The Demon Soul (warcraft)

by Richard A. Knaak

  Krasus glanced at the human. “Rhonin, in matters of magic, Illidan looks to you more than anyone. I leave it to you to establish a link with him.”

  “As you wish.” The fiery-tressed figure blinked once. “It’s done.”

  The mage returned his attention to the druid. “Malfurion, imagine the most powerful spell you think you can cast. But by all means, do not tell me what it is! Use whatever method, whatever contact with the powers of the world you require, but do not complete your casting until I say so. We must be relentless against our foes.”

  “I…I understand.”

  “Good! Then, we begin. Follow my lead. Rhonin?”

  “I’m ready,” the younger wizard replied. “I know just what I want to do.”

  Krasus’s eyes widened. “Ah! One other detail, Malfurion; be prepared to randomly shift the focus of your attack. Move your spell to wherever it seems there is a gap in our effort. Do you understand?”

  “I believe so.”

  “May the powers of light be with us, then.”

  That said, Krasus abruptly froze. His eyes stared unblinking across the gap separating the night elves from the demons.

  Rhonin quickly leaned toward Malfurion. “Use everything. Leave no defenses. This is all or nothing.”

  “They are approaching the point.” Krasus informed his companions. “Would that Archimonde be among the first ranks.”

  They could all sense the approaching horde. The evil permeated the very air, sending a foul radiation their way. Even Krasus shuddered, but from disgust, not fear.

  “Rhonin, I have Jarod Shadowsong prepared. Are the Moon Guard ready?”

  “Yes.”

  “Almost…“ The pale visage tightened. Krasus’s eyelids flickered. “Now.”

  They had no knowledge of one another’s attack, exactly how Krasus intended it. He desired true random effort, the better to foul up whatever defense Archimonde and the others might devise. His plan had as much potential for disaster—if not more even—than success, but that very fact was what the dragon mage counted on.

  From the clouds suddenly dropped glittering spears of ice that fixed on the enemy horde. To the north, the ground shook, and demons suddenly scattered as the earth swelled. Elsewhere, huge, black birds appeared from nowhere, heading toward the airborne elements of the Legion.

  All along the front, one spell after another assaulted the enemy. Some were concentrated in specific areas while others seemed to act everywhere. No two were alike and although a few appeared to be in conflict with one another, they did far worse damage to the oncoming horde.

  Demons died pierced by ice, burned by crimson flame, or buried by molten earth. Those in the sky fell beaten and torn by hundreds of claws or tumbled to their deaths after winds tossed them against one another.

  The Eredar attempted to counter, but Krasus suddenly commanded, “Shift your focus!”

  Immediately, Malfurion, Rhonin, and—to the north—the Moon Guard and Illidan altered the direction in which they focused their spells. Krasus sensed the warlocks grow confused, uncertain as to where to first apply their counter-assaults. On the ground, the Fel Guard and other demon warriors tried in vain to defend against something that their weapons could not cut in two or impale.

  The relentless advance finally came to a halt.

  “They are stalled!” shouted Krasus. “Shift focus again and push harder! We must begin to retake ground!”

  Again they adjusted the locations of their attacks. A few areas quieted, but just as the Burning Legion sought to take advantage of those lulls, someone among the spellcasters filled the gaps. Nowhere could the demons now stand their positions, much less press forward.

  “They’re giving way!” Malfurion called.

  “Do not let up!” Krasus gritted his teeth. “Rhonin, I am alerting the captain!”

  The druid dared to look at the human for a moment. “What does he mean?”

  “It took some convincing, but Shadowsong rode to Ravencrest! He’s been waiting for our signal!”

  “For what?”

  In answer, the battle horns sounded. A sudden electricity filled the night elves. Gone was the dying hope, the resignation. Once more the soldiers responded to the horns’ cries with vigor, and the host advanced.

  The spellcasters adjusted as they, too, slowly moved forward on foot. Their trained cats following close behind, they marched with the soldiers toward the enemy.

