Beyond the Dark Portal

by Aaron Rosenberg

  At one point Turalyon muttered, “You know, I’m not sure we’re fighting the right enemy.” Khadgar had to admit these tactics were brutal, almost ghoulish, but he couldn’t argue with the results.

  Gruul and the other gronn—Khadgar thought of them both as male—had selected thick spires from the cliffs just beyond the valley. They swung these clubs around them with enough force to create strong winds that buffeted the drakes, driving them back into one another and making them easier targets for the ogres and humans. Any drake unlucky enough to actually be within the clubs’ radius was crushed instantly, and the valley floor was soon thick with bodies.

  “The eggs next,” Khadgar said to Turalyon. But the paladin hesitated, peering at one of the eggs but making no move toward it. Khadgar frowned at him. “What’s wrong?” Khadgar asked.

  “I…dragons are sentient creatures. They think, they feel. It’s one thing to fight the drakes, but—these are infants. Just…babies, really. They can’t even fight back. And we’d be butchering them.”

  “Turalyon,” Alleria said, “Light, do I love you, not least for that compassionate heart of yours. But these are black dragons. You know what will happen if they’re not killed now.”

  Turalyon nodded grimly, making yet another one of those difficult decisions any general has to make in the thick of battle.

  “Destroy the eggs!” he shouted, striding to the nearest and bringing his hammer down atop it. The thick shell shattered with a loud crack, followed by a softer thud as the hammer connected with the half-formed dragon inside. Large as a medium-sized dog, the un-hatched dragon had smoky red skin, and nubs where head and wings would have been. It did not move as it was attacked, save to twitch slightly. A pale reddish fluid oozed from the broken egg as the shell crumbled away and the whelp within slumped to the ground, its final shudders already fading.

  The rest of the Alliance warriors quickly followed suit. Just as Turalyon was breaching the last egg and the ogres were dismembering the last drakes, Khadgar heard a loud shriek from the peak above—the same place where he had last sensed the skull. Glancing up, he saw another shadow launch itself into the air, its wings covering all the valley in darkness. Its bulk dwarfed even Gruul, who shrank back against the valley wall before growling and straightening defiantly. His ogres and the lesser gronn were not made of such stern stuff; they shrieked and fled in terror. The shape plummeted down, sunlight glinting off its skin, its long neck arched, its jaws wide. Lava burst from its throat, a torrent of glowing magma that instantly incinerated ogre, human, dead drake, shattered egg—anything unlucky enough to fall within its spray.

  “Pull back!” Turalyon shouted to his men, who were already scrambling away from the monstrous apparition. “Back to the valley wall!”

  They clustered there, Khadgar and Turalyon and Alleria at the forefront, and watched the gargantuan dragon alight. Khadgar gulped. He’d known the creature would be impressive, but this—Deathwing was almost inconceivably huge. The drakes they had been fighting seemed as toddlers compared with their great parent. Khadgar could barely take it all in. But one thing struck him as curious, even in the midst of his awe. The father of the black dragonflight had plates of silvery, glinting metal running along his spine. Beneath those plates were glowing lines of red, like the magma Deathwing had just attacked them with. The dragon’s massive claws dug deep into the stone of the valley floor. All but his left foreclaw, Khadgar saw. That was held high and curled inward, as if injured—or holding something.

  “The skull!” he whispered to Turalyon and Alleria. “He has the skull with him!”

  “Nice of him to bring it to us,” Turalyon muttered. “But how do we get it?”

  Deathwing folded his wings behind his sinuous body and settled on his haunches. His long neck reared up and glared balefully down at them, his red eyes alight with rage.

  “My children!” the dragon howled, his voice like fire licking at burning wood, like metal chipping bone. Along with the anger was a deep grief. “My children, murdered!” His tail lifted, slammed down, and a crack ran along the earth. “Come forward, disgusting, cowardly wretches, murderers of defenseless infants, and know torment and madness before I devour you whole! Who will be the first to be blasted to ashes?”

