The Sundering

Fourteen

The storm raged over the Well of Eternity, the black waters whipping into a frenzy. Waves higher than the palace crashed on the shore. A howling wind tossed any loose debris through the air like deadly missiles.

Lightning illuminated the coming of the party from the towered edifice. Even the queen herself — accompanied by her handmaidens, of course — had journeyed with, although she was borne on a silver litter carried by Fel Guard.

Mannoroth led the way, followed by Illidan and Captain Varo’then. A number of Highborne sorcerers and satyrs — the two groups purposely separate from one another — followed in their wake and, behind them, came a contingent of the palace guard. At the end of the grand procession marched twin ranks of demon warriors a hundred strong each.

Mannoroth stood at the edge of the Well, stretching forth his brutish arms and drinking in the chaos beyond. Through the “gift” granted him by Sargeras, Illidan marveled at the forces in play above and within the vast body of water. Nothing he had experienced so far, not even the power of the demon lord, compared to that which the sacred Well contained.

“Truly, we never tapped more than a shadow of its greatness,” he murmured to the captain.

Varo’then, blind to such glory, merely shrugged. “It’ll now serve us well by bringing to us our Lord Sargeras.”

“But not immediately,” the sorcerer reminded him. “Not immediately.”

“What does that matter?”

They grew silent as the winged demon turned. He reached out to the officer, grating, “The disk! It’s time!”

Expression masked, Varo’then removed the Soul from his belt pouch and handed it over. Mannoroth momentarily eyed the dragon’s creation with open avarice, then likely thought better of trying to keep it for himself. Glaring at the Highborne and the satyrs, the tusked demon snapped, “Take your places!”

The spellcasters wended their way over fragments of homes and broken bits of bone. The carnage that had taken much of Zin-Azshari had spread even to the very edge of the Well. Illidan learned that a few defiant night elves had tried to make a stand here on the shore, hoping that their nearness would enable them to draw better from the source of their people’s magic. That hope had not panned out and the demons had gleefully torn them apart on this very spot.

The irony was, at least to Malfurion’s twin, that they had been correct in their assumption, if not the execution of their plan. He could see the myriad ways in which to manipulate the Well’s immense potential and understood more than ever what the lord of the Legion intended.

The sorcerers and satyrs formed the pattern dictated by Sargeras. Mannoroth studied their positions carefully, threatening into their proper places those who had erred. When at last the scaled behemoth was satisfied, he stepped back from the group.

“Do I understand we won’t see our Lord Sargeras just yet, dear captain?” Azshara languidly asked from her litter.

“Not at this time, no, Light of Lights… but it shall not be much longer. Once he has the way stabilized, he will step through.”

Eyes veiled, she nodded. “I trust I will be notified of his arrival, then.”

“What can be done will be done,” Varo’then promised.

Illidan wondered if the queen truly believed that she would become the consort of the demon lord. He doubted very much such a notion fit into Sargeras’s designs.

But thought of Azshara’s desires faded quickly as he watched the spellcasters begin. A crackling ball of blue lightning formed within their pattern. Now and then, a tiny bolt would dart toward one figure or another, but although the Highborne or satyr in question started slightly, they never faltered in their task.

Muttering filled the air, each voice speaking minutely different words of power. The combination of their distinctive incantations began to summon forth energy from the Well. Illidan watched as those energies, as individual as their summoners, coalesced around the sphere. With each addition, the bolts cast off by it grew brighter, stronger…

Then, within the sphere… the all-too familiar gap appeared.

The spellcasters had reopened the portal to the Legion’s nether realm close to the Well of Eternity so that Sargeras could better draw upon the latter. Illidan sensed the sudden nearness of the demon lord’s presence.

Let it be cast out… the voice in all their heads commanded.

“Do it!” reinforced Mannoroth, looming over the night elves and satyrs.

As one, those making up the pattern ceased their muttering and clenched their fists.

