a threat in Brox's eyes as the two standing in the forefront. The orc snarled as he recognized from his own time the horrific, winged figures in midnight blue armor. They gestured with fingers that ended in savage, bladelike nails, a pale green aura covering their hands as they worked.
Nathrezim, also called Dreadlords.
They stood taller than the other demons, and their aspects were more terrible to behold. Huge, dark, curled horns thrust high from their heads. They had dead, gray skin like a corpse, and no hair whatsoever on their monstrous heads. Two sharp canines jutted down, reminding Brox of the tales he had heard of the Dreadlords' vampiric traits. In point of fact, the Nathrezim were psychic vampires, feeding on the weak-minded and often using their victims as slaves.
The pair stood on thick, powerful legs like those of goats, their feet cloven hooves. While cunning and extremely skilled at magic-even more so than the Eredar-they were also deadly fighters. Yet, it seemed that in this particular incidence, it was their dark spells that the orc and his companion had to fear most.
Brox had found the necromancers.
The two Nathrezim had done the abominable, successfully raising the dead they and their comrades had so brutally slaughtered. The orc recalled what he had heard of the Undead Scourge and their own ghoulish spells. To one of his kind, what these creatures did now was far more monstrous than any death caused by the weapons of the Fel Guard of Doomguard.
In his mind, Brox imagined what he would have felt like if the bloody bodies of his comrades had risen up to join the enemy against the orcs. This was sacrilege, a dishonoring of spirits. His heart pounded, and Brox felt an uncontrollable rage filling him.
He suddenly thought of Rhonin and the night elves. It was possible that they had escaped, but with so many dead under the control of the Nathrezim, it was also possible that they fought dearly for their lives…provided they had not already been slain.
And if slain…they would likely join those the Dreadlords had raised.
Brox could hold back no longer. He rose from his hiding place and, with a war cry akin to the one he had uttered with his comrades back at the pass, leapt upon the group.
His shout echoed through the stillness. To his immense pleasure, the demons actually jumped at the sound, so unexpected in this place. Their surprise slowed their reflexes, exactly as the warrior had planned.
The ax Malfurion and the demigod had created for him cut smoothly through the armored chest of the first Fel Guard, spilling the demon's foul innards. As his first foe collapsed, Brox brought the ax up, slicing through the forearm of another creature.
The Dreadlords did not cease their work, relying on their comrades to deal with one attacker. However, they had not fought orcs-not yet-and that lack of understanding worked well for Brox. He slammed into the next nearest Fel Guard, bowling over the huge demon with his own considerable mass, then rolled away as the Doomguard soldier attempted to run him through.
Brox traded blows with the winged warrior, then whirled just in time to deflect a strike by another opponent. He cleaved the second demon in half at the waist, then for good measure used the back end of his war ax to crush in the skull of the fighter that he had maimed earlier.
Now one of the spellcasters at last took notice. Leaving his comrade to continue their foul work, he turned and pointed at the orc.
In desperation, Brox threw himself between the spellcaster and the Doomguard. Yet, no sooner had he done that than the winged figure shrieked and twisted. He contorted as if something sought to burrow out of him-and then his chest exploded.
Something struck the orc from behind. Brox fell dazed. The last of the Fel Guard loomed over him, the Nathrezim coming up next to the monstrous warrior. The fiendish spellcaster stared down at their adversary, demonic eyes gleeful.
'You will fight well for us…' he hissed. 'Kill many of your friends…'
The vision of himself shambling toward Tyrande and the others sickened Brox; he had been willing to accept death, but this was a terrible parody of it.
'No!' Brox pushed himself up, knowing full well that he would never beat either the Fel Guard's weapon or the Nathrezim's unholy spell.
Then, the other Nathrezim unexpectedly howled. The agonizing cry barely escaped his mouth before he burst into blue flames.
The two demons turned, giving Brox his chance. He immediately went for the remaining spellcaster, thrusting up the ax. The sharp blade not only cut through the Nathrezim's throat, but also completely severed the head.
A blade came at his side, cutting a streak along the orc's torso. Brox grunted with pain, then turned to face his adversary. His ax met the demon's blade, shattering the other weapon. The Fel Guard tried to retreat, but the orc cut him down.
Breathing heavily, the veteran warrior looked around. From the wreckage of another downed tree, Rhonin led his own night saber forward.
'I thought you might be able to handle the situation if I provided a little diversion.' The wizard studied the bodies. 'If I needn't have bothered at all, please tell me.'
With a snort, Brox replied, 'A good warrior welcomes all allies, human. This one thanks you.'
'I should thank you. You found the ones animating the dead. It was like the horror of the Scourge all over again.'
Thinking of the shambling corpses, Brox quickly surveyed the area again, but saw nothing.
'Rest easy, Brox,' Rhonin assured him. 'When the Nathrezim perished, I sensed their work cease. The dead are at rest again.'
'Good.'
'You're wounded.'
The orc gave a noncommittal grunt. 'Had many wounds.'
Rhonin grinned. 'Well, for now you'll be riding. Jarod and the others should be just outside the gate. I doubt the erstwhile captain will go far without us. He's already lost Krasus and Malfurion. He doesn't want to go back to Ravencrest empty-handed.'
Most other times, Brox would have argued about accepting a ride. To show anything but the utmost strength to another was considered shameful in the eyes of his people. Still, he felt weak in the legs and decided that a good warrior also did not unnecessarily risk those who had come to his aid. The orc mounted the night saber and allowed Rhonin to guide it.
'It's beginning…' muttered the human. 'They're starting to experiment with creating an army of the unliving. This is probably not the only place that they've been attempting this.'
The thick mist made their going slow. Brox, peering about, saw the body of a dead night elf, one of the original inhabitants by the look of the garments. That it lay unmoving gave the orc a conflicting feeling of relief and distaste.
'You understand what I'm saying, don't you, Brox?'
The orc did. Anyone who had survived the final war against the Burning Legion and lived through the awful aftermath would have understood. No one in their time period had not at the very least heard the horror stories, the tales of the Plaguelands and the ghoulish hordes wandering it. Too many more had experienced their own loved ones rising up from the dead and trying to add the living to their grisly ranks.
The Scourge now stalked the world, spreading terror as they attempted to make of it one vast Plagueland. Quel'Thalas was all but gone. Most of Lordaeron, too. The undead haunted nearly every realm.
Here, in the far past, Brox and Rhonin had just come across the first inklings of the Scourge's creation…and both knew that, despite this small victory, there was nothing that they could do to change that terrifying part of the future.
Fifteen
