Not once did they find a living soul, though.
In spite of their intention to stay together, the devastation eventually demanded otherwise of them. The path became too confused and debris-filled to allow the scouting party to ride together without vastly slowing the search down. With great reluctance, Jarod had three soldiers on each end head off toward side streets.
“Go around the wreckage and meet up with us as soon as your route allows,” he told the six. As the two groups rode off, the captain quickly added, “And keep together!”
With Shadowsong and his remaining three fighters creating an escort for Rhonin—and Brox by association—the main group moved on. The night sabers had to pick their way up and over the rubble. Three huge tree homes had been torn down and in the process collided with one another over the path. One leaned atop the other two, the former residence dangling menacingly over the orc and his companions.
Brox’s night saber hissed as it stepped on something. Rhonin leaned over, then informed the orc, “The owner never left.”
They found more corpses as the cats reached the highest point. Again they were residents of the city, but these had evidently tried to flee when they were caught by the Burning Legion. Other than the grotesque wounds left by their slayers, the victims were oddly untouched. Neither decay nor carrion eaters had disturbed them.
“They had to have perished in the initial destruction,” the wizard noted. “You’d think they’d look even worse.”
“ ’Tis a foul enough sight for me already,” Jarod Shadowsong gasped.
With the panthers moving as gingerly as possible, they finally began descending to the original path. As he held on tight, Brox again raised his nose to the air and sniffed.
For a brief moment, the orc thought he sensed something, but the scent was faint and old. He looked around and discovered the body of a felbeast that some soldier had speared. Brox grunted in satisfaction and resumed clinging on for dear life.
Finally, the six reached level ground. Jarod pointed ahead, saying, “I recall an avenue just out of sight. We should be able to join up with the others, Master Rhonin.”
“I’ll be glad of that.”
Only a short distance later, the captain’s chosen avenue materialized. The party paused when it reached the intersection and Jarod looked around.
“We must’ve gotten ahead of them,” he noted.
Brox straightened. Rhonin shifted uneasily in the saddle, his fingers flexing in what the orc knew was a preamble to spellcasting.
“Aah!” Jarod looked relieved. “Here comes one party now!”
From the orc’s left rode three of the soldiers. They looked very pleased to see their comrades again. Even the cats moved with much eagerness.
“What did you find?” Shadowsong asked the new arrivals.
“Nothing, captain,” responded the most senior in rank. “More ruins, more corpses. As many of our people as those monsters.”
“Damn…”
“Are several of those you knew not among the refugees with us, Shadowsong?” asked Rhonin.
“Far too many. And the more we find here, the less chance that I’ve just missed them in the crowds.”
It was an old tale to Brox. How many of those with whom he had grown up had died in one battle or another? Small wonder that he had once regretted outlasting his comrades in the war; by then, the orc had already survived most of his blood brothers. He realized that part of his desire to die had also been due to loneliness.
Jarod eyed the opposite direction. “The others should be here at any moment.”
But that moment and a hundred others came and went, and still the missing soldiers did not reappear. The riders grew tense. Their darkening mood spread to the night sabers, who hissed and spat more and more as the minutes passed.
Brox could finally wait no longer. Even as Captain Shadowsong began to raise his hand in order to suggest that they move out and look for the vanished soldiers, the orc rode past him, toward where last the trio should have been.
He steered his mount down the other pathway, searching warily for any sign. Far behind him, Rhonin and the night elves hurried to catch up.
Rubble filled the street. Torn cloth and old bloodstains added the only color to the scene. The orc readied his ax and forced his mount to continue on.
Then a peculiarity about his present surroundings struck Brox. He twisted in the saddle, carefully looking around for one hint that his suspicions were correct.
But nowhere did he see any sign of even a single body. No night elves, no demons. Even the likely corpses of the three missing soldiers and their mounts could not be found.
What had happened to them? Brox wondered. How had this street remained unsullied by the deaths of innocents?
The slight sliding of rocks caused the green-skinned warrior to jerk to his right. A figure slowly coalesced in the mist—a soldier, but on foot, with his weapon drawn.
“Where’s your mount?” the orc rumbled.
The soldier trod awkwardly toward him. There were splotches on his armor, and his mouth hung open.
As his face came into better view, Brox saw with consternation that part of it had been ripped open. One eye was completely gone, and the jagged gap descended all the way to the center of the throat…or what remained of it.
And as he neared the orc, the macabre figure raised his weapon. Behind him, Brox suddenly noted other shapes following the soldier.
Although no coward, the green-skinned fighter pulled hard on the reins, turning the night saber about. As it moved, the cat swung one clawed paw at the oncoming soldier, batting him away like a toy.
The others rode up just as he started back. Jarod glanced beyond him, to where the soldier had fallen. “What did you do to him? You made your beast strike him dead—”
“Already dead before! Hurry! More coming!”
The night elf started to argue, but Rhonin put a hand across his chest. “Look into the mist, Shadowsong! Look!”
Jarod did—and shook his head in horror. The soldier arose, his face and chest now even more terrible to behold. Still wobbling, he gripped his sword and headed toward the party. Behind him, the first of the other shapes grew distinct—night elves, but in even more monstrous shape than the soldier. Several were ripped open from head to toe and others missed limbs. All wore the same empty expressions, and moved with the same deathly determination.
