"Night of the Dragon"

TWO

Korialstrasz soared over Lordaeron, forcing himself as best he
could to pay no mind to the turmoil below. He was determined to
reach the opposing side of the Baradin Bay without even the
slightest delay. It was of the utmost importance he do that. The
dragon dared not allow himself to become embroiled in any part
of the continuous struggle against the Scourge. That had to be left
in the hands of other defenders. He could not become involved...
And yet...more than once the immense red dragon failed in his
resolve. Korialstrasz could not let the innocent suffer nor allow
flagrant strikes by the undead go unpunished.
Nor, when he sighted it toward the end of that shrouded day,
could he let the massing of hundreds of the twisted and decayed
servants of the Lich King remain untouched.
It was just as he first smelled the distant bay that he saw the
macabre army preparing to march...an army built from the
scavenged body parts and corpses of more than a thousand good
souls. The rusted and dented armor of paladins hung upon
fleshless frames and empty eye sockets stared out from under
helmets. By the builds of some of the undead, the dragon saw
that the Scourge was not prejudiced against one sex over the
other, nor of young over old; all who fell were potential soldiers
for its evil master.
And neither did the fact that some of these had once been
women and children have any more meaning for the enraged
dragon, who dove down among the ghouls, unleashing his full and
terrible fury. A river of flame coursed across the center of the
unholy ranks, decimating scores in a single moment. Dry bones
made marvelous kindling for a red dragon's fire, and the inferno
quickly spread as some undead tumbled into others.
Korialstrasz attacked well aware of what destination this army of
the Scourge had in mind, none other than the shield covering
Dalaran over which he had not that long ago flown. The wizards
were a foe that Arthas, the Lich King, could not let recoup. The
dragon had expected such an assault before long, though the
Scourge had moved swifter than even he had calculated.

And so, they thus enabled the red dragon to do his former
comrades in the Kirin Tor one daring favor before flying from
Lordaeron.
Skull-faced warriors fired upon him with bows of many makes, but
their shafts fell far short. They were not used to aerial attacks of
such monumental nature. Korialstrasz banked to the north, then
struck the lines there, first diving down and raking the ground of
warriors, then sending another burst into those still standing.
He finally sensed magic stirring from the back lines and responded
accordingly. Lesser dragons might have fallen prey to the Lich
King's spellcasters, but Korialstrasz was far more
experienced. He immediately noted the location of his new foes
and focused his own considerable magic on the spot.
The ground there erupted, a huge forest of grass tendrils a
thousand times their normal size and thickness bursting all
around the casters, lesser liches who had once probably been
honored wizards until seduced by the dark power of the Scourge's
lord. The huge tendrils encircled their prey, crushing and ripping
apart the undead before the latter could finish their own
treacherous spells.
Thus does life vanquish unlife, Korialstrasz grimly thought. As the
consort of the Aspect of Life and, thus, a servant of that cause, it
disgusted him to use his abilities so. The Scourge, though, gave
him no choice. They were the antithesis of what his mistress
represented and a threat to all that existed in Azeroth.
A savage pain in his chest suddenly sent the behemoth spiraling.
Korialstrasz let out a furious roar and cursed himself for becoming
distracted just like a young dragon, after all. He nearly crashed
among the Scourge, managing to pull up only at the last moment.
Forcing himself high into the gray clouds, the behemoth eyed his
chest.
A black bolt as long as one of his claws lay embedded between
the scales. The head was not made of steel, but rather some dark
crystal that pulsated. It had struck Korialstrasz just perfectly,
digging deep into the so very slim gap. Such a strike was certainly
not happenstance.
New pain wracked him. Even though better prepared against it
this time, the red dragon barely kept himself from descending.

