Beyond the Dark Portal wow-4

by Aaron Rosenberg

  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 scared 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 griitcd 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 they 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.

  He stalked on, a part of him noting the landscape around him. Most of Draenor resembled Hellfire Penin­sula, with its cracked red ground and bare stretches. Why, then, was this region still so green? Lush grass cushioned his steps, and clumps of bushes alternated with tall trees. Nagrand had clearly not been touched by the same desolation as the rest of their world, but why?

  It was ironic, in a way — the greenest, healthiest part of Draenor, and it was home to sick and weakened orcs. As he crested a low hill, Kargath saw the village spread out before him. Its tightly built walls, domed roofs, and plank porches were in the same style as most orc vil­lages, including his own. For a second Kargath enter­tained die notion of bringing his warriors here, chasing out the current inhabitants, and claiming the village as their own. They could let the war pass them by — Ner’zhul did not expect to see any of them again, so he wouldn't be surprised when they never appeared. They could let the Horde go on to other worlds and live out their days here instead, tending herds and crops and battling whatever beasts lived in the forests whenever they felt the old bloodlust rise.

  But no, Kargath scolded himself. He had sworn an oath to fight for the Horde. How could he live with himself — or look any of his warriors in the eye — if he did not give them his all? Besides, he thought with a shiver, claiming this village would mean facing its cur­rent residents, and he didn't think any of his warriors were up for that.

  Walking down the hill, Kargath approached the vil­lage cautiously. He saw a few orcs moving around slug­gishly, patches of brown against the green of their surroundings, but they hadn't noticed him yet. When he was still a hundred feet or so from the nearest hut, Kargath slowed to a halt/

  "Geyah!" he shouted, breaking into a short spate of coughing as the deep breath exacerbated his injuries. "Greatmother Geyah!" The orcs he'd noticed earlier looked up, startled, then disappeared into the nearest huts. Hopefully they were summoning Geyah, Kargath thought bitterly. He doubted he had the strength for another shout right now.

  A moment later the curtains over a hut entrance rus­tled and then were pushed aside. Greatmother Geyah emerged and stomped toward him, squinting against the sunlight. "Who's there?" she called out, her voice as sharp as ever. "Kargath Bladefist, chieftain of the Shattered Hand clan," he replied, forcing himself to stand up straight as she approached.

  "Kargath, eh? I've not seen you for many a year," Geyah commented. She finally stopped halfway be­tween him and the huts and met his gaze. Her eyes were still violet, Kargath noted, and her long hair was still thick, if streaked with gray. She didn't look ill. Impatient, though. And the curl of her lip — was that revulsion he saw there?

  "What do you want here?" she demanded, confirm­ing his impression.

  "An Alliance army has invaded Draenor," Kargath told her, his sense of urgency warring with the respect­fulness his elders had drummed into him as a youth. "They've overthrown Hcllfirc Citadel and will be marching on the Black Temple soon."

  "Eh? And what's that to me?" Geyah asked, sniffing. "Monuments to war, the both of those places. We're better off with them gone."

  "I need warriors," Kargath explained, hoping he sounded confident and demanding rather than desper­ate. “Any orc able to fight must come with me at once."

  Geyah stared at him, her eyes wide. “Are you mad?" she burst out. "This is a village of the sick, or have you forgotten that?" She studied him, and a sly grin flickered across her lips. "No, I can see you haven't — or would you rather we continued this discussion inside one of the huts?" When he shifted uneasily from foot to foot, her grin widened. “As I thought. You know who dwells here." Her grin turned to a scowl. “And now you want to add to their suffering by dragging them into your foolish war? Why should they fight? Why should any of us?" She glared at him. "You invaded the humans' world. This is the consequence."

  Kargath felt his own lips pulling back in a snarl as his anger began to outweigh his fear. "We are all part of the Horde," he reminded her sharply. "We are one race, and all must survive or fall together." He studied her for a second, then switched to a different tack. "Ner’zhul says he can get us off this hellhole. If he can get to the Black Temple and hold off the Alliance long enough, he can open portals to other worlds. You could have an entire world to yourself, for you and your patients."

  "What's wrong with this world?" Geyah responded. She gestured at the greenery all around them. "I like it just fine."

  "This world is dying."

