The elves had another name for him, spoken only in whispers and only in the elder tongue almost forgotten. Xaxas. A short title with many meanings, all dire. Chaos. Fury. The embodiment of elemental rage, such as found in erupting volcanoes or shattering earthquakes. If Alexstrasza represented the elements of life that bound the world together, then Deathwing exemplified the destructive forces that constantly sought to rip it apart.
Yet now he hovered before them, attempting, it seemed, to defend them from one of his own kind. Of course, Deathwing likely did not see it that way. This was a foe with scale of crimson, the color of his greatest rival. Deathwing hated dragons of all other colors and did his best to see that each he confronted perished, but those bearing the mantle of Alexstrasza the ebony behemoth despised most.
“’Tis an impossible sight, eh?” murmured Falstad, for once subdued. “And yet I thought the foul monster dead!”
So had the ranger. The Kirin Tor had combined the might of the best of their human wizards with those of their elven counterparts to finally, so they had claimed, bring an end to the threat of the black fury. Even the metallic plates that Deathwing had long ago convinced the mad goblins to literally weld to his body had not protected him from those sorcerous strikes. He had fallen, fallen . . .
But now, apparently, flew triumphant again.
The war against the orcs had suddenly become a very minute thing. What were all the remnants of the Horde in Khaz Modan compared to this single, sinister giant?
The lesser dragon, also evidently a male, snapped angrily at Deathwing. The snout came near enough that the black beast could have swatted it with his left forepaw, but for some reason Deathwing held that paw closed and near to his body. Instead, he whipped his tail at his adversary, sending the red reeling back. As the black dragon moved, under the shifting metal plates what seemed to be a vast series of veins filled with molten fire radiated along both his throat and torso, flaring with each roar from the titan. Legend had it that to touch those veins of fire was to risk truly being burned. Some said this was due to an acidic secretion by the dragon, but other tales took it as literal flame.
Either way, it meant death.
“The orc is either brave beyond compare, a fool, or without any control over his beast!” Falstad shook his head. “Even I would not remain in such a fray if it could be helped!”
The other gryphons neared. Tearing her gaze away from the posturing dragons, Vereesa inspected the newcomers, but saw no sign of either Molok or Rhonin. In fact, their little group now numbered only her and four dwarves.
“Where is the wizard?” she called to the others. “Where is he?”
“Molok is dead,” one of them proclaimed to Falstad. “His mount lies drifting in the sea!”
For their small stature, dwarves had incredibly muscular, dense bodies and so did not float well. Falstad and the others chose to take the discovery of the dead gryphon as proof enough of the warrior’s fate.
But Rhonin was human and, therefore, whether dead or alive, stood a better chance of floating for a time. Vereesa seized on that slight hope. “And the wizard? Did you see the wizard?”
“I think ’tis obvious, my elven lady,” Falstad returned, glancing back at her.
She clamped her mouth shut, knowing he spoke truth. At least with the incident at the keep, there had been enough question. Here, however, matters seemed final. Even Rhonin’s magic certainly could not have saved him up here and from this height, striking the water below would have been like striking solid rock. . . .
Unable to keep from glancing down, Vereesa made out the half-sunken form of the other red dragon. Death must have come to Rhonin and Molok from one of the creature’s mad turns during its final fit. She only hoped the end had been swift for both.
“What should we do, Falstad?” called out one of the other dwarves.
He rubbed his chin. “Deathwing is no warrior’s friend! He’ll no doubt come after us after he deals with this lesser beast! Facing him is no proper battle! Would take a hundred stormhammers just to dent his hide! Best if we return and let others know what we’ve seen!”
The other dwarves looked to be in agreement with this, but Vereesa found she could not give up so readily despite the obvious. “Falstad! Rhonin is a wizard! He is likely dead, but if he still lives—if he still floats down there—he could still need our help!”
“You’re daft, if you’ll pardon me for saying so, my elven lady! No one could’ve survived a fall like that, even a wizard!”
“Please! Just one sweep of the surface—and then we can depart!” Certainly if they found nothing then, her duty to the mage and his never-to-be-fulfilled mission would be at an end. That her sense of guilt would linger much, much longer was something the ranger could do nothing about.
Falstad frowned. His warriors looked at him as if he would have to be mad to spend any more time in the vicinity of Deathwing.
“Very well!” he growled. “But only for you, only for you!” To the others, Falstad commanded, “Go on back already without us! We should be behind you before long, but if for some reason we don’t return, make certain that someone knows of the dark one’s reappearance! Go!”
As the other dwarves urged their own mounts west, Falstad had his animal dive. However, as they swiftly headed down to the sea, a pair of savage roars made both elf and dwarf look up in concern.
Deathwing and the red bellowed at one another over and over, each cry louder and harsher than the previous. Both beasts had their talons out and their tails whipping about in a frenzy. Deathwing’s crimson streaks gave him a frightening and almost supernatural appearance, as if he were one of the demons of legend.
“The posturing’s over,” Vereesa’s companion explained. “They’re about to fight! Wonder what the orc must be thinking?”
Vereesa had no concern for the orc. She again focused her concentration toward the search for Rhonin. As the gryphon soared just a few yards over the water, she surveyed the area in vain for the human. Surely there had to be some trace of him! The desperate ranger could even make out the twisted form of the dead mount not too far from them. Whether dead or alive, the wizard had to be somewhere near—unless he had actually managed after all to magick himself away from the danger?
Falstad grunted, clearly having decided that they were wasting their time. “There’s nothing here!”
“Just a little longer!”
Again savage cries drew their attention skyward. The battle had begun in earnest. The red dragon tried to cut around Deathwing, but the larger beast presented too great an obstacle. The membraned wings alone acted as walls that the lesser dragon could not get past. He tried flaming one of them, but Deathwing flapped out of the way, not that the fire would have likely done more than slightly singe him.
In the process of trying to scorch his opponent, Deathwing’s foe left himself open. The ebony giant could have easily raked the nearest wing of the red beast, but again the left forepaw remained shut and near to the chest. Instead, he whipped his tail at the other leviathan, sending the crimson dragon scurrying away again.
Deathwing did not look injured, so why would he hold back?
“That’s it! We search no longer!” Falstad shouted. “Your wizard’s at the bottom of the sea, I’m sorry to say! We’ve got to leave now before we join him!”