The Demon Soul (11 page)

“I…I am honored.”

Tilting his head, the horned satyr grinned. For some reason, Peroth’arn did not find that grin as frightening as he had earlier.

“No…’tis I who am honored, good Peroth’arn…and I come now in the hope that I may be honored even more.”

“I don’t understand, my—I don’t understand.”

“A little wine?” The hooved figure produced a flask from the air and offered it to the night elf. Peroth’arn opened the flask and sniffed. The heady bouquet thrilled his senses. Surely this was rainbow flower wine, his personal favorite.

Xavius leaned near. “From her own cellar…” he said, leering. “But we can keep that secret between us, eh?”

The thought of so bold a transgression against Azshara initially stunned the sorcerer, but then thrilled him. Xavius had performed this act of betrayal against the queen just for Peroth’arn’s sake. Azshara had executed loyal subjects for far less.

“Captain Varo’then would be aghast,” Peroth’arn suggested.

“He is not one of us…and therefore not a concern.”

“True.” To the rest of the Highborne, the captain and his soldiers were a necessary evil. They were servants of the queen, to be certain, but they lacked the noble blood and flamboyant airs of the others. Most of the Highborne considered them no better than those who had once lived beyond the walls of the palace, but never let such notions show in their expressions. Captain Varo’then had ways of quietly dealing with those who showed him contempt.

“Drink,” Xavius urged, pushing the flask up.

With the mouth of the bottle already near his lips, Peroth’arn saw no reason to hesitate anymore. He let the gentle liquid flow over his tongue and down his throat. His entire body tingled as he swallowed the rare vintage.

“A long-overdue reward,” Xavius said. “One of many.”

“Delicious.”

His hooved companion nodded. The more he sat with the satyr, the less Peroth’arn feared Xavius. The former advisor gave him the respect he so richly deserved. That was truly an honor for the night elf, for was not Xavius now a much respected servant of the great Sargeras? Was he not now more to the lord of the Legion than all the Highborne combined?

“He watches you, too,” the satyr commented quietly, as if passing a secret to a trusted comrade.

“ ‘He’? You mean—”

“All are under his wise gaze, even from so far away.” A tapering finger thrust at the sorcerer. “But some are observed more than others…in the hopes that they may be groomed for further greatness.”

Peroth’arn was speechless. Sargeras had marked him so? He quickly downed another huge gulp of wine, his eyes wide and calculating. How the others would have envied him.

“To his enemies, Sargeras is death incarnate, but to those who serve him well, he is benevolence unbridled.” Xavius guided the flask to Peroth’arn’s lips again. “He took me from beyond. He drew me back and granted me not only life again, but a special place at his side.”

Stretching to his full length, the satyr displayed his form for Peroth’arn. Seeing it now as a precious gift of the great god, the night elf admired it. In truth, Xavius was now much more than he had been in his previous life. His features were broader, more imposing. Xavius looked stronger, more agile despite the hooves. It was also evident that he had an even greater mastery of the arts. Peroth’arn could sense the power radiating from his former master and suddenly felt pangs of jealousy. This was power such as he, too, deserved.

Perhaps the wine had made Peroth’arn not so cautious in guarding his emotions, for suddenly Xavius pulled away from him as if struck. The satyr nearly melted back into the shadows. Peroth’arn clutched the flask tightly, fearing that he had offended one blessed by the god.

But as quickly as he had retreated, Xavius returned to him. The satyr loomed over the seated night elf, staring deep into Peroth’arn’s eyes. The sorcerer could not look away.

“No…” whispered Xavius half to himself. “It is too soon…but…he said that I must find those worthy…perhaps I could…yes…but to take on such a mantle, one would need the strength and resolve…dare I hope that you have such resolve, friend Peroth’arn?”

Leaping from the bed, Peroth’arn gasped, “I have whatever strength and resolve you need! I would do anything to be more worthy of my queen and Sargeras! Grant me the chance to be one of the worthy, I beg you!”

“It is a fearsome path you would take, dear Peroth’arn…but you would rise above the other Highborne! You would be under my guidance! All who beheld you would know you for one blessed by the lord of the Legion! Your power would grow tenfold and more! You would be the envy of all others, the first to join me!”

“Yes!” roared the night elf. “I will do whatever I must, Lord Xavius! Do not forsake me! I am worthy, I swear! Grant me this gift!”

The horned figure grinned, a sight that now filled his companion not with anxiousness, but rather with hope. “Yes, my dear Peroth’arn…I believe you. I believe that you are indeed worthy to take on the aspect of one of his most trusted, just as I have.”

“I am.”

“Your world will never be the same…it will be far better.”

Peroth’arn set the flask on the bed, then went down on one knee. “If I can be accepted here and now, I ask that it be so. Please say it is possible!”

The grin grew wider. “Oh, it can be done now.”

“Then I plead with you, Xavius—make me as you are! Give me the blessing of the god so that I may be a more perfect servant! I am worthy!”

“As you wish.” Taking a step back, Xavius seemed to grow. He filled Peroth’arn’s view completely. The ruby streaks in the satyr’s eyes flared wildly.

“It may cause you some pain at first,” he murmured to his convert, “but you will have no choice other than to endure it.”

Xavius raised his clawed hands high…

But as the spell struck him, Peroth’arn shrieked. He felt as if his body were being stripped to the bone bit by bit. The agony was like none he could have ever imagined. Tears filled his eyes and, unable to articulate words, he pleaded by moans for the pain to end. This was not what he wanted.

“No,” responded the satyr, ignoring his pleas. “We must finish now.”

