The Sundering

Thirteen

Jarod Shadowsong did not feel like a legend, but the eyes of everyone he passed gazed at him as if he was one. His reputation, already built up far beyond what it deserved for his minuscule successes on the battlefield, had grown a hundred times greater with the coming of such mythic beings as Cenarius and the other ancient protectors of the world. The story of the intentional public acknowledgment of him as commander by Cenarius had been retold over and over throughout the camp until some variations had him clad in gold and accepting the forest lord’s service by knighting the latter with a gleaming, magical sword. Despite the outrageousness of such tales, few among the defenders seemed to scoff at them. Even the council of nobles eyed the low-caste officer with something resembling reverence.

There was no one Jarod could talk to about his concerns, either. Rhonin was the closest thing to a confidant, but the human kept insisting that the night elf live with the changes in his life.

He dared not even go to the priestesses and seek some sort of confession by which to unburden himself of his anxieties. With Maiev all but high priestess, word would certainly get back to his sister… and that was the last thing the officer wanted.

For one of the few times since having command thrust upon his back, Jarod rode alone through the camp. He had told his adjutants that he would not be long and so there was no need for them to follow. Besides, everyone already knew who he was. All they had to do was ask and he would easily be located.

He received constant salutes and more than a few grateful expressions. Some sisters of Elune working among the wounded looked up at his pacing, even they nodding respectfully. Thankfully, Maiev was not one of them.

One slightly shorter priestess adjusted her helmet, saw him, and immediately came running. Jarod reined his mount to a halt, fearful that she bore some message requiring a meeting with his sister but aware that he could hardly turn tail.

“Commander Shadowsong! I was hoping to see you again!”

Jarod scrutinized the priestess’s face. Attractive, although a little younger up close than he had first supposed. The face was familiar, but where —

“Shandris… it’s Shandris, isn’t it?” The orphan that Mistress Tyrande had taken under her wing before her kidnapping.

Her eyes widened appreciatively at his remembrance of her. Jarod suddenly felt very uncomfortable under that intense gaze. Shandris was a year or two away from being old enough for a suitor and while he was not that many years ahead of her, it was still a gulf the size of the Well of Eternity.

“Yes! Commander, have you heard anything about her?”

Now, he recalled their last conversation… and each one previous. Her missing rescuer had been a focal point of each and every one of their encounters. Jarod had been polite with her, but never could give her the answer she sought. There had been no attempt to rescue the high priestess. How could there be? She had surely been taken to the palace and, if so, had likely been slain shortly thereafter.

But Shandris refused to believe that Tyrande would not return. Even when Malfurion, the most logical one to attempt to rescue her, had gone off on his mission, Shandris had half believed that when he returned, the druid would somehow have Tyrande with him. Jarod had kindly tried to convince her otherwise, but the young female had a stubborn trait worthy of a tauren. Once she set her mind on something, she kept to it — which was also why when the novice had first begun to look at him with personal interest, the soldier had started to worry.

“Nothing. I’m sorry, Shandris.”

“And Malfurion? He’s back?”

He frowned. “There’s been no sign of him, either, little one, but I must remind you, his mission leads him elsewhere. What he and the others attempt means more to our people than even rescuing the high priestess means to you and, especially, the druid. You know that.”

“She’s not dead!”

“I never said that she was!” he snapped back. “Shandris, it would be a dream of mine for her to be rescued, but even Mistress Tyrande would understand why that’s not come to pass!”

Her expression froze for a moment, then softened. “I’m sorry! I know you’ve got so much to do! I shouldn’t bother you with this, Jarod.”

Oblivious to her use of his first name, the former Guard captain tried to placate her. “I’ve always time for you, Shandris…”

Her eyes took on a sudden glow that warned him that he had taken his placating one step too far. Again, the novice looked at him in a manner females did not generally look at Jarod Shadowsong.

“I really must go now, Shan — ” But the rest of what he planned to say died on his lips, for the all-too-familiar cry of the battle horns sounded just then and Jarod knew that, this time, they were no mistake actually announcing the arrival of welcome additions. No, these sounded from the front lines and the roar that followed accented all too well the fact that the bloodshed had started once more.

As he turned his mount, a slim hand touched his knee. Shandris Feathermoon called, “Commander! Jarod! May the blessings of Elune be upon you…”

Despite himself, Jarod smiled gratefully, then urged his beast on. Although he did not look back, he felt with complete certainty her eyes on his back.

