Night of the Dragon (wow-5)

by Richard A. Knaak

  It was the very blood elf about whom he had been asking.

  Rom's hunt for a prisoner who could give him information had been turned into a trap for the dwarves. His pulse raced as he imagined his followers slaughtered or, likely worse, captured and dragged back into Grim Batol.

  With a war cry that resounded in the ruined tunnel, he charged the blood elf. The tall figure eyed the powerful dwarf with disdain, then held out one hand.

  In it, a twisted wooden staff materialized, the head ending in a fork in which a huge, skull-shaped emerald matching the blood elf's evil orbs flared.

  Rom went flying back, the dwarf colliding with the wall behind him.

  As he dropped to the ground, Rom uttered an epithet that would have burned the ears of any human, much less one of the elven races. Through his blurred vision, he saw dwarves desperately trying to make a stand against the powerful drakonid. It was not that the dragon men were unstoppable, but his people seemed to be moving sluggishly. Gorum, a fighter whose swiftness was second only to Rom's, hefted his ax as if it weighed as much as he.

  The blood elf...It... it has to be the... blood elf... Rom struggled to rise, but his body would not obey.

  Worse to him than even his own certain demise was his failure to his king. He had sworn an oath to Magni that he would discover the secret of what was now going on in Grim Batol, but all Rom had accomplished was this horrific debacle.

  That shame managed to get him to his knees, but from there he could rise no farther. The blood elf turned his attention from Rom, yet another insult to the dwarf's honor.

  Rom managed to seize his ax. He struggled against both the spell and his own pain—

  A horrific roar that shook the walls rose above the tunnels, causing everyone to look up.

  The effect on the blood elf was greatest. He cursed in some tongue Rom did not understand, then shouted to the drakonid, "Up! Quickly! Before it gets too far!"

  The dragon warriors crouched, then leaped up and out of the tunnels with astounding agility for their immense size. Their leader tapped the bottom of the staff twice on the ground—and vanished in a brief burst of golden flames.

  Rom abruptly found it possible to move. If somewhat wearily. Slowly, the conditions of his comrades registered. There were at least three dead and several others wounded. He doubted that the drakonid had suffered much more than one or two cuts each, none of them threatening. If not for the mysterious roar, the dwarves would have been lost.

  Grenda and one of her brothers came to his aid. Sweat drenched the female warrior. "Can you walk?"

  "Hmmph! I can run... if I've got to, girl!"

  It was because of no sense of cowardice that he suggested running. There was no telling if the blood elf and the drakonid would return as quickly as they had left. The dwarves were in disarray and needed to retreat to a location where they could recover.

  "To... to the slope tunnels," Rom commanded. Those tunnels were much farther from Grim Batol, but he felt them the best choice. The ground of the region there was full of rich veins of white crystal—highly sensitive to magical energies—which would make it difficult for even a mage like the blood elf to scry for them. In a sense, the scouts would become invisible.

  But not invincible. Nowhere was it completely safe.

  With Grenda's assistance, Rom led the dwarves off. Glancing over his battered followers, he saw again how much the very brief struggle had cost them. If not for the roar—

  The roar. As grateful as he was for that interruption, Rom wondered at its origins, wondered about that... and whether or not what had been the dwarves' salvation was the harbinger of something far, far worse.

  TWO

  Кorialstrasz soared over Lordaeron, forcing himself as best he could to pay no mind to the turmoil below. He was determined to reach the opposing side of the Baradin Bay without even the slightest delay. It was of the utmost importance he do that. The dragon dared not allow himself to become embroiled in any part of the continuous struggle against the Scourge. That had to be left in the hands of other defenders. He could not become involved...

  And yet... more than once the immense red dragon failed in his resolve. Korialstrasz could not let the innocent suffer nor allow flagrant strikes by the undead go unpunished.

  Nor, when he sighted it toward the end of that shrouded day, could he let the massing of hundreds of the twisted and decayed servants of the Lich King remain untouched.