  His gleaming eyes narrowed as they focused with dreadful intent upon Gruul. “You,” he said, drawing out the single syllable so that it contained a world of promised agony, his voice dropping to almost a whisper, almost a caress, and Light help him, Khadgar knew a sharp gratitude that that terrible gaze had, for the moment, passed him over.

  Yet Gruul did not quail. “I!” he proclaimed. “I am Gruul, greatest of gronn! This my land. My mountains. And you will not take them! You go or end up like children!”

  Deathwing’s roar of fury nearly deafened Khadgar. “My children!” he wailed, and the pain in his voice almost—almost—made Khadgar feel a twinge of sympathy. “Perfection incarnate…beautiful and defenseless…” The words turned unintelligible as Deathwing howled and almost flailed in his anger and grief, magma dripping from his jaws, shredding the stone upon which he stood, his flapping wings creating almost tornado force gales. Khadgar began to wish he’d listened to Turalyon’s reluctance to smash the eggs. What had they been thinking? Light, what had he been thinking, to stand up to this monster, this ancient, evil, terrifying vision of rage? How could they possibly defeat him?

  “Oh, how brave of you!” Deathwing’s grief had sharpened into scorn, less raw but no less deadly. “Such courage it must have taken, to smash shells and murder defenseless infants! A pity you will not live to brag about such a noble feat!” His wings flared out behind him and beat down again, the powerful gust they created slamming Gruul back against the wall. Gruul’s ogres yowled in fear and cringed back, almost hugging the walls of the valley. Gruul would get no aid from them.

  “Puny mortals! I have had many names throughout history, all of them spoken with dread: Neltharion, Xaxas, and many more. Yet you shall know me best as Deathwing, for so I am! I am the bane of life, the darkness within history, the lord of death, the master of destruction. And I tell you now, and so it is true, that this world is mine!”

  “Never!” Gruul replied, snarling, and launched himself at Deathwing. The giant gronn slammed into the colossal dragon’s chest with an impact that cracked the cliffs around them and sent rock cascading down from the fractured peaks. It drove most of the Alliance forces from their feet and even the ogres to their knees. Other dragons had appeared along the valley walls, watching their father intently, and they were forced back a step as well. But when the dust had cleared, Gruul was shaking his head and Deathwing stood unmarred and unmoved.

  “Is that the best the oh so mighty Gruul can do?” Deathwing sneered, lowering his head so that his bony forehead ridge brushed up against Gruul’s own thick brow. “Is that all you have?” He lifted one foreclaw, the other still closed and curled up to his breast, and held it over Gruul’s head as if he were preparing to squash an insect. It was like a signal. The dragons shrieked a battle cry, sprang from their perches, and flew with lethal grace toward the humans, ogres, and gronn lining the walls of the valley. The ogres seemed to be paralyzed, staring, slack-jawed, at the winged doom.

  “Sons of Lothar! Attack!”

  Turalyon’s voice was clear and strong, and carried much farther than it should have. He lifted his hammer, his eyes bright, and charged forward to meet the drakes. The hammer glowed as it struck the first drake square in the skull. The beast dropped like a stone.

  “For Quel’Thalas!” Alleria and her rangers began firing. Battle cries rose from the Alliance soldiers, elf and human alike, and it was joined by the earsplitting roar of the ogres and gronn as they roused themselves from their terror. The dragons swooped down, heady with excitement and pride in their father, spewing magma or clamping their jaws on their enemy. The ogres and gronn seemed to remember that they had fought drakes before, and again began to pluck the creatures from the very air and rip off t
heir wings. One ogre slammed his flapping victim so hard into the wall of the valley that a whole chunk of it crumbled, sliding slowly down in a mass of broken stone and dust, burying in its path those too slow to escape.

  Khadgar kept his eyes on the battle between Deathwing and Gruul. The gronn was brave to even go up against the black dragon, but he would lose soon. The mage suspected the only reason he hadn’t lost before now was because Deathwing was toying with him, tormenting the creature he believed had slain his precious, obscene offspring before dispatching him.

  And when he was done with Gruul…

  They had to get that skull from him. Had to.

