Again the gryphon and its rider were too quick. Over a dozen orcs shrieked in agony as the dragon accidentally incinerated its allies, too intent upon the swift gryphon to notice where it had directed its attack.
The dragon screamed in anger, slamming into the citadel and cracking the sturdy walls with a tremendous noise. Before it could gather itself and attack again, the Wildhammer atop the gryphon stood in his stirrups and hurled his stormhammer at the fearsome beast. As it struck the dragon in the eye, a thunderclap tore the fog asunder and brilliant sunlight streamed down. The Wildhammer whooped, his hammer returning to his hand as his gryphon soared back up, the sunlight gleaming on its feathers. Shocked, dazed, the dragon tried to fly, but the merciless Wildhammer dwarf led it on a merry chase, striking repeatedly at its wounded eye until, half-blinded and dizzy, it again slammed into the wall, which collapsed beneath the unintentional assault of the great beast. The dragon slid down to the earth, shaking it with its dead weight, a victim of its own violence.
The remaining dragons screamed their rage and hurtled toward the lone gryphon rider, who turned to meet their furious headlong flight. But just as they neared him, more gryphons burst from the remaining clouds above and descended upon the dragons. Each dragon was easily four times the size of a single gryphon, but the gryphons had speed and agility, wheeling about the larger beasts, luring them to the fortress, directing their fiery attacks or sending them careening into one another as they tried in vain to catch the elusive aerial dancers.
It looked to Turalyon as if Kurdran’s earlier boast might in fact prove to be true. His Wildhammers were having enough success with the dragons already that they might well be done with those creatures soon enough to lend a hand with the main assault.
One of the gryphons broke away from the rest, heading toward Turalyon. It bore two riders, one small and the other far larger, and the latter leaped down while they were still a short ways above the broad stone walkway, violet robes streaming around him. Turalyon felt his face stretch in a grin. Khadgar!
The mage waved his thanks to the Wildhammer who had carried him as the gryphon beat its wings and rose back up to rejoin the aerial fray. Then he turned his white head toward the main tower, eyes narrowing.
“I’ll come help you when I’m done here,” the mage said to Turalyon, gripping his staff in one hand and drawing the sword at his side with the other. “There’s someone in there—an ogre mage. I need to deal with him first.”
Turalyon nodded. He’d seen more than enough magic over the past few years to respect Khadgar’s opinion on the matter. He turned as two men stationed by the far stairs came hurrying over, broad grins on their faces. Before Turalyon could ask why, he heard footsteps from that direction. And then heads appeared as several figures charged up the stairs and onto the ramparts. Figures wearing Alliance armor.
“Sir!” one of them called as they approached. “We have cleared the north wing!”
Turalyon nodded and returned the soldiers’ salutes. “Good. I’ll leave a few men here.” He glanced at Alleria, who readied her bow. “The rest of you, come with me. We’ll sweep the citadel to make sure it’s clean, and then throw open the gates for the rest of our men.” They cheered, and he led them down the walkway Khadgar had just taken, turning off it halfway across to follow a narrower stair down. As he’d hoped, it led him into the heart of the orc stronghold, and soon Turalyon was too busy fighting off the orcs who had remained within to worry about Khadgar.
Khadgar paced the walkway slowly, his senses extended to study the area ahead of him. The ogre was still there, he knew, but did not seem to be doing anything—no spellcasting, no rituals. It was simply waiting.
Waiting for him.
The walkway ended at the tower, and Khadgar stepped inside. The room he entered was large and oddly shaped, not quite circular and with unevenly spaced angles, as if it had been carved from something rather than constructed. At the far end rose a monstrous chair that seemed to be pieced together out of colossal bones—he shuddered to think what beast might have yielded such specimens. Its high back reached almost to the arched ceiling above, and torches guttered to either side. But the throne was empty.
“My master is gone,” a deep voice rumbled, as a massive figure detached itself from the shadows and moved to intercept him. Khadgar had seen ogres before, of course, but they had been down on the field and he had been back with the other magi, striking from a distance. This was his first encounter with one up close, and he found himself gulping as he stared up…and up. The creature’s head nearly brushed the ceiling, and while its features were brutish, its deep-set eyes glittered with intelligence.
