"Night of the Dragon"

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 salvagesomething from many, it never seemed enough. He was only one being, one dragon...even if he was, in truth, Korialstrasz, 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 dragonflight, 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, Rhonin, 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 ore
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.

Even his death.

Indeed, at this point there were only two others he would have
entrusted even with the knowledge, but Rhonin and Vereesa had
troubles of their own.

It was up to him alone, then. With a curt wave of his hand, Krasus
sent the spheres flying into the shadows above. Death was no fear
to him, who had seen it and nearly experienced it far too often.
He wanted only that—should it happen—it at least would mean
something. He was more than willing to die for the sake of his
world and those he loved, if that was what was required.
If such is required, the dragon mage pointed out to himself.
He had not yet even begun the journey. Now was not the time to
think of his demise.

The search must be done with stealth, Krasus considered as he
abandoned his seat. This is no mere happenstance. There is
something going on that threatens us all; I feel it-...
If it had been another time, if it had been the Second War, Krasus
would have known who to blame. The mad Aspect once called the
Earth-Warder or, more specifically...Neltharion. But no one had
called the immense black dragon by his original name for
millennia, a much more apt one having arisen after the first of the
insane behemoth's monstrous plots.

Deathwing, he was called now. Deathwing the Destroyer.
Krasus paused in the midst of the huge cavern, taking a deep
breath in preparation for what was to come next. No, Deathwing
could not be blamed for this, for it was nearly positive that he was
this time dead. Nearly positive. That was far better than in past
incidences when the black dragon had only been presumed likely
dead.

And Deathwing was not the only great evil in the world.
Krasus spread his arms to each side. It did not matter whether
what lurked in Grim Batol was simply the culmination of ages of
past evil or some sinister new foulness; he would find out the
truth.

His body swelled out of proportion. With a grunt, the mage fell to
the floor, dropping on all fours. His face stretched forward, his
nose and mouth melding together as they formed a long,
powerful snout. The robes Krasus wore shredded, the pieces
flying up into the air, then immediately settling all over his body,
where they became hard crimson-colored scales.

From Krasus's back burst two small, webbed wings that grew as
his body did. A pointed tail sprouted. Hands and feet twisted into
powerful paws ending in a sharp set of claws.

The transformation took but the blink of an eye, but by the time it
was done, the mage Krasus was no more. In his place stood a
magnificent red dragon who nearly filled the cavern and who was
dwarfed in size by few of his kind other than the great Aspects.
Korialstrasz stretched his vast wings once, then leapt up toward
the stone ceiling.

The ceiling shimmered just before he reached it, tons of rock
becoming as if water. The crimson dragon dove into the liquefied
stone unimpeded. Powerful muscles lifted him ever upward as he
drove full pace through the magicked barrier.

Seconds later, he burst into the night sky. The rock solidified
behind him, leaving no trace of his passage.

This latest of his sanctums perched among the mountains near
what remained of Dalaran. Ruins appeared below, yes—far too
many ruins of once-proud towers and powerful keeps—but there
was something much, much more astounding enveloping most of
the fabled realm. It originated from where the Kirin Tor had ruled
and spread equally in all directions. It was the desperate attempt
of those that remained of the inner council to resurrect their
glory, to rebuild their might while aiding the Alliance against the
Scourge.

It was what appeared to be a vast, magical dome, a dome of
shifting energies, but especially those that gave it a shimmering
violet or gleaming white appearance. It was utterly opaque, giving
no clue to the efforts within. Korialstrasz knew what the wizards
planned and thought them mad for it, but let them do as they
must. There was still the hope that they would succeed....

Despite their own not-insignificant abilities, the council of wizards
was utterly ignorant of the dragon almost in their midst. When he
had been a part of their order—one of its secret founders, in
fact—they had known him only as Krasus, never as his true self.
Korialstrasz preferred it that way; most of the younger races
would have found it impossible to deal directly with such a mythic
beast.

