Day of the Dragon

19

Nekros Skullcrusher turned from the devastation, grim but determined not to let it lead him astray from his intentions.

“So much for the wizard . . .” he muttered, trying not to think of what spell the human could have possibly cast that had, in the process, also destroyed the seemingly invincible golem. Clearly very powerful, so much so that it had not only cost the wizard his life, but had brought down the mountain on an entire section of tunnels.

“Dig the body out?” asked one of the warriors.

“No. Waste of time.” Nekros clutched the pouch with the Demon Soul, thinking ahead to the culmination of his desperate plans. “We leave Grim Batol now.”

The other orcs followed him, most still uneasy about this sudden decision to depart the fortress but not at all enamored with the idea of staying behind—especially if the wizard’s spell had weakened the remaining tunnel systems.

An incredible pressure pushed down on Rhonin’s head, a pressure so immense he felt as if at any moment his skull would burst open. With some effort, he forced his eyes open, trying to see if he could find out what pressed on him and how he could quickly remove it.

Turning his blurry gaze upward, he gasped.

An avalanche of rock—literally a ton and more—floated just a foot or so above his head. A dim radiance, the only visible sign of the shield he had cast earlier, revealed the one reason why he had not been crushed to pulp.

The pressure in his head, he realized, had been some part of his mind that had managed to keep the spell intact and, thereby, saved his life. The increasing pain, however, served to tell the trapped mage that with each passing second the spell weakened.

He shifted, trying to make himself more comfortable in the hope that it would relieve some of the pressure—and felt something pressing against the bottom of his head. Rhonin carefully reached down to remove it, assuming it to be some pebble. However, the moment his fingers touched it, he felt a slight hint of magic.

Curiosity momentarily shifting his attention from the horror above him, Rhonin pulled the object near enough to see.

A black gemstone. Surely the same stone that had once been set in the center of Deathwing’s medallion.

Rhonin frowned. The last time he had seen the medallion had been after Kryll’s death. At the time, he had not paid any attention to the stone, his mind more concerned with the danger to Vereesa and—

Vereesa! The elf’s face blossomed full into his thoughts. She and the dwarf had been farther away, protected by the initial spell, but—

He shifted, trying to see. However, as he moved, the pressure in his head multiplied and the stones above dropped a few precious inches more.

At the same time, he heard a deep-voiced curse.

“F-Falstad?” Rhonin gasped.

“Aye . . .” came the somewhat distant reply. “I knew you lived, wizard, since we’d not been flattened, but I was beginnin’ to think you’d never wake! About time!”

“Have you—is Vereesa alive?”

“’Tis hard to say. The light from this spell of yours lets me see her a little, but she’s too distant for me to check! Not heard anything out of her since I woke!”

Rhonin gritted his teeth. She had to be alive. “Falstad! How far above you are the rocks?”

A sardonic laugh escaped his companion. “Near enough to tickle my nose, human, else I’d have slid over to check her sooner! Never thought I’d be alive at my own burial!”

The mage ignored the last, thinking about what the dwarf had said about the nearness of the avalanche. Clearly the farther the spell extended from Rhonin, the less it covered. Both Vereesa and Falstad had been protected from being crushed, but the ranger might possibly have been struck hard on the head—perhaps even slain by the deadly blow.

Yet Rhonin had to hope otherwise.

“Human—if ’tis not too much to ask—can you do anything for us?”

Could he rescue them? Did he have either the power or the strength remaining? He pocketed the black stone, now wholly concerned with the more desperate matter. “Give me a few moments. . . .”

“And what else would I be doing, eh?”

The pressure in the wizard’s head continued to increase at a frightening pace. Rhonin doubted his shield could last much longer, and yet he had to maintain it while attempting this second, perhaps even more complex spell.

He had to not only transport all three of them from this precarious position, but send them to a safe place. All this while his battered form cried out for recuperation.

How did the spell go? It pained him to think, but at last Rhonin summoned the words. Attempting this would draw away his concentration from the shield, though. If he took too long . . .

What choice do I have?

“Falstad, I’m going to try now. . . .”

“That would please me to no end, human! I think the rocks’re already pressing against my chest!”

