The Sundering wwotat-3

by Richard A. Knaak

  Fortunately, the need for the dragon’s metalwork had meant that Deathwing had made use of caverns located lower in the mountain. While the way was dangerous, they at least did not have to try to descend an entire peak. Malfurion had hopes that they would reach the bottom well before first light.

  But their luck seemed to again sour when a great form high above swooped past. Brox and Malfurion immediately fell into the snow, trying to cover themselves up as the dragon flew by.

  It was indeed Deathwing and perhaps the only thing that had saved the two was the dragon’s own madness. Deathwing searched the area in a manic anger, disgorging massive shots of molten earth at the various peaks as he passed. Each struck with such force that whole parts of mountains went flying off, huge chunks raining down on the landscape. He did not seem to be probing the area with his magical senses or else surely he would have noticed them by now.

  Malfurion raised his head. “I think he’s flying to the — ”

  Deathwing abruptly veered, coming back their direction.

  “Move!” growled Brox.

  They leapt up from their hiding places, making for a large outcropping ahead. Over his shoulder, the night elf saw the rapidly-growing form of the huge black. It was impossible to tell from the dragon’s expression whether or not he had seen the pair, but he was certainly coming far too close for comfort.

  As they leapt around the outcropping, the druid heard the same horrific sound that presaged each of the molten blasts.

  “Here!” The orc pointed at an overhang. A lip on one side gave them some protection, but would it be enough?

  The mountainside exploded.

  The outcropping vanished utterly, the fragments everywhere. The temperature rose so high that snow melted. Great chunks of ancient ice slid off, crashing below. Sizzling puddles dotted the side of the peak.

  Deathwing fluttered above the area, eyeing the devastation. The great beast moved in closer, then snorted in disgust. With a savage roar, he turned around and headed away again, this time winding around the mountain that housed his lair.

  Behind what remained of the lip and half-buried in dirt and wet snow, Malfurion and Brox dug themselves free. The night elf coughed several times, then immediately checked the pouch. When his fingers touched the familiar shape of the disk, he sighed in relief.

  Brox was not so cheery. “Deathwing’ll be back, druid. Must be away from here before then.”

  Shaking off residual mud, they started down again. Every so often, they heard the dragon’s outraged roar, but the black leviathan did not make a reappearance. Nevertheless, the pair did not lessen their pace.

  As they neared the bottom, the night elf peered into the valley below. “I don’t recognize where we are. I think we’re far from Krasus.” He closed his eyes. “I can’t sense him, either.”

  “The elder one may be shielding self, with the black one out and angry.”

  “But we have to find him, somehow.”

  They agreed to wait until they were at the mountain’s base before worrying any more about it. Krasus was likely better off than they were.

  The valley was a place of perpetual dark, the tall peaks keeping it in shadow. The night elf led the way, but Brox kept close. They were near enough to Deathwing’s domain to have to be concerned about goblins.

  They needed to wind around to the left to reach where they had separated from Krasus, but after only a few yards that direction, the duo found themselves confronted by the edge of an overlapping mountain. Malfurion considered using the Demon Soul, but suspected that such a spell would certainly attract Deathwing’s attention. Besides, each time the druid used the disk, it proved harder to put it away again.

  “It looks like if we head around the other way, it might just lead us all the way around,” suggested Malfurion.

  “Agreed.”

  Their new path forced them to climb over some of the rubble left by the dragon’s fury, but, fortunately, there were gaps here and there that worked to their advantage.

  Another roar warned them of Deathwing’s return. Malfurion and the orc pressed themselves against the mountain base, watching as the giant flew directly overhead. Deathwing scanned the region carefully, but still missed them. They remained hidden until the dragon was well out of sight.

  “Odd that we’ve only seen him. Where are all the other dragons?”

  Brox had an answer immediately. “They find the disk; they may try to become leader.”

