Day of the Dragon

9

“Duncan!”

“’Tis too late, my elven lady!” Falstad called. “Your man’s already dead—but what a glorious tale to leave behind!”

Vereesa cared nothing about glorious tales nor the incorrect assumption that she had admired Lord Senturus more than she actually did. All that mattered to her was that a brave man whom she had come to know all too briefly had perished. True, like Falstad, the elf had immediately realized that it had only been Duncan’s shell that had fallen earthward, but the horror of his tragic death had still struck her deep.

Yet, Vereesa took some comfort in the knowledge that Duncan had managed the near-impossible. The dragon had been struck a mortal blow, one that caused it to continue to thrash about madly. The dying leviathan sought to pull the blade from the base of its skull, but its efforts grew weaker and weaker. It was only a matter of time before the giant joined its slayer in the depths of the sea.

However, even in dying the dragon remained a threat. A wing nearly caught the dwarf and her. Falstad had the gryphon dive in order to avoid the wild movements of the behemoth. Vereesa held on for dear life, no longer able to concern herself with Duncan’s fate.

As for the second dragon, it, too, still menaced the gryphons. Falstad brought his mount up again, rising above the other monster in order to prevent them being seized by the horrific talons. Another rider narrowly escaped the snapping jaws.

They could no longer remain here. The orc guiding this second beast clearly had vast experience in aerial combat with gryphons. Sooner or later his mount would catch one of the dwarves. Vereesa wanted no more deaths. “Falstad! We have to get away!”

“For you I would do that, my elven lady, but the scaly beast and its handler seem to have other ideas!”

True enough, the dragon now appeared fixated on Vereesa and her companion, most likely at the orc’s behest. Perhaps he had noted the second rider, and possibly thought her of some importance. In fact, the very presence of the two crimson behemoths brought many questions to the ranger’s mind—specifically whether or not they had come because of Rhonin’s mission. If so, then he more than she should have been the likely target. . . .

And where was Rhonin? As Falstad urged the gryphon to greater speed and the dragon closed behind them, the elf quickly glanced around, but again found no sign of him. Disturbed, she took a second look. Not only did Vereesa not see the mage, but she could not even locate the gryphon he had been riding.

“Falstad! I do not see Rhonin—”

“A worry for another time! ’Tis more important that you hold tight!”

She obeyed . . . and just in time. Suddenly the gryphon arced at such a severe angle that, had Vereesa hesitated, she might have been tossed off.

Talons slashed at the spot she and the dwarf had most recently occupied. The dragon roared its frustration and banked.

“Prepare for battle, my elven lady! It appears we are not to have any other choice!”

As he unslung his stormhammer, Vereesa cursed again the loss of her bow. True, she had a sword, but unlike Duncan, the ranger could not yet bring herself to commit such a sacrifice. Besides, she still needed to find out what had happened to Rhonin, who remained her first priority.

The orc had his own long battle-ax out, and now waved it around his head, shouting some barbaric war cry. Falstad responded with a guttural cry of his own, clearly eager for combat despite his earlier concern for Vereesa. With nothing left for her to do, the ranger held on, hoping that the dwarf’s aim would be true.

A titanic form the color of night dropped in among the combatants, falling upon the crimson dragon and sending both beast and handler into a state of confusion.

“What in the name of—” was all Falstad managed.

The elf found herself speechless.

Black wings twice the span of those of the red filled Vereesa’s vision, metallic glints from those wings almost blinding her. A tremendous roar shook the sky like thunder, sending the gryphons scattering.

A dragon of immense proportions snapped at the smaller red one. Dark, narrow orbs eyed the lesser leviathan with contempt. The orc’s dragon roared back, but clearly it did not find this new foe to its liking.

“We may be done for now, my elven lady! ’Tis none other than the dark one himself!”

The black goliath spread his wings wide, and the sound that escaped his mighty jaws reminded Vereesa of harsh, mocking laughter. Again she caught sight of metal—plates of metal—spread across much of the newcomer’s vast body. The natural armor of a dragon proved difficult enough to pierce; what metal would a creature such as this wear to protect its hard scales?

The answer came quick. Adamantium. Only it truly outshone the nearly impenetrable scale . . . and only one great leviathan had ever put himself through such agony in the name of power and ego.

“Deathwing . . .”she whispered.“Deathwing . . .”

