Day of the Dragon

16

“Lift him up,” grunted the bestial voice.

Sturdy hands harshly seized a dazed Rhonin by the upper arms and dragged him to his feet. Cold water suddenly splashed all over his face, stirring him to consciousness.

“His hand. That one.” One of those holding the wizard up lifted Rhonin’s left arm. Someone grabbed his hand, took hold of his little finger—

Rhonin screamed as the bone cracked. His eyes flew wide open, and he found himself staring at the brutal visage of an older orc much scarred by years of fighting. The orc’s expression showed no sign of pleasure at the human’s pain, but rather a slight hint of impatience, as if Rhonin’s captor would have preferred to be elsewhere dealing with matters of greater import.

“Human.” The word came out sounding like a curse. “You’ve one chance for life; where’s the rest of your party?”

“I don’t—” Rhonin coughed. The pain from his broken finger still coursed through him. “I’m alone.”

“You take me for a fool?” grunted the leader. “You take Nekros for a fool? How many fingers left, eh?” He tugged on the one next to the broken finger. “Many bones in the body. Many bones to be cracked!”

Rhonin thought as quickly as the pain would allow him. He had already informed his captor that he had come alone and that had not satisfied the orc. What did this Nekros want to hear? That his mountain had been invaded by an army? Would that actually please him?

Of course, it might also help to keep Rhonin alive until he could find some means of escape.

He still did not know what had happened, only that, despite his precautions, he had been fooled by Deathwing. Evidently the dragon had wanted the mage discovered. But why? It made as much sense as Nekros’s seeming desire to have enemy soldiers wandering through his very fortress!

Rhonin could worry about Deathwing’s murky plans later. For now, the ragged wizard’s life came first.

“No! No . . . please . . . the others . . . I’m not certain where they are . . . got separated . . .”

“Separated? Don’t think so! You came for her, didn’t you? You came for the Dragonqueen! That’s your mission, wizard! I know it!” Nekros leaned close, his breath threatening to smother Rhonin back into unconsciousness. “My spies heard! You heard, didn’t you, Kryll?”

“Oh, yes, oh, yes, Master Nekros! I heard it all!”

Rhonin tried to glance past the orc, but Nekros would not let him see who spoke. Still, the voice itself said much about the spy’s identity, especially that this Kryll had to be the goblin he had heard earlier.

“I say again to you, human, that you came for the dragon, isn’t that so?”

“I got sep—”

Nekros slapped him across the face, leaving a trail of blood at the edge of Rhonin’s mouth. “Another finger’ll be next! You came to free the dragon before your armies reached Grim Batol! You figured the chaos would work for you, didn’t you?”

This time, Rhonin learned. “Yes . . . yes, we did.”

“You said ‘we’! That’s twice now!” The lead orc leaned back in triumph. For the first time, the injured mage noticed Nekros’s maimed leg. Small wonder this brutal orc commanded the dragon-breeding program instead of a savage war party.

“You see, great Nekros? Grim Batol is no longer safe, my glorious commander!” pitched in the high voice of the goblin. “Who knows how many more enemies still lurk in its countless tunnels? Who knows how long before the Alliance marches on you—with the dark one leading the way? A pity nearly all your remaining dragons are already up near Dun Algaz! You can’t possibly defend the mountain with so few! Best if the enemy did not find us here at all rather than waste so much precious—”

“Tell me something I don’t know, little wretch!” He poked a meaty finger into Rhonin’s chest. “Well, this one and his comrades’ve come too late! You’ll not get the dragon or her young, human! Nekros’s thought ahead of you all!”

“I don’t—”

Another slap. The only benefit of the stinging pain in the beaten wizard’s face was that it took away from the agony of his broken finger. “You can have Grim Batol, human, for all the good it’s worth! May the whole thing fall down on you!”

“Nekros—you must . . . must stop this insanity!”

Rhonin’s head jerked up. He knew that voice, even though he had heard it but once before.

His guards also reacted to the voice, turning enough to enable him to see the gargantuan, scaled form so wickedly bound by chains and clamps. Alexstrasza, the great Dragonqueen, could scarcely move. Her limbs, tail, wings and throat were held firmly in place. She could clearly open her tremendous jaws, but only enough to eat and speak with effort.

Captivity had not treated her well. Rhonin had seen dragons before, crimson ones especially, and those had all had scales that bore a certain metallic sheen. Alexstrasza’s, on the other hand, had become dull, faded, and in many places looked loose. She did not seem at all well when he studied her reptilian countenance, either. The eyes had a washed-out look to them, not to mention an incredible weariness.

