Stirred on by dread memories of his confinement at the hands of Lord Xavius, Malfurion managed to break free of the spell before it sealed. He immediately turned his focus to Ysera, hoping she would yet sense his danger.
No! They will not interfere! Neltharion’s mental presence was staggering. You will not betray all I have done! None of you will!
With Ysera still ignorant of his danger, the druid did the only thing he could think of—he abandoned the chamber and the mortal plane, retreating into the solitude of the Emerald Dream.
A calmness immediately surrounded him. He floated over the indistinct vision of the mountains where he had first contacted She of the Dreaming. Relieved, Malfurion tried to collect his thoughts.
With a roar, a huge shadowy form sought to swallow him whole.
Pulling back at the very last moment, the druid could not believe what had now happened; Neltharion had followed him into the dream realm! The dragon was even more terrible to behold here than in the mortal plane. His face was a distorted, diabolical caricature of its true self, every element of the evil with which the black had imbued the Dragon Soul evident in his jagged, disfigured countenance. Neltharion was twice as huge as in true life and his sharp claws spread for miles. His wings alone shadowed the entire mountain chain.
I will not surrender what is mine by right! Only I am fit to rule! You will tell no one!
Neltharion exhaled. Green flames filled the Emerald Dream.
Malfurion screamed as the fire engulfed his form. What the behemoth was doing should have been impossible; not only had he invaded Ysera’s domain without her evidently knowing, but now he sought to burn away the druid’s intangible essence.
Something that Cenarius had once taught him suddenly came to mind. Perception is deceptive, my student, his shan’do had told him. What you think must be is not always the truth. In the world of which you are now part as a druid, perception can become whatever you think it.
Not certain that he understood, but already nearly consumed, Malfurion denied the flames killing him. They could not exist as such here. They were, like his body and Neltharion’s huge form, what he expected to be real, yet they were not. They were images, illusions.
And so the fire could not burn so much as one false hair on his imaginary head.
Both the agony and the flames vanished. Neltharion still remained, his face and form more distorted than ever. He eyed the tiny figure with some repugnance, as if he wondered how the druid had dared not to perish.
Not certain how lucky he might be against whatever next the Aspect might throw at him, Malfurion took the only route of escape remaining to him. He concentrated on his body, willing himself to return to it.
The green-tinted mountains suddenly flew away from him. Neltharion, too, dwindled swiftly in the distance. The druid felt the closeness of his own body—
No! came Neltharion’s fearsome voice again. I will have you!
Just as the night elf felt himself re-entering his mortal form, something struck him hard. With a grunt, Malfurion, still half-asleep, fell back, his head hitting the hard, rocky ground. The last vestiges of the Emerald Dream disappeared, and with their going ceased the angry roar of the black dragon.
“Druid!” called another. “Malfurion Stormrage! Can you hear me? Are you whole again?”
He tried to focus on the new speaker. “K-Krasus?”
But when Malfurion first glanced at the mage’s visage, he instantly tried to pull away. A dragon’s monstrous face filled his view, the jaws opening to swallow him—
“Malfurion!”
The sharp cut of Krasus’s voice sliced cleanly through his fear. The night elf ’s vision cleared, revealing not a dragon but the determined, pale countenance he had come to know well.
Concern colored Krasus’s expression. He helped Malfurion to a sitting position, handing him a water sack from which to drink. Only after the druid had satiated his thirst did Krasus ask him what had happened.
“Did you reach She of the Dreaming?”
“Yes, and I had to mention Cenarius more than once…as you hinted.”
The dragon mage allowed himself a brief one-sided smile. “I had recalled some bit of knowledge Alexstrasza had once passed on to me. I thought that this far in the past, the feelings would be stronger yet.”
“So I was right to think that she and my shan’do—”
“Does it surprise you? Their spheres of influence cross in many ways. Kindred spirits are often drawn together, regardless of their differing backgrounds.”
