The Sundering wwotat-3

by Richard A. Knaak

  Now, however, the great demon, Archimonde, had strengthened those barriers, cutting off even the Emerald Dream. Malfurion had continued to try to pierce the barriers, but he might as well have been physically battering himself against a real wall.

  It did not help that, in addition to awareness that Tyrande was within, the druid also suspected that Illidan might be.

  “Elune will watch over her,” Rhonin replied steadfastly. “She seems very much a favorite of the Mother Moon.”

  Malfurion could not argue with that reasoning. But a short time ago, Tyrande had been a young novice in the service of the lunar goddess. Yet, the coming of the Legion seemed to have precipitated in her a transformation as great as in him, if not more so. Her powers had grown strong and, to her immense surprise, when the high priestess had been mortally wounded in battle, she had chosen Tyrande as her successor over many much more experienced and high-ranking sisters. Regrettably, that newfound status had ultimately led to her kidnapping by a transformed Xavius and his satyrs. Xavius had finally paid the price for his actions, but that had not saved Tyrande.

  “Can even Elune stand up to the darkness of Sargeras?”

  Rhonin’s thick brow arched. “Talk like that won’t help any, Malfurion,” He glanced behind himself. “… and I’d especially appreciate it if you’d not speak so around our new friends.”

  For a moment, the druid forgot his misery as the shadowed forms rose up from the direction the wizard had come. Immediately it was clear that they were of more than one race, for some dwarfed the night elf in both height and girth while others came up short even to Rhonin. Yet all who strode up to where the pair stood moved with determination and a sense of strength that Malfurion had to admit his own people had just begun to find.

  A musky scent wafted past his nose and he immediately tensed. A furred figure clad in loincloth and wielding a massive spear paused to gaze down at the night elf. The giant’s breath came in heavy snorts which caused the ring through his nose to jingle slightly. His muzzle was more than a foot long and at the skull met two deeply-entrenched, black eyes that burned with determination. Above the harsh, wrinkled brow, a pair of treacherous-looking horns thrust ahead of the muzzle.

  A tauren…

  “This is — ” Rhonin began.

  “Know that Huln Highmountain stands before you, night elf,” rumbled the shaggy, bull-headed creature. “Huln of the eagle spear!” He raised the weapon, displaying the sharp, curved end forged to resemble the raptor’s beak. From the lower end of the metal head to the bottom tip of the shaft, a tightly-bound skin had been wrapped, upon it markings in the language of Huln’s people. Malfurion knew just enough about the tauren to understand that here was marked the history of the weapon, from its forging through the epic feats of its owners. “Huln, who speaks for all the tribes gathered.”

  The bull nodded his head brusquely, accenting his words with his gestures. His coat had more than two dozen braids in it, most of them dangling from under his jaw. Each was recognition of a kill in battle.

  The squat but muscular figure below the tauren’s right arm snorted. Vaguely, he looked like some kin of Rhonin’s, at least in features. However, there any resemblance ended. His build made it seem as if some powerful force — perhaps either the tauren or the ursine brute behind him — had taken a war hammer and pounded the heavily-bearded figure flat.

  More astounding, he was made of stone, not flesh.

  His rough-hewn skin appeared to be a gray granite, his squinting eyes glittering diamonds. The beard was actually an intricate series of mineral growths that even made it look as if the figure was graying with age.

  The dwarf — for that was as Malfurion knew his kind — reached into one of his many belt pouches and removed a clay pipe and tinder box. As he lit the pipe, the fire briefly outlined the grizzled face, especially the huge, round nose. Whether or not the “gray” in the beard marked advanced age, he showed no infirmity. Despite being of stone, the dwarf wore a hooded outfit, wide, flat boots, and had the pants and shirt a miner might wear. Across his back hung an ax nearly as big as him with one extremely sharp edge.

  “Dungard Ironcutter, speaking for the clans of the Earthen,” was all he said, dwarves not much on conversation.

