Richard Knaak - The Sundering

“I will carve your name on my spear!” he rumbled. “You will be honored by generations of my line!”

“I’d be honored just to live through this!”

“Ha! Such wisdom in one so young!”

A female dragon of Alexstrasza’s flight swooped down, laying a cleansing blast of red flame that forever doused many green ones. The action further eased the situation for Jarod’s contingent. The commander of the host began to breath just a little easier.

But a second later, the same dragon went careening back beyond the night elves’ lines, her chest a sizzling mass of ruined scale and torn innards. The earth shook as she collided with it and a furtive look by Jarod gave him ample enough evidence to know that she would not fly again.

And in the wake of the leviathan’s death, a dozen soldiers also flew back, their bodies charred. Demons, too, tumbled, as if whatever attacked did not care who perished so long as nothing stood in its path.

Huln put a protective arm across Jarod’s chest. “What comes is no Infernal or the work of the Eredar! I believe it seeks — ”

Then a massive wind tossed fighters from both forces aside as if they were nothing. Night sabers were no less immune, Blackforest and his mount thrown with the rest. Huln managed to stand his ground a second longer, but even the stubbornness of a tauren could not hold against the incredible gale. He went flying past, the warrior striking at the wind in frustration as he vanished from sight.

Yet… Jarod Shadowsong felt nothing, not even a breeze.

And so he found himself alone when the giant strode out of the dust raised by the wind, the giant with dark skin and intricate tattoos that even the unskilled Jarod could sense radiated sinister magical forces.

“Yes…” mused the figure, eyeing the night elf up and down. “If I cannot have the druid, I shall amuse myself on what pathetically passes as the hope of this doomed host.”

Jarod readied his blade, aware that he had no hope against this opponent but finding himself unwilling to surrender to the inevitable. “I await you, Archimonde.”

The archdemon laughed.

Brox was only a simple warrior, but he knew when a battle was going bad. It was not that he and the others could not defeat these armored night elves and their fiendish mounts, but that each second wasted so brought the portal nearer and nearer to completion. Already, a sinister green aura had formed around the gullet of the whirlpool. The orc understood magic well enough to know that soon the passage would be strong enough for whatever evil desired to come through, be it Sargeras or the “Old Gods” Krasus had mentioned.

A barbed lance flashed by his head, scraping away a few bits of skin but otherwise doing the hardened orc no harm. The scowling soldier wielding it steered his shadow bat to the side, hoping to get in past the bronze dragon’s claws for another thrust at the green warrior.

The dragon caught hold of the shadow bat. The two struggled, upsetting the night elf’s aim. Instead of impaling Brox, he caught the orc at the shoulder. Brox growled as the barbed head tore a thick piece of flesh from the spot. Despite the pain, he managed to lean forward and chop the lance in two.

With a curse, the soldier drew his sword. However, Brox, throwing caution to the wind, rose from his seat and leapt at his opponent.

He landed in a crouching position, gripping one of the bat’s ears for support. The outrageous act so startled the night elf that he sat openmouthed as, with one hand, the orc buried his ax in his foe’s armored chest. The soldier collapsed, tumbling off the back of his mount.

But Brox’s impetuous action nearly cost him his own life. He had thought to use the bat’s back to leap back atop the dragon, but the creature’s hide proved oddly slick. As he let go of the ear, the orc lost his footing. Still gripping his ax tight, he slid toward the tail, following the night elf’s corpse.

The burgeoning gateway far below filled Brox’s eyes. He sensed the evil swelling within —

Then, a pair of claws caught him just as he fell free and Rhonin’s voice shouted, “We’ve got you, Brox!”

The red dragon acting as the wizard’s mount twisted so as to allow the orc to climb atop. Rhonin gave the orc a hand up, letting the graying warrior slide in behind him.

“That was just a little foolhardy even for an orc, wasn’t it?”

“Maybe so,” Brox admitted, thinking of the portal. Brave as he considered himself, he was grateful that he had not fallen into it. The further away he got from it, the better.

The wizard suddenly stiffened. “Watch out! Here come two more!”

The shadow bats converged on their position. Rhonin’s hand flared bright as he readied a spell. Brox hefted his ax, prepared to be as much help as he could. He welcomed the new adversaries, if only because they took his mind off the portal.

The portal and an evil that stirred fear even in an orc.

The sight of Deathwing rebuffed by the spell surrounding the disk both astounded and disheartened Malfurion. If even the black dragon could not penetrate the dark magic, then what could the druid and his companions hope to do?

But Malfurion had no more opportunity to worry about the disk, for, at that moment, a menacing form dropped upon Ysera. The green dragon roared as the bat’s fangs sank into her shoulder near the spine. The night elf slid to the side, trying to avoid being buried under the beast.

A sword cut at his head, narrowly missing his ear.

“Slippery little fool!” hissed Varo’then, once more wielding his favored weapon. Azshara’s officer thrust again, this time nicking Malfurion on the cheek. Varo’then drew the sword back for another strike. “The next one’ll take your head!”

The druid thrust his hand into a pouch. He knew what he sought and prayed he would find it. The familiar feel reassured him and he pulled out the seeds.

Captain Varo’then adjusted his position. The evil grin spread wide. The demons had found a perfect subordinate in the sadistic soldier.

As the blade came down, Malfurion threw the seeds into the bat’s maw.

The monster convulsed immediately. The sword point, fixed on the druid’s throat, instead cut a bloody but shallow line across his collarbone. Malfurion grunted from the pain, but held on.

A fiery glow erupted from within Varo’then’s mount. The captain tried to maintain control, but to no avail. The bat flailed around, shrieking.

A moment later, it burst into flames.

Malfurion had used the seeds’ inherent heat during earlier battles. However, with only a few left, he had not thought to wield them up here, where they might not be utilized well. Only because the shadowy creature had been right on top of him had the night elf managed to make certain that all reached their target, the throat.

The fiery spectacle was so bright that Malfurion had to look away. He heard Varo’then shout, but the words were lost.

With one last shrill cry, the incinerated beast dropped from sight.

Gasping for breath, Malfurion clung to Ysera. The dragon could do nothing for her rider, for another of the bats already had her attention. The druid held on as tight as he could while he tried to regain his composure. The pain from his wounds stung terribly and the knowledge that the disk was still untouchable drained him further.

A sharp pain coursed through his calf.

Malfurion cried out. He nearly lost his hold. Blood trickled into his boot as he wildly kicked at the source. He turned watery eyes toward his leg and the cause of his agony.

Captain Varo’then clutched tightly to Ysera’s lower back, the scarred soldier grunting as he made his way up a scale at a time. The cause of Malfurion’s new pain — the officer’s curved dagger — was clenched between Varo’then’s teeth. Malfurion’s blood dribbled unnoticed down the other night elf’s pointed chin.