Malfurion did not press. “She agreed to bring me to where they were meeting.”
Krasus’s eyes widened. “All five of the Aspects?”
“I saw only four. Ysera, your Alexstrasza, a silver-blue dragon with a mirthful expression—”
“Malygos…how that one will change.”
“And—and—” Suddenly, the night elf could not speak. The words teetered on the tip of his tongue, but they would not fall. The harder he tried, the more infantile the druid sounded. Sounds that made no sense whatsoever escaped him.
Putting a hand on Malfurion’s shoulder, Krasus nodded sadly. “I understand, I think. You cannot say more. There was another there.”
“Yes…another.”
It was all Malfurion could add, but he saw that Krasus did indeed understand. The night elf eyed his comrade in shock, realizing that the mage could no more speak of Neltharion than he could. At some point in the past, Krasus, too, had fallen afoul of the black behemoth.
Which meant that Krasus likely also knew of the Dragon Soul.
They stared into each other’s eyes, the silence communicating much of what their mouths could not. Small wonder that the dragon mage had been so adamant about reaching his people and discovering the truth. The ancients themselves had been betrayed by one of their own, and the only two who knew could say nothing about it, not even to each other.
“We must leave,” muttered Krasus, helping him to his feet. “You may well imagine why.”
Malfurion could. Neltharion would not rest with leaving him alive. The spell had been a last effort before the druid had escaped the Emerald Dream, but the black dragon would not be satisfied. He was too near his goal. Likely only circumstance had saved Krasus earlier, but from what Malfurion had witnessed of the black’s madness, neither would be safe long. And although Neltharion would not dare act directly…
“The sentinels!” he managed to gasp.
“Aye. We may see them again. It would be good if we returned to the hippogriffs and departed.”
So the idiosyncrasies of the spell allowed them that indirect communication. A small and fairly useless gift. They could hint to each other about their doom.
Still weary, he had to rely on Krasus to help him walk. With effort, they made their way to where the animals waited impatiently. One of the hippogriffs squawked when he noticed the pair, causing the other to flap its wings in startlement.
“Will they carry us the entire way back?” the mage asked Malfurion.
“Yes. Cenarius would—”
The ground shook violently. The night elf and Krasus toppled over. Nearby, the hippogriffs fluttered a few feet upward.
From beneath where the mounts had waited, a monstrous worm thrust its sightless head into the air. A wide crack at the tip of its head opened incredibly wide, revealing a round mouth with teeth lining the edges. With a savage rumble, the worm swallowed the slower of the two hippogriffs whole.
“Run!” commanded Krasus.
The duo scurried across the harsh landscape. Despite the meal it had just eaten, the worm turned in their direction. Again it rumbled, then burrowed back into the earth.
“Separate, Malfurion! Separate!”
No sooner had they gone in opposite directions than again the ground exploded and the horrific creature burst up. It snapped at the area around it, seeming frustrated that it found nothing to add to its earlier course.
Although the worm had no visible eyes, it s
omehow sensed where Malfurion had gone. Its mammoth, segmented body twisted toward him, the rounded mouth opening and closing hungrily.
This could be no coincidence. Neltharion had surely sent this burrowing monstrosity after them. The dragon’s paranoia had grown so terrible that now nothing was allowed to risk his dark desires.
The worm darted forward. The smell of decay emanating from within its mouth nearly overwhelmed the druid. Malfurion ran as fast as he could, even knowing that it would not be fast enough.
But just before the worm reached him, something flew in its path. With a savage squawk, the surviving hippogriff ripped at the fleshy head with its talons. Its beak tore into the hide as it likely sought to avenge its mate.
Rumbling ominously, the worm tried to bite its flying adversary. The hippogriff darted out of range, then dropped again in order to cut at the head.
“Kylis Fortua!” shouted Krasus.
