Seven will become One. Listen … Listen.
Aram lifted his head weakly, his leg no longer hurt after using Drella’s blossom on it, but he was shaking with hunger and thirst. The imp standing guard over them seemed to hear something, or perhaps his master had somehow summoned him, and the little red creature bounced away, muttering to himself. Drella’s voice was still echoing in his head when he heard Greydon stumble to his feet.
“What is it?” Aram whispered, his lips parched and cracked.
“Something’s happened,” Greydon replied, calling for silence with a finger.
Aram did as commanded and listened. Far away, high above them, he heard the shrieks and cries of the arakkoa and the thundering voice of the demon overlords ordering about the imps. That in itself wasn’t new, but now they sounded panicked. More voices. More chaos. The entire prison shook, as if a ground quake had started, threatening to tear the place apart.
“It’s a battle,” Greydon told him, his eyes shining brightly. “I would know that sound anywhere.”
“Father!”
The imp had returned, and he hadn’t returned alone. A floating demon with glowing green eyes and a trail of emerald fire in its wake drifted into the chamber. Huge, hunched, and hideous, the sagging skin of its chin had been braided into itself, hanging down to its waist, where it wore an iron girdle imbedded with gleaming fel stones. Its black horns were wet with blood, and so were its immense hands.
The jailer demon looked at each of them in turn, then fixed its gaze on Greydon and floated up next to his cell. Greydon stumbled backward, defenseless, pressing his back to the bars while the jailer appraised him and laughed, the sound as deep and ominous as thunder. Then dark, shimmering chains wrapped themselves around his father’s wrists, created by the demon’s will. Greydon froze, his eyes rolled back, his mouth dropping open in agony as he screamed, strange purple ripples emanating from his skin.
“Stop! Stop it, you’re killing him!” Aram pounded on the bars, but it was no use. His father was beginning to go limp. The imp giggled and clapped with delight, dancing in front of his father.
“Father! Don’t go, don’t go!”
“Silence!” The demon turned its attention toward Aram, eyes aflame. “His essence is needed. He is of the Order of the Seven Suns. The Darkstorm feeds upon his life.”
“You will never have him!” Aram shouted. “You will never summon the Darkstorm!”
He couldn’t lose him, couldn’t suffer the torment of the prison alone. But then he realized—the sounds of battle. Something major had happened, and now the demons were moving faster, anxious to raise the Darkstorm. The jailer didn’t just mean to end Greydon; he’d use him to bring about the annihilation of Azeroth.
But how? Had Xaraax reassembled the Diamond Blade?
Thunk.
The demon attacking his father went still, the green light going out of its eyes. The strange purple chains wrapped around Greydon suddenly vanished, leaving behind dark welts. Greydon gasped and wheezed, clutching his throat.
Then the imp screamed, launching himself into the darkness. The jailer slumped over, a spear lodged in its skull. Aram’s heart all but stopped. It wasn’t possible … It couldn’t be over; it was too good to be true …
But there they were: Murky, Hackle, Galena, and a pale young man Aram didn’t quite recognize. He sank to his knees with relief, watching as, right before his very eyes, Galena’s dark fur shimmered, turning yellow and then orange before growing longer, fluffing out into feathers. Her horns shot out and up, growing quickly until they resembled large antlers. She gave a shout as her snout curved sharply into a beak. Great talons sprang from her hands, and her hooves and fingers became avian and toughened. A feathered moonkin! She gave a strange, birdlike roar, and conjured a beam of pure moonlight, striking down the imp before he could escape.
“Urum!”
Murky hopped across the floor, retrieving his spear before using it to bash the bars of Aram’s cage.
“Not like that!” Hackle sighed and dropped down next to the jailer demon, then popped up again holding a set of massive keys.
“Where did you come from? How did you find us?” Aram asked, tears of happiness and relief streaming down his face. Greydon, for his part, was struck silent until he gave a barrel-chested laugh, as shocked and disbelieving as his son.
“’Tis a protracted and tedious tale,” the young man said. “Best told when we are free of this place.”
“Wait, I—I know you,” Aram cried. “You’re the boy from my drawings. The one with the dragon!”
