Of Dark Proposals

  “Why is it happening so frequently? The mobilization of dark trolls, their orc slaves, ogres, and even the occasional larling—Aric preserve us—it points to something larger. I don’t understand it. Regardless, young Emperor Melchan Ozewrath has ordered the Passguard tripled. Let’s see if those ugly bastards are still so intent on feasting on our caravans now.”

  — Second Lieutenant Astrid Graynes of the Imperial Pass Watch, conversation overheard atop the Bleak Wall, 577 I.C.

  General Tahopka and his troops had marched for nearly two months.

  Across the shadowed fingers of the Darktroll Mountains, through scorching dunes, and past long-forgotten ruins, they pressed on—unyielding, relentless.

  Now, at last, the scent of brine and decay whispered on the wind.

  The scaled beast raised a clawed hand, signaling for the column to halt.

  Silent and obedient, the Kabretch warriors froze in place.

  Tahopka stood at the fore—a titan among monsters. One of only two lesser generals ever crafted by the Master himself, his presence alone spoke to the importance of this mission.

  Compared to others of his kind, Tahopka was colossal—nearly seven feet tall, his hulking frame sheathed in dark, chitinous scales. Muscles bunched beneath his armor, and his long, powerful arms hung low, ending in claws that had torn through stone and bone alike. His face bore the full wrath of his maker: broad, ridged, unmistakably crocodilian. Crimson eyes, narrow and unblinking, gleamed with primal cunning. His plated snout twitched—his most sensitive organ—constantly testing the thickening air for threat or prey.

  Within his yawning maw lay rows upon rows of curved, bone-colored teeth—a forge of natural weaponry.

  Yet despite his mass, Tahopka moved with terrifying speed. Fluid. Silent. Calculating.

  Only fools among the Master’s armies had challenged him. None had survived.

  His temper was legend—short as a flicked tongue, explosive as flame.

  The general’s mission was simple. The stakes were not.

  He was to cross the breadth of the Darktroll range and push into the wild dunes of Daria, far beyond the Empire’s reach. Deep within the Selwan Swamps, it was said, an ancient dragon slept.

  Kryost—cold-scaled and cunning—was a force of nature unto himself.

  Tahopka’s orders were clear: find the dragon, wake him, and bend him to the Master’s will.

  Whether by promise, threat... or blood.

  “Bah. Stinking swamp,” the great beast cursed, eyeing the massive cave with hesitation.

  He was tired of this mission—but the gnawing compulsion to serve his Master pushed relentlessly at the edges of his mind.

  Beside him, his underlings watched in uneasy silence.

  Eight had begun the journey. Only four remained.

  The others had fallen behind, unable to keep pace.

  Tahopka had dispatched each one the moment their weakness became apparent.

  Two weeks ago, they’d crossed into the swamplands. Eager to complete his task, the general had hunted down and interrogated several locals. They’d provided only vague directions—cryptic warnings about parts of the Selwan best left unexplored.

  From there, Tahopka followed his nose.

  Tracking was slow and difficult—muddied by thick mists and the stench of decay—but eventually, he’d caught the unmistakable scent of wyrm.

  He had dealt with dragons before, back in his homeland.

  He did not look forward to this confrontation.

  They were powerful.

  They were prideful.

  And they were far too easy to offend.

  Facing his troops, Tahopka turned. His rasping voice was thick with gravel.

  “Within this cave lies a beast of unimaginable power. I’ll address him—offer the Master’s terms. If all goes well, we’ll be on our way.”

  He paused, his eyes narrowing.

  “If it doesn’t… I’ll deal with the dragon. Die with dignity, or I’ll kill you myself.”

  He eyed each warrior in turn, watching for the slightest flinch.

  None came.

  Satisfied, Tahopka turned toward the cave’s mouth. A smirk curled his scaled lips, masking the unease coiling in his gut.

  Few of the Master’s children could rival the power that lay ahead. Even the demon knights—creatures born of fury and flame—could not inspire such fear with their mere presence.

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  That was a gift reserved for dragon-kind.

  Climbing the steep embankment with care, Tahopka felt the soggy earth firm beneath his feet until at last he stood on stone beneath the cave’s vast overhang.