  The Earthen. Malfurion made certain to remember the last. “Dwarf ” was a night elven word, a derogatory one at that.

  The bearlike thing behind Dungard suddenly growled. Neither the dwarf nor the tauren paid the fearsome utterance much attention, but Malfurion instinctively backed up a step.

  The creature lumbered forward. It resembled a bear, yet moved more like a man. In some ways it reminded Malfurion of the twin gods, Ursoc and Ursol, but was clearly a primitive creature. It wore a pale, brown loincloth and a necklace made of claws. The three-toed beastman raised a club in one hand. The other four-fingered paw formed a fist.

  The creature roared again, its tone slightly different from the first time.

  “The furbolg Unng Ak says that he speaks for the packs,” Rhonin translated readily.

  There were others behind them, but they did not choose at this time to step forth. Malfurion gazed at the unique gathering and eyed Rhonin with some admiration. “You convinced all of them to come…”

  “Brox and I helped, but it was mostly Krasus.”

  Malfurion looked among the throng of creatures, but did not see Rhonin’s mentor. Taken at a glance, the tall figure in the cowled, gray robes looked the most like a night elf of any of the outsiders. Certainly much more than Brox, the hulking, green-skinned warrior who called himself an orc. Yes, Krasus could have passed for a night elf — but one long dead, for his skin was very, very pale and much of his hair was a brilliant silver. The mage’s features were also more hawklike than any of Malfurion’s kind. In addition, his eyes somewhat resembled Rhonin’s, but were long and narrowed and held in their dark pupils a fire borne of ancient wisdom.

  The ancient wisdom of a being who was in truth a dragon.

  A figure stalked toward them. Not Krasus, but Brox. The orc looked weary but defiant, as he always did. Brox was a warrior who had battled all his life. The tusked orc had scars everywhere. He vied with the tauren in musculature. Lord Stareye dismissed Brox as a beast no better than Huln or the furbolg. Yet, everyone respected the orc’s arm, especially when he wielded the enchanted wooden ax Cenarius and Malfurion had created just for him.

  The druid continued to seek out Krasus, but the latter was nowhere to be found. Malfurion did not like that. “Where is he?”

  Pursing his lips, Rhonin sourly answered, “He said he had something else that had to be done quickly, regardless of the consequences.”

  “And that means?”

  “I’ve no idea, Malfurion. In many matters, Krasus trusts only himself.”

  “We need him… I need him…”

  Rhonin put a hand on the night elf’s shoulder. “I promise you… we’ll rescue her.”

  Malfurion was not so convinced, just as he was still not convinced that Lord Stareye would accept such allies as these. The mission that Rhonin and his companions had undertaken had not been sanctioned by the host’s commander, but Krasus had been convinced that once the noble was confronted with such aid, he would see reason. But convincing Desdel Stareye would be a much more difficult quest than talking sense to furbolgs.

  The druid finally surrendered to the fact that there would be no new and immediate attempt to rescue Tyrande. In truth, they had already tried everything they could, at least for now. Still, even as he turned again to the matter of the new arrivals, Malfurion’s thoughts ever worked to devise some manner by which to save his childhood friend… and, at the same time, discover the truth concerning Illidan’s fate.

  The dwarf puffed stolidly on his pipe, while Huln waited with a patience belying his brutish form. Unng Ak sniffed the air, taking in the different scents and clutching the club tight.

  Rhonin, eyeing their potential allies, remarked, “Of course, damned if I wouldn’t pre
fer Krasus here right now myself. I can hardly wait to see Stareye’s face when this bunch stands before him…”

  The noble’s jaw dropped. His eyes bulged as much as was possible for his kind. The pinch of snuff almost to his nostril crumbled to the floor of the tent like ash as his fingers twitched.

  “You have brought what into our midst?”

  Rhonin’s expression remained calm. “The one chance we have left of staving the losses and perhaps even winning.”

