Without it, she was defenseless, and before she could try to reclaim the blade, Ssarbik and his blasted magic recaptured her—black, shadowy tendrils racing across the floor to bind her up.
And that was enough. She had failed. Xaraax dropped his fel blade, no longer in need of it, and took up the Diamond Blade, claiming it as his own. Makasa watched in mute horror as liquid black ropes climbed from Xaraax’s hands onto the hilt, ensnaring it, the hilt corrupted to a dark purpose before their very eyes.
“Yes. YES. The Diamond Blade is reforged, and I, Highlord Xaraax, dreadlord of the Burning Legion, ruler of the Hidden, am now, at last, architect of Azeroth’s doom! The Diamond Blade is mine, the naaru at my mercy, and with its destruction, the Darkstorm cannot be stopped.” Xaraax, eyes burning with excitement, thrust the hilt upward, the Diamond Blade igniting, more and more fel, black corruption staining it, climbing up the hilt toward the blade …
“NO!” It might have come from her or Valdread, but no, it was Malus who screamed. He cried out in pain, in anguish, and he stood, shaking, grabbing the demon’s abandoned fel sword. With the flames still shooting off its end, he thrust the fel sword into Xaraax’s back, through his chest, spearing him completely.
Xaraax stared, frozen, a strangled gasp seeping from his throat. The Diamond Blade slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor.
He slowly crumbled, impaled, his mouth going slack as Malus turned him around, one hand on his back, the other still on the fel blade, and pushed him toward the strange altar at the back of the chamber. Makasa watched as the purple shapes there, twisting and pulsing, swallowed Xaraax whole, and Malus was forced to pull back the blade, his former master disappearing into the vortex.
“To the Twisting Nether with you, Xaraax. May you forever suffer.”
Ssarbik hissed, clawing his talons at Malus. “What have you done? You have ssslain the Masster!”
The captain glared, brandishing Xaraax’s sword. He flashed it in the arakkoa’s direction, and for one moment, Makasa let herself hope that Malus had at last had a change of heart. Maybe Xaraax had pushed him too far. Maybe he knew that his citadel would be overrun, the Hidden disbanded and his head on the chopping block.
“Don’t question me. Unless you wish to meet the same fate as Xaraax. Summon as many imps and as many ogres as it takes to fuel the Darkstorm. It will be starving, but they shall sate it until we give it the true meal of Greydon Thorne.” Throgg shouted in protest, but Malus ignored him, swinging the sword experimentally, its fel energy glowing brighter, seething, the same black, corrupted stain climbing up his arm, faster and faster, overtaking him, until his eyes blazed as hot and green as the fel fire he wielded.
Ssarbik disappeared for only a few moments, returning with a slew of confused, chained ogres, shuffled along by a demonic jailer. All of the ogres had been bound in shadowy chains. Fiery red imps hopped along beside them, but they soon shrieked in surprise as Ssarbik led the procession toward Malus and his grim, determined smile.
Behind him, a shadow grew and grew, until its slithering mass became a portal. Whispers emanated from within, louder and more sinister, the language too frenzied to make out.
“No!” Throgg thundered, but the demonic chains holding the ogres were too strong. The jailer gathered them near the portal, and soon they were nothing but glittering dust, the ogres and a dozen imps sucked into the expanding and swirling vortex. The portal twisted, becoming a black funnel that began to rise higher, the Darkstorm gathering. Seething. Ready for the sacrifice, hungry and whispering for the essence of the Order.
So much for his change of heart.
“Malus … Malus, what you doing?” It was Karrga who asked, dumbfounded.
It must have been too much for her, too strange, for Valdread suddenly broke free of her grasp, sliding out from under her arms and dodging across the floor. Zathra got off a shot with her crossbows, but missed, and Ssarbik also failed to snare Valdread. The Forsaken reached the Diamond Blade, but instead of taking it for himself, he kicked it across the floor. It spun, sending shards of golden light in every direction, before it at last reached Makasa, its energy dispersing the shadows that held her.
She grabbed it at once, and she needed it, for Malus soon charged her, his fel sword aimed for her head. Gasping, she blocked at the last moment with the harpoon of Light, the reforged weapon humming with readiness in her grasp. The portal, the beginnings of the Darkstorm, screamed with a thousand voices.
