Beyond the Dark Portal

by Aaron Rosenberg

  Still the shadow grew, as did the shifting, blurring body that cast it. It seemed to have its own substance now, and was somehow pushing away from the rocks. The body elongated and increased in bulk, changing rapidly to match its shadow. A black dragon, yes, but more—the black dragon, the mightiest, most powerful, most dangerous of them all; the father of the flight.

  Gorefiend thought he would be the most perfect specimen of his kind, but as the shape before him grew more distinct, the death knight realized that Deathwing lacked the dark beauty of his children. Giant plates made of gleaming metal ran along the dragon’s spine from the tail to the back of the long narrow head. Beneath them Gorefiend caught glimpses of red and gold and white in radiating lines, as if molten fire were somehow…breaking through. As if the metallic plates fastened onto Deathwing’s spine were physically holding him together. The effect was disjointed, disharmonious, and suddenly Gorefiend realized why Deathwing was so meticulous about his appearance in human form—his dragon form was flawed.

  Red eyes blazed now from a reptilian face. Deathwing spread his wings wide, their great leathery surfaces as dark as a starless sky and as wrinkled as an old crone. Power pulsated from the dragon in waves, like heat from a raging fire.

  “Come, little death knight, if you dare,” Deathwing commanded, his voice now a deep rumble. He lowered his head almost to the ground, and Gorefiend actually found himself frozen in place for a moment before he forced his body to obey. Trembling, he clambered up onto the dragon where his neck met his heavily armored shoulders. Fortunately, the unnatural metal plates provided easy handholds. The others emulated him, and soon all Gorefiend’s band were astride the dragons.

  With no warning, Deathwing launched himself into the air with a powerful kick and a downward sweep of his wings, lifting them up into the sky by sheer muscle alone. Gorefiend clung tightly as the ground fell away, and then Deathwing’s wings beat down and back, and again, and they were soaring, the air supporting them as if the massive dragon were as light as a stray leaf. Sabellian and his chosen followers split off, racing forward and disappearing into the night, while Deathwing banked to the right, that wing dipping so low Gorefiend thought it might scrape the ground, and headed for Alterac.

  Aiden Perenolde, king of Alterac and prisoner in his own palace, awoke with a start. He had been dreaming, and still remembered vague flashes of something large and dark and reptilian looming above him and…laughing? Perhaps, he thought bitterly, it was a metaphor for his fate.

  He rubbed his face, chasing away the nightmare, but sleep would not return. Muttering, Perenolde rose from his bed. Perhaps some wine would help. He poured himself a glass of the dark red liquid—red as blood, he mused—and sipped it slowly, thinking about the choices that had led him here.

  It had seemed so easy at the time. So wise, so right. The orcs were going to destroy everything in their path. So he’d negotiated with them to save his people. He frowned into his glass as he remembered his conversation with Orgrim Doomhammer. It was going to work just fine—except somehow it hadn’t. His so-called “treachery” had been discovered, and the orcs had failed to do the one thing they apparently excelled at—destroy things. Stupid great green oafs.

  The doors to his bedchamber suddenly burst open. Perenolde started at the noise, spilling the wine all over his sleeping clothes, as several large figures charged in. For an instant he simply gaped, caught up in the sensation that he was still in a reverie as the great green oafs he’d just been brooding about charged into his private chambers. Things got even more surreal as the orcs—what were orcs doing in his palace?—seized him and shoved him to the door. Recovering his wits slightly, Perenolde tried to twist away. Without breaking stride, one of them hoisted the king over his shoulder like a sack of grain and they continued. They stalked through the palace, past the bodies of Perenolde’s guards, and out the front doors. Then the orcs set Perenolde on his feet again.

  “No! Please, I—” His cries died in his throat. A vast creature, large as the palace itself, loomed above him, a mass of black scales and gleaming plates and leathery wings. The long head, easily as big as he was, swiveled to study him, the red eyes glowing.

