Richard A. Knaak - WarCraft - Day Of The Dragon

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's

imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead

is entirely coincidental.

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ONE

War.

It had once seemed to some of the Kirin Tor, the magical conclave that ruled the small nation of Dalaran,

that the world of Azeroth had never known anything but constant bloodshed. There had been the trolls,

before the forming of the Alliance of Lordaeron, and when at last humanity had dealt with that foul

menace, the first wave of orcs had descended upon the lands, appearing out of a horrific rip in the very

fabric of the universe. At first, nothing had seemed able to stop these grotesque invaders, but gradually

what had looked to be a horrible slaughter had turned instead into an agonizing stalemate. Battles had

been won by attrition. Hundreds had died on both sides, all seemingly for no good reason. For years, the

Kirin Tor had foreseen no end.

But that had finally changed. The Alliance had at last managed to push back the Horde, eventually

routing them entirely. Even the orcs' great chieftain, the legendary Orgrim Doomhammer, had been

unable to stem the advancing armies and had finally capitulated. With the exception of a few renegade

clans, the surviving invaders had been rounded up into enclaves and kept under secure watch by military

units led personally by members of the Knights of the Silver Hand. For the first time in many, many years,

lasting peace looked to be a promise, not a faint wish.

And yet . . . a sense of unease still touched the senior council of the Kirin Tor. Thus it was that the

highest of the high met in the Chamber of the Air, so-called because it seemed a room without walls, only

a vast, ever-changing sky with clouds, light, and darkness, racing past the master wizards as if the time of

the world had sped up. Only the gray, stone floor with its gleaming diamond symbol, representing the

four elements, gave any solidity to the scene.

Certainly the wizards themselves did nothing in that regard, for they, clad in their dark cloaks that

covered not only face but form, seemed to waver with the movements of the sky, almost as if they, too,

were but illusion. Although their numbers included both men and women, the only sign of that was

whenever one of them spoke, at which point a face would become partially visible, if somewhat indistinct

in detail.

There were six this meeting, the six most senior, although not necessarily the most gifted. The leaders of

the Kirin Tor were chosen by several means, magic but one of them.

“Something is happening in Khaz Modan,” announced the first in a stentorian voice, the vague image of a

bearded face briefly visible. A myriad pattern of stars floated through his body. “Near or in the caverns

held by the Dragonmaw clan.”

“Tell us something we don't already know,” rasped the second, a woman likely of elder years but still

strong of will. A moon briefly shone through her cowl. “The orcs there remain one of the few holdouts,

now that Doomhammer's warriors have surrendered and the chieftain's gone missing.”

The first mage clearly took some umbrage, but he kept himself calm as he replied. “Very well! Perhaps

this will interest you more. . . . I believe Deathwing is on the move again.”

This startled the rest, the elder woman included. Night suddenly changed into day, but the wizards

ignored what, for them, was a common thing in this chamber. Clouds drifted past the head of the third of

their number, who clearly did not believe this statement.

“Deathwing is dead!” the third declared, his form the only one hinting at corpulence. “He plunged into

the sea months ago after this very council and a gathering of our strongest struck the mortal blow! No

dragon, even him, could withstand such might!”

Some of the others nodded, but the first went on. “And where was the corpse? Deathwing was like no

other dragon. Even before the goblins sealed the adamantium plates to his scaly hide, he offered a threat

with the potential to dwarf that of the Horde. . . .”

“But what proof do you have of his continued existence?” This from a young woman clearly in the bloom

of youth. Not as experienced as the others, but still powerful enough to be one of the council. “What?”

“The death of two red dragons, two of Alexstrasza's get. Torn asunder in a manner only one of their

own kind— one of gargantuan proportions—could have managed.”

“There are other large dragons.”

A storm began to rage, the lightning and rain falling upon the wizards and yet touching neither them nor

the floor. The storm passed in the blink of an eye, a blazing sun once more appearing overhead. The first

of the Kirin Tor gave this latest display not even the least of his interest. “You have obviously never seen

the work of Deathwing, or you'd never make that statement.”

“It may be as you say,” interjected the fifth, the outline of a vaguely elven visage appearing and

disappearing faster than the storm. “And, if so, a matter of import. But we hardly can concern ourselves

with it for now. If Deathwing lives and now strikes out at his greatest rival's kind, then it only benefits us.