  So it was the black’s paranoia that now served the two fleeing figures. Deathwing did not dare let another of his flight find the Demon Soul first. Even from what little Malfurion knew of its power, it might have very well been enough for a lesser dragon to defeat the powerful creature.

  They quickly moved on, but again the path played tricks with them. Despite their best efforts, the night elf and the orc were forced farther away from their goal.

  The druid grew frustrated. “I should just use the damn thing to bring us to Krasus!”

  “And the black one will come right behind.”

  “I know… it’s just — ”

  A monstrous, armored figure collided with the orc.

  At the same time, a lupine creature the size of a night saber leapt at the druid. From its back thrust a pair of vicious, wriggling suckers that immediately sought for the spellcaster’s chest.

  A felbeast.

  The clang of weapons quickly informed Malfurion that Brox would be of no immediate assistance to him. The druid struggled as the horrific demon atop him tried to snap off his head. Malfurion nearly choked, so overwhelming was the stench of the felbeast’s breath.

  Row upon row of yellow fangs filled the night elf’s gaze. Drool from the monster splattered him, each drop burning like acid. Malfurion used one hand to keep the full weight of the creature off of him, while with the second he batted away at the two hungry suckers.

  One, however, finally slipped past his defenses. With the sharp teeth lining the inside of the sucker, it adhered to his flesh.

  Malfurion cried out as he felt it begin to drain him of his power. It mattered not whether a spellcaster was a sorcerer, wizard, or druid, the magic that they used quickly became a part of them. By draining it out of its victims, the felbeast also devoured their life force. Given time to finish its unholy meal, the felbeast would leave only a dried husk.

  The night elf had no time to consider spells. Even as the pain multiplied, he fumbled for a pouch — any pouch.

  Taking advantage of his distraction, the demon managed to get the second sucker adhered. Malfurion nearly blacked out, but knew that doing so would mean his terrible demise.

  His fingers grazed one bag — the disk’s bag — and voices began whispering in his head.

  Take it, use it, wield it… they said. Your only hope, your only chance… take the disk… the disk…

  One of them reminded him of the voice that he had earlier thought to be Krasus. Malfurion desperately gripped the pouch, squeezing the Demon Soul out into his hand.

  Immediately, he felt his confidence grow. The night elf glared at the fiendish visage above him.

  “You want magic — I’ll give you magic!”

  He touched the Demon Soul to one of the tentacles.

  The felbeast’s eyes bulged. Its body swelled like a sack suddenly filled to bursting. In desperation, it removed the suckers from Malfurion’s chest.

  A moment later, it exploded.

  Gobbets of demon flesh splattered Malfurion, but he scarcely noticed. Rising to his feet, the druid used the disk’s power to instantly clean away the filth. He looked around and saw Brox still in combat against not one, but two Fel Guard. One was wounded, but clearly the orc was still at a disadvantage.

  Malfurion casually pointed the Demon Soul at the one he could most clearly see.

  A streak of golden light shot out, enveloping the demon warrior. He roared — then dissolved into a pile of dust.

  The other Fel Guard hesitated. That was all the opening that Br
ox needed. The orc’s enchanted ax cut deep into the demon’s chest, armor and all.

  As the second attacker fell, Brox spun about. Malfurion, a very satisfied smile on his face, started toward his companion.

  “That went well,” he commented.

  But Brox did not look so pleased. His eyes shifted to the disk.

  The gaze filled Malfurion with sudden distrust. The voices returned, stronger than ever.

  He covets the disk… he would have it for himself… it belongs to you… only you can use it to put the world in order…

  “Druid,” the orc said. “You shouldn’t use that anymore. Evil, it is.”

  “It saved both our lives just now!”

  “Druid — ”

  Malfurion stepped back, holding up the Demon Soul. “You want its power! You want to take it!”

  “Me?” Brox shook his head. “I want nothing from it.”