  Khadgar raised his staff high, and muttered words of power. The resulting lightning strike seared his eyes, blinding him for an instant and leaving afterimages when he blinked. The massive bolt struck Deathwing square in the chest and actually succeeded in jolting the dragon back a few feet. Lightning skittered along the metal spinal plating like water droplets on a hot skillet, but Khadgar realized that the dragon was unharmed.

  “Well struck, little mage,” Deathwing acknowledged, though his long mouth curved up in a cold smile. “But I mastered such magics millennia before your race first learned of them—you will have to try much harder than that if you wish to breach my skin!”

  Gruul hurled himself into the fray once more, rousing reluctant admiration from Khadgar as the mage frantically considered what to do. Deathwing turned his attention to the gronn, weathering its awesome blows easily and batting him aside with a quick flip of his wings.

  Khadgar stared at the dragon, a sickening feeling spreading through him even as the mage attacked again. He watched with horror as Deathwing shrugged off a spell that should have turned his very bones to ice. Deathwing was right. Khadgar realized he’d been an arrogant fool. There was no way to pierce that armored hide.

  Armored…

  Khadgar’s eyes narrowed. Deathwing shone in the red sunlight, gleaming like dark brass or pools of blood, and Khadgar studied him.

  Metal plating…

  With gaps and fissures underneath it that glowed magma-red…

  And it all clicked. His ice spell hadn’t worked because it couldn’t hope to compete with the heat Deathwing’s entire body generated. The black dragon was virtually made of lava! And those plates along his spine—which Khadgar now saw were red-hot along the edges and at the joints—were holding him together.

  Lightning didn’t work. Fire and ice were useless. His most powerful magics, and they didn’t touch the dragon. But what about one of his weakest? What about one of the first spells they taught in Dalaran, a parlor trick every apprentice could perform at will?

  Hope, painful and yet intoxicating, rose inside him. It could work—maybe. It was the last card he could play, and so play it he would. Play it he had to. But he would need to get closer. Steeling himself, Khadgar squared his shoulders and pushed forward, brushing past where Turalyon and Alleria were battling a black dragon alongside two ogres. And walked, alone, toward Deathwing.

  Fortunately, Gruul was keeping Deathwing busy, and neither of the massive creatures noticed the old-seeming man who crept toward them until he was only ten paces from Deathwing’s head. Gruul was struggling to escape the heavy, taloned foot Deathwing had pinned him with, and the dragon was leaning in, his long jaws opening to bite, when Khadgar raised his hands and cast his spell.

  Sensing the magic, Deathwing glanced around and, spying Khadgar, laughed at him. “More wizardry?” the dragon mocked, eyes slitted like those of an amused cat. “How entertaining. Have you not realized yet that your mightiest spells cannot harm me?” But then the words of Khadgar’s incantation registered, and the dragon’s eyes flew wide with alarm. “What are you—pathetic wretch, I will silence you!” He turned and, ignoring Gruul utterly, bore down with terrible purpose on Khadgar.

  The sight was so horrifying Khadgar almost forgot to complete the spell. Shaking his head, he rallied, and spoke the command words in a voice that shook.

  A loud creaking rose from the dragon before him. Deathwing screamed again, writhing in pain, as the metal plates covering his body began to shift, bending away from him. Joints snapped and several plates fell away completely—where that happened, magma erupted as if from a volcano, gushing out and spilling onto the valley floor. The armor really had been holding Deathwing together, and as Khadgar’s spell removed it, the dragon began to lose cohesion.

  “No!” Deathwing, if such a thing were possible, looked utterly taken aback. He craned his neck to look at the damage, at the crunched, warped metal, the seeping magma, then turned glowing eyes on Khadgar.

  “You may have won this battle, I give you that. But hear this, and hear it well. I have seen you, mage.”

  Khadgar gulped, unable to tear his gaze away.

  “I have burned your face into my memory,” Deathwing continued, his voice reverberating along Khadgar’s bones. “I will haunt your dreams and your waking moments alike. Rest assured, I will come for you, and when at last I do, you will beg me for your death as the only respite from your terror.”