The sphere — and the portal within — soared out over the storm-tossed waters, quickly vanishing from sight.

Now… the disk…

Illidan’s heart leapt. He wanted to grab the dragon’s creation from Mannoroth, but common sense kept his countenance still and his hand by his side. There would be no taking the Dragon Soul — or Demon Soul, as he had heard his brother call it — at this time.

But at another opportunity, however…

As before, Illidan immediately buried such thoughts. Fortunately, even Sargeras was likely far too intent on the events at hand to pay any attention to the sorcerer’s duplicitous intentions, even had Illidan’s mind been unshielded.

He watched intently as Mannoroth held the disk high. The winged demon muttered words lost in the wind.

Green fire surrounded the golden piece. The Demon Soul — yes, that name was far more appropriate, Malfurion’s brother decided — rose above Mannoroth’s palm… and then, like the sphere containing the portal, flew out over the churning waters of the Well.

“Is that all?” Azshara asked somewhat petulantly.

Before the erstwhile Captain Varo’then could soothe her, the wind abruptly died. The storm, too, appeared to pause, although the dark, menacing clouds continued to twist and turn like a thousand serpents coiling around one another.

Illidan it was who sensed first what was coming. “I’d recommend that your highness have her bearers retreat up to the top of the ridge down which we earlier came.”

To prove that he meant what he said, the sorcerer turned and started back. The captain glared at him, as if suspecting some ruse, then ordered his own soldiers to do the same.

With a graceful wave of her hand, the queen had her Fel Guard follow suit.

A sound like the roar of a thousand night sabers issued forth from somewhere near the center of the Well. Illidan glanced over his shoulder at the black waters, his pace doubling.

The sorcerer and satyrs finally fled, their task no longer demanding that they stay so near the shoreline. Only Mannoroth remained, the demon again stretching forth his arms as if to embrace a lover.

“It begins!” he roared almost merrily. “It begins!”

And a wave as large as any dragon swept over the area where the demon stood.

The entire shoreline vanished under a relentless, ripping tide that did not flow inward, but rather sideways. Ruined structures were washed away as if they were nothing. The horrific waves washed over the land again and again, more and more stripping it bare. Stone obelisks were torn from their foundations and paved pathways scattered in chunks. The dead, who had remained unburied, were taken to a deeper, darker place beyond Zin-Azshari where Illidan knew that they would find no better rest than before.

As he finished climbing the ridge, the sorcerer saw at last what was truly happening to the Well and even he stood stunned at the magicks wielded so easily by the distant Sargeras.

A vast whirlpool now engulfed the entire body of water.

He could not, of course, view its full extent, but the very fact that it stretched from the shore of the capital for as far as he could see in any direction gave ample evidence of its mammoth proportions. Illidan saw that, for once, the frenzied energies of the Well now moved in uniform purpose… and all were drawn toward the center.

Below and awash in the forces at the edge of the Well, Mannoroth laughed. Fearsome waves that continued to rip away chunks of stone and earth larger than the demon did not even bother the winged being in the least. Mannoroth drank in the glory of his lord’s power, urging Sargeras on with shouts.

Secure on shore, Illidan dared probe deeper into the spell. His higher senses brought him seemingly bodily over the water, moving him along so swiftly that he soon left all land behind. At the same time, the sorcerer’s mind also soared higher, taking in a better overall picture of what Sargeras had wrought.

He had guessed right when he had believed that the whirlpool encompassed the whole of the Well of Eternity. Even yet only able to see a portion of the entire panorama, it was already obvious to the night elf that no part of the Well had been left untouched.

Then, a shimmering light ahead caught his attention. Stretching his senses to their limits, Illidan took in the Demon Soul itself floating high above the surface. The simple-looking disk radiated a golden light that focused most on the waters below. Illidan already knew enough about the Demon Soul to understand that Sargeras wielded it as no one other than the black dragon could have, possibly more so. Even from the distant realm where he waited, the lord of the Legion manipulated the incredible power of the disk perfectly in conjunction with the primal forces of the Well.