  “King Perenolde.” The dry voice did not seem to emanate from the dragon’s long fang-filled mouth, and with a start Perenolde realized the creature was not alone. Someone sat astride its neck, up against its shoulders. Or perhaps something, Perenolde corrected himself, noting the rider’s glowing eyes, hooded cloak, and strange wrapped limbs. Hadn’t he heard of such creatures during the Second War? As agents of the Horde?

  “King Perenolde,” the rider said again. “We have come to speak with you.”

  “Yes?” Perenolde replied, his voice little more than a squeak. “With me? Really?”

  “During the war, you formed a treaty with the Horde.”

  “Yes?” Perenolde made the connection. “Yes!” he said quickly. “Yes, I did. With Doomhammer himself! I was an ally! I am on your side!”

  “Where is the Book of Medivh?” the strange rider demanded. “Give it to me!”

  “What?” The incongruity of the question momentarily banished Perenolde’s fear. “The book? Why?”

  “I have no time for debate,” the rider snapped. He muttered something else, gesturing with one hand, and suddenly Perenolde was racked with pain, his entire body spasming. “That is but a taste of what I can do to you,” the stranger informed him, the words reaching Perenolde as if from a great distance as the pain washed across him. “Hand over the spellbook now!”

  Perenolde tried to nod but could not, and fell to his hands and knees instead. Then the pain was gone. He stood slowly, his limbs still trembling, and eyed the two powerful creatures before him, the dragon’s burning gaze searing deep into his soul. Somehow that stare seemed less troubling than it had before. The pain had helped clear Perenolde’s head and focus his mind. This could be an opportunity if he could just keep his wits about him.

  “I have the book,” he admitted. “Or rather, I had it stolen from Stormwind and I know where it is.” He brushed absently at the wine stain on his sleeping clothes. “I thought I might need it as a bargaining chip. The Alliance has claimed my throne and my kingdom because I helped your kind in the last war.” He studied the rider—a death knight, he thought, suddenly remembering the term. Yes, clearly he was a death knight, which meant he held some importance in the Horde.

  Perenolde considered. “I will give you the book…for a favor.” The rider did not speak, but something in his bearing indicated he was still listening. “The Alliance has stationed troops here in my kingdom, to watch me and to control me. Destroy them, and the book is yours.”

  For a second the rider did not move. Then he nodded. “Very well,” he replied. “It shall be done. We will return afterward and you will tell us where to find the book.” The death knight whispered something to the black dragon and it leaped skyward, his wings carrying him aloft. A rustling all around startled Perenolde, followed by the sight of several more dark shapes taking flight.

  Perenolde stared as the black dragons flew from sight, and then he started to laugh. Could it be that simple? Trade an old spellbook—one he could not use himself—for his freedom and his kingdom’s independence? He continued to laugh, aware of the manic quality the peals held.

  “What’s going on?” came a voice. Perenolde started, then realized it was his eldest son. “That…that was a dragon…and I think a death knight!” Aliden continued in a shocked tone. “What did you say to them? How did you convince them to leave?”

  Perenolde laughed on, unable to stop himself. “Damn it, Father!” Aliden burst out, punching his father in the jaw hard enough to send the older man sprawling. “Two years I’ve spent trying to overcome the stigma you’ve cast on our family name. Two years!” Aliden glared down at his father, tears streaking his face. “You stupid, selfish bastard, you’ve ruined everything!”

  Perenolde shook his head and rose to his feet, but froze mid-motion as h
e heard a new sound over his son’s recriminations. What was that? It sounded like—yes, like a ballista releasing its payload, the rush through the air and the sudden release of the cargo, then the dull whump of the impact. He heard it again, and again, and realized the sounds were coming from over the rise, on the far side of the city. Near the barracks the Alliance forces had commandeered. He knew then what the sounds must mean, and began laughing again.

  The dragons had begun their attack.

  Aliden stared at him, then toward the sounds, then back at him again, comprehension and horror slowly washing across his face. “What have you done to us, Father?” he demanded. “What have you done?”

  But Perenolde could not control himself enough to answer. Instead he slumped to the ground and sat there in a heap, shaking with mixed chortles and sobs, as he listened to the sounds of death and destruction.

  He had never heard anything so lovely in all his life.