  It was just as he first smelled the distant bay that he saw the macabre army preparing to march... an army built from the scavenged body parts and corpses of more than a thousand good souls. The rusted and dented armor of paladins hung upon fleshless frames and empty eye sockets stared out from under helmets. By the builds of some of the undead, the dragon saw that the Scourge was not prejudiced against one sex over the other, nor of young over old; all who fell were potential soldiers for its evil master.

  And neither did the fact that some of these had once been women and children have any more meaning for the enraged dragon, who dove down among the ghouls, unleashing his full and terrible fury. A river of flame coursed across the center of the unholy ranks, decimating scores in a single moment. Dry bones made marvelous kindling for a red dragon's fire, and the inferno quickly spread as some undead tumbled into others.

  Korialstrasz attacked well aware of what destination this army of the Scourge had in mind, none other than the shield covering Dalaran over which he had not that long ago flown. The wizards were a foe that Arthas, the Lich King, could not let recoup. The dragon had expected such an assault before long, though the Scourge had moved swifter than even he had calculated.

  And so, they thus enabled the red dragon to do his former comrades in the Kirin Tor one daring favor before flying from Lordaeron.

  Skull-faced warriors fired upon him with bows of many makes, but their shafts fell far short. They were not used to aerial attacks of such monumental nature. Korialstrasz banked to the north, then struck the lines there, first diving down and raking the ground of warriors, then sending another burst into those still standing.

  He finally sensed magic stirring from the back lines and responded accordingly. Lesser dragons might have fallen prey to the Lich King's spellcasters, but Korialstrasz was far more experienced. He immediately noted the location of his new foes and focused his own considerable magic on the spot.

  The ground there erupted, a huge forest of grass tendrils a thousand times their normal size and thickness bursting all around the casters, lesser liches who had once probably been honored wizards until seduced by the dark power of the Scourge's lord. The huge tendrils encircled their prey, crushing and ripping apart the undead before the latter could finish their own treacherous spells.

  Thus does life vanquish unlife. Korialstrasz grimly thought. As the consort of the Aspect of Life and, thus, a servant of that cause, it disgusted him to use his abilities so. The Scourge, though, gave him no choice. They were the antithesis of what his mistress represented and a threat to all that existed in Azeroth.

  A savage pain in his chest suddenly sent the behemoth spiraling. Korialstrasz let out a furious roar and cursed himself for becoming distracted just like a young dragon, after all. He nearly crashed among the Scourge, managing to pull up only at the last moment. Forcing himself high into the gray clouds, the behemoth eyed his chest.

  A black bolt as long as one of his claws lay embedded between the scales. The head was not made of steel, but rather some dark crystal that pulsated. It had struck Korialstrasz just perfectly, digging deep into the so very slim gap. Such a strike was certainly not happenstance.

  New pain wracked him. Even though better prepared against it this time, the red dragon barely kept himself from descending.

  Pushing himself to his limits, Korialstrasz flew higher yet. What remained of the Scourge below now seemed like a rush of ants. Satisfied that he was for the moment safe from further magical assault, the leviathan focused his own powers on the sinister shaft.

&n
bsp; A crimson aura surrounded Korialstrasz. The dragon fed his might into it. fixing on the area where the sorcerous arrow's head lay.

  The black bolt exploded.

  Yet, Korialstrasz's sense of triumph was short-lived, for a sharp twinge immediately thereafter took him. It was not nearly so bad as the agony he had felt earlier, but harsh enough. He explored the area of the wound, seeking the cause.

  Three small fragments of crystal remained. The sorcery used to create the arrow for use against such as him—there could be no other explanation for the weapon's existence—was so potent that even these few pieces caused him great pain.

  The Llch King's minions were growing more and more cunning.

  With another spell, Korialstrasz expelled the fragments from his body. The effort took the wind from him for a moment, but fury at what had happened to him quickly renewed his strength.

  Roaring, the red dragon once again dropped like a missile toward the rear lines. Whoever had cast the black crystal was among those down there.

  This time, Korialstrasz set the entire area awash in dragon fire. There was no possible chance of anything there escaping his wrath. The Scourge would learn that dragons were not to be trifled with.