  And finally the Burning Legion began to retreat full.

  First the night elves crossed the ruined gap that the Moon Guard and wizards had earlier wrought to buy them time. Then they started to climb their way over the first of the demon dead. They also passed many of their own, lost hours earlier, but more and more, it was the demons who lay as corpses before the soldiers. The Burning Legion, softened by the unpredictable attacks of the spellcasters, fell away easily as the night elves cut into them.

  Another set of horns blew. A lengthy, well-savored roar of anticipation unexpectedly erupted throughout the host. The night elves surged forward, more than doubling their pace.

  “Ravencrest must follow the plan!” Krasus snapped. “They cannot chase the Legion too far or too fast!”

  A flight of arrows fell upon the demons, slaying scores more. Panther riders charged the remaining fragments of the opposing line, the great cats eagerly tearing into their prey.

  Malfurion’s heart beat swifter. “We’re doing it!”

  “Do not let up!” stressed the mage.

  They did not. Fueled by their success, the druid and the others continued adding to the support of the troops. Exhausted though they might be, they understood well that this was a most critical juncture. Mount Hyjal still loomed behind them, but now it receded slightly.

  Then, another welcome surprise—chanting came from the center of the advance. The Sisterhood of Elune, resplendent in their battle armor, strengthened the fighters further. Day might have held precedence at the moment, but the priestesses’ rhythmic singing literally fed the nocturnal warriors. It was as if the moon herself suddenly hung over the host.

  Yard by yard they struggled, demons falling with each step. Krasus looked to the shrouded sky and said, “Now! Strike the Eredar at will!”

  Every spellcaster focused his efforts on the airborne warlocks. Thunder ravaged the sky. Lightning flashed in a jarring display of colors. Winds howled.

  They could not see the results of their attacks, but they could sense them in other ways. The Eredar tried to regroup, but they had to also protect their bearers. That left them strained, weaker. Whenever a spell slew one of the demon mages, the defenders felt a sudden lessening of the evil forces arrayed against them. And the more that happened, the harder Krasus’s group attacked the survivors.

  At last, the warlocks pulled completely back. Their retreat left the monstrous warriors on the ground bereft of any shield against the wizards and the Moon Guard.

  “They’re fleeing!” Malfurion whispered, awed by the success of his party.

  “They are too valuable. Archimonde will need them again,” Krasus replied more dourly. “And he will need them again. The war is not won, but the battle is saved.”

  “Should we not keep after them until we push them through the portal and back into their hellish domain?”

  Krasus chuckled, so unusual a sound from him that even Rhonin started. “You sound more like your brother than you, Malfurion. Let not the euphoria of the moment take you too far. This host will never survive a pitched battle all the way back to Zin-Azshari. They are running on will alone right now.”

  “Then…what is the point?”

  “Look around you, young night elf. Your people survive. That is more than they thought they could do only an hour before.”

  “Will Ravencrest follow your instructions, though?” asked Rhonin, peering back to look for the noble’s banner.

  “I believe he will. Look there, to the north.”

  The advance had slowed there and now the soldier
s seemed more interested in securing the ground that they had gained rather than taking more. Mounted officers went about waving other soldiers back to the main group. Some seemed a bit disappointed, but others looked more than happy to rest, even if they still had to stand to do it.

  Within minutes, the entire front line had completely halted. Night elves soon began clearing the carnage and creating a strong front line, with solemn but determined warriors positioning themselves to repel anyone who might seek to undo the miracle that they had accomplished.

  And only then did Krasus exhale. “He listened. Praise the Aspects. He listened.”

  Ahead of them they could see only the vague shapes of the horde. The Burning Legion had moved far beyond the range of the arrows, even beyond the efforts of the weary spellcasters at the moment.

  “We’ve done it,” Rhonin uttered, his voice almost a croak. “We kept them from pushing us back beyond Mount Hyjal.”

