Tides of Darkness

CHAPTER NINE

"Nekros!"

Zuluhed, chieftain and shaman of the Dragonmaw clan, strode down the long corridor, glaring at every orc that dared get in his way. "Nekros!" he bellowed again.

"Here, I'm here!" Nekros Skullcrusher limped out of a nearby cavern, his wooden leg clanking against the rough stone floor, ducking to keep from bashing his head against the low doorway. "What?"

Zuluhed stopped beside his Second and glared at him.

"How goes the weapon?" Zuluhed demanded, leaning in close. "Is it ready?"

Nekros grinned at him, showing his yellowed tusks. "Come and see for yourself." He turned and limped back the way he had come, and Zuluhed followed, muttering to himself. He hated this place. It was called Grim Batol, or at least the dwarves had named it so, but it had been one of their fortresses then. Now it be longed to the Dragonmaw, and though its chambers were large enough he despised the low—ceilinged corridors and even lower doorways, tall enough for dwarves but barely enough for most orcs. They would have enlarged the openings but stone was difficult to work and they had little time for such frivolities. The fortress was sturdy, carved into the mountain itself, and easily defended, and that was the important thing.

Nekros led him down farther into the fortress, and finally into a vast underground chamber. And there, chained to the wall by heavy links of dark iron, was a sight that still made Zuluhed catch his breath. Filling the room end to end was a vast figure, coiled in about itself either for comfort of from despair, yet still its wingtips brushed the ceiling and its tail lashed at the far wall. Torches guttered along the walls, their light reflecting from scale after scale, gleaming red as blood, red as flame.

A dragon.

Not just any dragon, either. This was Alexstrasza, greatest of the red dragons, mother of her flight, the queen of her people. Perhaps the most powerful creature in this world, strong enough to destroy entire clans with a single sweep of her majestic claws and consume whole ogres with a snap of her mighty jaws.

Yet they had captured her.

Well, Nekros had. The entire clan had sought a dragon for weeks, any dragon, and had at last spied a lone red male flying low above the forest, nursing a wounded wing. Zuluhed had not wanted to think what could have injured such a majestic creature, but it had made their task easier. They had followed the dragon back to its family's lair, a high mountain peak around which dragons flew like birds, dancing upon the air. They had watched that peak for days, unsure what to do next, until Nekros announced that he had tamed the Demon Soul. Then they had slowly, cautiously crept up to the top, and there they had discovered Alexstrasza and her three mates. The Dragonqueen had noticed them immediately, and had killed four orcs in an instant, opening her mouth and dousing them with flames. But then Nekros had stepped forward and subdued her. By himself. He had ordered Alexstrasza and her kin to follow him here, and they had. The rest of the Dragonmaw had sung Nekros's praises that day, the orc who had singlehandedly cowed an entire dragon flight.

But the maimed warrior—warlock would not have been able to do so without Zuluhed, or the artifact he had found. Zuluhed wished he were able to wield the item himself, but the Demon Soul had not responded to him or his shamanic magic. It had only answered to Nekros, and now the peg—legged orc was the only one capable of controlling it.

But that was acceptable. Because that meant it was Nekros who was trapped here in these caves, and Zuluhed who could fight with the rest of the Horde. Not that the peg—legged orc was fit for much else—he had become useless in combat the minute a human had severed his left leg below the knee. Most orcs would have killed themselves then, or at least leaped upon another foe and died in battle. Nekros had survived, though whether from cowardice or ill luck no one could say.

Zuluhed was glad Nekros had. Because though he had found the Demon Soul, Zuluhed had been unable to use it. He had been able to sense the power trapped within the disc, even before he had uncovered it in a small cave deep below the mountains. But that power had remained locked within the gleaming gold artifact. Clearly something other than shaman lore was needed here. Zuluhed had considered bringing the object—which he had named the Demon Soul because he could sense the demon—tainted energy within it, along with some other massive power he could not identify—to Doomhammer, but had decided against it. The Warchief was a powerful warrior and a noble orc but he had no experience with or understanding of magic. Gul'dan had been another possibility, but Zuluhed did not trust the wily chief warlock. He remembered when Gul'dan had been young and apprenticed to Ner'zhul. Now there had been a shaman! Wise and noble, revered by all, Ner'zhul had worked for the betterment of not only his own clan but all the orcs. It had been he who had first brought them strange gifts of knowledge and power from ancient spirits, and he who had encouraged and cemented stronger bonds between the different clans.

