Night of the Dragon (wow-5)

by Richard A. Knaak

  "Thorvald's Beard!" Rom gasped. He stepped from the gelatinous fiend, horrified by what he saw.

  The front of the captive dwarf's face had already been eaten away.

  A skull was all that stared back at Rom from underneath the thick hair. Even as he watched, the hair began to wither and dissolve. It was what he had feared would happen, but from his previous battles against ooze, the dwarven commander had believed that he had more time.

  "Get back!" Rom ordered the others, fearful of losing another of his people.

  "Look out!" one warrior shouted back.

  Rom whirled.

  Had he still had his other hand, it would have been lost to him now. The burnt stump sank in to the second fiend's quivering form, and Rom felt his flesh burn.

  Crying out, he tried to pull free, but the gelatinous, dripping shape would not release him. He imagined dying as the other dwarf had—

  Suddenly, from the tree tops there flew a blazing missile. It struck the creature holding onto Rom dead on. Rom expected the oozing form to douse the flames, but instead the fiend became an inferno.

  Rom smelled oil and understood what the archer was doing. He also understood that this was his only chance. He pulled as hard as he could, and part of his maimed limb came free.

  Another burning bolt hit the struggling monster. Rom fell back as the thing released its remaining hold on him.

  The other fiend started to move into the water, but two more arrows struck it in rapid succession. As with the first, fire engulfed the monster. It shook as if about to explode.

  Retrieving his ax, which had fallen from his grip, Rom retreated to his companions.

  Grenda rushed up beside him. "Are you all right?"

  "As best can be expected," he returned, gladly watching them burn. The second one hit had become little more than a pile of scorched refuse...and burning dwarven bones. "Damned ooze!.."

  She shuddered, a rare display of fear on her part. "I'll be havin' nightmares...poor Harak. Is there no way to save him for burial?"

  Bronzebeard dwarves preferred to bury their dead, returning them to the ground that so benefited their race. They considered it both an honor and repayment.

  But nothing could be done. The fire, fueled also by the ooze itself, would reduce the bones to ash.

  "He gets a pyre of sorts, at least," Rom answered, trying to make the best of a grim situation. He glanced around, estimating from exactly where the arrows had come.

  Then, something at the edge of his gaze made him whirl about. Grenda tensed, clearly thinking another of the monsters was about to strike.

  But whatever it was that Rom had seen was now out of sight. He swore.

  "What is it? What did you see?"

  "Not nearly enough." A vague shape. That was all. He was not even certain how tall it had been. All Rom did know with any certainty was that it moved much too fast for one of his kind.

  But what in this foul realm would lend a hand to the harried dwarves?

  And, more of interest to him, what did it mean to his mission?

  SIX

  “He is near."

  Zendarin looked up from the pit into which he had been gazing for the past hour, not for the first time marveling at what he—and the lady in black—had wrought. "Who?"

  The veiled lady joined him. She, too, stared down in wonder for a moment, then looked to the blood elf. "The one I have expected. The tests I set before him prove it; any other would have perished or turned back. Only he is determined enough to press on."

  "If he's coming here, it's more likely he's a fool."

  She tipped her head to the side. "He is that... which makes him no less dangerous to us."

  Something occurred to Zendarin. "I sensed—"

  "Yes, one of your pets almost came across him. That would have proven quite interesting, don't you think?"

  As the blood elf was not certain exactly who—or what—sought to encroach on Grim Batol, he merely nodded. Of more concern to him was what this meant. "Do we dare begin again? Is there time?"

  She smiled, a reaction that always made him shiver despite himself. "We shall make do with our lone child for now, my dear Zendarin... He shall suffice. If need be."

  As if hearing her, from below came a hungry hiss.

  The lady in black made a shushing sound toward the pit. Immediately, the thing in the darkness below quieted.

  "The poor darling needs to feed. Would you care to do it, Zendarin?"

  He shrugged, only one consideration worrying him. "We might kill the nether dragon like this. That creature has an insatiable appetite."

