Yet, as dangerous as the mage's quest appeared, Rhonin would not have turned back. He had been
given an opportunity to not only redeem himself but to advance among the Kirin Tor. For that he would
forever be most grateful to his patron, whom he only knew by the nameKrasus.The title was surely a
false one, not an uncommon practice among those in the ruling council. The masters of Dalaron were
chosen in secret, their ascension known only to their fellows, not even their loved ones. The voice of
Rhonin's benefactor could be nothing like his true voice . . . if male was even the correct gender.
It was possible to guess the identities of some of the inner circle, but Krasus remained an enigma even to
his clever agent. In truth, though, Rhonin barely even cared about Krasus's identity anymore, only that
through him the younger wizard could achieve his own dreams.
But those dreams would remain distant ones if he never made his ship. Leaning forward in the saddle, he
asked, “How much farther to Hasic?”
Without turning, Vereesa blandly replied, “Three more days at least. Do not worry; our pace will now
get us to the port on time.”
Rhonin leaned back again. So much for their latest conversation, only the second of today. The only
thing possibly worse than riding with an elf would have been traveling with one of the dour Knights of the
Silver Hand. Despite their ever-present courtesy, the paladins generally made it clear that they
considered magic an occasional, necessary evil, one with which they would do without at all other times.
The last one that Rhonin had encountered had quite clearly indicated that he believed that, after death, the
mage's soul would be condemned to the same pit of darkness shared by the mythical demons of old. This
no matter how pure Rhonin's soul might have been otherwise.
The late afternoon sun began to sink among the treetops, creating contrasting areas of brightness and
dark shadow among the trees. Rhonin had hoped to reach the edge of the woods before dark, but
clearly they would not do so. Not for the first time, he ran through his mental maps, trying not only to
place their present location but verify what his companion had said about still making the ship. His delay
in meeting with Vereesa had been unavoidable, the product of trying to find necessary supplies and
components. He only hoped it would still not prove to jeopardize his entire mission.
To free the Dragonqueen . . .
An impossible, improbable quest to some, certain death to most. Yet, even during the war, Rhonin had
proposed such. Clearly, if the Dragonqueen were freed, it would at the very least strip from the remaining
orcs one of their greatest weapons. However, circumstance had never enabled such a monumental quest
to come to fruition.
Rhonin knew most of the council hoped he would fail. To be rid of him would be to erase what they
considered a black mark from the history of their order. This mission had a double edge to it; they would
be astounded if he succeeded, but relieved if he failed.
At least he could trust in Krasus. The wizard had first come to him, asking if his younger counterpart still
believed he could do the impossible. Dragonmaw clan would forever retain its hold on Khaz Modan
unless Alexstrasza was freed, and so long as the orcs there continued the work of the Horde, they
remained a possible rallying point for those in the guarded enclaves. No one wanted the war renewed.
The Alliance had enough strife within its own ranks to keep it busy.
A brief rumble of thunder disturbed Rhonin's contemplations. He looked up but saw only a few cottony
clouds. Frowning, the fiery-haired spellcaster turned his gaze toward the elf, intending to ask her if she
too, had heard the thunder.
A second, more menacing rumble set every muscle taut.
At the same time, Vereesaleaptat him, the ranger somehow having managed to turn in the saddle and
push herself in his direction.
A massive shadow covered their surroundings.
The ranger and the wizard collided, the elf 's armored weight shoving both off the back of Rhonin's own
mount.
An ear-shattering roar shook the vicinity, and a force akin to a tornado ripped at the landscape. As the
wizard struck the hard ground, through the shock of pain he heard the brief whinny of his mount—a
sound cut off the next moment.
“Keep down!” Vereesa called above the wind and roaring. “Keep down!”
Rhonin, though, twisted around so as to see the heavens—and saw instead a hellish sight.
A dragon the color of raging fire filled the sky above. In its forepaws it held what remained of his horse
and his costly and carefully chosen supplies. The crimson leviathan consumed in one gulp the rest of the
carcass, eyes already fixed on the tiny, pathetic figures below.
And seated atop the shoulders of the beast, a grotesque, greenish figure with tusks and a battle-ax that
looked nearly as large as the mage barked orders in some harsh tongue and pointed directly at Rhonin.
