Day of the Dragon

10

For the second time in the past few days, Rhonin awoke among the trees. This time, however, the face of Vereesa did not greet him, which proved something of a disappointment. Instead, he awoke to a darkening sky and complete silence. No birds sang in the forest, no animals moved among the foliage.

A sense of foreboding touched the wizard. Slowly, cautiously, he lifted his head, glanced around. Rhonin saw trees and bushes, but nothing much more. No dragon, certainly, especially one so imposing and treacherous as—

“Aaah, you are awake at last. . . .”

Deathwing?

Rhonin looked to his left—a place he had already surveyed earlier—and watched with trepidation as a piece of the growing shadows around him detached, then coalesced into a hooded form reminiscent of someone he knew.

“Krasus?” he muttered, a moment later realizing this could not be his faceless patron. What moved before him wore the shadows with pride, lived as part of them.

No, he had been correct the first time. Deathwing. The shape might seem human, but, if dragons could possibly wear such forms, this could only be the black beast himself.

A face appeared under the hood, a man of dark, handsome, avian features. A noble face . . . at least on the surface. “You are well?”

“I’m in one piece, thank you.”

The thin mouth jutted upward slightly at the edges in what almost would have been a smile. “You know me, then, human?”

“You’re . . . you’re Deathwing the Destroyer.”

The shadows around the figure moved, faded a little. The face that almost passed for human, almost passed for elf, grew slightly more distinct. The edges of the mouth jutted up a bit more. “One among many of my titles, mage, and as accurate and inaccurate as any other.” He cocked his head to one side. “I knew I chose well; you do not even seem surprised that I appear to you thus.”

“Your voice is the same. I could never forget it.”

“More astute than some you are, then, my mortal friend. There are those who would not know me even if I transformed before their very eyes!” The figure chuckled. “If you would like proof, I could do that even now!”

“Thank you—but, no.” The last vestiges of day began to fade behind the wizard’s ominous rescuer. Rhonin wondered how long he had been unconscious—and where Deathwing had brought him. Most of all, he wondered why he still lived.

“What do you want of me?”

“I want nothing of you, Wizard Rhonin. Rather, I wish to help you in your quest.”

“My quest?” No one but Krasus and the Kirin Tor inner council knew of his true mission, and Rhonin had already begun to wonder if even all of the latter knew. Master wizards could be secretive, with their own hidden agendas set ahead of all others. Certainly, though, his present companion should have been in the dark about such matters.

“Oh, yes, Rhonin, your quest.” Deathwing’s smile suddenly stretched to a length not at all human, and the teeth revealed in that smile were sharp, pointed. “To free the great Dragonqueen, the wondrous Alexstrasza!”

Rhonin reacted instinctively, uncertain as to how the leviathan had learned of his true mission but still confident that Deathwing had not been meant to discover it. Deathwing despised all beings, and that included those dragons not of his ilk. No past tale in history had ever spoken of any love between this great beast and the crimson queen.

The spell the wary mage suddenly utilized had served him well during the war. It had crushed the life out of a charging orc with the blood of six knights and a fellow wizard on his meaty hands, and in a lesser form had held one of the orc warlocks at bay while Rhonin had cast his ultimate spell. Against dragons, however, Rhonin had no experience. The scrolls had insisted that it worked especially well at binding the ancient behemoths. . . .

Rings of gold formed around Deathwing—

—and the shadowy figure walked right through them.

“Now, was that really necessary?” An arm emerged from the cloak. Deathwing pointed.

A rock next to where Rhonin lay sizzled madly . . . then melted before his very eyes. The molten stone dribbled into the ground, seeped into every crack, disappearing without a trace as rapidly as it had melted in the first place. All in only scant seconds.

“This is what I could have done to you, wizard, if such had been my choice. Twice now your life is owed to me; must I make it a third and final time?”

Rhonin wisely shook his head.

“Reason at last.” Deathwing approached, becoming more solid as he neared. He pointed again, this time at the mage’s other side. “Drink. You will find it most refreshing.”

Looking down, Rhonin discovered a wine sack sitting in the grass. Despite the fact that it had not been there a few seconds before, he did not hesitate to pick it up, then sip from the spout. Not only had his incredible thirst demanded it of him by this point, but the dragon might take his refusal as yet another act of defiance. For the moment, Rhonin could do nothing but cooperate . . . and hope.

