The Sundering wwotat-3

by Richard A. Knaak

  “You shall have to remain here,” Krasus decided.

  “I can climb up and around the mountains — ”

  “We are too close. Even if we manage to avoid the spells, I would not put it past Deathwing to post sentinels. They would see you.”

  Against this logic, the dragon could not argue. “I await you, here, then. You have but to summon me at your need.” His reptilian eyes narrowed. “Even if it is to face him.”

  At first, the loss of Korialstrasz made a marked difference in the mood of the party. The trio moved on with more care, watching every corner and shadow. Malfurion pointed out more and more landmarks, indicating just how near they had come to their goal. Brox, who now led the way, stared at every rock in their path, determining whether or not it hid some foe.

  Day gave way to night and although now Malfurion could see better, they paused to sleep. The druid felt certain that they were nearly at the lair, which made rest an anxious time even for Brox.

  As the orc settled in for first watch, Krasus admonished him. “We take our turns fairly, this time. We will need all of us at our peak of strength.”

  Reluctantly agreeing, the graying orc hunkered down. His sharp ears soon registered the even breathing of his companions, a sign that slumber had quickly taken them. He also registered other sounds, although few in comparison to most places he had visited during his hard life. This was truly an empty land. The wind wailed and now and then bits of rock crumbled free from some mountainside, but, beyond that, there was almost nothing.

  In that stillness, Brox began to relive the last days of his first war against the demons. He saw his comrades cheerfully speaking of the carnage they would cause, of the enemy who would fall to their axes. Many of them had expected to die, but what a death it would be.

  No one had expected the events that followed.

  For long after, Brox had believed that he was haunted by his dead companions. Now, though, the aging fighter knew that they did not condemn him, but rather stood at his side, guiding his arm. They lived through him, every enemy dead another honoring their memories. Someday, it would be Brox who fell, but, until then he was their champion.

  That knowledge made him proud.

  Long used to such tasks as he performed now, Brox knew exactly how much time passed. Already half his watch was over. He contemplated letting the others sleep, but was aware of Krasus’s warning. For all the orc’s experience, he was an infant compared to the mage. Brox would obey… this time.

  Then, a sound that was not the wind caught his attention. He focused on it, his expression hardening as he recognized what it was. Chattering, high-pitched voices. They were far away, only a chance shifting of the wind enabling him to hear them. The orc quickly straightened, trying to identify exactly where the speakers were.

  At last, Brox eyed a small side passage some hundred paces or so to the north. The voices had to come from somewhere further in. With the silence of a skilled hunter, he left his post to investigate. There was no need as of yet to wake his companions. In this unsettling place, it was still possible that what he heard was only an effect of the wind blowing through the ancient mountains.

  As he neared the passage, the chattering ceased. The orc immediately paused, waiting. After a moment, the talk continued. Brox finally had a fair notion of just what he was listening to and that only made him more cautious as he continued on.

  With practiced ears, the orc tried to count the speakers. Three, four at the most. Better than that, he could not say.

  Other sounds assailed him. Digging. There would be no dwarves here.

  Brox crept up slowly and silently to where the unknown party had to lurk. Clearly, whoever they were, they did not expect others in the region, which gave him a distinct advantage.

  A small light illuminated the area just ahead. Brox peered around a bend… and beheld the goblins.

  Compared to an orc, they were tiny, bony creatures with big heads. Other than their sharp teeth and small, pointed nails, there was little about them that seemed any threat. However, Brox understood just how dangerous goblins could be, especially when there was more than one. They were cunning and quick, their wiry frames able to dart past a larger opponent with ease. One could not trust a goblin to do no harm unless that goblin was dead.

  Malfurion had mentioned goblins — scores of goblins — working on something for the black dragon. They had even apparently been integral in Deathwing’s creation of the Demon Soul. Brox could only assume that these were a part of that group, but, if so, what were they doing out here?

  “More, more!” muttered one. “Not enough for another plate!”

