Authors: Richard A. Knaak
“This changes nothing,” Ravencrest abruptly declared. He faced the audience again, expression resolute. “Zin-Azshari remains the focus, now more than ever! Both the portal and our beloved Azshara await us there, so there is where we march!”
The night elves rallied almost immediately, so trusted was the elder commander when it came to war. Few night elves had the reputation that Lord Ravencrest held. He could draw people to his banner almost as well as the queen could to hers.
“The warriors are already set to march! They have but been awaiting our decision! I give you all leave to depart after this gathering and prepare each of your commands! By the fall of day tomorrow, we push on toward the capital!” Ravencrest raised his mailed fist high. “For Azshara! For Azshara!”
“For Azshara!” shouted the other night elves, Illidan included. Malfurion knew that his brother added his voice because of his position as Black Rook Hold’s sorcerer. Whatever Illidan believed concerning Queen Azshara, he would not jeopardize his recently-gained status.
The night elven officers nearly stormed out of the chamber in their eagerness to return to their soldiers. As they poured into the hall, Malfurion thought to himself how mercurial his people could be. A moment before, they had been lamenting the news of the portal’s resurrection. Now they acted as if they had never even heard the terrible report.
But if they had forgotten it, Rhonin and Brox had not. They shook their heads and the red-haired wizard muttered, “This bodes ill. Your people don’t realize what they’re marching into.”
“What other choice do they have?”
“You must reconsider sending messengers as I suggested,” Krasus suddenly insisted.
The wizard still stood before Lord Ravencrest, who now was accompanied only by a pair of dour guards and Desdel Stareye. Krasus had one foot on the dais and his expression was as animated as Malfurion had ever seen it.
“Send out messengers?” scoffed Stareye. “You jest!”
“I accept your anxiety,” their host replied, “but we’ve hardly sunk so low. Fear not, Master Krasus, we will take Zin-Azshari and cut off the portal! I promise you that!” He adjusted his helmet. “Now, I think we both have plans to make before the march, eh?”
With Lord Stareye and the guards in tow, the noble marched out of the room as if already the victor. Illidan joined his patron just before the party vanished. Krasus watched Ravencrest depart, his countenance anything but pleasant to behold.
“What was that you tried to convince him of?” asked Rhonin. “Messengers to whom?”
“I have been trying—in vain, it appears—to persuade him to ask for assistance from the dwarves and other races—”
“Ask the other races?” blurted Malfurion. Had Krasus asked him beforehand the odds of success, the young night elf would have immediately tried to dissuade him from even suggesting such to the master of Black Rook Hold. Even with Kalimdor under siege and hundreds or more already dead, no lord would ever demean himself by even thinking of contacting outsiders. To most night elves, dwarves and such were barely one step above vermin.
“Yes…and I see from your expression that attempting to speak later with him about it will be just as futile.”
“You know how hard it was to convince the dwarves, orcs, elves, and humans to work together in our—where we came from,” Rhonin remarked. “Not to mention the complexity of getting each of the factions and kingdoms within those groups to trust one another.”
Krasus nodded wearily. “Even my own kind have their prejudices…”
It was as close as he had ever come to identifying what he truly was, but Malfurion did not press. His curiosity concerning his ally’s identity was a slight thing compared to the potential holocaust they all faced.
“You didn’t tell them about the dragon leaving,” he said to Krasus.
“Lord Ravencrest knows of it. I sent word of it to him as soon as Korialstrasz declared his decision.”
Rhonin frowned. “You shouldn’t have let Korialstrasz go.”
“He shares a concern with me about the dragons. As should you.” Some wordless communication passed between the two wizards, and Rhonin finally nodded.
“What do we do?” asked Brox. “We fight with the night elves?”
“We have no choice,” Rhonin answered before Krasus could. “We’re trapped here. Things’ve become too tangled not to take an active part.” He stared deep into the elder mage’s eyes. “We can’t just stand by.”
“No, we cannot. It has gone beyond that. Besides, I find I will not abide waiting for assassins to come targeting me. I will defend myself.”
Rhonin nodded. “So it’s settled.”
Malfurion did not understand all that they said, but he recognized the end of what had been a long, stressful argument. Evidently, despite all he had done for the night elves, Krasus still had reservations about aiding them. An irony, so the druid saw it, after how much effort Krasus had spent pushing for Lord Ravencrest to approach the dwarves and tauren.
It occurred to him then that they had all decided to join the host marching on Zin-Azshari. With those last doubts erased, Malfurion realized there was one other person with whom he needed to speak before that happened. He could not leave Suramar without seeing her.
“I must go,” he informed them. “There—there is something I need to do.”
His cheeks must have flushed, for Krasus kindly nodded, adding, “Please give her my greetings, will you?”
“I—of course.”
But as he started past the elder mage, Krasus took hold of his forearm. “Do not steel yourself against your emotions too much, young one. They are a part of your calling, your destiny. You will need them greatly in the days ahead, especially as he is no doubt here now.”
“Here?” Rhonin’s brow furrowed. “Who? What else haven’t you told us?”
“I am only using logic, Rhonin. You saw the beast Mannoroth guiding the Legion when it first swept out from the city. You know that, despite him, we were able to not only cut off the portal, but also inflict serious damage to the demon army.”
“We beat Mannoroth. I know. We did it in the—back home, too.”
Krasus’s eyes had a veiled look to them that stirred Malfurion’s anxiety anew. “Then you should also recall what happened after his defeat.”
The night elf saw Rhonin blanch. Brox, too, seemed disturbed, but his reaction was more like Malfurion’s. The orc understood that something dire was about to be revealed, but did not know just what.
