Day of the Dragon

6

“So where is he? I’ve little time to waste pacing around in these decadent halls!”

For what seemed the thousandth time, King Terenas silently counted to ten before responding to Genn Greymane’s latest outburst. “Lord Prestor will be here before long, Genn. You know he wants to bring us all together on this matter.”

“I don’t know anything of the sort,” the huge man in black and gray armor grumbled. Genn Greymane reminded the king of nothing less than a bear who had learned to clothe himself, albeit somewhat crudely. He seemed fairly ready to burst through his armor, and if the ruler of Gilneas downed one more flagon of good ale or devoured one more of the thick Lordaeron pastries Terenas’s chefs had prepared, surely that would happen.

Despite Greymane’s ursine appearance and his arrogant, outspoken manner, the king did not underestimate the warrior from the south. Greymane’s political manipulations had been legendary, this latest no less so. How he had managed to give Gilneas a voice in a situation that should not have even concerned the faraway kingdom still amazed Terenas.

“You might as well tell the wind to stop howling,” came a more cultured voice from the opposite end of the great hall. “You’ll have more success there than getting that creature to quiet even for a moment!”

They had all agreed to meet in the imperial hall, a place where, in times past, the most significant treaties in all Lordaeron had been agreed to and signed. With its rich history and ancient but stately decor, the hall cast an aura of tremendous significance upon any discussion taking place here . . . and certainly the matter of Alterac was of significance to the continued life of the Alliance.

“If you don’t like the sound of my voice, Lord Admiral,” Greymane snarled, “good steel can always make certain you never hear it—or anything else—again.”

Lord Admiral Daelin Proudmoore rose to his feet in one smooth, practiced sweep. The slim, weathered seaman reached for the sword generally hanging at the side of his green naval uniform, but the sheath there rattled empty. So, too, did the sheath of Genn Greymane. The one thing reluctantly agreed upon from the first had been that none of the heads of state could carry arms into the discussions. They had even agreed—even Genn Greymane—to having themselves searched by selected sentries from the Knights of the Silver Hand, the only military unit they all trusted despite its outward allegiance to Terenas.

Prestor, of course, was the reason that this incredible summit had managed to reach even this point. Rarely did the monarchs of the major realms come together. Generally, they spoke through couriers and diplomats, with the occasional state visit thrown in as well. Only the amazing Prestor could have convinced Terenas’s uneasy allies to abandon their staffs and personal guard outside and join together to discuss matters face-to-face.

Now, if only the young noble would himself arrive. . . .

“My lords! Gentlemen!” Desperate for assistance, the king looked to a stern figure standing near the window, a figure clad in leather and fur despite the relative warmth of the region. A fierce beard and jagged nose were all Terenas could make out of Thoras Trollbane’s gruff visage, but he knew that, despite Thoras’s intense interest in whatever view lay outside, the lord of Stromgarde had digested every word and tone of his counterparts. That he did nothing to aid Terenas in this present crisis only served to remind the latter of the gulf that had opened up between them since the start of this maddening situation.

Damn Lord Perenolde! the king of Lordaeron thought. If only he had not forced us into all of this!

Although knights from the holy order stood by in case any of the monarchs came to actual blows, Terenas did not fear physical violence so much as he did the shattering of any hope of keeping the human kingdoms allied. Not for a moment did he feel that the orc menace had been forever eradicated. The humans had to remain allied at this crucial moment. He wished Anduin Lothar, regent lord of the refugees from the lost kingdom of Azeroth, could have been here, but that was not possible, and without Lothar, that left only—

“My lords! Come, come! Surely this isn’t seemly behavior for any of us!”

“Prestor!” Terenas gasped. “Praise be!”

The others turned as the tall, immaculate figure entered the great hall. Amazing the effect the man had on his elders, so the king thought. He walks into a room and quarrels cease! Bitter rivals lay down their weapons and talk of peace!

Yes, definitely the choice to replace Perenolde.

Terenas watched as his friend went about the chamber, greeting each monarch in turn and treating all as if they were his best friends. Perhaps they were, for Prestor seemed not to have an arrogant bone in his body. Whether dealing with the rough-edged Thoras or the conniving Greymane, Prestor seemed to know how best to speak with each of them. The only ones who had never seemed to fully appreciate him had been the wizards from Dalaran, but then, they were wizards.

