She was nearby where the dreadlord Tichondrius had died. The Lich King, their master, had told Arthas to send her back here. Supposedly she would meet her friend Sylvanas here, as well as her entourage. She sensed them before she saw them, and stiffened. There was a powerful demonic taint among the group. She visibly relaxed, to tip no one off, but remained ready for battle.
Almost as if from nowhere, they approached. She saw Sylvanas, Tyrande, and a handful of other elves. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the tall male elf nearby Tyrande. His body was marked by sickly green tattoos. She was certain now. He was the source of the demon stench.
"Courting demons are you, Sylvanas?" her words were accusatory, but were said in tone that revealed their teasing nature. While she didn't deny that Sylvanas could possibly do just that, she knew her well enough to know that she was smart enough to not bring her new allegiances before Arthas. No, she had not tossed herself before the Legion. That meant he was an ally of the Scourge, or an ally of the Kaldorei. She suddenly had a very good idea of who he was.
"It's nice to see you too, Jaina." Sylvanas warmly replied. None in the group appeared shocked to see her. She wasn't surprised. The trees were loyal to the elves. Everyone but the demon-elf, Sylvanas, and Tyrande looked apprehensive, though. Sylvanas looked genuinely happy to see her -was she adorned with a mantle?- , and Tyrande looked slightly more relaxed now. The most interesting expression was that of their new-found ally.
"Another one of the undead?" he said with curiosity in his voice. "But you are so different from Windrunner."
"Illidan, I presume?" she said. "Our master told us you would come. And so you have."
"Your master knew I would come to aid you?" he asked in a suspicious tone. Jaina noted that Tyrande also seemed deeply invested in her words.
"Indeed." she confirmed. "But if you wish to know more, you'll have to follow us. We need to regroup with Arthas' group in due haste."
"The Lich King told me that Archimonde is drawing dangerously close to the World Tree." Sylvanas verbally evoked. "That wasn't long ago. Has he gotten much closer?"
Jaina noted signs of suspicion on Tyrande and Illidan's faces. Evidently, she had not informed them that the Lich King could commune with them whenever he pleased. Perhaps they wondered what else had Sylvanas chosen to keep secret. Jaina rather suspected that such a list would be long indeed.
"Then you are more well informed than I." she extended her hand towards them, and gripped her staff tightly. "If you all are ready, I will transport us to the rest of our group."
"What is that artifact attached to your hip?" the demon-elf Illidan inquired with curiosity. It seemed that his lust for power ran deeper than his sense of urgency. Still, she could acquiescence his question.
"It is the Skull of Gul'dan. We took it back from the dreadlord Tichondrius before freeing Tyrande from his hold. It is infused with powerful necromantic energies."
Illidan nodded, and his next words sounded sincere. "Then I must thank you for freeing Tyrande."
Jaina nodded in response, and her staff began glowing brightly. "Now if there is nothing else?" Seeing no other response, she activated her spell, and they all teleported a great distance north.
"Ah..." spoke the voice of her friend Arthas. "Sylvanas. You have finally returned. And I see you have brought allies too." his eyes turned to Illidan. "It is as our master foretold then. The demon hunter Illidan has come to aid us." his voice took a somewhat mocking edge. "Though I did not expect a demon hunter to be a consort of the Legion, marked with their magicks."
"You should hold your tongue, Human." Illidan warned him, his rough voice sounding confrontational. "I may have promised to fight against the Legion, but I made no promises to suffer your insults."
"I care little what you promised to others, elf." Jaina saw his eyes scanning the rest of the group. "I care only of what use you will have against the Legion. Speaking of which, I don't sense a power rivaling yours or of Tyrande. Where is Malfurion?" His statement ended with a glaring look towards Sylvanas.
Illidan grit his teeth in anger, probably at being so readily dismissed, but a calming hand from Tyrande soothed him. She spoke in a determined voice. "I was not able to fulfil my part of the bargain. When we arrived, he was gone. There were signs of the undead. It seems we were too late."