Then he registered what it had said, silently thankful for the ring that enabled him to understand it. “Gone?”
The ogre grinned, revealing surprisingly small, sharp teeth and large fangs. “Indeed,” it answered. “He left here some time ago. Even now he is traveling to perform the ritual, while your Alliance is fighting its way past us.” The creature scowled, then set its jaw. “We may die, but our deaths will ensure that the Horde lives on, and conquers worlds without end!”
“Damn!” Khadgar cursed, seeing what had happened. The orcs had tricked them! They’d allowed this attack simply so Ner’zhul could escape. “Nonetheless, if we’re fast enough we can still go after him,” he told the orc defiantly.
“You could,” the ogre agreed. “But first, you must get past me.” It raised its hands, each one larger than Khadgar’s head, and they began to glow with a sickly green light that seemed to rise from beneath the skin. “I am Dentarg, of the Shadowmoon clan.”
An honorable duel, then. “Khadgar of Dalaran,” Khadgar replied. He raised his staff, and the tip began to shed a bright violet glow.
The ogre executed a clumsy bow. Then it struck. Both of its massive hands slammed forward, as if physically shoving Khadgar back. Green light erupted from them in a wave of energy that threatened to envelop and crush the human mage. Khadgar raised his staff, the violet light growing more intense, and the green wave split around him before bubbling away to nothing.
Next Khadgar struck, pointing the staff at the ogre’s chest. The violet light lanced forward, stabbing toward the ogre’s heart. But Dentarg batted the energy beam aside with his hands, the green still suffusing them, protecting him from any ill effect.
“We are well-matched,” the ogre remarked, clapping its hands together. When it spread them wide, darkness billowed up between them, a great curtain of black that swept across the room.
“Perhaps,” Khadgar replied. He did not move as the darkness fell, and within seconds he had vanished from sight, as had everything else. Through his other senses he could still locate the ogre, however, and knew that his opponent was searching for him. Khadgar waited another moment, unmoving, then slammed his staff down upon the floor. The shock wave split the darkness, cracking it as if it were blackened glass and leaving slivers and shards of it upon the floor, and threw the ogre from his feet as well. The crash Dentarg made as he fell was almost equal to the first shock wave, and the ogre groaned in pain.
Khadgar swiftly closed the distance between them. The light around his staff increased, until it was a beam of solid light, too bright to be violet though still tinged with that hue. He slammed the beam-encased staff against the rising ogre’s throat and held on as Dentarg screamed, his flesh smoking where the staff touched it.
It was not a magical attack that saved the ogre then but an instinctive one. He heaved Khadgar off bodily and managed to regain his feet, though his neck bore a charred black line across it. Dentarg snarled, showing his fangs, and charged Khadgar, head down. But the human mage sidestepped the attack and swung his sword as the ogre stormed past, slicing the creature’s upper arm.
Dentarg’s cry changed from one of rage to one of pain. Green light rose again from his hands, though it flickered here and there and flashes of crimson shot through it. Bringing his hands together again, Dentarg let the energy build between them, u
ntil he had a globe of pure magic that writhed and roiled with hatred. This he hurled at Khadgar, putting all his force behind it.
Khadgar studied the fast-approaching globe calmly. Then he sheathed his sword and held out his hand, palm outward. The globe connected with his flesh, striking the palm squarely—and vanished into him, absorbed without a trace.
“Thank you,” he told the astonished ogre. “I feel much better now.” He stamped one foot and a minor shock wave toppled Dentarg again. The ogre landed heavily on his knees, and bowed his head, knowing he was in the presence of a superior opponent. Khadgar spared him any further humiliation, drawing his sword again and bringing it down upon the ogre’s exposed neck with all his might. Flesh and bone parted cleanly, and he stepped back as the ogre’s head rolled across the floor, spraying blood in its wake.