Among the elves, it had been said long ago that there were five great dragons, five leviathans who represented arcane and natural forces. Some claimed that Alexstrasza the red represented the essence of life itself. Of the others, little was known, for even before the coming of humans the dragons had lived sheltered, hermitic existences. The elves had felt their influence, had even dealt with them on various occasions, but never had the elder creatures truly revealed their secrets.

Yet, among the dragons, there had been one who had made himself known to all, who ever reminded the world that, before all other races, his kind had ruled. Although originally bearing another name, he himself had long ago chosen Deathwing as his title, the better to show his contempt and intentions for the lesser creatures around him. Even the elders of Vereesa’s race could not claim to know what drove the ebony giant, but throughout the years he had done what he could to destroy the world built by the elves, dwarves, and humans.

The elves had another name for him, spoken only in whispers and only in the elder tongue almost forgotten. Xaxas. A short title with many meanings, all dire. Chaos. Fury. The embodiment of elemental rage, such as found in erupting volcanoes or shattering earthquakes. If Alexstrasza represented the elements of life that bound the world together, then Deathwing exemplified the destructive forces that constantly sought to rip it apart.

Yet now he hovered before them, attempting, it seemed, to defend them from one of his own kind. Of course, Deathwing likely did not see it that way. This was a foe with scale of crimson, the color of his greatest rival. Deathwing hated dragons of all other colors and did his best to see that each he confronted perished, but those bearing the mantle of Alexstrasza the ebony behemoth despised most.

“’Tis an impossible sight, eh?” murmured Falstad, for once subdued. “And yet I thought the foul monster dead!”

So had the ranger. The Kirin Tor had combined the might of the best of their human wizards with those of their elven counterparts to finally, so they had claimed, bring an end to the threat of the black fury. Even the metallic plates that Deathwing had long ago convinced the mad goblins to literally weld to his body had not protected him from those sorcerous strikes. He had fallen, fallen . . .

But now, apparently, flew triumphant again.

The war against the orcs had suddenly become a very minute thing. What were all the remnants of the Horde in Khaz Modan compared to this single, sinister giant?

The lesser dragon, also evidently a male, snapped angrily at Deathwing. The snout came near enough that the black beast could have swatted it with his left forepaw, but for some reason Deathwing held that paw closed and near to his body. Instead, he whipped his tail at his adversary, sending the red reeling back. As the black dragon moved, under the shifting metal plates what seemed to be a vast series of veins filled with molten fire radiated along both his throat and torso, flaring with each roar from the titan. Legend had it that to touch those veins of fire was to risk truly being burned. Some said this was due to an acidic secretion by the dragon, but other tales took it as literal flame.

Either way, it meant death.

“The orc is either brave beyond compare, a fool, or without any control over his beast!” Falstad shook his head. “Even I would not remain in such a fray if it could be helped!”

The other gryphons neared. Tearing her gaze away from the posturing dragons, Vereesa inspected the newcomers, but saw no sign of either Molok or Rhonin. In fact, their little group now numbered only her and four dwarves.

“Where is the wizard?” she called to the others. “Where is he?”

“Molok is dead,” one of them proclaimed to Falstad. “His mount lies drifting in the sea!”

For their small stature, dwarves had incredibly muscular, dense bodies and so did not float well. Falstad and the others chose to take the discovery of the dead gryphon as proof enough of the warrior’s fate.

But Rhonin was human and, therefore, whether dead or alive, stood a better chance of floating for a time. Vereesa seized on that slight hope. “And the wizard? Did you see the wizard?”

“I think ’tis obvious, my elven lady,” Falstad returned, glancing back at her.

She clamped her mouth shut, knowing he spoke truth. At least with the incident at the keep, there had been enough question. Here, however, matters seemed final. Even Rhonin’s magic certainly could not have saved him up here and from this height, striking the water below would have been like striking solid rock. . . .

Unable to keep from glancing down, Vereesa made out the half-sunken form of the other red dragon. Death must have come to Rhonin and Molok from one of the creature’s mad turns during its final fit. She only hoped the end had been swift for both.

“What should we do, Falstad?” called out one of the other dwarves.

He rubbed his chin. “Deathwing is no warrior’s friend! He’ll no doubt come after us after he deals with this lesser beast! Facing him is no proper battle! Would take a hundred stormhammers just to dent his hide! Best if we return and let others know what we’ve seen!”

