Day of the Dragon

12

“Lord Prestor’s ascension seems almost inevitable,” the shadowy form in the emerald sphere informed Krasus. “He has an almost amazing gift of persuasion. You are correct; he must be a wizard.”

Seated in the midst of his sanctum, Krasus eyed the globe. “Convincing the monarchs will require much evidence. Their mistrust of the Kirin Tor grows with each day . . . and that can only also be the work of this would-be king.”

The other speaker, the elder woman from the inner council, nodded back. “We’ve begun watching. The only trouble is, this Prestor proves very elusive. He seems able to enter and leave his abode without us knowing.”

Krasus pretended slight surprise. “How is that possible?”

“We don’t know. Worse, his chateau is surrounded by some very nasty spellwork. We almost lost Drenden to one of those surprises.”

That Drenden, the baritoned and bearded mage, had nearly fallen victim to one of Deathwing’s traps momentarily dismayed Krasus. Despite the man’s bluster, the dragon respected the other mage’s abilities. Losing Drenden at a time like this could have proven costly.

“We must move with caution,” he urged. “I will speak with you again soon.”

“What are you planning, Krasus?”

“A search into this young noble’s past.”

“You think you’ll find anything?”

The hooded wizard shrugged. “We can only hope.”

He dismissed her image, then leaned back to consider. Krasus regretted that he had to lead his associates astray, if only for their own good. At least their intrusions into Deathwing’s “mortal” affairs would have the result of distracting the black. That would give Krasus a bit more time. He only prayed that no one else would risk themselves as Drenden had done. The Kirin Tor would need their strength intact if the other kingdoms turned on them.

His own excursion to visit Malygos had ended with little-sense of satisfaction. Malygos had promised only to consider his request. Krasus suspected that the great dragon believed he could deal with Deathwing in his own sweet time. Little did the silver-blue leviathan realize that time no longer remained for any of the dragons. If Deathwing could not be stopped now, he might never be.

Which left Krasus with one much undesired choice now.

“I must do it. . . .” He had to seek out the other great ones, the other Aspects. Convince one of them, and he might still gain Malygos’s sworn aid.

Yet, She of the Dreaming ever proved a most elusive figure . . . which meant that Krasus’s best bet lay in contacting the Lord of Time—whose servants had already rejected the wizard’s requests more than once.

Still, what else could he do but try again?

Krasus rose, hurrying to a bench upon which many of the items of his calling stood arranged in vials and flasks. He scanned row upon row of jars, eyes quickly passing chemicals and magical items that would have left his counterparts in the Kirin Tor greatly envious, and more than a little curious as to how he could have obtained many of the articles in question. If they ever realized just how long he had been practicing the arts . . .

There! A small flask containing a single withered flower caused him to pause.

The Eon Rose. Found only in one place in all the world. Plucked by Krasus himself to give to his mistress, his love. Saved by Krasus when the orcs stormed the lair and, to his disbelief, took her and the others prisoner.

The Eon Rose. Five petals of astonishingly different hues surrounding a golden sphere in the center. As Krasus lifted the top of the flask, a faint scent that suddenly recalled his adolescence wafted under his nose. With some hesitation, he reached in, took hold of the faded bloom—

—and marveled as it suddenly returned to its legendary brilliance the moment his tapering fingers touched it.

Fiery red. Emerald green. Snowy silver. Deep-sea blue. Midnight black. Each petal radiated such beauty as artists only dreamed of. No other object could surpass its inherent beauty, no other flower could match its wondrous scent.

Holding his breath for a moment, Krasus crushed the wondrous bloom.

He let the fragments fall into his other hand. A tingle spread from his palms to his fingers, but the dragon mage ignored it. Holding the remnants up high over his head, the wizard muttered words of power—then threw what was left of the fabled rose to the floor.

But as the crushed pieces touched the stone, they turned suddenly to sand, sand that spread across the chamber floor, overwhelmed the chamber itself, washed across the chamber, covering everything, eating away everything . . .