After all, Alexstrasza is still the captive of Dragonmaw clan, and it is her offspring that those orcs have

used for years to wreak bloodshed and havoc all over the Alliance. Have we all so soon forgotten the

tragedy of the Third Fleet of Kul Tiras? I suspect that Lord Admiral Daelin Proudmoore never will. After

all, he lost his eldest son and everyone else aboard those six great ships when the monstrous red

leviathans fell upon them. Proudmoore would likely honor Deathwing with a medal if it proved true that

the black beast was responsible for these two deaths.”

No one argued that point, not even the first mage. Of the mighty vessels, only splinters of wood and a

few torn corpses had been left to mark the utter destruction. It had been to Lord Admiral Proudmoore's

credit that he had not faltered in his resolve, immediately ordering the building of new warships to replace

those destroyed and pushing on with the war.

“And, as I stated earlier, we can hardly concern ourselves with that situation now, not with so many

more immediate issues with which to deal.”

“You're referring to the Alterac crisis, aren't you?” rumbled the bearded mage. “Why should the

continued sniping of Lordaeron and Stromgarde worry us more than Deathwing's possible return?”

“Because now Gilneas has thrown its weight into the situation.”

Again the other mages stirred, even the unspeaking sixth. The slightly corpulent shade moved a step

toward the elven form. “Of what interest is the bickering of the other two kingdoms over that sorry piece

of land to Genn Greymane? Gilneas is at the tip of the southern peninsula, as far away in the Alliance as

any other kingdom is from Alterac!”

“You have to ask? Greymane has always sought the leadership of the Alliance, even though he held

back his armies until the orcs finally attacked his own borders. The only reason he ever encouraged King

Terenas of Lordaeron to action was to weaken Lordaeron's military might. Now Terenas maintains his

hold on the Alliance leadership mostly because of our work and Admiral Proudmoore's open support.”

Alterac and Stromgarde were neighboring kingdoms that had been at odds since the first days of the

war. Thoras Trollbane had thrown the full might of Stromgarde behind the Lordaeron Alliance. With

Khaz Modan as its neighbor, it had only made sense for the mountainous kingdom to support a united

action. None could argue with the determination of Trollbane's warriors, either. If not for them, the orcs

would have overrun much of the Alliance during the first weeks of the war, certainly promising a different

and highly grim outcome overall.

Alterac, on the other hand, while speaking much of the courage and righteousness of the cause, had not

been so forthcoming with its own troops. Like Gilneas, it had provided only token support; but, where

Genn Greymane had held back out of ambition, Lord Perenolde, so it had been rumored, had done so

because of fear. Even among the Kirin Tor it had early on been asked whether Perenolde had thought to

perhaps make a deal with Doomhammer, should the Alliance crumble under the Horde's unceasing

onslaught.

That fear had proven to have merit. Perenolde had indeed betrayed the Alliance, but his dastardly act

had, fortunately, been short-lived. Terenas, hearing of it, had quickly moved Lordaeron troops in and

declared martial law in Alterac. With the war in progress, no one had, at the time, seen fit to complain

over such an action, especially Stromgarde. Now that peace had come, Thoras Trollbane had begun to

demand that, for its sacrifices, Stromgarde should receive as just due the entire eastern portion of its

treacherous former neighbor.

Terenas did not see it so. He still debated the merits of either annexing Alterac to his own kingdom or

setting upon its throne a new and more reasonable monarch . . . presumably with a sympathetic ear for

Lordaeron causes. Still, Stromgarde had been a loyal, steadfast ally in the struggle, and all knew of

Thoras Trollbane's and Terenas's admiration for one another. It made the political situation that had come

between the pair all the more sad.

Gilneas, meanwhile, had no such ties to any of the lands involved; it had always remained separate from

the other nations of the western world. Both the Kirin Tor and King Terenas knew that Genn Greymane

sought to intervene not only to raise his own prestige, but to perhaps further his dreams of expansion.

One of Lord Perenolde's nephews had fled to that land after the treachery, and rumor had it that

Greymane supported his claim as successor. A base in Alterac would give Gilneas access to resources

the southern kingdom did not have, and the excuse to send its mighty ships across the Great Sea. That, in

turn, would draw Kul Tiras into the equation, the maritime nation being very protective of its naval

sovereignty.

“This will tear the Alliance apart. . . .” muttered the young mage with the accent.

