With a high shriek, Kryll released his hold and dropped to the floor. Rhonin fell against the wall, trying to
get his breath back and hoping that Kryll would not take advantage of his weakness.
He need not have worried. Burned on his arm, the goblin hopped away from Rhonin, cursing. “Foul, foul
wizard! Damn your magic ways! Will leave you to my friend here, leave you to feel his tender touch!”
Kryll hopped toward the exit, laughing darkly at the intruders' fate.
The golem paused in his struggle with Vereesa and the dwarf, his deathly gaze shifting to the escaping
Kryll. His jaws opened—
A burst of ebony fire shot forth from the skeletal maw, completely enveloping the unsuspecting goblin.
With a mercifully short cry, Kryll perished in a ball of flame, so quickly incinerated by the magical fire
that only ash drifted to the floor . . . ash and the ruined medallion the goblin had carried in his belt pouch.
“He slew the little wretch!” Falstad marveled.
“And we are certain to be next!” reminded the elf. “Even though I feel no heat, my blade has half turned
to slag from the flames surrounding his body, and I doubt I can dodge him much longer!”
“Aye, if I could get my hammer I might be able to do something, but—look out!”
Again the golem unleashed a blast, but this time at the ceiling. The furious column of flame did more than
heat the rock, though. As it struck, the flamesshatteredthe ceiling, sending massive chunks down on the
trio.
One caught Vereesa on the arm, hitting with such violence that the ranger dropped to the floor. The
torrent forced Falstad away from her and prevented Rhonin from even trying to make any move in her
direction.
The fiery golem focused on the fallen elf. The jaws opened again—
“No!”Utilizing raw will, Rhonin countered, throwing up a shield as powerful as any he had ever created.
The dark flames struck the invisible barrier with their full fury . . . and rebounded back at the golem.
Rhonin would not have expected the creature's own weapon to have any effect on it, but the flames not
only took hold of their wielder, they coursed over him with hunger. A roar erupted from the golem's
fleshless throat, an ungodly, inhuman roar.
The monstrous creature quivered—then exploded, unleashing magical forces of hurricane proportion into
the tiny mountain chamber.
Unable to withstand those forces, what remained of the ceiling collapsed atop the defenders.
* * *
In the dark of night, the dragon Deathwing flew east across the sea. Swifter than the wind, he headed
toward Khaz Modan and, more significantly, Grim Batol. The dragon actually smiled to himself, a sight
that any other creature would have turned from in mortal terror. All went as intended in every venture.
His plans for the humans had moved along so very smoothly. Why, just hours ago, he had received a
missive from Terenas, outlining how just a week after “Lord Prestor's” coronation, word would go out
that the new monarch of Alterac would be wedding the king of Lordaeron's young daughter the day she
turned of age. Just a few scant years—the blink of an eye in the life of a dragon—and he would be in
place to set about the annihilation of the humans. After them, the elves and dwarves, older and without
the vigor of humanity, would fall like the leaves on a dying tree.
He would savor those days well, come the future. Now, however, Deathwing attended to a more
immediate and even more gratifying situation. The orcs prepared to abandon their mountain fortress. By
dawn, they would be moving the wagons out, heading for the Horde's last stronghold in Dun Algaz.
With them would go the dragons.
The orcs expected an Alliance invasion from the west. At the very least, they expected gryphon-riders
and wizards . . . and one black giant. Deathwing had no intention of disappointing Nekros Skullcrusher
on that account. From Kryll, he knew that the one-legged orc had something in mind. The dragon looked
forward to seeing what folly the puny creature planned. He suspected he knew, but it would be
interesting to find out if an orc could have an original thought for a change.
The dim outline of Khaz Modan's shore came up on the horizon. Better equipped to see in the dark,
Deathwing banked slightly, heading more to the north. Only a couple of hours remained until sunrise. He
would have plenty of time to reach his chosen perch. From there, the dragon would be able to watch and
wait, choose just the right moment.
Alter the course of the future.
Another dragon flew, too, a dragon who had not flown in many years. The sensations of unfettered flight
thrilled him, yet they also served to remind just how out of practice he had become. What should have
been completely natural, what should have been an inherent part of his very being, seemed out of place.
Korialstrasz the dragon had been Krasus the wizard for far too long.
Had it been daylight already, those who would have witnessed his passing would have noted a dragon of
great, if not gargantuan, proportions, larger than most, but certainly not one of the five Aspects. A brilliant
blood-red and sleek of form, in his youth Korialstrasz had been considered quite handsome for his kind.
Certainly he had caught the eye of his queen. Swift, deadly, and quick of thought in battle, the crimson
giant had also been among her greatest defenders, protecting the honor of the flight and becoming her
foremost servant when it came to dealing with the new, upcoming races.
Even before the capture of his beloved Alexstrasza, he had spent most of his later years in the form of
the wizard Krasus, generally only reverting to his true self when secretly visiting her. As one of her
younger consorts, he had not held the position of authority that Tyranastrasz had, but Korialstrasz had
known that he had yet held a special place in the heart of his queen. That had been why he had
volunteered in the first place to be her primary agent among the most promising and diverse of the new
races—humanity— helping to guide it to maturity whenever possible.