The other dwarves looked to be in agreement with this, but Vereesa found she could not give up so readily despite the obvious. “Falstad! Rhonin is a wizard! He is likely dead, but if he still lives—if he still floats down there—he could still need our help!”

“You’re daft, if you’ll pardon me for saying so, my elven lady! No one could’ve survived a fall like that, even a wizard!”

“Please! Just one sweep of the surface—and then we can depart!” Certainly if they found nothing then, her duty to the mage and his never-to-be-fulfilled mission would be at an end. That her sense of guilt would linger much, much longer was something the ranger could do nothing about.

Falstad frowned. His warriors looked at him as if he would have to be mad to spend any more time in the vicinity of Deathwing.

“Very well!” he growled. “But only for you, only for you!” To the others, Falstad commanded, “Go on back already without us! We should be behind you before long, but if for some reason we don’t return, make certain that someone knows of the dark one’s reappearance! Go!”

As the other dwarves urged their own mounts west, Falstad had his animal dive. However, as they swiftly headed down to the sea, a pair of savage roars made both elf and dwarf look up in concern.

Deathwing and the red bellowed at one another over and over, each cry louder and harsher than the previous. Both beasts had their talons out and their tails whipping about in a frenzy. Deathwing’s crimson streaks gave him a frightening and almost supernatural appearance, as if he were one of the demons of legend.

“The posturing’s over,” Vereesa’s companion explained. “They’re about to fight! Wonder what the orc must be thinking?”

Vereesa had no concern for the orc. She again focused her concentration toward the search for Rhonin. As the gryphon soared just a few yards over the water, she surveyed the area in vain for the human. Surely there had to be some trace of him! The desperate ranger could even make out the twisted form of the dead mount not too far from them. Whether dead or alive, the wizard had to be somewhere near—unless he had actually managed after all to magick himself away from the danger?

Falstad grunted, clearly having decided that they were wasting their time. “There’s nothing here!”

“Just a little longer!”

Again savage cries drew their attention skyward. The battle had begun in earnest. The red dragon tried to cut around Deathwing, but the larger beast presented too great an obstacle. The membraned wings alone acted as walls that the lesser dragon could not get past. He tried flaming one of them, but Deathwing flapped out of the way, not that the fire would have likely done more than slightly singe him.

In the process of trying to scorch his opponent, Deathwing’s foe left himself open. The ebony giant could have easily raked the nearest wing of the red beast, but again the left forepaw remained shut and near to the chest. Instead, he whipped his tail at the other leviathan, sending the crimson dragon scurrying away again.

Deathwing did not look injured, so why would he hold back?

“That’s it! We search no longer!” Falstad shouted. “Your wizard’s at the bottom of the sea, I’m sorry to say! We’ve got to leave now before we join him!”

The elf ignored him at first, watching the black dragon and trying to make sense of his peculiar fighting technique. Deathwing utilized tail, wings, and other limbs, everything but the left forepaw. Now and then he moved it enough to reveal its obvious health, but always it returned to the nearness of his body.

“Why?” she murmured. “Why do that?”

Falstad thought that she spoke with him. “Because we gain nothing here but the possibility of death, and while Falstad never fears death, he prefers it on his own terms, not those of that armored abomination!”

At that moment, Deathwing, even with one paw incapacitated, caught hold of his adversary. The vast wings hemmed in the smaller red dragon, and the lengthy tail wrapped around the lower limbs. With his remaining three paws, the black leviathan tore a series of bloody gaps across the torso of his foe, including one set near the base of the throat.

“Up, blast you!” Falstad demanded of his flagging gryphon. “You’ll have to wait a little longer to rest! Get us out of here first!”

As the furred beast pushed skyward as best it could, Vereesa watched as Deathwing cut yet another deep series of wounds across his counterpart’s chest. A tiny rain began underneath the crimson dragon, the monster’s life fluids showering the sea beneath.

With tremendous effort, the lesser beast managed to free himself. Tottering, he pushed off from Deathwing, then hesitated, as if distracted by something else.

To Vereesa’s surprise, the red dragon suddenly turned and flew, in rather haphazard fashion, in the direction of Khaz Modan.

The battle had not lasted more than a minute, perhaps two, but in that short space of time Deathwing had nearly slaughtered his foe.

Curiously, the gargantuan black did not pursue. Instead, he peered at the paw held close to his chest, as if looking over something within the folded digits.

