Night of the Dragon (wow-5)

by Richard A. Knaak

  It was as if much of the life here was wary of imminent threat... something that Krasus also felt.

  But nothing reared its ugly head nor attacked him with vile magic. Krasus journeyed deeper into the swampy region, heading on a path directly toward Grim Batol.

  The lush growth quickly enveloped him, but as Krasus shoved vines from his face, he noted something about that plant life. It had an ill feeling to it. Outwardly, it appeared normal, but inside, there was a sense that something had become twisted, that the Wetlands were changing for the worst.

  The taint from the cursed mount spreads.... This cannot go on. He grimly shoved the next several branches and vines, furious with himself most of all for ignoring the benighted land after freeing his beloved queen and ridding the mountains of the orcs and the accursed Demon Soul. It should have been at that time that he personally went into the depths of Grim Batol and eradicated any darkness remaining within. Even while his own flight, which had included some of his offspring, had been guarding the region. Krasus had done nothing. There had always been some other crisis, some other danger, turning him from this task.

  But hindsight was ever perfect, whereas Krasus was not. That was no excuse, of course, but it did ease his guilt a little.

  Each step of his boots left a squishing sound that echoed much too loudly, but Krasus did nothing to still the sound. That would have required more magic. He still hoped to sneak upon whatever lurked In Grim Batol, though that notion was likely more and more nothing but a dream.

  Small insects hovered near him, but then flew off. Most of those who dined on blood could sense that his was not to their taste.

  But something else evidently believed that Krasus would make a fine meal. He noted its presence nearby, yet could not sense exactly where without possibly making himself known to anything lurking in the distant mountain. Krasus moved with caution: powerful as he was in this form, he was not invulnerable.

  Yet, as he trudged along, nothing attacked. The violet-clad figure moved into the deepest part of the Wetlands and finally decided that it was time to risk sending his mind out toward Grim Batol.

  Finding an area relatively far from the shrouded waters of the swamp. Krasus planted himself against a mossy tree and concentrated. Immediately, his view expanded in all directions. A human mind could not have coped with such a complete survey, buta dragon's mind was far more complex, far more advanced.

  But there was only one direction that concerned him. Drawing his thoughts together, the dragon mage focused on the mountain. Now, he saw all that lay ahead as if he already trod those grounds. He had made better time than he had umagined, but still had far to go... That, however, did not concern him. Instead, he pushed his mind on to the barren lands immediately surrounding Grim Batol. There, his sense of unease magnified a thousandfold. The wrongness around and within the mountain screamed at Krasus to learn its secrets.

  Eyes narrowed, he shoved his mind into Grim Batol itself.

  Darkness at first filled his gaze, but then fragments of images appeared as Krasus entered the caverns. However, his first full glimpse of Grim Batol's interior was a disappointing one, for all he saw was shadowed stalactites and stalagmites. There were a few bones in the chamber, orс bones, but they were clearly from the battle that had ousted the green warriors from Grim Batol.

  Yet, the wrongness was too powerful to ignore. Krasus concentrated....

  His brow rose. Something was coming. He quickly withdrew— only to discover that his mind could not retreat from Grim Batol.

  Krasus tried, but it was as if he actually stood before the tons of stone and dirt, trying to pound his way through with only his fists. All that he could see was the chamber with the skeletons and the blackness that marked the mountainside through which he wished to pass again.

  And worse, because of that, he could not even see what was happening around his own body.

  Krasus tried again to retreat, but with no better result. Each moment, he became certain that whoever had set the trap would now strike... yet nothing else happened.

  But although this snare appeared now to be one set in place and possibly forgotten, Krasus still needed to free himself as quickly as possible. He concentrated on his body as he had last seen it, imagining his mind again within.

  Yet, still nothing happened. The dragon mage thought for a moment, then turned his attention to locating the spell matrix that held him. It did not take long to sense, but its complexity dismayed him. It was clearly the work of a skilled practitioner of the arts, possibly, depending on its age... possibly even Deathwing himself.

