Brox snorted in self-derision. The heroes in the epics always managed to accomplish such things, but it was doubtful that he would. Captain Varo’then had a clear talent for tying rope. He had secured his prisoners all too well.
On and on they trudged, leaving the lair of the black dragon further behind. However, Brox did not travel with the confidence of Illidan and the captain. He was certain that Deathwing would find them. It was a puzzle that the giant had not appeared already. Had something distracted him?
Eyes widening, he suddenly grunted at his own ignorance. Yes, the orc finally realized. Something had. Something… or, rather, someone. Krasus.
Brox understood well the sacrifice the mage might be making. Elder one, I wish you well. I will sing of you… for what little time I still live.
“Ungh!”
Brox looked just in time to see Malfurion fall again. This time, though, the druid managed to twist. Instead of landing on his face, he did so on his side. The action saved him from a bloody nose, although clearly Malfurion had still shaken every bone in his body.
Try as he might, the orc could do nothing to aid the fallen night elf. Gritting his teeth, he glared at Illidan. “Give him his sight! He’ll walk better, then!”
The sorcerer adjusted the scarf over his own eyes. Brox had seen just enough to know that something terrible had happened to them.
“Give him his sight back? Why should I?”
“The beast has a point,” Captain Varo’then abruptly interrupted. “Your brother slows us down too much! Either let me slit his throat here and now or give him eyes so that he can see the trail!”
Illidan gave him a sardonic smile. “Such tempting choices! Oh, very well! Bring him forth!”
Two of the demons pushed Malfurion forward at the points of their weapons. To his credit, the druid straightened as best he could and marched defiantly toward his twin.
“From my eyes to yours,” Illidan murmured. “I grant you what I no longer need.”
He pulled up the scarf.
The hair on the back of the orc’s neck stiffened as he saw for the first time what lay underneath. Brox uttered an oath to the spirits. Even the monstrous guards next to him shifted uneasily.
The shadows faded from Malfurion’s own orbs. He blinked, then saw Illidan. The druid, too, gaped in horror at what had befallen his brother’s eyes.
“Oh, Illidan…” Malfurion managed. “I’m so very sorry…”
“About what?” The sorcerer contemptuously replaced the scarf over the ungodly sockets. “I’ve something much better now! A sense of sight you could only dream of attaining! I’ve lost nothing, do you understand me? Nothing!” To the officer, Illidan disdainfully commented, “He should be good to travel now. We can even pick up the pace, I think.”
Varo’then smiled, then gave the command to continue on.
Malfurion stumbled toward the orc. Brox guided the night elf to a more staid pacing, then muttered, “Sorry I am about your brother…”
“Illidan’s chosen his path,” the druid said in a much more gentle tone than the orc would have used.
“He betrays us!”
“Does he?” Malfurion stared hard at his twin’s back. “Does he?”
Shaking his head at his companion’s wishful thinking, the orc gave up.
They moved on, the shrouded day aging. Their captors rode with little concern, but Brox kept glancing back at the mountain chain, certain that Deathwing would make his appearance at any moment.
“Tell me, sorcerer,” the scarred officer suddenly said after more than an hour of silence. “This disk. It does everything you’ve told us?”
“Everything and more. You know what it did to the Legion and the night elves… and even against the dragons.”
“Yes…” The orc could hear the avarice in Varo’then’s voice. Only now did he notice the way the captain’s hand kept caressing the pouch containing the Demon Soul. “All true, eh?”
“Just ask Archimonde, if you like.”
Varo’then’s hand pulled from the pouch. The soldier had enough sense to respect the power of the great demon.
“It should be powerful enough to transform the portal to Sargeras’s desire,” Illidan continued. “The rest of the Legion will then be able to enter Kalimdor… with Sargeras himself at their head.”
Malfurion gasped and even Brox grunted in revulsion. They looked aghast at one another, well aware that no force would be able to withstand both the demon lord and his full host.
“Must do something…” Brox quietly urged, testing his muscles against the ropes and, regrettably, finding the ropes still the stronger.
