Night of the Dragon
( World of Warcraft - 5 )
Richard A. Knaak
Grim Batol: its dark legacy stretches back into the mists of Azeroth's past. But most know it as the site of a terrible tragedy -- where the vile orcs corrupted the hatchlings of the noble Dragonqueen, Alexstrasza, and used them as weapons of war. Though a band of heroes, led by the enigmatic mage, Krasus, defeated the orcs and freed the captive dragons, the cursed mountain stands as another ravaged landmark within the...
WORLD OF WARCRAFT
But now Krasus -- known to some as the red dragon Korialstrasz -- senses the malice of Grim Batol rising once more to threaten those he holds dear. Determined this time to confront this evil by himself, he is unaware of the quests that will draw others to Grim Batol and reveal the monstrous truth that could not only herald their deaths, but usher in a terrible new age of darkness and destruction.
Night of the Dragon
PROLOGUE
He was trapped... trapped... trapped...
The darkness of his prison closed in around him. He could not breathe, could not move. How had this happened? What were the foul little creatures who had somehow managed to ensnare him? Vermin capturing a leviathan! It was impossible!
But it had happened...
He wanted to roar, but could not. There was no sound here, anyway. The silence drove him mad. He needed to be free! There had to be some escape—
A blinding emerald light enveloped him. He shrieked as it painfully ripped him from his prison and thrust him into the beyond.
But that shriek turned into a mighty roar of relief mixed with fury. He spread wide his magnificent, shimmering wings, his gargantuan, teal form filling much of this new place in which he found himself. Jagged, almost crystalline protrusions erupted along his spine and head, the latter creating an impressive crest akin to those worn on a warlord's helm. Huge, glittering white orbs—more like pearls than eyes—swept over a massive cavern filled with toothy projections thrusting from both the rounded ceiling and the rough floor.
And then his baleful gaze fell upon the vermin that had dared— somehow!—to trap his greatness. A subtle magenta aura suddenly radiated from him as he bellowed his righteous fury.а
"Foul little worms! Foul little gremlins! You would dare make of Zzeraku a caged pet?" As Zzeraku cried out, his already ethereal body grew more translucent. He fixed on a small party of his captors. They were ugly little things that moved like squashed draenei but were scaled in some places and furred in others. They had vicious little mouths filled with sharp teeth and wore hooded and armored garments. Their eyes were red like molten earth and despite his obvious threat to them, they did not appear properly frightened.
It was clear to Zzeraku that they knew very little about nether dragons.
"Foul little worms! Foul little gremlins!" he repeated. His body suddenly crackled with lightning the color of his wondrous self. He reached out a taloned paw as If to wipe away the creatures, the lightning suddenly shooting forth from it.
The first bolts went oddly astray, turning from the little creatures at the last moment. At the same time, the foreheads of each briefly revealed a strange, glowing rune.
Without hesitation, the captive nether dragon cast again. However, this time the lightning struck the ground around his tormentors. Rock and dirt exploded everywhere, the snarling little beasts thrown with the rest. Their hissing bodies scattered through the air with pleasing effect. "Foul little worms! Zzeraku will squash you all!"
He summoned more of his power. Veins of dark azure suddenly crisscrossed his chest. The lightning crackled more violently.
From somewhere to the side, a long, sinewy strand of silver energy looped around his left forelimb, tightening painfully.
Startled, Zzeraku forgot his own intended attack. The nether dragon was a creature of energy; the strand should have slipped through him. He snapped at it, only to receive a vicious jolt to his jaws. His limb dropped, suddenly bereft of all strength.
As that happened, his other forelimb was likewise snared. Zzeraku tugged in vain, the slender magical strand so very powerful.
The nether dragon's body swelled, the blue veins that distinctly marked Zzeraku now nearly black. He took on an even more transparent appearance, as if fading away to mist.
The silver strands flared.
Zzeraku let out a pained roar and fell forward, crashing on the cavern floor as If made of flesh and bone. Cracks ran across the stone. A crevasse opened up, into which two of the tiny creatures tumbled to their doom.
The others ignored the fates of their comrades as they set into motion two more silver strands. Five of the vermin at a time wielded the sinister threads of energy as if gigantic whips. The strands soared unerringly over Zzeraku to the opposing side, where the ends were seized and guided into the ground with small emerald stones.
"Release Zzeraku!" the nether dragon roared as the strands flashed and his body suffered renewed agony. "Release me!"
The new strands forced him to flatten against the floor. Zzeraku struggled, but his magical bonds kept his powers entirely in check.
All around him, the scaly figures rushed about, adding dread line after dread line until they had all but enshrouded him in them. Each cut into the nether dragon's body, simultaneously burning and freezing him. Zzeraku shrieked his fury and pain, but nothing that he did could alter his situation.
The creatures continued to feverishly work, evidently uncertain as to the strength of the strands. With the emeralds, they constantly readjusted the bonds, often to the nether dragon's further torture. One chortled at his pain.
Zzeraku managed a last burst of energy at that tormentor. Black energy surrounded the creature, who now shrieked with satisfying fear. The nether dragon's magic crushed the one captor into a pulpy mess that then solidified into ebony crystal.
