The humans would learn the folly of entrusting victory to the dark one. What ruled one dragon certainly ruled another. With the Demon Soul, the orc commander would seize control of the most savage of all beasts. He, Nekros, would be master of Deathwing . . . but only if the damned reptile ever appeared.
“Where’re you, you blasted creature?” he muttered. “Where?”
The last row of warriors exited the cavern mouth. Nekros watched them march by. Proud, wild, they hearkened back to the day when the Horde knew no defeat, knew no enemy it could not slaughter. With Deathwing at his command, he would restore that glory to his people. The Horde would rise anew, even those who had surrendered. The orcs would sweep over the Alliance lands, cutting down the humans and the others.
And perhaps there would be a new chieftain of the Horde. For the first time, Nekros dared imagine himself in such a role, with even Zuluhed bowing before him. Yes, he who would bring victory to his people would surely be acclaimed ruler.
War Chief Nekros Skullcrusher . . .
He urged his mount forward, rejoining the column. It would look suspicious if he did not ride with them. Besides, where he positioned himself did not truly matter; the Demon Soul gave him control from a distance. No dragon could be released by it unless he willed it—and certainly the grizzled orc had no intention of doing that.
Where was that blasted black beast?
And, as if in answer, an ear-splitting howl arose. However, the howl did not come from the sky, as Nekros had initially believed, but rather from the very earth surrounding the orcs. It caused consternation among the warriors as they turned about, trying to find the enemy.
A breath later—the ground erupted with dwarves.
They seemed everywhere, more dwarves than even Nekros could have imagined still remained in all of Khaz Modan. They burst from the earth, swinging axes and waving swords, charging the column from every side.
Yet, although momentarily stunned, the orcs quickly recovered. Shouting out their own war cries, they turned to meet the attackers. The guards stayed with the wagons, but they, too, readied themselves, and even the peons, pathetic for most things, pulled out clubs. It took little training for an orc to be able to crush something with a piece of wood.
Nekros kicked at a dwarf who tried to pull him down. One of the commander’s aides quickly stepped in, and a pitched battle began between the two. Nekros steered the horse nearer to the wagons, needing a moment himself to adjust to the situation. Instead of an invasion, he had been attacked by scavengers, for these looked to be the ragged mob that he had always known existed in the tunnels around the mountains. Judging by the numbers now, the trolls had apparently not done their work well.
But where was Deathwing? He had planned for the dragon. There had to be a dragon!
A thundering roar shook the combatants. A vast form darted half-seen through the thick clouds, then broke free, diving toward the orcs.
“At last! At last you’ve come, you black—” Nekros Skullcrusher froze, utterly baffled. He clutched the Demon Soul, but, at the moment, did not even think about using it as he had planned.
The dragon diving toward him had scales the color of fire, not darkness. “We need to get down there,” muttered Rhonin. “I need to see what’s happening!”
“Can’t you just do as you did in the chamber?” asked Falstad.
“If I do, I won’t have any strength to help us once we land . . . besides, I don’t know where to put us. Would you like to end up right in front of an orc swinging an ax?”
Vereesa glanced over the edge. “It does not appear too likely that we can climb down, either.”
“Well, we can’t stay up here forever!” The dwarf paced for a moment, then suddenly looked as if he had just stepped in something terrible. “Hestra’s wings! What a fool! Maybe he’s still around!”
Rhonin eyed the dwarf as if he had lost his wits. “What’re you talking about? Who?”
Instead of answering, Falstad reached into a pouch. “Those blasted trolls took it earlier, but Gimmel handed it back . . . aah! Here ’tis!”
He pulled out what looked to be a tiny whistle. Both Rhonin and Vereesa watched as the dwarf put the whistle to his lips and blew as hard as he could.
“I don’t hear anything,” the wizard remarked.
“I’d have wondered about you if you had. Just wait. He’s well-trained. Best mount I ever had. Mind you, we weren’t taken by the trolls that far from this region. He would’ve stayed for a while. . . .” Falstad looked a little less certain. “’Tis not that long since we were separated. . . .”
“You are trying to summon your gryphon?” the ranger asked, her skepticism clear.
“Better trying that than trying to sprout wings, eh?”
They waited. Waited for what seemed like an eternity to Rhonin. He felt his own strength returning—despite the chill conditions—but feared still to drop the trio into a location that might mean their immediate death.
Yet, it appeared he would have to try. The wizard straightened. “I’ll do what I can. I recall an area not far from the mountain. I think Deathwing showed it to me in my mind. I may be able to send us there.”
Vereesa took him by the arm. “Are you certain? You do not look ready yet.” Her eyes filled with concern. “I know what that must have cost you back in the chamber, Rhonin. That was no minor spell you cast, then managed to maintain even for Falstad and myself. . . .”
He very much appreciated her words, but they had no other choice. “If I don’t—”
A large winged form suddenly materialized through the clouds. Both Rhonin and the elf reacted, certain that Deathwing attacked.
Only Falstad, who had been watching closely, did not act as if their doom had come. He laughed and raised his hands toward the oncoming shape.
“Knew he’d hear! You see! Knew that he’d hear!”
The gryphon squawked in what the mage could have sworn were tones of glee. The massive beast flew swiftly toward them—or rather, his rider in particular. The animal fairly leapt atop Falstad, only the beating wings keeping the full weight of the gryphon from nearly crushing the dwarf.
“Ha! Good lad! Good lad! Down now!”
Tail wagging back and forth in a fashion more akin to a dog than a part-leonine beast, the gryphon landed before Falstad.
“Well?” the short warrior asked his companions. “Is it not time to go?”
They mounted as quickly as they could. Rhonin, still the weakest, sat between the dwarf and Vereesa. He had doubts about the gryphon’s ability to carry them all, but the animal did just fine. On an extended journey, Falstad readily admitted, they would have had more trouble, but for a short trip, the gryphon would have no difficulties.
Moments later, they broke through the clouds—and into a sight they had not at all expected.
Rhonin had supposed that the sounds of battle would be the hill dwarves trying to take advantage of the orcs’ cumbersome wagon train, but what he had not thought to see was a dragon other than Deathwing soaring above the battle.
“A red one!” the ranger called. “An older male, too! Not one raised in the mountain, either!”
He recognized that, too. The orcs had not held the queen long enough for such a behemoth to mature. Besides, the Horde also had a habit of slaying the dragons before they grew too old and independent. Only the young could be managed well enough by their orc handlers.
So where had this crimson leviathan come from, and what did he do here now?
“Where do you want us landing?” Falstad shouted, reminding him of a more immediate situation.
Rhonin quickly scanned the area. The battle seemed mostly contained around the column. He caught sight of Nekros Skullcrusher on horseback, the orc holding something in one hand that gleamed bright despite the clouds. The wizard forgot Falstad’s question as he tried to make out the object. Nekros appeared to be pointing it toward the new dragon. . . .