Too slow. They were much too slow.
Nekros shoved a peon forward with an angry grunt, urging the worthless, lower-caste orc to quicker
work. The other orc cringed, then scurried off with his burden.
The lower-caste orcs were useless for anything but menial labor, and right now Nekros found them
wanting even in that one skill. As it was, he had been forced to make the warriors work alongside them in
order to get everything accomplished by dawn. Nekros had actually considered leaving in the dead of
night, but that had no longer been possible and he certainly had not wanted to wait another day. Each
day no doubt brought invasion nearer, although his scouts, clearly blind to reality, insisted that they so far
had found no more traces of an advance force, much less an army. Never mind that Alliance warriors on
gryphons had already been sighted, a wizard had found his way into the mountain, and the most dire of all
dragons now served the enemy. Simply because the scouts could not see them did not mean that the
humans and their allies were not already nearing Grim Batol.
Still in the midst of trying to get the menials to understand the urgency of their packing, the maimed orc
did not at first notice his chief handler come up. Only when he heard an uncomfortable clearing of the
throat did Nekros turn.
“Speak, Brogas! Why do you skulk like one of these wretches?”
The slightly stout younger orc grimaced. His tusks tended to turn down at the sides, giving his already
frowning face an even more dour look. “The male . . . Nekros, I think he dies soon!”
More bad news and some of the worst possible! “Let's see this!”
They hurried as fast as they could, Brogas carefully maintaining a pace that would not make his
superior's handicap more evident. Nekros, however, had greater concerns on his mind. In order to
continue the breeding program, he needed a femaleanda male. Without one or the other, he had nothing .
. . and Zuluhed would not like that.
They came at last to the cavern in which had been housed the eldest and only surviving consort of
Alexstrasza. Tyranastrasz had surely been a most impressive sight when compared to other dragons.
Nekros gathered that at one point the old crimson male had even rivaled Deathwing in size and power,
although perhaps that had simply been legend. Nonetheless, the consort still filled the massive chamber
quite ably, so much so that at first the orc leader could not believe that such a giant could possibly be ill.
Yet the moment he heard the dragon's unsteady breathing, he knew the truth. Tyran, as all called him,
had suffered several seizures in the past year. The orc had once assumed that dragons were immortal,
only dying when slain in battle; but he had discovered over time that they had other limitations, such as
disease. Something within this venerable behemoth had stricken Tyran with a slow but fatal ailment.
“How long's the beast been like that?”
Brogas swallowed. “Since last night, on and off . . . but he looked better a few hours ago!”
Nekros whirled on his handler. “Fool! Should've told me sooner!”
He almost struck the other orc, then considered how useless it would have been to have had the
knowledge. He had suspected for some time he would lose the elder dragon, but had just not wanted to
admit it.
“What do we do, Nekros? Zuluhed'll be furious! Our skulls'll sit atop poles!”
Nekros frowned. He, too, had conjured up that image in his mind . . . and not liked it one bit, of course.
“We've no choice! Get him prepared for moving! He comes, dead or alive! Let Zuluhed do what he
will!”
“But, Nekros—”
Now the one-legged orcdidstrike his subordinate. “Simpering fool! Obey orders!”
Subdued, Brogas nodded and rushed off, no doubt to beat the lesser handlers while they worked to
fulfill Nekros's commands. Yes, Tyran would be coming with the rest, whether or not he still breathed. At the very least he would serve as a decoy . . . .
Taking a step nearer, Nekros studied the great male in detail. The mottled scales, the inconsistent
breathing, the lack of movement . . . no, Alexstrasza's consort did not have long left in the world—
“Nekros . . .” rumbled the Dragonqueen's voice suddenly. “Nekros . . . I smell you near. . . .”
Willing to use any excuse to not think of what Tyran's passing might mean to his own skin, the heavyset
orc made his way to the female's chamber. As his usual precaution, he reached into his belt pouch and
kept one hand on theDemon Soul.
Through slitted eyes, Alexstrasza watched him enter. She, too, had seemed somewhat ill of late, but
Nekros refused to believe that he would lose her, too. More likely she knew that her last consort might
soon be dead. Nekros wished one of the other two had survived; they had been much younger, more
virile, than Tyran.
“What now, o queen?”
“Nekros, why do you persist in this madness?”
He grunted. “Is that all you wanted of me, female? I've more important things to do than answer your
silly questions!”
The dragon snorted. “All your efforts will only lead to your death. You have the chance to save yourself
and your men, but you will not take it!”
“We're not craven, backstabbing scum like Orgrim Doomhammer! Dragonmaw clan fights to the bloody
end, even if it be our own!”
“Trying to flee to the north? That is how you fight?”
Nekros Skullcrusher brought out theDemon Soul.“There're things you don't even know, ancient one!
There're times when flight leads to fight!”
Alexstrasza sighed. “There is no getting through to you, is there, Nekros?”
“At last you learn.”
“Tell me this, then. What were you doing in Tyran's chamber? What ails him now?” Both the dragon's
eyes and tone of voice were filled with her concern for her consort.
“Nothing for you to worry your head about, o queen! Better to think of yourself. We'll be moving you
soon. Behave, and it'll be much more painless. . . .”
With that said, he pocketed theDemon Souland left her. The Dragonqueen called his name once, no
doubt to again implore him to tell her about the health of her mate, but Nekros could no longer spend
time worrying about dragons—at least notredones.
Even though the column would likely leave Grim Batol before the Alliance invaders reached it, the orc
commander knew with absolute certainty that one creature would still arrive in time to wreak havoc.
Deathwing would come. The black leviathan would be there come the morning—if only because of one
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