  “Over there.” Sabellian circled, then settled gracefully onto the ground. “Boats.”

  “Boats?” Tagar had asked when Ragnok had explained the plan, clinging to the great black dragon’s neck as they flew through the night. “I thought the dragons were flying us to this island.”

  But the death knight had shaken his cowled head. “It is too far for them to fly directly,” he had explained. “They’ll take us to Menethil Harbor, and we will obtain boats there to complete the journey.”

  Fenris had frowned. “Menethil…that is the name of a line of kings of this world,” he had said quietly.

  “Yes…it is an Alliance outpost,” Ragnok had admitted. “But it is the closest port to the island.”

  Fenris had disliked the idea, but he supposed it could not be helped. The dragons had set them down on a stretch of hilly land close to the harbor, separated from it by a small body of water. Fenris slipped off the dragon and gazed over the dark inlet speculatively. It looked quiet, but there were lights here and there. The harbor likely would be guarded. He motioned to his warriors, pointed at the harbor, and lifted a finger to his lips. As silently as he could, Fenris slipped into the water and began to swim as the dragons, their task discharged, took to the skies. The dragons had flown as close as they dared; even those in a little town, deep in slumber, would be roused by several dragons landing right next to them.

  Most of the orcs were not armored and swam quickly, but those who had bits and pieces of plate, mail, or leather armor had a harder time of it. The orcs emerged dripping and chilled. Fenris glanced at them. Their green faces loomed pale in what light there was, and he frowned. He scooped up a handful of dirt and began to smear it on his face.

  “Coat yourself with mud,” he instructed both Tagar and the other orcs as quietly as possible. “We will need to move quickly, quietly, and without being seen.” The rest of them complied. Fenris felt a quick stab of wistful memory as he watched the faces of his companions turn brown. Once, his skin had been this color; once, all orcs had been a wholesome earth- or tree-bark brown. Had things been so bad then? Had what they’d gained since that time been worth losing their world for? Sometimes, he wondered.

  He shook off the melancholy and focused his attention on his companions, nodding as he saw they were all just brown blurs in the darkness. “We only need a few boats. We’ll take those three there, closest to the water’s edge. Move quickly, and kill anyone who gets in your way.” He glared at Tagar. “And only those in the way. Tagar, keep your warriors in line. Silent kills only—we don’t want anyone to sound the alarm.”

  “Let them!” Tagar blustered. “We will strew the water with their bones!”

  “No!” Fenris’s sharp hiss cut him off. “Remember what Gorefiend said! We get in and get out, that’s it!”

  Tagar grumbled, but Fenris glared at him until the Bonechewer chieftain nodded.

  “Good.” Fenris gripped his axe, a narrow-bladed affair with a short haft and wicked edges. “Let’s go.”

  They crept forward, moving silently across the moist earth, weapons at the ready. The first orcs had just reached the wooden piers when a dwarf walked past, clearly on patrol. He had not seen them yet, but he would any second, and Fenris nodded to the two warriors in front. One of them darted forward, grabbed the dwarf’s head, and yanked his axe across the dwarf’s exposed neck, severing his head completely. The body dropped with only a soft thud, the head rolling a short distance away, its expression revealing just the beginnings of surprise.

  They advanced upon the boats Fenris had selected. Another guard approached, this one human, and one of Tagar’s warriors dropped him with a single crushing blow to the head. Fenris nodded his approval. He’d been worried about the Bonechewer orcs, but perhaps they were not as savage and undisciplined as he had always thought. He moved on, then heard a strange crunching sound—and a short, breathy wail. Fenris whirled around. The orc was still crouched over his recent victim, and he was making the crunching sound—but not the wailing. Then, even as Fenris realized what the Bonechewer was doing, the wailing drew out and became words.

  “Ah!” the guard cried, shrieking in pain. “My legs! It’s eating my legs!”

  A cry went up and lights were lit in buildings. Humans and dwarves poured forth from seemingly nowhere, and Fenris realized they weren’t going to be able to escape without a fight. He attacked fiercely, hoping to end it quickly. His orcs rallied around him, and soon cleared the immediate area of humans. But Fenris knew the docks would be overrun before long.

