Day of the Dragon

13

The goblin airship floated among the clouds, now surprisingly silent as it neared its destination.

At the bow of the vessel, Rhonin kept a watchful eye on the two figures guiding him toward his destiny. The goblins darted back and forth, adjusting gauges and muttering among themselves. How such a mad race could have created this wonder had been beyond him. Each moment, the airship seemed destined to destroy itself, yet the goblins ever managed to right matters.

Deathwing had not spoken to Rhonin since telling him to board. Knowing that the dragon would have made him do so whether he desired to or not, the wizard had reluctantly obeyed, climbing up into the airship and trying not to think what would happen if it all came tumbling down.

The goblins were Voyd and Nullyn, and they had built this vessel themselves. They were great inventors, so they said, and had offered their services to the wondrous Deathwing. Of course, they had said the last with just a hint of sarcasm in their tones. Sarcasm and fear.

“Where are you taking me?” he had asked.

This question had caused his two pilots to eye him as if he had lost all sense. “To Grim Batol, of course!” spouted one, who seemed to have twice the teeth of any goblin Rhonin had ever had the misfortune to come across. “To Grim Batol!”

The wizard had known that, of course, but he had wanted the exact location where they intended to drop him. Rhonin did not at all trust the pair not to leave him in the middle of an orc encampment. Unfortunately, before Rhonin could ask, Voyd and his partner had been forced to respond to an emergency, in this case a spout of steam erupting from the main tank. The goblins’ airship utilized both oil and water in order to run, and if some component involving one was not breaking down at a critical moment, then something involving the other was.

It had made for a fairly sleepless night, even for one such as Rhonin.

The clouds through which they flew had grown so thick that it felt as if the mage journeyed through a dense fog. Had he not known at what altitude he sailed, Rhonin might have imagined that this vessel traversed not the sky, but rather the open sea. In truth, both journeys had much in common, including the danger of crashing on the rocks. More than once, Rhonin had watched as mountains had suddenly materialized on either side of the tiny ship, a few coming perilously close. Yet, while he had prepared for the worst, the goblins had kept on with their tinkering—and even occasionally napping—without so much as a glimpse at the near-disasters around them.

Daylight had long come, but the deeply overcast weather kept it nearly as dark as late dusk. Voyd seemed to be using some sort of magnetic compass to guide them along, but the one time Rhonin had studied it, he had noticed that it had a tendency to shift without warning. In the end, the wizard had concluded that the goblins flew by sheer luck more than any sense of direction.

Early on, he had estimated the length of the trip, but for some reason, even though Rhonin felt that they should have reached the fortress by now, his two companions kept assuring him that they still had quite some time left before arrival. Gradually he came to the suspicion that the airship flew about in circles, either due to the faulty compass or some intention on the goblins’ parts.

Although he sought to remain focused on his quest, Rhonin found Vereesa slipping into his thoughts more and more. If she lived, she followed him. He knew her well enough. The knowledge dismayed him as much as it pleased. How could the elf possibly learn about the airship? She might end up wandering Khaz Modan or, even worse, assume rightly and head straight to Grim Batol.

His hand tightened on the rail. “No . . .” he muttered to himself. “No . . . she wouldn’t do that . . . she can’t . . .”

Duncan’s ghost already haunted him, just as those of the men from his previous mission did. Even Molok stood with the dead, the wild dwarf glowering in condemnation. Rhonin could already imagine Vereesa and even Falstad joining their ranks, empty eyes demanding to know why the wizard lived after their sacrifices.

It was a question that Rhonin often asked of himself.

“Human?”

He looked up to see Nullyn, the more squat of the pair, standing just beyond arm’s length from him. “What?”

“Time to prepare to disembark.” The goblin gave him a wide, cheerful smile.

“We’re here?” Rhonin dredged himself up from his dark thoughts and peered into the mist. He saw nothing but more mist, even below. “I don’t see anything.”

Beyond Nullyn, Voyd, also grinning merrily, took the rope ladder and tossed the unattached end over the side. The slapping of the rope against the hull represented the only sound the wizard heard. Clearly the ladder had not touched bottom anywhere.

“This is it. This is the place, honest and truly, master wizard!” Voyd pointed toward the rail. “Look for yourself!”

Rhonin did . . . with care. It would not have struck him as unlikely that the goblins might use their combined strength to toss him over the side despite Deathwing’s desires. “I see nothing.”

