Day of the Dragon

21

They threw their full might at him—or at least what remained of it. They threw both physical and magical assaults at Deathwing, and he shrugged all off. No matter how hard they fought against him, the fact remained that, diminished by their long-ago contributions to the Demon Soul, the other great Aspects might as well have been infants in comparison to the black leviathan.

Nozdormu cast the sand of ages at him, threatening, at least for a moment, to steal Deathwing’s very youth. Deathwing felt the weakness spread through him, felt his bones grow stiff and his thoughts slower. Yet, before the change could become permanent, the raw power within the chaotic dragon surged high, burning away the sand, overwhelming the cunning spell.

From Malygos came a more frontal assault, the mad creature’s fury almost enabling him to match Deathwing’s power, if but for a moment. Icicles of lightning assailed Malygos’s hated foe from all directions, intense heat and numbing cold simultaneously beating at Deathwing. Yet the enchanted iron plates embedded in the black’s hide deflected nearly all of the raging storm away, readily enabling Deathwing to suffer what little made it through.

Of all of them, though, his most cunning and dangerous foe proved to be Ysera. Initially, she stayed back, seeming content to let her comrades waste their efforts on him. Then Deathwing noticed a complacency in himself, a satisfaction that grew to distraction. Almost too late he realized that he had begun to daydream. Shaking his head, he quickly dislodged the cobwebs that she had cast within his mind—just as all three of his adversaries tried to seize him in their talons.

With several beats of his expansive wings, he pulled out of their grasp, then counterattacked. Between his forepaws formed a vast sphere of pure energy, primal power, that he threw into their very midst.

The sphere exploded as it reached the trio, sending Ysera and the others spiraling backward.

Deathwing roared his defiance. “Fools! Throw what you can at me! The outcome will be no different! I am power incarnate! You are nothing but shadows of the past!”

“Never underestimate what you may learn from the past, dark one. . . .”

A crimson shadow Deathwing had thought never to see aloft again filled his vision, surprising even him for once. “Alexstrasza . . . come to avenge your consort?”

“Come to avenge my consort and my children, Deathwing, for I know all too well that this is all because of you!”

“I?” The black behemoth gave her a toothy grin. “But even I cannot touch the Demon Soul;you and yours saw to that!”

“But something led the orcs to a place of which only dragons knew . . . and something hinted to them of the power of the disk!”

“Does it matter, anyway? Your day is past, Alexstrasza, while mine is about to come!”

The red dragon spread her wings wide and flashed her claws. Despite the deprivations of her captivity, she did not look at all weak at the moment. “It is your day that is over, dark one!”

“I have faced the ravages of time, the curse of nightmares, and the mists of sorcery, thanks to the others! What weapons do you bring?”

Alexstrasza met his sinister gaze with her own determined, unblinking orbs. “Life . . . hope . . . and what they bring with them . . .”

Deathwing took in her words—and laughed loud. “Then you are as good as dead already!”

The two giants charged one another. “She cannot hope to beat him,” Rhonin muttered. “None of them can, because they’re all lacking what this damned artifact took from them!”

“If there is nothing we can do, then we should leave, Rhonin.”

“I can’t, Vereesa! I’ve got to do something for her—for all of us, actually! If they can’t stop Deathwing, who will?”

Falstad eyed the Demon Soul.“Can you do nothing with that thing?”

“No. It won’t work against Deathwing in any way.”

The dwarf rubbed his hairy chin. “Pity ’tis not possible to give back the magic that thing stole! At least then they could fight with him on even terms. . . .”

The wizard shook his head. “That can’t be—” He paused, trying to think. With the broken finger, his throbbing head, and the bruises all over his body, it took effort just to keep on his feet. Rhonin concentrated, focusing on what the gryphon-rider had just said. “But, then again, maybe it can!”

His companions looked at him in bewilderment. Rhonin quickly glanced around to assure himself that they were safe from orcs for the moment, then located the hardest rock he could find.