“I have been,” the druid whispered back. “Since Illidan gave me my eyes back. I couldn’t concentrate before that because I kept falling… but now that’s no problem.”
Making certain that the demons still paid them no mind, Brox growled, “How?”
“The cats. I’ve been talking with them. Convincing them…”
The orc’s brow furrowed and he recalled how Malfurion had mentally spoken with animals in the past. “I’ll be ready, druid. Is it soon, you think?”
“It’s been harder than I thought. They — they’ve been tainted by the Legion’s presence, but… I think… yes… be ready. They should act any moment now.”
At first, there was no obvious sign of success… but then Captain Varo’then’s mount balked. The captain kicked at the animal, but the night saber would not move.
“What’s the matter with this damned — ”
Varo’then got no farther, for the panther abruptly reared. Caught by surprise, the officer rolled off the creature’s back.
Illidan started to look over his shoulder, but then his own mount did as the first. However, the sorcerer was better prepared and although he slid from his seat, he was not toppled.
“You fool!” Illidan blurted, although to who, it was impossible to say. “You stupid — ”
Brox acted the moment the cats turned on their riders. He ran toward Captain Varo’then’s mount, seeking his ax. The night saber obliged him by turning its flank toward the orc… surely a command given by Malfurion.
Spinning around, Brox presented his bound limbs to the ax head. The ever-sharp edge severed the ropes easily and only nicked the warrior’s right arm.
Brox seized his weapon. “Druid! To me! We can ride this beast out — ”
But the night saber bounded past him. With its head, it rammed a Fel Guard seeking to run Malfurion through. The other demons back away, momentarily uncertain what to make of the mad situation.
The cat, meanwhile, began gnawing on Malfurion’s ropes. Gazing at Brox, the night elf shouted, “Never mind me! The pouch, Brox! The pouch!”
The orc looked to where Varo’then had landed. The palace officer sat rubbing his head, the pouch holding the Demon Soul still dangling from his belt. He did not seem aware of the nearby presence of Brox.
Raising his ax high, the orc charged the captain. However, the scarred night elf recovered quicker than Brox hoped. Seeing the huge green form barreling at him, the slim fighter immediately rolled away. As he came to his feet, Varo’then drew his sword.
“Come, you lumbering brute,” he taunted. “I’ll carve you up and feed you to the cats… if they can stomach you!”
Brox brought down the ax… and had he struck the elf, Varo’then would have been cut in twain. The captain, however, moved like lightning. The orc’s weapon cleaved the hard earth, leaving a trench more than a yard long.
Varo’then leaped forward, jabbing at his foe. The sword cut a crimson line across Brox’s left shoulder. Brox ignored the stinging as he hefted the ax for another attempt.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Malfurion direct the riderless night saber at the Fel Guard. The first demon retreated, uncertain as to whether to attack Varo’then’s mount. That hesitation cost him, the huge panther bringing down the armored figure a moment later and tearing into his throat.
Brox tried to spot
Illidan, but the need to keep track of his own adversary made that impossible. He hoped Malfurion was watching his brother. One spell by the sorcerer and they were doomed.
He roared as Captain Varo’then managed a nastier cut on the same shoulder.
The night elf grinned. “The first rule of war is to never be distracted…”
In response, the orc swung his ax in a fearsome arc which narrowly missed decapitating the soldier. Varo’then, his demeanor now more serious, backed away.
“Second rule,” growled Brox. “Only fools talk so much on the battlefield.”
His body suddenly tingled. Brox’s movements slowed down, each action growing more and more ponderous. It felt as if the very air around him solidified.
Sorcery…
Malfurion had not dealt with Illidan, just as the veteran warrior had feared. The familial bond had made the druid hesitant and now that hesitation would cost them.
