We need to get down there,” muttered Rhonin. “I need to see what's happening!”
“Can't you just do as you did in the chamber?” asked Falstad.
“If I do, I won't have any strength to help us once we land . . . besides, I don't know where to put us.
Would you like to end up right in front of an orc swinging an ax?”
Vereesa glanced over the edge. “It does not appear too likely that we can climb down, either.”
“Well, we can't stay up here forever!” The dwarf paced for a moment, then suddenly looked as if he had
just stepped in something terrible. “Hestra's wings! What a fool! Maybe he's still around!”
Rhonin eyed the dwarf as if he had lost his wits. “What're you talking about? Who?”
Instead of answering, Falstad reached into a pouch. “Those blasted trolls took it earlier, but Gimmel
handed it back . . . aah! Here 'tis!”
He pulled out what looked to be a tiny whistle. Both Rhonin and Vereesa watched as the dwarf put the
whistle to his lips and blew as hard as he could.
“I don't hear anything,” the wizard remarked.
“I'd have wondered about you if you had. Just wait. He's well-trained. Best mount I ever had. Mind you,
we weren't taken by the trolls that far from this region. He would've stayed for a while. . . .” Falstad
looked a little less certain. “'Tis not that long since we were separated. . . .”
“You are trying to summon your gryphon?” the ranger asked, her skepticism clear.
“Better trying that than trying to sprout wings, eh?”
They waited. Waited for what seemed like an eternity to Rhonin. He felt his own strength
returning—despite the chill conditions—but feared still to drop the trio into a location that might mean
their immediate death.
Yet, it appeared he would have to try. The wizard straightened. “I'll do what I can. I recall an area not
far from the mountain. I think Deathwing showed it to me in my mind. I may be able to send us there.”
Vereesa took him by the arm. “Are you certain? You do not look ready yet.” Her eyes filled with
concern. “I know what that must have cost you back in the chamber, Rhonin. That was no minor spell
you cast, then managed to maintain even for Falstad and myself. . . .”
He very much appreciated her words, but they had no other choice. “If I don't—”
A large winged form suddenly materialized through the clouds. Both Rhonin and the elf reacted, certain
that Deathwing attacked.
Only Falstad, who had been watching closely, did not act as if their doom had come. He laughed and
raised his hands toward the oncoming shape.
“Knew he'd hear! You see! Knew that he'd hear!”
The gryphon squawked in what the mage could have sworn were tones of glee. The massive beast flew
swiftly toward them—or rather, his rider in particular. The animal fairly leapt atop Falstad, only the
beating wings keeping the full weight of the gryphon from nearly crushing the dwarf.
“Ha! Good lad! Good lad! Down now!”
Tail wagging back and forth in a fashion more akin to a dog than a part-leonine beast, the gryphon
landed before Falstad.
“Well?” the short warrior asked his companions. “Is it not time to go?”
They mounted as quickly as they could. Rhonin, still the weakest, sat between the dwarf and Vereesa.
He had doubts about the gryphon's ability to carry them all, but the animal did just fine. On an extended
journey, Falstad readily admitted, they would have had more trouble, but for a short trip, the gryphon
would have no difficulties.
Moments later, they broke through the clouds—and into a sight they had not at all expected.
Rhonin had supposed that the sounds of battle would be the hill dwarves trying to take advantage of the
orcs' cumbersome wagon train, but what he had not thought to see was a dragon other than Deathwing
soaring above the battle.
“A red one!” the ranger called. “An older male, too! Not one raised in the mountain, either!”
He recognized that, too. The orcs had not held the queen long enough for such a behemoth to mature.
Besides, the Horde also had a habit of slaying the dragons before they grew too old and independent.
Only the young could be managed well enough by their orc handlers.
So where had this crimson leviathan come from, and what did he do here now?
“Where do you want us landing?” Falstad shouted, reminding him of a more immediate situation.
Rhonin quickly scanned the area. The battle seemed mostly contained around the column. He caught
sight of Nekros Skullcrusher on horseback, the orc holding something in one hand that gleamed bright
despite the clouds. The wizard forgot Falstad's question as he tried to make out the object. Nekros
appeared to be pointing it toward the new dragon. . . .
“Well?” demanded the dwarf.
Tearing his eyes from the orc, Rhonin concentrated hard. “There!” He pointed at a ridge a short distance
from the rear of the orc column. “That'll be best, I think!”
“Looks as good as any!”
Under the gryphon-rider's expert handling, the animal quickly brought them to their destination. Rhonin
immediately slipped off, hurrying to the edge of the ridge in order to survey the situation.
What he saw made no sense whatsoever.
The dragon, which had looked ready to attack Nekros, now hovered as best he could in the air, roaring
as if in some titanic struggle with an invisible foe. The wizard studied the orc commander again, noting
how the glittering shape in Nekros's hand seemed to become brighter with each passing second.
An artifact of some sort, and so powerful that now even he could sense the emanations from it. Rhonin
looked from the relic to the crimson giant.
How did the orcs maintain control over the Dragonqueen?It had been a question he had asked himself
more than once in the past—and now Rhonin truly saw for himself.
The crimson dragon fought back, fought harder than the human could have imagined any creature doing.
The trio could hear his painful roars, know that he suffered as few beings ever had.
And then, with one last rasping cry, the behemoth abruptly grew limp. He seemed to hover for a
moment— then plummeted toward the earth some distance from the battle.
“Is he dead?” Vereesa asked.
“I don't know.” If the artifact had not slain the dragon, certainly the high fall threatened to do that. He
turned from the sight, not wishing to see so determined a creature perish—and suddenly saw yet another
massive form dive from the clouds, this one a nightmare inblack.
“Deathwing!” Rhonin warned the others.
The dark dragon soared toward the column, but not in the direction of either Nekros or the two
enslaved dragons. Instead, he flew directly toward an unexpected target—the egg-laden carts.
The orc leader saw him at last. Turning, Nekros raised the artifact in Deathwing's direction, shouting out
something at the same time.
Rhonin and the others expected to see even the black fall to this powerful talisman, but, curiously,
Deathwing acted as if untouched. He continued his foray toward the wagons—and, clearly, the eggs they
carried.
The wizard could not believe his eyes. “He doesn't care about Alexstrasza, dead or alive! He wants her
eggs!”
Deathwing seized two of the wagons with surprising gentleness, lifting them up even as the orcs atop
leapt away. The animals pulling the wagons shrieked, dangling helplessly as the dragon turned and
immediately flew away.
Deathwing wanted the eggs intact, but why? What use were they to the lone dragon?
Then it occurred to Rhonin that he had just answered his own question. Deathwing wanted the eggs for
his own. Red the dragons would be that hatched, but, under the dark one's fostering, they would become
as sinister a force as he.
Perhaps Nekros realized this, or perhaps he simply reacted to the theft in general, but the orc suddenly
turned and shouted toward the rear of the column. He continued to hold the artifact high, but now he
pointed with his other hand at the vanishing giant.
One of the two red leviathans, the male, spread his wings rather ponderously and took off in pursuit.
Rhonin had never seen a dragon who looked so deathly, so sick. He found himself amazed that the
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