Gorefiend thought he would be the most perfect specimen of his kind, but as the shape before him grew more distinct, the death knight realized that Deathwing lacked the dark beauty of his children. Giant plates made of gleaming metal ran along the dragon's spine from the tail to the back of the long narrow head. Be­neath them Gorefiend caught glimpses of red and gold and white in radiating lines, as if molten fire were somehow… breaking through. As if the metallic plates fastened onto Deathwing's spine were physically hold­ing him together. The effect was disjointed, disharmo­nious, and suddenly Gorefiend realized why Deathwing was so meticulous about his appearance in human form — his dragon form was flawed.

Red eyes blazed now from a reptilian face. Deathwing spread his wings wide, their great leathery sur­faces as dark as a starless sky and as wrinkled as an old crone. Power pulsated from the dragon in waves, like heat from a raging fire.

"Come, little death knight, if you dare," Deathwing commanded, his voice now a deep rumble. He lowered his head almost to the ground, and Gorefiend actually found himself frozen in place for a moment before he forced his body to obey. Trembling, he clambered up onto the dragon where his neck met his heavily ar­mored shoulders. Fortunately, the unnatural metal plates provided easy handholds. The others emulated him, and soon all Gorefiend's band were astride the dragons.

With no warning, Deathwing launched himself into the air with a powerful kick and a downward sweep of his wings, lifting them up into the sky by sheer muscle alone. Gorefiend clung tightly as the ground fell away, and then Deathwing's wings beat down and back, and again, and they were soaring, the air supporting them as if the massive dragon were as light as a stray leaf. Sabellian and his chosen followers split off, racing forward and disappearing into the night, while Deathwing banked to the right, that wing dipping so low Gorefiend thought it might scrape the ground, and headed for Alterac.

Aiden Perenolde, king of Alterac and prisoner in his own palace, awoke with a start. He had been dreaming, and still remembered vague flashes of something large and dark and reptilian looming above him and… laughing? Perhaps, he thought bitterly, it was a metaphor for his fate.

He rubbed his face, chasing away the nightmare, but sleep would not return. Muttering, Perenolde rose from his bed. Perhaps some wine would help. He poured himself a glass of the dark red liquid — red as blood, he mused — and sipped it slowly, thinking about the choices that had led him here.

It had seemed so easy at the time. So wise, so right. The orcs were going to destroy everything in their path. So he'd negotiated with them to save his people. He frowned into his glass as he remembered his con­versation with Orgrim Doomhammer. It was going to work just fine — except somehow it hadn't. His so-called "treachery" had been discovered, and the orcs had failed to do the one thing they apparently excelled at — destroy things. Stupid great green oafs.

The doors to his bedchamber suddenly burst open. Perenolde started at the noise, spilling the wine all over his sleeping clothes, as several large figures charged in.

For an instant he simply gaped, caught up in the sensa­tion that he was still in a reverie as the great green oafs he'd just been brooding about charged into his private chambers. Things got even more surreal as the orcs — what were orcs doing in his palace?—seized him and shoved him to the door. Recovering his wits slightly, Perenolde tried to twist away. Without breaking stride, one of them hoisted the king over his shoulder like a sack of grain and they continued. They stalked through the palace, past the bodies of Perenolde's guards, and out the front doors. Then the orcs set Perenolde on his feet again.

"No! Please, I—" His cries died in his throat. A vast creature, large as the palace itself, loomed above him, a mass of black scales and gleaming plates and leathery wings. The long head, easily as big as he was, swiveled to study him, the red eyes glowing.

"King Perenolde." The dry voice did not seem to em­anate from the dragon's long fang-filled mouth, and with a start Perenolde realized the creature was not alone. Someone sat astride its neck, up against its shoul­ders. Or perhaps something, Perenolde corrected him­self, noting the riders glowing eyes, hooded cloak, and strange wrapped limbs. Hadn't he heard of such crea­tures during the Second War? As agents of the Horde?

"King Perenolde," the rider said again. "We have come to speak with you."

"Yes?" Perenolde replied, his voice little more than a squeak. "With me? Really?"

"During the war, you formed a treaty with the Horde."

"Yes?" Perenolde made the connection. "Yes!" he said quickly. "Yes, I did. With Doomhammer himself! I was an ally! I am on your side!"

"Where is the Book of Medivh?" the strange rider demanded. "Give it to me!"

"What?" The incongruity of the question momen­tarily banished Perenolde's fear. "The book? Why?"

"I have no time for debate," the rider snapped. He muttered something else, gesturing with one hand, and suddenly Perenolde was racked with pain, his entire body spasming. "That is but a taste of what I can do to you," the stranger informed him, the words reaching Perenolde as if from a great distance as the pain washed across him. "Hand over the spellbook now!"

Perenolde tried to nod but could not, and fell to his hands and knees instead. Then the pain was gone. He stood slowly, his limbs still trembling, and eyed the two powerful creatures before him, the dragon's burning gaze searing deep into his soul. Somehow that stare seemed less troubling than it had before. The pain had helped clear Perenolde's head and focus his mind. This could be an opportunity if he could just keep his wits about him.

"I have the book," he admitted. "Or rather, I had it stolen from Stormwind and I know where it is." He brushed absently at the wine stain on his sleeping clothes. "I thought I might need it as a bargaining chip. The Alliance has claimed my throne and my kingdom because I helped your kind in the last war." He studied the rider — a death knight, he thought, suddenly re­membering the term. Yes, clearly he was a death knight, which meant he held some importance in the Horde.

Perenolde considered. "I will give you the book… for a favor." The rider did not speak, but something in his bearing indicated he was still listening. "The Alliance has stationed troops here in my kingdom, to watch me and to control me. Destroy them, and the book is yours."

For a second the rider did not move. Then he nod­ded. "Very well," he replied. "It shall be done. We will return afterward and you will tell us where to find the book." The death knight whispered something to the black dragon and it leaped skyward, his wings carrying him aloft. A rustling all around startled Perenolde, fol­lowed by the sight of several more dark shapes taking flight.

Perenolde stared as the black dragons flew from sight, and then he started to laugh. Could it be that simple? Trade an old spellbook — one he could not use himself — for his freedom and his kingdom's indepen­dence? He continued to laugh, aware of the manic quality the peals held.

"What's going on?" came a voice. Perenolde started, then realized it was his eldest son. "That… that was a dragon … and I think a death knight!" Aliden continued in a shocked tone. "What did you say to them? How did you convince them to leave?"

Perenolde laughed on, unable to stop himself. "Damn it. Father!" Aliden burst out, punching his fa­ther in the jaw hard enough to send the older man sprawling. "Two years I've spent trying to overcome the stigma you've cast on our family name. Two years!" Aliden glared down at his father, tears streaking his face. "You stupid, selfish bastard, you've ruined every­thing!"