“What are you doing?” Vereesa asked, sounding as if she wondered whether he had lost his mind.

“Returning their power to them!” He put the Demon Soul on top of another stone, then raised the first high.

“What in blazes do you think—” was as far as Falstad managed.

Rhonin brought the rock down as hard as he could on the disk.

The rock in his hand cracked in two.

The Demon Soul glistened, not even blemished by the assault.

“Damn! I should’ve known!” He looked up at the dwarf. “Can you swing that thing with great accuracy?”

Falstad looked insulted. “It may be inferior orc work, but ’tis still a usable weapon and, as such, I can swing it as good as any!”

“Use it on the disk! Now!”

The ranger put a concerned hand on the wizard’s shoulder. “Rhonin, do you really think this will work?”

“I know the spellwork that will return it to them, a variation used by those of my order when trying to draw from other relics, but it demands that the artifact in question be shattered, so that the forces binding the magic within won’t exist any longer! I can give back to the dragons what they lost—but only if I can get the Demon Soul open!”

“Is that why, then?” Falstad hefted the war-ax. “Stand back, wizard! Would you like it in two neat halves or chopped into little fragments?”

“Just destroy it in whatever way you can!”

“Simple enough . . .” Raising the ax high, the dwarf took a deep breath—then swung so hard that Rhonin could see the intense strain in his companion’s arm muscles.

The ax struck true—

Fragments of metal went flying.

“By the Aerie! The head! ’Tis completely ruined!”

A great gap in the blade gave proof of the Demon Soul’s hard surface. Falstad threw down the ax in disgust, cursing shoddy orc workmanship.

Rhonin, however, knew that the ax had not been at fault. “This is worse than I would’ve imagined!”

“Magic must protect it,” Vereesa murmured. “Cannot magic also destroy it?”

“It would have to be something powerful. My magic alone wouldn’t do it, but if I had another talisman—” He recalled the medallion Krasus—or, rather, Korialstrasz—had given Vereesa, but that had been left behind after the wizard and the red dragon had headed back to the battle. Besides, Rhonin doubted that it would serve well enough. Better if he had something from Deathwing himself, but that medallion had been lost in the mountain—

But he still had the stone! The stone created from one of the black dragon’s own scales!

“It has to work!” he cried, reaching into his pouch.

“What’ve you got?” Falstad asked.

“This!” He pulled out the tiny stone, an object which in no manner impressed the other two. “Deathwing created this from his very being, just as he created the Demon Soul through his magic! It may be able to do what nothing else could!”

As they watched, he brought the stone to the disk. Rhonin debated how best to use it, then decided to follow the teachings of his craft—try the simple way first.

The black gem seemed to gleam in his grip. The wizard turned it on the sharpest edge he could find. Rhonin knew very well that his plan might not work, but he had nothing else to try.

With great caution, he ran the stone along the center of the foul talisman.

Deathwing’s scale cut into the Demon Soul’s hardened gold exterior like a knife through butter.

“Look out!” Vereesa pulled him back just in time, as a plume of sheer light burst from the cut.

Rhonin sensed the intense magical energy escaping from the damaged talisman and knew he had to act fast, lest it be lost forever to those to whom it truly belonged.

He muttered the spell, adjusting it as he thought needed. The weary mage concentrated hard, not wanting to risk failure at so critical a juncture. It had to work.

A fantastic, glittering rainbow rose higher and higher, flying up into the heavens. Rhonin repeated his spell, emphasizing as best he could what he wanted as results. . . .

The nearly blinding plume, now hundreds of feet in height, twisted around—heading in the direction of the battling dragons.

“Did you do it?” the ranger breathlessly asked.

Rhonin stared at the distant forms of Alexstrasza, Deathwing, and the others. “I think so—I hope so. . . .”