Nullyn looked apologetic. “It is the clouds, master wizard! They obscure things to your human eyes! We goblins have much sharper vision. Below us is a very soft, very safe ledge! Climb down the ladder and we’ll gently drop you off, you’ll see!”

The mage hesitated. He wanted nothing more than to be rid of the zeppelin and its crew, but to simply take the goblins’ word about whether any land actually lay close below—

Without warning, Rhonin’s left hand suddenly reached out, catching Nullyn by surprise. The mage’s fingers closed around the goblin’s throat, squeezing hard despite Rhonin’s attempt to pull back.

A voice not his own, but exceedingly familiar to the human, hissed,“I gave the command that no tricksss were to be played, no acts of treachery performed, worm.”

“M-mercy, grand and g-glorious m-master!” choked Nullyn. “Only a game! Only a g—” He managed no more, Rhonin’s grip having tightened more.

Forcing his gaze down as much as he could, the helpless wizard saw the black stone in the medallion giving off a faint glow. Once more Deathwing had used it to seize control of his human “ally.”

“Game?”murmured Rhonin’s lips.“You like games? I have a game for you to play, worm. . . .”

With little effort, the human’s arm shifted, dragging a struggling Nullyn toward the rail.

Voyd let out a squeak and scurried back toward the engine. Rhonin struggled against Deathwing’s control, certain that the black leviathan intended to drop Nullyn to his doom. While the wizard had no love for the goblin, neither did he want the creature’s blood on his hands—even if the dragon presently made use of them.

“Deathwing!” he snapped, belatedly surprised that his lips were his own for the moment. “Deathwing! Don’t do this!”

Would you rather they had led you into their little ploy, human? came the voice in his head. The drop would not have been at all pleasant for one who cannot fly. . . .

“I’m not that much of a fool! I’d no intention of climbing over the rail, not on a goblin’s word! You wouldn’t have bothered saving me in the first place if you thought me that addled!”

True . . .

“And I’m not without power of my own.” Rhonin raised his other hand, which Deathwing had not deemed necessary to use. Muttering a few words, the wizard produced a flame above his index finger, a flame which he then directed toward the already panicked face of Nullyn. “There are other ways to teach a goblin lessons in trust.”

Barely able to breathe and unable to flee, Nullyn’s eyes widened and the spindly creature tried to shake his head. “B-be good! Only meant to t-tease! Never meant h-harm!”

“But you’ll drop me off on a proper place, right? One of which both Deathwing and I would approve?”

Nullyn could only manage a squeak.

“This flame I can make larger.” The magical fire sprouted to twice its previous length. “Enough to burn a hull even from below, maybe set off flammable oil . . .”

“N-no tricks! N-no tricks! Promise!”

“You see?” the crimson-tressed mage asked his unseen companion. “No need to drop him over the side. Besides, you might want to make use of him again.”

In reply, Rhonin’s possessed hand abruptly released its hold on Nullyn, who dropped to the deck with a thud. The goblin lay there for several seconds, trying desperately to gain his breath back.

Your choice . . . wizard.

The human exhaled, then, glancing at Voyd—who still cowered by the engine—called out, “Well? Get us to the mountain!”

Voyd immediately obeyed, frantically turning levers and checking gauges. Nullyn finally recovered enough to join his partner, the beaten goblin not once glancing back.

Extinguishing the magical flame, Rhonin peered over the rail again. Now at last he could make out some sort of formation, hopefully the crags of Grim Batol. He assumed from Deathwing’s earlier words and images that the dragon still wanted him set down directly on the peak, preferably somewhere near a gap leading inside. Surely the goblins knew this. Any other choice they made at this point would mean that they had still not learned the folly of crossing either their distant master or the wizard. Rhonin prayed that it would not be so. He doubted that Deathwing would allow the goblins to escape punishment twice.

They began to draw near to one peak in particular, one that Rhonin had vague memories of, even though he had never been to Grim Batol before. With growing eagerness he leaned forward for a better look. Surely this had to be the mountain from the vision that Deathwing had forced upon him. He searched for telltale signs—a recognizable outcropping or a familiar crevice.

There! The very same narrow cave mouth from his dizzying journey of the mind. Barely large enough for a man to stand in, provided he managed the terrifying climb up several hundred feet of sheer rock. Yet, still it would serve. Rhonin could scarcely wait, more than happy to be rid of the mischievous goblins and their outrageous flying machine.