  “Yes,” murmured Krasus, eyes not on the demons, but rather the haggard defenders. “Yes, we did. Now the most difficult part begins.”

  Nine

  Mannoroth bent before the black portal, his stocky front legs in a kneeling position and his wide, leathery wings folded tight behind him. The tusked demon tried to make himself as small as possible, for he now communed with Sargeras, who seemed not at all in a pleasant mood.

  The way is not yet open to me…I had expected better…

  “We struggle,” Mannoroth admitted, “but the task…it’s almost as if the world itself seeks to prevent your coming, Great One.”

  I will not be denied…

  “N-no, Great One.”

  There was silence for a time, then the voice in Mannoroth’s head said, There is a disruption, a wrongness…there are those who should not be but are, and those who seek to awake what should not be awoken.

  The massive demon did not pretend to understand, but he still replied, “Yes, Sargeras.”

  They are the key. They must be hunted.

  “Archimonde is in the field and the Houndmaster is long on the trail. The transgressors will be brought to ground.”

  The sinister-looking gap fluctuated, squirming as if alive. Mannoroth could feel the lord of the Legion’s desire to make his way into this rich world. The frustration Sargeras radiated chilled even his hardened lieutenant.

  One must be brought whole…so that I may have the pleasure of tearing him asunder slowly and delicately.

  An image materialized full-blown in Mannoroth’s mind. An insignificant creature of the same race as the Highborne. He was younger, though, and wore, in comparison to his fellows, rather drab garments of green and brown. The vision the demon had of him showed the night elf in the palace itself. Mannoroth recognized the chamber where the original portal had been created…a place now only a windswept ruin.

  Mark him well.

  “I have already, Great One. Archimonde, Hakkar, and I all watch for his presence. One of us will snare him.”

  Alive, commanded the presence from beyond, now beginning to recede from Mannoroth’s head. Alive…so that I might have my pleasure with his torture…

  And as Sargeras vanished, Mannoroth shuddered, knowing full well what fate this Malfurion would face once the Great One had him in his grasp.

  The monumental task of reorganizing the host was made more so by the countless refugees accompanying them, but to his credit, Lord Ravencrest did as best as possible. He took an accounting of all supplies, especially food and water, and distributed accordingly. Some of the high-ranking among the refugees protested at not receiving what they thought their rightful—and more bountiful—shares, but one black glare from the bearded commander silenced all.

  Tyrande and the sisters also did what they could for the soldiers and civilians. Her helmet pushed back, the priestess of Elune led along a night saber she had borrowed earlier as she stopped to speak with one person after another. All, whether old or young, of high caste or low, welcomed her presence. Perhaps it was just the moment, but they appeared to her especially comforted after she was through. Tyrande did not mark this as the result of any special gift she had, merely assuming that her gentle demeanor was an extreme relief in contrast to all else the others had faced of late.

  A small figure crouched by herself seized the priestess’s attention. A young female, two or three years away from being able to enter into the service of Elune, sat in miserable silence, staring at nothing.

  Kneeling at her side, Tyrande touched her shoulder. The girl started, turning to glare at her like a wild beast.

  “Be at peace…” Tyrande said soothingly, handing her a water sack. She waited until the girl had finished, then added, “I am from the temple. What’s your name?”

  After a moment’s hesitation, the child answered, “ShShandris Feathermoon.”

  “Where is your family?”

  “I-I don’t know.”

  “Are you from Suramar?” The priestess could not recall her, but that did not mean that Shandris was not from the same city.

  “No…Ara-Hinam.”

  Tyrande tried to hide her concern. Shandris was one of the refugees that the demons had been pursuing when they had set their trap. Based on what the priestess had gathered from other survivors, many people had perished before the Burning Legion had allowed the rest to escape. The child’s family might still live…but then again might not.

  “When did you last see them?”

