Book Description
Many months have passed since the cataclysmic Battle of
Mount Hyjal, where the demonic Burning Legion was banished from
Azeroth forever. But now, a mysterious energy rift within the
mountains of Kalimdor propels three former warriors into the
distant past -- a time long before orcs, humans or even high elves
roamed the land. A time when the Dark Titan Sargeras, and his demon
pawns persuaded Queen Azshara and her Highborne to cleanse Azeroth
of its lesser races. A time when the Dragon Aspects were at the
height of their power -- unaware that one of their own would soon
usher in an age of darkness that would engulf the world of...War
Craft.
In the first chapter of this epic trilogy, the outcome of
the historic War of the Ancients is forever altered by the arrival
of three time-lost heroes: Krasus, the dragon mage whose great
power and memories of the ancient conflict have inexplicably
diminished; the human wizard Rhonin, whose thoughts are divided
between his family and the seductive source of his now-growing
power; and Broxigar, a weathered orc veteran who seeks a glorious
death in combat. But unless these unlikely allies can convince the
demigod, Cenarius, and the untrusting night elves of their queen''s
treachery, the burning Legion''s gateway into Azeroth will open
anew. And this time -- the struggles of the past may well spill
over into the future...
The tall, forbidding palace perched atop the very edge of
the mountainous cliff, overlooking so precariously the vast, black
body of water below that it appeared almost ready to plummet into
the latter''s dark depths. When first the vast, walled edifice had
been constructed, using magic that melded both stone and forest
into a single, cohesive form, it had been a wonder to touch the
heart of any who saw it. Its towers were trees strengthened by
rock, with jutting spires and high, open windows. The walls were
volcanic stone raised up, then bound tightly by draping vines and
giant roots. The main palace at the center had originally been
created by the mystical binding of more than a hundred giant,
ancient trees. Bent in together, they had formed the skeleton of
the rounded center, over which the stone and vines had been
set.
A wonder to touch the hearts of all when first it had been
built, now it touched the fears of some. An unsettling aura
enshrouded it, one heightened this stormy night. The few who peered
at the ancient edifice now quickly averted their gaze.
Those who looked instead to the waters below it found no
peace, either. The ebony lake was now in violent, unnatural
turmoil. Churning waves as high as the palace rose and fell in the
distance, crashing with a roar. Lightning played over its vast
body, lightning gold, crimson, or the green of decay. Thunder
rumbled like a thousand dragons and those who lived around its
shores huddled close, uncertain as to what sort of storm might be
unleashed.
On the walls surrounding the palace, ominous guards in
forest-green armor and wielding lances and swords glared warily
about. They watched not only beyond the walls for foolish
trespassers, but on occasion surreptitiously glanced
within...particularly at the main tower, where they sensed
unpredictable energies at play.
And in that high tower, in a stone chamber sealed from the
sight of those outside, tall, narrow figures in iridescent robes of
turquoise, embroidered with stylized, silver images of nature, bent
over a six-sided pattern written into the floor. At the center of
the pattern, symbols in a language archaic even to the wielders
flared with lives of their own.
Glittering, silver eyes with no pupils stared out from
under the hoods as the night elves muttered the spell. Their dark,
violet skin grew covered in sweat as the magic within the pattern
amplified. All but one looked weary, ready to succumb to
exhaustion. That one, overseeing the casting, watched the process
not with silver orbs like the rest, but rather false black ones
with streaks of ruby running horizontal along the centers. But
despite the false eyes, he noted every detail, every inflection by
the others. His long, narrow face, narrow even for an elf, wore an
expression of hunger and anticipation as he silently drove them
on.
One other watched all of this, drinking in every word and
gesture. Seated on a luxurious chair of ivory and leather, her
rich, silver hair framing her perfect features and the silken gown
-- as golden as her eyes -- doing the same for her exquisite form,
she was every inch the vision of a queen. She leaned back against
the chair, sipping wine from a golden goblet. Her jeweled bracelets
tinkled as her hand moved and the ruby in the tiara she wore
glistened in the light of the sorcerous energies the others had
summoned.
Now and then her gaze shifted ever so slightly to study the
dark-eyed figure, her full lips pursing in something approaching
suspicion. Yet, when once he suddenly glanced her way, as if
sensing her observation, all suspicion vanished, replaced by a
languid smile.
The chanting continued.
The black lake churned madly.
There had been a war and it had ended.
So, Krasus knew, history would eventually record what had
happened. Almost lost in that recording would be the countless
personal lives destroyed, the lands ravaged, and the
near-destruction of the entire mortal world.
Even the memories of dragons are fleeting under such
circumstances, the pale, gray-robed figure conceded to himself. He
understood that very well, for although to most eyes he resembled a
lanky, almost elven figure with hawklike features, silvering hair,
and three long scars traveling down his right cheek, he was much
more than that. To most, he was known as a wizard, but to a select
few he was called Korialstrasz -- a name only a dragon would
wear.
Krasus had been born a dragon, a majestic red one, the
youngest of the great Alexstrasza''s consorts. She, the Aspect of
Life, was his dearest companion...yet once again he dragged himself
away from her to study the plights and futures of the short-lived
races.
