“Shall we take turns at watch?”
“’Tis the best thing to do. Shall I go first or you?”
Too wound up to sleep, Vereesa volunteered. Falstad did not argue and, despite their present circumstances, immediately settled down, falling asleep but a few seconds later. Vereesa admired the dwarf’s ability to do so, wishing that she could be like him in that one respect.
The night struck her as too silent compared to the forests of her childhood, but the ranger reminded herself that these rocky lands had been despoiled by the orcs for many years now. True, wildlife still lived here—as evidenced by the gryphon’s full stomach—but most creatures in Khaz Modan were much more wary than those back in Quel’Thalas. Both the orcs and their dragons thrived heavily on fresh meat.
A few stars dotted the sky, but if not for her race’s exceptional night vision, Vereesa would have nearly been blind. She wondered how Rhonin would have fared in this darkness, assuming that he still lived. Did he also wander the wastelands between here and Grim Batol, or had Deathwing brought him far beyond even there, perhaps to some realm entirely unknown to the ranger?
She refused to believe that he had somehow allied himself with the dark one, but, if not, what did Deathwing do with him? For that matter, could it be that she had sent Falstad and herself on a wild dragon-chase, and that Rhonin had not been the precious cargo the armored leviathan had been carrying?
So many questions and no answers. Frustrated, the ranger stepped away from the dwarf and his mount, daring to survey some of the enshrouded hills and trees. Even with her superior eyesight, most resembled little more than black shapes. That only served to make her surroundings feel more oppressive and dangerous, even though there might not be an orc for miles.
Her sword still sheathed, Vereesa ventured farther. She came upon a pair of gnarled trees, still alive but just barely. Touching each in turn, the elf could feel their weariness, their readiness to die. She could also sense some of their history, going far back before the terror of the Horde. Once, Khaz Modan had been a healthy land, one where, Vereesa knew, the hill dwarves and others had made their homes. The dwarves, however, had fled under the relentless onslaught of the orcs, vowing someday to return.
The trees, of course, could not flee.
For the hill dwarves, the day of return would come soon, the elf felt, but by then it would probably be too late for these trees and many like them. Khaz Modan was a land needing many, many decades to recoup—if it ever could.
“Courage,” she whispered to the pair. “A new Spring will come, I promise you.” In the language of the trees, of all plants, Spring meant not only a season, but also hope in general, a renewal of life.
As the elf stepped back, both trees looked a little straighter, a little taller. The effect of her words on them made Vereesa smile. The greater plants had methods beyond even the ken of elves through which they communicated with one another. Perhaps her encouragement would be passed on. Perhaps some of them would survive after all. She could only hope.
Her brief rapport with the trees lightened the burden on both her mind and heart. The rocky hills no longer felt so foreboding. The elf moved along more readily now, certain that matters would yet turn out for the best, even in regards to Rhonin.
The end of her watch came far more quickly than she had assumed it would. Vereesa almost thought of letting Falstad sleep longer—his snoring indicated that he had sunken deep—but she also knew that she would only be a liability if her lack of rest later caused her to falter in battle. With some reluctance, the elf headed back to her companion—
—and stopped as the nearly inaudible sound of a dried branch cracking warned that something or someone drew near.
Not daring to wake Falstad for fear of losing the element of surprise, Vereesa walked straight past the slumbering gryphon-rider and his mount, pretending interest in the dark landscape beyond. She heard more slight movement, again from the same direction. Only one intruder, perhaps? Maybe, maybe not. The sound could have been meant to draw her in that very direction, the better to prevent Vereesa from discovering other foes waiting in silence.
Again came the slight sound of movement—followed by a savage squawk and a huge form leaping from nearby her.
Vereesa had her weapon ready even as she realized that it had been Falstad’s gryphon who had reacted, not some monstrous creature in the woods. Like her, the animal had heard the faint noise, but, unlike the elf, the gryphon had not needed to weigh options. He had reacted with the honed instincts of his kind.
“What is it?” snarled Falstad, leaping to his feet quite effortlessly for a dwarf. Already he had his stormhammer drawn and ready for combat.
“Something among those old trees! Something your mount went after!”
“Well, he’d better not eat it until we’ve the chance to see what it is!”
In the dark, Vereesa could just make out the shadowy form of the gryphon, but not yet its adversary. The ranger could, however, hear another cry over those of the winged beast, a cry that did not sound at all like a challenge.
“No! No! Away! Away! Get off of me! No tidbit am I!”
The pair hurried toward the frantic call. Whatever the gryphon had cornered certainly sounded like no threat. The voice reminded the elf of someone, but who, she could not say.
“Back!” Falstad called to his mount. “Back, I say! Obey!”
The leonine avian seemed disinclined at first to listen, as if what he had captured he felt either belonged to him or could not be trusted free. From the darkness just beyond the beaked head came whimpering. Much whimpering.
Had some child managed to wander alone out here in the midst of Khaz Modan? Surely not. The orcs had held this territory for years! Where would such a child have come from?
“Please, oh, please, oh, please! Save this insignificant wretch from this monster—Pfaugh! What breath it has!”
The elf froze. No child spoke like that.
“Back, blast you!” Falstad swatted his mount on the rump. The animal stretched his wings once, let out a throaty squawk, then finally backed away from his prey.
A short, wiry figure leapt up and immediately began heading in the opposite direction. However, the ranger moved more swiftly, racing forward and snagging the intruder by what Vereesa realized was one lengthy ear.
“Ow! Please don’t hurt! Please don’t hurt!”
“What’ve you got there?” the gryphon-rider muttered, joining her. “Never have I heard something that squealed so! Shut it up or I’ll have to run it through! It’ll bring every orc in hearing running!”
“You heard what he said,” the frustrated elf told the squirming form. “Be silent!”
Their undesired companion quieted.
Falstad reached into a pouch. “I’ve something here that’ll help us bring a little light onto matters, my elven lady, although I’m thinking I already know what sort of scavenger we’ve caught!”
He pulled out a small object, which, after setting his hammer aside, he rubbed between his thick palms. As he did this, the object began to glow rather faintly. A few more seconds’ action, and the glow increased, finally revealing the object to be some sort of crystal.
“A gift from a dead comrade,” Falstad explained. He brought the glowing crystal toward their captive. “Now let’s see if I was correct—aye, I thought so!”
So had Vereesa. She and the dwarf had captured themselves one of the most untrustworthy creatures in existence. A goblin.
“Spying, were you?” The ranger’s companion rumbled. “Maybe we should run you through now and be done with it!”
“No! No! Please! This disgraceful one is no spy! No orc-friend am I! I just obeyed orders!”
“Then what are you doing out here?”
“Hiding! Hiding! Saw a dragon like the night! Dragons try to eat goblins, you know!” The ugly, greenish creature stated the last as if anyone should understand that.