Encouraged, Rhonin set a more daring pace, a more certain one—which but seconds later nearly sent
him stumbling into the very arms of a pair of huge orc warriors.
They were, fortunately, even more stunned to see him than he was them. Rhonin immediately raised his
left hand, muttering a spell that he had hoped to save for more dire circumstances.
The nearest of the orcs, his ugly, tusked face twisting into a berserker rage, reached for the ax slung on
his back. Rhonin's spell caught him directly in the chest, throwing the massive warrior hard against the
nearest rock wall.
As the orc struck the wall, hemeldedinto the very rock. Briefly the outline of his form remained behind,
mouth still open in rage, but then even that faded into the wall . . . leaving no trace of the creature's
savage end.
“Human scum!” roared the second, his ax now in hand. He took a heavy swing at Rhonin, chipping off
bits of stone as the wizard managed to duck out of the way. The orc lumbered forward, bulky, dull green
form filling the narrow corridor. A necklace of dried, wrinkled fingers— human, elven, and
otherwise—dangled before Rhonin's eyes, a collection to which his foe no doubt wished to add him. The
orc swung again, this time coming perilously near to severing the mage in two lengthwise.
Rhonin stared at the necklace again, a grim idea in mind. He pointed at the necklace and gestured.
His spell briefly made the orc pause, but when the savage warrior saw no visible effect, he laughed
scornfully at the pitiful little human. “Come! I make it quick for you, wizard!”
But as he raised his ax, a scratching sensation forced the orc to look down at his chest.
The fingers on his necklace, more than two dozen strong, had moved to his throat.
He dropped the ax and tried to pull them away, but they had already dug in tight. The orc began to
cough as the fingers formed a macabre hand of sorts, a hand cutting off his air.
Rhonin scrambled back as the orc began to swing about wildly, trying to peel away the avenging digits.
The wizard had intended the spell only as a diversion while he came up with something more final, but the
severed fingers seemed to have taken the opportunity to heart. Vengeance? Even as a mage, Rhonin
could not believe that the spirits of the warriors slain by this orc had somehow urged the fingers to this
grand effort. It had to be the potency of the spell itself.
Surely it had to be. . . .
Whether vengeful ghosts or simply magic, the enchanted fingers did their terrible work with seeming
eagerness. Blood covered much of the orc's upper chest as nails tore into the softer throat. The
monstrous warrior collapsed to his knees, eyes so desperate that Rhonin finally had to look away.
A few seconds later, he heard the orc gasp—then a heavy weight fell to the tunnel floor.
The massive berserker lay in a bloody heap, the fingers still dug deep into his neck. Daring to touch one
of the severed digits, Rhonin found no movement, no life. The fingers had performed their task and now
had returned to their previous state, just as his spell had intended.
And yet . . .
Shaking off such thoughts, Rhonin hurried past the corpse. He had nowhere to put the body and no time
to think about it. Before long someone would discover the truth, but the wizard could not help that.
Rhonin had to concern himself only with the Dragonqueen. If he did manage to free her, perhaps she
would at least carry him off to safety. In that, truly, lay his only possibility of escape.
He managed to traverse the next few tunnels without interruption, but then found himself heading toward
a brightly lit corridor from which the babble of voices grew loud and strong. Moving with more caution,
Rhonin edged up to the intersection, peering around the corner.
What he had taken for a corridor had proven to actually be the mouth of a vast cavern that opened up to
the right, a cavern in which scores of orcs worked hard at loading up wagons and preparing draft
animals, all as if they intended some long journey from which they would not likely soon return.
Had he been correct about the battle north? If so, why did it seemeveryorc intended to depart? Why not
simply the dragons and their handlers? It would take far too long for these wagons to reach Dun Algaz.
Two orcs came into sight, the pair carrying some great weight between them. Clearly they would have
preferred to put down whatever it was they carried, but for some reason dared not do so. In fact, Rhonin
thought that they took special care with their burden, almost as if it were made of gold.
Seeing that no one looked in his direction, the wizard took a step forward in order to better study what
the orcs so valued. It was round—no,oval—and a bit rough in outer appearance, almost scaly. In fact, it
reminded Rhonin of nothing more than an—
Anegg.
Adragon'segg, to be precise.
Quickly his gaze shifted to some of the other wagons. Sure enough, he now realized that several of them
bore eggs in some stage of development, from smoother, nearly round ones to others even more scaled
than the first, eggs clearly near to hatching.
With the dragons so essential to the orcs' fading hopes, why would they be risking such precious cargo
on such a journey?
Human.
The voice in his head nearly made Rhonin shout. He flattened against the wall, then quickly slipped back
into the tunnel. Finally certain that none of the orcs could see him, Rhonin seized the medallion around his
neck and gazed at the black crystal in the center.
Sure enough, it now glowed slightly.
Human . . . Rhonin . . . where are you?
Did Deathwing not know? “I'm in the very midst of the orc fortress,” he whispered. “I was looking for
the Dragonqueen's chamber.”
You found something else, though. There was a glimpse of it. What was it?
For some reason, Rhonin did not want to tell Deathwing. “It was only the orcs at battle practice. I nearly
walked in on them without realizing it.”
His response was followed by a lengthy silence, so lengthy, in fact, that he nearly thought Deathwing had
broken the link. Then, in a very even tone, the dragon returned,I wish to see it.
“It's nothing—”
Before Rhonin could say another word, his body suddenly rebelled against him, turning back toward the
cavern and the many, many orcs. The outraged spellcaster tried to protest, but this time even his mouth
would not work for him.
Deathwing brought him to the spot where he had last stood, then made the wizard's right hand hold up
the medallion. Rhonin guessed that Deathwing observed all through the ebony crystal.
At battle practice . . . I see. . . . And is this how they practice their retreating?
He could not reply to the leviathan's mocking retort, nor did he think that Deathwing really cared if he
did. The dragon forced him to stay in the open while the medallion surveyed everything.
Yes, I see. . . . You may return to the tunnel now.
His body suddenly his own again, Rhonin slipped out of sight, thankful that the orcs had been so busy
with their task that no one had chanced to look up. He leaned against a wall, breathing heavily and
realizing that he had been far more frightened of discovery than he would have thought possible. So,
evidently, Rhonin was not as suicidal as he had once imagined.
You follow the wrong path. You must go back to the previous intersection.
Deathwing made no comment about Rhonin's attempt at subterfuge, which worried the wizard more than
if the dragon had. Surely Deathwing, too, pondered the orcs' moving of the eggs—unless he knew
something about it already? How could that be possible, though? Certainly no one here would relay that
information to him. The orcs feared and despised the black dragon at least as much as— if not more
than—they did the entire Lordaeron Alliance.
Despite those concerns, he immediately followed Deathwing's instructions, backtracking along the
corridor until he came to the intersection in question. Rhonin had ignored it earlier, thinking its narrow
appearance and lack of lighting meant it was of little significance. Surely the orcs would have kept any
tunnel of importance better lit.
“This way?” he whispered.
Yes.
How the dragon knew so much about the cavern system continued to bother Rhonin. Surely Deathwing
had not gone wandering through the tunnels, not even in his human guise. Could he have done so in the
form of an orc? Possibly so, and yet that, too, did not seem the answer.
The second tunnel on your left. You will take that one next.
Deathwing's directions appeared flawless. Rhonin waited for one mistake, one error, that would indicate
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