He could only imagine what her imprisonment had been like. Forced to bear young who would be trained by her captors to serve their murderous cause. Never likely seeing them once the eggs were taken from her. Perhaps she even regretted the lives lost because of her deadly progeny. . . .

“You’ve no permission to speak, reptile,” snarled Nekros. He reached into a pouch at his side and clutched something.

Rhonin’s skin tingled as a magical force of astonishing proportions awoke. He did not know what the orc did, yet it made the Dragonqueen cry out with such pain that everyone but Nekros seemed affected by it.

Despite her agony, though, Alexstrasza continued. “You—you waste both energy and—and time, Nekros! You fight for what is—is already—lost!”

With a groan, she finally closed her eyes. Her breathing, so rapid the moment before, briefly grew shallow before returning to a somewhat more normal rate.

“Only Zuluhed commands me, reptile,” the one-legged orc muttered. “And he’s far from here.” His hand slipped free from the pouch. At the same time the magical force that Rhonin had felt abruptly faded away.

The wizard had heard many rumors as to how the Horde could possibly keep such a magnificent creature under their control, but none matched what he had just witnessed. Clearly some artifact or device of tremendous strength lay in that pouch. Did Nekros even truly understand the power he wielded? With such at his beck and call, he could have ruled the Horde himself!

“We need to hunt down the others,” the elder warrior turned to a guard standing by the entranceway. “Where’d you find the guard’s body?”

“Fifth level, third tunnel.”

Nekros’s brow furrowed. “Above us?” He studied Rhonin as if looking over a prime piece of beef. “Wizard’s work! Start searching everything from fifth level up, then—leave no tunnel alone! Somehow they’ve come from above!” A slow grin spread across his outlandish, tusked features. “Maybe not magic after all! Torgus saw the gryphons! That’s it! The rest of ’em came after Deathwing drove Torgus off!”

“Deathwing—Deathwing s-serves no one—but himself!” Alexstrasza suddenly pronounced, eyes opening wide. She sounded almost fearful, for which Rhonin could not blame her. Who did not fear the black demon?

“But he works now with the humans,” insisted her captor. “Torgus saw him!” His hand slapped the pouch. “Well, maybe we’ll be ready for him, too!”

Now Rhonin could not help but stare at the pouch and its contents, which, judging by the vague shape, seemed to be a medallion or disk. What power could it have that Nekros believed would even work against the armored behemoth?

“It’s dragons you all want. . . .” Once more Nekros faced the wizard. “And it’s dragons you’ll get . . . but you and the dark one won’t be happy long, human!” He waved toward the exit. “Take him away!”

“Kill him?” grunted one of the guards in what seemed hopeful tones.

“Not yet! More questions later for this one . . . maybe! You know where to put him! I’ll come right after to make certain that even his magic won’t help him!”

The two massive orcs holding onto Rhonin pulled him forward with such vigorous force that he thought that they would wrench his arms from the shoulder sockets. Through somewhat blurred vision, he caught a glimpse of Nekros turning to another orc.

“Double the work! Get the wagons ready! I’ll deal with the queen! I want everything prepared!”

Nekros passed from Rhonin’s field of vision—and another figure entered.

The goblin that the orc had called Kryll winked at Rhonin, as if both shared a secret. When the wizard opened his mouth, the malevolent little figure shook his oversized head and smiled. In his hands, the goblin clutched something tight, something that drew the human’s attention.

Kryll slid one hand back just long enough for Rhonin to see what he carried.

Deathwing’s medallion.

And as the guards dragged him out of the commander’s chamber, it came to the worn mage that he now knew how Deathwing had garnered so much information about Grim Batol. He also knew that, whatever Nekros planned, the orc, like Rhonin, did exactly as the black dragon wanted.

Although at home in the forests and hills, Vereesa had to admit that, when it came to the underworld, she could not tell one tunnel from another. Her innate sense of direction seemed to fail her—either that or the fact that she had to continually duck distracted her too much. Even though trolls used these tunnels from time to time, most had been hewed out by dwarves in the days when the region around Grim Batol had served as part of a complex mining community. That meant that Rom, Gimmel, and even Falstad had little difficulty navigating them, but the tall elf had to walk bent over much of the time. Her back and legs ached, but she gritted her teeth, unwilling to show any sign of weakness among these hardy warriors. After all, Vereesa had been the one who had insisted on coming here in the first place.

Yet she finally had to ask, “Are we almost near?”

“Soon, very soon,” replied Rom. Unfortunately, he had been saying that for some time now.