Shielded by his magic, the dragon flew over the fantastic dome,
then headed southeast. He was tempted to veer toward the lands
of the red flight, but such a delay might prove costly. His queen
might also question his journey, even forbid it. Even for her,
Korialstrasz would not turn back.

Indeed, it was for her in great part that he sought to return to
Grim Batol.

The dwarves were a motley group, even compared with how
dwarves often were seen in the eyes of humans or other races.
They themselves would have preferred a better state of affairs,
but their duty demanded that they ignore their discomforts for
the sake of their people.

Squat but powerfully built, the dwarven warriors numbered both
males and females, although those not of the race might have had
some difficulty discerning the physical difference from a distance.
The females lacked the thick beards, were of slightly lesser builds
than their counterparts and if one listened close, the voices were
a little less gruff. However, they were known for fighting with as
much determination, if not more sometimes, than their mates.
But male or female, they were all grimy and exhausted, and this
day had seen two of their comrades lost.

"I could’ve saved Albrech," Grenda said, her lips twisted into a
frown of self-recrimination. "I could’ve, Rom!"

The older dwarf to whom she spoke bore more scars than any of
the rest. Rom was commander and the one with the most
knowledge of Grim Batol's legacy. After all, had he not also been
leader years ago when the wizard Rhonin, the high elf archer,
Vereesa, and a gryphon rider from the Aerie had aided his forces
in ridding the foul place of the orcs and freeing the great
Dragonqueen? He leaned against the wall of the tunnel through
which he and his band had just run, catching his breath. He had
been young not that long ago. The past four weeks here had aged
him in a manner unnatural, and he was certain that it was the
sinister land's doing. He recalled the reports concerning the red
dragons and how they had suffered even greater before finally
having the sense to depart barely a month back. Only dwarves
were hard-headed enough to march where the very realm itself
sought to kill them.

And if not the realm, then whatever black evil that had now
burrowed deep into the dread caverns.

"There was nothing that could be done, Grenda," he grunted
back. "Albrech and Kathis knew this might be."

"But to leave them to fend for themselves against the skardyn—"

Rom dug under his breastplate to retrieve his long pipe. Dwarves
went nowhere without their pipes, although sometimes they had
to smoke something other than what they generally favored. For
the past two weeks, the band had been making due with a
combination of ground brown mushrooms—the tunnels were full
of those—and a red weed found near a stream that was their best source of water. It made for a tolerable smoke, if not much else.

"They chose to stand and help the rest of us get our task done,"
he replied, stuffing the pipe. As he lit the contents, Rom added,
"and that was to bring this stinkin' creature back with us...."

Grenda and the rest of the party followed his gaze to their
prisoner. The skardyn hissed like a lizard, then snapped sharp
teeth at Rom. It—Rom was fairly certain the thing was male, but
did not wish to grant the skardyn even that much identity—stood
slightly shorter than the average dwarf, but was a little wider. All
of that extra width was muscle, for the scaly creatures dug
through earth with their clawed hands as not even the most
powerful of Rom's people could.

The face that stared out from under the skardyn's ragged brown
hood was a macabre mix of dwarven and reptilian features, the
former not at all a surprise to its captors—for skardyn were
descended from the same race as Rom and his comrades. Their
ancestors had been Dark Iron dwarves, accursed survivors of the
War of Three Hammers hundreds of years earlier. Most of the
traitorous Dark Irons had perished in that epic confrontation
between dwarf and dwarf, but there had always been rumors that
some had escaped into Grim Batol after their leader—the
sorceress, Modgud—had cursed Grim Batol just before being
slain. As no one had desired at that time to hunt any possible
remaining foes in a place blackened by magic, the rumors had
remained just that...until Rom had had the misfortune to discover
the truth in them shortly after arriving.

