“I have been trying—in vain, it appears—to persuade him to ask for assistance from the dwarves and other races—”
“Ask the other races?” blurted Malfurion. Had Krasus asked him beforehand the odds of success, the young night elf would have immediately tried to dissuade him from even suggesting such to the master of Black Rook Hold. Even with Kalimdor under siege and hundreds or more already dead, no lord would ever demean himself by even thinking of contacting outsiders. To most night elves, dwarves and such were barely one step above vermin.
“Yes…and I see from your expression that attempting to speak later with him about it will be just as futile.”
“You know how hard it was to convince the dwarves, orcs, elves, and humans to work together in our—where we came from,” Rhonin remarked. “Not to mention the complexity of getting each of the factions and kingdoms within those groups to trust one another.”
Krasus nodded wearily. “Even my own kind have their prejudices…”
It was as close as he had ever come to identifying what he truly was, but Malfurion did not press. His curiosity concerning his ally’s identity was a slight thing compared to the potential holocaust they all faced.
“You didn’t tell them about the dragon leaving,” he said to Krasus.
“Lord Ravencrest knows of it. I sent word of it to him as soon as Korialstrasz declared his decision.”
Rhonin frowned. “You shouldn’t have let Korialstrasz go.”
“He shares a concern with me about the dragons. As should you.” Some wordless communication passed between the two wizards, and Rhonin finally nodded.
“What do we do?” asked Brox. “We fight with the night elves?”
“We have no choice,” Rhonin answered before Krasus could. “We’re trapped here. Things’ve become too tangled not to take an active part.” He stared deep into the elder mage’s eyes. “We can’t just stand by.”
“No, we cannot. It has gone beyond that. Besides, I find I will not abide waiting for assassins to come targeting me. I will defend myself.”
Rhonin nodded. “So it’s settled.”
Malfurion did not understand all that they said, but he recognized the end of what had been a long, stressful argument. Evidently, despite all he had done for the night elves, Krasus still had reservations about aiding them. An irony, so the druid saw it, after how much effort Krasus had spent pushing for Lord Ravencrest to approach the dwarves and tauren.
It occurred to him then that they had all decided to join the host marching on Zin-Azshari. With those last doubts erased, Malfurion realized there was one other person with whom he needed to speak before that happened. He could not leave Suramar without seeing her.
“I must go,” he informed them. “There—there is something I need to do.”
His cheeks must have flushed, for Krasus kindly nodded, adding, “Please give her my greetings, will you?”
“I—of course.”
But as he started past the elder mage, Krasus took hold of his forearm. “Do not steel yourself against your emotions too much, young one. They are a part of your calling, your destiny. You will need them greatly in the days ahead, especially as he is no doubt here now.”
“Here?” Rhonin’s brow furrowed. “Who? What else haven’t you told us?”
“I am only using logic, Rhonin. You saw the beast Mannoroth guiding the Legion when it first swept out from the city. You know that, despite him, we were able to not only cut off the portal, but also inflict serious damage to the demon army.”
“We beat Mannoroth. I know. We did it in the—back home, too.”
Krasus’s eyes had a veiled look to them that stirred Malfurion’s anxiety anew. “Then you should also recall what happened after his defeat.”
The night elf saw Rhonin blanch. Brox, too, seemed disturbed, but his reaction was more like Malfurion’s. The orc understood that something dire was about to be revealed, but did not know just what.
“Archimonde.” The human whispered the name so quietly that he almost appeared worried that its bearer might hear it even in Ravencrest’s sanctum.
“Archimonde,” repeated Brox, now understanding. He gripped the hilt of his dagger and his eyes darted back and forth.
“Who—who is this Archimonde?” asked Malfurion. Even saying the name brought a distaste to his mouth.