The rope ladder still dangled free, ready for his use. The wary mage waited while Voyd and his partner maneuvered their ship nearer and nearer. Whatever his previous thoughts about the zeppelin, Rhonin had to admit that now the goblins controlled it with a measure of accuracy he found admirable.

The ladder clattered slightly against the rock wall just to the left of the cave.

“Can you keep it steady here?” he called to Nullyn.

A nod was all he received from the still fearful pilot, but it satisfied Rhonin. No more tricks. Even if they did not fear him, they certainly feared the long reach of Deathwing.

Taking a deep breath, Rhonin crawled over the side. The ladder wobbled dangerously, slapping him more than once against the side of the mountain. Ignoring the shock of each strike, the wizard hurried as best he could to the bottom rung.

The slim ledge of the cave stood just a little under him, but although the goblins had the zeppelin positioned as precisely as they could, the high mountain winds kept twisting Rhonin away from safety. Three times he tried to get his footing, and three times the wind dragged him away, leaving his foot dangling hundreds of feet in the air.

Worse, as the current grew stronger, the airship, too, began to shift, sometimes drawing away a few critical inches. The voices of the two goblins rose in frantic argument, although the actual words were lost to the struggling mage.

He would have to risk jumping. With conditions as they were, casting a spell would be too chancy. Rhonin would have to rely on physical skill alone—not his first choice.

The airship veered without warning, slapping him hard against the rock. Rhonin let out a gasp, barely managing to hang on. If he did not abandon the ladder soon, the next collision might just be enough to stun him and cause a fatal loss of grip.

Taking a deep breath, the battered wizard studied the distance between himself and the ledge. The ladder rocked to and fro, threatening again to toss him hard against the rock.

Rhonin waited until it brought him near the ledge—then threw himself toward the cave.

With a painful grunt, he came down on the slim ledge. His feet momentarily slipped, one finding no purchase whatsoever. The wizard scrambled to pull himself forward, finally making progress.

When at last he felt secure enough, Rhonin dropped to the ground, panting. It took him a few seconds to regain his breath, at which point he rolled onto his back.

Beyond, Voyd and Nullyn had apparently just realized that they had finally rid themselves of their unwanted passenger. The goblin airship began to pull away, the rope ladder still dangling from the side.

Rhonin’s hand suddenly shot up, his index finger pointing toward the fleeing vessel.

He opened his mouth to scream, knowing what would happen next.“Nooo!”

The same words he had spoken earlier to create the flickering flame over his hand now erupted from his mouth, but this time they were not spoken by the wizard himself.

A stream of pure fire greater than any the horrified spellcaster had ever summoned shot forth—directly toward the airship and the unsuspecting goblins.

The flames engulfed the zeppelin. Rhonin heard screams.

The airship exploded as its stockpile of oil ignited.

As the few remaining fragments plunged from the sky, Rhonin’s arm dropped to his side.

Drawing in what breath he had, the mage snapped, “You shouldn’t have done that!”

The winds will keep the explosion from being heard, replied the cold voice. And the pieces will fall to a deep valley little used. Besides, the orcs are used to the goblins destroying themselves in the midst of their experiments. You need not fear discovery . . . my friend.

Rhonin had not been concerned about his own safety at that moment, only the lives of the two goblins. Death in combat was one thing; punishment such as the black dragon had meted out to his two rebellious servants was another.

You would do yourself better to continue on into the cave, Deathwing continued. The elements outside are hardly fit for you.

Not at all mollified by the leviathan’s attempt at concern, Rhonin yet obeyed. He had no desire to be swept off the ledge by the ever-increasing winds. For better or worse, the dragon had brought him this close to his goal—one that he could now admit to himself he had suspected he might never reach on his own. Deep down, the wizard had believed all along he would perish—hopefully, at least, after he had made amends. Now, perhaps he had a chance. . . .

At that moment a monstrous sound greeted Rhonin, a sound he recognized instantly. A dragon, of course, and one young and fit. Dragons and orcs. They awaited him in the depths of the mountain, awaited the lone mage.

Reminded him that he might yet die, just as he had originally imagined. . . .

The human was strong. Stronger than imagined.

Clad once more in the guise of Lord Prestor, Deathwing considered the pawn he had chosen. Usurping the wizard that the Kirin Tor had sent on this absurdly impossible quest had seemed the simplest thing. He would turn their folly into victory—but his victory. This Rhonin would do that for him, although not in the way the mortal expected.