“Demons! My armies! To me!” he thundered. His voice had altered, deepening, twisting, sounding more and more like Xaraax’s with every word. Gone was the Malus they had fought so many times, replaced with a shadowy demon, an even darker reflection of who he had once been.
The Light had stayed dormant for too long, separated, broken, undone. Now it sang with life once more, wielded by a young woman strong and noble and pure of heart. Its joy surged, and with it, its power. Life. Life must be protected. Life, like the blade, reborn. Protective Light shone out from it, blazing, stirred to action by the horrid fel weapon seeking to destroy. The fel blade crashed upon it again and again. No. The Light would fight back this time. The blade would not be broken again.
Seven will become One. The Light would endure. Azeroth would endure.
* * *
Aram reached the apex of the Hidden citadel just as the roof exploded.
“Look out!”
Hackle grabbed him by the collar, yanking him back. A giant block of bramble-covered stone slammed into the ground at their feet, very nearly flattening Aram. He stumbled against Hackle, wiping at his face.
“Thanks.”
“You stay back,” Hackle said, shoving a paw to Aram’s chest, making him step behind the gnoll. “Too weak. Too hurt. Hackle protect.”
“Mrgalrgalrglrllglgl!” Aram might be hanging back, but the same could not be said for Murky, who ran directly into the tall chamber, dodging debris as it fell. The blazing, blinding Light inside died down, and at the center of it, he saw Makasa. She wielded the Diamond Blade! But somehow it was different in her hands … a harpoon. Aram had dreamt of wielding the weapon himself, but looking at Makasa, strong and sure, he felt nothing but pride. They had all worked to bring about this moment. They had all sacrificed. That Makasa fought for them now, the way she had always fought for them, felt right.
The explosion of Light from the blade had sent Malus reeling. The swirling black vortex looming over the chamber shuddered, growing quiet for a moment. The Diamond Blade had reacted to something, blasting everyone but Makasa back, and cracking a gaping hole in the ceiling.
Murky leapt over fallen chunks of the citadel, landing at Makasa’s side. Reigol Valdread, of all people, stood with them, his blades dancing nimbly in his hands as he fended off Zathra, sending her retreating across the floor.
“Malus! Malus!” Throgg and Karrga galumphed over to Malus, helping him stand.
“Fight, you idiots, fight!” he screamed.
Aram could hardly believe what he was seeing. The chamber in ruins, no sign of Highlord Xaraax, winged demons mustering in the skies, preparing to dive, and Malus, climbing to his feet, wielding a dark, ugly sword that seemed to have grown into him, corrupting him with its shadowy tendrils.
Throgg hefted the mace lashed to his arm, but not before Murky took his shot, aiming his sharp little spear for Malus and throwing. It was a perfect toss, the spear whistling fast across the room, passing some kind of strange altar, heading right for Malus’s throat. But the captain saw it coming and reached for Throgg’s leg, pulling until the ogre tumbled down right in front of Malus, the spear lodging harmlessly in the ogre’s breastplate.
“What you doing?” Throgg glowered, grabbing the spear and chucking it away. “Throgg no like this new Malus. He betray Gordunni. He have no honor. Not fit to be called Gordok. Throgg his own master now!”
“Get out of my way!” Malus discarded them, running back into the fray, setting his sights on Makasa. But she was well defended, and she
fought with the fury of a storm, whirling, parrying, deflecting every magical bolt Ssarbik and Ssavra sent her way.
“We have to do something,” Aram said, but Hackle wasn’t listening. Greydon hobbled up behind them, slower because of his wounds, leaning heavily against Galena in her moonkin form as they reached the top of the fortress.
A hundred horrible screams split the sky, the hairy, winged demons gathering above the chamber following Malus’s commands. They dove down, the sounds of their leathery wings as unsettling as their cries. One nearly carried Murky off, but Valdread intervened at the last moment, batting the demon away with a kick. Aram couldn’t believe Valdread was fighting for their side, or maybe he could. He had tried to keep Malus from killing Drella, after all, and it seemed he had come around to the right side.