It was Rhonin who answered him, Rhonin with his eyes unblinking and his mouth set in utter hatred. “He who sits at the right hand of the lord of the Burning Legion…”
Captain Varo’then brought the news to his queen as he always did. With Lord Xavius dead, he had become her favored…in more ways than one. His new uniform—a resplendent, glittering emerald green with golden sunbursts across the chest—was the latest gift bestowed upon him by Azshara. His title remained that of captain, but in truth, he commanded more than some generals, especially as even demons followed his orders.
Varo’then swept aside his glittering golden cape as he entered the queen’s sanctum. Her attendants immediately curtsied, then stepped away.
Azshara herself lay draped across a silver couch, her head resting perfectly on a small cushion. Her hair, more silver than the couch, cascaded gracefully down her back and shoulders. The queen had long, almond-shaped eyes of pure gold and features of perfection. The gown she wore—a wondrous, translucent blue and green—displayed her curved form magnificently.
In her hand, Azshara held a view globe, a magical art-piece that displayed for its user a thousand different exotic images of night elven creation. The image that faded away as the soldier knelt appeared to be that of Azshara herself, but Varo’then could not be certain.
“Yes, my dear captain?”
Varo’then forced his cheeks not to flush from desire. “Radiance of the Moon, Flower of Life, I bring important tidings. The Great One, Sargeras—”
She immediately sat up. Eyes wide, full lips parted, the queen asked, “He is here?”
A pang of jealousy struck the officer. “Nay, Light of Lights, it is not yet possible for the portal to hold the magnificence of the Great One…but he has sent his most trusted to finally make the way ready.”
“Then I must greet him!” Azshara declared, rising. Attendants immediately darted out of hiding to take her train. The long, silken gown trailed for some distance. The skirt was cut so that the queen’s long, smooth legs briefly revealed themselves as she walked. Everything about Azshara spoke of seduction and although he knew that she toyed with him as she did others, Varo’then did not care.
The instant that she started forward, several new figures lurched out of the shadows. Despite their huge forms, the Fel Guard who acted as her personal bodyguard had remained unseen until now. Two stepped in front of the pair while the rest lined up behind. The demons waited patiently, emotionlessly, for the queen to move again.
He raised his armored forearm so that she might place her perfect, tapering fingers upon it. The captain led her through the gaily-painted marble halls of the palace to the tower where the surviving Highborne sorcerers had restarted their efforts. Sentries both night elf and demon stood at attention as they passed. Varo’then had studied the Legion enough to understand that while Mannoroth and Hakkar seemed astoundingly oblivious to the queen’s beauty, the lesser demons appeared not so immune. Her bodyguard had become especially protective of her, even keeping a wary eye on their own brethren at times.
It did not do for even demon lords to underestimate the ruler of the night elves.
A pair of felbeasts guarded the outside door. The tentacles on each houndlike demon twitched toward the pair.
Immediately the Fel Guard created a protective wall between Azshara and the hounds. Felbeasts drained magic the way some insects drank blood, and Azshara had, contrary to appearances, a great aptitude for sorcery. To the creatures, she would seem a feast.
Varo’then had his own weapon out and ready, but Azshara touched his cheek gently and said, “No, dear captain.”
With a wave of
her hand, she parted the Fel Guard, then walked up to the felbeasts. Ignoring the menace of the tentacles, the queen knelt before the pair and smiled.
One monster immediately planted his fearsome head under her outstretched hand. The other opened a mouthful of rows of jagged teeth and let his thick, brutish tongue loll out the side. Both acted as Varo’then had seen three-day-old night saber kits do around Azshara.
After petting both on their coarse heads, the queen urged the monsters aside. The felbeasts readily obeyed, sitting down near the wall and looking as if hoping for some tiny treat.
The captain sheathed his weapon. No, it would not be good for anyone to underestimate his beloved monarch.
The way opened for Azshara as she stepped past the felbeasts. Following close behind, Varo’then saw immense Mannoroth look over his shoulder at the new arrivals. As much as he could read the demon’s expression, the captain noted some distress. Mannoroth, at least, was not so pleased with the coming of the Great One’s second.
