Recalling the sinister pair who had pursued Krasus and him, Malfurion suspected that he knew which beasts had attacked. He gathered that they were dead, which made him marvel that Korialstrasz had even survived to this point. Truly a powerful, magnificent creature this dragon had been…
No! He was thinking of Korialstrasz as already dead. That condemned not only the dragon, but Krasus as well. Malfurion had to stop such speculation if he hoped to save them.
One of the first true lessons that Cenarius had taught him had been the health and healing of woodland creatures. In the past, Malfurion had saved the lives of foxes, rabbits, birds, and more. He could apply that work now, just amplifying the effect.
Or so the druid hoped.
Malfurion called to his surroundings. He needed their sacrifice; only life could give life. The earth, the flora, they had the capability of regenerating in a manner no animal could. The night elf still asked much from them, however, for now he sought to save a dragon. If his plea was rejected, he could lay no blame.
Trying to relay the importance of saving Korialstrasz—and by doing so, Krasus—Malfurion reached out to the grass, the trees, anything that would give to him. In the back of his mind, he noted the dragon’s life force ebbing. There was barely any time left.
Then, to his relief, Malfurion felt the land give of itself for his efforts. The life force flowed into him, exhilarating the night elf so much that he almost forgot for what purpose he had requested it. Recalling himself, he positioned his fingertips on the scale, then fed the energy through.
Krasus’s body shook once, then calmed. Through the link, Malfurion sensed the life force pouring into the dragon. The night elf ’s heart raced, sweat dripping down his face, as he struggled to maintain the bond.
So much flowed through, and yet, Malfurion felt no change in Korialstrasz. The dragon continued to hang on the edge of death. Gritting his teeth, the druid drew more and more, sending it to the stricken giant as quickly as he could.
At last, he noted a slight change. Korialstrasz’s soul pulled back from the abyss. The tenuous link to life solidified.
“Please…” the harried night elf gasped. “More…”
And more came. The land around him gave as he needed, understanding that the dire situation affected not just the two ill figures, but also so many others.
Slowly, ever so slowly, the tide turned in life’s favor. Korialstrasz grew stronger. The druid felt the leviathan’s consciousness return and knew that the dragon wondered at this miracle.
Krasus’s body again shook. The elder mage moaned. His eyes slowly opened.
At that point, Malfurion finally knew that he had done enough. Pulling his fingertips from the scale, the night elf leaned back and exhaled.
Only then did he see that the grass for yards around him was black.
All life had been drained from the tendrils. Peering around, Malfurion saw that the field for as far as he could see was dry and black. A pair of trees stood leafless in the distance.
Fear at what he had done made the druid shiver until he felt the stirring of life beneath the earth. The roots of the grass still lived and, with the earth’s help, they would soon grow new, mighty stalks. The trees had also survived and, if given the opportunity, would create for themselves healthy new leaves.
The night elf sighed in relief. For a few desperate seconds, he had imagined himself no better than the Burning Legion.
“What…what have you done?” managed Krasus.
“I had to save you. I did the only thing I could think of.”
The mage shook his head as he pushed himself up to a sitting position. “That is not what I meant. Malfurion…do you have even the slightest concept of what you have accomplished? Do you understand all that your effort entailed?”
“It was needed,” Malfurion explained. “I regret that I had to ask so much of the land, but it was willing to give it.”
For the first time, Krasus noted the blackened grass. His eyes narrowed as he surveyed the evidence of the night elf ’s tremendous work. “Malfurion, this is not possible.”
“It was based off of my shan’do’s teachings. I merely modified it to suit the situation.”
“And managed a result that should have been beyond you—beyond almost any spellcaster.” With some doing, the dragon mage rose. He frowned as he discovered the true extent of the blackened grass. “Astounding.”
Still not understanding just what so disturbed Krasus about his spell, Malfurion asked, “Can you sense Korialstrasz? Is he well?”
Krasus concentrated. “The link is fading to what it was before your spell, but I can still sense him for the moment. He is…fit…but his mind is confused. He recalls the battle some and that he was supposed to find me, but there are gaps.” This, for some reason, caused Krasus to let loose with a very uncustomary chuckle. “Now we are more alike than ever, he and I. Truly, the fates mock me.”
“Do we wait for him?”
“We do, but not for the reason for which I suspect he wanted to find me. Knowing him as I do, he likely planned to bring me back to Alexstrasza, but there is no more time. I have this terrible feeling that we need to return to the host now. You may call it a hunch or perhaps much too much experience. Whichever, when Korialstrasz reaches us, we head back there.”
Malfurion immediately thought of Tyrande…and then, belatedly, his brother. “How long will it take him to do that?”
“He is a dragon…and now a very healthy one,” Krasus remarked with a brief but satisfied smile. “Not too long at all if I know him…”
Tyrande had become very unique among the Sisters of Elune. She was the only one of them who had two shadows, the second even named.
It was called Shandris Feathermoon.
Wherever the priestess went, the orphan followed. Shandris watched everything that her savior did with the eyes of one who wanted desperately to learn. When Tyrande prayed over an injured or wounded night elf, the young female repeated those words, trying at the same time to match the former’s gestures.