Immediately, another strand fell across his muzzle, clamping it down. The glistening leviathan fought, but his jaws were held as tight as the rest of him.
His captors continued to scuttle about the huge cavern as if in great anxiousness, although Zzeraku could no longer imagine it had anything to do with him. He let out a frustrated hiss—a sound muffled by his sealed muzzle—and tried yet again to free himself.
And yet again, it was to no avail.
Then, without warning, the squat, scaly creatures paused in what they were doing. As one, they stared at a point to the nether dragon's side but well beyond his sight. However, Zzeraku could still sense that someone approached, someone of tremendous power.
His true captor...
Those around him dropped to the ground in homage. Zzeraku heard a slight movement that might have been the wind if not for the fact that no wind could reach this accursed place.
"You have done well, my skardyn," came a voice that, despite its feminine allure, touched what passed for the soul of the nether dragon like the coldest ice. "I am pleased...."
"They obeyed their orders well,'' replied a second, more masculine speaker. His voice held a clear contempt for the creatures. "Though they opened the chrysalun chamber too soon, my lady. The beast nearly escaped."
"There was never a need for concern. Once here, escape for this one was impossible."
The feminine voice drew nearer...and suddenly a small form stepped into sight before Zzeraku. A pale figure clad in a form-fitting gown the color of night paused to study him and be studied In turn. She reminded Zzeraku of another, one who had tried to befriend him and taught him something beyond the absolute chaos he had known in the realm some called Outland. Yet, the nether dragon could smell that this being, while similar in some ways to the one he recalled, was also very different in others.
; Long, ebony hair flowed down past her shoulders. She kept her countenance to the side, as if not paying particular attention to the captive beast even though Zzeraku knew full well that she did. What the nether dragon could see of her features were flawless in the way his friend's had been, even more so.
Yet the coldness Zzeraku felt from that half-lidded gaze made the giant struggle anew.
The edge of her red his curled up. "You need not trouble yourself so, my little one. Rather, you should make yourself comfortable. After all...I've only brought you home."
Her words made no sense. Zzeraku strained at his bonds, seeking escape...escape from this tiny figure that somehow so frightened him.
She turned to face him directly, in doing so revealing that the left side of her visage was draped by a silken veil... a veil that fluttered aside just enough when she turned to let the nether dragon see the horrific, scorched flesh beneath and the gap where once an eye had been.
And although she was a mere speck in comparison to the girth of the nether dragon, the image of her ruined countenance still magnified Zzeraku's anxiety a thousandfold. He wanted to be away from it, wanted never to see it. Even when the veil settled over the marred area, the nether dragon could still sense the horrific evil beneath.
Evil that far outshone any that he had known in Outland. Her cold smile stretched farther yet. farther than her face should have allowed.
"You shall rest now," she said in a tone that demanded he obey. As Zzeraku instantly began to lose consciousness, she added, "Rest and have no fear... after all, you're among family here, my child..."
ONE
So quickly passes time when one manages to live to be so old, thought the robed figure as he sat in his mountain sanctum surveying the world through an endless series of glimmering globes hovering around him. At a gesture from their creator, they shifted about the gargantuan oval chamber. Those he most desired came to rest before him just above one of a series of pedestals forged by his magic from the stalagmites that had once filled this place. At the base, each pedestal appeared as if carved by an artisan, so perfect were the lines, the angles. However, as they rose, they transformed into what was more the dreams of the sleeping rather than the result of physical labor. In those dreams, there were hints of dragons, hints of spirits, In the shaping, and at the very top something resembling a petrified hand with long, sinewy fingers stretched up, almost but not quite grasping the sphere above.
And in each of the spheres appeared a scene of much relevance to the wizard, Krasus.
The faint rumble of thunder managing to reach his hidden sanctum gave great indication to the turbulent weather without. Shrouded this foul eve in violet robes that had once bespoken of the Kirin Tor, the lanky, pale spellcaster leaned close to better view the latest scene. The sphere's blue Illumination revealed In turn features akin to those of the high elves—a people now all but extinct— including the angular bone structure, the patrician nose, and the long head. Yet, despite also bearing the handsomeness of that fallen race, Krasus was clearly not of any true elven lineage. It was not merely that his hawklike face had lines and scars—most notably three long, jagged ones running down the right cheek—that no elf of any sort could gain unless he had lived well past a thousand years, nor the exotic black and crimson streaks In his silver hair. Rather, It was his glittering, black eyes—eyes like no elf nor even any human—that told of an age beyond any mortal creature.
An age possible only for one of the eldest of dragons.
Krasus was the name by which he went in this form, a name that many knew only as once a senior member of the Inner circle of Dalaran's ruling council of wizards. But Dalaran had failed to stem the growing tide of evil despite the best of efforts, as had failed so many other kingdoms during the wars against the orcs and the subsequent one against the demons of the Burning Legion and the undead Scourge. The world of Azeroth had been turned upside down with thousands of lives lost, and yet was still only barely in balance...a balance that looked more and more fragile with every passing day.
