Beyond the Dark Portal

by Aaron Rosenberg

  Danath nodded. “That’s the plan. Thank you for your help. It has been an honor fighting alongside you.”

  “For us as well,” Boulestraan replied, bowing. “You and your Alliance are noble warriors, and honorable people. I wish you well, Danath Trollbane. We go to our rest, until summoned again.” Then he and his warriors faded away, leaving only soft glows behind, until those diffused as well.

  Danath turned to Nemuraan. On impulse, he said, “Come with us. This is no place to live, and you can serve your people more by leaving here and returning to the world. We would even take you to Azeroth with us, if you liked.”

  Nemuraan smiled. “Truly your world must be a wondrous place, to have produced such a people,” he complimented, “and I appreciate your offer. But no, my place is here. Our dead remain in this world—honorably laid to rest in Auchindoun, or scattered in the forest, even paving the path the orcs misname the Path of Glory. Here they lie, in Draenor, and here I stay, to tend them. The Holy Light has placed us here for a reason, and some day it will triumph over all. Until then, I rejoice in the knowledge that I have aided you, and that you and your people carry the Light as well. Go forth, and let your courage and strength drive the orcs before you like chaff before the strong wind. And who knows? Perhaps one day our peoples will indeed battle such evil side by side.” He hesitated. “A favor, before you go?”

  Danath nodded. “Name it.”

  “Do not let that one undo what the Light has wrought. A noble and fierce warrior he is to be sure, but wisdom marks a warrior as much as bravery.” He indicated Kurdran, who scowled and colored slightly. In the midst of his worry, Danath managed a small smile.

  “I’ll do what I can—but you see how stubborn he is.”

  “Bah, the lot of ye.”

  “Come on, walking wounded,” Danath said to Kurdran. “We’ve a Black Temple to take.” And with a final nod to the Auchenai, Danath Trollbane headed back into the corridors of the city of the dead, hoping that Nemuraan’s prayers for the Alliance would be answered.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “Don’t worry—we’re still on the right track,” Khadgar felt compelled to say as the group stopped for a rest and to drink some precious water. They needed the reassurance.

  They had traveled north from the orcish citadel, skirting the savage coastline to the east. The ground had remained consistent with what they had seen near the portal itself, though less severe: cracked earth, gray, dusty soil, withered plants and trees. They had passed patches of greenery here and there, but most of Draenor was dreary and desolate and bitter.

  Now the ground around them had grown more uneven, its dips and rises more significant, and wind whipped by on all sides. Most assuredly a mountain range, but like none he’d ever seen. Stone spikes protruded from the cliff walls around them, jutting outward in every direction as if the peaks themselves were hungry for blood. The rock was a dull reddish brown, too, the color of dried blood, and the sky seemed a vivid scarlet in comparison. It was one of the most unwelcoming places he’d ever encountered, and he suspected the shudder that passed through him had as much to do with that as with the sharp winds knifing among the spikes.

  Idly, Khadgar reached out to touch the nearest spike, but stopped just short of actual contact—perhaps tempting the fates was not the best plan. “The skull is not far,” he said again.

  “You’re certain?” Turalyon asked.

  “Oh, trust me, I’m certain.” He could sense its presence in his head without even searching now, a dull pulse just behind the eyes that almost became visible when he squeezed them shut. Definitely close.

  “Good,” Turalyon replied, hefting his hammer and eyeing the spikes. “I’ve had enough of this place.”

  “I think we—” began Khadgar, but Alleria lifted a commanding hand for silence.

  “Listen!”

  Khadgar strained to hear, but his ears were not as sharp as an elf’s. Moments passed; all he heard were the winds. And then—there it was, a sort of flapping sound, like wings, but somehow sharper than those of any bird he knew. The only creature he’d ever encountered that made a noise like that in flight was—

  “Dragon!” he shouted, grabbing Turalyon and yanking his friend down as he dove to the ground himself. Just behind him he heard an angry roar and a hiss. White-hot pain blossomed in his arm, and even as he sucked in his breath at the agony he heard more hissing. There was a smoking hole in his sleeve, and a nasty-looking burn in his arm below that. The hissing was the sound of something eating away at the rocks below them as well. Magma. Krasus had said that black dragons spat magma.