“Have you not been through enough? Will you continue to fight what you cannot defeat?” Deathwing eyed his foes with utter contempt. What little respect had remained for them had long ago died away. The fools continued to bang their heads against the proverbial wall, even though they knew that, together, their power still lacked.

“You have caused too much misery, too much horror, Deathwing,” Alexstrasza retorted. “Not just to us, but to the mortal creatures of this world!”

“What are they to me—or, for that matter, even you? I will never understand that!”

She shook her head in what he realized could be pity—for him? “No . . . you never will. . . .”

“I have toyed enough with you—all of you! I should have destroyed you four years ago!”

“But you could not! Creating the Demon Soul weakened even you for quite some time. . . .”

He snorted. “But now I have recovered my full strength! My plans for this world advance rapidly . . . and after I have slain all of you, I shall take your eggs, Alexstrasza, and create my perfect world!”

In response, the crimson dragon attacked again. Deathwing laughed, knowing that her spells would affect him no better than they had before. Between his own power and the enchanted plates grafted to his skin, nothing could hurt him—

“Aaargh!!” The fury of her magical attack tore at him with a force he could not have imagined. His adamantium plates did little to lessen the horrific impact. Deathwing immediately countered with a powerful shield, but the damage had been done. His entire body ached from pain such as he had not known in many centuries.

“What—have you—done tome?”

At first Alexstrasza looked surprised herself, but then a knowing—and triumphant—smile crossed her draconic features. “The bare beginnings of what I have these past years dreamed of doing, foul one!”

She looked larger, stronger. In fact, all four of them looked that way. A sensation coursed through the black dragon, the feeling that something had gone terribly wrong with his perfect plan.

“Can you feel it? Can you feel it?” Malygos babbled. “I am me again! What a glorious thing!”

“And it’sss about time!” returned Nozdormu, gemstone eyes uncommonly bright and gleaming. “Yesss, ssso very much about time!”

Ysera opened her arresting eyes, this time so arresting that it was all Deathwing could do to pull his gaze from them. “It is the end of the nightmare,” she whispered. “Our dream has become truth!”

Alexstrasza nodded. “What was lost has been returned to us. The Demon Soul. . . the Demon Soul is no more.”

“Impossible!” the metallic behemoth roared. “Lies! Lies!”

“No,” corrected the crimson figure. “The only lie left to disprove now is that you are invincible.”

“Yesss,” snapped Nozdormu. “I look forward to disssproving that ridiculousss fallacy. . . .”

And Deathwing found himself under attack by four elemental forces the likes of which he had never faced. No longer did he fight mere shadows of his rivals, but a quartet, each his equal—and he no match for all together.

Malygos brought the very clouds to him, clouds with suffocating holds around the black dragon’s jaws and nostrils. Nozdormu turned time forward for Deathwing alone, sapping his adversary of strength by forcing Deathwing to suffer weeks, months, then years without rest. His defenses already crippled by these assaults, Ysera had no trouble invading his mind, turning the armored behemoth’s thoughts to his worst nightmares.

Only then did Alexstrasza rise before him, the terrible nemesis. She gazed at Deathwing, still in part with pity, and said, “Life is my Aspect, dark one, and I, like all mothers, know both the pain and wonder that entails! For the past several years, I have watched my children be raised as instruments of war, slaughtered if they proved insufficient or too willful! I have lived knowing that so many died that I could do nothing for!”

“Your words mean nothing to me,” Deathwing roared as he futilely struggled to shrug off the others’ horrific assaults.“Nothing!”

“No, they likely do not . . . which is why I shall let you experience firsthand all that I have suffered. . . .”

And she did just that. Against any other attack, even the nightmares of Ysera, Deathwing could summon some defense, but against Alexstrasza’s he had no weapon upon which to draw. She attacked with pain, but her pain. She dealt not with agony as he knew it, but with that of a loving mother who suffered with each child torn from her, with each child turned into something terrible.

With each child who perished.

“You will go through all I have gone through, dark one. Let us see if you fare any better than I did.”

