Читать книгу WarCraft: War of The Ancients Book Two - Richard A. Knaak - Страница 9

TWO

The world he had known, the world they all had known, was no more.

The central region of the continent of Kalimdor was a ravaged plain. Spreading out in every direction, the demons had wreaked carnage on the complacent, jaded night elf civilization. Hundreds, possibly thousands, lay dead and still the Burning Legion pressed on relentlessly.

But not everywhere, Malfurion Stormrage had to remind himself. We’ve stopped them here, even pushed them back.

The west had become the place of greatest resistance to the monstrous invasion. Much of that credit went to Malfurion himself, for he had been the principal agent in the destruction of the Highborne spell that sealed off the Well of Eternity’s power from those outside Queen Azshara’s palace. He had faced Lord Xavius, the queen’s counselor, and destroyed him in epic combat.

Yet, although Lord Kur’talos Ravencrest, master of Black Rook Hold and the commander of the night elf forces, had acknowledged his part before the gathered leaders, Malfurion did not feel like any hero. He had been tricked more than once by Xavius during the encounter, and only the intervention of his companions had enabled him to overcome the sinister counselor and the demons Xavius served.

His loose, shoulder-length hair a startling dark green, Malfurion Stormrage stuck out among the night elves. Only his twin brother, Illidan—who shared his narrow, almost lupine features—garnered more notice. Malfurion had eyes completely silver, as was most common among his people, but Illidan had gleaming orbs of amber, said to be the portent of great things to come. Of course, Illidan tended to dress more with the flamboyance most accepted of his kind, while Malfurion wore simple garments—a cloth tunic, a plain leather jerkin and pants, and knee-high boots. As one who had turned to the nature-oriented path of druidism, Malfurion would have felt like a clown had he sought to commune with the trees, fauna, and earth of the forest while clad like a pretentious courtier about to attend a grand ball.

Frowning, he tried for the thousandth time to put an end to such superfluous thoughts. The young night elf had come to this lonely spot in the hitherto untouched forest of Ga’han to calm and focus his mind for the days ahead. The huge force massed under Lord Ravencrest would be on the march soon—to where, no one knew just yet. The Burning Legion advanced in so many places that the noble’s army could travel hither and yon for countless years, facing battle after battle without ever making any true progress. Ravencrest had summoned the top strategists to discuss the best way to gain a decisive victory, and quick. Each day of hesitation cost more and more innocent lives.

Malfurion’s brow furrowed as he struggled harder to find his inner peace. Slowly, his mind relaxed enough to sense the rustling of leaves. That was the talk of the trees. With effort, he could speak with them, but for now the night elf satisfied himself with listening to their almost-musical conversations. The forest had a different sense of time, and the trees especially reflected that difference. They knew of the war, but spoke of it in an abstract manner. Although aware and concerned that other forests had been ravaged by the demons, the woodland deities who watched over them had so far given the trees here no reason to be truly worried. If the danger neared, they would surely know soon enough.

Their complacency jarred Malfurion again. The threat of the Burning Legion to all life, not just the night elves, was obvious. He understood why the forest might not fully comprehend that yet, but surely by now its protectors should.

But where were Cenarius and the rest?

When he had first sought to learn the way of the druid, a life which none of his kind before him had ever chosen, Malfurion had journeyed deep into this forest outside the city of Suramar in search of the mythic demigod. Whatever made him think he could find such a creature when no one else had, he could not say, but find Cenarius the night elf had. That in itself had been astonishing enough, but when the forest lord had offered to indeed teach him, Malfurion could not believe it.

And so, for months, Cenarius had been his shan’do, his honored instructor. From him, Malfurion learned how to walk the Emerald Dream, that place between the mortal plane and sleep, and how to summon the forces of nature to create his spells. Those very same teachings had been a tremendous part of the reason for not only Malfurion’s survival, but that of the other defenders as well.

So why had Cenarius and the other woodland deities not added their own prodigious strength to the desperate defenders?

“Ha! I thought you’d be here.”