  Undead wrapped in flames stumbled in all directions before collapsing. In the center of his strike, the fire consumed the fiends entirely, leaving only ash.

  Korialstrasz looked upon the scene with satisfaction. He had dealt the Scourge a bad blow with this assault. That would benefit Dalaran and the rest of the defenders immensely.

  Taking a deep breath, Korlalstrasz soared on without hesitation toward the bay... and distant, beckoning Grim Batol.

  On the eastern coast of central Kalimdor, a tall, cloaked figure silently strode into the unsavory town of Ratchet, a settlement begun long ago by smugglers and now populated mainly by not only their foul ilk, but also all those others whom various societies had cast out. The hood and voluminous cloak completely hid both the new arrival's features and garments. Indeed, it dragged so low on the ground that even the legs and feet were invisible. While in many places this would have immediately drawn the attention of all around, in Ratchet such images were more common.

  That, of course, did not mean that other eyes—goblin, human, and otherwise—were not watching, merely that they did so very surreptitiously. There were those in the ramshackle collection of crumbling stone buildings and decaying slat huts who gauged each newcomer for their possible value and others who marked them for possible threat. More than a few of the unshaven, unwashed figures were here because others desired their demise, and so they were willing to kill any supposed assassin first. That they might slay an innocent was a notion long willingly accepted by them.

  The covered form shuffled through Ratchet, the hood peering this way and that in the deepening gloom and at last focusing on a weathered sign hanging over the front of what had once been. In another time, a fairly reputable inn. The faded letters still managed to spell out the establishment's unpromising name... The Broken Keel.

  With fluid movements, the stranger veered toward the Inn. A lanky, scarred man in leather boots and billowing sea garb leanedagainst the wall by the cracked door. He peered up at the oncoming figure, then silently moved off. The hood shifted slightly, watching his departure, then turned again to the inn.

  Although the flowing sleeve stretched to the handle, those close by might have noticed that they never quite touched. Yet, the door swung wide open.

  Inside, the goblin proprietor and three patrons stared at the intruder, who, at nearly seven feet tall, stood a hand higher than the biggest of them. The men's garb and the cutlasses at their sides marked them from the stories the newcomer had heard. Bloodsail Buccaneers. Yet, the figure paid no mind to their interest; only one thing mattered.

  "This one seeks transportation across the sea," the hooded form declared. For the first time, the four registered some astonishment; the voice sounded neither male nor female.

  The proprietor recovered first. The short, green, and somewhat potbellied goblin grinned wide, revealing his yellow teeth. He strode back behind the bar, where, despite his girth, he easily leapt up on an unseen bench or stool so as to be able to see over. His reaction was one of mockery.

  "Ya wanta boat? Not too many in here! Food and ale, maybe, but we're fresh outa boats, hen!" As he spoke, his stomach swelled, straining farther out of the stained green and gold jerkin and almost completely over the wide, metal-clasped belt holding his weathered green pants up. "Ain't that right, boys?"

  There were a couple of "ayes" and a slow nod, the last from one particularly keen-eyed drinker among the trio. Not one of the band had yet taken his gaze off the shrouded newcomer, who evinced no concern, no other emotion.

  "This one is a stranger here, true," the figure replied, again in a voice unidentifiable as anything. "But a place where food and shelter are offered is often a place where knowledge of transport can also be found..."

  "Ya got gold ta pay for this 'transport,' my muffled friend?"

  The hood nodded. The sleeve that had opened the door now stretched forward again. It was not a hand that popped out of it now, but rather a small, gray pouch that jingled. The pouch swung from two leather strings that vanished into the sleeve.

  "This one can pay."

  The interest in the pouch was obvious, but the newcomer did not seem moved by that interest. The proprietor rubbed his pointy chin then rumbled, "Hmmph! Old Dizzywig, the wharfmaster, might be crazy enough to sail you there. Leastwise, he's got boats."

  "Where might this one find him?"

