Richard Knaak - Day of the Dragon

“All right,” the elf finally muttered.

Together they hurried from the struggle, relying now on Vereesa’s knowledge of where their ultimate destination lay. Behind them, the dragon and the gryphons shrank to tiny specks in the heavens, in part because the battle itself had moved in the opposite direction of the elf and her companion.

“Curious . . .” she heard the wizard whisper.

“What is?”

He started. “Those ears aren’t just for show, then, are they?”

Vereesa bristled at the insult, even though she had heard far worse. Humans and dwarves, quite jealous of the natural superiority of the elven race, often chose the long, tapering ears as the focus of their ridicule. At times, her ears had been compared to those of donkeys, swine, and, worst of all, goblins . While Vereesa had never drawn a weapon on anyone because of such comments, more often than not she had still left them much regretting their choice of words.

The emerald eyes of the mage narrowed. “I’m sorry; you took that as an insult. Didn’t mean it that way.”

She doubted the veracity of his statement, but knew she had to accept his weak attempt at an apology. Forcing down her anger, she asked again, “What do you find so curious?”

“That this dragon should appear in so timely a fashion.”

“If you think like that, you might as well ask where the gryphons came from. After all, they chased it off.”

He shook his head. “Someone saw him and reported the situation. The riders merely did their duties.” He considered. “I know Dragonmaw clan’s supposed to be desperate, supposed to be trying to rally both the other rebel clans and the ones in the enclaves, but this wouldn’t be the way to go about it.”

“Who can say what an orc thinks? This was clearly a random marauder. This was not the first such attack in the Alliance, human.”

“No, but I wonder if—” Rhonin got no further, for suddenly they both became aware of movement in the forest . . . movement from every direction.

With practiced ease, the ranger slid her blade free from its sheath. Beside her, Rhonin’s hands disappeared into the deep folds of his wizard’s robes, no doubt in preparation for a spell. Vereesa said nothing, but she wondered how much aid he would be in close combat. Better he stand back and let her take on the first attackers.

Too late. Six massive figures on horseback suddenly broke through the woods, surrounding them. Even in the dimming sunlight their silver armor gleamed sharp. The elf found a lance pointing at her chest. Rhonin not only had one touching his breast, but another between his shoulder blades.

Helmed visors with a leonine head for a crest hid the features of their captors. As a ranger, Vereesa wondered how anyone could move in such suits, let alone wage war, but the six maneuvered in the saddle as if completely unencumbered. Their huge, gray war-horses, also armored on top, seemed unperturbed by the extra weight foisted upon them.

The newcomers carried no banner, and the only sign of their identities appeared to be the image of a stylized hand reaching to the heavens embossed on the breastplate. Vereesa thought she knew who they were from this alone, but did not relax. The last time the elf had met such men, they had worn different armor, with horns atop the helm and the lettered symbol of Lordaeron on both their breastplate and shield.

And then a seventh rider slowly emerged from the forest, this one in the more traditional armor that Vereesa had first been expecting. Within the shadowy, visorless helm, she could see a strong and—for a human—older and wiser face with a trim, graying beard. The symbols of both Lordaeron and his own religious order marked not only his shield and breastplate, but also his helm. A silver lion’s-head buckle linked together the belt in which hung one of the mighty, pointed warhammers used by such as him.

“An elf,” he murmured as he inspected her. “Your strong arm is welcome.” The apparent leader then eyed Rhonin, finally commenting with open disdain, “And a damned soul. Keep your hands where we can see them and we won’t be tempted to cut them off.”

As Rhonin clearly fought to keep his fury down, Vereesa found herself caught between relief and uncertainty. They had been captured by paladins of Lordaeron—the fabled Knights of the Silver Hand.

The two met in a place of shadow, a place reachable only by a few, even among their own kind. It was a place where dreams of the past played over and over, murky forms moving about in the fog of the mind’s history. Not even the two who met here knew how much of this realm existed in reality and how much of it existed only in their thoughts, but they knew that here no one would be able to eavesdrop.

Supposedly.

Both were tall and slim, their faces covered by cowls. One could be identified as the wizard Rhonin knew as Krasus; the other, but for the greenish tinge of the otherwise gray robes, might as well have been the wizard’s twin. Only when words were spoken did it become clear that, unlike the councilor of the Kirin Tor, this figure was definitely male.

“I do not know why I’ve even come,” he commented to Krasus.

“Because you had to. You needed to.”

The other let loose with an audible hiss. “True, but now that I’m here, I can choose to leave any time I desire.”

Krasus raised a slim, gloved hand. “At least hear me out.”

“For what reason? So that you can repeat what you have repeated so many times before?”

“So that for once what I am saying might actually register!” Krasus’s unexpected vehemence startled both.

His companion shook his head. “You’ve been around them much too long. Your shields, both magical and personal, are beginning to break down. It’s time you abandoned this hopeless task . . . just as we did.”

“I do not believe it hopeless.” For the first time, a hint of gender, a voice far deeper than any of the other members of the Kirin Tor’s inner circle would have believed possible. “I cannot, so long as she is held.”

“What she means to you is understandable, Korialstrasz; what she means to us is that of the memory of a time past.”

“If that time is past, then why do you and yours still stand your posts?” Krasus calmly retorted, his emotions once more under control.

“Because we would see our final years calm ones, peaceful ones. . . .”

“All the more reason to join with me in this.”

Again the other hissed. “Korialstrasz, will you never give in to the inevitable? Your plan does not surprise us, who know you so well! We’ve seen your little puppet on his fruitless quest—do you think he can possibly accomplish his task?”

Krasus paused for a moment before replying. “He has the potential . . . but he is not all I have. No, I think he will fail. In doing so, however, I hope that his sacrifice will aid in my final success . . . and if you would join with me, that success would be more likely.”

“I was right.” Krasus’s companion sounded immensely disappointed. “The same rhetoric. The same pleading. I only came because of the alliance, once strong, between our two factions, but clearly I should not have even bothered because of that. You are without backing, without force. There is only you now, and you must hide in the shadows—” he gestured at the mists surrounding them “—in places such as this, rather than show your true nature.”

“I do what I must. . . . What is it that you do, anymore?” An edge once more arose in Krasus’s voice. “What purpose do you exist for, my old friend?”

The other figure started at this penetrating question, then abruptly turned away. He took a few steps toward the embracing mists, then paused and looked back at the wizard. Krasus’s companion sounded resigned. “I wish you the very best on this, Korialstrasz; I really do. I—we—just don’t believe that there can be any return to the past. Those days are done, and we with them.”