The Sundering wwotat-3

by Richard A. Knaak

  “I’ll find you!” called the black leviathan, his shout echoing. “You’ll not escape me!”

  The one thing Krasus knew was in his favor was that Deathwing had grown so wild with anger that he did not focus his powers as he should have. The mage felt his adversary’s magical probe of the surroundings, but it was cursory, sweeping by so fast and wide that the one it hunted was able to shield himself easily.

  Forcing himself up, Krasus wended his way down. The nearer to ground level, the better he would be.

  What had happened to his companions, the mage could not say. He felt certain, though, that they had escaped Deathwing, or else the black would not have bothered with him. Clearly Deathwing still hunted for his precious disk and now believed Krasus had it.

  So much the better. If it cost him his life so that the others could bring the Demon Soul back, so be it. Rhonin would know what to do.

  He scrambled down the mountainside, even exhausted as he was moving far more nimbly than any night elf or human. All the while, Krasus listened for Deathwing, noting with expert ears where the raging titan flew.

  At one point, Deathwing flew directly overhead, but the robed figure quickly flattened against an outcropping and the winged giant passed him by. Deathwing loosed random shots at the landscape, unaware that his own fury continued to work against him.

  Then, the dragon did what Krasus had feared he might. Apparently deciding that the area had been scrutinized well enough, Deathwing banked and started heading back toward his mountain sanctum. Krasus doubted very much that the black had given up searching so soon… which meant that Deathwing now hunted the Demon Soul elsewhere.

  Fearing for Malfurion and Brox, Krasus eyed the departing form and concentrated.

  From every direction, the rubble caused by some of the black’s previous blasts flew up, bombarding Deathwing. Massive chunks, some as large as the dragon’s head, struck hard. Deathwing gave out a startled roar as he veered madly toward a mountain, only just at the end avoiding a collision.

  Krasus turned and ran.

  The cry thundering from behind gave ample proof that Deathwing had taken the bait. Krasus did not bother looking behind him, his senses already warning the mage as to the black’s swift coming.

  Everything had to be timed right for what Krasus planned. He had to nearly feel the foul Aspect’s breath on his neck…

  “I will burn you to ash!” bellowed his monstrous foe. “Burn you to ash!”

  Deathwing did not fear harming his precious creation, the Demon Soul designed to withstand such horrific elements. The irony was that it would be a scale from the dragon’s hide that would prove the weakness of the disk… a physical part of Deathwing the only thing that could destroy his monstrous toy.

  Krasus had considered finding some manner by which to cause the Demon Soul’s destruction here in the past, but he feared that such an act might be too much for the already-stressed time line to take. Better to let the dragons have it as he planned and hope that history followed its proper course — assuming that was still possible.

  Deathwing drew closer… closer… The black clearly wanted to make certain of his blast.

  Any moment now, the mage thought, tensing and preparing his own action.

  He heard the telltale sound of his pursuer about to unleash another wave of molten earth.

  Krasus gritted his teeth —

  There was a gushing sound… and the area where the robed figure had been was drowned in steaming lava.

  The Earth Warder rose high into the air, his laughter well-matching his madness. He circled the region, now lit up by the blazing, orange rock. Raw magical forces that were an inherent part of the fiery mass he had disgorged made it impossible to locate the disk, but Neltharion could wait.

  He savored the horrific demise of the mysterious dragon mage, the pet of Alexstrasza’s who had nearly upset his plans early on. It was a shame that there would be nothing left of the creature, for the black would have liked to carry some reminder with which to present his fellow Aspect before he made her his concubine. Neltharion had sensed the closeness of the two, almost as if this Krasus had been as favored as her consorts, especially the insipid and irritating Korialstrasz.

  Still, all that truly mattered was that the creature was dead and the disk would be his again. He simply had to be patient. The Soul was surely near him, buried under the magma and awaiting reunion with him.

  But then… a nagging little thought disturbed his reverie. Neltharion considered the guileful ways of his quarry and how he and his companions had managed to steal away the disk in the first place.