. . . and leaving Krasus abruptly standing in the midst of an endless, swirling desert.

Yet, no desert such as this had any mortal—or even Krasus himself, for that matter—ever witnessed, for here lay scattered, as far as the eye could see, fragments of walls, cracked and scoured statues, rusted weapons, and—the mage gaped—even the half-buried bones of some gargantuan beast that, in life, had dwarfed even dragons. There were buildings, too, and although at first one might have thought they and the relics around them all part of one vast civilization, a closer look revealed that no one structure truly belonged with another. A teetering tower such as might have been built by humans in Lordaeron overshadowed a domed building that surely had come from the dwarves. Some distance farther, an arched temple, its roof caved in, hinted of the lost kingdom of Azeroth. Nearer to Krasus himself stood a more dour domicile, the quarters of some orc chieftain.

A ship large enough to carry a dozen men stood propped on a dune, the latter half of it buried under sand. Armor from the reign of the first king of Stromgarde littered another smaller dune. The leaning statue of an elven cleric seemed to say final prayers over both vessel and armor.

An astonishing, improbable display that gave even Krasus pause. In truth, the sights before the wizard resembled nothing more than some gargantuan deity’s macabre collection of antiquities . . . a point not far from fact.

None of these artifacts were native to this realm; in fact, no race, no civilization, had ever been spawned here. All the wonders that stood before the wizard had been gathered quite meticulously and over a period of countless centuries from other points all over the world. Krasus could scarcely believe what he saw, for the effort alone staggered even his imagination. To bring such relics, so many of them so massive or so delicate, to this place . . .

Yet, despite all of it, despite the spectacle before his eyes, an impatience began to build up as Krasus waited. And waited. And waited more, with not even the slightest hint that anyone acknowledged his presence.

His patience, already left ragged by the events of the past weeks, finally snapped.

He fixed his gaze on the stony features of a massive statue part man, part bull, whose left arm thrust forth as if demanding that the newcomer leave, and called out, “I know you are here, Nozdormu! I know it! I would speak with you!”

The moment the dragon mage finished, the wind whipped up, tossing sand all about and obscuring his vision. Krasus stayed his ground as a full-fledged sandstorm suddenly buffeted him. The wind howled around him, so loud that he had to cover his ears. The storm seemed determined to lift him up and throw him far away, but the wizard fought it, using magic as well as physical effort to remain. He would not be turned away, not without the opportunity to speak!

At last, even the sandstorm appeared to realize that he would not be deterred. It swept away from him, now focusing on a dune a short distance away. A funnel of dust arose, pushing higher and higher into the sky.

The funnel took on a shape . . . a dragon’s shape. As large as, if not larger than Malygos, this sandy creation moved, stretched dusty brown wings. Sand continued to add to the dimension of the behemoth, but sand seemingly mixed with gold, for more and more the leviathan forming before Krasus glittered in the blazing light of the desert sun.

The wind died, yet not one grain of sand or gold broke from the draconic giant. The wings flapped hard, the neck stretched. Eyelids opened, revealing gleaming gemstones the color of the sun.

“Korialstraszzzz . . .”the sandy behemoth practically spat. “You dare disturb my ressst? You dare disssturb my peace?”

“I dare because I must, o great Lord of Time!”

“Titles will not appeassse my wrath . . . would be best if you went . . .” The gemstones flared. “. . . and went now!”

“No! Not until I speak to you of a danger to all dragons! To all creatures!”

Nozdormu snorted. A cloud of sand bathed Krasus, but his spells kept it from affecting him. One could never tell what magic might dwell within each and every grain in the domain of Nozdormu. One bit of sand might be enough to ensure that the history of a dragon named Korialstrasz turned out never to have happened. Krasus might simply cease to exist, unremembered even by his beloved mistress.

