The Sundering

Ten

Krasus cursed when he sensed the disaster erupting in the black dragon’s lair. He had tried his best to detect every intricate spell Deathwing had cast over the Demon Soul’s hiding place and knew that Malfurion had done likewise, but, despite everything, they had been outwitted.

Worse, his link to the druid and the orc had been severed and not by any magic cast by the black dragon. Some force in its own way as terrible as Deathwing’s had come between the mage and his companions… and Krasus believed that he had some inkling as to just what it was.

The Old Gods existed only as legend even to most dragons, who had been born in the dawn of the world. Krasus, through his eternal inquisitiveness — or, as Rhonin put it, his eternal nosiness — knew them to be much more.

As the tale went, the three dark entities had ruled over a bloody chaos of which even the demon Lords of the Burning Legion could not imagine. They had ruled over the primal plane until the coming of the world’s creators. There had been war of cosmic proportions and, in the end, the Old Gods had fallen.

The three had been cast down into eternal imprisonment, the place of their confinement hidden from all and their powers bound until the end of time. That should have been the final line of the saga, but now Krasus suspected that the Old Gods had somehow found a manner by which to reach out to the mortal plane and seek that which would free them.

It all begins to make sense, the mage realized as he climbed over the rocky landscape in search of his friends. Nozdormu… the rip in Time, the coming to the era of the night elves and the Burning Legion… the Well of Eternity… and even the forging of the Demon Soul…

The Old Ones were creating the key that would open the gates of their prison… and if that happened, even Sargeras would find himself pleading for the peace of death.

Rip Time apart and they would unmake their prison. Perhaps they even plotted to reverse their own earlier defeat. It was difficult for him to guess exactly the extent of the Old Gods’ plans, for they were as much above him as he was to a worm. Still, at least their initial goal was understandable.

I must warn Alexstrasza! Krasus instinctively thought. The Aspects were the most powerful creatures on all the mortal plane. If anyone had a chance against the Old Gods, it was them. He cursed the madness that had turned Neltharion the Earth Warder into Deathwing the Destroyer. Combined, surely all five of the Aspects represented a force capable of defeating the elder beings. If not for Neltharion —

Krasus slipped, nearly falling from the ridge he had currently been navigating. How labyrinthine were the plots of the Old Gods! They were the ones who had turned the Earth Warder! They were the ones who had twisted Neltharion’s mind — and with more than one intention! The Old Gods had made of him a puppet who would aid their escape, but they had also divided — and thereby weakened — their one potential nemesis. Without Neltharion, the other four Aspects were not nearly as much a threat.

Worse, they also had Nozdormu occupied, no doubt another layer of their planning. Krasus paused, falling back against the mountainside. It was too overwhelming. The dark elders had spent too much time and effort. Set too many pawns in place and covered their machinations too well. How could anyone — let alone, him — undo their malevolent designs?

How?

So caught up was Krasus in such overwhelming realizations that he failed to notice the massive, black shadow until it had long enshrouded the region around him.

Deathwing filled the sky. “YOU!”

The monstrous dragon exhaled.

Had it been any other, the chase would have ended there with a small pile of charred bones quickly engulfed by a steaming torrent of molten earth. But, because it was Krasus, who knew Deathwing far too well, the mage reacted in time… just barely.

As Deathwing’s manic fury spilled down upon him, the robed figure brought up a wall of pure golden light. The black dragon’s blast pounded the seemingly-delicate shield without mercy… and yet the latter held. Krasus strained, fought to keep his balance, and sweated from effort. Every fiber of his being screamed for him to give in, but he did not.

Finally, it was the winged terror above who paused, but only to summon up another horrific discharge. That, however, was all the hesitation that Krasus needed.

The focus of Deathwing’s ire raised his arms — and vanished.

He could not face the dread behemoth one against one. The outcome of such a struggle was all too obvious. Even at his strongest, Krasus was merely a consort to an Aspect, not actually one of the five great dragons. Valor was a worthy thing, but not in the face of such impossible odds.

The mage reappeared near the mountain south of the one from which he had fled. Collapsing against a rock, Krasus gasped for breath. The effort of deflecting his adversary’s assault and transporting himself by spell had taken much out of him. In truth, he had expected to materialize much farther away from the other dragon.

“I’ll find you!” called the black leviathan, his shout echoing. “You’ll not escape me!”

