Malfurion only prayed that the noble would never realize all this. Ironically, it appeared Captain Shadowsong certainly didn’t. In his mind, he was merely obeying orders.
Rhonin, who had been resting atop a rock overseeing the battlefield, abruptly straightened. “They’re coming again!”
Brox leapt to his feet with a grace his hulking form belied. The graying orc swung his ax once, twice, then started for the front line. Malfurion leapt atop his night saber, one of the huge, tusked panthers used by his people for travel and war.
Horns sounded. The weary host stiffened in readiness. Different notes echoed along the ranks as the various factions prepared.
And moments later, the battle was again joined.
The defenders and the demons collided with an audible crash. Instantly, grunts and cries filled the air. Roaring a challenge, Brox severed the head of a Fel Guard, then shoved the quivering torso into the demon behind. The orc cut a bloody swathe, quickly leaving more than half a dozen demons dead or dying.
Atop another night saber, Rhonin also battled. He did not merely cast spells, although, like Malfurion, he constantly kept watch for the Eredar, the Legion’s warlocks. The Eredar had suffered badly during past campaigns, but they were ever a threat, striking when least expected.
For now, however, Rhonin utilized his magic in conjunction with his combat skills. Astride the night saber, the human wielded twin blades created solely from magic. The blue streams of energy stretched more than a yard each and when the wizard brought them into play, they wreaked havoc on a scale with the orc. Demon armor made for no resistance; Fel Guard weapons broke as if fragile glass against them. Rhonin fought with a passion that Malfurion could well understand, for the red-haired figure had let slip of a mate and coming children whose fate also rested in defeating the legion. As Malfurion was with Tyrande and Illidan, so, too, was Rhonin with his faraway family.
The druid fought no less powerfully, even though his spells sought communion with nature. From one of the many pouches on his belt, he brought forth several spiny seeds, the type that clung to one’s garments when passing among the plants. Holding his filled palm up, he blew gently on the seeds.
They rushed forward into the air as if taken by a wind of hurricane strength. Their numbers multiplied a thousand-fold as they spread out over the oncoming demons, almost turning into a dust storm.
Roaring, the horrific warriors plowed through the cloud without care, their only interest the blood of the defenders. However, only a few steps later, the first of the demons suddenly stumbled, then clutched his stomach. Another imitated him, then another. Several dropped their weapons and were immediately cut down by eager night elves.
Those who were not suddenly grew extremely bloated. Their stomachs and chests expanded well beyond proportion. Several of the tusked figures fell to the ground, writhing.
From inside one still standing, scores of sharp, daggerlike points burst through flesh and armor. Ichor drenched the screaming demon’s form. He spun around once, then collapsed, dead. His body lay pincushioned… all from the swelling seeds within.
And around him, others fell, dozens at a time. All suffering the same dire fate. Malfurion felt some queasiness when he saw the results, but then considered the merciless evil of the enemy. He could ill afford any compassion for those who lived only for mayhem and terror. It was kill or be killed.
But despite the many demons who perished, there were always more. The night elves’ lines began to give in as they were especially hammered. They had fought longest against the Burning Legion and so were most weary. Archimonde was too clever not to make use of the weak point. More and more tusked warriors poured into the crumbling area. Felbeasts harried the lines and from above the Doomguard dropped down on distracted soldiers, crushing in skulls or burying lances in chests and backs. Oft times, they would take a night elf or two, drag them up high, then drop the helpless figures among the host. Falling among their fellows, the soldiers became missiles slaying those on the ground as well as themselves.
An explosion threw several night elves yards into the air. From the gaping crater arose a blazing Infernal. Powerful of body but weak of mind, the demon lived only to crush anything in its path. It barreled into a line of soldiers, tossing them aside like leaves.
