Still in the midst of trying to get the menials to understand the urgency of their packing, the maimed orc did not at first notice his chief handler come up. Only when he heard an uncomfortable clearing of the throat did Nekros turn.
“Speak, Brogas! Why do you skulk like one of these wretches?”
The slightly stout younger orc grimaced. His tusks tended to turn down at the sides, giving his already frowning face an even more dour look. “The male . . . Nekros, I think he dies soon!”
More bad news and some of the worst possible! “Let’s see this!”
They hurried as fast as they could, Brogas carefully maintaining a pace that would not make his superior’s handicap more evident. Nekros, however, had greater concerns on his mind. In order to continue the breeding program, he needed a female and a male. Without one or the other, he had nothing . . . and Zuluhed would not like that.
They came at last to the cavern in which had been housed the eldest and only surviving consort of Alexstrasza. Tyranastrasz had surely been a most impressive sight when compared to other dragons. Nekros gathered that at one point the old crimson male had even rivaled Deathwing in size and power, although perhaps that had simply been legend. Nonetheless, the consort still filled the massive chamber quite ably, so much so that at first the orc leader could not believe that such a giant could possibly be ill.
Yet the moment he heard the dragon’s unsteady breathing, he knew the truth. Tyran, as all called him, had suffered several seizures in the past year. The orc had once assumed that dragons were immortal, only dying when slain in battle; but he had discovered over time that they had other limitations, such as disease. Something within this venerable behemoth had stricken Tyran with a slow but fatal ailment.
“How long’s the beast been like that?”
Brogas swallowed. “Since last night, on and off . . . but he looked better a few hours ago!”
Nekros whirled on his handler. “Fool! Should’ve told me sooner!”
He almost struck the other orc, then considered how useless it would have been to have had the knowledge. He had suspected for some time he would lose the elder dragon, but had just not wanted to admit it.
“What do we do, Nekros? Zuluhed’ll be furious! Our skulls’ll sit atop poles!”
Nekros frowned. He, too, had conjured up that image in his mind . . . and not liked it one bit, of course. “We’ve no choice! Get him prepared for moving! He comes, dead or alive! Let Zuluhed do what he will!”
“But, Nekros—”
Now the one-legged orc did strike his subordinate. “Simpering fool! Obey orders!”
Subdued, Brogas nodded and rushed off, no doubt to beat the lesser handlers while they worked to fulfill Nekros’s commands. Yes, Tyran would be coming with the rest, whether or not he still breathed. At the very least he would serve as a decoy . . . .
Taking a step nearer, Nekros studied the great male in detail. The mottled scales, the inconsistent breathing, the lack of movement . . . no, Alexstrasza’s consort did not have long left in the world—
“Nekros . . .” rumbled the Dragonqueen’s voice suddenly. “Nekros . . . I smell you near. . . .”
Willing to use any excuse to not think of what Tyran’s passing might mean to his own skin, the heavyset orc made his way to the female’s chamber. As his usual precaution, he reached into his belt pouch and kept one hand on the Demon Soul.
Through slitted eyes, Alexstrasza watched him enter. She, too, had seemed somewhat ill of late, but Nekros refused to believe that he would lose her, too. More likely she knew that her last consort might soon be dead. Nekros wished one of the other two had survived; they had been much younger, more virile, than Tyran.
“What now, o queen?”
“Nekros, why do you persist in this madness?”
He grunted. “Is that all you wanted of me, female? I’ve more important things to do than answer your silly questions!”
The dragon snorted. “All your efforts will only lead to your death. You have the chance to save yourself and your men, but you will not take it!”
“We’re not craven, backstabbing scum like Orgrim Doomhammer! Dragonmaw clan fights to the bloody end, even if it be our own!”
“Trying to flee to the north? That is how you fight?”
Nekros Skullcrusher brought out the Demon Soul. “There’re things you don’t even know, ancient one! There’re times when flight leads to fight!”
Alexstrasza sighed. “There is no getting through to you, is there, Nekros?”
“At last you learn.”
“Tell me this, then. What were you doing in Tyran’s chamber? What ails him now?” Both the dragon’s eyes and tone of voice were filled with her concern for her consort.
“Nothing for you to worry your head about, o queen! Better to think of yourself. We’ll be moving you soon. Behave, and it’ll be much more painless. . . .”
With that said, he pocketed the Demon Soul and left her. The Dragonqueen called his name once, no doubt to again implore him to tell her about the health of her mate, but Nekros could no longer spend time worrying about dragons—at least not red ones.
Even though the column would likely leave Grim Batol before the Alliance invaders reached it, the orc commander knew with absolute certainty that one creature would still arrive in time to wreak havoc. Deathwing would come. The black leviathan would be there come the morning—if only because of one thing.
Alexstrasza . . . The black dragon would come for his rival.
“Let them all come!” snarled the orc to himself.“All of them! All I need is for the dark one to be first. . . .” He patted the pouch where he kept the Demon Soul.“. . . and then Deathwing will do the rest!”
Consciousness returned to Rhonin, albeit barely at first. Yet, even as weakened as he felt, the wizard immediately remained still, recalling what had happened to him the last time. He did not want the golem sending him back to oblivion—especially since Rhonin feared that this time he would not come back.
As his strength returned, the imprisoned spellcaster cautiously opened his eyes.
The fiery golem was nowhere to be seen.
Stunned, Rhonin lifted his head, eyes opening wide.
No sooner had he done this when suddenly the very air before him flared and hundreds of minute balls of fire exploded into being. The fiery orbs swirled around, quickly combining, forming a vaguely humanoid shape that sharpened in the space of a breath.
The massive golem re-formed in all its grotesque glory. Expecting the worst, Rhonin lowered his head, shutting his eyes at the same time. He waited for the magical creature’s horrific touch . . . and waited and waited. At last, when curiosity finally got the better of his fear, the wary mage slowly, carefully, opened one eye just enough to see.
The golem had vanished again.
So. Rhonin remained under its watchful gaze even if now he could not see it. Nekros clearly played games with him, although perhaps Kryll had somehow arranged this latest trickery. The wizard’s hopes faded.
Perhaps it would be better this way. After all, had he not thought that his death might better serve those who had died because of him? Would that not at last satisfy his own feelings of guilt?
Unable to do anything else, Rhonin hung there, paying no attention to the passage of minutes nor the continual sounds of the orcs finishing their preparations for departure. When he chose to, Nekros would return and either take the wizard with him or, more likely, question Rhonin one last time before executing him.