The Sundering wwotat-3

by Richard A. Knaak

  At first, the two riders could do nothing but hold on for their lives. Malfurion tried to concentrate on a spell, but the jarring movements of the two combating behemoths made that impossible.

  Ysera batted with her tail at the second creature near her hind legs. A lucky strike sent the beast flying back, giving the dragon, at least for the moment, a more even combat with Varo’then’s mount.

  The captain had sheathed his sword and now drew a dagger. Suspecting that Varo’then was quite skilled at tossing such a blade, Malfurion kept low. The officer grinned darkly, patient despite their dire situation.

  Ysera’s body jerked. The druid looked down and saw that the second beast had returned… and a third followed close behind. He shouted a warning to the dragon.

  With a roar, the green leviathan used her incredible wings to throw herself from her opponent. The act caught both the monster and Varo’then by surprise. It also enabled Ysera to turn on her second attacker. Wings still, she dropped upon the bat and rider, catching both under her immense girth. Her claws ripped to shreds the seed-coated wings and she bit deep into the squat neck.

  With a harsh squeal, the monstrosity went limp in her claws. Ysera immediately discarded the carcass, letting it fall toward the Well. Of the soldier, Malfurion could see no sign and the druid had to assume he had been slain when first the dragon had landed atop the pair.

  As the green leviathan pulled away in order to orient herself, the night elf caught brief glimpses of the others. Three bat creatures harassed Brox and the bronze. Even as Malfurion watched, the orc buried his ax in the shoulder of the nearest with remarkable effect. The enchanted weapon cut through whatever bone and sinew there was and exited the other side.

  The monster veered off awkwardly, barely able to stay aloft. The bronze, however, did not let it escape. She breathed once at the fleeing figures… and both rider and mount transformed from menace to decayed corpses that a moment later crumbled to dust. The mad wind quickly scattered the decomposing fragments over the dark waters.

  But if several of the bats were gone, so, too, were some of the dragons. Only one other green male still flew and one of the bronzes was also missing. Others among the survivors had bleeding wounds that, with what they had suffered from the lightning barrage, had to be be debilitating.

  But, worse, Malfurion knew that so long as they had to deal with their foes, they could do nothing about the Demon Soul and the portal. Already, the vast maelstrom below had taken on a noticeable greenish hue at its edges, one too akin to the flames of the Burning Legion to be coincidence.

  “The Demon Soul!” he shouted. “We have to do something about it! The portal’s nearly complete!”

  “I am open to suggestions, mortal — if you can also tell me how to be rid of these pests at the same time!”

  A fiery burst briefly illuminated their surroundings. Malfurion caught the last vestiges of a burning bat dropping into the Well. Directly above it flew Alexstrasza and Krasus. The druid could sense the mage’s handiwork in the devastation. Given time, the band would defeat Varo’then’s fighters, but by then it would be too late. Even if it would not be, they had already seen that the combined might of Ysera and Alexstrasza was not enough to break the defenses surrounding the disk. Something else would have to be done… but what?

  Dragons and bats continued to swoop past. The odds were more even than before, but still not enough to enable them to concentrate at all on the Demon Soul. The shadow bats continued to harass each of the dragons. One of the reds, already dripping from several bites, fell under assault by a pair of the fiends. Another bronze bit through the wing of her assailant, but the monster had its fangs deep in her shoulder. Rhonin and Krasus continued to cast spells of varying success and Brox cut expertly at whatever foe came within reach.

  An ebony form darted past. Malfurion thought it one of the bats, but then saw the familiar, reptilian outline of a dragon. He glanced away — then, jaw dropping — looked back again.

  It was indeed a dragon… but a dragon as black as the demonic creatures that they fought and with iron plates bolted to his hide.

  Deathwing…

  They had thought that they could keep his beloved creation hidden from him. They had dared think that he would not eventually find out where it had been taken. Their audacity enraged him. Once Neltharion had his glorious disk back, he would punish all of them. The world would be better off with no one but dragons… and only dragons who understood matters as he did.