Before Malfurion could act, Brox met the Infernal head on. It seemed impossible that even the orc could hold back such a giant, but somehow Brox did. The Infernal came to a dead stop and, from his roar, the demon found this quite frustrating. He raised a fiery fist and tried to pound the orc’s skull into his rib cage, but Brox held the staff of his ax up, the thin handle somehow blocking the deadly blow without cracking. Then, moving faster than the Infernal, Brox shoved aside the demon’s hand and jammed the ax head into his adversary’s chest.
For all his vaunted might, the Infernal was no less protected against the magical weapon than his comrades. The blade sank in several inches. From out of the gaping wound, green flames shot out. Brox grunted as he shifted to avoid the flames, then removed the ax for another strike.
Although wavering, the Infernal was not yet defeated. Roaring, he slammed both fists together, then struck the earth with them. The thundering smash sent tremors toward Brox, throwing him off his feet.
Immediately the demon charged, intent on trampling the orc to death. But as he neared, Brox, who had managed to keep his weapon, positioned it against the ground like a pike.
The Infernal impaled himself. He struggled to reach Brox, but the veteran warrior kept his position. In his fury, the Infernal only worsened matters. The ax sank deeper, causing a new gush of fire that came within an inch or two of the orc.
With a shudder, the huge demon finally stilled.
But despite such personal victories, the Burning Legion relentlessly pushed forward. Malfurion tried to summon up some of the emotion that had enabled him to push back the horde in the past, but could not. Tyrande’s kidnapping had left that part of him drained.
He saw Lord Stareye far to the left, the noble berating the struggling soldiers there. Stareye was a far contrast to his predecessor. Ravencrest would have been as blood- and grime-soaked as his troops, but Stareye looked immaculate. He was surrounded by his personal guard, who let nothing unseemly near him even at such a critical moment.
Then, to the druid’s surprise, a shaggy figure charged past him, heading for the near-breach. Another and another followed, gargantuan tauren moving up to the weakened line and adding their astounding strength. With a gusto worthy of Brox, they attacked the demons, cutting down several of the tusked warriors in the first strike. Among them, Malfurion made out Huln at the head, his eagle spear impaling one Fel Guard with such force the tip broke through the back. Huln shook off the dead demon with ease, then parried a wild swing by another. The lead tauren grinned wide.
And with the tauren came an unlikely figure. Jarod Shadowsong, blade already blooded, shouted to the huge beastmen with him. To Malfurion’s surprise, the group shifted as if obeying some command. They spread out, enabling the night elves to rebuild their own lines and come to the aid of their rescuers.
Priestesses of Elune also materialized, the warrior maidens a striking group, especially in contrast to their peaceful ways before the coming of the Legion. Their appearance stung Malfurion, though, for it increased again his guilt that he had not managed to keep Tyrande out of the demons’ clutches.
Astride their animals, the priestesses used sword and bow against the enemy. However, among those most proficient was one not truly a priestess. Shorter than the rest, young Shandris Feathermoon lacked a summer or two before she should have been officially able to become a novice. But drastic times demanded drastic measures. Marinda, the sister acting in Tyrande’s absence, had granted Shandris a place in their depleted ranks. Now, clad in slightly-oversize armor taken from a fallen compatriot, the newest of the Mother Moon’s daughters fired off three bolts, all of which scored perfect strikes in the throats of demons.
Th
e Legion’s progress halted. The defenders began to push back. Malfurion and Rhonin added their powers to the task and the night elves retook ground.
In the midst of the sisterhood, there was a sudden shriek. Two of the armored priestesses fell, their bodies contorted and crushed by their very armor. Even dead, their expressions revealed the agony that the compressing metal had put them through.
Malfurion’s eyes narrowed and he gasped. One of them was Marinda.
“Eredar!” snarled Rhonin. He raised a hand toward the northwest.
But before the wizard could strike back, a fount of flame erupted from that very direction. Malfurion sensed the distant warlock’s own agony as the flames engulfed him.