For a moment he caught his breath, looking around the throne room, though he knew Dentarg had spoken the truth. He looked down at the ogre corpse, nodded, satisfied, and hurried back to find Turalyon. They would need to move quickly.
“Good news!” Turalyon shouted when he caught sight of Khadgar again. “We hold the citadel!”
“We were tricked,” Khadgar said without preamble. “Ner’zhul is not here. He left well before the attack. He must have taken the artifacts with him. I wonder if he took the skull as well.”
Turalyon stared at him. “It was all a diversion, then?”
“And we fell for it,” Khadgar confirmed.
Turalyon frowned, trying to find the good in this. “Still—this was undoubtedly the bulk of their warriors. And we crushed them! We’ve also taken their citadel—even if Ner’zhul himself wasn’t here, this was still their headquarters, and now it belongs to us. Their military might is broken for good.”
“Aye, they’ll not field another army again,” Danath said, approaching them in time to hear the end of Turalyon’s statement. His armor was battered in places, and he bore several cuts on his arms, legs, and face, but he seemed unfazed by the injuries as he reined in and dismounted beside them. Turalyon clapped him on the shoulder, happy to see that his lieutenant had survived.
“You did a fine job,” he told Danath. “But Khadgar has discovered some ill news. Ner’zhul is not here—he knew we would attack, apparently, and stole away before we arrived. And we think he took the artifacts with him.”
Alleria and Kurdran had joined them now, and Turalyon filled them in as well.
“Well, we’d best be after ’im, then, eh?” Kurdran replied.
“Do you know where they’re going?” Alleria replied.
“I don’t know,” Khadgar said. “But I can find out.” He smiled. “I know Gul’dan’s magical aura from the war, and I know the Eye of Dalaran as well. I can trace both of them.” The others stepped back as he closed his eyes, muttering something beneath his breath. The air around him seemed to shimmer slightly, and a wind appeared from nowhere, tugging at their clothes and hair. Then the mage’s eyes snapped open. For an instant they glowed a brilliant white and showed strange images dancing within them. Turalyon shuddered, looking away. When he turned back his friend’s eyes were normal once more.
“I found them,” Khadgar reported, leaning slightly against his staff. “It wasn’t easy, though. Turns out they’re in two different locations.”
Alleria shook her head. “The skull and the Eye aren’t together? Why would Ner’zhul let either one out of his sight?”
“I don’t know, but he has. The skull went north, but the Eye is headed southwest, through what I think they call Terokkar Forest. I sensed the Book of Medivh there as well, which makes me think that’s the way Ner’zhul went. I’d assumed that he needed the skull for the ritual, just as I need the book and skull to close the portals. But apparently he sent the skull somewhere else, though I can’t imagine why.”
“And you need both? The skull and the book?” Turalyon asked.
“Yes,” Khadgar replied. “I can’t close the rift completely without them.”
Turalyon nodded. “Then we’ll have to go after both,” he decided. He glanced at the others, weighing options in his head. “Danath, I think you’d like to kill a few more orcs.”
“Indeed, sir, yes I would.”
Turalyon sighed. It pained him to see those he was fond of so revenge-ridden. But who was he to judge—he had not seen his whole contingent slaughtered while he fled to get aid. Danath would have to make peace with his pain in his own way, as Alleria had finally done. He would need to learn that you could fight without hate in your heart—fight for something, rather than against it.
“Then you go after Ner’zhul. He’s got a head start on us, so Kurdran, you and your gryphon riders scout ahead and find Ner’zhul and his companions. Attack them at once—kill them or at least slow them down and report back to Danath. He’ll be following with ground forces.”
“Take some of my rangers with you for scouting,” Alleria said.
Turalyon smiled his thanks at her and said to Danath, “Your job is to destroy Ner’zhul and bring back those three artifacts.”
“Consider it done, lad,” Kurdran replied, and turned away to his gryphons. Danath nodded, saluted, and went as well, to gather the men and get them ready for travel.