“Archimonde.” The human whispered the name so quietly that he almost appeared worried that its bearer might hear it even in Ravencrest’s sanctum.
“Archimonde,” repeated Brox, now understanding. He gripped the hilt of his dagger and his eyes darted back and forth.
“Who—who is this Archimonde?” asked Malfurion. Even saying the name brought a distaste to his mouth.
It was Rhonin who answered him, Rhonin with his eyes unblinking and his mouth set in utter hatred. “He who sits at the right hand of the lord of the Burning Legion…”
Captain Varo’then brought the news to his queen as he always did. With Lord Xavius dead, he had become her favored…in more ways than one. His new uniform—a resplendent, glittering emerald green with golden sunbursts across the chest—was the latest gift bestowed upon him by Azshara. His title remained that of captain, but in truth, he commanded more than some generals, especially as even demons followed his orders.
Varo’then swept aside his glittering golden cape as he entered the queen’s sanctum. Her attendants immediately curtsied, then stepped away.
Azshara herself lay draped across a silver couch, her head resting perfectly on a small cushion. Her hair, more silver than the couch, cascaded gracefully down her back and shoulders. The queen had long, almond-shaped eyes of pure gold and features of perfection. The gown she wore—a wondrous, translucent blue and green—displayed her curved form magnificently.
In her hand, Azshara held a view globe, a magical art-piece that displayed for its user a thousand different exotic images of night elven creation. The image that faded away as the soldier knelt appeared to be that of Azshara herself, but Varo’then could not be certain.
“Yes, my dear captain?”
Varo’then forced his cheeks not to flush from desire. “Radiance of the Moon, Flower of Life, I bring important tidings. The Great One, Sargeras—”
She immediately sat up. Eyes wide, full lips parted, the queen asked, “He is here?”
A pang of jealousy struck the officer. “Nay, Light of Lights, it is not yet possible for the portal to hold the magnificence of the Great One…but he has sent his most trusted to finally make the way ready.”
“Then I must greet him!” Azshara declared, rising. Attendants immediately darted out of hiding to take her train. The long, silken gown trailed for some distance. The skirt was cut so that the queen’s long, smooth legs briefly revealed themselves as she walked. Everything about Azshara spoke of seduction and although he knew that she toyed with him as she did others, Varo’then did not care.
The instant that she started forward, several new figures lurched out of the shadows. Despite their huge forms, the Fel Guard who acted as her personal bodyguard had remained unseen until now. Two stepped in front of the pair while the rest lined up behind. The demons waited patiently, emotionlessly, for the queen to move again.
He raised his armored forearm so that she might place her perfect, tapering fingers upon it. The captain led her through the gaily-painted marble halls of the palace to the tower where the surviving Highborne sorcerers had restarted their efforts. Sentries both night elf and demon stood at attention as they passed. Varo’then had studied the Legion enough to understand that while Mannoroth and Hakkar seemed astoundingly oblivious to the queen’s beauty, the lesser demons appeared not so immune. Her bodyguard had become especially protective of her, even keeping a wary eye on their own brethren at times.
It did not do for even demon lords to underestimate the ruler of the night elves.
A pair of felbeasts guarded the outside door. The tentacles on each houndlike demon twitched toward the pair.
Immediately the Fel Guard created a protective wall between Azshara and the hounds. Felbeasts drained magic the way some insects drank blood, and Azshara had, contrary to appearances, a great aptitude for sorcery. To the creatures, she would seem a feast.
Varo’then had his own weapon out and ready, but Azshara touched his cheek gently and said, “No, dear captain.”
With a wave of her hand, she parted the Fel Guard, then walked up to the felbeasts. Ignoring the menace of the tentacles, the queen knelt before the pair and smiled.
One monster immediately planted his fearsome head under her outstretched hand. The other opened a mouthful of rows of jagged teeth and let his thick, brutish tongue loll out the side. Both acted as Varo’then had seen three-day-old night saber kits do around Azshara.
After petting both on their coarse heads, the queen urged the monsters aside. The felbeasts readily obeyed, sitting down near the wall and looking as if hoping for some tiny treat.
The captain sheathed his weapon. No, it would not be good for anyone to underestimate his beloved monarch.
The way opened for Azshara as she stepped past the felbeasts. Following close behind, Varo’then saw immense Mannoroth look over his shoulder at the new arrivals. As much as he could read the demon’s expression, the captain noted some distress. Mannoroth, at least, was not so pleased with the coming of the Great One’s second.
And as the night elves entered, they could not help but notice that Archimonde had already arrived.
For the first time, Azshara momentarily lost a bit of her cool composure. The brief, open-mouthed gasp vanished swiftly, but it still startled Varo’then…almost as much as the demon himself did.
Archimonde stood as tall as Mannoroth, but that was where the likenesses ended. By any standard, he was far more handsome and in some ways resembled the night elves over whom he towered. His skin was a black-blue, and it took Varo’then a moment to realize that Archimonde surely had to be related to the Eredar warlocks. His build was similar and he even sported a fearsome tail like theirs. No hair covered any part of his body. His skull was huge and his ears wide and pointed. From under a narrow brow ridge, orbs of deep green stared out. He wore armor plating on his shoulders, shins, forearms and waist, but little else. An arresting display of lines and circles tattooed over his body radiated high magic.
“You are Queen Azshara,” he said in smooth, articulate words, a vast contrast to Mannoroth’s more guttural speech or Hakkar’s hiss. “Sargeras is pleased by your loyalty.”