-7- Dragonslayer

As the last of the Undead fell to the Trolls' deadly ambush, half the battle was over. But the remaining half was by far the more dangerous one. As they regrouped in the low clearing, the wyrm threw its head back and let out a roar that shook the ground. They hadn't given the ritual enough time to bind the dragon to the Lich King's will, thus the beast remained free-willed, but a threat to everyone and everything, nonetheless. Shadow magic danced along the bones of the skeleton like tiny fireflies, coalescing in the center of its ribcage to form the silhouette of a beating heart. An unholy glow burned in its eyes with an intelligence that wasn't from this world.

Guro'jintal believed that a demon's soul was binded to risen dragons. He had no experience in the arts of magic, but who could be sure? It was like the question of life after death. When the soul has finally moved on, what is next? The answer has yet to become apparent to those still around to appreciate that small bit of information.

"Time to get to work," he started as the dragon began to shift. "Let's take it down before it figures out how to fly."

The old Troll nodded to Hirojata, who called over two Trolls, Wotam and Jakazul. The trio took off as fast as the snow would allow, flailing their limbs and shouting hysterics to catch the dragon's attention. It regarded them with a confused look, slowly turning to follow their rampant run. Meanwhile, the rest of the Trolls got to work. Hijawath got onto his hands and knees while Vilzujin and Alojin got into a similar position on his horizontal back. Afawata and Hakamo got into a similar position next to them, and then Itmowath formed the final and lowest step. Each Troll in turn called their readiness.

"We are in position," said Itmowath. Guro'jintal nodded. The dragon's bony, segmented tail was about to make a pass.

Guro'jintal kept his breathing level and timed. Then he inhaled deeply and, in a burst of speed, ran toward the stairs the Trolls had formed. With each step he took on their backs, he exhaled sharply, forcing the muscles in his legs to tense as he used their backs for a further boost of speed. When the third step came, landed with both feet, and launched himself as high into the air as he could. With the help of the Trolls beneath him, he went far; hopefully far enough. As the tail made its pass, Guro'jintal reached out, his fingers flexing as he judged the momentum and force that the tail was bringing along with it. And as it passed only a few inches above his head, he took his chance. He threw them on either side of the fat bones, feeling them slip among the segments before lodging in a crevice. Pain shot through his arms as he was lurched by the dragon's own speed, but he didn't let it numb his focus.

He held on tight, and when he could manage, lifted his legs up to cling onto the tail as well. Then he secured his grasp and attempted to regain his bearings as the sky and the ground melded together into a mass of colors while the dragon tossed its tail about. He realized the sick feeling in his stomach would not leave readily, so he shut his eyes and began to make the journey up the tail by touch alone. He heard shouts in Common and Troll, but most were merely jeers and enthusiastic outbursts to keep the dragon's attention focused, and their battle brothers in high spirits. Taking on a hostile dragon is far from easy, and to guide it without causing serious mayhem was next to impossible. The Trolls on the ground took turns diving and rolling aside as the dragon chose, at random, which of the small beings it wanted to crush. Wotam narrowly missed the skeletal tree of a toe, and twice Lijawoto had to take off at a sprint in order to avoid the dragon's gaping maw. But when Guro'jintal finally reached the dragon's back, the Trolls hadn't suffered a single casualty.

But by this time, the wyrm had come to realize something unwanted was climbing onto it. It snapped its bone-white head about, the burning orbs of its shadow-infused eyes seeming to regard Guro'jintal with wary acknowledgment. It opened its mouth and let out a bellow, to which the Troll replied with a snarl of his own. He quickened his pace, directing his full attention to the maze of jutting spine sections that made a straight route along the dragon's back. He was nearly halfway to his destination when the wyrm sought to propel him from his seating. The giant suddenly lurched to the side, forcing the Trolls on the ground to leap away, while Guro'jintal was nearly tossed from the dragon's back. His legs were lifted into the air, but he managed to secure his hands in time. He whiplashed against the uneven bones, forcing the air from his lungs as the impact jarred him. It took a moment to catch his breath, and in that time the dragon had attempted to fully displace Guro'jintal from his seating. Twice more he felt himself being propelled in the air, and each time his grip on the wyrm only grew stronger.

