The Demon Soul (7 page)

Cenarius saw his anxiety. “You must not be afraid to walk it again, my son, but now is not the time. However, there are other parts of your training that have lagged and that is why I chose this pause to come to you.”

“ ‘This pause’? What do you mean?”

“The others are still divided as to what to do about the demons. We will fight them, yes, but we are creatures of individual spheres of power. It is difficult for us to work in harmony, for we all feel we know what is best to do.”

The news did nothing to temper Malfurion’s uncertainties. First the dragons had failed to show any inclination to battle the Burning Legion, and now even the demigods, the guardians of the natural world, could not agree on the proper course of action. Truly, it was all up to the night elves…likely Malfurion and his comrades, in particular.

“Our time together will not be long. There are some things that I must quickly try to teach you. We will need use of the entire day—”

“Out of the question!” blurted Captain Shadowsong, surprising himself. “My orders are—”

With a benevolent smile, the woodland deity trotted toward the soldier. Jarod’s face paled as Cenarius loomed over him.

“He will be protected while he is with me and will be back when he is needed by your commander, Jarod Shadowsong. You will not be shirking your responsibility.”

The officer shut his mouth, already clearly dumbfounded that he had dared interrupt Cenarius in the first place.

“Return to your other charges. I will see to it that Malfurion comes back safe and sound.”

The druid felt as if the pair discussed a child, but the demigod’s words were evidently what Jarod had wanted precisely to hear. He nodded to Cenarius, turning the nod into a bow at the last moment. “As you say, my lord.”

“I am not your lord, night elf. I am Cenarius only! Go with my blessing!”

With one last awed glance at Malfurion and his teacher, the captain turned his night saber and rode off toward the night elven host.

Cenarius turned back to his student. “Now, my thero’shan, we must begin in earnest.” All congeniality vanished from the deity’s expression. “For I fear we will need all the knowledge we have if we are to save our world from the demons…”

At that moment, another who feared they would need all that they could gather to defeat the Burning Legion flew over the realm of the dragons, seeking the lofty mountain peak where his kind made their homes.

Korialstrasz had spent his long flight considering many things. The silence of his brethren was one. Dragons were reclusive, but never had he encountered such utter quiet. No one responded to his summons, not even his beloved mate, Alexstrasza.

This caused him to think of the demons. He could not believe that they could have attacked and destroyed the dragons, but the lack of communication left that fear alive. He almost wished that Krasus had accompanied him, for at least then there would have been one other red dragon with whom to discuss the dire thoughts.

But Krasus himself was a subject on par with all else. More and more, Korialstrasz had begun eliminating the possible theories concerning this enigmatic dragon to whose words even Alexstrasza paid close attention. She did so as if Krasus were the equal to her consorts, even perhaps was one. Yet, this could not be…unless…

No…that is not possible, the soaring behemoth thought. It is too extraordinary…

Still, it would explain so very much.

He would confront Alexstrasza with his thoughts once he found her. Korialstrasz banked, turning toward the familiar, mist-enshrouded mountain. Unlike all times past, there were no sentinels keeping watch, yet another ominous sign.

The great red dragon descended toward the high cavern mouth used as one of the main entrances to the sanctum. As he alighted, he turned his massive head back and forth, seeking some sign of his fellows. The area was deathly silent.

But as he folded his wings and moved forward, he collided with a sudden, distinct force invisible to all his other senses. It felt as if the air had taken on a thickness akin to honey. With great determination, Korialstrasz threw himself forward, barreling into the unseen wall as he would against a rival dragon.

Slowly it gave way. He felt it press around his body as he advanced, almost enveloping him. The dragon had difficulty breathing, and his view became as if he saw the world from under water. Yet still Korialstrasz did not falter.

And suddenly, without warning, he was through.

Sounds instantly filled his ears. Bereft of any barrier, the leviathan fell forward. He would have landed headfirst, but huge paws caught him.

“It is good that you are back,” a deep voice rumbled. “We feared for you, young one.”