“It has not come to that point yet,” pointed out the elven wizard, “but it may soon. And so we have no

time to deal with dragons. If Deathwing lives and has chosen to renew his vendetta against Alexstrasza, I,

for one, will not oppose him. The fewer dragons in this world the better. Their day is done, after all.”

“I have heard,” came a voice with no inflection, no identifiable gender, “that once the elves and dragons

were allies, even respected friends.”

The elven form turned to the last of the mages, a slim, lanky shape little more than shadow. “Tales only, I

can assure you. We would not deign to traffic with such monstrous beasts.”

Clouds and sun gave way to stars and moon. The sixth mage bowed slightly, as if in apology. “I appear

to have heard wrong. My mistake.”

“You're right about the importance of calming this political situation down,” the bearded wizard rumbled

to the fifth. “And I agree it must take priority. Still, we can't afford to ignore what is happening around

Khaz Modan! Whether or not I'm wrong about Deathwing, so long as the orcs there hold the

Dragonqueen captive, they're a threat to the stability of the land!”

“We need an observer, then,” interjected the elder female. “Someone to maintain watch on matters and

only alert us if the situation there becomes critical.”

“But who? We can spare no one now!”

“There is one.” The sixth mage glided a step forward. The face remained in shadow even when the figure

spoke. “There is Rhonin. . . .”

“Rhonin?!?” burst out the bearded mage. “Rhonin! After his last debacle? He isn't even fit to wear the

robes of a wizard! He's more of a danger than a hope!”

“He's unstable,” agreed the elder woman.

“A maverick,” muttered the corpulent one.

“Untrustworthy . . .”

“Criminal!”

The sixth waited until all had spoken, then slowly nodded. “And the only skilled wizard we can afford to

be without at this juncture. Besides, this is simply a mission of observance. He will be nowhere near any

potential crisis. His duty will be to monitor matters and report back, that is all.” When no more protests

arose, the dark mage added, “I am certain that he has learned his lesson.”

“Let us hope so,” muttered the older of the women. “He may have accomplished his last mission, but it

cost most of his companions their lives!”

“This time, he will go alone, with only a guide to bring him to the edge of Alliance-controlled lands. He

shall not even enter Khaz Modan. A sphere of seeing will enable him to watch from a distance.”

“It seems simple enough,” the younger female responded. “Even for Rhonin.”

The elven figure nodded brusquely. “Then let us agree on this and be done with the topic. Perhaps if we

are fortunate, Deathwing will swallow Rhonin, then choke to death, thus finishing forever the matters of

both.” He surveyed the others, then added, “And now I must demand that we finally concentrate on

Gilneas's entry into the Alterac situation and what role we may play to diffuse it. . . .”

He stood as he had for the past two hours, head down, eyes closed in concentration. Around him, only a

dim light with no source gave any illumination to the chamber, not that there was much to see. A chair he

had left unused stood to the side, and behind him on the thick, stone wall hung a tapestry upon which had

been sewn an intricate, knowing eye of gold on a field of violet. Below the eye, three daggers, also gold,

darted earthward. The flag and symbols of Dalaran had stood tall in their guardianship of the Alliance

during the war, even if not every member of the Kirin Tor had performed their duties with complete

honor.

“Rhonin . . .” came a voice without inflection, from everywhere and nowhere in the chamber.

From under thick, fiery hair, he looked up into the darkness with eyes a startling green. His nose had

been broken once by a fellow apprentice, but despite his skills, Rhonin had never bothered to have it

fixed. Still, he was not unhandsome, with a strong, clean jaw and angular features. One permanently

arched brow ever gave him a sardonic, questioning look that had more than once gotten him in trouble

with his masters, and matters were not helped by his attitude, which matched his expression.

Tall, slim, and clad in an elegant robe of midnight blue, he made for quite a sight, even to other wizards.

Rhonin hardly appeared recalcitrant, even though his last mission had cost the lives of five good men. He

stood straight and eyed the murk, waiting to see from which direction the other wizard would speak to

him.

“You summoned. I've waited,” the crimson-tressed spellcaster whispered, not without some impatience.

“It could not be helped. I myself had to wait until the matter was brought up by someone else.” A tall

cloaked and hooded figure half-emerged from the gloom—the sixth member of the Kirin Tor inner

council. “It was.”

For the first time, some eagerness shone in the eyes of Rhonin. “And my penance? Is my probation

over?”