  Glancing up, Khadgar saw several small dark forms flit among the spikes and then rise and swoop back around. “Shields up!” Turalyon shouted, rising to his feet, “and weapons at the ready! They’re not fully grown dragons—we can take them!”

  Turalyon was right. The creatures attacking them were no larger than the horses, perhaps six feet long, but with a wingspan wider than that. They had small heads and only a few spikes along their back, and Khadgar realized that these must be an immature form. Drakes, he remembered Krasus calling them once. Yes, drakes.

  “Drakes—young dragons,” he warned Turalyon, raising his staff as the black drakes circled for a second attack. “Not as strong as their parents, but still dangerous.”

  Turalyon nodded, but his focus was on the attacking creatures. He was back in his element now, and had settled at once into the military commander mind-set.

  “Archers, fire at will!” he shouted. Beside him Alleria began loosing arrows at the small, agile creatures. One of her shots took a drake through the throat, the power of her longbow propelling the shaft clean through the dragon youth’s lighter scales, and the thing reared up, clearly in pain. A second arrow pierced its eye and brain, and it fell to the ground with a croak and lay still.

  That heartened the soldiers, and they swung with enthusiasm, swatting at the young dragons and ducking to avoid the creatures’ small but sharp claws and the fist-sized gobbets of lava they spewed. The drakes shot past them, then banked, circling back. There were fewer of them now—several of their fellows lay dead among the spikes.

  Turalyon turned to say something else to Khadgar—and stopped, toppling without warning and catching himself just in time to avoid being impaled upon the nearest cluster of stone spikes. Everyone was staggering about, trying to keep their footing, as the ground itself danced beneath them.

  “What in the name of the Light?” Turalyon asked, his words jarred out of him; then he was staring back and to the left of Khadgar.

  Afraid to see but terrified of not knowing, Khadgar glanced behind himself.

  And almost fell over from shock.

  The creature pounding through—not around but through—the stone spikes was monstrous even compared with an ogre. It stood easily twice as tall as those giant creatures, its skin as thick and rough as rock, sweeping designs carved into its arms and shoulders. A ridge of dark spikes ran like a miniature mountain range down its back, and more spikes protruded from its shoulders and upper arms. But the face—the face was perhaps the most horrific thing of all. It resembled that of an ogre, but was far more intelligent. The creature had no tusks but its teeth were long and sharp and yellowing, its ears pointed and tufted, and its single eye glaring and glowing—and fastened on them.

  “Intruders!” the behemoth shouted, the force of his cry cracking stone all around them. “Crush them!”

  More figures emerged from the stone thicket to the east and west. These were ogres of the same type—and size—that Khadgar had encountered before, and they snarled and growled and laughed as they moved toward the Alliance soldiers.

  “Wait!” Khadgar shouted. To his relief, the things actually paused. Thank the Light, he had the means to at least converse with them. “We meant no offense!”

  “Offense? You live, that is offense!” The creature roared and continued to advance.

  “Whatever you’re telling him, it isn’t wor
king,” Turalyon muttered. “And damn it, here come the drakes again.”

  Khadgar never thought he’d be happy to see dragons, but when the drakes circled back right at that moment for another attack, he wanted to thank them. The ogres and their master were completely distracted when the drakes began spitting magma at both groups, and turned their attention to the assault from the skies. They raised massive conical clubs—Khadgar realized at once that they were simply using spires they’d broken off the mountain itself.

  Khadgar realized an opportunity when he saw one. “The drakes!” he cried. “Attack the drakes!”

  Alleria stared at him for a moment, and Khadgar knew what she was thinking. This would be a perfect time to flee, to let the drakes attack the ogres and their strange leader for them. But Turalyon grinned and nodded; he’d gotten it. Now the Alliance members, too, focused on the flying reptilian creatures, setting to them with sword and arrows. But their efforts were feeble compared with what the ogres did to the drakes. The ogres easily smashed the beasts out of the sky and then stomped on them, crushing the immature dragons beneath their massive feet.

