Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
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Chapter One
The voices whispered in his head as he moved through the huge
cavern. Where once they were but an occasional occurrence, now
they never ceased. Even in his , he could not escape their
presence...not that he wanted to do so anymore. The huge black
dragon had heard them for so long that they were now a part of
him, indistinguishable from his own twisted thoughts.
The night elves will destroy the world...
The Well is out of control...
No one can be trusted...they want your secrets, your power...
Malygos would take what is yours...
Alexstrasza seeks dominion over you...
They are no better than the demons...
They must be dealt with like the demons...
Over and over, the voices repeated such dire things, warning him
of duplicity, betrayal. He could trust no one but himself. The
others were tainted by the lesser races. They would see his
decision as a danger, not the only hope for the world.
The dragon unleashed a puff of noxious smoke as he snorted at
such treachery from those who had once been his comrades. Though
he had the power to save everything, he had to be careful; if
they discovered the truth too soon, it would mean calamity.
They must not know its secret until it is beyond their altering,
he decided. It cannot be presented until the spell must be cast.
I will not let them destroy my work!
Huge claws scraped fresh the rock floor of the cavern as the
scaly behemoth entered his sanctum. As massive as the dragon was,
the rounded cavern dwarfed him. A molten river flowed through the
center. Massive crystal formations glittered in the walls. Huge
stalactites hung like s of doom from above, while
stalagmites grew from the ground so sharp that they looked as if
they waited for someone to be impaled upon them.
And, in fact, such was the case with one.
Teeth bared, the great black dragon peered down at the puny
figure struggling to free himself despite the stony spike
thrusting up through his heaving chest. The remains of a
tattered, black and bloodred robe and fragments of ornate, golden
armor hung around his oddly-shaped torso. High, goatlike horns
thrust from his skull and the crimson visage resembled most to
the dragon a long skull with a wide, fanged maw. The eyes were
pits of darkness that immediately tried to suck the behemoth in,
but they were no match for the will of the creature's captor.
In addition to being impaled, the horned figure was bound by
thick, iron chains to the cavern floor. The chains had been set
especially tight, pinning the demon to the stalagmite and keeping
his limbs spread downward.
Constantly the captive's mouth moved as if he furiously shouted
something, yet no sound emerged. That did not keep him from
trying, however, especially when he saw the dark leviathan
approach.
The dragon mulled over his prisoner for a moment, then blinked.
Immediately the cavern chamber filled with the venom-laced,
rasping voice of the creature. " -- is Sargeras! Your blood will
flow! Your skin he will wear for a cloak! Your will feed
his hounds! Your soul he will keep in a vial, ever to torment at
his pleasure! He -- "
Blinking again, the dragon silenced once more his captive. Even
still, the demonic figure continued mouthing threats and
obscenities until, finally, the dark behemoth opened his huge
jaws and exhaled, enveloping the prisoner in a searing plume of
steam that left the latter shaking in renewed agony.
"You will learn respect. You are in the presence of my glorious
self, I, Neltharion," the dragon rumbled. "I am the Earth Warder.
You will treat me with the reverence which I deserve."
The demon's long, reptilian tail slapped at the rocks below. The
mouth opened in what was obviously more silent blasphemies.
Neltharion shook his crested head. He had expected better from
the Eredar. The warlocks were supposed to be among the commanders
of the Burning Legion, demons not only skilled at casting spells
but well-versed in battle tactics. The dragon had assumed that he
would hear far more intelligent conversation from such a
creature, but the Eredar might as well have been one of the
brutish Infernals, the flaming, skull-headed behemoths who acted
like fearsome battering rams or airborne missiles. The one he had
tested before capturing the Eredar had only the wit of a rock, if
even that much.
But then, Neltharion had not sent his flight out to pluck the
demons from their rampaging horde for conversation. No, the
captives had another purpose, a grand one that they,
unfortunately, could never come to appreciate.
And the Eredar was the last, the most significant. His innate
magical abilities made him the key to fulfilling the first part
of the Earth Warder's quest.
