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 saw the 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.