Something . . . or someone?

What had Rhonin told Duncan and her about his astonishing rescue from the crumbling tower? I don’t know what it was, but it took me up as if I was a toy and whisked me away from the devastation. What other creature could so easily take a full grown man and carry him off as if he were no more than a toy? Only the fact that such an astounding act had been unheard of until this time had kept the ranger from seeing the obvious. A dragon had carried the wizard off to safety!

But . . . Deathwing?

The black dragon suddenly flew toward Khaz Modan, but not quite in the direction his crimson counterpart had fled. As he headed away from them, Vereesa noted that he continued to keep the one palm close, as if doing what he could to protect a precious cargo.

“Falstad! We need to follow him!”

The dwarf glanced at her as if she had just asked him to ride into the very maw of the behemoth. “I’m the bravest of warriors, my elven lady, but your suggestion hints at madness!”

“Deathwing has Rhonin! Rhonin is the reason that the dragon did not use his one forepaw!”

“Then clearly the wizard is as good as dead, for what would the dark one want with him other than as a snack?”

“If that was the case, Deathwing would have eaten him before. No. He clearly has some need of Rhonin.”

Falstad grimaced. “You ask much! The gryphon’s weary and will need to land soon!”

“Please! Just as far as you can! I cannot leave him like this! I have sworn an oath!”

“No oath would take you this far,” the gryphon rider muttered, but he nonetheless steered his mount back toward Khaz Modan. The animal made noises of protest, but obeyed.

Vereesa said nothing more, knowing that Falstad had the right of it. Yet, for reasons unclear to her, she could not even now abandon Rhonin to what seemed an obvious fate.

Rather than try to fathom her own mind, the ranger pondered the dwindling form of Deathwing. He had to have Rhonin. It made too much sense in her mind.

But what would Deathwing—who hated all other creatures, who sought the destruction of orc, elf, dwarf, and human—possibly want with the mage?

She remembered Duncan Senturus’s opinion of wizards, one shared not only by the other members of the Knights of the Silver Hand, but most other folk as well. A damned soul, Duncan had called him. Someone who would just as readily turn to evil as good. Someone who might—make a pact with the most sinister of all creatures?

Had the paladin spoken greater truth than even he had realized? Could Vereesa now be attempting to rescue a man who had, in actuality, sold his soul to Deathwing?

“What does he want of you, Rhonin?” she murmured. “What does he want of you?”

Krasus’s bones still ached and pain occasionally shot through his system, but he had at least managed to heal himself sufficiently to return to the troubles at hand. However, he dared not tell the rest of the council what had occurred, even though the information would have been relevant to their own tasks. For now, among the Kirin Tor, the knowledge of Deathwing’s human guise had to be his and his alone. The success of Krasus’s other plans quite possibly depended on it.

The dragon sought to be king of Alterac! On the surface, an absurd, impossible notion; but what Krasus knew of the black dragon indicated that Deathwing had something more complex, more cunning, in mind. Lord Prestor might be pushing to create peace among the members of the Alliance, but Deathwing desired only blood and chaos . . . and that meant that this peace created by his ascension to that minor throne would only be the first step toward formulating even worse disharmony later on. Yes, peace today would mean war tomorrow.

If he could not tell the Kirin Tor, there were others to whom Krasus could speak. He had been rejected by them over and over, but perhaps this time one would listen. Perhaps the wizard’s mistake had been asking their agents to come to him. Perhaps they would listen if he brought the terror to their very sanctums.

Yes . . . then they might listen.

Standing in the midst of his dark sanctum, his hood pulled forward to the point where his face completely vanished within, Krasus uttered the words to take him to one of those whose aid he most sought. The ill-lit chamber grew hazy, faded. . . .

And suddenly the mage stood in a cavern of ice and snow.

Krasus gazed around him, overawed by the sight despite previous visits here long, long ago. He knew in whose domain he now stood, and knew that of all those whose aid he sought this one might take the greatest umbrage at such a brazen intrusion. Even Deathwing respected the master of this chilling cavern. Few ever came to this sanctum in the heart of cold, inhospitable Northrend, and fewer still departed from it alive.

Great spires that almost appeared to be made of pure crystal hung from the icy ceiling, some twice, even three times, the height of the wizard. Other, rockier formations jutted up through the thick snow that not only blanketed much of the cavern floor, but the walls as well. From some inner passage light entered the chamber, casting glittering ghosts all about. Rainbows danced with each brush of the spires by a slight wind that somehow had managed to find its way inside from the cold, bleak land above this magical place.