  Called by the Soul, Neltharion had flown across the swirling Well totally oblivious to what was happening. Everything else was of secondary importance. All that existed for the black dragon was the disk.

  He flew past both Ysera and Alexstrasza, giving them but cursory glances. With the disk, he would bring them down, then add them to his consorts. Their power would add to his, as was only right.

  The Soul floated serenely ahead, as if waiting patiently for him to rescue it. Neltharion’s monstrous visage stretched into a wide, anticipatory grin. They would soon be reunited…

  Then a force struck the black with such might that Neltharion was tossed back among the combatants. He collided with one of the bat creatures, sending its rider screaming to his death. Neltharion roared in outrage at the unexpected attack. Seeking a focus for his intense anger, he seized the stunned bat and tore it to shreds. When that did not assuage him, he turned his baleful gaze on the disk, searching with his heightened senses for that which held him from his prize.

  The spellwork he detected around the Soul was intricate, very intricate… and vaguely familiar in some aspects. Yet, Neltharion could not put together the voices in his head with that which now confronted him. Even when those same voices now began urging him away from his desire, the dragon could not conceive that he had been someone’s dupe.

  Neltharion shook his head, driving away the voices. If they spoke against taking the disk, then they were no more to be trusted than Alexstrasza and the others. Nothing — absolutely nothing — mattered other than retrieving the Soul.

  And so, the huge black dove in again.

  But, like before, he was repelled as if nothing of consequence. The dragon fought not merely the power wielded by the voices, but also that of the lord of the Legion. With a roar mixing outrage and pain, Neltharion spun far beyond the battle, finally coming to a halt at the very northern edge of the Well. Fighting his agony, the furious giant glared at the storm-wracked center.

  He would not be rejected again. Whatever spells his enemies had cast around the Soul, he would tear through them. The disk would be his…

  And then all of them would pay…

  The Burning Legion struggled against the overwhelming might of both the dragons and the host. Doomguard swarmed the leviathans, seeking to bring them down by lance. Nathrezim and Eredar cast monstrous spells, but they were caught between defending against the dragons and fighting the Moon Guard. The warlocks could not do both. They perished more often than they slew, mostly under the unyielding flame of a leviathan’s breath.

  Yet, throughout it all, Archimonde revealed no uncertainty. He understood that what happened here now had no relevance save that the mortals and their allies would be distracted until the coming of his Lord Sargeras. Archimonde accepted that he and Mannoroth would be punished for their failure to prepare Kalimdor properly for their master, but that was as it should be. All that mattered now was to play the game a little longer. If that meant the deaths of more Fel Guard and Eredar, then so be it. There were always more, especially waiting to march in behind Sargeras.

  But that did not at all mean that Archimonde simply watched and waited. If he was to be punished, he would vent some of his well-hidden fury on those who had caused it. The giant demon raised his hand, pointing toward a bronze dragon hovering above the Legion’s right flank. The dragon had been systematically ripping apart warriors below, digging through them the way a burrowing animal would soft earth.

  Archimonde made a grasping gesture. The di
stant dragon suddenly quivered… and then every scale tore from its body. Blood spilling from everywhere, the flayed giant bellowed in shock, then dropped among its victims. Demon warriors immediately flowed over the unprotected body, thrusting with their weapons until the dragon lay lifeless.

  Unsatisfied, Archimonde looked for another victim. How he wished the night elf, Malfurion Stormrage, had been among the host. The druid had cost him much in their previous encounter, but Archimonde sensed that Malfurion was one of those who had flown toward the Well. Once Sargeras came through, the druid would suffer a far worse fate than even Archimonde had planned for him.