“Forgive my belated arrival,” the young aristocrat began. “I’d ridden out into the countryside this morning and not realized just how long it would take me to get back.”

“No need for apologies,” Thoras Trollbane kindly returned.

Yet another example of Prestor’s almost magical manner. While a friend and respected ally, Thoras Trollbane never spoke kindly to anyone without much effort. He tended to speak in short, precise sentences, then lapse into silence. The silences were not intended as insults, as Terenas had gradually learned. Instead, the truth was that Thoras simply did not feel comfortable with long conversations. A native of cold, mountainous Stromgarde, he much preferred action over talk.

Which made the king of Lordaeron even more pleased that Prestor had finally arrived.

Prestor surveyed the room, meeting each gaze for a moment before saying, “How good it is to see all of you again! I hope that this time we can resolve our differences so that our future meetings will be as good friends and sword-mates. . . .”

Greymane nodded almost enthusiastically. Proudmoore wore a satisfied expression, as if the noble’s coming had been the answer to his prayers. Terenas said nothing, allowing his talented friend to take control of the meeting. The more the others saw of Prestor, the easier it would be for the king to present his proposal.

They gathered around the elaborately decorated ivory table that Terenas’s grandfather had received as a gift from his northern vassals, after his successful negotiations with the elves of Quel’Thalas over the borders there. As he always did, the king planted both hands firmly on the tabletop, seeking to draw guidance from his predecessor. Across the table, Prestor’s eyes met his for a moment. Looking into those strong, ebony orbs, the robed monarch relaxed. Prestor would handle any matters of dispute.

And so the talks began, first with stiff opening words, then more heated, blunt ones. Yet, under the guidance of Prestor, never did any threat of violence arise. More than once he had to take one or another of the participants in hand and engage in private conversation with them, but each time those intimate dialogues ended with a smile on Prestor’s hawklike visage and great advancement toward the mending of Alliance ties.

As the summit tapered to a close, Terenas himself held such an exchange. While Greymane, Thoras, and Lord Admiral Proudmoore drank from the finest of the king’s brandy, Prestor and the monarch huddled near the window overlooking the city. Terenas had always enjoyed this view, for from it he could see the health of his people. Even now, even with the summit going on, his subjects went about their duties, pushed on with their lives. Their faith in him bolstered his weary mind, and he knew that they would understand the decision he would make this day.

“I don’t know how you did it, my boy,” he whispered to his companion. “You’ve made the others see the truth, the need! They’re actually sitting in this chamber, acting civilly with not only each other, but me! I thought Genn and Thoras would demand my hide at one point!”

“I merely did what I could to assuage them, my lord, but thank you for your kind words.”

Terenas shook his head. “Kind words? Hardly! Prestor, my lad, you’ve single-handedly kept the Alliance from crumbling to bits! What did you tell them all?”

A conspiratorial look crossed his companion’s handsome features. He leaned close to the monarch, eyes fixed on Terenas’s. “A little of this, a little of that. Promises to the admiral about his continued sovereignty of the seas, even if it meant sending in a force to take control of Gilneas; to Greymane about future naval colonies near the coastal edge of Alterac; and Thoras Trollbane thinks that he’ll be ceded the eastern half of that region . . . all when I become its legitimate ruler.”

For a moment, the king simply gaped, not certain that he had heard right. He stared into Prestor’s mesmerizing eyes, waiting for the punch line to the awful joke. When it did not come, though, Terenas finally blurted in a quiet voice, “Have you taken leave of your senses, my boy? Even jesting about such matters is highly outrageous and—”

“And you will not remember a thing about it, regardless, you know.” Lord Prestor leaned forward, his eyes seizing Terenas’s own gaze and refusing to release it. “Just as none of them will remember what I truly told them. All you need to recall, my pompous little puppet, is that I have guaranteed a political advantage for you, but one that demands for its culmination and success my appointment as ruler of Alterac. Do you understand that?”

Terenas understood nothing else. Prestor had to be chosen new monarch of the battered realm. The security of Lordaeron and the stability of the Alliance demanded it.