But where was the portal? Try as he might, Illidan could not sense it around the Demon Soul. Where, then had Sargeras —

Cursing his ignorance, the sorcerer looked down into the center of the maelstrom.

Looked down… and stared into a pathway beyond reality, a pathway to the realm of the Burning Legion.

Illidan had thought that most of the demons had passed through already, but he saw now that what had come had been but a fraction. Endless ranks awaited in the beyond, savage, tusked warriors hungry for destruction. They spread on forever, as far as he could tell, and among them were fiends such as he knew Kalimdor had yet to experience. Some were winged, others crawled, but all were filled with the same intense lust for blood as those he had faced.

Then… Illidan sensed the demon lord himself. He felt only the least bit of Sargeras’s presence, but it was more than enough to make the night elf flee from his glimpse of the nether realm. What Illidan had previously experienced of Sargeras’s will had been, he realized belatedly, the tiniest mote of what there truly was. Here, where the lord of the Legion physically existed, no shield could possibly keep the demon from knowing all that Malfurion’s brother thought.

And if Sargeras knew what Illidan planned, the sorcerer’s fate would make that which had befallen the citizens of Zin-Azshari a pleasant and peaceful way to die…

“What ails you, spellcaster?” grated Varo’then’s voice.

Illidan forced himself not to shake as his mind returned to his body. “It’s… overwhelming…” he said honestly. “Just overwhelming.”

Even the captain did not argue with him there.

Mannoroth plodded up the ridge, his four trunklike legs making craters in the already much-damaged ground. His monstrous orbs held a fanatical look such as Illidan had never seen in the demon prior. Although he had been drenched in the Well, the fearsome figure was completely dry. Such was the truth of the Well, for although it resembled liquid, it was far more.

“Soon…” Mannoroth nearly cooed. “Soon, our lord will pass through into Kalimdor! Soon he will come…”

“And then he will remake Kalimdor into paradise!” Azshara breathed from atop her litter. “Paradise!”

The demon commander’s eyes grew fiery with anticipation, anticipation… and something else that Illidan quickly focused upon. “Yes… Kalimdor will be remade.”

“How soon?” the queen pressed, her lips parted and her breath quickening. “Very soon?”

“Yes… very soon…” Mannoroth answered. He trudged past her, heading back to the palace. “Very soon…”

“How wonderful!” Azshara clapped her hands together. Lady Vashj and the other attendants mirrored her glee.

“We’re done here, then,” snarled Captain Varo’then, who seemed caught between his desire for Sargeras to arrive and his jealousy against any being who would steal the queen’s emotions from him. “Back to the palace!” the officer commanded the soldiers and demon warriors. “Back to the palace!”

The Highborne and the satyrs needed no such commands, most already following Mannoroth. Only Illidan lagged behind, his thoughts torn between what he thought he had read in the latter’s words and expression and the glimpse the sorcerer had managed of the demon lord’s realm.

Malfurion’s brother looked back at the roaring whirlpool that was now the Well of Eternity… looked back and, for the first time, felt his extreme confidence in himself slightly shaken.

Tyrande was aware that something was taking place, something of tremendous magnitude, but what it might be, she certainly could not tell from her cell. Elune still provided her with some defense against her captors, but little more. The priestess was blind to what happened in the outside world. For all she knew, her people had been crushed and the Burning Legion now marched unhindered across Kalimdor, razing to the ground what remained of the once-beautiful land.

They had taken the guard from her door, the insidious Captain Varo’then deciding that such were wasted on a prisoner clearly going nowhere. Tyrande could hardly blame the officer for his decision; she had certainly revealed herself to be of no threat to the palace.

The sound of sudden footsteps caught her attention. It was hardly the time to bring her food and water. Besides, since the one time she had accepted both from Dath’Remar, Tyrande had neither eaten nor drunk anything more. The Highborne had begged her on both his successive visits to do so, but she took only what she needed, not wanting to risk becoming accustomed to depending upon those who had imprisoned her.

