The Demon Soul (6 page)

The female night elf actually flushed.

His steady, unblinking gaze turned to Captain Varo’then. “And the Great One always approves of the capable warrior.”

Varo’then went down on one knee. “I am honored.”

As if no longer acknowledging the pair as anything of interest, Archimonde turned to where the sorcerers worked. A black gap hung in the midst of the pattern they had created, a gap that, despite its tremendous size, had surely disgorged the huge demon with difficulty.

“Hold the way steady. He will be coming through now.”

“Who?” Azshara blurted. “Sargeras is coming?”

With utter indifference, Archimonde shook his head. “No. Another.”

Varo’then chanced a glance Mannoroth’s way and saw that the tusked demon, too, was puzzled.

The edges of the black gap suddenly shimmered. The Highborne maintaining the portal immediately shook as their efforts demanded more than ever from them. Several gasped, but wisely did not falter.

And then…a shape coalesced in the portal. Though smaller than the demons, it somehow radiated a forceful presence nearly on par with Archimonde or Mannoroth even before it put one foot out onto the mortal plane.

Or rather…one hoof.

On two legs like those of a shaggy goat, the figure stepped toward the demon commanders and night elves. The lower half of his body was pure animal in design. The unclad torso, however, while so deep a purple that it was nearly black, was otherwise identical to that of a night elf, save far more muscled. A long mane of black-blue hair hung loose around the narrow visage. The huge, curled horns contrasted sharply with the elegant, pointed ears. The only clothes the newcomer wore was a wide loincloth.

But if any thought because of the lower half and horns that this was only a beast sent by the lord of the Legion, they had only to look into its eyes and sense the deep, cunning intelligence within. Here was a mind sharper and quicker than most, devious and adaptive where it needed to be.

Only then did the eyes themselves register on the soldier. There could be no mistaking the black, crystalline orbs—clearly artificial—and the streaks of crimson running across the centers.

Only one being he had ever known had possessed such fantastic eyes.

Captain Varo’then stood, but it was not from his mouth that the identity of the other was uttered. That came instead from Queen Azshara, who leaned forward, studied with pursed lips the leering visage that was and was not the face both she and the officer had known, and said, “Lord Xavius?”

T
he night elven host assembled by Lord Ravencrest was truly impressive to behold, but Malfurion found no comfort in their great numbers as he waited for the noble’s signal to begin the march. The young night elf looked to his right, where his brother and companions also awaited astride their mounts. Rhonin and Krasus constantly discussed some matter between themselves, while Brox stared ahead at the horizon with the clear patience of a seasoned warrior. Perhaps of all of them, the orc understood the overwhelming task they faced. Brox held the ax Malfurion and Cenarius had created for him as if already seeing the endless tide of enemy.

Despite Brox’s clear knowledge of combat, Ravencrest and the rest of those in command of the host had not once turned to the orc for his experience and knowledge. Here was a creature who had fought hand-to-hand with the demons, yet no one asked him of their weaknesses, their strengths, or anything else that might give those on the front line a further edge. True, Krasus and Rhonin had provided some such insight, but theirs was tempered by a more familiar use of magic. Brox…Malfurion suspected that Brox could have taught everyone far more when it came to true fighting.

We are a people whose downfall may yet come because of our own arrogance…Malfurion frowned at his own pessimism, then lost the frown as the only sight that could cheer his heart came riding up to him.

“Malfurion!” Tyrande called, her expression pensive and worried. “I thought never to find you in all this!”

Her face was as he always remembered it, for he had long ago burned it into his memory. Once a childhood friend, Tyrande had now become for him a desire. Her skin was a smooth, violet shade and her dusky blue hair was tinged with silver. She had a fuller face than many of their kind, which added to her beauty. Her features were somehow delicate yet determined, and she had veiled silver eyes that ever pulled Malfurion inside. Her lips were soft and often wore a hint of a smile.

In contrast to the previous times that they had met, the novice priestess of Elune—the Mother Moon—wore an outfit more befitting the way of war than the peace of the temple. Gone was her flowing, white robe. In its place was a form-fitting suit of armor with layered plates that allowed much mobility. The armor covered Tyrande from neck to foot, and over it, almost as an inconsistency, was a shimmering, gossamer cloak the color of moonlight. In the crook of her arm, the young priestess held a winged helmet that would protect the upper portion of her face as well.

