“We need to sweep away their front line much the way we did once before,” he informed the group. “Bind with me and we’ll begin…”
As he prepared for his spellwork, Rhonin took one last glance at Illidan. The sorcerer still wore a look of aggravation, but appeared to be doing as told. Eventually, the wizard thought, Malfurion’s brother would learn to appreciate what Rhonin had done.
At least, the fiery-tressed mage hoped so.
Illidan felt anything but appreciative after the clear dismissal. All his life he had been told that he was destined for greatness, for legend, and here he had thought that his time had come. His people were in panic, with nothing standing between them and genocide. Surely now was the moment when he became a part of epic history.
And perhaps he would have, if not for two of those he trusted most. Lord Ravencrest had taken him under his wing, raising Illidan up from nothing to a sorcerer of noble rank in the blink of an eye. His master had given him control of the remaining Moon Guard, and the twin believed that he had done well in the role of lead spellcaster.
Now, though, Ravencrest had removed him, replaced Illidan with one who was not even a night elf. For all the respect that Illidan had for Rhonin, this was too much. The wizard should have seen that, too; had Rhonin had any true confidence in him, the outsider would have refused the role.
His moment of greatness had been stolen from him…and in its place he was now reduced to calling for his so-admired brother.
The dark thoughts that had of late invaded his mind returned in full force. Although he worked to open the link that Rhonin had requested, Illidan half-hoped to discover that the reason Malfurion was still missing was that he had fallen victim to the Burning Legion. Illidan expected his twin to go down fighting heroically, of course, but beyond that he found that he was not at all that shaken by the image of a dead Malfurion. Tyrande would be upset, obviously, but the sorcerer would comfort her…
Thinking of Tyrande scattered away much of the darkness. Illidan felt regret for any pain that the actions he imagined would cause her. How could he think of putting her through that, even for him? She had chosen Malfurion, and that was that.
Forcing himself to focus on his twin, Illidan concentrated. First he would deal with this situation, then make a decision about his future. He had thought it lay with Ravencrest and Tyrande, and in both matters he had been wrong.
Now Illidan had to decide just where he belonged…
Brox swung hard, beheading the felbeast trying to break through the line. Near him, Jarod and what remained of the original bodyguard did the best they could to stem the tide. Most of them had long ago lost their mounts to the enemy, so now they fought side by side with the original defenders.
A half-torn banner carried by a mounted fighter fluttered past the orc’s field of vision. Brox grunted in surprise, recognizing it as one generally positioned near Lord Ravencrest’s. Had the defenders been shoved and pushed so to the brink that there was no more organization?
He looked to his left and had his fear verified; the black, avian banner of the Hold flew not all that far away. Brox could not even recall having moved so much, and yet here was absolute proof.
Ravencrest himself rode into sight. Unafraid to risk himself, he slashed at a Fel Guard, then kicked the wounded demon in the head. Flanked by his personal bodyguard, the lord of Black Rook Hold was impressive to behold even to the veteran warrior. Originally, Brox had had little respect for the night elves, but Ravencrest had proven a fighter born, one worthy of even being called an orc.
Other night elves swarmed around the noble, taking strength from his stalwart appearance. Ravencrest did what even the spellcasters could not—he literally strengthened his followers just by standing with them. The faces Brox saw were determined, proud. They expected to die, but they would do what they could to prevent the demons from winning.
With so many crowded around him, there were times when the night elven commander appeared almost in danger of being cut by his own soldiers. More than one blade came within inches of him, but he ignored them all, concerned only with the weapons of the enemy.
Then one mounted soldier drew much closer to Ravencrest’s back than Brox thought necessary. The night elf had a grim look that did not quite fit with those of the others, and his gaze was on the commander, not the demons.
The orc suddenly found himself moving toward Ravencrest.
“Brox!” called Jarod. “Where do you go?”
“Hurry!” rumbled the green-skinned warrior. “Must be warned!”
The captain looked to where Brox pointed, and although he clearly did not see what the orc did, he nonetheless followed.