But whatever links there had been between Rom's people and the
skardyn's had long ago become so intangible as to be nonexistent.
The skardyn retained the general shape and some traces of facial
similarity, but even where they had once sported beards, coarse
scales now covered everything. Their teeth were, indeed, more
like those of a lizard or even a dragon and their misshapen
hands—paws, to be precise—also resembled those of the two
beasts. The thing that the dwarves had captured was also just as
likely to run on all fours as it was on two legs.

That did not mean that the skardyn were merely animals. They
were cunning and well-versed in weaponry, be it the daggers they
carried on their belts, the axes—unchanged since the War of
Three Hammers—or the metal, palm-sized balls wickedly spiked
that they either tossed by hand or threw using slings. Still, if
disarmed, they were also more than willing to utilize their teeth
and claws, as had been disastrously proven the first time the
dwarves had encountered them.

That time, the verification that these were the descendants of the
Dark Irons had been proven by the garments, which still retained
the markings of the treacherous clan. Unfortunately, it had
proven highly difficult for Rom's force to capture any of the
creatures alive, so fierce did the skardyn fight. Three times before
this had he organized missions to take a prisoner, and three times
had the dwarves utterly failed.

And three times had others under Rom's command perished.
That last damned streak still held with the loss of two fine
warriors this night. However, at last the mission had something to
show for its efforts...or so he hoped. Now, at last, Rom believed
that he had a source by which he could at last discover what could
be so malevolent and powerful that even dragons fled in fear of it.
What darkness commanded the skardyn with
such absolute mastery that the abominations would die for it?
And what now howled its anguish as unsettling lights and energies
radiated from the desolate peak?

The skardyn spat as Rom leaned close. Its breath was awful, which
said much considering the stenches to which dwarves were used.
Rom discovered another change that further pushed skardyn and
dwarves apart; the prisoner had a double-forked tongue.
None of these alterations were natural, but rather the result of
living in a place so saturated with evil magic. The dwarven leader
peered grimly, matching the bloody red gaze with his own stern
one.

"You filth can still speak the language," Rom rumbled. "Heard you
use it before."

The prisoner hissed...then tried to lunge. The two hefty guards
holding its arms had been chosen by Rom for their strength, but
they were still hard-pressed to keep the skardyn in place.
Rom took a deep puff of his pipe, then exhaled deeply in the
creature's face. The skardyn sniffed longingly; one trait that
apparently had not changed was the love of the pipe. When first
the dwarves had checked the bodies of dead ones, they had found
curled pipes carved not from wood, but crafted from clay. What
exactly the skardyn used to fill those pipes was another question,
for the only substance anyone had discovered on the skardyn had
smelled like old grass and mulched earth worms. Not even the
hardiest of Rom's followers had been willing to try it.

"You'd like a smoke, would you?" Rom took another puff, then
again blew it in the creature's face. "Well, just talk with me a little,
and well see what we can do..."

"Uzuraugh!" snapped the prisoner. "Hizakh!"

Rom tsked. "Now that kind o' talk will only get you turned over to
Grenda and her two brothers. Albrech, he was Gwyarbrawden to
them? You know that old word? Gwyarbrawden?"

The skardyn stilled. Dwarves counted their blood connections in
many ways. There was the clan, of course, the most prominent of
ties. Yet, within and without the clan there were other bindings,
and the ritual of Gwyarbrawden was foremost among the
common warriors. Those who swore Gwyarbrawden to one
another marked themselves as willing to cross all of Azeroth to
find their comrade's slayer, should that happen. They were also
not averse to making the death of that slayer long and harsh, for
Gwyarbrawden was a justice all unto itself. Clan leaders did not
publicly acclaim its existence, but neither did they condemn it.
It was a part of dwarven society that very few outsiders knew
about.

But skardyn were not outsiders, evidently, for the wild, crimson
orbs flashed toward a grinning Grenda, then back to Rom once
more. Legends concerning Gwyarbrawden quests often finished
with extravagant descriptions of the prey's lengthy death. It did
not surprise Rom to know that such grisly stories would still
circulate among this creature's kind.