  The dragon dropped lower, trying to sense his beloved creation through the chaotic energies only just beginning to die down. He could still not sense the disk, but it had to be somewhere in there. It had to be…

  Krasus materialized some distance away, the overbearing heat of Deathwing’s attack still with him. He sprawled on the ground, aware that once again he had not gotten as far away as he would have liked.

  It was his hope that the black thought him dead now, the Demon Soul buried with him. As a dragon himself, Krasus was aware of the energies each of his kind emitted during attacks and believed that Deathwing’s would delay the Aspect from searching for the night elf and orc. Each precious minute would further the pair’s chances of success.

  As for Krasus himself, now that his foe thought him no more, he could rest long enough to gather the strength to transport himself to his companions. The mage gave thanks that his plan had worked, for he doubted that he would have had the ability to do much else if Deathwing had discovered the ruse. In fact, Krasus suspected that, at the moment, he would have been fortunate if he even retained the power to light a candle, much less defend himself against an insane Aspect.

  Depleted, the robed figure lay stretched out against the rocky soil. The first rays of light stretched up over what little of the horizon he could see. In this benighted place, they would do little but mark the vague differentiation between eve and day. Yet, Krasus welcomed them, for as one of the red flight, he was a being of Life and Life flourished best in the sun’s light. As his eyes adjusted to the new illumination, the mage finally allowed himself to relax, at least for a moment.

  And that was when the deep voice from above rumbled triumphantly, “Ah! I have found you after all!”

  Hunger began to gnaw at Tyrande’s stomach, not a good sign at all. The Mother Moon had sustained her for a long time, but there was so much need for Elune throughout Kalimdor that she could not concentrate so much on a mere priestess. Priestesses expected always to make the sacrifice first, should the need arise.

  Tyrande felt no betrayal. She thanked Elune for all that the deity had done. Now it would be up to too-fragile mortal flesh, but the training of the sisterhood would help her.

  Each eve, at the time when the sun set, one of the Highborne would bring a bowl of food. That bowl and its contents — some gruel that Tyrande suspected was the old leftovers from her captors’ own meals — sat untouched on the floor near the sphere. All Tyrande had to do was tell one of her captors that she was hungry and the sphere would magically descend. It would then allow the ivory spoon always accompanying the bowl to pass with its contents through the barrier.

  Considering that the Lady Vashj wanted her dead, Tyrande was doubly grateful that she had not eaten anything so far. Now, however, the cold, congealing substance in the bowl looked very appetizing. A single bite was all that the priestess would have needed to maintain her strength for another day; the full bowl would have aided her for a week, maybe more.

  But she could not eat without another’s assistance and she had no intention of asking. That would be a sign of weakness the demons would surely exploit.

  Someone unlocked the door. Tyrande quickly glanced away from the food, not wanting to give away any hint of her deteriorating state.

  With a grim expression, a guard swung open the door. Through it came a Highborne whom the captive had not met before
. His gaudy robes were resplendent and he clearly was aware of his handsome features. Unlike many of his caste, he had a rather athletic build. Most arresting, though, were his pale, violet skin and, especially, his hair — auburn with streaks of gold in it, something Tyrande had never seen. Like all Highborne, however, he wore a look of complete disdain, most prominently when addressing the guard.

  “Leave us.”

  The soldier was only too willing to depart the sorcerer’s presence. He locked the door behind him, then marched off.

  “Holy priestess,” the Highborne greeted, with only a hint of the condescension he had granted the guard. “You could make this situation much less uncomfortable for yourself.”

  “I have the Mother Moon to comfort me. I need and desire nothing else.”

  His expression shifted subtilely, but in it Tyrande caught a glimpse of something that she almost thought remorse. It was all that she could do keep from being startled by this. She had assumed that the Highborne had all become slave-like minions of the demon lord and Azshara, but her companion revealed that this might not be so.

  “Priestess — ” he began.

  “You may call me Tyrande,” she interjected, trying to open him up. “Tyrande Whisperwind.”