Pushing himself to his limits, Korialstrasz flew higher yet. What
remained of the Scourge below now seemed like a rush of ants.
Satisfied that he was for the moment safe from further magical
assault, the leviathan focused his own powers on the sinister
shaft.
A crimson aura surrounded Korialstrasz. The dragon fed his might
into it, fixing on the area where the sorcerous arrow's head lay.
The black bolt exploded.
Yet, Korialstrasz's sense of triumph was short-lived, for a sharp
twinge immediately thereafter took him. It was not nearly so bad
as the agony he had felt earlier, but harsh enough. He explored
the area of the wound, seeking the cause.
Three small fragments of crystal remained. The sorcery used to
create the arrow for use against such as him—there could be no
other explanation for the weapon's existence—was so potent that
even these few pieces caused him great pain.
The Lich King's minions were growing more and more cunning.
With another spell, Korialstrasz expelled the fragments from his
body. The effort took the wind from him for a moment, but fury
at what had happened to him quickly renewed his strength.
Roaring, the red dragon once again dropped like a missile toward
the rear lines. Whoever had cast the black crystal was among
those down there.
This time, Korialstrasz set the entire area awash in dragon fire.
There was no possible chance of anything there escaping his
wrath. The Scourge would learn that dragons were not to be
trifled with.
Undead wrapped in flames stumbled in all directions before
collapsing. In the center of his strike, the fire consumed the fiends
entirely, leaving only ash.
Korialstrasz looked upon the scene with satisfaction. He had dealt
the Scourge a bad blow with this assault. That would benefit
Dalaran and the rest of the defenders immensely.
Taking a deep breath, Korialstrasz soared on without hesitation
toward the bay...and distant, beckoning Grim Batol.

On the eastern coast of central Kalimdor, a tall, cloaked figure
silently strode into the unsavory town of Ratchet, a settlement
begun long ago by smugglers and now populated mainly by not
only their foul ilk, but also all those others whom various societies
had cast out. The hood and voluminous cloak completely hid both
the new arrival's features and garments. Indeed, it dragged so low
on the ground that even the legs and feet were invisible. While in
many places this would have immediately drawn the attention of
all around, in Ratchet such images were more common.
That, of course, did not mean that other eyes—goblin, human,
and otherwise—were not watching, merely that they did so very
surreptitiously. There were those in the ramshackle collection of
crumbling stone buildings and decaying slat huts who gauged
each newcomer for their possible value and others who marked
them for possible threat. More than a few of the unshaven,
unwashed figures were here because others desired their demise,
and so they were willing to kill any supposed assassin first. That
they might slay an innocent was a notion long willingly accepted
by them.
The covered form shuffled through Ratchet, the hood peering this
way and that in the deepening gloom and at last focusing on a
weathered sign hanging over the front of what had once been, in
another time, a fairly reputable inn. The faded letters still
managed to spell out the establishment's unpromising name...
The Broken Keel.
With fluid movements, the stranger veered toward the inn. A
lanky, scarred man in leather boots and billowing sea garb leaned
against the wall by the cracked door. He peered up at the
oncoming figure, then silently moved off. The hood shifted
slightly, watching his departure, then turned again to the inn.
Although the flowing sleeve stretched to the handle, those close
by might have noticed that they never quite touched. Yet, the
door swung wide open.
Inside, the goblin proprietor and three patrons stared at the
intruder, who, at nearly seven feet tall, stood a hand higher than
the biggest of them. The men's garb and the cutlasses at their
sides marked them from the stories the newcomer had heard.
Bloodsail Buccaneers. Yet, the figure paid no mind to their
interest; only one thing mattered.