  Nevertheless, Krasus knew that he had to find the focus. Only there could he possibly unravel the spell, if there was still hope of that.

  His consciousness sank deeper into the binding spell, studying its arrangement. If indeed this was Deathwing's work, that might, ironically enough, be to Krasus's benefit. If there was any being alive who understood the black leviathan's twisted mind, it was Alexstrasza s oldest-lived consort. Krasus had made the former Aspect an extensive part of his long, vigilant watch, Deathwing having played a role in many plots over the millennia.

  One by one, the dragon mage followed the threads of the spell. He began to see a pattern, but one more intricate than even he had suspected.

  One line showed more promise than the rest. Krasus started to trace it back to its origin....

  The thing he had sensed earlier drew closer. It was most definitely coming Krasus's direction. A sudden sense of intense hunger washed over him, a hunger not for flesh, but rather something more significant to him.

  What moved toward him hungered for his magic...

  Krasus tried to hurry his task. He was a dragon, a creature of magic. To have his magic ripped away would be worse for him than if someone had thrust a sword through his throat. He had seen others of his kind suffer such fates and knew that it was the one death that truly frightened him.

  The creature in the caverns closed on his mental location. That Krasus's body was not there did not give the dragon mage any hope. Some devourers of magic needed only the spell link to seize their prey.

  The trap continued to evade Krasus's effort. The thread he followed proved a dead end. The second he followed did the same.

  The mysterious devourer was almost upon him. Krasus could detect its horrible nearness and knew that when he was finally able to see it through his own spell, it would be too late for him. Yet, nothing he did availed him—

  I am a fool! There was one hope, albeit a risky one. It might enable him to avoid the slow, agonizing death dealt by the magic eater...but could also end up causing Krasus to slay himself in the process.

  In truth, there was no choice. He focused inward. For most magic users, what he intended would not be possible, but Krasus had millennia of training, millennia of practice.

  Whether it would still work, though...

  Krasus felt the beating of his heart. It was a heart that had pulsated through an age when even the dragons as a race were young, through the rise of night elves and that race's dramatic collapse. He had watched the demons of the Burning Legion strike not once but twice and seen entire lands ripped apart.

  And now, through his concentration, he tried to slow that heart...even stop it.

  The beating felt so far away. Still, that he could even sense that much gave him some hope.

  Then, the beating eased. Only slightly, but enough for Krasus to hope for success.

  A sinister glow entered the cavern of the skeletons.

  Krasus concentrated his full efforts on his heart. He hoped that the intense shock would fling his mind from the magical trap. It was something that he had seen done before and had practiced before, but practice was not the same as true emergency.

  A vague, hulking form appeared among the stalagmites. Krasus had only seconds—

  A shock ran through him... but it was not due to his attempt. Nevertheless, it tore the dragon mage's mind from Grim Batol just as the devourer reached out to s
nare him.

  And Krasus discovered that he had only left one hungry creature for another.

  The crocolisk had him by his leg and was in the process of dragging the mage back toward the swamp water. The shock that had enabled Krasus to return his mind to his body had been created by the scaly beast's long, toothy maw clamping deep into the flesh. Blood spilled from the ravaged limb, blood that only a creature like a crocolisk, with its stomach protected like a paladin in plate armor, could tolerate.

  The irony that he might perish in the maw of so simple a predator as this six-legged reptile after all the powerful struggles he had been through did not escape Krasus. Steeling himself against the agony, the dragon mage smashed his fist on the crocolisk's hard snout.

  A blue aura enveloped the swamp creature. It opened its mighty jaws as it roared, enabling Krasus to drag himself free. The crocolisk's body whipped back and forth as the aura intensified.