“Ride!” the captain shouted. “Back through the city gates! Follow me!”
With Jarod and the wizard in the lead, the party pulled away just before the first of the ghoulish figures could reach them. They sped up the way that they had just come, but when they reached the intersection, Jarod had everyone turn in the opposite direction.
“Why this way?” shouted Rhonin.
“A shorter and smoother path to our goal…I hope!”
But as they rode, other figures began to emerge from the ruins. Brox growled as what had once been an elder female in the blood-encrusted remains of a once-glittering silver, turquoise, and red gown snatched almost hungrily at his leg. He kicked her back, and for good measure severed her head with one mighty swing of the enchanted ax. Even after that, her body grabbed wildly for anything it could reach, but, fortunately, by then the orc had ridden away.
Rhonin suddenly pulled up short. “Watch out!”
His warning came too late for one of the soldiers nearest him. A mass of clawing, tearing hands pulled the night elf off his mount. He slashed one with his sword, but he might as well have been stabbing the air for all the good it did.
Jarod started to come to his aid, but before he could reach his comrade, the hapless victim vanished beneath the shambling corpses. His scream cut off almost immediately.
“It’s too late for him!” the wizard insisted despite Jarod’s clear intention of still trying to retrieve the soldier. “The rest of you, keep riding! I’ve some notion what to do here!”
“We can’t leave you!” argued the captain.
/> Brox steered his mount next to Rhonin. “I stay with him!”
“We’ll only be a few moments behind, Shadowsong! The way looks clear a little after this! You should be able to get out of the city!”
The night elf did not want to leave, but to stay would risk more lives. Of them all, Rhonin had the best chance for survival.
“This way!” the captain called to the rest of his command.
As they pushed off, the riderless night saber behind, Rhonin turned to face the oncoming mob. “Brox! I need a few seconds!”
Nodding, the orc pushed forward. With a battle cry, he slashed back and forth, his ax sweeping out before his mount with deadly accuracy. Grasping hands, gore-encrusted chests, torn throats…all he chopped at with every iota of strength that he could muster.
Just as Brox began to flag, Rhonin called, “Enough! Pull back!”
No sooner had the orc done so than the wizard tossed a small vial at the encroaching horde. As it flew, it somehow managed to arc along the front row, splattering each of the undead.
And the moment the spilling liquid touched its targets, the ghouls burst into blue flame.
An inferno quickly blossomed. The corpses behind the first row walked mindlessly into the flames, igniting themselves. Some of those already ablaze teetered into others, spreading the fire to them.
“Something I once used against the Scourge,” the human remarked with grim satisfaction. “Come on! We’ve got to—”
A fiery figure rushed forward and collapsed into Brox’s mount, setting it, too, ablaze. The orc struggled as the night saber abruptly turned and raced madly away from the source of its agony…in the process dragging its rider deeper into Suramar.
Rhonin called out after him, but Brox could not stop his animal. Crazed by the smoldering flames, the panther charged wildly through the streets.
The orc tried to smother the fire, but only made his situation worse. His night saber suddenly slowed, then threw itself on the side that burned. Brox barely had time to fling himself to safety lest his leg be crushed under the beast’s immense weight.
The night saber rolled over on the affected area, then, seeming unsatisfied with its attempts, ran off before the orc could stop it. Brox whirled around, expecting to be attacked on all sides by the horrific mob. Breath coming out in heavy pants, he swung his ax again and again, only gradually realizing that he was not in any imminent danger.
Of course, he was also without either a mount or the presence of the wizard.
Eyes wary, Brox started back the way from which he thought the night saber had come. Yet, as the brawny fighter proceeded through the ruins, he saw nothing that gave any hint as to whether his path was the right one. The injured cat had run with such manic swiftness that it had clearly dragged its rider farther than first imagined.
The orc smelled the air, but caught no scent of either the human or the night elves. Worse, his usually infallible sense of direction failed him here. The mist had a headiness to it that played with all of his senses.
Growing more confused as to his whereabouts, Brox turned down what seemed a vaguely familiar avenue. Ruined trees, scorched landscape, and the crumbling remains of dwellings appeared out of the haze, but none did he recognize with any certainty.
Then, something momentarily assailed his nose. The hulking orc hesitated, sniffing the air again. His heavy brow crushed together and he ground his yellowed teeth.
With new resolve he headed to his right, every other step smelling the air again. His new path demanded that he climb over the tangling roots of an upturned giant oak and across the crushed shell of a night elven home, but Brox would not be deterred. He climbed cautiously, trying not to make the slightest sound—a difficult task considering that he also refused to free his other hand by putting away his ax.
As he reached the top of the shattered domicile, Brox caught a fresh scent. It made his nostrils wrinkle in disgust, but urged him forward.
And when he peered over, it was to see the demons at work.
There were four of the Fel Guard and one Doomguard soldier, as well. However, they were not so much of a threat in Brox’s eyes as the two standing in the forefront. The orc snarled as he recognized from his own time the horrific, winged figures in midnight blue armor. They gestured with fingers that ended in savage, bladelike nails, a pale green aura covering their hands as they worked.