Yet the wizard showed much more defiance than Deathwing had assumed possible. Strong of will, this one. A good thing that he would perish in the course of matters; such strong will bred strong wizards—like Medivh. Only one name among humans had the black leviathan ever respected, and that had been Medivh’s. Mad as a goblin—not to mention as unpredictable as one—he had wielded power unbelievable. Not even Deathwing would have faced him willingly.

But Medivh was dead—and the ebony leviathan believed that to be the case despite the recent rumors to the contrary. No other wizard came anywhere near to having the mad one’s skills, and never would, if Deathwing had his way.

Yet if Rhonin would not obey him blindly—as the monarchs of the Alliance did—he would obey out of the knowledge that the dragon watched his every move. The two insipid goblins had made for an object lesson. Perhaps they had only planned to put terror into the heart of their passenger, but Deathwing had not had time for such foolishness. He had warned Kryll to choose a pair who would fulfill their mission without any nonsense. When the chief goblin had completed his own tasks, Deathwing would speak to him about his choices. The black dragon was not at all pleased.

“You had better not fail, little toad,” he hissed. “Or your brethren on board the airship will have considered themselves fortunate compared to the fate I will deal you. . . .”

He dropped all thought of the goblin. Lord Prestor had an important meeting with King Terenas . . . about the Princess Calia.

Clad in the finest suit to be found among any of the nobles of the land, Deathwing admired himself in the lengthy mirror in the front corridor of his chateau. Yes, every inch a future king. Had humans carried within them even a shred of the dignity and power that he possessed, the dragon might have thought to spare them. However, what stared back at him represented to Deathwing the perfection that the mortals could never even hope to attain. He did them a favor by ending their miserable existences.

“Ssssoon,” he whispered in promise to himself. “Ssssoon.”

His carriage took him directly to the palace, where the guards saluted and immediately bid him enter. A servant met Deathwing inside the front hall, begging his pardon for the king not being there personally to greet him. Now fully into his role as the young noble who sought only peace between all parties, the dragon pretended no annoyance, smiling as he asked the human to lead him to where Terenas desired him to wait. He had expected the king not to be ready for him, especially if Terenas still had to explain to his young daughter her chosen future.

With all opposition to his ascension swept aside and the throne only days from his grasp, Deathwing had hit upon what he felt the perfect addition to his plans. How much better to strengthen his hold than to wed the daughter of one of the most powerful of the kingdoms in the Alliance? Of course, not all of the reigning monarchs had had viable choices. In fact, at this moment in time, only Terenas and Daelin Proudmoore had daughters either single or beyond infancy. Jaina Proudmoore, however, was much too young and, from what the dragon had so far researched, possibly already too difficult to control, or else he might have waited for her. No, Terenas’s daughter would do just fine.

Calia still remained at least two years away from marriage, but two years hardly mattered to the ageless dragon. By that time not only would the others of his kind be either under his domination or dead, but Deathwing would have maneuvered himself into a political position in which he could truly begin undermining the foundation of the Alliance. What the brutish orcs had failed to do from without—he would do from within.

The servant opened a door. “If you’ll wait within, my lord, I’m sure His Majesty will be with you shortly.”

“Thank you.” Caught up in his reverie, Deathwing did not notice that he had two new companions awaiting him until just after the door had shut behind him.

The cloaked and hooded figures bowed their shadowed heads slightly in his direction.

“Our greetings, Lord Prestor,” rumbled the bearded one.

Deathwing fought back the frown nearly descending upon his mouth. He had expected to confront the Kirin Tor, but not in the palace of Terenas. The enmity the dragon had magically built up among the various rulers toward the wizards of Dalaran should have prevented the latter from daring to visit.

“My greetings to you, sir and madam.”

The second mage, old for a female of the race, returned, “We had hoped to meet you sooner than this, my lord. Your reputation has spread throughout the kingdoms of the Alliance . . . especially in Dalaran.”

The magic wielded by these wizards kept their features obscured for the most part, and although with but a single action Deathwing could have pierced their veils, the dragon chose not to do so. He already knew this pair, albeit not by name. The bearded one had a familiar feel to his aura, as if Deathwing and the wizard had recently come into contact. The false noble suspected that this mage had been responsible for at least one of the two major attempts to break through the protective spells around the chateau. Considering the potency of those spells, it surprised Deathwing a little that the man still lived, much less confronted him now.