  "At the blasted wharf, of course! Old Dizzywig lives there. Go left out the door, then around the building. Walk a little bit. You can't miss the wharf and the docks. There's a lot of water beyond 'em, heh."

  The hood dipped forward. "This one thanks you." "Tell 'im Wiley sent ya." The proprietor grunted. "Happy sailin'..."

  With a graceful turn, the stranger stepped out. As the door closed behind, the figure surveyed the vicinity, then turned as the innkeeper had dictated. The sky was now dark, and while it was doubtful that the wharfmaster himself would wish to set sail at night, that did not matter.

  Figures scurried to and from various buildings as the hooded form passed by. The stranger paid them no heed. So long as they did not interfere, they meant nothing.

  The dark sea suddenly beckoned. For the first time, the hooded figure hesitated.

  But there is no other choice, the stranger concluded. No choice but to dare one new thing after another...

  While there were some larger ships anchored nearby, none were what the stranger sought. A small boat that could be handled by a lone sailor would serve all the stranger's needs. Three ragged but potentially-useful craft sat at the edge of the water, the fine finish of each a thing of the past. They likely floated, but that was it. To their right, the first of the docks stretched out into the black waters. Several wooden crates waited to be loaded on some vessel apparently not yet in port. An old but tough-looking figure that could have just as well have been Wiley's brother, father, or cousin sat upon one box, his gnarled hands working with fishing line. He looked up as the newcomer approached.

  "Hmm?" was all he said at first. Then... "Closed for night. Come tomorrow..."

  "If you are Dizzywig, the wharfmaster, this one seeks transport across the sea. Now, not tomorrow." From the voluminous sleeve emerged the coin sack.

  "Ya does, does ya?" He rubbed his lengthy chin. Up close, the older goblin was thinner and in better shape than Wiley. He also wore clothes of a better quality, including a purple shirt and red pants that both contrasted greatly to his green hide. His boots, wide like all goblin boots due to the splayed feet of their wearers, were also of better condition.

  "Are you he?" asked the stranger.

  "'Course I am, fool!" The goblin grinned, showing that, despite his age, he had kept most of his sharp if yellow teeth. "But as to hirin' a boat, there're some ships that would do ya better. Where's your dest
ination?"

  "This one must cross to Menethil Harbor."

  "Goln' to visit the dwarves, eh?" Not bothered in the least by the stranger's odd voice, Dizzywig grunted. "None of the ships are goin' there, that's for sure! Hmmph..." Suddenly, the goblin straightened. "And maybe you won't be goin', either...."

  His slanted, almost reptilian black and coral eyes looked behind his would-be client, who followed the gaze.

  Their approach had been expected. The ploy was an old one, even where the stranger came from. Brigands were brigands, and they always sought the tried-and-true paths used before them.

  From behind his seat, Dizzywig pulled out a long piece of wood with a huge nail hammered through the head. The point stuck out for at least half a foot. The wharfmaster wielded the wood with an ease that bespoke of years of practice and use, but he did not jump up to give aid to the hooded figure.

  "Touch my wharf, and I'll pound your damned heads to pulp," he warned the buccaneers.

  "Got no quarrel with you, Dizzywig," one of the trio muttered. He had been the most interested of those observing the newcomer in the inn. "Just a little business with our friend here..."

  The stranger slowly turned so as to completely face them, in the process sliding back the hood enough for those in front to see the face beneath. The face, the blue-black hair down past her shoulders, the two proud horns that stretched from each side of her skull...

  Eyes widening, the three men from the tavern took a step back. Two looked anxious, but the leader, a scarred individual wielding a knife with a curved blade nearly a foot long, grinned.

  "Well now... ain't you a pretty little female.. whatever race you is. We'll be taking that pouch girlie!"

  "The contents of the pouch will not bring you much comfort," she said, discarding both the spell that had hidden her true, almost musical voice and the speech mannerisms she had used with it. "Money is only a fleeting vice."

  "We like a little vice, don't we, lads?" the leader retorted. His companions grunted their agreement, greed having overtaken astonishment over what stood before them.