  Lord Stareye angrily flung aside his richly embroidered cloak. A flurry of intertwining green, orange, and purple lines marked its passage. In contrast, his armor was the more subdued gray-green common among the night elves, although its breast plate was decorated in the center by his House symbol, a multitude of tiny, gem-encrusted stars in the center of each of which a golden orb had been set. Lying on a table used for mapping out strategy was his similarly-decorated helm.

  The haughty night elf stared down his lengthy, pointed nose. “You have disobeyed a direct order, yes! I shall have you clapped in irons and — ”

  “And I’ll dissolve them before they lock. Then, I’ll leave the host, as, I suspect, will some of my friends.”

  It was simply stated, but all there understood the threat. Stareye stared at the three other nobles who had been with him when Rhonin and Malfurion had come to announce the arrival of allies. They returned his stare blankly. None wanted to take the responsibility of urging the commander to rid his force of its most prominent fighters.

  The senior night elf suddenly smiled. Malfurion resisted shuddering at that smile.

  “Forgive me, Master Rhonin! I speak in haste, yes, in haste! Certainly I would not wish to offend you and yours…” He reached into the pouch, removed some more of the white powder, and inhaled it in one nostril. “We are all reasonable. We shall deal with this in a reasonable manner, however unjustly it was thrust upon some of us.” He gave a negligent gesture toward the tent’s flap. “By all means, show the — them in.”

  Rhonin went to the entrance and called out. Two soldiers stepped through, followed by an officer very familiar to Malfurion. Jarod Shadowsong had been a captain in the Suramar Guard when he had had the misfortune to take as a prisoner Krasus. In the ensuing events, he had become a reluctant part of their band and had even been placed in charge of keeping watch over them by the late Ravencrest. Stareye had left Jarod in such a role even though it had long become clear that no one could keep the band in one place, especially the elder mage.

  In Jarod’s wake came Huln, the furbolg, and Dungard. Behind the trio rushed in a full dozen more soldiers, who quickly took up strategic positions in order to protect their commander.

  Stareye’s nose wrinkled. He did little to hide his contempt. Huln stood as if a rock. Unng Ak grinned, showing many sharp teeth.

  Dungard smoked his pipe.

  “I would prefer that you douse that instrument,” the noble commented.

  In response, the dwarf took another puff.

  “Insolent! You see what beasts and refuse you expect us to ally ourselves with?” Stareye growled, already forgetting his words to Rhonin. “Our people will never stand for it!”

  “As commander, you must make them understand,” the wizard calmly returned. “Just as these three and those representing the others had to do so with their own kind.”

  “You prissy night elves need some folks who know how to fight.” Dungard abruptly muttered, the pipe still in the corner of his mouth. “Someone to teach you real livin’…”

  Unng Ak let out with a loud bark. It took Malfurion a moment to realize that the furbolg had laughed.

  “At least we understand the intricacies of civilization,” another noble snapped back. “Such as bathing and grooming.”

  “Maybe the demons’ll let you live to be their handmaidens.”

  The night elf drew his sword, his companions following suit. Dungard had his ax out so swiftly that the movement was but a blur. Huln gripped his spear and snorted. Unng Ak swung his club once in challenge.

  A flash of blue light abruptly burst to life in the center of the tent. Both sides forgot their argument as they attempted to shield their eyes. Malfurion turned away to protect himself, noticing only then that Rhonin was unaffected by it all.

  The human stepped between the parties. “Enough of this! The fate of Kalimdor, of your loved ones — ” He hesitated a moment, his eyes looking into the distance. “Of your loved ones… depends on overcoming your petty prejudices!”

  Rhonin glanced at at Huln and his companions, then at Stareye’s nobles. Neither side seemed inclined to have him repeat his blinding display of power.

  He vehemently nodded. “Good, then! Now that we understand, I think it’s time to talk…”

  Krasus struck the floor of the icy cavern with a painful thud.

