Danath nodded. "That's the plan. Thank you for your help. It has been an honor fighting alongside you.”

"For us as well," Boulestraan replied, bowing. "You and your Alliance arc noble warriors, and honorable people. I wish you well, Danath Trollbane. We go to our rest, until summoned again." Then he and his war­riors faded away, leaving only soft glows behind, until those diffused as well.

Danath turned to Nemuraan. On impulse, he said, "Come with us. This is no place to live, and you can serve your people more by leaving here and returning to the world. We would even take you to Azeroth with us, if you liked."

Nemuraan smiled. "Truly your world must be a wondrous place, to have produced such a people," he complimented, "and I appreciate your offer. But no, my place is here. Our dead remain in this world — honor­ably laid to rest in Auchindoun, or scattered in the for­est, even paving the path the orcs misname the Path of Glory. Here they lie, in Draenor, and here I stay, to tend them. The Holy Light has placed us here for a reason, and some day it will triumph over all. Until then, I re­joice in the knowledge that I have aided you, and that you and your people carry the Light as well. Go forth, and let your courage and strength drive the orcs before you like chaff before the strong wind. And who knows? Perhaps one day our peoples will indeed battle such evil side by side." He hesitated. “A favor, before you go?"

Danath nodded. "Name it."

"Do not let that one undo what the Light has wrought. A noble and fierce warrior he is to be sure, but wisdom marks a warrior as much as bravery." He indicated Kurdran, who scowled and colored slightly. In the midst of his worry, Danath managed a small smile.

"I'll do what I can — but you see how stubborn he is."

"Bah, the lot of ye."

"Come on, walking wounded," Danath said to Kur­dran. "We've a Black Temple to take." And with a final nod to the Auchcnai, Danath Trollbane headed back into the corridors of the city of the dead, hoping that Nemuraan's prayers for the Alliance would be an­swered.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

"Don't worry — we're still on the right track," Khadgar felt compelled to say as the group stopped for a rest and to drink some precious water. They needed the reassurance.

They had traveled north from the orcish citadel, skirting the savage coastline to the east. The ground had remained consistent with what they had seen near the portal itself, though less severe: cracked earth, gray, dusty soil, withered plants and trees. They had passed patches of greenery here and there, but most of Draenor was dreary and desolate and bitter.

Now the ground around them had grown more un­even, its dips and rises more significant, and wind whipped by on all sides. Most assuredly a mountain range, but like none he'd ever seen. Stone spikes pro­truded from the cliff walls around them, jutting out­ward in every direction as if the peaks themselves were hungry for blood. The rock was a dull reddish brown, too, the color of dried blood, and the sky seemed a vivid scarlet in comparison. It was one of the most un­welcoming places he'd ever encountered, and he sus­pected the shudder that passed through him had as much to do with that as with the sharp winds knifing among the spikes.

Idly, Khadgar reached out to touch the nearest spike, but stopped just short of actual contact — perhaps tempting the fates was not the best plan. "The skull is not far," he said again.

"You're certain?" Turalyon asked.

"Oh, trust me, I'm certain." He could sense its pres­ence in his head without even searching now, a dull pulse just behind the eyes that almost became visible when he squeezed them shut. Definitely close.

"Good," Turalyon replied, hefting his hammer and eyeing the spikes. "I've had enough of this place."

"I think we—" began Khadgar, but Alleria lifted a commanding hand for silence.

"Listen!"

Khadgar strained to hear, but his ears were not as sharp as an elf's. Moments passed; all he heard were the winds. And then — there it was, a sort of flapping sound, like wings, but somehow sharper than those of any bird he knew. The only creature he'd ever encoun­tered that made a noise like that in flight was —

"Dragon!" he shouted, grabbing Turalyon and yank­ing his friend down as he dove to the ground himself. Just behind him he heard an angry roar and a hiss.

White-hot pain blossomed in his arm, and even as he sucked in his breath at the agony he heard more hiss­ing. There was a smoking hole in his sleeve, and a nasty-looking burn in his arm below that. The hissing was the sound of something eating away at the rocks below them as well. Magma. Krasus had said that black dragons spat magma.

Glancing up, Khadgar saw several small dark forms flit among the spikes and then rise and swoop back around. "Shields up!" Turalyon shouted, rising to his feet, "and weapons at the ready! They're not fully grown dragons — We can take them!"

Turalyon was right. The creatures attacking them were no larger than the horses, perhaps six feet long, but with a wingspan wider than that. They had small heads and only a few spikes along their back, and Khadgar real­ized that these must be an immature form. Drakes, he remembered Krasus calling them once. Yes. drakes.

"Drakes — young dragons," he warned Turalyon, rais­ing his staff as the black drakes circled for a second at­tack. "Not as strong as their parents, but still dangerous."

Turalyon nodded, but his focus was on the attacking creatures. He was back in his element now, and had set­tled at once into the military commander mind-set.

"Archers, fire at will!" he shouted. Beside him Alleria began loosing arrows at the small, agile creatures. One of her shots took a drake through the throat, the power of her longbow propelling the shaft clean through the dragon youth's lighter scales, and the thing reared up, clearly in pain. A second arrow pierced its eye and brain, and it fell to the ground with a croak and lay still.

That heartened the soldiers, and they swung with enthusiasm, swatting at the young dragons and duck­ing to avoid the creatures' small but sharp claws and the fist-sized gobbets of lava they spewed. The drakes shot past them, then banked, circling back. There were fewer of them now — several of their fellows lay dead among the spikes.

Turalyon turned to say something else to Khadgar — and stopped, toppling without warning and catching himself just in time to avoid being impaled upon the nearest duster of stone spikes. Everyone was stagger­ing about, trying to keep their footing, as the ground it­self danced beneath them.

"What in the name of the Light?" Turalyon asked, his words jarred out of him; then he was staring back and to the left of Khadgar.

Afraid to see but terrified of not knowing, Khadgar glanced behind himself.

And almost fell over from shock.

The creature pounding through — not around but through — the stone spikes was monstrous even com­pared with an ogre. It stood easily twice as tall as those giant creatures, its skin as thick and rough as rock, sweeping designs carved into its arms and shoulders. A ridge of dark spikes ran like a miniature mountain range down its back, and more spikes protruded from its shoulders and upper arms. But the face — the face was perhaps the most horrific thing of all. It resembled that of an ogre, but was far more intelligent. The crea­ture had no tusks but its teeth were long and sharp and yellowing, its cars pointed and tufted, and its single eye glaring and glowing — and fastened on them.

"Intruders!'' the behemoth shouted, the force of his cry cracking stone all around them. "Crush them!"

More figures emerged from the stone thicket to the east and west. These were ogres of the same type — and size — that Khadgar had encountered before, and they snarled and growled and laughed as they moved to­ward the Alliance soldiers.