For a time, all had been good. Then it had all gone wrong. The spirits had proven false, and their own ancestor spirits stopped speaking to them, out of anger. The shaman had lost their powers, leaving their clans defenseless from magical attack. And then Gul'dan had stepped forward. The former apprentice supplanted his master and claimed to have found a new way, a new source of magic. He offered to teach the other shaman. And many had accepted his offer, becoming warlocks.

Not Zuluhed, however. He had not trusted Gul'dan, who had always struck him as self—serving. And these strange powers smacked of the demonic. It was horror enough that the ancestors no longer spoke to him, and that the elements no longer answered his call. He would not sully himself further by consorting with such unnatural powers as Gul'dan offered.

Zuluhed had not been the only shaman to refuse, of course. But most had accepted. And then they had changed, growing larger and darker, as if their bodies reflected the taint within. Their world had suffered depredations as well, the land dying bit by bit and the skies turning red. The Horde was forced to come to this strange world instead, and they had to conquer it if they wanted their clans to ever know peace again.

Nekros had shown promise as an apprentice shaman, and Zuluhed had held hopes for him. But when Gul'dan had offered other magics Nekros had jumped at them. The young orc had learned the warlock skills well, but something had made him step away, leaving all that behind to become a warrior once more. It had renewed Zuluhed's faith in the younger orc. He had never asked what had caused the change, but knew it had something to do with loyalties—Gul'dan and his Shadow Council, or the Dragonmaw clan. Nekros had chosen his clan. After that Zuluhed had begun to confide in him again, and to ask the warrior for advice whenever forced to deal with the warlocks. It had been to Nekros that he had brought the disc, and though maimed the warrior—warlock had not failed him. It was thanks to Nekros that they stood here today, ready to see their plans set in motion.

"So," Zuluhed said, starting to walk closer to the great beast. "Have we—" He stopped as Nekros extended a thick arm, blocking his path.

"Wait," the grizzled orc warned. He pulled the Demon Soul from a pouch at his belt, holding the large, featureless gold disc aloft. "Come," he called.

As Zuluhed watched, a rush of tiny sparks appeared from throughout the chamber and flew together, coalescing into a shape. The shape gained dimension, depth, and detail, forming a tall, powerfully built humanoid wearing strange bone—like armor. Its head was shaped like a skull but rimmed in flame, and its eyes were balls of black fire. The creature towered over them, as tall as an orc but less oafish, radiating power and vigilance.

"We will enter," Nekros told it, holding the Demon Soul before him. The strange creature burst into a shower of sparks again, scattering through the room, and the maimed orc nodded for his chieftain to continue.

Zuluhed advanced again, cautiously at first in case the creature had not in fact left. But it had—whatever it was, Nekros's hold over it seemed absolute. Which was good, since they had both seen what could happen otherwise. One of their clan members had rushed into the chamber at one point, bearing a message from Doomhammer, and had not waited for Nekros to dismiss the warden. The creature had appeared from nowhere and its large, fiery skeletal hands had grasped the unwary orc's head on either side. Flames had sprung up then, consuming the hapless messenger. Within seconds his shrieking stopped, his body going limp as his head collapsed in on itself, a mere pile of cinders.

Now, however, the chieftain was able to walk into the cavern unmolested, and he approached the Dragonqueen, stopping just beyond the reach of her chains. Her massive triangular head swiveled to watch him, those great yellow orbs staring unblinking as he studied her in turn.

"Have you come to gloat then, little orc? Have you not tormented me and harmed my children enough?" Alexstrasza demanded. Her jaws snapped in fury, but the chains held her fast, their natural strength enhanced by the power of the artifact.

