The Well of Eternity (12 page)

“Welcome again, sister,” uttered one. “You honor us with your presence.”

Tyrande was clearly embarrassed by such respect. “Please! Please rise!” When they had obeyed, she asked, “What news on him?”

“Lord Ravencrest has assumed control of the situation,” answered another guard. “Even now he is out inspecting the location of the capture in search of more evidence and possible incursions, but when he returns, it’s said that he intends to interrogate the prisoner personally. That means that by tomorrow, it’s likely the creature will be transported to the cells of Black Rook Hold.” Black Rook Hold was the walled domain of Lord Ravencrest, a veritable fortress.

That the guard was so free with his information surprised Malfurion until he realized how awed the soldier was by Tyrande. True, she was an initiate of Elune, but something must have happened that made her of particular importance to these soldiers.

Tyrande looked perturbed by the revelation. “This interrogation…what will it entail?”

The guard could no longer look at her directly. “It entails whatever satisfies Lord Ravencrest, sister.”

The priestess did not press further. Her hand, which had lightly rested on Malfurion’s arm, momentarily squeezed tight.

“May we speak with him?”

“For only a moment, sister, but I must ask you to speak so that we can hear you. You understand.”

“I do.” Tyrande led Malfurion to the cell, where they both knelt.

Malfurion bit back a gasp of astonishment. Up close, the hulking figure inside truly amazed him. He had learned of many strange and unusual creatures during his time with Cenarius, but never had he been taught of such a being as this.

“Shaman…” it—
he
—muttered in a deep, rumbling…and
pained
voice.

Tyrande leaned closer, obviously concerned. “Broxigar…are you ill?”

“No, shaman…just remembering.” He did not explain further.

“Broxigar, I’ve brought a friend with me. I’d like you to meet him. His name is Malfurion.”

“If he’s your friend, shaman, I’m honored.”

Shifting nearer, Malfurion forced a smile. “Hello, Broxigar.”

“Broxigar is an orc, Malfurion.”

He nodded. “I’ve never heard of an orc before.”

The chained figure snorted. “I know of night elves. You fought beside us against the Legion…but alliances fade in peace, it seems.”

His words made no sense, yet they stirred within Malfurion a new anxiety. “How—how did you come to be here, Broxigar?”

“The shaman may call me Broxigar. To you…only Brox.” He exhaled, then stared intently at Tyrande. “Shaman…you asked about me the last time and I wouldn’t tell. I owe you, though. Now I tell you what I told these…” Brox made a derogatory gesture toward the nearby guards. “…and their masters, but you’ll believe me no more than they did…”

The orc’s tale began fantastic and grew even more so with each breath. He was careful not to speak of his people or where they lived, only that at the command of his Warchief, he and another had journeyed to the mountains to investigate an unsettling rumor. There they had found what the orc could only describe as a
hole
in the world…a hole that swallowed all matter as it moved relentlessly along.

It had swallowed Brox…and ripped his companion apart.

And Malfurion, listening, began to relive his own sense of dread. Each new revelation by the orc fueled that dread and more than once the night elf found himself thinking of the Well of Eternity and the power drawn from it by the Highborne. Certainly the magic of the Well could create such a horrific vortex…

But it could not be!
Malfurion insisted to himself.
Surely, this could have nothing to do with Zin-Azshari! They aren’t that mad!

Are
they?

But as Brox continued, as he spoke of the vortex and the things he had seen and heard as he tumbled through it, it be came harder and harder for Malfurion to deny the possibility of
some
link. Worse, without knowing how it struck the night elf, the orc’s expression mirrored what Malfurion had felt when his astral self had floated above the palace and the Well.

“A wrongness,” the orc said. “A thing that should not be,” he added at another stage. These and other descriptions struck Malfurion like well-honed daggers…

He did not even realize when Brox’s tale ended, his mind swept up by the truth of it all. Tyrande had to squeeze his arm to regain his attention.

“Are you all right, Malfurion? You look as if chilled…”

“I—I’m fine.” To Brox, he asked, “You told this—this story—to Lord Ravencrest?”

The orc looked uncertain, but the guard responded, “Aye, that’s what he told, almost word for word!” The soldier gave a harsh bark of a laugh. “And Lord Ravencrest believed it as little as you now! Come the morrow, he’ll pull the truth from this beast…and if he has friends nearby, they’ll find us not so tempting a target, eh?”