"Unfortunate." he said. He seemed in thought. Did he really not sense the accusation and resentment thrown at him, or did he simply not care? "But we will have to make do without. There is a problem on the horizon, and you all arrived just in time to help me resolve it."
That was news to her. "If you had told me earlier, we could have taken care of it." Her tone was conversational, but she was aware that her words were anything but that.
He smiled at her -oh how she hated that damned smug smile, and oh how she hated what it did to her undead heart- and replied. "We certainly could have. But I had something else in mind. This will serve as a perfect test whether the allies Sylvanas have brought have any merit at all. If they are to serve as just cannon fodder…well, the Scourge has that aplenty. And they can still serve their roles..in our ranks. But if they are worthy, then what time is better to regain what time has stolen than now?"
Once again, she was forced to confront how different Arthas was. Her old friend would have never risked lives like that. Nor would he so easily let the enemy benefit themselves. But these thoughts must wait.
"Then what must we do?"
"The Leader of the pit lords, Mannoroth is moving to regroup with Archimonde. With him he brings something of great power to please his master. The Lich King would have us intercept Mannoroth and steal his spoils for ourselves."
Illidan belted out a laughter, a mixture between shock and glee. "You want us to test ourselves against Mannoroth. Tyrande and I fought the beast more than ten thousand years ago. His power is to not be underestimated."
"If we cannot slay Mannoroth, then we have no chance against Archimonde." He said matter-of-factly. "But if any of you are too weak and fearful to challenge him, then you will be ecstatic to know that he has doom guards escorting him."
The demon-elf laughed again. This time there was glee with a taint of -what sounded to her- hysteria. Or was that insanity? "You are brave, Human, I'll give you that. Fine, I'll relish the chance to cross my blades with him again."
"None of the demon kind may survive." Tyrande said simply. "I'll aid as promised."
Jaina surveyed the rest of the elves. They certainly did not seem pleased, but she saw determination on the eyes of some, resignation to the fight on others.
"We should hurry. Run as long as your legs can carry you and then some." Arthas said. "Mannoroth is not very far from his master. Thankfully we are closer to him than he is to Archimonde. I'll have the Scourge delay him as much as they can without betraying our loyalties."
In half an hour, they had traveled close enough to see the demon's party. The pit lord was about two heads taller than Tichondrius was, but was still slightly shorter than Archimonde. At each of his sides were one doom guard each. In front of him was part of the Scourge; there was maybe twenty ghouls, four necromancers, three abominations, and five of those spider creatures. As she looked to the skies, she saw a handful of large bat-like birds -they looked as if they were carved from stone- circling the area around the pit lord. There was something prickling on the edge of her senses. It took a few moments, but she noticed that part of the ghouls were carrying a large rectangular box made from wood. It was the source of the sensation. There was definitely magic about it, but incredibly faint.
She inhaled a deep breath, and cast the spell she had prepared earlier. If their enemy had any capabilities for mental communication, and teleportation, neither would work. They would fail it, like it failed Tichondrius. The head of the beast lurched, but his large body was not as fast. The body turned, and the beast could finally behold them, and they could fully behold him in turn. His skin was the color of an orc, if the color was washed out and faded. His head was animal like, but where an animal would have eyes there was nothing but holes glowing with demonic magic. His hair, if one could call it that, was like burning sulphur, but unlike a regular fire, it was styled as if a mullet. At the side of his mouth there were large horns turning upwards. From his back flowed wings like ones Tichondrius had. His shoulders had spiky shoulder plates from which, by a chain, hung a large shield-like plate that protected his stomach. In his right hand he held a double-sided spear as a weapon. It seemed that it had sensed her spell. Almost immediately his head turned to Illidan.
"Stormrage!" he bellowed in fury. "After decamillennium you finally dare show your face again?" His face turned to Arthas. "Have you brought Stormrage and Whisperwind as a sacrifice to the Legion? I would be ecstatic for a chance to repay them for the humiliation they caused me at the Well of Eternity, just as I would be to finally complete the set."