  Still, there were so many others upon which to vent himself. Expression cold and calculating, the archdemon fixed upon a band of the bullmen he had heard called tauren. They had the potential to become splendid additions to the Legion’s ranks, but this particular group would never survive to see that glorious day… or the end of their world, either…

  They were winning… they were winning…

  The dragons had made the difference. Jarod knew that. Without them, the host would have fallen. The demons had come across the one force that they could not defeat. True, some dragons had perished — one just in a most grisly manner — but the host pushed forward and the demons fought in more and more disarray.

  Still, he was bothered. The demons’ confusion was no trick this time, that he knew. Yet, he would have expected something more from Archimonde. Some masterful regrouping. Archimonde, though, seemed to be attempting nothing more than a holding action, as if he awaited something…

  The night elf cursed himself for a fool. Of course, Archimonde awaited something… or rather someone.

  His lord, Sargeras.

  And if the archdemon believed that the arrival of the Legion’s master was still imminent, that did not bode well for those who had gone to take the Demon Soul and seal the portal.

  For a moment, Jarod’s nerve failed him, but then his expression hardened and he fought with even more fervor. It would not be due to any lacking on his part if the defenders failed. His people — his world — would certainly fall if the host faltered now. Jarod could only hope that Krasus, Malfurion, and the others would somehow still succeed in their mission.

  Overhead, dragons continued to soar past in search of the enemy or to aid those in the host under the most stress. To the commander’s right, Earthen chopped their way through demoralized Fel Guard. A furbolg battered in the skull of a felbeast.

  It all looks so hopeful, Jarod thought, aware that it was anything but. He saw a band of Huln’s people slicing their way through the opposition. With them rode a party of the priestesses of Elune and Jarod noticed his sister, Maiev, at their head. It did not at all surprise him to see her up at the front. Although he quietly worried for her, there would be no dragging her from the battle. He had concluded that Maiev was trying to prove herself to the rest of her sect so that they would correct what she clearly thought an oversight and make her high priestess. Whether or not such ambition was permitted in the moon goddess’s order was debatable, but Maiev was Maiev.

  Astride the third night saber he had ridden this day, Jarod gutted a tusked warrior. His own armor hung ragged on him, so damaged had it gotten from the blows of his adversaries. There were at least half a dozen wounds spread out over his body, but none, thankfully, life threatening or even overly-draining. Jarod could rest when the battle was over… or when he was dead.

  Then… cries broke out from the direction of the tauren. The night elf watched in horror as several of Huln’s kind burned as if some virulent acid had been poured over them. Their hair sizzled and their flesh melted away in clumps.

  The priestesses tried to aid them, but a surge of Fel Guard barreled over the foremost females. The demons cared not whether an adversary was male or female. They impaled tauren and beheaded priestesses with utter savagery.

  Jarod knew that he should stay where he was, but Maiev, whatever her faults, was his only family. He cared for her far more than he dared show. Quickly making certain that his own area would not fall victim once he departed, the commander forced his mount around and headed for the horrific scene.

  A few tauren still stood, some of them badly injured but able to wield their spears and axes. They and the survivors of Maiev’s band stood all but encircled by demons. Even before he had ridden halfway, Jarod watched two more of the defenders perish under the onslaught.

  Then, Maiev slipped. A looming Fel Guard swung at her. She managed to deflect his attack, but just barely.

  With a howl, Jarod rode his mount into the struggle. His cat took down the demon attacking his sister. Another demon slashed at him, instead catching the animal on the shoulder. Jarod ran his blade through his foe’s throat.

  The demons suddenly focused on Jarod. It had not occurred to him that they might know who he was, but their determination suggested just that. They ignored other viable targets just to reach the commander.

  His night saber took down two more, but then suffered several deep wounds from lances. On foot, Jarod would have a great disadvantage over so many towering figures, yet, there was nothing he could do. Three more lances finished the noble animal and it was all Jarod could do to leap off or be trapped underneath its carcass.

  He landed in a crouching position next to his sister, who, for the first time, seemed to realize the identity of her would-be rescuer.

  “Jarod! You shouldn’t have come! They need you!”

