Night of the Dragon

the spell matrix that held him. It did not take long to sense, but its complexity dismayed him. It was clearly the work of a skilled practitioner of the arts, possibly, depending on its age... possibly even Deathwing himself.

Nevertheless, Krasus knew that he had to find the focus. Only there could he possibly unravel the spell, if there was still hope of that.

His consciousness sank deeper into the binding spell, studying its arrangement. If indeed this was Deathwing's work, that might, ironically enough, be to Krasus's benefit. If there was any being alive who understood the black leviathan's twisted mind, it was Alexstrasza s oldest-lived consort. Krasus had made the former Aspect an extensive part of his long, vigilant watch, Deathwing having played a role in many plots over the millennia.

One by one, the dragon mage followed the threads of the spell. He began to see a pattern, but one more intricate than even he had suspected.

One line showed more promise than the rest. Krasus started to trace it back to its origin....

The thing he had sensed earlier drew closer. It was most definitely coming Krasus's direction. A sudden sense of intense hunger washed over him, a hunger not for flesh, but rather something more significant to him.

What moved toward him hungered for his magic...

Krasus tried to hurry his task. He was a dragon, a creature of magic. To have his magic ripped away would be worse for him than if someone had thrust a sword through his throat. He had seen others of his kind suffer such fates and knew that it was the one death that truly frightened him.

The creature in the caverns closed on his mental location. That Krasus's body was not there did not give the dragon mage any hope. Some devourers of magic needed only the spell link to seize their prey.

The trap continued to evade Krasus's effort. The thread he followed proved a dead end. The second he followed did the same.

The mysterious devourer was almost upon him. Krasus could detect its horrible nearness and knew that when he was finally able to see it through his own spell, it would be too late for him. Yet, nothing he did availed him—

I am a fool! There was one hope, albeit a risky one. It might enable him to avoid the slow, agonizing death dealt by the magic eater...but could also end up causing Krasus to slay himself in the process.

In truth, there was no choice. He focused inward. For most magic users, what he intended would not be possible, but Krasus had millennia of training, millennia of practice.

Whether it would still work, though...

Krasus felt the beating of his heart. It was a heart that had pulsated through an age when even the dragons as a race were young, through the rise of night elves and that race's dramatic collapse. He had watched the demons of the Burning Legion strike not once but twice and seen entire lands ripped apart.

And now, through his concentration, he tried to slow that heart...even stop it.

The beating felt so far away. Still, that he could even sense that much gave him some hope.

Then, the beating eased. Only slightly, but enough for Krasus to hope for success.

A sinister glow entered the cavern of the skeletons.

Krasus concentrated his full efforts on his heart. He hoped that the intense shock would fling his mind from the magical trap. It was something that he had seen done before and had practiced before, but practice was not the same as true emergency.

A vague, hulking form appeared among the stalagmites. Krasus had only seconds—

A shock ran through him... but it was not due to his attempt. Nevertheless, it tore the dragon mage's mind from Grim Batol just as the devourer reached out to snare him.

And Krasus discovered that he had only left one hungry creature for another.

The crocolisk had him by his leg and was in the process of dragging the mage back toward the swamp water. The shock that had enabled Krasus to return his mind to his body had been created by the scaly beast's long, toothy maw clamping deep into the flesh. Blood spilled from the ravaged limb, blood that only a creature like a crocolisk, with its stomach protected like a paladin in plate armor, could tolerate.

The irony that he might perish in the maw of so simple a predator as this six-legged reptile after all the powerful struggles he had been through did not escape Krasus. Steeling himself against the agony, the dragon mage smashed his fist on the crocolisk's hard snout.

A blue aura enveloped the swamp creature. It opened its mighty jaws as it roared, enabling Krasus to drag himself free. The crocolisk's body whipped back and forth as the aura intensified.

Panting, the injured spellcaster pulled himself back to the tree and eyed his struggling attacker. This was the beast that had evaded his senses earlier. Even now, Krasus could barely sense its presence. Some force enabled the crocolisk to shield itself from even powerful magi.

But that same force could not now protect it from Krasus's power unleashed. He watched with grim satisfaction as the crocolisk tried to flee the aura by returning to the waters. Yet, with each step, the reptile lost cohesion. Its skin began to slough off, turning to mist before it even hit the ground. The six legs stumbled as they dissolved into ash. The crocolisk let out one more desperate roar... and the last of the reptile finally melted away.

Only a few drops of blood—Krasus's blood—remained to mark the predator's passing.

He stared at his twisted leg, an injury that would have meant death by either bleeding or infection had he been a human or any of the mortal races. Even for him, the pain was terrible. Yet, the attack had saved him from a worse and more certain demise, and he was almost grateful to the crocolisk.

Stretching one hand over the ripped flesh, Krasus concentrated. A faint, red glow spread from his palm to the bloody ravine.

The bleeding ceased. Some of the agony faded. The smaller tears made by the crocolisk's teeth shrank. The large one slowly sealed at each end.

Krasus did not simply heal himself outside. There were rumors that poisonous crocolisks had been discovered of late. Where they had originated from, he did not know, but Krasus did not want to take a chance. He knew well the dangers of the toxins such a crocolisk's foul teeth might carry. In his current form, he was more sensitive to them. Such poisons could slay a bull in minutes, a man in less. Whether they could do the same to him now. Krasus did not care to discover.

And so as he sealed the wounds from without, he burned away the poisons from within. The strain was more than he expected and for the first time, Krasus sweated. Yet, because of who—or rather what—he was, he prevailed.

When it was done, no sign remained. Krasus inspected the leg and found it to be fit. As an afterthought, he waved his hand over his garments, making them whole once more.

He had learned some lessons now. Nothing was to be taken for granted. First he had slipped into unconsciousness and found himself in a place far from his last known location. Then, his mind had been trapped while infiltrating Grim Batol, and now a simple beast had nearly slain him... In part because it had gained some ability to shield itself from his like.

A pattern was beginning to emerge that disturbed Krasus immensely, especially as he was not certain of its origins.

But he was almost certain of something else. His arrival appeared to be expected.

So...someone awaits me...or someone like me. Someone who plays games.

But who?

'We shall just have to see,' he murmured to himself. If his unknown adversary wished to play games, Krasus was no novice himself. Let them be aware that he was coming; they would find that knowledge more hindrance than help.

Krasus smiled grimly. 'The next move is mine, then, my friend....'

He gestured... and vanished.

The dwarves emerged from their new burrow at the exit nearest the Wetlands. They had no desire to come this way, but necessity had once more forced their hands. They needed to replenish supplies, especially water.

'No raptors about,' muttered Grenda. 'Not much of anything, actually...'