Tyranastrasz lifted him up, the reptilian countenance of Alexstrasza’s senior consort filled with concern. Behind him, other dragons moved about through the system of tunnels…and what surprised Korialstrasz most about the activity was the fact that there were dragons of other colors. He saw blue, green, bronze, and, of course, red. The dragons intermingled constantly, all seeming on some task and all obviously quite anxious.

“Alexstrasza! Is she—”

“She is well, Korialstrasz. She gave word that she would speak with you the moment that you returned…” The larger male glanced at the younger’s shoulder, seeking something. “…and Krasus, too, but I see that he is not with you.”

“He would not leave the others.”

“But your condition—”

Flexing his wings, Korialstrasz replied, “He has devised a manner by which we are both nearly whole. It is not perfect, but it is the best we could do.”

“Most interesting…”

“Tyran…what happens here? Why are the other flights among our own?”

The elder consort’s expression grew veiled. “She has commanded that she be the one to tell you all and I will not disobey her.”

“Of course not.”

With Tyranastrasz in the lead, the pair wended their way into the lair of the red flight. Korialstrasz could not help but eye the other dragons as they passed among them. The greens were mere flitting shadows, gone before one realized they were even there, and made more disconcerting by the fact that they ever kept their eyes closed, as if sleepwalking. The bronze figures of Nozdormu’s flight seemed not to move at all, but somehow were elsewhere whenever he blinked. As for the blues, they appeared here, there, everywhere in almost random fashion, darting about through the use of magic as much as physical movement. The more Korialstrasz saw of them, the more he welcomed the stable, solid presence of his own kind. When they moved, they moved. When they rushed to one destination, he could follow their every step, see their every breath.

Of course, in all fairness, he suspected that the newcomers felt the same way about their respective flights.

So many different dragons, and yet we all fit in here, he suddenly thought. Are we so few as all that, then? Had they tried to crowd the night elves or dwarves in this mountain, either lesser race would have filled it to overflowing, yet the dragons ever found room to maneuver.

Thinking of the endless horde that was the Burning Legion, Korialstrasz wondered if even the dragons had the strength to stop them.

But as he entered the next chamber, his fears melted away. She stood there as if waiting for him in particular. Her simple presence filled the male with calm, with peace. When she looked his way, Korialstrasz felt confidence. All would be well. The Queen of Life would see that it was so.

“Korialstrasz…my beloved.” Only her eyes gave indication of how much force that simple sentence had. The lesser creatures might often see dragons only as savage beasts, but even the best of them could not possibly match the intensity of emotions Korialstrasz’s kind wielded.

“My queen, my existence.” He bent his head low in homage.

“It is good that you are back. We feared for you.”

“As I feared in return. No one answered my summons, or explained the sudden silence.”

“It was necessary,” the huge female responded. Despite the sleekness of her form, Alexstrasza outweighed her consorts by half again as much. Like all of the great Aspects, she commanded forces that dwarfed those of even her mates. “The demand for secrecy is paramount.”

“Secrecy? For what?”

She studied him. “Krasus is not with you?”

He noted her tremendous concern. She worried about Krasus as she would have Korialstrasz. “He chose to stay behind. He managed a trick that enables us to spend our time apart from each other without suffering…much.”

A brief smile spread across her scaled visage. “Of course he would.”

Before Korialstrasz could pursue the line of conversation to what he desired to know about Krasus, another entered the high chamber from the right. Korialstrasz looked at the new arrival, and his eyes widened.

“It is necessary that all dragons take part in this ritual,” the black giant rumbled, his voice like a smoldering volcano. “Mine have already done so. The other flights must now do the same.”

Neltharion filled the other end of the chamber, the only one who could possibly match Alexstrasza in size and power. The Earth Warder radiated an intensity that made Korialstrasz a bit uncomfortable.

“My final consort is here,” Alexstrasza returned. “The bronze flight has come and although Nozdormu is not with them, they have brought that which is part of his essence so that he, too, will be joined with us in this struggle. That leaves only Krasus, a single entity. Is that so terrible a thing?”

The ebony dragon tilted his head. Never had Korialstrasz seen so many teeth. “One dragon only…no…I think not.”

