Night of the Dragon

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 Llch 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, Korlalstrasz 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 leanedagainst 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, hen!' 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.