"This one seeks transportation across the sea," the hooded form
declared. For the first time, the four registered some
astonishment; the voice sounded neither male nor female.
The proprietor recovered first. The short, green, and somewhat
potbellied goblin grinned wide, revealing his yellow teeth. He
strode back behind the bar, where, despite his girth, he easily
leapt up on an unseen bench or stool so as to be able to see over.
His reaction was one of mockery.
"Ya wanta boat? Not too many in here! Food and ale, maybe, but
we're fresh outa boats, heh!" As he spoke, his stomach swelled,
straining farther out of the stained green and gold jerkin and
almost completely over the wide, metal-clasped belt holding his
weathered green pants up. "Ain't that right, boys?"
There were a couple of "ayes" and a slow nod, the last from one
particularly keen-eyed drinker among the trio. Not one of the
band had yet taken his gaze off the shrouded newcomer, who
evinced no concern, no other emotion.
"This one is a stranger here, true," the figure replied, again in a
voice unidentifiable as anything. "But a place where food and
shelter are offered is often a place where knowledge of transport
can also be found..."
"Ya got gold ta pay for this 'transport,' my muffled friend?"
The hood nodded. The sleeve that had opened the door now
stretched forward again. It was not a hand that popped out of it
now, but rather a small, gray pouch that jingled. The pouch swung
from two leather strings that vanished into the sleeve.
"This one can pay."
The interest in the pouch was obvious, but the newcomer did not
seem moved by that interest. The proprietor rubbed his pointy
chin then rumbled, "Hmmph! Old Dizzywig, the wharfmaster,
might be crazy enough to sail you there. Leastwise, he's got
boats."
"Where might this one find him?"
"At the blasted wharf, of course! Old Dizzywig lives there. Go left
out the door, then around the building. Walk a little bit. You can't
miss the wharf and the docks. There's a lot of water beyond 'em,
heh."

The hood dipped forward. "This one thanks you."
"Tell 'im Wiley sent ya." The proprietor grunted. "Happy sailin'..."
With a graceful turn, the stranger stepped out. As the door closed
behind, the figure surveyed the vicinity, then turned as the
innkeeper had dictated. The sky was now dark, and while it was
doubtful that the wharfmaster himself would wish to set sail at
night, that did not matter.
Figures scurried to and from various buildings as the hooded form
passed by. The stranger paid them no heed. So long as they did
not interfere, they meant nothing.
The dark sea suddenly beckoned. For the first time, the hooded
figure hesitated.
But there is no other choice, the stranger concluded. No choice but
to dare one new thing after another...
While there were some larger ships anchored nearby, none were
what the stranger sought. A small boat that could be handled by a
lone sailor would serve all the stranger's needs. Three ragged but
potentially-useful craft sat at the edge of the water, the fine finish
of each a thing of the past. They likely floated, but that was it. To
their right, the first of the docks stretched out into the black
waters. Several wooden crates waited to be loaded on some
vessel apparently not yet in port. An old but tough-looking figure
that could have just as well have been Wiley's brother, father, or
cousin sat upon one box, his gnarled hands working with fishing
line. He looked up as the newcomer approached.
"Hmm?" was all he said at first. Then..."Closed for night. Come
tomorrow..."
"If you are Dizzywig, the wharfmaster, this one seeks transport
across the sea. Now, not tomorrow." From the voluminous sleeve
emerged the coin sack.
"Ya does, does ya?" He rubbed his lengthy chin. Up close, the
older goblin was thinner and in better shape than Wiley. He also
wore clothes of a better quality, including a purple shirt and red
pants that both contrasted greatly to his green hide. His
boots, wide like all goblin boots due to the splayed feet of their
wearers, were also of better condition. "Are you he?" asked the
stranger.

