The Sundering (32 page)

Rolling to a sitting position, Tyrande looked around. The aura about her had faded, leaving her surrounded by mist and alone save for the broken bodies of night elves and demons.

No
…
not alone. A tall, so very familiar figure emerged from the resurging mist and, at sight of him, her cheeks flushed.

“Malfurion!”

But almost the instant that Tyrande uttered the name, she knew that she had chosen the wrong one.

Illidan, his mouth fighting a frown, leaned over the fallen priestess.
“
Stupid little fool
…”
He reached down a hand.
“
Well? Come on with me
…
if you’d like to live long enough to see me save the world!
”

A
bove the center of the Well of Eternity, the Demon Soul flared bright. Within the abyss formed by the Sargeras’s spell, forces set in play by both the Soul and the Well churned, slowly building up into the creation of a stable portal. From his monstrous realm, the lord of the Legion prepared for his entrance into this latest prize. Soon, so very soon, he would eradicate all life, all existence, from it
…
and then he would go on to the next ripe world.

But there were others waiting in growing expectation, others with dire dreams far older than even that of the demon lord. They had waited for so very long for the means to escape, the means to reclaim what had once been theirs. Each step of success by Sargeras toward strengthening his portal was a step of success for them. With the Well, with the Demon Soul, and with the lord of the Legion’s might, they would instead open up a window into their eternal prison.

And once open, there would be no sealing it again.

The Old Gods waited. They had done so for so very long, they could wait a little longer.

But only a little
…

And with the entrance of Sargeras surely imminent, Archimonde threw everything into the battle. He stripped warriors from all other directions, knowing that the defeat of the host would be the defeat of the world.

The host, in turn, fought because it had no choice but to fight. Night elves, tauren, and others knew only that to give in meant to bend their necks to demon blades. Fall they might, but not without giving everything they could.

Malfurion struggled to do his part. His spells summoned whirlwinds that carried aloft warriors and beasts, then dropped them from deathly heights. Seeds cast by him into those winds sprouted full-grown in the demon bellies, ripping their hosts to shreds. The lifeless corpses then dropped down upon the Legion, causing further havoc.

Deep below the earth, Malfurion found the burrowers, the worms and such, who had managed so far to hide from the evil. Urged on by him, they churned away at the ground, making it unstable. Tusked warriors suddenly sank beneath as if in quicksand, while others, bogged down, fell easy prey to archers and lancers.

In the sky, the demons held sway, but they held it with much cost. Jarod had archers almost fully concentrating on the Doomguard and their like. Whatever the carnage caused by the winged furies, many paid for it with bolts bristling out of their necks.

The Moon Guard fought valiantly against the Eredar, the Infernals, and, worse, the Dreadlords. The night elves were strengthened not only by Rhonin and Krasus, but also the shamans of the tauren and furbolgs. The shamans worked in much more subtle manners, but their results were proven by warlocks who fell over dead or simply vanished.

And yet, there were always more demons to replace those who perished.

Brox stood at the forefront with Jarod and Kalimdor’s legendary guardians, the orc seeming as astounding a creature as the beings by whose side he fought. Brox laughed as he had not since that day of battle when he and his comrades had expected to die valiantly. Indeed, the graying warrior expected to die now, but still his ax proved the superior, cutting through foe after foe as if it hungered for demon flesh. It was not merely the magic instilled in the weapon that caused such damage to the enemy, but the skill with which the orc wielded it. Brox was a master of his art, which was why his chieftain, Thrall, had chosen him in the first place.

Then, a pack of felbeasts caught one of the bears by surprise, leaping atop their victim and quickly bringing down the giant. Before their gargantuan adversary even hit the ground, a score more joined the first pack. Their suckers immediately adhered to the furred body and the monsters drank lustily of the guardian’s inherent magic
…
and, thus, life.

The fallen one’s twin roared angrily when he saw what had happened. Pummeling aside Fel Guard, he threw himself upon the horrific leeches. One by one, the demigod tore them away from the unmoving form, ripping off heads and breaking backs in the process.

But when he had reached his twin, it was immediately evident that rescue had come too late.

Raising his head high, the forest guardian roared his pain, then turned on the ranks of demons and began rampaging through their lines as if they were made of paper. Despite lances and other weapons constantly pincushioning him, he dug deeper into the Burning Legion, swiftly leaving behind his other companions until he could no longer even be seen. Brox and Jarod, closest to the front, heard his last, unrepentant roar
…
and then noted grimly the silence that followed.

Bodies lay littered for as far as the eye could see and it was not uncommon for combatants to duel one another standing atop the corpses of their predecessors. Demigods fought besides night elves who fought beside tauren who fought beside furbolgs, Earthen, and more and all wore the same grim expressions.

It was Cenarius who still led Kalimdor’s epic guardians and he tore at the demons with a violence that shocked even Rhonin and Krasus. His gnarled talons stripped through armor and flesh, spilling the monstrous warriors’ innards upon the field. The forest lord fought as if one possessed and with the death of each fellow guardian, his efforts grew more terrifying, more relentless. He seemed determined to make up for all those who had fallen, no matter the cost to himself.

And fall they continued to do. With Fel Guard clutching him like hounds worrying their prey, the great boar, Agamaggan, finally teetered. He rammed into several felbeasts, tossing them up or goring them with his tusks, but then, at last, the weight of so many demons proved too much. The demigod dropped to his knees, where his tenacious adversaries began chopping in earnest at his torso. The huge beast shook off some of those clinging to him, but that proved his last effort. Blood dripping from a hundred deep wounds, he groaned
…
and then stilled. Even after, the savage attacks on his body did not cease, the demons so caught up in their butchery that they did not yet realize that they had slain him.