But Deathwing had no experience in such suffering. It tore at him where the pain of vicious talons or ripping teeth could not, for it tore at him in his very being.

The most terrible of dragons screamed as none had ever heard a dragon scream before.

That, perhaps, was all that saved him. So startled were the others by it that they faltered in their own spells. Able at last to rip free, Deathwing turned and fled, flying fast and furious. His entire body shook and he continued to scream even as he swiftly dwindled from sight.

“We mussst not let him ssslip away!” Nozdormu suddenly realized.

“Follow him, follow him, indeed!” agreed Malygos.

“I agree,” She of the Dreaming quietly added. Ysera looked at Alexstrasza, who hovered, amazed at what she had done. “Sister?”

“Yes,” the red dragon replied, nodding. “By all means, go on! I shall join you shortly. . . .”

“I understand . . .”

The other three Aspects veered off, gathering speed as they began their pursuit of the renegade.

Alexstrasza watched them fly off, almost ready to join in the hunt. She did not know if, even with their power returned to them, they could forever end the terror of Deathwing, but he certainly had to be contained. However, there were other matters that she had to deal with first.

The Dragonqueen surveyed both the skies and earth, searching. At last she spotted the one she sought.

“Korialstrasz,” she whispered. “You were not one of Ysera’s dreams after all. . . .”

If they had fought alone, the dwarves might have suffered a different fate. Certainly they could have held their own for a time, but the orcs had not only outnumbered them, they had also been in better condition. Years of skulking underground had hardened Rom’s band in some ways, but it had drained them in others.

A fortunate thing, then, that their ranks had been added to by a war wizard, a skilled elven ranger, and one of their mad cousins atop a gryphon with razor-sharp talons and beak. With the Demon Soul destroyed, the trio had turned their talents to aiding the trusty hill dwarves and turning the tide.

Of course, the red dragon constantly swooping down on the orcs every time they tried to organize ranks certainly helped.

What remained of Grim Batol’s orc forces finally surrendered, so very beaten that they knelt before the victors, certain death would soon follow. Rom, his arm in a sling, might have granted them that, for many of his folk and those of his allies had perished, including Gimmel. However, the dwarven leader followed the commands of another—and who argued with a dragon?

“They will be marched to the west, where Alliance vessels will take them back to the enclaves already set up. There has been enough blood this day, and northern Khaz Modan will certainly cause the shedding of more. . . .” Korialstrasz looked tired, so very tired. “I have seen enough blood today, thank you. . . .”

With Rom’s promise to do as the leviathan bid, Korialstrasz turned his attention to Rhonin.

“I won’t tell anyone the truth about you, Krasus,”the young wizard immediately said. “I think I understand why you did what you did.”

“But I will never forgive myself for my lapses. I only pray that my queen understands. . . .” The reptilian giant managed an almost human shrug. “As for my place in the Kirin Tor, that will be up for some debate. Not only do I not know if I wish to stay, but the truth about what happened is surely to come out—at least in part. They will realize that I sent you on other than a simple reconnaissance mission.”

“What happens now?”

“Many things . . . too many things. The Horde still maintains its hold on Dun Algaz, but that will come to an end soon. After that, this world must rebuild . . . providing it gains the chance.” He paused. “In addition, there are some political matters which, after this day’s events, will most certainly shift.” Korialstrasz eyed the tiny creatures before him somewhat uneasily. “And I will say to you now that my kind is as much to blame for those shifts as anyone else.”

Rhonin would have pressed, but he immediately saw that Korialstrasz would not be answering those questions. Having learned of both Deathwing’s and the red dragon’s ability to masquerade as humans, the wizard did not doubt that the ancient race had interfered much over the history of not only humanity, but the elves and others as well.

“That was quick thinking, what you did, Rhonin,” the behemoth remarked. “You were always a good student. . . .”

