Clad more lightly, Duncan mounted behind one of the remaining riders. As a fellow warrior, the dwarves respected, if not liked the paladin. They knew the prowess of the holy order in battle, which had apparently been why it had been easier for Lord Senturus to convince them of the necessity of bringing him along.
“Hold tight!” Molok commanded Rhonin. “Or you may end up as fish bait along the way!”
With that, the dwarf urged the gryphon forward . . . and into the air. The wizard held on as best he could, the unnatural sensation of feeling his heart jump into his throat giving him no assurance as to the safety of the journey. Rhonin had never ridden a gryphon, and as the vast wings of the animal beat up and down, up and down, he decided quickly that, should he survive, he would never do so again. With each heavy flap of the part avian, part leonine creature’s wings, the wizard’s stomach went up and down with it. Had there been any other way, Rhonin would have eagerly chosen it.
He had to admit, though, that the creatures flew with incredible swiftness. In minutes, the group had flown out of sight of not only Hasic, but the entire coast. Surely even dragons could not match their speed, although the race would have been close. Rhonin recalled how three of the smaller beasts had darted around the head of the red leviathan. A dangerous feat, even for the gryphons, and likely capable by few other animals alive.
Below, the sea shifted violently, waves rising threateningly high, then sinking so very, very low. The wind tore at Rhonin’s face, wet spray forcing him to pull the hood of his robe tight in order to at least partially protect himself. Molok seemed unaffected by the harsh elements and, in fact, appeared to revel in them.
“How—how long do you think before we reach Khaz Modan?”
The dwarf shrugged. “Several hours, human! Couldn’t say better than that!”
Keeping his darkening thoughts to himself, the wizard huddled closer and tried to ignore the journey as much as possible. The thought of so much water underneath him bothered Rhonin more than he had thought. Between Hasic and the shores of Khaz Modan only the ravaged island kingdom of Tol Barad brought any change to the endless waves, and Falstad had previously indicated that the party would not be landing there. Overwhelmed early in the war by the orcs, no life more complex than a few hardy weeds and insects had survived the Horde’s bloody victory. An aura of death seemed to radiate from the island, one so intense that even the wizard did not argue with the dwarf’s decision.
On and on they flew. Rhonin dared an occasional glimpse at his companions. Duncan, of course, faced the elements with a typically stalwart pose, evidently oblivious to the moisture splattering his bearded countenance. Vereesa, at least, showed some effects of having to travel in this insane manner. Like the mage, she kept her head low for the most part, her lengthy silver hair tucked under the hood of her travel cloak. She leaned close to Falstad, who seemed, to Rhonin, to be enjoying her discomfort.
His stomach eventually settled to something near tolerable. Rhonin peered at the sun, calculated that they had now been in the air some five hours or more. At the rate of speed with which the gryphon traveled the skies, surely they had to be past the midway point. He finally broke the silence between Molok and himself, asking if this would be so.
“Midway?” The dwarf laughed. “Two more hours and I think we’ll see the crags of western Khaz Modan in the distance! Midway? Ha!”
The news more than his companion’s sudden good humor made Rhonin smile. He had survived nearly three-fourths of the journey already. Just a little over a couple of hours and his feet would at last be planted firmly on the ground again. For once, he had made progress without some dire calamity to slow him down.
“Do you know a place to land once we get there?”
“Plenty of places, wizard! Have no fear! We’ll be rid of you soon enough! Just hope that it doesn’t pour before we get to them!”
Peering up, Rhonin inspected the clouds that had formed over the period of the last half-hour. Possible rain clouds, but he suspected that, if so, they would hold off more than long enough for the party to reach their destination. All he need worry about now was how best to make his way to Grim Batol once the others returned to Lordaeron.
Rhonin well knew how audacious his plan might look to the rest should they discover the truth. Again he thought of the ghosts that haunted him, the specters of the past. They were his true companions on this mad quest, the furies that drove him on. They would watch him succeed or die trying.
Die trying. Not for the first time since the deaths of his previous companions did he wonder if perhaps that would be the best conclusion to all of this. Perhaps then Rhonin would truly redeem himself in his own eyes, much less the ghosts of his imagination.
But first he had to reach Grim Batol.
“Look there, wizard!”
He started, not realizing that, at some point, he had drifted off. Rhonin stared past Molok’s shoulder in the direction the dwarf now pointed. At first the wizard could see nothing, the ocean mists still splattering his eyes. After clearing his gaze, however, he saw two dark specks on the horizon. Two stationary specks. “Is that land?”
“Aye, wizard! The first signs of Khaz Modan!”
So near! New life and enthusiasm arose within Rhonin as he realized that he had managed to sleep through the remainder of the flight. Khaz Modan! No matter how dangerous the trek from here on, he had at least made it this far. At the rate at which the gryphons soared, it would only be a short time before they touched down on—
Two new specks caught his attention, two specks in the sky that moved, growing larger and larger, as if they closed in on the party.
“What are those? What’s coming toward us?”
Molok leaned forward, squinting. “By the jagged ice cliffs of Northeron! Dragons! Two of them!”
Dragons . . .
“Red?”
“Does the color of the sky matter, wizard? A dragon is a dragon and, by my beard, they’re coming fast for us!”
Glancing in the direction of the other gryphon-riders, Rhonin saw that Falstad and the rest had also spotted the dragons. The dwarves immediately began adjusting their formation, spreading out so as to present smaller, more difficult targets. The wizard noted Falstad steering more to the rear, likely due to the fact that Vereesa rode with him. On the other hand, the gryphon upon which Duncan Senturus traveled raced ahead, nearly outpacing the rest of the group.
The dragons, too, moved with strategy in mind. The larger of the pair rose to a higher altitude, then broke away from its companion. Rhonin instantly recognized that the two leviathans intended to force the gryphons into an area between them, where they could better pick off the smaller creatures and their riders.
Hulking forms atop each dragon coalesced into two of the largest, most brutish orcs the wary mage had ever seen. The one atop the greater behemoth looked to be the leader. He waved his ax toward the other orc, whose beast instantly veered farther to the opposite direction.
“Well-skilled riders, these!” shouted Molok with much too much eagerness. “The one on the right most of all! This will be a glorious battle!”
And one in which Rhonin might very well lose his life, just as it seemed he might have a chance to go on with his mission. “We can’t fight them! I need to get to the shore!”
He heard Molok grunt in frustration. “My place is in the battle, wizard!”
“My mission must come first!”
For a moment he thought that the dwarf might actually throw him off their mount. Then, with much reluctance, Molok nodded his head, calling, “I’ll do what I can, wizard! If an opening presents itself, we’ll try for the shore! I’ll drop you off and that’ll be the end of it between us!”
“Agreed!”
They spoke no more, for at that point, the two opposing forces reached one another.