“Yes. You have been granted your return to our ranks . . . under the provision that you accede to taking

on a task of import immediately.”

“They've that much faith left in me?” Bitterness returned to the young mage's voice. “After the others

died?”

“You are the only one they have left.”

“That sounds more realistic. I should've known.”

“Take these.” The shadowy wizard held out a slim, gloved hand, palm up. Above the hand there

suddenly flashed into existence two glittering objects—a tiny sphere of emerald and a ring of gold with a

single black jewel.

Rhonin held out his own hand in the same manner . . . and the two items appeared above it. He seized

both and inspected them. “I recognize the sphere of seeing, but not this other. It feels powerful, but not,

I'm guessing, in an aggressive manner.”

“You are astute, which is why I took up your cause in the first place, Rhonin. The sphere's purpose you

know; the ring will serve as protection. You go into a realm where orc warlocks still exist. This ring will

help shield you from their own devices of detection. Regrettably, it will also make it difficult for us to

monitor you.”

“So I'll be on my own.” Rhonin gave his sponsor a sardonic smile. “Less chance of me causing any extra

deaths, anyway. . . .”

“In that regard, you will not be alone, at least as far as the journey to the port. A ranger will escort you.”

Rhonin nodded, although he clearly did not care for any escort, especially a ranger. Rhonin and elves did

not get along well together. “You've not told me my mission.”

The shadowed wizard propped back, as if sitting in an immense chair the younger spellcaster could not

see. Gloved hands steepled as the figure seemed to consider the proper choice of words. “They have not

been easy on you, Rhonin. Some in the council even considered forever dismissing you from our ranks.

You must earn your way back, and to do that, you will have to fulfill this mission to the letter.”

“You make it sound like no easy task.”

“It involves dragons . . . and something they believe only one of youraptitudecan manage to accomplish.”

“Dragons . . .” Rhonin's eyes had widened at first mention of the leviathans and, despite his tendency

toward arrogance at most times, he knew he sounded more like an apprentice at the moment.

Dragons. . . Simply the mention of them instilled awe in most younger mages.

“Yes, dragons.” His sponsor leaned forward. “Make no mistake about this, Rhonin. No one else must

know of this mission outside of the council and yourself. Not even the ranger who guides you nor the

captain of the Alliance ship who drops you on the shores of Khaz Modan. If word got out what we hope

from you, it could set all the plans in jeopardy.”

“But what is it?” Rhonin's green eyes flared bright. This would be a quest of tremendous danger, but the

rewards were clear enough. A return to the ranks and obvious added prestige to his reputation. Nothing

advanced a wizard in the Kirin Tor quicker than reputation, although none of the senior council would

have ever admitted to that base fact.

“You are to go to Khaz Modan,” the other said with some hesitation, “and, once there, set into motion

the steps necessary to free from her orc captors the Dragonqueen,Alexstrasza. . . .”

TWO

Vereesa did not like waiting. Most people thought that elves had the patience of glaciers, but younger

ones such as herself, just a year out of her apprenticeship in the rangers, were very much like humans in

that one regard. She had been waiting three days for this wizard she was supposed to escort to one of

the eastern ports serving the Great Sea. For the most part, she respected wizards as much as any elf

respected a human, but this one had earned nothing but her ire. Vereesa wanted to join her sisters and

brothers, help hunt down each and every remaining orc still fighting, and send the murderous beasts to

their well-deserved deaths. The ranger had not expected her first major assignment to be playing

nursemaid to some doddering and clearly forgetful old mage.

“One more hour,” she muttered. “One more hour, and then I leave.”

Her sleek, chestnut-brown, elven mare snorted ever so slightly. Generations of breeding had created an

animal far superior to its mundane cousins, or so Vereesa's people believed. The mare was in tune with

her rider, and what would have seemed to most nothing more than a simple grunt from the horse

immediately sent the ranger to her feet, a long shaft already notched in her bow.

Yet the woods around her spoke only of quiet, not treachery, and this deep within the Lordaeron

Alliance she could hardly expect an attack by either orcs or trolls. She glanced in the direction of the

small inn that had been designated the meeting place, but other than a stable boy carrying hay, Vereesa

saw no one. Still, the elf did not lower her bow. Her mount rarely made a sound unless some trouble

lurked nearby. Bandits, perhaps?