"You'll pay for your crimes, monster!" Tyrande yelled in fury as she fired off golden bolts at her enemy. The left wing of Mannoroth shielded him from the attack. It bore a visible burn mark from the attack, but other than that, he was unharmed.
"I have indeed come bearing gifts, Lord Mannaroth." Arthas said approaching him confidently. This put a pause to everyone who had readied to attack. Jaina wanted to facepalm. Was he seriously reusing the same trick he had used against Tichondrius? Her eyes were drawn behind the pit lord where the four necromancers raised their staffs, which started to glow. Mannaroth clearly sensed the spell, and attempted to use his long tail to strike at the necromancers. She raised her own staff and encased his tail in ice. The beast tried striking at Arthas, but he moved impossibly slow. Jaina suspected that this was the result of necromancers' spellwork. "I have come with the greatest gift I can bestow upon you, Lord." Arthas continued. The more he spoke, the more his tone turned mocking. "I bring you the gift of death."
The runes on his Frostmourne glowed blue, as Arthas lunged and pierced the metal protecting the pit lord's stomach. The beast roared in pain, and a moment later the sky seemed to thunder, as it grew ever darker. Before she could stop it, large balls of fel fire rained from the sky; one aimed at her, one at Arthas, two at the Scourge, and three at the elves.
She raised her staff and with a glow, a sturdy and multilayered dome of ice materialized to protect her. The dome shook with a gong-like sound, but heavier. She felt her structure start to melt, and so she had the dome invert itself around the fireball and extinguish it, before reforming it into a large spear that she shot at Mannoroth. She risked only a few brief glances at her allies. Sylvanas looked to have had clad herself in her anti-magic shell; large alit branches clued her in that the elves protected themselves with their druidism; the necroman-
Two large balls of fel fire crashed into Mannoroth moments after her spear pierced its wing. Jaina blinked. Had the demon miscast its spell? She forced her look back at the necromancers, and- There! She sensed the briefest residue of powerful elemental magic. They must have used it to bat the attack back at its master. Clever.
She cast her eyes to her final ally. She couldn't keep the gasp from escaping her mouth. The ball of fel was impaled on Arthas' Frostmourne, as he looked mockingly at Mannoroth. "Is that the best you can do, Demon? The ice of the Lich King that runs through me burns stronger than your little firecrackers." He cast the ball behind him. "If that is all the power you can muster, then your time is at an end."
"Do not mock me, Human. This feeble betrayal is a worthy effort, but futile!"
Mannoroth spun his double-sided spear, and struck at Arthas from above, who blocked the attack with his runeblade. Jaina noticed with curiosity that the demon's speed was returning. The hulking demon suddenly jumped back and raised his weapon. In less than a second, Illidan's warglaive struck.
"Do not forget about me, Mannoroth. Your death will prove that my powers have returned."
Mannoroth released a hearty laugh. "You belong to the Legion, Elf. The flames of our Master, Sargeras have marked you. I will defeat you, and bring you before him myself."
Jaina heard Tyrande organizing the rest of their eleven allies into strike parties against the two doomguards, before she joined the fray herself against the pit lord. As Jaina was about to strike, something in the air gave her pause. The air was thick with familiar magic that for some reason caused her great unease. Purple glyphs vertically surrounded Mannoroth's body. She realized the nature of the spell a moment too late to counter it, for it was a masterful craft; speedy, powerful, and worst of all, perfectly functional. He struck, and both Arthas and Illidan dodged. Where his weapon touched the ground, a massive tear in reality formed. It glowed the color of the sickening fel fire. Jaina cursed, and expanded her initial spell to encompass the portal. He could not call anyone mentally through the portal, but doubtless, some of the demonkind would notice it from their side.
"With the barriers between words shattered, the Legion is never weak." The pit lord boasted. After fending off another combined attack from Arthas and Illidan, and after his eye beams destroyed Tyrande's attack, he turned to regard her. "As for you, Human. You must be more stupid than Stormrage if you think that your pathetic magics will be the death of me."
"Jaina!" Arthas commanded her. "We'll handle Mannoroth. Close the portal!"