Maw gaping and talons bared, the dragon dove toward him.
“I thank you again for your time, Your Majesty,” the tall, black-haired noble said in a voice full of
strength and understanding. “Perhaps we can yet keep this crisis from tearing your good work asunder.”
“If so,” returned the older, bearded figure clad in the elegant white and gold robes of state, “Lordaeron
and the Alliance will have much to thank you for, Lord Prestor. It's only because of your work that I feel
Gilneas and Stromgarde might yet see reason.” Although no slight man himself, King Terenas felt a little
overwhelmed by his larger companion.
The younger man smiled, revealing perfect teeth. If Terenas could have found a more regal-looking man
than Lord Prestor, he would have been surprised. With his short, well-groomed black hair, clean-shaven
hawklike features that had set many of the women of the court atwitter, quick mind, and a bearing more
princely than any prince in the Alliance, it was not at all surprising that everyone involved in the Alterac
situation had taken to him, Genn Greymane included. Prestor had an engaging manner that had actually
made the ruler of Gilneas smile on a rare occasion, so Terenas's marveling diplomats had informed him.
For a young noble whom no one had even heard of prior to five years before, the king's guest had made
quite a reputation for himself. Prestor came from the most mountainous, most obscure region of
Lordaeron, but could claim bloodlines in the royal house of Alterac as well. His tiny domain had been
destroyed during the war by a dragon attack and he had come to the capital on foot, without even one
servant to dress him. His plight and what he had made of himself since his arrival had become the thing of
storybook tales. More important, his advice had aided the king many times, including during the dark “Spare me your witticisms, Kryll,” Lord Prestor replied as he shut the great iron door behind him.
Above, in the old chalet given over to him by his host, King Terenas, servants specifically chosen by
Prestor stood guard to see that no unwarranted visitors dropped in. Their master had work to do, and
even if none of the servants truly knew what went on in the chambers below-ground, they had been made
to know that it would be their lives if he was disturbed.
Prestor expected no interruptions and trusted that those lackeys would obey to the death. The spell
upon them, a variation of the one that caused the king and his court to so admire the dashing refugee,
allowed no room for second thoughts. He had honed its effectiveness quite well over time.
“Most humble apologies, o prince of duplicity!” rasped the smaller, wiry figure before him. The tone in
the other's voice held hints of mischief and madness and an inhuman quality—not surprising, as Prestor's
companion was a goblin.
His head barely reaching above the noble's belt buckle, some might have taken the slight, emerald-green
creature for weak and simple. The madcap grin, however, revealed long teeth so very sharp and a tongue
blood-red and almost forked. Narrow, yellow eyes with no visible pupils sparkled with merriment, but
the sort of merriment that came from pulling the wings off flies or the arms off experimental subjects. A
ridge of dull brown fur rose up from behind the goblin's neck, finishing as a wild crest above the hideous
creature's squat forehead.
“Still, there is reason to celebrate.” The lower chamber had once been used to house supplies. In those
days, the coolness of the earth had kept wine rack after wine rack at just the right temperature. Now,
however, thanks to a little engineering on the part of Kryll, the vast room felt as if it sat in the middle of a
raging volcano.
For Lord Prestor, it felt just like home.
“Celebrate, o master of deceit?” Kryll giggled. Kryll giggled a lot, especially when foul work was afoot.
The emerald creature's two chief passions were experimentation and mayhem, and whenever possible he
combined the two. The back half of the chamber was, in fact, filled with benches, flasks, powders,
curious mechanisms, and macabre collections all gathered by the goblin.
“Yesss, celebrate, Kryll.” Prestor's penetrating, ebony eyes fixed unblinkingly on the goblin, who
suddenly lost his smile and all semblance of mockery. “You would like to be around to join in that
celebration, wouldn't you?”
“Yes . . . Master.”
The uniformed noble took a moment to breathe in the stifling air. An expression of relief crossed his
angular features. “Aaah, how I miss it . . .” His face hardened. “But I must wait. Go only when necessary,
eh, Kryll?”
“As you say, Master.”
The smile, now so very sinister, returned to Prestor's expression. “You are likely looking at the next king
of Alterac, you know.”
The goblin bent his narrow but muscular body nearly to the ground. “All hail his royal majesty, King
D—”
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