Duncan!”
“'Tis too late, my elven lady!” Falstad called. “Your man's already dead—but what a glorious tale to
leave behind!”
Vereesa cared nothing about glorious tales nor the incorrect assumption that she had admired Lord
Senturus more than she actually did. All that mattered to her was that a brave man whom she had come
to know all too briefly had perished. True, like Falstad, the elf had immediately realized that it had only
been Duncan's shell that had fallen earthward, but the horror of his tragic death had still struck her deep.
Yet, Vereesa took some comfort in the knowledge that Duncan had managed the near-impossible. The
dragon had been struck a mortal blow, one that caused it to continue to thrash about madly. The dying
leviathan sought to pull the blade from the base of its skull, but its efforts grew weaker and weaker. It
was only a matter of time before the giant joined its slayer in the depths of the sea.
However, even in dying the dragon remained a threat. A wing nearly caught the dwarf and her. Falstad
had the gryphon dive in order to avoid the wild movements of the behemoth. Vereesa held on for dear
life, no longer able to concern herself with Duncan's fate.
As for the second dragon, it, too, still menaced the gryphons. Falstad brought his mount up again, rising
above the other monster in order to prevent them being seized by the horrific talons. Another rider
narrowly escaped the snapping jaws.
They could no longer remain here. The orc guiding this second beast clearly had vast experience in aerial
combat with gryphons. Sooner or later his mount would catch one of the dwarves. Vereesa wanted no
more deaths. “Falstad! We have to get away!”
“For you I would do that, my elven lady, but the scaly beast and its handler seem to have other ideas!”
True enough, the dragon now appeared fixated on Vereesa and her companion, most likely at the orc's
behest. Perhaps he had noted the second rider, and possibly thought her of some importance. In fact, the
very presence of the two crimson behemoths brought many questions to the ranger's mind—specifically
whether or not they had come because of Rhonin's mission. If so, then he more than she should have
been the likely target. . . .
And where was Rhonin? As Falstad urged the gryphon to greater speed and the dragon closed behind
them, the elf quickly glanced around, but again found no sign of him. Disturbed, she took a second look.
Not only did Vereesa not see the mage, but she could not even locate the gryphon he had been riding.
“Falstad! I do not see Rhonin—”
“A worry for another time! 'Tis more important that you hold tight!”
She obeyed . . . and just in time. Suddenly the gryphon arced at such a severe angle that, had Vereesa
hesitated, she might have been tossed off.
Talons slashed at the spot she and the dwarf had most recently occupied. The dragon roared its
frustration and banked.
“Prepare for battle, my elven lady! It appears we are not to have any other choice!”
As he unslung his stormhammer, Vereesa cursed again the loss of her bow. True, she had a sword, but
unlike Duncan, the ranger could not yet bring herself to commit such a sacrifice. Besides, she still needed
to find out what had happened to Rhonin, who remained her first priority.
The orc had his own long battle-ax out, and now waved it around his head, shouting some barbaric war
cry. Falstad responded with a guttural cry of his own, clearly eager for combat despite his earlier concern
for Vereesa. With nothing left for her to do, the ranger held on, hoping that the dwarf 's aim would be
true.
A titanic form the color of night dropped in among the combatants, falling upon the crimson dragon and
sending both beast and handler into a state of confusion.
“What in the name of—” was all Falstad managed.
The elf found herself speechless.
Black wings twice the span of those of the red filled Vereesa's vision, metallic glints from those wings
almost blinding her. A tremendous roar shook the sky like thunder, sending the gryphons scattering.
A dragon of immense proportions snapped at the smaller red one. Dark, narrow orbs eyed the lesser leviathan with contempt. The orc's dragon roared back, but clearly it did not find this new foe to its liking.
“We may be done for now, my elven lady! 'Tis none other than the dark one himself!”
The black goliath spread his wings wide, and the sound that escaped his mighty jaws reminded Vereesa
of harsh, mocking laughter. Again she caught sight of metal—platesof metal—spread across much of the
newcomer's vast body. The natural armor of a dragon proved difficult enough to pierce; what metal
would a creature such as this wear to protect its hard scales?
The answer came quick.Adamantium.Only it truly outshone the nearly impenetrable scale . . . and only
one great leviathan had ever put himself through such agony in the name of power and ego.
“Deathwing . . .”she whispered.“Deathwing . . .”
Among the elves, it had been said long ago that there were five great dragons, five leviathans who
represented arcane and natural forces. Some claimed that Alexstrasza the red represented the essence of
life itself. Of the others, little was known, for even before the coming of humans the dragons had lived
sheltered, hermitic existences. The elves had felt their influence, had even dealt with them on various
occasions, but never had the elder creatures truly revealed their secrets.
Yet, among the dragons, therehadbeen one who had made himself known to all, who ever reminded the
world that, before all other races,hiskind had ruled. Although originally bearing another name, he himself
had long ago chosenDeathwingas his title, the better to show his contempt and intentions for the lesser
creatures around him. Even the elders of Vereesa's race could not claim to know what drove the ebony
giant, but throughout the years he had done what he could to destroy the world built by the elves,
dwarves, and humans.
The elves had another name for him, spoken only in whispers and only in the elder tongue almost
forgotten.Xaxas.A short title with many meanings, all dire. Chaos. Fury. The embodiment of elemental
rage, such as found in erupting volcanoes or shattering earthquakes. If Alexstrasza represented the
elements of life that bound the world together, then Deathwing exemplified the destructive forces that
constantly sought to rip it apart.
Yet now he hovered before them, attempting, it seemed, to defend them from one of his own kind. Of
course, Deathwing likely did not see it that way. This was a foe with scale of crimson, the color of his
greatest rival. Deathwing hated dragons of all other colors and did his best to see that each he confronted
perished, but those bearing the mantle of Alexstrasza the ebony behemoth despised most.
“'Tis an impossible sight, eh?” murmured Falstad, for once subdued. “And yet I thought the foul monster
dead!”
So had the ranger. The Kirin Tor had combined the might of the best of their human wizards with those
of their elven counterparts to finally, so they had claimed, bring an end to the threat of the black fury.
Even the metallic plates that Deathwing had long ago convinced the mad goblins to literally weld to his
body had not protected him from those sorcerous strikes. He had fallen, fallen . . .
But now, apparently, flew triumphant again.
The war against the orcs had suddenly become a very minute thing. What were all the remnants of the
Horde in Khaz Modan compared to this single, sinister giant?
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