“And the reputation of the Kirin Tor is known to all as well,” he replied.

“And becoming more known with each day . . . but not in the way we wish, I must say.”

She hinted of his handiwork. Deathwing found no threat there. By this time, they suspected him a rogue wizard—powerful but not nearly the threat he truly presented.

“I had expected to meet His Majesty here alone,” he said, turning the conversation to his advantage. “Has Dalaran some business with Lordaeron?”

“Dalaran seeks to keep abreast of situations important to all kingdoms of the Alliance,” the woman replied. “Something a bit more difficult of late, due to our not being notified of major summits between members.”

Deathwing calmly walked over to the side table, where Terenas always kept a few bottles of his best on hand for waiting guests. Lordaeron wine represented in his mind the only worthwhile export the kingdom offered. He poured a small amount in one of the jeweled goblets nearby. “Yes, I spoke with His Majesty, urging him to request you join in the deliberations over Alterac, but he seemed adamant about leaving you out of them.”

“We know the outcome, regardless,” huffed the bearded man. “Congratulations are in order for you, Lord Prestor.”

Not once had they offered their names, nor had he offered his. Yes, they truly kept an eye on him—as much as Deathwing allowed, that is.

“It came as a surprise to me, I must tell you. All I ever hoped was to help keep the Alliance from falling apart after Lord Perenolde’s unfortunate behavior.”

“Yes, a terrible thing that. One would’ve never thought it of the man. I knew him when he was younger. A bit timid, but didn’t seem the traitorous type.”

The elder female suddenly spoke up. “Your former homeland is somewhere not too distant from Alterac, is it not, Lord Prestor?”

For the first time, Deathwing felt a twinge of annoyance. This game no longer pleased him. Did she know?

Before he could answer, the grandly decorated door on the opposite side of the entrance opened and King Terenas, his mood clearly not at all pleasant, barged inside. A blond, cherubic boy barely more than a toddler followed behind, clearly trying to get his father’s attention. However, Terenas took one look at the two shadowy wizards and the frown on his face deepened further.

He turned to the child. “Run along back to your sister, Arthas, and try to calm her. I’ll be with you as soon as I can, I promise.”

Arthas nodded and, with a curious glance at his father’s visitors, headed back through the door.

Terenas shut the door behind his son, then instantly whirled on the mages. “I thought I told the major-domo to inform you that I’ve no time for you today! If Dalaran has any claims or protests to make concerning my handling of Alliance matters, they can send a formal writ through our ambassador there! Now, good day!”

The pair seemed unmoved. Deathwing held back a triumphant smile. His hold on the king remained strong even when the dragon had to deal with other matters, such as Rhonin.

Thinking of his newest pawn, Deathwing hoped that the wizards would take Terenas’s forceful dismissal to heart and leave. The sooner they were gone, the sooner he could get back to checking on their younger counterpart.

“We’ll be going, Your Majesty,” rumbled the male spellcaster. “But we’ve been empowered to tell you that the council hopes you’ll see reason on this before long. Dalaran has always been a steadfast, loyal ally.”

“When it chooses to be.”

Both mages ignored the monarch’s harsh statement. Turning to Deathwing, the female said, “Lord Prestor, it has been an honor to meet you face-to-face at last. I trust it will not be the final time.”

“We shall see.” She made no attempt to extend her hand and he did not encourage it. So. They had warned him that they would continue to watch him. No doubt the Kirin Tor believed this would make him more cautious, even uncertain, but the black dragon only found their threats laughable. Let them waste their time crouching over scrying spheres or trying to convince the rulers of the Alliance to see reason. All they would gain by their efforts would be the further enmity of the other humans—which would work just perfectly for Deathwing.

Bowing, the two mages retreated from the chamber. Out of respect for the king, they did not simply vanish, as he knew they could. No, they would wait until back in their own embassy, out of sight of untrusting eyes. Even now, the Kirin Tor took care with appearances around others.

Not that it would matter in the long run.

When the wizards had at last gone, King Terenas began speaking. “My most humble apologies for that scene, Prestor! The very nerve of them! They barge into the palace as if Dalaran and not Lordaeron ruled here! This time they go too far—”

He froze in mid-sentence as Deathwing raised a hand toward him. After glancing at both doors in order to assure himself that no one would come running in and find the king bewitched, the false noble stepped to a window overlooking the palace grounds and the kingdom beyond. Deathwing waited patiently, watching the gates through which all visitors passed in and out of Terenas’s royal residence.