"Not to gloat," Zuluhed told her, still awed by her sheer size and power, "just to make sure all is arranged. You understand what will happen to you if you refuse us?"

"That has been made abundantly clear," she replied, her words sharp with anger and grief, and she turned to look pointedly toward the cavern's far corner. A handful of pale objects lay clustered there, and though he could not see them well from here Zuluhed knew they were paper—thin and mottled gold. They were the remains of an enormous egg, the size of a large orc's head. A dragon egg.

When they had first captured Alexstrasza she had refused to cooperate. Nekros had solved the problem by seizing one of her unhatched eggs, holding it before the captive queen's face, and smashing it with his fist, spattering himself and her with the yolk. Her shrieks had all but deafened them, and her thrashing had knocked several orcs to the ground, breaking limbs on two of them. But the chains had held, and after that she had cooperated, albeit reluctantly. Anything to avoid seeing more of her children destroyed unborn.

"You will not succeed," Alexstrasza informed him. "You have chained me but my children will defy you, and win their freedom."

"Not while we have this," Nekros replied, showing her the disc. He frowned, clearly concentrating, and the Dragonqueen's body arced in pain, a thin hiss escaping her clenched jaws.

"I…will…kill…you…someday," she warned, still writhing in agony, her eyes narrowed in both pain and hatred.

Nekros laughed. "Perhaps," he agreed. "But until then you and yours will serve the Horde." Zuluhed gestured and Nekros nodded, following him from the cavern. The queen snapped at air behind them, her act of defiance meaningless after their own show of power.

Zuluhed led the way down another corridor and into a second, even larger chamber. This one opened along the side of the mountain, and beyond it fiery shapes flew, flashes of color against the darkening sky.

"Release her!" one of them demanded, swooping close, claws outstretched, jaws open. "Release our mother!"

"Never!" Nekros held up the Demon Soul, and the approaching dragon screamed in pain, twisting to stay aloft as its body trembled and spasmed. The other dragons backed off slightly, though they continued to wheel about overhead.

"Your mother is our captive, as are her mates," Zuluhed shouted, knowing the dragons could hear him despite their altitude. "They will remain so. You and all their children will serve us, serve the Horde, or she will die screaming from the same pain you just felt. And with her your flight will die, for without Alexstrasza there will be no more red dragon hatchlings. You will be the last of your kind."

The dragons cried out in anger, but Zuluhed knew they would obey. He had seen the bond between mother and child and it was strong, strong enough to force them to obedience. As long as Alexstrasza thought there was hope for her children she would serve them by producing litter upon litter of dragon eggs. And as long as she and three of her mates were their captives her children would serve as well, in the hopes of one day freeing their mother.

Zuluhed grinned, watching the young dragons soaring above him. Even now his orcs were hard at work, fashioning leather straps and reins and seats. Soon they would bring the first red dragon down into this cave, and fit him with a harness and a saddle. He would hate that, of course—the dragons were fiercely independent, and no one had ever dared ride them before. But his clan would.

This was what he had promised Doomhammer, and the Warchief had been enthused about the project. This would be their secret weapon. The humans had troops and cavalry and ships, but they could not take to the air. With the dragons under his control, and loyal orcs astride them, Zuluhed could strike at the humans from above and then swoop back out of their reach. The dragons were powerful foes physically, with their claws and their jaws and their tails, but it was their fiery breath that would truly devastate the humans. Fire would rain down upon them, destroying them and their equipment, and there was nothing they could do to stop it. With the dragons on their side, the Horde would be invincible.

And he, Zuluhed of the Dragonmaw clan, was responsible. Without those visions he would never have found the Demon Soul, or sensed that it was somehow linked with the dragons, and without its powers—and Nekros to unlock them—they could not have enslaved Alexstrasza. But they had, and soon the first dragon—riders would take to the air, joining the rest of the Horde and awaiting Doomhammer's commands.

Zuluhed grinned. All was going according to plan.