“Dragonssss, you say? Of what concern isss that to you? I see only one dragon here, and it isss certainly not the mortal wizard Krasusss—not anymore! Away with you! I would return to my collection! You wassste too much of my precious time already!” One wing swept protectively over the statue of the man-bull. “Ssso much to gather, ssso much to catalog . . .”

It suddenly infuriated Krasus that this, one of the greatest of the five Aspects, he through whom Time itself coursed, this dragon cared not a whit what went on in the present or the future. Only his precious collection of the world’s past meant anything to the leviathan. He sent out his servants, his people, to gather whatever they could find—all so that their master could surround himself with what had once been and ignore both what was and what might be.

All so that he, in his own way, could ignore the passing of their kind just as Malygos did.

“Nozdormu!” he shouted, demanding the glittering sand dragon’s attention again. “Deathwing lives!”

To his horror, Nozdormu took in this terrible news with little change. The gold and brown behemoth snorted once more, sending a second cloud assailing the tinier figure. “Yesss . . . and ssso?”

Taken aback, Krasus managed to blurt, “You—know?”

“A question not at all worth anssswering. Now, if you’ve nothing more with which to further bother me, it isss time for you to depart.” The dragon reared his head, bejeweled eyes flaring.

“Wait!” Forgoing any sense of dignity, the wizard waved his arms back and forth. To his relief, Nozdormu paused, negating the spell he had been about to use to rid himself of this bothersome mite. “If you know that the dark one lives, you know what he intends! How can you ignore that?”

“Becaussse, asss with all things, even Deathwing will pass into time . . . even he will eventually be part . . . of my collection. . . .”

“But if you joined—”

“You’ve had your sssay.” The glittering sand dragon rose higher and as he did, the desert flew up, adding further to his girth and form. Torn free by the winds, some of the smaller objects in Nozdormu’s bizarre collection joined with that sand, becoming, for the moment, a very part of the dragon. “Now leave me be. . . .”

The winds now whipped up around Krasus—and only Krasus. Try as he might, this time the dragon wizard could not hold his ground. He stumbled back, shoved hard time and time again by the ferocious gusts.

“I came here for the sake of all of us!” Krasus managed to shout.

“You should not have disssturbed my ressst. You should not have come at all. . . .” The glittering gemstones flared. “In fact, that would have been bessst of all. . . .”

A column of sand shot up from the ground, engulfing the helpless wizard. Krasus could see nothing else. It grew stifling, impossible to breathe. He tried to cast a spell in order to save himself, but against the might of one of the Aspects, against the Master of Time, even his substantial powers proved minuscule.

Bereft of air, Krasus finally succumbed. Consciousness fading, he slumped forward—

—and watched, in startlement, as the petals of the Eon Rose dropped to the stone floor of his sanctum without any effect.

The spell should have worked. He should have been transported to the realm of Nozdormu, Lord of the Centuries. Just as Malygos embodied magic itself, so, too, did Nozdormu represent time and timelessness. One of the most powerful of the five Aspects, he would have proven a powerful ally, especially should Malygos suddenly choose to retreat into his madness. Without Nozdormu, Krasus’s hopes of success dwindled much.

Kneeling, the mage picked up the petals and repeated the spell. For his troubles, Krasus was rewarded only with a horrendous headache. How could that be, though? He had done everything right! The spell should have worked—unless somehow Nozdormu had caught wind of the wizard’s intention to plead with him and had cast a spell preventing Krasus from entering the sandy realm.

He swore. Without a chance to visit Nozdormu, he had no hope, however slight it might have been in the first place, of convincing the powerful dragon to join his plan. That left only She of the Dreaming . . . the most elusive of the Aspects, and the only one he had never, ever, spoken with in all his lengthy life. Krasus did not even know how to contact her, for it had oft been said that Ysera lived not wholly in the real world—that, to her, the dreams were the reality.

The dreams were the reality? A desperate plan occurred to the wizard, one that, had it been suggested to him by any of his counterparts, would have made Krasus break from his accustomed form and laugh loud. How utterly ridiculous! How utterly hopeless!