The door slid open with a short-lived creak. To her surprise, it was Dath’Remar and another Highborne. The latter glanced inside only once, took stock of the prisoner, then slipped back into the corridor.

“Dath’Remar! What brings you — ”

“Hush, mistress!” He surveyed the cell as if expecting to find it filled with Fel Guard. Seeing that they were alone, Dath’Remar approached the sphere.

From his robes, he removed the sinister artifact that Lady Vashj had used to briefly free her. Tyrande bit back an exclamation, at first wondering if perhaps the sorcerer intended the same fate for her as Azshara’s attendant had.

“Prepare yourself,” Dath’Remar whispered.

He repeated the same steps Vashj had. The sphere lowered and the invisible bonds vanished.

Stiff, Tyrande nearly fell. The Highborne caught her in one arm, the artifact held close to her throat.

“My death will avail you little,” she told him.

He looked startled, then glanced at the thing in his hand. With utter repugnance, the other night elf tossed it away. “I have not come to perform such a foul deed, mistress! Now, keep your voice low if you wish to have any hope of escaping this place!”

“Escape?” Tyrande felt her pulse race. Was this some new, cruel jest?

Dath’Remar read her eyes. “No trickery! This was discussed long and hard by us! We cannot stand this obscenity any longer! The queen — ” He almost choked, clearly caught between his devotion to Azshara and his repugnance for all that had occurred. “The queen… she is mad. There can be other explanation. She has turned her back on her people for a being of depravity and carnage! This Sargeras promises a perfect world where we, the Highborne, would rule, but all some of us see is the ruination of everything! What paradise can be built from blood-drenched stone and parched earth? None, we think!”

She was not entirely astounded by his confession. There had been hint of his concerns in their prior conversations. It had originally surprised her that there was any independent thought left in the palace — the demon lord surely desiring absolute devotion — but perhaps Sargeras had finally spread his will in too many directions.

Whatever the reasons, the high priestess gave thanks to the Mother Moon for this opportunity. She felt certain that she could entrust herself to Dath’Remar.

“This is our only chance,” the sorcerer emphasized. “The demon lord’s minions are out near the Well performing some spellwork. They’ll be occupied long enough. The others are waiting below, in the stables.”

“The others?”

“We can stay here no longer, especially if you are discovered missing. This was decided. I arranged so that most who would leave would not be included in the demons’ present task… and those who had to be will be honored for their sacrifice for the rest of us.”

“May the Mother Moon watch over them,” Tyrande whispered. The fates of those others would not be pleasant ones when Mannoroth and his lord discovered the night elves’ duplicity. “But what about the guards?”

“There are a few of them among us, but most are the dogs of Captain Varo’then! We will have to be cautious about them! Now come! No more questions!”

He led her out into the corridor where the second Highborne waited. Tyrande hesitated at first, suddenly startled to actually be out of her cell. Dath’Remar, glaring impatiently, pulled her along.

Up a long flight of stairs they rushed, Dath’Remar’s companion taking the lead. There were no signs of sentries, which the priestess assumed had to mean that the sorcerers had done their best to clear the path ahead of time.

The stairway ended at an iron door upon whose center had been framed the beatific face of Azshara. Seeing her made Tyrande involuntarily shake, a reaction which stirred a sympathetic look from the two Highborne.

“Through here is the hall that will lead us directly to the stables. The others should have the mounts ready. When the gates open, we charge like the wind.”

“What about… what about the demons?”

He straightened in pride. “We are the Highborne, after all! We are the finest spellcasters in all the realm! They will fall before our might!” Then, with less hubris, Dath’Remar added, “And, likely, many of us will fall as well…”

“I sense the way is clear,” interjected the second sorcerer, smiling arrogantly. “The distraction spell still holds Varo’then’s little curs.”

