have set you, or else I will replace you with a general who does not fail me at a crucial juncture.”

“I … understand, Great One.” The Twilight Father’s eyes flickered to Kirygosa; they narrowed in thought, then returned to regard Deathwing. “Leave it to me. Things are already in motion. I will begin right away.”

“Do not think to cut me off, lesser creature,” growled Deathwing.

Beneath his cowl, the Twilight Father felt himself paling. “I would never do such a thing, Great One. I am merely eager to be about serving you.”

“You will serve me when I tell you to, and not a heartbeat before. Is that clear?”

The Twilight Father could only nod. But despite Deathwing’s anger at having been interrupted, now he paused for a long moment before finally speaking.

“There may be … a new obstacle. I had expected that the dragonflights would not be able to stand against the combination of you, the Twilight’s Hammer cult, and the one whom we seek to aid. I expected victory. You have told me that Ysera fled. It would have been better if she had not.”

“My lord?” He couldn’t help it: he swallowed hard.

“She lives, because of you,” Deathwing snarled. “And because she lives, she has had the opportunity to speak with one who is destined to oppose me. His interference may tip the balance.”

The Twilight Father’s mind reeled at the news and its implications. What had the Awakened Dreamer done? Who, or what mighty power, had she summoned? Deathwing was deeply concerned—and that terrified the Twilight Father.

His throat dry, he managed, “What kind of being has she allied with?”

“A lesser creature,” Deathwing said, biting off the words harshly.

The Twilight Father wasn’t sure he had heard correctly. “What? But surely—”

“An orc!”

Both were silent now. Those mere two words told the Twilight Father all he needed to know. Once, long ago, Deathwing had been warned that an orc—seemingly the lowest of the low—would rise to challenge and possibly defeat him. No one, least of all the Twilight Father, had given it much heed.

He tried to shrug it off. “My lord, prophecies are notoriously cryptic. You are the mighty Deathwing. You have ripped this world asunder. We battle dragons—not just dragons, but the Aspects themselves! Mighty beings, not dust-eating orcs. Even a powerful one is no match for you.”

“This one is different. He always has been. He has a remarkable variety of experiences to draw upon. He does not think like dragons do … and precisely because he does not, he might be able to save them.”

The Twilight Father was dubious, but he did not let it show. “Tell me the identity of this short-lived enemy, my lord. Tell me that I may destroy him.”

“You must do more than destroy. You must completely undo the one called Thrall—or this orc will be the undoing of everything. Everything! ”

“It shall be done, I swear.”

“Yes,” agreed Deathwing. “It shall. You are running out of time”—he gave a macabre imitation of a draconic grin, lower jaw gaping open to display acres of jagged, metallic teeth—“ Father . But do not despair. I may have aid for you. I am ancient, but I do not have limitless patience. Contact me again with better news.”

The smoke that had formed Deathwing’s image lost its solidity, becoming swirling black mist again. Slowly it settled to the floor, then coalesced into a black sphere. A moment later, even the darkness had disappeared. It was now, once again, a small, crystal-like orb. Frowning, the Twilight Father tucked it away and rose.

“You thought it would be so easy,” came a clear female voice. “You and your huge, overly complicated plans. And now, as your master says, you are running out of time to undo this Thrall. The currents are shifting, Twilight Father, and your beard is gray. You are fooling yourself. You won’t last long serving him. You will not win.”

He turned to the enslaved dragoness and closed the distance between them. She gazed up at him defiantly while he regarded her for a long moment.

“Foolish little wyrm,” he said at last. “You know but a small portion of my plans. Thrall is a flea that will soon be smashed more fittingly than you can imagine. Come,” he said, and took her chain. “I have something to show you, and then we will see if I am fooling myself … or if you are the one being fooled.”

He led her to the edge of the circular floor, and pointed. The mysterious sled had reached the foot of Wyrmrest Temple. Now that their services in hauling the vast vehicle were no longer needed, the snowfall elk had all been turned loose to feed the wolves. The hungry predators had done their job well: little was left now save bones. The acolytes were peering up, awaiting the signal from their adored Father. He lifted his hand, and with a flourish, the dark-robed cultists yanked off the fabric that had concealed what the wagon bore.

Kirygosa gasped, her hand flying to her mouth in horror.

Stretched out on the giant wagon was the corpse of a dragon. But just not any dragon: this body was enormous, far larger than even a Dragon Aspect. And it was misshapen, its dull scales the color of an ugly purple bruise on pale skin. And the most obscene, most horrific thing was that it did not have one head.

It had five . Even in the dim light with her human eyes, she could see that each head was a different color—red, black, gold, green, and blue.

Kirygosa knew exactly what it was.

“A chromatic dragon,” she said in a choked voice.

Chromatic dragons were an abomination, a violation against everything natural. The monstrosities had been created by Deathwing’s son, Nefarian. A mighty black dragon almost as evil as his father, Nefarian had tried to create a new dragonflight that would combine the powers of all five of the other flights—a dragonflight that could conceivably destroy all the others. The experiments were considered failures. Many whelps had died before hatching. Most of those that had survived long enough to hatch were unstable, volatile, and deformed in many ways. Only a few had reached adulthood, artificially aged by twisted magical processes.

The one before them now was definitely a mature dragon. Yet he did not stir.

“I thought they seldom survived to adulthood. Still … he too, is dead. Why should I fear a corpse?”

“Oh, Chromatus is quite dead,” the Twilight Father said airily. “Technically. For the moment. But he will live. He was Nefarian’s final experiment. There had been many failures, as I am certain you know. But that is how one learns, is it not? By trying and failing?”

His beard parted in an avuncular smile as she continued to stare sickly at him.

“Chromatus exemplified the pinnacle of all Nefarian had learned through his various experiments,” the Twilight Father continued. “Nefarian was, tragically, slain before he could give Chromatus the spark of life.”

“A better deed was never done than the killing of Nefarian, that monster,” muttered Kirygosa.

The Twilight Father gave her an amused look. “You might be surprised to know that just as the creation before you shall soon taste life, his creator does already. Yes—Nefarian has returned … in a manner of speaking. He is undead, but quite definitely active. For Chromatus … I have other plans.”