The Scepter of Sargeras—the artifact Ner’zhul had sent them to retrieve.
All they had to do was take it from what Fenris was absolutely sure was a demon.
“You will not pass,” the creature hissed, its voice rolling over them in oily waves. “This tomb has already been defiled by mortals once! It shall not happen again!”
“We don’t want to pass,” Fenris replied, biting back the fear and bile that leaped up his throat. “We just want that scepter you’re waving about.”
The demon laughed, a low chuckle like bone grating on bone, and stepped forward, its long clawed feet digging deep furrows into the marble floor. “Then you may try to take it from me,” it offered. “And after you fail, I will shred your bodies and sup upon your souls.”
“I’ll crack your bones with my teeth and drink out the marrow!” Tagar bellowed back at the demon—this was the kind of language he understood. Then he charged, his axe held high.
And, though he cursed Tagar for a fool and himself for a worse one, Fenris raised his own weapon and leaped into the fray beside his fellow chieftain. The other thirty or so Thunderlord and Bonechewer warriors were right behind them.
Even so, it was a difficult battle. The demon was strong, stronger than any one of them by far, and faster as well. Its long claws cleft skin and bone and muscle with ease, tearing through the orcs as if they were dried leaves. The scepter it held was heavy enough to crush an orc’s skull without taking a dent. Even the demon’s tail was a weapon. Tagar shrieked in outrage as the creature struck one of the Bonechewers with it. The long barb at the end went easily through the hapless orc’s chest and emerged, dripping blood, from his back.
But the worst, the most frightening attack it possessed, was its bite—that unbelievable mouth stretched wider than should have physically been possible, exposing row upon row of teeth. Fenris watched the demon bite off half a warrior’s head, and even through his own battle rage he felt sick.
It was that battle rage that saved them. Under normal circumstances Fenris disapproved of the bloodlust, but now it was a boon. Without it, many of the orcs—including himself—would have run away in abject terror. But with their heads pounding and their vision blurring and their blood humming, they attacked and continued to attack. Yes, the demon was faster, but with so many warriors attacking on each new assault, a few hits got through. The demon was stronger, but severing its limbs still crippled it.
At the last, with the demon’s tail and one arm and part of a leg gone, and the other arm so shattered it writhed like a snake, Fenris and Tagar struck as one, their axes slicing into its thick neck. The blows came from opposite sides, delivered with all the force their respective masters could muster, and both chieftains took thin cuts along their fingers where the other’s blade had nicked. But the demon toppled to the ground, his neck cut clean through from both sides, the head landing at Ragnok’s feet.
Fenris bent down and picked up the scepter. It was lighter than he had expected, but he could feel a faint thrum of power through it.
“We have what we were sent for,” he said, turning back. “Let’s go.”
“What?” Surprisingly, it was Ragnok who protested. “But this is the Tomb of Sargeras! And you just killed its guardian!”
“That was one guardian,” Fenris replied. “There will be others, you mark my words.” He held the scepter up so it caught the light. “Fortunately, we don’t have to go any deeper into this pit.”
“You don’t understand,” Ragnok continued. He stepped up closer to Fenris. “We got the scepter; we should get the Eye of Sargeras as well. Do you remember when I was confused earlier? It was because I was sensing both artifacts! It took me a moment to realize what was going on. But I know exactly where the Eye of Sargeras is now—down that other corridor. That was the artifact Gul’dan sought, and now it’s within our grasp!”
Ragnok’s glowing eyes narrowed in fury. “Pitiful things. I could destroy you with a mere thought! You will come with me to retrieve the Eye or—”
“Or what?” Fenris spat. “Go ahead. Kill us where we stand, and go back alone for the Eye. Either way, we will be dead.” He was mostly sure that the death knight was bluffing, but he stood by his decision. Ragnok might kill them in a fit of anger. But whatever was sure to be guarding the Eye would most definitely kill them.
Ragnok lifted his hands and for a moment Fenris’s heart stopped. But then the death knight sagged; he had been bluffing after all.