Yet, behind the beauty of this winter spectacle lay other, more macabre sights. Within the enchanting blanket of snow, Krasus made out frozen shapes, even the occasional limb. Many, he knew, belonged to the few great animals who thrived in the region, while a couple, especially one marked by a hand curled in grisly death, revealed the fate of those who had dared to trespass.

More unnerving evidence of the finality of any intruder’s fate could even be found in the wondrous ice formations, for in several dangled the frozen corpses of past uninvited visitors. Krasus marked among the most common a number of ice trolls—massive, barbaric creatures of pale skin and more than twice the girth of their southern counterparts. Death had not come kind to them, each bearing expressions of agony.

Farther on, the mage noted two of the ferocious beastmen known as wendigos. They, too, had been frozen in death, but where the trolls had revealed their terror at their horrible deaths, the wendigos wore masks of outrage, as if neither could believe they had come to such straits.

Krasus walked through the icy chamber, peering at others in the macabre collection. He discovered an elf and two orcs that had been added since his last sojourn here, signs that the war had spread even to this lonely abode. One of the orcs looked as if he had been frozen without ever having realized what fate had befallen him.

Beyond the orcs Krasus discovered one corpse that startled even him. Upon first glance, it seemed but a giant serpent, a peculiar enough monster to find in such a frozen hell, but the coiled body suddenly altered at the top, shifting from a cylindrical form to a nearly human torso—albeit a human torso covered with a smattering of scales. Two broad arms reached out as if trying to invite the wizard to join the creature’s grisly doom.

A face seemingly elven but with a flatter nose, a slit of a mouth, and teeth as sharp as a dragon greeted the newcomer. Shadowy eyes with no pupils glared in outrage. In the dark and with the bottom half of his form hidden, this being would have passed for either elf or man, but Krasus knew him for what he was—or rather, had been. The name began to form on the wizard’s tongue unbidden, as if the sinister, icy victim before him somehow drew it forth.

“Na—” Krasus started.

“You are nothing, nothing, nothing, if not audaciousss,” interjected a whispering voice that seemed to trail on the very wind.

The faceless wizard turned to see a bit of the ice on one wall pull away—and transform into something nearly akin to a man. Yet the legs were too thin, bent at too awkward an angle, and the body resembled more that of an insect. The head, too, had only a cursory resemblance to that of a human, for although there were eyes, nose, and mouth, they looked as if some artisan had started on a snow sculpture, then abandoned the idea as fruitless once the first marks for the features had been traced.

A shimmering cloak encircled the bizarre figure, one that had no hood, but a collar that rose into great spikes at the back.

“Malygos . . .” Krasus murmured. “How fare you?”

“I am comfortable, comfortable, comfortable—when my privacy isss left to me.”

“I would not be here if I had any other choice.”

“There isss always one other choice—you can leave, leave, leave! I would be alone!”

The wizard, though, would not be daunted by the cavern’s master. “And have you forgotten why you dwell so silently, so alone, in this place, Malygos? Have you forgotten so soon? It is, after all, only a few centuries since—”

The icy creature stalked around the perimeter of the cavern, ever keeping what passed for his eyes locked on the newcomer. “I forget nothing, nothing, nothing!” came the harsh wind. “I forget the days of darkness least of all. . . .”

Krasus rotated slowly so as to keep Malygos in front of him at all times. He knew no reason why the other should attack, but at least one of the others had hinted that perhaps Malygos, being eldest of those who still lived, might be more than a bit mad.

The stick-thin legs worked well on the snow and ice, the claws at the ends digging deep. Krasus was reminded of the poles men in the cold climes used to push themselves along on their skis.

Malygos had not always looked so, nor did he even now have to retain such a shape. Malygos wore what he wore because in some deep recess of his mind he preferred this over even the shape to which he had been born.

“Then you remember what he who calls himself Deathwing did to you and yours.”

The outlandish face twisted, the claws flexed. Something akin to a hiss escaped Malygos.

“I remember. . . .” The cavern suddenly felt much more cramped. Krasus held his ground, knowing that to give in to Malygos’s tortured world might very well condemn him.

“I remember!”

