"No!" Deathwing, if such a thing were possible, looked utterly taken aback. He craned his neck to look at the damage, at the crunched, warped metal, the seeping magma, then turned glowing eyes on Khadgar. "You may have won this battle, I give you that. But hear this, and hear it well, I have seen you, mage."

Khadgar gulped, unable to tear his gaze away.

"I have burned your face into my memory," Deathwing continued, his voice reverberating along Khadgar's bones. "I will haunt your dreams and your waking moments alike. Rest assured, I will come for you, and when at last I do, you will beg me for your death as the only respite from your terror."

His mighty wings unfurled again, his claws spas­ming open to release both Gruul and the skull, and Deathwing took to the air, his wings beating hard as he fled the mountains. Khadgar's legs, which had been shaking, finally collapsed and he sat on the ground for a long moment, gasping and acutely aware that he'd just been terribly, terribly lucky.

With their father and ruler gone, the remaining black dragons seemed to lose heart and focus. One of the larger creatures abandoned the fight immediately, his body covered with heavy gashes and one wing bent at an odd angle.

"Father," he cried, leaning back to snap at where the smaller gronn had his tail in a death grip. "Father, wait for me!" Spitting magma, the dragon burned the gronn's hands until he released his hold, then took off after Deathwing.

With the horror that was Deathwing forced into re­treat, the ogres and the gronn seemed to go mad for slaughter. They descended upon those dragons that had not escaped in time, ripping them apart with huge meaty fists and teeth, crunching their throats, lifting the bodies to the skies, and then impaling the still-writhing drakes upon the rocky spires.

Khadgar took advantage of the confusion to grab up the skull Deathwing had dropped.

Human… but powerful. What great potential I sense here! But that is to be expected, is it not, from the young ap­prentice to Medivh? You can become stronger yet, if you have the courage to embrace your destiny. Why not become my ap­prentice? I will teach you that blood and slaughter are the keys to true —

"Ah!" Khadgar gasped, almost dropping the skull. Gul’dan! He griitcd his teeth and shuttered his mind. Even dead, it would seem, Gul'dan was a danger. Quickly he stashed the skull in a pouch and hurried back to where Turalyon and the others still fought.

"I have the skull," he told Turalyon, finding his friend just backing away from a dragon's death throes.

"Well done." Turalyon said. "Now let's get out of here. We retreat. Now." Their men were quickly gath­ered, and Alleria rounded up her rangers. The ogres and the gronn were too busy tormenting the dragons to even notice their departure.

Turalyon led them quickly back out of the moun­tains. "Your gamble worked, Khadgar, and brilliantly," he told his friend once they were well clear of the val­ley and its carnage. "We got the skull, and we dealt with the dragons — they won't be aiding the Horde again any time soon."

Khadgar thought about Deathwing's parting threat and couldn't suppress a shiver. He wasn't so sure Turalyon's optimism was warranted. Nevertheless, he nod­ded as if he believed it. "All that's left is Ner’zhul. Once I get that book, I can close the portal for good."

All that was left was stopping a powerful shaman, one who had the powers of the skies and the earth, from opening portals into countless worlds. Still, they'd just dealt an extremely powerful dragon a setback. Who knew, maybe they'd be able to do this after all. One thing was certain. If they didn't stop the orcs now, on Draenor … they would never stop them.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

"Village up ahead," Ba'rak reported, leaning over with his hands on his legs as he struggled to catch his breath. Dried blood still coated his side beneath the rough bandages they'd rigged for him after Kargath Bladefist had ordered the Shattered Hand clan to abandon Hellfire Citadel. Yet Ba'rak was actually one of the least injured among their little band.

Which was why they were here.

"I'll go on by myself," Kargath told Ba'rak and the others. "I will make better time." He glanced around at the other orcs. "Heal quickly. When I return we'll set out for the Black Temple."

As he walked, Kargath wondered how it had come to this. True, when Ner’zhul had given him those orders to stay behind and delay the Alliance at Hellfire Citadel. it had been obvious the shaman did not expect them to survive. Nor was death in battle a problem for Kargath or any of his Shattered Hand orcs. But dying with honor was one thing — dying for no reason was another. And leaving Ner’zhul and the others defenseless against the Alliance would bring dishonor on them and their entire clan, even if they had died in the process. That was why, when he had seen that the Alliance had conquered the citadel and shattered all their defenses. Kargath had gathered what warriors he could find and had set out for the Black Temple itself. But he'd had fewer than he'd hoped, and many of them had been so badly wounded they hadn't even survived the first night. Now he had only a handful left, none of them uninjured.

He stalked on, a part of him noting the landscape around him. Most of Draenor resembled Hellfire Penin­sula, with its cracked red ground and bare stretches. Why, then, was this region still so green? Lush grass cushioned his steps, and clumps of bushes alternated with tall trees. Nagrand had clearly not been touched by the same desolation as the rest of their world, but why?

It was ironic, in a way — the greenest, healthiest part of Draenor, and it was home to sick and weakened orcs. As he crested a low hill, Kargath saw the village spread out before him. Its tightly built walls, domed roofs, and plank porches were in the same style as most orc vil­lages, including his own. For a second Kargath enter­tained die notion of bringing his warriors here, chasing out the current inhabitants, and claiming the village as their own. They could let the war pass them by — Ner’zhul did not expect to see any of them again, so he wouldn't be surprised when they never appeared. They could let the Horde go on to other worlds and live out their days here instead, tending herds and crops and battling whatever beasts lived in the forests whenever they felt the old bloodlust rise.

But no, Kargath scolded himself. He had sworn an oath to fight for the Horde. How could he live with himself — or look any of his warriors in the eye — if he did not give them his all? Besides, he thought with a shiver, claiming this village would mean facing its cur­rent residents, and he didn't think any of his warriors were up for that.

Walking down the hill, Kargath approached the vil­lage cautiously. He saw a few orcs moving around slug­gishly, patches of brown against the green of their surroundings, but they hadn't noticed him yet. When he was still a hundred feet or so from the nearest hut, Kargath slowed to a halt/

"Geyah!" he shouted, breaking into a short spate of coughing as the deep breath exacerbated his injuries. "Greatmother Geyah!" The orcs he'd noticed earlier looked up, startled, then disappeared into the nearest huts. Hopefully they were summoning Geyah, Kargath thought bitterly. He doubted he had the strength for another shout right now.

A moment later the curtains over a hut entrance rus­tled and then were pushed aside. Greatmother Geyah emerged and stomped toward him, squinting against the sunlight. "Who's there?" she called out, her voice as sharp as ever. "Kargath Bladefist, chieftain of the Shattered Hand clan," he replied, forcing himself to stand up straight as she approached.

"Kargath, eh? I've not seen you for many a year," Geyah commented. She finally stopped halfway be­tween him and the huts and met his gaze. Her eyes were still violet, Kargath noted, and her long hair was still thick, if streaked with gray. She didn't look ill. Impatient, though. And the curl of her lip — was that revulsion he saw there?