  “The vein’s tapped out!” snapped a companion who was almost identical to the first. To a third, he argued, “Gotta find another, another!”

  The digging came from a small tunnel in the nearest mountain. The goblin version of a mine. Even as Brox watched, a fourth creature joined the others. In one hand, he held a covered oil lamp and behind him the newcomer dragged a sack almost as large as his body. Goblins were small but extremely strong for their size.

  Unlike the others, he seemed in a good mood. “Found another small vein! More iron!”

  The rest brightened. “Good!” said the first. “No time to go hunting! Let the others do it!”

  Brox’s first instinct was to go charging in, but he knew that was not what Krasus would want. The orc eyed the goblins. They looked as if they would be busy for some time. He could return to the mage and tell him what he had found. Krasus would know the right thing to do, be it capture the goblins or avoid them completely —

  A heavy force battered him on the back of the skull, sending the orc to his knees. Something landed on his back, clutching his throat. Again, Brox was struck hard on the back of his head.

  “Intruder! Help! Intruder!”

  The high-pitched voice cut through the fog of his pain. Another goblin had come up from behind. Goblin fists were not that large, so Brox could only assume that he had been hit with either a hammer or a rock.

  The orc attempted to rise, but the goblin continued to pound at him. Blood trickled down Brox’s head to his mouth. The taste of his own life fluids stirred the warrior to urgency. Still kneeling, he rolled over.

  There was a squawk and then the heavy orc landed on something that squirmed. The beating finally halted. Brox continued rolling and felt the goblin lose the last of his grip.

  As he pushed himself up, the warrior heard other goblin voices near him. What he assumed was another rock hit his shoulder hard. Brox heard metal drawn and knew that the goblins had knives.

  He blindly reached for his ax, but could not find it. Before the orc could clear his sight, a shrieking figure leapt on his chest, almost throwing him back. With arm and legs, the goblin clutched him tight while trying to bury a blade in his eye.

  As Brox battled to keep the knife from him, a second attacker landed on his shoulder. The orc grunted as a blade edged his ear. Managing to reach up, Brox tore the creature from his shoulder and threw him as far as possible. As the goblin’s scream trailed off, the fighter sought again to pull the one away from his chest.

  He almost had it done when both his legs were seized. Brox raised one foot, bringing it down hard. With immense satisfaction, the orc heard bone crunch. The grip on that leg ceased. Unfortunately, when he repeated the maneuver with the other, the goblin there shifted position while still holding tight.

  The one on his chest managed to sink his knife into Brox’s shoulder. The fiendish creature giggled as he raised the weapon.

  Enraged, the orc swung a meaty fist, hitting the goblin square in the side of the head. The giggle cut off, replaced by a short gurgle before the goblin went tumbling away.

  But, again, Brox received no reprieve. A new attacker crashed into his stomach, driving the air from his lungs. Brox fell back. The only benefit to his disaster was marked by a squeal from the goblin on his leg. Half-crushed by the weight of the warrior’s limb, the creature lost his hold
.

  A second goblin leapt atop the fallen orc, beating at him with a rock. This was hardly the noble death in battle Brox had imagined for himself. He did not recall any orc in any of the great epics being brought down by goblins.

  Then the pair on his chest shrieked as a red light threw them across the area. One collided with another goblin, ending in a tangle of limbs, while the second smashed hard against the rocks.

  “Make certain that we have them all!” the orc heard Krasus demand.

  Shaking his head, Brox managed to focus in time to see the two tangled goblins suddenly sink into the once solid ground. Their cries were cut off the moment their heads vanished beneath.

  Another of the creatures, either smarter or more arrogant than the rest, threw a rock with unerring aim at the side of the mage’s head. Already aware that it was too late, Brox still opened his mouth to warn Krasus — and watched the rock not only not strike the slim figure, but bounce back with such velocity that when it hit the goblin, it cracked his skull.

