有人翻译魔兽系列小说吗？(页 1) - 文字翻译室 - 龙骑士城堡奇幻论坛奇幻文学,翻译,原创,龙与地下城

Knights of Silv 发表于 2005-10-19 20:54

有人翻译魔兽系列小说吗？

最近在玩摩兽系列游戏，发现他的历史和世界设定很庞大，随即下了几部的小说来看，但有的是英文原版的，有大人能帮忙翻译一下吗？ This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. AnOriginalPublication of POCKET BOOKS POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc. 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020 Visit us on the World Wide Web: <a href='http://www.SimonSays.com' target='_blank'>http://www.SimonSays.com</a> Copyright © 2001 by Blizzard Entertainment All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020 ISBN: 0-7434-2315-1 POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc. ONE War. It had once seemed to some of the Kirin Tor, the magical conclave that ruled the small nation of Dalaran, that the world of Azeroth had never known anything but constant bloodshed. There had been the trolls, before the forming of the Alliance of Lordaeron, and when at last humanity had dealt with that foul menace, the first wave of orcs had descended upon the lands, appearing out of a horrific rip in the very fabric of the universe. At first, nothing had seemed able to stop these grotesque invaders, but gradually what had looked to be a horrible slaughter had turned instead into an agonizing stalemate. Battles had been won by attrition. Hundreds had died on both sides, all seemingly for no good reason. For years, the Kirin Tor had foreseen no end. But that had finally changed. The Alliance had at last managed to push back the Horde, eventually routing them entirely. Even the orcs' great chieftain, the legendary Orgrim Doomhammer, had been unable to stem the advancing armies and had finally capitulated. With the exception of a few renegade clans, the surviving invaders had been rounded up into enclaves and kept under secure watch by military units led personally by members of the Knights of the Silver Hand. For the first time in many, many years, lasting peace looked to be a promise, not a faint wish. And yet . . . a sense of unease still touched the senior council of the Kirin Tor. Thus it was that the highest of the high met in the Chamber of the Air, so-called because it seemed a room without walls, only a vast, ever-changing sky with clouds, light, and darkness, racing past the master wizards as if the time of the world had sped up. Only the gray, stone floor with its gleaming diamond symbol, representing the four elements, gave any solidity to the scene. Certainly the wizards themselves did nothing in that regard, for they, clad in their dark cloaks that covered not only face but form, seemed to waver with the movements of the sky, almost as if they, too, were but illusion. Although their numbers included both men and women, the only sign of that was whenever one of them spoke, at which point a face would become partially visible, if somewhat indistinct in detail. There were six this meeting, the six most senior, although not necessarily the most gifted. The leaders of the Kirin Tor were chosen by several means, magic but one of them. “Something is happening in Khaz Modan,” announced the first in a stentorian voice, the vague image of a bearded face briefly visible. A myriad pattern of stars floated through his body. “Near or in the caverns held by the Dragonmaw clan.” “Tell us something we don't already know,” rasped the second, a woman likely of elder years but still strong of will. A moon briefly shone through her cowl. “The orcs there remain one of the few holdouts, now that Doomhammer's warriors have surrendered and the chieftain's gone missing.” The first mage clearly took some umbrage, but he kept himself calm as he replied. “Very well! Perhaps this will interest you more. . . . I believe Deathwing is on the move again.” This startled the rest, the elder woman included. Night suddenly changed into day, but the wizards ignored what, for them, was a common thing in this chamber. Clouds drifted past the head of the third of their number, who clearly did not believe this statement. “Deathwing is dead!” the third declared, his form the only one hinting at corpulence. “He plunged into the sea months ago after this very council and a gathering of our strongest struck the mortal blow! No dragon, even him, could withstand such might!” Some of the others nodded, but the first went on. “And where was the corpse? Deathwing was like no other dragon. Even before the goblins sealed the adamantium plates to his scaly hide, he offered a threat with the potential to dwarf that of the Horde. . . .” “But what proof do you have of his continued existence?” This from a young woman clearly in the bloom of youth. Not as experienced as the others, but still powerful enough to be one of the council. “What?” “The death of two red dragons, two of Alexstrasza's get. Torn asunder in a manner only one of their own kind— one of gargantuan proportions—could have managed.” “There are other large dragons.” A storm began to rage, the lightning and rain falling upon the wizards and yet touching neither them nor the floor. The storm passed in the blink of an eye, a blazing sun once more appearing overhead. The first of the Kirin Tor gave this latest display not even the least of his interest. “You have obviously never seen the work of Deathwing, or you'd never make that statement.” “It may be as you say,” interjected the fifth, the outline of a vaguely elven visage appearing and disappearing faster than the storm. “And, if so, a matter of import. But we hardly can concern ourselves with it for now. If Deathwing lives and now strikes out at his greatest rival's kind, then it only benefits us. After all, Alexstrasza is still the captive of Dragonmaw clan, and it is her offspring that those orcs have used for years to wreak bloodshed and havoc all over the Alliance. Have we all so soon forgotten the tragedy of the Third Fleet of Kul Tiras? I suspect that Lord Admiral Daelin Proudmoore never will. After all, he lost his eldest son and everyone else aboard those six great ships when the monstrous red leviathans fell upon them. Proudmoore would likely honor Deathwing with a medal if it proved true that the black beast was responsible for these two deaths.” No one argued that point, not even the first mage. Of the mighty vessels, only splinters of wood and a few torn corpses had been left to mark the utter destruction. It had been to Lord Admiral Proudmoore's credit that he had not faltered in his resolve, immediately ordering the building of new warships to replace those destroyed and pushing on with the war. “And, as I stated earlier, we can hardly concern ourselves with that situation now, not with so many more immediate issues with which to deal.” “You're referring to the Alterac crisis, aren't you?” rumbled the bearded mage. “Why should the continued sniping of Lordaeron and Stromgarde worry us more than Deathwing's possible return?” “Because now Gilneas has thrown its weight into the situation.” Again the other mages stirred, even the unspeaking sixth. The slightly corpulent shade moved a step toward the elven form. “Of what interest is the bickering of the other two kingdoms over that sorry piece of land to Genn Greymane? Gilneas is at the tip of the southern peninsula, as far away in the Alliance as any other kingdom is from Alterac!” “You have to ask? Greymane has always sought the leadership of the Alliance, even though he held back his armies until the orcs finally attacked his own borders. The only reason he ever encouraged King Terenas of Lordaeron to action was to weaken Lordaeron's military might. Now Terenas maintains his hold on the Alliance leadership mostly because of our work and Admiral Proudmoore's open support.” Alterac and Stromgarde were neighboring kingdoms that had been at odds since the first days of the war. Thoras Trollbane had thrown the full might of Stromgarde behind the Lordaeron Alliance. With Khaz Modan as its neighbor, it had only made sense for the mountainous kingdom to support a united action. None could argue with the determination of Trollbane's warriors, either. If not for them, the orcs would have overrun much of the Alliance during the first weeks of the war, certainly promising a different and highly grim outcome overall. Alterac, on the other hand, while speaking much of the courage and righteousness of the cause, had not been so forthcoming with its own troops. Like Gilneas, it had provided only token support; but, where Genn Greymane had held back out of ambition, Lord Perenolde, so it had been rumored, had done so because of fear. Even among the Kirin Tor it had early on been asked whether Perenolde had thought to perhaps make a deal with Doomhammer, should the Alliance crumble under the Horde's unceasing onslaught. That fear had proven to have merit. Perenolde had indeed betrayed the Alliance, but his dastardly act had, fortunately, been short-lived. Terenas, hearing of it, had quickly moved Lordaeron troops in and declared martial law in Alterac. With the war in progress, no one had, at the time, seen fit to complain over such an action, especially Stromgarde. Now that peace had come, Thoras Trollbane had begun to demand that, for its sacrifices, Stromgarde should receive as just due the entire eastern portion of its treacherous former neighbor. Terenas did not see it so. He still debated the merits of either annexing Alterac to his own kingdom or setting upon its throne a new and more reasonable monarch . . . presumably with a sympathetic ear for Lordaeron causes. Still, Stromgarde had been a loyal, steadfast ally in the struggle, and all knew of Thoras Trollbane's and Terenas's admiration for one another. It made the political situation that had come between the pair all the more sad. Gilneas, meanwhile, had no such ties to any of the lands involved; it had always remained separate from the other nations of the western world. Both the Kirin Tor and King Terenas knew that Genn Greymane sought to intervene not only to raise his own prestige, but to perhaps further his dreams of expansion. One of Lord Perenolde's nephews had fled to that land after the treachery, and rumor had it that Greymane supported his claim as successor. A base in Alterac would give Gilneas access to resources the southern kingdom did not have, and the excuse to send its mighty ships across the Great Sea. That, in turn, would draw Kul Tiras into the equation, the maritime nation being very protective of its naval sovereignty. “This will tear the Alliance apart. . . .” muttered the young mage with the accent. “It has not come to that point yet,” pointed out the elven wizard, “but it may soon. And so we have no time to deal with dragons. If Deathwing lives and has chosen to renew his vendetta against Alexstrasza, I, for one, will not oppose him. The fewer dragons in this world the better. Their day is done, after all.” “I have heard,” came a voice with no inflection, no identifiable gender, “that once the elves and dragons were allies, even respected friends.” The elven form turned to the last of the mages, a slim, lanky shape little more than shadow. “Tales only, I can assure you. We would not deign to traffic with such monstrous beasts.” Clouds and sun gave way to stars and moon. The sixth mage bowed slightly, as if in apology. “I appear to have heard wrong. My mistake.” “You're right about the importance of calming this political situation down,” the bearded wizard rumbled to the fifth. “And I agree it must take priority. Still, we can't afford to ignore what is happening around Khaz Modan! Whether or not I'm wrong about Deathwing, so long as the orcs there hold the Dragonqueen captive, they're a threat to the stability of the land!” “We need an observer, then,” interjected the elder female. “Someone to maintain watch on matters and only alert us if the situation there becomes critical.” “But who? We can spare no one now!” “There is one.” The sixth mage glided a step forward. The face remained in shadow even when the figure spoke. “There is Rhonin. . . .” “Rhonin?!?” burst out the bearded mage. “Rhonin! After his last debacle? He isn't even fit to wear the robes of a wizard! He's more of a danger than a hope!” “He's unstable,” agreed the elder woman. “A maverick,” muttered the corpulent one. “Untrustworthy . . .” “Criminal!” The sixth waited until all had spoken, then slowly nodded. “And the only skilled wizard we can afford to be without at this juncture. Besides, this is simply a mission of observance. He will be nowhere near any potential crisis. His duty will be to monitor matters and report back, that is all.” When no more protests arose, the dark mage added, “I am certain that he has learned his lesson.” “Let us hope so,” muttered the older of the women. “He may have accomplished his last mission, but it cost most of his companions their lives!” “This time, he will go alone, with only a guide to bring him to the edge of Alliance-controlled lands. He shall not even enter Khaz Modan. A sphere of seeing will enable him to watch from a distance.” “It seems simple enough,” the younger female responded. “Even for Rhonin.” The elven figure nodded brusquely. “Then let us agree on this and be done with the topic. Perhaps if we are fortunate, Deathwing will swallow Rhonin, then choke to death, thus finishing forever the matters of both.” He surveyed the others, then added, “And now I must demand that we finally concentrate on Gilneas's entry into the Alterac situation and what role we may play to diffuse it. . . .” He stood as he had for the past two hours, head down, eyes closed in concentration. Around him, only a dim light with no source gave any illumination to the chamber, not that there was much to see. A chair he had left unused stood to the side, and behind him on the thick, stone wall hung a tapestry upon which had been sewn an intricate, knowing eye of gold on a field of violet. Below the eye, three daggers, also gold, darted earthward. The flag and symbols of Dalaran had stood tall in their guardianship of the Alliance during the war, even if not every member of the Kirin Tor had performed their duties with complete honor. “Rhonin . . .” came a voice without inflection, from everywhere and nowhere in the chamber. From