  “To the boats!” he shouted, raising his axe high. They clambered into the three boats, one Bonechewer dropping his victim’s remains back on the pier, hacked free the anchor lines, and cast off. It was clumsy, but the orcs managed to get all three boats pushed away from the docks and out into the bay beyond. Even as they left the harbor behind, however, a beacon fire flared to light.

  “This is Baradin Bay,” Ragnok said, “and the fleet of Kul Tiras patrols it regularly. They will see the beacon and be here within minutes.”

  “Then we should be gone before they arrive,” Fenris replied grimly. He pulled a pair of oars from the long case set between the benches lining the boat and tossed them to the nearest warrior. “Row!” he shouted, grabbing more oars and distributing them as well. “Row with all your might!” The other boats followed his lead, and soon they were skimming across the water, their powerful arms lending the boats speed.

  But it was not enough, Fenris realized as he saw other, larger boats racing toward them. “Kul Tiras naval vessels!” Ragnok confirmed, studying their outlines. “Admiral Proudmoore hates orcs—he will stop at nothing to destroy us!”

  “Can we fight them?” Fenris asked, but he knew the answer even before the death knight shook his head.

  “They are trained for ship-to-ship battle. And they can outrun us as well. We do not stand a chance!”

  Fenris glanced up at the star-pocked sky and nodded. “Perhaps we don’t. But then again, perhaps we do. Keep rowing!”

  Their boats moved quickly, but as Ragnok had predicted, their pursuit was faster. The human boats drew closer, until Fenris could make out the grim men clad all in green who stood ready at the taller ships’ railings. Many of them had bows ready, while others had short swords and axes and spears in hand. He knew his warriors could defeat a larger number of humans if they were on land, but here at sea they were at a serious disadvantage.

  Fortunately, they had not come alone.

  Just as the first human boat came close enough for Fenris to make out the men’s faces, a dark shape dropped out of the sky between them. Massive wings flapped hard enough to drive the boat back and knock the men off their feet. Then the dragon’s jaws opened wide and fire shot forth, engulfing the ship’s prow. The tar-coated wood caught at once, and soon the entire boat was alight. The sounds of screaming and crackling fire lifted Fenris’s heart.

  But the humans did not flee. Again their boats closed in, and again a black dragon intercepted it and charred timbers and crew alike. A third time the human
s tried, their weapons bouncing off the dragons’ tough hides, and a third boat was reduced to ash and bone. After that the human ships fell back, letting the three orc-captured boats pull away. A cheer rang out from the orcs.

  “They’re giving up!” Tagar cried from the prow of the boat beside them.

  “They’re no match for the dragons and they know it,” Fenris corrected. “But I would not think they are giving up.”

  “Any sign of smaller fires on the other ships? Controlled ones?” asked Ragnok.

  Fenris studied the retreating vessels. “Yes, I see a signal fire, and smoke,” he said finally.

  “They’re warning the rest of their fleet,” Ragnok said. “They’ll be waiting for us.”

  Tagar laughed from the prow of the boat beside them. “The warnings will come too late,” he proclaimed, licking blood from his axe blade. “By the time the humans have gathered their courage to come after us again, we will be long gone with our prize.”

  Fenris nodded. For the first time, he hoped that the Bonechewer was right, and that he was wrong.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Antonidas, archmage and leader of the Kirin Tor, sat in his study examining a recently arrived scroll. The news was grave indeed: Admiral Proudmoore reported that a group of orcs had stolen several ships from Menethil Harbor. Worse, when he’d pursued them, Proudmoore’s ships had been driven back…by dragons. Black dragons. Antonidas felt a vein throb in his temple and rubbed it. During the Second War the Horde had somehow enlisted the aid of the red dragons, and now that the portal had been restored it seemed they had allied with the black dragons as well. It was almost unbelievable. Two dragonflights? How could the Alliance hope to stand against that?

  A soft tap came at his door. “Enter, Krasus,” Antonidas called out, his magical skills already telling him who was calling at this late hour.