His ebony-clad companion moved again, briefly growing indistinct, almost insubstantial. That Deathwing, let alone any dragon, could take on human form distressed the wizard. Who could say what a creature such as this could do among Rhonin’s people? For that matter, how did the wizard know that Deathwing had not already spread his darkness through this very method?

And, if so, why would he now reveal such a secret to Rhonin—unless he intended to eventually silence the mage?

“You know so little of us.”

Rhonin’s eyes widened. Did Deathwing’s powers include the ability to read another’s thoughts?

The dragon settled near the human’s left, seeming to sit upon some chair or massive rock that Rhonin could not see behind the flowing robe. Under a widow’s peak of pure night, unblinking sable eyes met and defeated Rhonin’s own gaze.

As the wizard looked away, Deathwing repeated his previous statement. “You know so little of us.”

“There’s—there’s not much documentation on dragons. Most of the researchers get eaten.”

Weak as the wizard’s attempt at humor might have seemed to Rhonin, Deathwing found it quite amusing. He laughed. Laughed hard. Laughed with what, in others, would have been an insane edge.

“I had forgotten how amusing your kind can be, my little friend! How amusing!” The too-wide, too toothsome smile returned in all its sinister glory. “Yes, there might be some truth to that.”

No longer complacent in simply lying down before the menacing form, Rhonin sat straight up. He might have continued on to a standing position, but a simple glance from Deathwing seemed to warn that this might not be wise at such a juncture.

“What do you want of me?” Rhonin asked again. “What am I to you?”

“You are a means to an end, a way of achieving a goal long out of reach—a desperate act by a desperate creature. . . .”

At first Rhonin did not comprehend. Then he saw the frustration in the dragon’s expression. “You—are desperate?”

Deathwing rose again, spreading his arms almost as if he intended to fly off. “What do you see, human?”

“A figure in shadowy black. The dragon Deathwing in another guise.”

“The obvious answer, but do you not see more, my little-friend? Do you not see the loyal legions of my kind? Do you see the many black dragons—or, for that matter, the crimson ones, who once filled the sky, long before the coming of humans, of even elves?”

Not exactly certain where Deathwing sought to lead him, Rhonin only shook his head. Of one thing he had already become convinced. Sanity had no stable home in the mind of this creature.

“You see them not,” the dragon began, growing slightly more reptilian in skin and form. The eyes narrowed and the teeth grew longer, sharper. Even the hooded figure himself grew larger, and it seemed that wings sought to escape the confines of his robe. Deathwing became more shadow than substance, a magical being caught midway in transformation.

“You see them not,” he began again, eyes closing briefly. The wings, the eyes, the teeth—all reverted to what they had seemed a moment before. Deathwing regained both substance and humanity, the latter if only on the surface. “. . . because they no longer exist.”

He seated himself, then held out a hand, palm up. Above that hand, images suddenly leapt into being. Tiny draconic figures flew about a world of green glory. The dragons themselves fluttered about in every color of the rainbow. A sense of overwhelming joy filled the air, touching even Rhonin.

“The world was ours and we kept it well. The magic was ours and we guarded it well. Life was ours . . . and we reveled in it well.”

But something new came into the picture. It took a few seconds for the suspicious mage to identify the tiny figures as elves, but not elves like Vereesa. These elves were beautiful in their own way, too, but it was a cold, haughty beauty, one that, in the end, repelled him.

“But others came, lesser forms, minute life spans. Quick to rashness, they plunged into what we knew was too great a risk.” Deathwing’s voice grew almost as chill as the beauty of the dark elves. “And, in their folly, they brought the demons to us.”

Rhonin leaned forward without thinking. Every wizard studied the legends of the demon horde, what some called the Burning Legion, but if such monstrous beings had ever existed, he himself had found no proof. Most of those who had claimed dealings with them had generally turned out to be of questionable states of mind.

Yet, as the wizard tried to catch even a glimpse of one of the demons, Deathwing abruptly closed his hand, dismissing the images.

“If not for the dragons, this world would no longer be. Even a thousand orc hordes cannot compare to what we faced, to what we sacrificed ourselves against! In that time, we fought as one! Our blood mingled on the battlefield as we drove the demons from our world. . . .” The dark figure closed his eyes for a moment. “. . . and in the process, we lost control of the very thing we sought to save. The age of our kind passed. The elves, then the dwarves, and finally the humans each laid their claims to the future. Our numbers dwindled and, worse, we fought among ourselves. Slew one another.”