“But not much longer, I suspect.” Dath’Remar gently pushed aside the door. Sure enough, the hallway beyond was devoid of the grim-faced soldiers.

“We are nearly at the stables,” the other Highborne remarked, his own confidence growing. “You see, Dath’Remar! So much worry about a worthless pack of — ”

His words ended in a gurgle as a bolt pierced his neck, the end coming out the opposing side. Blood sprayed Tyrande and Dath’Remar.

As the dead sorcerer tumbled to the floor, several guards filled the corridor.

“Halt right there!” ordered a subofficer with a plumed helm.

In response, Dath’Remar angrily waved one hand to the side.

An invisible force bowled over the guards, sending them flying against the walls like leaves in the wind. The clatter of their striking echoed throughout the hall.

“That will teach them to dare attack a Highborne of the Elite Circle!” he snapped.

“Someone will come to investigate the noise,” the priestess counseled.

To his credit, Dath’Remar seemed to acknowledge his overzealous assault. With a grimace, he pulled Tyrande along.

They entered the stables but a short time later, where Tyrande found herself confronted with an amazing sight. She had assumed from her companion’s description that there would be a fair number of Highborne, but not so many as she saw before her now. Surely a good third of the caste awaited, including entire families.

“Where is — ?” began one female, but, a look from Dath’Remar immediately silenced her on the subject of the dead sorcerer.

“We heard the struggle above and sensed the shifting of magical forces,” added another male. “The demons will have sensed it, also.”

“It was necessary.” Dath’Remar led Tyrande forward. “You’ve a swift mount for the priestess, Quin’thatano?”

“The swiftest.”

“Good.” The sorcerer turned to her. “Mistress Tyrande, we will need you to speak for us when we reach the host. We are aware of the ill-feelings the rest will have toward our kind — ”

“We will make them listen!” urged the female High-borne. “We have the power to do so — ”

“And likely get ourselves all slain!” growled Dath’Remar. To Tyrande, he added, “You will do this for us?”

“Such a question! Of course, I will! I swear, by the Mother Moon!”

This seemed to satisfy him, if not some of his fellows. Yet, it seemed that everyone here deferred to Dath’Remar Sunstrider when it came to decisions.

“Well enough, then! The word of the high priestess should be sufficient for all!” He indicated the night sabers. “Mount up! We’ve not a moment more to lose!”

The fleeing Highborne brought little with them, a mark of the urgency. Well-accustomed to the fineries of life, Tyrande would have expected them to have nearly brought their entire homes.

Another sorcerer handed the reins of a sleek, lean female panther to the priestess. Hanging from the animal’s side was a long, sturdy sword no doubt stolen from Captain Varo’then’s soldiers. Nodding her gratitude for this welcome gift, she climbed up and waited.

Dath’Remar looked to make certain that everyone was ready, then pointed at the two huge, wooden doors leading out. “We ride together! No breaking off! Those that do shall suffer the consequences of their carelessness. The demons are everywhere. We must fight and ride at the same time, possibly for days.” He straightened. “But we are the Highborne, the foremost wielders of the Well’s bounty! With it, we shall tear open the path ahead and leave in our wake the bodies of those who would seek to prevent our passing!”

Tyrande kept her expression neutral. Even the Highborne had to know that many would die and die brutally. She silently prayed to Elune to guide her in aiding her new companions. These Highborne sought redemption for their part in bringing the Legion to Kalimdor; Tyrande would do whatever necessary to see to it that they were given the opportunity to receive that forgiveness.

Dath’Remar pointed at the entrance. “Let the way be open!”

The huge doors exploded outward.

“Ride!”

Tyrande urged her mount after his.

The first of the Highborne burst through the shattered doors, their night sabers leaping over the wreckage with ease. The corpses of a few demons littered the immediate area, apparently caught up in the devastation.

“Mannoroth and the others should still be at the Well!” shouted Dath’Remar. “Therein lies our hope of success!”