Tyrande felt conflicted about Shandris. With no parents, Shandris had no one to turn to. True, there were others in similar straits, but something about this one orphan still struck her. Her dedication to Tyrande’s work marked her as a possible novice, and the temple always welcomed new sisters. How would it look, then, to fling her back among the refugees and forget her? The priestess had to keep her nearby; she could not live with herself otherwise.
Unfortunately, not every situation was one where an untried, unblooded female was safe. The sisterhood continued to take their turn fighting on the front line, each group switching off as the high priestess commanded. Tyrande did not want Shandris wandering up near the demons, who would have no compunction about cutting up an innocent. Shandris, however, had already once almost frightened her to death by sneaking along behind the sisters when they had ridden out to warn Malfurion and Krasus. Only belatedly had the priestess discovered that, when the orphan let slip a comment about the event that could have only been spoken by one who had witnessed it.
“No more!” Tyrande commanded her. “Please stay behind when we go to battle! I can’t worry about you and fight!”
Looking crestfallen, Shandris nodded, but Tyrande doubted that this was the end of the discussion. She could only pray to Elune that the young one would see sense.
But as she contemplated her predicament, Tyrande noticed one of the sisters in charge of a neighboring group approach her. The other priestess, taller and senior by several years, wore an expression of deep thought as she joined Tyrande.
“Hail, Sister Marinda! What brings you to this humble one?”
“Hail, Sister Tyrande,” Marinda returned dourly. “I come from the high priestess.”
“Oh? Has she news for us?”
“She…she is dead, sister.”
Tyrande felt as if her entire world had just been shattered at its foundations. The venerable mother of the temple—dead? She had grown up watching
and listening to the woman, as had nearly all other worshippers. It was because of her that Tyrande had taken up the robes of the novice.
“H-how?”
Tears streaked down Marinda’s cheeks. “It was kept secret from us. She insisted that only her attendants would know. During the push back toward Suramar, a demon lanced her in the stomach. She might have survived that, her skills for healing strong, but a felbeast caught her first. She was apparently almost dead when some of the others slew it. They brought her back to her tent, where she’s been since…until she died but an hour ago.”
“Horrible!” Tyrande fell to her knees and started praying to the Mother Moon. Marinda joined her and, without coaxing, Shandris imitated them.
When the two priestesses had finished their farewell to their superior, Marinda rose. “There is more, sister.”
“More! What could there be?”
“Before her death, she named a successor.”
Tyrande nodded. This was to be expected. The new high priestess had, of course, immediately sent out messengers like Marinda to spread the word of her ascension.
“Who is it?” There were several worthy candidates.
“She named you, Tyrande.”
Tyrande could not believe her own ears. “She—Mother Moon! You jest!”
Shandris squealed and clapped. Tyrande turned and gave her a severe look. The orphan quieted, but her eyes gleamed with pride.
Marinda did not appear to be at all jesting, and that put fear into Tyrande. How could she, barely into the role of priestess, take over the entire sisterhood—and in time of war yet?
“Forgive me for saying so, Sister Marinda, but she…she must have been stressed of mind because of her injuries! How could she with all sincerity choose me?”
“She was of clear mind, sister. And you should understand, she had made mention of you before this. The senior sisters all understood that you were the one…and no one among them argued the decision.”
“It’s…it’s impossible! How could I lead? How could I, with so little experience, take on the mantle? There are so many more who know the temple better!”
“But none so attuned to Elune herself. We’ve all seen it, all felt it. There are already tales of you spreading among the refugees and soldiers. Miracles. People healed by you when others have failed them utterly—”
This was something that Tyrande had not heard. “What do you mean?”
And Sister Marinda explained. All the priestesses spent part of their rest period doing anything but resting, with so many in need, none of the sisters felt right not helping. But desiring to help and actually doing so were two different things. Yes, they succeeded in healing many, but countless others their skills could not touch.
Tyrande, on the other hand, had left behind her an unbroken string of successes. Anyone and everyone she attempted to heal had recovered. Without realizing it, Tyrande had even aided several whom other sisters had failed to heal. If that had not surprised the rest of the priestesses enough, she had then gone on without rest to aid others.
“You shouldn’t even be able to stand, yet you fight, too, Sister Tyrande.”
It had never occurred to the young priestess that she had done anything other than fulfill her duty. She would pray to Elune and Elune would answer. Tyrande would feel grateful, then move on in the hopes of healing someone else.
But according to the others, she had done much, much more.
“I—this can’t be right.”
“It is. You must accept it.” Marinda took a deep breath. “You know that, normally, there would be a ceremony, a long entailed one that as many worshippers as possible would be invited to see.”
Lost in thought, Tyrande vaguely replied, “Yes…”
“We’ll do our best to prepare something, obviously. With your permission, I’ll pull the other sisters from the battle and have them—”
“What?” In addition to all else, they planned to do that—and because of her? Drawing herself together, Tyrande declared, “No! I’ll not have that!”