under thick, fiery hair, he looked up into the darkness with eyes a startling green. His nose had been broken once by a fellow apprentice, but despite his skills, Rhonin had never bothered to have it fixed. Still, he was not unhandsome, with a strong, clean jaw and angular features. One permanently arched brow ever gave him a sardonic, questioning look that had more than once gotten him in trouble with his masters, and matters were not helped by his attitude, which matched his expression. Tall, slim, and clad in an elegant robe of midnight blue, he made for quite a sight, even to other wizards. Rhonin hardly appeared recalcitrant, even though his last mission had cost the lives of five good men. He stood straight and eyed the murk, waiting to see from which direction the other wizard would speak to him. “You summoned. I've waited,” the crimson-tressed spellcaster whispered, not without some impatience. “It could not be helped. I myself had to wait until the matter was brought up by someone else.” A tall cloaked and hooded figure half-emerged from the gloom—the sixth member of the Kirin Tor inner council. “It was.” For the first time, some eagerness shone in the eyes of Rhonin. “And my penance? Is my probation over?” “Yes. You have been granted your return to our ranks . . . under the provision that you accede to taking on a task of import immediately.” “They've that much faith left in me?” Bitterness returned to the young mage's voice. “After the others died?” “You are the only one they have left.” “That sounds more realistic. I should've known.” “Take these.” The shadowy wizard held out a slim, gloved hand, palm up. Above the hand there suddenly flashed into existence two glittering objects—a tiny sphere of emerald and a ring of gold with a single black jewel. Rhonin held out his own hand in the same manner . . . and the two items appeared above it. He seized both and inspected them. “I recognize the sphere of seeing, but not this other. It feels powerful, but not, I'm guessing, in an aggressive manner.” “You are astute, which is why I took up your cause in the first place, Rhonin. The sphere's purpose you know; the ring will serve as protection. You go into a realm where orc warlocks still exist. This ring will help shield you from their own devices of detection. Regrettably, it will also make it difficult for us to monitor you.” “So I'll be on my own.” Rhonin gave his sponsor a sardonic smile. “Less chance of me causing any extra deaths, anyway. . . .” “In that regard, you will not be alone, at least as far as the journey to the port. A ranger will escort you.” Rhonin nodded, although he clearly did not care for any escort, especially a ranger. Rhonin and elves did not get along well together. “You've not told me my mission.” The shadowed wizard propped back, as if sitting in an immense chair the younger spellcaster could not see. Gloved hands steepled as the figure seemed to consider the proper choice of words. “They have not been easy on you, Rhonin. Some in the council even considered forever dismissing you from our ranks. You must earn your way back, and to do that, you will have to fulfill this mission to the letter.” “You make it sound like no easy task.” “It involves dragons . . . and something they believe only one of youraptitudecan manage to accomplish.” “Dragons . . .” Rhonin's eyes had widened at first mention of the leviathans and, despite his tendency toward arrogance at most times, he knew he sounded more like an apprentice at the moment. Dragons. . . Simply the mention of them instilled awe in most younger mages. “Yes, dragons.” His sponsor leaned forward. “Make no mistake about this, Rhonin. No one else must know of this mission outside of the council and yourself. Not even the ranger who guides you nor the captain of the Alliance ship who drops you on the shores of Khaz Modan. If word got out what we hope from you, it could set all the plans in jeopardy.” “But what is it?” Rhonin's green eyes flared bright. This would be a quest of tremendous danger, but the rewards were clear enough. A return to the ranks and obvious added prestige to his reputation. Nothing advanced a wizard in the Kirin Tor quicker than reputation, although none of the senior council would have ever admitted to that base fact. “You are to go to Khaz Modan,” the other said with some hesitation, “and, once there, set into motion the steps necessary to free from her orc captors the Dragonqueen,Alexstrasza. . . .” TWO Vereesa did not like waiting. Most people thought that elves had the patience of glaciers, but younger ones such as herself, just a year out of her apprenticeship in the rangers, were very much like humans in that one regard. She had been waiting three days for this wizard she was supposed to escort to one of the eastern ports serving the Great Sea. For the most part, she respected wizards as much as any elf respected a human, but this one had earned nothing but her ire. Vereesa wanted to join her sisters and brothers, help hunt down each and every remaining orc still fighting, and send the murderous beasts to their well-deserved deaths. The ranger had not expected her first major assignment to be playing nursemaid to some doddering and clearly forgetful old mage. “One more hour,” she muttered. “One more hour, and then I leave.” Her sleek, chestnut-brown, elven mare snorted ever so slightly. Generations of breeding had created an animal far superior to its mundane cousins, or so Vereesa's people believed. The mare was in tune with her rider, and what would have seemed to most nothing more than a simple grunt from the horse immediately sent the ranger to her feet, a long shaft already notched in her bow. Yet the woods around her spoke only of quiet, not treachery, and this deep within the Lordaeron Alliance she could hardly expect an attack by either orcs or trolls. She glanced in the direction of the small inn that had been designated the meeting place, but other than a stable boy carrying hay, Vereesa saw no one. Still, the elf did not lower her bow. Her mount rarely made a sound unless some trouble lurked nearby. Bandits, perhaps? Slowly the ranger turned in a circle. The wind whipped some of the long, silver-white hair across her face, but not enough to obscure her sharp sight. Almond-shaped eyes the color of purest sky blue drank in even the most minute shift of foliage, and the lengthy, pointed ears that rose from her thick hair could pick up even the sound of a butterfly landing on a nearby flower. And still she could find no reason for the mare's warning. Perhaps she had frightened away whatever supposed menace had been nearby. Like all elves, Vereesa knew she made an impressive appearance. Taller than most humans, the ranger stood clad in knee-high leather boots, forest-green pants and blouse, and an oak-brown travel cloak. Gloves that stretched nearly to her elbows protected her hands while yet enabling her to use her bow or the sword hanging at her side with ease. Over her blouse she wore a sturdy breastplate fashioned to her slim but still curved form. One of the locals in the inn had made the mistake of admiring the feminine aspects of her appearance while entirely ignoring the military ones. Because he had been drunk and possibly would have held back his rude suggestions otherwise, Vereesa had only left him with a few broken fingers. The mare snorted again. The ranger glared at her mount, words of reprimand forming on her lips. “You would be Vereesa Windrunner, I presume,” a low, arresting voice on her blind side suddenly commented. She had the tip of the shaft directly at his throat before he could say more. Had Vereesa let the arrow loose, it would have shot completely through the newcomer's neck, exiting through the other side. Curiously, he seemed unimpressed by this deadly fact. The elf stared him up and down—not an entirely unpleasant task, she had to admit—and realized that her sudden intruder could only be the wizard for whom she had been waiting. Certainly that would explain her mount's peculiar actions and her own inability to sense his presence before this. “You are Rhonin?” the ranger finally asked. “Not what you're expecting?” he returned with just the hint of a sardonic smile. She lowered the bow, relaxing slightly. “They said a wizard; that was all, human.” “And they told me an elven ranger, nothing more.” He gave her a glance that almost made Vereesa raise the bow again. “So we find ourselves even in this matter.” “Not quite. I have waited here for three days! Three valuable days wasted!” “It couldn't be helped. Preparations needed to be made.” The wizard said nothing more. Vereesa gave up. Like most humans, this one cared nothing for anyone but himself. She considered herself fortunate that she had not had to wait longer. It amazed her that the Alliance could have ever triumphed against the Horde with so many like this Rhonin in their ranks. “Well, if you wish to make your passage to Khaz Modan, then it would be best if we left immediately.” The elf peered behind him. “Where is your mount?” She half-expected him to tell her that he had none, that he had used his formidable powers to transport himself all the way here . . . but if that had been the case, Rhonin would not have needed her to guide him to the ship. As a wizard, he no doubt had impressive abilities, but he also had his limits. Besides, from what little she knew of his mission, she suspected that Rhonin would need everything he had just to survive. Khaz Modan was not a land welcoming to outsiders. The skulls of many brave warriors decorated the orc tents there, so she had heard, and dragons constantly patrolled the skies. No, not a place even Vereesa would have gone without an army at her side. She was no coward, but she was also no fool. “Tied near a trough by the inn, so that he can get some water. I've already ridden long today, milady.” His use of the title for her might have flattered Vereesa, if not for the slight touch of sarcasm she thought she noted in his tone. Fighting down her irritation with the human, she turned to her own horse, replaced the bow and shaft, then proceeded to ready her animal for the ride. “My horse could do with a few more minutes' rest,” the wizard suggested, “and so could I.” “You will learn to sleep in the saddle quickly enough . . . and the pace I set at first will enable your steed to recoup. We have waited far too long. Few ships, even those of Kul Tiras, are endeared to the thought of sailing to Khaz Modan simply for a wizard on observation duty. If you do not reach port soon, they may decide that they have more worthy and less suicidal matters with which to deal.” To her relief, Rhonin did not argue. Instead, with a frown, he turned and headed back toward the inn. Vereesa watched him depart, hoping that she would not find herself tempted to run him through before they managed to part company. She wondered about his mission. True, Khaz Modan remained a threat because of the dragons and their orc masters there, but the Alliance already had other, more well-trained observers in and around the land. Vereesa suspected that Rhonin's mission concerned a very serious matter, or else the Kirin Tor would have never risked so much for this arrogant mage. Still, had they considered the matter well enough when they had chosen him? Surely there had to have been someone more able—and trustworthy? This wizard had a look to him, one that spoke of a streak of unpredictability that might lead to disaster. The elf tried to shrug off her doubts. The Kirin Tor had made up their minds in this matter, and Alliance command had clearly agreed with them or else she would not have been sent along to guide him. Best she put aside any concerns. All she had to do was deliver her charge to his vessel, and then Vereesa could be on her way. What Rhonin might or might not do after their separation did not concern her in the least. For four days they journeyed, never once threatened by anything more dangerous than a few annoying insects. Had circumstances been different, the trek might have seemed almost idyllic, if not for the fact that Rhonin and his guide had barely spoken with one another all that time. For the most part, the wizard had not been bothered much by that fact, his thoughts focused on the dangerous task ahead. Once the Alliance ship brought him to the shores of Khaz Modan, he would be on his own in a realm still overrun not only with orcs but patrolled from the sky by their captive dragons. While no coward, Rhonin had little desire to face torture and slow, agonizing death. For that alone, his benefactor in the council had provided him with the latest known movements of the Dragonmaw clan. Dragonmaw would be most on the watch now, especially if, as Rhonin had been told, the black leviathan Deathwing did indeed live. Yet, as dangerous as the mage's quest appeared, Rhonin would not have turned back. He had been given an opportunity to not only redeem himself but to advance among the Kirin Tor. For that he would forever be most grateful to his patron, whom he only knew by the nameKrasus.The title was surely a false one, not an uncommon practice among those in the ruling council. The masters of Dalaron were chosen in secret, their ascension known only to their fellows, not even their loved ones. The voice of Rhonin's benefactor could be nothing like his true voice . . . if male was even the correct gender. It was possible to guess the identities of some of the inner circle, but Krasus remained an enigma even to his clever agent. In truth, though, Rhonin barely even cared about Krasus's identity anymore, only that through him the younger wizard could achieve his own dreams. But those dreams would remain distant ones if he never made his ship. Leaning forward in the saddle, he asked, “How much farther to Hasic?” Without turning, Vereesa blandly replied, “Three more days at least. Do not worry; our pace will now get us to the port on time.” Rhonin leaned back again. So much for their latest conversation, only the second of today. The only thing possibly worse than riding with an elf would have been traveling with one of the dour Knights of the Silver Hand. Despite their ever-present