“This entrance,” Falstad mused. “Where’s it again?”

“The tunnel comes out in what used to be a transport point for the gold we mined. Ye may even see a few old tracks, if the orcs haven’t melted them all down for weaponry.”

“And in this way we can get inside?”

“Aye, ye can follow back along the old path even if the tracks’re gone. They’ve some guards there, though, so it won’t be easy.”

Vereesa thought this over. “You mentioned dragons, too. How far above?”

“Not dragons in the sky, Lady Vereesa, but ones on the ground. That’s where it gets tricky, ye might say.”

“On the ground?” snorted Falstad.

“Aye, ones with damaged wings or too untrusted to let fly. Should be two on this side of the mountain.”

“On the ground . . .” the dwarf from the Aerie muttered. “Be a different sort of battle . . .”

Rom suddenly paused, pointing ahead. “There ’tis, Lady Vereesa! The opening!”

The ranger squinted but even with her exceptional night vision, she could not make out the supposed opening.

Falstad apparently did. “Awful small. Be a tight fit.”

“Aye, too tight for orcs and they think too tight for us, but there’s a trick to it.”

Still unable to see anything, Vereesa had to satisfy herself with following the dwarves. Only when they had nearly reached what seemed a dead end did she begin to notice a little bit of light filtering in from above. Stepping closer, the frustrated elf noticed a slit barely big enough to fit her sword through, much less her body.

She glanced down at the leader of the hill dwarves. “A trick to it, you say?”

“Aye! The trick is that ye must move these rocks here, carefully set by us, in order to open the gap big enough, but ye can’t reach them from the outside! From there it looks to be all one rock, and it’d take the orcs powerful more time than they’d like to do the job!”

“They know you are underground, though, do they not?”

Rom’s expression grew dour. “Aye, but with the dragons about, they fear little from us. The way ye must go to get inside is a dangerous one. That must be evident to ye. It frustrates us to be so close and yet be unable to rid ourselves of these cursed invaders. . . .”

For some reason she could not fathom, Vereesa sensed that the dwarven leader had not told her everything. What he had said might be true to some extent, but for some other reason his people had not made much use of this route. Had something happened in the past to make them shy away from it, or was it truly that dangerous out there?

If the latter, did the elf really want to take the risk?

She had already committed herself. If not for Rhonin, then for whatever she might do to help end this interminable war—although Vereesa still held out hope that somehow she might find the wizard alive.

“We should get started. Is there a certain pattern needed when removing the rocks from their positions?”

Rom blinked. “Lady elf, ye must wait until dark! Any sooner and ye will be sighted, sure as I stand before ye!”

“But we cannot wait that long!” Vereesa had no idea how many hours had passed since she and Falstad had been captured by the trolls, but surely only a few hours at most.

“’Tis only an hour and a little more, Lady Vereesa! Surely that’s worth ye life!”

That little of a wait? The ranger eyed Falstad.

“You were out for a very long time,” he replied to her unspoken question. “For a while, I thought you dead.”

The elf tried to calm herself down. “Very well. We can wait until then.”

“Good!” The leader of the hill dwarves clapped his hands together. “That’ll give us time to eat and rest!”

Although at first Vereesa felt too tense to even consider food, she accepted the simple fare that Gimmel offered her a few minutes later. That these struggling souls would share what little they had spoke of the depths of their compassion and camaraderie. Had the dwarves wanted to, they could have very well slain Falstad and her after having dealt with the trolls. No one outside of their group would have ever been the wiser.

Gimmel took charge of seeing to it that everyone shared equally in the provisions. Rom, after taking his portion, slowly wandered off, saying that he wished to inspect some of the side tunnels they had passed earlier for any sign of troll activity.

Falstad ate with gusto, seemingly enthused by the taste of the dried meat and fruit. Vereesa ate with less enthusiasm, dwarven fare not famous for its succulent taste in either the elven or human realms. She understood that they cured the meat in order to better preserve it, and even marveled that someone had found or grown fruit in this dismal land, but her more sensitive taste buds even now complained to her. However, the food was filling, and the ranger knew that she would need the energy.

After finishing her fare, Vereesa rose and looked around. Falstad and the other dwarves had settled in to relax, but the impatient elf needed to walk. She grimaced, thinking again how her instructor would have called her so human right now. Most elves early on outgrew their tendencies toward impatience, but some retained that trait for the rest of their lives. Those generally ended up either living beyond the homeland or taking on tasks that let them travel extensively in the name of their people. Perhaps, if she lived through this, she might choose one of those paths, maybe even visit Dalaran.