“He is dragon,” Hackle said, fumbling with the keys and then finally jamming them into the lock on Aram’s cage. “Blue dragon! Ice breath. Wings. You see soon!”
“We have to get you out of there and help Makasa!” Galena said. She had shifted almost instantaneously out of her moonkin form, feathers springing back into fur as she shivered and ran toward them, a few feathers floating down from her shoulders. “She went to confront Malus!”
“On her own?” Greydon demanded, thunderous. “Is she mad?”
“Valdread is with her,” Galena replied.
“What?!” father and son shouted in unison.
“We found the rest of the shards, Aramar,” she said as Aram tumbled free of his cage. “We’ll take the hilt from Malus and reforge the Diamond Blade. It’s time to end this.”
“No, no, this can’t be—” Greydon tore at his hair, and didn’t emerge from his opened cell until Aram guided him out of it. “That’s too dangerous. Not with Xaraax so near!”
The others said nothing, stunned, but Aram knew exactly what his father meant. They couldn’t know all the details of the naaru and the blade, and more importantly, of the Darkstorm. “We have to get to Makasa,” he said, running to find the door, ignoring the pain in his joints, his hunger, his thirst … “We can’t let Xaraax get his hands on the Diamond Blade. Without it, we can’t restore the naaru! The naaru is the key, the key to ending the Darkstorm once and for all!”
* * *
“The rest of the blade is near. I can sense it,” Highlord Xaraax said.
Malus couldn’t believe his luck. He wasn’t a man who believed in fate or destiny, but a man who believed in planning, in doing whatever it took to achieve his goals, no matter the cost.
He stared at Highlord Xaraax’s back. The demon lord watched the battle in the valley below from his vaunted sanctuary, a twisted rock chamber as tall as a cathedral, gold and green lights casting eerie shadows along the thin windows. A balcony of brambles and spikes jutted out from behind his throne and altar, and it was from that balcony that the highlord watched. And waited.
Xaraax, tall and broad, with leathery wings and sharpened horns, could fill any fortress, any room, any space with the potency of his malice. A fog of terror lingered around him like a shroud, his eyes strangely unblinking, as if he could see you always, no matter the distance or angle. Or perhaps he never blinked because both eyes bore scars, and now he would never be caught unawares again. The blackened armor and jeweled belt he wore were spotless, polished to a high shine.
“I told you it would all come together,” Malus said, kneeling at the altar, paying his respects. It was the stone base for a purple mass of liquid shadows, ever moving, ever whispering of unspeakable secrets found only in the Twisting Nether. This was a crucial moment, the moment when all their plans paid off. It had been a long road, paved in loss and death and sacrifice, but now, with the moment of triumph so near, Malus felt giddy with the thought of it. The Diamond Blade. It could be reassembled, the power of the Darkstorm granted to them, all of Azeroth at their mercy.
“Patience,” Malus added. “Patience was all that was needed.”
“This stroke of ridiculous luck has nothing to do with patience, Malus.” The highlord’s voice came as if from the lowest pits of Outland’s core. It was brimstone and terror, a voice that demanded respect and obedience. The voice that whispered to him so long ago, the voice t
hat lured him to carry out the will of demons. And now it mocked him, and Malus seethed.
“Your blunders will not be forgotten. My legions are being wasted upon the lowliest creatures of your world because of your incompetence. Your laziness. You have disappointed me again, and perhaps I shall wound far more than your face and hand.”
“Highlord, that isn’t true,” Malus said, looking up. The sunlight framed Xaraax’s tall horns as he beheld the plight of his armies. “They do not have the hilt of the blade, and we have the essence of the Order, one who served, and one who is of his blood. They cannot stop us without the Diamond Blade. I might have easily found them, but without the hilt their cause is lost.” He stood, irritated. The loss of Xaraax’s minions was minor; they were about to obtain their real goal: the final destruction of the naaru and of Azeroth. “Now is the hour of our victory.”
“And your demise, Malus.”
The nathrezim whirled, torn cloak billowing as his wings beat once, carrying him in a single leap to land at the altar, his shadow plunging Malus into darkness.
