The Demon Soul (warcraft)

by Richard A. Knaak

  And with that, the crimson titan leapt into the air.

  My blood…Krasus frowned at the choice of words. To dragons, such a term meant close ties. Not mere comrade or clan, but closer yet, such as brothers from the same clutch of eggs or offspring and parent…

  Or…the same being in two bodies…

  Krasus knew himself better than anyone. He had no doubt as to his younger self ’s intelligence. Korialstrasz almost had the truth in his grasp and the mage had no idea what that might mean for both of them.

  Weakness suddenly overtook him. Through quickly watering eyes, Krasus sought out Korialstrasz’s scale. The moment he seized it, some of the pain and weariness left him. But touching it was not enough; he had to keep it closer to him for the effect to be worthwhile.

  Exposing his chest to the cool night wind, the dragon mage planted the large scale against his flesh. Again he muttered the ancient words, stirring up forces no night elf could understand, much less wield.

  The same golden aura flared around the scale. Krasus shook, fighting to keep his balance.

  As quickly as it had appeared, the aura faded. He stared down at his chest, now covered in the center by his younger self ’s parting gift.

  A slight hint of weariness still pervaded his being, though both it and the tinge of pain also present were nothing Krasus could not readily suffer. Now at last he could walk among the others and not feel their pity. Now he could stand beside them against the demons. The mage wondered why he had not thought of this plan much earlier—then recalled that he had, but only bothered to put it into action once Korialstrasz had declared his intention to seek out the other dragons.

  It is hard to part with one’s self, apparently. How Rhonin would have laughed at his conceit. The irony made even Krasus chuckle. How Alexstrasza would have enjoyed the jest as well. She had more than once suggested that his continuous intrusion into the matters of the lesser races had a touch of vanity involved, but this act now more than topped that in every—

  A sudden wave of vertigo struck him.

  It was all he could do to keep himself from slipping over the battlements. The attack ended swiftly, but the repercussions kept Krasus leaning against the stone wall and breathing heavily for more than a minute.

  When he could at last stand straight, the dragon mage immediately looked far beyond Black Rook Hold, far beyond Suramar.

  To distant, dark Zin-Azshari.

  Krasus continually had many secretive spells in play, several designed to keep track of what other sorcerers might be casting. He was, without conceit, perhaps more attuned to the shifts in the intensity of the world’s magical forces than anyone—but even he had not been prepared for a change of such magnitude.

  “They have done it…” he breathed, staring at the unseen city. “The portal is again open to the Burning Legion.”

  Three

  The pain of his death had been unbearable. He had been destroyed in more than a dozen horrific manners simultaneously, each one sending through him such torture that he had embraced oblivion as a long-yearned-for lover.

  But the agony of his death could not even compare to that which followed.

  He had no body, no substance, whatsoever. Even spirit was not the right word for what was left of him. He knew that he existed by the sufferance of another, and understood that the anguish he constantly felt was that other’s punishment for him. He had failed the other and failure was the ultimate sin.

  His prison was a nothingness without end. He heard nothing, saw nothing, felt nothing other than the pain. How long had it been—days, weeks, months, years, centuries…or only a few horrible minutes? If the last, then his torture was truly monstrous, indeed.

  Then, without warning—the pain ceased. Had he a mouth, he would have shouted his relief, his joy. Never had he felt so grateful.

  But then he began to wonder if this respite only signaled some new, more horrendous terror.

  I have decided to redeem you…

  The voice of his god filled him with both hope and fear. He wanted to bow, to grovel, but lacked the form with which to do either…or anything else, for that matter.

  I have decided that there is a place for you. I have looked into the darkness within you and found that which once pleased me. I make it the core of what you are to become and in doing so make you a far superior servant than you were…

  His gratitude for this greatest of gifts was boundless, but again he could do nothing.