Fortunately for Vereesa, the tunnels here had been carved out somewhat higher than many of those through which she had earlier passed. For the most part, the elf managed to traverse the rocky corridors with minimal bending, even occasionally standing unhindered.

A muffled voice some distance ahead suddenly made her halt. The ranger had journeyed farther than she had intended, enough so that she might have very well dropped herself right into troll territory. With tremendous care so as not to make a sound, Vereesa drew her blade, then inched forward.

The voice did not sound like that of a troll. In fact, the nearer she moved, the more it seemed to her that she knew the speaker—but how?

“—couldn’t be helped, great one! Didn’t think ye wanted them to know about ye!” A pause. “Aye, an elf ranger fair of face and form, that’s her.” Another pause. “The other? A wild one from the Aerie. Said his mount escaped when the trolls took ’em.”

Try as she might, Vereesa could not hear the other half of the conversation, but she at least knew who presently spoke. A hill dwarf, and one very much familiar to her.

Rom. So his comment about searching the tunnels had not entirely been truth. But who did he speak with and why did the elf not hear that one? Had the dwarf gone mad? Did he talk with himself ?

Rom did not speak now save to acknowledge that he understood what his silent companion said. Risking discovery, Vereesa edged toward the corridor from which the dwarf’s voice came. She leaned around just enough in order to observe him with one eye.

The dwarf sat on a rock, staring down into his cupped palms, from which a faint, vermilion glow radiated. Vereesa squinted, trying to see what he held.

With some difficulty, she made out a small medallion with what appeared to be a jewel in the center. Vereesa did not have to be a wizard like Rhonin to recognize an object of power, an enchanted talisman created by magic. The great elven lords utilized similar devices in order to communicate with either their counterparts or their servants.

What wizard, though, now spoke with Rom? Dwarves were not known for their fondness for magic nor, for that matter, for their fondness for the ones who wielded it.

If Rom had links to a wizard, one whom the dwarf apparently even served, why did he and his band still wander the tunnels, hoping for the day when they might be free to walk under the heavens? Surely this great spellcaster could have done something for them.

“What?”Rom suddenly blurted. “Where?”

With startling swiftness, he looked up, his gaze focusing directly on her.

Vereesa backed out of sight, but she knew her reaction had been too late. The dwarven leader had spotted her, even despite the darkness.

“Come out where I can see ye!” he called. When she hesitated, Rom added, “I know ’tis ye, Lady Vereesa. . . .”

Seeing no more reason for subterfuge, the ranger stepped into the open. She made no attempt to sheathe her sword, not at all certain that Rom might not be a traitor to his own people, much less her.

She found him eyeing her in disappointment. “Here I thought I’d gone far away enough to avoid them sharp, elven ears! Why did ye have to come here?”

“My intent was innocent, Rom. I only needed to walk. Your intent, however, leaves many questions. . . .”

“This business is none of ye concern—eh?”

The gemstone in the medallion briefly flared, startling both of them. Rom tipped his head slightly to the side, as if again listening to the unheard speaker. If so, then he clearly did not like what he heard.

“Do ye think it wise—aye, as ye say. . . .”

Vereesa tightened her grip on her sword. “Who do you speak with?”

To her surprise, Rom held out the medallion. “He’ll tell ye himself.” When she did not take the proffered medallion, he added, “He’s a friend, not a foe.”

Still wielding the sword, the elf reached out with her free hand and gingerly took hold of the talisman. She waited for a jolt or searing heat, but the medallion actually felt cool, harmless.

My greetings to you, Vereesa Windrunner.

The words echoed in her skull. Vereesa nearly dropped the medallion, not because of the voice, but rather that the speaker knew her name. She glanced at Rom, who seemed to encourage her to converse.

Who are you? the ranger demanded, sending her own thoughts toward the unseen speaker.

Nothing happened. She glanced again at the dwarf.

“Did he say anything to ye?”

“In my mind he did. I replied the same way, but he does not answer back.”

“Ye have to talk to the talisman! He’ll hear ye voice as thought on his end. The same when he speaks to ye.” The canine features looked apologetic. “I’ve no reason why ’tis so, but that’s the way it works. . . .”

Returning her gaze to the medallion, Vereesa tried again. “Who are you?”

You know me through my missives to your superiors. I am Krasus of the Kirin Tor.

Krasus? That had been the name of the wizard who had arranged with the elves for Vereesa to guide Rhonin to the sea in the first place. She knew little more about him than that her masters had reacted with respect when presented with his request. Vereesa knew of few other humans who could command such from any elven lord.