Yes, Rhonin, too, had noticed the shift. He definitely had to hurry.

He muttered the words, drew the power. . . .

The rocks above him shifted ominously.

Utilizing his good hand, Rhonin drew a sign.

The shield spell failed. Tons of stone dropped upon the trio—

—And suddenly he found himself lying on his back, staring into the cloud-covered heavens.

“Dagath’s Hammer!” Falstad roared from his side. “Did you have to cut it so close?”

Despite the pain, Rhonin pushed himself up to a sitting position. The chill wind actually aided, snapping him out of his disoriented state. He looked in the dwarf’s direction.

Falstad, too, sat up. The gryphon-rider had a wild look in his eyes that for once had nothing to do with battle. His visage had turned absolutely pale, something Rhonin would never have imagined of the stalwart warrior.

“Never, never, never will I crawl into another tunnel! From now on, ’tis only the sky for me! Dagath’s Hammer!”

The wizard might have replied, but a groan from farther on caught his attention. Rising on unsteady feet, he struggled his way toward Vereesa’s prone form. At first Rhonin wondered if he had imagined the groan—the ranger looked completely lifeless—but then Vereesa repeated it.

“She’s—she’s alive, Falstad!”

“Aye, you can tell that from her moaning, I’ll bet! Of course she’s alive! Quick, though! How does she fare?”

“Hold on . . .” Rhonin cautiously turned the elf over, studying her face, her head, and her body. She had been bruised in some places and her arm bore stains of blood, but otherwise she seemed in as good a shape as either of her companions.

While he cautiously held her head up to study a bruise at the top, Vereesa’s eyes fluttered open. “R-Rhon—”

“Yes, it’s me. Take it easy. I think you got struck hard on the head.”

“Remember . . . remember that—” The ranger closed her eyes for a moment—then suddenly sat up, eyes flaring wide, mouth open in horror.“The ceiling! The ceiling! It is falling in on us!”

“No!” He took hold of her. “No, Vereesa! We’re safe! We’re safe. . . .”

“But the cavern ceiling . . .” The elf’s expression relaxed. “No, we are not in the cave any longer . . . but where are we, Rhonin? How did we get here? How did we survive in the first place?”

“You remember the shield that saved us from the golem? After the monster destroyed itself, the shield held up, even when the ceiling collapsed. Its sphere of protection shrank, but it still held up enough to keep us from being crushed to death.”

“Falstad! Is he—”

The dwarf came up on her other side. “’Tis all of us he’s saved, my elven lady. Saved but dropped us off in the middle of nowhere!”

Rhonin blinked. Middle of nowhere? He looked around. The snowy ridge, the chill winds—growing chillier by the moment—and the incredible cloud cover all about them . . . the wizard knew exactly where they were, even despite the darkness surrounding them. “Not nowhere, Falstad. I think I sent us to the very top of the mountain. I think that everything, including the orcs, lies far below us.”

“The top of the mountain?” Vereesa repeated.

“Aye, that would make sense.”

“And judging by the fact that I can see both of you better and better, I fear that it’s nearing dawn.” Rhonin grew grim again. “Which means, if Nekros Skullcrusher is an orc of his word, that they’ll be leaving the fortress at any moment, eggs and all.”

Both Vereesa and the dwarf looked at him. “Now why would they do anything so daft?” asked Falstad. “Why abandon a place so secure?”

“Because of an impending invasion from the west, wizards and dwarves all riding swift, cunning gryphons. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of dwarves and wizards. Maybe even some elves. Against so much, especially magic, Nekros and his men would have no chance even of defending from within the mountain. . . .” The wizard shook his head. The situation might have been different if the commander had realized the true potential of the artifact he carried, but apparently either Nekros did not or his loyalties to his master in Dun Algaz were stronger. The orc had chosen to go north, and north he would go.

Falstad still could not believe it. “An invasion? Where would even an orc get a mad idea like that?”

“From us. From our being here. Especially me. Deathwing wanted me here just to serve as evidence of some forthcoming attack! This Nekros is mad! He already apparently believed that an assault was imminent, and when I showed up in his very midst, he felt certain of it.” Rhonin eyed his broken finger, which had grown numb. He would have to deal with it when he could, but for now, so much more was at stake than a single finger.

