The Sundering wwotat-3

by Richard A. Knaak

  The dragon caught hold of the shadow bat. The two struggled, upsetting the night elf’s aim. Instead of impaling Brox, he caught the orc at the shoulder. Brox growled as the barbed head tore a thick piece of flesh from the spot. Despite the pain, he managed to lean forward and chop the lance in two.

  With a curse, the soldier drew his sword. However, Brox, throwing caution to the wind, rose from his seat and leapt at his opponent.

  He landed in a crouching position, gripping one of the bat’s ears for support. The outrageous act so startled the night elf that he sat openmouthed as, with one hand, the orc buried his ax in his foe’s armored chest. The soldier collapsed, tumbling off the back of his mount.

  But Brox’s impetuous action nearly cost him his own life. He had thought to use the bat’s back to leap back atop the dragon, but the creature’s hide proved oddly slick. As he let go of the ear, the orc lost his footing. Still gripping his ax tight, he slid toward the tail, following the night elf’s corpse.

  The burgeoning gateway far below filled Brox’s eyes. He sensed the evil swelling within —

  Then, a pair of claws caught him just as he fell free and Rhonin’s voice shouted, “We’ve got you, Brox!”

  The red dragon acting as the wizard’s mount twisted so as to allow the orc to climb atop. Rhonin gave the orc a hand up, letting the graying warrior slide in behind him.

  “That was just a little foolhardy even for an orc, wasn’t it?”

  “Maybe so,” Brox admitted, thinking of the portal. Brave as he considered himself, he was grateful that he had not fallen into it. The further away he got from it, the better.

  The wizard suddenly stiffened. “Watch out! Here come two more!”

  The shadow bats converged on their position. Rhonin’s hand flared bright as he readied a spell. Brox hefted his ax, prepared to be as much help as he could. He welcomed the new adversaries, if only because they took his mind off the portal.

  The portal and an evil that stirred fear even in an orc.

  * * *

  The sight of Deathwing rebuffed by the spell surrounding the disk both astounded and disheartened Malfurion. If even the black dragon could not penetrate the dark magic, then what could the druid and his companions hope to do?

  But Malfurion had no more opportunity to worry about the disk, for, at that moment, a menacing form dropped upon Ysera. The green dragon roared as the bat’s fangs sank into her shoulder near the spine. The night elf slid to the side, trying to avoid being buried under the beast.

  A sword cut at his head, narrowly missing his ear.

  “Slippery little fool!” hissed Varo’then, once more wielding his favored weapon. Azshara’s officer thrust again, this time nicking Malfurion on the cheek. Varo’then drew the sword back for another strike. “The next one’ll take your head!”

  The druid thrust his hand into a pouch. He knew what he sought and prayed he would find it. The familiar feel reassured him and he pulled out the seeds.

  Captain Varo’then adjusted his position. The evil grin spread wide. The demons had found a perfect subordinate in the sadistic soldier.

  As the blade came down, Malfurion threw the seeds into the bat’s maw.

  The monster convulsed immediately. The sword point, fixed on the druid’s throat, instead cut a bloody but shallow line across his collarbone. Malfurion grunted from the pain, but held on.

  A fiery glow erupted from within Varo’then’s mount. The captain tried to maintain control, but to no avail. The bat flailed around, shrieking.

  A moment later, it burst into flames.

  Malfurion had used the seeds’ inherent heat during earlier battles. However, with only a few left, he had not thought to wield them up here, where they might not be utilized well. Only because the shadowy creature had been right on top of him had the night elf managed to make certain that all reached their target, the throat.

  The fiery spectacle was so bright that Malfurion had to look away. He heard Varo’then shout, but the words were lost.

  With one last shrill cry, the incinerated beast dropped from sight.

  Gasping for breath, Malfurion clung to Ysera. The dragon could do nothing for her rider, for another of the bats already had her attention. The druid held on as tight as he could while he tried to regain his composure. The pain from his wounds stung terribly and the knowledge that the disk was still untouchable drained him further.

  A sharp pain coursed through his calf.