The conversation came to an abrupt end as a vast shadow swept over the band. For a brief moment, the weary mage feared that Deathwing had somehow escaped his pursuers and had returned to take his vengeance on those who had caused his defeat.

However, the dragon hovering above turned out not to be black, but rather as crimson as Korialstrasz.

“The dark one flees! His evil is, if not stopped, certainly curtailed some!”

Korialstrasz gazed up, longing in his voice. “My queen . . .”

“I had thought you dead,” murmured Alexstrasza to her consort. “I mourned you for a long time. . . .”

The male looked guilty. “The subterfuge was necessary, my queen, if only to give me the opportunity to try to win your freedom. I apologize not only for the pain I caused you, but also the inconsideration I displayed by manipulating these mortals. I know how you feel toward their kind. . . .”

She nodded. “If they will forgive you, then so will I.” Her tail slipped down, intertwining with his own for a moment. “The others still pursue the dark one, but before I would join them in the hunt, we must gather what remains of our flight and rebuild our home anew. This I think a priority.”

“I am your servant,” he replied, bowing his massive head. “Now and forever, my love.”

Looking at the wizard and his friends, the Dragonqueen added, “For your sacrifices, the least we can do is offer you a ride home—providing you can wait a little while.”

Even though, with much effort, Falstad’s gryphon could have eventually carried them home, Rhonin gratefully accepted. He found he liked both dragons, despite Korialstrasz’s past trickery. Put in the same position, the wizard probably would have acted just as the consort had.

“The hill dwarves will give you food and a place to rest. We will return for you tomorrow after the eggs have all been recovered and safely secreted.” A bitter smile crossed her draconic features. “Praise be that our eggs are so very durable, or else even in defeat Deathwing would have struck mine a bitter blow. . . .”

“Do not think about it,” urged the male. “Come! The sooner we are done, the better!”

“Yes . . .” Alexstrasza dipped her head toward the trio. “Human Rhonin, elf, and dwarf ! I thank all three of you for your parts in this, and know that as long as I am queen, my kind will never be an enemy to yours. . . .”

And with that, both dragons rose high into the air, racing in the direction that Deathwing had gone with the first of the eggs. Those still remaining with the caravan would be under the protection of the jubilant hill dwarves, who could at last claim the mountain fortress and all of Grim Batol as theirs again.

“A glorious sight, them!” rumbled Falstad once the dragons had vanished. He turned to his companions. “My elven lady, you shall always be a part of my dreams!” He took the confused ranger’s hand, shook it, then said to Rhonin, “Wizard, I’ve not dealt much with your kind, but I’ll say here that at least one of ’em has the heart of a warrior! Be quite a tale I’ll be telling, the Taking of Grim Batol! Don’t be surprised if you someday find dwarves regaling your story in some tavern, eh?”

“Are you leaving us?” Rhonin asked in complete bewilderment. They had only just won the battle. He still struggled to catch his breath from the entire matter.

“You should not go until at least the morning,” Vereesa insisted.

The wild dwarf shrugged as if indicating that, had it been his own choice, he would have gladly stayed. “Sorry I am, but this news must reach the Aerie as soon as possible! As fast as the dragons’ll be, I’ll get back there before they reach Lordaeron! ’Tis my duty—and I’d like a few particular folk there to know I’ve not been lost after all. . . .”

Rhonin gratefully took Falstad’s powerful hand, thankful that he did not have to use his own injured one to shake. Even tired, the gryphon-rider had a crushing grip. “Thank you for everything!”

“No, human, thank you! I’d like to see another rider with a greater song of glory to sing than I’ve got! Will make the heads of the ladies turn my way, believe you me!”

In a startling display for one so reserved, Vereesa leaned down and kissed the dwarf lightly on the cheek. Underneath his great beard, Falstad blushed furiously. Rhonin felt a twinge of jealousy.

“Take care of yourself,” she warned the rider.