  Vines draped across the rock face, forming a partial curtain over the gaping crevice. The musky scent of the beast was overpowering—so strong he could smell little else this close.

  A massive tunnel yawned before him, descending deep into the earth. It wound away into utter blackness.

  The dark didn’t trouble him. Like his troops, Tahopka’s eyes quickly adjusted.

  What struck him more was the strange cleanliness of the place. No scattered bones. No droppings. No clutter of nature’s decay—only the thick, humid air, heavy with dragon musk and swamp rot.

  After a quarter hour of cautious progress, Tahopka found what he sought. The tunnel ahead ended abruptly, giving way to a cavern of staggering proportions.

  He didn’t waste time gawking.

  Striding forward with measured confidence, the general stepped into the open.

  There was no doubt—the beast had already caught their scent.

  Stealth was pointless.

  With both clawed hands raised in a show of peace, Tahopka and his remaining men crossed into the vast expanse.

  “Kryost,” he called, voice booming into the black. “I am General Tahopka, emissary of Txomin’s Legion. I come to speak with you… and to honor you. Will you receive me?”

  His voice echoed through the dark, swallowed quickly by the silence that followed.

  “You honor no one by invading their home unannounced, General,” came a voice like shifting mountains—ancient, cold, and thunderous.

  From the darkness, two vast orbs ignited the cavern with a deep crimson glow.

  Kryost’s eyes.

  They studied the intruders with a slow, chilling deliberation, as if measuring the effort required to reduce them to pulp.

  Then the darkness stirred.

  With a sound like boulders grinding together, the dragon’s immense form heaved forward.

  “I will receive you,” the monolith hissed, “but whether you will leave… is not yet determined.”

  In unison, Tahopka’s men trembled. Their terror was palpable, but discipline kept them rooted.

  They were young—too young to have ever seen a true dragon. In their homeland, such creatures were all but extinct. Only lesser kin, the wyverns, remained in any number.

  “I am here—” Tahopka began.

  “To bring pain, death, and eventual destruction to anything your tainted hands touch,” Kryost interrupted, his voice a thunderclap of scorn.

  The general flinched, surprised.

  “Spare me your praise. Don’t try to dazzle me with riches and power,” the ancient wyrm growled, his voice a low rumble that echoed off the stone. “I am no dreamy whelp.”

  The final word was spat like venom, the heat of it palpable.

  Bowing slightly, General Tahopka doubted he would make any headway with the ancient wyrm—but he could not depart without delivering his master’s terms.

  “Lord Kryost, I am merely a messenger,” he said, voice smooth. “My master offers you a high position within his ranks. If you were to swear fealty, he has promised to reward you well.” A cruel smirk twisted across his face.

  “What could he offer me that I do not already possess?” Kryost boomed from the shadows above.

  “Land?” the beast scoffed. “I already control as much of this swamp as I please.”

  A massive, spike-laden tail lashed idly in the darkness. Its scales were ancient and dulled with time, but the cavern shadows refused to give up more detail.

  “Power?” Kryost sneered. “I have studied the arcane for centuries beyond your reckoning. There is little your master could teach me that I do not already disdain.”

  “Riches, then?” His crimson eyes narrowed dangerously. “Look around you, General. If it were gold I craved, would my home not overflow with glittering baubles?”

  With a slow, deliberate motion, he gestured toward the barren cavern floor. Scattered mounds of gold and silver lay here and there, modest and forgotten—tokens, not treasure.

  “What about life?” Tahopka asked, carefully—cautiously, so it wouldn’t sound like a threat. “What if my master offered you a future beyond slavery, once this precious continent is conquered?” He lowered his voice. “If you’re as wise as they say, then you must know these people cannot defend themselves. Shaldar is dead.”

  The dragon’s head reared high, slamming into the gloom above as a plume of smoke and flame roared against the cavern ceiling.

  “Shaldar is dead, yes,” Kryost growled savagely, “but you underestimate your enemies, foolish General.”

  “The lesser races of Alissia are no longer so pathetic. They have cultivated their powerssss,” he hissed, voice slithering into the dark. “If you hadn’t noticed, dragons do not rule these lands anymore. Our time has passed. This is a new age—one with greater dangers than I.”

