Christie Golden - Thrall - Twilight of the Aspects

They dove as before, coordinated and elegant, and when they opened their mammoth jaws, white fire exploded forth. It was not the slightly lavender tint of arcane magic, nor did it look like any spell Thrall had ever seen. It was breath in the shape of a flame, the purest white hue Thrall had ever seen. They all aimed for the same place: Chromatus’s chest, exposed as all five necks reared back up to draw a second breath to attack.

Thrall had to shield his eyes, so blinding was the light as it struck. Four streams of brilliant white from each Aspect slammed into the great dragon, sending him tumbling wildly. Chromatus screamed in agony. He fell out of control for a long moment before awkwardly flapping his wings to bring himself back up. His heads, no longer acting in beautiful unison, but jerkily and wildly, again breathed dark flame, but missed their targets widely. In his struggle to bring himself back into the battle, he did nothing but expose his already-blackened chest. Again the Aspects, drawing in breath as one, breathed this strange flame that was not flame upon the chromatic dragon’s heart.

He bucked and spasmed, his heads contorting and screaming curses even as his body convulsed.

“You cannot stop me!” the blue head cried, and then it fell back, eyes closed.

“I know all your secrets,” warned the red before its eyes, too, ceased to glow with life.

And, most chillingly of all, the black head cried, “It took all of you to even attempt to destroy me! Think you Deathwing will be easier? He will rip this world apart to crush you for what you do! And I will be there with—”

There was one final spasm, a hoarse croak from the black head, and then Chromatus fell.

The Twilight Father clung desperately to Chromatus as the two of them hurtled earthward. His mind was numb with horror. He barely had enough wits about him to cast a protective shield about himself. Moments ago, after the first strange breath that had so harmed the dragon, the Twilight Father’s mind had reeled with questions. What had happened to the Aspects? Where had they gotten this newfound ability? What was it? How could this possibly be happening? Chromatus was invincible!

And then all those questions vanished before the frantic terror of clinging to a dead dragon as he fell toward jagged rocks and snow.

He closed his eyes. The great body landed with a huge thump, and the Twilight Father cried out as he slid into a pile of snow. Shivering, frantic, he clawed his way out of the powder, grateful to have somehow survived, terrified of the repercussions of failure. He reached out to Chromatus, trying to sense any signs of life.

There were none. And yet … the dragon was not dead, or undead. No breath, no movement, no heartbeat, but neither was there the emptiness of a shell of a body. He was in some sort of in-between state. He lacked the spark of life, but the Twilight Father knew that if there was another way, the body could be reanimated. It was something. If Chromatus had been completely destroyed, the Twilight Father knew he would rather have died in battle. It would have been sweet and painless compared to what Deathwing would have done to him. Might still do to him.

His robes were soaked and clung to him, threatening an ignoble death from freezing as he picked his way through snow and over rocks, past the fallen body, to a small overhang. The small orb he used to speak with Deathwing was still intact; it would take more even than so great a fall to damage this artifact. With numb fingers he removed it from a pouch at his waist and regarded it for a moment. He debated simply trying to vanish—but how? He was alone, in the middle of nowhere, with red, green, bronze, and blue dragons everywhere the eye could see—not to mention four Aspects who had somehow managed to tap into more power than he could ever have believed.

No. Deathwing had invested much time and effort in the making of the Twilight Father. He would not destroy such effort on a whim. Chromatus was not alive—but he was not dead, either. That might be enough.

Huddled beneath the pathetic shelter, the Twilight Father placed the orb in the snow and knelt before it, shivering violently. The clear globe filled with an inky blackness, relieved only by the orange-yellow gleam of an eye. An instant later the orb cracked open. Thick black smoke wafted up, filling the limited space. The image of the monstrous black dragon was contained, but the terror he inspired was in no manner lessened.

“They are not destroyed,” Deathwing said without preamble. “I would have felt it.”

“I know, my m-master,” stuttered the Twilight Father. “They did … something, and they d-d-defeated your champion. He lies without life, but not in death.”

There was a long, terrible moment. “Abysmal failure, then.”

The cold words were worse than a bellow of anger. The Twilight Father cringed. “Nay, Chromatus cannot be slain! He is defeated, but only for the moment.”

He heard the sound of wings above him and peered upward. His eyes widened and he crouched back in his poor shelter. “My lord, I would continue doing your work in this world. But I will not be able to do so for much longer. They are searching for me, and—and it seems as though the twilight d-dragonflight is fleeing. …” He tried and failed to keep the panic out of his voice.

“You are a serious disappointment,” rumbled Deathwing. “We had certain victory within our grasp. Yet the Aspects live; Chromatus is … damaged; and the cult has been dealt a severe blow. Why should I not throw you to my enemies?”

“I—I know much that is still of use!” the Twilight Father cried, clutching the orb as if he were clutching a master’s hand. “I have those who trust me—you know I do. Let me return to them. Let me lead them eventually to you. The cult is all over this world; even if the dragonflights destroy it here, they will not destroy it entirely! Think how much time you would waste putting someone else in my position!”

“Humans are pathetically greedy and easy to manipulate,” growled Deathwing. “And yet you speak sense. We have already lost enough time. I do not need another setback. Come, then. Surrender to the smoke,” he said, letting his image, formed of the dark, silky smoke the orb had emitted, dissolve. Shadow tendrils reached out and caressed the Twilight Father, and even he shivered. “The portal will take you home. There, you may continue betraying the trust of those who honor you, and work my will again when next I ask it of you.”

The Twilight Father cast off his cowl and embraced the transporting shadow-smoke, clad in his more familiar, traditional clerical robes.

“Thank you, my lord,” whispered Archbishop Benedictus. “Thank you!”

They stood on the topmost level of Wyrmrest Temple as dawn approached: four Aspects and an orc. All were weary yet triumphant. The intervening hours between the fall of Chromatus and this moment had been filled with the grim necessities that accompany the aftermath of battle: counting and naming the dead, healing the wounded, and searching out any stragglers.

Many—too many—had fallen with each attack, and the solemn task of gathering and disposing of the bodies would commence once the sun raised its head over the horizon. For now, though, all that could be done had been.

They had not found the Twilight Father among the slain cultists—although Thrall had pointed out that there were quite a lot of charred bodies, some of them clearly human and male. Kirygosa had shaken her blue-black head. “No,” she said. “I would know him. I would know him anywhere.”

Kalecgos had regarded her with a worried expression. Only time would tell if Kirygosa would heal from her months of torment. But she had returned to her flight, and was held dear in the heart of the Life-Binder. Thrall suspected she would be all right.