“I know your name. You are also Rhonin’s patron.”

A pause. An uneasy pause if the ranger were any judge. I am responsible for his journey.

“You know that he may be a prisoner of the orcs?”

I do. It was not intended.

Not intended? Vereesa felt an unreasonable fury arise within her. Not intended?

His mission was to observe, after all. Nothing more.

The elf had long ago ceased believing that. “Observe from where? The dungeons of Grim Batol? Or was he to meet with the hill dwarves for some reason you have not stated?”

Another pause. Then, The situation is far more complex than that, young one, and growing more so by the moment. Your presence, for instance, was not part of the plan. You should have turned around at the seaport.

“I swore an oath. I felt that it extended beyond the shores of Lordaeron.”

Near her, Rom wore a befuddled look. Bereft of the means by which to speak to the wizard, he could only guess at Krasus’s end of the conversation and to what Vereesa’s responses might refer.

Rhonin is . . . fortunate, Krasus finally replied.

“If he still lives,” she nearly snapped.

Yet again, the wizard hesitated before answering. Why did he act as he did? Surely he did not care what befell Rhonin. Vereesa knew enough about the ways of the spellcasters, both human and elf, to understand that their kind ever used each other if given the opportunity. It only surprised her that Rhonin, who had seemed more clever, had fallen for this Krasus’s trickery.

Yes . . . if he still lives. . . . More hesitation. . . . then it is up to us to see what can be done to free him.

His reply completely startled her. She had hardly expected it of him.

Vereesa Windrunner, hear me out. I have made some lapses in judgment—for great concerns—and the fate of Rhonin is one of those lapses. You intend to try to find him, do you not?

“I do.”

Even in the mountain fortress of the orcs? A place of dragons, too?

“Yes.”

Rhonin is fortunate to have you as a comrade . . . and I hope to be as fortunate now. I will do what I can to aid you in this formidable quest, although the physical danger will be yours, of course.

“Of course,” the elf wryly returned.

Please return the talisman to Rom. I would speak with him for a moment.

More than willing to part with the wizard’s tool, Vereesa handed the medallion back to the dwarf. Rom took it and stared into the jewel. Occasionally he nodded his head, although clearly whatever Krasus said bothered him much.

Finally, he looked up at Vereesa. “If ye really think it necessary . . .”

She realized his words were for the wizard. A moment later, the glow from the jewel dimmed. Rom, looking not at all happy, extended the talisman to the elf.

“What is this?”

“He wants ye to have it for the journey. Here! He’ll tell ye himself!”

Vereesa took the object back. Immediately Krasus’s voice filled her head again. Rom told you that I wished you to carry this?

“Yes, but I do not want—”

Do you wish to find Rhonin? Do you wish to save him?

“Yes, but—”

I am your only hope.

She would have argued with him, but, in truth, the ranger knew that she needed aid. With only Falstad and herself, the odds already stood stacked against her.

“All right. What do we do?”

Place the talisman around your neck, then return with Rom to the others. I will guide you and your dwarven companion into the mountain . . . and to the most likely place where you might find Rhonin.

He did not offer all she needed, but enough to make her agree. Slipping the chain over her head, Vereesa let the medallion rest upon her chest.

You will be able to hear me whenever I wish it, Vereesa Windrunner.

Rom walked past her, already heading back. “Come! We’re wasting time, lady elf.”

As she followed, Krasus continued to talk to her. Make no mention of what this medallion does. Do not even speak around others unless I give permission. Only Rom and Gimmel presently know my role.

“And what is that?” she could not help muttering.

Trying to preserve a future for us all.

The elf wondered about that, but said nothing. She still did not trust the wizard, but had little other choice.

Perhaps Krasus knew that, for he added, Hear me now, Vereesa Windrunner. I may tell you to do things you might not think in the best interests of you or those you care about. Trust that they are. There are dangers ahead you do not understand, dangers that alone you cannot face.

And you understand them all? Vereesa thought, knowing that Krasus would not hear the question.

There is still a short period of time before the sun sets. I must attend to a matter of import. Do not depart from the tunnels until I give you the word. Farewell for now, Vereesa Windrunner.

Before she could protest, his voice had faded away. The ranger cursed under her breath. She had accepted the spellcaster’s questionable aid, now she had to obey his commands. Vereesa did not like at all putting her life—not to mention Falstad’s—in the hands of a wizard who commanded from the safety of his far-off tower.

Worse, the elf had just put their lives in the hands of the same wizard who had sent Rhonin on this insane journey in the first place . . . and seemingly left him to die.