Reports came at him left and right the moment he reached his tent. There were demons on the southern ridge, others coming over the river to the north. The main horde pressed the center, a massive wedge of their own already cutting into the defenders’ lines without any sign of slowing.

“The scouts report a second massing just behind the first!” shouted a rider just arriving. “They swear it’s as large, even larger, than the main body!”

“How many of the damned monsters are there?” growled a noble. “Haven’t we made a dent in their army yet?”

The answer came not from Jarod, but rather Rhonin, and it was not an answer any of them wanted to hear. “Yes, we have… but it’s a very, very small dent.”

“By the Mother Moon, outsider, how can we possibly win, then?”

The wizard shrugged and gave the only response he could. “Because we must.”

They all looked to Jarod. Trying not to swallow hard, he looked over the party, then, in his sternest voice, said, “You all know what you need to do at your positions! We need this new wedge broken up! Let’s get to it!”

He surprised even himself with how determined he was. As the others dispersed, the night elf turned to Rhonin. “I think they’re saving that second massing for when that wedge breaks through!”

“Send the tauren in,” suggested the wizard.

“Huln’s people are needed where they are.” Jarod tried to think, but, unfortunately, the only notion he had was one he could not imagine implementing. Yet… “I must find Cenarius!”

And, with that, he ran off.

It was time to end this farce.

So Archimonde thought as he used his senses to survey the battle. The news had come to him that a thing of power had been delivered to his lord, the disk utilized by the mad dragon to create such admirable carnage. Sargeras himself felt certain that this disk would open the way for him. Having seen it — and coveted it for the battlefield — Archimonde could well believe his lord correct.

But if the entrance of Sargeras into Kalimdor was now an imminent event, it behooved the demon commander to make certain that the world was ready… and that meant that he had to present Sargeras with a victory. His lord had to see that Archimonde could be trusted, as always, to deliver a conquered world.

And so, with the swiftness and cunning that had made him the one to ever sit at the hand of Sargeras, Archimonde had devised a new battle plan that would ensure the final annihilation of the miserable creatures defending this backwater realm. There would be no escape, no last minute reprieve. He knew that he now pitted himself against a much untried, untested adversary whose only virtue was that he had a grain more sense than the buffoon commanding prior. This new leader had momentarily entertained Archimonde with his good fortune, but good fortune was nothing in the long term.

I will bring you a new trophy, my lord, he thought to himself, already imagining the wailing survivors brought in chains by the hundreds to the lord of the Legion. I will bring you much sport, Archimonde added, imagining the horrible, tortured demises Sargeras would grant each prisoner.

I will bring you this world…

The demons’ wedge continued to cut through despite the night elves’ best efforts to halt it. Even the assistance of the Earthen and other races already mixed among the defenders did nothing to even slow it.

A line of Infernals formed the point of the wedge, barreling through with monstrous efficiency. They were guarded well by Eredar, who created around them a shield that let no mortal weapon through. Even Earthen war hammers made only a spark and that but a moment before their wielders were crushed under the massive onslaught of the stone demons.

While those in the center attempted in vain to at least hinder the wedge, the demon horde doubled its onslaught on those just beyond the edge of the Infernals’ charge. Already shaken up, the soldiers there fell easy prey.

Slowly at first, then with much more certainty, the Burning Legion began to cut the host in two. No one doubted that if they succeeded, the day — and the world — would be lost.

Rhonin and the Moon Guard did what they could, but they were mortal and suffered exhaustion more than the Eredar and other spellcasters of the Legion. Worse, they had to watch out for their own lives, for Archimonde focused on them more than ever.

A night elven sorcerer to Rhonin’s right suddenly shrieked and shriveled as if all moisture had been sucked out of his body. A second passed in the same gruesome manner before the wizard could register the first death.

Then, Rhonin felt an intense dryness spreading within his own body. Gasping from instant dehydration, he barely managed to throw up a shield against the spell.

One of the Moon Guard caught him as he fell, dragging the stricken wizard from the battle.

“Water…” Rhonin called. “Bring water!”

They brought him a sack, which he emptied without a drop spilt. Even then, Rhonin felt as if he had not drunken a thing in more than a day.