To Malfurion, she looked more like the priestess of a war god and evidently Tyrande could read such in his expression. With a bit of defensiveness, she admonished him, “You may excel at your new calling, Malfurion, but you seem to have forgotten the elements of Mother Moon! Do you not recall her aspect as the Night Warrior, she who takes the courageous dead from the field and sets them riding across the evening sky as stars for their reward?”

“I meant no disrespect to Elune, Tyrande. It was more that I’ve never seen you dressed so. It makes me greater fear that this war will forever change us all…providing we survive it.”

Her expression softened again. “I’m sorry. Perhaps my own uneasiness makes my temper short. That, and the fact the high priestess has declared that I myself shall lead a group of novices into this conflict.”

“What do you mean?”

“We are not going to ride with the host simply to offer our healing powers. The high priestess has had a vision in which the sisterhood must actively fight alongside the soldiers and the Moon Guard. She says that all must be willing to take upon themselves new roles if we’re to keep the demons from victory.”

“That may be easier said than done,” Malfurion responded with a grimace. “I was just thinking how hard it is for our people to adjust to change of any kind. You should have been there when Krasus suggested that they call upon the dwarves, tauren, and other races to work with them.”

Her eyes widened. “It’s a wonder they work with him and Rhonin, much less tauren. Doesn’t he realize that?”

“Yes, but he’s as stubborn as one of us, possibly more.”

He quieted as his brother suddenly joined them. Illidan gave him a cursory glance, then focused his attention completely on Tyrande.

“You look like a warrior queen,” he told her. “Azshara herself could appear no finer.”

Tyrande flushed and Malfurion wished that he had made some compliment—any compliment—for which the priestess might remember him before the host set off.

“You are the Night Warrior herself, in fact,” Illidan continued smoothly. “I hear you’ve been put in charge of a band of your sisters.”

“The high priestess says that my skills have much increased of late. She says that in all her years of guidance, I’m one of the swiftest to attain such levels.”

“Not a surprise.”

Before Malfurion could say anything similar, a horn suddenly blared. It was followed by another, then another, and so on as each segment of the mighty army signaled its readiness for departure.

“I have to return to the sisters,” Tyrande told them. To Malfurion, she added, “I came to wish you well.” Instinctively, the priestess turned to Illidan. “And you, of course.”

“With your blessing, we’re certain to ride to victory,” Malfurion’s sibling returned.

Again Tyrande flushed. Another horn sounded, and she quickly donned the helmet, turned her panther around, and rode off.

“She looks more suited for battle than either of us,” Malfurion commented.

“Yes. What a mate she’ll make for someone, eh?”

Malfurion looked at his brother, but Illidan had already urged his night saber toward Lord Ravencrest. As the noble’s personal sorcerer, Illidan had to ride near the elder night elf. Malfurion and the others had been ordered to remain within shouting distance, but otherwise they did not have to stay with Ravencrest. The master of Black Rook Hold did not want all of his strongest weapons clustered together. The Eredar already knew to focus on the druid and the wizards whenever possible.

Jarod Shadowsong and three soldiers rode to him. “It’s time to go! I must ask you to come with us!”

Nodding, Malfurion followed the captain back to the rest. Rhonin and Krasus wore almost identical dour expressions. Brox’s had changed not one bit, but under his breath the orc appeared to be chanting.

“A march at night,” commented Krasus, turning to watch the last vestige of day vanish. “How very predictable. Archimonde will note it. Despite their best to adapt, your people are still inclined to fall back to comfortable tendencies.”

“With such numbers, we’ll still be able to push the demons back,” Captain Shadowsong insisted. “Lord Ravencrest will sweep the monsters from our fair land.”

“So we can only hope.”

A final horn sounded and the night elven host moved as one in the direction of Zin-Azshari. Regardless of his misgivings, Malfurion swelled as he watched the armed force cover the landscape. The banners of three dozen major clans highlighted a collection of alliances spanning the width and breadth of most of the realm. Foot soldiers marched in perfect unison like a swarm of dedicated ants heading to a feast. Night sabers leapt along in great prides a hundred strong and more, their helmed riders staring wearily ahead.

The bulk of the soldiers wielded swords, lances, and bows. Behind them came siege machines—ballistae, catapults, and the like—drawn by teams of the dark panthers. Most of those operating the machines were of Lord Ravencrest’s clan, for in general night elves did not work with such devices. Only Ravencrest seemed to have the foresight necessary to lead his people to victory. That he had not sought the aid of the dwarves and others was bothersome to the druid, but in the end it would not matter. Despite his misconception that Azshara was innocent, the noble would still see to it that the Burning Legion fell to bloody defeat.