And as the night elves entered, they could not help but notice that Archimonde had already arrived.
For the first time, Azshara momentarily lost a bit of her cool composure. The brief, open-mouthed gasp vanished swiftly, but it still startled Varo’then…almost as much as the demon himself did.
Archimonde stood as tall as Mannoroth, but that was where the likenesses ended. By any standard, he was far more handsome and in some ways resembled the night elves over whom he towered. His skin was a black-blue, and it took Varo’then a moment to realize that Archimonde surely had to be related to the Eredar warlocks. His build was similar and he even sported a fearsome tail like theirs. No hair covered any part of his body. His skull was huge and his ears wide and pointed. From under a narrow brow ridge, orbs of deep green stared out. He wore armor plating on his shoulders, shins, forearms and waist, but little else. An arresting display of lines and circles tattooed over his body radiated high magic.
“You are Queen Azshara,” he said in smooth, articulate words, a vast contrast to Mannoroth’s more guttural speech or Hakkar’s hiss. “Sargeras is pleased by your loyalty.”
The female night elf actually flushed.
His steady, unblinking gaze turned to Captain Varo’then. “And the Great One always approves of the capable warrior.”
Varo’then went down on one knee. “I am honored.”
As if no longer acknowledging the pair as anything of interest, Archimonde turned to where the sorcerers worked. A black gap hung in the midst of the pattern they had created, a gap that, despite its tremendous size, had surely disgorged the huge demon with difficulty.
“Hold the way steady. He will be coming through now.”
“Who?” Azshara blurted. “Sargeras is coming?”
With utter indifference, Archimonde shook his head. “No. Another.”
Varo’then chanced a glance Mannoroth’s way and saw that the tusked demon, too, was puzzled.
The edges of the black gap suddenly shimmered. The Highborne maintaining the portal immediately shook as their efforts demanded more than ever from them. Several gasped, but wisely did not falter.
And then…a shape coalesced in the portal. Though smaller than the demons, it somehow radiated a forceful presence nearly on par with Archimonde or Mannoroth even before it put one foot out onto the mortal plane.
Or rather…one hoof.
On two legs like those of a shaggy goat, the figure stepped toward the demon commanders and night elves. The lower half of his body was pure animal in design. The unclad torso, however, while so deep a purple that it was nearly black, was otherwise identical to that of a night elf, save far more muscled. A long mane of black-blue hair hung loose around the narrow visage. The huge, curled horns contrasted sharply with the elegant, pointed ears. The only clothes the newcomer wore was a wide loincloth.
But if any thought because of the lower half and horns that this was only a beast sent by the lord of the Legion, they had only to look into its eyes and sense the deep, cunning intelligence within. Here was a mind sharper and quicker than most, devious and adaptive where it needed to be.
Only then did the eyes themselves register on the soldier. There could be no mistaking the black, crystalline orbs—clearly artificial—and the streaks of crimson running across the centers.
Only one being he had ever known had possessed such fantastic eyes.
Captain Varo’then stood, but it was not from his mouth that the identity of the other was uttered. That came instead from Queen Azshara, who leaned forward, studied with pursed lips the leering visage that was and was not the face both she and the officer had known, and said, “Lord Xavius?”
Four
The night elven host assembled by Lord Ravencrest was truly impressive to behold, but Malfurion found no comfort in their great numbers as he waited for the noble’s signal to begin the march. The young night elf looked to his right, where his brother and companions also awaited astride their mounts. Rhonin and Krasus constantly discussed some matter between themselves, while Brox stared ahead at the horizon with the clear patience of a seasoned warrior. Perhaps of all of them, the orc understood the overwhelming task they faced. Brox held the ax Malfurion and Cenarius had created for him as if already seeing the endless tide of enemy.