This latest death spurred Cenarius yet further. He fell upon the demons hacking away at the boar’s mangled corpse, crushing their throats or impaling them on the other demigod’s thorny mane. Such was his fury that at last he became the prime focus of the Burning Legion’s onslaught. The invisible hand of Archimonde guided the most powerful of demons toward the forest lord.

Already battling for their own survival, there was nothing Krasus or any of the others could do. More and more the fearsome warriors surrounded Malfurion’s mentor until even Cenarius’s antlers could barely be seen.

Then
…
just as it seemed he, too, would fall, there was again the flash of white once seen by Rhonin. A gargantuan, four-legged form struck the swarm of demons head on. A rack several times more massive than that of the forest lord threw fiery warriors by the score from the faltering Cenarius. Huge hooves crushed in hard skulls or caved in armored chests. Teeth snapped off limbs or ripped open throats.

And only at last did the astounding creature come into focus. There, towering over the weakened Cenarius, a magnificent, pure white stag held the demons at bay. So much did his coat gleam that the minions of the Burning Legion were half-blinded, making them easy prey for the massive animal.

Again and again, the stag used his antlers to clear the bloody field before him of foes. Nothing, not even Infernals, could slow his efforts. He cleared the Burning Legion not only from the area of the fallen forest lord, but even from that of other defenders nearby.

Brox and Jarod suddenly found themselves under the overwhelming gaze of the stag. Words did not pass from the gigantic creature to them, yet, somehow they knew that they were to drag Cenarius back from the battle. This they did even as a new wave of horror charged forward. Yet, before the stag, nothing long stood. Row upon row of demon rushed up with weapons drawn, only to be torn to shreds moments later.

But if the Legion’s blades could not bring down this new champion, the horde had other, more sinister tools at their disposal. From the sky there abruptly came black lightning, which burnt and baked the ground around the stag. In the lightning’s wake erupted dark, green fires that scorched the pristine coat of the demigod. Charred earth rose up and, forming clawed hands, seized the four legs tight.

Then, the ranks of demons parted
…
and through the ominous gap strode Archimonde himself.

With each step toward the stag, Archimode swelled in size until he stood as tall as his adversary. In contrast to his manic warriors, the demonic commander remained stone-faced, almost analytical. He held no weapon, but his clenched fists radiated the same monstrous fire that burned around the stag.

The demigod shook, breaking away the earthy claws. Then, with a challenging snort, the demigod lowered his antlers and met the archdemon.

Their collision was marked by thunder and a tremor that toppled fighters for some distance around. Demons and night elves alike fled the awesome fury of their duel. Where the stag’s hooves struck the harsh ground, sparks flew up into the heavens. Archimonde’s own feet dug deep, creating ravines and tossing up new hills taller than his warriors.

Bloody scars traced the paths of the demon’s claws in the stag’s hide. Sharp, glistening dots from which burst green fire showed where antlers had pierced Archimonde’s seemingly impervious skin. Demon and demigod wrestled and no other living creature dared come in their path.

Further back, Jarod and Brox, joined midway by Dungard the Earthen, brought the stricken Cenarius to where Krasus stood. Risking an attack by the Eredar, Krasus pulled himself from the battle to investigate the forest lord’s condition.

“ ’Tis some bad wounds he’s suffered,
”
muttered Dungard, taking out his pipe.

“He is badly struck,” the mage agreed after running his hands across Cenarius’s chest.
“
The poison that is a part of all demons affects him much more than most, possibly because of his affinity to Kalimdor itself.
”
Krasus grimaced.
“
Still, I think he will live
…”

At that moment, the demigod muttered something. Only Krasus knelt close enough to hear his words properly and when the robed figure looked up, he wore an expression of sorrow.

“What is it?” asked Jarod.

But before Krasus could answer, from the battlefield came a terrible cry. As they all turned toward its source, they witnessed Archimonde with one arm around the giant stag’s neck, his other hand twisting his foe’s muzzle to the side. Already the stag’s head turned at an awful angle, hence the cry.

Krasus leapt to his feet.
“
No! He must not!
”

It was already too late. The demon, his expression still indifferent, tightened his hold further.

A tremendous cracking sound echoed through the region, one that, for just a brief moment, caused all other noises to cease.

And in Archimonde’s grip, Cenarius’s valiant rescuer fell limp and lifeless.

With an almost flagrant detachment, the archdemon tossed aside his adversary as one might discard a piece of refuse. He then wiped his hands and gazed at the stunned defenders.

Suddenly, creeping vines rushed up from the otherwise lifeless soil, seizing Archimonde’s limbs and squeezing tight. Undaunted, Archimonde tore off one set of vines, but as he attempted to throw them away, they instead wrapped around his wrist. At the same time, others grew to take the place of those removed.

Malfurion Stormrage stepped forward, facing the distant demon with eyes as dead as when he had first told the others of Tyrande’s kidnapping. A static aura surrounded him and he constantly muttered over a small piece of what Krasus was the first to recognize as a leaf similar to those of the vines.

Archimonde’s expression never shifted, but his movements became more frantic. The vines now covered three-quarters of his immense body and appeared all but certain to drape the rest imminently.

Perhaps realizing this, the archdemon ceased his attempts to remove the strangling plants. Instead, eyes narrowed, he freed his arms enough to bring his hands together.