  Panting, the injured spellcaster pulled himself back to the tree and eyed his struggling attacker. This was the beast that had evaded his senses earlier. Even now, Krasus could barely sense its presence. Some force enabled the crocolisk to shield itself from even powerful magi.

  But that same force could not now protect it from Krasus's power unleashed. He watched with grim satisfaction as the crocolisk tried to flee the aura by returning to the waters. Yet, with each step, the reptile lost cohesion. Its skin began to slough off, turning to mist before it even hit the ground. The six legs stumbled as they dissolved into ash. The crocolisk let out one more desperate roar... and the last of the reptile finally melted away.

  Only a few drops of blood—Krasus's blood—remained to mark the predator's passing.

  He stared at his twisted leg, an injury that would have meant death by either bleeding or infection had he been a human or any of the mortal races. Even for him, the pain was terrible. Yet, the attack had saved him from a worse and more certain demise, and he was almost grateful to the crocolisk.

  Stretching one hand over the ripped flesh, Krasus concentrated. A faint, red glow spread from his palm to the bloody ravine.

  The bleeding ceased. Some of the agony faded. The smaller tears made by the crocolisk's teeth shrank. The large one slowly sealed at each end.

  Krasus did not simply heal himself outside. There were rumors that poisonous crocolisks had been discovered of late. Where they had originated from, he did not know, but Krasus did not want to take a chance. He knew well the dangers of the toxins such a crocolisk's foul teeth might carry. In his current form, he was more sensitive to them. Such poisons could slay a bull in minutes, a man in less. Whether they could do the same to him now. Krasus did not care to discover.

  And so as he sealed the wounds from without, he burned away the poisons from within. The strain was more than he expected and for the first time, Krasus sweated. Yet, because of who—or rather what—he was, he prevailed.

  When it was done, no sign remained. Krasus inspected the leg and found it to be fit. As an afterthought, he waved his hand over his garments, making them whole once more.

  He had learned some lessons now. Nothing was to be taken for granted. First he had slipped into unconsciousness and found himself in a place far from his last known location. Then, his mind had been trapped while infiltrating Grim Batol, and now a simple beast had nearly slain him... In part because it had gained some ability to shield itself from his like.

  A pattern was beginning to emerge that disturbed Krasus immensely, especially as he was not certain of its origins.

  But he was almost certain of something else. His arrival appeared to be expected.

  So...someone awaits me...or someone like me. Someone who plays games.

  But who?

  "We shall just have to see," he murmured to himself. If his unknown adversary wished to play games, Krasus was no novice himself. Let them be aware that he was coming; they would find that knowledge more hindrance than help.

  Krasus smiled grimly. "The next move is mine, then, my friend...."

  He gestured... and vanished.

  The dwarves emerged from their new burrow at the exit nearest the Wetlands. They had no desire to come this way, but necessity had once more forced their hands. They needed to replenish supplies, especially water.

  "No raptors about," muttered Grenda. "Not much of anything, actually..."

  Rom peered into the swampy region. "Let's make this quick." He pointed at four dwarves carrying small barrels. "You lot go with Bjarl and his fighters and get to that brook we know is safe to drink from. Grenda, you and the others come with me. Even if we've got to eat raptor or crocolisk, we're coming back with some fresh meat."

  As hardy as dwarves were, none of them were particularly enamored with the notion of chewing on either predator, the meat of both stringy and tasting as if it were already three days old. However, the choices were not many, especially of late. It was a wonder that either of the creatures still haunted the region. Most of the smaller game had long fled, sensing, like the dwarves, the evil of Grim Batol.

  We're getting closer to the truth, though, Rom could not help telling himself. There's the blood elf, the drakonid, and the skardyn. And that lady in black. We know they're there.... We just don't know what they 're doing yet....

  He suddenly laughed harshly, startling Grenda. Rom quickly stifled his outburst. The dwarves just didn't know what the blood elf and the others were doing. One tiny insignificant point upon which their mission and, likely, their lives depended.