The voice so similar to his own immediately identified the newcomer for Malfurion. Giving up on his quest for balance, he rose and solemnly greeted the other. “Illidan? Why do you search for me?”

“Why else?” As ever, his twin kept his midnight blue hair bound tight in a tail. In contrast to the past, he now wore leather pants and an open jerkin, both of a black identical to that of his high, flaring boots. Attached to the jerkin and hanging just over his heart was a small badge, upon which had been etched an ebony bird’s head surrounded by a ring of crimson.

The garments were new, a uniform of sorts. The mark on the badge was the sign of the house of Kur’talos Ravencrest … Illidan’s new patron.

“Lord Ravencrest will be making an announcement come dusk, brother. I had to get up early just so I could find you and bring you back in time to hear it.”

Like most night elves, Illidan was still used to sleeping during much of the day. Malfurion, on the other hand, had learned to do just the opposite in order to best tap into the latent forces permeating the natural world. True, he could have studied druidism at night, too, but daylight was the time when his people’s link to the Well of Eternity was at its weakest. That meant less chance of falling back on sorcery when casting a spell for the first time, something especially necessary during Malfurion’s earliest days as a student. Now, he felt more comfortable in the light than in the dark.

“I was just about to head back, anyway,” Malfurion said, going toward his twin.

“It would’ve looked bad if you hadn’t been there. Lord Ravencrest doesn’t like disorder or delay of any kind, especially from those integral to his plans. You know that very well, Malfurion.”

Although their paths in the study of magic had gone in opposing directions, both brothers were adept at what they had chosen. After having been saved from a demon by Illidan, the lord of Black Rook Hold had appointed him personal sorcerer, a position of rank generally given to a senior member of the Moon Guard, the master mages of the night elves. Illidan, too, had played a pivotal role in the crushing of the demon advance in the west. He had seized control of the Moon Guard after the death of their leader, and guided their power effectively against the invaders.

“I had to leave Suramar,” Malfurion protested. “I felt closed in. I couldn’t sense the forest.”

“Half the buildings in Suramar were formed from living trees. What’s the difference?”

How could he explain to Illidan the sensations more and more assailing his mind each day? The deeper Malfurion delved into his craft, the more sensitive he became to every component of the true world. Out in the forest he felt the general tranquillity of the trees, the rocks, the birds … everything.

In the city, he felt only the stunted, almost insane emanations from what his own people had wrought. The trees that were now houses, the earth and rock that had been shifted and carved to make the area habitable for night elves … they were no longer as they had been in nature. Their thoughts were confused, turned inward. They did not even understand themselves, so transformed had they been by the builders. Whenever Malfurion walked the city, he sensed its wrongness, yet he also knew that his people—and, in fact, the dwarves and other races, too—had the right to create their civilizations. They committed no crime by building homes or making the land usable for them. After all, animals did the same thing …

And yet the discomfort he felt worsened each time.

“Shall we return to our mounts?” Malfurion asked, pointedly forgoing any reply to his brother’s question.

Illidan smirked, then nodded. The twins walked side-by-side in silence up the wooded rise. Often of late they had little to say to each other, save when matters concerned the struggle. Two who had previously acted as one now had less in common with each other than they sometimes did with strangers.

“The dragon intends to leave us, likely by the time the sun sets,” Illidan abruptly remarked.

Malfurion had not heard that. He paused to gape at his brother. “When did he say that?”

Among the night elves’ few powerful allies was the huge red dragon, Korialstrasz. The young but mighty leviathan, said to be a mate of the Dragon Queen, Alexstrasza, had come to them along with one of a pair of mysterious travelers, the silver-haired mage known as Krasus. Korialstrasz and Krasus were somehow linked deeply to each other, but Malfurion had not yet discovered in what way. He only knew that wherever the gaunt, pale figure in gray went, the winged behemoth could be found. Together, they proved an unstoppable force that sent demons running in panic and paved the way for the defenders’ advances.

Separated, however, they both seemed at death’s door …

Malfurion had decided not to pry into either’s affairs, in part due to their choice to aid the night elves, but also because he respected and liked both. Now, though, Korialstrasz intended to leave, and such a loss would be disaster for the night elves.