“I see that you do. Good. Now you will go back and, just as the conference comes to an end, you will make your bold decision. Greymane already knows he will act the most reticent, but in a few days, he will agree. Proudmoore will follow your lead and, after mulling the situation a bit, Thoras Trollbane will also acquiesce to my ascension.”

Something nudged at the robed king’s memory, a notion he felt compelled to express. “No . . . no ruler may be chosen without . . . without the agreement of Dalaran and the Kirin Tor. . . .” He struggled to complete his thought. “They are members of the Alliance, too. . . .”

“But who can trust a wizard?” Prestor reminded him. “Who can know their agenda? That’s why I had you leave them out of this situation in the first place, is it not? Wizards cannot be trusted . . . and eventually they must be dealt with.”

“Dealt with . . . you’re right, of course.”

Prestor’s smile widened, revealing what seemed far more teeth than normal. “I always am.” He put a companionable arm around Terenas. “Now, it is time we returned to the others. You are very satisfied with my progress. In a few minutes, you will make your suggestion . . . and we shall move on from there.”

“Yes . . .”

The slim figure steered the king back to the other monarchs, and as he did, Terenas’s thoughts returned to the business at hand. Prestor’s more dire statements now lay buried deep in the king’s subconscious, where the ebony-clad noble desired them.

“Enjoying the brandy, my friends?” Terenas asked the others. After they nodded, he smiled and said, “A case will go back with each of you, my gift for your visit.”

“A splendid show of friendship, wouldn’t you say?” Prestor urged Terenas’s counterparts.

They nodded, Proudmoore even toasting the monarch of Lordaeron.

Terenas clasped his hands together. “And thanks to our young associate here, I think we’ll all leave even closer in heart than we were before.”

“We’ve not signed any agreement yet,” Genn Greymane reminded him. “We’ve not even agreed what to do about the situation.”

Terenas blinked. The perfect opening. Why wait any longer to make his grand suggestion?

“As to that, my friends,” the king said, taking Lord Prestor’s arm and guiding him toward the head of the table. “I think I’ve hit upon the solution that will appeal to us all. . . .”

King Terenas of Lordaeron smiled briefly at his young companion, who could not possibly have any idea of the great reward he was about to receive. Yes, the perfect man for the role. With Prestor in charge of Alterac, the future of the Alliance would be assured.

And then they could begin to deal with those treacherous wizards in Dalaran. . . .

“This is not right!” the heavyset mage burst out. “They’ve no cause to leave us out of this!”

“No, they don’t,” returned the elder woman. “But they have.”

The mages who had met earlier in the Chamber of the Air now met there again, only this time there were five. The one that Rhonin would have known as Krasus had not taken his position in this magical place, but the others were too concerned with the events of the outside world to wait. The lords of the untalented had met in seclusion, discussing a major situation without the general guidance of the Kirin Tor. While most among this council respected King Terenas and some of the other monarchs, it disturbed them that the ruler of Lordaeron would put together such an unprecedented summit. One of the inner council of the Kirin Tor had ever been present at such past events. It had only been fair, as Dalaran had always stood at the forefront of the Alliance’s defense.

Times, though, appeared to be changing.

“The Alterac dilemma could have been resolved long ago,” pointed out the elven mage. “We should have insisted on our proper part in the proceedings.”

“And started another incident?” retorted the bearded man in stentorian tones. “Haven’t you noticed of late how the other realms have been pulling back from us? It’s almost as if they fear us now that the orcs’ve been pushed to Grim Batol!”

“Absurd! The untalented have always been suspicious of magic, but our faith to the cause is without question!”

The elder woman shook her head. “When has that mattered to those who fear our abilities? Now that the orcs have been battered, the people begin to notice that we’re not like them; that we are superior in every way. . . .”

“A dangerous way to think, even for us,” came the calm voice of Krasus. The faceless wizard stood in his chosen spot.

“About time you got here!” The bearded wizard turned toward the newcomer. “Did you find out anything?”

“Very little. The meeting was unshielded . . . yet all we could read were surface thoughts. Those told us nothing we did not know before. I finally had to resort to other methods to garner even some success.”

