The tide had turned. The vast scores of kobold enemies became piles of corpses. A grin crossed Dughan’s face.

In the end, Goldshire’s force stood knee-deep in blood and bodies. The stench of dead kobolds proved a hundred times worse than their living odor, but the men were willing to suffer it, so complete had their victory been. Even the last of the kobolds’ candles had been doused.

Marshal Dughan counted his troops. They were all present.

Some had minor injuries — mostly scratches — but all were still accounted for and fit.

No… there was one who was not present. “Where is the mage?”

The others shook their heads. Dughan prodded the bodies where he had last seen Zaldimar. There was no sign of the spellcaster’s presence or departure.

Dughan guessed that the powerless Zaldimar had likely fled before the battle. The coward would no doubt be found back in Goldshire. “Let’s be moving on,” the commander decided. “Make sure the other shafts are clear.” He was doubtful that they would find more than a couple of kobolds after this, but even those had to be eradicated.

They started back, Dughan taking the lead. The marshal covered his nose; the smell of dead kobold was growing worse even though the men were leaving the corpses further and further behind. Next time, we’ll flush them outside, where the wind’ll help

…

Suddenly, Jasperlode shook as if some explosion had taken place deeper down.

The braces ahead of the party creaked ominously.

Dughan thrust his sword ahead. “Move!”

But as the band surged on, one of the more distant braces cracked. The two halves swung down.

“Watch out!” the commander roared.

The roof of the mine collapsed at the weak point. Worse, it began a chain reaction. Other braces snapped.

Masses of earth and stone crashed to the ground.

The men fled back, but then the roof gave way. The dust and darkness blinded Dughan and his men, who shoved into one another as they sought escape.

Then the marshal heard a bloodcurdling scream.

He stumbled into an open area just as the collapse began to subside. Coughing, Marshal Dughan tried to focus and was able to make out the shadowy forms of at least three men.

When it became quiet enough for him to be heard, he called, “Sound off!”

Eleven voices responded, some of them pained. Eleven, not fifteen.

The devastation made it pointless to try to see if the other four were still alive. As it was, Dughan had to get the rest of his men to safety. There was only one choice, to head back to where they had fought the kobolds. Sometimes kobolds dug secret burrows in the mines, ways out. At least it was a hope.

“Follow me!”

The path proved darker and longer than he recalled. Only the powerful stench verified to Dughan that he was nearing the area.

But as he led the group swiftly through the passage, he collided with a rocky wall.

“What is this?” The wall meant that they must have passed the spot where the kobolds had first been seen… but where were the bodies?

Dughan fumbled in his pouches for something to illuminate their surroundings, but found nothing.

A purple glow suddenly arose just to his side. The marshal whirled, his mace at the ready.

Zaldimar stared back at him from behind the glow. Dughan could see nothing else save that face. The mage had a drawn, intense expression.

“Does that help?” he rasped.

“Where the blazes have you been? Have you seen any sign of a way out? The area we came through is impassable!”

Zaldimar nodded. “I know. I made certain.”

“You — what?”

The glow expanded. Dughan’s eyes widened.

The mage’s garments had changed. He now wore a black, armored outfit with skulls at the knee braces and on the chest. A cowl rose high behind his head. His eyes glowed a monstrous dark purple.

“And as for escape, a simple spell will enable me to leave here.”

Marshal Dughan thrust the pointed tip of his mace under Zaldimar’s chin. “You’ll take us with you, then!”

Something moved at the edge of the light. It struck down the marshal’s weapon. As Dughan fought to retain his grip, he caught a glimpse of a familiar snout.

“Kobold—” But the word died on his lips as Zaldimar further increased the insidious illumination.

It was not merely a kobold… but a dead one. The creature’s gut was wide open and putrefying organs half-hung loose in the gap.

The kobold clutched its weapon and stared with sightless eyes at the officer.

And as the light expanded, Marshal Dughan saw that there were many, many more… all the kobolds he and his men had vanquished and seemingly numbers beyond even that.

“What’s happened?” he demanded.

“They serve me now… as I serve our rightful lord …” rasped Zaldimar, his grinning face like a skull. “And as you will, good marshal …”

The kobolds moved forward. Marshal Dughan and his men pressed together.

“It won’t hurt long …”

Utterly silent, the kobolds surged forward. Dughan smashed through the throat of one, which had no effect. In desperation, he struck harder and lopped off the entire head.

But the body kept attacking.

“I must leave you for a little while,” Zaldimar murmured. “I have to prepare for Goldshire next… a task with which you and your soldiers will assist once you’ve been… converted.”

“Damn you—” But Marshal Dughan cut off as the necromancer vanished… and with him, the light.

The air grew thick, harsh. The fetid smell of dead kobold was everywhere. Without the magical illumination, he could not see the figures coming toward him.

A man shrieked. Sounds of fear arose from the others. Dughan could do nothing to help; he was desperately trying to fend off the horrific tide of attackers.

Another man cried out. A moment later, the monstrous sound of something moist being torn apart echoed in the shaft.

“Marshal?” the man next to him pleaded.

“Keep fighting!”

But then Dughan nearly fell to the side as the soldier was dragged past him. The hapless fighter called out again… then produced a sickening scream as the familiar soft sound of weapons thrusting into flesh echoed from the walls.

The clash of arms grew fainter… fainter…

Marshal Dughan knew he was the last standing. He felt the undead kobolds converging on him. For the first time, their eyes glowed, a deathly white aura that sent shivers up his spine.

And among them, he saw the illumination of the eyes of taller figures — torn and beaten figures, from what he could make out.

His own men, now part of the ungodly throng.

They surged forward. Marshal Dughan swung wildly. His mace met flesh again and again, but the kobolds and the mutilated soldiers with them pushed on unimpeded. They were everywhere now, seizing at him with their claws, biting, or striking him with their weapons. He cried out as the undead overwhelmed him —

Marshal Dughan lay in his bed even though daylight already shone upon the town of Goldshire. He shifted uneasily. His brow was furrowed and sweat drenched his body. His lips moved slightly, as if he sought to speak — or scream — and his hands clenched so tightly that the knuckles were bone white.

Without warning, Dughan rose to a sitting position and shrieked.

Yet the marshal did not awaken, but rather slumped down upon the bed again, where he once more shifted and sweated and moved as if fighting off something in his dreams.

His shriek had been a loud one, loud enough to be heard through much of the town. Yet no one, not family nor servants, came to see what ailed the marshal. They could not. There was no one in all of Goldshire who could… for all were in their beds. All were asleep.

And all were suffering nightmares.

Although she was high priestess of the moon goddess, Tyrande always thought the sunrise a beautiful sight, if somewhat stinging to the eyes of a nocturnal being such as herself. When she had been young, so very young, she had not thought it so painful. In fact, she, Malfurion, and Illidan had often ridden out during the day, when most others had slept, exploring the world of light. Malfurion had even begun his lessons with Cenarius during daylight.