It is time...the voices whispered. It is time...
"Yes..." Neltharion answered absently. "Time..."
The dragon raised one huge paw palm up and concentrated.
Immediately a golden aura flared to life in his palm, growing so
brilliant that even the captive demon paused in his tirades to
stare at what Neltharion had summoned to him.
The tiny disk was as golden as the aura that had presaged its
coming, but otherwise it was an astoundingly simple-looking
piece. It would not have even quite filled the hand of a much
smaller creature -- say a Night Elf, for instance. The disk
resembled a large, featureless gold coin with rounded edges and a
gleaming, untarnished shell. Its very unassuming appearance was
all by Neltharion's design. If the talisman was to perform its
task properly, it had to seem entirely innocent, harmless.
He held it toward the warlock, letting the Eredar see what
awaited him. The demon, however, appeared quite unimpressed. He
stared from the disk to the dragon, mockery filling his eyes.
Neltharion noted the reaction. It pleased him that the Eredar did
not recognize the strength of the disk. That meant that others
would also fail to realize the truth...until it was too late.
At the Earth Warder's silent command, the object rose gently from
his palm. It floated above the paw for a moment, then drifted
over to the captive.
For the first time, a hint of uncertainty colored the warlock's
monstrous visage. As the disk descended, he renewed his futile
struggles.
The golden talisman alighted on the demon's forehead. A brief
flash of crimson light bathed the Eredar's face -- and then the
disk sealed itself to his .
Speak them...urged the voices as one. Say the words...seal the
act...
From the savage, lipless maw of the dragon erupted words from a
language whose origins lay not in the mortal world. Each one was
tinged with an evil that made even the demon quiver. To the Earth
Warder, though, they were the most wondrous sounds he had ever
heard, perfect musical notes...the language of gods.
As Neltharion spoke them, the disk began to glow again. Its
radiance filled the vast chamber, growing brighter and brighter
with each syllable.
The light suddenly flared.
The Eredar warlock stretched his mouth as wide as it would go in
a noiseless cry. His horrific eyes rained tears of blood and his
tail slashed madly against the rocks. He tore at his bonds with
such fervor that he scraped away the from his wrists and
ankles. But still the demon could not escape.
Then the Eredar's skin started to decay. It crumbled from his
still-twisting body, his still-shrieking countenance. The demon's
became as if a thousand years dead, dropping from him in
dry, ashy bits.
The eyes sank in. The tail shriveled. The warlock swiftly reduced
to a cage of surrounding rapidly-putrefying entrails. Yet
throughout the macabre ordeal, he continued to scream, for
Neltharion and the disk had not so far permitted him the comfort
of death.
But at last, even the gave way, collapsing inward and
fragmenting. The jaw fell loose and the ribs rolled away with a
clatter. With terrible efficiency, the power unleashed by the
disk absorbed the demon's remains from the bottom up. The trail
of dry dust spread fast from the feet to the legs to the torso
until only the skull was left.
And only then did the Eredar grow still.
The sinister light ceased. The chains once holding the demon
dangled empty.
Like a doting her reaching for a cherished offspring, the
black dragon used two claws to gently lift the talisman from the
skull. As Neltharion did this, the skull, too, turned to ash. The
gray powder scattered over the ground.
He stared with admiration at what he had wrought. Neltharion
could not even sense the extraordinary forces now residing in the
disk, but he knew that they were there -- and when the time came,
they would be his to command.
No sooner had he thought this than another presence touched his
mind. The voices subsided abruptly, as if they feared discovery
by this intruder. The Earth Warder himself immediately smothered
his own desires.
Neltharion knew the touch well. Once he had believed it to come
from a friend. Now the dark leviathan understood that he could
trust her no more than he could the rest.
Neltharion...I must speak with you...
What is your wish, dear Alexstrasza? The Earth Warder could
imagine her. A sleek, fire-colored dragon even slightly more
imposing than himself. As he was the physical Aspect of the
world's innate strength, so was she the Aspect of the Life that
flourished in, on, and above it.