  “Stop commanding for once and get behind me!” He shoved his sister unceremoniously to the rear just as two horned figures closed on him. Despite his good fortune so far, Jarod Shadowsong had little belief that his small sword would be any match for their two massive blades.

  But as he readied himself for his final battle, a horn sounded and the area was suddenly aswarm with soldiers and tauren. Huln crashed into the two demons, beheading one and crushing in the chest of the other before the pair could realize that they were under assault. A cloaked figure rode past, one Jarod belatedly recognized as Lord Blackforest.

  There could only be one explanation for their sudden arrival. They had seen Jarod riding into struggle… and believed in him enough to come to his aid.

  The reinforcements shoved back the Burning Legion, buying Jarod and Maiev time. He dragged her further from the fight, the remaining sisters following close behind.

  Jarod made her sit on a rock. Maiev, eyes speculative, studied her younger brother.

  “Jarod — ” she started.

  “You can reprimand me later, sister!” he snapped. “I won’t stand behind while those who followed me face the enemy in my name!”

  “I was not going to reprimand — ” was as far as the priestess got before he was out of earshot. With his sister at least temporarily secure, Jarod concerned himself only with his comrades. Even Blackforest, one of the most prominent of the nobles, fought hard. He and his ilk had managed to learn from Lord Stareye’s mistakes. This was a battle for survival, not a game for the amusement of the high castes.

  Coming up on Huln, Jarod lunged at a demon seeking the tauren’s side. Huln noticed the action and gave the night elf an appreciative snort.

  “I will carve your name on my spear!” he rumbled. “You will be honored by generations of my line!”

  “I’d be honored just to live through this!”

  “Ha! Such wisdom in one so young!”

  A female dragon of Alexstrasza’s flight swooped down, laying a cleansing blast of red flame that forever doused many green ones. The action further eased the situation for Jarod’s contingent. The commander of the host began to breath just a little easier.

  But a second later, the same dragon went careening back beyond the night elves’ lines, her chest a sizzling mass of ruined scale and torn innards. The earth shook as she collided with it and a furtive look by Jarod gave him ample enough evidence to know that she would not fly again.

  And in the wake of the leviathan’s death, a dozen soldiers also flew ba
ck, their bodies charred. Demons, too, tumbled, as if whatever attacked did not care who perished so long as nothing stood in its path.

  Huln put a protective arm across Jarod’s chest. “What comes is no Infernal or the work of the Eredar! I believe it seeks — ”

  Then a massive wind tossed fighters from both forces aside as if they were nothing. Night sabers were no less immune, Blackforest and his mount thrown with the rest. Huln managed to stand his ground a second longer, but even the stubbornness of a tauren could not hold against the incredible gale. He went flying past, the warrior striking at the wind in frustration as he vanished from sight.

  Yet… Jarod Shadowsong felt nothing, not even a breeze.

  And so he found himself alone when the giant strode out of the dust raised by the wind, the giant with dark skin and intricate tattoos that even the unskilled Jarod could sense radiated sinister magical forces.

  “Yes…” mused the figure, eyeing the night elf up and down. “If I cannot have the druid, I shall amuse myself on what pathetically passes as the hope of this doomed host.”

  Jarod readied his blade, aware that he had no hope against this opponent but finding himself unwilling to surrender to the inevitable. “I await you, Archimonde.”

  The archdemon laughed.

  Eighteen

  Brox was only a simple warrior, but he knew when a battle was going bad. It was not that he and the others could not defeat these armored night elves and their fiendish mounts, but that each second wasted so brought the portal nearer and nearer to completion. Already, a sinister green aura had formed around the gullet of the whirlpool. The orc understood magic well enough to know that soon the passage would be strong enough for whatever evil desired to come through, be it Sargeras or the “Old Gods” Krasus had mentioned.

  A barbed lance flashed by his head, scraping away a few bits of skin but otherwise doing the hardened orc no harm. The scowling soldier wielding it steered his shadow bat to the side, hoping to get in past the bronze dragon’s claws for another thrust at the green warrior.