“Behold that which will exorcise the demons from our world!” the black leviathan thundered. “Behold that which will cleanse the lands of all taint!”
The tiny disk flared bright, suddenly no longer insignificant to the eye. Now, the young red male felt the full extent of the powers within…and understood why even Alexstrasza believed it to be their best recourse.
“Behold,” Neltharion roared proudly. “The Dragon Soul.”
Five
Captain Varo’then was not one to be made ill at ease by shadows and noises. He confronted all such things with the same dour earthiness with which he did everything else in his life. The scarred soldier had been born to the role of warrior and, despite his inherent cunning, never saw himself in any other role. He had no desire to be king or consort save that it would then place him even closer to Azshara. He commanded his forces in her name and was satisfied with that. The political machinations he had always left to Lord Xavius, who understood and savored them far more than Varo’then ever could.
But of late, his mind had been forced to turn to paths other than those of battle. That had to do with the return of one he had assumed quite dead…Xavius himself. Now the queen’s advisor, brought back from the afterlife by the astounding power of the great Sargeras, again guided the will of the Highborne. That should have not bothered Varo’then, but Xavius had changed in ways even the queen did not see. The captain was certain that the advisor—or this thing that had once been the advisor—concerned himself not with the glory of Azshara, but with other matters. Varo’then, whatever his loyalty to the lord of the Legion, was ever first and foremost his queen’s servant.
“The ever-efficient captain. Of course I find you stalking the halls even when not on duty.”
The officer jumped, then silently cursed himself for reacting so.
As if pouring out of the shadows themselves, Xavius stepped out in front of the night elf. His hooves clattered on the marble floor and he breathed in snorts as he moved. Archimonde had called Xavius a satyr, one of Sargeras’s blessed servants. The unnatural eyes that the noble had himself put in place of his own stared out from under the deep brow ridge. They snared the captain’s own, drawing him inexorably into some unsettling place.
“Sargeras sees much promise in you, Captain Varo’then. He sees one whose status could be great among those who serve him. He sees you as a commander of his host, set up there along with Mannoroth—nay—Archimonde, even!”
Varo’then saw himself at the head of a horde of demons, his sword thrust out before him as they poured over their foes. He felt the pride and love of Sargeras as he rode down those who would defy the Great One.
“I am honored to serve,” the soldier murmured.
Xavius smiled. “As are we all…and we would serve in any way we could, if it would make the dream come true sooner, is that not so?”
“Of course.”
The hooved figure leaned close, his face nearly touching the soldier’s own. The eyes continued to pull Varo’then in, both tantalizing and unnerving him at the same time. “You could serve in a manner better suited for you, in a role that will lead you sooner to the command you desire…”
Excitement coursed through the officer. He again pictured himself leading armies in the name of his queen and Sargeras. He imagined his conquest of their enemies, the blood of the foe flowing so much it created rivers.
But when Captain Varo’then tried to imagine himself doing all this, he could not see his own form distinctly. He tried to draw forth an image of himself as a warrior, an armored and armed commander such as in the old epics…but another shape persistently pushed itself on him.
A shape much like that worn by Lord Xavius.
That, at last, enabled him to pull free of the advisor’s gaze. “Forgive me, my lord, but I must be about my duties.”
The artificial eyes flared briefly. Then Xavius nodded ever so politely and with a sweep of his hand bid the soldier to move on. “But of course, Captain Varo’then, but of course.”
At a quicker pace than he would have preferred to display before the horned figure, Varo’then marched away. He did not look back. His hand clutched the hilt of his sword as if about to draw it. The night elf did not slow until he was certain that Lord Xavius had been left far behind.
But even then he could still hear the beguiling words of the satyr…and Varo’then knew that where he had managed to deny them, others would not.
As night fell upon Lord Ravencrest’s forces, the Sisters of Elune spread out among the night elves to give their blessings. Even clad like warrior maidens, the priestesses brought peace and comfort to the soldiers. Elune offered the night elves strength and confidence, for she was always there in the heavens, watching down on her favored children.
Although her expression did not reveal it, Tyrande Whisperwind felt none of the peace or strength she passed on to her people. The high priestess seemed to think that she especially had been touched by the Mother Moon, but Tyrande sensed no great presence within herself. If the Mother Moon had chosen her for something, she had failed to inform Tyrande.
The last bit of daylight fled beneath the horizon. Tyrande hurried, knowing that soon the horns would sound and the host would move on toward Zin-Azshari. She touched the heart of one more soldier, then strode to her waiting panther.
But before she reached it, another night elf confronted her. Out of reflex, Tyrande put a hand to his chest—only to have him take her hand by the wrist.
The priestess looked up and her own heart at first leapt with joy. Then she noted the dark uniform and the hair bound back in a tail.
Most of all, Tyrande noticed the amber eyes.
“Illidan…”
“I’m grateful for your blessing, of course,” he responded with a wry grin. “But I’m comforted more by your near presence.”
Her cheeks flushed, though not for the reason he thought. Still gently holding her wrist, Malfurion’s twin leaned close.
“Surely this is fate, Tyrande! I’ve been looking for you. We’re entering fast-moving times. Decisions must be made without hesitation.”