  You must be reshaped, but so that others will mark in you the glory I give and the punishment I mete out, I return that by which they will know you best…

  A crackle of energy shook him. Tiny specks of matter suddenly flew into the center of the energy storm, gathering and condensing, creating of him substance once again. Many had been bits of him when he had been destroyed and, like his soul, had been taken by his god at the moment of death.

  Slowly, vaguely, a body formed around him. He could not move, could not breathe. Darkness covered him, and he realized that the darkness was actually his vision returning to him.

  And as he truly began to see for the first time since dying, he noted that he had arms and legs different from those which he had formerly worn. The legs bent back at the knee and ended in cloven hooves. Like the legs, his arms and hands were covered in a thick fur, and his fingers were long and clawed.

  He felt his face mold differently and sensed the bent horns sprouting from his forehead. Nothing about him reminded him at all of his previous incarnation and he wondered how he could still be known to others.

  Then, with hesitation, he reached up and touched his eyes…and knew that they were the mark. He felt the innate forces within them growing more powerful, more precise with each passing second. He could now make out the very strands of magical energy recreating him, and saw how the invisible hand of his god restructured his body to make him far greater than that which he had once been.

  He watched as his god’s work continued, marveling and admiring the perfection of it. He watched as he became the first of a new kind of servant, one which even the others who attended the master would envy.

  And he watched with artificial eyes of black crystal, across the center of which ruby streaks coursed.

  The mark by which those who had once known him would recall his name—and know new fear.

  Lord Kur’talos Ravencrest stood in front of the high, stone chair where he usually held court and faced the assembled commanders. A tall figure even among the seven-foot-high night elves, he had a long, narrow visage much akin to that of the black bird whose name he bore, even to the downward turn of his nose. His tufted beard and stern eyes gave him an appearance of both wisdom and might. He wore the gray-green armor of his troops, but also marked his superior rank with a billowing cloak of gold and a mighty, red-crested helm from which the stylized head of a raven peered down.

  Behind the chair hung the twin banners of his house, square flags of rich purple with the ebony silhouette of the avian in the middle. The banner of House Ravencrest had become the de facto symbol of the defenders, and there were those who spoke of the noble in terms once reserved only for the queen.

  But Lord Ravencrest himself was not among those and as Malfurion listened, his anxieties concerning the direction in which the counterattack was headed increased.

  “It is clear,” stressed the bearded night elf, “that the point of focus must be Zin-Azshari! There is where these abominations originated and there is where we must strike!”

  Rumbles of approval swept over the night elves gathered to listen to him. Cut off the foe at his most critical point. Without Zin-Azshari to strengthen them, the demons already on the field would surely fall to defeat.

  Ravencrest leaned toward his audience. “But it is not merely monsters from beyond we face! In Zin-Azshari, we confront a most duplicitous foe—our own kind!”

  “Death to the Highborne!” someone shouted.

  “Yes! The Highborne! It is they, led by the queen’s ad
visor, Lord Xavius, who have brought this calamity upon us! It is they who now must face our swords and lances and pay for their crimes!” The noble’s countenance grew even more grim. “And it is they who hold our dear Azshara prisoner!”

  Now roars of anger burst forth. Several cried, “Blessed is our Azshara, the Light of Lights!”

  Someone next to Malfurion muttered, “They remain blind even now.”

  He turned to see the red-haired mage, Rhonin. Although a foot shorter, the odd-looking figure was broader of build and looked as much a fighter as a master wizard. The only human among them—the only human anywhere as far as Malfurion knew—Rhonin caused comment merely by existing. The night elves, haughty and prejudiced when it came to other races, treated him with deference because of his power, but few would have invited him into their homes.

  And even less likely to receive such an invitation was the grotesque, brutish figure next to him, one almost as tall as Malfurion but built like a bear. Slung on his back was a huge, twin-edged battle ax that appeared made of wood, yet somehow gleamed like steel.

  “Those who do not see the truth in battle march willingly to defeat,” grunted the tusked, green-skinned warrior, his philosophical words belying his savage form.