Captain Varo’then’s grin returned. He moved with more confidence toward his slowing foe. “Well! I usually don’t like things so easy, but, in this case, I’ll make an exception.” He pointed his sword at Brox’s chest. “I wonder if your heart’s in the same place as mine…”
But as he approached, a dark shadow enveloped both of them. Brox wanted to look up, but his movements had slowed so much now that he knew that the night elf would gut him before he could lower his head again. If this was to be his death, the orc wanted to stare his slayer in the eyes as a warrior should.
But Queen Azshara’s servant was not looking at the orc anymore. He, it was, who now gazed high into the heavens, his mouth twisting angrily.
“Away from him, miscreant!” bellowed a voice from above.
As a helpless Brox watched, Varo’then, eyes wide, leapt away from the orc. A mere eyeblink later… and the area where the treacherous night elf had stood was bathed in flame.
Most astounding to Brox, the fire came with such precision that he barely felt the heat. That puzzled him further, for he had assumed, rightly, that a dragon soared overhead… and surely not just any dragon.
Deathwing.
But if it had been the sinister black, he would have scarcely avoided endangering Brox. With that in mind, the orc could only imagine one other dragon with such interest in the party… Korialstrasz. In all the chaos since escaping Deathwing’s lair, he had forgotten the red, but, it seemed the red had not forgotten Malfurion and him.
“Be ready!” shouted Korialstrasz. “I come!”
Brox could do little, but he braced himself as best he could for what he knew would come, relying on Korialstrasz’s skills.
A moment later, the great claws wrapped around his body and he was torn into the air.
The rush of wind in his face, Brox felt his limbs unstiffen. Either by the red’s action or some quirk of circumstance, Illidan’s spell had lifted.
He also noticed for the first time that Malfurion hung in the leviathan’s other paw. The druid looked exhausted and also a bit upset. Malfurion pointed down at the ground far below, shouting something to both the orc and the dragon.
Brox finally made out his words. “The disk!” Malfurion cried. “They still have the disk!”
The orc started to respond, but Korialstrasz suddenly arced, heading back toward the site of the struggle. The dragon dove toward the party, eyeing each figure.
“Which one?” the giant roared. “Which one?”
He need not have asked. Captain Varo’then, his hand already in the pouch, pulled free the Demon Soul. Brox recalled the troubles Malfurion had first suffered trying to make the disk work and hoped that the scarred officer would have the same problem.
And it seemed that fortune was with them, for Varo’then raised the disk with evil intent clearly in mind… but the Demon Soul did nothing.
Roaring, Korialstrasz closed on the captain. Varo’then’s expression grew dismayed.
But then, against all logic, the disk flared bright. Another voice called from above the dragon’s head, “Away! Quickly, or else we are all — ”
What struck the red was clearly but a fraction of the Demon Soul’s might, but it was enough. Brox himself felt the repercussion of the shock wave that hit Korialstrasz dead on. The dragon quivered, moaned… and ceased flapping his wings.
The leviathan veered back toward the peaks. The ground rushed up. Brox began reciting the names of his ancestors, calling on them to ready themselves for his coming.
The unyielding side of a granite mountain filled his gaze…
They should have been back by now, so Rhonin thought as he stared in the direction that Krasus and the others had ridden. They should have been back. Somehow, he knew something had gone wrong. When the night sabers had returned with the elder mage’s note, the human’s hopes had risen. Korialstrasz should have enabled the party to make much quicker time. They should have reached their destination long ago and surely Krasus would have wasted no time in attempting to secure the Demon Soul.
Yes, something had gone terribly wrong.
He mentioned none of this to Jarod, who had his own mountain of troubles. It was not that the meeting in Blackforest’s tent had gone awry; on the contrary, just by being himself, Shadowsong had cemented his position as commander. At some time during the last battle, the former Guard captain had reached a point where he could not stand by and let foolish orders, whatever the caste of their source, pass as wise council.
When another noble had suggested a flanking maneuver that would have likely ended with the host fragmented, Jarod had started in, explaining why such would only create a debacle that would destroy the night elves. That he had to make this clear to what should have been the most learned of his race astounded the human. In the end, Jarod had managed to turn every noble there into his loyal followers, so relieved were they to have someone who appeared to have an instinctive grasp of tactics.