“That I will!” He mounted the back of the gryphon with one practiced leap. With a wave to the duo, Falstad tapped lightly on the animal’s sides with his heels. “Mayhaps we’ll all meet again once this war’s truly over!”

The gryphon lifted off into the sky, circling once so that Falstad could bid them farewell again. Then the dwarf’s mount steered west, and the short warrior vanished into the distance.

Rhonin waved at the dwindling figure, recalling with some guilt his first impressions of the dwarf. Falstad had proven himself though, in many ways more than the wizard felt that he had.

A gentle hand took hold of his crippled one, lifting it slowly up.

“This is long past the need to be dealt with,” Vereesa reproved him. “I took an oath to see you safe. This would not look good for me. . . .”

“Didn’t your oath end when we reached the shores of Khaz Modan?” he returned, adding a slight smile.

“Perhaps, but it seems that you need to be guarded from yourself every hour of the day! What might you do to yourself next?” However, the elf, too, let a slight smile momentarily escape her.

Rhonin let her fuss over his broken finger, wondering if perhaps there might be a way for him to continue his association with Vereesa after the dragon had brought them both back to Lordaeron. Surely it would be best for those in command if the pair gave their reports together, the better to verify events. He would have to propose that to Vereesa and see how she felt about it.

Curious, he suddenly thought, how one could go from almost seeking death, as he had done in the beginning, to wanting to live to the fullest—and that after nearly having been incinerated, crushed, run through, beheaded, and devoured. He would always have regrets for what had happened on his previous mission, but no longer was he haunted by that time.

“There,” Vereesa announced. “Keep it like that until I can find some better material. It should heal well, then.”

She had taken a strip of cloth from her cloak and had fashioned a splint of sorts using a piece of wood from a broken war-ax. Rhonin inspected her work, found it exceptional.

He had never bothered to mention that, once recuperated, he would have been able to completely heal the hand himself. She had been very willing to help him.

“Thank you.”

He hoped that the dragons would take their time with their task. With nothing to fear from the orcs, Rhonin found himself in no hurry whatsoever to go home.

When news at last spread to the Alliance of Grim Batol’s downfall and the loss of the dragons to the Horde’s dying cause, celebrations arose among the people. Surely now the war would at last come to an end. Surely now peace was at hand.

Each of the major kingdoms insisted on hearing the words of the wizard and elf for themselves, questioning the pair at great length. Word came down from the Aeries of verification from one of the gryphon-riders, the celebrated hero Falstad.

While Rhonin and Vereesa continued their tour of the various kingdoms—and grew closer in the process—he who had worn the guise of the wizard Krasus had made a report of his own in the Chamber of the Air. Initially, he had been greeted with hostility by his fellow councilors, especially those who knew he had outright lied to all. However, no one could argue with the results, and wizards were, if nothing else, pragmatic when it came to results.

Drenden had shaken his shadowed head at the faceless mage. “You could’ve brought down everything we’d worked for!” he boomed, his words echoed by the storm momentarily raging through the chamber. “Everything!”

“I understand that now. If you like, I will resign from the council, even accept penance or ouster, if that is what you wish.”

“There were those who mentioned more than ouster,” commented Modera. “Much more than ouster . . .”

“But we’ve all discussed that and decided that young Rhonin’s success has brought Dalaran nothing but good will, even from those of our allies who briefly protested their lack of knowledge of his improbable mission. The elves especially are pleased, as one of their own was also involved.” Drenden shrugged. “There seems no reason to continue on with this subject. Consider yourself officially censured, Krasus, but congratulated by me personally.”

“Drenden!” snapped Modera.

“We’re alone here, I can say what I will.” He steepled his fingers. “Now, then, if no one else has any other comment, I’d like to bring up the subject of one Lord Prestor, supposed monarch-elect of Alterac—who seems to have vanished off the face of the world!”

“The chateau is empty, his servants fled . . .” added Modera, still annoyed at her counterpart’s earlier comments concerning Krasus.

