Krasus remained fixed, eyes now shut tight. Brox gingerly got to his feet, trying not to make any sound that would disturb the spellcaster.

“None escaped…” Krasus murmured after a moment. His eyes opened and he studied the carnage. “We caught them all.”

Locating his ax, the orc bowed his head in regret. “Forgive me, elder one. I acted like an untrained child.”

“It is over, Brox… and you may have given us a shortcut to our destination.” His hand glowing, Krasus touched the warrior lightly on the shoulder, healing Brox’s wounds as if they were nothing.

Relieved that he had not entirely shamed himself, Brox looked at the mage in curiosity. Malfurion, too, eyed Krasus, but with more understanding.

“They know how best to reach the dragon’s lair,” Krasus explained, hand glowing again. “They can show us the way.”

Brox gazed around. Of the goblins he could see, all appeared dead. Then he saw the one who had struck the rocks rise awkwardly. At first, the weary orc wondered how the creature had survived such an impact — and realized swiftly that he had not.

“We are the servants of Life,” Krasus whispered with clear distaste, “which means we know Death equally well.”

“By the Mother Moon…” Malfurion gasped.

Muttering a prayer to the spirits, Brox stared at the animated corpse. It reminded him too much of the Scourge. Without realizing it, he kept his ax tight in case the goblin should attack.

“Rest easy, my friends. I am only resurrecting the memories of his path. He will walk it, then that will be the end of the matter. I am no Nathrezim, to relish in the binding of corpses to do my will.” He gestured at the dead goblin, who, after performing a haphazard turn, began shambling north. “Now, come! Let us be done with this distasteful business and prepare ourselves for entrance into the sanctum of the dark one…”

Krasus calmly walked behind his macabre puppet. After a moment, Malfurion followed. Brox hesitated, then, recalling the evil that they all faced, nodded approval at the mage’s necessary course of action and joined the others.

 Archimonde watched his warriors forced back on all fronts. He watched as they died by the dozens on the blades of the defenders or ripped apart by the night elves’ feline mounts. He noted the scores more perishing under the brute force of the other creatures who had allied themselves with the host.

Archimonde watched it all… and smiled. They were without the wizard, without the druid and the mage… even without the brawny, green-skinned fighter whose base fury the demon found admirable.

“It is time…” he hissed to himself.

Jarod continued to try to wake Rhonin, but the wizard would not respond. The only response that the human had given thus far had been to open his eyes, but they were eyes that did not see, did not even hint of a mind behind them.

But still he tried. “Master Rhonin! You must stir! Something’s amiss, I know it!” The captain sprinkled water over the red-haired spellcaster’s face. It trickled off with no effect. “The demon lord’s up to something!”

Then, a peculiar noise caught his attention. It reminded Jarod of when he had used to watch flocks of birds landing in the trees. The fluttering of many wings echoed in his ears.

He looked up.

The sky was filled with Doomguard.

“Mother Moon…”

Each of the flying demons carried a burden in their arms, a heavy pot from which smoke trailed. The pots were far larger and heavier than any night elf could have borne and even the Doomguard appeared hardpressed to keep them, but keep them they did.

Jarod Shadowsong studied the swarm, watching how they flew as hard as they could for the defenders’ lines… and then went beyond. Below, it was doubtful that many even noticed them, so ferocious was the fighting. Even Lord Stareye likely saw only the dying demons before him.

The noble had to be warned. It was the only thing that made sense to Jarod. There was no one else. Krasus was gone.

Seizing Rhonin’s body, the captain dragged it over to a large rock. He positioned the wizard on the opposing side, away from the view of the battlefield. Hopefully, no one would see the robed figure there.

“Please… please forgive me,” the soldier asked the unmoving form.

Jarod leapt onto his mount and headed for where he had last seen the noble’s banner. But just as he left the area where he had secreted Rhonin, the foremost of the Doomguard suddenly hovered over the night elves. The captain saw the first one tip over his pot.

A boiling, red liquid poured down on the unsuspecting soldiers.

Their screams were awful. Most of those upon whom the deadly rain had fallen dropped writhing. From the single pot, nearly a score of night elves had been burned and maimed, some mortally.

And then the other winged demons began turning over their own containers.

“No…” he gasped. “No!”

A deluge of death washed over the defenders.

Rank upon rank of soldiers broke into utter chaos as each fought to protect themselves from the horror. They had stood up to blades and claws — dangers that could be battled with a weapon — but against the scalding horror unleashed by the Doomguard, there was nothing to be done.

The cries ringing in his head, Jarod urged his mount to its swiftest. He sighted Stareye’s banner, then, after a few tense moments, the noble himself.

What Jarod saw gave him no heart. The slim night elf sat atop his cat, his expression aghast. Desdel Stareye sat as if dead in the saddle. He watched the destruction of his grand plan with no obvious intention of doing anything to try to salvage the situation. Around him, his staff and guards stared helplessly at their commander. Jarod read no hope in their faces.

Managing to maneuver his night saber closer, the captain pushed past stunned guards and a noble with shaking hands to reach the commander. “My lord! My lord! Do something! We need to bring down those demons!”

“It’s too late, too late!” babbled Stareye, not looking at him. “We’re all doomed! It’s the end of everything!”

“My lord — ” Some inner sense caused Jarod to look sky-ward.

A pair of demons hovered above, their pots still filled.

Seizing the noble’s arm, Jarod shouted, “Lord Stareye! Move! Quickly!”

The other night elf’s expression hardened and he pulled his arm away in disdain. “Unhand me! You forget yourself, captain!”

Jarod stared incredulously at Stareye. “My lord — ”

“Away with you before I have you clapped in irons!”

Knowing he could do nothing to convince the noble otherwise, Jarod reined hard, forcing his mount away.

It was all that saved him.

The torrent that washed over Stareye and the others seared flesh and melted metal. In its death throes, Stareye’s night saber threw his sizzling body off. The noble landed in a monstrous heap, his arrogant features now a mangled horror nigh unrecognizable. His companions and guards fared little better; those that were not horridly slain lay twitching, their bodies ruined, their screams enough to chill the soul.

And Jarod could do nothing for them.

The Doomguard flew overhead all but untouched by the defenders. Sporadic fire from an archer here and there brought down a few, and some perished in manners that clearly had the touch of the Moon Guard on them, but there was no cohesive effort. Jarod found the lack of organization stunning, then recalled that Stareye had replaced all of his predecessor’s officers with his own sycophants.

More incomprehensible, there were even some elements of the night elf forces not yet in play. They anxiously stood by, awaiting commands that would never be given. Jarod realized that they did not know that Lord Stareye was dead and likely thought the noble would be calling upon them at any moment.