“Kir’altius is dead now, too,” reported the sorcerer who had come to his aid. “It happened too swiftly to do anything…”

“Three here… how many elsewhere?” The crimson-haired spellcaster grimaced. “We’ve no choice! We can’t do anything for the soldiers if we’re all dying like this… and yet, if we’re occupied, the Legion’s sure to break through the last lines!”

The night elf with him shrugged helplessly. They both knew that there was nothing that they could do change the situation.

“Help me up! We have to create a matrix! It might be enough to at least shield ourselves better! Maybe then we can — ”

From behind him sounded horns calling the host to battle. Rhonin and the sorcerer looked back in puzzlement, they, like everyone else, aware that every night elf was already on the front line.

And then… there came a charge like none witnessed in the life of Kalimdor. It consisted of no cavalry, no regiment of hardened soldiers. There was only one night elf even among them and that was Jarod Shadowsong, leading the charge astride his cat.

Rhonin shook his head, scarcely able to accept the sight. “He’s leading the guardians of Kalimdor against the wedge!”

Cenarius followed closely behind the night elf, the two bear lords — Ursoc and Ursol, if Rhonin remembered correctly — behind him. Above them flew what from Krasus’s account had to be Aviana, Mistress of Birds. After that came a being like a winged panther with hands almost human and beyond that a reptilian warrior with a shell reminiscent of a turtle’s. They were but the first wave of several score beings, many of whom Rhonin could not even recall having seen earlier. The wizard knew none of the names or titles, but he sensed better than others their full power focused on the oncoming demons.

And sensing that power, the spellcaster smiled in hope.

“We need to ready the Moon Guard!” he commanded. “Forget the wedge! Concentrate only on the Legion’s spell attacks!” Rhonin grinned wider. “Damn that Jarod! Only he’d be naive enough to order demigods into battle behind him and get away with it!” Then, his mood darkened as he recalled all that the Legion threw at the defenders. “I hope even they’re going to be enough…”

“Forward!” shouted Jarod needlessly. His view filled with Infernals and other demons. He silently gave himself to Elune and prepared to die. All he hoped was that his insane act would somehow stave off the enemy’s advance long enough for some miracle.

The Infernals were the embodiment of primal force. They were creatures that existed only to crush, pummel, or crash through whatever obstacles — living or not — lay in their path. The spells of the warlocks and other dark sorcerers of the Legion made them a force nigh unstoppable.

Until, that is, they collided with Jarod’s charge.

The shield spell of the Eredar was nothing to Cenarius and his kind, for they had been wielding the natural magic of their world since nearly its birth. They tore through the shield as if it were air… then did the same to the Infernals behind it.

Agamaggan it was who sped past the rest, the boar proving far more impenetrable than the stonehard demons as he plowed up both the ground and them in one sweep. Great tusks skewered Fel Guard, then tossed the remains aside. Doomguard fluttered up ahead, trying to lance the gargantuan boar, but those that attempted to get through the deadly forest of thorns covering Agamaggan’s back instead ended up impaled.

Dead demons still hanging from his mane, the demigod swung around, bowling over other Infernals. The Infernals scattered in utter confusion, this not at all the delicious devastation that they generally wrought. Their rout in turn created further bewilderment among the Fel Guard, who had never faced a situation where their advance force had been so utterly brought to ruin.

Doomguard whipped them on, but all the Fel Guard did was to continue to be crushed under the demigod’s hooves or be mangled atop his tusks. Agamaggan welcomed all such foolhardy foes with a gleeful snort. His eyes burned bright as he cleared the path before him, leaving an awful spectacle of his might behind him. The warriors of the Burning Legion lay piled high. Agamaggan paused only when he had so many corpses caught on his thorns that it proved time to shake a few off. The boar shook like a wet dog, flinging ragged pieces of demons left and right. His coat cleared for more, the demigod lustily returned to his entertainment.

Yet, despite such a horrific debacle, the demons kept coming. Jarod’s sword cleaved through the head of the first demon to survive Agamaggan’s passing. Cenarius seized another Infernal, raised the struggling monster high over his head, and threw him back among his brethren. For the first time, Infernals discovered what it was like to be rammed by one of their kind. The force with which the demigod tossed his missile sent his targets tumbling back into others, creating a chain reaction that went on several lines deep.

