Jarn'dor crouched on the edge of a Dwarven highway, his eyes scanning the path. For hours, he had sat motionless, waiting to implement his plan. Vyndakian and the Elf, Celeste, had left him almost immediately after they had managed to reach the gates of Shadowforge. The gates to the Dark Iron city were immobile, locked shut. But some eavesdropping had him finding out that ambassadors from the Twilight's Hammer would enter the city via this highway.
The Troll twitched a finger, relieving himself of his urge to move. He couldn't risk himself now; he had come too close to defeating Golion already. The sound of soft-soled feet drew his attention down the rode, and he swore rather vehemently.
They were definitely ambassadors of the Twilight's Hammer, but they were surrounded by at least a dozen armed guards, sporting either spears or mighty war axes. There was no way Jarn'dor could take on twelve guards, and still manage to not tip off the Dark Iron Dwarves.
One of the ambassadors broke off from the group stalking over to a rock. Loa be praised, it was a troll, and with a shuffling of robes, the ambassador started to relieve himself.
Jarn'dor snuck over, quiet as a cat. He leapt from shadow to shadow, diving behind the rock the ambassador had decided to urinate on. In one quick motion, the Druid grabbed the ambassador and pulled him behind the rock, smashing his temples with open-palmed hands.
The ambassador's eyes rolled back in his head and he went very still. He'd be unconscious for hours, if the Dark Iron Dwarves didn't find him first. Jarn'dor ripped off the Troll's robe, pulling it over himself. Purple, was certainly not his color.
He stepped out from behind the rock and joined the Twilight's Hammer as they continued their way to Shadowforge. The Troll was disconcerted by the silence, each of the ambassadors as quiet as the guards they were surrounded by. But their journey did not last long, as they soon arrived at the gates of the Dark Iron city.
With a monstrous creak of aging metal, the massive gates began to swing open, Dark Iron Dwarves swarming out to take guard positions. Jarn'dor involuntarily twitched, the urge to run possessing him for a moment. Even as the gates opened to their halfway point, Dwarves continued to pour out from the city, patrolling up and down the highway.
Soon the door to the city slammed against a nearby wall, opening up completely. The group began to walk again, as if they had rehearsed it thousands of times. The more they progressed into the city, the further back in the group Jarn'dor stood, finally poking out the back and stopping as the rest walked on; like he had never even been there.
The Druid looked around. Shadowforge was certainly a marvel; houses and buildings hewn from the rock face, as ornate carvings directed the flow of magma away from them towards the Molten Core. The denizens of the city walked around, greeting each other and cheering just like anyone else would in the world.
Then, it hit Jarn'dor. These Dwarves weren't evil, they were just normal people, trying to make the most out of what they could with what they had been given. The people around him were just trying to survive and prosper in the only way they knew how, and that way was war.
He stayed there, dumbstruck at this revelation, as a Blackrock Orc pushed past him, carrying a whip. The crowd of Dark Iron's parted, as a squad of Orcs dressed in black armor swam through the crowd, carrying a Dwarvish woman. They chained her to a pole in the middle of the city, standing her up. She shrieked in her native tounge, yammering words too quickly for Jarn'dor to translate them. One Orc gagged her with some sort of cloth, as another stepped forward.
"Dark Iron," he roared, "Has our Lord not been reasonable?" The Dwarves yelled and shouted over the Orc, until something else came out from a side tunnel, the stench of decaying flesh preceding it.
The behemoth seemed to be cobbled together from bits of flesh and bone, stitched together by some form of dark magic. One horrible eye twisted out to look from underneath its horned head, mighty wings folded behind it. Its torso was short, like a man's, but the limbs were long and gangly, looking like unevenly stuffed sausages.
It was sexless, but it still dressed itself with skulls and tattered portions of clothing. In one meaty fist, it clenched the hilt of a massive bone; the head of it sharpened enough to turn it into a wicked axe. This weapon rested on the giant's shoulder, as the other, thinner hand pushed through the crowd.