  The hair on the back of the orc’s neck rose. Reacting instinctively, Brox swung behind him. The goblin about to stab him in the back tumbled to the earth.

  Krasus remained fixed, eyes now shut tight. Brox gingerly got to his feet, trying not to make any sound that would disturb the spellcaster.

  “None escaped…” Krasus murmured after a moment. His eyes opened and he studied the carnage. “We caught them all.”

  Locating his ax, the orc bowed his head in regret. “Forgive me, elder one. I acted like an untrained child.”

  “It is over, Brox… and you may have given us a shortcut to our destination.” His hand glowing, Krasus touched the warrior lightly on the shoulder, healing Brox’s wounds as if they were nothing.

  Relieved that he had not entirely shamed himself, Brox looked at the mage in curiosity. Malfurion, too, eyed Krasus, but with more understanding.

  “They know how best to reach the dragon’s lair,” Krasus explained, hand glowing again. “They can show us the way.”

  Brox gazed around. Of the goblins he could see, all appeared dead. Then he saw the one who had struck the rocks rise awkwardly. At first, the weary orc wondered how the creature had survived such an impact — and realized swiftly that he had not.

  “We are the servants of Life,” Krasus whispered with clear distaste, “which means we know Death equally well.”

  “By the Mother Moon…” Malfurion gasped.

  Muttering a prayer to the spirits, Brox stared at the animated corpse. It reminded him too much of the Scourge. Without realizing it, he kept his ax tight in case the goblin should attack.

  “Rest easy, my friends. I am only resurrecting the memories of his path. He will walk it, then that will be the end of the matter. I am no Nathrezim, to relish in the binding of corpses to do my will.” He gestured at the dead goblin, who, after performing a haphazard turn, began shambling north. “Now, come! Let us be done with this distasteful business and prepare ourselves for entrance into the sanctum of the dark one…”

  Krasus calmly walked behind his macabre puppet. After a moment, Malfurion followed. Brox hesitated, then, recalling the evil that they all faced, nodded approval at the mage’s necessary course of action and joined the others.

  Seven

  Archimonde watched his warriors forced back on all fronts. He watched as they died by the dozens on the blades of the defenders or ripped apart by the night elves’ feline mounts. He noted the scores more perishing under the brute force of the other creatures who had allied themselves with the host.

  Archimonde watched it all… and smiled. They were without the wizard, without the druid and the mage… even without the brawny, green-skinned fighter whose base fury the demon found admirable.

  “It is time…” he hissed to himself.

  Jarod continued to try to wake Rhonin, but the wizard would not respond. The only response that the human had given thus far had been to open his eyes, but they were eyes that did not see, did not even hint of a mind behind them.

  But still he tried. “Master Rhonin! You must stir! Something’s amiss, I know it!” The captain sprinkled water over the red-haired spellcaster’s face. It trickled off with no effect. “The demon lord’s up to something!”

  Then, a peculiar noise caught his attention. It reminded Jarod of when he had used to watch flocks of birds landing in the trees. The fluttering of many wings echoed in his ears.

  He looked up.

  The sky was filled with Doomguard.

  “Mother Moon…”

  Each of the flying demons carried a burden in their arms, a heavy pot from which smoke trailed. The pots were far larger and heavier than any night elf could have borne and even the Doomguard appeared hardpressed to keep them, but keep them they did.

  Jarod Shadowsong studied the swarm, watching how they flew as hard as they could for the defenders’ lines… and then went beyond. Below, it was doubtful that many even noticed them, so ferocious was the fighting. Even Lord Stareye likely saw only the dying demons before him.

  The noble had to be warned. It was the only thing that made sense to Jarod. There was no one else. Krasus was gone.

  Seizing Rhonin’s body, the captain dragged it over to a large rock. He positioned the wizard on the opposing side, away from the view of the battlefield. Hopefully, no one would see the robed figure there.

  “Please… please forgive me,” the soldier asked the unmoving form.

