“Make way! Make way!” Pushing past the rest, he stared out into the faint light of predawn. At first, he could not spot either leviathan; the sentry who had noted their imminent arrival surely had to have the sharpest eyes of any orc. Then . . . then, gradually, Nekros noted a dark form in the distance, one that swelled in size as it neared.
Only one? The peg-legged orc grunted. Another great loss, but one he could live with now that the threat had been vanquished. Nekros could not tell which dragon returned, but, like the others, he expected it to be Torgus’s mount. No one could defeat Grim Batol’s greatest champion.
And yet . . . and yet . . . as the dragon coalesced into a defined shape, Nekros noticed that it flew in ragged fashion, that its wings looked torn and the tail hung practically limp. Squinting, he saw that a rider did indeed guide the beast, but that rider sat half-slumped in the saddle, as if barely conscious.
An uncomfortable tingle ran up and down the commander’s spine.
“Clear away!” He shouted. “Clear away! He’ll need lots of room to land!”
In truth, as Nekros stumped away, he realized that Torgus’s mount would need nearly all the free room in the vast chamber. The closer the dragon got, the more his erratic flight pattern revealed itself. For one brief moment, Nekros even thought that the leviathan might crash into the side of the mountain, so badly did he maneuver. Only at the last, perhaps urged on by his handler, did the crimson monster manage to enter.
With a crash, the dragon landed amongst them.
Orcs shouted in surprise and consternation as the wounded beast slid forward, unable to halt his momentum. One warrior went flying as a wing clipped him. The tail swung to and fro, battering the walls and bringing down chunks of rock from the ceiling. Nekros planted himself against one wall and gritted his teeth. Dust rose everywhere.
A silence suddenly filled the chamber, a silence during which the maimed officer and those who had managed to get out of the dragon’s path began to realize that the gargantuan creature before them had made it back to the roost . . . only to die.
Not so, however, the rider. A figure arose in the dust, a teetering yet still impressive form that unlashed itself from the giant corpse and slid down the side, nearly falling to his knees when he touched the floor. He spat blood and dirt from his mouth, then peered around as best he could, searching . . . searching . . .
For Nekros.
“We’re lost!” bellowed the bravest, the strongest of the dragon-riders. “We’re lost, Nekros!”
Torgus’s arrogance had now been tempered by something else, something that his commander belatedly recognized as resignation. Torgus, who had always sworn to go down fighting, now looked so very defeated.
No! Not him! The older orc hobbled over to his champion as quickly as he could, his expression darkening. “Silence! I’ll have none of that talk! You shame the clans! You shame yourself!”
Torgus leaned as best he could against the remains of his mount. “Shame? I’ve no shame, old one! I’ve only seen the truth—and the truth is that we’ve no hope now! Not here!”
Ignoring the fact that the other orc stood taller and outweighed him, Nekros took hold of the rider by the shoulders and shook him. “Speak! What makes you spout such treason?”
“Look at me, Nekros! Look at my mount! You know what did this? You know what we fought?”
“An armada of gryphons? A legion of wizards?”
Bloodstains covered the once magnificent honors still pinned to Torgus’s chest. The dragon-rider tried to laugh, but got caught in a coughing fit. Nekros impatiently waited.
“Would—would’ve been a fairer fight, if I say so! No, we saw only a handful of gryphons—probably bait! Have to be! Too small for any useful force—”
“Never mind that! What did this to you?”
“What did this?” Torgus looked past his commander, eyeing his fellow warriors. “Death itself——death in the form of a black dragon!”
Consternation broke out among the orcs. Nekros himself stiffened at the words. “Deathwing?”
“And fighting for the humans! Came from the clouds just as I tried for one of the gryphons! We barely escaped!”
It could not be . . . and yet . . . it had to be. Torgus would not have made up such a bald lie. If he said that Deathwing had done this—and certainly the rips and tears that decorated the giant corpse added much credence to his words—then Deathwing had done this.
“Tell me more! Leave out no detail!”
Despite his own condition, the rider did just that, telling how he and the other orc had come upon the seemingly insignificant band. Scouts, perhaps. Torgus had seen several dwarves, an elf, and at least one wizard. Simple pickings, save for the unexpected sacrifice of a human warrior who had somehow single-handedly slain the other dragon.
Even then, Torgus had expected little more trouble. The wizard had proved some annoyance, but had vanished in the midst of combat, likely having fallen to his death. The orc had moved in on the party, ready to finish them.
That had been when Deathwing had attacked. He had made simple work of Torgus’s own beast, who had initially refused his handler’s instructions and had sought battle. No coward, Torgus had nonetheless immediately known the futility of battling the armored behemoth. Over and over during the struggle he had shouted for his mount to turn away. Only when the red dragon’s wounds had proven too much had the beast finally obeyed and fled.
As the story unfolded, Nekros saw all his worst nightmares coming true. The goblin Kryll had been correct in informing him that the Alliance sought to wrest the Dragonqueen from orc control, but the foul little creature had either not known or had not bothered to tell his master about the forces amassed for that quest. Somehow the humans had managed the unthinkable—a pact with the only creature both sides respected and feared.
“Deathwing . . .” he muttered.
Yet, why would they would waste the armored behemoth on such a mission? Surely Torgus had it right when he said that the band he had discovered had to be scouts or bait. Surely a much vaster force followed close behind.
And suddenly it came to Nekros what was unfolding.
He turned to face the other orcs, fighting to keep his voice from cracking. “The invasion’s begun, but the north’s not it! The humans and their allies’re coming for us first!”
His warriors glanced at one another in dismay, clearly realizing that they faced more threat than any in the Horde could have imagined. It was one thing to die valiantly in battle, another to know one faced certain slaughter.
His conclusions made perfect sense to Nekros. Move in unexpectedly from the west, seize the southern portion of Khaz Modan, free or slay the Dragonqueen—leaving the remnants of the Horde in the north, near Dun Algaz, bereft of their chief support—then move up from Grim Batol. Caught between the attackers from the south and those coming from Dun Modr, the last hopes of the orc race would be crushed, the survivors sent to the guarded enclaves set up by the humans.
Zuluhed had left him in charge of all matters concerning the mountain and the captive dragons. The shaman had not seen fit to respond, therefore he assumed he could trust Nekros to do what he must. Very well, then, Nekros would do just that.
“Torgus! Get yourself patched up and get some sleep! I’ll be needing you later!”
“Nekros—”
“Obey!”
The fury in his eyes made even the champion back down. Torgus nodded and, with the aid of a comrade, moved off. Nekros turned his attention back to the others. “Gather whatever’s most important and get it into the wagons! Move all the eggs in crates padded with hay—and keep them warm!” He paused, going down a mental list. “Be prepared to slay any dragon whelps still too wild to train properly!”