Rhonin had, at first, assumed that he would have to secretly guide Jarod, but the young night elf did know what he was doing. The wizard had seen Jarod’s kind before — born with an ability the greatest learning could not surpass — and gave thanks to Elune and whatever other deity might have been responsible for granting the defenders someone to take Ravencrest’s place.
But with the quest for the disk in jeopardy, would even Jarod be enough?
Jarod joined the wizard. The reluctant leader of the host wore a newly-polished set of armor given to him by Blackforest, one that bore no crest, but did have red and orange arcs running down both sides to the waist. The cloak was likewise colored and flowed about him like a possessive lover. He now also had a crested helmet, the fiery tail — made from dyed night saber hair — dangling below his neck.
Behind him came his ever-present retinue, subofficers and liaisons for the varying noble leaders. Jarod paused to wave the group away from him before finally speaking.
“Once, I’d have dreamt of no greater honor than to rise to a rank of privilege and wear the fine garments appropriate to my new station,” Jarod remarked dourly. “Now, I just feel like I look like a buffoon!”
“You won’t get much argument from me,” Rhonin admitted. “But it impresses the lot, so you’ll have to make due with it, at least for now. When your authority’s stronger, you can begin dispensing with the trappings, piece by piece.”
“I can hardly wait.”
The wizard led him farther away. “Cheer up, Jarod! It won’t do if your people see their new hope looking so bleak. They might fear for their chances.”
“I fear for our chances, especially with me in command!”
The human would not permit him such talk. Leaning close, Rhonin snapped, “Thanks to you, we live! Yes, that includes me, too! You will come to terms with this! We’ve heard nothing yet from the others, which means that you, I, and those dying in battle may be the only hope for Kalimdor… the only hope for the future!”
He did not elaborate, for it would have been beyond even the erstwhile officer to come to grips with the truth… that Rhonin was fro
m a period perhaps ten thousand years later. How could the wizard explain that he fought not only for those who lived, but for those yet to be born, including the ones he loved most.
“I never asked for this…” protested Jarod.
“Neither did the rest of us.”
The night elf sighed. Removing the garish helmet, he wiped his forehead. “You’re right, Master Rhonin. Forgive me. I’ll do whatever I can, even if I can’t promise it’ll be much.”
“Just keep doing what you’re doing… the right thing. You turn into another Desdel Stareye and we’re all lost.”
The new commander gazed down at his finery, sneering at its impeccable state. “Little enough chance of that, I promise.”
That brought a smile to the wizard. “Good to hear — ”
A horn blared. A battle horn.
Rhonin looked over his shoulder. “That’s coming from far down the right flank! There shouldn’t be any Legion force there! They could never get around without us knowing it!”
Jarod clamped on his helmet. “But it appears that they have!” He waved the soldiers back over to him. “Mount up and bring me my own cat! The wizard’s, also! We need to see what’s happening over there now!”
They brought the animals with an efficiency that Rhonin had not noted under the leadership of Stareye. These soldiers truly respected Jarod. It was not merely that he now had the backing of so many important if impotent nobles. Word had already spread of his deeds and how he had taken the reins in the moment when everyone else had believed the cause lost.
As the captain — no, former captain, the spellcaster had to remind himself — mounted, a new transformation seem to overcome him. A grim determination spread across his onceinnocent countenance. He urged his night saber on, quickly pushing ahead of Rhonin and the others.
The horn sounded again. The wizard noted that it was a night elven horn. One of Jarod’s first commands and the one that had proven he had the nobles’ backing was to blend the host and its allies better. No longer were Huln’s and Dungard’s people off to the one side. Now, each element of night elf military had its own contingent of outsiders whose skills augmented, not detracted. Even the furbolgs had their part to play, strengthening wedges and using their clubs to crack the skulls of any Fel Guard who tried to reach the valued sorcerers and archers further back.
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