  "We shall have another source of sustenance for the dear thing before long... if the one so eager to reach us is as clever as he thinks he is. For now, though, we shall just have to risk the nether dragon. It is essential that nothing slows the growth process."

  The blood elf bowed. "As you say, my lady."

  He strode off to deal with the matter. The veiled female watched him depart, then gazed down into the shadowy pit again.

  Below, something flared a deep and unsettling purple before once again becoming part of the darkness.

  "Patience, my child," she cooed. "Patience. You shall be fed. You shall be fed... and then grow up to be so very big..." Her expression turned stony. "Just as your damned father would have wanted."

  It was not Krasus who reappeared In the Wetlands, but rather his true self, Korialstrasz. Moreover, the dragon materialized at dusk, the better to make use of the elements of the night for his plan.

  The time is nigh, Korialstrasz determined. Let us see what your next move shall be, he thought at his unknown and unseen adversary. If it was Deathwing, then what the red dragon planned would outwardly make sense to the black. If someone else, then they would surely follow the same line of thought... and that was all that mattered.

  He spread his massive wings.

  The front part of the great red dragon peeled away. Two Korialstraszes now stood together.

  But the spell was not finished. As both exhaled, from each peeled away another copy... and then another. Soon, eight Korlalstraszes filled the area.

  As one, they leapt into the darkening sky, heading in different directions... but all with the intention of eventually arriving at Grim Batol.

  It was a costly plan Korialstrasz intended. The copies were more than mere illusion; to make all this work, each had been imbued with a tiny bit of himself. Just enough to make those who might be observing him wonder which was the true dragon. They would have to expend precious power determining the truth... and by then the real Korialstrasz would be upon them.

  Or so they were supposed to believe.

  In truth, none of the dragons were real. All eight were imbued copies. As the others had been created, the true Korialstrasz had masked his transformation back into the guise of Krasus.

  And as Krasus, he once again began moving through the Wetlands. He had learned his lesson from his near-disaster; this time, most of his remaining might was focused on making him invisible both to the eyes and other senses of any watchers. Once more, it was something that few other casters, even dragons, could have accomplished, and Krasus had saved this particular spell for centuries.

  Now he hoped the wait was worth it.

  The eight Korialstraszes disappeared into the distance. They would fly routes carefully thought out by their creator, who knew the region well enough to make each seem the conscious choice of their particular flyer. Krasus sensed with satisfaction their dwindling presence.

  As for him, he pushed on with the knowledge of just how long it would probably take whomever watched to eliminate the choices. By then, the true red dragon would have already infiltrated the dire mountain.

  A variety of night creatures crossed his path, but this time none took even the slightest notice of him. Krasus eyed with distaste a second crocolisk swimming through the nearby waters, but otherwise did nothing. He had no bitterness toward the species, however much the one had hurt him. He also foun
d it interesting that, in contrast to the one that had attacked him, this beast had no obvious ability to shield itself from his presence.

  Very curious, the dragon mage thought. Could it be that the first...

  His body suddenly shook. He felt a slight sense of loss and recognized its origins immediately.

  One of his duplicates had been just destroyed. Exactly how, he could not say, but in some manner it had involved potent magic. The cowled spellcaster took a moment to recover, then pressed on.

  That the first had been struck down so quickly did not surprise Krasus in the least, though he still mourned that tiny piece of him that had been lost. He had expected to be tested quickly. The duplicate had served its purpose and the loss of one among eight was a sacrifice that he could well suffer. Already he had covered a great distance.

  However, he had scarcely gone an hour more when again he was hit from within... and this time the sense of loss felt tenfold more devastating. Krasus grunted, forced to rest against a tree for more than a minute. He had expected a bit more time to pass before a second was destroyed. Still, there was nothing to do but continue.

