WarCraft: War of The Ancients Book Two. Richard A. Knaak
lord.”
Mannoroth turned on the upstart. Fetid breath washed over the pinched face of the helmed soldier. “Would she complain as much if I chose to give her your head, Captain Varo’then?”
“Very likely,” returned the night elf without any sign of emotion flickering over his own face.
The demon thrust out one meaty fist more than large enough to engulf Captain Varo’then’s skull, helmet and all. The clawed fingers encircled the elf—then withdrew. Mannoroth’s master had decreed early on to him that the queen of the night elves and those important to her were to be left untouched. They were valuable to the lord of the Burning Legion.
At least for now.
Varo’then was one whom Mannoroth could especially not touch. With the death of the queen’s advisor, Lord Xavius, the captain had become her liaison. Whenever the glorious Azshara opted not to gift those working in the chamber with her magnificent presence, the guard captain took her place. Everything he saw or heard, Varo’then reported succinctly to his mistress … and in the short time that Mannoroth had observed the queen, he had determined that she was not so empty a vessel as some might have imagined. There was a cunning to her that her oft-languid displays hid well, but not well enough. The demon was curious what his master intended for her when he finally stepped into this world.
If he finally stepped into this world.
The portal to that other place, that realm between worlds and dimensions where the Burning Legion roamed between their rampages, had collapsed under a magical assault. That same force had also ripped apart the original tower, where the Highborne and demons had worked. Mannoroth still did not know what exactly had happened, but several survivors of the destruction had hinted of an invisible foe in their midst, one who had also slain the counselor. Mannoroth had his suspicions as to who that invisible intruder was and had already dispatched hunters to seek him out. Now he concentrated only on restoring the precious portal—if it could be done.
No, he thought. It will be done.
Yet so far the fiery ball of energy floating just above the pattern had done nothing but burn. When the tusked behemoth looked into it, he did not sense eternity, did not sense the overwhelming presence of his master. Mannoroth only sensed nothing.
Nothing was failure and, in the Burning Legion, failure meant death.
“They’re weakening,” Captain Varo’then remarked blandly. “They’ll lose control of it again.”
Mannoroth saw that the soldier spoke the truth. Snarling, the monstrous demon reached out with his mind and thrust himself into the spellwork. His intrusion shook the Highborne sorcerers, nearly upsetting everything, but Mannoroth seized control of the group and refocused their efforts.
It will be done this time. It will be …
Under his guidance, the sorcerers pressed as never before. Mannoroth’s determination whipped them into a manic state. Their crimson-edged eyes widened to their fullest, and their bodies shook from both physical and magical stress.
Mannoroth glared grimly at the recalcitrant ball of energy. It refused to change, refused to open access to his master. Yellow drops of sweat poured down over the demon. Foam formed on his broad, froglike mouth. Even though failure meant being cut off from the great one, Mannoroth felt certain that somehow he would be punished.
No one escaped the wrath of Sargeras.
With that in mind, he pushed even more furiously, tearing from the night elves whatever power he could. Moans arose from the circle …
And suddenly, a point of utter blackness formed in the center of the fiery sphere. From far within it, a voice filled Mannoroth’s mind, a voice as familiar to him as his own.
Mannoroth … it is you …
But not that of Sargeras.
Yes, he reluctantly replied. The way is open again.
We have waited too long … it said in a cold, analytical tone that made even the huge demon shrink into himself. He is disappointed in you …
Yes, he reluctantly replied. The way is open again.
I did all that was possible! Mannoroth protested before common sense warned him of the foolishness of doing so.
The way must be made completely open for him. I will see to it that it is finally done. Be ready for me, Mannoroth … I come to you even now.
And with that, the blackness spread, becoming a huge emptiness above the pattern. The portal was not quite as it had been when first the night elves created it, but that was because the one who spoke from the other realm now also strengthened it. This time, it would not collapse.
“To your knees!” Mannoroth roared. Still under his sway, the sorcerers had no choice but to immediately obey. The Fel Guard and night elven soldiers in attendance followed suit a moment later. Even Captain Varo’then quickly knelt.
The demon was the last to kneel, but he did so with the most deference. Almost as much as he feared Sargeras, he feared this one.
We are ready, he informed the other. Mannoroth kept his gaze now on the floor. Any single act, however minute, that could be construed as defiance might mean his painful demise. We, the unworthy, await your presence … Archimonde …
TWO
The world he had known, the world they all had known, was no more.
The central region of the continent of Kalimdor was a ravaged plain. Spreading out in every direction, the demons had wreaked carnage on the complacent, jaded night elf civilization. Hundreds, possibly thousands, lay dead and still the Burning Legion pressed on relentlessly.
But not everywhere, Malfurion Stormrage had to remind himself. We’ve stopped them here, even pushed them back.
The west had become the place of greatest resistance to the monstrous invasion. Much of that credit went to Malfurion himself, for he had been the principal agent in the destruction of the Highborne spell that sealed off the Well of Eternity’s power from those outside Queen Azshara’s palace. He had faced Lord Xavius, the queen’s counselor, and destroyed him in epic combat.
Yet, although Lord Kur’talos Ravencrest, master of Black Rook Hold and the commander of the night elf forces, had acknowledged his part before the gathered leaders, Malfurion did not feel like any hero. He had been tricked more than once by Xavius during the encounter, and only the intervention of his companions had enabled him to overcome the sinister counselor and the demons Xavius served.
His loose, shoulder-length hair a startling dark green, Malfurion Stormrage stuck out among the night elves. Only his twin brother, Illidan—who shared his narrow, almost lupine features—garnered more notice. Malfurion had eyes completely silver, as was most common among his people, but Illidan had gleaming orbs of amber, said to be the portent of great things to come. Of course, Illidan tended to dress more with the flamboyance most accepted of his kind, while Malfurion wore simple garments—a cloth tunic, a plain leather jerkin and pants, and knee-high boots. As one who had turned to the nature-oriented path of druidism, Malfurion would have felt like a clown had he sought to commune with the trees, fauna, and earth of the forest while clad like a pretentious courtier about to attend a grand ball.
Frowning, he tried for the thousandth time to put an end to such superfluous thoughts. The young night elf had come to this lonely spot in the hitherto untouched forest of Ga’han to calm and focus his mind for the days ahead. The huge force massed under Lord Ravencrest would be on the march soon—to where, no one knew just yet. The Burning Legion advanced in so many places that the noble’s army could travel hither and yon for countless years, facing battle after battle without ever making any true progress. Ravencrest had summoned the top strategists to discuss the best way to gain a decisive victory, and quick. Each day of hesitation cost more and more innocent lives.