Now Krasus intended to take some of the poison for himself.
“The deepest sleep, the deepest dreams . . .” he muttered to himself as he took the vial down. “That is where she must be, where she has to be.”
From another shelf he removed a cup and a small flask of pure water. Measuring out a single swallow in the cup, the dragon mage then opened the vial. With the greatest caution, he brought the open bottle to the cup of water.
Three drops to slay, in seconds, the Manta. How many drops to assist Krasus on the most treacherous of journeys?
Sleep and death . . . they were so very close in nature, more so than most realized. Surely he would find Ysera there.
The tiniest drop he could measure fell silently into the water. Krasus replaced the top on the vial, then took up the cup.
“A bench,” he murmured. “Best to use a bench.”
One immediately formed behind him, a well-cushioned bench upon which the king of Lordaeron would have happily slept. Krasus, too, intended to sleep well on it . . . perhaps forever.
He sat upon it, then raised the cup to his lips. Yet, before he could bring himself to drink what might be his last, the dragon in human guise made one last toast.
“To you, my Alexstrasza, always to you.”
“There was someone here, all right,” Vereesa muttered, studying the ground. “One of them was human . . . the other I can’t be certain about.”
“Pray tell, how do you know the difference?” asked Falstad, squinting. He could not tell one sign from another. In fact, he could not even see half of what the elf saw.
“Look here. This boot print.” She indicated a curved mark in the dirt. “These are human-style boots, tightfitting and uncomfortable.”
“I’ll take your word. And the other—the one you can’t identify?”
The ranger straightened. “Well, clearly there are no signs of a dragon being around, but there are tracks over here that match nothing I know.”
She knew that, once again, Falstad could not see what to her sharp eyes screamed out their curious presence. The dwarf did his best, though, studying the peculiar striations in the earth. “You mean these, my elven lady?”
The marks appeared to flow toward where the human—surely Rhonin—had at one time or another stood. Yet, they were not footprints, not even pawprints. To her eyes, it looked as if something had floated, dragging something else behind it.
“This gets us no closer than the first spot this little green beast brought us to!” Falstad seized Kryll by the scruff of his neck. The goblin had both hands tied behind him and a rope around his waist, the other end of which had been tied around the neck of the gryphon. Despite that, neither Vereesa nor the wild dwarf trusted that their unwilling companion might not somehow escape. Falstad especially kept his eye on Kryll. “Well? Now what? ’Tis becoming clear to me that you’re leading us around! I doubt you’ve even seen the wizard!”
“I have, I have, yes, I have!” Kryll smiled wide, possibly in the hope of swaying his captors, but a goblin’s toothy grin did little to impress those outside of their race. “Described him, didn’t I? You know I saw him, don’t you?”
Vereesa noticed the gryphon sniffing at something hidden behind a bit of foliage. Using her sword, she prodded at the spot, then dragged out the object in question.
On the tip of her sword hung a small, empty wine sack. The elf brought it to her nose. A heavenly bouquet wafted past. The elf briefly closed her eyes.
Falstad misread her expression. “As bad as all that? Must be dwarven ale!”
“On the contrary, I have not come across such a fabulous aroma even at the table of my lord back in Quel’Thalas! Whatever wine filled this sack far outshone even the best of his stock.”
“Which means to my feeble mind—?”
Dropping the sack, Vereesa shook her head. “I do not know, but somehow I cannot help thinking that it means that Rhonin was here, if only for a time.”
Her companion gave her a skeptical look. “My elven lady, is it possible that you simply wish it to be true?”
“Can you answer me who else might have been in this region, drinking wine fit for kings?”
“Aye! The dark one, after he’d sucked the marrow from the bones of your wizard!”
His words made her shiver, but she remained steadfast in her belief. “No. If Deathwing brought him this far, he had some other reason than as a repast!”
“Possible, I suppose.” Still holding onto the goblin, Falstad glanced up at the darkening sky. “If we hope to get much farther before night, we’d best be getting on our way.”
Vereesa touched the tip of her blade against Kryll’s throat. “We need to deal with this one first.”
“What’s to deal with? Either we take him with us, or do the world a favor and leave it with one less goblin to worry about!”
“No. I promised I would release him.”
The dwarf’s heavy brow furrowed. “I don’t think that’s wise.”
“Nevertheless, I made that promise.” She stared hard at him, knowing that if he understood elves as much as he should, Falstad would see the sense in not pursuing this argument.
Sure enough, the gryphon-rider nodded—albeit with much reluctance. “Aye, ’tis as you say. You made a promise and I’ll not be the one to try to sway you.” Not quite under his breath, he added, “Not with only one lifetime to me . . .”
Satisfied, Vereesa expertly cut the bonds around Kryll’s wrists, then removed the loop from his waist. The goblin fairly bounced around, so overjoyed did he seem by his release.
“Thank you, my benevolent mistress, thank you!”
The ranger turned the tip of the sword back toward the creature’s throat. “Before you go, though, a few last questions. Do you know the path to Grim Batol?”
Falstad did not take this question well. Brow arched, he muttered, “What’re you thinking?”
She purposely ignored his question. “Well?”
Kryll’s eyes had gone wide the moment she asked. The goblin looked ashen—or at least a paler shade of green. “No one goes to Grim Batol, benevolent mistress! Orcs there and dragons, too! Dragons eat goblins!”
“Answer my question.”
He swallowed, then finally bobbed his oversized head up and down. “Yes, mistress, I know the way—do you think the wizard is there?”
“You can’t be serious, Vereesa,” Falstad rumbled, so upset he had for once called her by name. “If your Rhonin is in Grim Batol, then he’s lost to us!”
“Perhaps . . . perhaps not. Falstad, I think he always wanted to reach that place, and not simply to observe the orcs. I think he has some other reason . . . although what it could have to do with Deathwing, I cannot say.”
“Maybe he plans on releasing the Dragonqueen single-handedly!” the gryphon-rider returned with a snort of derision. “He’s a mage, after all, and everyone knows that they’re all mad!”
An absolutely absurd notion—but for a moment it gave Vereesa pause. “No . . . it could not be that.”
Kryll, meanwhile, seemed to be trying to think really hard about something, something that did not at all look to please him. At last, his face screwed up in an expression of distaste, he muttered, “Mistress wants to go to Grim Batol?”
The ranger considered it. It went even beyond her oath, but she had to push forward. “Yes. Yes, I do.”
“Now see here, my—”
“You do not have to come with me if you do not want to, Falstad. I thank you for your aid thus far, but I can proceed from here alone.”
The dwarf shook his head vehemently. “And leave you alone in the middle of orc territory with only this untrustworthy little wretch? Nay, my elven lady! Falstad will not leave a fair damsel, however capable a warrior she might also be, on her own! We go together!”
In truth, she appreciated his company here. “You may turn back at any time, though; remember that.”
“Only if you’re with me.”
She glanced again at Kryll. “Well? Can you tell me the way?”