The Demon Soul (43 page)

He stared up at Krasus, whom he had last seen taken away by a frightened mount. The mage did not look at all well, the welt on the side of his head still bright red, but he appeared as determined as ever to be a part of all things.

Still, his words sounded addled to the druid. “What do you mean?”

“This storm’s birth is the result of your misery, druid! It radiates your despair! You must put an end to it and your hopelessness if anyone is to survive!”

“You’re mad!”

Yet even as he said it, Malfurion could sense a familiarity about the storm. He reached out and touched it as Cenarius had taught him to touch all parts of nature and what he discovered repelled the druid. It was not the storm that so disgusted him, but that part of it which he knew was indeed himself. He had created this monstrosity, somehow utilizing his sadness and dismay. In turn, it had beset not only his enemies, but his comrades, too.

I am as terrible as the demons or the black dragon! the druid thought.

Krasus must have sensed some of his companion’s thinking, for the dragon mage uttered, “Malfurion! You must not let such feeling drown your reason! This was accidental! You must transfer the power of your emotions to aid, not destroy!”

For what reason, though? Again, the druid thought of Tyrande, lost to the master of the Burning Legion. Without her, he saw no reason to go on.

It was, however, Tyrande who finally shook the blackness from his mind. She would not want this destruction. She had done everything she could to keep her people alive. Malfurion had failed her; if he let this storm continue, he would be failing her memory.

He glanced over at the young female who had clearly risked herself in order to save the priestess. Of too few seasons to be a novice, she nonetheless had used her skill with the bow to do anything she could regardless of satyrs and demons alike.

Thinking of that and watching her weep, Malfurion felt all his emotions concerning Tyrande swell up again. Without hesitation, he stared into the storm, pressing his will on the wind, the clouds…every part of nature that combined to create such bedevilment.

The wind shifted. The rain still poured down, but it seemed to lessen where the night elves fled and worsen where the Burning Legion scrambled over Neltharion’s ruined lands. Malfurion’s head throbbed as he fought the weather’s tendencies and made it focus all effort where the demons were.

The rain overhead ceased. The storm moved with obvious intent in the direction of Zin-Azshari.

Malfurion let out a gasp. He had done it.

The night elf slumped in the dragon’s grasp. From above him, Krasus called out, “Well done, druid! Well done!”

He should have been astounded by what he had accomplished not once, but twice. Certainly, even Cenarius would have been. Yet, all Malfurion could think about was that he had failed to save Tyrande.

And that made all the difference.

The storm lasted three days and three nights. With the relentlessness with which it had been imbued by its creator, it drove the Burning Legion on and on. By the time it had dissipated, they were but two days from Zin-Azshari.

Unfortunately, the night elves could not rally enough to follow them far. On the other side of the volcanic region created by Neltharion, the defenders tried to mend their own wounds and regroup. To many, the destruction caused by the storm, the Demon Soul, and all else paled when compared to the death of Lord Kur’talos Ravencrest.

Unable to give him a proper burial ceremony, the night elven commanders did what they could. At Lord Stareye’s demand, a wagon pulled by six night sabers was driven through much of the host. Atop it lay the dead noble, his arms crossed and the banner of his clan placed in his hands. Garlands of night lilies encircled the body. Ahead of the wagon, a contingent of soldiers from Black Rook Hold kept a path open. Behind, another group made certain that members of the weeping crowd did not seek to touch the body, lest it spill to the earth. All along the route, heralds let loose with mournful horns to alert those ahead of the sad display approaching.

When that had been done, Ravencrest’s corpse was set along with those of all who had perished in an area separated by some distance from the living. It fell to Malfurion to ask of Korialstrasz a terrible favor, one to which the dragon readily agreed.

With hundreds standing near enough to see but not be in any danger, Korialstrasz unleashed the only fire certain to burn despite the dampness pervading everything.

As the bodies of Lord Ravencrest and the other dead became an inferno, Malfurion sought seclusion. However, one figure would not leave him, that being the young female who had attempted to rescue Tyrande. Shandris, as she called herself, constantly pestered him with questions concerning when he would go after the priestess. Malfurion, sadly, had no answers for her, and finally had to get the other sisters to take her under their wing if only to keep from tripping over her.

Lord Stareye, proclaimed commander by his counterparts, had scoured the army for other traitors. Two soldiers associated with the assassin had been executed after fruitless questioning. Stareye now considered the matter closed, and moved on to the next stage of the struggle.

Krasus and Rhonin, accompanied by Brox and Jarod Shadowsong, tried to convince the host’s new leader of the need to turn to the other races to create a combined force, but their pleas fell on ears deafer than ever.

“Kur’talos laid down his edict on this subject and I will honor his memory,” the slender noble said with a sniff of white powder.

That ended the discussion, but not the concern. The Burning Legion would not be long in recovering, and Archimonde would quickly send them back against the night elves. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that the demon commander would unleash a fury even more terrible than any the defenders had thus far faced.

And even if the night elves held the invaders in check or pushed them back to the very gates of Zin-Azshari, none of their success would matter if the portal stayed open and the Highborne and demons managed to strengthen it further. A thousand thousand demons could perish and the night elves could storm the palace itself…but all would be for naught if Sargeras stepped through to their world. He would sweep away their army with a wave of his arm, a glare of his eyes.