“But why would the black beast want the orcs to leave?” the ranger asked. “What would he gain?”

“I think I know. . . .” Standing, Rhonin went to the edge of the mountain and peered down, bracing himself so that the wind would not blow him off the edge. He could still see nothing below, but imagined that he heard some sort of noise . . . perhaps of a military column with wagons moving out? “I think that instead of rescuing the red Dragonqueen—as he tried to convince me—he wants to slay her! It was too much of a risk while she was inside, but in the open he can swoop down and kill her with a single blow!”

“Are you sure?” the elf asked, joining him.

“It has to be.” He looked up. Even the thick cloud cover up here could not obscure the fact that dawn fast approached. “Nekros wanted to leave by dawn. . . .”

“Is he daft?” muttered Falstad. “Would’ve made more sense if the blasted orc had tried to leave during the cover of darkness!”

Rhonin shook his head at Falstad. “Deathwing can see fairly well in the night, maybe even better than any of us! Nekros indicated at one point in the questioning that he was prepared for anything, even Deathwing! In fact, he even seemed eager for the dark one to appear!”

“But that would make the least sense of all!” the ranger returned. “How could a single orc defeat him?”

“How could he keep control of the Dragonqueen—and where did he summon a creature like the golem?” The questions disturbed him more than he let on. Clearly the object that the orc carried had significant abilities, but was it that powerful?

Falstad suddenly waved for silence, then pointed northwest, well beyond the mountain.

A vast, dark shape broke momentarily through the higher clouds, then disappeared from sight again as it descended.

“’Tis Deathwing . . .” the gryphon-rider whispered.

Rhonin nodded. The time for conjecture was over. If Deathwing had come, it meant only one thing. “Whatever is to happen, it’s begun.”

The lengthy orc caravan moved out as the first light of dawn touched Grim Batol. The wagons were flanked at beginning and end by armed warriors wielding freshly honed axes, swords, or pikes. Escorts rode with the peon drivers, especially on the wagons bearing the precious dragon eggs. Each orc traveled as if prepared to face the enemy at any given second, for word of the supposed invasion from the west had reached even the lowest of the low.

On one of the few horses available to the orcs, Nekros Skullcrusher watched the departure with impatience. He had sent the dragon-riders and their mounts on ahead to Dun Algaz, in order that, even if he failed in what he attempted, a few dragons would still be available to the Horde. A pity that he had dared not use them to transport the eggs, but from one previous attempt the commander had learned the folly of trying that.

Erecting a wagon capable of bearing a dragon would have been impossible, and so it had fallen to Nekros himself to take control of the two senior beasts. Both Alexstrasza and, remarkably, Tyran, followed at the rear of the column, ever aware of the power the Demon Soul had over them. For the ill consort, this had to be a harsh situation; Nekros doubted that the male would survive the journey, yet the orc knew there had been no other choice.

They still made for an impressive sight, the two great leviathans. The female more than the male, since she remained in better health. Nekros once caught her glaring at him, her hatred radiating in her eyes. The orc cared not a whit. She would obey him in all things so long as he wielded the one artifact capable of managing any dragon.

Thinking of dragons, he looked skyward. The overcast heavens presented any behemoth with ample places to hide, but eventually something had to happen. Even if the Alliance forces were too far away, Deathwing would surely come. Nekros counted on that.

The humans would learn the folly of entrusting victory to the dark one. What ruled one dragon certainly ruled another. With the Demon Soul, the orc commander would seize control of the most savage of all beasts. He, Nekros, would be master of Deathwing . . . but only if the damned reptile ever appeared.

“Where’re you, you blasted creature?” he muttered. “Where?”

The last row of warriors exited the cavern mouth. Nekros watched them march by. Proud, wild, they hearkened back to the day when the Horde knew no defeat, knew no enemy it could not slaughter. With Deathwing at his command, he would restore that glory to his people. The Horde would rise anew, even those who had surrendered. The orcs would sweep over the Alliance lands, cutting down the humans and the others.

