Richard Knaak: The Demon Soul

“But then this might’ve turned out different, Captain Shadowsong,” Malfurion replied.

The soldier exhaled in frustration. “No…it wouldn’t have, because Lord Ravencrest would’ve never let me go back to the Guard! He seems to think I was anointed by the Mother Moon herself to protect the backs of his special servants!”

“You came back to Suramar in the company of myself, a novice priestess of Elune, a mysterious wizard…and a dragon, captain. I’m afraid we marked you in the eyes of Lord Ravencrest and the other commanders. They’ll never see you as a simple Guard officer again.”

Shadowsong grimaced. “I’m no hero, Master Malfurion. You and the others slay demons with barely the wave of a hand. I just try to preserve your heads so that you can continue to do it.”

Jarod Shadowsong had had the misfortune to capture Krasus while the latter had tried to enter Suramar. The mage had used the captain to gain aid for himself, which in turn had resulted in bringing Malfurion and the others, including Korialstrasz, together at last. Unfortunately for the good officer, his dedication to duty meant that he had accompanied his prisoner through the entire incident; that, most of all, had stuck in Lord Ravencrest’s mind when he determined that his spellcasters needed someone to watch over them. Jarod Shadowsong soon found himself “volunteered” to command a contingent of hardened soldiers, most of whom had far more military experience than himself.

“There was no need for all this charging about,” Illidan snapped as he joined his brother. “I had this situation in hand.”

“My orders, Master Illidan. As it is, I barely caught sight of you leaving on your own, against his lordship’s commands.” Shadowsong swung his gaze back to Malfurion. “And when I discovered how long you had been missing…”

“Hmmph,” was all Illidan responded. For one of the few times in recent days, the twins were in agreement—neither cared for Lord Ravencrest’s demand that they be constantly watched. Doing so only made them more eager to escape. In Malfurion’s case, it was due to the nature of his calling; in Illidan’s it was because he had no patience for the endless councils. Illidan did not care for battle plans; he just wanted to go out and destroy demons.

Only…this time it had almost been the demons who destroyed him. Neither he nor Malfurion had sensed their nearness, a new and frightening aspect. The Burning Legion had learned how to better cloak its assassins. Even the forest had been blithefuly ignorant of the taint in its midst. That did not bode well for the future of the struggle.

One of the other soldiers rode up to Shadowsong. Saluting, he said, “The area’s clear, captain. Not a sign of any more—”

A bone-shivering cry echoed through the forest.

Malfurion and Illidan turned and ran in the direction of the source. Jarod Shadowsong opened his mouth to call them back, then clamped it shut and urged his mount after.

They did not have far to go. A short distance further into the woods, the gathered party paused before a gruesome sight. One of the night sabers lay sprawled across the ground, its torso ripped open and its entrails spilled out. The huge cat’s glassy eyes stared sightlessly skyward. The animal had been dead no more than a minute or two, if that long.

But it was not the beast that had been the source of the blood-chilling cry. That had been the soldier who now hung skewered on his own sword against a mighty oak. The night elf ’s legs dangled several feet above the earth. Like the cat, his chest had been methodically torn open—that despite his armor. Below his feet lay most of what had fallen free. His mouth hung open and his eyes were a perfect copy of the panther’s own empty orbs.

Illidan eagerly looked around, but Malfurion put a sturdy hand on his brother’s shoulder and shook his head. “We do as the captain said. We go back. Now.”

“Get his body down,” ordered Shadowsong, his face losing some of its violet pigment. He pointed at the twins. “I want an escort around them this instant!” Leaning down to the pair, the captain added with some impatience, “If you don’t mind, of course.”

Malfurion prevented his brother from making any remark back. The pair dutifully marched up the rise toward their mounts, the bulk of the escort constantly circling them like a pack of wolves surrounding prey. It was ironic to Malfurion that he and his brother wielded more power than all the soldiers put together and yet they would likely have died if not for Jarod Shadowsong’s intervention.

We’ve much to learn still, the young druid thought as he neared his night saber. I have much to learn still.

But it seemed that the demons were not going to allow anyone the precious time needed for that learning.

Krasus had lived longer than any of those around him. His lanky, silver-haired form gave some indication of the wisdom he had gathered over that time, but only by gazing deep into his eyes did one garner any hint of the true depths of the mage’s knowledge and experience.

The night elves thought him a variant of their own race, some sort of albino or mutation. He resembled them enough, even though his eyes were more like a dwarf ’s in that they had pupils. His hosts accepted his “deformities” by marking them as evidence of his powerful links to magic. Krasus wielded the arcane arts better than all the vaunted Moon Guard combined, and with good reason.

He was neither a night elf nor even merely an elf…Krasus was a dragon.

And not any dragon, but the elder version of the very leviathan with whom he spent much of his time, Korialstrasz.

The cowled mage had not, as he had indicated to others, come with red-haired Rhonin from a distant land. In fact, both he and the human wizard had come from far, far in the future, from a time after a second and decisive battle against the Burning Legion. They had not, however, come by choice. The two had been investigating a curious and unsettling anomaly in the mountains when that anomaly had swallowed them, tossing both through time and space into ancient Kalimdor.

They were not the only ones, either. An orc—the veteran warrior, Broxigar—had also been swallowed. Brox’s people had also fought the demons that second time and his Warchief had sent him and another to investigate a troubled shaman’s nightmare. Caught on the edge of the anomaly, Brox’s companion had been ripped apart, leaving the older orc to fend for himself when he arrived in the past.

Circumstance had gradually thrown the dragon, the orc, and the human—all former enemies—together. But circumstance had not given them a way back to the future and that, most of all, worried Krasus.

“You are brooding again,” rumbled the dragon.

“Merely concerned about your coming departure,” Krasus told his younger self.

The red dragon nodded his huge head. The pair stood at the wide, solid battlements of Black Rook Hold, the imposing citadel from which Lord Ravencrest commanded his forces. Contrary to the lively, extravagant homes of his contemporaries, Ravencrest kept a very martial residence. Black Rook Hold had been carved from thick, ebony rock, as solid a structure as any ever made. All the chambers above and below ground had been chiseled out. To many, Black Rook was a fortress impenetrable.

To Krasus, who knew the monstrous fury of the Burning Legion, it was one more house of cards.

“I do not wish to depart,” spoke the red dragon, “but there is a silence among our kind. I cannot even sense my beloved Alexstrasza. You of all should understand my need to discover the truth.”

Korialstrasz knew that his companion was a dragon like himself, but he had not made the connection between past and future. Only his queen and mate, the Mother of Life, understood the truth and she had not told her new consort. That had been a favor to him—or rather, to his older self.