“How long will it last?”
Now he finally paused to eye her, and what she saw in that gaze unsettled her greatly. “Not nearly long
enough. . . .”
They redoubled their efforts. Fire surrounded them wherever they turned, but at last they reached its
very edge, racing past the flames and out into a region where only deadly smoke assailed them. Both
choking, the pair stumbled on, searching for a path that would keep the wind blowing at them from the
front and, consequently, help to slow the fire and smoke behind.
And then another roar shook them, for it did not speak of agony, but rather fury and revenge. Wizard
and ranger turned about, glanced at the crimson form in the distance.
“The spell's worn off,” Rhonin muttered unnecessarily. It had indeed worn off, and Vereesa could see
that the dragon knew exactly who had been responsible for his pain. With an almost unerring aim, the
dragon pushed toward them with his massive, leathery wings, clearly intent on making them pay.
“Do you have another spell for this?” Vereesa called as they ran.
“Perhaps! But I'd rather not use it here! It could take us with it!”
As if the dragon would not do that anyway. The elf hoped that Rhonin would see his way to unleashing
this deadly spell before they both ended up as fare for the behemoth.
“How far—” The wizard had to catch his breath. “How far to Hasic?”
“Too far.”
“Any other settlement between here and there?”
She tried to think. One place came to mind, but she could not recall either its name or its purpose. Only
that it lay about a day's journey from here. “There is something, but—”
The dragon's roar shook them both again. A shadow passed overhead.
“If you do have another spell that might work, I would suggest using it now.” Vereesa wished again for
her bow. With it she could have at least tried for the eyes with some hope of success. The shock and
agony might have been enough to send the monster flying off.
They nearly collided as Rhonin came to an unexpected halt and turned to face the dire threat. He took
hold of her arms with surprisingly strong hands, for a wizard, then shifted the ranger aside. His eyes
literally glowed, something Vereesa had heard could happen with powerful mages but had never in her
life seen.
“Pray that this doesn't backfire on us,” he muttered.
His arms went up straight, hands pointed in the direction of the red dragon.
He started to mutter words in a language that Vereesa did not recognize, but which somehow sent
shivers up and down her spine.
Rhonin brought his hands together, started to speak again—
Through the clouds came three more winged forms.
Vereesa gasped and the tall wizard held his tongue, stalling the spell. He looked ready to curse the
heavens, but then the elf recognized what had emerged just above their horrific foe.
Gryphons . . . massive, eagle-headed, leonine-bodied, winged gryphons . . . with riders.
She tugged at Rhonin's arm. “Do not do anything!”
He glared at her, but nodded. They both looked up as the dragon filled their view.
The three gryphons suddenly darted around the dragon, catching him by surprise. Now Vereesa could
identify the riders, not that she had really needed to do so. Only the dwarves of the distant Aerie Peaks,
a foreboding, mountainous region beyond even the elven realm of Quel'thalas, rode the wild gryphons . . .
and only these skilled warriors and their mounts could face dragons in the air.
Although much smaller than the crimson giant, the gryphons made up for the size difference with huge,
razor-sharp talons that could tear off dragonscale and beaks that could rip into the flesh beneath. In
addition, they could move more swiftly and abruptly through the sky, turning at angles a dragon could
never match.
The dwarves themselves did not simply manage their mounts, either. Slightly taller and leaner than their
earthier cousins, the mountain dwarves were no less muscled. Although their favored weapons when
patrolling the skies were the legendary Stormhammers, this trio carried great double-edged battle-axes
with lengthy handles that the warriors manipulated with ease. Made of a metal akin to adamantium, the
blades could cut through even the bony, scaled heads of the behemoths. Rumor had it that the great
gryphon-rider Kurdran had struck down a dragon more immense than this one with just one wellaimed
blow from an ax like these.
The winged animals circled their foe, forcing him to constantly turn from side to side to see which one
threatened most. The orcs had early on learned to be wary of the gryphons, but without his own rider,
this particular monster appeared somewhat lost as to what to do. The dwarves immediately took
advantage of that fact, making their mounts dart in and out, much to the dragon's growing frustration. The
long beards and ponytails of the wild dwarves fluttered in the wind as they literally laughed in the face of
the giant menace. The bellowing laughter only served to antagonize the dragon more, and he slashed
about madly, accompanying his futile attacks with spurts of flame.
“They are completely disorienting him,” Vereesa commented, impressed by the tactics. “They know he
is young and that his temper will keep him from attacking with strategy!”
“Which makes it a good time for us to leave,” Rhonin replied.
“They might need our help!”
“I've a mission to fulfill,” he said ominously. “And they've got matters well in hand.”
True enough. The battle seemed to belong to the gryphon-riders, even though they had yet to strike a
blow. The trio kept flying around and around the red dragon, so much so that he nearly looked dizzy. He
both the other rebel clans and the ones in the enclaves, but this wouldn't be the way to go about it.”
“Who can say what an orc thinks? This was clearly a random marauder. This was not the first such
attack in the Alliance, human.”
“No, but I wonder if—” Rhonin got no further, for suddenly they both became aware of movement in
the forest . . . movement from every direction.
With practiced ease, the ranger slid her blade free from its sheath. Beside her, Rhonin's hands
disappeared into the deep folds of his wizard's robes, no doubt in preparation for a spell. Vereesa said
nothing, but she wondered how much aid he would be in close combat. Better he stand back and let her
take on the first attackers.
Too late. Six massive figures on horseback suddenly broke through the woods, surrounding them. Even
in the dimming sunlight their silver armor gleamed sharp. The elf found a lance pointing at her chest.
Rhonin not only had one touching his breast, but another between his shoulder blades.
Helmed visors with a leonine head for a crest hid the features of their captors. As a ranger, Vereesa
wondered how anyone could move in such suits, let alone wage war, but the six maneuvered in the
saddle as if completely unencumbered. Their huge, gray war-horses, also armored on top, seemed
unperturbed by the extra weight foisted upon them.
The newcomers carried no banner, and the only sign of their identities appeared to be the image of a
stylized hand reaching to the heavens embossed on the breast-plate. Vereesa thought she knew who they
were from this alone, but did not relax. The last time the elf had met such men, they had worn different
armor, with horns atop the helm and the lettered symbol of Lordaeron on both their breastplate and
shield.
And then a seventh rider slowly emerged from the forest, this one in the more traditional armor that
Vereesa had first been expecting. Within the shadowy, visorless helm, she could see a strong and—for a
human—older and wiser face with a trim, graying beard. The symbols of both Lordaeron and his own
religious order marked not only his shield and breastplate, but also his helm. A silver lion'shead buckle
linked together the belt in which hung one of the mighty, pointed warhammers used by such as him.
“An elf,” he murmured as he inspected her. “Your strong arm is welcome.” The apparent leader then
eyed Rhonin, finally commenting with open disdain, “And adamned soul.Keep your hands where we can
see them and we won't be tempted to cut them off.”
As Rhonin clearly fought to keep his fury down, Vereesa found herself caught between relief and
uncertainty. They had been captured by paladins of Lordaeron—the fabled Knights of the Silver Hand.
The two met in a place of shadow, a place reachable only by a few, even among their own kind. It was a
place where dreams of the past played over and over, murky forms moving about in the fog of the mind's
history. Not even the two who met here knew how much of this realm existed in reality and how much of
it existed only in their thoughts, but they knew that here no one would be able to eavesdrop.
Supposedly.
Both were tall and slim, their faces covered by cowls. One could be identified as the wizard Rhonin
knew as Krasus; the other, but for the greenish tinge of the otherwise gray robes, might as well have been
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