Taking advantage of his distraction, the demon managed to get the second sucker adhered. Malfurion nearly blacked out, but knew that doing so would mean his terrible demise.

His fingers grazed one bag — the disk’s bag — and voices began whispering in his head.

Take it, use it, wield it… they said. Your only hope, your only chance… take the disk… the disk…

One of them reminded him of the voice that he had earlier thought to be Krasus. Malfurion desperately gripped the pouch, squeezing the Demon Soul out into his hand.

Immediately, he felt his confidence grow. The night elf glared at the fiendish visage above him.

“You want magic — I’ll give you magic!”

He touched the Demon Soul to one of the tentacles.

The felbeast’s eyes bulged. Its body swelled like a sack suddenly filled to bursting. In desperation, it removed the suckers from Malfurion’s chest.

A moment later, it exploded.

Gobbets of demon flesh splattered Malfurion, but he scarcely noticed. Rising to his feet, the druid used the disk’s power to instantly clean away the filth. He looked around and saw Brox still in combat against not one, but two Fel Guard. One was wounded, but clearly the orc was still at a disadvantage.

Malfurion casually pointed the Demon Soul at the one he could most clearly see.

A streak of golden light shot out, enveloping the demon warrior. He roared — then dissolved into a pile of dust.

The other Fel Guard hesitated. That was all the opening that Brox needed. The orc’s enchanted ax cut deep into the demon’s chest, armor and all.

As the second attacker fell, Brox spun about. Malfurion, a very satisfied smile on his face, started toward his companion.

“That went well,” he commented.

But Brox did not look so pleased. His eyes shifted to the disk.

The gaze filled Malfurion with sudden distrust. The voices returned, stronger than ever.

He covets the disk… he would have it for himself… it belongs to you… only you can use it to put the world in order…

“Druid,” the orc said. “You shouldn’t use that anymore. Evil, it is.”

“It saved both our lives just now!”

“Druid — ”

Malfurion stepped back, holding up the Demon Soul. “You want its power! You want to take it!”

“Me?” Brox shook his head. “I want nothing from it.”

“You lie!” The voices urged him on, telling him what to say. “You want to take over the Burning Legion from Archimonde and his master! You want them to conquer Kalimdor for you! I won’t let that happen! I’ll see the world in flames before I let you do that!”

“Druid! Do you hear yourself? Your words… there is no reason to them…”

“I won’t let you have it!” He pointed the disk at the orc.

He must be destroyed… they all must be destroyed… any who would desire the disk… who would take it from you…

Brox stood steadfast. He did not charge the night elf, did not even raise his ax in attack or defense. He simply watched and waited, leaving his fate in Malfurion’s hands.

And, at last, the druid realized what he had been about to do. He had been about to slay Brox just to keep the Demon Soul.

In disgust, Malfurion dropped the sinister disk and backed away from it. He looked again at his companion, seeking some manner by which to properly apologize to Brox for what had nearly happened.

The graying warrior shook his head, indicating that he placed no blame on the night elf.

“The disk,” he growled. “It is the disk.”

Malfurion did not like the notion of touching it again, but they had to take it with them. Krasus would surely know how best to handle the black dragon’s monstrous creation. All they needed to do was find him.

Locating a loose piece of cloth, Malfurion bent down to retrieve the Demon Soul. He knew in his heart that the cloth was no true protection against its enticements, but it was all he could do. To fight it — and the insidious voices that seemed to follow the disk — the night elf tried to concentrate on those dearest to him. If he fell victim to the Demon Soul, they would all pay with their lives. First and foremost, Tyrande, already a victim, appeared in his mind. Malfurion doubted very much that wielding the Demon Soul would somehow save her. Instead, it was more likely that the druid would end up slaying her as he nearly had Brox.

He gave thanks to Cenarius, whose wise, gentle teachings had helped give him the strength to turn from the voices. The Demon Soul was an abomination to the natural world and, therefore, an abomination to the druidic path.

“We’ve got to flee this place, Brox,” he said, straightening. “There’s no telling just how many more demons might be in this area — ”

His eyes widened as grotesque hands formed from the hard ground at his feet. With astounding speed, they seized Malfurion’s ankles, pinning him in place.

The orc let out a growl and started forward to help him. Brox, however, barely took a step before his own feet were similarly grabbed. Undaunted, he swung at one hand holding him, shattering it. That, though, gave him only a single step before two new ones resecured his freed limb.

Meanwhile, Malfurion found himself caught between using the Demon Soul — which still lay wrapped in his palm — and calling upon the natural forces which Cenarius had taught him to use. That hesitation cost him, for a veil of darkness abruptly covered his eyes and what felt like an iron clamp bound his mouth shut. The Demon Soul slipped from his startled grasp, clattering on the ground.

He heard Brox roar with outrage and the sound of the ax beating at stone. Then, there was harsh thump and the orc grew frighteningly silent.

A heavy breathing that Malfurion recognized as that of night sabers first warned the druid that their attackers drew near. The Burning Legion, though, did not use the panthers. As far as he recalled, only his own people did.

Someone from the palace?

“You let them live. Why?” asked a voice that was indeed that of a night elf, but had the emotion of a demon.

“These two will be of great interest to our lord…

” Malfurion started at the second voice. Could it be?

He heard something land lightly on the ground, followed by footsteps coming toward him. There was a scraping sound as the nearby figure picked up what could only be the dragon’s foul creation.

“Not much to look at,” the one standing near Malfurion commented. Almost as an afterthought came the words that verified the druid’s worst fears. “Hello, brother…”

 Krasus cursed when he sensed the disaster erupting in the black dragon’s lair. He had tried his best to detect every intricate spell Deathwing had cast over the Demon Soul’s hiding place and knew that Malfurion had done likewise, but, despite everything, they had been outwitted.

Worse, his link to the druid and the orc had been severed and not by any magic cast by the black dragon. Some force in its own way as terrible as Deathwing’s had come between the mage and his companions… and Krasus believed that he had some inkling as to just what it was.

The Old Gods existed only as legend even to most dragons, who had been born in the dawn of the world. Krasus, through his eternal inquisitiveness — or, as Rhonin put it, his eternal nosiness — knew them to be much more.

As the tale went, the three dark entities had ruled over a bloody chaos of which even the demon Lords of the Burning Legion could not imagine. They had ruled over the primal plane until the coming of the world’s creators. There had been war of cosmic proportions and, in the end, the Old Gods had fallen.

The three had been cast down into eternal imprisonment, the place of their confinement hidden from all and their powers bound until the end of time. That should have been the final line of the saga, but now Krasus suspected that the Old Gods had somehow found a manner by which to reach out to the mortal plane and seek that which would free them.