"'Course I am, fool!" The goblin grinned, showing that, despite his
age, he had kept most of his sharp if yellow teeth. "But as to hirin'
a boat, there're some ships that would do ya better. Where's your
destination?"
"This one must cross to Menethil Harbor."
"Goin' to visit the dwarves, eh?" Not bothered in the least by the
stranger's odd voice, Dizzywig grunted. "None of the ships are
goin' there, that's for sure! Hmmph..." Suddenly, the goblin
straightened. "And maybe you won't be goin', either...."
His slanted, almost reptilian black and coral eyes looked behind
his would-be client, who followed the gaze.
Their approach had been expected. The ploy was an old one, even
where the stranger came from. Brigands were brigands, and they
always sought the tried-and-true paths used before them.
From behind his seat, Dizzywig pulled out a long piece of wood
with a huge nail hammered through the head. The point stuck out
for at least half a foot. The wharfmaster wielded the wood with
an ease that bespoke of years of practice and use, but he did not
jump up to give aid to the hooded figure.
"Touch my wharf, and I'll pound your damned heads to pulp," he
warned the buccaneers.
"Got no quarrel with you, Dizzywig," one of the trio muttered. He
had been the most interested of those observing the newcomer in
the inn. "Just a little business with our friend here..."
The stranger slowly turned so as to completely face them, in the
process sliding back the hood enough for those in front to see the
face beneath. The face, the blue-black hair down past her
shoulders, the two proud horns that stretched from each side of
her skull...
Eyes widening, the three men from the tavern took a step back.
Two looked anxious, but the leader, a scarred individual wielding
a knife with a curved blade nearly a foot long, grinned.
"Well now...ain't you a pretty little female...whatever race you is.
We'll be taking that pouch girlie!"
"The contents of the pouch will not bring you much comfort," she
said, discarding both the spell that had hidden her true, almost
musical voice and the speech mannerisms she had used with it.
"Money is only a fleeting vice."
"We like a little vice, don't we, lads?" the leader retorted. His
companions grunted their agreement, greed having overtaken
astonishment over what stood before them.
"Let's finish dis before the bruisers catch wind of it," one of the
other pirates added.
"They won't be around this way for awhile yet," the first snarled.
"But 'tis true I don't fancy payin' the watch off with what we get,
eh?"
They converged on their intended victim.
She would give them one more chance. "You don't wish to do this.
Life is valuable, violence is not. Let us have peace between us...."
One of the lesser buccaneers, a balding, skeleton of a man,
hesitated. "Maybe she's right, Dargo. Why don't we just leave her
be—"
He immediately received a sharp, back-handed strike across the
jaw from the leader. Dargo glared at him. "What's gotten
into you, you son of a sea cow?"
The other brigand blinked. "Dunno..." He stared in shock at the
tall female. "She done somethin'!"
Gritting his teeth, Dargo turned on her. "Damned mage! That's
the last o' your tricks!"
"That is not my calling," she explained, but neither Dargo nor his
friends were listening. The buccaneers ran at her, trying with
swiftness to avoid any more spells. Common sense would have
dictated that they flee from any caster, but common sense was
clearly in short supply among these brigands.
A hand—a light blue hand covered in part by an array of coppercolored
metal strands—thrust out of the left sleeve. She muttered
a prayer for her foes in her glorious native tongue, too long
unheard by her from any other's lips.
The leader was again predictable. He thrust the blade at her
chest.
She easily dodged aside his clumsy strike without even moving
from her position. As he fell forward, she touched him on the arm
and used his momentum to send him flying past her and onto the
hard wood of the nearest dock.
As he hit, his thin companion drew his cutlass and made a slash at
her outstretched arm. The stranger gracefully pulled her limb
from danger, then kicked at his midsection with what was not a
foot, but rather a large and very tough cloven hoof.
As if struck by a barreling tauren, the second pirate went tumbling
back like a missile into the third brigand, a stouter pirate with a
bent nose. The pair collided hard, then collapsed in a jumble of
arms and legs.
She spun about, the shifting of the two tendrils coming from
behind her ears and lining her slim but beautiful features the only
outward sign of her emotions. Her hand caught Dargo's wrist as
he came at her from the dock and turned his force back against
his arm.
The buccaneer let out a howl as his shoulder cracked. With his
path already leading to the ground, it was a simple matter for her
to let the villain fall face first at her feet.
Atop the crate, Dizzywig chortled. "Hah! Draenei women make for
some tough customers, don't they? Tough and pretty, that is!"
Glancing at the goblin, she sensed no malevolent intent in his
comments. With his occupation, it was not entirely surprising that
Dizzywig had apparently seen or heard of her race at some point
in the past. At the moment, he sounded honestly curious about
her—curious and amused—but nothing more.
The wharfmaster had maintained a neutral stance during the
confrontation, an understandable choice, if not her preferred one.
The draenei had wanted to keep her activities secret. She was not
where her kind should be.
But her oath and her quest demanded otherwise.
Leaning down to Dargo, she whispered, "The bone is not broken."
The anguished brigand seemed not to appreciate that gesture. In
truth, she had done as much as she could to avoid injuring any of
them, regardless of their wicked ways. Unfortunately, these three
had demanded of her a brief exhibition.