Nathrezim, also called Dreadlords.
They stood taller than the other demons, and their aspects were more terrible to behold. Huge, dark, curled horns thrust high from their heads. They had dead, gray skin like a corpse, and no hair whatsoever on their monstrous heads. Two sharp canines jutted down, reminding Brox of the tales he had heard of the Dreadlords’ vampiric traits. In point of fact, the Nathrezim were psychic vampires, feeding on the weak-minded and often using their victims as slaves.
The pair stood on thick, powerful legs like those of goats, their feet cloven hooves. While cunning and extremely skilled at magic—even more so than the Eredar—they were also deadly fighters. Yet, it seemed that in this particular incidence, it was their dark spells that the orc and his companion had to fear most.
Brox had found the necromancers.
The two Nathrezim had done the abominable, successfully raising the dead they and their comrades had so brutally slaughtered. The orc recalled what he had heard of the Undead Scourge and their own ghoulish spells. To one of his kind, what these creatures did now was far more monstrous than any death caused by the weapons of the Fel Guard of Doomguard.
In his mind, Brox imagined what he would have felt like if the bloody bodies of his comrades had risen up to join the enemy against the orcs. This was sacrilege, a dishonoring of spirits. His heart pounded, and Brox felt an uncontrollable rage filling him.
He suddenly thought of Rhonin and the night elves. It was possible that they had escaped, but with so many dead under the control of the Nathrezim, it was also possible that they fought dearly for their lives…provided they had not already been slain.
And if slain…they would likely join those the Dreadlords had raised.
Brox could hold back no longer. He rose from his hiding place and, with a war cry akin to the one he had uttered with his comrades back at the pass, leapt upon the group.
His shout echoed through the stillness. To his immense pleasure, the demons actually jumped at the sound, so unexpected in this place. Their surprise slowed their reflexes, exactly as the warrior had planned.
The ax Malfurion and the demigod had created for him cut smoothly through the armored chest of the first Fel Guard, spilling the demon’s foul innards. As his first foe collapsed, Brox brought the ax up, slicing through the forearm of another creature.
The Dreadlords did not cease their work, relying on their comrades to deal with one attacker. However, they had not fought orcs—not yet—and that lack of understanding worked well for Brox. He slammed into the next nearest Fel Guard, bowling over the huge demon with his own considerable mass, then rolled away as the Doomguard soldier attempted to run him through.
Brox traded blows with the winged warrior, then whirled just in time to deflect a strike by another opponent. He cleaved the second demon in half at the waist, then for good measure used the back end of his war ax to crush in the skull of the fighter that he had maimed earlier.
Now one of the spellcasters at last took notice. Leaving his comrade to continue their foul work, he turned and pointed at the orc.
In desperation, Brox threw himself between the spellcaster and the Doomguard. Yet, no sooner had he done that than the winged figure shrieked and twisted. He contorted as if something sought to burrow out of him—and then his chest exploded.
Something struck the orc from behind. Brox fell dazed. The last of the Fel Guard loomed over him, the Nathrezim coming up next to the monstrous warrior. The fiendish spellcaster stared down at their adversary, demonic eyes gleeful.
“You will fight well for us…” he hissed. “Kill many of your frie
nds…”
The vision of himself shambling toward Tyrande and the others sickened Brox; he had been willing to accept death, but this was a terrible parody of it.
“No!” Brox pushed himself up, knowing full well that he would never beat either the Fel Guard’s weapon or the Nathrezim’s unholy spell.
Then, the other Nathrezim unexpectedly howled. The agonizing cry barely escaped his mouth before he burst into blue flames.
The two demons turned, giving Brox his chance. He immediately went for the remaining spellcaster, thrusting up the ax. The sharp blade not only cut through the Nathrezim’s throat, but also completely severed the head.
A blade came at his side, cutting a streak along the orc’s torso. Brox grunted with pain, then turned to face his adversary. His ax met the demon’s blade, shattering the other weapon. The Fel Guard tried to retreat, but the orc cut him down.
Breathing heavily, the veteran warrior looked around. From the wreckage of another downed tree, Rhonin led his own night saber forward.
“I thought you might be able to handle the situation if I provided a little diversion.” The wizard studied the bodies. “If I needn’t have bothered at all, please tell me.”
With a snort, Brox replied, “A good warrior welcomes all allies, human. This one thanks you.”
“I should thank you. You found the ones animating the dead. It was like the horror of the Scourge all over again.”
Thinking of the shambling corpses, Brox quickly surveyed the area again, but saw nothing.
“Rest easy, Brox,” Rhonin assured him. “When the Nathrezim perished, I sensed their work cease. The dead are at rest again.”
“Good.”
“You’re wounded.”
The orc gave a noncommittal grunt. “Had many wounds.”
Rhonin grinned. “Well, for now you’ll be riding. Jarod and the others should be just outside the gate. I doubt the erstwhile captain will go far without us. He’s already lost Krasus and Malfurion. He doesn’t want to go back to Ravencrest empty-handed.”
The Demon Soul (warcraft) Page 20
