The demon soul pdf

One of the other soldiers rode up to Shadowsong. Malfurion and Illidan turned and ran in the direction of the source. Jarod Shadowsong opened his mouth to call them back, then clamped it shut and urged his mount after. They did not have far to go. A short distance further into the woods, the gathered party paused before a gruesome sight. One of the night sabers lay sprawled across the ground, its torso ripped open and its entrails spilled out.

The animal had been dead no more than a minute or two, if that long. But it was not the beast that had been the source of the blood-chilling cry. That had been the soldier who now hung skewered on his own sword against a mighty oak. Like the cat, his chest had been methodically torn open—that despite his armor. Below his feet lay most of what had fallen free. We go back. He pointed at the twins. Malfurion prevented his brother from making any remark back. The pair dutifully marched up the rise toward their mounts, the bulk of the escort constantly circling them like a pack of wolves surrounding prey.

I have much to learn still. But it seemed that the demons were not going to allow anyone the precious time needed for that learning.

Krasus had lived longer than any of those around him. The night elves thought him a variant of their own race, some sort of albino or mutation. Krasus wielded the arcane arts better than all the vaunted Moon Guard combined, and with good reason.

And not any dragon, but the elder version of the very leviathan with whom he spent much of his time, Korialstrasz. The cowled mage had not, as he had indicated to others, come with red-haired Rhonin from a distant land. In fact, both he and the human wizard had come from far, far in the future, from a time after a second and decisive battle against the Burning Legion.

They had not, however, come by choice. The two had been investigating a curious and unsettling anomaly in the mountains when that anomaly had swallowed them, tossing both through time and space into ancient Kalimdor.

They were not the only ones, either. An orc—the veteran warrior, Broxigar—had also been swallowed. Circumstance had gradually thrown the dragon, the orc, and the human—all former enemies—together. But circumstance had not given them a way back to the future and that, most of all, worried Krasus. The red dragon nodded his huge head. The pair stood at the wide, solid battlements of Black Rook Hold, the imposing citadel from which Lord Ravencrest commanded his forces.

Contrary to the lively, extravagant homes of his contemporaries, Ravencrest kept a very martial residence. Black Rook Hold had been carved from thick, ebony rock, as solid a structure as any ever made. All the chambers above and below ground had been chiseled out. To many, Black Rook was a fortress impenetrable. To Krasus, who knew the monstrous fury of the Burning Legion, it was one more house of cards. I cannot even sense my beloved Alexstrasza. You of all should understand my need to discover the truth.

Korialstrasz knew that his companion was a dragon like himself, but he had not made the connection between past and future. Only his queen and mate, the Mother of Life, understood the truth and she had not told her new consort.

That had been a favor to him—or rather, to his older self. Krasus, too, felt the emptiness and so he accepted that his younger version would have to fly off to discover the reason why, even if it meant risk for both of them.

Together they were an astonishing force, one most valued by Lord Ravencrest. While Korialstrasz sent showers of flame down on the demons, Krasus could expand that flame into a full firestorm, slaying a hundred and more of the foe in a single breath. But when they were divided, illness struck them, rendering both nigh impotent. The last vestiges of sunlight disappeared on the horizon.

Already the area around the edifice bristled with activity. The night elves dared not grow complacent at any time, day or evening. Too many had perished early on because of habit. Still, the darkness was always welcome, for as much as they were tied to the Well of Eternity, the night elves were also strengthened by the moon and stars. Because of his immense size, Korialstrasz could not enter Black Rook Hold.

However, the solid rock structure of the keep enabled him to stay perched atop it. 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. 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. A scarred night elf wearing the forest-green armor of the palace guard dared to speak.

Mannoroth turned on the upstart. Fetid breath washed over the pinched face of the helmed soldier. The clawed fingers encircled the elf—then withdrew.

They were valuable to the lord of the Burning Legion. Whenever the glorious Azshara opted not to gift those working in the chamber with her magnificent presence, the guard captain took her place. 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. 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. 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. 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. Under his guidance, the sorcerers pressed as never before.

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. 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. 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. 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.

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…. T he 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. The west had become the place of greatest resistance to the monstrous invasion. 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 huge force massed under Lord Ravencrest would be on the march soon—to where, no one knew just yet. 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. Slowly, his mind relaxed enough to sense the rustling of leaves. That was the talk of the trees. With effort, he could speak with them, but for now the night elf satisfied himself with listening to their almost-musical conversations.

The forest had a different sense of time, and the trees especially reflected that difference. They knew of the war, but spoke of it in an abstract manner.

Although aware and concerned that other forests had been ravaged by the demons, the woodland deities who watched over them had so far given the trees here no reason to be truly worried. If the danger neared, they would surely know soon enough. Their complacency jarred Malfurion again. The threat of the Burning Legion to all life, not just the night elves, was obvious.

He understood why the forest might not fully comprehend that yet, but surely by now its protectors should. When he had first sought to learn the way of the druid, a life which none of his kind before him had ever chosen, Malfurion had journeyed deep into this forest outside the city of Suramar in search of the mythic demigod.

Whatever made him think he could find such a creature when no one else had, he could not say, but find Cenarius the night elf had. That in itself had been astonishing enough, but when the forest lord had offered to indeed teach him, Malfurion could not believe it. From him, Malfurion learned how to walk the Emerald Dream, that place between the mortal plane and sleep, and how to summon the forces of nature to create his spells.

So why had Cenarius and the other woodland deities not added their own prodigious strength to the desperate defenders? The voice so similar to his own immediately identified the newcomer for Malfurion.