But Queen Azshara’s servant was not looking at the orc anymore. He, it was, who now gazed high into the heavens, his mouth twisting angrily.

“Away from him, miscreant!” bellowed a voice from above.

As a helpless Brox watched, Varo’then, eyes wide, leapt away from the orc. A mere eyeblink later… and the area where the treacherous night elf had stood was bathed in flame.

Most astounding to Brox, the fire came with such precision that he barely felt the heat. That puzzled him further, for he had assumed, rightly, that a dragon soared overhead… and surely not just any dragon.

Deathwing.

But if it had been the sinister black, he would have scarcely avoided endangering Brox. With that in mind, the orc could only imagine one other dragon with such interest in the party… Korialstrasz. In all the chaos since escaping Deathwing’s lair, he had forgotten the red, but, it seemed the red had not forgotten Malfurion and him.

“Be ready!” shouted Korialstrasz. “I come!”

Brox could do little, but he braced himself as best he could for what he knew would come, relying on Korialstrasz’s skills.

A moment later, the great claws wrapped around his body and he was torn into the air.

The rush of wind in his face, Brox felt his limbs unstiffen. Either by the red’s action or some quirk of circumstance, Illidan’s spell had lifted.

He also noticed for the first time that Malfurion hung in the leviathan’s other paw. The druid looked exhausted and also a bit upset. Malfurion pointed down at the ground far below, shouting something to both the orc and the dragon.

Brox finally made out his words. “The disk!” Malfurion cried. “They still have the disk!”

The orc started to respond, but Korialstrasz suddenly arced, heading back toward the site of the struggle. The dragon dove toward the party, eyeing each figure.

“Which one?” the giant roared. “Which one?”

He need not have asked. Captain Varo’then, his hand already in the pouch, pulled free the Demon Soul. Brox recalled the troubles Malfurion had first suffered trying to make the disk work and hoped that the scarred officer would have the same problem.

And it seemed that fortune was with them, for Varo’then raised the disk with evil intent clearly in mind… but the Demon Soul did nothing.

Roaring, Korialstrasz closed on the captain. Varo’then’s expression grew dismayed.

But then, against all logic, the disk flared bright. Another voice called from above the dragon’s head, “Away! Quickly, or else we are all — ”

What struck the red was clearly but a fraction of the Demon Soul’s might, but it was enough. Brox himself felt the repercussion of the shock wave that hit Korialstrasz dead on. The dragon quivered, moaned… and ceased flapping his wings.

The leviathan veered back toward the peaks. The ground rushed up. Brox began reciting the names of his ancestors, calling on them to ready themselves for his coming.

The unyielding side of a granite mountain filled his gaze…

They should have been back by now, so Rhonin thought as he stared in the direction that Krasus and the others had ridden. They should have been back. Somehow, he knew something had gone wrong. When the night sabers had returned with the elder mage’s note, the human’s hopes had risen. Korialstrasz should have enabled the party to make much quicker time. They should have reached their destination long ago and surely Krasus would have wasted no time in attempting to secure the Demon Soul.

Yes, something had gone terribly wrong.

He mentioned none of this to Jarod, who had his own mountain of troubles. It was not that the meeting in Blackforest’s tent had gone awry; on the contrary, just by being himself, Shadowsong had cemented his position as commander. At some time during the last battle, the former Guard captain had reached a point where he could not stand by and let foolish orders, whatever the caste of their source, pass as wise council.

When another noble had suggested a flanking maneuver that would have likely ended with the host fragmented, Jarod had started in, explaining why such would only create a debacle that would destroy the night elves. That he had to make this clear to what should have been the most learned of his race astounded the human. In the end, Jarod had managed to turn every noble there into his loyal followers, so relieved were they to have someone who appeared to have an instinctive grasp of tactics.

Rhonin had, at first, assumed that he would have to secretly guide Jarod, but the young night elf did know what he was doing. The wizard had seen Jarod’s kind before — born with an ability the greatest learning could not surpass — and gave thanks to Elune and whatever other deity might have been responsible for granting the defenders someone to take Ravencrest’s place.

But with the quest for the disk in jeopardy, would even Jarod be enough?

Jarod joined the wizard. The reluctant leader of the host wore a newly-polished set of armor given to him by Blackforest, one that bore no crest, but did have red and orange arcs running down both sides to the waist. The cloak was likewise colored and flowed about him like a possessive lover. He now also had a crested helmet, the fiery tail — made from dyed night saber hair — dangling below his neck.

Behind him came his ever-present retinue, subofficers and liaisons for the varying noble leaders. Jarod paused to wave the group away from him before finally speaking.

“Once, I’d have dreamt of no greater honor than to rise to a rank of privilege and wear the fine garments appropriate to my new station,” Jarod remarked dourly. “Now, I just feel like I look like a buffoon!”

“You won’t get much argument from me,” Rhonin admitted. “But it impresses the lot, so you’ll have to make due with it, at least for now. When your authority’s stronger, you can begin dispensing with the trappings, piece by piece.”

“I can hardly wait.”

The wizard led him farther away. “Cheer up, Jarod! It won’t do if your people see their new hope looking so bleak. They might fear for their chances.”

“I fear for our chances, especially with me in command!”

The human would not permit him such talk. Leaning close, Rhonin snapped, “Thanks to you, we live! Yes, that includes me, too! You will come to terms with this! We’ve heard nothing yet from the others, which means that you, I, and those dying in battle may be the only hope for Kalimdor… the only hope for the future!”

He did not elaborate, for it would have been beyond even the erstwhile officer to come to grips with the truth… that Rhonin was from a period perhaps ten thousand years later. How could the wizard explain that he fought not only for those who lived, but for those yet to be born, including the ones he loved most.

“I never asked for this…” protested Jarod.

“Neither did the rest of us.”

The night elf sighed. Removing the garish helmet, he wiped his forehead. “You’re right, Master Rhonin. Forgive me. I’ll do whatever I can, even if I can’t promise it’ll be much.”

“Just keep doing what you’re doing… the right thing. You turn into another Desdel Stareye and we’re all lost.”

The new commander gazed down at his finery, sneering at its impeccable state. “Little enough chance of that, I promise.”

That brought a smile to the wizard. “Good to hear — ”

A horn blared. A battle horn.

Rhonin looked over his shoulder. “That’s coming from far down the right flank! There shouldn’t be any Legion force there! They could never get around without us knowing it!”

Jarod clamped on his helmet. “But it appears that they have!” He waved the soldiers back over to him. “Mount up and bring me my own cat! The wizard’s, also! We need to see what’s happening over there now!”

They brought the animals with an efficiency that Rhonin had not noted under the leadership of Stareye. These soldiers truly respected Jarod. It was not merely that he now had the backing of so many important if impotent nobles. Word had already spread of his deeds and how he had taken the reins in the moment when everyone else had believed the cause lost.