mission had not heeded his warnings, nor understood the necessity of his dangerous work. With the
typical contempt of the nontalented, they had gone charging directly into the path of his grand spell . . .
and thus most had perished along with the true targets—a band of orc warlocks intent on raising from the
dead what some believed had been one of the demons of legend.
Rhonin regretted each and every one of those deaths more than he had ever let on to his masters in the
Kirin Tor. They haunted him, urged him on to more risky feats . . . and what could be more risky than
attempting, all by himself, to free the Dragonqueen from her captors? He had to do it all by himself, not
only for the glory it would bring him, but also, Rhonin hoped, to appease the spirits of his former
comrades, spirits who never left him even a moment's rest. Even Krasus did not know about those
troubling specters—likely a good thing, as it might have made him question Rhonin's sanityandworth.
The wind picked up as he made his way to the top of the keep's surrounding wall. A few knights stood
sentry duty, but word of his presence in the settlement had evidently traveled swiftly, and after the first
guard identified him by way of inspection by lantern, Rhonin once again became shunned. That suited him
well; he cared as little for the warriors as they did for him.
Beyond the keep, the vague shapes of trees turned the murky landscape into something magical. Rhonin
found himself half-tempted to leave the questionable hospitality of his hosts and find a place to sleep
under an oak. At least then he would not have to listen to the pious words of Duncan Senturus, who, in
the mage's mind, seemed far more interested in Vereesa than a knight of the holy order should have been.
True, she had arresting eyes and her garments suited her form well—
Rhonin snorted, eradicating the image of the ranger from his thoughts. His forced seclusion during his
penance had clearly had more of an effect on him than he had realized. Magic was his mistress, first and
foremost, and if Rhonindiddecide to seek the company of a female, he much preferred a more malleable
type, such as the well-pampered young ladies of the courts, or even the impressionable serving girls he
found occasionally during his travels. Certainly not an arrogant, elven ranger . . .
Best to turn his attention to more important matters. Along with his unfortunate mount, Rhonin had also
lost the items Krasus had given him. He had to do his best to make contact with the other wizard, inform
him as to what had happened. The young mage regretted the necessity of doing so, but he owed too
much to Krasus to not try. By no means did Rhonin consider turning back; that would have ended his
hopes of ever regaining face not only among his peers but also with himself.
He surveyed his present surroundings. Eyes that saw slightly better than average in the night detected no
sentries in the near vicinity. A watchtower wall shielded him from the sight of the last man he had passed.
What better place than here to begin? His room might have served, too, but Rhonin favored the open, the
better to clear the cobwebs from his thoughts.
From a pocket deep within his robe he removed a small, dark crystal. Not the best choice for trying to
create communication across miles, but the only one left to him.
Rhonin held the crystal up to the brightest of the faint stars overhead and began to mutter words of
power. A faint glimmer arose within the heart of the stone, a glimmer that increased slowly in intensity as
he continued to speak. The mystical words rolled from his tongue—
And at that moment, the stars abruptlyvanished. . . .
Cutting off the spell in mid-sentence, Rhonin stared. No, the stars he had fixed on had not vanished; he
could see them now. Yet . . . yet for a brief moment, no more than the blink of an eye, the mage could
have sworn . . .
A trick of the imagination and his own weariness. Considering the trials of the day, Rhonin should have
gone to bed immediately after dining, but he had first wanted to attempt this spell. The sooner he finished,
then, the better. He wanted to be fully rejuvenated come the morrow, for Lord Senturus would certainly
set an arduous pace.
Once more Rhonin raised the crystal high and once more he began muttering the words of power. This
time, no trick of the eye would—
“What do you do there, spellcaster?” a deep voice demanded.
Rhonin swore, furious at this second delay. He turned to the knight who had come across him and
snapped, “Nothing to—”
An explosion rocked the wall.
The crystal slipped from Rhonin's hand. He had no time to reach for it, more concerned with keeping
himself from tumbling over the wall to his death.
The sentry had no such hope. As the wall shook, he fell backward, first collapsing against the
battlements, then toppling over. His cry shook Rhonin until its very abrupt end.
The explosion subsided, but not the damage caused by it. No sooner had the desperate wizard regained
his footing when a portion of the wall itself began to collapse inward. Rhonin leapt toward the
watchtower, thinking it more secure. He landed near the doorway and started inside—just as the tower
itself began to teeter dangerously.