Slowly the ranger turned in a circle. The wind whipped some of the long, silver-white hair across her

face, but not enough to obscure her sharp sight. Almond-shaped eyes the color of purest sky blue drank

in even the most minute shift of foliage, and the lengthy, pointed ears that rose from her thick hair could

pick up even the sound of a butterfly landing on a nearby flower.

And still she could find no reason for the mare's warning.

Perhaps she had frightened away whatever supposed menace had been nearby. Like all elves, Vereesa

knew she made an impressive appearance. Taller than most humans, the ranger stood clad in knee-high

leather boots, forest-green pants and blouse, and an oak-brown travel cloak. Gloves that stretched

nearly to her elbows protected her hands while yet enabling her to use her bow or the sword hanging at

her side with ease. Over her blouse she wore a sturdy breastplate fashioned to her slim but still curved

form. One of the locals in the inn had made the mistake of admiring the feminine aspects of her

appearance while entirely ignoring the military ones. Because he had been drunk and possibly would have

held back his rude suggestions otherwise, Vereesa had only left him with a few broken fingers.

The mare snorted again. The ranger glared at her mount, words of reprimand forming on her lips.

“You would be Vereesa Windrunner, I presume,” a low, arresting voice on her blind side suddenly

commented.

She had the tip of the shaft directly at his throat before he could say more. Had Vereesa let the arrow

loose, it would have shot completely through the newcomer's neck, exiting through the other side.

Curiously, he seemed unimpressed by this deadly fact. The elf stared him up and down—not an entirely

unpleasant task, she had to admit—and realized that her sudden intruder could only be the wizard for

whom she had been waiting. Certainly that would explain her mount's peculiar actions and her own

inability to sense his presence before this.

“You are Rhonin?” the ranger finally asked.

“Not what you're expecting?” he returned with just the hint of a sardonic smile.

She lowered the bow, relaxing slightly. “They said a wizard; that was all, human.”

“And they told me an elven ranger, nothing more.” He gave her a glance that almost made Vereesa raise

the bow again. “So we find ourselves even in this matter.”

“Not quite. I have waited here for three days! Three valuable days wasted!”

“It couldn't be helped. Preparations needed to be made.” The wizard said nothing more.

Vereesa gave up. Like most humans, this one cared nothing for anyone but himself. She considered

herself fortunate that she had not had to wait longer. It amazed her that the Alliance could have ever

triumphed against the Horde with so many like this Rhonin in their ranks.

“Well, if you wish to make your passage to Khaz Modan, then it would be best if we left immediately.”

The elf peered behind him. “Where is your mount?”

She half-expected him to tell her that he had none, that he had used his formidable powers to transport

himself all the way here . . . but if that had been the case, Rhonin would not have needed her to guide him

to the ship. As a wizard, he no doubt had impressive abilities, but he also had his limits. Besides, from

what little she knew of his mission, she suspected that Rhonin would need everything he had just to

survive. Khaz Modan was not a land welcoming to outsiders. The skulls of many brave warriors

decorated the orc tents there, so she had heard, and dragons constantly patrolled the skies. No, not a

place even Vereesa would have gone without an army at her side. She was no coward, but she was also

no fool.

“Tied near a trough by the inn, so that he can get some water. I've already ridden long today, milady.”

His use of the title for her might have flattered Vereesa, if not for the slight touch of sarcasm she thought

she noted in his tone. Fighting down her irritation with the human, she turned to her own horse, replaced

the bow and shaft, then proceeded to ready her animal for the ride.

“My horse could do with a few more minutes' rest,” the wizard suggested, “and so could I.”

“You will learn to sleep in the saddle quickly enough . . . and the pace I set at first will enable your steed

to recoup. We have waited far too long. Few ships, even those of Kul Tiras, are endeared to the thought

of sailing to Khaz Modan simply for a wizard on observation duty. If you do not reach port soon, they

may decide that they have more worthy and less suicidal matters with which to deal.”

To her relief, Rhonin did not argue. Instead, with a frown, he turned and headed back toward the inn.

Vereesa watched him depart, hoping that she would not find herself tempted to run him through before

they managed to part company.

She wondered about his mission. True, Khaz Modan remained a threat because of the dragons and their

orc masters there, but the Alliance already had other, more well-trained observers in and around the

land. Vereesa suspected that Rhonin's mission concerned a very serious matter, or else the Kirin Tor

would have never risked so much for this arrogant mage. Still, had they considered the matter well

enough when they had chosen him? Surely there had to have been someone more able—and

trustworthy? This wizard had a look to him, one that spoke of a streak of unpredictability that might lead

to disaster.