Mention of the Well brought Illidan into Tyrande’s thoughts. How she wished that he was among these trying to escape the demon lord’s evil rather than embracing it.

The sinister mist pervading Zin-Azshari did not slow the riders, the Highborne likely very familiar with it by now. The priestess focused on following her rescuers and waiting.

Waiting for the first threat to their flight.

And when it came, it came in the form of felbeasts, who leapt upon riders in the middle of the pack, bringing down two and nearly eviscerating another. The demons’ tentacles adhered to the bodies of the victims, draining them with gusto.

A female spellcaster threw what at first appeared a tiny stick. However, by the time it reached its target, it had stretched out into a full lance, which pierced the felbeast in the chest.

The other demonic hounds perished in similar fashion, the last of them fleeing off with loud, dismayed howls. Dath’Remar sent a bolt of lightning down on the survivors, obliterating two and sending their body parts raining down on the fleeing Highborne. A third felbeast escaped.

“We are surely known now!” the sorcerer snarled. “Faster!”

A deep, mournful horn blared. Moments later, several others from far ahead of the party responded. Tyrande prayed fervently to Elune, aware that the night elves would very soon be fighting for their lives.

“Sarath’Najak! Yol’Tithian! To me!” The pair in question rode up beside Dath’Remar. Each raised a fist ahead and began chanting.

A sharp, continuous flash of crimson energy formed before the lead riders. Even Tyrande sensed the tremendous forces summoned from the Well.

Then… out of the mist materialized a wall of gargantuan, tusked warriors framed by the greenish flames radiating from their armored forms. The Fel Guard poured toward the renegades with weapons nearly as long as Tyrande.

But the first to meet the crimson barrier burned. Their own flames took on the same cast as the sorcerers’ creation, then engulfed the demons. Monstrous warriors shrieked and fell to the wayside. In only a heartbeat, nothing remained of those stricken save a few scorched pieces of armor.

But the demons continued to press and soon they surrounded the escapees. Individual sorcerers began casting their own spells, with mixed success. They could not concentrate on every demon present and those that managed to slip past wreaked havoc on the night elves. A female went down as her mount, its throat severed, collapsed beneath her. Before she could rise, the Fel Guard who had slain her cat beheaded her. Another Highborne was stripped from the saddle, his body impaled through the back before being tossed without care under the trampling paws of the night sabers.

One huge warrior managed to slip in behind Dath’Remar. Gasping, Tyrande drew her blade and prayed for Elune to guide her hand.

The sword took on the pale, silver glow of her patron. It cut through the demon’s armor as if through air.

With a grunt, the Fel Guard started to turn toward Tyrande — and the top half of his body slid off. The demon crumpled, the priestess’s blessed strike so fine that its victim had not at first realized that he was dead.

Unaware of his near-fatal brush, Dath’Remar shouted something to his two comrades. Tyrande could not see what they did, but the shield that they had created not only spread farther afield, but also shifted to an intense blue.

There was a crackling sound and the first demon to run into the new spell flew back as if tossed by a catapult. He crashed among his fellows, his body crumbling to dust.

This new spell proved far more effective. Slowed down by the demons’ initial onslaught, the escaping Highborne now regained speed. Yet, behind them they left more than a dozen of their number, most ripped apart by the savage blades of the Burning Legion. Riderless night sabers, their backs soaked in blood, kept with the pack.

A younger Highborne female near Tyrande screamed, then rose up and vanished into the mist. A second later, her scream cut off with a terrible finality and her broken body dropped among the fleeing figures.

Night elves began looking up and around in consternation. Tyrande looked over her shoulder — and saw, too late, the clawed hands that seized an older male and dragged him up out of sight.

“Doomguard!” she shouted. “Beware! Doomguard in the mists above!”

Another pair of claws came down near her. Tyrande slashed. She heard a savage growl and the Doomguard retreated… minus one hand.

Two robed spellcasters raised their arms. What seemed like a halo formed first over them, then spread out over much of the rest of the party.