She nodded at him, but internally frowned. The task was easier said than done. Handling the demon entrants would not be the hard part, she thought as she verbally directed the Scourge to strike at the ever-increasing amounts of demons that tried to enter Azeroth. She knew, of course, magics of portals, but she had no experience with making, or closing as it were, portals to other worlds, and unlike Kel'Thuzad she had no book with specific instructions to guide her. Well, she was always up for a challenge. The basics should be the same, and everything else she could adapt to.
She pointed her staff at the portal, and it began glowing with the arcane. The energies of the portal were intense and wild, combating her at every turn. She could think of two ways to close the portal off the top of her head, with as limited time as they had. She could try attuning herself to the flow of the portal's energies, and reverse them. First that would require her to tame and stabilize them. Alternatively, she could just shatter it by overpowering it. Either way the portal would cease to be. A shame. She really wanted to study it.
She took a deep breath. She preferred the former option, but there was little time. The Demon flow had to be stopped as soon as possible. The Scourge and the Elves could only hold them for so long. Though the necromancers were capable of raising the Demons to serve their ends, there were hardly enough of those magi to turn the tide completely. Her staff glowed more brightly still, as she summoned more of her power. The Skull of Gul'dan would be useful…but unnecessary. From the glowing tip of her staff, a beam of power shot out and pierced the demonic portal. She latched on to the powers of the portal, and further destabilized them. This two-prong attack caused it to combust, and quickly seizing upon the moment, Jaina gathered all of that energy and made it rain arcane death on any of the demons who had survived the explosion.
She frowned to herself. She could have done better. It was possible to overpower a portal and cause it to cease, rather than explode. Absentmindedly she blinked away to dodge the enraged beam of fel the pit lord shot at her. Soon the frown was replaced by a smirk. All this failure meant was that she had to get better. She was up to that challenge.
Frostmourne clashed with the left side of Mannoroth's double-sided spear, and Illidan's warglaive struck the right side of the weapon. Together they pushed the demon off balance, and Illidan stuck him fast as a flash of lightning. Sprinting and springing off of Illidan, Arthas attempted to strike the pit lord from above. Fortunately for Mannoroth, he drew his weapon in defense just in time to block the attack. Unfortunately for him, the strike finished what they both started, and pit lord fell to his back.
"If your weapon was not infused with your magics, Demon, this would have been your end."
Arthas suddenly got a very bad feeling. It only intensified when Mannoroth released hold of his weapon, and thereby forced Arthas off balance to lean forward forcing the shaft of the pit lord's weapon against its owners throat. Seizing upon the moment, Arthas' enemy struck him with…a big hug?
"What…what trickery is this?" Arthas stammered out demanding. The move had caused him only discomfort at how tightly the pit lord was grasping him, but besides that he was fine. What is he planning?
The sky thundered aloud, and Arthas could sense that again Mannoroth was raining his fel fire. None were aimed at him, for the demon did not want to harm himself. What? Illidan! He aimed to take the demon hunter out of the picture!
The empty sockets of the pit lord's 'eyes' began glowing, and with panic Arthas realized he had but a moment to get free. It was not Mannoroth who was trapped, but it was him. With as pressed he was against Frostmourne, he could not aim the runeblade, nor his arms to cast any sort of magic that might save him. With even greater unease he realized that this second coming of the pit lord's fel storm was not aimed to kill Illidan, but to merely keep all of Arthas' allies at bay for a few lethal moments. He was alone, then.
The lasers shot at him, and a shimmering green oval shield surrounded his face; the lasers shattering against his shield. He had bought himself precious few seconds to come up with a plan. The pit lord laughed, and Arthas could feel his dark amusement not only from the sound, but how merrily the creature's chest moved up and down.
"How long can you keep this up, Human? You'll run out of power soon enough. I can keep your allies in check. Maybe another portal, maybe something else. The wench seemed to take more time to close it than it took me to create it."