“Away! Away!” Brox roared at the night elves before him. He leapt up and saw the rider positioning himself. In one hand, the soldier held his sword and the reins of his mount. The other had slipped to his belt…where a dagger useless against the Legion hung. He drew it and leaned toward his commander.
“Beware!” shouted Brox, but Ravencrest did not hear him. The din of battle was too great for any warning.
The assassin’s mount shifted, forcing him to readjust. Shoving several soldiers out of his path, Brox waved his huge ax high, hoping that Lord Ravencrest would notice it.
The noble did not…but the traitorous soldier did.
Eyes narrowing and the desperation in his face growing, the assassin lunged forward.
“Look out!” Brox called.
Ravencrest started to turn toward the orc. He frowned, as if annoyed at this untimely interruption.
The assassin drove the dagger into the back of his neck.
The night elven commander jerked in the saddle. He dropped his sword and reached for the smaller blade, but the soldier had already withdrawn it. Blood poured out of the wound, spilling onto the noble’s regal cloak.
Most of those around Ravencrest had not yet registered what had happened. The assassin threw away the dagger and tried to ride off, but now the sea of bodies worked against him.
With a loud battle cry, Brox used the flat side of his ax to clear the way for him. Night elves gaped at what seemed a warrior gone insane. The orc no longer sought to tell them what had happened; all that mattered was reaching the betrayer.
Shuddering, Lord Ravencrest fell forward. His followers began to notice. Several reached up to grab hold of the commander before he could topple from his mount.
Brox finally managed to battle his way to where Ravencrest was. “There! There!”
A few of the night elves looked at him in confusion. Two finally followed after the orc.
The assassin could not maneuver his beast through the throng. He looked over his shoulder and saw the pursuit nearing. A fatalistic look crossed his dark features.
He shouted a command to his night saber. To Brox’s dismay, the cat swatted a soldier who had been standing in the way. As the unfortunate fell, the night saber bit at another. Soldiers hurried to clear out of the path of what they perceived to be a maddened animal.
Calculating the distance, Brox leapt. He landed short, just behind the night saber. Reaching out, the orc swung wildly at the creature’s flank.
The blow landed soft, barely scraping the fur, but it was enough to snare the giant cat’s attention. Ignoring the commands of his rider, the animal turned to attack the newcomer.
Brox barely deflected its savage claws. The night saber spat, then lunged.
Bringing the ax up, the orc buried it under the cat’s jaw. The sharp blade tore into the dark fur, and blood splattered Brox. He fought to keep the beast from falling on him as its own momentum drove it onto his weapon.
A sharp pain coursed along the orc’s left arm. He glanced at the arm and saw a ribbon of open red flesh.
The assassin pulled back for another strike, but as he swung, another sword met his.
Jarod grunted as the downward force of the other’s attack almost sent him to one knee. The traitorous soldier kicked at the captain, but Jarod stepped out of reach.<
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The captain did not count on the dying night saber. Flailing furiously, its life fluids spilling over the ground, the cat slashed out at anything near. It batted Jarod with the back of one paw, bowling him over.
Feeling its struggles ease, Brox quickly drew the ax from the cat. With a gurgling sound, the night saber stumbled forward. Its forelegs collapsed underneath and the animal fell in a heap.
The night elf leapt as his mount dropped, coming at Brox with his blade before him. The veteran warrior fell back as the two collided. Surprise on his side, the assassin landed on his feet while the orc fought valiantly to keep his balance.
“Stinking monster!” sneered the night elf. He thrust, nearly cutting off Brox’s ear. Brox kicked at the other’s legs, but the soldier nimbly jumped.
The orc caught him with the ax while his feet were still off the ground.
Giving Brox a startled look as the ax cut through both his armor and torso, the betrayer tumbled back, still clutching his sword. Brox pushed himself up and met the wounded assassin head-on.
Gasping, Brox’s adversary straightened. He held the sword ready and all but challenged the orc to take him.
Brox swung.