  He thought of his missing hand. The wrist, though cauterized, still throbbed, but being a dwarf he had been able to manage the pain even after only a short time. Still, it reminded Rom again of how, even though he had always been the one King Magni could rely on for the most dangerous of quests, the veteran warrior hadinitially been reluctant. Naturally, though, Rom had hidden that reluctance from his monarch. Yet... You 're a fool, Rom! You should 've let someone else command this mission rather than drag yourself back to this dark place... back to its hungry, accursed self...

  Rom led Grenda and the other hunters out into the Wetlands, his set expression hiding the fact that the deaths of the past ate at him more than ever. Not merely those who had perished since the mission had begun, but all those who had died so many years ago fighting the orcs. He could still see their faces, their bloody corpses.

  Could still hear their ghosts calling to him.

  Then Rom realized that someone else was calling to him. Grenda, who had sighted something.

  "Only saw a movement, but think it might be a crocolisk," she whispered.

  "Where?"

  "Right there." Grenda pointed at a dead tree far to the right. The branches were long gone and the upper part of the trunk had cracked off. "Just in the deep part there."

  "We'll fan out around the area. Watch your footing, everyone." They had lost poor Samm that way. One moment, the young dwarf had been stepping gingerly along the soft soil.. .and the next moment he had been sucked under.

  They never had recovered his body.

  Grenda took half the hunters to the west, while Rom led the other three north. He saw no sign of their prey, yet not only knew how well crocolisks could hide in the water, but also trusted the female dwarf's vision. Grenda had a keen eye for a race that lived much of its life under the surface.

  The dwarves moved with a stealth most other races assumed impossible for beings of their stocky build. Grenda's party skirted the water's edge, while Rom had to actually lead his a few steps into it.

  The murky water made it impossible to see anything even just below the surface, but Rom knew to watch for the telltale bubbles or the slight odd shift of the current marking a crocolisk's movements. Unfortunately, at the same time, the reptile would likely be watching for signs of them, as well.

  He glanced over to Grenda, who gestured with her ax at a spot near one of her party. She had located something. Rom signaled his group to halt.

  The next instant, the crocolisk rose up less than a yar
d from Grenda... although not to attack, but rather to flee from her and the others. However, two of her hunters had already maneuvered around, cutting off the reptile's flight immediately. One slashed with his ax. The blade cut deep into the crocolisk's foreleg.

  The wounded animal veered around to snap at its assailant, only to have Grenda strike it from behind. Her blow cut through the spine, sending the crocolisk into spasms.

  Rom nodded. The beast was as good as dead. The hunt would be a remarkably short one, for which he was grateful. The sooner the band was back underground, the better.

  A sloshing sound to his left caught his attention. Two crocolisks, whatever their tastes, would better feed his weary troop. He turned...

  But it was not one of the water predators before him... It was something ghastly and gelatinous that moved of its own accord toward the dwarves. Within its quivering form floated various objects, but especially bones.

  "Beware!" Rom shouted. "An ooze!"

  One of the younger dwarves with him swung impetuously at the macabre form before their leader could prevent him. The ax head sank in without pause, causing the dwarf to fall face first into the gelatinous shape.

  The nightmarish thing sucked the hunter into its midst.

  Rom let out a cry of dismay and, hefting his weapon with his one good hand, charged at the creature. He had some horrific memories concerning similar fiends around the Dustwallow Marsh region. If he hoped to save the other dwarf, he had to do something quickly.

  With an expert slash, Rom cut at the monster's side... but the mark his blade made vanished immediately after. Rom cursed himself for attempting what he should have known would have no effect on the ooze. Inside, the other dwarf twitched but otherwise did not move.

  With the crocolisk still struggling against Grenda and her band, it was up to Rom and his two remaining hunters. As the other pair joined him, he circled around, hoping that, if he thrust the hilt of his ax in, the monster's captive could seize it and be pulled free.