One of the other mages, the heavyset one, finally spoke up. “The spells surrounding the place’ve dissipated, too. And there’re signs that there were goblins working for this rogue mage!”

The entire council looked to Korialstrasz.

He spread his hands as if as bewildered as the rest. “Lord Prestor” had clearly had the upper hand in the situation, everything to gain; why, the rest clearly wanted to know, had he abandoned it all now? “It is as much a puzzle to me as it is you. Perhaps he realized that, eventually, our combined might would bring him down. That would be my likely guess. Certainly nothing else would explain why he would give up so much.”

This sat well with the other wizards. Like most creatures, Korialstrasz knew, they had their egos to assuage.

“His influence already wanes,” he went on. “For surely you have all heard how Genn Greymane has reinstated his protest against Prestor’s taking ascension, and even Lord Admiral Proudmoore has joined him on this. King Terenas even announced that a second check into the so-called noble’s background left many questions unanswered. The rumors of Prestor’s imminent betrothal to the young princess have dwindled away. . . .”

“You were looking into his background,” commented Modera.

“It may be that some of that information slipped to His Majesty, yes.”

Drenden nodded, quite pleased. “Rhonin’s quest has brought us into the good graces of Terenas and the others, and we’ll make the best use of that turn. By the end of a fortnight, ‘Lord Prestor’ will be anathema to the entire Alliance!”

Korialstrasz raised a warning hand. “Best to take a more subtle touch. We have the time. Before long, they will forget he even existed.”

“Perhaps you’re right.” The bearded mage looked at the others, who nodded in agreement. “Unanimous, then. How wonderful.” He raised his hand, ready to dismiss the council. “Well, if there’s nothing more—”

“Actually, there is,” interrupted the dragon mage. A cloud from the fading storm drifted through him.

“What is it?”

“Although you have granted me pardon for my questionable actions, I must tell you now that I must take my leave from council activities for a time.”

They looked stunned. None could recall him ever having missed a gathering, much less stepping back from the council altogether.

“How long?” Modera asked.

“I cannot say. She and I have been apart so long, it will take quite some time to regain what we once had.”

Korialstrasz could almost see Drenden blink, despite the shadow spell. “You have a . . . a wife, is she?”

“Yes. Forgive me if I never recalled to tell you. As I said, we were apart for quite some time. . . .” He smiled even though they could not see it. “. . . but now she is returned to me.”

The others shared glances. Finally, Drenden replied, “Then . . . by all means . . . we shall not stand in your way. You certainly have the right to do this. . . .”

He bowed. In truth, the dragon hoped to return, for this had been as much a part of his centuries-old life as almost anything else. Yet, compared to being with his Alexstrasza, even it paled in comparison. “My thanks. I hope, of course, to keep abreast of all news of import, I promise you. . . .”

He raised his hand in farewell as the spell he cast transported him away from the Chamber of the Air. Korialstrasz’s parting words were truer than even the other wizards might have realized. As one of the Kirin Tor—even one absent from the council—he most definitely planned to watch the political maneuverings. Despite “Lord Prestor’s” disappearance, potentially devastating squabbles remained between the various kingdoms, Alterac again one of the foremost topics. His duties for Dalaran demanded Korialstrasz maintain watch.

And for his queen, for his ancient kind, he and others like him would also watch . . . watch and influence, if necessary. Alexstrasza believed in these young races, more so after what Rhonin and the others had done, and because of that Korialstrasz intended to do what he had to in order to steel her belief. He owed that to both her and those who had aided him in his quest.

No one had sighted Deathwing since the black beast’s desperate escape. With the others constantly on watch for him now, it seemed unlikely that he would cause much terror for some time to come, if ever. Yet, because of him, the others had taken a renewed interest in life and the future.

The day of the dragon had passed, true, but that did not mean at all that they would not continue to leave their mark in the world . . . even if no one else ever suspected it.