“My lord, I don’t understand—”
Xaraax laughed once, staring down at him not with anger, but with indifference. “No, you do not understand. Like any tool, you eventually wear out your utility. Your willingness, your desperation to serve, was commendable once. Charming. I fear, however, that your usefulness is at an end.” The highlord closed his eyes, a hideous smile splitting his face. He breathed hard, as if swept into a moment of passion. “Soon the Diamond Blade will be handed to me, and the annihilation of Azeroth will begin. Nothing will stand in my way. Without the blade, the naaru is truly dead. All will burn, and you will burn with it.”
His eyes snapped open, and he lashed out, kicking Malus in the ribs, sending him sprawling, tumbling down the steps of the altar. How could this be? Malus had done everything Xaraax asked, everything, bending over backward to please the highlord. Murdering the naaru. Betraying his own brother!
Shuddering in pain, Malus covered his chest with his arms, anticipating another blow. It came, and swiftly, Xaraax descending on him, pressing his searing hooflike foot onto Malus’s chest, pushing and pushing until Malus felt certain he would die.
“Your service is noted,” Xaraax murmured, bending down to snatch the hilt of the Diamond Blade from his belt. “And now, like all pitiful things, it will be forgotten.”
He inhaled rapidly in that strange way again, eyelashes fluttering. “It is time to summon the others. The Hidden must witness my triumph. The blade approaches. Come to me now … Come to me. I can feel it, so close, so close. Soon the naaru will be destroyed and with it, this world’s final protection. Azeroth shall burn.”
Finding where Malus and Xaraax lurked was no trouble at all. The Hidden’s fortress, laid out in concentric rings of brambles and stone, rose higher and higher, ending in a foreboding black gate that guarded the entrance to the highest ring. Valdread drew his blades, whirling into action, dispensing two tall, helmed demons carrying pikes. They hadn’t expected anyone to break through the fighting outside the fortress, and they didn’t make a sound before the baron had dispatched them.
Makasa retrieved a silvery key from the belt of one of the dead guardians, opened the gate, and raced higher into the fortress. The training Valdread had given her paid off, and they had managed to win most battles before they even began—using stealth to strike deadly, silent blows. Her training had been incredibly useful, but now they came face-to-face with two massive ogres, their bodies blocking the archway and the sanctuary beyond.
Throgg and Karrga. They were not so easily surprised, and Throgg hefted his mace at once, a massive piece of studded and banded wood lashed to his stump arm.
“What this?” Throgg arched a heavy brow.
“Why you fight with puny girl, dead man?” Karrga demanded. “You fight with us.”
Valdread put out his hand, keeping Makasa from darting forward and engaging. “I did fight with you, yes, but that was before your charmer of a boss threw me off a mountain.” There. He saw it, a quiver in Throgg’s slimy lip. Insecurity. “You didn’t like that, did you? I know honor is important to you, Throgg, which is why I’m surprised you’re still here.”
“Throgg loyal!” the ogre thundered, and both Valdread and Makasa winced from the force of it.
“Karrga loyal, too!”
“Loyal to whom, exactly?” Valdread pressed. An ogre wasn’t something he liked to fight head-on, let alone two. Wits would serve them better. “Malus subjugated your people. Are you loyal to him or them? He’s just a human; you’ve left behind the entire legacy of the ogres. And for what? A man who would turn on his own. Kill his own. It’s a miracle I survived that fall, and our so-called enemies were the ones to piece me back together.”
Throgg lowered his shield, just a little. Progress.
“What you doing?” Karrga demanded. “He lie.”
“No,” Throgg said. “Throgg see Malus with more Gordunni ogres. He still call himself Gordok. Malus lie.”
“Exactly!” Valdread said, smirking. “Malus isn’t the friend or the commander you think he is, and he will toss you aside if it serves his purposes, too.”
“No! No listen to Whisper-Man!” Karrga forced the issue then, stomping toward them with her weapon raised high. Blast. And he had been so close to breaking through to Throgg, too.
Throgg’s shield lashed out even before Makasa could skid to a stop, knocking her flat on her back. Valdread dodged, but Throgg spun again, this time with his mace, narrowly catching Valdread in the middle. He winced, knocked onto his side momentarily, but it was enough. Makasa tried to stand up through the pain, but Throgg knocked her with his shield again, then grabbed her by the chain wrapped around her chest, dragging her into the cavernous chamber beyond. She watched through dazed eyes as Valdread fell to yet another blow, this time from Karrga, who capitalized on Throgg’s first hit. The blue ogre slammed him in the chest and then the throat with the pommel of her broadsword.