  Their oversized leader killed a drake as well, but it didn’t bother with a club—instead it simply reached up, catching a charging black drake as easily as Khadgar had once caught an apple a friend had tossed to him. The colossal beast held the drake in one hand, its thumb and forefinger pinning the young dragon’s wings together as it struggled to get free. Then the beast brought the drake to its mouth, tilted its head back, and engulfed the scaled body in a single fierce bite, chewing a few extra times to get the rest of the wings into its cavernous mouth before finally swallowing.

  “That was…” Turalyon started, but he couldn’t find words to encompass what he’d just seen. He lowered his sword and lifted his visor, barely aware of his actions. “You…those…”

  The creature peered at him. “Dragons come. You not run, but could have. You stay and fight—helped us.”

  There was a bit of astonishment in that earth-deep voice. Khadgar could well understand it. He was willing to bet that few had willingly risked themselves to help the ogres before. His heart lifted slightly; things were going exactly as he’d hoped.

  “No, we do not run. We are not your enemies. We only wish—”

  Khadgar had just drawn breath to continue to negotiate the tentative truce when the ground began to suddenly shake again, and the creature glanced back the way it had come. It hunched in upon itself, arms wrapping protectively around its broad chest, and a strange sound emerged from its hideous mouth, half snarl and half whimper. Watching it, Khadgar would have sworn this beast, which had just all but swallowed a dragon whole, looked frightened.

  He shuddered to think what could scare such a thing.

  That question was answered a few minutes later, when a second monstrous beast strode from the mountains. This creature was even larger than the first one, and had more stone spikes protruding from its back and arms. Its skin was redder than that of the other, its one eye so pale it was almost white all the way across, and its teeth were longer and sharper.

  That white eye held great intelligence, and it fastened upon Khadgar and Turalyon and the other humans. “Who you?” it demanded. “And why you still live?”

  “We are only passing through,” Khadgar stammered. The great being’s eye narrowed in skepticism. “We aren’t your enemies. Just let us go and we’ll—”

  “No.” The finality of the single word was chilling. “You leave, you speak. Speak of gronn. Speak of Gruul.” The giant being thumped his chest. “Horde come. No, best you die. Secret stay safe. Gronn stay safe.”

  Turalyon glanced at the first creature he’d been conversing with, hoping for help, but Khadgar could tell they would not get any there. The massive being had curled in upon itself after the rebuke, looking like nothing so much as a recently punished child. And that, he realized, was exactly what it was. The second creature was its parent and this was the baby. The thought made him shudder.

  “We will keep your secret! We helped the—the gronn with the dragons! This one can tell you so himself!”

  The giant that had called itself Gruul scowled and glanced around, apparently only now noticing the black drake corpses scattered around the mountainside. “You dragon-killers?”

  “Yes,” Khadgar answered desperately.

  But Gruul was not so easily tricked. He tilted back his monstrous head, his fang-filled mouth gaping open—and laughed. The deep peals shook the walls around them and sent several small spires shattering to the ground.

  “Kill baby dragons, maybe,” it said, still grinning. “We do that. Not need help. No, you die.”

  “Wait!” Khadgar cried. “What do you want help with?” They could probably take down more than drakes, if they absolutely had to.

  Gruul sobered at once. “You too weak. You cannot help.”

  “Maybe we can. Ask.”

  Gruul was silent, then he said in a somber voice, “Blackwing Greatfather.”

  It took Khadgar a second to figure out what Gruul meant. His eyes widened, he burst out, “Deathwing? You want us to kill Deathwing?”

  “What?” cried Turalyon. “Deathwing? Here?”

  “And they want us to kill him?” Alleria chimed in.

  Khadgar was as shocked as they. They’d known the black dragons had allied with the Horde, and had seen several of them dart through the portal to Draenor, but he’d assumed it was only lesser members of the dragonflight, not the dragonflight patriarch…their “great and terrible sire…” himself!

  “He left some black dragons behind as guards for the orcs at the citadel,” Turalyon muttered. “But he brought the rest of them up here, to these mountains.”

  Khadgar nodded, then realized Gruul was still watching them expectantly.