The one thing Krasus knew was in his favor was that Deathwing had grown so wild with anger that he did not focus his powers as he should have. The mage felt his adversary’s magical probe of the surroundings, but it was cursory, sweeping by so fast and wide that the one it hunted was able to shield himself easily.

Forcing himself up, Krasus wended his way down. The nearer to ground level, the better he would be.

What had happened to his companions, the mage could not say. He felt certain, though, that they had escaped Deathwing, or else the black would not have bothered with him. Clearly Deathwing still hunted for his precious disk and now believed Krasus had it.

So much the better. If it cost him his life so that the others could bring the Demon Soul back, so be it. Rhonin would know what to do.

He scrambled down the mountainside, even exhausted as he was moving far more nimbly than any night elf or human. All the while, Krasus listened for Deathwing, noting with expert ears where the raging titan flew.

At one point, Deathwing flew directly overhead, but the robed figure quickly flattened against an outcropping and the winged giant passed him by. Deathwing loosed random shots at the landscape, unaware that his own fury continued to work against him.

Then, the dragon did what Krasus had feared he might. Apparently deciding that the area had been scrutinized well enough, Deathwing banked and started heading back toward his mountain sanctum. Krasus doubted very much that the black had given up searching so soon… which meant that Deathwing now hunted the Demon Soul elsewhere.

Fearing for Malfurion and Brox, Krasus eyed the departing form and concentrated.

From every direction, the rubble caused by some of the black’s previous blasts flew up, bombarding Deathwing. Massive chunks, some as large as the dragon’s head, struck hard. Deathwing gave out a startled roar as he veered madly toward a mountain, only just at the end avoiding a collision.

Krasus turned and ran.

The cry thundering from behind gave ample proof that Deathwing had taken the bait. Krasus did not bother looking behind him, his senses already warning the mage as to the black’s swift coming.

Everything had to be timed right for what Krasus planned. He had to nearly feel the foul Aspect’s breath on his neck…

“I will burn you to ash!” bellowed his monstrous foe. “Burn you to ash!”

Deathwing did not fear harming his precious creation, the Demon Soul designed to withstand such horrific elements. The irony was that it would be a scale from the dragon’s hide that would prove the weakness of the disk… a physical part of Deathwing the only thing that could destroy his monstrous toy.

Krasus had considered finding some manner by which to cause the Demon Soul’s destruction here in the past, but he feared that such an act might be too much for the already-stressed time line to take. Better to let the dragons have it as he planned and hope that history followed its proper course — assuming that was still possible.

Deathwing drew closer… closer… The black clearly wanted to make certain of his blast.

Any moment now, the mage thought, tensing and preparing his own action.

He heard the telltale sound of his pursuer about to unleash another wave of molten earth.

Krasus gritted his teeth —

There was a gushing sound… and the area where the robed figure had been was drowned in steaming lava.

The Earth Warder rose high into the air, his laughter well-matching his madness. He circled the region, now lit up by the blazing, orange rock. Raw magical forces that were an inherent part of the fiery mass he had disgorged made it impossible to locate the disk, but Neltharion could wait.

He savored the horrific demise of the mysterious dragon mage, the pet of Alexstrasza’s who had nearly upset his plans early on. It was a shame that there would be nothing left of the creature, for the black would have liked to carry some reminder with which to present his fellow Aspect before he made her his concubine. Neltharion had sensed the closeness of the two, almost as if this Krasus had been as favored as her consorts, especially the insipid and irritating Korialstrasz.

Still, all that truly mattered was that the creature was dead and the disk would be his again. He simply had to be patient. The Soul was surely near him, buried under the magma and awaiting reunion with him.

But then… a nagging little thought disturbed his reverie. Neltharion considered the guileful ways of his quarry and how he and his companions had managed to steal away the disk in the first place.

The dragon dropped lower, trying to sense his beloved creation through the chaotic energies only just beginning to die down. He could still not sense the disk, but it had to be somewhere in there. It had to be…

Krasus materialized some distance away, the overbearing heat of Deathwing’s attack still with him. He sprawled on the ground, aware that once again he had not gotten as far away as he would have liked.

It was his hope that the black thought him dead now, the Demon Soul buried with him. As a dragon himself, Krasus was aware of the energies each of his kind emitted during attacks and believed that Deathwing’s would delay the Aspect from searching for the night elf and orc. Each precious minute would further the pair’s chances of success.