After all, there was really no other choice.

Urged on by Ravencrest and their own belief in certain victory, the night elves made good distance that first eve. Their commander finally gave the order to halt two hours into daylight. Immediately the host set up camp, a long line of sentries marking the front to ensure the demons would not catch them by surprise.

Here the land had not yet been touched by the horror of the Burning Legion. To the south, forest still stood. To the north, high, green hills dotted the landscape. The elder night elf sent out patrols to investigate each direction, but no foes were found.

Malfurion was immediately drawn to the woods, almost as if they called his name. When chance came, he separated from his companions and turned his mount toward them.

Jarod Shadowsong immediately noted his act. The captain rode after him, calling out as he approached, “I must ask you to turn back! You cannot go out there by yourself! Remember what happened—”

“I’ll be all right, Jarod,” Malfurion replied quietly. In truth, he felt that this particular patch of wilderness was shielded even from the demonic assassins who had so often preyed on him and his companions. How this could be, Malfurion could not say, but he knew it with the utmost certainty.

“You cannot go alone—”

“I’m not. You’re with me.”

The soldier gritted his teeth, then, with a look of resignation, followed the druid into the forest. “Please…just not so long.”

Promising nothing, Malfurion continued on into the deeper part of the forest. A feeling of trust, of faith, overwhelmed him. The trees welcomed him, even seemed to recognize him—

And then he understood why he felt so at home in this place.

“Welcome back, my thero’shan…my honored student.”

Captain Shadowsong looked around for the source of the stirring voice, a voice reminiscent of both the wind and thunder. Malfurion, on the other hand, waited patiently, knowing that the speaker would reveal himself in his own fashion.

The wind abruptly picked up around the duo. The officer held tight to his helmet while the druid bent his head back to better feel the breeze. Loose leaves began rising up in the wind, which grew stronger, fiercer. Yet, only the captain appeared dismayed by this; even the night sabers raised their snouts up to inhale the fresh wind.

A miniature whirlwind arose before the riders. Leaves, brush, bits of stone and earth…more and more they gathered within, compacting together to form something solid.

“I have been waiting for you, Malfurion.”

“By the Mother Moon!” Jarod gasped.

The giant moved on four strong legs akin to those of a stag; the bottom half of his torso was indeed the body of one. Above that, a barrel-chested form similar in coloring and shape to a night elf peered down at the two intruders with orbs of pure golden sunlight. A hint of forest green tinged the otherwise violet flesh and the fingers ended in gnarled but deadly talons of aged wood.

The newcomer shook his head, sending his thick, moss-green mane fluttering. Leaves and twigs appeared to be growing naturally within both the mane and the wide, matching beard, but they were not as astonishing as the huge, multilayered set of antlers rising high over the giant’s head.

Malfurion bowed his head in reverence. “My shan’do. My most honored teacher.” He looked up. “I am happy to see you, Cenarius.”

Although both night elves stood a good seven feet tall, Cenarius towered over them and their mounts. At least ten feet in height himself, his antlers gave him at least another four feet. He was so impressive, in fact, that the captain, who had conversed face-to-face with a dragon, could only gape.

With a slight chuckle that seemed to make all the nearby birds decide to sing, Cenarius declared, “You are welcome here, Jarod Shadowsong! Your grandsire was a true friend of the forest!”

Jarod shut his mouth, opened it again, shut it once more, then merely nodded. Like all night elves, he had grown up hearing the tales of the demigod, but like most of his people, he had assumed that they were simply that—tales.

The forest lord gazed down at his pupil. “Your thoughts are in crisis. I felt it even in the Emerald Dream.”

The Emerald Dream. It had been some time since Malfurion had walked it. In the Emerald Dream, one saw the world as it might have been in its earliest creation—no animals, no people, no civilization. There was a tranquillity to it; a dangerous one, in fact. One could become so caught up in it that one forgot how to return to the mortal plane. The walker might instead wander forever while his body finally perished.

Taught to travel it by Cenarius, Malfurion had used the dreamscape to enter the palace prior to his struggle with Lord Xavius. Since that event, however, the young druid had been afraid to return, the vague memories of the aftermath still haunting him. He would have drifted through the Emerald Dream for eternity if not for his teacher just barely noticing him.