  Tahopka gave a shallow nod. He saw now that this was going nowhere.

  “Then you oppose us,” he said simply. “I shall inform my master he should expect no help from the wyrms of this continent.”

  “I cannot speak for the rest of my kind,” Kryost said coldly, “but you will receive no aid from me.”

  Lowering his massive head to survey the small, defiant party, he added with a growl, “And now it is time for you to leave. Were it not for your stench, I might’ve saved you the trouble of a return journey… and eaten you.”

  Turning sharply, Tahopka motioned for the others to follow him out of the cavern—then paused, as if reconsidering. Slowly, he crossed the space again, executing his master’s final command.

  Without warning, one of the beast’s clawed hands snapped forward like a striking viper. A bolt of raw arcane force screamed through the air, smashing into Kryost’s underbelly and cracking one of the smaller scales near his chest. In the same instant, a single talon was loosed from his claw—seemingly by accident, yet with deadly precision. It pierced through the already-compromised scale and buried deep into the wyrm’s flesh.

  This was Tahopka’s true purpose. This was what he was made for.

  As the poisoned talon lodged itself inside the ancient dragon, Kryost’s face twisted with disbelief.

  “Perhaps you were the one to underestimate us, dragon,” Tahopka said smugly, striding back toward his fallen foe. “In less than an hour, the toxin will stop your heart. But not before your body convulses so violently that you’ll snap your own spine.”

  Before he could gloat further, a burst of magical light erupted above the cavern like a star gone nova. Blinding brilliance seared the vision of the assassins, leaving them momentarily exposed.

  They never recovered.

  Two assassins staggered, gurgling as slender arrows jutted through their chests. Kryost’s apprentice, the serpentine Slith, emerged from the shadows—his veil of concealment now spent. Without hesitation, the deadly salamander drew again. Two more arrows flew, striking true and ending the last of the intruders before they could react.

  By the time Tahopka blinked the flash from his eyes, his entire squad lay dying at his feet.

  Rage flooded the general’s face.

  With terrifying speed, the reptilian general batted down a volley of incoming bolts and launched forward in a blur of power and fury. Slith barely managed to dodge—his people were more agile even than the elves of Crystal-Mist, a trait that narrowly saved him from being ravaged by the frenzied goliath.

  From behind, a volcanic gust erupted, searing the side of the general’s body.

  Kryost was still alive.

  The ancient wyrm loomed behind them both, steam curling from his nostrils. Somehow, he had resisted the poison—recovered, even. His low growl shook the very rock.

  Realizing the tide had turned, Tahopka didn’t hesitate. He blurred into motion, drawing upon every ounce of his unnatural strength. Spells and arrows chased him as he fled, beams of icy ethers-breath exploding against the cavern walls.

  Then he was gone—vanished into the tunnel, making for the swamps beyond.

  Back in the cavern, Kryost peered after him with narrowed eyes, casting one of the few scrying spells he could still muster. The poison still burned in his veins, but it had not killed him.

  Not yet.

  The haze of the spell shimmered, revealing Tahopka stumbling through the marsh reeds. But there—just behind him—a shape moved. Large. Silent. Watching.

  It vanished the moment Kryost tried to focus.

  He let the spell fade.

  Below, Slith crouched beside him, carefully extracting the talon from his master’s side.

  “I thought I’d have to find a new teacher for a second,” the salamander joked, though his voice was tight with concern.

  Kryost let out a slow, rumbling laugh and laid his massive head on the stone floor. “And I wasn’t sure my dense apprentice would survive long enough to be worth teaching.”

  Slith frowned, turning his gaze to the cavern mouth. He held the three-inch talon in both hands, studying it with reverent dread.

  “What kind of beast can move like that?” he muttered.

  The wyrm closed his eyes. “Troubled times are upon us, Slith.”

  The poison still pulled at him. He welcomed it—healing would come only through rest.

  “In the dark beyond that swamp,” Kryost murmured, already slipping into unconsciousness, “there are things I do not know.”

  Slith bowed his head respectfully as the wyrm drifted into slumber. Then, with a tired breath, he turned to the grim work ahead.

  At least, he consoled himself, the swamp had a surprisingly convenient way of disposing of corpses.