Turalyon turned back to Alleria and Khadgar. “Getting that skull and closing the portal are my responsibilities. Khadgar, you’re the only one who can trace the blasted thing. And Alleria…” He smiled softly. “I promised you I would never leave you behind.”
“Indeed you did, my love. And do not think I won’t hold you to it.” He extended a hand, and she took it and squeezed it tight for a moment. There would be no more partings for them…until the final one.
And maybe not even then.
She grinned. “Let’s go.”
Together the three friends turned away from the conquered citadel and the portal in the distance. They would find the ghoulish relic that would seal that rift forever, or die trying.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“They are gaining on us.”
Ner’zhul glanced over at Kilrogg. “Then we move faster.”
The Bleeding Hollow chieftain growled and shook his head. “We are already moving as fast as we can without killing our mounts and ourselves,” he pointed out bitterly. “Any faster and my warriors will drop dead before the Alliance even reaches us. And who will protect you then?”
They had been marching for almost a week now, and the first few days had been uneventful. They had reached Terokkar Forest without any problem, and had stepped under those tall, twisted trees with a hint of relief. The forest was as dark and gloomy as ever, the dark clumped foliage of its trees high enough overhead that little sunlight could pierce their cover, the ground covered in fine dark moss and short scrub but otherwise bare. But after days of walking under the hot sun it was pleasant to find shade, and the forest seemed cool and peaceful.
Until one of Kilrogg’s warriors, who had stayed far back from the rest to scout behind them, had come running to find them where they camped for the night.
“The Alliance!” the warrior had gasped, panting and sweating from his run. “They are right behind us!”
“They must have taken Hellfire Citadel faster than we’d expected,” Gorefiend had said. “Damn Kargath! He was supposed to hold them!”
Kilrogg had remained calm, as always. “How many are there?”
The scout had shaken his head. “I could not get a clear count of them, but many. More than we have here, for certain. And they’re moving at a frenzied pace.”
“They’re pushing themselves to their limits,” Kilrogg had mused, idly stroking the scar below his missing eye. “Hate lends one speed.”
“How long before they reach us?” Gorefiend had asked.
“They are perhaps two days behind us,” the scout had answered. “But their leader drives them like a madman, and they are closing the distance rapidly.”
“Rouse the camp,” Kilrogg had decided. “Everyone up. We will march through the ni
ght to put more distance between them and us. Move!”
Within minutes they had been on the move again. Since then they had taken only short breaks, stopping beside one of Terokkar’s many glittering streams and rivers for water and to catch their breath. But still the Alliance came on, and the gap was lessening.
And now they faced an awful choice.
“We can stand and fight,” Gorefiend suggested, but Kilrogg was already shaking his head.
“They outnumber us,” the one-eyed orc pointed out, “by a significant margin.” He scowled. “I hate to say it, but if we face them, they’ll slaughter us. And while I will gladly die for the Horde, as will my clan, dying here will not get you to the Black Temple.”
“And we cannot outrun them,” Gorefiend offered. “I do not think that with their prey in sight, they will fall behind.”
“We can take shelter in—” Ner’zhul began, but Kilrogg cut him off quickly.
“That is still days away,” he interrupted hastily. “Surely we do not need to consider that just yet?” Sweat beaded across his brow and Ner’zhul was both surprised and amused to realize that Kilrogg Deadeye, a legendary figure known for his courage and sheer guts, was afraid.
This was not the time to be squeamish, however. “It is our only option,” he pointed out, his tone sharp enough to prevent Kilrogg from breaking in again. “They are still gaining on us, and if we cannot run and cannot fight we must hide. And the only place in this forest we can effectively do that is—
This time the interruption came not from one of the two lieutenants before him but from above. Ner’zhul felt a change in the air, and the crackle of a possible storm, but unusually intense and concentrated in a tight line that bore down upon them. On instinct he dove for the ground. A heartbeat later something hurtled through the space where his head had been, trailing lightning behind it. He caught a glimpse of a dark blur that soared back up into the air and flew between the trees—to land solidly in the hand of a stout figure riding a winged beast that was bearing down upon them.
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