Rhonin tried to exit, but the doorway crumbled, trapping him within.
He started a spell, certain that it was already too late. The ceiling fell upon him—
And with it came something akin to a gigantic hand that seized the wizard in such a smothering grip
Rhonin completely lost his breath . . . and all consciousness.
Nekros Skullcrusher brooded over the fate that the bones had rolled for him long, long ago. The grizzled
orc toyed with one yellowed tusk as he studied the golden disk in the meaty palm of his other hand,
wondering how one who had learned to wield such power could have been sentenced to playing
nursemaid and jailer to a brooding female whose only purpose was to produce progeny after progeny.
Of course, the fact that she was the greatest of dragons might have had something to do with that
role—that and the fact that with but one good leg Nekros could never hope to achieve and hold onto the
role of clan chieftain.
The golden disk seemed to mock him. It always seemed to mock him, but the crippled orc never once
considered throwing it away. With it he had achieved a position that still kept him respected among his
fellow warriors . . . even if he had lost all respect for himself the day the human knight had hacked off the
bottom half of his left leg. Nekros had slain the human, but could not bring himself to do the honorable
thing. Instead, he had let others drag him from the field, cauterize the wound, and help build for Nekros
the support he needed for his maimed appendage.
His eyes flickered to what remained of the knee and the wooden peg attached there. No more glorious
combat, no more legacy of blood and death. Other warriors had slain themselves for less grievous
injuries, but Nekroscouldnot. The very thought of bringing the blade to his own throat or chest filled him
with a chill he dared not mention to any of the others. Nekros Skullcrusher very much wanted to live, no
matter what the cost.
There were those in Dragonmaw clan who might have already sent him on his way to the glorious
battlefields of the afterlife if not for his skills as a warlock. Early on, his talent for the arts had been
noticed, and he had received training from some of the greatest. However, the way of the warlock had
demanded from him other choices that Nekros had not wanted to make, dark choices that he felt did not
serve the Horde, but rather worked to undermine it. He had fled their ranks, returned to his warrior
ways, but from time to time his chieftain, the great Shaman, Zuluhed, had demanded the use of his other
talents—especially in what even most orcs had believed impossible, the capturing of the Dragonqueen,
Alexstrasza.
Zuluhed wielded the ritualistic magicks of the ancient shaman belief as few had done since first the Horde
had been formed, but for this task, he had also needed to call upon the more sinister powers in which
Nekros had been trained. Through resources the wizened orc had never revealed to his crippled
companion, Zuluhed had uncovered an ancient talisman said to be capable of tremendous wonders. The
only trouble had been that it had not responded to shamanistic spellwork no matter how great the effort
put in by the chieftain. That had led Zuluhed to turn to the only warlock he felt he could trust, a warrior
loyal to Dragonmaw clan.
And so Nekros had inherited theDemon Soul.
Zuluhed had so named the featureless gold disk, although at first the other orc had not known why.
Nekros turned it over and over, not for the first time marveling at its impressive yet simplistic appearance.
Pure gold, yes, and shaped like a huge coin with a rounded edge. It gleamed in even the lowest light, and
nothing could tarnish its look. Oil, mud, blood . . . everything slipped off.
“This is older than either shaman or warlock magic, Nekros,”Zuluhed had told him.“I can do nothing
with it, but perhaps you can. . . .”
Trained though he was, the peg-legged orc had doubted that he, who had sworn off the dark arts, could
do better than his legendary chieftain. Still, he had taken the talisman and tried to sense its purpose, its
use.
Two days later, thanks to his astonishing success and Zuluhed's firm guidance, they had done what no
one would have imagined possible, especially the Dragon-queen herself.
Nekros grunted, slowly raising himself to a standing position. His leg ached where the knee met the peg,
an ache intensified by the great girth of the orc. Nekros had no illusions about his ability to lead. He could
scarcely get around the caves as it was.
Time to visit her highness. Make certain that she knew she had a schedule to maintain. Zuluhed and the
few other clan leaders left free still had dreams of revitalizing the Horde, stirring those abandoned by the
weakling Doomhammer into a revolt. Nekros doubted these dreams, but he was a loyal orc, and as a
loyal orc he would obey his chieftain's commands to the letter.
TheDemon Soulclutched in one hand, the orc trundled through the dank cavern corridors. Dragonmaw
clan had worked hard to lengthen the system already running through these mountains. The complex
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