The younger female dared speak. “Have they made a decision?”

Krasus hesitated, then raised a gloved hand. “Behold . . .”

In the center of the chamber, directly over the symbol etched in the floor, materialized a tall, human figure. In every way, he looked as real, if not more so, than the gathered wizards. Majestic of frame, clad in elegant, dark clothing and with features avian and handsome, he brought a moment of silence to the six.

“Who is he?” the same woman asked.

Krasus surveyed his companions before answering, “All hail the new ruler of Alterac, King Prestor the First.”

“What?”

“This is outrageous!”

“They can’t do this without us—can they?”

“Who is this Prestor?”

Rhonin’s patron shrugged. “A minor noble from the north, dispossessed, without backing. Yet, he seems to have ingratiated himself not only to Terenas, but even the rest, Genn Greymane included.”

“But to make him king?” snapped the bearded spellcaster.

“On the surface, not a terrible choice. It places Alterac as once more an independent kingdom. The other monarchs find much about him they respect, so I gather. He seems to have single-handedly kept the Alliance from falling apart.”

“So you approve of him?” the elder female asked.

In reply, Krasus added, “He also seems to have no history, apparently is the reason we have not been included in these talks, and—most curious of all—appears as a void when touched by magic.”

The others muttered among themselves about this strange news. Then the elven wizard, clearly as puzzled as the rest, inquired, “What do you mean by the last?”

“I mean that any attempt to study him through magic reveals nothing. Absolutely nothing. It is as if Lord Prestor does not exist . . . and yet he must. Approve of him? I think I fear him.”

Coming from this eldest of the wizards assembled, the words sank deep. For a time the clouds flew overhead, the storms raged, and the day turned into night, but the masters of the Kirin Tor simply stood in silence, each digesting the facts in his or her own way.

The youthful male broke the silence first. “He’s a wizard then, is he?”

“That would seem most logical.” Krasus returned, dipping his head slightly to accent his agreement.

“A powerful one,” muttered the elf.

“Also logical.”

“Then, if so,” continued the elven mage, “who? One among us? A renegade? Surely a wizard of this ability would be known to us!”

The younger woman leaned toward the image. “I don’t recognize his face.”

“Hardly surprising,” retorted her elder counterpart. “When each of us could wear a thousand masks ourselves . . .”

Lightning flashed through Krasus, going unnoticed by him. “A formal announcement will take place in two weeks. After that, unless one of the other monarchs changes his mind, this Lord Prestor will be crowned king a month later.”

“We should lodge a protest.”

“A start. However, what we really need to do, I think, is to find out the truth about this Lord Prestor, search into every crevice and tomb and discover his past, his true calling. We dare not confront him openly until then, for he surely has the backing of every member of the Alliance but us.”

The elder woman nodded. “And even we cannot face the combined might of the other kingdoms, should they find us too much of a nuisance.”

“No, we cannot.”

Krasus dismissed the image of Prestor with a wave of his hand, but the young noble’s countenance had already been burned into the minds of each of the Kirin Tor. Through silence, they agreed on the importance of this quest.

“I must depart again,” Krasus said. “I suggest all of you do as I and think hard on this dire matter. Follow all trails, no matter how obscure and impossible, but follow them swiftly. If the throne of Alterac is filled by this enigma, I suspect that the Alliance will not long stand firm, however of one mind its rulers presently are.” He took a breath. “And I fear that Dalaran may fall with the rest if that happens.”

“Because of this one man?” the bearded wizard spouted.

“Because of him, yes.”

And as the rest pondered his words, Krasus vanished again—

—to rematerialize in his sanctum, still shaken by what he had discovered. Guilt wracked him, for Krasus had not been entirely truthful with his counterparts. He knew—or rather suspected—far more about this mysterious Lord Prestor than he had let on to the others. He wished that he could have told them everything, yet not only would they have questioned his sanity, but even if they had believed him, it might only have served to reveal too much about himself and his methods.

He could ill afford to do that at this desperate juncture.