The twin bears were much more direct. With heavy paws, they raked across the demons’ ranks, bowling aside Infernals and Fel Guard as if brushing leaves off their arms. Several felbeasts leapt through the crumbling wedge and adhered themselves to the foremost of the pair. He laughed and tore off the Legion’s hounds from his torso one by one, breaking their backs and sending the corpses flying into the deeper ranks of Archimonde’s warriors.

The wedge disintegrated. Doomguard flew in from above to hold back the chaos, but from the sky there came what seemed every bird in all the land. The demons spun about in panic as tiny finches and gigantic raptors tore at their flesh. And among the birds flew their mistress, Aviana, her delicate face now transformed into that of a hungry predator. The demigod’s talons ripped through wings, sending Doomguard spiraling to their deaths. Others she seized in an inescapable grip, then used her sharp beak to tear out their throats.

A bearded warrior clad in brown leather and but half the height of a night elf rode into the fray atop a pair of white wolves he guided by the reins in one hand. In his other, the laughing figure wielded what first appeared a sickle. This he threw among the demons with as equally deadly an effect as any other weapon there, if not more so. The spinning sickle flew through the Legion, beheading one demon and cutting open the chest of another before returning to the hand of its master. Over and over this was repeated, the squat warrior reaping a bloody harvest each time.

The demons faltered as they had previously only under the onslaught of the black dragon’s disk. This was a foe on par with any that they had ever faced and even their fear of Archimonde briefly evaporated. Fel Guard began to do the unthinkable… turn from a battle.

But those first to make that mistake did so at the cost of their lives. Archimonde brooked no retreat, not now, not ever, save as it suited his strategy. The demons upon whom he turned his wrath melted, their armor and flesh sliding off their bones like soft wax. Their shrieks became gurgling sounds and in seconds all that remained were bubbling puddles with a few fragments floating within.

The message was clear enough for those who would have followed their path… death came in many forms, some more terrifying than others. Daunted, the fleeing warriors turned back to face the demigods, the former’s strength now fueled by Archimonde’s dark incentives. Aware that one way or another they would perish, the demons fought without regard to safety.

Their manic fighting at last had its effect on Jarod’s astounding force. The blades of a score of Fel Guard finally proved too much for the wolverine guardian Rhonin had earlier seen. Yet, as his life force drained from a hundred deep thrusts, he still tore apart each of his attackers, be it by tooth or claw. When this first of the demigods finally fell, his burial mound consisted of Legion bodies piled higher than his head.

There were others that soon joined him, chief among them the Mistress of Birds. Guided by the will of Archimonde, Doomguard with lances fought their way through the flocks toward the one they sought. Two dozen demons perished along the way, but too many more achieved their goal, surrounding the guardian of all winged creatures of Kalimdor and piercing her with their long, barbed spears.

But even the blood of the demigoddess fought for her, dripping down the lances of her slayers and pouring onto their hands. As she fell, lifeless, her assassins tore at their own hides, her blessed blood now infesting their unholy bodies. In the end, the Doomguard died to a one, rending themselves to pieces trying to escape what they could not.

Lances and blades now stuck out of the hides of both bears and Cenarius had wicked cuts all over his body. Every other demigod bore similar marks of the Legion’s brutal strength, but still they pushed on.

With them came the night elves, the tauren, the furbolgs, the Earthen… every mortal race that had become part of the host. All sensed that now was the defining point of Kalimdor’s struggle.

But Rhonin feared that the defining point still favored the Legion. Even with the world’s guardians at the forefront, the host had made no actual inroads. If the defenders could not utterly defeat the Burning Legion with such allies, what hope was there?

“We still need the dragons…” he muttered as he repelled a warlock’s attack. Three more sorcerers had died before he and the Moon Guard had recovered enough and even though the spellcasters now held their own again, they did little other than keep their counterparts occupied.

“We still need the dragons…” Rhonin repeated almost like a mantra. But there had been no word from Krasus and even the wizard, who knew well the mage’s tremendous skills and cunning, began to wonder if perhaps his former mentor had indeed perished in the lair of Deathwing.

Then a huge, dark shape soared over the battle and Rhonin’s worst fears were realized. Deathwing was here! That could only mean that Krasus and the others were dead and now the black sought to wreak vengeance upon all his imagined enemies.