“My sincere regrets for so delayed a return,” muttered Krasus, the source of that retribution. The dragon mage stood a short distance behind the pair. “I was forced to make the return in stages,” he added with bitterness.
No one condemned him, not after all he had done. Still, it was clear that Krasus would not so easily forgive himself.
“We’ve pushed them back again,” declared Rhonin. There was no enthusiasm in his words. “Just like we did the time before and the time before…”
The battle retreated from them. Now that matters were once more in the hands of the defenders, the sisters of Elune turned to their true vocation — dealing with the wounded. They moved among the soldiers and a few even went to tend the tauren, albeit with some clear reservations.
Battle horns made the trio look to where Lord Stareye rode. The noble waved his sword around, then pointed at the Burning Legion. It was clear that he was taking full credit for the host’s latest advance.
Krasus shook his head. “Would that Brox had reached Ravencrest in time.”
“He did his best, I’m sure,” Malfurion responded.
“I have no quarrel with the orc concerning his effort, young one. It is fate with whom I ever battle. Come, let us take this reprieve to see if we can aid the sisterhood. There are plenty of wounded to go around.”
There were, indeed. Malfurion put to good use another aspect of his training. Cenarius had taught him much concerning those plants and other life that could ease pain and heal wounds. His talents were not so proficient as that of most of the priestesses, but he left his charges in much better condition than he found them.
Among the wounded, they located Jarod. The captain sat near his resting night saber as a sister looked to a long gash in the officer’s arm.
“I’ve tried to convince her it’s nothing,” he remarked sourly as they approached. “The armor protected me fairly well.”
“The Burning Legion’s weapons are often poisoned,” Krasus explained. “Even a slight wound might prove treacherous.” The pale mage dipped his head toward the officer. “Quick thinking out there. You saved the situation.”
“I only pleaded with the tauren, Huln, to give me a few of his people to save mine, then asked the dwarves to make sure I hadn’t weakened the tauren lines.”
“As I said, quick thinking. The night elves and the bull-men fought well together, when it came to it. Would that our erstwhile commander saw that. The moment I arrived, I perceived that there was no true cohesion among the allies.”
Rhonin smirked. “Could you expect any better from Lord Stareye?”
“Alas, no.”
They were interrupted by the arrival of a senior priestess. She was tall and moved like a night saber herself. Her face was not unattractive, but her expression was severe. The sister’s skin was a shade paler than most of her people. For some reason, despite that, she reminded Malfurion of someone.
“They said they saw you,” she commented blandly to Jarod.
He looked at her blankly, as if not certain she actually stood there. “Maiev…”
“It’s been long since we saw one another, little brother.”
Now the physical resemblance became more apparent. The captain disengaged himself from the other priestess’s efforts and stood to face his sibling. Even though he stood taller than her, somehow Jarod seemed to look up at Maiev.
“Since you entered the moon goddess’s service and chose the temple in Hajiri as the place for your studies.”
“It’s where Kalo’thera ascended to the stars,” Maiev countered, referring to a celebrated high priestess from centuries past. Many in the sisterhood considered Kalo’thera almost a demigoddess.
“It was far from home.” Jarod suddenly seemed to recall the others. He looked to them, saying, “This is my older sister, Maiev. Maiev, these are — ”
The senior priestess all but ignored Malfurion and Rhonin, her gaze strictly on Krasus. Like the rest of the sisterhood, she evidently saw that he was special, even if she did not understand why. Maiev went down on one knee before Jarod could continue, declaring, “I am honored in your presence, elder one.”
Expressionless, Krasus answered, “There is no need to kneel before me. Rise, sister, and be welcome among us. You and yours were timely in your appearance today.”
Jarod’s sibling stood with pride. “The Mother Moon guided us well, even if it meant the sacrifice of Marinda and some others. We saw the line breaking. We would’ve arrived before the bullmen if not for the greater distance we had to cover.” She glanced in the direction the tauren had gone. “Adept reaction for their kind.”
