The smile Deathwing turned upon the Bonechewer chieftain froze any further interruptions in the orc’s throat. "My plans are my own, orc," the dragon-man said quietly, his voice almost a hiss. "But don't worry. It will not hinder your own plotting."
Gorefiend considered the offer. He needed dragons, whatever their color, for their plan to work. If he accepted the bargain, he would not need to deal with Rend again after all, though he might pound some humility into the self-styled warchief later if he had the chance. He didn't know what Deathwing was up to, but as long as it didn't interrupt their own plans he didn't see a problem with granting the dragon's request.
"Very well, Deathwing," he said finally.
"Lord Deathwing." He smiled without humor, and there was an edge to his voice. "Let's observe the proprieties, shall we?"
Gorefiend inclined his head. "Of course, Lord Deathwing. I agree. We will give your — people and cargo safe passage. But first I have a mission to accomplish in the north. I need to retrieve some cargo of my own."
"Very well," Deathwing agreed. He rose gracefully to his feet. "I will speak to my children and inform them of this bargain. When I return, I shall help expedite this task of yours." He dusted his hands off, although he had touched nothing, and without another word he strode into the shadows.
"Right," Gorefiend said after a moment, when he was sure the dragon was gone and not about to leap out at them from the darkness. "Let's pack up. We need to get moving, and we don't have much time."' The others hastened to obey, all of them clearly happy to focus their attention upon breaking camp rather than on the strange figure who had just allied himself with them. Gorefiend just hoped Deathwing really was an ally — if he proved otherwise, there was nothing they could do to stop him.
Two figures, male and female, turned at Deathwing's approach as they waited, not far from the orc’s encampment. The man was powerfully made and wore a short dark beard and neat mustache, while the woman was petite and had pale skin and long flowing straight hair. Both had glossy black hair and features similar to those Deathwing sported in his human guise.
'What news, Father?" the woman asked, her voice like silk over iron.
"They have agreed, as I knew they would, Onyxia," Deathwing replied. He stroked his daughter's cheek and she leaned her face into his hand, smiling up at him. "Soon we shall have two worlds at our disposal instead of one." He kissed her pale brow, then turned to her brother. "But I have another task for you while I am gone."
"Name it, Father," the man replied, "and it shall be done."
Deathwing smiled. "There are still orcs within Blackrock Spire. They have severed ties with their kin, and refuse to rejoin the Horde. That leaves them ripe for the plucking." His smile widened as he reached out to clasp his son by the shoulder. "When I return, Nefarian, I want this Rend Blackhand. You two will take control of the mountain and the orcs living in it. They will become our servants."
Nefarian grinned, his expression a mirror of his father's. "Little could be easier. We'll have the orcs and their mountain fortress waiting for you," he promised.
"Excellent." Deathwing regarded his children for a moment, then nodded. "Now I must return to our new allies, and aid them in their little tasks, that they may the more quickly turn to mine."
As their father returned the way he had come, Onyxia bared her teeth in a feral smile. "Well, brother, shall we go see to our new home and our new subjects?''
"Indeed we shall, sister," Nefarian replied with a laugh. "Good sport ahead, I think." He offered his arm, which she accepted, curling delicate, pale fingers around his powerful bicep, and together they vanished into the shadows.
A heartbeat later, the sound of great wings flapping overhead blended into the evening breeze.
CHAPTER NINE
"Faster! Faster, damn you!" Danath lashed the reins against his steed's neck. His horse whickered in protest, its mouth flecked with foam, but obeyed.
Danath didn't hear the sound of the horse's increasingly rapid hoofbeats on hard-packed earth. He heard only the sound of primitive weapons striking home, the grunts and howls of savagery, the cries of his men as they fell, taken by surprise at that strange darkness that had abruptly dropped to reveal the orcs waiting for them. They'd been led right into a trap. There was no time to strategize, no time to do anything but fight, and too many were so taken aback they didn't even have time to swing before the green tide had washed over them.
Danath closed his eyes, but he still saw them fall. Horses and men both, going down beneath the onslaught that was as efficient as it was brutal and barbaric. He'd been looking right at Farrol, about to cry out a warning, when a huge orc had literally barreled into the boy's horse and unseated him. The boy went down at once. Danath didn't see Farrol die, but he thought he'd hear his screams for the rest of his life. Farrol, all afire with a desire for battle and glory, wanting to go kill his first orc. He hadn't even had a chance to strike a blow.
Danath had realized at once, sickened, that they would fail.
His men had seen it too. And they'd known what must be done.
"Commander! Get to the fortress!" Vann had urged him, even as he struggled with a much larger opponent wielding a club. "Tell them! We'll cover you!"
Other soldiers had added their voices in monosyllables, agreeing. Danath hesitated, feeling ripped in two. Stay here and fight with his men, or flee to perhaps save them?
"Go!" Vann cried, turning his head to shout at his commander. Their eyes met. "For the Sons of Lo—"
The orc had struck in that second of inattention, his club descending with deadly force. Danath had wheeled his horse around before Vann fell, and had spurred it on, screaming insanely at the beast, galloping away from the carnage and toward the fortress. Away from Farrol, and Vann, and all the others he had led here to their deaths.
Danath bit his lip hard enough to draw blood.
They'd been right, of course. Someone had to warn Nethergarde, and he had the authority and familial connections to make himself heard. His experience and leadership skills, too, could not afford to be lost.
But by the Light, he'd never done anything harder in his life than leave his men behind. He cursed softly, shook his head to clear it, and yelled at the horse again.
The trail twisted and turned in the life-drained land. Red dust rose beneath his horse's hooves. Danath clung like a burr and glanced up at one point to see the vast stone walls of Nethergarde Keep. Already he could see guards atop its parapets, pointing down at him and no doubt alerting others to his approach.
'Open the gates!" he shouted as loud as he could, holding his shield high before him so they could see the Alliance symbol emblazoned there. "Open the gates!"
The heavy timber and iron gates slowly parted, and he galloped on through without slowing. Once inside Danath slipped from his saddle and turned to the nearest soldier. "Who's in charge here?" he demanded, realizing he was gasping for breath.
"Sir, state your name and business, please," the soldier replied.
"I don't have time for this," Danath growled, grabbing the soldier by his breastplate collar and drawing him close. "Who's in charge?"
"I am," a voice said from behind him. Danath released the soldier and spun around, to find himself facing a tall, broad-shouldered man in the violet robes that marked him as one of the Dalaran wizards. The man had long white hair and a matching beard, but behind the lines on his face his eyes were young and alert.