“Is Master Krasus going with him?”

“No, he’s staying with Master Rhonin.” Illidan spoke the last name with as much respect as his brother did Krasus. Flame-haired Rhonin had come with the elder mage from the same unnamed land, a place they sometimes briefly spoke of when relating facts about their own experiences against the Burning Legion. Like Krasus, Rhonin was a wizard of high learning, although much younger in appearance. The bearded spellcaster wore dour blue travel clothes almost as conservative as Malfurion’s, but that alone was not what offset him from those around. Krasus could pass for a night elf—albeit a very sickly, pasty one—but Rhonin, equally pale, was of a race no one recognized. He called himself a human, but some of the Moon Guard had divulged that their studies indicated he was some variation of a dwarf who had simply grown much taller than his fellows.

Whatever his background, Rhonin had become as invaluable as Krasus and the dragon. He wielded the Well’s magic with an intensity and skill even the Moon Guard could not match. More important, he had taken Illidan under his wing, teaching him much. Illidan believed it was because Rhonin saw his potential, but Malfurion understood that the cloaked stranger had also done it to rein in his twin’s impetuousness. Left to his own devices, Illidan had a tendency to risk not only his own life, but those of his comrades.

“This isn’t good, Illidan.”

“Obviously not,” retorted his amber-eyed twin, “but we’ll make due.” He raised his hand for Malfurion to see; a red aura surrounded it. “We’re not without strength of our own.” Illidan caused the aura to cease. “Even if you seem a little reluctant to make full use of what Cenarius taught you.” By full use, Malfurion’s sibling meant unleashing spells that wreaked havoc not only on the enemy, but the landscape and anything else caught in the path. Illidan still did not understand that druidism required working with the peaceful balance of nature, not against it.

“I do what I can in the way I must. If you—”

But Malfurion got no further, for, at that moment, a figure out of nightmare dropped down before them.

The Fel Guard opened his grisly maw and roared at the pair. His flaming armor did not make Malfurion in the least hot, but rather chilled the night elf to the very core of his soul. Sword raised, the horned demon swung at the nearest foe—Illidan.

“No!” Malfurion shoved his brother aside, at the same time calling upon the forest and heavens to come to his aid.

A sudden, intense wind slammed into the demon, flinging him like a leaf several yards back. He fell against a tree—cracking the trunk—then slid to the ground.

As if the tentacles of some huge squid, the roots of every tree within reach squirmed over the stunned attacker. The demon tried to rise, but his arms, legs, torso, and head were suddenly pinned to the earth. He struggled, but only succeeded in losing what remained of his grip on his weapon.

Their victim secure, the roots then immediately sank back into the ground—and, in the process, through the demon.

A hissing gasp was all that escaped the monstrous assassin before the roots severed his head from his body. Green ichor poured out of the horrific wounds. Like a puzzle someone had just spilled, the parts of the demon tumbled back toward his would-be targets.

Yet, even as Malfurion dealt with the first, two more Fel Guard dropped from the trees. Cursing, Illidan rose to his knees and pointed at the nearest.

A demon in the midst of lunging at him abruptly turned his mace on his comrade, caving in the unsuspecting victim’s skull with one terrible blow.

Malfurion suddenly detected something amiss. The hair on his neck rising, he started to look over his shoulder.

A humongous, four-legged beast leapt upon him. Two wriggling tentacles with toothy suckers at the end drove into his chest. Row upon row of yellowed, fanged teeth filled his gaze. A stench like rotting flesh assailed him.

Somewhere beyond his own ghastly predicament, he heard Illidan cry out, the shout cut off by a sound vaguely reminiscent of a hound’s howl.

They had been deceived, put purposely off-guard by the frontal attack so that an even worse foe could come at them from behind. The felbeasts had been set to spring the moment the opportunity arose.

Malfurion screamed as the vampiric suckers literally tore the magic from his body much as the teeth would soon tear his flesh. To any spellcaster, felbeasts were an especially insidious foe, for they hunted those with the gift for magic and drank from them until nothing but husks remained. Worse, given enough energy to devour, the demonic hounds could multiply themselves several times over, creating an epidemic of evil.