“It is your brother who coordinated all,” the mage explained. “It is Jarod who may have saved the host.”
“Jarod?” Maiev’s tone indicated some disbelief, but when Krasus nodded, she buried that disbelief and tipped her head to the captain. “A simple officer of the city guard playing commander! Fortune was with you this time, brother.”
He simply nodded, his eyes cast to the side.
Rhonin, however, did not let Maiev’s slight pass. “Fortune? Good, common sense, is what it was!”
The priestess shrugged off the incident. “Little brother, you were introducing us…”
“Forgive me! Maiev, the elder mage is Krasus. To his side is the wizard, Rhonin — ”
“Such illustrious visitors are welcome in this time,” she interrupted. “May the blessing of Elune be upon you.”
“And this,” the captain continued, “is Malfurion Stormrage, the — ”
Maiev’s eyes burned into the druid’s. “Yes…you were known to one of our sisters, Tyrande Whisperwind.”
Considering that Tyrande had become high priestess, albeit for only a short period before her kidnapping, the remark was not one Malfurion found respectful. “Yes, we grew up together.”
“We mourn our loss. I fear her inexperience betrayed her. It would’ve been better for her if her predecessor had chosen one more… seasoned.” There was a subtle implication that Maiev referred to herself.
Biting back his anger, Malfurion said, “There was no fault by her. The battle had spread everywhere. She came to my defense, but was injured. Unconscious. During the chaos that followed, servants of the demons took her.” He met the other priestess’s steely gaze. “And we will get her back.”
Jarod’s sister nodded. “I will pray to Elune that it is so.” She looked to the captain. “I’m glad you weren’t injured too badly, little brother. Now, if you’ll forgive me, I must attend to the other sisters. Marinda’s loss means we must quickly decide on a new leader. She had not yet chosen one herself.” With a bow that extended mostly to Krasus, Maiev ended, “Again, may the blessings of Elune be upon you.”
When she was far away, Rhonin grunted and said, “A cheerful, friendly sort, your sister.”
“She’s very dedicated to the traditional teachings of Elune,” Jarod responded defensively. “She’s always been very serious.”
“One cannot fault her for her dedication,” Krasus remarked. “Providing it does not blind her to the paths taken by others.”
Jarod was saved from further defense of Maiev by Brox’s return. The orc had a satisfied grin on his wide face.
“Good battle! Many deaths to sing of! Many warriors to prai
se for the blood they’ve spilled!”
“How lovely,” muttered Rhonin.
“Tauren’re good fighters. Welcome comrades in any war.” The hulking, green warrior came to a halt, resting his ax on the ground. “Not as good as orcs… but almost.”
Krasus eyed the direction of the battle. “Another temporary reprieve, at best, even with the joining of the other races. This cannot continue. We must turn the tide once and for all!”
“But that would mean the dragons…” his former protege interjected. “And they don’t dare do anything, not so long as Deathwing has the Demon Soul.” Rhonin saw no reason to call the black dragon by his original name, Neltharion, anymore.
“No, I fear they dare not. We saw what happened when the blue dragons tried.”
Malfurion frowned. He thought of Tyrande. Nothing could truly be done for her unless the Burning Legion was thwarted and they would need everyone, especially the dragons, to accomplish that. But the dragons could not face the Demon Soul, so that meant —
“Then, we’ve got to take it from the black,” he suddenly announced.
Even from Brox, ever willing to leap into any battle, the druid received a wide stare. Jarod shook his head in dismay and Rhonin eyed Malfurion as if he had gone completely mad.
Yet, Krasus, after his initial surprise, gave the night elf a speculative look.
“Malfurion is correct, I am afraid. We must do it.”
“Krasus, you can’t be serious — ”
The dragon mage cut off the wizard. “I am. I had already vaguely considered it myself.”
“But we don’t even know where Deathwing is. He’s shielded himself even better than the other dragons.”
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