  And so he did... until barely a short walk later a third loss struck him harder than the previous two had. Now the dragon mage staggered. Finding a place to sit, Krasus took several deep breaths. Not only had this one come much too swiftly after the others, but it should not have affected him so hard. He had calculated everything to the finest detail. It should not have—

  Krasus stiffened. In addition to what was happening well ahead, he abruptly realized that, once again, someone or something was pursuing him.

  This is not as it was supposed to be! He angrily peered behind him, but saw only the Wetlands. Yet, there was something stalking him, and it was no crocolisk. Krasus had raised wards against a reoccurrence of that nature. Indeed, from what little that the dragon mage could sense, what followed wielded a magic different from that to which he was used.

  For a region supposedly abandoned by any creature of reason, the Wetlands and Grim Batol were proving quite active. Krasus finally went against his better judgment and sought with his mind to better probe the direction in which he felt the hound on his heels followed.

  There was a brief trace... and then nothing. The dragon mage frowned. Something was not right—

  A cloaked figure suddenly leapt out from among the trees, one obscured foot pounding into Krasus's chest with astounding force. The lanky spellcaster went flying back.

  But he was hardly beaten. His body stopped falling just inches from the ground, then immediately righted itself. The cowled mage glared in the direction of his attacker, a spell ready.

  The mysterious attacker was nowhere to be seen.

  Krasus spun about, arm raised.

  He barely blocked the strike coming at his throat from behind, a blow certain to at least incapacitate him, if not shatter his windpipe. Whoever he fought had knowledge of all the most sensitive places to hit. The kick would have left any human, elf, or dwarf unconscious, their breath crushed from their lungs. Only because of what Krasus actually was had he been able to withstand the attack... and this one as well.

  Yet, even as he deflected that blow, his assailant summoned into being an odd staff... the crystal tip of which promptly touched Krasus on the chest.

  He let out a roar worthy of any dragon as the pain engulfed him. Wards that should have held against most magical attacks failed utterly... because, he sensed belatedly, the forces unleashed by the crystal were unlike the arcane magics of Azeroth.

  And only then did Krasus have a suspicion as to just what his attacker was.

  Unfortunately, he lacked the strength to stand, much less speak. Legs collapsing under him, the dragon mage tumbled to the ground.

  Barely had he done so, when the cloaked form set one foot on his side and the tip of the staff against the very spot that it had just touched.

  "Where is he?" a female voice with an accent that verified for Krasus his suspicions demanded. "What have you done with him?"

  "I—I have no Idea of whom you speak!" he managed. Then, trusting in his judgment, he said in another language, "But a draenei is no enemy to one of my kind, child...."

  The cloaked figure hesitated. "No... you must be the one.... The trail led me here..."

  Still speaking the draenei's tongue, Krasus returned, "I have found trails involving Grim Batol may lead anywhere but the truth."

  There was another pause, then, "There is much in that. Far too much."

  She withdrew the staff, which then vanished.

  The dragon mage nodded in interest. "Seldom have I met a priest or priestess of the draenei, and never have I seen one who wielded such a gift from the wondrous naaru...."

  Her last bit of uncertainty vanished. Pulling back her hood, she revealed herself to also be one of the youngest draenei Krasus had thus far come across. "I sense in your tone nothing but truth. My name is Iridi...." She extended a hand to help him up. "And when I hear you speak of the naaru, I hear something in your voice that places you closer to them than you are to me..."

  "I would claim no such vaunted position. I am a spellcaster of some power, yes." She had clearly not seen him in his true form. For the moment, he preferred to keep that part of his identity even from her. "You may call me Krasus, child."

  Her exotic eyes narrowed and a slight smile crossed her face. "Krasus.. .may I put a hand to your chest? I mean no harm by it. It is a sign of trust among those of my particular order."

  He nodded. Iridi placed her palm atop his robe, then closed her eyes.

  Krasus felt a slight warmth. Startled, he pulled back.

  The draenei's eyes shot open. She wore a look of utter astonishment. "You are not as you appear, Krasus!"