He tried to tear the tentacles free, but they had clamped tight. The night elf felt his strength waning …

… And then what sounded like the patter of rain filled his ears.

The felbeast shook. The tentacles released their hold and flailed about until, with a ponderous groan, the demon fell to the side, almost collapsing on Malfurion’s arm.

Blinking away his tears, the night elf discovered more than a dozen sharp bolts sticking out of the felbeast’s thick hide. Each shaft had been expertly aimed to strike the most vulnerable areas. The demon had been dead before it had even dropped.

From the forest above came more than twoscore riders clad in gray-green armor and sitting atop huge, black sabertoothed panthers called night sabers. The massive cats darted between the trees with an agility and swiftness unmatchable by almost any other creature.

“Spread out!” called a young officer whose voice sounded familiar to Malfurion. “Make certain there are no more!”

The soldiers moved out quickly, but with caution. Malfurion could appreciate their care, for he knew that, this being daylight, they were not at their best. Still, the druid could not deny that their skills were admirable, not after they had saved his life.

Riding up to Malfurion, the officer reined the hissing cat to a halt. The night sabers, too, did not like this switch from dark to light, but they were gradually growing to tolerate it.

“Is this to be my fate, then?” asked the somewhat roundfeatured night elf. He seemed to be studying Malfurion very intently, though the latter knew part of that was simply due to the sharper slant of the officer’s silver eyes. “Trying to keep from getting yourselves slaughtered? I should’ve begged his lordship to let me keep my posting in the Suramar Guard.”

“But then this might’ve turned out different, Captain

Shadowsong,” Malfurion replied.

The soldier exhaled in frustration. “No … it wouldn’t have, because Lord Ravencrest would’ve never let me go back to the Guard! He seems to think I was anointed by the Mother Moon herself to protect the backs of his special servants!”

“You came back to Suramar in the company of myself, a novice priestess of Elune, a mysterious wizard … and a dragon, captain. I’m afraid we marked you in the eyes of Lord Ravencrest and the other commanders. They’ll never see you as a simple Guard officer again.”

Shadowsong grimaced. “I’m no hero, Master Malfurion. You and the others slay demons with barely the wave of a hand. I just try to preserve your heads so that you can continue to do it.”

Jarod Shadowsong had had the misfortune to capture Krasus while the latter had tried to enter Suramar. The mage had used the captain to gain aid for himself, which in turn had resulted in bringing Malfurion and the others, including Korialstrasz, together at last. Unfortunately for the good officer, his dedication to duty meant that he had accompanied his prisoner through the entire incident; that, most of all, had stuck in Lord Ravencrest’s mind when he determined that his spellcasters needed someone to watch over them. Jarod Shadowsong soon found himself “volunteered” to command a contingent of hardened soldiers, most of whom had far more military experience than himself.

“There was no need for all this charging about,” Illidan snapped as he joined his brother. “I had this situation in hand.”

“My orders, Master Illidan. As it is, I barely caught sight of you leaving on your own, against his lordship’s commands.” Shadowsong swung his gaze back to Malfurion. “And when I discovered how long you had been missing …”

“Hmmph,” was all Illidan responded. For one of the few times in recent days, the twins were in agreement—neither cared for Lord Ravencrest’s demand that they be constantly watched. Doing so only made them more eager to escape. In Malfurion’s case, it was due to the nature of his calling; in Illidan’s it was because he had no patience for the endless councils. Illidan did not care for battle plans; he just wanted to go out and destroy demons.

Only … this time it had almost been the demons who destroyed him. Neither he nor Malfurion had sensed their nearness, a new and frightening aspect. The Burning Legion had learned how to better cloak its assassins. Even the forest had been blithefuly ignorant of the taint in its midst. That did not bode well for the future of the struggle.

One of the other soldiers rode up to Shadowsong. Saluting, he said, “The area’s clear, captain. Not a sign of any more—”

A bone-shivering cry echoed through the forest.