As for Krasus himself, now that his foe thought him no more, he could rest long enough to gather the strength to transport himself to his companions. The mage gave thanks that his plan had worked, for he doubted that he would have had the ability to do much else if Deathwing had discovered the ruse. In fact, Krasus suspected that, at the moment, he would have been fortunate if he even retained the power to light a candle, much less defend himself against an insane Aspect.

Depleted, the robed figure lay stretched out against the rocky soil. The first rays of light stretched up over what little of the horizon he could see. In this benighted place, they would do little but mark the vague differentiation between eve and day. Yet, Krasus welcomed them, for as one of the red flight, he was a being of Life and Life flourished best in the sun’s light. As his eyes adjusted to the new illumination, the mage finally allowed himself to relax, at least for a moment.

And that was when the deep voice from above rumbled triumphantly, “Ah! I have found you after all!”

Hunger began to gnaw at Tyrande’s stomach, not a good sign at all. The Mother Moon had sustained her for a long time, but there was so much need for Elune throughout Kalimdor that she could not concentrate so much on a mere priestess. Priestesses expected always to make the sacrifice first, should the need arise.

Tyrande felt no betrayal. She thanked Elune for all that the deity had done. Now it would be up to too-fragile mortal flesh, but the training of the sisterhood would help her.

Each eve, at the time when the sun set, one of the Highborne would bring a bowl of food. That bowl and its contents — some gruel that Tyrande suspected was the old leftovers from her captors’ own meals — sat untouched on the floor near the sphere. All Tyrande had to do was tell one of her captors that she was hungry and the sphere would magically descend. It would then allow the ivory spoon always accompanying the bowl to pass with its contents through the barrier.

Considering that the Lady Vashj wanted her dead, Tyrande was doubly grateful that she had not eaten anything so far. Now, however, the cold, congealing substance in the bowl looked very appetizing. A single bite was all that the priestess would have needed to maintain her strength for another day; the full bowl would have aided her for a week, maybe more.

But she could not eat without another’s assistance and she had no intention of asking. That would be a sign of weakness the demons would surely exploit.

Someone unlocked the door. Tyrande quickly glanced away from the food, not wanting to give away any hint of her deteriorating state.

With a grim expression, a guard swung open the door. Through it came a Highborne whom the captive had not met before. His gaudy robes were resplendent and he clearly was aware of his handsome features. Unlike many of his caste, he had a rather athletic build. Most arresting, though, were his pale, violet skin and, especially, his hair — auburn with streaks of gold in it, something Tyrande had never seen. Like all Highborne, however, he wore a look of complete disdain, most prominently when addressing the guard.

“Leave us.”

The soldier was only too willing to depart the sorcerer’s presence. He locked the door behind him, then marched off.

“Holy priestess,” the Highborne greeted, with only a hint of the condescension he had granted the guard. “You could make this situation much less uncomfortable for yourself.”

“I have the Mother Moon to comfort me. I need and desire nothing else.”

His expression shifted subtilely, but in it Tyrande caught a glimpse of something that she almost thought remorse. It was all that she could do keep from being startled by this. She had assumed that the Highborne had all become slave-like minions of the demon lord and Azshara, but her companion revealed that this might not be so.

“Priestess — ” he began.

“You may call me Tyrande,” she interjected, trying to open him up. “Tyrande Whisperwind.”

“Mistress Tyrande, I am Dath’Remar Sunstrider,” the Highborne returned, not with a little pride. “Twentieth generation to serve the throne…”

“A most illustrious lineage. You’ve reason to be proud of it.”

“As I am.” Yet, as Dath’Remar said this, a shadow momentarily crossed his face. “As I should be,” he added.

Tyrande saw her opening. Dath’Remar clearly wanted something. “The Highborne have always been the worthy keepers of the realm, watching over both the people and the Well. I’m sure that your ancestors would find no fault in your efforts.”

Again, the shadow came and went. Dath’Remar suddenly looked around. “I came to see if I could urge you to eat something, holy priestess.” He picked up the bowl. “I’d offer more, but this is all they permit.”

“Thank you, Dath’Remar, but I’m not hungry.”

“Despite what some may desire, there is no poison nor any drug in here, Mistress Tyrande. I can assure you of that.” The well-groomed Highborne brought the tip of the spoon up to his mouth and ate a little of the brown substance. Immediately, he made a face. “What I can’t assure you of is the taste…and for that I apologize. You deserve better.”

