As the wind howled and snow buffeted the great behemoth, Korialstrasz folded his wings near his head, the better to shield it while he concentrated. He pictured the elf as he had seen her through the talisman. Pleasant to look at for one of her kind, and clearly concerned for Rhonin. A very capable warrior, too. Yes, perhaps she still lived, her and the dwarf from the Aeries.
“Vereesa Windrunner . . .” he quietly called. “Vereesa Windrunner!” Korialstrasz closed his eyes, trying to focus his inner sight. Curiously, he could see nothing. The medallion should have enabled him to see whatever the elf pointed it toward. Had she hidden it from view?
“Vereesa Windrunner . . . make some sound, however slight, to acknowledge that you hear me.”
Still nothing.
“Elf!” For the first time, the dragon nearly lost his composure. “Elf!”
And still no reply, no image. Korialstrasz focused his full concentration on the medallion, trying to listen for any sound, even the snarls of an orc.
Nothing.
Too late . . . his sudden act of conscience had come too late to save Rhonin’s rescuers, and now they, too, had perished because of the dragon’s lack of thought.
As Krasus, he had played on Rhonin’s guilt, played on the memories of those companions that the wizard had lost during his previous mission. It had made Rhonin quite malleable. Now, however, he began to understand just how the human had felt. Alexstrasza had always talked of the younger races in tones of caring, of nurturing, as if they, too, were her children. That care she had infected her consort with, and as Krasus he had worked hard to see to it that the humans matured properly. However, his queen’s capture by the orcs had shaken his thinking to its very foundations and caused Korialstrasz to forget her teachings . . . until now.
Yet, it had still come much too late for these three.
“But it is not too late for you, my queen,” the dragon rumbled. Should he survive this, he would dedicate his life to making up for his failure to Rhonin and the others. For now, though, all that mattered was the rescue of his mate. She would understand . . . he hoped.
Spreading his wings wide, the majestic red dragon took to the air, heading north.
To Grim Batol.
19
Nekros Skullcrusher turned from the devastation, grim but determined not to let it lead him astray from his intentions.
“So much for the wizard . . .” he muttered, trying not to think of what spell the human could have possibly cast that had, in the process, also destroyed the seemingly invincible golem. Clearly very powerful, so much so that it had not only cost the wizard his life, but had brought down the mountain on an entire section of tunnels.
“Dig the body out?” asked one of the warriors.
“No. Waste of time.” Nekros clutched the pouch with the Demon Soul, thinking ahead to the culmination of his desperate plans. “We leave Grim Batol now.”
The other orcs followed him, most still uneasy about this sudden decision to depart the fortress but not at all enamored with the idea of staying behind—especially if the wizard’s spell had weakened the remaining tunnel systems.
An incredible pressure pushed down on Rhonin’s head, a pressure so immense he felt as if at any moment his skull would burst open. With some effort, he forced his eyes open, trying to see if he could find out what pressed on him and how he could quickly remove it.
Turning his blurry gaze upward, he gasped.
An avalanche of rock—literally a ton and more—floated just a foot or so above his head. A dim radiance, the only visible sign of the shield he had cast earlier, revealed the one reason why he had not been crushed to pulp.
The pressure in his head, he realized, had been some part of his mind that had managed to keep the spell intact and, thereby, saved his life. The increasing pain, however, served to tell the trapped mage that with each passing second the spell weakened.
He shifted, trying to make himself more comfortable in the hope that it would relieve some of the pressure—and felt something pressing against the bottom of his head. Rhonin carefully reached down to remove it, assuming it to be some pebble. However, the moment his fingers touched it, he felt a slight hint of magic.
Curiosity momentarily shifting his attention from the horror above him, Rhonin pulled the object near enough to see.
A black gemstone. Surely the same stone that had once been set in the center of Deathwing’s medallion.
Rhonin frowned. The last time he had seen the medallion had been after Kryll’s death. At the time, he had not paid any attention to the stone, his mind more concerned with the danger to Vereesa and—
Vereesa! The elf’s face blossomed full into his thoughts. She and the dwarf had been farther away, protected by the initial spell, but—
He shifted, trying to see. However, as he moved, the pressure in his head multiplied and the stones above dropped a few precious inches more.
At the same time, he heard a deep-voiced curse.
“F-Falstad?” Rhonin gasped.
“Aye . . .” came the somewhat distant reply. “I knew you lived, wizard, since we’d not been flattened, but I was beginnin’ to think you’d never wake! About time!”
“Have you—is Vereesa alive?”
“’Tis hard to say. The light from this spell of yours lets me see her a little, but she’s too distant for me to check! Not heard anything out of her since I woke!”
Rhonin gritted his teeth. She had to be alive. “Falstad! How far above you are the rocks?”
A sardonic laugh escaped his companion. “Near enough to tickle my nose, human, else I’d have slid over to check her sooner! Never thought I’d be alive at my own burial!”
The mage ignored the last, thinking about what the dwarf had said about the nearness of the avalanche. Clearly the farther the spell extended from Rhonin, the less it covered. Both Vereesa and Falstad had been protected from being crushed, but the ranger might possibly have been struck hard on the head—perhaps even slain by the deadly blow.
Yet Rhonin had to hope otherwise.
“Human—if ’tis not too much to ask—can you do anything for us?”
Could he rescue them? Did he have either the power or the strength remaining? He pocketed the black stone, now wholly concerned with the more desperate matter. “Give me a few moments. . . .”
“And what else would I be doing, eh?”
The pressure in the wizard’s head continued to increase at a frightening pace. Rhonin doubted his shield could last much longer, and yet he had to maintain it while attempting this second, perhaps even more complex spell.
He had to not only transport all three of them from this precarious position, but send them to a safe place. All this while his battered form cried out for recuperation.
How did the spell go? It pained him to think, but at last Rhonin summoned the words. Attempting this would draw away his concentration from the shield, though. If he took too long . . .
What choice do I have?
“Falstad, I’m going to try now. . . .”
“That would please me to no end, human! I think the rocks’re already pressing against my chest!”
Yes, Rhonin, too, had noticed the shift. He definitely had to hurry.
He muttered the words, drew the power. . . .
The rocks above him shifted ominously.
Utilizing his good hand, Rhonin drew a sign.
The shield spell failed. Tons of stone dropped upon the trio—
—And suddenly he found himself lying on his back, staring into the cloud-covered heavens.
“Dagath’s Hammer!” Falstad roared from his side. “Did you have to cut it so close?”
Despite the pain, Rhonin pushed himself up to a sitting position. The chill wind actually aided, snapping him out of his disoriented state. He looked in the dwarf’s direction.