The earth did have a voice, and now it screamed, a rumbling, agonizing cry.
Thrall felt the rip in the world. It was not here, not in Thunder Bluff, nor even in Kalimdor—it was to the east, in the midst of the ocean, in the center of the Maelstrom.… This, then, was what the elements had been so afraid of. A shattering, a cataclysm, breaking the earth as Draenor had been broken. Through his connection with them, their terror surged through him, and he, too, threw back his head and shrieked for a long moment before unconsciousness claimed him.
He awoke to the tender touch of beloved fingers on his face, opening his eyes to see Aggra looking down at him with a worried expression. She relaxed as he gave her a weak smile.
"You are tougher than you look, Slave," she teased him, though her voice conveyed her relief. "I thought you had decided to join the ancestors there for a few moments."
He looked around and realized he was in one of the tents atop Thunder Bluff, maybe in Spirit Rise. Baine was standing beside him.
"We found you lying on the earth, a short distance from the funeral grounds, and brought you here, my friend," said Baine. He smiled slightly. "My father loved you in life, Thrall, son of Durotan," he said. "But I do not think he would have you join him in death quite so soon."
Thrall struggled to sit up. "The warning Gordawg gave us," he said. "We were too late."
Her eyes were compassionate. "I know. But I also know exactly where the wound was made."
"In the Maelstrom," Thrall said. "I got that much before I…" He grimaced.
She touched his shoulder, feeling the texture of the soft robe. 'You do not wear your armor," she said quietly.
"No," said Thrall. "I do not." He smiled gently at her. "I have shed my skin." He turned to Baine. "If you would—I would ask that you send someone for it. Though I no longer wear the armor of a warchief, I would have it brought to Orgrimmar. It is an important part of our culture."
"Of course, Thrall. It shall be done."
Aggra sat back, glancing at him and Baine. "So what do we do now?"
Thrall reached up and grasped the young Bloodhoof s hand. "Baine… you know I came back with the hope of both helping the Horde and the elements. And I believe I can still do both these things. Just… I can no longer achieve both goals as warchief."
Baine smiled sadly. "I have no love for Garrosh Hellscream, although I do believe him innocent in the poisoning of my father. I confess I would prefer to see you again leading the Horde. But after what has happened, I understand that you must go. Reports have been coming in—every place with a shoreline facing the South Seas is reporting tidal waves and storms. Theramore, Stormwind, Westfall, Ratchet, Steamwheedle Port. The Undercity has had massive quakes. Fires burn in Ashenvale from lightning strikes."
Thrall closed his eyes. 'Your understanding makes this easier, Baine. I love the Horde. Along with your father, I built it into what it is today. But there is a greater need, and it is that need I must attend to. Immediately. I will send word to Orgrimmar and then prepare to set sail to investigate this… wound to the world. The Horde must get along the best it can without me."
Drek’Thar wept, tears falling from blind eyes. Palkar knew better than to doubt him. He felt nothing, at least not here, not physically, but he could sense the world's distress. And so when Drek'Thar inhaled a sobbing breath and turned his face up to his young caretaker, Palkar waited for what the seer would impart. The younger orc’s blood seemed to run cold in his veins at the words.
"Someone is breaking down the door! Bar it! Do not let him in!"
Drek'Thar had been right before. He had been right about everything. There was no doubt in Palkar's mind that he was right about this.
The only question was—who was the mysterious intruder?
EPILOGUE
Thrall breathed the sea air, letting it stir his hair and beard. Above, in a sky still pink with dawn, seagulls wheeled and called. The little town of Ratchet was quiet at this early hour, although a few people had roused themselves and had come to see him off on his journey. Thrall closed his eyes and exhaled, smiling a little.
"I like to see you smile," said Aggra, standing beside him.
He opened his blue eyes and gazed down at her, the smile widening. "You should get used to it, for with you, I seem to smile much more often."
The words were true, but even though Thrall's heart was full and his mind at peace with his decision, there were many uncertainties and, he was sure, trials yet to come. He took her hand in his and squeezed it.
They had come to Ratchet from Thunder Bluff, sending word ahead to Orgrimmar and the port town while he and Aggra finalized their plans. One of the greatest sailing vessels of the Horde fleet had been prepared at lightning speed for the journey to the Maelstrom. As Thrall and Aggra rode their wolves down to the dock, they were greeted by Gazlowe. He looked a bit bleary - eyed, and Thrall suspected he had not yet seen his bed, but he gave them a wide, sharp - toothed smile nonetheless.
'Your courier told us to get this ship ready, and we did!" Gazlowe said. "Fresh water, a few barrels of beer and grog, plenty of supplies—you're all set for your voyage, Warchief!" He did a double take at Aggra and then bowed low. "Hel - lo, you must be the lovely young shaman I've heard so much about."
"I am a shaman, and my name is Aggra," she said, eyes narrowing. "And you might be?"
"Gazlowe. Me and that big lug of yours go way back," the goblin said, beaming. Clearly either he hadn't noticed Aggra was irritated, or else he simply was unperturbed by it. "Like what you've done with his style. Simple brown robes—understated, sharp. It's a good look for the big guy. Always happy to have the warchief and, now, his lady come to visit."
"I am not the warchief," Thrall said, "not for some time anyway. Garrosh will continue as acting warchief in my absence."
Gazlowe grumbled a bit. "Bad business that, with Cairne."
Thrall sobered. "True," he said. "A tragedy that has lessened us all. But Garrosh did not act dishonorably. And that is all I will say on the matter. You say the ship is ready?"
"Ready and waiting," Gazlowe said. As they approached, Aggra sawthe name of the ship.
"Draka's Fury," she said, grinning. "A good choice for our journey."
"It seemed to fit," Thrall said. "I wanted to honor the strong orc females who have blessed my life."
Aggra actually blushed and looked a little flustered. "It will be a long journey."
"But the right one," Thrall said. He did not have a second thought. He had been called, and he would go. Not as warchief, but as himself.
As Thrall.
Son of Durotan and Draka.
Shaman.