As they progressed deeper, Fenris noticed that the walls here were cleaner than they had been nearer the entrance, and not just less grimy but less degraded. The carvings that decorated every surface had not been worn away to the same degree, and he caught glimpses here and there of what this temple must have been at its height. It would have been magnificent, filled with a beauty and an elegance he had never even imagined possible, and Fenris felt rough and bestial treading its halls. He could see that the rest of his clan felt the same way. Tagar and his Bonechewer orcs seemed unaffected by the temple's beauty, but then they seemed to have little appreciation for anything beyond death and de­struction. Ragnok appeared utterly focused on the task at hand.

Which might have been why it was Tagar who sud­denly stopped and pointed at a spot on the wall near where it met the floor. "Look there!" the Bonechewer chieftain said. Fenris followed his gesture and saw a smear of something dark across the carvings. It looked like—"Blood," Tagar confirmed. He knelt by the smear, sniffed at it, and then touched his tongue to it. "Orc blood," he clarified, rising to his feet again. "Sev­eral years old."

"Likely the blood of Gul'dan or his warlocks," Rag­nok said. "We're getting close!"

It was not a pleasant thought, even if it did mean that the end of their quest was at hand. "Be on guard," Fenris said to his orcs, and they nodded somberly.

"Are you scared, Fenris?" Tagar mocked, stepping up and shoving his face close to Fenris's. "Afraid of what we might find?"

"Of course I am, you idiot!" Fenris snapped, his tusks scraping the younger chieftain's cheeks. "Gul'dan was a traitor and a fool, but he was still the most pow­erful warlock the Horde has ever seen! And something in here killed him and all his followers. You'd have to be insane or stupid not to be afraid!"

"Well, I'm not afraid!" Tagar replied, drawing smiles and laughs from several of Fenris's warriors. Fenris himself just shook his head and wondered yet again why he'd been sent with such an idiot. But that's why, he answered himself. Because someone has to be smart enough to know what to do and when — and someone else has to be foolish enough to go on anyway, even when it's near-suicide.

"Fine," Fenris said, allowing himself a small grin. "You go first, then."

Tagar smiled and whooped, his war cry echoing down the hall. He strode forward, leading the way without a moment's concern. The others followed.

The condition of the walls and floor continued to improve as they descended farther into the temple. Its glory was breathtaking. At one intersection of corri­dors Ragnok stopped, apparently confused. He turned first one way, and then the other. Fenris frowned.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I—" The death knight hesitated again, then nodded to himself and strode firmly down one of the halls. Fenris shook his head, but followed.

The hallway ended in a wide room. The walls here were blank, surprisingly enough — clean and smooth and bare — and the sudden contrast made the room seem stark and dignified. At the far end a massive vault door of plain black iron filled most of the wall.

"This is it," Ragnok breathed. He swung the door open.

And froze in utter terror.

Beyond the door lay an almost impenetrable dark­ness, as if night had been condensed and hidden here where the light would never find it.

Standing in that darkness, just past the doorway, was a creature from a nightmare.

It towered over them, standing so tall it was forced to hunch within the room beyond. Its skin was scaled and covered in bumps that seemed to ripple, as if somehow its surface were fluid like water. Spikes jutted from the shoulders, the forearms, the chest, and vari­ous other places. The overlong arms ended in huge hands with long claws. The face was too narrow at the bottom and too wide at the top, with slanting eyes that glowed a smoky, roiling yellow and a tiny mouth some­how filled with an insane number of razor-sharp teeth. A long tail whipped about behind it.

In one of its clawed hands it held a long rod, almost a spear, with a wooden haft and worked silver ends. The top was a mass of spikes clustered around a large gem that glowed with a brilliant white light of its own, and it was that radiance that held the darkness in the tomb partially at bay. Small flickers of lightning burst from the gem as well, only to fade into the darkness again.

The Scepter of Sargeras — the artifact Ner'zhul had sent them to retrieve.

All they had to do was take it from what Fenris was absolutely sure was a demon.

"You will not pass," the creature hissed, its voice rolling over them in oily waves. "This tomb has already been defiled by mortals once! It shall not happen again!"

"We don't want to pass," Fenris replied, biting back the fear and bile that leaped up his throat. "We just want that scepter you're waving about."

The demon laughed, a low chuckle like bone grat­ing on bone, and stepped forward, its long clawed feet digging deep furrows into the marble floor. "Then you may try to take it from me," it offered. “And after you fail, I will shred your bodies and sup upon your souls."

"I'll crack your bones with my teeth and drink out the marrow!" Tagar bellowed back at the demon — this was the kind of language he understood. Then he charged, his axe held high.

And, though he cursed Tagar for a fool and himself for a worse one, Fenris raised his own weapon and leaped into the fray beside his fellow chieftain. The other thirty or so Thunderlord and Bonechewer war­riors were right behind them.

Even so, it was a difficult battle. The demon was strong, stronger than any one of them by far, and faster as well. Its long claws cleft skin and bone and muscle with ease, tearing through the orcs as if they were dried leaves. The scepter it held was heavy enough to crush an orcs skull without taking a dent. Even the demon's tail was a weapon. Tagar shrieked in outrage as the creature struck one of the Bonechewers with it. The long barb at the end went easily through the hap­less orc’s chest and emerged, dripping blood, from his back.

But the worst, the most frightening attack it pos­sessed, was its bite — that unbelievable mouth stretched wider than should have physically been possible, expos­ing row upon row of teeth. Fenris watched the demon bite off half a warrior's head, and even through his own battle rage he felt sick.

It was that battle rage that saved them. Under nor­mal circumstances Fenris disapproved of the bloodlust, but now it was a boon. Without it, many of the orcs — including himself — would have run away in abject ter­ror. But with their heads pounding and their vision blurring and their blood humming, they attacked and continued to attack. Yes, the demon was faster, but with so many warriors attacking on each new assault, a few hits got through. The demon was stronger, but sev­ering its limbs still crippled it.

At the last, with the demon's tail and one arm and part of a leg gone, and the other arm so shattered it writhed like a snake, Fenris and Tagar struck as one, their axes slicing into its thick neck. The blows came from opposite sides, delivered with all the force their respective masters could muster, and both chieftains took thin cuts along their fingers where the other's blade had nicked. But the demon toppled to the ground, his neck cut clean through from both sides, the head landing at Ragnok's feet.

Fenris bent down and picked up the scepter. It was lighter than he had expected, but he could feel a faint thrum of power through it.

"We have what we were sent for," he said, turning back. "Let's go."

"What?" Surprisingly, it was Ragnok who protested. "But this is the Tomb of Sargeras! And you just killed its guardian!"

"That was one guardian," Fenris replied. "There will be others, you mark my words." He held the scepter up so it caught the light. "Fortunately, we don't have to go any deeper into this pit."