courtesy, the paladins generally made it clear that they considered magic an occasional, necessary evil, one with which they would do without at all other times. The last one that Rhonin had encountered had quite clearly indicated that he believed that, after death, the mage's soul would be condemned to the same pit of darkness shared by the mythical demons of old. This no matter how pure Rhonin's soul might have been otherwise. The late afternoon sun began to sink among the treetops, creating contrasting areas of brightness and dark shadow among the trees. Rhonin had hoped to reach the edge of the woods before dark, but clearly they would not do so. Not for the first time, he ran through his mental maps, trying not only to place their present location but verify what his companion had said about still making the ship. His delay in meeting with Vereesa had been unavoidable, the product of trying to find necessary supplies and components. He only hoped it would still not prove to jeopardize his entire mission. To free the Dragonqueen . . . An impossible, improbable quest to some, certain death to most. Yet, even during the war, Rhonin had proposed such. Clearly, if the Dragonqueen were freed, it would at the very least strip from the remaining orcs one of their greatest weapons. However, circumstance had never enabled such a monumental quest to come to fruition. Rhonin knew most of the council hoped he would fail. To be rid of him would be to erase what they considered a black mark from the history of their order. This mission had a double edge to it; they would be astounded if he succeeded, but relieved if he failed. At least he could trust in Krasus. The wizard had first come to him, asking if his younger counterpart still believed he could do the impossible. Dragonmaw clan would forever retain its hold on Khaz Modan unless Alexstrasza was freed, and so long as the orcs there continued the work of the Horde, they remained a possible rallying point for those in the guarded enclaves. No one wanted the war renewed. The Alliance had enough strife within its own ranks to keep it busy. A brief rumble of thunder disturbed Rhonin's contemplations. He looked up but saw only a few cottony clouds. Frowning, the fiery-haired spellcaster turned his gaze toward the elf, intending to ask her if she, too, had heard the thunder. A second, more menacing rumble set every muscle taut. At the same time, Vereesaleaptat him, the ranger somehow having managed to turn in the saddle and push herself in his direction. A massive shadow covered their surroundings. The ranger and the wizard collided, the elf 's armored weight shoving both off the back of Rhonin's own mount. An ear-shattering roar shook the vicinity, and a force akin to a tornado ripped at the landscape. As the wizard struck the hard ground, through the shock of pain he heard the brief whinny of his mount—a sound cut off the next moment. “Keep down!” Vereesa called above the wind and roaring. “Keep down!” Rhonin, though, twisted around so as to see the heavens—and saw instead a hellish sight. A dragon the color of raging fire filled the sky above. In its forepaws it held what remained of his horse and his costly and carefully chosen supplies. The crimson leviathan consumed in one gulp the rest of the carcass, eyes already fixed on the tiny, pathetic figures below. And seated atop the shoulders of the beast, a grotesque, greenish figure with tusks and a battle-ax that looked nearly as large as the mage barked orders in some harsh tongue and pointed directly at Rhonin. Maw gaping and talons bared, the dragon dove toward him. “I thank you again for your time, Your Majesty,” the tall, black-haired noble said in a voice full of strength and understanding. “Perhaps we can yet keep this crisis from tearing your good work asunder.” “If so,” returned the older, bearded figure clad in the elegant white and gold robes of state, “Lordaeron and the Alliance will have much to thank you for, Lord Prestor. It's only because of your work that I feel Gilneas and Stromgarde might yet see reason.” Although no slight man himself, King Terenas felt a little overwhelmed by his larger companion. The younger man smiled, revealing perfect teeth. If Terenas could have found a more regal-looking man than Lord Prestor, he would have been surprised. With his short, well-groomed black hair, clean-shaven hawklike features that had set many of the women of the court atwitter, quick mind, and a bearing more princely than any prince in the Alliance, it was not at all surprising that everyone involved in the Alterac situation had taken to him, Genn Greymane included. Prestor had an engaging manner that had actually made the ruler of Gilneas smile on a rare occasion, so Terenas's marveling diplomats had informed him. For a young noble whom no one had even heard of prior to five years before, the king's guest had made quite a reputation for himself. Prestor came from the most mountainous, most obscure region of Lordaeron, but could claim bloodlines in the royal house of Alterac as well. His tiny domain had been destroyed during the war by a dragon attack and he had come to the capital on foot, without even one servant to dress him. His plight and what he had made of himself since his arrival had become the thing of storybook tales. More important, his advice had aided the king many times, including during the dark days when the graying monarch had debated on what to do about Lord Perenolde. Prestor had, in fact, been the swaying factor. He had given Terenas the encouragement needed to seize power in Alterac, then solidify martial law there. Stromgarde and the other kingdoms had understood the need for action against the traitorous Perenolde, but not Lordaeron's continued holding of that kingdom for its own purposes after the war had ended. Now at last, Prestor appeared to be the one who could explain it all to them and make them accept any final decision. Which had, of late, made the aging, broad-featured monarch mull over a possible solution that would stun even the clever man before him. Terenas refused to turn over Alterac to Perenolde's nephew, whom Gilneas had tried to support. Nor did he think it wise to divide the kingdom in question between Lordaeron and Stromgarde. That would surely earn the wrath of not only Gilneas, but Kul Tiras even. Annexing Alterac completely was also out of the question. What if, though, he placed the region in the capable hands of one admired by all, one who had shown he wanted nothing but peace and unity? An able administrator, too, if King Terenas were any judge, not to mention someone certain to remain a true ally and friend to Lordaeron. . . . “No, indeed, Prestor!” The king reached up to pat the much taller lord on the shoulder. Prestor had to be nearly seven feet in height, but while slim, he could hardly be called lanky. Prestor well fit his blue and black dress uniform, looking every inch the martial hero. “You've much to be proud about . . . and much to be rewarded for! I'll not soon forget your part in this, believe me!” Prestor fairly beamed, likely believing he would soon have his tiny realm restored to him. Terenas decided to let the boy keep that little dream; when the ruler of Lordaeron proposed him as new monarch of Alterac, the expression on Prestor's face would be that much more entertaining. It was not every day that someone became king . . . unless they inherited the position, of course. Terenas's honored guest saluted him, then, bowing gracefully, retreated from the imperial chamber. The elder man frowned after Prestor left, thinking that the silken curtains, the golden chandeliers, and even the pure white marble floor could not brighten the room enough now that the young noble had departed. Truly Lord Prestor stood out among the many odious courtiers flocking to the palace. Here was a man anyone could believe in, a man worthy of trust and respect in all matters. Terenas wished his own son could have been more like Prestor. The king rubbed his bearded chin. Yes, the perfect man to rebuild the honor of a land and at the same time restore harmony between the members of the Alliance. New and strong blood. Considering the matter further, Terenas thought of his daughter, Calia. Still a child, but certainly soon to be a beauty. Perhaps one day, if matters went well, he and Prestor could strengthen their friendship and alliance with a royal marriage, too. Yes, he would go talk to his advisors now, relate to them his royal opinion. Terenas felt certain that they would agree with him on this decision. He had met no one yet who disliked the young noble. King Prestor of Alterac.Terenas could just imagine the look on his friend's face when he learned the extent of his reward. . . . “You've the shadow of a smile on your face—did someone die a horrible, grisly, bloody death, o venomous one?” “Spare me your witticisms, Kryll,” Lord Prestor replied as he shut the great iron door behind him. Above, in the old chalet given over to him by his host, King Terenas, servants specifically chosen by Prestor stood guard to see that no unwarranted visitors dropped in. Their master had work to do, and even if none of the servants truly knew what went on in the chambers below-ground, they had been made to know that it would be their lives if he was disturbed. Prestor expected no interruptions and trusted that those lackeys would obey to the death. The spell upon them, a variation of the one that caused the king and his court to so admire the dashing refugee, allowed no room for second thoughts. He had honed its effectiveness quite well over time. “Most humble apologies, o prince of duplicity!” rasped the smaller, wiry figure before him. The tone in the other's voice held hints of mischief and madness and an inhuman quality—not surprising, as Prestor's companion was a goblin. His head barely reaching above the noble's belt buckle, some might have taken the slight, emerald-green creature for weak and simple. The madcap grin, however, revealed long teeth so very sharp and a tongue blood-red and almost forked. Narrow, yellow eyes with no visible pupils sparkled with merriment, but the sort of merriment that came from pulling the wings off flies or the arms off experimental subjects. A ridge of dull brown fur rose up from behind the goblin's neck, finishing as a wild crest above the hideous creature's squat forehead. “Still, there is reason to celebrate.” The lower chamber had once been used to house supplies. In those days, the coolness of the earth had kept wine rack after wine rack at just the right temperature. Now, however, thanks to a little engineering on the part of Kryll, the vast room felt as if it sat in the middle of a raging volcano. For Lord Prestor, it felt just like home. “Celebrate, o master of deceit?” Kryll giggled. Kryll giggled a lot, especially when foul work was afoot. The emerald creature's two chief passions were experimentation and mayhem, and whenever possible he combined the two. The back half of the chamber was, in fact, filled with benches, flasks, powders, curious mechanisms, and macabre collections all gathered by the goblin. “Yesss, celebrate, Kryll.” Prestor's penetrating, ebony eyes fixed unblinkingly on the goblin, who suddenly lost his smile and all semblance of mockery. “You would like to be around to join in that celebration, wouldn't you?” “Yes . . . Master.” The uniformed noble took a moment to breathe in the stifling air. An expression of relief crossed his angular features. “Aaah, how I miss it . . .” His face hardened. “But I must wait. Go only when necessary, eh, Kryll?” “As you say, Master.” The smile, now so very sinister, returned to Prestor's expression. “You are likely looking at the next king of Alterac, you know.” The goblin bent his narrow but muscular body nearly to the ground. “All hail his royal majesty, King D—” A clatter made both glance to the right. From a metal grate leading to an old ventilation shaft emerged a smaller goblin. Nimbly, the tiny figure pulled itself through the opening and rushed over to Kryll. The newcomer wore a fiendishly amused look on his ugly face, a look that quickly faded under Prestor's intense gaze. The second goblin whispered something into Kryll's large, pointed ear. Kryll hissed, then dismissed the other creature with a negligent wave of the hand. The newcomer vanished back through the open grate. “What is it?” Although the words came calmly and smoothly from the lips of the aristocrat, they also clearly demanded no hesitation on the part of the goblin to answer. “Aaah, gracious one,” Kryll began, the madcap smile once more upon his bestial face. “Luck is with you this day, it seems! Perhaps you should consider making a wager somewhere? The stars must truly favor—” “What is it?” “Someone . . . someone is attempting to free Alexstrasza. . . .” Prestor stared. He stared so long and with such intensity that Kryll fairly shriveled up before him. Surely now, the goblin imagined, surely now death would come. A pity that. There had been so many more experiments he had wanted to try, so many more explosives to test . . . At that moment, the tall, black figure before him broke out laughing, a laugh deep, dark, and not entirely natural. “Perfect . . .” Lord Prestor managed to utter between bouts of mirth. He stretched his arms out as if seeking to capture the very air. His fingers seemed impossibly long and almost clawed. “So perfect!” He continued to laugh and, as he did, the goblin Kryll settled back, marveling at the odd sight and shaking his head ever so slightly. “And they callmemad,” he muttered under his breath. THREE The world became fire. Vereesa cursed as she and the wizard scattered under the inferno suddenly exhaled by the crimson behemoth as it descended. If Rhonin had not delayed the start of their journey, this would have never happened. They would have arrived in Hasic by now, and she would have parted from his company. Now, it seemed very likely both of them would be parting with their lives. . . . She had known that the orcs of Khaz Modan still sent out occasional dragon flights to wreak terror on the otherwise peaceful lands of their enemies, but why had she and her