The two wizards stepped into sight, heading away. Their heads leaned toward one another as they engaged in urgent yet clearly private conversation with one another.

The dragon touched the expensive glass plate on the window with his index finger, drawing two circles there, circles that glowed deep red. He muttered a single word.

The glass in one of the circles shifted, puckered, shaped itself into a parody of a mouth.

“—nothing at all! He’s a blank, Modera! Couldn’t sense a thing about him!”

In the other circle, a second, somewhat more delicate, mouth formed. “Perhaps you’re still not recovered enough, Drenden. After all, that shock you suffered—”

“I’m over it! Take more than that to kill me! Besides, I know you were probing him, too! Did you sense anything?”

A frown formed on the feminine mouth. “No . . . which means he’s very, very powerful—possibly almost as powerful as Medivh.”

“He must be using some powerful talisman! No one’s that powerful, not even Krasus!”

Modera’s tone changed. “Do we really know how powerful Krasus is? He’s older than the rest of us. That surely means something.”

“It means he’s cautious . . . but he is the best of us, even if he isn’t master of the council.”

“That was his choice—more than once.”

Deathwing leaned forward, his once mild curiosity now growing stronger.

“What’s he doing, anyway? Why’s he keeping so secret?”

“He says he wants to try to find out about Prestor’s past, but I think there’s more. There’s always more with Krasus.”

“Well, I hope he finds out something soon, because this situation is—what is it?”

“I feel a tingling on my neck! I wonder if—”

Up in the palace, the dragon quickly waved his hand across the two glass mouths. The pane instantly flattened, leaving no trace. Deathwing backed away.

The female had finally sensed his spellwork, but she would not be able to trace it back to him. He did not fear them, however skilled for humans they were, but Deathwing had no desire at the moment to drag out his confrontation with the pair. A new element had been added to the game, one that, for the first time, made the dragon just a little pensive.

He turned back to Terenas. The king still stood where Deathwing had left him, mouth open and hand out.

The dragon snapped his fingers.

“—and I won’t stand for it! I’ve a mind to cut off all diplomatic relations with them immediately! Who rules in Lordaeron? Not the Kirin Tor, whatever they might think!”

“Yes, probably a wise move, Your Majesty, but draw it out. Let them lodge their protest, then begin closing the gates on them. I’m very certain that the other kingdoms will follow suit.”

Terenas gave him a weary smile. “You’re a very patient young man, Prestor! Here I’ve been ranting and you simply stand there, accepting it all! We’re supposed to be discussing a future marriage! True, we’ve more than two years before it can take place, but the betrothal will require extensive planning!” He shrugged. “Such is the way of royalty!”

Deathwing gave him a slight bow. “I understand completely, Your Majesty.”

The king of Lordaeron began telling him about the various functions his future son-in-law would need to attend over the next several months. In addition to taking charge of Alterac, young Prestor would have to be present for each occasion in order to strengthen the ties between him and Calia in the eyes of the people and his fellow monarchs. The world would need to see that this match would be the beginning of a great future for the Alliance.

“And once we take Khaz Modan and Grim Batol back from those infernal orcs, we can begin plans for a ceremonial return of the lands to the hill dwarves! A ceremony you shall lead, my dear boy, as you are possibly one of those most responsible for holding this Alliance together long enough for victory. . . .”

Deathwing’s attention slipped further and further away from the babblings of Terenas. He knew most of what the old man would say—having placed it into the human’s mind earlier. Lord Prestor, the hero—imagined or otherwise—would reap his rewards and slowly, methodically, begin the destruction of the lesser races.

However, what interested the dragon more at the moment was the conversation between the two wizards, and especially their mention of another of the Kirin Tor, one Krasus. Deathwing found him of interest. He knew that there had been earlier attempts to circumnavigate the spells surrounding the chateau, and that one of those attempts had triggered the Endless Hunger, one of the oldest and most thorough traps ever devised by a wielder of magic. The dragon also knew that the Hunger had failed in its function.

Krasus . . . Was this the name of the wizard who had evaded a spell as ancient as Deathwing himself ?

I may have to learn more about you, the dragon thought as he absently nodded in response to Terenas’s continued babble. Yes, I may have to learn more. . . .