Alexstrasza no doubt thought him dead. After her capture and the subjugation of the rest of the
dragonflight, he had seen his own subterfuge as the only way to continue the struggle. Return fully to the
guise of Krasus and aid the Alliance in its war against the orcs. It had disheartened him to have to assist
in the death of his own blood, but the young drakes raised by the Horde knew little of their kind's past
glory, rarely ever living long enough to grow out of their bloodlust and begin to learn the wisdom that had
ever truly been a dragon's legacy. In aiding the elf and dwarf in their bid for entry into the mountain, he
had been fortunate enough to speak into the mind of one of those youngsters, calming the drake and
explaining what had to be done. That the other dragon had listened had been heartening. Some hope
remained for at least one.
But so much still had to be done, enough so that, once more, Korialstrasz had turned his back on the
mortals and left them to their own devices. The moment he had viewed the wagons through the
medallion, heard the barked order from the orc officers, he had realized that all for which he had
struggled was about to come to fruition. The orcs had taken the bait and were departing from Grim
Batol. They would be moving his beloved Alexstrasza into the open—where he could at last rescue her.
Even then, it would not be simple. It would require guile, timing, and, of course, pure luck.
That Deathwing lived and clearly plotted the downfall of the Lordaeron Alliance had presented itself as a
new and terrible concern, one that had, for a time, threatened the upheaval of everything for which
Korialstrasz had planned. Yet, from what he had discovered as Krasus, it seemed that Deathwing had
become too immersed in the politics of the Alliance to even concern himself with the distant orcs and
what remained of the once proud red flight of dragons. No, Deathwing played his own game of chess,
with the various kingdoms as pieces. Left to his own devices, he would surely cause war and devastation
among them. Fortunately, such a game required years, and so Korialstrasz felt little concern for the
humans back in Lordaeron and beyond. Their situation could wait until he had freed his beloved.
However, if the fleet dragon could ignore the growing threat to the very lands he had taken under his
wing, one other matter still gnawed at his thoughts until he could ignore it no longer. Rhonin—and the two
who had gone in search of him—had trusted in Krasus the wizard, not knowing that to Korialstrasz the
dragon, the rescue of his queen meant more than life itself. The lives of three mortals had seemed of very
little consequence in comparison to that—or so he had thought until recently.
Guilt wracked the dragon. Guilt not only for his betrayal of Rhonin, but also his neglect of the elf and the
dwarf after promising to guide them inside.
Rhonin had likely been slain some time ago, but perhaps it was not too late to save the other two. The
crimson leviathan knew that he would not be able to concentrate on his quest until he had at least satisfied
himself with doing what he could for them.
On the very tip of southwestern Khaz Modan, only a few hours from Ironforge, Korialstrasz picked out
a secluded peak in the midst of the mountain chain there and alighted. He took a few moments to orient
himself, then shut his eyes and focused on the medallion that he had made Rom give to the ranger,
Vereesa.
Although she likely thought the stone in the center only a gem, it was, in fact, a very part of the dragon.
Fashioned through magic into its present form, it had begun its existence as one of his scales. The
ensorcelled scale bore properties that would have astounded any mage—if they had known how to cast
dragon magic. Fortunately for Korialstrasz, few did, else he would not have risked creating the medallion
in the first place. Both Rom and the elf clearly believed the gem only useful for communication purposes,
and the dragon had no intention of correcting their misconceptions.
As the wind howled and snow buffeted the great behemoth, Korialstrasz folded his wings near his head,
the better to shield it while he concentrated. He pictured the elf as he had seen her through the talisman.
Pleasant to look at for one of her kind, and clearly concerned for Rhonin. A very capable warrior, too.Yes, perhaps she still lived, her and the dwarf from the Aeries.
“Vereesa Windrunner . . .” he quietly called. “Vereesa Windrunner!” Korialstrasz closed his eyes, trying
to focus his inner sight. Curiously, he could see nothing. The medallion should have enabled him to see
whatever the elf pointed it toward. Had she hidden it from view?
“Vereesa Windrunner . . . make some sound, however slight, to acknowledge that you hear me.”
Still nothing.
“Elf!” For the first time, the dragon nearly lost his composure. “Elf!”
And still no reply, no image. Korialstrasz focused his full concentration on the medallion, trying to listen
for any sound, even the snarls of an orc.
Nothing.
Too late . . . his sudden act of conscience had come too late to save Rhonin's rescuers, and now they,
too, had perished because of the dragon's lack of thought.
As Krasus, he had played on Rhonin's guilt, played on the memories of those companions that the
wizard had lost during his previous mission. It had made Rhonin quite malleable. Now, however, he
began to understand just how the human had felt. Alexstrasza had always talked of the younger races in
tones of caring, of nurturing, as if they, too, were her children. That care she had infected her consort
with, and as Krasus he had worked hard to see to it that the humans matured properly. However, his
queen's capture by the orcs had shaken his thinking to its very foundations and caused Korialstrasz to
forget her teachings . . . until now.
Yet, it had still come much too late for these three.
“But it is not too late for you, my queen,” the dragon rumbled. Should he survive this, he would dedicate
his life to making up for his failure to Rhonin and the others. For now, though, all that mattered was the
rescue of his mate. She would understand . . . he hoped.
Spreading his wings wide, the majestic red dragon took to the air, heading north.
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