companion had the misfortune to be found by one? Dragons were fewer these days, and the realms of Lordaeron immense. She glanced at Rhonin, who had thrown himself deeper into the woods. Of course. Somehow it had to do with the fact that her companion was a wizard. Dragons had senses far above those of even elves; some said they could, within limitations, even smell magic. Somehow this disastrous turn of events had to be the wizard's fault. The orc and his dragon had to have come for him. Rhonin evidently thought something similar, for he hurried from her sight as quickly as he could, darting into the woods in the opposite direction from her. The ranger snorted. Wizards were never good in the front line; it was easy to attack someone from a distance or behind his back, but when they had to actually face a foe . . . Of course, itwasa dragon. The dragon veered toward the vanishing human. Despite what she might personally think of him, Vereesa did not want to see the spellcaster dead. Yet, peering around, the silver-haired ranger saw no manner by which she could aid him. Her mount had been taken along with his, and with it had gone her favored bow. All that remained with her was her sword, hardly a weapon to be used against such a rampaging titan. Vereesa looked around for something else she could use, but nothing suited. That left her with little choice. As a ranger, she could not let even the wizard fall to harm if she could help it. Vereesa had to do the only thing she could think of in order to possibly save his life. The elf leapt up from her hiding place, waved her hands in the air, and shouted, “Here! Over here, spawn of a lizard! Here!” However, the dragon did not hear her, his—Vereesa had finally managed to identify it as a male—attention on the burning woods below him. Somewhere in that inferno Rhonin struggled to survive. The dragon sought to make certain that he did not. Cursing, the elven warrior looked around and found a heavy rock. For a human, what she sought to do would have been nigh unto impossible, but for her it still remained in the realm of probability. Vereesa only hoped her arm was as good as it had been a few short years back. Stretching back, she threw the rock directly at the head of the crimson leviathan. She had the distance, but the dragon suddenly moved, and for a moment Vereesa expected her rock to miss. However, although it did not hit the head, the projectile did bounce off the tip of the nearest of the webbed wings. Vereesa did not even expect to injure the beast— a mere rock against hard dragonscale a laughable weapon—but what she had hoped for was to attract the behemoth's attention. And so she did. The massive head immediately swerved her way, the dragon roaring in annoyance at this interruption. The orc shouted something unintelligible at his mount. The great winged form abruptly banked, steering toward her. She had succeeded in taking his attention from the hapless mage. And now what?the ranger chided herself. The elf turned and ran, already knowing she had no chance of outpacing her monstrous pursuer. The treetops above her burst into flames as the dragon coated the landscape. Burning foliage dropped before her, cutting off Vereesa's intended route. Without hesitation, the ranger shifted to the left, diving among trees that had not yet become a part of the inferno. You are going to die!she informed herself.All for that useless wizard! An ear-splitting roar made her look over her shoulder. The red dragon had reached her, and even now one taloned paw stretched down to seize the fleeing ranger. Vereesa imagined that paw crushing her or, worse fate, dragging her into the behemoth's horrific maw, where she would be chewed up or swallowed whole. Yet, just as death came within inches of her, the dragon suddenly pulled back his claws and began squirming in midair. The claws raked against his own torso. In fact, every set of claws was trying to scratch somewhere, anywhere, as if—as if the leviathan suffered an incredibly painful itch. Atop him, the orc struggled for control, but he might as well have been the very flea that seemed to trouble the dragon for all the beast obeyed him now. Vereesa stopped and stared, never having witnessed so startling a sight. The dragon twisted and turned as he tried to relieve his agony, his actions growing more and more frantic. His orc handler could barely hold on. What, the elf wondered, could have caused the monster so much— The answer came out as a whisper. “Rhonin?” And, as if by saying his name she had summoned him like some ghost, the mage stood before her. His fiery hair hung disheveled and his dark robe had become muddy and torn, but he looked undeterred by what he had so far suffered. “I think it'd be better if we left while we could, eh, elf ?” She did not need him to offer again. This time, Rhonin led the way, using some skill, some magical ability, to guide them through the blazing forest. As a ranger, Vereesa could not have done better herself. Rhonin led her along paths the elf could not even see until they were upon them. All the while, the dragon soared overhead, tearing at its hide. Once Vereesa glanced up and saw that he had even managed to draw blood, his own claws one of the few things capable of ripping through his armored skin. Of the orc she saw no more sign; at some point the tusked warrior must have lost his grip and fallen. Vereesa felt no remorse for him. “What did you do to the dragon?” she finally managed to gasp. Rhonin, intent on finding the end of the blaze, did not even look back at her. “Something that didn't turn out the way I planned! He should've suffered more than an intense irritation!” He actually sounded annoyed with himself, but the ranger, for once, found herself impressed by him. He had turned certain death into possible safety—provided they found their way out. Behind them, the dragon roared his frustration at the world. “How long will it last?” Now he finally paused to eye her, and what she saw in that gaze unsettled her greatly. “Not nearly long enough. . . .” They redoubled their efforts. Fire surrounded them wherever they turned, but at last they reached its very edge, racing past the flames and out into a region where only deadly smoke assailed them. Both choking, the pair stumbled on, searching for a path that would keep the wind blowing at them from the front and, consequently, help to slow the fire and smoke behind. And then another roar shook them, for it did not speak of agony, but rather fury and revenge. Wizard and ranger turned about, glanced at the crimson form in the distance. “The spell's worn off,” Rhonin muttered unnecessarily. It had indeed worn off, and Vereesa could see that the dragon knew exactly who had been responsible for his pain. With an almost unerring aim, the dragon pushed toward them with his massive, leathery wings, clearly intent on making them pay. “Do you have another spell for this?” Vereesa called as they ran. “Perhaps! But I'd rather not use it here! It could take us with it!” As if the dragon would not do that anyway. The elf hoped that Rhonin would see his way to unleashing this deadly spell before they both ended up as fare for the behemoth. “How far—” The wizard had to catch his breath. “How far to Hasic?” “Too far.” “Any other settlement between here and there?” She tried to think. One place came to mind, but she could not recall either its name or its purpose. Only that it lay about a day's journey from here. “There is something, but—” The dragon's roar shook them both again. A shadow passed overhead. “If you do have another spell that might work, I would suggest using it now.” Vereesa wished again for her bow. With it she could have at least tried for the eyes with some hope of success. The shock and agony might have been enough to send the monster flying off. They nearly collided as Rhonin came to an unexpected halt and turned to face the dire threat. He took hold of her arms with surprisingly strong hands, for a wizard, then shifted the ranger aside. His eyes literally glowed, something Vereesa had heard could happen with powerful mages but had never in her life seen. “Pray that this doesn't backfire on us,” he muttered. His arms went up straight, hands pointed in the direction of the red dragon. He started to mutter words in a language that Vereesa did not recognize, but which somehow sent shivers up and down her spine. Rhonin brought his hands together, started to speak again— Through the clouds came three more winged forms. Vereesa gasped and the tall wizard held his tongue, stalling the spell. He looked ready to curse the heavens, but then the elf recognized what had emerged just above their horrific foe. Gryphons . . . massive, eagle-headed, leonine-bodied, winged gryphons . . . with riders. She tugged at Rhonin's arm. “Do not do anything!” He glared at her, but nodded. They both looked up as the dragon filled their view. The three gryphons suddenly darted around the dragon, catching him by surprise. Now Vereesa could identify the riders, not that she had really needed to do so. Only the dwarves of the distant Aerie Peaks, a foreboding, mountainous region beyond even the elven realm of Quel'thalas, rode the wild gryphons . . . and only these skilled warriors and their mounts could face dragons in the air. Although much smaller than the crimson giant, the gryphons made up for the size difference with huge, razor-sharp talons that could tear off dragonscale and beaks that could rip into the flesh beneath. In addition, they could move more swiftly and abruptly through the sky, turning at angles a dragon could never match. The dwarves themselves did not simply manage their mounts, either. Slightly taller and leaner than their earthier cousins, the mountain dwarves were no less muscled. Although their favored weapons when patrolling the skies were the legendary Stormhammers, this trio carried great double-edged battle-axes with lengthy handles that the warriors manipulated with ease. Made of a metal akin to adamantium, the blades could cut through even the bony, scaled heads of the behemoths. Rumor had it that the great gryphon-rider Kurdran had struck down a dragon more immense than this one with just one wellaimed blow from an ax like these. The winged animals circled their foe, forcing him to constantly turn from side to side to see which one threatened most. The orcs had early on learned to be wary of the gryphons, but without his own rider, this particular monster appeared somewhat lost as to what to do. The dwarves immediately took advantage of that fact, making their mounts dart in and out, much to the dragon's growing frustration. The long beards and ponytails of the wild dwarves fluttered in the wind as they literally laughed in the face of the giant menace. The bellowing laughter only served to antagonize the dragon more, and he slashed about madly, accompanying his futile attacks with spurts of flame. “They are completely disorienting him,” Vereesa commented, impressed by the tactics. “They know he is young and that his temper will keep him from attacking with strategy!” “Which makes it a good time for us to leave,” Rhonin replied. “They might need our help!” “I've a mission to fulfill,” he said ominously. “And they've got matters well in hand.” True enough. The battle seemed to belong to the gryphon-riders, even though they had yet to strike a blow. The trio kept flying around and around the red dragon, so much so that he nearly looked dizzy. He tried his best to keep his eyes on one, but ever the others would distract him. Only once did flame come close to touching one of his winged opponents. One of the dwarves suddenly began hefting his mighty ax, the head of it gleaming in the late-day sun. He and his mount flew once more about the dragon, then, as they neared the back of the behemoth's skull, the gryphon suddenly darted in. Claws sank into the neck, ripping away scale. Even as the pain registered in the dragon's mind, the dwarf brought the mighty ax around and swung hard. The blade sank deep. Not enough to kill, but more than enough to make the dragon shriek in agony. Out of sheer reflex, he turned. His wing caught the dwarf and the gryphon by surprise, sending them spiraling out of control. The rider managed to hold on, but his ax flew out of his grip, falling earthward. Vereesa instinctively started in the direction of the weapon, but Rhonin blocked her path with his arm. “I said that we need to leave!” She would have argued, but one more glance at the combatants revealed that the ranger could be of no use. The wounded dragon had flown higher into the air, still harassed by the gryphon-riders. Even with the ax, all Vereesa could have done was wave it futilely. “All right,” the elf finally muttered. Together they hurried from the struggle, relying now on Vereesa's knowledge of where their ultimate destination lay. Behind them, the dragon and the gryphons shrank to tiny specks in the heavens, in part because the battle itself had moved in the opposite direction of the elf and her companion. “Curious . . .” she heard the wizard whisper. “What is?” He started. “Those ears aren't just for show, then, are they?” Vereesa bristled at the insult, even though she had heard far worse. Humans and dwarves, quite jealous of the natural superiority of the elven race, often chose the long, tapering ears as the focus of their ridicule. At times, her ears had been compared to those of donkeys, swine, and, worst of all,goblins. While Vereesa had never drawn a weapon on anyone because of such comments, more often than not she had still left them much regretting their choice of words. The emerald eyes of the mage narrowed. “I'm sorry; you took that as an insult. Didn't mean it that way.” She doubted the veracity of his statement, but knew she had to accept his weak attempt at an apology. Forcing down her anger, she asked again, “What do you find so curious?” “That this dragon should appear in so timely a fashion.” “If you think like that, you might as well ask where the gryphons came from. After all, they chased it off.” He shook his head. “Someone saw him and reported the situation. The riders merely did their duties.” He considered. “I