  Jarod leapt onto his mount and headed for where he had last seen the noble’s banner. But just as he left the area where he had secreted Rhonin, the foremost of the Doomguard suddenly hovered over the night elves. The captain saw the first one tip over his pot.

  A boiling, red liquid poured down on the unsuspecting soldiers.

  Their screams were awful. Most of those upon whom the deadly rain had fallen dropped writhing. From the single pot, nearly a score of night elves had been burned and maimed, some mortally.

  And then the other winged demons began turning over their own containers.

  “No…” he gasped. “No!”

  A deluge of death washed over the defenders.

  Rank upon rank of soldiers broke into utter chaos as each fought to protect themselves from the horror. They had stood up to blades and claws — dangers that could be battled with a weapon — but against the scalding horror unleashed by the Doomguard, there was nothing to be done.

  The cries ringing in his head, Jarod urged his mount to its swiftest. He sighted Stareye’s banner, then, after a few tense moments, the noble himself.

  What Jarod saw gave him no heart. The slim night elf sat atop his cat, his expression aghast. Desdel Stareye sat as if dead in the saddle. He watched the destruction of his grand plan with no obvious intention of doing anything to try to salvage the situation. Around him, his staff and guards stared helplessly at their commander. Jarod read no hope in their faces.

  Managing to maneuver his night saber closer, the captain pushed past stunned guards and a noble with shaking hands to reach the commander. “My lord! My lord! Do something! We need to bring down those demons!”

  “It’s too late, too late!” babbled Stareye, not looking at him. “We’re all doomed! It’s the end of everything!”

  “My lord — ” Some inner sense caused Jarod to look sky-ward.

  A pair of demons hovered above, their pots still filled.

  Seizing the noble’s arm, Jarod shouted, “Lord Stareye! Move! Quickly!”

  The other night elf’s expression hardened and he pulled his arm away in disdain. “Unhand me! You forget yourself, captain!”

  Jarod stared incredulously at Stareye. “My lord — ”

  “Away with you before I have you clapped in irons!”

  Knowing he could do nothing to convince the noble otherwise, Jarod reined hard, forcing his mount away.

  It was all that saved him.

  The torrent that washed over Stareye and the others seared flesh and melted metal. In its death throes, Stare
ye’s night saber threw his sizzling body off. The noble landed in a monstrous heap, his arrogant features now a mangled horror nigh unrecognizable. His companions and guards fared little better; those that were not horridly slain lay twitching, their bodies ruined, their screams enough to chill the soul.

  And Jarod could do nothing for them.

  The Doomguard flew overhead all but untouched by the defenders. Sporadic fire from an archer here and there brought down a few, and some perished in manners that clearly had the touch of the Moon Guard on them, but there was no cohesive effort. Jarod found the lack of organization stunning, then recalled that Stareye had replaced all of his predecessor’s officers with his own sycophants.

  More incomprehensible, there were even some elements of the night elf forces not yet in play. They anxiously stood by, awaiting commands that would never be given. Jarod realized that they did not know that Lord Stareye was dead and likely thought the noble would be calling upon them at any moment.

  He quickly rode up to one contingent. The officer in charge saluted him.

  “How many bows do you have?” Jarod asked.

  “Threescore, captain!”

  Hardly enough, but at least a start. “Get every bow set! I want them trained on those Doomguard now! The rest create a defensive square for them!”

  The other night elf gave the order. Jarod looked around desperately for something else to use. Instead, another rider came racing up to him. The newcomer saluted in a manner that indicated immediately that Jarod was the first thing resembling an officer that he had seen.

  “The wedge is flattened, the line barely holding by us!” He pointed behind himself to a location near the middle. “Lord Del’theon is dead and we’ve only a subofficer in charge! He sent me to find out someone to strengthen us!”

  By this time, the troops that Jarod had taken over had already arranged themselves. Even as the captain considered what to do about the new problem, he saw almost a dozen Doomguard drop from the sky. It gave him a slight hint of hope, at least.