  His mighty wings unfurled again, his claws spasming open to release both Gruul and the skull, and Deathwing took to the air, his wings beating hard as he fled the mountains. Khadgar’s legs, which had been shaking, finally collapsed and he sat on the ground for a long moment, gasping and acutely aware that he’d just been terribly, terribly lucky.

  With their father and ruler gone, the remaining black dragons seemed to lose heart and focus. One of the larger creatures abandoned the fight immediately, his body covered with heavy gashes and one wing bent at an odd angle.

  “Father,” he cried, leaning back to snap at where the smaller gronn had his tail in a death grip. “Father, wait for me!” Spitting magma, the dragon burned the gronn’s hands until he released his hold, then took off after Deathwing.

  With the horror that was Deathwing forced into retreat, the ogres and the gronn seemed to go mad for slaughter. They descended upon those dragons that had not escaped in time, ripping them apart with huge meaty fists and teeth, crunching their throats, lifting the bodies to the skies, and then impaling the still-writhing drakes upon the rocky spires.

  Khadgar took advantage of the confusion to grab up the skull Deathwing had dropped.

  Human…but powerful. What great potential I sense here! But that is to be expected, is it not, from the young apprentice to Medivh? You can become stronger yet, if you have the courage to embrace your destiny. Why not become my apprentice? I will teach you that blood and slaughter are the keys to true—

  “Ah!” Khadgar gasped, almost dropping the skull. Gul’dan! He gritted his teeth and shuttered his mind. Even dead, it would seem, Gul’dan was a danger. Quickly he stashed the skull in a pouch and hurried back to where Turalyon and the others still fought.

  “I have the skull,” he told Turalyon, finding his friend just backing away from a dragon’s death throes.

  “Well done,” Turalyon said. “Now let’s get out of here. We retreat. Now.” Their men were quickly gathered, and Alleria rounded up her rangers. The ogres and the gronn were too busy tormenting the dragons to even notice their departure.

  Turalyon led them quickly back out of the mountains. “Your gamble worked, Khadgar, and brilliantly,” he told his friend once they were well clear of the valley and its carnage. “We got the skull, and we dealt with the dragons—they won’t be aiding the Horde again any time soon.”

  Khadgar thought about Deathwing’s parting threat and couldn’t suppress a shiver. He wasn’t so sure Turalyon’s optimism was warranted. Nevertheless, he nodded as if he believed it. “All that’s left is Ner’zhul. Once I get that book, I can close the portal for good.”

  All that was left was stopping a powerful shaman, one who had the powers of the skies and the earth, from opening portals into countless worlds. Still, they’d just dealt an extremely powerful dragon a setback. Who knew, maybe they’d be able to do this after all. One thing was certain. If th
ey didn’t stop the orcs now, on Draenor…they would never stop them.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  “Village up ahead,” Ba’rak reported, leaning over with his hands on his legs as he struggled to catch his breath. Dried blood still coated his side beneath the rough bandages they’d rigged for him after Kargath Bladefist had ordered the Shattered Hand clan to abandon Hellfire Citadel. Yet Ba’rak was actually one of the least injured among their little band.

  Which was why they were here.

  “I’ll go on by myself,” Kargath told Ba’rak and the others. “I will make better time.” He glanced around at the other orcs. “Heal quickly. When I return we’ll set out for the Black Temple.”

  As he walked, Kargath wondered how it had come to this. True, when Ner’zhul had given him those orders to stay behind and delay the Alliance at Hellfire Citadel, it had been obvious the shaman did not expect them to survive. Nor was death in battle a problem for Kargath or any of his Shattered Hand orcs. But dying with honor was one thing—dying for no reason was another. And leaving Ner’zhul and the others defenseless against the Alliance would bring dishonor on them and their entire clan, even if they had died in the process. That was why, when he had seen that the Alliance had conquered the citadel and shattered all their defenses, Kargath had gathered what warriors he could find and had set out for the Black Temple itself. But he’d had fewer than he’d hoped, and many of them had been so badly wounded they hadn’t even survived the first night. Now he had only a handful left, none of them uninjured.