Мэри Кирчофф - The Black Wing

Khisanth clawed her soul mate's face to shreds, while Salah Khan watched.

At least that's what Takhisis told her when she pulled the insensate black dragon into the Abyss one last time. The Dark Queen was true to her promise: Khisanth did not fare well in her second meeting with the queen. Takhisis was most displeased by the murder of a highlord at so crucial a time. Unlike the last time, Khisanth didn't even try to explain herself. She knew there was no point.

I seldom give second chances, Khisanth. Never a third .

The black dragon held her breath, readying herself for the killing blow.

Don't force me to regret making an exception now. You'll wish I had slain you here .

The Dark Queen had sent her post-haste to Xak Tsaroth to guard the blasted staff for Verminaard. A sentence that, as time wore on and nothing of consequence happened, seemed more punishment than reprieve.

Heaving an enormously bored sigh, Khisanth leaped back onto the stone altar and reclined on her haunches. Spotting the ancient spellbook, she picked it up in her talons and began to thumb through the musty brown pages. At least she could improve her skills in this wretched hole.

The horns on Khisanth's head suddenly quivered, sensing vibrations from the upper levels. Ears tilted, the dragon held as still as black marble, listening. Something, or someone, was definitely walking above in the Plaza of Death. It was neither gully dwarf nor draconian; she knew that for sure. Khisanth's heart began to hammer in anticipation. She had waited so long for someone to come.

The dragon sprang from the altar and began her ascent the thousand feet to the ceiling of the underground city. Halfway up, she passed the north falls, but kept climbing to the bottom of the well. Knowing she would need more than ordinary speed to ascend through the well shaft, Khisanth concentrated on the words of a haste spell. She gave one last upward thrust, clamped her wings to her sides, and shot up the shaft at twice her normal speed.

Khisanth burst from the mouth of the well and into the sunny Plaza of Death. Pivoting in air, she saw her first human in years, bent over the fallen form of a young elf girl. The man was a dark-haired, well-muscled barbarian, wearing only wrist bands and a loincloth over fringed leather leggings. The dragon's red eyes abruptly grew wide.

In the barbarian's hands was the wooden staff.

Khisanth's weathered lips drew back in a smile of anticipation. The barbarian was obviously of little importance, but he would be easy enough to slaughter.

At long last, things were turning around for the black dragon. Khisanth could feel it. She would soon fulfill her destiny.