  Malfurion cried out. He nearly lost his hold. Blood trickled into his boot as he wildly kicked at the source. He turned watery eyes toward his leg and the cause of his agony.

  Captain Varo’then clutched tightly to Ysera’s lower back, the scarred soldier grunting as he made his way up a scale at a time. The cause of Malfurion’s new pain — the officer’s curved dagger — was clenched between Varo’then’s teeth. Malfurion’s blood dribbled unnoticed down the other night elf’s pointed chin.

  How Varo’then had managed to snag hold of Ysera as his burning mount had dropped, Malfurion did not know, but once again he had underestimated the officer. He kicked again as hard as he could, but the captain easily avoided his foot. While it was all Malfurion could do to hold on as Ysera fought, the more battle-hardened Varo’then moved with practiced skill toward his foe. His narrowed eyes sized up Malfurion like a fat animal ready for the slaughter…

  The druid reached for a pouch — and, at the same time, Varo’then’s left hand came up.

  “Aaugh!” A crimson flash blinded Malfurion. Too late he recalled that the captain had some minor talent with sorcery. Not enough to be a true threat in that manner, but certainly enough to put his enemy off-guard while the officer moved in for the kill.

  Malfurion put up his free hand, an act which likely kept him from being slain. A heavy, metallic form fell upon him — Varo’then’s armored body — and the druid felt the other night elf’s hot breath in his face.

  “The Light of Lights will reward me greatly for this!” the captain uttered maniacally. “Mannoroth fell afoul of you! Archimonde fell afoul of you! Such an insipid creature and you outwitted them both! Lord Sargeras’s grand commanders! Ha! I’ll not only again be her favored for this, but his as well! Me! Lord Varo’then!”

  “Sargeras means to destroy Kalimdor, not remake it!” Malfurion blurted, trying to make his foe see sense.

  “Of course! I realized that long ago! Pfah! What do I care for this little patch of dirt? So long as I can serve the queen and command warriors in her name, I care not where I do it! Who knows, perhaps for this Sargeras will make me his supreme commander! For that and the adoration of Azshara, I’ll gladly see Kalimdor a cinder!”

  Varo’then’s madness truly consumed him. Malfurion suddenly grew outraged that one of his own kind could so blithely speak of the end of all things, especially the cherished world that had birthed their kind. It went against everything Cenarius had taught him and what Malfurion had always believed.

  “Kalimdor is our blood, our breath, our very existence!” the druid shouted, his fury rising. “We are as much a part of it as the trees, the rivers, and the very rocks! We are its children! You would be slaying the mother that birthed us!” His forehead started to burn.

  “You are pathetic! We live upon a tiny rock that’s one of many rocks! Kalimdor is nothing! Through the Legion and my queen, I will cross a thousand worlds, all of whom will be crushed under our feet! Power, druid! Power is my blood, my breath, do you understand?” Captain Varo’then twisted his dagger-wielding hand out of Malfurion’s grasp. “But if the coming death of Kalimdor troubles you so, I’ll grant you the favor of sending you to the afterlife to be there to welcome its shade firsthand!”

  But Malfurion’s anger had reached its limits. Eyes on fire, he stared into Varo’then’s own. “You want power? Feel the power of the world you would betray, captain!”

  It flowed through the druid as naturally as his blood. He felt it rush from its source… Kalimdor. The world itself was not sentient,
but it was a living thing, nonetheless and, through Malfurion, it at last struck back.

  From the druid erupted a soft, blue light that hit Varo’then full in the chest.

  With a cry, Malfurion’s attacker was battered from his mount. Dagger knocked from his flailing grip, the captain helplessly soared up high over the Well of Eternity. The light not only now bathed Varo’then, it burned right through him. His flesh, his sinew, his organs, and his skeleton were all visible beneath his glowing armor. The officer’s screaming head was a skull under transparent skin.

  Varo’then had rejected everything about Kalimdor… and now, through Malfurion, Kalimdor rejected everything about him. Still enveloping the captain, the light made an arc over the center of the Well, then descended sharply toward the gullet of the whirlpool. As it did, it suddenly faded.