Malfurion and Illidan turned and ran in the direction of the source. Jarod Shadowsong opened his mouth to call them back, then clamped it shut and urged his mount after.

They did not have far to go. A short distance further into the woods, the gathered party paused before a gruesome sight. One of the night sabers lay sprawled across the ground, its torso ripped open and its entrails spilled out. The huge cat’s glassy eyes stared sightlessly skyward. The animal had been dead no more than a minute or two, if that long.

But it was not the beast that had been the source of the blood-chilling cry. That had been the soldier who now hung skewered on his own sword against a mighty oak. The night elf’s legs dangled several feet above the earth. Like the cat, his chest had been methodically torn open—that despite his armor. Below his feet lay most of what had fallen free. His mouth hung open and his eyes were a perfect copy of the panther’s own empty orbs.

Illidan eagerly looked around, but Malfurion put a sturdy hand on his brother’s shoulder and shook his head. “We do as the captain said. We go back. Now.”

“Get his body down,” ordered Shadowsong, his face losing some of its violet pigment. He pointed at the twins. “I want an escort around them this instant!” Leaning down to the pair, the captain added with some impatience, “If you don’t mind, of course.”

Malfurion prevented his brother from making any remark back. The pair dutifully marched up the rise toward their mounts, the bulk of the escort constantly circling them like a pack of wolves surrounding prey. It was ironic to Malfurion that he and his brother wielded more power than all the soldiers put together and yet they would likely have died if not for Jarod Shadowsong’s intervention.

We’ve much to learn still, the young druid thought as he neared his night saber. I have much to learn still.

But it seemed that the demons were not going to allow anyone the precious time needed for that learning.

Krasus had lived longer than any of those around him. His lanky, silver-haired form gave some indication of the wisdom he had gathered over that time, but only by gazing deep into his eyes did one garner any hint of the true depths of the mage’s knowledge and experience.

The night elves thought him a variant of their own race, some sort of albino or mutation. He resembled them enough, even though his eyes were more like a dwarf’s in that they had pupils. His hosts accepted his “deformities” by marking them as evidence of his powerful links to magic. Krasus wielded the arcane arts better than all the vaunted Moon Guard combined, and with good reason.

He was neither a night elf nor even merely an elf … Krasus was a dragon.

And not any dragon, but the elder version of the very leviathan with whom he spent much of his time, Korialstrasz.

The cowled mage had not, as he had indicated to others, come with red-haired Rhonin from a distant land. In fact, both he and the human wizard had come from far, far in the future, from a time after a second and decisive battle against the Burning Legion. They had not, however, come by choice. The two had been investigating a curious and unsettling anomaly in the mountains when that anomaly had swallowed them, tossing both through time and space into ancient Kalimdor.

They were not the only ones, either. An orc—the veteran warrior, Broxigar—had also been swallowed. Brox’s people had also fought the demons that second time and his Warchief had sent him and another to investigate a troubled shaman’s nightmare. Caught on the edge of the anomaly, Brox’s companion had been ripped apart, leaving the older orc to fend for himself when he arrived in the past.

Circumstance had gradually thrown the dragon, the orc, and the human—all former enemies—together. But circumstance had not given them a way back to the future and that, most of all, worried Krasus.

“You are brooding again,” rumbled the dragon.

“Merely concerned about your coming departure,” Krasus told his younger self.

The red dragon nodded his huge head. The pair stood at the wide, solid battlements of Black Rook Hold, the imposing citadel from which Lord Ravencrest commanded his forces. Contrary to the lively, extravagant homes of his contemporaries, Ravencrest kept a very martial residence. Black Rook Hold had been carved from thick, ebony rock, as solid a structure as any ever made. All the chambers above and below ground had been chiseled out. To many, Black Rook was a fortress impenetrable.

To Krasus, who knew the monstrous fury of the Burning Legion, it was one more house of cards.

“I do not wish to depart,” spoke the red dragon, “but there is a silence among our kind. I cannot even sense my beloved Alexstrasza. You of all should understand my need to discover the truth.”

