WarCraft: War of The Ancients Book Two. Richard A. Knaak

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