But, as with Nozdormu, what other choice did he have?

Turning back to his array of potions, artifacts, and powders, Krasus searched for a black vial. He found it quickly, despite not having touched it in more than a century. The last time he had made use of it—it had been to slay what had seemed unslayable. Now, however, he sought to only borrow one of its most vicious traits, and hope that he did not measure wrong.

Three drops on the tip of a single bolt had killed the Manta, the Behemoth of the Deep. Three drops had slain a creature ten times the size and strength of a dragon. Like Deathwing, nearly all had believed the Manta unstoppable.

Now Krasus intended to take some of the poison for himself.

“The deepest sleep, the deepest dreams . . .” he muttered to himself as he took the vial down. “That is where she must be, where she has to be.”

From another shelf he removed a cup and a small flask of pure water. Measuring out a single swallow in the cup, the dragon mage then opened the vial. With the greatest caution, he brought the open bottle to the cup of water.

Three drops to slay, in seconds, the Manta. How many drops to assist Krasus on the most treacherous of journeys?

Sleep and death . . . they were so very close in nature, more so than most realized. Surely he would find Ysera there.

The tiniest drop he could measure fell silently into the water. Krasus replaced the top on the vial, then took up the cup.

“A bench,” he murmured. “Best to use a bench.”

One immediately formed behind him, a well-cushioned bench upon which the king of Lordaeron would have happily slept. Krasus, too, intended to sleep well on it . . . perhaps forever.

He sat upon it, then raised the cup to his lips. Yet, before he could bring himself to drink what might be his last, the dragon in human guise made one last toast.

“To you, my Alexstrasza, always to you.”

“There was someone here, all right,” Vereesa muttered, studying the ground. “One of them was human . . . the other I can’t be certain about.”

“Pray tell, how do you know the difference?” asked Falstad, squinting. He could not tell one sign from another. In fact, he could not even see half of what the elf saw.

“Look here. This boot print.” She indicated a curved mark in the dirt. “These are human-style boots, tightfitting and uncomfortable.”

“I’ll take your word. And the other—the one you can’t identify?”

The ranger straightened. “Well, clearly there are no signs of a dragon being around, but there are tracks over here that match nothing I know.”

She knew that, once again, Falstad could not see what to her sharp eyes screamed out their curious presence. The dwarf did his best, though, studying the peculiar striations in the earth. “You mean these, my elven lady?”

The marks appeared to flow toward where the human—surely Rhonin—had at one time or another stood. Yet, they were not footprints, not even pawprints. To her eyes, it looked as if something had floated, dragging something else behind it.

“This gets us no closer than the first spot this little green beast brought us to!” Falstad seized Kryll by the scruff of his neck. The goblin had both hands tied behind him and a rope around his waist, the other end of which had been tied around the neck of the gryphon. Despite that, neither Vereesa nor the wild dwarf trusted that their unwilling companion might not somehow escape. Falstad especially kept his eye on Kryll. “Well? Now what? ’Tis becoming clear to me that you’re leading us around! I doubt you’ve even seen the wizard!”

“I have, I have, yes, I have!” Kryll smiled wide, possibly in the hope of swaying his captors, but a goblin’s toothy grin did little to impress those outside of their race. “Described him, didn’t I? You know I saw him, don’t you?”

Vereesa noticed the gryphon sniffing at something hidden behind a bit of foliage. Using her sword, she prodded at the spot, then dragged out the object in question.

On the tip of her sword hung a small, empty wine sack. The elf brought it to her nose. A heavenly bouquet wafted past. The elf briefly closed her eyes.

Falstad misread her expression. “As bad as all that? Must be dwarven ale!”

“On the contrary, I have not come across such a fabulous aroma even at the table of my lord back in Quel’Thalas! Whatever wine filled this sack far outshone even the best of his stock.”

“Which means to my feeble mind—?”

