Richard Knaak - The Demon Soul

Alive, commanded the presence from beyond, now beginning to recede from Mannoroth’s head. Alive…so that I might have my pleasure with his torture…

And as Sargeras vanished, Mannoroth shuddered, knowing full well what fate this Malfurion would face once the Great One had him in his grasp.

The monumental task of reorganizing the host was made more so by the countless refugees accompanying them, but to his credit, Lord Ravencrest did as best as possible. He took an accounting of all supplies, especially food and water, and distributed accordingly. Some of the high-ranking among the refugees protested at not receiving what they thought their rightful—and more bountiful—shares, but one black glare from the bearded commander silenced all.

Tyrande and the sisters also did what they could for the soldiers and civilians. Her helmet pushed back, the priestess of Elune led along a night saber she had borrowed earlier as she stopped to speak with one person after another. All, whether old or young, of high caste or low, welcomed her presence. Perhaps it was just the moment, but they appeared to her especially comforted after she was through. Tyrande did not mark this as the result of any special gift she had, merely assuming that her gentle demeanor was an extreme relief in contrast to all else the others had faced of late.

A small figure crouched by herself seized the priestess’s attention. A young female, two or three years away from being able to enter into the service of Elune, sat in miserable silence, staring at nothing.

Kneeling at her side, Tyrande touched her shoulder. The girl started, turning to glare at her like a wild beast.

“Be at peace…” Tyrande said soothingly, handing her a water sack. She waited until the girl had finished, then added, “I am from the temple. What’s your name?”

After a moment’s hesitation, the child answered, “ShShandris Feathermoon.”

“Where is your family?”

“I-I don’t know.”

“Are you from Suramar?” The priestess could not recall her, but that did not mean that Shandris was not from the same city.

“No…Ara-Hinam.”

Tyrande tried to hide her concern. Shandris was one of the refugees that the demons had been pursuing when they had set their trap. Based on what the priestess had gathered from other survivors, many people had perished before the Burning Legion had allowed the rest to escape. The child’s family might still live…but then again might not.

“When did you last see them?”

Shandris’s eyes grew huge. “I was with a friend…when the monsters came. I tried to run home, but someone grabbed me…told me I had to run the other way. I did.” She put her hands to her face, the tears spilling over them. “I should have gone home! I should have gone home!”

The tragic tale was not what Tyrande had wanted to hear. The priestess would make inquiries wherever she could, but she was near-certain that no one in Shandris’s immediate family had survived and that the girl was now all by herself in the world.

“Has anyone taken care of you since your flight?”

“No.”

The refugees from Ara-Hinam, a smaller settlement, had been on the run for two days prior to meeting up with the host. It was remarkable to think that Shandris had survived on her own even for that period. Many older night elves had fallen to the side; the priestess’s people were not, in general, up to such strife. Night elves, while hardly weak, were very ill-prepared for life outside their cushioned world—a failing only now becoming evident. Tyrande gave thanks to Elune that she, Malfurion, and Illidan had been raised differently, but they were in the minority.

There were so many in the same situation Shandris suffered, but something about the child especially touched the priestess. Perhaps it was that she somewhat resembled Tyrande in face and form at that age. Whatever the case, the sister bade the child to rise.

“I want you to climb atop the night saber. You’re going to come with me.” It went against her orders, but the priestess did not care. Though she could not save everyone, she would do what she could for Shandris.

Her face drawn but her eyes for the first time clear, Shandris mounted the cat. Tyrande made certain that she was secure, then led the night saber on.

“Where are we going?” the child asked.

“I’ve more work to do. You’ll find some dried fruit in the pouch hanging on the left side.”

Shandris eagerly twisted to the pouch, rummaging through it until she discovered the simple fare. Tyrande made no mention of the fact that the girl was also devouring her ration. The sisterhood trained its members to learn to survive at times with minimal sustenance. There were even four periods of ritual fasting each year, done in general as a sign of dedication to the goddess. Now, it paid off in time of war.

Moving on to the next refugees, Tyrande continued her ministrations. Most were simply exhausted beyond belief, but some had injuries. The latter she always tried to help as much as possible, praying to the Mother Moon for the strength and guidance necessary. To her joy, the goddess saw fit this day to grant success in all her efforts.

But then she came upon one infected injury that shocked her. Whether an intentional wound or an accident, it was at first difficult to say. Tyrande studied the unsettling greenish pus around it and wondered at the peculiar cuts. The victim, an older male, lay pale and unconscious, his breath coming in rapid gasps. His mate, her hair bound back with what remained of a ruby- and emerald-encrusted broach, cradled his head.

“How did he do this?” asked Tyrande, not certain if she could even slow the course of the infection. There was something disquieting about it.

“He did not. It was done to him.”

“I don’t understand.”

The elder female’s expression tightened as she fought to maintain her calm long enough to explain. “This thing…he said it looked like…like a wolf or hound…but twisted, as if out of a horrible dream…”

Tyrande shivered. She knew that the other female spoke of a felbeast. The four-legged demons had nearly slain Malfurion more than once. They especially desired those who wielded any sort of magic, draining it from the bodies and leaving only a dry husk.

“And he made it all the way from Ara-Hinam like this?” The priestess marveled that anyone could survive so long with so hideous a wound.

“No…from there we escaped whole.” Bitterness tinged her words. “This he got but two days ago, while sneaking off to find us food.”

Two days? That would have put them with the mass of bodies flowing toward Mount Hyjal. But none of the demons had managed to break ahead of the horde, of that Tyrande was certain.

“You swear that it was only two days? It happened near here?”

“Back in the wooded lands now again to our south, I swear it.”

The priestess bit her lip; woods that were behind the night elven lines.

Leaning over the wound, Tyrande said, “Let me see what can be done.”

She forced herself to touch it, hoping that she could at least prevent it from spreading. From behind her she heard Shandris gasp. The girl feared for her, and rightly so. One never knew what a demon-caused wound might do. The Burning Legion would not be averse to spreading plague.

The moon was not present in the sky, but that did not concern Tyrande. While the priestesses were strongest when it was visible, they were fully aware that it was never far away. Their link to Elune was powerful no matter what time of day or night or even cycle.

“Mother Moon, hear my entreaties,” she whispered. “Grant this humble one the cool, soothing powers of your touch. Guide my hands to the source of this abomination, and let me remove the taint so that this innocent might recover…”