That much, Rhonin knew. Every one knew of the animosity between the five existing dragon flights, especially between the black and crimson. The origins of that animosity lay lost in antiquity, but perhaps now the wizard could learn the awful truth. “But why fight one another after sacrificing so much together?”

“Misguided ideas, miscommunication . . . so many factors that you would not understand them all even if I had the time to explain them.” Deathwing sighed. “And because of those factors, we are reduced to so few.” His gaze shifted, became more intense again. The eyes seemed to bore into Rhonin’s own. “But that is the past! I would make amends for what had to be done . . . for what I had to do, human. I would help you free the Dragonqueen Alexstrasza.”

Rhonin bit back his first response. Despite the easy manner, despite the guise, he still sat before the most dire of dragons. Deathwing might pretend friendship, camaraderie, but one wrong word could still condemn Rhonin to a grisly end.

“But—” he tried to choose his words carefully, “—you and she are enemies.”

“For the same insipid reasons our kind has so long fought. Mistakes were made, human, but I would rectify them now.” The eyes pulled the wizard toward them, into them. “Alexstrasza and I should not be foes.”

Rhonin had to agree with that. “Of course not.”

“Once we were the greatest of allies, of friends, and that can happen again, do you not agree?”

The mage could see nothing but those penetrating orbs. “I do.”

“And you are on a quest to rescue her yourself.”

A sensation stirred within Rhonin, and he suddenly felt uncomfortable under Deathwing’s gaze. “How did you—how did you find out about that?”

“That is of no consequence, is it?” The eyes snared the human’s again.

The discomfort faded. Everything faded under the intense stare of the dragon. “No, I suppose not.”

“On your own, you would fail. There is no doubt of that. Why you continued as long as you did, even I cannot fathom! Now, though, now, with my aid, you can do the impossible, my friend. You will rescue the Dragonqueen!”

With that, Deathwing stretched forth a hand, in which lay a small silver medallion. Rhonin’s fingers reached out seemingly of their own accord, taking that medallion and bringing it close. He looked down at it, studying the runes etched around the edge, the black crystal in the middle. Some of the runes he knew the meaning of, others he had never seen in his life, though the mage could sense their power.

“You will be able to rescue Alexstrasza, my fine little puppet,” the too-wide grin stretched to its fullest. “Because with this, I will be there to guide you the entire way. . . .”

How did one lose a dragon?

That question had reared its ugly head time and time again, and neither Vereesa nor her companion had a satisfactory answer. Worse, night had begun to settle over Khaz Modan, and the gryphon, already long exhausted, clearly could not go on much farther.

Deathwing had been in sight nearly the entire trek, if only from a great distance. Even the eyes of Falstad, not so nearly as sharp as the elf’s, had been able to make out the massive form flying toward the interior. Only whenever Deathwing had flown through the occasional cloud had he vanished, and that for no more than a breath or two.

Until an hour past.

The gargantuan beast and his burden had entered into the latest cloud, just as they had so many others previous. Falstad had kept the gryphon on target and both Vereesa and the dwarf had watched for the reappearance of the leviathan on the other side. The cloud had been alone, the next nearest some miles to the south. The ranger and her companion could see it almost in its entirety. They could not possibly miss when Deathwing exited.

No dragon had emerged.

They had watched and waited, and when they could wait no longer, Falstad had urged his animal to the cloud, clearly risking all if Deathwing hid within. The dark one, however, had been nowhere to be found. The largest and most sinister of dragons had utterly vanished.

“’Tis no use, my elven lady,” the gryphon rider finally called. “We’ll have to land! Neither we nor my poor mount can go any farther!”

She had to agree, although a part of her still wanted to continue the hunt. “All right!” The ranger eyed the landscape below. The coast and forests had long given way to a much rockier, less hospitable region that, she knew, eventually built up into the crags of Grim Batol. There were still wooded areas, but overall the coverage looked very sparse. They would have to hide in the hills in order to achieve sufficient cover to avoid detection by orcs atop dragons. “What about that area over there?”