But as the huge, winged beast turned back, the wizard noted a peculiar thing about it. The dragon was not black, but a dusky gray, like rock. There were also many differences in its face and form, differences that, for some reason, had a familiarity to Rhonin. It almost reminded him of another dragon from his days fighting the orcs. It almost looked like — like —

Alexstrasza?

The gray dragon landed among the demons, crushing several underneath. With one wing, it swept aside a dozen more. The giant let out a roar and seized a mouthful of the enemy, crushing them between its jaws before letting their bodies drop.

Only then did Rhonin see that the dragon had no gullet.

It was literally made of stone.

With ruthless abandon, the great golem tore through the Legion. Seeing what it alone could do, the wizard again wished for the true dragons to return.

Then, it occurred to him to wonder just what had brought this false Alexstrasza to the host’s aid.

“Krasus?” he blurted, turning around. “Krasus?”

And there, just coming up over a ridge, strode the tall, pale form he knew so well. Beside Krasus walked Malfurion and Brox, both clearly weary, but intact.

Cautiously breaking off from the battle, Rhonin ran to meet the others. He almost hugged them, so grateful was he to see such familiar faces.

“Praise be, that you’re all alive!” He grinned. “The Demon Soul! You’ve got it!”

No sooner had he spoken then Rhonin saw that he was wrong. He looked from one to the other, trying to read the story from their eyes alone.

“We had it,” Krasus replied. “But it was stolen by agents of the Legion…”

“Including my brother,” added Malfurion, shaking his head at Krasus, who had clearly wanted to avoid telling Rhonin that part. “It’s no use to hide that! Illidan’s thrown his lot in with the palace!” The druid shook from frustration. “The palace!”

“But… that dragon! What does that mean… and where’s Korialstrasz? You said in your message that you’d met up with him!”

“There is no time for that! We must prepare!”

“Prepare for what?”

Brox suddenly pointed his ax past the others. “Look! The stone one!”

They followed his gaze to see the animated effigy of Alexstrasza aswarm with demons. They chopped at it — her — much the way the Earthen had earlier the one Infernal. Others attacked her legs with blades, chipping away as best they could at the false dragon’s foundation.

The wizard could scarce believe what was happening. “Why doesn’t she fly away?”

“Because the time of her enchantment is almost at an end,” Krasus remarked with clear sadness.

“I don’t understand…”

“Look. It happens already.”

The golem’s movements grew sluggish, this despite the fact that the damage done to the body had to be superficial at worst. The stone dragon managed to shake her wings free of several of the demons, sending them flying far into the sky. However, that effort proved her last major one.

“What’s happening, Krasus?”

“She was meant to bring us here at the desire of the one of whom she is only a shadow. But shadows fade, Rhonin, and her task is done. We can give thanks that enough remained for her to do such damage as we have witnessed.”

Despite the clinical tone of his words, the mage’s eyes gave indication of a regret far deeper. Rhonin understood. To Krasus, even seeing this effigy of his beloved queen and mate suffer was a strain.

The false dragon roared mournfully. Demons now practically covered the entire body save the head. The left legs defiantly straightened, but from the right ones there was no movement.

“It’s over — ” Krasus began.

Then, without warning, the false Alexstrasza leaned into her right. Her wing on that side folded in and her left rose into the sky.

Midway up, all animation ceased. The eyes of the golem grew lifeless.

And under the stress of so much weight, the right wing collapsed. The demons atop the statue clung helplessly as the dragon queen’s creation tipped over… and crushed every demon still hanging onto the back.

Krasus’s chest swelled with pride. “Every inch worthy of my queen, even if only her shadow!”

Dust rose from where the gargantuan statue lay. Even as they watched, the legs and the left wing joined the right in collapsing. Demon warriors scattered as huge chunks of rock fell among them.

“What now, though?” demanded the human. His hopes had grown with the arrival of his companions, but if they had neither the disk nor this magical construct as reward for their efforts, then their entire journey had been for nought.

He was not encouraged by Krasus’s next words. “What now, young Rhonin? We fight as we have fought and we wait. We wait for my good queen to rally my kind and bring them to the fight. The Demon Soul is going where it will be, for a time, no threat to them. They will have to act.”

“And if they don’t? If they hesitate too long, as before?”

His former mentor leaned close so that only the wizard would hear. “Then Sargeras will have at last the means by which to enter Kalimdor… and once he has entered our world, the demon lord will unwrite the history of ten thousand years.”