Rhonin leaned forward without thinking. Every wizard studied the legends of the demon horde, what some called the Burning Legion, but if such monstrous beings had ever existed, he himself had found no proof. Most of those who had claimed dealings with them had generally turned out to be of questionable states of mind.
Yet, as the wizard tried to catch even a glimpse of one of the demons, Deathwing abruptly closed his hand, dismissing the images.
“If not for the dragons, this world would no longer be. Even a thousand orc hordes cannot compare to what we faced, to what we sacrificed ourselves against! In that time, we fought as one! Our blood mingled on the battlefield as we drove the demons from our world. . . .” The dark figure closed his eyes for a moment. “. . . and in the process, we lost control of the very thing we sought to save. The age of our kind passed. The elves, then the dwarves, and finally the humans each laid their claims to the future. Our numbers dwindled and, worse, we fought among ourselves. Slew one another.”
That much, Rhonin knew. Every one knew of the animosity between the five existing dragon flights, especially between the black and crimson. The origins of that animosity lay lost in antiquity, but perhaps now the wizard could learn the awful truth. “But why fight one another after sacrificing so much together?”
“Misguided ideas, miscommunication . . . so many factors that you would not understand them all even if I had the time to explain them.” Deathwing sighed. “And because of those factors, we are reduced to so few.” His gaze shifted, became more intense again. The eyes seemed to bore into Rhonin’s own. “But that is the past! I would make amends for what had to be done . . . for what I had to do, human. I would help you free the Dragonqueen Alexstrasza.”
Rhonin bit back his first response. Despite the easy manner, despite the guise, he still sat before the most dire of dragons. Deathwing might pretend friendship, camaraderie, but one wrong word could still condemn Rhonin to a grisly end.
“But—” he tried to choose his words carefully, “—you and she are enemies.”
“For the same insipid reasons our kind has so long fought. Mistakes were made, human, but I would rectify them now.” The eyes pulled the wizard toward them, into them. “Alexstrasza and I should not be foes.”
Rhonin had to agree with that. “Of course not.”
“Once we were the greatest of allies, of friends, and that can happen again, do you not agree?”
The mage could see nothing but those penetrating orbs. “I do.”
“And you are on a quest to rescue her yourself.”
A sensation stirred within Rhonin, and he suddenly felt uncomfortable under Deathwing’s gaze. “How did you—how did you find out about that?”
“That is of no consequence, is it?” The eyes snared the human’s again.
The discomfort faded. Everything faded under the intense stare of the dragon. “No, I suppose not.”
“On your own, you would fail. There is no doubt of that. Why you continued as long as you did, even I cannot fathom! Now, though, now, with my aid, you can do the impossible, my friend. You will rescue the Dragonqueen!”
With that, Deathwing stretched forth a hand, in which lay a small silver medallion. Rhonin’s fingers reached out seemingly of their own accord, taking that medallion and bringing it close. He looked down at it, studying the runes etched around the edge, the black crystal in the middle. Some of the runes he knew the meaning of, others he had never seen in his life, though the mage could sense their power.
“You will be able to rescue Alexstrasza, my fine little puppet,” the too-wide grin stretched to its fullest. “Because with this, I will be there to guide you the entire way. . . .”
How did one lose a dragon?
That question had reared its ugly head time and time again, and neither Vereesa nor her companion had a satisfactory answer. Worse, night had begun to settle over Khaz Modan, and the gryphon, already long exhausted, clearly could not go on much farther.
Deathwing had been in sight nearly the entire trek, if only from a great distance. Even the eyes of Falstad, not so nearly as sharp as the elf’s, had been able to make out the massive form flying toward the interior. Only whenever Deathwing had flown through the occasional cloud had he vanished, and that for no more than a breath or two.
Until an hour past.
The gargantuan beast and his burden had entered into the latest cloud, just as they had so many others previous. Falstad had kept the gryphon on target and both Vereesa and the dwarf had watched for the reappearance of the leviathan on the other side. The cloud had been alone, the next nearest some miles to the south. The ranger and her companion could see it almost in its entirety. They could not possibly miss when Deathwing exited.
No dragon had emerged.
They had watched and waited, and when they could wait no longer, Falstad had urged his animal to the cloud, clearly risking all if Deathwing hid within. The dark one, however, had been nowhere to be found. The largest and most sinister of dragons had utterly vanished.
“’Tis no use, my elven lady,” the gryphon rider finally called. “We’ll have to land! Neither we nor my poor mount can go any farther!”
She had to agree, although a part of her still wanted to continue the hunt. “All right!” The ranger eyed the landscape below. The coast and forests had long given way to a much rockier, less hospitable region that, she knew, eventually built up into the crags of Grim Batol. There were still wooded areas, but overall the coverage looked very sparse. They would have to hide in the hills in order to achieve sufficient cover to avoid detection by orcs atop dragons. “What about that area over there?”
Falstad followed her pointing finger. “Those roughhewn hills that look like my grandmother, beard and all? Aye, ’tis a good choice! We’ll descend toward those!”
The fatigued gryphon gratefully obeyed the signal to descend. Falstad guided him toward the greatest congregation of hills, specifically, what looked like a tiny valley between several. Vereesa held on tight as the animal landed, her eyes already searching for any possible threat. This deep into Khaz Modan, the orcs surely had outposts in the vicinity.
“The Aerie be praised!” the dwarf rumbled as they dismounted. “As much as I enjoy the freedom of the sky, that’s far too long to sit on anything!” He rubbed the gryphon’s leonine mane. “But a good beast you are, and deserving of water and food!”
“I saw a stream nearby,” Vereesa offered. “It may have fish in it, too.”
“Then he’ll find it if he wants it.” Falstad removed the bridle and other gear from his mount. “And find it on his own.” He patted the gryphon on the rump and the beast leapt into the air, suddenly once more energetic now that his burdens had been taken from him.
“Is that wise?”
“My dear elven lady, fish don’t necessarily make a meal for one like him! Best to let him hunt on his own for something proper. He’ll come back when he’s satiated, and if anyone sees him . . . well, even Khaz Modan has some wild gryphons left.” When she did not look reassured, Falstad added, “He’ll only be gone for a short time. Just long enough for us to put together a meal for ourselves.”
They carried with them a few provisions, which the dwarf immediately divided. With a stream nearby, both took their fill of what remained in the water sacks. A fire was out of the question this deep into orc-held territory, but fortunately the night did not look to be a cool one.
Sure enough, the gryphon did return promptly, belly full. The animal settled down by Falstad, who dropped one hand lightly on the creature’s head as he finished eating.
“I saw nothing from the air,” he finally said. “but we can’t assume that the orcs aren’t near.”