creature had managed to fly as high as he had. Surely Nekros did not think this ailing dragon any match
for the younger, more virile Deathwing?
Meanwhile, the orcs and dwarves still fought, but the latter now battled with what seemed desperation,
disappointment. It almost seemed as if they had put their hopes in the first red male. If so, Rhonin could
understand their loss of hope now.
“I do not understand it,” Vereesa said from beside him. “Why does Krasus not help? Surely the wizard
should be here! Surely he is the reason the hill dwarves are finally attacking!”
“Krasus!” In all the excitement, Rhonin had forgotten about his patron. In truth, he had some questions
for the faceless wizard. “What does he have to do with this?”
She told him. Rhonin listened, first in disbelief, then in growing fury. Yes, as he had begun to suspect, he
had been used by the councilor. Not only him, though, but Vereesa, Falstad, and apparently the
desperate dwarves below.
“After dealing with the dragon, he led us inside the mountain,” she concluded. “Shortly thereafter, he
would not speak to me again.” The elf removed the medallion, showing it to him.
It looked remarkably like the one that Deathwing had given to Rhonin earlier, even down to the patterns.
The bitter mage recalled noticing it when the elf and Falstad had tried rescuing him from the orcs. Had
Krasus learned how to make it from the dragons?
At some point, the stone had become misaligned. Rhonin pushed it back into place with one finger, then
glared at the gem, imagining that his patron could hear him. “Well, Krasus? Are you there? Anything else
you'd like us to do for you? Should we die for you, maybe?”
Useless. Whatever power it had contained had evidently dissipated. Certainly Krasus would not bother
to answer even if that had still been possible. Rhonin raised the relic high, ready to throw it off the ridge.
A faint voice in his head gasped,Rhonin?
The enraged wizard paused, startled to actually hear a reply.
Rhonin . . . praise . . . praise be . . . there may . . . there may still be . . . hope.
His companions watched him, not at all certain what he did. Rhonin said nothing, trying to think. Krasus
sounded ill, almost dying.
“Krasus! Are you—”
Listen! I must conserve . . . energy! I see . . . I see you . . . you may be able to salvage something—
Despite misgivings, Rhonin asked, “What do you want?”
First . . . first I must bring you to me.
The medallion suddenly flared, spreading a vermilion light over the astonished spellcaster.
Vereesa reached for him. “Rhonin!”
Her hand went through his arm. He watched in horror as both she and Falstad—and the entire ridge—
vanished.
Almost immediately, a different, rocky landscape materialized around him, a barren place that had seen
too many battles and now, in the distance, witnessed another. Krasus had transported him west of the
mountains, not far from where the orc column fought with the dwarves. He had not realized that the
wizard had been so near after all.
Thinking of his traitorous patron, Rhonin turned about. “Krasus! Damn you, show yourself—”
He found himself staring into the eye of a fallen giant, the same red, draconic giant the human had seen
plummet from the skies but minutes earlier. The dragon lay on his side, one wing thrust up, his head flat
along the ground
“You have my . . . my deepest apologies, Rhonin,” the gargantuan creature rumbled with some effort.
“For . . . foreverythingpainful I have caused you and the others .
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