The elf tried to shrug off her doubts. The Kirin Tor had made up their minds in this matter, and Alliance

command had clearly agreed with them or else she would not have been sent along to guide him. Best

she put aside any concerns. All she had to do was deliver her charge to his vessel, and then Vereesa

could be on her way. What Rhonin might or might not do after their separation did not concern her in the

least.

For four days they journeyed, never once threatened by anything more dangerous than a few annoying

insects. Had circumstances been different, the trek might have seemed almost idyllic, if not for the fact

that Rhonin and his guide had barely spoken with one another all that time. For the most part, the wizard

had not been bothered much by that fact, his thoughts focused on the dangerous task ahead. Once the

Alliance ship brought him to the shores of Khaz Modan, he would be on his own in a realm still overrun

not only with orcs but patrolled from the sky by their captive dragons. While no coward, Rhonin had little

desire to face torture and slow, agonizing death. For that alone, his benefactor in the council had

provided him with the latest known movements of the Dragonmaw clan. Dragonmaw would be most on

the watch now, especially if, as Rhonin had been told, the black leviathan Deathwing did indeed live.

Yet, as dangerous as the mage's quest appeared, Rhonin would not have turned back. He had been

given an opportunity to not only redeem himself but to advance among the Kirin Tor. For that he would

forever be most grateful to his patron, whom he only knew by the nameKrasus.The title was surely a

false one, not an uncommon practice among those in the ruling council. The masters of Dalaron were

chosen in secret, their ascension known only to their fellows, not even their loved ones. The voice of

Rhonin's benefactor could be nothing like his true voice . . . if male was even the correct gender.

It was possible to guess the identities of some of the inner circle, but Krasus remained an enigma even to

his clever agent. In truth, though, Rhonin barely even cared about Krasus's identity anymore, only that

through him the younger wizard could achieve his own dreams.

But those dreams would remain distant ones if he never made his ship. Leaning forward in the saddle, he

asked, “How much farther to Hasic?”

Without turning, Vereesa blandly replied, “Three more days at least. Do not worry; our pace will now

get us to the port on time.”

Rhonin leaned back again. So much for their latest conversation, only the second of today. The only

thing possibly worse than riding with an elf would have been traveling with one of the dour Knights of the

Silver Hand. Despite their ever-present courtesy, the paladins generally made it clear that they

considered magic an occasional, necessary evil, one with which they would do without at all other times.

The last one that Rhonin had encountered had quite clearly indicated that he believed that, after death, the

mage's soul would be condemned to the same pit of darkness shared by the mythical demons of old. This

no matter how pure Rhonin's soul might have been otherwise.

The late afternoon sun began to sink among the treetops, creating contrasting areas of brightness and

dark shadow among the trees. Rhonin had hoped to reach the edge of the woods before dark, but

clearly they would not do so. Not for the first time, he ran through his mental maps, trying not only to

place their present location but verify what his companion had said about still making the ship. His delay

in meeting with Vereesa had been unavoidable, the product of trying to find necessary supplies and

components. He only hoped it would still not prove to jeopardize his entire mission.

To free the Dragonqueen . . .

An impossible, improbable quest to some, certain death to most. Yet, even during the war, Rhonin had

proposed such. Clearly, if the Dragonqueen were freed, it would at the very least strip from the remaining

orcs one of their greatest weapons. However, circumstance had never enabled such a monumental quest

to come to fruition.

Rhonin knew most of the council hoped he would fail. To be rid of him would be to erase what they

considered a black mark from the history of their order. This mission had a double edge to it; they would

be astounded if he succeeded, but relieved if he failed.

At least he could trust in Krasus. The wizard had first come to him, asking if his younger counterpart still

believed he could do the impossible. Dragonmaw clan would forever retain its hold on Khaz Modan

unless Alexstrasza was freed, and so long as the orcs there continued the work of the Horde, they

remained a possible rallying point for those in the guarded enclaves. No one wanted the war renewed.

The Alliance had enough strife within its own ranks to keep it busy.

A brief rumble of thunder disturbed Rhonin's contemplations. He looked up but saw only a few cottony

clouds. Frowning, the fiery-haired spellcaster turned his gaze toward the elf, intending to ask her if she,

Richard A. Knaak - WarCraft - Day Of The Dragon

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