He had a plan. He couldn't aim his Frostmourne, but perhaps he could reorientate a spell after it is cast to come back and strike his enemy? Sizzling, almost electric, sound shot through the air as his spell was cast. He concentrated, and forced the green sprites to attack not Mannoroth, but to fly overhead and strike the beast's eyes. He recoiled in vocal pain, and Arthas used that moment of lapse in all concentration -both physical and mental- to position his feet against the creature, and to use it as a springboard and break free, rolling as he hit the ground. That was close…too close. He cursed. He was foolish to unheed Illidan's warning.
But Mannoroth was a fool too. Arthas saw his own allies surround the demon. The beast panted, and stood up. "You think this is over, human? You think your pathetic rag tag of elves can stop me? Me!? I am Mannoroth the Destructor! I am the King of the pit lords! You will not defy me!"
He began pulsating a fel green aura, as the grass below his feet caught ablaze. He let out a thunderous war cry, and charged at Arthas. Arthas ran to meet him.
"Die, Mongrel!"
Mannoroth spun his spear, and swung at Arthas with a downwards strike.
"For the Lich King!"
Arthas swung his Frostmourne from his right side to clash with the Pitlord's weapon. The battered weapon held for only a moment, before Frostmourne cleanly cut through it leaving a nasty sideways gash on Mannoroth's stomach. The beast roared in pain, as he reorganized each piece of his spear in each of his hands, and attempted to strike Arthas down. Arthas bent his back a little, and in a flash there was Illidan, who split his warglaive in two, and blocked the beast's attack. Thick winds bit at their demon foe, and dulled the fell flames. Golden beam struck the demon's eye socket, as a flurry of dark arrows pierced his wounds. Arthas could see his wounds begin to rot, courtesy of the Scourge's necromancers. The elves attacked him from wherever they could, as did the Scourge's undead which had once supposedly served him.
Arthas stood up suddenly, and Illidan bounced high in the air -knocking Mannoroth once more off balance-, and with a flip, stuck his warglaives into his eyes.
"Now Frostmourne!" Arthas yelled his warcry, as he dealt a final blow to Mannoroth's stomach. The runeblade feasted on the pit lord's life. The defiant eyes of Mannoroth stared at Arthas' and began to glow. Before his attack could manifest, the glow dulled, and then disappeared. When Frostmourne was fully sated, Arthas withdrew his blade.
As soon as Mannoroth was killed, Tyrande ran up to the large rectangular box –the object of great power that the Lich King commanded them to steal. With great strength, the woman lifted the heavy lid which fell to the right side of the box. What a strange reaction. Was the treasure something that belonged to her?
"Malfurion!" Tyrande howled with indescribable pain in her voice. Jaina advanced closer to the box, and peered inside. There was a tall male night elf inside -Malfurion if Tyrande was to be believed- and he looked to be in a seriously bad shape. There were wounds everywhere along his body, his arms were cut off and placed by his side, he looked to be suffering from serious blood loss and she could make out a faint green glow within his wounds. It was a wonder he was still alive...if she could even describe his state as that of a living being. She sensed power, and more importantly life, but just barely. She did not think he would have survived the journey to the World Tree.
"What a rotten way to die." Illidan commented standing nearby Tyrande. His words carried a sympathetic tone as he leaned over to try and comfort his grieving friend. He was right, of course. It was only a matter of time until Malfurion perished. If only she could help him...if only she could heal him... She turned her head sharply to Arthas.
"Revive him!"
He gave her a puzzled look. "With what? He is not undead; Death Coil would simply finish the job. And I cannot resurrect him. If Archimonde senses an Undead fighting his forces at the World Tree, he will immediately know of our betrayal." He waved his hand dismissively. "No, the druid will remain a casualty of this war, nothing more."
Tyrande's head shot to his direction, anger evident, but that broke again into tears. In a few moments, desperately hopeful expression came onto her. "You! Sylvanas told me you were once a paladin! Heal him! Please!"
"I was many things once." Arthas commented matter-of-factly. "Not anymore."
"Surely you can still save him! Please, in the name of whatever God you worship, please save my Malfurion!"