…And to his surprise, the assassin dropped his weapon and cried out, “For Azshara!”
Unhindered, the ax cut through its target at the chest. The night elf slumped forward, dead before his body collided with the blood-soaked earth.
Panting, Brox stepped toward the corpse. He nudged it with his foot, but the soldier did not stir.
Jarod came up to him, the captain holding his arm as if it were sore, but otherwise looking unharmed. One soldier who had followed them aided the officer. “You slew him!” Jarod called. “Excellent! Well done!”
But the accolades fell on deaf ears. The orc turned back and eyed the scene surrounding Lord Ravencrest. Several of the noble’s followers held him up above the chaos as they carried him back from the battle. Ravencrest’s eyes were closed, and he looked as if he slept, yet Brox could see that he did not. The night elf ’s jaw hung slack, and one arm that had escaped the hold of his loyal troops hung limply in a manner the aged fighter recognized all too well.
Brox had failed. The master of Black Rook Hold was dead.
The host was leaderless.
The hooved figure tilted his head in amusement. “Have you no lust for surprises, Malfurion Stormrage? Or have I become so much more that your limited mind cannot fathom who I once was?” He performed a mock bow. “Permit me to reintroduce myself! Lord Xavius of Zin-Azshari, late of her majesty’s service…and late of life.”
“I…I saw you die!” the druid snapped. “Torn apart—”
“You killed me, you mean!” Xavius said, the humor momentarily gone from his expression. “Scattered me to the sky!”
He took another step toward the druid, which was exactly as Malfurion had hoped. The farther the abomination that had once been Azshara’s advisor moved from Tyrande, the better.
Malfurion vaguely recalled from legend the creature whose shape the dead night elf now wore. Satyrs, they had been termed, magical demons of cunning and deadly mischief.
“You killed me,” Xavius continued, once more leering menacingly, “and condemned me to a worse fate! I had failed the exalted one, the great Sargeras…and as was his right as a god, he punished me most severely…”
Having seen the horrors perpetrated by the Burning Legion, Malfurion could well imagine that Xavius’s punishment had been “severe.” Mercy was a concept utterly foreign to the demons.
The monstrous artificial orbs flared as the satyr continued. “I had no mouth, yet I screamed. I had no body, yet I felt pain beyond comparison. I did not blame my lord and master, however, for he only did what had to be done.” Despite saying that, the horned figure shivered briefly. “No, even throughout my ordeal, I kept in my mind one thing; I remembered over and over who it was that had led me to such terror.”
“Hundreds died because of you,” the druid argued, trying to draw the satyr even closer. If he wanted to attempt any spell at all against this more horrific Xavius, then he needed Tyrande at a safer distance. “Slaughtered innocents.”
“The imperfect! The tainted! The world must be made pure for those who will worship Sargeras!”
“Sargeras will destroy Kalimdor! The Burning Legion will destroy everything!”
Xavius grinned. “Yes…he will.”
His sudden declaration caught Malfurion off-guard. “But you just said—”
“What fools like to hear! What those like the good Captain Varo’then or the Highborne assume…what I once assumed! Sargeras will make the world pure for his worshippers…and then he will destroy it for the crime of having life. See how simple it all is?”
“How bloodthirsty, how insane it is, you mean!”
The satyr shrugged. “It all depends on your perspective…”
Malfurion had heard enough. His hand went to one of his pouches.
Without warning, strong arms wrapped around his, holding him tight. The druid struggled, but his captors were too powerful.
The other satyrs dragged him toward Xavius. The lead creature leered more, his terrible eyes mocking the night elf.
“When the great lord Sargeras cast me back onto this plane, he did so in order that I would bring to him the one who had caused the first portal to cease, and therefore delayed his glorious arrival.”
Malfurion said nothing, but continued to fight against the two satyrs holding him.