  Like an Infernal dropping upon the victims of Suramar, what was left of Captain Varo’then plummeted into the solidifying portal.

  As suddenly as it had come, the power surging through Malfurion ceased. He felt a loss and yet, at the same time, a comfort that the world had not yet become entirely defenseless. Still dangling from Ysera’s back, he eyed Varo’then’s ultimate destination.

  “Let us see if the lord of the Legion still rewards you after this, captain…”

  A jolt nearly sent him falling after Varo’then. Ysera had a bat in each forepaw and although the dragon had just ripped out the throat of one, the second had torn through her wing.

  Malfurion struggled to a more stable position, then took from another pouch a tiny bit of salve he had earlier mixed. The salve had been made from selected herbs, but although the druid had tested it on the battlefield, he was not at all certain that it would be strong enough to aid such a giant as Ysera.

  Yet, from the moment Malfurion rubbed it on the base of her wing, the results prove far more than he could have anticipated. The tiny amount of salve spread beyond where he touched, quickly covering the entire appendage. The rips in Ysera’s wing quickly and completely mended, not even scars remaining to mark the savage wounds.

  “I feel invigorated!” roared She of the Dreaming as she tore apart the second of the creatures. Ysera turned her head to Malfurion. Despite the shut lids, he felt the intensity of her gaze. “Cenarius has taught you well — ” She suddenly stopped. Her eyes flickered open, if just for a second. “But perhaps much of the credit must still go to your natural tie to that which you wield. Yes, much, indeed…”

  The druid realized that her brief glimpse had been focused at the top of his head. He reached up… and discovered that the nubs now thrust out a good three inches.

  He had begun to grow antlers just like those of his shan’do.

  Before this newest revelation could take hold in his mind, a fearsome roar shook the area, drowning out even the storm.

  Out of the storm clouds dropped Deathwing.

  The black leviathan hurtled himself once more at the impenetrable spells. His body erupted continually where plates had not yet sealed the tears in his hide. His eyes were wide with utter rage. He flew toward the Demon Soul with a swiftness that took Malfurion’s breath away.

  The air around the disk abruptly crackled, flashes of yellow and red giving warning as to the power bound to the dragon’s stolen creation. Malfurion sensed new forces at play, power instilled into the spell matrix in order to amplify its hold on the Demon Soul.

  Deathwing struck the matrix head-on. The sky around him exploded with raw energy that should have seared the insane Aspect to death, but, although his flesh and scales clearly burned, Deathwing nevertheless pushed forward. He roared defiantly at the mighty forces set in array against him. His mouth twisted into an insane, reptilian grin that grew with each push closer to his goal.

  “There are no boundaries to his obsession…” Ysera said, marveling at the other Aspect.

  “Do you think he might actually make it?”

  “The true question is… do we wish him to?”

  Scales tore from the black’s already savaged body. The crackling bolts now focused fully on the giant, scorching him again and again. Yet, although he would now and then flinch under their intensity, Deathwing did not slow.

  A red dragon flew past Malfurion and he saw both Rhonin and Brox astride. In a voice amplified by a spell, the wizard called, “Krasus warns that we have to be prepared! He thinks that Deathwing may yet manage to break the spell! We have to be ready to take on the black the moment that happens!”

  “Deathwing…” Ysera muttered. “Seeing him now, how true that name rings…” To Rhonin, she roared, “We shall be ready!”

  They would have to strike immediately and in concert. It was the only chance they had… and only a slightly better one than attempting to take the disk from the spell themselves. The night elf did not like their chances, but he would summon whatever he could of Kalimdor into him.

  Aware that this might be the last hope for everything he loved, his heart instinctively went to Tyrande. Not Illidan, but Tyrande. He wanted to speak to her one last time, to know that she might live… even if he did not.

  Malfurion?

  The druid nearly slipped from Ysera’s back. At first he believed the voice in his head only illusion or perhaps some sinister ploy by the dark powers against which they fought, but, in truth, Malfurion sensed that this could be none other than Tyrande who contacted him now.