But before they could finish whatever spell they sought to unleash, an explosion rocked them. Their night sabers reeled and the two Highborne were thrown.

From the center of the explosion arose an Infernal. How the demon had fallen among the riders without being either seen or detected, Tyrande did not know, but, at the moment, that hardly mattered. The Infernal began rampaging among the night elves, crashing into full-size panthers without so much as losing a step.

Even as that happened, two more Highborne were stolen from their seats by Doomguard above. The priestess looked to Dath’Remar, but there was no help or guidance from that direction. The lead sorcerer was already hard-pressed to keep back the thickening ranks of Fel Guard, who appeared to be trying by sheer numbers to overwhelm the spell he and the others had concocted. With each step, the escape slowed and by Tyrande’s estimation, it would not be long before the Highborne came to an utter halt.

Pulling up, she raised her sword to her face and called again upon the powers granted her by the Mother Moon. Whether or not she survived, Tyrande could not stand idly by while others perished.

“Please, Mother Moon, hear me, Mother Moon…” the priestess muttered.

The glow about her blade spread to her, at the same time intensifying. Tyrande thought of the cleansing light of the lunar deity, how, under it, everything was revealed for what it was.

The silver aura flared bright.

Under Elune’s light, the mist melted away. Demons on the ground and in the sky found nothing shielding them. More important, they suddenly cringed and looked away, unable to withstand the divine illumination.

And in faltering, they opened a way for the riders.

“There, Dath’Remar!” Tyrande shouted. “Ride that way!”

He did not have to be encouraged. Dath’Remar and his two comrades blazed the path the priestess’s prayer had revealed. Mostly blinded, the few demons before them proved minor obstacles readily crushed.

“Ride through! Ride through!” the leader of the High-borne encouraged. Their attackers fell away, none strong enough to resist the light.

Her heart emboldened, Tyrande enthusiastically followed with the rest. The glow about her extended some distance beyond the fringes of the group. She thanked Elune over and over again for this miracle…

But, just as Tyrande herself cut past the Legion’s lines, clawed hands seized her, ripping the priestess from her night saber. With a startled cry, she flew up and away from her companions.

Straining, Tyrande looked into the contorted visage of a Doomguard. The demon’s eyes were all but shut and his ragged breathing indicated just how much the illumination around her pained him.

Without hesitation, she cut at the armored figure. Her blow landed sideways, but it startled her attacker. One hand lost its grip. Tyrande had no opportunity to look down to see how far away the ground was. She could only pray that Elune would cushion her fall.

With grim determination, the priestess drove her blade through the Doomguard’s chest.

His jerking movements tore the sword from her grip. The last bit of the demon’s hold vanished.

Tyrande clutched his dead body, hoping to pull it under her before she hit the earth. Unfortunately, in his death throes, the Doomguard twisted out of her reach.

She shut her eyes tight. Her prayers were to her goddess, but her last focused thoughts were on Malfurion. He would blame himself for her death, if that was now to be, and she wanted no such burden upon his shoulders. What happened to her would be fated by the gods, not his actions. Tyrande understood that Malfurion had done all he could, but that the fate of their people far outweighed her meager self.

But if only she could have looked into his face once more…

Tyrande struck the ground… and yet, the collision was not at all as she expected. It barely even shook her, much less broke all her bones and split open her skull.

Her fingers touched dirt. She had landed… but, if so, why was she still in one piece?

Rolling to a sitting position, Tyrande looked around. The aura about her had faded, leaving her surrounded by mist and alone save for the broken bodies of night elves and demons.

No… not alone. A tall, so very familiar figure emerged from the resurging mist and, at sight of him, her cheeks flushed.

“Malfurion!”

But almost the instant that Tyrande uttered the name, she knew that she had chosen the wrong one.

Illidan, his mouth fighting a frown, leaned over the fallen priestess. “Stupid little fool…” He reached down a hand. “Well? Come on with me… if you’d like to live long enough to see me save the world!”