“A glorious sight, them!” rumbled Falstad once the dragons had vanished. He turned to his companions. “My elven lady, you shall always be a part of my dreams!” He took the confused ranger’s hand, shook it, then said to Rhonin, “Wizard, I’ve not dealt much with your kind, but I’ll say here that at least one of ’em has the heart of a warrior! Be quite a tale I’ll be telling, the Taking of Grim Batol! Don’t be surprised if you someday find dwarves regaling your story in some tavern, eh?”
“Are you leaving us?” Rhonin asked in complete bewilderment. They had only just won the battle. He still struggled to catch his breath from the entire matter.
“You should not go until at least the morning,” Vereesa insisted.
The wild dwarf shrugged as if indicating that, had it been his own choice, he would have gladly stayed. “Sorry I am, but this news must reach the Aerie as soon as possible! As fast as the dragons’ll be, I’ll get back there before they reach Lordaeron! ’Tis my duty—and I’d like a few particular folk there to know I’ve not been lost after all. . . .”
Rhonin gratefully took Falstad’s powerful hand, thankful that he did not have to use his own injured one to shake. Even tired, the gryphon-rider had a crushing grip. “Thank you for everything!”
“No, human, thank you! I’d like to see another rider with a greater song of glory to sing than I’ve got! Will make the heads of the ladies turn my way, believe you me!”
In a startling display for one so reserved, Vereesa leaned down and kissed the dwarf lightly on the cheek. Underneath his great beard, Falstad blushed furiously. Rhonin felt a twinge of jealousy.
“Take care of yourself,” she warned the rider.
“That I will!” He mounted the back of the gryphon with one practiced leap. With a wave to the duo, Falstad tapped lightly on the animal’s sides with his heels. “Mayhaps we’ll all meet again once this war’s truly over!”
The gryphon lifted off into the sky, circling once so that Falstad could bid them farewell again. Then the dwarf’s mount steered west, and the short warrior vanished into the distance.
Rhonin waved at the dwindling figure, recalling with some guilt his first impressions of the dwarf. Falstad had proven himself though, in many ways more than the wizard felt that he had.
A gentle hand took hold of his crippled one, lifting it slowly up.
“This is long past the need to be dealt with,” Vereesa reproved him. “I took an oath to see you safe. This would not look good for me. . . .”
“Didn’t your oath end when we reached the shores of Khaz Modan?” he returned, adding a slight smile.
“Perhaps, but it seems that you need to be guarded from yourself every hour of the day! What might you do to yourself next?” However, the elf, too, let a slight smile momentarily escape her.
Rhonin let her fuss over his broken finger, wondering if perhaps there might be a way for him to continue his association with Vereesa after the dragon had brought them both back to Lordaeron. Surely it would be best for those in command if the pair gave their reports together, the better to verify events. He would have to propose that to Vereesa and see how she felt about it.
Curious, he suddenly thought, how one could go from almost seeking death, as he had done in the beginning, to wanting to live to the fullest—and that after nearly having been incinerated, crushed, run through, beheaded, and devoured. He would always have regrets for what had happened on his previous mission, but no longer was he haunted by that time.
“There,” Vereesa announced. “Keep it like that until I can find some better material. It should heal well, then.”
She had taken a strip of cloth from her cloak and had fashioned a splint of sorts using a piece of wood from a broken war-ax. Rhonin inspected her work, found it exceptional.
He had never bothered to mention that, once recuperated, he would have been able to completely heal the hand himself. She had been very willing to help him.
“Thank you.”
He hoped that the dragons would take their time with their task. With nothing to fear from the orcs, Rhonin found himself in no hurry whatsoever to go home.
When news at last spread to the Alliance of Grim Batol’s downfall and the loss of the dragons to the Horde’s dying cause, celebrations arose among the people. Surely now the war would at last come to an end. Surely now peace was at hand.
Each of the major kingdoms insisted on hearing the words of the wizard and elf for themselves, questioning the pair at great length. Word came down from the Aeries of verification from one of the gryphon-riders, the celebrated hero Falstad.
While Rhonin and Vereesa continued their tour of the various kingdoms—and grew closer in the process—he who had worn the guise of the wizard Krasus had made a report of his own in the Chamber of the Air. Initially, he had been greeted with hostility by his fellow councilors, especially those who knew he had outright lied to all. However, no one could argue with the results, and wizards were, if nothing else, pragmatic when it came to results.
Drenden had shaken his shadowed head at the faceless mage. “You could’ve brought down everything we’d worked for!” he boomed, his words echoed by the storm momentarily raging through the chamber. “Everything!”
“I understand that now. If you like, I will resign from the council, even accept penance or ouster, if that is what you wish.”
“There were those who mentioned more than ouster,” commented Modera. “Much more than ouster . . .”
“But we’ve all discussed that and decided that young Rhonin’s success has brought Dalaran nothing but good will, even from those of our allies who briefly protested their lack of knowledge of his improbable mission. The elves especially are pleased, as one of their own was also involved.” Drenden shrugged. “There seems no reason to continue on with this subject. Consider yourself officially censured, Krasus, but congratulated by me personally.”
“Drenden!” snapped Modera.
“We’re alone here, I can say what I will.” He steepled his fingers. “Now, then, if no one else has any other comment, I’d like to bring up the subject of one Lord Prestor, supposed monarch-elect of Alterac—who seems to have vanished off the face of the world!”
“The chateau is empty, his servants fled . . .” added Modera, still annoyed at her counterpart’s earlier comments concerning Krasus.
One of the other mages, the heavyset one, finally spoke up. “The spells surrounding the place’ve dissipated, too. And there’re signs that there were goblins working for this rogue mage!”
The entire council looked to Korialstrasz.
He spread his hands as if as bewildered as the rest. “Lord Prestor” had clearly had the upper hand in the situation, everything to gain; why, the rest clearly wanted to know, had he abandoned it all now? “It is as much a puzzle to me as it is you. Perhaps he realized that, eventually, our combined might would bring him down. That would be my likely guess. Certainly nothing else would explain why he would give up so much.”
This sat well with the other wizards. Like most creatures, Korialstrasz knew, they had their egos to assuage.
“His influence already wanes,” he went on. “For surely you have all heard how Genn Greymane has reinstated his protest against Prestor’s taking ascension, and even Lord Admiral Proudmoore has joined him on this. King Terenas even announced that a second check into the so-called noble’s background left many questions unanswered. The rumors of Prestor’s imminent betrothal to the young princess have dwindled away. . . .”
“You were looking into his background,” commented Modera.
“It may be that some of that information slipped to His Majesty, yes.”
Drenden nodded, quite pleased. “Rhonin’s quest has brought us into the good graces of Terenas and the others, and we’ll make the best use of that turn. By the end of a fortnight, ‘Lord Prestor’ will be anathema to the entire Alliance!”