  “You lie!” The voices urged him on, telling him what to say. “You want to take over the Burning Legion from Archimonde and his master! You want them to conquer Kalimdor for you! I won’t let that happen! I’ll see the world in flames before I let you do that!”

  “Druid! Do you hear yourself? Your words… there is no reason to them…”

  “I won’t let you have it!” He pointed the disk at the orc.

  He must be destroyed… they all must be destroyed… any who would desire the disk… who would take it from you…

  Brox stood steadfast. He did not charge the night elf, did not even raise his ax in attack or defense. He simply watched and waited, leaving his fate in Malfurion’s hands.

  And, at last, the druid realized what he had been about to do. He had been about to slay Brox just to keep the Demon Soul.

  In disgust, Malfurion dropped the sinister disk and backed away from it. He looked again at his companion, seeking some manner by which to properly apologize to Brox for what had nearly happened.

  The graying warrior shook his head, indicating that he placed no blame on the night elf.

  “The disk,” he growled. “It is the disk.”

  Malfurion did not like the notion of touching it again, but they had to take it with them. Krasus would surely know how best to handle the black dragon’s monstrous creation. All they needed to do was find him.

  Locating a loose piece of cloth, Malfurion bent down to retrieve the Demon Soul. He knew in his heart that the cloth was no true protection against its enticements, but it was all he could do. To fight it — and the insidious voices that seemed to follow the disk — the night elf tried to concentrate on those dearest to him. If he fell victim to the Demon Soul, they would all pay with their lives. First and foremost, Tyrande, already a victim, appeared in his mind. Malfurion doubted very much that wielding the Demon Soul would somehow save her. Instead, it was more likely that the druid would end up slaying her as he nearly had Brox.

  He gave thanks to Cenarius, whose wise, gentle teachings had helped give him the strength to turn from the voices. The Demon Soul was an abomination to the natural world and, therefore, an abomination to the druidic path.

  “We’ve got to flee this place, Brox,” he said, straightening. “There’s no telling just how many more demons might be in this area — ”

  His eyes widened as grotesque hands formed from the hard ground at his feet. With astounding speed, they seized Malfurion’s ankles, pinning him in place.

  The orc let out a growl and started forward to help him. Brox, however, barely took a step before his own feet were similarly grabbed. Undaunted, he swung at one hand holding him, shattering it. That, though, gave him only a single step before two new ones resecured his freed limb.

  Meanwhile, Malfurion found himself caught between using the Demon Soul — which still lay wrapped in his palm — and calling upon the natural forces which Cenarius had taught him to use. That hesitation cost him, for a veil of darkness abruptly covered his eyes and what felt like an iron clamp bound his mouth shut. The Demon Soul slipped from his startled grasp, clattering on the ground.

  He heard Brox roar with outrage and the sound of the ax beating at stone. Then, there was harsh thump and the orc grew frighteningly silent.

  A heavy breathing that Malfurion recognized as that of night sabers first warned the druid that their attackers drew near. The Burning Legion, though, did not use the panthers. As far as he recalled, only his own people did.

  Someone from the palace?

  “You let them live. Why?” asked a voice that was indeed that of a night elf, but had the emotion of a demon.

  “These two will be of great interest to our lord…

  ” Malfurion started at the second voice. Could it be?

  He heard something land lightly on the ground, followed by footsteps coming toward him. There was a scraping sound as the nearby figure picked up what could only be the dragon’s foul creation.

  “Not much to look at,” the one standing near Malfurion commented. Almost as an afterthought came the words that verified the druid’s worst fears. “Hello, brother…”

  Ten

  Krasus cursed when he sensed the disaster erupting in the black dragon’s lair. He had tried his best to detect every intricate spell Deathwing had cast over the Demon Soul’s hiding place and knew that Malfurion had done likewise, but, despite everything, they had been outwitted.

  Worse, his link to the druid and the orc had been severed and not by any magic cast by the black dragon. Some force in its own way as terrible as Deathwing’s had come between the mage and his companions… and Krasus believed that he had some inkling as to just what it was.