Dropping the sack, Vereesa shook her head. “I do not know, but somehow I cannot help thinking that it means that Rhonin was here, if only for a time.”

Her companion gave her a skeptical look. “My elven lady, is it possible that you simply wish it to be true?”

“Can you answer me who else might have been in this region, drinking wine fit for kings?”

“Aye! The dark one, after he’d sucked the marrow from the bones of your wizard!”

His words made her shiver, but she remained steadfast in her belief. “No. If Deathwing brought him this far, he had some other reason than as a repast!”

“Possible, I suppose.” Still holding onto the goblin, Falstad glanced up at the darkening sky. “If we hope to get much farther before night, we’d best be getting on our way.”

Vereesa touched the tip of her blade against Kryll’s throat. “We need to deal with this one first.”

“What’s to deal with? Either we take him with us, or do the world a favor and leave it with one less goblin to worry about!”

“No. I promised I would release him.”

The dwarf’s heavy brow furrowed. “I don’t think that’s wise.”

“Nevertheless, I made that promise.” She stared hard at him, knowing that if he understood elves as much as he should, Falstad would see the sense in not pursuing this argument.

Sure enough, the gryphon-rider nodded—albeit with much reluctance. “Aye, ’tis as you say. You made a promise and I’ll not be the one to try to sway you.” Not quite under his breath, he added, “Not with only one lifetime to me . . .”

Satisfied, Vereesa expertly cut the bonds around Kryll’s wrists, then removed the loop from his waist. The goblin fairly bounced around, so overjoyed did he seem by his release.

“Thank you, my benevolent mistress, thank you!”

The ranger turned the tip of the sword back toward the creature’s throat. “Before you go, though, a few last questions. Do you know the path to Grim Batol?”

Falstad did not take this question well. Brow arched, he muttered, “What’re you thinking?”

She purposely ignored his question. “Well?”

Kryll’s eyes had gone wide the moment she asked. The goblin looked ashen—or at least a paler shade of green. “No one goes to Grim Batol, benevolent mistress! Orcs there and dragons, too! Dragons eat goblins!”

“Answer my question.”

He swallowed, then finally bobbed his oversized head up and down. “Yes, mistress, I know the way—do you think the wizard is there?”

“You can’t be serious, Vereesa,” Falstad rumbled, so upset he had for once called her by name. “If your Rhonin is in Grim Batol, then he’s lost to us!”

“Perhaps . . . perhaps not. Falstad, I think he always wanted to reach that place, and not simply to observe the orcs. I think he has some other reason . . . although what it could have to do with Deathwing, I cannot say.”

“Maybe he plans on releasing the Dragonqueen single-handedly!” the gryphon-rider returned with a snort of derision. “He’s a mage, after all, and everyone knows that they’re all mad!”

An absolutely absurd notion—but for a moment it gave Vereesa pause. “No . . . it could not be that.”

Kryll, meanwhile, seemed to be trying to think really hard about something, something that did not at all look to please him. At last, his face screwed up in an expression of distaste, he muttered, “Mistress wants to go to Grim Batol?”

The ranger considered it. It went even beyond her oath, but she had to push forward. “Yes. Yes, I do.”

“Now see here, my—”

“You do not have to come with me if you do not want to, Falstad. I thank you for your aid thus far, but I can proceed from here alone.”

The dwarf shook his head vehemently. “And leave you alone in the middle of orc territory with only this untrustworthy little wretch? Nay, my elven lady! Falstad will not leave a fair damsel, however capable a warrior she might also be, on her own! We go together!”

In truth, she appreciated his company here. “You may turn back at any time, though; remember that.”

“Only if you’re with me.”

She glanced again at Kryll. “Well? Can you tell me the way?”

“Cannot tell you, mistress.” More and more the spindly creature’s expression soured. “Best . . . best if I show you, instead.”