So an invasion by orcs was all that Ravencrest suspected. Malfurion felt disappointed. He doubted that the elven commander would see the possible link between his encounter and Brox’s tale. In fact, the more he thought of it, the more Malfurion doubted Ravencrest would believe him at all. Here Malfurion was, ready to tell the noble that their beloved queen might be involved in reckless spellwork with the potential to bring disaster upon her people. The young night elf barely believed it himself.

If only he had more proof.

The guard began shifting anxiously. “Sister…I’m afraid I must ask you and your companion to depart now. Our captain will be coming shortly. I really shouldn’t have—”

“Quite all right. I understand.”

As they started to rise, Brox moved to the front of the cell, one hand reaching toward Tyrande. “Shaman…one last blessing, if you could grant it.”

“Of course…”

As she knelt again, Malfurion desperately pondered what he should do. Properly, any suspicions should have been reported to Lord Ravencrest, but somehow that seemed a futile act.

If only he could consult with Cenarius, but by then the orc might be—

Cenarius
…

Malfurion glanced at Tyrande and Brox, a fateful decision coming to mind.

Bidding the orc farewell, Tyrande rose again. Malfurion took her by the arm and the two thanked the guard for their time. The young priestess’s expression grew perturbed as they left, but Malfurion said nothing, his own thoughts still racing.

“There must be something that can be done,” she finally whispered.

“What do you mean?”

“Tomorrow they will take him to Black Rook Hold. Once in there, he—” Tyrande faltered. “I’ve every respect for Lord Ravencrest, but…”

Malfurion only nodded.

“I spoke with Mother Dejahna, the high priestess, but she says there is nothing we can do but pray for his spirit. She commended me for my sympathy, but suggested I let matters take their course.”

“Let them take their course…” Malfurion muttered, staring ahead. He gritted his teeth. It had to be done now. There could be no turning back, not if his fears had any merit. “Turn here,” he suddenly commanded, steering her down a side avenue. “We need to see Illidan.”

“Illidan? But why?”

Taking a deep breath and thinking of the orc and the Well, Malfurion simply replied, “Because we’re going to let matters take their own course…with our guidance, that is.”

* * *

Xavius stood before the fiery sphere, staring into the gaping hole in its midst in rapt attention. Deep, deep within, the eyes of his god stared back and the two communed.

I have heard your pleas…
he said to the counselor.
And know your dreams…a world cleansed of the impure, the imperfect. I would grant your desire, you the first among my faithful…

His gaze never wavering, Xavius knelt. The other Highborne continued working their sorcery, trying to expand upon what they had created.

“You will come to us, then?” the night elf responded, artificial eyes flaring in anticipation. “You will come to our world and make it so?”

The way is not yet open…it must be strengthened…for it must be able to withstand my glorious entrance…

The counselor nodded his understanding. So magnificent, so powerful a force as the god would be too much for the night elves’ feeble portal to accept. The god’s sheer presence would rip it asunder. It had to be made larger, stronger, and more permanent.

That his supposed deity could not perform this task himself, Xavius did not question. He was too caught up in the wonder of his new master.

“What can be done?” he pleaded. Try as they might, the Highborne sorcerers had reached the limits of their knowledge and skills, Xavius included.

I will send one of my lesser host to guide you…he may pass
through to your world…with effort…but you must prepare yourselves for his coming…

Almost leaping to his feet, the night elven lord commanded, “Let no one stumble in his efforts! We are to be blessed with the presence of one of his favored!”

The Highborne redoubled their efforts, the chamber crackling with raw, fearsome energy drawn directly from the Well. Outside, the skies roared furiously and anyone looking upon the great black lake itself would have turned their gaze away in fear.

The fireball within the pattern swelled, the gap in the center opening like a wide, savage mouth. What sounded like a million voices wailing filled the chamber, music to Xavius’s ears.

But then one of the Highborne faltered. Fearing the worst, Xavius pushed himself into the circle, adding his own might and skill to the effort. He would not fail his god! He would not!

Yet, at first it seemed he and the rest would. The portal strained but did not grow. Xavius concentrated the full force of his determination upon it, finally forcing the gap wider.

And then…a wondrous, blinding light forced the assembled Highborne
back.
Despite their astonishment, though, they somehow kept up their efforts.

From deep within, an odd-looking form coalesced. At first it stood no more than a few inches tall, but as it swiftly moved toward them, it grew…and grew…and
grew
…

The strain took its toll on more of the spellcasters. Two collapsed, one barely breathing. The others teetered, yet, once again, under Xavius’s manic control, they regained power over the portal.

