Richard Knaak: Night of the Dragon

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 thedwarves 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 we'll 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..."