“You are fools,” Ragnok growled, but his voice was laced with defeat.
“Maybe,” Fenris agreed, “But we are fools who will live to see another day.” Without another word he turned. His clan followed him, as did Tagar and his orcs. It was only with the smallest satisfaction that a few moments later, he noticed that Ragnok had again joined them.
“Do you have it?”
Fenris dismounted, sliding off the dragon’s back and planting both feet solidly on the cracked ground, then met Gorefiend’s stare as the death knight hurried toward them. The dragons had been waiting for the orcs when their boats had reached land again, and had quickly carried them back into the Blasted Lands to rejoin Gorefiend and the others.
“Yes, we have it,” Fenris confirmed, holding up the long cloth-wrapped scepter. He handed it to Gorefiend, happy to be rid of it. “What now?”
“Now we make haste back through the portal,” Gorefiend answered. Fenris suppressed a shudder as Gorefiend’s hands closed about the bundle protectively. “Our tasks here are finished. Azeroth is no longer important to us. We’ll leave this world to the humans and their allies, and good riddance.”
Fenris started to ask for more detail, but a loud rumbling stopped him. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw several large carts rolling into the valley, orcs guiding each one. Remembering the discussion back in the Blackrock Mountains, he realized those must contain the cargo Deathwing had asked them to allow through the portal. He wondered idly what could be so important the black dragon wanted it moved to another world, but resigned himself to likely never knowing.
Another orc, though, was more curious than Fenris. He started to approach one of the carts. Before Fenris could even draw breath to shout out a warning, a dark shape swooped from the skies. The orc screamed and dropped to the ground, clutching at his face. Blood dripped from between his fingers.
“Get back!” Fenris cried. “Stay away from the carts!”
The dragons that had borne the orcs here now took to the skies to defend the cargo, some of them not waiting to make sure their riders had completely dismounted.
“Gorefiend!” came a voice Fenris recognized. That scream could belong to no one other than the Warsong chieftain. Grom Hellscream had clearly been with the forces harassing the Alliance troops at Nethergarde Keep and had just returned with them. He was still halfway across the valley, but they heard him clearly. “Did you bring these creatures?”
“I did!” Gorefiend replied, not raising his voice but his words carrying nonetheless. “The black dragons are our new allies!”
Grom ducked as a black dragon’s claws slid by dangerously close to his head, and scowled. “Some allies!” he shouted. “Do something about your winged friends before they cause a panic—or kill us all!”
The death knight glanced up at the dragons, studying them a moment. Then he nodded. “Deathwing!” he called. “I swear to you that I will defend those carts and their cargo! Please pull your dragons back to the valley’s edge!”
Fenris couldn’t pick the dragon elder out among all the shifting, gliding shapes, but a moment later the dragons wheeled and made for perches along the cliffs ringing the valley floor.
“Better,” Grom grunted, approaching them. He nodded at Fenris, who nodded back—the two of them had always gotten along. Fenris considered Grom one of the finest chieftains in the Horde, and a superb warrior as well.
“Did you get what you needed?” Grom asked them both.
“We did,” Gorefiend replied. He didn’t say
anything further. Grom peered at the carts.
“What are those?” Grom asked.
“Cargo,” Gorefiend replied shortly. Each cart was made of sturdy wood beams, had high sides, and was completely covered with a thick tarp. Fenris could see from the way the tarp shifted that the carts were full, but could discern nothing more.
“I thought all we had to retrieve were those artifacts,” Grom said.
“There has been a change of plans,” the death knight answered. “Nothing to worry about.” He raised his voice and must have worked some magic as well, because suddenly it echoed across the valley. “Those carts are under my personal protection, and anyone who interferes with them—or tries to look in them—will answer to me.” Several orcs glanced up, startled, and two who had been approaching the rear cart hastily backed away.
Fenris shrugged. His task was done, and if Gorefiend wanted to play some other game that was between him and Ner’zhul. “How soon can we go through?” he asked instead.