May they act as I hope they will. Alone in his darkened sanctum, Krasus dared at last pull back his hood. A single dim light with no visible source offered the only illumination in the chamber, and in its soft glow stood revealed a handsome, graying man with angular features treading near the cadaverous. Black, glittering eyes hinted of even more age and weariness than the rest of the visage. Three long scars traveled side by side down the right cheek, scars that, despite their age, still throbbed with some pain.

The master wizard turned his left hand over, revealing the gloved palm. Atop that palm suddenly materialized a sphere of light blue. Krasus passed his other hand over the sphere and immediately images formed within. He leaned back to observe those images, a high stone chair sliding into place behind him.

Once more Krasus observed the palace of King Terenas. The regal stone structure had served the monarchs of the realm for generations. Twin turrets rising several stories flanked the main edifice, a gray, stately structure like a miniature fortress. The banners of Lordaeron flew prominently not only from the turrets, but the gated entrance as well. Soldiers clad in the uniforms of the King’s Guard stood station outside the gates, with several members of the Knights of the Silver Hand on duty within. Under normal conditions, the paladins would not have been a part of the defense of the palace, but with some minor matters still to be discussed by the various monarchs visiting, clearly the trustworthy warriors were needed now.

Again the wizard passed his other hand over the sphere. To the left of the vision of the palace emerged the picture of an inner chamber. Staring at it, the wizard brought the chamber into better view.

Terenas and his youthful protégé. So, despite the end of the summit and the other rulers’ imminent departures, Lord Prestor still remained with the king. Krasus felt a great temptation to try to probe the mind of the ebony-clad aristocrat, but thought better of it. Let the others attempt that likely impossible feat. One such as Prestor would no doubt expect such incursions and deal with them promptly. Krasus did not want to reveal his hand just yet.

However, if he dared not probe the thoughts of the man, at least he could research his background . . . and where better to start that than at the chateau where the regal refugee had taken up residence under the king’s protection? Krasus waved one hand over the sphere and a new image formed, that of the building in question, as viewed from far away. The wizard studied it for a moment, seeing and detecting nothing of consequence, then sent his magical probe closer.

As his probe neared the high wall surrounding the building, a minor spell, much minor than he had expected, briefly prevented his entry. Krasus readily sidestepped the spell without setting it off. Now his view revealed the very exterior of the chateau, a rather morbid place despite its elegant facade. Prestor evidently believed in keeping a neat house, but not necessarily a pleasant one. Not at all a surprise to the mage.

A quick search revealed yet another defensive spell, this one more elaborate yet still nothing Krasus could not circumnavigate. With one deft gesture, the angular figure once more bypassed Prestor’s handiwork. Another moment and Krasus would be inside, where he could—

His sphere blackened.

The blackness spread beyond the edges of the sphere.

The blackness reached for the wizard.

Krasus threw himself from the chair. Tentacles of purest night enveloped the stone seat, pouring over it as they would have the mage himself. As Krasus came to his feet, he watched the tentacles pull away—leaving no trace of the chair behind.

Even as the first tentacles reached for him, more sprouted from what remained of the magical orb. The mage stumbled back, for one of the few times in his life momentarily startled into inaction. Then, recalling himself, Krasus muttered words not heard by another living soul in several lifetimes, words he himself had never uttered, only read with fascination.

A cloud sparkled into life before him, a cloud that thickened like cotton. It immediately flowed toward the seeking tentacles, meeting them in midair.

The first tentacles to touch the soft cloud crumbled, turning to ash that faded even as it touched the floor. Krasus let out an exhalation of relief—then watched in horror as the second set of tentacles enshrouded his counterspell.

“It cannot be . . .” he muttered, eyes wide. “It cannot be!”

As the others had done to the chair, these ebony limbs now took in the cloud, absorbed it, devoured it.

Krasus knew what he faced. Only the Endless Hunger, a spell forbidden, acted so. He had never witnessed its casting before, but any who had studied the arts as long as he had would have recognized its foul presence. Yet, something had been changed, for the counterspell he had chosen should have been the one to end the threat. For a minute it had seemed to . . . and then a sinister transformation had occurred, a shifting in the dark spell’s essence. Now the second set of tentacles came at him, and Krasus did not immediately know how to stop them from adding him to their meal.