know Dragonmaw clan's supposed to be desperate, supposed to be trying to rally both the other rebel clans and the ones in the enclaves, but this wouldn't be the way to go about it.” “Who can say what an orc thinks? This was clearly a random marauder. This was not the first such attack in the Alliance, human.” “No, but I wonder if—” Rhonin got no further, for suddenly they both became aware of movement in the forest . . . movement from every direction. With practiced ease, the ranger slid her blade free from its sheath. Beside her, Rhonin's hands disappeared into the deep folds of his wizard's robes, no doubt in preparation for a spell. Vereesa said nothing, but she wondered how much aid he would be in close combat. Better he stand back and let her take on the first attackers. Too late. Six massive figures on horseback suddenly broke through the woods, surrounding them. Even in the dimming sunlight their silver armor gleamed sharp. The elf found a lance pointing at her chest. Rhonin not only had one touching his breast, but another between his shoulder blades. Helmed visors with a leonine head for a crest hid the features of their captors. As a ranger, Vereesa wondered how anyone could move in such suits, let alone wage war, but the six maneuvered in the saddle as if completely unencumbered. Their huge, gray war-horses, also armored on top, seemed unperturbed by the extra weight foisted upon them. The newcomers carried no banner, and the only sign of their identities appeared to be the image of a stylized hand reaching to the heavens embossed on the breast-plate. Vereesa thought she knew who they were from this alone, but did not relax. The last time the elf had met such men, they had worn different armor, with horns atop the helm and the lettered symbol of Lordaeron on both their breastplate and shield. And then a seventh rider slowly emerged from the forest, this one in the more traditional armor that Vereesa had first been expecting. Within the shadowy, visorless helm, she could see a strong and—for a human—older and wiser face with a trim, graying beard. The symbols of both Lordaeron and his own religious order marked not only his shield and breastplate, but also his helm. A silver lion'shead buckle linked together the belt in which hung one of the mighty, pointed warhammers used by such as him. “An elf,” he murmured as he inspected her. “Your strong arm is welcome.” The apparent leader then eyed Rhonin, finally commenting with open disdain, “And adamned soul.Keep your hands where we can see them and we won't be tempted to cut them off.” As Rhonin clearly fought to keep his fury down, Vereesa found herself caught between relief and uncertainty. They had been captured by paladins of Lordaeron—the fabled Knights of the Silver Hand. The two met in a place of shadow, a place reachable only by a few, even among their own kind. It was a place where dreams of the past played over and over, murky forms moving about in the fog of the mind's history. Not even the two who met here knew how much of this realm existed in reality and how much of it existed only in their thoughts, but they knew that here no one would be able to eavesdrop. Supposedly. Both were tall and slim, their faces covered by cowls. One could be identified as the wizard Rhonin knew as Krasus; the other, but for the greenish tinge of the otherwise gray robes, might as well have been the wizard's twin. Only when words were spoken did it become clear that, unlike the councilor of the Kirin Tor, this figure was definitely male. “I do not know why I've even come,” he commented to Krasus. “Because you had to. You needed to.” The other let loose with an audible hiss. “True, but now that I'm here, I can choose to leave any time I desire.” Krasus raised a slim, gloved hand. “At least hear me out.” “For what reason? So that you can repeat what you have repeated so many times before?” “So that for once what I am saying might actually register!” Krasus's unexpected vehemence startled both. His companion shook his head. “You've been around them much too long. Your shields, both magical and personal, are beginning to break down. It's time you abandoned this hopeless task . . . just as we did.” “I do not believe it hopeless.” For the first time, a hint of gender, a voice far deeper than any of the other members of the Kirin Tor's inner circle would have believed possible. “I cannot, so long as she is held.” “What she means to you is understandable, Korialstrasz; what she means to us is that of the memory of a time past.” “If that time is past, then why do you and yours still stand your posts?” Krasus calmly retorted, his emotions once more under control. “Because we would see our final years calm ones, peaceful ones. . . .” “All the more reason to join with me in this.” Again the other hissed. “Korialstrasz, will you never give in to the inevitable? Your plan does not surprise us, who know you so well! We've seen your little puppet on his fruitless quest—do you thi

Knights of Silv 发表于 2005-10-19 21:06

Again the other hissed. “Korialstrasz, will you never give in to the inevitable? Your plan does not surprise us, who know you so well! We've seen your little puppet on his fruitless quest—do you think he can possibly accomplish his task?” Krasus paused for a moment before replying. “He has the potential . . . but he is not all I have. No, I think he will fail. In doing so, however, I hope that his sacrifice will aid in my final success . . . and if you would join with me, that success would be more likely.” “I was right.” Krasus's companion sounded immensely disappointed. “The same rhetoric. The same pleading. I only came because of the alliance, once strong, between our two factions, but clearly I should not have even bothered because of that. You are without backing, without force. There is only you now, and you must hide in the shadows—” he gestured at the mists surrounding them “—in places such as this, rather than show your true nature.” “I do what I must. . . . What is it that you do, anymore?” An edge once more arose in Krasus's voice. “What purpose do you exist for, my old friend?” The other figure started at this penetrating question, then abruptly turned away. He took a few steps toward the embracing mists, then paused and looked back at the wizard. Krasus's companion sounded resigned. “I wish you the very best on this, Korialstrasz; I really do. I—we— just don't believe that there can be any return to the past. Those days are done, and we with them.” “That is your choice, then.” They almost parted company, but Krasus suddenly called out. “One request, though, before you return to the others.” “And what is that?” The mage's entire form seemed to darken, and a hiss escaped him. “Do not ever call me by that name again.Ever.It must not be spoken, even here.” “No one could possibly—” “Even here.” Something in Krasus's tone made his companion nod. The second figure then hurriedly departed, vanishing into the emptiness. The wizard stared at the place where the other had stood, thinking of the repercussions of this futile conversation. If only they could have seen sense! Together, they had hope. Divided, they could do little . . . and that would play into their foe's hands. “Fools . . .”Krasus muttered.“Abysmal fools . . .” FOUR The paladins brought them back to a keep that had to have been the unnamed settlement of which Vereesa had earlier spoken. Rhonin was unimpressed by it. Its high stone walls surrounded a functional, unadorned establishment where the holy knights, squires, and a small population of common folk attempted to live in relative frugality. The banners of the brotherhood flew sideby-side with those of the Lordaeron Alliance, of which the Knights of the Silver Hand were the most staunch supporters. If not for the townsfolk, Rhonin would have taken the settlement for a completely military operation, for the rule of the holy order clearly had control over all matters here. The paladins had treated the elf with courtesy, some of the younger knights adding extra charm whenever Vereesa spoke with them, but with the wizard they would not traffic any more than necessity demanded, not even when, at one point, he asked how far they still had to go to reach Hasic. Vereesa had to repeat the question in order for him to find out. Despite initial impressions, the pair were not, of course, prisoners, but Rhonin certainly felt like an outcast among them. They treated him with minimal civility only because their oath to King Terenas demanded it of them, but otherwise he remained a pariah. “We saw both the dragon and the gryphons,” their leader, one Duncan Senturus, boomed. “Our duty and honor demanded we ride out immediately to see what aid we might be.” The fact that the combat had been entirely aerial and, therefore, far out of their reach apparently had not dampened their holy enthusiasm nor struck a chord with their common sense, Rhonin thought wryly. They and the ranger made for good company in that. Curiously, though, the wizard felt a twinge of possessiveness now that he did not have to deal with Vereesa on his own.After all, she was appointed my guide. She should remain true to her duty until Hasic. Unfortunately, as for Hasic, Duncan Senturus had intentions for that, too. As they dismounted, the broadshouldered senior knight offered his arm to the elf, saying, “Of course, it would be remiss of us to not see you along the safest and quickest route to the port. I know it's a task you've been given, milady, but clearly it was chosen by a higher power that your paths would lead you to us. We know well the way to Hasic, and so a small party, led by myself, will journey with you come the morrow.” This seemed to please the ranger, but hardly encouraged Rhonin any. Everyone in the keep eyed him as if he had been transformed into a goblin or orc. He had suffered enough disdain around his fellow spellcasters and felt no need to have the paladins add further to his troubles. “It's very kind of you,” Rhonin interjected from behind them. “But Vereesa is a capable ranger. We'll reach Hasic in time.” Senturus's nostrils flared as if he had just smelled something noxious. Keeping his smile fixed, the senior paladin said to the elf, “Allow me to personally escort you to your quarters.” He glanced at one of his subordinates. “Meric! Find a place to put the wizard. . . .” “This way,” grumbled a hulking young knight with a full mustache. He looked ready to take Rhonin by the arm even if it meant breaking the limb in question. Rhonin could have taught him the folly of doing that, but for the sake of his mission and peace between the various elements of the Alliance, he simply took a quick step forward, coming up beside his guide and not saying a word through the entire journey. He had expected to be led to the most dank, most foul place in which they could honestly let him bed down for the night, but instead Rhonin found himself with a room likely no more austere than those used by the dour warriors themselves. Dry, clean, and with stone walls that surrounded him on all sides save where the wooden door stood, it certainly served Rhonin better than some of the places he had stayed in the past. A single, neatly kept wooden bed and a tiny table made up the decor. A wellused oil lamp appeared to be the only means of illumination, not even the tiniest of windows evident. Rhonin thought of at least requesting a window, but suspected the knights had nothing better to offer. Besides, this would better serve to keep curious eyes from him. “This will do,” he finally said, but the young warrior who had brought Rhonin here had already begun to depart, closing the door as he left. The wizard tried to recall if the outside handle had a bolt or some sort of lock, but the paladins would surely not go that far. Damned soul Rhonin might be to them, but he was still one of their allies. The thought of the mental discomfort that last put the knights through cheered him a bit. He had always found the Knights of the Silver Hand a sanctimonious lot. His reluctant hosts left him alone until evening meal. He found himself seated far from Vereesa, who seemed to have the commander's ear whether she wanted it or not. No one but the elf spoke more than a few words to the wizard throughout the entire repast, and Rhonin would have left shortly after that if the subject of dragons had not been brought up by none other than Senturus. “The flights have grown more common the last few weeks,” the bearded knight informed them. “More common and more desperate. The orcs know that their time is short, and so they seek to wreak what havoc they can before the day of their final judgment.” He took a sip of wine. “The settlement of Juroon was set aflame by two dragons just three days ago, more than half its population dead in the ungodly incident. That time, the beasts and their masters fled before the gryphon riders could reach the site.” “Horrible,” Vereesa murmured. Duncan nodded, a glint of almost fanatical determination in his deep brown eyes. “But soon a thing past! Soon we shall march on the interior of Khaz Modan, on Grim Batol itself, and end the threat of the last fragments of the Horde! Orc blood will flow!” “And good men'll die,” Rhonin added under his breath. Apparently the commander had hearing as good as that of the elf, for his gaze immediately shifted to the mage. “Good men will die, aye! But we have sworn to see Lordaeron and all other lands free of the orc menace and so we shall, no matter what the cost!” Unimpressed, the wizard returned, “But first you need to do something about the dragons, don't you?” “They will be vanquished, spellcaster; sent to the underworld where they belong. If your devilish kind—” Vereesa softly touched the commander's hand, giving him a smile that made even Rhonin a bit jealous. “How long have you been a paladin, Lord Senturus?” Rhonin watched with some amazement as the ranger transformed into an enchanted and enchanting young woman, akin to those he had met in the royal court of Lordaeron. Her transformation in turn changed Duncan Senturus. She teased and toyed with the graying knight, seeming to hang on his every word. Her personality had