“I need some of your clan to stay behind and defend the portal for a short time longer. You and the rest can go through now, if you like,” Gorefiend answered. “Tagar, you too. I need some of your Bonechewers.”
Fenris frowned, but nodded. He had hoped all his clan would be allowed to return, but he understood Gorefiend’s reasoning.
“What of us?” Grom was asking Gorefiend, but Fenris turned away. The Warsong’s orders were not his concern right now. Instead he signaled his second, Malgrim Stormhand, and together they selected twelve orcs to stay behind under Malgrim’s command. The orcs did not protest. They were Thunderlords; they served the Horde as asked.
“To the portal!” The rest of the Thunderlord clan marched across the valley floor and approached the towering new Dark Portal. Just ahead of them were the covered carts, and Fenris saw several death knights detach themselves from the forces positioned around the valley and step up beside those mysterious vehicles. Gorefiend was there as well, near the front.
Fenris heard Tagar yelling at his Bonechewers, trying to divvy them up, and the roars of ogres as they were promised combat. “Me smash!” one of them cried gleefully. The entire Warsong clan, too, would stay, judging from the comments he heard. The portal would be amply protected. Part of him thought he should remain as well, but another part of him was deeply weary and longed for home. Later, perhaps, he would return with fresh orcs to relieve those he had stationed here.
Fenris hastened up the ramp and faced the Dark Portal itself. The portal still made him nervous, with its strange rippling energy. It disturbed him that something so small—he could easily walk around the portal; it wasn’t even as wide as the thick stone columns framing it—could form a bridge between two separate worlds. He kept half-expecting the portal to fail somehow, to collapse and tear apart anyone caught within it. The thought made him pick up his pace, and he ran through it, feeling the strange jarring sensation he’d noticed when he’d left Draenor, as if his body were being shunted a great distance. A cold prickle ran across his skin and a brief flash crossed his eyes, then he was staring at the familiar red skies of Draenor again. Fenris breathed a sigh of relief and continued on away from the portal, stopping finally to allow the rest of his clan to catch up.
Behind him he saw some of the other clans filing through as well, and Gorefiend had already departed with those carts. Fenris had done as ordered, and now he would simply wait until Ner’zhul had new instructions for him. Until then, the Thunderlord warriors would return to their home. He had had enough of intrigue and deception and plotting to last him a long, long time.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Khadgar was in the meeting hall, one of the few completely finished structures in Nethergarde. He had wanted to stay on the parapet and continue lending a hand against the Horde but Turalyon had convinced him to rest for a few minutes and eat something. “Archmage or not, you’re no good to us if you’re fainting from hunger or fatigue,” his friend had pointed out. It was sound advice, and so Khadgar had let himself be led over here and had dutifully eaten the bowl of stew someone had placed in front of him. He remembered that much, and now he supposed he must have fallen asleep. He was dreaming, and the dream was bittersweet. For in the dream, Khadgar was young.
He turned his clean-shaven face to the night sky, and let the moon bathe it, the wind tousling his hair that was dark save for single streak of white. He lifted his hands, marveling at how young and strong they looked, ungnarled and unspotted. He strode across Lordaeron like a giant, each step carrying him whole leagues, his head brushing the clouds. It was night, yet he walked surely and without hesitation, his feet knowing the way. He found himself heading toward Dalaran, and forded the lake in one step to stand beside the mage-city. Light poured from a single room in the Violet Citadel, despite the late hour, and Khadgar focused his attention there. He began to float upward, growing smaller as he approached the room. As his feet touched down on the balcony, he was his normal size again. The door was open, and he entered, pushing aside the gauze curtains that kept out bugs but allowed moonlight.
“Welcome, Khadgar. Come and join me.” Khadgar was not surprised to see Antonidas there, and to realize that these were the Kirin Tor leader’s own chambers. He sat in the proffered chair and accepted a glass of wine from the other archmage, amused that for once Antonidas, with his long brown beard just beginning to gray, actually looked the senior—normally it was Khadgar whom strangers thought the elder mage, thanks to his snow-white beard, even though in reality Antonidas had several decades of experience over him.