The ice spires shivered, creating a sound at first like a tiny bell, then quickly rising to a near ear-piercing cry. Malygos poked his way toward the wizard, scratch of a mouth wide and bitter. Pits deepened beneath the pale imitation of a brow.

Snow and ice spread, grew, filling the chamber more and more. Around Krasus, some of the snow swirled, rose, became a spectral giant of mythic proportions, a dragon of winter, a dragon of ghosts.

“I remember the promise,” the macabre figure hissed. “I recall the covenant we made! Never death to another! The world guarded forever!”

The wizard nodded, even though not even Malygos could see within the confines of his hood. “Until the betrayal.”

The snow dragon now stretched wings. Less than real, more than a phantasm, it moved in reaction to the emotions of the cavern’s lord. Even the mighty jaws opened and closed, as if the spectral puppet spoke instead.

“Until the betrayal, the betrayal, the betrayal . . .”A blast of ice burst forth from the snow dragon, ice so harsh and deadly that it tore into the rocky walls.“Until Deathwing!”

Krasus kept one hand from Malygos’s sight, knowing that at any moment he might have to use it for swift spellcasting.

Yet, the monstrous creature held himself in check. He shook his head—the snow dragon repeating his gesture—and added, in a more reasonable voice, “But the day of the dragon had already passed, and none of us, none of us, none of us, saw anything to fear from him! He was but one aspect of the world, its most base and chaotic reflection! Of all, his day had come and gone with the most permanence!”

Krasus leapt back as the ground before him shuddered. He thought at first that Malygos had tried to catch him unaware, but instead of an attack, the ground simply rose up and formed yet another dragon, this one of earth and rock.

“For the future, he said,” Malygos went on. “For when the world would have only humans, elves, and dwarves to watch over its life, he said! Let all the factions, all the flights, all the great dragons—the aspects —come together and re-create, reshape the foul piece, and we would have the key to forever protecting the world even after the last of us had faded away!” He looked up at the two phantasms he had created. “And I, I, I . . . I, Malygos, stood with him and convinced the rest!”

The two dragons swirled around one another, became one another, intertwining over and over. Krasus tore his eyes from them, reminding himself that although the one before him clearly despised Deathwing over all other creatures, it did not mean that Malygos would aid him . . . or even let him leave the chill cavern.

“And so,” interjected the faceless wizard. “Each dragon, especially the aspects, imbued it with a bit of themselves, bound themselves, in a sense, to it—”

“Forever put themselves at its mercy!”

Krasus nodded. “Forever ensured that it would be the one thing that could have power over them, although they did not know it then.” He held up one gloved hand and created an illusion of his own, an illusion of the object of which they spoke. “You remember how deceiving it looked? You remember what a simple-looking object it was?”

And at the summoning of the image, Malygos gasped and cringed. The twin dragons collapsed, snow and rock spilling everywhere but not at all touching either the wizard or his host. The rumble echoed through the empty passages, no doubt even out into the vast, empty wilderness above.

“Take it away, take it away, take it away!” Malygos demanded, nearly whimpered. Clawed hands tried to cover the indistinct eyes. “Show it to me no more!”

But Krasus would not be stopped. “Look at it, my friend! Look at the downfall of the eldest of races! Look at what has become known to all as the Demon Soul!”

The simple, shining disk spun over the mage’s gloved palm. A golden prize so unassuming that it had passed into and out of the possession of many without any of them ever realizing its potential. Only an illusion appeared here now, yet it still put such fear in the heart of Malygos that it took him more than a minute to force his gaze upon it.

“Forged by the magic that was the essence of every dragon, created to first fight the demons of the Burning Legion, then to trap their own magical forces within!” The hooded spellcaster stepped toward Malygos. “And used by Deathwing to betray all other dragons just when the battle was done! Used by him against his very allies—”

“Cease this! The Demon Soul is lost, lost, lost, and the dark one is dead, slain by human and elven wizards!”

“Is he?” Stepping over what remained of the two phantasms, Krasus dismissed the image of the artifact and instead brought forth another. A human, a man clad in black. A confident young noble with eyes much older than his appearance indicated.

Lord Prestor.

“This man, this mortal, would be the new king of Alterac, Alterac in the heart of the Lordaeron Alliance, Malygos. Do you not find anything familiar about him? You, especially?”

The icy creature moved closer, peering at the rotating image of the false noble. Malygos inspected Prestor carefully, cautiously . . . and with growing horror.