  He lay there gasping. The spell to transport him here had been a chancy one, especially considering his condition. The cavern was far, far away from where the elven host lay — almost half a world away. Yet, he had dared risk the spell, knowing not only what it might do to him but also that it might already be too late to do what he desired.

  He had dared not tell even Rhonin of his intentions. At the very least, the wizard would have demanded he accompany him, but one of the pair had to maintain control over the situation with the night elves’ potential allies. Krasus had full faith in the human, who had proven himself more adaptable, more trustworthy, than nearly any one else the former had known in his long, so very long life.

  His breathing stable, Krasus pushed himself up. In the chill cavern, his breath came out in narrow clouds that drifted slowly up to the high, toothy ceiling. Stalactites vied with jagged ice formations and frost covered the rocky floor.

  The mage mentally probed the immediate area, but found no trace of another presence. The news did not encourage him, but neither did it surprise Krasus. He had been there to witness the catastrophe first hand, the vision of Neltharion the Earth Warder — the great black dragon — in his madness turning upon his race still seared into Krasus’s memory. Every one of the four other flights had suffered, but the inhabitants of this cavern had paid for their resistance most of all.

  The children of Malygos had been slaughtered to a one, their lord cast far away. All this by the power of the Earth Warder’s treacherous creation, which the dragons themselves had imbued with power.

  The Dragon Soul… known better to him as the Demon Soul.

  “Malygos…” Krasus called, the name echoing through the glittering chamber. Once, despite its chill, it had been a place of merriment, for the blue flight were creatures of pure magic and reveled in it. How hollow the cavern was now, how dead.

  When he had waited long enough for the great Aspect to respond, Krasus strode cautiously over the slippery, uneven ground. He, too, was a dragon, but of the red flight of Alexstrasza, the Mother of Life. There had never existed animosities between the blues and reds, but, nonetheless, he took no chances. Should Malygos dwell somewhere deeper within the cavern system, there was no telling how the ancient guardian would react. The shock of seeing his kind decimated would throw him over the edge into madness from which it would take centuries to recover.

  All this Krasus knew because he had lived those future centuries. He had struggled through the betrayal of Neltharion, who would later be called — more appropriately — Deathwing. He had watched as the dragons had fallen into ruin, their numbers dwindling and those of his own kind, including his queen, forced to be the beasts of the orcs for decades.

  The dragon mage again probed with his higher senses, reaching deeper and deeper into the caverns. Everywhere he sought, Krasus found only emptiness, an emptiness too reminiscent of a vast tomb. No significant aura of life greeted his search and he began to despair that his sudden urge to come here had been all for naught.

  Then… very, very deep in the bowels of Malygos’s sanctum, he noted a vague life force. It was so faint that Krasus almost dismissed it as a figment of h
is own desire, but then he sensed another, similar presence near it.

  The cowled figure wended his way through the treacherous, dark passages. Several times Krasus had to steady himself as the path turned precarious. This was a realm used by creatures a hundredfold larger than he presently was and their massive paws easily spread across cracks and ravines he had to climb through.

  Had it been his choice, Krasus would have transformed, but, in this time period, that option was not available. He and a younger version of himself existed here simultaneously. It had enabled the pair to accomplish great things together against the Burning Legion, but demanded also limitations. Neither could transform from the shapes they wore and, until recently, both had been vastly weaker when away from the other. While that latter problem had been solved — for the most part — Krasus was condemned to remain in his mortal body.

  A shriek overhead made him press against the wall. A huge, leathery form fluttered past, a wolf-sized bat with a feline face, thick fur, and incisors as long as a finger. The creature spun around for a second dive at the mage, but Krasus already had one hand up.

  A ball of flame met the beast in mid-air. The bat flew directly into it.

  The fiery sphere swelled, then quickly imploded.

  Cinders — the only remnants of the creature — briefly showered Krasus. That he had not sensed the bat perplexed him. He caught a few of the ashes and probed them with his senses. They revealed that the beast had been a construct, not a true living thing. A sentinel, then, of the Master of Magic.