And perhaps there would be a new chieftain of the Horde. For the first time, Nekros dared imagine himself in such a role, with even Zuluhed bowing before him. Yes, he who would bring victory to his people would surely be acclaimed ruler.

War Chief Nekros Skullcrusher . . .

He urged his mount forward, rejoining the column. It would look suspicious if he did not ride with them. Besides, where he positioned himself did not truly matter; the Demon Soul gave him control from a distance. No dragon could be released by it unless he willed it—and certainly the grizzled orc had no intention of doing that.

Where was that blasted black beast?

And, as if in answer, an ear-splitting howl arose. However, the howl did not come from the sky, as Nekros had initially believed, but rather from the very earth surrounding the orcs. It caused consternation among the warriors as they turned about, trying to find the enemy.

A breath later—the ground erupted with dwarves.

They seemed everywhere, more dwarves than even Nekros could have imagined still remained in all of Khaz Modan. They burst from the earth, swinging axes and waving swords, charging the column from every side.

Yet, although momentarily stunned, the orcs quickly recovered. Shouting out their own war cries, they turned to meet the attackers. The guards stayed with the wagons, but they, too, readied themselves, and even the peons, pathetic for most things, pulled out clubs. It took little training for an orc to be able to crush something with a piece of wood.

Nekros kicked at a dwarf who tried to pull him down. One of the commander’s aides quickly stepped in, and a pitched battle began between the two. Nekros steered the horse nearer to the wagons, needing a moment himself to adjust to the situation. Instead of an invasion, he had been attacked by scavengers, for these looked to be the ragged mob that he had always known existed in the tunnels around the mountains. Judging by the numbers now, the trolls had apparently not done their work well.

But where was Deathwing? He had planned for the dragon. There had to be a dragon!

A thundering roar shook the combatants. A vast form darted half-seen through the thick clouds, then broke free, diving toward the orcs.

“At last! At last you’ve come, you black—” Nekros Skullcrusher froze, utterly baffled. He clutched the Demon Soul, but, at the moment, did not even think about using it as he had planned.

The dragon diving toward him had scales the color of fire, not darkness. “We need to get down there,” muttered Rhonin. “I need to see what’s happening!”

“Can’t you just do as you did in the chamber?” asked Falstad.

“If I do, I won’t have any strength to help us once we land . . . besides, I don’t know where to put us. Would you like to end up right in front of an orc swinging an ax?”

Vereesa glanced over the edge. “It does not appear too likely that we can climb down, either.”

“Well, we can’t stay up here forever!” The dwarf paced for a moment, then suddenly looked as if he had just stepped in something terrible. “Hestra’s wings! What a fool! Maybe he’s still around!”

Rhonin eyed the dwarf as if he had lost his wits. “What’re you talking about? Who?”

Instead of answering, Falstad reached into a pouch. “Those blasted trolls took it earlier, but Gimmel handed it back . . . aah! Here ’tis!”

He pulled out what looked to be a tiny whistle. Both Rhonin and Vereesa watched as the dwarf put the whistle to his lips and blew as hard as he could.

“I don’t hear anything,” the wizard remarked.

“I’d have wondered about you if you had. Just wait. He’s well-trained. Best mount I ever had. Mind you, we weren’t taken by the trolls that far from this region. He would’ve stayed for a while. . . .” Falstad looked a little less certain. “’Tis not that long since we were separated. . . .”

“You are trying to summon your gryphon?” the ranger asked, her skepticism clear.

“Better trying that than trying to sprout wings, eh?”

They waited. Waited for what seemed like an eternity to Rhonin. He felt his own strength returning—despite the chill conditions—but feared still to drop the trio into a location that might mean their immediate death.

Yet, it appeared he would have to try. The wizard straightened. “I’ll do what I can. I recall an area not far from the mountain. I think Deathwing showed it to me in my mind. I may be able to send us there.”

Vereesa took him by the arm. “Are you certain? You do not look ready yet.” Her eyes filled with concern. “I know what that must have cost you back in the chamber, Rhonin. That was no minor spell you cast, then managed to maintain even for Falstad and myself. . . .”