Hackle darted into the commotion, raising his club to attack Throgg, only to watch the big, horned ogre smash a flying demon with his own mace.
“Throgg good now?” Hackle scratched his head with one claw.
“Throgg is Throgg!” he roared, swinging wildly, knocking demon after demon out of the sky.
“Karrga good, too?” Hackle asked, turning to face the seven-foot-tall ogre, whose tattoos were now indistinguishable, covered in demon blood.
“Malus betray Throgg. Malus good for nothing!” she cried out as she blocked scrabbling, sharp, demonic claws with the flat of her broadsword.
That didn’t mean Ssarbik, Ssavra, or Zathra had switched sides. They clustered around Malus, protecting him, occasionally making an attempt to reclaim the Diamond Blade from Makasa, but she held her ground.
The skyward demons had begun to notice Aram, Greydon, and Galena lingering in the doorway. They were more sheltered there, less of the roof having collapsed, but now three of the demons broke off from the main mass, raising their claws and soaring toward Aram.
“Stand back!” Galena shoved herself in front of him. She summoned bolt after bolt of moonfire from the sky to strike down the demons, but they were too swift, too nimble, dodging the gleaming silver rays of light.
“That’s for Taryndrella!” she said. “That’s for taking Aramar! That’s for taking his father!” She tossed another bolt at them. “And that’s for me!”
She quickly transformed back into her larger, stronger moonkin form and threw up her winged arms, trying to protect her face as the demons dove past her onslaught. They were too quick, too determined. Aram smelled them before they even got close, a sulfurous stink clinging to their strange, batlike bodies. Their claws were coming, their teeth bared and sharp.
But the slash of their claws never came. It was suddenly very cold, an icy wind rising seemingly from nowhere. Then Aram saw the dragon from his vision, brilliant blue, with startling white eyes and powerful wings. Its breath froze the demons as they came in for the kill, and they dropped like stones to the floor, shattering.
“Isn’t he perfect?” Galena sighed, shimmering back into her tauren form and watching the dragon loop back around, returning to the skies.
“Sure,” Aram said, a little confused. “Come on, I need a weapon, and so does my father.”
Galena protected them with quick flashes of moonfire as they picked their way across the battlefield. Malus’s remaining loyal minions had rallied in a protective half-moon around him as they pressed toward Makasa in the center of the room.
“Malus,” Greydon growled. “The coward. Never fighting his own battles …”
“Here.” Aram knelt, finding Makasa’s beloved chain and harpoon on the floor among the dead demon bodies and stones. He wondered how she had lost them, but clearly she had found a more potent weapon. “Take these, I’ll find something else to use.”
“I’m weak, Aram.”
“No, you can do this. We can do this. We can’t give up now, not when we’re so close to victory!” Aram dove to his father’s side, pressing the chain and harpoon into his scarred, trembling hands. “This is why you left us all those years ago. To protect Azeroth, to protect me. And if we die—”
Slowly, Greydon nodded, looking into his son’s eyes with a small, sad smile under his overgrown beard. “We die with a sword in hand.”
Greydon Thorne knew what had to be done. He had always known, of course, but the truth filled him with the strength to go on. His hands ached. His back felt as if it had been crushed by a boulder. The burns and gashes in his side throbbed with every step. But he saw his brother ahead, hiding behind his minions like an utter coward. Silverlaine—Malus—seethed with power, but it seemed his newfound abilities didn’t matter to him. Better that others die than Malus take a single blow.
This was not the brother he loved. This was no longer a man, but a creature, twisted and lost. Maybe this had begun the moment Silverlaine took the Diamond Blade in his hands and decided on murder. Or perhaps it had begun when he actually struck the blow. It didn’t matter. The corruption made manifest now had started when Silverlaine turned his back on the Order of the Seven Suns, when he hastened the Darkstorm, when he chose a dark master and abandoned his name.
Malus.
Greydon fought for every step he took, his body screaming in agony. One more battle. Just one more. His son was right: This was his fight, his burden to bear. If he had been a better brother, a better leader—but no, there was no time to think that way. His brother was mad, trying to kill children. Trying to kill the world.
