The young dragon had been scratching at the rocks in the cutting, searching for flint and dark iron ore. Having filled his mouth with rocks and ore the pup made his way over to the river. Lowering his head to drink from the slow moving water, the pup hesitated, his nostrils flaring as he caught scent of something approaching from the opposite shore. In the time it took the pup to look up and see the dark veil clawing its way over the land, rotten hands were already reaching up from beneath the surface of the river, eager to embrace him. The pup let out a mewling cry as he thrashed frantically in the muddying waters as more and more hands latched onto him, dragging him to deeper water.
A billow of fire rolled across the surface of the river as the pup's mother burst through the trees, splintering their trunks. Bellowing with rage, she ploughed heedless into the water after her child, sending waves washing over the far bank. The river banks erupted. Eager hands clawing at the damp earth, the living dead rose to join to affray.
The bleating of goats heralded the arrival of the allied armies.
"Have at them!" Burlak Rockthaw, a heavyset dwarf, cried out. Leaping from his mount he swung his mighty battleaxe into the ranks of the undead. "We must get to the dragons."
Dwarves poured in through the cutting, goats appearing everywhere. More undead were emerging from the mists of Drakeshire, plunging into the river, intent on the dragon flailing in the river under the weight of death. Spreading her wings the mother tried to launch herself into the sky, but the undead were too many. The mother shook herself, attempting to dislodge the parasitic invaders as she struggled to keep her head above the water.
A short distance upstream, the pup broke surface, its body drawn by the ebbing tide.
"The pup is lost!" Burlak wailed, yanking his axe from the chest of an undead. "Get to the mother. Think not of yourselves."
The river boiled to a foaming, muddy froth as the female exhaled the last of her fire. Numerous undead climbed onto the dragon, smothering her as they bound her with heavy ropes.
Stepping out of the mist Barramon proclaimed, "She's mine."
The undead emerged from the river dragging heavy the ropes over their shoulders. Barramon tauntingly cried, "Go home dwarves. This day is lost," laughing as he swaggered along the bank with his sword resting over his shoulder.
"We'll not stop till the last of us beaten," Burlak growled to himself, knowing Barramon had spoken the truth.
"Burlak." A balding dwarf with a long red beard put one hand on his shoulder. "The undead are retreating. We are done. Let them go. They have held her under too long. The dragon's fire is out. She'll be too weak to fight now."
The dwarves gathered on the bank watching the undead haul the limp body of the female dragon up the distant bank onto a low sled that bumped along on iron rollers.
"Is that an orc!" Burlak said, pointing across the river to a shadowy figure veiled by the mist.
"Aye, it is." The red-bearded dwarf replied. "We best get back to El Aroi and report this fiasco."