Clutching the medallion, Rhonin, his eyes still on the distant mountains, spoke to the empty air. “I need to
talk with you.”
Speak . . .
He had not entirely expected the method to work. So far, it had always been the dragon who had
contacted him, not the other way around. “You said this path would take me to the mountain, but if so,
it'll take far longer than I've time. I don't know how you expected me to reach the peak so quickly on
foot.”
As I said earlier, you were not meant to travel the entire way by so primitive a method. The vision I sent
of the path was so that you would ever remain secure in the knowledge that you had not become lost.
“Then how am I supposed to reach it?”
Patience. They should be with you soon.
They?
Remain where you are. That would be the best.
“But—” Rhonin realized that Deathwing no longer spoke with him. The wizard once again contemplated
tearing the medallion from his throat and tossing it among the rocks, but where would that leave him?
Rhonin still had to get to the orcs' domain.
Who did Deathwing mean?
And then he heard the sound, a sound like no other he had ever encountered. His initial thought was that
it might be a dragon, but, if so, a dragon with a terrible case of indigestion. Rhonin gazed into the
darkening sky, initially seeing nothing.
A brief flash of light caught his attention, a flash of light from above.
Rhonin swore, thinking that Deathwing had set him up to be captured by the orcs. Surely the light had
been some sort of torch or crystal in the hand of a dragonrider. The wizard summoned up a spell; he
would not go without a fight, however futile it might prove.
Then the light flashed again, this time longer. Rhonin briefly found himself illuminated, a perfect target for
whatever belching monster lurked in the dark heavens.
“Told you he was here!”
“I knew it all the time! I just wanted to see if you really did!”
“Liar! I knew and you didn't! I knew and you didn't!”
A frown formed on the young spellcaster's lips. What sort of dragon argued with itself in such inane,
highpitched tones?
“Watch that lamp!” cursed one of the voices.
The light suddenly flipped away from Rhonin and darted up. The beam briefly shone on a huge oval
form— a point at the front—before flickering on to the rear, where the wizard made out a smoking,
belching device that turned a propeller at the end of the oval.
A balloon!Rhonin realized.A zeppelin!
He had actually seen one of the remarkable creations before, during the height of the war. Astonishing,
gasfilled sacks so massive in size that they could actually lift an open carriage containing two or three
riders. In the war, they had been utilized for observation of enemy forces on both land and sea, yet what
amazed Rhonin most about them had not been their existence, but that they had been powered by
resources other than magic— by oil and water. A machine neither built by nor requiring spells drove the
balloon, a remarkable device that turned the propeller without the aid of manpower.
The light returned to him, this time fixing on Rhonin with what seemed determination. The riders in the
flying balloon had him in sight now, and clearly had no intention of losing him again. Only then did the
fascinated mage recall exactly which race had proven to have both the ingenuity and touch of madness
necessary to dream of such a concept.
Goblins—and goblins served the Horde.
He darted toward the largest rocks, hoping to lose himself long enough to at least come up with a spell
appropriate for flying balloons, but then a familiar voice echoed in his head.
Stay!
“I can't! There're goblins above! I've been spotted by their airship! They'll summon the orcs!”
You will not move!
Rhonin's feet refused to obey him any longer. Instead, they turned him back to face the unnerving
balloon and its even more unnerving pilots. The zeppelin descended to a point just above the hapless
wizard's head. A rope ladder dropped over the side of the observation carriage, barely missing Rhonin.
Your transport has arrived,Deathwing informed him.
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