“What is this about?” the younger male dared ask.

“The demons have reopened the way to our world,” Alexstrasza explained. “Once more, they flow through like water, doubling their strength with each passing day.”

Korialstrasz imagined the monstrous army and what its numbers had already accomplished. “Then we must act!”

“We are. Neltharion has devised a plan, possibly the only hope for our world’s survival.”

“What is it?”

“Neltharion must show you.”

The ebony behemoth nodded, then closed his eyes. The air shimmered before him. A sense of astounding power touched Korialstrasz’s magical senses. He felt as if the chamber had filled with a thousand dragons.

But instead, a tiny, almost insignificant little golden disk materialized in the air, hovering just below eye level for the gathered leviathans. Korialstrasz sensed nothing within it, yet somehow knew that very fact meant the disk was much, much more than it seemed.

The Earth Warder opened his eyes, an expression of exaltation spreading over his reptilian features. To Korialstrasz, it was as if Neltharion worshipped his creation.

“Behold that which will exorcise the demons from our world!” the black leviathan thundered. “Behold that which will cleanse the lands of all taint!”

The tiny disk flared bright, suddenly no longer insignificant to the eye. Now, the young red male felt the full extent of the powers within…and understood why even Alexstrasza believed it to be their best recourse.

“Behold,” Neltharion roared proudly. “The Dragon Soul.”

C
aptain Varo’then was not one to be made ill at ease by shadows and noises. He confronted all such things with the same dour earthiness with which he did everything else in his life. The scarred soldier had been born to the role of warrior and, despite his inherent cunning, never saw himself in any other role. He had no desire to be king or consort save that it would then place him even closer to Azshara. He commanded his forces in her name and was satisfied with that. The political machinations he had always left to Lord Xavius, who understood and savored them far more than Varo’then ever could.

But of late, his mind had been forced to turn to paths other than those of battle. That had to do with the return of one he had assumed quite dead…Xavius himself. Now the queen’s advisor, brought back from the afterlife by the astounding power of the great Sargeras, again guided the will of the Highborne. That should have not bothered Varo’then, but Xavius had changed in ways even the queen did not see. The captain was certain that the advisor—or this thing that had once been the advisor—concerned himself not with the glory of Azshara, but with other matters. Varo’then, whatever his loyalty to the lord of the Legion, was ever first and foremost his queen’s servant.

“The ever-efficient captain. Of course I find you stalking the halls even when not on duty.”

The officer jumped, then silently cursed himself for reacting so.

As if pouring out of the shadows themselves, Xavius stepped out in front of the night elf. His hooves clattered on the marble floor and he breathed in snorts as he moved. Archimonde had called Xavius a satyr, one of Sargeras’s blessed servants. The unnatural eyes that the noble had himself put in place of his own stared out from under the deep brow ridge. They snared the captain’s own, drawing him inexorably into some unsettling place.

“Sargeras sees much promise in you, Captain Varo’then. He sees one whose status could be great among those who serve him. He sees you as a commander of his host, set up there along with Mannoroth—nay—Archimonde, even!”

Varo’then saw himself at the head of a horde of demons, his sword thrust out before him as they poured over their foes. He felt the pride and love of Sargeras as he rode down those who would defy the Great One.

“I am honored to serve,” the soldier murmured.

Xavius smiled. “As are we all…and we would serve in any way we could, if it would make the dream come true sooner, is that not so?”

“Of course.”

The hooved figure leaned close, his face nearly touching the soldier’s own. The eyes continued to pull Varo’then in, both tantalizing and unnerving him at the same time. “You could serve in a manner better suited for you, in a role that will lead you sooner to the command you desire…”

Excitement coursed through the officer. He again pictured himself leading armies in the name of his queen and Sargeras. He imagined his conquest of their enemies, the blood of the foe flowing so much it created rivers.

But when Captain Varo’then tried to imagine himself doing all this, he could not see his own form distinctly. He tried to draw forth an image of himself as a warrior, an armored and armed commander such as in the old epics…but another shape persistently pushed itself on him.

A shape much like that worn by Lord Xavius.

