"I am honored," Goreflend started to say but Deathwing silenced him with an impatient wave of his hand. His eyes glittered like banked coals as he continued, 'Don't get too full of yourself, death knight. I do not do it to show you respect, but to ensure success. My plans will come to naught if you fail. I suggest you don't, not if you wish to remain alive — well, at least as alive as you are now."
Deathwing smirked slightly. Then he began to laugh, the sound rising from an ordinary human laugh to mutate into something much darker and much more frightening. He threw his head back and lifted his arms, the gesture stirring up a wind that buffeted Gorefiend and the others against the rocks behind them. What was he doing? Goreflend wondered for a frantic moment if this whole thing had been some sort of dreadful joke, and that at last Deathwing had tired of the game. The flames of their dying campfires flickered and swayed in the sudden gust, casting grotesque dancing shadows. Behind the maniacally laughing man, Deathwing's own shadow swelled and grew, twisting as if it were a living thing itself, changing form as it rose behind him, vast wings spreading out across the mountain range, engulfing all his dragons and much of the surrounding land as well. For a third time that night, the earth trembled, and this time many of the orcs fell hard to the ground. Sudden fissures split open, scalding steam rippling the space above them, red-orange magma in their depths echoing the liquid flame that dripped from the dragons' mouths.
Even as his shadow rose and took on more detail, Deathwings human body contorted. Its edges grew indistinct, as if it were being absorbed into the shadows behind him. Only his eyes remained clear, growing longer and more slanted, taking on a reddish cast from the reflected glow of the flames but then outshining those thin fires.
Still the shadow grew, as did the shifting, blurring body that cast it. It seemed to have its own substance now, and was somehow pushing away from the rocks. The body elongated and increased in bulk, changing rapidly to match its shadow. A black dragon, yes, but more — the black dragon, the mightiest, most powerful, most dangerous of them all; the father of the flight.
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!"