He very much appreciated her words, but they had no other choice. “If I don’t—”

A large winged form suddenly materialized through the clouds. Both Rhonin and the elf reacted, certain that Deathwing attacked.

Only Falstad, who had been watching closely, did not act as if their doom had come. He laughed and raised his hands toward the oncoming shape.

“Knew he’d hear! You see! Knew that he’d hear!”

The gryphon squawked in what the mage could have sworn were tones of glee. The massive beast flew swiftly toward them—or rather, his rider in particular. The animal fairly leapt atop Falstad, only the beating wings keeping the full weight of the gryphon from nearly crushing the dwarf.

“Ha! Good lad! Good lad! Down now!”

Tail wagging back and forth in a fashion more akin to a dog than a part-leonine beast, the gryphon landed before Falstad.

“Well?” the short warrior asked his companions. “Is it not time to go?”

They mounted as quickly as they could. Rhonin, still the weakest, sat between the dwarf and Vereesa. He had doubts about the gryphon’s ability to carry them all, but the animal did just fine. On an extended journey, Falstad readily admitted, they would have had more trouble, but for a short trip, the gryphon would have no difficulties.

Moments later, they broke through the clouds—and into a sight they had not at all expected.

Rhonin had supposed that the sounds of battle would be the hill dwarves trying to take advantage of the orcs’ cumbersome wagon train, but what he had not thought to see was a dragon other than Deathwing soaring above the battle.

“A red one!” the ranger called. “An older male, too! Not one raised in the mountain, either!”

He recognized that, too. The orcs had not held the queen long enough for such a behemoth to mature. Besides, the Horde also had a habit of slaying the dragons before they grew too old and independent. Only the young could be managed well enough by their orc handlers.

So where had this crimson leviathan come from, and what did he do here now?

“Where do you want us landing?” Falstad shouted, reminding him of a more immediate situation.

Rhonin quickly scanned the area. The battle seemed mostly contained around the column. He caught sight of Nekros Skullcrusher on horseback, the orc holding something in one hand that gleamed bright despite the clouds. The wizard forgot Falstad’s question as he tried to make out the object. Nekros appeared to be pointing it toward the new dragon. . . .

“Well?” demanded the dwarf.

Tearing his eyes from the orc, Rhonin concentrated hard. “There!” He pointed at a ridge a short distance from the rear of the orc column. “That’ll be best, I think!”

“Looks as good as any!”

Under the gryphon-rider’s expert handling, the animal quickly brought them to their destination. Rhonin immediately slipped off, hurrying to the edge of the ridge in order to survey the situation.

What he saw made no sense whatsoever.

The dragon, which had looked ready to attack Nekros, now hovered as best he could in the air, roaring as if in some titanic struggle with an invisible foe. The wizard studied the orc commander again, noting how the glittering shape in Nekros’s hand seemed to become brighter with each passing second.

An artifact of some sort, and so powerful that now even he could sense the emanations from it. Rhonin looked from the relic to the crimson giant.

How did the orcs maintain control over the Dragonqueen? It had been a question he had asked himself more than once in the past—and now Rhonin truly saw for himself.

The crimson dragon fought back, fought harder than the human could have imagined any creature doing. The trio could hear his painful roars, know that he suffered as few beings ever had.

And then, with one last rasping cry, the behemoth abruptly grew limp. He seemed to hover for a moment—then plummeted toward the earth some distance from the battle.

“Is he dead?” Vereesa asked.

“I don’t know.” If the artifact had not slain the dragon, certainly the high fall threatened to do that. He turned from the sight, not wishing to see so determined a creature perish—and suddenly saw yet another massive form dive from the clouds, this one a nightmare in black.

“Deathwing!” Rhonin warned the others.

The dark dragon soared toward the column, but not in the direction of either Nekros or the two enslaved dragons. Instead, he flew directly toward an unexpected target—the egg-laden carts.

The orc leader saw him at last. Turning, Nekros raised the artifact in Deathwing’s direction, shouting out something at the same time.

Rhonin and the others expected to see even the black fall to this powerful talisman, but, curiously, Deathwing acted as if untouched. He continued his foray toward the wagons—and, clearly, the eggs they carried.

