World of Warcraft: The Shattering: Prelude to Cataclysm Page 0,96

And yet now, as he followed Aggra outside to the prepared site next to the lake, he found that he was nervous.

The drumming started as soon as he appeared. Aggra straightened. She lost both her lightness and her aggressiveness, and for a moment she seemed to him to be a younger version of Geyah. She moved with a graceful, solemn step, and he slowed his own pace to match hers. It seemed the entire population of Garadar had turned out, standing to form a line on either side of the path. The torches kept the darkness at bay for a few feet, but after that the shadows waited. Up ahead, standing waiting for him, propped up on a staff, was Geyah. She looked beautiful, if fragile, and her wrinkled face was luminous and smiling. He drew up to her, then bowed deeply.

“Welcome, Go’el, son of Durotan, who was son of Garad.” Thrall’s eyes widened slightly. Of course—he should have realized it earlier. Garad was his grandfather, and he now stood in Garadar, a place named after him. “Child of and chosen of the elements. Not so far from this site, the Furies watch over us. They will behold the ceremony held this night.”

Thrall glanced out over the black water. He could see only one of the Furies—Incineratus, the Fury of Fire, moving slowly about. But he knew the others were there.

“It is well,” he said, as he had been instructed. “I offer my body, mind, and spirit to this vision quest.”

Aggra took his hand, led him forward to the center of the pile of skins that had been placed on the ground, and brought him down with her.

“When you embark upon this quest,” she said, “your soul leaves your body. Know that while you journey in the world of spirit, your people will keep careful watch over your physical form. Here. Take this draft. Drink it down swiftly.”

She handed him a cup of a vile-smelling liquid. Thrall accepted it, his fingers brushing hers as he did so. He gulped the liquid down as quickly as possible, then swallowed again, hard, to keep the unpleasant concoction in his stomach. Even as he handed the cup back to Aggra, he began to feel light-headed. He did not protest as she reached for him and settled his head on her lap. It was an oddly tender gesture, coming from one who had previously been so curt, but he accepted it.

His head spun, and the drumming seemed to throb through his veins, as if it were not heard so much as felt. As if the sound were merging with his own heartbeat.

Cool fingers caressed his hair. Again, unusual for Aggra. Her voice—deep, soft, kind—came to him as if from far, far away.

“Go within yourself and outside yourself, Go’el. Nothing shall harm you here, though you may be afraid of what you see.”

Thrall opened his eyes.

A shimmering, misty figure stood before him. It had luminous eyes, four legs, sharp teeth, and a tail. It was a spirit wolf, and he knew, without understanding how he knew, that it was Aggra.

“You will lead me?” he asked the wolf, confused. “I thought Grandmother—”

“I was chosen to guide you. Come,” said Aggra, her voice husky and somehow suited to issuing from a wolf’s muzzle. “It is time. Follow me!”

And suddenly Thrall, too, was a wolf. The world changed in front of him, some things becoming insubstantial, other things taking on a new, strange solidity. He shook himself, feeling lighter than air, part of the nothingness that was everything, and followed her into the swirling mist.

They emerged into the bright light of a noonday sun, in an arena. Thrall, in spirit wolf form, blinked in confusion.

He was looking at himself.

“What …” the now-Thrall said, his voice sounding strange in his own ears. “I thought I was to meet the elements and—”

“Silence!” Aggra’s reprimand was a harsh, short bark, and Thrall obeyed. “Observe only. Do not try to interact. No one here can see or hear you. This is your vision quest, Go’el. It will show you exactly what you need to know.”

Now-Thrall nodded and watched.

Younger Thrall was clad in a few pieces of armor. His body was fit and toned, sweat gleaming on green skin, and he was armed with a sword in one hand and a mace in the other. Now-Thrall knew where he was—he was in the arena at Durnholde Keep. The sounds of both cheers and boos were thunderous, and he knew that somewhere up there,