This surprised her. “I granted you your freedom, Kryll—”

“For which this poor wretch is so eternally grateful, mistress . . . but only one path to Grim Batol offers certainty, and without me,” he dared look slightly egotistical, “neither elf nor dwarf will find it.”

“We’ve got my mount, you little rodent! We’ll simply fly over—”

“In a land of dragons?” The goblin chuckled, a hint of madness there. “Best to fly right into their mouths and be done with it, then. . . . No, to enter Grim Batol—if that is truly what mistress desires—you’ll have to follow me.”

Falstad would not hear of that and immediately protested, but Vereesa saw no choice but to do as the goblin suggested. Kryll had led them true so far, and although she did not, of course, trust him entirely, she felt certain that she would recognize if he tried to lead them astray. Besides, clearly the goblin wanted nothing to do with Grim Batol himself, or else why would he have been where they had found him? Any of his kind who served the orcs would have been in the mountain fortress, not wandering the dangerous wilds of Khaz Modan.

And if he could lead her yet to Rhonin . . .

Having convinced herself that she chose correctly, Vereesa faced the dwarf. “I will go with him, Falstad. It is the best—the only choice—I have.”

His broad shoulders slumping, Falstad sighed. “’Tis against my better judgment, but, aye, I’ll go with you—if only to keep an eye on this one, so I can lop off his traitorous head if I prove right!”

“Kryll, must we go on foot the entire way?”

The misshapen little creature mused for a moment, then replied, “No. Can travel some distance with gryphon.” He gave her a smile full of teeth. “Know just where beast should land!”

Despite his apparent misgivings, Falstad started for the gryphon. “Just tell us where to go, you little rodent. The sooner we’re there, the sooner you can be on your way. . . .”

The goblin’s weight added little to the powerful animal’s burden, and soon the gryphon was on its way. Falstad, of course, sat in front, the better to control his mount. Kryll sat behind him with Vereesa taking up the rear. The elf had resheathed her sword and now held a dagger ready just in case their undesired companion attempted something.

Yet, although the goblin’s directions were not always the clearest, Vereesa saw nothing that hinted of duplicity. He kept them near to the ground and always guided them along paths that steered them from the open areas. In the distance, the mountains of Grim Batol grew nearer. A sense of anxiety spread through the ranger as she realized that she approached her goal, but that anxiousness was tempered by the fact that, even now, she had come across no sign of either Rhonin or the black dragon. Surely this close to the mountain fortress the orcs would have been able to sight such a leviathan.

And as if thinking of dragons allowed one to conjure them up, Falstad suddenly pointed east, where a massive form rose into the sky.

“Big!” he called. “Big and red as fresh blood! Scout from Grim Batol!”

Kryll immediately acted. “Down there!” the goblin pointed at a ravine. “Many places to hide—even for a gryphon!”

With little other choice, the dwarf obeyed, guiding his mount earthward. The dragon’s form grew larger and larger, but Vereesa noted that the crimson beast also headed in a more northerly direction, possibly to the very northern border of Khaz Modan, where the last desperate forces of the Horde sought to hold back the Alliance. That made her wonder about the situation there. Had the humans begun their advance at last? Could the Alliance itself even now be halfway to Grim Batol?

If so, it would still be too late for her purposes. Yet, the nearing presence of the Alliance might aid in one way, if it made the orcs here concentrate on matters other than their own immediate defenses.

The gryphon alighted in the ravine, the animal instinctively seeking the shadows. No coward, the gryphon had the sense to know when to choose a battle.

Vereesa and the others leapt off, finding their own places to hide. Kryll pressed himself against one rocky wall, his expression that of open terror. The ranger actually found herself feeling some sympathy for him.

They waited for several minutes, but the dragon did not fly by. After what seemed far too long a time, the impatient ranger decided to see for herself if the beast had changed direction. Getting a proper grip on the rock, she climbed up.

The elf saw nothing in the darkening sky, not even a speck. In fact, Vereesa suspected that they could have departed this ravine long before, if only one of them had dared look.

