Free Thrall Twilight of the Aspects by Christie Golden Page A

muscles taut. He desperately hoped he was on the right track. The only way he would know would be if the fire obeyed him. For a long moment, nothing happened. The fire crackled and burned, and heat roiled off the consumed trees as they blackened.
    Then: Agreed. They must learn again what is true. Someone must teach them. If not, then burn they shall. Burn they must.
    And the fire slowly faded away to nothing. Thrall stumbled forward, his eyes flying open, suddenly exhausted by the working. Strong hands caught him as cheers went up.
    “Well done, shaman,” said Telaron, smiling approvingly. “Well done! You have our gratitude. Please—stay with us tonight. We would treat you as the honored guest that you are.”
    Weary from the journey and the intense working, as were the elves who would have normally been slumbering during daylight hours, Thrall accepted. That night, he found himself shaking his head in quiet amazement as he sat, accompanied by Snowsong, and ate and drank and laughed with night elf druids and Sentinels. He recalled the meeting not so long ago in which ten druids—five night elves, five tauren—had met to peacefully negotiate trade routes. They had been ambushed and slaughtered, the tauren archdruid Hamuul Runetotem the only survivor. The action had inflamed both the Alliance and the Horde. It was rumored that Garrosh Hellscream had sent the attackers, but such a thing was never proven, and despite Garrosh’s hot temper, Thrall did not believe the rumors.
    If that meeting had been successful, Thrall mused sadly, perhaps nights like this—singing songs and telling tales—would not be so uncommon between the two factions. Perhaps there would be more unity, and thus more healing of the world that both shared.
    Thrall went to sleep while his night elf hosts were still singing songs to the stars, the sounds of the wilderness music to his ears, wrapped in sleeping furs with only his hand for his pillow.
    He slept very soundly for what seemed like the first time in a long while.
    Thrall was awakened at dawn by a gentle shaking.
    “Thrall,” came the musical voice of a kaldorei. “It is Desharin. Wake up. I have something to show you.”
    After so many years in battle, Thrall was not unused to wakingswiftly and fully alert. He rose quietly and followed the elf, stepping carefully around and over drowsing night elf bodies. They moved past the moonwell and pavilions deeper into the old-growth fringe.
    “Wait here, and be still,” Desharin whispered. “Listen.”
    The trees, those that had been spared the worst of the blaze, moved and sighed, their branches creaking, their leaves murmuring. Thrall waited for a moment longer, then turned to his companion, shaking his head.
    “I hear nothing.”
    Desharin smiled. “Thrall,” he said quietly, “there is no wind.”
    And suddenly Thrall realized that the kaldorei was right. The trees were moving as if in a gentle wind—but the air was still.
    “Look at them,” Desharin said. “Carefully.”
    Thrall did, focusing intently. The knots and gnarls on the tree trunks … the spiky branches …
    His eyes widened, and he suddenly understood what—who?—he was beholding. He had heard of them before, of course, but he had never seen one.
    “These are ancients,” he breathed. Desharin nodded. Thrall gazed in awe, wondering how it was that he had not seen this before. He shook his head slowly. “And here I thought I was coming only to save a forest. They seemed … just like trees.”
    “They were sleeping. You awakened them.”
    “I did? How?” Thrall didn’t want to tear his eyes from the ancients. These were old, old beings, many of them keepers of wisdom from aeons past. They moved, and creaked, and appeared to be … talking?
    Thrall strained to understand, and after a moment, he realized he could decipher the deep, softly spoken words.
    “Dreaming, we were. Confused dreams that held us in our uncertainty. And so we did not awaken when the fire came.