Something struck the elf. She had not thought of the paladin when she had been trying to convince Falstad to carry Rhonin and her across the sea. Knowing the knight as she already did, Vereesa had the horrible feeling that he would insist on going with them, too.
That thought had not likely occurred yet to the wizard, whose fury still centered around the ranger. “We’ll talk of this when we’ve more privacy, Vereesa, but know this already—when we reach the shores of Khaz Modan, I and only I will continue on! You’ll be returning with our good friend Falstad . . . and if you think of going any farther—”
His eyes flared. Literally flared. Even the stalwart elf could not help but lean back in astonishment.
“—I’ll send you back here myself!”
8
They were closing in on Grim Batol.
Nekros had known this day would come. Since the catastrophic defeat of Doomhammer and the bulk of the Horde, he had begun counting the days until the triumphant humans and their allies would come marching toward what remained of the orcs’ domain in Khaz Modan. True, the Lordaeron Alliance had had to fight tooth and nail every inch of the way, but they had finally made it. Nekros could almost envision the armies amassing on the borders.
But before those armies struck, they hoped to weaken the orcs much further. If he could trust the word of Kryll, who had no reason to lie this time, then a plot was afoot to either release or destroy the Dragonqueen. Exactly how many had been sent, the goblin had not been able to say, but Nekros envisioned an operation as significant as this, combined with reports of increased military activity to the northwest, to require at least a regiment of handpicked knights and rangers. There would also certainly be wizards, powerful ones.
The orc hefted his talisman. Not even the Demon Soul would enable him to defend the lair sufficiently, and he could expect no help from his chieftain at this point. Zuluhed had his followers preparing for the expected onslaught to the north. A few lesser acolytes watched the southern and western borders, but Nekros had as much faith in them as he did the mental stability of Kryll. No, as usual, everything hinged on the maimed orc himself and the decisions he made.
He hobbled through the stone passage until he came to where the dragon-riders berthed. Few remained of the veterans, but one Nekros trusted well still rode at the forefront of every battle.
Most of the massive warriors were huddled around the central table in the room, the place where they discussed battle, ate, drank, and played the bones. By the rattling coming from within the gathered throng, someone had a good game going on even now. The riders would not appreciate his interruption, but Nekros had no other choice.
“Torgus! Where’s Torgus?”
Some of the warriors looked his way, angry grunts warning him that his intrusion had better be of some import. The peg-legged orc bared his teeth, his heavy brow furrowing. Despite his loss of limb, he had been chosen leader here and no one, not even dragon-riders, would treat him as less.
“Well? One of you lot say something, or I’ll start feeding body parts to the Dragonqueen!”
“Here, Nekros . . .” A great form emerged from within the group, rising until it stood a head taller than any of the other orcs. A countenance ugly even by the standards of his own race glared back at Nekros. One tusk had been broken off and scars graced both sides of the squat, ursine face. Shoulders half again as wide as that of the elder warrior connected to muscular arms as thick as Nekros’s one good leg. “I’m here . . .”
Torgus moved toward his superior, the other riders making a quick, respectful retreat from his path. Torgus walked with all the bristling confidence of an orc champion, and with every right, for under his guidance his dragon had wreaked more havoc, sent to death more gryphon-riders, and caused more routing of human forces than any of his brethren. Markers and medallions from Doomhammer and Blackhand, not to mention various clan leaders such as Zuluhed, dangled from the ax harness around his chest.
“What do you want, old one? Another seven and I’d have cleaned out everyone! This better be good!”
“It’s what you’ve been trained for!” Nekros snapped, determined not to be humiliated by even this one. “Unless you only fight the battles of wagering now?”
Some of the other riders muttered, but Torgus looked intrigued. “A special mission? Something better than scorching a few worthless human peasants?”
“Something maybe including soldiers and a wizard or two! Is that more your game?”
Brutish red orbs narrowed. “Tell me more, old one. . . .”
Rhonin had his transport to Khaz Modan. The thought should have pleased him much, but the cost that transport demanded seemed far too high to the wizard. Bad enough that he had to deal with the dwarves, who clearly disliked him as much as he did them, but Vereesa’s claim that she needed to come along, too—granted, a necessary subterfuge in order to actually gain Falstad’s permission—had turned his plans upside down. It had been paramount that he journey to Grim Batol alone—no useless comrades, no risk of a second catastrophe.
No more deaths.
And, as if to make matters worse, he had just discovered that Lord Duncan Senturus had somehow convinced the unconvincible Falstad to take the paladin along as well.
“This is insanity!” Rhonin repeated, not for the first time. “There’s no need for anyone else!”
Yet, even now, even as the gryphon-riders prepared to fly them to the other side of the sea, no one listened. No one cared to hear his words. He even suspected that, if he protested much more, Rhonin might actually find himself the only one not going, as nonsensical as that seemed. The way Falstad had been looking at him of late . . .
Duncan had met with his men, giving Roland command and passing on his orders. The bearded knight turned over to his younger second what seemed a medallion or something similar. Rhonin almost thought nothing of it—the Knights of the Silver Hand seeming to have a thousand different rites for every minor occasion—but Vereesa, who had come up to his side, chose then to whisper, “Duncan has handed Roland the seal of his command. If something happens to the elder paladin, Roland will permanently ascend to his place in the rolls. The Knights of the Silver Hand take no chances.”
He turned to ask her a question, but she had already stepped away again. Her mood had been much more formal since his whispered threat to her. Rhonin did not want to be forced to do something to make the ranger return, but he also did not want anything to befall her because of his mission. He even did not want anything dire to happen to Duncan Senturus, although likely the paladin had far more chance of surviving in the interior of Khaz Modan than Rhonin himself.
“’Tis time for flight!” Falstad shouted. “The sun’s already up and even old ones have risen and begun their day’s chores! Are we all ready at last?”
“I am prepared,” Duncan replied with practiced solemnity.
“So am I,” the anxious spellcaster quickly answered after, not wanting anyone to think that he might be the reason for any delay. Had he had his way, he and one of the riders would have departed the night before, but Falstad had insisted that the animals needed their full night’s rest after the activities of the day . . . and what Falstad said was law among the dwarves.
“Then let us mount!” The jovial elf smiled at Vereesa, then extended his hand. “My elven lady?”
Smiling, she joined him by his gryphon. Rhonin fought to maintain an expression of indifference. He would have rather she had ridden with any of the dwarves other than Falstad, but to comment so would only make him look like an absolute fool. Besides, what did it matter to him with whom the ranger rode?
“Hurry up, wizard!” grumbled Molok. “I’d just as soon get this journey over with!”