She considered for a moment, then, deciding to take a desperate chance, said, “Very well. I’ll eat.”

Reacting to her words, the sphere descended. Dath’Remar watched, his eyes never leaving the priestess. Had her heart not been elsewhere, Tyrande would have found the Highborne very attractive. He had little of the foppishness that she had seen in so many others of his caste.

Scooping up a spoonful, Dath’Remar brought the food toward Tyrande. The utensil and its contents shimmered slightly as they pierced the green veil surrounding her.

“You must lean forward a bit,” he instructed her. “The sphere will not permit my hand to pass through.”

The priestess did as requested. Dath’Remar had spoken true when he had said that the food lacked much in taste, but Tyrande was nonetheless secretly happy to have it. Suddenly her hunger seemed to grow tenfold, but she was careful to hide this from her captor. The Highborne might be sympathetic to her situation, but he still served the demon lord and Azshara.

After the second mouthful, he dared speak again. “If you would only cease resisting, it would go so much easier. Otherwise, they’ll eventually tire of having you around. If that should happen, mistress, I fear your fate would not be a pleasant one.”

“I must follow as I believe the Mother Moon intends me to, but I thank you for your heartfelt concern, Dath’Remar. It is warming to find such in the palace.”

He cocked his head to the side. “There are others, but we know our place and so don’t speak unwisely.”

Watching him carefully, Tyrande decided that it was time to press deeper. “But your loyalty to the queen is without question.”

The tall figure looked affronted. “Of course!” Then, growing more subdued, he added, “Though we fear her judgments not as it has been. She listens not to us, who understand the Well and its power so thoroughly, but rather to the outsiders. All our work has been cast aside simply for the task of bringing into the world the lord of the Legion! There was so much we strove to attain, I — ”

He clamped his mouth shut, finally realizing the tone of the words spilling from it. With grim determination, Dath’Remar silently fed her. Tyrande said nothing, but she had seen enough. The Highborne had come here more for himself than her. Dath’Remar had sought a confession of sorts so that he could relieve himself of some of the turmoil going on in his mind.

Before she knew it, the bowl was empty. Dath’Remar started to put the container back, but the priestess, seeking a few more moments, quickly asked, “Might I also have some water?”

A small sack had been brought in with the meal, but, like the food, Tyrande had never touched its contents. With an eagerness that hinted of his own desire to not yet put an end to their encounter, Dath’Remar quickly grabbed the sack. Opening the end, he brought it toward her, only to have the barrier keep the sack from her lips.

“Forgive me,” he muttered. “I had forgotten.”

The Highborne poured some of the water into the bowl, then, as he had with her meal, fed her a spoonful. Tyrande took a second before daring to speak again.

“It must be strange working beside the satyrs, who were once as us. I must confess to being a bit unsettled by them.”

“They are the fortunates who have been elevated by the power of Sargeras, the better to serve him.” The answer came so automatically that the priestess could not help feeling that Dath’Remar had repeated it many times… perhaps, including, to himself.

“And you were not chosen?”

His eyes hardened. “I declined, though the offer was… seductive. My service is to the queen and the throne first and foremost. I’ve no desire to be one of those th — one of them.”

Without warning, he put away the bowl and spoon. Tyrande bit her lip, wondering if she had guessed wrong about him. Still, she had little else with which to work. Dath’Remar Sunstrider represented her only chance.

“I must leave now,” the robed figure declared. “I’ve already stayed too long.”

“I look forward to our next visit.”

He vehemently shook his head. “I’ll not be returning. No. I’ll not.”

Dath’Remar spun from her, but before he could depart, the priestess uttered, “I am the ear of Elune, Dath’Remar. If there’s ever anything you’d like to say, it is my role to hear. Nothing goes beyond me. Your words will be known to no other afterward.”

The sorcerer looked back at her, and although at first he said nothing, Tyrande could see that she had affected him. Finally, after much hesitation, Dath’Remar answered, “I will see what I can do about bringing you something more palatable next time, Mistress Tyrande.”

“May the blessings of the Mother Moon be upon you, Dath’Remar Sunstrider.”

The other night elf dipped his head, then departed. Tyrande listened to his footsteps fade away. She waited then for the guards to check on her, but when they returned, they simply took up their positions, as usual.

And at that point, for the first time since her captivity, Tyrande Whisperwind permitted herself a brief smile.