Surely then they would abandon their mountain fortress and, with Alexstrasza under careful watch, move the dragon breeding operation north.
The plan had started as a wild hope, but to even Krasus’s surprise, he noted astonishing results. The orc in command of Grim Batol, one Nekros Skullcrusher, had, of late, grown more and more certain that the mountain’s days of use were numbered, and numbered low. The wizard’s wild rumors had even taken on a life of their own, growing beyond his expectations.
And now . . . and now the orcs had proof in the person of Rhonin. The young spellcaster had played his part. He had shown Nekros that the seemingly impervious fortress could readily be infiltrated, especially through magic. Surely now the orc commander would give the word to abandon Grim Batol.
Yes, Rhonin had played his part well . . . and Krasus knew that he would never forgive himself for using the human so.
What would his beloved queen even think of him when she found out the truth? Of all the dragons, Alexstrasza most cared for the lesser races. They were the children of the future, she had once said.
“It had to be done,” he hissed.
Yet, if the vision in the pool had been meant to remind him of the fate of his pawn, it had also served to incite the wizard. He had to know more.
Bowing before the pool, Krasus closed his eyes and concentrated. It had been quite some time since he had contacted one of his most useful agents. If that one still lived, then surely he had some knowledge of the activities presently going on in the mountain. The dragon mage pictured the one with whom he sought to speak, then reached out with his thoughts, with all his strength, to open the link the two shared.
“Hear me now . . . hear my voice . . . it is urgent that we talk . . . the day may be on us at last, my patient friend, the day of freedom and redemption . . . hear me . . . Rom . . .”
16
“Lift him up,” grunted the bestial voice.
Sturdy hands harshly seized a dazed Rhonin by the upper arms and dragged him to his feet. Cold water suddenly splashed all over his face, stirring him to consciousness.
“His hand. That one.” One of those holding the wizard up lifted Rhonin’s left arm. Someone grabbed his hand, took hold of his little finger—
Rhonin screamed as the bone cracked. His eyes flew wide open, and he found himself staring at the brutal visage of an older orc much scarred by years of fighting. The orc’s expression showed no sign of pleasure at the human’s pain, but rather a slight hint of impatience, as if Rhonin’s captor would have preferred to be elsewhere dealing with matters of greater import.
“Human.” The word came out sounding like a curse. “You’ve one chance for life; where’s the rest of your party?”
“I don’t—” Rhonin coughed. The pain from his broken finger still coursed through him. “I’m alone.”
“You take me for a fool?” grunted the leader. “You take Nekros for a fool? How many fingers left, eh?” He tugged on the one next to the broken finger. “Many bones in the body. Many bones to be cracked!”
Rhonin thought as quickly as the pain would allow him. He had already informed his captor that he had come alone and that had not satisfied the orc. What did this Nekros want to hear? That his mountain had been invaded by an army? Would that actually please him?
Of course, it might also help to keep Rhonin alive until he could find some means of escape.
He still did not know what had happened, only that, despite his precautions, he had been fooled by Deathwing. Evidently the dragon had wanted the mage discovered. But why? It made as much sense as Nekros’s seeming desire to have enemy soldiers wandering through his very fortress!
Rhonin could worry about Deathwing’s murky plans later. For now, the ragged wizard’s life came first.
“No! No . . . please . . . the others . . . I’m not certain where they are . . . got separated . . .”
“Separated? Don’t think so! You came for her, didn’t you? You came for the Dragonqueen! That’s your mission, wizard! I know it!” Nekros leaned close, his breath threatening to smother Rhonin back into unconsciousness. “My spies heard! You heard, didn’t you, Kryll?”
“Oh, yes, oh, yes, Master Nekros! I heard it all!”
Rhonin tried to glance past the orc, but Nekros would not let him see who spoke. Still, the voice itself said much about the spy’s identity, especially that this Kryll had to be the goblin he had heard earlier.
“I say again to you, human, that you came for the dragon, isn’t that so?”
“I got sep—”
Nekros slapped him across the face, leaving a trail of blood at the edge of Rhonin’s mouth. “Another finger’ll be next! You came to free the dragon before your armies reached Grim Batol! You figured the chaos would work for you, didn’t you?”
This time, Rhonin learned. “Yes . . . yes, we did.”
“You said ‘we’! That’s twice now!” The lead orc leaned back in triumph. For the first time, the injured mage noticed Nekros’s maimed leg. Small wonder this brutal orc commanded the dragon-breeding program instead of a savage war party.
“You see, great Nekros? Grim Batol is no longer safe, my glorious commander!” pitched in the high voice of the goblin. “Who knows how many more enemies still lurk in its countless tunnels? Who knows how long before the Alliance marches on you—with the dark one leading the way? A pity nearly all your remaining dragons are already up near Dun Algaz! You can’t possibly defend the mountain with so few! Best if the enemy did not find us here at all rather than waste so much precious—”
“Tell me something I don’t know, little wretch!” He poked a meaty finger into Rhonin’s chest. “Well, this one and his comrades’ve come too late! You’ll not get the dragon or her young, human! Nekros’s thought ahead of you all!”
“I don’t—”
Another slap. The only benefit of the stinging pain in the beaten wizard’s face was that it took away from the agony of his broken finger. “You can have Grim Batol, human, for all the good it’s worth! May the whole thing fall down on you!”
“Nekros—you must . . . must stop this insanity!”
Rhonin’s head jerked up. He knew that voice, even though he had heard it but once before.
His guards also reacted to the voice, turning enough to enable him to see the gargantuan, scaled form so wickedly bound by chains and clamps. Alexstrasza, the great Dragonqueen, could scarcely move. Her limbs, tail, wings and throat were held firmly in place. She could clearly open her tremendous jaws, but only enough to eat and speak with effort.
Captivity had not treated her well. Rhonin had seen dragons before, crimson ones especially, and those had all had scales that bore a certain metallic sheen. Alexstrasza’s, on the other hand, had become dull, faded, and in many places looked loose. She did not seem at all well when he studied her reptilian countenance, either. The eyes had a washed-out look to them, not to mention an incredible weariness.
He could only imagine what her imprisonment had been like. Forced to bear young who would be trained by her captors to serve their murderous cause. Never likely seeing them once the eggs were taken from her. Perhaps she even regretted the lives lost because of her deadly progeny. . . .
“You’ve no permission to speak, reptile,” snarled Nekros. He reached into a pouch at his side and clutched something.
Rhonin’s skin tingled as a magical force of astonishing proportions awoke. He did not know what the orc did, yet it made the Dragonqueen cry out with such pain that everyone but Nekros seemed affected by it.
Despite her agony, though, Alexstrasza continued. “You—you waste both energy and—and time, Nekros! You fight for what is—is already—lost!”
With a groan, she finally closed her eyes. Her breathing, so rapid the moment before, briefly grew shallow before returning to a somewhat more normal rate.