  He took a deep breath and drew himself up to his full height. “Yes. Of course. Do not worry—we can handle Deathwing,” he told the gronn with forced assurance. “He won’t be a problem for us.” He did his best to ignore the stunned silence radiating from his friends and prayed Gruul couldn’t see the sweat dripping off his brow, or that if he did, he didn’t understand its significance.

  Gruul nodded, a grotesque smile splitting his massive lips. “Good,” he announced. “Foolish, but brave! Gruul like.” He peered down at them. “Now prove it.” He gestured, his enormous hand lifting to indicate a peak not far away. “Deathwing,” the gronn explained. “Kill. Help gronn rid mountain of pests. Then…you pass.” His smile shifted down to a scowl that revealed all his fangs. “Tell no one!”

  Khadgar nodded. “Agreed.” He hoped his voice didn’t sound quite so quivery to Gruul as it did in his own ears.

  Gruul turned and began making his way across the mountainside. The massive gronn didn’t bother searching for a path, he created one, his heavy feet shattering stone and leaving a wide, cracked trail through the stone spires, which broke off against his thick skin. The smaller gronn hurried to follow its parent, and the ogres—Khadgar was horrified to realize he now thought of them as “small,” even though they were twice his own height—shuffled along behind their two oversized leaders. Grimly Khadgar followed. A thought occurred to him. Deathwing was here…and the skull was in this direction…. He paused for a second, closing his eyes, and then he grinned.

  “What are you doing?” Alleria whispered to him as she and Turalyon fell into step beside him. “We’re supposed to be looking for Gul’dan’s skull, not going up against Deathwing! Do you have any idea what that dragon is capable of?”

  “Yes, actually,” he answered. “But he’s got the skull.”

  “What?” exclaimed Turalyon.

  “The skull is right in front of us, and so is Deathwing. We’d have had to confront him regardless, most likely.”

  “Wonderful. Now all we have to do is fight Deathwing to get the skull back!” She shuddered. “I’d rather face the entire Horde any day!”

  Privately, Khadgar agreed with her, but he saw no other option
. They needed the skull, and Deathwing had it. He was deep in thought, going over his spells in his mind, when Turalyon gripped his arm and pointed.

  “Look,” he said in a quiet voice.

  They had reached a deep valley that led up to the peak in question, and had stopped, fanning out around the valley’s edge.

  Eggs. The ground was littered with them. They were about a yard long and shone from within with a pulsing red glow that revealed dark veins through the eggshells themselves—and coiled forms cocooned inside.

  “That’s what was in those wagons Alleria spotted!” Turalyon whispered, staring. “No wonder the dragons were flying right above them! Deathwing brought these here to Draenor! If they hatch, the black dragons will overrun this entire world!”

  “Then we had best make sure they don’t hatch,” Alleria countered, raising her bow and nocking an arrow.

  Khadgar placed his hand on her left arm and pointed. “Let’s make those your first targets.” The others followed his gaze and cursed softly as they saw the dark shapes winging toward them from the valley’s far side.

  Fortunately, it seemed that none of the largest dragons were protecting the eggs. The first fledgling dragon to approach was swatted aside by Gruul, his casual gesture slamming the small dragon into the valley’s far wall hard enough to crack the stone there and drop the body in a shattered heap. The next one fell, twitching, with one of Alleria’s arrows through its right eye, and Khadgar froze a third into solid ice with a quick incantation. Those three had only been the vanguard, however—a fierce shrieking arose from all around the valley, and suddenly more dark, darting forms descended.

  The ogres excelled at brute force. Though smaller than the gronn, they were still large enough to wrestle a drake down and snap its long neck or bash in its skull. Many of them also proved to be spellcasters, firing bolts of arcane magic that seared through dragon wings and hide alike. The sheer number of drakes would have overwhelmed them, however, if not for aid from both gronn and Alliance warriors. Turalyon had his men using their shields for protection from the drakes’ claws and teeth, then slashing at their wings; though tough as leather, the wings were still the drakes’ weak spot, and once a wing had torn the creature was forced onto the ground, where it lost most of its agility. The ogres quickly caught on to this tactic and began tearing wings off entirely, hurling the leathery appendages aside while the now-grounded creatures were stomped flat with heavy feet. Khadgar was reminded, with a sick feeling, of a cruel child tearing the wings off butterflies.