“Thank you,” Khadgar said quietly, after they’d both sipped at their wine a moment. He gestured at his boyish face, his powerful, slim youth’s body. “For this.”
Antonidas looked a bit uncomfortable. “I thought I would make this as pleasant as possible.”
“I’ve missed it. Being young. I wouldn’t change a thing—Medivh had to be stopped—and most of the time I don’t mind. But sometimes…I miss it.”
“…I know.”
Khadgar changed the subject. “I take it this is no ordinary dream?”
Antonidas shook his head. “No, unfortunately not. I have grave news to impart. The black dragonflight has allied itself with the Horde.”
It took a great deal of will not to choke on his wine. “The black dragonflight?” Khadgar repeated. “But what of the red?” The two dragonflights were mortal enemies.
His host shrugged. “They have not been seen for some time. It may be that they have finally broken the Horde’s control.” He frowned. “But the orcs have found new allies, and it seems to us willing ones this time.”
Khadgar shook his head. “Are they heading toward Nethergarde?”
“We don’t know,” Antonidas admitted. “Perhaps. They have already been here, and to Alterac as well.” His frown became a full-fledged scowl. “They stole the Eye of Dalaran, Khadgar.”
“The Eye?” Khadgar knew well what kind of a blow that was to Dalaran. “But what does the Horde want with it?”
“I know not, but they were here specifically to steal it,” Antonidas confirmed. “A handful of death knights managed to get past all our defenses, take it, and use the dragons to escape. Dragons that shortly thereafter slaughtered the Alliance forces watching Alterac, no doubt at that traitor Perenolde’s command.”
Khadgar made a face. “I wonder how Perenolde managed that.”
“Yet another mystery. I know how much you are dealing with already, Khadgar. But I thought you should know.”
“Thank you,” Khadgar told him, and meant it. “Yes, I’d rather know.” He frowned thoughtfully, reaching to stroke his beard and momentarily nonplussed to find only his bare chin. “And perhaps I can even find out why these things happened. First the Book of Medivh, now the Eye of Dalaran. Why these specifically?” He set his wineglass down on Antonidas’s desk and stood, reluctantly. “I should be getting back.”
Back to being a boy in an old man’s body. Back to watching Alleria and Turalyo
n enact a painful drama of denial and hurting and solitude when any fool could see they would be stronger and happier together. Back to fighting orcs and closing portals and bearing the weight of the world on his artificially aged shoulders. He sighed heavily.
“As you wish. Good luck, my boy.” Antonidas waved his hand, and Khadgar awoke, sitting up at Nethergarde’s meeting room table. He was back in his elderly body now, and felt a wistful pang as he regarded his withered hands and long white beard.
Rising, Khadgar left the dream and the meeting hall behind. He spotted Turalyon and a few others at the main gate. They were clustered around a new prisoner. They looked up as he approached and stepped back. The archmage suppressed a shudder as he saw the creature’s rotting, once-human face and glowing red eyes.
“Khadgar!” Turalyon called as he noticed his friend. “I was just about to send for you.”
“I assume you needed my help with this one? Was the Light ineffective?”
Turalyon looked frustrated. “Quite the contrary. His reaction was so extreme I was afraid I was going to kill him. I thought perhaps you—”
“Of course.” Khadgar sank down to a crouch beside the prisoner, meeting his fiery gaze. “Do you have a name, death knight?”
The creature merely snarled, writhing against his bonds. They held fast, however.
“If that’s the way you want it,” said Khadgar, shrugging. He summoned power to him, then focused that power into a tight beam. The spell easily pierced the Horde creature’s defenses as Turalyon’s Light probably had, but although the death knight stiffened, he was not so maddened by agony he could not speak. And speak he would.
“Your name?”
The death knight glared at him, murder in his eyes, but his mouth opened and formed words of its own accord. “Gaz Soulripper.”
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