"SHUT UP," screamed the Flesh Behemoth, and the Dark Iron were instantly silent. The thing pushed its way up to meet the Orcs.
"You no act worthy," yelled Coresmasher, "Lord Terrorwing treat you like family!"
"He killed half o' our city," replied a Dark Iron, and for the first time, Jarn'dor took notice. Corpses were strewn about the city, decaying from the heat. Blood was splattered along the walls of homes and stores, reminders of the power Golion held over them all.
"You rebel against him," shot back the Flesh Behemoth, "He give you home here, give you place! He takes it away just as easily!" The Orcs secured a noose around the neck of the female dwarf, as an elderly woman tried to push through the crowd to her, presumably her mother.
"This girl," continued the Orc, as Coresmasher stepped to the side, "Had the gall to venture to the forbidden Hatchery! She tried to steal one of King Ragereaver's eggs!" The Orcs booed and jeered, but the Dark Iron were quiet, all except for the elderly woman, calling out her daughter's name.
One final figure stepped out, wreathed in purple robes. His skin was a charred black, holding a mighty spear in one hand. His muscles bulged out from under his clothing, and his eyes were filled with pure hatred, and contempt for all life.
"Yes," he hissed, as the Orcs bowed, stepping to the side, "This woman defied my orders, and the decrees of our King!" The Dark Iron did not boo or hiss, but they were frozen in absolute terror.
The robed figure, examined the bound and gagged woman. "To defy the decrees of myself is to defy our Lord, and that is an insult to his greatness!" The female dwarf held her head high, even as she was pushed off the edge.
Jarn'dor watched in horror as she tumbled down, and down, towards the lake of liquid fire in the bottom of the chamber. With a sickening snap, the rope went taught, and the noose broke her neck. The elderly woman fell to her knees, crying.
"And no one," continued the figure, "defies Arganol, Lord of Twilight." The executioners left, Coresmasher following behind. They left the body behind for the Dark Iron to pull up, but none of them moved.
The Druid covered his mouth with his hand. This was far worse than he had even imagined. Not only did Golion have absolute power, he ruled his slaves through fear and murder. To top it all off, he had used necromancy, and was consorting with the Twilight's Hammer. He needed to be stopped, now more than ever.
But first, this "Lord of Twilight" needed to be dealt with. Jarn'dor slipped back into the shadows, throwing his disguise over the edge. He stalked Arganol, as Coresmasher soon returned to the Spire, and the Orcs eventually left, leaving to probably go have some drinks or something.
Arganol took many twists and turns on his path, finally arriving at two giant doors. With little force, the Lord of Twilight opened them, revealing some sort of chamber with a throne at one end. As Jarn'dor entered after him, the doors slammed shut.
"You can cease your infernal quiet," spoke Arganol, the man sitting on the stone throne, "If you wish to do away with me, then face me like a man instead of a mouse."
The Druid stepped out of the shadow, and into the light of a flaming brazier. He drew his staff, even as the Lord of Twilight sharpened his spear.
"So, the Druid wakes up from his Nightmares," mused the Dark Figure, as Jarn'dor's vision began to darken, pitching him into total blackness, "Such a shame it followed him."
The Druid whirled around, unable to see anything within a few inches of his face. Suddenly, he was bombarded with images. Images of his closest friends dying, of Golion razing the world. His greatest and unknown fears leaped in front of his eyes, torturing his mind and tantalizing his soul. He fell to his knees, holding his head in his hands.
The cries, the screams of the dying, they were all too much to bear. So many lives rested on him, so many people depended on him. If he failed here, it could be over for everyone, everywhere. The world would fall into total destruction and chaos, as Golion's dark reign spread from the Dark Iron to everyone else.
Jarn'dor forced himself to his feet, leaning on his staff. His vision suddenly began to clear, as the surprised face of Arganol came into focus.