  "No." The dragon mage said nothing more. "And neither are you, it seems." He felt no anger toward her, despite her trick. In truth, Iridi had astounded him in return. He had not experienced such a spell among the draenei, whether spellcaster or priest. Iridi seemed to have abilities rare even among her own kind.

  He wondered again about the staff. Krasus knew just enough about the naaru to know that she would not have been given it without a good reason.

  The priestess went down on one knee. Her continued reverence made Krasus uncomfortable, for he had no desire for anyone to honor him.

  "Rise up," he insisted.

  Iridi did, albeit slowly. Her eyes continued to stretch wide, as if she tried to imagine Krasus as he truly was. "Lord of the air, forgive me for attacking you like a fool—"

  "There is nothing to forgive, and do not call me by such a title."

  She shook her head. "But you are one of the winged ones." Her eyes shut briefly, then the draenei added, "Of those who follow the cause of life..."

  Krasus was more and more impressed by the priestess. She had learned all that simply by touching him. He made a note to himself to not permit the palm gesture any more should he ever meet another draenei who made such a request.

  Although Krasus now at least somewhat understood how anyone could have tracked him despite his wards—and he vowed that from here on that even to a draenei he would be invisible—there was yet the question of what the priestess was doing in this forsaken land in the first place.

  However, before he could ask, the dragon mage was suddenly struck as if by an unseen sword through his heart. The sense of loss that he had felt when one of his duplicates had been eradicated overwhelmed him again, but doubly so.

  "Great one," Iridi gasped, reaching for him. "What ails you?"

  Krasus could barely stand. Two more quickly gone... and so close together! What is happening? What is—

  He blacked out.

  Iridi grabbed for the cowled figure just before he would have fallen. She was at a loss as to what had just happened. It had been enough of a struggle for her mind when she had discovered that the figure that she had so recklessly attacked was in actuality far more than the priestess had imagined him—and certainly not the slim, elve
n figure of whom she had only gotten a brief glance from too long of a distance back In Draenor.

  One of the lords of the air... a red dragon... Iridi could scarcely believe that she had taken on such an ancient leviathan. The priestess doubted very much that she had actually bested Krasus— not his dragon name, that much the draenei knew—by herself and now his collapse surely proved her right. He had clearly been weakened from the start, most likely by what had assailed him now.

  Gripping the slumped body as best she could, Iridi dragged Krasus to the side of a small, squat hill. The moment that the priestess felt secure with how he lay, she began seeing just what she could do to help.

  There were no visual signs as to his ailment. Kneeling, the draenei placed her palms a few inches above Krasus's head. She did not care for what she intended next, but it was her best chance to find out quickly what had happened.

  Barely had Iridi begun to concentrate when voices and images flashed through her mind. A red-haired human with the look of a mage on him. An antlered, stalwart figure who appeared to be a night elf—and one of the druids of which she had heard but herself had not yet seen. A female elf of lighter complexion, a fighter whose image seemed bound to the human, oddly enough.

  The voices intermingled randomly with the images.

  You would sacrifice anything for her, would you not, Koriaistrasz?

  I had thought you dead. I mourned you for a long time....

  They've that much faith left in me? After the others died?

  You of all should understand my need to discover the truth.

  And more and more faces. A scarred, war-weary orc. Another night elf... whose blinded face suddenly reminded her of the horrific tales of the demon Illidan. A noble paladin. An arrogant human noble. A young, blond woman, whose eyes held both innocence and some incredible secret.

  And, most of all... a face that shifted back and forth between an extraordinarily beautiful woman with crimson tresses streaked withgold and the same sort of pale elven features as Krasus wore... and the ageless visage of a gargantuan red dragon. Mingling with the woman's fiery hair were leaves touched by autumn, but what struck Iridi more was that the wild, amber eyes of the former—eyes filled with both a wisdom and humor that the priestess could never attain in her own short lifetime—were somehow the same eyes as those belonging to the crimson leviathan.