altered so much that the observing wizard could scarce believe this was the same female who had ridden as his guide and his guard for the past several days. Duncan went into great detail about his not-so-humble humble beginnings, as the son of a wealthy lord who chose the order to make his name. Although surely the other knights had heard the story before, they listened with rapt attention, no doubt seeing their leader as a shining example to their own careers. Rhonin studied each briefly, noticing with some unease that these other paladins barely blinked, barely even breathed, as they drank in the tale. Vereesa commented on various parts of his story, making even the most mundane accomplishments of the elder man seem wondrous and brave. She downplayed her own deeds when Lord Senturus asked her of her past training, although the mage felt certain that, in many skills, his ranger readily surpassed their host. The paladin seemed enamored by her act and went on at tremendous length, but Rhonin finally had enough. He excused himself—an announcement that drew the attention of no one—and hurried outside, seeking air and solitude. Night had settled over the keep, a moonless dark that enveloped the tall wizard like a comforting blanket. He looked forward to reaching Hasic and setting forth on his voyage to Khaz Modan. Only then would he be done with paladins, rangers, and other useless fools who did nothing but interfere with his true quest. Rhonin worked best alone, a point he had tried to make before the last debacle. No one had listened to him then, and he had been forced to do what he had to in order to succeed. The others on that mission had not heeded his warnings, nor understood the necessity of his dangerous work. With the typical contempt of the nontalented, they had gone charging directly into the path of his grand spell . . . and thus most had perished along with the true targets—a band of orc warlocks intent on raising from the dead what some believed had been one of the demons of legend. Rhonin regretted each and every one of those deaths more than he had ever let on to his masters in the Kirin Tor. They haunted him, urged him on to more risky feats . . . and what could be more risky than attempting, all by himself, to free the Dragonqueen from her captors? He had to do it all by himself, not only for the glory it would bring him, but also, Rhonin hoped, to appease the spirits of his former comrades, spirits who never left him even a moment's rest. Even Krasus did not know about those troubling specters—likely a good thing, as it might have made him question Rhonin's sanityandworth. The wind picked up as he made his way to the top of the keep's surrounding wall. A few knights stood sentry duty, but word of his presence in the settlement had evidently traveled swiftly, and after the first guard identified him by way of inspection by lantern, Rhonin once again became shunned. That suited him well; he cared as little for the warriors as they did for him. Beyond the keep, the vague shapes of trees turned the murky landscape into something magical. Rhonin found himself half-tempted to leave the questionable hospitality of his hosts and find a place to sleep under an oak. At least then he would not have to listen to the pious words of Duncan Senturus, who, in the mage's mind, seemed far more interested in Vereesa than a knight of the holy order should have been. True, she had arresting eyes and her garments suited her form well— Rhonin snorted, eradicating the image of the ranger from his thoughts. His forced seclusion during his penance had clearly had more of an effect on him than he had realized. Magic was his mistress, first and foremost, and if Rhonindiddecide to seek the company of a female, he much preferred a more malleable type, such as the well-pampered young ladies of the courts, or even the impressionable serving girls he found occasionally during his travels. Certainly not an arrogant, elven ranger . . . Best to turn his attention to more important matters. Along with his unfortunate mount, Rhonin had also lost the items Krasus had given him. He had to do his best to make contact with the other wizard, inform him as to what had happened. The young mage regretted the necessity of doing so, but he owed too much to Krasus to not try. By no means did Rhonin consider turning back; that would have ended his hopes of ever regaining face not only among his peers but also with himself. He surveyed his present surroundings. Eyes that saw slightly better than average in the night detected no sentries in the near vicinity. A watchtower wall shielded him from the sight of the last man he had passed. What better place than here to begin? His room might have served, too, but Rhonin favored the open, the better to clear the cobwebs from his thoughts. From a pocket deep within his robe he removed a small, dark crystal. Not the best choice for trying to create communication across miles, but the only one left to him. Rhonin held the crystal up to the brightest of the faint stars overhead and began to mutter words of power. A faint glimmer arose within the heart of the stone, a glimmer that increased slowly in intensity as he continued to speak. The mystical words rolled from his tongue— And at that moment, the stars abruptlyvanished. . . . Cutting off the spell in mid-sentence, Rhonin stared. No, the stars he had fixed on had not vanished; he could see them now. Yet . . . yet for a brief moment, no more than the blink of an eye, the mage could have sworn . . . A trick of the imagination and his own weariness. Considering the trials of the day, Rhonin should have gone to bed immediately after dining, but he had first wanted to attempt this spell. The sooner he finished, then, the better. He wanted to be fully rejuvenated come the morrow, for Lord Senturus would certainly set an arduous pace. Once more Rhonin raised the crystal high and once more he began muttering the words of power. This time, no trick of the eye would— “What do you do there, spellcaster?” a deep voice demanded. Rhonin swore, furious at this second delay. He turned to the knight who had come across him and snapped, “Nothing to—” An explosion rocked the wall. The crystal slipped from Rhonin's hand. He had no time to reach for it, more concerned with keeping himself from tumbling over the wall to his death. The sentry had no such hope. As the wall shook, he fell backward, first collapsing against the battlements, then toppling over. His cry shook Rhonin until its very abrupt end. The explosion subsided, but not the damage caused by it. No sooner had the desperate wizard regained his footing when a portion of the wall itself began to collapse inward. Rhonin leapt toward the watchtower, thinking it more secure. He landed near the doorway and started inside—just as the tower itself began to teeter dangerously. Rhonin tried to exit, but the doorway crumbled, trapping him within. He started a spell, certain that it was already too late. The ceiling fell upon him— And with it came something akin to a gigantic hand that seized the wizard in such a smothering grip Rhonin completely lost his breath . . . and all consciousness. Nekros Skullcrusher brooded over the fate that the bones had rolled for him long, long ago. The grizzled orc toyed with one yellowed tusk as he studied the golden disk in the meaty palm of his other hand, wondering how one who had learned to wield such power could have been sentenced to playing nursemaid and jailer to a brooding female whose only purpose was to produce progeny after progeny. Of course, the fact that she was the greatest of dragons might have had something to do with that role—that and the fact that with but one good leg Nekros could never hope to achieve and hold onto the role of clan chieftain. The golden disk seemed to mock him. It always seemed to mock him, but the crippled orc never once considered throwing it away. With it he had achieved a position that still kept him respected among his fellow warriors . . . even if he had lost all respect for himself the day the human knight had hacked off the bottom half of his left leg. Nekros had slain the human, but could not bring himself to do the honorable thing. Instead, he had let others drag him from the field, cauterize the wound, and help build for Nekros the support he needed for his maimed appendage. His eyes flickered to what remained of the knee and the wooden peg attached there. No more glorious combat, no more legacy of blood and death. Other warriors had slain themselves for less grievous injuries, but Nekroscouldnot. The very thought of bringing the blade to his own throat or chest filled him with a chill he dared not mention to any of the others. Nekros Skullcrusher very much wanted to live, no matter what the cost. There were those in Dragonmaw clan who might have already sent him on his way to the glorious battlefields of the afterlife if not for his skills as a warlock. Early on, his talent for the arts had been noticed, and he had received training from some of the greatest. However, the way of the warlock had demanded from him other choices that Nekros had not wanted to make, dark choices that he felt did not serve the Horde, but rather worked to undermine it. He had fled their ranks, returned to his warrior ways, but from time to time his chieftain, the great Shaman, Zuluhed, had demanded the use of his other talents—especially in what even most orcs had believed impossible, the capturing of the Dragonqueen, Alexstrasza. Zuluhed wielded the ritualistic magicks of the ancient shaman belief as few had done since first the Horde had been formed, but for this task, he had also needed to call upon the more sinister powers in which Nekros had been trained. Through resources the wizened orc had never revealed to his crippled companion, Zuluhed had uncovered an ancient talisman said to be capable of tremendous wonders. The only trouble had been that it had not responded to shamanistic spellwork no matter how great the effort put in by the chieftain. That had led Zuluhed to turn to the only warlock he felt he could trust, a warrior loyal to Dragonmaw clan. And so Nekros had inherited theDemon Soul. Zuluhed had so named the featureless gold disk, although at first the other orc had not known why. Nekros turned it over and over, not for the first time marveling at its impressive yet simplistic appearance. Pure gold, yes, and shaped like a huge coin with a rounded edge. It gleamed in even the lowest light, and nothing could tarnish its look. Oil, mud, blood . . . everything slipped off. “This is older than either shaman or warlock magic, Nekros,”Zuluhed had told him.“I can do nothing with it, but perhaps you can. . . .” Trained though he was, the peg-legged orc had doubted that he, who had sworn off the dark arts, could do better than his legendary chieftain. Still, he had taken the talisman and tried to sense its purpose, its use. Two days later, thanks to his astonishing success and Zuluhed's firm guidance, they had done what no one would have imagined possible, especially the Dragon-queen herself. Nekros grunted, slowly raising himself to a standing position. His leg ached where the knee met the peg, an ache intensified by the great girth of the orc. Nekros had no illusions about his ability to lead. He could scarcely get around the caves as it was. Time to visit her highness. Make certain that she knew she had a schedule to maintain. Zuluhed and the few other clan leaders left free still had dreams of revitalizing the Horde, stirring those abandoned by the weakling Doomhammer into a revolt. Nekros doubted these dreams, but he was a loyal orc, and as a loyal orc he would obey his chieftain's commands to the letter. TheDemon Soulclutched in one hand, the orc trundled through the dank cavern corridors. Dragonmaw clan had worked hard to lengthen the system already running through these mountains. The complex series of corridors enabled the orcs to deal more readily with the burdensome task of raising and training dragons for the glory of the Horde. Dragons filled up a lot of space and so needed separate facilities, each of which had to be dug out. Of course, there were fewer dragons these days, a point Zuluhed and others had made with Nekros quite often lately. They needed dragons if their desperate campaign had any hope of succeeding. “And how'm I supposed to make her breed faster?” Nekros grunted to himself. A pair of younger, massive warriors strode by. Nearly seven feet tall, each as wide as two of their human adversaries, the tusked fighters dipped their heads briefly in recognition of his rank. Huge battle-axes hung from harnesses on their backs. Both were dragon-riders, new ones. Riders had a death ratio about twice that of their mounts, generally due to an unfortunate loss of grip. There had been times when Nekros had wondered whether the clan would run out of able warriors before it ran out of dragons, but he never broached the subject with Zuluhed. Hobbling along, the aging orc soon began to hear the telltale signs of the Dragonqueen's presence. He noted labored breathing that echoed through the immediate area as if some steam vent from the depths of the earth had worked its way up. Nekros knew what that labored breathing meant. He had arrived just in time. No guards stood at the carved-out entrance to the dragon's great chamber, but still Nekros paused. Attempts had been made in the past to free or slay the gargantuan red dragon within, but all those attempts had ended in grisly death. Not from the dragon, of course, for she would have embraced such assassins with relief, but rather from an unexpected aspect of the talisman Nekros held. The orc squinted at what seemed nothing but an open passage. “Come!” Instantly, the very air around the entrance flared. Tiny balls of flame burst into being, then immediately merged. A humanoid form began to fill, then overflow, the entrance. Something vaguely resembling a burning skull formed where the head should have been. Armor that appeared to be flaming bone shaped itself into the body of a monstrous warrior that dwarfed even the enormous orcs. Nekros felt no heat from the hellish flames, but