With sudden anxiety, she understood what he intended to ask—nay, tell her. Without meaning to, Tyrande pulled back her hand.
Illidan’s face immediately grew stony. He had missed neither her reaction nor the meaning behind it.
“It’s too soon,” she managed, trying to assuage his feelings.
“Or too late?” The wry grin returned, but to her it now appeared to be slightly hollow, more of a mask. After a moment, though, Illidan’s face relaxed. “I’ve been too impetuous. This isn’t the right time. You’ve been trying to comfort too many. I’ll speak with you again, when the moment is more appropriate.”
Without another word, he headed toward where a mounted guard in the garb of Ravencrest’s clan awaited with the sorcerer’s own night saber. Illidan did not look back as he and his escort rode off.
More troubled than ever, Tyrande sought her own panther. Yet, even as she mounted, another came to interrupt her thoughts. This time, however, it proved to be a more welcome soul.
“Shaman, forgive this intrusion.”
With a gentle smile, she greeted the orc. “You are always welcome, Broxigar.”
Only she was allowed to call him by his full name. To all others, even Lord Ravencrest, he was merely Brox. The massive orc stood a good head shorter than her, but made up for it with a girth three times her own and nearly all of that muscle. She had seen him wade into enemies with the ferocity of one of the huge cats, but around her he acted with more respect than many of those who asked for her blessing.
Thinking that a blessing was what the orc had come for, Tyrande reached down to touch his chest. Brox looked startled, then welcomed the touch.
“May the Mother Moon guide your spirit, may she grant you her silent strength…” She continued on for a few seconds more, giving the orc a full blessing. Most of the other priestesses found him as abhorrent as the rest of the
night elves did, but in Tyrande’s eyes, he was no less one of Elune’s creatures than herself.
When she had finished, Brox dipped his head in gratitude, then muttered, “I am not worthy of this blessing, shaman, for that is not why I’ve come to you.”
“It isn’t?”
The tusked, squat face twisted into what Tyrande recognized as remorse. “Shaman…there is something that burdens my heart. Something that I must confess.”
“Go on.”
“Shaman, I have tried to find my death.”
Her lips pursed as she struggled to understand. “Are you telling me that you tried to kill yourself?”
Brox pulled himself up to his full height, his expression darkening. “I am an orc warrior! I’ve not guided my dagger to my own chest!” As abruptly as his fury had arisen, it now vanished completely, replaced only by shame. “But I’ve tried to guide the weapons of others to it, true.”
And the story came flowing out. Brox told her of his last war against the demons, and how he and his comrades had held the way while they awaited reinforcements. Tyrande heard how, one by one, all the other orcs had perished, leaving only the veteran. The actions of Brox and the others had helped save the battle, but that had in no manner made him feel any less guilty about surviving where others had not.
The war had ended soon after, leaving Brox with no proper method by which to atone for what he saw as a tremendous failing on his part. When the Warchief Thrall had requested that he hunt down the anomaly, he had seen it as a sign that the spirits had finally granted him an end to his misery.
But the only one to die in that search had been his young comrade, which added to Brox’s already heavy burden. Then, when it became clear that the Burning Legion would invade Kalimdor, the orc had once more hoped for redemption. He had thrown himself into the struggle and fought as hard as any warrior could be expected. He had always been at the forefront, daring any foe to take him on. Unfortunately, Brox had fought too well, for even after slaying a score of the demons, he had survived with barely a scratch.
And as the gathered host had set out from Suramar, the graying orc had finally started to think that he had committed a different sin. He realized that the shame that he had felt in surviving his former comrades had been a false one. Now Brox felt a new shame; everyone around him fought for life while he sought to escape it. They went to battle the Burning Legion for reasons opposite his own.
“I accept that I might die in battle—a glorious fate for an orc, shaman—but I am filled with dishonor for seeking it at the possible cost of those who fight against evil for their lives and those of others.”
Tyrande stared into the eyes of the orc. Beast he was to the rest, but once more he had spoken words of eloquence, of meaning. She touched his rough cheek, smiling slightly. How arrogant her people were to see only the image, not the heart and mind.
“You need not confess to me, Broxigar. You’ve already confessed to your heart and soul, which means that the spirits and Elune have heard your remorse. They understand that you have realized the truth of things and regret your earlier thoughts.”
He grunted, then, to her surprise, kissed her palm. “I give thanks to you even still, shaman.”
At that moment, the horns sounded. Tyrande quickly touched the orc on the forehead, adding a slight prayer. “Whatever fate battle holds for you now, Broxigar, the Mother Moon will watch over your own spirit.”
“I thank you for saying so, shaman. I will trouble you no more now.”
Brox raised his ax in respect, then trotted off. Tyrande watched the orc vanish among the other fighters, then turned as a signal she recognized as coming from the sisterhood alerted her to her own need for haste. She had to be ready to lead her own group forward as soon as the host began to move. She had to be ready to meet the fate that Elune had planned for her.
And that, she understood, included matters other than the coming battle.
“They added soldiers from two more settlements in the northwest,” Rhonin commented as he and Krasus rode. “I heard as many as five hundred.”