Korialstrasz knew that his companion was a dragon like himself, but he had not made the connection between past and future. Only his queen and mate, the Mother of Life, understood the truth and she had not told her new consort. That had been a favor to him—or rather, to his older self.

Krasus, too, felt the emptiness and so he accepted that his younger version would have to fly off to discover the reason why, even if it meant risk for both of them. Together they were an astonishing force, one most valued by Lord Ravencrest. While Korialstrasz sent showers of flame down on the demons, Krasus could expand that flame into a full firestorm, slaying a hundred and more of the foe in a single breath. But when they were divided, illness struck them, rendering both nigh impotent.

The last vestiges of sunlight disappeared on the horizon. Already the area around the edifice bristled with activity. The night elves dared not grow complacent at any time, day or evening. Too many had perished early on because of habit. Still, the darkness was always welcome, for as much as they were tied to the Well of Eternity, the night elves were also strengthened by the moon and stars.

“I have been thinking,” said Krasus, letting the wind caress his narrow features. Because of his immense size, Korialstrasz could not enter Black Rook Hold. However, the solid rock structure of the keep enabled him to stay perched atop it. As such, Krasus chose to sleep there, too, using only a thin woven blanket for comfort. He also ate his meals and spent nearly all his waking moments on the battlements, descending only when duty called. For other matters, he turned to Rhonin, the only one here besides himself who truly understood his situation.

“There may be a way by which we can still journey alongside one another,” he continued. “… So to speak.”

“I am eager to hear it.”

“There is on you at least one loose scale, yes?”

The dragon spread his wings and shook like a huge dog. His scales clattered in rhythmic fashion. The behemoth’s great brow furrowed as he ceased and listened, then twisted his serpentine neck to investigate an area near his rear right leg. “Here is one, I think.”

Dragons generally lost scales in much the way other creatures lost fur. The areas exposed generally hardened, eventually becoming new scales. At times when more than one broke free, a dragon had to take care, for the soft flesh was, for a time, susceptible to weapons and poison.

“I would like to have it … with your permission.”

For anyone else, Korialstrasz might have refused, but he had come to trust Krasus as he did himself. Someday, Krasus hoped to tell him the truth, providing that they lived that long.

“It is yours,” the crimson giant replied readily. With his back paw, Korialstrasz scratched at the spot. Moments later, the loose scale fell to the floor.

Quickly retrieving it, Krasus inspected the scale and found it to his liking. He looked up at his companion. “And now, I must give you something in return.”

“That is hardly necessary—”

But the dragon mage knew better; it would bode him ill if anything happened to his younger self because of Krasus’s interference with the past. “Yes, it is.”

Putting aside the head-sized scale, he stared at his left hand and concentrated.

The slim, elegant fingers suddenly gnarled, becoming reptilian. Scale spread across the flesh, first from the fingertips, then racing down the hand until just past the wrist. Sharp, curved claws grew from what had once been flat nails …

As the transformation took place, a sharp agony coursed through Krasus. He doubled over and nearly collapsed. Korialstrasz instinctively reached for the tiny figure, but the mage waved him back. “I will survive it!”

Gasping for breath, still doubled over, Krasus seized the hand he had altered and tore at the tiny scales. They resisted his efforts. He finally gritted his teeth and tugged on two as hard as he could.

They tore free, leaving a trail of blood pooling on the back of his monstrous appendage. Swallowing hard, the gaunt figure immediately let the hand revert, and, as it did, the pain receded.

Ignoring his self-inflicted wound, Krasus inspected his prizes. Eyes sharper than any night elf’s looked for the slightest imperfection.

“You know that what afflicts us both does not allow you to transform to your natural shape any more than it lets me change into other than a dragon,” Korialstrasz chided. “You risk yourself terribly when you attempt such an act.”

“It was necessary,” Krasus replied. He turned the bits over, frowning. “This one is cracked,” he muttered, letting the scale in question fly away in the wind, “but the other is perfect.”

“What do you intend to do with it?”

“You must trust me.”

The dragon blinked. “Have I ever done otherwise?”