But now the trio was more malleable to her advice...and abilities.
In a level voice, the draenei declared, "It would be best if you all
departed and forgot this incident."
The abilities granted her calling added weight to her words.
Dargo and his companions scrambled to their feet and scurried off
as if hounds with their tails on fire, leaving their weapons behind.
She turned back to Dizzywig. The goblin simply nodded. "Can't
make out much under that robe, but you've got the smell of a
priest about you...."
"I am of that calling."
Dizzywig grinned. "Priest, mage, monster, man, don't matter to
me none just so I get paid. The red boat there," he indicated with
a crooked finger. "That's a good craft, if you've got the money."
"I have." The pouch materialized from the depths of her sleeve. "If
I can trust that the boat will sail."
"Yeah, it will...but not with me in it. You want a crew, you
should've held on to that sorry trio, heh!"
She shrugged. "I only need a serviceable craft. I'll make it on my
own, if that is what is destined for me."
The draenei tossed him the pouch, which Dizzywig immediately
opened. The goblin poured out the coins, his eyes wide with
pleasure.
"That'll do...just," he said with a larger grin.
Without another word, the priestess strode toward the boat
indicated. Its sides were more green than red due to layers of
algae, and the wood was well worn, but she saw no weakness in
the thick hull. A strong, single mast with a mainsail-foresail
combination gave the fifty-foot-long sloop its only source of
movement. Climbing in, she also found two sorry emergency oars
resting in the hooks on the inside walls of the hull.
Dizzywig no doubt expected her to ask for supplies, but she was
growing uncharacteristically impatient and did not want to spend
time bartering for what she did not believe that she needed. Bad
enough that she had spent futile weeks following a false trail.
Secreted on her person was enough sustenance for the journey
across.

The wharfmaster chuckled again, and although she no longer
faced him, the draenei knew that he wondered what she would
do next. For Dizzywig, the stranger was a good night's
entertainment, indeed.
Wondering whether he would be disappointed with what she now
intended, the priestess extended her hand...and began working
the lines and the sail for departure with the practiced skill of one
familiar with the sea, albeit no sea as the goblin would have
known.
When she was done with that, the draenei leapt out. Judging the
mass of the craft, she gripped one part of it and shoved.
Dizzywig let out a hmmph of surprise. It should have taken two or
three brawny men to break the boat completely free. Fortunately,
the priestess had not relied on brute strength, but a careful
measurement of balance.
The boat silently slid the rest of the way into the water. The
draenei leapt aboard, thanking those who had trained her.
"The sea's no safer than the land, these days. Just remember
that!" the goblin called jovially. Then, with another chuckle, he
added, "Enjoy your trip!"
She did not need the wharfmaster to warn her of the dangers.
Over the past weeks, the priestess had confronted more than her
share of the darkness seeking to engulf this world. More than
once, she had nearly been killed during her pursuit, but, by the
grace of the naaru, she had survived to continue the chase.
But as Ratchet, as all Kalimdor, rapidly dwindled in the dark and
the sea enveloped her craft, the draenei felt that she had only
tasted the least of dangers thus far. Now that the priestess knew
that she followed the true trail, she was also aware that at some
point, those she hunted would note her approach.
Note it and do what they could to slay her.
So it must be...the draenei thought. After all, she had taken up
this quest of her own volition, her own desire.
Taken it up even though all who knew her now thought her
utterly mad...