Valdread still had fight left in him, but Karrga sheathed her sword and scooped up the Forsaken, crushing him to her chest with both arms. Squirming, shouting, he could do nothing as he, too, was carried into the chamber.
“Ah. Our guests arrive, and with them, the blade that will seal Azeroth’s fate.”
* * *
The voice made Makasa tremble. It was like nothing she had ever heard before … Evil. Pure evil. The sound made her blood run cold, not loud but threaded with unnatural depth, as if the strange gray sky preempting a thunderstorm could speak. Not even a nightmare could conjure something like that. She twisted to find the source, finding a demon, taller than even the ogres, presiding over his court. The Hidden. They were all there, Ssarbik and Ssavra, heads bent together as they smiled eerily in the corner, Zathra with her scorpid chattering away on her shoulder, and Malus, kneeling in the center of the black sanctuary. The demon lord had his hand on Malus’s shoulder, forcing him to the ground. She didn’t expect to see him like that, his face stretched with misery, burned on the right side, bruises darkening on his neck.
And the hilt. The demon wielded the Diamond Blade’s hilt, the shards among it glowing hot and bright, sensing the nearness of their brethren.
Makasa drew in a long, shaking breath. What had they done? She glanced toward Valdread, who continued struggling, though he grew still at the sight of the demon. The blade strapped to Makasa’s back started to heat up until it burned, the heat searing her through her shirt, and she gritted her teeth against the agony.
“Ssssearch her,” Ssarbik hissed. Zathra jumped at the chance, grinning lopsidedly, loping over with her head held high. Makasa cursed and spat, and Zathra ignored it, shoving her hands into Makasa’s vest pockets and then, of course, her trouser pockets were searched. Finally, the troll reached a hand under Makasa’s jerkin, grasping the blade and pulling it free.
“Ach! It be burning!” Zathra juggled the blade hand to hand, its core burning so brightly it was hard to look at
it directly.
“Bring it to me.”
“I can’t! I can’t!” she screamed as it clattered to the floor.
“Incompetent troll,” the demon thundered, eyes blazing with fury.
Ssavra slid across the room quickly, chattering to herself, running toward the blade, but as soon as she drew near, it flew out of her reach, then lifted into the air. Nobody spoke, a hush falling over the room as the hilt in the demon’s hands exploded with Light, then soared across the chamber, reuniting itself with the missing blade.
“The Diamond Blade,” Makasa breathed, watching as the weapon reforged itself, whole and brilliant and bright. Somehow it seemed to hear her, hear its name, and flew toward her.
“What it doing?! What it doing?!” Throgg flailed, blinded by the Light. He dropped her, and Makasa saw her chance. She jumped up, determined not to fail, not when they were so close to defeating the Hidden. Her heart pounded, and she reached, reached, opening her hand …
“NO!”
Yes.
The Diamond Blade felt good in her hands. Right. She swung in every direction, warning off Throgg and Zathra. Ssarbik aimed a bolt of shadow magic at her, but it dissolved as soon as it approached the blade. Then the weapon glowed and glowed, expanding and contracting, the hilt lengthening, the sharp end curving until it resembled a honed and deadly harpoon.
Wield the Light. Defend Azeroth.
The Voice boomed in her head, and she followed its command, unleashing a mighty shout as she sprinted across the chamber, aiming directly for the heart of the tall and terrible demon. The true master of the Hidden. She could end it, she thought, she could end it all then. They were so close, so close—
But Xaraax wielded a blade of his own, a fel sword, twisted and ugly, veins of glowing green fire wrapped around the hilt. Pale emerald flames leapt from its sharp edges, and Xaraax stepped over Malus’s kneeling form, meeting Makasa’s thrust with a powerful swing. Too powerful. All of her planning, all of her work, all of the days Valdread trained her and taught her, and for what? Xaraax was too strong. The bones in her hands felt as if they might shatter, the Diamond Blade knocked out of her grasp. It clattered to the floor, taking on its former shape, a sword of Light once more.
The Shining Blade Page 23