The light returned to him, this time fixing on Rhonin with what seemed determination. The riders in the flying balloon had him in sight now, and clearly had no intention of losing him again. Only then did the fascinated mage recall exactly which race had proven to have both the ingenuity and touch of madness necessary to dream of such a concept.
Goblins—and goblins served the Horde.
He darted toward the largest rocks, hoping to lose himself long enough to at least come up with a spell appropriate for flying balloons, but then a familiar voice echoed in his head.
Stay!
“I can’t! There’re goblins above! I’ve been spotted by their airship! They’ll summon the orcs!”
You will not move!
Rhonin’s feet refused to obey him any longer. Instead, they turned him back to face the unnerving balloon and its even more unnerving pilots. The zeppelin descended to a point just above the hapless wizard’s head. A rope ladder dropped over the side of the observation carriage, barely missing Rhonin.
Your transport has arrived, Deathwing informed him.
12
“Lord Prestor’s ascension seems almost inevitable,” the shadowy form in the emerald sphere informed Krasus. “He has an almost amazing gift of persuasion. You are correct; he must be a wizard.”
Seated in the midst of his sanctum, Krasus eyed the globe. “Convincing the monarchs will require much evidence. Their mistrust of the Kirin Tor grows with each day . . . and that can only also be the work of this would-be king.”
The other speaker, the elder woman from the inner council, nodded back. “We’ve begun watching. The only trouble is, this Prestor proves very elusive. He seems able to enter and leave his abode without us knowing.”
Krasus pretended slight surprise. “How is that possible?”
“We don’t know. Worse, his chateau is surrounded by some very nasty spellwork. We almost lost Drenden to one of those surprises.”
That Drenden, the baritoned and bearded mage, had nearly fallen victim to one of Deathwing’s traps momentarily dismayed Krasus. Despite the man’s bluster, the dragon respected the other mage’s abilities. Losing Drenden at a time like this could have proven costly.
“We must move with caution,” he urged. “I will speak with you again soon.”
“What are you planning, Krasus?”
“A search into this young noble’s past.”
“You think you’ll find anything?”
The hooded wizard shrugged. “We can only hope.”
He dismissed her image, then leaned back to consider. Krasus regretted that he had to lead his associates astray, if only for their own good. At least their intrusions into Deathwing’s “mortal” affairs would have the result of distracting the black. That would give Krasus a bit more time. He only prayed that no one else would risk themselves as Drenden had done. The Kirin Tor would need their strength intact if the other kingdoms turned on them.
His own excursion to visit Malygos had ended with little-sense of satisfaction. Malygos had promised only to consider his request. Krasus suspected that the great dragon believed he could deal with Deathwing in his own sweet time. Little did the silver-blue leviathan realize that time no longer remained for any of the dragons. If Deathwing could not be stopped now, he might never be.
Which left Krasus with one much undesired choice now.
“I must do it. . . .” He had to seek out the other great ones, the other Aspects. Convince one of them, and he might still gain Malygos’s sworn aid.
Yet, She of the Dreaming ever proved a most elusive figure . . . which meant that Krasus’s best bet lay in contacting the Lord of Time—whose servants had already rejected the wizard’s requests more than once.
Still, what else could he do but try again?
Krasus rose, hurrying to a bench upon which many of the items of his calling stood arranged in vials and flasks. He scanned row upon row of jars, eyes quickly passing chemicals and magical items that would have left his counterparts in the Kirin Tor greatly envious, and more than a little curious as to how he could have obtained many of the articles in question. If they ever realized just how long he had been practicing the arts . . .
There! A small flask containing a single withered flower caused him to pause.
The Eon Rose. Found only in one place in all the world. Plucked by Krasus himself to give to his mistress, his love. Saved by Krasus when the orcs stormed the lair and, to his disbelief, took her and the others prisoner.
The Eon Rose. Five petals of astonishingly different hues surrounding a golden sphere in the center. As Krasus lifted the top of the flask, a faint scent that suddenly recalled his adolescence wafted under his nose. With some hesitation, he reached in, took hold of the faded bloom—
—and marveled as it suddenly returned to its legendary brilliance the moment his tapering fingers touched it.
Fiery red. Emerald green. Snowy silver. Deep-sea blue. Midnight black. Each petal radiated such beauty as artists only dreamed of. No other object could surpass its inherent beauty, no other flower could match its wondrous scent.
Holding his breath for a moment, Krasus crushed the wondrous bloom.
He let the fragments fall into his other hand. A tingle spread from his palms to his fingers, but the dragon mage ignored it. Holding the remnants up high over his head, the wizard muttered words of power—then threw what was left of the fabled rose to the floor.
But as the crushed pieces touched the stone, they turned suddenly to sand, sand that spread across the chamber floor, overwhelmed the chamber itself, washed across the chamber, covering everything, eating away everything . . .
. . . and leaving Krasus abruptly standing in the midst of an endless, swirling desert.
Yet, no desert such as this had any mortal—or even Krasus himself, for that matter—ever witnessed, for here lay scattered, as far as the eye could see, fragments of walls, cracked and scoured statues, rusted weapons, and—the mage gaped—even the half-buried bones of some gargantuan beast that, in life, had dwarfed even dragons. There were buildings, too, and although at first one might have thought they and the relics around them all part of one vast civilization, a closer look revealed that no one structure truly belonged with another. A teetering tower such as might have been built by humans in Lordaeron overshadowed a domed building that surely had come from the dwarves. Some distance farther, an arched temple, its roof caved in, hinted of the lost kingdom of Azeroth. Nearer to Krasus himself stood a more dour domicile, the quarters of some orc chieftain.
A ship large enough to carry a dozen men stood propped on a dune, the latter half of it buried under sand. Armor from the reign of the first king of Stromgarde littered another smaller dune. The leaning statue of an elven cleric seemed to say final prayers over both vessel and armor.
An astonishing, improbable display that gave even Krasus pause. In truth, the sights before the wizard resembled nothing more than some gargantuan deity’s macabre collection of antiquities . . . a point not far from fact.
None of these artifacts were native to this realm; in fact, no race, no civilization, had ever been spawned here. All the wonders that stood before the wizard had been gathered quite meticulously and over a period of countless centuries from other points all over the world. Krasus could scarcely believe what he saw, for the effort alone staggered even his imagination. To bring such relics, so many of them so massive or so delicate, to this place . . .