Taking the tiny scale, the mage went to where Korialstrasz had scratched free his own. The area was still red and soft and large enough for any good archer to hit.

Whispering words older than dragons, Krasus pressed the scale directly on the center of the open region.

The scale flared a bright yellow as it touched. Korialstrasz let out a gasp, but did not otherwise react. The dragon’s eyes gazed intently on what his companion did.

Krasus chanted the elder words over and over, each time increasing the speed with which he spoke them. The scale pulsated and with each pulsation seemed to grow a little larger. Within seconds, it had become almost identical to those surrounding it.

“It will adhere to your flesh in a matter of seconds,” Krasus informed the leviathan. “There will be no chance of losing it.”

A moment later, he stepped back and inspected his handiwork. The dragon’s head came around to do the same.

“It feels … normal,” the leviathan commented.

“I hope it does more for you. As I now carry a part of you with me, so you, in turn, carry a part of me with you. I pray the synergistic magics involved will give us some of the benefit we receive when actually with each other.”

Korialstrasz spread his wings. “There is only one way to find out.”

Krasus agreed; to discover whether the spell had worked, they would have to separate. “I bid you farewell, then, good Korialstrasz.”

The huge beast dipped his head low. “And I, you.”

“Alexstrasza—”

“I will tell her of you and your wishes, Krasus.” The dragon eyed the tiny figure carefully. “I have suspicions about our links, but I respect the need you have to keep your secrets from me. One thing I discovered quickly, though, is that you love her as much as I. Exactly as I.”

Krasus said nothing.

“As soon as I can, I will tell you how she fares.” Moving to the edge of the battlements. the dragon looked to the sky. “Until we meet again, my blood …”

And with that, the crimson titan leapt into the air.

My blood … Krasus frowned at the choice of words. To dragons, such a term meant close ties. Not mere comrade or clan, but closer yet, such as brothers from the same clutch of eggs or offspring and parent …

Or … the same being in two bodies …

Krasus knew himself better than anyone. He had no doubt as to his younger self’s intelligence. Korialstrasz almost had the truth in his grasp and the mage had no idea what that might mean for both of them.

Weakness suddenly overtook him. Through quickly watering eyes, Krasus sought out Korialstrasz’s scale. The moment he seized it, some of the pain and weariness left him. But touching it was not enough; he had to keep it closer to him for the effect to be worthwhile.

Exposing his chest to the cool night wind, the dragon mage planted the large scale against his flesh. Again he muttered the ancient words, stirring up forces no night elf could understand, much less wield.

The same golden aura flared around the scale. Krasus shook, fighting to keep his balance.

As quickly as it had appeared, the aura faded. He stared down at his chest, now covered in the center by his younger self’s parting gift.

A slight hint of weariness still pervaded his being, though both it and the tinge of pain also present were nothing Krasus could not readily suffer. Now at last he could walk among the others and not feel their pity. Now he could stand beside them against the demons. The mage wondered why he had not thought of this plan much earlier—then recalled that he had, but only bothered to put it into action once Korialstrasz had declared his intention to seek out the other dragons.

It is hard to part with one’s self, apparently. How Rhonin would have laughed at his conceit. The irony made even Krasus chuckle. How Alexstrasza would have enjoyed the jest as well. She had more than once suggested that his continuous intrusion into the matters of the lesser races had a touch of vanity involved, but this act now more than topped that in every—

A sudden wave of vertigo struck him.

It was all he could do to keep himself from slipping over the battlements. The attack ended swiftly, but the repercussions kept Krasus leaning against the stone wall and breathing heavily for more than a minute.

When he could at last stand straight, the dragon mage immediately looked far beyond Black Rook Hold, far beyond Suramar.

To distant, dark Zin-Azshari.

Krasus continually had many secretive spells in play, several designed to keep track of what other sorcerers might be casting. He was, without conceit, perhaps more attuned to the shifts in the intensity of the world’s magical forces than anyone—but even he had not been prepared for a change of such magnitude.

“They have done it …” he breathed, staring at the unseen city. “The portal is again open to the Burning Legion.”