The Demon Soul Read Free

abominations, coarse fur atop their backs, sniffed the ruined ground not only with their massive muzzles, but also with two sinewy tentacles with suckers on the end. The felbeasts raced along through the carnage with extreme eagerness, occasionally halting to sniff over a ravaged corpse before moving on.
    But while all this continued beyond the palace grounds, a quieter, yet no less horrific, scenario played out in the southernmost tower. Within, a circle of the Highborne—as those who served the queen of all night elves were called—bent over a hexagonal pattern etched into the floor. The hoods of their elegantly-embroidered, turquoise robes hung low, all but obscuring their silver, pupilless eyes…eyes now tinged with an unsettling red glow.
    The night elves loomed over the pattern, muttering repeatedly the great words of their spell. 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.
    “Faster,” rasped a nightmarish figure just beyond the glowing circle. “It must be done this time…”
    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. He was Mannoroth, one of the commanders of the Great One’s chosen…
    “Well?” the winged demon growled to the night elves. “Must I rip the head off another of you pathetic vermin?”
    A scarred night elf wearing the forest-green armor of the palace guard dared to speak. “She won’t approve of you doing that again, my lord.”
    Mannoroth turned on the upstart. Fetid breath washed over the pinched face of the helmed soldier. “Would she complain as much if I chose to give her your head, Captain Varo’then?”
    “Very likely,” returned the night elf without any sign of emotion flickering over his own face.
    The demon thrust out one meaty fist more than large enough to engulf Captain Varo’then’s skull, helmet and all. The clawed fingers encircled the elf—then withdrew. Mannoroth’s master had decreed early on to him that the queen of the night elves and those important to her were to be left untouched. They were valuable to the lord of the Burning Legion.
    At least for now.
    Varo’then was one whom Mannoroth could especially not touch. With the death of the queen’s advisor, Lord Xavius, the captain had become her liaison. Whenever the glorious Azshara opted not to gift those working in the chamber with her magnificent presence, the guard captain took her place. Everything he saw or heard, Varo’then reported succinctly to his mistress…and in the short time that Mannoroth had observed the queen, he had determined that she was not so empty a vessel as some might have imagined. 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.
    If he finally stepped into this world.
    The portal to that other place, that