Huge chunks of hard earth and rock, dug free by the worm’s arrival, rose up into the sky and began battering the creature. The worm swung back and forth, trying to avoid the onslaught. Most of the rocks did little true damage, but Krasus’s spell had clearly frustrated the beast.
Taking a breath, the druid tried to aid in his own way. There were few plants in this mountainous region, but one nearby caught his attention. Apologizing to it, Malfurion plucked several barbs from its branches, then threw them at the huge predator.
The wind carried the barbs along for him, thrusting them faster and faster toward their target. Malfurion concentrated, touching upon that which controlled the barbs’ growth.
And just before they struck, the thorny pieces swelled. They tripled in size, then tripled again. By the time they hit the worm, many were nearly as large as the druid himself.
More important, they were also harder of hide. Each of the needles facing the worm impacted with the force of a steel lance. Scores of thorns more than a yard long buried themselves in the monster’s body.
This time, the creature let out a roar. Green, sizzling pus flowed from its wounds, spilling onto the ground where it continued to burn. The barbs stuck wherever they had hit. The worm shook back and forth, but none would release.
“Well done!” exclaimed Krasus, seizing Malfurion by the arm and pulling him along. “Try to summon the remaining hippogriff!”
Malfurion reached out to the animal, trying to get it to come to them, but the hippogriff ’s fury overrode his summons. The worm had devoured its mate and it wanted vengeance.
“It won’t listen!” yelled the druid, panic creeping into his voice.
“Then we must continue to run!”
Still trying to shake off the savage barbs, the worm followed after them. It did not move quite as fast as before, but still fast enough to force the pair to their limits.
The segmented giant slammed into the ground again, burrowing deep. The earth below vibrated so violently that Malfurion stumbled. Krasus kept on his feet, but made little progress.
“I must attempt something!” he shouted. “I have feared to try it since coming to your land, but without the hippogriff, it seems our only hope!”
“What?”
Krasus did not respond, the dragon mage already casting. Malfurion felt unsettling forces arise near his companion, who drew an arc with his right arm and muttered words in a language the night elf had never before heard. As Krasus’s hand cut the air, the latter literally sliced away, creating a gap in reality.
No, not a gap, Malfurion mentally corrected himself. A portal.
As the wizard completed the huge circle, the earth quaked. Turning to the druid, Krasus cried, “Through the gate, Malfurion! Through the—”
The worm again broke through to the surface. Krasus tumbled backward. The night elf, just starting to obey, turned back to aid his companion.
“You should have gone on!” snapped Krasus.
Its maw wide open, the monstrous burrower closed on the pair. Malfurion pulled the mage up, then threw both of them toward the portal. He could feel the worm closing on them, smell its deathly odor. Escape seemed so far away—
And as they entered the portal, the worm lunged…
Fourteen
The demons met them in earnest just west of Suramar. The new advance halted completely and a deadlock began. The night elves could not push the Burning Legion any farther, but neither could their foe regain ground.
The warriors of the Burning Legion fought relentlessly, but there was one thing in the night elves’ favor. They were far more familiar with the landscape than the demons. The region around Suramar was one of rolling hills and rivers. Forest, too, had marked much of the region, but now most of that was scorched or torn asunder. Still, many dead trunks and ruined dwellings dotted the area, and they acted not only as additional landmarks, but also protection.
Scouting parties were sent out to discover the exact extent of the demons’ lines. One such group consisted of Brox, Rhonin, and several members of Jarod Shadowsong’s company, including the captain himself. The orc and the human had volunteered themselves for this mission, well aware that they understood the ways of the Burning Legion better than anyone. However, Ravencrest had made them swear that, like the rest of the scouts, they would return at an appointed hour and no later. Otherwise, he could not promise that they would be safe should he decide it opportune to strike one flank or another quickly, based on whatever the other outriders reported.
Night had fallen, but that by itself did not make the going so slow. Simple darkness alone had no effect on any of the party and, in fact, would have aided their search. However, a thick, foul mist with a dank, greenish tinge covered everything. The mist seemed to spread wherever the demons went, and left open the threat that monstrous warriors could be lurking only yards away unnoticed.