The wizard could not believe his eyes. “He doesn’t care about Alexstrasza, dead or alive! He wants her eggs!”

Deathwing seized two of the wagons with surprising gentleness, lifting them up even as the orcs atop leapt away. The animals pulling the wagons shrieked, dangling helplessly as the dragon turned and immediately flew away.

Deathwing wanted the eggs intact, but why? What use were they to the lone dragon?

Then it occurred to Rhonin that he had just answered his own question. Deathwing wanted the eggs for his own. Red the dragons would be that hatched, but, under the dark one’s fostering, they would become as sinister a force as he.

Perhaps Nekros realized this, or perhaps he simply reacted to the theft in general, but the orc suddenly turned and shouted toward the rear of the column. He continued to hold the artifact high, but now he pointed with his other hand at the vanishing giant.

One of the two red leviathans, the male, spread his wings rather ponderously and took off in pursuit. Rhonin had never seen a dragon who looked so deathly, so sick. He found himself amazed that the creature had managed to fly as high as he had. Surely Nekros did not think this ailing dragon any match for the younger, more virile Deathwing?

Meanwhile, the orcs and dwarves still fought, but the latter now battled with what seemed desperation, disappointment. It almost seemed as if they had put their hopes in the first red male. If so, Rhonin could understand their loss of hope now.

“I do not understand it,” Vereesa said from beside him. “Why does Krasus not help? Surely the wizard should be here! Surely he is the reason the hill dwarves are finally attacking!”

“Krasus!” In all the excitement, Rhonin had forgotten about his patron. In truth, he had some questions for the faceless wizard. “What does he have to do with this?”

She told him. Rhonin listened, first in disbelief, then in growing fury. Yes, as he had begun to suspect, he had been used by the councilor. Not only him, though, but Vereesa, Falstad, and apparently the desperate dwarves below.

“After dealing with the dragon, he led us inside the mountain,” she concluded. “Shortly thereafter, he would not speak to me again.” The elf removed the medallion, showing it to him.

It looked remarkably like the one that Deathwing had given to Rhonin earlier, even down to the patterns. The bitter mage recalled noticing it when the elf and Falstad had tried rescuing him from the orcs. Had Krasus learned how to make it from the dragons?

At some point, the stone had become misaligned. Rhonin pushed it back into place with one finger, then glared at the gem, imagining that his patron could hear him. “Well, Krasus? Are you there? Anything else you’d like us to do for you? Should we die for you, maybe?”

Useless. Whatever power it had contained had evidently dissipated. Certainly Krasus would not bother to answer even if that had still been possible. Rhonin raised the relic high, ready to throw it off the ridge.

A faint voice in his head gasped, Rhonin?

The enraged wizard paused, startled to actually hear a reply.

Rhonin . . . praise . . . praise be . . . there may . . . there may still be . . . hope.

His companions watched him, not at all certain what he did. Rhonin said nothing, trying to think. Krasus sounded ill, almost dying.

“Krasus! Are you—”

Listen! I must conserve . . . energy! I see . . . I see you . . . you may be able to salvage something—

Despite misgivings, Rhonin asked, “What do you want?”

First . . . first I must bring you to me.

The medallion suddenly flared, spreading a vermilion light over the astonished spellcaster.

Vereesa reached for him. “Rhonin!”

Her hand went through his arm. He watched in horror as both she and Falstad—and the entire ridge—vanished.

Almost immediately, a different, rocky landscape materialized around him, a barren place that had seen too many battles and now, in the distance, witnessed another. Krasus had transported him west of the mountains, not far from where the orc column fought with the dwarves. He had not realized that the wizard had been so near after all.

Thinking of his traitorous patron, Rhonin turned about. “Krasus! Damn you, show yourself—”

He found himself staring into the eye of a fallen giant, the same red, draconic giant the human had seen plummet from the skies but minutes earlier. The dragon lay on his side, one wing thrust up, his head flat along the ground

“You have my . . . my deepest apologies, Rhonin,” the gargantuan creature rumbled with some effort. “For . . . for everything painful I have caused you and the others . . .”