  “Mistress Tyrande, I am Dath’Remar Sunstrider,” the Highborne returned, not with a little pride. “Twentieth generation to serve the throne…”

  “A most illustrious lineage. You’ve reason to be proud of it.”

  “As I am.” Yet, as Dath’Remar said this, a shadow momentarily crossed his face. “As I should be,” he added.

  Tyrande saw her opening. Dath’Remar clearly wanted something. “The Highborne have always been the worthy keepers of the realm, watching over both the people and the Well. I’m sure that your ancestors would find no fault in your efforts.”

  Again, the shadow came and went. Dath’Remar suddenly looked around. “I came to see if I could urge you to eat something, holy priestess.” He picked up the bowl. “I’d offer more, but this is all they permit.”

  “Thank you, Dath’Remar, but I’m not hungry.”

  “Despite what some may desire, there is no poison nor any drug in here, Mistress Tyrande. I can assure you of that.” The well-groomed Highborne brought the tip of the spoon up to his mouth and ate a little of the brown substance. Immediately, he made a face. “What I can’t assure you of is the taste…and for that I apologize. You deserve better.”

  She considered for a moment, then, deciding to take a desperate chance, said, “Very well. I’ll eat.”

  Reacting to her words, the sphere descended. Dath’Remar watched, his eyes never leaving the priestess. Had her heart not been elsewhere, Tyrande would have found the Highborne very attractive. He had little of the foppishness that she had seen in so many others of his caste.

  Scooping up a spoonful, Dath’Remar brought the food toward Tyrande. The utensil and its contents shimmered slightly as they pierced the green veil surrounding her.

  “You must lean forward a bit,” he instructed her. “The sphere will not permit my hand to pass through.”

  The priestess did as requested. Dath’Remar had spoken true when he had said that the food lacked much in taste, but Tyrande was nonetheless secretly happy to have it. Suddenly her hunger seemed to grow tenfold, but she was careful to hide this from her captor. The Highborne might be sympathetic to her situation, but he still served the demon lord and Azshara.

  After the second mouthful, he dared speak again. “If you would only cease resisting, it would go so much easier. Otherwise, they’ll eventually tire of having you around. If that should happen, mistress, I fear your fate would not be a pleasant one.”

  “I must follow as I believe the Mother Moon intends me to, but I thank you for your heartfelt concern, Dath’Remar. It is warming to find such in the palace.”

  He cocked his head to the side. “There are others, but we know our place and so don’t speak unwisely.”

  Watching him carefully, Tyrande decided that it was time to press deeper. “But your loyalty to the queen is without question.”

  The tall figure looked affronted. “Of course!” Then, growing more subdued, he added, “Though we fear her judgments not as it has been. She listens not to us, who understand the Well and its power so thoroughly, but rather to the outsiders. All our work has been cast aside simply for the task of bringing into the world the lord of the Legion! There was so much we strove to attain, I — ”

  He clamped his mouth shut, finally realizing the tone of the words spilling from it. With grim determination, Dath’Remar silently fed her. Tyrande said nothing, but she had seen enough. The Highborne had come here more for himself than her. Dath’Remar had sought a confession of sorts so that he could relieve himself of some of the turmoil going on in his mind.

  Before she knew it, the bowl was empty. Dath’Remar started to put the container back, but the priestess, seeking a few more moments, quickly asked, “Might I also have some water?”

  A small sack had been brought in with the meal, but, like the food, Tyrande had never touched its contents. With an eagerness that hinted of his own desire to not yet put an end to their encounter, Dath’Remar quickly grabbed the sack. Opening the end, he brought it toward her, only to have the barrier keep the sack from her lips.

  “Forgive me,” he muttered. “I had forgotten.”

  The Highborne poured some of the water into the bowl, then, as he had with her meal, fed her a spoonful. Tyrande took a second before daring to speak again.

  “It must be strange working beside the satyrs, who were once as us. I must confess to being a bit unsettled by them.”