Falstad followed her pointing finger. “Those roughhewn hills that look like my grandmother, beard and all? Aye, ’tis a good choice! We’ll descend toward those!”

The fatigued gryphon gratefully obeyed the signal to descend. Falstad guided him toward the greatest congregation of hills, specifically, what looked like a tiny valley between several. Vereesa held on tight as the animal landed, her eyes already searching for any possible threat. This deep into Khaz Modan, the orcs surely had outposts in the vicinity.

“The Aerie be praised!” the dwarf rumbled as they dismounted. “As much as I enjoy the freedom of the sky, that’s far too long to sit on anything!” He rubbed the gryphon’s leonine mane. “But a good beast you are, and deserving of water and food!”

“I saw a stream nearby,” Vereesa offered. “It may have fish in it, too.”

“Then he’ll find it if he wants it.” Falstad removed the bridle and other gear from his mount. “And find it on his own.” He patted the gryphon on the rump and the beast leapt into the air, suddenly once more energetic now that his burdens had been taken from him.

“Is that wise?”

“My dear elven lady, fish don’t necessarily make a meal for one like him! Best to let him hunt on his own for something proper. He’ll come back when he’s satiated, and if anyone sees him . . . well, even Khaz Modan has some wild gryphons left.” When she did not look reassured, Falstad added, “He’ll only be gone for a short time. Just long enough for us to put together a meal for ourselves.”

They carried with them a few provisions, which the dwarf immediately divided. With a stream nearby, both took their fill of what remained in the water sacks. A fire was out of the question this deep into orc-held territory, but fortunately the night did not look to be a cool one.

Sure enough, the gryphon did return promptly, belly full. The animal settled down by Falstad, who dropped one hand lightly on the creature’s head as he finished eating.

“I saw nothing from the air,” he finally said. “but we can’t assume that the orcs aren’t near.”

“Shall we take turns at watch?”

“’Tis the best thing to do. Shall I go first or you?”

Too wound up to sleep, Vereesa volunteered. Falstad did not argue and, despite their present circumstances, immediately settled down, falling asleep but a few seconds later. Vereesa admired the dwarf’s ability to do so, wishing that she could be like him in that one respect.

The night struck her as too silent compared to the forests of her childhood, but the ranger reminded herself that these rocky lands had been despoiled by the orcs for many years now. True, wildlife still lived here—as evidenced by the gryphon’s full stomach—but most creatures in Khaz Modan were much more wary than those back in Quel’Thalas. Both the orcs and their dragons thrived heavily on fresh meat.

A few stars dotted the sky, but if not for her race’s exceptional night vision, Vereesa would have nearly been blind. She wondered how Rhonin would have fared in this darkness, assuming that he still lived. Did he also wander the wastelands between here and Grim Batol, or had Deathwing brought him far beyond even there, perhaps to some realm entirely unknown to the ranger?

She refused to believe that he had somehow allied himself with the dark one, but, if not, what did Deathwing do with him? For that matter, could it be that she had sent Falstad and herself on a wild dragon-chase, and that Rhonin had not been the precious cargo the armored leviathan had been carrying?

So many questions and no answers. Frustrated, the ranger stepped away from the dwarf and his mount, daring to survey some of the enshrouded hills and trees. Even with her superior eyesight, most resembled little more than black shapes. That only served to make her surroundings feel more oppressive and dangerous, even though there might not be an orc for miles.

Her sword still sheathed, Vereesa ventured farther. She came upon a pair of gnarled trees, still alive but just barely. Touching each in turn, the elf could feel their weariness, their readiness to die. She could also sense some of their history, going far back before the terror of the Horde. Once, Khaz Modan had been a healthy land, one where, Vereesa knew, the hill dwarves and others had made their homes. The dwarves, however, had fled under the relentless onslaught of the orcs, vowing someday to return.

The trees, of course, could not flee.

For the hill dwarves, the day of return would come soon, the elf felt, but by then it would probably be too late for these trees and many like them. Khaz Modan was a land needing many, many decades to recoup—if it ever could.

“Courage,” she whispered to the pair. “A new Spring will come, I promise you.” In the language of the trees, of all plants, Spring meant not only a season, but also hope in general, a renewal of life.

As the elf stepped back, both trees looked a little straighter, a little taller. The effect of her words on them made Vereesa smile. The greater plants had methods beyond even the ken of elves through which they communicated with one another. Perhaps her encouragement would be passed on. Perhaps some of them would survive after all. She could only hope.