  Shandris’s eyes grew huge. “I was with a friend…when the monsters came. I tried to run home, but someone grabbed me…told me I had to run the other way. I did.” She put her hands to her face, the tears spilling over them. “I should have gone home! I should have gone home!”

  The tragic tale was not what Tyrande had wanted to hear. The priestess would make inquiries wherever she could, but she was near-certain that no one in Shandris’s immediate family had survived and that the girl was now all by herself in the world.

  “Has anyone taken care of you since your flight?”

  “No.”

  The refugees from Ara-Hinam, a smaller settlement, had been on the run for two days prior to meeting up with the host. It was remarkable to think that Shandris had survived on her own even for that period. Many older night elves had fallen to the side; the priestess’s people were not, in general, up to such strife. Night elves, while hardly weak, were very ill-prepared for life outside their cushioned world—a failing only now becoming evident. Tyrande gave thanks to Elune that she, Malfurion, and Illidan had been raised differently, but they were in the minority.

  There were so many in the same situation Shandris suffered, but something about the child especially touched the priestess. Perhaps it was that she somewhat resembled Tyrande in face and form at that age. Whatever the case, the sister bade the child to rise.

  “I want you to climb atop the night saber. You’re going to come with me.” It went against her orders, but the priestess did not care. Though she could not save everyone, she would do what she could for Shandris.

  Her face drawn but her eyes for the first time clear, Shandris mounted the cat. Tyrande made certain that she was secure, then led the night saber on.

  “Where are we going?” the child asked.

  “I’ve more work to do. You’ll find some dried fruit in the pouch hanging on the left side.”

  Shandris eagerly twisted to the pouch, rummaging through it until she discovered the simple fare. Tyrande made no mention of the fact that the girl was also devouring her ration. The sisterhood trained its members to learn to survive at times with minimal sustenance. There were even four periods of ritual fasting each year, done in general as a sign of dedication to the goddess. Now, it paid off in time of war.

  Moving on to the next refugees, Tyrande continued her ministrations. Most were simply exhausted beyond belief, but some had injuries. The latter she always tried to help as much as possible, praying to the Mother Moon for the strength and guidance necessary. To her joy, the goddess saw fit this day to gra
nt success in all her efforts.

  But then she came upon one infected injury that shocked her. Whether an intentional wound or an accident, it was at first difficult to say. Tyrande studied the unsettling greenish pus around it and wondered at the peculiar cuts. The victim, an older male, lay pale and unconscious, his breath coming in rapid gasps. His mate, her hair bound back with what remained of a ruby- and emerald-encrusted broach, cradled his head.

  “How did he do this?” asked Tyrande, not certain if she could even slow the course of the infection. There was something disquieting about it.

  “He did not. It was done to him.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  The elder female’s expression tightened as she fought to maintain her calm long enough to explain. “This thing…he said it looked like…like a wolf or hound…but twisted, as if out of a horrible dream…”

  Tyrande shivered. She knew that the other female spoke of a felbeast. The four-legged demons had nearly slain Malfurion more than once. They especially desired those who wielded any sort of magic, draining it from the bodies and leaving only a dry husk.

  “And he made it all the way from Ara-Hinam like this?” The priestess marveled that anyone could survive so long with so hideous a wound.

  “No…from there we escaped whole.” Bitterness tinged her words. “This he got but two days ago, while sneaking off to find us food.”

  Two days? That would have put them with the mass of bodies flowing toward Mount Hyjal. But none of the demons had managed to break ahead of the horde, of that Tyrande was certain.

  “You swear that it was only two days? It happened near here?”

  “Back in the wooded lands now again to our south, I swear it.”

  The priestess bit her lip; woods that were behind the night elven lines.

  Leaning over the wound, Tyrande said, “Let me see what can be done.”

  She forced herself to touch it, hoping that she could at least prevent it from spreading. From behind her she heard Shandris gasp. The girl feared for her, and rightly so. One never knew what a demon-caused wound might do. The Burning Legion would not be averse to spreading plague.