There are dangerous forces again playing around the palace of the
night elves' queen...we must come to some decision and soon...
Fear not, Neltharion replied soothingly. What must be done will
be done...
I pray it will be so...how soon can you make the journey to the
Chamber?
The Earth Warder imagined that other place in his mind, a mammoth
cavern that made his own seem but the burrowing of a single worm.
The Chamber of the Aspects, as the lesser dragons respectfully
called it, was also perfectly round and smooth, as if at some
point in the past -- before even the coming of the dragons --
someone had set some great sphere into motion, completely shaving
away the ripples and outgrowths found normally in caves.
Nozdormu, to whom all things involving history were fascinating,
believed that the creators of the world had made it, but even he
could not prove so with any certainty. Hidden by a field of magic
that kept it from the mortal world, the Chamber was the most
trusted and secure of places anywhere.
Thinking that, the black dragon hissed low in anticipation. His
crimson gaze shifted to the disk. Perhaps he should go there now.
The others would all be there. It could be done...
No...not yet, said the voices just barely audible in the back of
his subconscious. The timing must be right or they will steal
what is yours...
Neltharion could not let that happen, not when he was so near to
triumph. Not now, he finally told the red dragon, but soon...I
promise it will be soon...
It must be, Alexstrasza replied. I fear it must be.
She left his thoughts as quickly as she had entered them.
Neltharion hesitated, trying to determine whether or not he had
left to her some hint of what was going on. The voices, however,
assured him that he had not, that he had done very, very well.
The black dragon held high the disk, then, with a satisfied look
in his blazing eyes, conjured it back to where he kept it hidden
from all others, even his own blood.
"Soon..." he whispered as it vanished, a toothy grin stretching
across his monstrous visage. "Very soon...after all, I did
promise..."
The mighty palace stood on the edge of a ainous precipice
overlooking a vast, turbulent lake whose waters were so dark as
to be utterly black. Trees augmented magically by solid rock
created tall, spiral towers that jutted up like fearsome
warriors. Walls made of volcanic stone that had been bound by
monstrous vines and tree roots surrounded the huge edifice. A
hundred gargantuan trees had been drawn together by the power of
the builders to create the framework of the main building, then
the rounded structure had been covered with stone and vine.
Once, to any who gazed upon it, the palace and its surroundings
had been one of the wonders of the world...but that had changed,
especially in recent times. Now the foremost tower stood shorn of
its upper half. The blackened stone fragments and dangling bits
of vine spoke of the intensity of the explosion that had
destroyed it. That alone had not turned the palace into a place
of nightmare, though. Rather, it was what now surrounded the
once-proud edifice on all sides, save where the foreboding lake
demanded dominion.
It had been a magnificent city, the culmination of night elf
rule. Spread out over the landscape and very much a part of it,
the high tree homes and sprawling habitations built into the
earth itself had created a wondrous setting for the palace. Here
had been built Zin-Azshari -- "The Glory of Azshara" in the old
tongue, and the capital of the night elves' realm. Here had stood
a teeming metropolis whose citizens had risen every eve to give
homage to their beloved queen.
And here, save for a few select, walled regions flanking the
palace, had been a slaughter of innocents such as the world had
never seen.
Zin-Azshari lay in ruins, the blood of its victims still staining
the broken and burnt shells of their homes. The towering tree
homes had been ripped to the ground and those built into the
earth had been plowed under. A thick, greenish mist drifted over
the nightmarish landscape. The stench of death yet prevailed --
the corpses of hundreds of victims lay untouched and slowly
rotting, a process made all the slower and more grotesque by the
absolute absence of any carrion creatures. No crows, no rats, not
even insects nibbled at the chopped and torn bodies, for they,
too, had either fled with the few survivors or fallen to the
onslaught that had cled the city.