  “They are the fortunates who have been elevated by the power of Sargeras, the better to serve him.” The answer came so automatically that the priestess could not help feeling that Dath’Remar had repeated it many times… perhaps, including, to himself.

  “And you were not chosen?”

  His eyes hardened. “I declined, though the offer was… seductive. My service is to the queen and the throne first and foremost. I’ve no desire to be one of those th — one of them.”

  Without warning, he put away the bowl and spoon. Tyrande bit her lip, wondering if she had guessed wrong about him. Still, she had little else with which to work. Dath’Remar Sunstrider represented her only chance.

  “I must leave now,” the robed figure declared. “I’ve already stayed too long.”

  “I look forward to our next visit.”

  He vehemently shook his head. “I’ll not be returning. No. I’ll not.”

  Dath’Remar spun from her, but before he could depart, the priestess uttered, “I am the ear of Elune, Dath’Remar. If there’s ever anything you’d like to say, it is my role to hear. Nothing goes beyond me. Your words will be known to no other afterward.”

  The sorcerer looked back at her, and although at first he said nothing, Tyrande could see that she had affected him. Finally, after much hesitation, Dath’Remar answered, “I will see what I can do about bringing you something more palatable next time, Mistress Tyrande.”

  “May the blessings of the Mother Moon be upon you, Dath’Remar Sunstrider.”

  The other night elf dipped his head, then departed. Tyrande listened to his footsteps fade away. She waited then for the guards to check on her, but when they returned, they simply took up their positions, as usual.

  And at that point, for the first time since her captivity, Tyrande Whisperwind permitted herself a brief smile.

  Eleven

  T o an orc, blood was the ultimate tie. It bound oaths, commanded allegiances, and marked the true warrior in combat. To taint a blood bond was one of the worse crimes imaginable.

  And now the druid’s brother had done just that.

  Brox eyed Illidan Stormrage with a loathing he had granted few other creatures. Even the demons he respected more, for they were but true to their nature, however perverse and evil it was. Yet, here was one who had fought beside Brox and the others, who w
as twin to Malfurion and, therefore, should have shared his love and concern for his comrades. Illidan, however, lived only for power and nothing, not even his closest kin, could change that.

  Had his arms not been tightly bound, the orc would have gladly sacrificed himself tackling the sorcerer and snapping his neck. Whatever faults he considered himself to have, the orc would have never willingly betrayed others.

  As for Malfurion, the druid stumbled alongside the graying warrior. Their arms tied behind their backs and ropes around their waists tugging them after the night sabers, the pair could barely keep up. Illidan’s brother had an even worse disadvantage, for the treacherous twin had not yet removed the spell of blindness. Eyes covered by small black shadows that no light could pierce, Malfurion continued to flounder and fall, scraping and cutting himself constantly and even once nearly smashing his head on a rock.

  From the blindfolded sorcerer, there came no sign of regret. Each time Malfurion tripped, Illidan merely tugged on the rope until the druid managed to right himself. Then, the guards behind the prisoners would prod them forward and the trek would continue.

  Brox eyed his ax, now hanging from the cat ridden by the scarred officer. The orc had already marked this Captain Varo’then as the other prime target, should circumstance enable Malfurion and him to free themselves. The demon warriors were dangerous, true, but they lacked the devious cunning Brox saw in the other night elf. Even Illidan was second in some regards. Still, if the spirits blessed him, Brox would slay them both.

  Then, if it was at all possible, something would have to be done about the Demon Soul.

  Curiously, it was not Illidan who carried it now. But moments after the sorcerer had retrieved it from his brother, the captain had walked up to the treacherous twin, stretched out a gauntleted hand, and demanded Illidan give it over. Even more curious, Malfurion’s brother had complied without so much as a word of protest.

  But such mysteries could not concern the green-skinned fighter. He only knew that he had to slay the pair, then take the Demon Soul from Varo’then’s body. Of course, to do that, all the orc had to do first was break free of his bonds and likely battle his way through the demons.