Luckily, the others saw their leader's plight and began to launch stones and arrows at the wyrm's giant head. Accompanied by the dragon's short attention span, it was enough to distract the behemoth and take the focus off the real threat that was now advancing up its spine unmolested. Guro'jintal continued his ascent, and soon found himself at the nape of the wyrm's bony neck. He pressed his feet into the crevices of the neck joints and wrapped one arm firmly around the bone. With his body pressed close against the neck, the Troll slid the dagger out from his belt, letting his hand grow accustomed to the grip of the weapon. With the blade down and the hilt pointed to the sky, Guro'jintal focused on the sweet spot between the bones, where he could see purple-black magic flowing like blood. He lifted the dagger, then with all the might he could muster in a single arm, drove it into the crevice.

The shadow magic exploded forth from the wound like a dark mist. He threw his head aside to avoid the spray, and then let go of the dagger as the dragon lurched beneath him. It was roaring endlessly and bucking with relentless strength. He had to shut his eyes once more as the world shook uncontrollably before him. As the dragon continued to thrash and bellow, he realized that he hadn't quite killed it.

He had only made it angry. Terrible angry. And suddenly he felt the thrashing subside to be replaced with a sudden weightlessness. And then a wind was blowing through his hair, so he opened his eyes to expect the worst. Through his black goggles, Guro'jintal saw the last thing he wanted to when clinging to the neck of a rampant wyrm. Beneath, the Trolls and the ground was slowly shrinking, while above, the sky was coming ever closer.

Though he recovered from the initial shock, his situation was dire. He didn't like what would come next, but it was his only option. Guro'jintal looked up to where the dagger sat lodged in the dragon's neck, shadow magic spewing out around it. He freed his right hand, and reached out.

---

"The damn thing has taken to the sky!" shouted Alojin.

The others gathered around as they watched the dragon fly in slow circles around the sky above. A black-purple smoke trail traced its flight in the sky, forming an intricate pattern against the bluish-white backdrop. All the while, it howled with what could have been agony, or simply rage.

"We must help! Guro'jintal is in danger!" shouted Alojin again.

Hirojata came up to the youth, placing a hand on the Troll's shoulder in an attempt to calm him. "We can do nothing, warrior. He is on his own."

"Guro'jintal is a great warrior! He will pull through!" said Afawata.

Alojin looked as if he would say something, then stammered and simply watched the path of the dragon's flight. Hirojata knew the Troll was infuriated at how helpless he was, but they all were. It was up to Guro'jintal, now.

He is a Darkspear. If he is anything of the warrior I know...

There was a small explosion in the sky as a black cloud erupted from the dragon. Then the head was falling away from the rest of the body, plummeting to the ground like a missile. Hirojata smiled and joined his voice with the others as they cheered for Guro'jintal's victory. And then he saw the rest of the body began to dip in the sky, and he realized the danger was not over. Before the dragon's corpse had fallen, kicking up a wall of snow and rock in its wake, the Trolls were already racing toward the crash site.

---

It had become deathly quiet. Like he was submerged in water, everything was muffled beside the quiet rubbing of his neck bones as he slowly turned it from side to side. He did not feel any sharp pain; it was more of a relative state of hurt, where his nerves were sensitive to even the slightest hint of movement. He felt a cold breeze brush his skin, but it made him want to squirm more than it did cool his heated body. But when he did shift, he felt dull pain wash over his limbs. He opened his mouth, but no sound came. He couldn't find the strength to mutter, let alone speak. He opened his eyes to a blurry world that had no shape or dimension. Nothing seemed real.