he knew that if the creature before him touched the orc even lightly, pain such as even a seasoned fighter could not imagine would rake him. Among the other orcs it had been whispered that Nekros Skullcrusher had summoned one of the demons of lore. He did not discourage that rumor, although Zuluhed knew better. The monstrous creature guarding the dragon had no sense of independent thought. In attempting to harness the abilities of the mysterious artifact, Nekros had unleashed something else. Zuluhed called it a golem of fire—perhaps of the essence of demon power, but certainly not one of the supposedly mythical beings. Whatever its origins or its previous use, the golem served as the perfect sentry. Even the fiercest warriors steered clear of it. Only Nekros could command it. Zuluhed had tried, but the artifact from which the golem had emerged seemed now tied to the one-legged orc. “I enter,” he told the fiery creature. The golem stiffened . . . then shattered in a wild shower of dying sparks. Despite having witnessed this departure time and time again, Nekros still backed up some, not daring to move forward until the last of the sparks had faded away. The moment the orc stepped inside, a voice remarked, “I . . . knew . . . you would be . . . here soon. . . .” The disdain with which the shackled dragon spoke affected her jailer not in the least. He had heard far worse from her over the years. Clutching the artifact, he made his way toward her head, which, by necessity, had been clamped down. They had lost one handler to her mighty jaws; they would not lose another. By rights the iron chains and clamps should not have been sufficient to hold such a magnificent leviathan, but they had been enhanced by the power of the disk. Struggle all she might, Alexstrasza would never be able to free herself. That, of course, did not mean that she did not try. “Do you need anything?” Nekros did not ask out of any concern for her. He only wanted to keep her alive for the Horde's desires. Once the crimson dragon's scales had gleamed like metal. She still filled the vast cavern tail to head, yet these days her rib bones showed slightly underneath the skin and her words came out more beleaguered. Despite her dire condition, though, the hatred in those vast, golden eyes had not faded, and the orc knew that if the Dragonqueen everdidescape, he would be the first one down her gullet or fried to a crisp. Of course, since the odds of that were so very minor, even one-legged Nekros did not worry. “Death would be nice. . . .” He grunted, turning away from this useless conversation. At one point during her lengthy incarceration, she had tried to starve herself, but the simple tactic of taking her next clutch of eggs and breaking one of them before her horrified eyes had been enough to end that threat. Despite knowing that each hatchling would be trained to terrorize the Horde's enemies and likely die because of that, Alexstrasza clearly held out hope that someday they would be free. Shattering the egg had been like shattering a part of that hope. One less dragon with the potential to be his own master. As he always did, Nekros inspected her latest clutch. Five eggs this time. A fair number, but most were a bit smaller than usual. That bothered him. His chieftain had already remarked on the runts produced in the last batch, although even a runt of a dragon stood several times higher than an orc. Dropping the disk into a secure pouch at his waist, Nekros bent to lift up one of the eggs. The loss of his leg had not yet weakened his arms, and so the massive orc had little trouble hefting the object in question. A good weight, he noted. If the other eggs were this heavy, then at least they would produce healthy young. Best to get them down to the incubator chamber as soon as possible. The volcanic heat there would keep them at just the right temperature for hatching. As Nekros lowered the egg, the dragon muttered, “This is all useless, mortal. Your little war is all but over.” “You may be right,” he grunted, no doubt surprising her with his candor. The grizzled orc turned back to his gargantuan captive. “But we'll fight to the end, lizard.” “Then you shall do so without us. My last consort is dying, you know that. Without him, there will be no more eggs.” Her voice, already low, became barely audible. The Dragonqueen exhaled with effort, as if the conversation had taxed her already weakening strength too much. He squinted at her, studying those reptilian orbs. Nekros knew that Alexstrasza's last consort was indeed dying. They'd started out with three, but one had perished trying to escape over the sea and another had died of injuries when the rogue dragon Deathwing had caught him by surprise. The third, the eldest of the lot, had remained by his queen's side, but he had been centuries older than even Alexstrasza, and now those centuries, coupled with past near-mortal injuries, had taken their toll. “We'll find another, then.” She managed to snort. Her words barely came out as a whisper. “And how . . . would you go about doing that?” “We'll find one . . .” He had no other answer for her, but Nekros would be damned if he would give the lizard that satisfaction. Frustration and anger long held in began to boil over. He hobbled toward her. “And as for you, lizard—” Nekros had dared come within a few yards of the Dragonqueen's head, aware that, thanks to the enchanted bonds, she would be unable to flame or eat him. Thus it was to his tremendous dismay that suddenly Alexstrasza's head, brace and all, suddenly twisted toward him, filling his gaze. The dragon's maw opened wide, and the orc had the distinctive displeasure of gazing deep into the gullet of the creature who was about to make a snack of him. Or would have, if not for Nekros's quick reaction. Clutching the pouch in which he carried theDemon Soul,the warlock muttered a single word, thought a single command. A pained roar shook the chamber, sending chunks of rock falling from the ceiling. The crimson behemoth pulled back her head as best she could. The brace around her throat glowed with such power that the orc had to shield his eyes. Near him, the fiery servant of the disk materialized in a flash, dark eye sockets looking to Nekros for command. The warlock, however, had no need for the creature, the artifact itself having dealt with the nearly disastrous situation. “Leave,” he commanded the fire golem. As the creature departed in an explosive display, the crippled orc dared walk before the dragon. A scowl spread across his ugly features, and the frustration of knowing that he served a cause lost urged Nekros to greater anger at the leviathan's latest attempt on his life. “Still full of tricks, eh, lizard?” He glared at the brace, which Alexstrasza had clearly worked long to loosen from the wall. The enchantment affecting her bonds did not extend to the stone upon which they were fastened, Nekros realized. That mistake had nearly cost him. But failing to achieve his death would now cost her. Nekros fixed his heavily browed gaze on the now truly injured dragon. “A daring trick . . .” he snarled. “A daring trick, but a foolish one.” He held up the golden disk for her widening eyes to see. “Zuluhed commanded I keep you as healthy as possible, but my chieftain also commanded me to punish whenever I thought necessary.” Nekros tightened his grip on the artifact, which now glowed bright. “Now is—” “Excuse this pitiful one's interruption, o gracious master,” came a jarring voice from within the cavern. “but word's come you must hear, oh, you must!” Nekros nearly dropped the artifact. Whirling about as best he could with one good leg, the huge orc stared down at a pitifully tiny figure with batlike ears and a vast set of sharp teeth set in a mad grin. Nekros did not know what bothered him more, the creature himself or the fact that the goblin had somehow managed to infiltrate the dragon's cavern without being stopped by the golem. “You! How'd you get in here?” Reaching down, he grasped the tiny form by the throat and lifted him upward. All thought of punishing the dragon vanished. “How?” Even though he spoke words half-choked, the foul little creature still smiled. “J-just walked in, o gracious m-master! Just w-walked in!” Nekros considered. The goblin must have entered when the fire golem had come to its master's aid. Goblins were tricky and often found their way into places thought secure, but even this clever rogue could not have worked his way inside otherwise. He let the beast drop to the ground. “All right! Why come? What news do you bring?” The goblin rubbed his throat. “Only the most important, only the most important, I assure you!” The toothy smile broadened. “Have I ever let you down, wondrous master?” Despite the fact that, deep down, Nekros felt that goblins had less of a sense of honor than a ground slug, the orc had to admit that this one had never steered him wrong. Questionable allies at best, the goblins played many games of their own, but always fulfilled the missions set upon them by Doomhammer and, before him, the great Blackhand. “Speak, then, and be quick about it!” The devilish imp nodded several times. “Yes, Nekros, yes! I come to tell you that there is a plan under way, more than one, actually, to free—” He hesitated, then cocked his head toward weary Alexstrasza, “—that is, to cause great disaster to Dragonmaw clan's dreams!” An uncomfortable sensation coursed down the orc's spine. “What do you mean?” Again the goblin cocked his head toward the dragon. “Perhaps elsewhere, gracious master?” The creature had the right of it. Nekros glanced at his captive, who appeared to be unconscious from pain and exhaustion. Still, better to be wary around her for now. If his spy brought him the news he suspected, the orc warlock hardly wanted the Dragonqueen to hear the details. “Very well,” he grunted. Nekros hobbled toward the cavern entrance, already mulling over the likely news. The goblin hopped beside him, grinning from ear to ear. Nekros felt tempted to wipe that annoying smile off the other's face, but needed the creature for now. Still, for the slightest excuse . . . “This'd better be good, Kryll! You understand?” Kryll nodded as he hurried to keep up, his head bobbing up and down like a broken toy. “Trust me, Master Nekros! Justtrustme. . . .” FIVE He had nothing to do with the explosion,” Vereesa insisted. “Why would he do something like that?” “He is a wizard,” Duncan returned flatly, as if that answered any and all questions. “They care nothing about the lives and livelihoods of others.” Well aware of the prejudices of the holy order toward magic, Vereesa did not try to argue that point. As an elf, she had grown up around magic, even could perform some slight bit herself, and so did not see Rhonin in the terrible light that the paladin did. While Rhonin struck her as reckless, he did not seem to her so monstrous as to not care about the lives of others. Had he not helped her during their flight from the dragon? Why bother to risk himself ? He could still have gotten to Hasic on his own. “And if he is not to blame,” Lord Senturus continued, “then where has he gone? Why is there no trace of him in the rubble? If he is innocent of this, his body should be there along with the two of our brothers who perished during his spell. . . .” The man stroked his beard slightly. “No, this foul work is the fault of his, mark me.” And so you would hunt him down like an animal,she thought. Why else had Duncan summoned ten of his best to ride with them in search of the missing spellcaster? What Vereesa had originally seen as a rescue mission had quickly revealed itself as otherwise. When she and the rest had heard the explosion, discovered the ruin, the elf had felt a twinge inside her heart. Not only had she failed to keep her companion alive, but he and two other men had perished for no good reason. However, Duncan had clearly from the first seen it otherwise, especially when a search had revealed no trace of Rhonin's corpse among the rubble. Her first thought had been of goblin sappers, well-versed in sneaking up to a fortress and setting off deadly charges, but the senior paladin had insisted that his region had been swept clean of any trace of the elements of the Horde, goblins especially. While the foul little creatures did possess a few fantastic and utterly improbable flying machines, none had been reported. Besides, such an airship would have had to move with lightning speed to avoid detection, something not possible for the cumbersome devices. Which, of course, left Rhonin as the most likely source of the destruction. Vereesa did not believe it possible of him, especially since he had been so dedicated to fulfilling his mission. She only hoped that if they found the young wizard she would be able to keep Duncan and the others from running him through before they had a chance to find out the truth. They had scoured the nearby countryside and were now headed toward the actual direction of Hasic. Although it had been suggested by more than one of the younger knights that Rhonin had likely used his magic to spirit himself away to his destination, Duncan Senturus had evidently not thought enough of the wizard's abilities in that respect to take it to heart. He fervently believed that they would be able to track down the rogue mage and bring him to justice. And as the day aged and the sun began its downward climb, even Vereesa began to question Rhonin's innocence.Hadhe caused the disaster, then fled the murderous scene? “We shall have to make camp soon,” Lord Senturus announced some time later. He studied the thickening woods. “While I do not expect trouble, it would serve us little good to go wandering through the dark, possibly missing our quarry at our very feet.” Her own eyesight superior to that of her companions, Vereesa considered continuing on by herself, but thought better of it. If the Knights of the Silver Hand discovered Rhonin without her, the wizard stood little chance of surviving. They rode on a bit farther, but spotted nothing. The sun slipped below the horizon, leaving only a faint glow of light to illuminate their way. As he had promised, Duncan called a reluctant halt to the search, ordering his knights to immediately set up camp. Vereesa dismounted, but her eyes continued to sweep over the surrounding territory, hoping against hope that the fiery wizard would make himself known. “He is nowhere about, Lady Vereesa.” She turned to look up at the lead paladin, the only man among the searchers tall enough to force her to such an action. “I cannot help looking, my lord.” “We will find the scoundrel soon enough.” “We should hear his story first, Lord Senturus. Surely that is fair enough.” The armored figure shrugged as if it did not make a difference either way to him. “He will be given his chance to make his penance, of course.” After which they would either take Rhonin back in chains or execute him on the spot. The Knights of the Silver Hand might be a holy order, but they were also known for their expedience in meting out justice. Vereesa excused herself from the senior paladin, not trusting her tongue to keep her from infuriating him at this point. She led her horse to a tree at the edge of the campsite, then slipped in among the trees. Behind her, the sounds of the camp muted as the elf moved farther into her own element. Again she felt the temptation to continue with the search on her own. So very easy for her to move lithely through the forest, seek out those crevices and areas of thick foliage that might hide a corpse. “Always so eager to go rushing off, handling matters in your own inimitable style, eh, Vereesa?”her first tutor had asked one day shortly after her induction into the select training program of the rangers. Only the best were chosen for their ranks.