That, at last, enabled him to pull free of the advisor’s gaze. “Forgive me, my lord, but I must be about my duties.”

The artificial eyes flared briefly. Then Xavius nodded ever so politely and with a sweep of his hand bid the soldier to move on. “But of course, Captain Varo’then, but of course.”

At a quicker pace than he would have preferred to display before the horned figure, Varo’then marched away. He did not look back. His hand clutched the hilt of his sword as if about to draw it. The night elf did not slow until he was certain that Lord Xavius had been left far behind.

But even then he could still hear the beguiling words of the satyr…and Varo’then knew that where he had managed to deny them, others would not.

As night fell upon Lord Ravencrest’s forces, the Sisters of Elune spread out among the night elves to give their blessings. Even clad like warrior maidens, the priestesses brought peace and comfort to the soldiers. Elune offered the night elves strength and confidence, for she was always there in the heavens, watching down on her favored children.

Although her expression did not reveal it, Tyrande Whisperwind felt none of the peace or strength she passed on to her people. The high priestess seemed to think that she especially had been touched by the Mother Moon, but Tyrande sensed no great presence within herself. If the Mother Moon had chosen her for something, she had failed to inform Tyrande.

The last bit of daylight fled beneath the horizon. Tyrande hurried, knowing that soon the horns would sound and the host would move on toward Zin-Azshari. She touched the heart of one more soldier, then strode to her waiting panther.

But before she reached it, another night elf confronted her. Out of reflex, Tyrande put a hand to his chest—only to have him take her hand by the wrist.

The priestess looked up and her own heart at first leapt with joy. Then she noted the dark uniform and the hair bound back in a tail.

Most of all, Tyrande noticed the amber eyes.

“Illidan…”

“I’m grateful for your blessing, of course,” he responded with a wry grin. “But I’m comforted more by your near presence.”

Her cheeks flushed, though not for the reason he thought. Still gently holding her wrist, Malfurion’s twin leaned close.

“Surely this is fate, Tyrande! I’ve been looking for you. We’re entering fast-moving times. Decisions must be made without hesitation.”

With sudden anxiety, she understood what he intended to ask—nay, tell her. Without meaning to, Tyrande pulled back her hand.

Illidan’s face immediately grew stony. He had missed neither her reaction nor the meaning behind it.

“It’s too soon,” she managed, trying to assuage his feelings.

“Or too late?” The wry grin returned, but to her it now appeared to be slightly hollow, more of a mask. After a moment, though, Illidan’s face relaxed. “I’ve been too impetuous. This isn’t the right time. You’ve been trying to comfort too many. I’ll speak with you again, when the moment is more appropriate.”

Without another word, he headed toward where a mounted guard in the garb of Ravencrest’s clan awaited with the sorcerer’s own night saber. Illidan did not look back as he and his escort rode off.

More troubled than ever, Tyrande sought her own panther. Yet, even as she mounted, another came to interrupt her thoughts. This time, however, it proved to be a more welcome soul.

“Shaman, forgive this intrusion.”

With a gentle smile, she greeted the orc. “You are always welcome, Broxigar.”

Only she was allowed to call him by his full name. To all others, even Lord Ravencrest, he was merely Brox. The massive orc stood a good head shorter than her, but made up for it with a girth three times her own and nearly all of that muscle. She had seen him wade into enemies with the ferocity of one of the huge cats, but around her he acted with more respect than many of those who asked for her blessing.

Thinking that a blessing was what the orc had come for, Tyrande reached down to touch his chest. Brox looked startled, then welcomed the touch.

“May the Mother Moon guide your spirit, may she grant you her silent strength…” She continued on for a few seconds more, giving the orc a full blessing. Most of the other priestesses found him as abhorrent as the rest of the night elves did, but in Tyrande’s eyes, he was no less one of Elune’s creatures than herself.

When she had finished, Brox dipped his head in gratitude, then muttered, “I am not worthy of this blessing, shaman, for that is not why I’ve come to you.”

“It isn’t?”