And the screams rose to new, horrific levels. That which had once been Peroth’arn would hardly have been recognizable to his fellow Highborne. His body constantly mutated, pushed slowly and deliberately by Xavius’s power to what he desired. The screams became sobs, but even they did not disturb the satyr’s dark work, no matter how loud they, too, eventually became.

“Yes…” Xavius said with a gleam in his unholy orbs. “Unleash the pain. Unleash the fury. No one beyond this chamber will hear. You may scream as much as you like…just as I did.” His grin grew savage, animalistic. “It is little enough to suffer for the glory of Sargeras…”

The night elves had thought that the demons would pause somewhere along the way. They had expected that when they returned to Suramar they would at least be able to regroup and hold the enemy. And they had been certain that, if all else failed, Black Rook Hold would become their sanctuary.

They were wrong on all counts. Rhonin and Krasus understood why before Lord Ravencrest or any of the other night elves did. They had seen foremost the work of Archimonde, the sinister giant who, for a very good reason, commanded the Legion with the foul blessing of his master.

“He will give us no respite,” the dragon mage said, putting to voice what both had long thought. He absently touched his chest where he had adhered the scale, recalling Archimonde’s unholy relentlessness.

“He’ll run the demons into the ground before he lets that happen,” Rhonin agreed. “But we’ll all collapse long before they ever do.”

The night elves tried in vain to stop the rout at Suramar, if only so that the Hold could be readied for their entrance. It was hardly large enough to contain the population of the area, much less the huge force Ravencrest had gathered, but the noble had hoped that securing it would steel the hearts of his followers again. That, however, was not to be. There was not even time to enter the edifice. The soldiers held long enough for the civilians to flee behind them, but that was it. There was no chance to make Black Rook Hold ready and, to his credit, Ravencrest did not seek shelter there while the Burning Legion crushed all else.

“Never would I have thought the Hold so useless!” he snarled at Illidan. “But our host is too great despite our losses and if we sit here, the demons will chop away at those left outside, then starve those within.”

“Surely we can survive a siege!” Malfurion’s twin insisted.

“Against others, aye, but these will not tire and leave! They will destroy all around us, then wait for the inevitable!” The bearded night elf shook his head. “I will not let our end be so ignoble!”

After less than a day, they abandoned Suramar to the enemy, aware that nothing would be left to rebuild should the Burning Legion eventually be defeated. Wherever the demons marched, nothing remained but ruin. Even before the last glimpse of the city dwindled in the distance, the defenders could see the massive trees toppling, the walls collapsing under the relentless onslaught.

But even though so much of the Burning Legion had to be taking part in Suramar’s demise, those stalking the army continued after as if undrained of even a single warrior. So far there had been only one slim benefit to the lengthy retreat and that being the fading airborne threats. The Eredar still cast what spells they could to harass the night elves, but their demanding efforts had clearly exhausted them. The Infernals’ attacks had also lessened, at least from above. However, they still barreled ahead of the other demons, striking the defenders’ lines whenever the opportunity arose.

Day faded into night, then night into day, and still Ravencrest’s force was pushed back. More than one night saber rider lay asleep atop their mounts, and many a foot soldier eyed them with envy. Those who were stronger aided the ones beginning to falter. Worse, the population of refugees ahead of the soldiers grew with each hour, and they lacked the coordination and stamina of the fighters. Generations of peace had left them unprepared for such a catastrophe, and soon the army found itself merging unwillingly with the weary civilians.

“Get along there!” shouted Jarod Shadowsong to a number of slow-moving figures in front of him and his charges. “You can’t stop in the middle of this! Keep going!”

Krasus frowned. “This will only worsen. Ravencrest will be unable to maintain order even over his soldiers if they and the refugees become too entangled. This is exactly what Archimonde desires.”

“But what can we do?” Rhonin’s eyes had deep shadows. Like the others, he had not truly rested since before the trap had been sprung. Of all of them, only Brox looked at all fit. Having grown up in wartime, the orc had been forced many times to survive days without sleep. Still, even he appeared ready to nap if given the chance.

In fact, it was Brox who answered Rhonin’s question, but not in words. With their own party becoming as trapped by the flow of refugees as the rest of the armed force, the orc began taking action. Pushing ahead of Jarod and the bodyguard, Brox roared at the nearest of the mob and swung his ax around his head. He was such a sight to behold that the night elves fearfully started to open the way for him.

“No!” he rumbled. “Ahead! No going that way! Ahead only! Help others!”

And as his companions watched, the grotesque figure began herding the refugees as if he had been doing the same with cattle or sheep all his life. None of the night elves sought his fury and they obeyed his commands to the letter.

Jarod quickly took up his example, spreading the guard unit wide and using them to sweep forward the civilians before his party. Order was soon reestablished there and as more officers became aware of what was happening, a true line started to form. With careful deliberation, the armed host herded their charges on. The night elves’ pace as a whole picked up.

Yet still the Burning Legion drove them on. Krasus noticed a mountain in the distance, one that struck a vague recollection. He looked to Jarod and asked, “Captain Shadowsong, is there a name to that dire peak?”

“Aye, Master Krasus. It’s Mount Hyjal.”

“Mount Hyjal…” The mage pursed his lips. “Are we driven back so far as that?”

Rhonin noted his expression. Speaking only for Krasus’s ears, he asked, “You recall that name?”

“Yes…and it means that the night elves’ situation is most dire.”

The human snorted. “Something we already knew.”

Krasus’s eyes took on a darker cast. “We cannot permit this retreat to go on much farther. The host must make a stand, Rhonin. If we fall back beyond Mount Hyjal, then surely all is lost.”