Night of the Dragon

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 Rhonln 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 al; 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.

Korlalstrasz stretched his vast wings once, then leapt up toward the stone celling.

The celling 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. Korlalstrasz 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. Korlalstrasz 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, Korlalstrasz 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