That, in itself, made the decision for Krasus. The others gathered with him, he declared the only thing that might be done to stave off what appeared almost inevitable.

“Ravencrest was wrong,” he insisted, defying the memory of the dead, “and Stareye is blind. Without an alliance of all races, Kalimdor—the world—will be lost.”

“But Lord Stareye won’t speak with them,” Jarod pointed out.

“Then we must do it in his place…” The mage eyed each of them. “We cannot count on the dragons for now…if ever. Korialstrasz has gone to see what has become of them, but I fear that as long as Neltharion holds the disk, they can do nothing. Therefore, we must go to the dwarves, the tauren, the furbolgs…and we must convince them that they should help those who disdain their assistance.”

Rhonin shook his head. “The other races may see no reason to ally themselves with ones who’d almost as much as the Burning Legion prefer to see them all wiped out. We’re talking centuries of enmity, Krasus.”

The thin figure nodded grimly, his gaze shifting to the direction of the unseen capital. “Then, if that is the case, we will all die. Whether by the blades of the Burning Legion or the malevolent power of the Demon Soul, we will all surely die.”

No one there could argue with him.

Malfurion was the only one of the group not in attendance; these past few days, he had been on a hunt. It had started with a plan, a desperate plan, and there had been only one he could consider mad enough to join him on it. The druid wanted to go after Tyrande, still perhaps rescue her from the demons’ evil. Only one other among the thousands in the host might see the matter in the same light as he and Malfurion had spent all this time searching for his intended partner in this suicidal quest of his.

But of his brother, Illidan, he could find no sign.

At last, he dared approach the Moon Guard. Pretending to merely ask for his twin’s counsel on the upcoming advance, the druid sought the audience of the most senior of the sorcerers.

The balding night elf with the thin beard looked up as Malfurion neared. While the Moon Guard still did not trust his calling, they respected the terrifying results of his spells.

“Hail, Malfurion Stormrage,” the robed figure said, rising. The sorcerer had been sitting on a rock, reading a scroll that no doubt contained some of the arcane knowledge of his own craft.

“Forgive me, Galar’thus Rivertree. I come seeking my brother, but I can’t locate him.”

Galar’thus eyed him uneasily. “Has word not been passed on to you?”

Malfurion’s tension mounted. “What word?”

“Your brother has…disappeared. He went riding to investigate the volcanic regions created by the dragon…but never returned.”

The news left the druid incredulous. “Illidan rode out there alone? No bodyguard?”

The sorcerer bent low his head. “Can you think of one of us who could stop your twin, master druid?”

In truth, Malfurion could not. “Tell me what you know.”

“There is little. He rode out the night after the storm settled with the promise that he intended to return before daylight. Instead, two hours after night ended, his mount returned without him.”

“Was there—how was the beast?”

Galar’thus could not look at him. “The night saber looked ragged…and there was some blood on him. We tried to trace it to your brother, but much magic still radiates the area. Lord Stareye said—”

“Lord Stareye?” Malfurion grew more upset. “He knows, and yet I wasn’t told?”

“Lord Stareye said that no time could be wasted on one certainly dead. Our efforts must be made for the living. Your brother rode out of his own accord. I’m sorry, Malfurion Stormrage, but that was the commander’s decision.”

The druid no longer heard him. Malfurion turned and fled, stricken by the new loss. Illidan dead! It could not be! For all the differences between him and his twin, Malfurion had still loved his brother deeply. Illidan could not be dead…

Even as he thought that, a shiver ran down his spine. Malfurion halted, staring not at anything nearby, but rather inside himself.

He would know if his twin was dead. As sure as he felt the beating of his heart, Malfurion felt certain that if Illidan had perished, the druid would have known. Despite the evidence, Illidan had to be alive.

Alive…The druid eyed the smoldering lands, trying to sense beyond them and failing. If Illidan was out there…then where exactly was he?

Malfurion had the horrible feeling that he knew…

T
he stench of the ravaged city did not in the least disturb the cloaked and hooded rider as he rode slowly along the ruined avenue. He eyed the overturned tree towers and crushed homes with mild, analytical interest. The corpses so very slowly rotting away he looked at almost with disdain.

His mount suddenly growled and hissed. The rider immediately clutched the two tentacles he held tight, forcing the felbeast to move on despite its reluctance. When the huge, demonic hound did not do so at a sufficient pace, the rider unleashed a wave of black energy that, instead of feeding the vampiric creature, filled it with awful pain. The felbeast quickened its pace.

On and on through the dead city, the hooded figure traveled. He sensed many eyes watching him, but chose to do nothing. The guardians were of no interest to him; if they let him be, he would do the same.

His reluctant mount, which he had seized two days outside of the city, slowed again as it came to a crossroads. This time, however, the rider knew that the felbeast slowed not because of reluctance, but because it knew that its brethren were closing.

They would not leave him be. They intended a trap.

They were fools.

The three Fel Guard charged him from in front. With their brutal, horned visages and blazing weapons, the giants presented a formidable sight. But they were not, he knew, the true threat.

From the ruins on each side of him, a felbeast eagerly leapt at the supposedly distracted prey. Their tentacles reached out hungrily as they prepared to feast on this naive spellcaster.

He sniffed, disappointed with their ambush. With one quick tug, he tore a tentacle from his mount, ensuring that it would understand not to join the effort. As the felbeast howled, he tossed its appendage at the three warriors.