“This is no man!”

“Say it, Malygos. Say who you see.”

The inhuman eyes met Krasus’s own. “You know very well! It is Deathwing!” A bestial hiss escaped the grotesque being that had once worn the majestic form of a dragon.“Deathwing . . .”

“Deathwing, yes,” Krasus returned, his own tone almost emotionless. “Deathwing, who has been twice thought dead. Deathwing, who wielded the Demon Soul and forever ended any hope of a return to the Age of the Dragon. Deathwing . . . who now seeks to manipulate the younger races into doing his treacherous bidding.”

“He will have them at war with one another. . . .”

“Yes, Malygos. He will have them at war with one another until only a few survive . . . at which point Deathwing will finish those. You know what a world he desires. One in which there is only he and his selected followers. Deathwing’s purified realm . . . with no room even for those dragons not of his ilk.”

“Nooo . . .”

Malygos’s form suddenly expanded in all directions, and his skin took on a reptilian cast. The coloring of that skin changed, too, from an icy white to a dark and frosty silver-blue. His limbs thickened and his visage grew longer, more draconic. Malygos did not complete the transformation, though, stopping at a point that left him resembling a horrific parody of dragon and insect, a creature of nightmare. “I allied myself with him, and for this my flight saw ruin. I am all that is left of mine! The Demon Soul took my children, my mates. I lived only with the knowledge that he who had betrayed all had perished, and that the cursed disk had been forever expunged—”

“So did we all, Malygos.”

“But he lives! He lives!”

The dragon’s sudden rage left the cavern quivering. Icy spears lanced the snowy floor, creating further tremors that rocked Krasus.

“Yes, he lives, Malygos, he lives despite your sacrifices. . . .”

The macabre leviathan eyed him closely. “I lost much—too much! But you, you who call yourself Krasus, you who once also wore the form of dragon, you lost all, too!”

Visions of his beloved queen passed quickly through Krasus’s mind. Visions of the days when the red flight of Alexstrasza had been ascendant washed over him. . . .

He had been the second of her consorts—but the first in loyalty and love.

The wizard shook his head, clearing away painful memories. The yearning to patrol the skies once more had to be quelled. Until things changed, he had to remain human, remain Krasus—not the red dragon Korialstrasz.

“Yes . . . I lost much,” Krasus finally replied, his control returned to him. “But I hope to regain something . . . something for all of us.”

“How?”

“I would free Alexstrasza.”

Malygos roared with mad laughter. He roared long and hard, far longer than even his madness warranted. He roared in mockery of all the wizard hoped to achieve.“That would serve you well—provided you could achieve such an impossible goal! But what good does that do me? What do you offer me, little one?”

“You know what Aspect she is. You know what she may do for you.”

The laughter ceased. Malygos hesitated, clearly not wanting to believe, yet desperate to do so. “She could not—could she?”

“I believe it may be possible. I believe enough of a chance exists that it would be worth your efforts. Besides, what other future do you have?”

The draconic features intensified, and the wizard’s host swelled incredibly. Now at last a beast five, ten, twenty times the size of Krasus stood before him, nearly all vestiges of the macabre creature Malygos had first been, gone. A dragon stood before Krasus, a dragon not seen since the days before humankind.

And with his return to his original form, so, apparently, returned some of Malygos’s misgivings, for he asked the one question that Krasus had both dreaded and waited for. “The orcs. How is it that the orcs can hold her? That I have always wondered, wondered, wondered . . .”

“You know the only way they could keep her as prisoner, my friend.”

The dragon reared his gleaming silver head back and hissed. “The Demon Soul? Those insignificant creatures have the Demon Soul? That is why you flashed that foul image before me?”

“Yes, Malygos, they have the Demon Soul and although I do not think that they know fully what they wield, they know enough to keep Alexstrasza at bay . . . but that is not the worst of it.”

“And what could be worse?”

Krasus knew that he had nearly pulled the elder leviathan close enough to sanity to agree to help in rescuing the Dragonqueen, but that what he told Malygos next might put to ruination those accomplishments. Nonetheless, for the sake of more than simply his beloved mistress, the dragon who masqueraded as one of the wizards of the Kirin Tor had to tell his one possible ally the truth. “I believe Deathwing now knows what I do . . . and will also not stop until the cursed disk—and Alexstrasza—are both his.”