“The Burning Legion can bring forth such a number in but a few scant hours, perhaps even less.”
The red-haired wizard gave his former tutor a sour expression. “If none of this helps, then why bother? Why not just sit on the grass and wait for the demons to slit our gul-lets?” He took on a mock look of surprise. “Oh, wait! That’s not what happened! The night elves did fight—and they won!”
“Quiet!” hissed Krasus, giving Rhonin as sharp a glare as the human had given him. “I do not downplay the additions, only point out the facts. Another fact to be recalled is that our presence here and the existence of the anomaly through all time means that what has happened in the past may not be what will happen this time. There is a very, very good chance that the Burning Legion will triumph now…and all we know will never have been.”
“I won’t let that happen! I can’t!”
“To eternity, the fates of your mate Vereesa and your unborn twins are nothing, Rhonin…but I will fight for their sakes as much as I fight for my own flight’s future, however monstrous that may still be even with victory.”
Rhonin quieted. He knew as well as the dragon mage what fate would eventually befall the red flight. Even if the Burning Legion was defeated in this period, the dragons would still suffer terribly. Deathwing the Destroyer would see to it that the orcs gained control of them, especially Krasus’s own red flight, and used them as beasts of war. Many, many dragons would die for no good reason.
“But there was just beginning to be hope for us again,” Krasus added, his stare drifting momentarily. “And that, more than anything else, gives me another reason to see that history does not change.”
“I only know what happened from the histories preserved by the wizards of Dalaran, Krasus. You know them from living this time—”
The gaunt, almost elven figure hissed again. “Your recollections based on the writings are likely more accurate than my own riddled mind. I have come to the conclusion that Nozdormu’s intrusion into my thoughts, while helpful in setting us on this mission, also were too much for me to absorb completely without the loss of other memories.” Nozdormu, the Aspect of Time, had been the one to call upon Krasus and warn him of the crisis. The huge, sand-colored dragon now could not be contacted even in this period, and Krasus feared that he was, in all his incarnations, trapped in the anomaly. “I fear that I will never entirely recall this time period—and what is missing is enough to fuel my uncertainties as to the outcome.”
“So we fight and hope for the best.”
“As has been done by everyone in battle throughout history, yes.”
The bearded human nodded grimly. “Suits me just fine.”
On and on the night elven forces traveled, advancing miles without pause or delay. Most of the soldiers marched with high spirits, for it seemed that the enemy was not at all eager to match blades with them. With ears sharper than any of the creatures around him, Krasus heard soldiers pointing out that much of the destruction and death caused by the demons had been on unsuspecting and ill-prepared innocents. Once they had faced an organized resistance, the demons themselves had been slaughtered. Some even speculated that if the night elves had pursued the Burning Legion back to Zin-Azshari after that first battle instead of withdrawing to gather more strength, then the war would have already been over.
Such comments bothered Krasus; it was one thing to go into battle with confidence, another to believe the foe so easily defeated. The night elves had to understand that the Burning Legion was death incarnate.
His gaze turned to the one night elf who seemed to realize some of this. Krasus recalled that Malfurion would be a key to winning this struggle, but he could not remember exactly how. That he was the first of the druids was a significant point, though not the only one. The dragon mage had already determined that everything must be done to protect him.
With nearly most of the night spent, scouts suddenly
returned from the southeast. Ravencrest had organized a steady stream of outriders to ensure the most up-to-date information possible.
The three night elves looked quite bedraggled. Clearly, they had ridden their heavily-panting night sabers at a swift pace for some time. Sweat covered their faces and grime colored their garments. Pausing only to sip water, they reported their findings.
“A small column of the fiends is moving methodically through the region of Dy-Jaru, my lord,” said the senior scout. “We’ve seen smoke and fire and sighted refugees heading away.”
“Estimate of the enemy’s numbers?”
“Difficult to say for certain, but far less than this host, definitely.”
Ravencrest tugged on his beard, considering. “Where are the refugees heading?”
“It looks to be Halumar, my lord, but they’ll not make it. The demons are on their heels.”
“Can we come between them?”
“Aye, if we hurry. There’s just enough of a gap.”
The noble reached out a hand to one of his aides. “Chart.”
Immediately the proper map was handed to Ravencrest. He unrolled it, then had the scouts point out the locations of the refugees and the Burning Legion. When he saw them, he nodded. “We must move up the pace and prepare to meet them in daylight, but it can be done. We will still be on the path to Zin-Azshari. We can afford this minor detour.”
“Especially as it might save a few innocent lives,” Rhonin muttered under his breath to Brox.
Krasus leaned forward. “Did you mark the demons? What kind did you see?”
“Mostly those called the Fel Guard.”
One of the other scouts added, “I saw a couple of the hounds and one of the winged demons, the Doomguard.”
The dragon mage frowned. “A meager assortment.”
“They no doubt ran far ahead of the rest in their zeal,” Lord Ravencrest announced. “We shall teach them the benefits of restraint…not that they’ll live long enough to appreciate the lesson.” To his officers, he commanded, “Give the order! We head to meet them!”
The Demon Soul (warcraft) Page 7