"The Light has abandoned me, Woman. I had faced its grace only once since I became a death knight. It was when I fought my former mentor Uther. The Light showed how much it loved me by making him its avatar. The holiness radiated from the man, and a divine shield protected him. The Light sent an assassin to kill me, and each of his blows scorched me alive." His tone seemed measured to be without emotion, but with each word he spoke Jaina's experience heard more and more bitterness and anger. "Likewise, I showed my love to it too. All the power it could muster for its champion failed before the might of Frostmourne; failed before my tenacity." His tone grew softer then, but only for a moment. "Best I can offer is to raise him after Archimonde lies died."
With a jolt Jaina realized that Arthas had mentioned this before to her casually when explaining the powers of his runeblade. He had mentioned that even the Holy Light had faltered when coming into contact with Frostmourne. Jaina pressed her hands together in a quiet prayer to the Holy Light for the safety of Uther's soul. He didn't deserve to die as he did.
"Try, damn you, try!" Tyrande insisted. It was a rough sight. Something else popped into her head. Perhaps...
"Necromancers!" she announced loudly and with authority. "To me!"
Ignoring the glances she received from the others; she awaited their approach. The four necromancers did hurriedly approach her, as ordered. "Yes, Lady Proudmoore? What are your orders?"
"Back in Dalaran I discussed with other necromancers a spell they were working on. A healing spell, variation of Sylvanas' Drain Life spell." she hoped that either one of them was here, or that it was a more widespread experiment rather than one confined to the three necromancers she had conversed with. "How goes the progress on that spell?"
Thankfully the necromancers understood what she was talking about. "Surprisingly well, Lady Proudmoore. We had a lot of opportunity for practice under the employ of the pit lord Mannoroth. It's still very much in its early stages, and not very efficient. It is, however, entirely functional." As Tyrande breathed in air –no doubt to relay words of gratitude- the necromancer nevertheless continued. "However, we will require a sacrifice."
"I'll do it!" there was no hesitation in the voice of the priestess. She wiped tears so quickly from her eyes, one could have thought they disappeared on their own volition. "What must I do?"
"You can't, Tyrande!" Illidan urged her to reconsider. "If we are to win this war against the Burning Legion, you cannot throw your life away for some half-cocked scheme. The human already promised to raise my brother when this is all over. My heart grieves for him too, Tyrande, but this is one fight we cannot afford to take on unprepared!"
She rose from her kneeling position, and cast away Illidan's words. "No, Illidan. I know what I must do. You will not persuade me to abandon Malfurion."
She strode over to the necromancers. "I will ask again; what must I do?"
It was Arthas who next spoke. "One of you prepare the magiks. The rest come with me. The druid's body will need to be prepared if he's to survive."
He walked over to Malfurion's still-living body, and leaned over it, three necromancers at his side. Arthas hummed to himself in a seeming displeasure. "Normally we'd abandon bodies as badly damaged as this one...I can perhaps syphon the plague from his body, but there's still work to be done." He turned to regard the necromancers. "Do you think a quick cleaned up Abomination style would hold?"
The necromancers studied the body for a minute, and hushed among themselves. One of them eventually spoke up somewhat louder. "It is difficult to say, Lord Menethil. Our expertise is in the dead, not the living. That said with appropriate additional pressure on the weakest regions to keep them in place in addition to your recommendation, and with frequent application of the healing spell, he might just remain in one piece even under physical stress."
He hummed again, and sighed. "That will have to do." He extended a hand, and one of the necromancers deposited a needle to it. "I'll work on the hands. The rest of you handle his body." He turned to regard her. "Jaina, conjure some cloth and be ready to bind it tightly on the connector points."
She obeyed, inwardly marveling at yet another side of Arthas she saw only through the lens of their service to the Lich King. As she watched him work - absentmindedly conjuring the requested cloth- she could honestly say that she never imagined him being as good with needles as she saw him now. In a way, perhaps this wasn't so unusual to Arthas. When he still served the Holy Light he loved mingling among his soldiers and people, helping them whenever he could. In a twisted and warped way, that tradition seems to have continued. When Arthas commanded her, she applied the cloth to Malfurion's arms, and bound them tightly. After this was done, and before the necromancers finished stitching up all the remaining wounds, Arthas momentarily stopped them, and ordered them all away for a moment.