An orange-skinned troll broke away from Malus’s group, hurtling herself across the room. She gave a loud, terrible cackle, a scorpid on her shoulder, lashing out with its barbed tail. Greydon began to swing the chain, knowing it had been too long since he fought with such a weapon. The battle was chaos. He was all on his own …
“Hey, stinky troll!” The strange, gruff bark came from his right. His son’s gnoll friend leapt onto a piece of tumbled stone, then blew his tongue out at the troll.
“Furry pest, it be way past time you die!” The troll aimed one of her small crossbows at him and let fly. The gnoll ducked, giving a hyena’s cackle. That only made the troll angrier; she sent her scorpid screaming toward him.
“Bring him down, Skitter! Tackle him, my love! I be reloadin’!”
But Greydon saw what she did not—the gnoll was not their only aid. From above, a blue dragon dipped down, saving him once more, its frosty breath encasing the troll in a block of gleaming ice.
That was his chance. There was still some fight left in the old man. He lurched forward, swinging the harpoon. In his prime, he was formidable, strong, and some of that old vigor returned when he needed it. The blow landed against the ice so forcefully that it broke clean in half. The troll tumbled free, stunned, but clinging to life. The gnoll nimbly jumped into the air, tucking and rolling, just in time to smack her once with his club. But the scorpid had not given up, correcting course, living up to its name and skittering quickly over fallen stones.
“Gnoll!” Greydon yelled.
The creature dodged, just at the right time, the scorpid’s tail not hitting the gnoll, but burying its barbed, poisonous spike into its master’s heart.
“S-Skitter. Y-You missed him. You missed …”
The troll rolled onto her side and moved no more. The scorpid seemed to lose its appetite for battle then, crawling over its master, protecting her body even as it no longer twitched at all.
There was no time to thank his gnoll rescuer; instead, Greydon marched on, emboldened by the victory. And there was his brother. Malus. His protectors scattered, their attention drawn by other targets. Perhaps they were lured. It did not matter. Greydon fixed his eye on Malus and crossed to him, gaining speed and determination. The battlefield narrowed to the two of them, the sounds of the demons and of the chaos suddenly distant, as if only he and Malus existed.
“Brother!” he called, not willing to surprise him with a blow to the back.
Malus spun to confront him, his face, neck, every visible inch of skin pulsating with ropey black veins, green fel fire glowing faintly beneath. His eyes blazed
with hatred and corruption, and he grinned, showing nothing but blackened teeth.
“Greydon, you old relic, I hardly noticed you. You’re half the man I knew,” Malus said with a sneer, raising his immense, demonic blade.
“At least I remain a man; the same cannot be said for you.” Their blades clashed. “Give up, brother, and put down that weapon. I will give you a clean death and rid you of this foul corruption. You cannot wish to live this way, and you cannot hope to win. The Diamond Blade is ours.”
Malus blinked, then laughed, swinging once, missing Greydon’s chest by a hair.
“I don’t need the Diamond Blade to defeat you, Greydon. My power is that of the Burning Legion itself, terrible and eternal. The fel flames, they whisper to me; they whisper of my victory. If only you could hear the whispers; they sound so sweet. It was the same whisper that convinced me of your worthlessness, that showed me the beauty in destruction. And destruction there will be. Your deaths first, and then? The world’s.”
“No!” Greydon lifted the harpoon, absorbing the full might of Malus’s strength.
Greydon fell back at once, reeling. The power … He had never felt someone swing a sword like that before. It was over so quickly. Just like that? But how? It could not be possible. The Voice of the Light had spoken to him, urged him; he had made it so far, he could not die to this twisted shadow of his brother. But when Greydon tried to stand, his legs gave out. Malus raised the sword high over his head, preparing to strike.
“Good-bye, brother.”
“Father!”
Aram felt time distort the way it had when Drella fell to Malus’s cruel stroke. Too slow. The battlefield was littered with weapons, but none he knew how to wield. A broken crossbow bolt or a shield wouldn’t help much, and it left him feeling utterly useless. Still, he searched, hoping to find some way to come to his father’s aid. He watched his father on his knees, too far for Aram to help, the others engrossed in their own battles, and the killing blow falling, falling …
The Shining Blade Page 24