“Sister—”
Using her newfound, if undesired authority, she gave Marinda a look that would brook no argument, then added, “It seems that I’ve no choice in accepting this, but I can’t do it if it means setting up a ceremony that distracts us from the danger! I’ll become high priestess—at least until this war is over—but I will keep my present garments—”
“But the robes of state—”
“I will keep my present garments and there will be no ceremony! We can’t afford to take such a risk with our people. Let them see us continuing to heal and fight in the name of the Mother Moon. Is that understood?”
“I—” Marinda went down on her knees, bending her head forward. “I obey, mistress.”
“Rise up! I want none of that, either! We are all sisters, equal in heart! All of us give homage to Elune! I want no one doing so for me.”
“As you wish.” But the elder sister did not rise and, in fact, seemed to expect something of Tyrande. After a moment’s confusion, she finally understood just what.
Forcing her hand not to shake, Tyrande reached out and touched the top of Marinda’s head. “In the name of the Mother Moon, great Elune who watches over all, I give the blessing.”
She heard the other priestess sigh in relief. Marinda rose, her expression now akin to those that had been worn by the other sisters—Tyrande included—when in the presence of their venerable mistress. “I’ll convey your will to the others. If I may be permitted?”
“Yes…thank you.”
As Marinda departed, Tyrande nearly collapsed. This could not be possible! In some ways, it was almost as terrible a nightmare as facing the Burning Legion. She the head of the order! Truly, Kalimdor faced destruction.
“How wonderful!” Shandris exclaimed, clapping again. She ran up to Tyrande, nearly hugged her, then tried instead to look very serious. As Marinda had done, the orphan knelt before the new high priestess and awaited a blessing.
Defeated, Tyrande gave her one. Shandris’s expression changed to awe. “I’ll follow you for the rest of my life, my lady!”
“Don’t call me that. I’m still Tyrande.”
“Yes, my lady.”
Unleashing an exasperated sigh, the new head of the temple considered what she had to do next. There were probably endless details and rituals that the high priestess had to perform. Tyrande recalled her predecessor leading this chant and that. The temple also held a blessing each evening for the rising of the moon and the good will of the gods. In addition, the leading nobles always had to have some sort of recognition ceremony for various anniversaries and other events…
She stared bleakly at her future, feeling trapped, not honored.
Her contemplations were jarred by a sudden moan from somewhere among the refugees. Tyrande recognized that sound, having heard it so often before. Someone was in terrible agony.
The ceremonies could wait. The rituals could wait. Tyrande had joined the order for one thing most of all—to help others through the gifts of Elune.
Following the sound of the moan, the new high priestess continued her work.
Eighteen
The queen had decided to go riding, and when Azshara set her mind on something, not all the demons in the world could convince her otherwise…which meant that Captain Varo’then had no chance whatsoever.
It had been quite some time since she had left the confines of the palace. Surrounded on foot by her hulking bodyguards and an additional unit of the captain’s crack troop, Azshara and her retinue of handmaidens rode serenely through the gates and out into Zin-Azshari.
The ruins of Zin-Azshari.
It was the first time since its destruction that the ruler of the night elves had seen it up close. Her lidded eyes studied the crushed domiciles, the littered streets, and the occasional corpse still left untouched due to a lack of enough carrion eaters. Azshara’s lips pursed, and on occasion she sniffed at something not to her liking.
A felbeast rose from behind a crumpled tower, its savage jaws filled with something. It chewed loudly as the queen’s column passed, then darted back into hiding.
They rode for some distance, Azshara not speaking once and so no one else daring to do so. Her Fel Guard kept close despite a lack of threat, the demons now as adamant in their loyalty to her as any of the soldiers. Had she demanded of them to attack their own kind, they likely would have obeyed without hesitation. Of course, Azshara would have never done that, for there was only one other than herself whom she did not wish to displease and that was the lord of the Burning Legion, Sargeras.
“Will it be soon, do you think, my dear captain?” she asked.
The officer was confused. “Light of Lights?”
“His coming, captain. His coming.”
Varo’then nodded immediately. “Oh, yes, my queen, very soon! Mannoroth claims that each night sees the portal stronger than the previous.”
“He must truly be a god among gods for it needing to be so powerful simply to allow him entrance.”
“As you say, my queen.”
“He must be…glorious,” Azshara uttered in a tone she generally reserved only for herself.
The scarred night elf nodded again, trying to hide his envy. No one could compete with a god.
The same green mist that now covered so much of Kalimdor continued to drape over the city. To Azshara, it added a wonderfully mysterious look to her capital, while at the same time keeping from her eyes many things which might have offended her sensibilities. When the world was rebuilt, she would ask Sargeras to remove the haze; until then, it suited her well.
As they came to what had once been an open square, Azshara looked around. She reined her night saber to a halt, patting its head afterward to keep it calm. Like all else in the palace, even the animals had been touched by the presence of Sargeras. The huge cats of the party had eyes that were crimson and fierce. They would have attacked any of their own kind who was not a part of the royal stables, lustily tearing and biting their foes to bloody shreds.
The Demon Soul (warcraft) Page 24