Despite Brox’s clear knowledge of combat, Ravencrest and the rest of those in command of the host had not once turned to the orc for his experience and knowledge. Here was a creature who had fought hand-to-hand with the demons, yet no one asked him of their weaknesses, their strengths, or anything else that might give those on the front line a further edge. True, Krasus and Rhonin had provided some such insight, but theirs was tempered by a more familiar use of magic. Brox…Malfurion suspected that Brox could have taught everyone far more when it came to true fighting.
We are a people whose downfall may yet come because of our own arrogance…Malfurion frowned at his own pessimism, then lost the frown as the only sight that could cheer his heart came riding up to him.
“Malfurion!” Tyrande called, her expression pensive and worried. “I thought never to find you in all this!”
Her face was as he always remembered it, for he had long ago burned it into his memory. Once a childhood friend, Tyrande had now become for him a desire. Her skin was a smooth, violet shade and her dusky blue hair was tinged with silver. She had a fuller face than many of their kind, which added to her beauty. Her features were somehow delicate yet determined, and she had veiled silver eyes that ever pulled Malfurion inside. Her lips were soft and often wore a hint of a smile.
In contrast to the previous times that they had met, the novice priestess of Elune—the Mother Moon—wore an outfit more befitting the way of war than the peace of the temple. Gone was her flowing, white robe. In its place was a form-fitting suit of armor with layered plates that allowed much mobility. The armor covered Tyrande from neck to foot, and over it, almost as an inconsistency, was a shimmering, gossamer cloak the color of moonlight. In the crook of her arm, the young priestess held a winged helmet that would protect the upper portion of her face as well.
To Malfurion, she looked more like the priestess of a war god and evidently Tyrande could read such in his expression. With a bit of defensiveness, she admonished him, “You may excel at your new calling, Malfurion, but you seem to have forgotten the elements of Mother Moon! Do you not recall her aspect as the Night Warrior, she who takes the courageous dead from the field and sets them riding across the evening sky as stars for their reward?”
“I meant no disrespect to Elune, Tyrande. It was more that I’ve never seen you dressed so. It makes me greater fear that this war will forever change us all…providing we survive it.”
Her expression softened again. “I’m sorry. Perhaps my own uneasiness makes my temper short. That, and the fact the high priestess has declared that I myself shall lead a group of novices into this conflict.”
“What do you mean?”
“We are not going to ride with the host
simply to offer our healing powers. The high priestess has had a vision in which the sisterhood must actively fight alongside the soldiers and the Moon Guard. She says that all must be willing to take upon themselves new roles if we’re to keep the demons from victory.”
“That may be easier said than done,” Malfurion responded with a grimace. “I was just thinking how hard it is for our people to adjust to change of any kind. You should have been there when Krasus suggested that they call upon the dwarves, tauren, and other races to work with them.”
Her eyes widened. “It’s a wonder they work with him and Rhonin, much less tauren. Doesn’t he realize that?”
“Yes, but he’s as stubborn as one of us, possibly more.”
He quieted as his brother suddenly joined them. Illidan gave him a cursory glance, then focused his attention completely on Tyrande.
“You look like a warrior queen,” he told her. “Azshara herself could appear no finer.”
Tyrande flushed and Malfurion wished that he had made some compliment—any compliment—for which the priestess might remember him before the host set off.
“You are the Night Warrior herself, in fact,” Illidan continued smoothly. “I hear you’ve been put in charge of a band of your sisters.”
“The high priestess says that my skills have much increased of late. She says that in all her years of guidance, I’m one of the swiftest to attain such levels.”
“Not a surprise.”
Before Malfurion could say anything similar, a horn suddenly blared. It was followed by another, then another, and so on as each segment of the mighty army signaled its readiness for departure.
“I have to return to the sisters,” Tyrande told them. To Malfurion, she added, “I came to wish you well.” Instinctively, the priestess turned to Illidan. “And you, of course.”
“With your blessing, we’re certain to ride to victory,” Malfurion’s sibling returned.
Again Tyrande flushed. Another horn sounded, and she quickly donned the helmet, turned her panther around, and rode off.
The Demon Soul (warcraft) Page 5