It is as if we are trapped in a never-ending game, our lives hinging on the roll of a dice or the turn of a card, he thought, recalling catastrophic events even further in the past. Krasus had witnessed the collapse of civilizations far older than any existing now, and although he had had a hand in helping salvage something from many, it never seemed enough. He was only one being, one dragon... even if he was. In truth, Korlalstrasz, consort to the great queen of the red flight, Alexstrasza.
But not even the great Aspect of Life herself, his beloved mistress, could have foreseen all that happened or been able to stop those events from taking place. Krasus knew that he placed a far greater burden upon himself than he should have, but the dragon mage could not relent in his efforts to help the peoples of Azeroth, even if some of those efforts were doomed to failure from the start.
Indeed, there were even now many situations that drew his attention, situations with the potential to wreak utter havoc upon his world... and at the core of those problems were his own kind, the dragons. There was the vast rift leading Into the astounding realm called Outland, a great portal that in particular both fascinated and disturbed the blue dragonfllght, keepers of magic itself. From it had already come a mysterious cure for the madness that had long engulfed the blue lord. Yet although the Aspect of Magic, Malygos, was now completely lucid, Krasus did not at all like the path the leviathan's mind had now chosen. Outraged at what he felt was the younger races' destructive misuse of magic, Malygos had begun to suggest to the other Aspects that a purge of all those wielding such power might prove necessary to preserve Azeroth. In fact, he had grown quite adamant about it the last time he, Alexstrasza, Nozdormu the Timeless One, and Ysera—She of the Dreaming— had gathered In the far-off Northeast for their convocation at the ancient, towering Wyrmrest temple in the ice-bound Dragonblight —a significant, annual ritual originally begun to mark their combined might managing to overcome the dread Deathwing more than a decade ago.
With mounting frustration, Krasus dismissed the Image that he had been viewing and summoned the next. His thoughts, however, were still focused inward, this time upon the last of the four great dragons, Ysera. There were rumors of nightmarish things happening in the ethereal realm of which she was mistress, the almost mythic Emerald Dream. Exactly what was a question no one could answer, but Krasus was beginning to fear that the Emerald Dream was a problem potentially more disastrous than any other.
He started to dismiss the next sphere without even really glancing at Its contents... then belatedly recognized the location revealed.
Grim Batol.
All thought of Malygos and the Emerald Dream vanished from his attention as Krasus surveyed the sinister mountain. He knew it too well, for he had been there in times past and had sent agents serving his purpose into the very heart of the accursed place. In Grim Batol, his beloved mistress had been enslaved by orcs—the same barbaric race, oddly enough, that would prove such beneficial allies thirteen years later when the demons of the Burning Legion returned—utilizing a sinister artifact called the Demon Soul. The Demon Soul, unfortunately, had been able to bend her will to the Horde because it had been forged by the Aspects themselves, only to be perverted by one of their own. Alexstrasza had produced young for the orcs for their war efforts, young who became the brutish warriors' mounts in battle. Young who had perished by the scores in combat against wizards and dragons of other flights.
Through his guidance of the impetuous wizard, Rhonln, the high elf warrior maiden, Vereesa, and others, Krasus had been instrumental in releasing his queen from captivity. Dwarven fighters had assisted in wiping out the remaining pockets of orc resistance. Grim Batol had been emptied out, its evil legacy forever eradicated.
Or so all had thought. The dwarves were the first to feel the darkness that permeated it, and so they left almost immediately following the orcs' defeat. Alexstrasza and he had decided then that it was the duty of the red flight to seal off Grim Batol
again. This despite the irony of the fact that, having already guarded It since the ancient Battle of Mount Hyjal, the red dragons' presence had made It so simple for the orcs arriving there to enslave them with the Demon Soul.
And so, despite some misgivings on Krasus's part, crimson behemoths had once again stood sentry around the vicinity, making certain that no one wandered in, either by accident or thinking to make some use of that evil.
But then, only recently, the sentries had sickened for no reason at all, and some had even died. A few had gone so very mad that there had been no choice but to put them down for fear of the devastation they might cause. The red flight had finally done as all others had, abandoning Grim Batol to Itself.
And so, it had become nothing but an empty tomb marking the end of an old war and what had turned out to be a very, very short period of peace.
Yet...
Krasus eyed the darkened scene. Even from so far away, he could sense something radiating from within. Grim Batol had become so bathed in evil over the centuries that there was no redeeming it.
And from it had come rumors of late, rumors that hinted of the baleful past rising from the dead. Krasus knew them all. Fragmented tales of a huge, winged form barely seen In the night sky, a ghostly form that had, in one case, wiped out an entire village miles from Grim Batol. In the light of the moon, the teller of one tale had claimed to see what might have been a dragon... but one neither red, black, or any known color. Amethyst it had been, something impossible and so surely of the frightened farmer's imagination. Still, those with distant sight, mostly agents of his, had reported strange emanations in the sky above the mountain and when one—a trusted young male of his own flight—had dared try to track those emanations back, he had utterly vanished.
Too much was going on in the rest of the world for the Aspects to focus upon Grim Batol, but Krasus could not let it rest. However, he could no longer rely on agents, for sacrificing others was not generally his way. This now demanded his own effort, no matter what the outcome.
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