  Broxigar—or Brox, as he preferred to be called—shook his head at the night elves’ unwavering devotion to their queen. Rhonin’s cynical smirk in response to the orc’s words only added to Malfurion’s discomfort at how his people appeared to the outsiders. They could readily see what few of his kind other than himself could—that Azshara had to know what happened in the palace.

  “If you knew what she has been to us,” the night elf muttered, “you would understand why it is so difficult for them to accept her betrayal.”

  “It doesn’t matter what they think,” Illidan interjected from in front of him. “They’ll attack Zin-Azshari either way and the end result will be the same. No more demons.”

  “And what if Azshara comes out and tells them that she’s seized control of the demons from the Highborne, and that everyone’s now safe?” Rhonin countered pointedly. “What if she tells her people to lay down their arms, that the battle’s over? And then what if the Burning Legion falls on Ravencrest and the rest while the queen laughs at their folly?”

  Illidan had nothing to say to that, but Brox did. He gripped the hilt of his dagger and muttered under his breath, “We know her betrayal. We know. We make sure this queen plays no tricks…”

  Rhonin tilted his hooded head to the side in consideration of this suggestion, while Illidan’s face masked whatever opinion he had on the dread subject. Malfurion frowned, caught between the remnants of his own devotion to Azshara and his realization that eventually someone would have to put an end to the queen if the world hoped to survive this monstrous invasion.

  “If and when the time comes, we do what we have to,” he finally replied.

  “And that time approaches swiftly.”

  Krasus slipped into the back of the chamber to join them, an arrival that left all of them silent. The pale, enigmatic wizard moved with more assurance, more health, yet obviously the dragon from whom he seemed to draw strength could not be out in the hall.

  Rhonin immediately went to him. “Krasus, how is this possible?”

  “I have done what I have done,” the latter said, absently touching the three small scars on his face. “You should know that Korialstrasz has departed.”

  While the news was unexpected, it still struck them hard. Without the dragon, the night elves would have to depend upon their small band even more.

  At the other end of the room, Lord Ravencrest continued his speech. “Once there, the secondary force, under Lord Desdel Stareye, will then pull in from the south, squeezing them in from the two sides…”

  Next to the dais, a very slim night elf—clad in the same armor as Ravencrest but wearing a cloak of intertwining green, orange, and purple lines—nodded to the speaker. Stareye’s helm had a long, shimmering crest of night saber fur. The helm itself was decorated with a multitude of tiny, gem-encrusted stars. In the center of each had been set a golden orb—an overall gaudy display to the outsiders, no doubt, but well-appreciated by Stareye’s compatriots. The night elf himself seemed to be constantly staring down his long, pointed nose at anyone he looked at—anyone other than his host, that is. Desdel Stareye knew the importance of attaching himself to the House of Ravencrest.

  “We must move swiftly, surely, yes,” Stareye added uselessly. “Strike at the heart, yes. The demons will cower at our blades, grovel for our mercy, which we shall not give.” Reaching into a pouch on his belt, he took a white powder and sniffed it.

  “May the heavens help us if that popinjay ever becomes leader,” murmured Rhonin. “His armor gleams as if newly-forged. Has he ever fought a war?”

  Malfurion grimaced. “Few of our kind have. Most prefer that ‘distasteful’ duty to Lord Ravencrest, the Moon Guard, or the local forces. Unfortunately, bloodline dictates who is granted a high rank in troubled times.”

  “Not unlike humans,” Krasus said before Rhonin could respond.

  “Strike at the heart and quickly,” Lord Ravencrest agreed. “And we must do so before the Highborne succeed in reopening the way for more of the monsters—”

  To the surprise of Malfurion and the others, Krasus stepped forward and dared interrupt. “I fear it is already too late for that, my lord.”