Her brief rapport with the trees lightened the burden on both her mind and heart. The rocky hills no longer felt so foreboding. The elf moved along more readily now, certain that matters would yet turn out for the best, even in regards to Rhonin.

The end of her watch came far more quickly than she had assumed it would. Vereesa almost thought of letting Falstad sleep longer—his snoring indicated that he had sunken deep—but she also knew that she would only be a liability if her lack of rest later caused her to falter in battle. With some reluctance, the elf headed back to her companion—

—and stopped as the nearly inaudible sound of a dried branch cracking warned that something or someone drew near.

Not daring to wake Falstad for fear of losing the element of surprise, Vereesa walked straight past the slumbering gryphon-rider and his mount, pretending interest in the dark landscape beyond. She heard more slight movement, again from the same direction. Only one intruder, perhaps? Maybe, maybe not. The sound could have been meant to draw her in that very direction, the better to prevent Vereesa from discovering other foes waiting in silence.

Again came the slight sound of movement—followed by a savage squawk and a huge form leaping from nearby her.

Vereesa had her weapon ready even as she realized that it had been Falstad’s gryphon who had reacted, not some monstrous creature in the woods. Like her, the animal had heard the faint noise, but, unlike the elf, the gryphon had not needed to weigh options. He had reacted with the honed instincts of his kind.

“What is it?” snarled Falstad, leaping to his feet quite effortlessly for a dwarf. Already he had his stormhammer drawn and ready for combat.

“Something among those old trees! Something your mount went after!”

“Well, he’d better not eat it until we’ve the chance to see what it is!”

In the dark, Vereesa could just make out the shadowy form of the gryphon, but not yet its adversary. The ranger could, however, hear another cry over those of the winged beast, a cry that did not sound at all like a challenge.

“No! No! Away! Away! Get off of me! No tidbit am I!”

The pair hurried toward the frantic call. Whatever the gryphon had cornered certainly sounded like no threat. The voice reminded the elf of someone, but who, she could not say.

“Back!” Falstad called to his mount. “Back, I say! Obey!”

The leonine avian seemed disinclined at first to listen, as if what he had captured he felt either belonged to him or could not be trusted free. From the darkness just beyond the beaked head came whimpering. Much whimpering.

Had some child managed to wander alone out here in the midst of Khaz Modan? Surely not. The orcs had held this territory for years! Where would such a child have come from?

“Please, oh, please, oh, please! Save this insignificant wretch from this monster—Pfaugh! What breath it has!”

The elf froze. No child spoke like that.

“Back, blast you!” Falstad swatted his mount on the rump. The animal stretched his wings once, let out a throaty squawk, then finally backed away from his prey.

A short, wiry figure leapt up and immediately began heading in the opposite direction. However, the ranger moved more swiftly, racing forward and snagging the intruder by what Vereesa realized was one lengthy ear.

“Ow! Please don’t hurt! Please don’t hurt!”

“What’ve you got there?” the gryphon-rider muttered, joining her. “Never have I heard something that squealed so! Shut it up or I’ll have to run it through! It’ll bring every orc in hearing running!”

“You heard what he said,” the frustrated elf told the squirming form. “Be silent!”

Their undesired companion quieted.

Falstad reached into a pouch. “I’ve something here that’ll help us bring a little light onto matters, my elven lady, although I’m thinking I already know what sort of scavenger we’ve caught!”

He pulled out a small object, which, after setting his hammer aside, he rubbed between his thick palms. As he did this, the object began to glow rather faintly. A few more seconds’ action, and the glow increased, finally revealing the object to be some sort of crystal.

“A gift from a dead comrade,” Falstad explained. He brought the glowing crystal toward their captive. “Now let’s see if I was correct—aye, I thought so!”

So had Vereesa. She and the dwarf had captured themselves one of the most untrustworthy creatures in existence. A goblin.

“Spying, were you?” The ranger’s companion rumbled. “Maybe we should run you through now and be done with it!”

“No! No! Please! This disgraceful one is no spy! No orc-friend am I! I just obeyed orders!”

“Then what are you doing out here?”

“Hiding! Hiding! Saw a dragon like the night! Dragons try to eat goblins, you know!” The ugly, greenish creature stated the last as if anyone should understand that.