  "Only part of it," she countered. "The part you and your fool warlocks have tainted. Nagrand is as vibrant as ever." She looked smug. "It is mag'har — uncorrupted. And so are its people. They may be sick with the red pox, even dying from it. But at least their pocked skin is brown, and they have not been fouled by the Horde's dark magics."

  "It is your duty!" Kargath insisted. "All your warriors must come with me at once!" Geyah laughed at him then. "You want them?" she asked. "Get them yourself. Drag them out of their sickbeds and you can take them with you to your war.”

  Kargath glared at her, but his anger was up now and overwhelming all else, including his fear. "They don't look that ill," he said, staring past her to where many of the orcs she tended had emerged from the various huts to watch the exchange. From here he could see that some of them were limping and others were bent or bowed or hunched, but they all appeared to have the right number of limbs. And at this point as long as they could hold a club he'd take them.

  He started toward the village, just as one of the fig­ures stepped away from its hut and approached them. It was a male, a young warrior, and as he neared, Kar­gath could see he was tall and muscular. He was also staggering, swaying on his feet, and his brown skin was pale except where angry red pustules marred it, many of them seeping a thin red fluid that looked more like tainted tears than blood.

  With a start Kargath realized he knew the youth. It was Garrosh Hellscream, son of Grom!

  "What has happened?" Garrosh demanded, lurching to a stop beside Geyah. "Why are you here? Is it the Horde?" A strange look came over the youth's face. "Is it my—“ A horrible wet groan rose from his throat, drowning out his words, and then Garrosh fell to his knees, gasping as blood and bile spilled from his mouth, pouring down his chin and chest and soaking into the grass below.

  "I warned you not to exert yourself!" Geyah snapped, steadying him with a hand on his shoulder. She did not seem concerned about the risk of touching him. "The pox is still upon you, and you're nowhere near well enough to leave your hut yet!" Then she glared at Kar­gath, a nasty smile on her face. "Do you want him to join you for battle? Are these the warriors you'd hoped to find?"

  Kargath had recoiled when Garrosh started spitting up blood, and he continued to back away now. "No. They are no warriors." Disgust and despair added venom to his words. "They are not even orcs anymore — they are useless." He glared at Gcyah. at Garrosh, and at the other villagers behind them. "You pathetic weak­lings!" he snarled, raising his voice as best he could. "Do the Horde a favor and die here! If you can't help defend your people, you have no right to live!"

&n
bsp; With that he turned on his heel and stalked off. There was nothing for it now but to take his remaining war­riors and disappear into the hills. He lacked the numbers to make a difference at the Black Temple.Too, the more he thought about it, after being abandoned at Hellfire Citadel, Kargath felt that he did not owe Ner’zhul any­thing anyway. No, he would take what few soldiers he had left and find some place to hole up and rebuild. Some day they would be strong again, and then they would reclaim Hellfire Citadel and the rest of the land from there. And when he did finally die, Kargath vowed, it would be on his feet. He shuddered at what lay behind him. No matter what, he would not end up like them.

  "We need to get you back to your bed," Geyah scolded Garrosh, though more gently now.

  Garrosh shook off her hands. "What did he say?" he demanded in a hoarse whisper, his throat still spasming after tossing out so much liquid. "Was it — was it about my father? Is he — is he still alive?"

  Geyah looked away, unable to meet the hope flicker­ing in the boy's eyes. Was Grom alive? She had no idea. Not that it mattered. She had heard plenty about the older Hellscream over the past few years, about his sav­agery and his battle frenzy and his appetite for vio­lence. He had been the first to give himself to the Horde and to Gul'dan's foul magic, she knew, and it had corrupted him utterly. Even if he still lived, he would surely be beyond redemption.

  "He didn't say anything about your father," she told Garrosh now, gripping his arm again and refusing to be put off a second time. "I am sure he is still alive and well, else Kargath would have mentioned it."

  Garrosh nodded and let himself be led away, his en­ergy spent. Geyah's heart went out to him, and to all the orcs she tended here. Would they survive the red pox? Some of them, perhaps, but not all. Yet a part of her couldn't help feeling that at least their deaths would be cleaner than those of the orcs whose souls had been so tainted; the mark showed through to their very skin. She shook her head and continued walking with Garrosh, refusing to glance back to where the emerald-skinned Kargath was still march­ing away.