Christie Golden: Thrall: Twilight of the Aspects

Thrall, former warchief of the great and mighty Horde, now a shaman no greater than any of those with whom he currently stood, squeezed his eyes shut and struggled to stay on his feet. Beneath them, the earth bucked, a pathetically small piece of land jutting upward from an ocean roiling furiously around it, shaking and shivering in its pain.

Not long ago, an insane Dragon Aspect had torn his way into Azeroth, rending the world profoundly. The mad Deathwing was once again loose upon this world, and the violence of his return had left Azeroth with a gaping wound. To those whose minds were not beyond hope, Azeroth was not beyond healing, but it would never be what it once was.

In the heart of the world, a place called the Maelstrom, longburied earth had been shoved violently to the surface. And it was here that those who were trying desperately to mend the broken lands had assembled.

They were shaman, each one powerful, members of the Earthen Ring who had left behind other serious duties and responsibilities to gather here. One alone could do little. Many, especially as highly trained and as wise as each one was, could do more.

There were dozens of them, standing alone, or in pairs or small groups on the slippery skerries, trying to stay on their feet on the bucking, shuddering earth. Their arms were lifted in gestures of both command and pleading. Though not linked physically, they were joined on a spiritual level, eyes shut, deep in the working of a healing spell.

The shaman were attempting to soothe the elements of the earth, as well as encouraging them to help heal themselves. True, it was the elements who were harmed, and the shaman who were not, but the elements had more power than the shaman. If the earth could be calmed long enough to remember this, it would be able to draw upon its own vast power. But the earth, the stones and the soil and the very bones of Azeroth, also wrestled with another wound: betrayal. For the black Dragon Aspect, Deathwing, once known as Neltharion, had been the Earth-Warder. He had been charged with protecting it and keeping its secrets. Now he cared nothing for the earth, casually and insanely ripping it to pieces, heedless of the havoc he wrought and the pain he caused it.

The earth mourned, and heaved violently.

“Stand straight and true!” cried a voice, somehow audible in Thrall’s ears even over the rumbling of the earth as it quivered beneath them and the crashing of angry waves that sought to dislodge them from their precarious perches. The voice belonged to Nobundo, the first among his kind, the Broken, to become a shaman. This time it was his turn to lead the ritual, and so far he had done it masterfully.

“Open to your brothers and sisters! Sense them, feel them, see the Spirit of Life gleaming brightly inside them like a glorious flame!”

Standing with Thrall on one of the larger of the newly formed skerries was Aggra, a Mag’har and descendant of the Frostwolf clan Thrall had met in Nagrand and grown to love. Brown-skinned, her reddish-brown hair pulled back in a ponytail from an otherwise shaved head, she had strength in her hand as it grasped Thrall’s own tightly. This was no gentle, subtle working they were doing now: this was triage.

They stood, daringly, close to the edge of sheer cliffs. Wind whipped up the ocean below them, sending the waves crashing to boom hollowly against jagged stone. All needed to calm before the healing could begin, but it was a risky choice.

Thrall felt his muscles lock, trying to hold him in place. It was much to juggle: staying upright on the wild earth, not toppling forward to the hungry ocean and sharp stones, and still trying to find the center of peace within that would enable him to connect on a deep and profound level with his fellow shaman. This was the space where, if the shaman was skilled and properly prepared, the Spirit of Life could enter—that energy that enabled the shaman to reach the elements, to interact with them, and to unite with others who were doing the same.

He could feel them reaching out to him, their essences an oasis of calm in the chaos, and he struggled to drop deep into his own inner core. With an effort, Thrall gained control of his breathing, refusing to surrender to the quick, shallow breaths that would only cause his body to taste worry and apprehension, instead forcing his lungs to inhale and exhale the damp salt air.

In through the nose … out through the mouth … extend from the soles of the feet into the earth, reach out with the heart. Hold tightly to Aggra, but do not cling. Close the eyes, open the inner spirit. Find the center and, in the center, find peace. Take the peace found there and link it to the others.

Thrall felt his hands sweating. His weight shifted and, for an instant, he slipped. Quickly he caught himself and tried to start breathing deeply again, to begin the centering ritual. But it was as if his body had a mind of its own and would not listen to Thrall’s instructions. It wanted to fight, to do something, not stand and breathe and be calm. He—

A sudden light, so bright the orc could see it even with his lids tightly closed, flashed. A terrible crack shattered their ears as the lightning struck far, far too close. There was a deep rumble, and the earth quivered even more violently. Thrall opened his eyes in time to see a huge hunk of earth, scorched from the lightning strike only a few yards away, crumble beneath the feet of a goblin and a dwarf. They cried out in surprise, clinging to each other and the shaman on either side, swaying over the crashing waves and jagged rocks.

“Hang on!” shouted the tauren who had a death grip on the goblin’s hand. He braced his hooves and pulled. The draenei clutching the dwarf did likewise. Gasping, the two shaman were dragged to safety.

“Pull back, pull back!” cried Nobundo. “To the shelters—quickly!” The gathered shaman needed no urging as a nearby skerry crumbled to pieces. Orc and tauren, troll and goblin, dwarf and draenei, all raced for their mounts, clambering atop the shivering beasts and urging them back to the shelters on one of the larger skerries as the skies cracked open and hurled stinging, fat raindrops upon the shaman’s skins. Thrall hesitated long enough to make sure Aggra had climbed atop her winged mount, then he urged his own wyvern skyward.

The shelters were little more than makeshift huts, located as far inland as possible and protected by warding spells. Each individual and mated pair had their own. The huts were arranged in a circle around a larger, open ritual area. The warding spells protected the shaman from smaller manifestations of angry elements such as lightning, though the earth might open up beneath. But such was always a threat, no matter where the shaman were.

Thrall reached the shelter first, holding up the bearskin flap long enough for Aggra to charge inside, then dropping it and tying it closed. The rain pounded angrily on the skins as if demanding entrance, and the structures trembled slightly from the onslaught of the wind. But they would hold.

Thrall quickly began to remove his drenched robe, shivering slightly. Aggra did likewise in silence; the wet clothing would kill them more surely than a random strike of lightning, if not as swiftly. They dried their wet skins, one green, one brown, and then donned fresh, dry robes from a chest. Thrall set about lighting a small brazier.