  The Old Gods existed only as legend even to most dragons, who had been born in the dawn of the world. Krasus, through his eternal inquisitiveness — or, as Rhonin put it, his eternal nosiness — knew them to be much more.

  As the tale went, the three dark entities had ruled over a bloody chaos of which even the demon Lords of the Burning Legion could not imagine. They had ruled over the primal plane until the coming of the world’s creators. There had been war of cosmic proportions and, in the end, the Old Gods had fallen.

  The three had been cast down into eternal imprisonment, the place of their confinement hidden from all and their powers bound until the end of time. That should have been the final line of the saga, but now Krasus suspected that the Old Gods had somehow found a manner by which to reach out to the mortal plane and seek that which would free them.

  It all begins to make sense, the mage realized as he climbed over the rocky landscape in search of his friends. Nozdormu… the rip in Time, the coming to the era of the night elves and the Burning Legion… the Well of Eternity… and even the forging of the Demon Soul…

  The Old Ones were creating the key that would open the gates of their prison… and if that happened, even Sargeras would find himself pleading for the peace of death.

  Rip Time apart and they would unmake their prison. Perhaps they even plotted to reverse their own earlier defeat. It was difficult for him to guess exactly the extent of the Old Gods’ plans, for they were as much above him as he was to a worm. Still, at least their initial goal was understandable.

  I must warn Alexstrasza! Krasus instinctively thought. The Aspects were the most powerful creatures on all the mortal plane. If anyone had a chance against the Old Gods, it was them. He cursed the madness that had turned Neltharion the Earth Warder into Deathwing the Destroyer. Combined, surely all five of the Aspects represented a force capable of defeating the elder beings. If not for Neltharion —

  Krasus slipped, nearly falling from the ridge he had currently been navigating. How labyrinthine were the plots of the Old Gods! They were the ones who had turned the Earth Warder! They were the ones who had twisted Neltharion’s mind — and with more than one intention! The Old Gods had made of him a puppet who would aid their escape, but they had also divided — and thereby weakened — their one potential nemesis. Without Neltharion, the other four Aspects were not nearly as much a threat.

  Worse, t
hey also had Nozdormu occupied, no doubt another layer of their planning. Krasus paused, falling back against the mountainside. It was too overwhelming. The dark elders had spent too much time and effort. Set too many pawns in place and covered their machinations too well. How could anyone — let alone, him — undo their malevolent designs?

  How?

  So caught up was Krasus in such overwhelming realizations that he failed to notice the massive, black shadow until it had long enshrouded the region around him.

  Deathwing filled the sky. “YOU!”

  The monstrous dragon exhaled.

  Had it been any other, the chase would have ended there with a small pile of charred bones quickly engulfed by a steaming torrent of molten earth. But, because it was Krasus, who knew Deathwing far too well, the mage reacted in time… just barely.

  As Deathwing’s manic fury spilled down upon him, the robed figure brought up a wall of pure golden light. The black dragon’s blast pounded the seemingly-delicate shield without mercy… and yet the latter held. Krasus strained, fought to keep his balance, and sweated from effort. Every fiber of his being screamed for him to give in, but he did not.

  Finally, it was the winged terror above who paused, but only to summon up another horrific discharge. That, however, was all the hesitation that Krasus needed.

  The focus of Deathwing’s ire raised his arms — and vanished.

  He could not face the dread behemoth one against one. The outcome of such a struggle was all too obvious. Even at his strongest, Krasus was merely a consort to an Aspect, not actually one of the five great dragons. Valor was a worthy thing, but not in the face of such impossible odds.

  The mage reappeared near the mountain south of the one from which he had fled. Collapsing against a rock, Krasus gasped for breath. The effort of deflecting his adversary’s assault and transporting himself by spell had taken much out of him. In truth, he had expected to materialize much farther away from the other dragon.