“No sign?” whispered Falstad, climbing up beside her. For a dwarf, he proved himself quite nimble crawling up the side.

“We are clear. Very much so.”

“Good! Unlike my hill cousins, I’ve no taste for holes in the ground!” He started down. “All right, Kryll! The danger’s done! You can peel yourself—”

The moment his voice cut off, Vereesa jerked her head around. “What is it?”

“That damned spawn of a frog’s gone!” He scrambled down the rest of the way. “Vanished like a will-o”-the-wisp!”

Dropping down as safely as she could, the ranger joined Falstad in scanning the immediate area. Sure enough, despite the fact that they should have been able to see the goblin’s retreating figure in either direction, not one sign of Kryll existed. Even the gryphon acted baffled, as if it, too, had not even noticed that the spindly creature had run off.

“How could he have just disappeared?”

“Wish I knew that myself, my dear elven lady! A neat trick!”

“Can your gryphon hunt him down?”

“Why not just let him go? We’re better off without him!”

“Because I—”

The ground underneath her feet suddenly softened, broke apart. The elf’s boots sank deep within seconds.

Thinking that she had walked into mud, she tried to pull free. Instead, Vereesa only sank deeper, and at an alarming rate. It almost felt as if she were being pulled down.

“What in the name of the Aerie—?” Falstad, too, had sunk deep, but in the dwarf’s case that meant he suddenly stood up to his knees in dirt. Like the ranger, he attempted to extricate himself, only to completely fail.

Vereesa grabbed for the nearest rock face, trying to seize hold. For a moment, she succeeded, managing to slow her progress downward. Then, something powerful seemed to take hold of her ankles, pulling with such force that the ranger could no longer keep her grip.

Above them she heard a panicked squawk. Unlike Vereesa and the dwarf, the gryphon had managed to pull up in time to avoid being dragged under. The animal fluttered above Falstad’s head, trying, it seemed, to get a grip on its master. However, as the beast dropped lower, columns of dirt suddenly shot up, trying, Vereesa realized in horror, to seize the mount. The gryphon narrowly escaped, forced now to fly up so high that the animal could not possibly aid either warrior.

Which left Vereesa with no notion as to how to escape.

Already the earth came up to her waist. The thought of being buried alive set even the elf on edge, yet, in comparison to Falstad’s predicament, hers seemed slightly less immediate. The dwarf’s shorter stature meant that he already had trouble keeping his head above ground. Try as he might, even the mighty strength of the gryphon-rider could not help him. He grabbed furiously at the soft earth, ripping up handfuls that did him no good whatsoever.

In desperation, the ranger reached out. “Falstad! My hand! Reach for it!”

He tried. They both tried. The gap between them had grown too great, however. In growing horror, Vereesa watched as her struggling companion was inevitably pulled under.

“My—” was all he managed before disappearing from sight.

Now buried up to her chest, she froze for a moment, staring at the slight mound of dirt that was all that remained to mark his passage. The ground there did not even stir. No last thrust of a hand, no wild movement underneath.

“Falstad . . .” she murmured.

Renewed force at her ankles tugged her deeper. As the dwarf had done, Vereesa snatched at the earth around her, digging deep valleys with her fingers but doing herself no good. Her shoulders sank in. She lifted her head skyward. Of the gryphon she saw no sign, but another figure, so very familiar, now leaned out from a small crevice that the elf had missed earlier.

Even in the waning light, she could see Kryll’s toothy smile.

“Forgive me, my mistress, but the dark one insists that no one interfere, and so he left me the task of seeing to your deaths! A menial bit of work and one undeserving of a clever mind such as mine, but my master does, after all, have very large teeth and so sharp claws! I certainly couldn’t refuse him, could I?” His grin stretched wider. “I hope you understand. . . .”

“Damn you—”

The ground swallowed her up. Dirt filled the elf’s mouth, then, seemingly, her hungry lungs.

She blacked out.