He considered fleeing the chamber, but knew that the monstrous thing would simply continue after him no matter where in the world Krasus might hide. That had been part of the Endless Hunger’s special horror; its relentless pursuit generally wore the victim down until he simply gave up.

No, Krasus had to put a stop to it here and now.

One incantation remained that might do the work. It would drain him, leave him useless for days, but it did have the potential to rid Krasus of this dire threat.

Of course, it also could kill him as readily as Lord Prestor’s trap would.

He threw himself aside as one tentacle reached out. No more time to weigh matters. Krasus had only seconds to formulate the spell. Even now the Hunger moved to cut him off, to envelop him whole.

The words which the elder mage whispered would have sounded to the ordinary person like the language of Lordaeron spoken backwards, with the wrong syllables emphasized. Krasus carefully pronounced each, knowing that even one slip due to his predicament meant utter oblivion for him. He thrust out his left hand toward the reaching blackness, trying to focus on the very midst of the expanding horror.

The shadows moved swifter than he had thought possible. As the last few words fell from his tongue, the Hunger caught him. A single, slim tentacle wrapped itself around the third and fourth fingers of his outstretched hand. Krasus felt no pain at first, but before his eyes those fingers simply faded, leaving open, bleeding wounds.

He spat out the last syllable just as agony suddenly coursed through his body.

The sun exploded within his tiny sanctum.

Tentacles melted away like ice caught in a furnace. Light so brilliant it blinded Krasus even with his eyes shut tight filled every corner and crack. The wizard gasped and fell to the floor clutching his maimed hand.

A hissing sound assailed his ears, sending his already heightened pulse racing more. Heat, incredible heat, seared his skin. Krasus found himself praying for a swift end.

The hiss became a roar that rose and rose in intensity, almost as if a volcanic eruption were about to take place in the very midst of the chamber. Krasus tried to look, but the light remained too overwhelming. He pulled himself into a fetal position and prepared for the inevitable.

And then . . . the light simply ceased, plunging the chamber into a still darkness.

The master mage could not at first move. If the Hunger had come for him now, it would have found him without the ability to resist. He lay there for several minutes, trying to regain his sense of reality and, when he finally recalled it, stem the flow of blood from his terrible wound.

Krasus passed his good hand over the injured one, sealing the bloody gap. He would not be able to repair the damage. Nothing touched by the dark spell could ever be regenerated.

He finally dared open his eyes. Even the unlit room initially appeared too bright, but, gradually, his eyes adjusted. Krasus made out a couple of shadowed forms—furniture, he believed—but nothing more.

“Light . . .”the battered spellcaster muttered.

A small emerald sphere burst into being near the ceiling, shedding dim illumination across the chamber. Krasus scanned his surroundings. Sure enough, the shapes he had seen were his remaining bits of furniture. Only the chair had not survived. As for the Hunger, it had been completely eradicated. The cost had been great, but Krasus had triumphed.

Or perhaps not. So much catastrophe in the space of a few seconds, and he did not even have anything to show for it. His attempt to probe the chateau of Lord Prestor had ended in defeat.

And yet . . . and yet . . .

Krasus dragged himself to his feet, summoned a new chair identical to the first. He fell into the chair gasping. After a momentary glance at his ruined appendages to assure himself that the bleeding had indeed stopped, the wizard summoned a blue crystal with which to once more view the noble’s abode. A horrific notion had just occurred to him, one that, after all that had happened, he believed he could now verify with but a short, safe glimpse.

There! The traces of magic were evident. Krasus followed the traces further, watched their intertwining. He had to be careful, lest he reawaken the foulness he had just escaped.

Verification came. The skill with which the Endless Hunger had been cast, the complexity with which its essence had been altered so as to make his first counterattack unsuccessful—both pointed to knowledge and technique beyond even that of the Kirin Tor, the best mages humanity and even the elves could offer.

But there was another race whose trafficking in magic went farther back than the elves.

“I know you now. . . .” Krasus gasped, summoning a view of Prestor’s proud visage. “I know you now, despite the form you wear!” He coughed, had to catch his breath. The ordeal had taken much out of Krasus, but the realization of just whose power he had confronted in many ways struck him deeper than any spell could have. “I know you—Deathwing!”