Would this be it? Could he possibly have reached his end here, his mission incomplete? Could a dragon truly have been the final straw?

He could not believe it. He had slain countless ones before. The dagger with which he had finally severed the neck of this dragon had been the canine of his first. The irony lay heavy on his mind in layers he wouldn't have thought of. Was it the situation, his being on the brink of death, that brought the dry humor to the fore? Did it take such a dire moment to see such things? He hadn't believed it, not a single moment in his life.

But then he heard it. A low, heavy breathing that echoed in his ears with a nearness that betrayed its location. Through the bleary sight of his failing eyes, he saw a pair of yellow orbs staring back at him. It was slightly obscured by something, but there was no mistaking the cautious pant or the fiery eyes. He squinted further, and then he saw it for what it was.

The wolf stared back at him through a mess of bones. It was sitting back on its butt with its snout dipped slightly, as if pleading. For food? Was it waiting for him to die? No, that wasn't what he saw in the wolf's eyes. The predator's proud visage was softened and intelligent, as if it were studying him. It was a look a pet would give to his master when he wanted something from him. And he could hear it.

Get up.

He groaned, feeling pain crawl up his side. But he wanted with all his remaining spirit to comply. So he sat up, feeling his entire body go numb as the pain threatened to send him into unconsciousness. He got onto his hands and knees, and began to crawl. Each step was harder than the last. But with his eyes focused on the calm face of the wolf, he slowly trudged forward. Soon the pain was replaced with something else. Something he feared more than death.

Bloodlust.

He saw it creeping into the corners of his vision, a blood red mist against the pure white of the snowy hills. Slowly the mist grew thicker, until there was but a small circle of white remaining clear. And he kept it centered on the white wolf, somehow keeping the mist clear. His muscles were filled with new energy, his mouth salivating. He could hear the blood pumping in the wolf's veins, how it called to be spilled by his hand. And he wanted to answer that call, no matter how wrong he knew it to be. His dagger was in hand as he approached the wolf's feet. He slowly rose to his feet, feeling his muscles comply with reluctance. He stood before the wolf with his own canines barred, the red mist threatening to consume him any moment. He could have lifted his hand up and swept the dagger across its throat, and engorge himself on the glorious lifeblood. It seemed only right.

But he didn't. His hand twitched with the urge, but he wouldn't allow it. If he died here, it would not be in a rage fit for a monster. He was a Troll. A child of war, born on honor and steel. He was Darkspear.

He forced his rapid breathing into a slow rate. He let the adrenaline coarse through his muscles unanswered. He kept his attention focused fully on the peaceful visage of the wolf as the red mist receded.

Then the wolf nodded, in such a way that betrayed a more intelligent being. It turned and ran off panting into the snowy hills, disappearing as magically as it had appeared. He watched it fade from view, and then dropped the dagger. He fell to his knees. The bloodlust had run its course, and he had come out the victor. He could have cried.

Instead, Guro'jintal puffed up his chest and raised his head to the sky. He let forth a booming howl, a rush of excitement shooting up his spine that intoxicated him with an extreme pleasure far greater than anything he had ever felt. He had triumphed over the one thing he thought he never could.

Himself.

And that's when the Trolls arrived. They knew by the howl that something was different, but they hadn't expected what they would find. The upper portion of the left side of Guro'jintal's face had been seared by the explosion of shadow energy. It was a subtly darker shade of purple. His head jet black hair, with only the slightest hint of age in the form of silver strands, had the larger portion of it turned white. A white so brilliant that it stood out against the white backdrop of Northrend.

Hirojata approached first, the braver of the gathered. He came up beside Guro'jintal, and presented his hand. The old Troll turned to regard his second command, and that's when he noticed the greatest change in his leader.

The traces of the Bloodlust in Guro'jintal's eyes were gone. They were radiant black opals set against pure white.

"Guro'jintal...are you well?"

"More than well, Hirojata. I am reborn."