The tusked, squat face twisted into what Tyrande recognized as remorse. “Shaman…there is something that burdens my heart. Something that I must confess.”

“Go on.”

“Shaman, I have tried to find my death.”

Her lips pursed as she struggled to understand. “Are you telling me that you tried to kill yourself?”

Brox pulled himself up to his full height, his expression darkening. “I am an orc warrior! I’ve not guided my dagger to my own chest!” As abruptly as his fury had arisen, it now vanished completely, replaced only by shame. “But I’ve tried to guide the weapons of others to it, true.”

And the story came flowing out. Brox told her of his last war against the demons, and how he and his comrades had held the way while they awaited reinforcements. Tyrande heard how, one by one, all the other orcs had perished, leaving only the veteran. The actions of Brox and the others had helped save the battle, but that had in no manner made him feel any less guilty about surviving where others had not.

The war had ended soon after, leaving Brox with no proper method by which to atone for what he saw as a tremendous failing on his part. When the Warchief Thrall had requested that he hunt down the anomaly, he had seen it as a sign that the spirits had finally granted him an end to his misery.

But the only one to die in that search had been his young comrade, which added to Brox’s already heavy burden. Then, when it became clear that the Burning Legion would invade Kalimdor, the orc had once more hoped for redemption. He had thrown himself into the struggle and fought as hard as any warrior could be expected. He had always been at the forefront, daring any foe to take him on. Unfortunately, Brox had fought too well, for even after slaying a score of the demons, he had survived with barely a scratch.

And as the gathered host had set out from Suramar, the graying orc had finally started to think that he had committed a different sin. He realized that the shame that he had felt in surviving his former comrades had been a false one. Now Brox felt a new shame; everyone around him fought for life while he sought to escape it. They went to battle the Burning Legion for reasons opposite his own.

“I accept that I might die in battle—a glorious fate for an orc, shaman—but I am filled with dishonor for seeking it at the possible cost of those who fight against evil for their lives and those of others.”

Tyrande stared into the eyes of the orc. Beast he was to the rest, but once more he had spoken words of eloquence, of meaning. She touched his rough cheek, smiling slightly. How arrogant her people were to see only the image, not the heart and mind.

“You need not confess to me, Broxigar. You’ve already confessed to your heart and soul, which means that the spirits and Elune have heard your remorse. They understand that you have realized the truth of things and regret your earlier thoughts.”

He grunted, then, to her surprise, kissed her palm. “I give thanks to you even still, shaman.”

At that moment, the horns sounded. Tyrande quickly touched the orc on the forehead, adding a slight prayer. “Whatever fate battle holds for you now, Broxigar, the Mother Moon will watch over your own spirit.”

“I thank you for saying so, shaman. I will trouble you no more now.”

Brox raised his ax in respect, then trotted off. Tyrande watched the orc vanish among the other fighters, then turned as a signal she recognized as coming from the sisterhood alerted her to her own need for haste. She had to be ready to lead her own group forward as soon as the host began to move. She had to be ready to meet the fate that Elune had planned for her.

And that, she understood, included matters other than the coming battle.

“They added soldiers from two more settlements in the northwest,” Rhonin commented as he and Krasus rode. “I heard as many as five hundred.”

“The Burning Legion can bring forth such a number in but a few scant hours, perhaps even less.”

The red-haired wizard gave his former tutor a sour expression. “If none of this helps, then why bother? Why not just sit on the grass and wait for the demons to slit our gul-lets?” He took on a mock look of surprise. “Oh, wait! That’s not what happened! The night elves did fight—and they won!”

“Quiet!” hissed Krasus, giving Rhonin as sharp a glare as the human had given him. “I do not downplay the additions, only point out the facts. Another fact to be recalled is that our presence here and the existence of the anomaly through all time means that what has happened in the past may not be what will happen this time. There is a very, very good chance that the Burning Legion will triumph now…and all we know will never have been.”

“I won’t let that happen! I can’t!”

“To eternity, the fates of your mate Vereesa and your unborn twins are nothing, Rhonin…but I will fight for their sakes as much as I fight for my own flight’s future, however monstrous that may still be even with victory.”