  Several of the night elves took affront at this interruption by one not of their own kind. Ignoring them, Krasus strode toward the dais. Malfurion noted that the mage still showed subtle signs of strain. Whatever he had done to enable him to walk free of the dragon had not completely rid him of his mysterious malady.

  “What’s that? What do you mean, wizard?”

  Krasus stood before Ravencrest. “I mean that the portal is already open.”

  His words reverberated through the assembly. Several night elves lost a shade or two of their purple color. Malfurion could not blame them. This was hardly welcome news. He wondered how they would react when they discovered that they had also lost the one dragon who had been aiding them.

  Desdel Stareye looked down at the outsider. “And you know this how?”

  “I felt the emanations. I know what they mean. The portal is open.”

  The haughty noble sniffed, his way of indicating his distrust of such questionable evidence. Lord Ravencrest, on the other hand, accepted Krasus’s dire pronouncement with grave faith. “How long?”

  “But a few minutes before I entered here. I verified it twice before I dared come.”

  The master of Black Rook Hold sat back in his chair, brooding. “Ill tidings, indeed! Still, you said it was but a short time ago…”

  “There is some hope yet,” the mage said, nodding. “It is weak. I can sense that. They will not be able to bring through too many at once. More important, their master will be unable to physically enter yet. Should he attempt to do so, he will destroy the portal…”

  “What does it matter if he stays where he is and simply directs them?” asked Stareye with another sniff.

  “The Burning Legion is but a shadow of his terrible darkness. Trust in me when I say that we have hope even if every demon who serves him comes through, but no hope if we destroy all only to have him step into the world.”

  His words left silence in their wake. Malfurion glanced at Rhonin and Brox; their expressions verified Krasus’s warning.

  “This changes nothing,” Ravencrest abruptly declared. He faced the audience again, expression resolute. “Zin-Azshari remains the focus, now more than ever! Both the portal and our beloved Azshara await us there, so there is where we march!”

  The night elves rallied almost immediately, so trusted was the elder commander when it came to war. Few night elves had the reputation that Lord Ravencrest held. He could draw people to his banner almost as well as the queen could to hers.

  “The warriors are already set to march! They have but been awaiting our decisio
n! I give you all leave to depart after this gathering and prepare each of your commands! By the fall of day tomorrow, we push on toward the capital!” Ravencrest raised his mailed fist high. “For Azshara! For Azshara!”

  “For Azshara!” shouted the other night elves, Illidan included. Malfurion knew that his brother added his voice because of his position as Black Rook Hold’s sorcerer. Whatever Illidan believed concerning Queen Azshara, he would not jeopardize his recently-gained status.

  The night elven officers nearly stormed out of the chamber in their eagerness to return to their soldiers. As they poured into the hall, Malfurion thought to himself how mercurial his people could be. A moment before, they had been lamenting the news of the portal’s resurrection. Now they acted as if they had never even heard the terrible report.

  But if they had forgotten it, Rhonin and Brox had not. They shook their heads and the red-haired wizard muttered, “This bodes ill. Your people don’t realize what they’re marching into.”

  “What other choice do they have?”

  “You must reconsider sending messengers as I suggested,” Krasus suddenly insisted.

  The wizard still stood before Lord Ravencrest, who now was accompanied only by a pair of dour guards and Desdel Stareye. Krasus had one foot on the dais and his expression was as animated as Malfurion had ever seen it.

  “Send out messengers?” scoffed Stareye. “You jest!”

  “I accept your anxiety,” their host replied, “but we’ve hardly sunk so low. Fear not, Master Krasus, we will take Zin-Azshari and cut off the portal! I promise you that!” He adjusted his helmet. “Now, I think we both have plans to make before the march, eh?”

  With Lord Stareye and the guards in tow, the noble marched out of the room as if already the victor. Illidan joined his patron just before the party vanished. Krasus watched Ravencrest depart, his countenance anything but pleasant to behold.

  “What was that you tried to convince him of?” asked Rhonin. “Messengers to whom?”