In the hidden, rock-hewn abode he had chosen for his new
sanctum, Krasus looked over the world of Azeroth. The gleaming
emerald crystal enabled him to see whatever land, whatever
individual, he desired.
And everywhere that the dragon mage looked, he saw
devastation.
It seemed as if it had only been a few years ago when the
grotesque, green-skinned behemoths called orcs, who had invaded the
world from beyond, were defeated. With their remaining numbers kept
in encampments, Krasus had believed the world ready for peace. Yet,
that peace had been short-lived. The Alliance -- the human-led
coalition that had been the forefront of the resistance -- had
immediately begun to crumble, its members vying for power over one
another. Part of that had been the fault of dragons -- or the one
dragon, Deathwing -- but much had simply been the greed and desire
of humans, dwarves, and elves.
Yet, even that would have passed with little concern if not
for the coming of the Burning Legion.
Today, Krasus surveyed distant Kalimdor, located on the far
side of the sea. Even now, areas of it resembled a land after a
terrible volcanic eruption. No life, no semblance of civilization,
remained in those areas. It had not been any natural force,
however, that had rent the land so. The Burning Legion had left
nothing in its wake but death.
The fiery demons had come from a place beyond reality.
Magic was what they sought, magic they devoured. Attacking in
conjunction with their monstrous pawns, the Undead Scourge, they
had thought to lay waste to the world. Yet, they had not counted on
the most unlikely alliance of all...
The orcs, once also their puppets, had turned on them. They
had joined the humans, elves, dwarves, and dragons to decimate the
demonic warriors and ghoulish beasts and push the remnants back
into the hellish beyond. Thousands had perished, but the
alternative...
The dragon mage snorted. In truth, there had been no
alternative.
Krasus waved long, tapering fingers over the orb, summoning
a vision of the orcs. The view blurred momentarily, then revealed a
mountainous, rocky area further inland. A harsh land, but one still
full of life and capable of supporting the new colonists.
Already, several stone structures had risen in the main
settlement, where the Warchief and one of the heroes of the war,
Thrall, ruled. The high, rounded edifice that served as his
quarters was crude by the standards of any other race, but orcs had
a propensity toward basics. Extravagance to an orc was having a
permanent place to live at all. They had been nomads or prisoners
for so long that the concept of "home" had been all but lost.
Several of the massive, greenish figures tilled a field.
Watching the tusked, brutish-looking workers, Krasus marveled at
the concept of orc farmers. Thrall, however, was a highly unusual
orc and he had readily grasped the ideas that would return
stability to his people.
Stability was something the entire world needed badly. With
another wave of his hand, the dragon mage dismissed Kalimdor,
summoning now a much closer location -- the once proud capital of
his favored Dalaran. Ruled by the wizards of the Kirin Tor, the
prime wielders of magic, it had been at the forefront of the
Alliance''s battle against the Burning Legion in Lordaeron and one
of the first and most prized targets of the demons in turn.
Dalaran lay half in ruins. The once-proud spires had been
all but shattered. The great libraries burned. Countless
generations of knowledge had been lost...and with them countless
lives. Even the council had suffered badly. Several of those Krasus
had counted as friends or at least respected colleagues had been
slain. The leadership was in disarray and he knew that he would
have to step in to lend a hand. Dalaran needed to speak with one
voice, if only to keep what remained of the splintered Alliance
intact.
Yet, despite the turmoil and tribulations still ahead, the
dragon did have hope. The problems of the world were surmountable
ones. No more fear of orcs, no more fear of demons. Azeroth would
struggle, but in the end, Krasus not only thought it would survive,
he fully believed it would thrive.
He dismissed the emerald crystal and rose. The Dragon
Queen, his beloved Alexstrasza, would be awaiting him. She
suspected his desire to return to help the mortal world and, of all
dragons, she most understood. He would transform to his true self,
bid her farewell -- for a time -- and depart before regrets held
him back.
His sanctum he had chosen not only for its seclusion, but
also for its massiveness. Stepping from the smaller chamber, Krasus
entered a toothy cavern whose heights readily matched the now lost
towers of Dalaran. An army could have bivouacked in the cavern and
not filled it.
Just the right size for a dragon.
Krasus stretched his arms...and as he did, his tapering
fingers lengthened further, becoming taloned. His back arched and
from near the shoulders erupted twin growths that quickly
transformed into fledgling wings. His long features stretched,
turning reptilian.
Throughout all these lesser changes, Krasus''s form
expanded. He became four, five, even ten times the size of a man
and continued to grow. Any semblance to a human or elf quickly
faded.
From wizard, Krasus became Korialstrasz, dragon.
But -- in the very midst of the transformation -- a
desperate voice suddenly filled his head.
Kor...strasz...
He faltered, all but reverting to his wiz...
關於作者：
Richard A. Knaak
Richard A. Knaak is the bestselling author of Dragonlance novels,
Dragonrealm his own creation, soon-to-be five novels for Blizzard
Entertainment''s Diablo series, and eventually seven works in the
Warcraft universe. He has also written five independent books, but
all are in the realm of fantasy.
購物車/收銀台(
0
) | 在線留言板
| 付款方式
| 運費計算
| 聯絡我們
| 幫助中心 |
加入書簽
HOME
新書上架