  He recalled how she had been the one who had helped summon him back when he been unable to return to his body. Her link to the druid was far greater than he could have ever imagined and in the instant that he thought that, Malfurion sensed that she had noticed it, also.

  Malfurion! she repeated with more hope. Oh, Malfurion! It is you!

  Tyrande! You live! Are you — have they —

  The priestess was quick to reassure him. The Mother Moon watched over me, praise be, and I was aided by Highborne seeking return to our people! I know that you did what you had to do! But listen! Your brother —

  My brother… No sooner did she mention Illidan, then the druid sensed that presence once so much like his own very near Tyrande. So near, in fact, that they had to be touching.

  Brother — began Illidan.

  You! Something surged within Malfurion, something that he realized he had to check immediately. Yet, despite his best efforts, the druid was not completely successful.

  Malfurion! came Tyrande’s plaintive call. Cease! You’ll kill him!

  He had no idea exactly what it was he was doing to Illidan, but Malfurion concentrated, trying to draw back what he had released. To his relief, he felt Illidan recover quickly.

  Never… never knew you had that in you… brother… While the tone held consistent with Illidan’s usual condescension, there lay in his mind a more stunned knowledge that the sibling he had felt weak was not.

  You’ve much to answer for, Illidan!

  If we all live, I will face my accusations…

  His words held merit. What use was there to condemn Illidan if they were all to perish? Besides, Malfurion realized he wasted valuable power on his brother.

  Putting thought of Illidan aside, the druid touched Tyrande again. You’re well? He’s done nothing to you?

  Nothing, Malfurion. I swear by Elune… but we hide now in the ruins near the Well and dare not even attempt to cast a spell! The demon Mannoroth has warriors everywhere! I think they suspect where we are despite both Illidan’s sorcery and my prayers…

  He wanted to go to her, but, once again, that was not possible. Malfurion swore. If we can succeed in —

  But before he could relay more, Deathwing unleashed a horrific bellow. The raw emotions in the dragon’s cry shattered the links with Tyrande and Illidan and erased from Malfurion’s thoughts any other matter.

  He found himself looking upon a dragon tortured beyond comprehension but yet who was so obsessed with what he sought that no pain could daunt him. Some of the plates sealed to the black were nearly slag and several portions of his body had been strippe
d clear of scale. Revealed underneath was raw flesh burnt or ripped away. The leviathan’s wings were torn in several places and it amazed Malfurion that the mad Earth Warder could still fly. Deathwing’s claws were gnarled and ruined, as if he had been scratching at some impervious object.

  Then, Malfurion saw how near the black hovered from his prize.

  “By the creators!” Ysera roared. “He will let nothing stop him!”

  The druid silently nodded, then realized how dire her words truly were. It looked as if, at any moment, Deathwing would do the impossible… and then it would be up to those hoping to steal the disk from him to do the same.

  Away… away… demanded the voices that had once encouraged the dragon in everything he did. Now, they, like all the others, had proven themselves to be treacherous. Truly, there was no one Neltharion could trust but himself.

  “I will have it! The Soul is mine! No one else’s!”

  He sensed their outrage that he would not obey them. They savagely attacked his mind even as through other means they fueled the Burning Legion’s spells that also battled him. Never had the black dragon suffered so, but it would all be worth it. Even though he only inched forward, he still made progress. The disk was almost within his grasp.

  Away… they repeated. Away…

  Under their outrage, however, Neltharion also noted growing anxiety, even fear. The voices, too, saw that he had almost reached the his creation. Perhaps they understood that when it came back into his possession, he would punish them along with all the rest.

  Then, another factor came more into play. The demon lord reached out from his own realm, magnifying the horrific forces already bound into the spell matrix. Neltharion bellowed again as the torture he had suffered previous proved but a fraction of what he now felt.

  But, if anything, it only drove him on. Mouth stretched back in a dragon’s version of a death grin, the leviathan laughed loud at all those who would deny him his right. He laughed and pushed the final few yards to the disk.