He closed his eyes, appearing in deep concentration. He extended his right hand towards the druid's upper body. His mouth formed murmurs, as his gloved hand began glowing. The faint glow of the wound increased in brightness, and in half a minute, a sickly green mist began emerging from the laceration flowing towards Arthas. She could sense a deep necromantic feel from the mist, but as well she could sense demonic taint alike one she could feel from Illidan. Arthas formed the mist into a ball and cast it at one of the less intelligent undead who seemed to gobble up the plague.
"It is done."
Within moments, the necromancers finished stitching together the final injury. On the command of Arthas, she tightly bound all the areas with her conjured cloth. In the end, almost an entirety of the druid's body was covered.
She turned to the necromancer who had been reading his spell. "Are you ready?"
"Nearly, Lady Proudmoore. I can prepare the spell well enough alone, but as it is, the more of our brothers join to cast it, the more stable the spell becomes." As he spoke, the other necromancers came to join him. The necromancer who had been preparing the spell, pointed his glowing staff at Tyrande, while the others stood in a line between him and Malfurion in deep concentration.
A thin light green light shot out the staff of the main lead necromancer and hit Tyrande, who in a mere moment began howling in pain greater than her throat could exclaim. Despite strong verbal protests from Illidan the spell continued, Arthas having intercepted the demon hunter who looked just about ready to cut the necromancers down. The beam, it seemed, to grow in size as feedback reached the necromancer. The beam then passed through his staff back behind him to his peer; one after another stabilizing the beam until the last necromancer redirected the spell to Malfurion. The body of the druid began thrashing as if a child who was being poked awake. The horrifying nature of the spell aside, and if she did her best to ignore what it did to one of their allies, she was impressed with the spellwork. It, of course, was patchy if she was being flatterous, but it nevertheless intrigued something deep within her. She could also appreciate the effort it took to recognize and quickly resolve the flaws of a spell, especially since the experiments could not have started all that long ago; afterall, Quel'Thalas fell altogether recently.
As quickly as the spell began, it ended, and Tyrande fell on the spot. She was alive, her gasps made that clear, but she looked as if some dark hand had stolen decades from her. "The Night Elf woman should rest and regain her strength. " the necromancers commented as they turned to Illidan. "Feed her and then let her rest, while carrying her as we move on. She will not regain all of what she lost in the little time it will take to reach our destination, but she will recover enough. We have done all we can for now."
Illidan stared on with glaring eyes, but complied. The ghouls picked up the coffin prepared for the march on the world tree.
"That was a pitiful imitation of my Drain Life spell" Sylvanas commented with scorn. Jaina did not bother mentioning that they would have done much better had Sylvanas deigned to show off her spells to them. "Do you think it'll be enough? She asked instead.
"If the druid claws his way to life, perhaps." Sylvanas said rather dismissively. "Whisperwind lost a lot more energy than was transmuted. They fumbled it in at least two places."
"Some seeped into them, then? Jaina guessed. That branch of magical control –that is to say, seizing foreign magics- was a fascinating subject she was lucky enough to get a few lectures from Prince Kael. Quel'dorei spell breakers were without equal in that field.
"Indeed." Sylvanas confirmed. "It is of no big surprise. The spell is designed to nurture its wielder. I am inherently familiar with it, and even I would find it difficult to redirect it using myself as a medium without it seeping somewhat into me. Another mistake was that they bit more into the elf –not that I complain, she whispered- than they took from her."
That, Jaina supposed, was the inefficientness the necromancers mentioned back in Dalaran. She spared another glance at Tyrande being carried away by Illidan. The necromancers had recommended that the spell be periodically reapplied, but Jaina doubted that this would be possible without making Tyrande too weak for battle, or worse – dead.
They did all they could. All that was left was hope and pray.