But although such carnage surrounded them, the remaining
inhabitants of Zin-Azshari seemed not to notice it one bit. The
tall, lanky night elves remaining in the city went about their
tasks in and around the palace as if nothing had changed. With
their dark, purple skin and extravagant, multicolored robes, they
looked as if they attended some grand festival. Even the grim
guards in forest-green armor standing watch at the parapets and
walls appeared out of place, for they stared out at wholesale
death without so much as batting an eye. Not one narrow, pointed
visage reflected the slightest dismay.
Not one registered fear or horror at the grotesque giants moving
in and among the debris in search of any possible survivor or
.
Hundreds of armored, demonic warriors of the Burning Legion
scoured Zin-Azshari while hundreds more marched out of the
palace's high gates to supplement those moving beyond the
capital. At their hand had this fair realm fallen and, given the
chance, they would scour over the rest of the world, slaying all
in their path.
Most were nine feet high and more, towering over even the
seven-foot-tall night elves. A furious green flame perpetually
surrounded each, but did not harm them. Their lower bodies were
oddly thin, then expanded greatly at the chest. Their monstrous
countenances resembled fanged skulls with huge horns atop and all
had eyes of red blood that peered hungrily over the landscape.
Most carried massive, pointed shields and glowing maces or
s. These were the Fel Guard, the bulk of the Legion.
Above them, with wings of fire, the Doomguard kept watch on the
horizon. Similar otherwise to their brethren below save for a
slight difference in height and a look of deeper intelligence,
they darted back and forth over Zin-Azshari like prospecting
vultures. Now and then, one would direct the efforts of the Fel
Guard below, sending them wherever someone or something might be
hiding.
Hunting alongside the Fel Guard were other fiendish creatures of
the Legion, most of all huge, horrendous, four-legged
monstrosities with a vague resemblance to either hounds or
wolves. The scaled abominations, coarse fur atop their backs,
sniffed the ruined ground not only with their massive muzzles,
but also with two sinewy tentacles with suckers on the end. The
felbeasts raced along through the carnage with extreme eagerness,
occasionally halting to sniff over a ravaged corpse before moving
on.
But while all this continued beyond the palace grounds, a
quieter, yet no less horrific, scenario played out in the
southernmost tower. Within, a circle of the Highborne -- as those
who served the queen of all night elves were called -- bent over
a hexagonal pattern etched into the floor. The hoods of their
elegantly-embroidered, turquoise robes hung low, all but
obscuring their silver, pupilless eyes...eyes now tinged with an
unsettling red glow.
The night elves loomed over the pattern, muttering repeatedly the
great words of their spell. A foul, green aura surrounded them,
permeating their very souls. Their bodies were wracked with the
continual strain of their efforts, but they did not falter. Those
who had shown such weakness in the past had already been
eliminated. Now, only the hardiest weaved the dark magic summoned
from the lake beyond.
"Faster," rasped a nightmarish figure just beyond the glowing
circle. "It must be done this time..."ar
He moved about on four titanic legs, a gargantuan, tusked demon
with broad, clawed hands and huge, leathery wings now folded. A
reptilian tail as thick as a tree trunk beat impatiently on the
floor, leaving cracks in the sturdy stone. His toadlike head
nearly scraped the ceiling as he moved among the much tinier Fel
Guard -- who wisely scattered from his path -- for a better view.
The green, fiery mane running from the top of his head to the tip
of each of his squat hooves flickered wildly with every
earth-shaking step.
Under a heavy, hairless brow, sinister orbs of the same baleful
green gazed unblinking at the dark tableau. He who commanded the
night elves in their unsettling task was one used to spreading
fear, not feeling it. Yet, on this tempestuous night, the demon
called Mannoroth was afflicted with the disturbing emotion. He
had been given a command by his master, and he had failed. Never
before had this happened. He was Mannoroth, one of the commanders
of the Great One's chosen...
"Well?" the winged demon growled to the night elves. "Must I rip
the head off another of you pathetic vermin?"
A red night elf wearing the forest-green armor of the palace
guard dared to speak. "She won't approve of you doing that again,
my 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...
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...
Copyright © 2004 by Blizzard Entertainment
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