A dragon like the night? “A black dragon, you mean?” Vereesa held the goblin nearer. “You saw this? When?”

“Not long! Just before dark!”

“In the sky or on the ground?”

“The ground! He—”

Falstad looked at her. “You can’t trust the word of a goblin, my elven lady! They don’t know the meaning of truth!”

“I will believe him if he can answer one question. Goblin, was this dragon alone, and, if not, who was with him?”

“Don’t want to talk about goblin-eating dragons!” he began, but one prod by Vereesa’s blade opened a reservoir of words. “Not alone! Not alone! He had another with him! Maybe to eat, but first to talk! Didn’t listen! Just wanted to get away! Don’t like dragons and don’t like wizards—”

“Wizards?” both the elf and Falstad blurted. Vereesa tried to keep her hopes in check. “He looked well, this wizard? Unharmed?”

“Yes—”

“Describe him.”

The goblin squirmed, waving his thin little arms and legs. The ranger did not find herself fooled by the spindly looking limbs. Goblins could be deadly fighters, with strength and cunning their puny forms belied.

“Red-maned and full of arrogance! Tall and clad in dark blue! Know no name! Heard no name!”

Not much of a description, but certainly enough. How many tall, red-haired wizards dressed in dark blue robes could there be, especially in the company of Deathwing?

“That sounds like your friend,” Falstad replied with a grunt. “Looks like you were right after all.”

“We need to go after him.”

“In the dark? First, my elven lady, you’ve not slept at all, and second, even though the dark gives us cover, it also makes it damn hard to see anything else—even a dragon!”

As much as she desired to go on with the hunt right now, Vereesa knew that the dwarf had a point. Still, she could not wait until morning. Precious time would slip away. “I only need a couple of hours, Falstad. Give me that and then we can be on our way.”

“It’ll still be dark . . . and, in case you’ve forgotten, big as he is, Deathwing’s as black as—as night!”

“We do not have to go searching for him, though.” She smiled. “We already at least know where he landed—or rather, one of us here does.”

They both looked at the goblin, who clearly desired to be elsewhere.

“How do we know we can trust him? ’Tis no tall tale that these little green thieves are notorious liars!”

The ranger turned the sharp tip of her sword toward the goblin’s throat. “Because he will have two options. Either he shows us where Deathwing and Rhonin landed, or I cut him up for dragon bait.”

Falstad chuckled. “You think even Deathwing could stomach the likes of him?”

Their short captive quivered and his unsettling yellow eyes, completely lacking in pupils, widened in outright fear. Despite the close proximity of the sword tip, the goblin began hopping up and down in wild fashion. “Will gladly show you! Gladly indeed! No fear of dragons here! Will guide you and lead you to your friend!”

“Keep it down, you!” The ranger tightened her hold on the devilish creature. “Or will I have to cut out your tongue?”

“Sorry, sorry, sorry . . .” murmured their new companion. The goblin quieted down. “Don’t hurt this miserable one. . . .”

“Pfah! ’Tis a poor excuse of even a goblin we’ve got here!”

“So long as he shows us the way.”

“This wretch will guide you well, mistress! Very well!”

Vereesa considered. “We will have to bind him for now—”

“I’ll tie him to my mount. That’ll keep the foul rodent under control.”

The goblin looked even more ill at this latest suggestion, so much so that the silver-haired ranger actually felt some sympathy for the emerald creature. “All right, but make certain that your animal will not do him any harm.”

“So long as he behaves himself.” Falstad eyed the prisoner.

“This poor excuse will behave himself, honest and truly. . . .”

Withdrawing the tip of her blade from his throat, Vereesa tried to mollify the goblin a little. Perhaps with a little courtesy, they could get more out of the hapless being. “Lead us to where we want to go, and we will let you loose before there is any danger of the dragon eating you. You have my word on that.” She paused. “You have a name, goblin?”

“Yes, mistress, yes!” The oversized head bobbed up and down. “My name is Kryll, mistress, Kryll!”

“Well, Kryll, do as I ask and all will go well, understand?”

The goblin fairly bounced up and down. “Oh, yes, yes, I do, mistress! I assure you, this miserable one’ll lead you exactly where you need to go!” He gave her a madcap grin. “I promise you. . . .”