"Last chance," he said, taking another puff. "Going to talk so we
can understand you?"

The skardyn nodded.

Rom hid his anticipation. He had not been entirely bluffing about
Grenda and her brothers, but giving up the prisoner to
them might have meant finding out nothing. True, Grenda would
have done her best to wring some word out of the ugly thing, but
he could not discount one of the three perhaps too eagerly
pursuing Gwyarbrawden and killing the skardyn before that
happened.

With a final glance at Grenda to remind the captive of what
awaited it if it did not answer, Rom said, "The veiled one! Your
comrades brought her something, and now Grim Batol echoes
with a roar like that of a dragon...only no dragon's been seen here
in months! What's she up to in there?"

"Chrysalun..."The single word escaped the skardyn with a
hoarseness that made it sound as if speaking was a rare and
terrible effort for it. "Chrysalun..."

"What by the beard of my father is a chrys—chrysalun?"

"Bigger..." the prisoner rasped, its tongue darting in and out.

"Bigger inside...not out..."

"What pile of tailings is that beast spouting? He mocks us all!" one
of Grenda's brothers snarled. Although not twins, her siblings
looked even more like one another than most dwarves did, and
Rom always had trouble telling which was Gragdin and which was
Griggarth.

Whichever he was, he followed his declaration by charging
forward, ax raised as best the tunnel allowed. The skardyn hissed
and struggled anew.

It was Grenda who blocked her impetuous brother. "No,
Griggarth! Not yet! Put the ax down now!"

Griggarth shrank under his sister's admonition. She was the
mistress and they were her two hounds. Gragdin, who had no
reason to, imitated his brother's reaction.

Grenda turned back to the skardyn. "But if this filth doesn't make
more sense with the next word he utters..."

Rom seized control again. Finishing the last bits in his pipe, he
tapped the ashes out, then muttered, "Aye. One last time. Maybe
a different question'll stir you right." He considered, then said,
"Maybe something about the tall one and what his ilk would be
doin' here of all places."

His suggestion had a disquieting reaction on the skardyn. At first,
Rom thought that it was choking on something, but then he
realized that the damned beast was laughing.

Drawing his dagger, Rom thrust the point under the skardyn's
brown, scaly chin. Despite that, the prisoner did not let up.

"Be still, you blasted son of a toad or I'll save them the trouble of
flaying you and—"

The ceiling caved in. Dwarves scattered as tons of rock and stone
tumbled down.

And with it came three massive figures not only armored in brass
breastplates and guards, but scaled even more than the skardyn.
Worse, these imposing giants—nearly nine feet tall by Rom's
expert reckoning—were far more deadly and far more
unexpected than the descendants of the Dark Irons had been.

"What are—" cried one dwarf before a huge, arced blade cut
through his midsection, breastplate and all.

Rom knew what they were, if only by description, but it was
Grenda who cried out their foul name. "Drakonid!"
She lunged toward the first, her ax already out. Looking as if
someone had melded a dragon and a human into one vicious
warrior, the black-scaled drakonid she moved against swung at
the dwarf with the already-bloodied weapon. As it struck her ax,
the blade flared, cutting through good dwarven
workmanship as if through water.

Only Rom's swift action saved her. Having launched himself
toward the monstrous figure at the same time that Grenda had,
he was there in time to shove her aside. Unfortunately, the
confines of the ruined tunnel did not give him enough room to
avoid being struck by the blade meant for her.

The dwarf screamed as it burned through his wrist. He watched
with amazement as his hand fell to the ground, where it was
trampled under the drakonid's massive, three-toed foot.
If there was anything fortunate to come from the terrible wound,
it was that the magic of the blade also cauterized the cut. That,
combined with dwarven endurance, enabled Rom to throw his
strength into a one-handed swing.

The ax cut into the armored hide near the shoulder. The drakonid
let out a growl of pain and backed up.