“With such impatience, you might as well have been born a human. Keep this up and you will not be among the rangers for very long. . . .” Yet despite the skepticism of more than one of her tutors, Vereesa had prevailed and risen to among the best of her select group. She could not now fail that training by turning reckless. Promising herself that she would return to the others after a few minutes' relaxation in the forest, the silverhaired ranger leaned against one of the trees and exhaled. Such a simple assignment, and already it had nearly fallen apart not once but twice. If they never found Rhonin, she would have to think of something to say to her masters, not to mention even the Kirin Tor of Dalaran. None of the fault in this lay with her, but— A sudden gust of wind nearly threw Vereesa from the tree. The elf managed to cling to it at the last moment, but in the distance she could hear the frustrated calls of the knights and the wild clattering of loose objects tossed about. As quickly as the wind struck, it suddenly died away. Vereesa pushed her disheveled hair from her face and hurried back to camp, fearful that Duncan and the others had been attacked by some terrible force akin to the dragon earlier that day. Fortunately, even as she approached, the ranger heard the paladins already discussing the repair of their camp, and as she entered the area, Vereesa saw that, other than bedrolls and other objects lying strewn about, no one seemed much out of sorts. Lord Senturus strode toward her, eyes filled with concern. “You are well, milady? No harm has come to you?” “Nothing. The wind surprised me, that is all.” “Surprised everyone.” He rubbed his bearded jaw, gazing into the darkened forest. “It strikes me that no normal wind blows in such a manner. . . .” He turned to one of his men. “Roland! Double the guard! This may not be the end of this particular storm!” “Aye, milord!” a slim, pale knight called back. “Christoff! Jakob! Get—” His voice cut off with such abruptness that both Duncan, who had turned back to the elf, and Vereesa looked to see if the man had suddenly been struck down by an arrow or crossbow bolt. Instead, they found him staring at a dark bundle lying amidst the bedrolls, a dark bundle with legs stretched together and arms crossed over the chest, almost as if in deathly repose. A dark bundle gradually recognizable as Rhonin. Vereesa and the knights gathered around him, one of the men holding a torch near. The elf bent down to investigate the body. In the flickering light of the torch, Rhonin looked pale and still, and at first she could not tell whether he breathed or not. Vereesa reached for his cheek— And the eyes of the mage opened wide, startling everyone. “Ranger . . . how nice . . . to see you again. . . .” With that, his eyes closed once more and Rhonin fell asleep. “Fool of a wizard!” Duncan Senturus snapped. “You'll not up and vanish after good men have died, then think you can simply reappear in our midst and go to sleep!” He reached for the spellcaster's arm, intending to shake Rhonin awake, but let out a startled cry the moment his fingers touched the dark garments. The paladin gazed at his gauntleted hand as if he had been bitten, snarling, “Some sort of devilish, unseen fire surrounds him! Even through the glove it felt like seizing hold of a burning ember!” Despite his warning, Vereesa had to see for herself. Sure enough, she felt some discomfort when her fingers touched Rhonin's clothes, but nothing of the intensity that Lord Senturus had described. Nevertheless, the ranger pulled back her hand and nodded agreement. She saw no reason at the moment why she should inform the senior paladin of the difference. Behind her Vereesa heard the scrape of steel as it slid from its sheath. She quickly glanced up at Duncan, who had already begun shaking his head at the knight in question. “No, Wexford, a Knight of the Silver Hand cannot slay any foe who cannot defend himself. The stain would be too great to our oaths. I think we must post guards for the evening, then see what happens with our spellcaster here in the morning.” Lord Senturus's weathered visage took on a grim aspect. “And, one way or another, justicewill be served once he awakes.” “I will stand by him,” Vereesa interjected. “No one else need do so.” “Forgive me, milady, but your association with—” She straightened, staring the senior paladin in the eye as best she could. “You question the word of a ranger, Lord Senturus? You question my word? Do you assume that I will help him flee again?” “Of course not!” Duncan finally shrugged. “If that is what you want, then that is what you want. You have my permission. Yet to do so all night with no relief—” “That is my choice. Would you do any less with one left in your charge?” Vereesa had him there. Lord Senturus finally shook his head, then turned to the other warriors and began giving orders. In seconds, the ranger and the wizard were alone in the center of camp. Rhonin had been left atop two of the bedrolls, the knights not certain as to how to remove them without getting burned. She examined the sleeping form as best she could without touching him again. Rhonin's robes appeared torn in places and the face of the wizard bore tiny scars and bruises, but otherwise he seemed to be unharmed. His expression looked drained, however, as if he had suffered great exhaustion. Perhaps it was the near darkness through which she inspected him, but Vereesa thought that the human looked so much more vulnerable now, even sympathetic. She also had to admit that he had fair looks, although the elf quickly eliminated any other thoughts along that line. Vereesa tried to see if there was any method by which she could make the unconscious mage's position more comfortable, but the only way to do so would have meant revealing that she could tolerate touching him. That, in turn, might have encouraged Lord Senturus to try to use her to better secure Rhonin, which went against the elf 's bond to the mage. With no other recourse, Vereesa settled near the prone body and looked around, eyeing the area for any possible threat. She still found Rhonin's sudden reappearance very questionable and, although he had said little about it, clearly so did Duncan. Rhonin hardly seemed capable of having transported himself to the midst of their camp. True, such an effort would explain why he now lay almost comatose, but it still did not ring true. Rather, Vereesa felt as if she looked at a man who had been kidnapped, then tossed back after the kidnapper had done with him what he would. The only question that remained—who could have done such a fantastic thing . . . and why? He woke knowing that they were all against him. Well, not all of them, perhaps. Rhonin did not know exactly where he stood—providing he could stand at all— with the elven ranger. By rights, her oath to see him safely to Hasic should have meant she would defend him even against the pious knights, but one never knew. There had been an elf in the party from his last mission, an older ranger much like Vereesa. That ranger, however, had treated the wizard much the same way as Duncan Senturus did, and without the elder paladin's level of tact. Rhonin exhaled lightly so as not to alert anyone just yet to his consciousness. He had only one way of finding out where he stood with everyone, but he needed a few more moments to collect his thoughts. Among the initial questions he would be asked would be his part in the disaster and what had happened to him afterward. Some bit of the first half the weary wizard could answer. As for the second, they likely knew as much as he. He could delay no longer. Rhonin took another breath, then purposely stretched, as if waking. Beside him, he heard slight movement. With planned casualness, the mage opened his eyes and looked about. To his relief and—surprisingly—some pleasure, Vereesa's concerned countenance filled his immediate field of vision. The ranger leaned forward, striking sky-blue eyes studying him close. Those eyes suited her well, he thought for a moment . . . then quickly dismissed the thought as the sound of clanking metal warned him that the others knew he had awakened. “Back among the living, is he?” Lord Senturus rumbled. “We shall see how that lasts—” The slim elf immediately leapt to her feet, blocking the paladin's path. “He has only just opened his eyes! Give him time to recoup and eat at least before you question him!” “I will deny him no basic right, milady, but he shall answer questionswhilehe has his breakfast, not after.” Rhonin had propped himself up by his elbows just enough to be able to see Duncan's scowling visage, and knew that the Knights of the Silver Hand believed him to be some sort of traitor, possibly even a murderer. The weakened mage recalled the one unfortunate sentry who had plummeted to his death and suspected that there might have been more such victims. Someone had no doubt reported Rhonin's presence on the wall, and the natural prejudices of the holy order had added up the facts and gotten the wrong answer, as usual. He did not want to fight them, doubted that at this point he could even cast more than one or two light spells, but if they tried to condemn him for what had happened at the keep, Rhonin would not hold back to defend himself. “I'll answer as best I can,” the wizard replied, declining any aid from Vereesa as he struggled to his feet. “But, yes, only with some food and water in my stomach.” The normally bland rations of the knights tasted sweet and delicious to Rhonin from the moment of the first bite. Even the tepid water from one of the flasks seemed more like wine. Rhonin suddenly realized that his body felt as if it had been forcibly starved for nearly a week. He ate with gusto, with passion, with little care for manners. Some of the knights watched him with amusement, others, especially Duncan, with distaste. Just as his hunger and thirst at last began to level off, the questioning began. Lord Senturus sat down before him, eyes already judging the spellcaster, and growled, “The time for confession is at hand, Rhonin Redhair! You have filled your belly, now empty the burden of sin from your soul! Tell us the truth about your misdeed on the keep wall. . . .” Vereesa stood beside the recuperating mage, her hand by the hilt of her sword. She clearly had positioned herself so as to act as his defender in this informal court, and not, Rhonin liked to think, simply because of her oath. Certainly, after their experience with the dragon, she knew him better than these oafs. “I'll tell you what I know, which is to say not much at all, my lord. I stood atop the keep wall, but the fault of the destruction isn't mine. I heard an explosion, the wall shook, and one of your tin warriors had the misfortune to fall over the side, for which you've my sympathy—” Duncan had not yet put on his helmet, and so now ran a hand through his graying, thinning hair. He looked as if he fought the valiant struggle to maintain control of his temper. “Your story already has holes as wide as the chasm in your heart, wizard, and you have barely even started! There are those who live, despite your efforts, who saw you casting magic just before the devastation! Your lies condemn you!” “No,youcondemn me, just as you condemn all my kind for merely existing,” Rhonin quietly returned. He took another bite of hard biscuit, then added, “Yes, my lord, I cast a spell, but one only designed to communicate along the distances. I sought advice from one of my seniors on how to proceed on a mission that has been sanctioned by the highest powers in the Alliance . . . as the honorable ranger here'll vouch, I'd say.” Vereesa spoke even as the knight's eyes shifted to her. “His words bear truth, Duncan. I see no reason why he would cause such damage—” She held up a hand as the elder warrior started to protest, no doubt again pressing the point that all wizards became damned souls the moment they took up the art. “—and I will meet any man, including you, in combat, if that is what it takes to restore his rights and freedom.” Lord Senturus looked disgruntled at the thought of having to face the elf in battle. He glared at Rhonin, but finally nodded slowly. “Very well. You have a staunch defender, wizard, and on her word and bond I will accept that you are not responsible for what happened.” Yet the moment he finished the statement, the paladin thrust a finger at the mage. “But I would hear more about your own exp

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