Slowly the group, numbering a dozen, crossed the ruined land. Withered and blackened trees cast eerie shapes in the mist. No amount of squinting could much penetrate the haze.
It was perhaps fortunate in one way. So near Suramar, the scouting party crossed through an area where once there had been a settlement. Now and then, the remnants of a treehouse could be spotted sprawled on its side, the entire structure ripped out at the roots, then chopped to pieces. All knew that the inhabitants themselves had likely suffered a similar fate.
“Barbaric…” muttered Jarod.
Brox grunted. The night elves had been very quickly forced to harden themselves to the butchery, but they could scarcely learn to accept it the way the orc could. Brox had grown up around brutality. First the end of the war against the Alliance, then the violent march to the reservations, and lastly the struggle against the Burning Legion and the Scourge. He mourned the dead, yes, but there was little he saw that twisted his gut anymore. In the end, death was death.
To the orc’s right, Rhonin quietly cursed. The spellcaster clamped his hand tight, then thrust his palm into a pouch attached to his belt. He had tried using a scrying stone to survey the area for any hint of demons, but the mist apparently befouled the sensitive magics involved.
Brox had his own method for seeking out the enemy. Every few yards, he lifted his nose up and sniffed. The smells that mostly assailed his nostrils were pungent and spoke quite succinctly of death. So far, the only demons he noted were foul corpses covered in the ichor that had once flowed through their veins.
There were, of course, many other bodies. The mangled remains of night elves littered the settlement—some of them soldiers from the retreat, others hapless civilians who had moved too slow. No victim had been left whole; arms, legs, even heads had been lopped off. Several corpses appeared to have been cut up afterward, which strengthened the expressions of disgust and bitterness worn by the soldiers in the party.
“Stay spread out, but within sight,” Jarod commanded, tightening the reins of his own night saber. “And keep your beasts under control.”
The last order he had repeated more than once already. The huge panthers seemed particularly distressed abou
t their situation, as if they knew something that their riders did not. It made the scouting party even more tense.
A nightmarish shadow rose up before them…the outer edge of Suramar. The Burning Legion had not had sufficient time to ravage the entire city, and so part of its skeleton still stood as a grim reminder of all that had been lost…and all that still could be.
“By the Mother Moon…” whispered one soldier.
Brox glanced at Jarod. The captain stared at his home with eyes that barely blinked. His hands crumpled the reins. The vein in his neck throbbed.
“Hard to have no home,” the orc commented to him, thinking of his own life.
“I have a home,” Jarod growled. “Suramar is still my home.”
The orc said nothing more, understanding the night elf ’s pain.
Through the fallen gates they entered the city. Utter silence surrounded them. Even their breathing seemed far too raucous a noise for this still place.
Once inside, they paused. Jarod looked to the wizard for a suggestion as to their next move. Ahead of them the path split in three directions. Safety demanded that they all stay together, but the time limit set to them made inspecting Suramar that way impossible.
Rhonin frowned, finally saying, “No one goes wandering off in this. There’s a magic in the mist. I don’t care if we can’t search everything, captain.”
“I’m inclined to agree,” Jarod returned with some relief. “I never thought to be so distrusting of a place in which I grew up.”
“This is no longer Suramar, Shadowsong. You must remember that. Whatever the Burning Legion touches, it taints. Even if the city is empty of demons, it could be very, very dangerous.”
Brox nodded. He recalled all too well the things that had come out at him from the mist during his people’s fight against the demons. What the night elves had battled so far proved pale by comparison.
Just enough of the city remained intact to give the ruins a semblance of their former self. Now and then, a building would materialize that had not been touched. Jarod had soldiers check these structures out, thinking that anyone who had survived the carnage might have taken refuge inside.
The Demon Soul (warcraft) Page 19