Laughter rung in Rom's ears, laughter that less and less sounded
like the skardyn's and more like something far more sinister. He
glanced over his shoulder to where the prisoner should have still
been held.

But the guards lay dead, their eyes staring blindly and their
throats cut. Their axes remained harnessed on their backs, and
their daggers were still sheathed in their belts. They looked as if
they had simply stood and waited to die.

Or had been bespelled...for what stood where the skardyn had
been was no magic-degenerated dwarf. Instead, the figure stood
as tall as a human, but was slimmer of build. His long, pointed
ears were clue enough to his identity, but his crimson robes and
fiercely-glowing green eyes—the sign of demon taint—verified to
Rom's dismay just how big a fool the commander had been.
It was the very blood elf about whom he had been asking.
Rom's hunt for a prisoner who could give him information had
been turned into a trap for the dwarves. His pulse raced as he
imagined his followers slaughtered or, likely worse, captured and
dragged back into Grim Batol.

With a war cry that resounded in the ruined tunnel, he charged
the blood elf. The tall figure eyed the powerful dwarf with disdain,
then held out one hand.

In it, a twisted wooden staff materialized, the head ending in a
fork in which a huge, skull-shaped emerald matching the blood elf
s evil orbs flared.

Rom went flying back, the dwarf colliding with the wall behind
him.

As he dropped to the ground, Rom uttered an epithet that would
have burned the ears of any human, much less one of the elven
races. Through his blurred vision, he saw dwarves desperately
trying to make a stand against the powerful drakonid. It was not
that the dragon men were unstoppable, but his people seemed to
be moving sluggishly. Gorum, a fighter whose swiftness was
second only to Rom's, hefted his ax as if it weighed as much as he.
The blood elf...it...it has to be the...blood elf... Rom struggled to
rise, but his body would not obey.

Worse to him than even his own certain demise was his failure to
his king. He had sworn an oath to Magni that he would discover
the secret of what was now going on in Grim Batol, but all Rom
had accomplished was this horrific debacle.

That shame managed to get him to his knees, but from there he
could rise no farther. The blood elf turned his attention from Rom,
yet another insult to the dwarfs honor.

Rom managed to seize his ax. He struggled against both the spell
and his own pain—

A horrific roar that shook the walls rose above the tunnels,
causing everyone to look up.

The effect on the blood elf was greatest. He cursed in some
tongue Rom did not understand, then shouted to the drakonid,
"Up! Quickly! Before it gets too far!"

The dragon warriors crouched, then leaped up and out of the
tunnels with astounding agility for their immense size. Their
leader tapped the bottom of the staff twice on the ground—and
vanished in a brief burst of golden flames.

Rom abruptly found it possible to move, if somewhat wearily.
Slowly, the conditions of his comrades registered. There were at
least three dead and several others wounded. He doubted that
the drakonid had suffered much more than one or two cuts each,
none of them threatening. If not for the mysterious roar, the
dwarves would have been lost.

Grenda and one of her brothers came to his aid. Sweat drenched
the female warrior. "Can you walk?"

"Hmmph! I can run...if I've got to, girl!"

It was because of no sense of cowardice that he suggested
running. There was no telling if the blood elf and the drakonid
would return as quickly as they had left. The dwarves were in
disarray and needed to retreat to a location where they could
recover.

"To...to the slope tunnels," Rom commanded. Those tunnels were
much farther from Grim Batol, but he felt them the best choice.
The ground of the region there was full of rich veins of white
crystal—highly sensitive to magical energies—which would make
it difficult for even a mage like the blood elf to scry for them. In a
sense, the scouts would become invisible.

But not invincible. Nowhere was it completely safe.
With Grenda's assistance, Rom led the dwarves off. Glancing over
his battered followers, he saw again how much the very brief
struggle had cost them. If not for the roar—

The roar. As grateful as he was for that interruption, Rom
wondered at its origins, wondered about that...and whether or
not what had been the dwarves’ salvation was the harbinger of
something far, far worse.