Xavius leaned close, his breath washing over the night elf ’s face in stench-ridden waves. “But he left it to me as to how I would bring you back to him for punishment. I thought to myself, will it suffice simply to turn you over to the Great One?” He chuckled. “ 'No,’ I told myself! My Lord Sargeras wishes Malfurion Stormrage to suffer as much as possible, and it is my cherished duty to see that you do…”
To Malfurion’s horror, the grotesque figure turned back to Tyrande, whose rest seemed oddly deep. The satyr bent low, his mouth coming so near to hers.
“Keep away from her!” the druid roared.
Xavius turned his head just enough to look at Malfurion. “Yes, I thought. He must suffer…but how? A resolute young male, no doubt willing to sacrifice himself…but what about others? What about those dearest to him?”
With one clawed hand, the satyr stroked the priestess’s hair. Malfurion strained to reach him, wanting to throttle Xavius. He had never hated another creature—the demons not included—but right there and then, the druid would have happily crushed in the former advisor’s throat.
His fury only amused Xavius. Still leaning close to Tyrande, the satyr added, “I discovered quickly that Malfurion Stormrage had two for whom he cared. One was like a brother to him—wait!—he was a brother, a twin! Close as youths, they now had grown separated by interests and yearnings. But, of course, Illidan was still beloved by his dear sibling, Malfurion…even if Illidan himself began to harbor envy for the one to whom she looked with favor…”
“You have me! Leave them be!”
“But where would be the punishment in that?” asked Xavius, rising. His aspect became cruel. “Where would the vengeance be? How greater your pain when you lose not just one, but both.” He laughed. “Your brother is already lost to you, even if he doesn’t know it, Malfurion Stormrage! This delectable one, on the other hand, was more trouble to seek out. I thank you for your assistance in drawing her to us…”
As the satyrs pinning his arms laughed with their master, Malfurion cursed himself for having asked Tyrande to help Krasus and him. By doing so, he had given her to these monstrosities.
“No! By Elune, I’ll not let you!”
“Elune…” Xavius spoke the name with contempt. “There is only one god…and his name is Sargeras.”
He snapped his fingers, and the others pushed the druid to his knees. Xavius walked toward him again, hooves clattering. Each step echoed in Malfurion’s pounding head.
Then, a voic
e suddenly cut through the fog of his mind, a voice so much like and unlike his own. Brother?
“Illidan?” he blurted before he could stop himself.
“Yes,” replied Xavius, taking the question for his captive’s desperate need for more explanation as to what the satyr had done to the twin. “He was quite easy. He loves her as much as you, Malfurion Stormrage…and that she has chosen you over him he cannot accept…”
Illidan loves Tyrande? The druid was aware that his brother had cared for her, but not to that extent. But she loves—me?
Too late did he recall that his brother now sensed his thoughts. Illidan’s fury and shame at this revelation suddenly enveloped Malfurion. He rocked backward from the force of his twin’s emotions.
Again, Xavius misread what was happening. “Such surprise? How wonderful to hear that you’ve gained her love, and how terrible to know that because of it she will suffer as no one but you shall!”
Illidan! Malfurion called to his brother. Illidan! Tyrande is in danger!
Instead of concern, however, he felt only contempt from the sorcerer. Then will she not turn to you, brother—the powerful, the magnificent master of nature? What help can she desire from a cursed buffoon, a misfit condemned by the color of his eyes to have false dreams, false hopes?
Illidan! She will be tortured! She’ll die a horrible death!
From his twin he received only silence. Illidan seemed to have receded from him. The link was still there, but just barely.
Illidan!
Malfurion was jarred from the inner conversation by the visage of Xavius filling his gaze. The unnatural eyes appeared to be boring through his own, as if wondering what was going on inside the druid.
“This is what condemned me to more than death?” the satyr hissed. “If you are my nemesis, then I see even more that I deserved everything the Great One did to me…”
He snapped his fingers, and from Malfurion’s right came a half dozen more of the foul creatures. Xavius pointed at Tyrande’s prone body, at the same time glancing in the direction of the battle. “They will soon be upon this place. Let us leave before it becomes…unruly.”
The Demon Soul (warcraft) Page 30