"No, Mon," whispered the Druid, holding the head of his staff out threateningly at the Lord of Twilight, "I be done, wit nightmares."
With a snarl, Arganol leapt from his throne, slicing at the Troll wildly with the serrated spear in his hands. Jarn'dor parried the blow; bringing his staff around in a long sweeping arc. The Lord of Twilight leaped over the wooden pole, swinging his weapon in a futile attempt to decapitate Jarn'dor.
The Druid leaped to side, the spear-head having grazed his cheek. His foe swept his weapon down, and Jarn'dor brought his staff up to parry. Metal cut through wood, and the Druid's stave became nothing more than kindling. He settled into a defensive stance, bringing his hands up, held out, to give him a wider range of movement.
His attacker lunged at him, and Jarn'dor slapped the blade, pushing it away as if it were nothing. He slammed an open palm against Arganol's chest, and watched as his whole body rippled backward, the Lord of Twilight flying backwards and slamming into the throne, the weak stone shattering upon impact. The Druid let out a deep breath, settling back into his defensive crouch.
The man pushed a slab of rock off of his chest, rising to a stand. He let out a brief laugh.
"So," spoke Arganol, "You use Kari'gom, the ancient Gurubashi art of unarmed fighting." He leaped down from the pedestal, grinning. He seemed to blur, suddenly appearing in front of Jarn'dor.
The Druid acted not a moment too soon, as the Lord of Twilight brought down his blade, Jarn'dor caught it in his hands, spinning sideways over the blade. As he was airborne, he let loose with two powerful kicks, strong enough to stun a Kodo.
He landed a safe distance away as Arganol fell backwards, growling and leaping to his feet. The man unleashed a powerful burst of darkness, and Jarn'dor countered with a beam of moonfire.
The two opposing forces collided in the center of the chamber, humming and snapping at their opposing magic. A bead of sweat broke across the Troll's brow as he struggled to maintain the spell, his opponent straining harder than he was. With a shout, the two snapped their beams in opposite ways, each colliding with a different wall.
Neither could continue this kind of punishment for much longer, and Arganol knew it. In one final gamble, he whipped his spear at Jarn'dor, as the Druid settled back into his crouch.
Jarn'dor grabbed the spear by its natural pivot point, spinning it in his hands. With uncanny practice and agility, he turned the javelin back upon its wielder with two-fold force.
The mighty weapon pierced Arganol and sent him flying backwards, pinning him to the wall as the spear-blade was buried to the hilt. Blood flowed freely from his mouth, as his limbs went limp. The Lord of Twilight was dead.
The doors to the chamber suddenly exploded inward, one flying off its mighty hinges. Vyndakian strutted forward purposefully, holding a Dark Iron Dwarf in his hands. He snapped the man's thick neck, tossing the corpse to the side.
"Shame I missed the party," spoke Vyndakian, sheathing his Runeblade. The Death Knight took one look at Arganol's corpse and spit. Jarn'dor nodded.
"Da Twilight's Hamma have a role in dis," replied the Druid, wrenching the spear out of the corpse. If nothing else, it would serve as a weapon until they escaped from here.
"Where is dat elf?" At his question, Vyndakian became ice cold, physically and emotionally. Jarn'dor nodded, assuming that she had died for the good of the Clan, until he saw the dried blood around the Darksworn's mouth. The sound of running feet and clanking mail echoed to him from beyond the shattered doorway.
"How many o' da Dark Iron know we be hea," inquired the Troll, as shouts met his ears.
"Most of them," shrugged Vyndakian. Jarn'dor groaned; from the sound of it, half the kingdom was coming here.
"We betta take off den," he shot back, "before dey figure out who be hea." With a nod, Vyndakian conjured up a Death Gate and the two stepped through.
The world rushed past him, as Jarn'dor plummeted through a black tunnel. Closer, he and Vyndakian moved, closer to the light at the end of it.