Suddenly, the eerie cries of hounds shook them all. Only the counselor, with his eyes unnatural, saw what first emerged from the gateway.

The beasts were the size of horses and had low-set horns that curled down and forward. Their scaly hides were colored a deathly crimson accented by savage splatterings of black and on their backs fluttered a crest of wild, shaggy brown fur. They were lean but muscular hunters, each three-toed paw ending in sharp claws more than half a foot long. Each creature had back legs slightly shorter than the front, but Xavius had no doubt as to the beasts’ speed and agility. Even their slightest movements suggested hunters well skilled in bringing down their prey.

Atop their backs thrust two long, whiplike, leathery tentacles that ended in tiny sucker mouths. The tentacles swayed back and forth, seeming to focus with eagerness on the assembled sorcerers.

The face most resembled some peculiar cross between a wolf and a reptile. From the long, savage jaws jutted scores of tall, sharp teeth. The eyes were narrow and completely white, but filled with a sinister cunning that implied these were no mere animals.

Then, from behind them stepped the towering figure of their master.

He wore body armor of molten steel and in his huge, gauntleted hand he wielded a whip that flashed lightning whenever used. His chest and shoulders, so much wider than the rest of his torso, dwarfed those of even the mightiest warrior. Wherever the armor did not hide his form, pure flame radiated from his scaled, fleshless, and
unearthly
body.

Set deep in the broad shoulders, the flaming visage peered down at the night elves. That it most resembled a brooding skull with huge, curled horns did nothing to dissuade the Highborne that here was a heavenly messenger sent to aid them in their dream of a perfect paradise.

“Know that I am the servant of your god…” he hissed, the flames that were his eyes flashing hot whenever he spoke. “Come to help you open the way for his host and his most
glorious
self!”

One of the beasts howled, but a snap of the whip sent lightning crackling over the creature, instantly silencing it.

“I am the Houndmaster…” the massive, skeletal knight continued, fiery gaze fixing most upon the kneeling counselor. “I am
Hakkar…”

A
t last, Rhonin awoke.

He did so with reluctance, for throughout his magical slumber, his mind had been filled with dreams. Most of those dreams had revolved around Vereesa and the coming twins, but, unlike the sinister keep, these were happy visions of a life he once thought to have.

Waking up only served to remind him that he might not live to see his family.

Rhonin opened his eyes to one familiar, if not so welcome, sight. Krasus leaned over him, mild concern in his expression. That only aggravated the human, for, in his mind, it was the dragon mage’s fault that he was here.

At first, Rhonin wondered why his eyesight seemed a bit dim, but then he realized that he looked at Krasus not in the light of the sun, but rather by a very full moon. The moon illuminated the glade with an intensity that was not at all natural.

Curiosity growing, he started to rise…only to have his body scream from stiffness.

“Slowly, Rhonin. You have slept more than a day. Your body needs a minute or two to join you in waking.”

“Where—?” The young wizard peered around. “I remember this glade…being carried toward it…”

“We have been the guests of its master since our arrival. We are not in any danger, Rhonin, but I must tell you immediately that we are also unable to depart.”

Sitting up, Rhonin gazed at the area. He sensed some presence around them, but nothing that hinted they were trapped here. Still, he had never known Krasus to invent stories.

“What happens if we try to leave?”

His companion pointed at the rows of flowers. “They will stop us.”

“They? The plants?”

“You may trust me on this, Rhonin.”

While a part of him was tempted to see exactly what the flowers would do, Rhonin chose not to take any chances. Krasus said that they were not in any danger so long as they stayed where they were. However, now that both of them were conscious, perhaps they could devise some manner of escape.

His stomach rumbled. Rhonin recalled that he had slept a day and more without eating.

Before he could comment, Krasus handed him a bowl of fruit and a jug of water. The human devoured the fruit quickly and, although it did not satiate his hunger completely, at least his stomach no longer disturbed him.

“Our host has not delivered any sustenance since early in the day. I expect him shortly…especially as he likely already knows that you are awake.”

“He does?” Not something Rhonin liked hearing. Their captor sounded too much in control. “Who is he?”

Krasus suddenly looked uncomfortable. “His name is Cenarius. Do you recall it?”

Cenarius
…it struck a chord, albeit barely. Cenarius. Something from his studies, but not directly tied to magic. The name made him think of stories, myths, of a—

A woodland
god?

Rhonin’s gaze narrowed. “We’re the guests of a forest deity?”

“A demigod, to be exact…which still makes him a force that even my kind respect.”

“Cenarius…”

“You speak of me and I am here!” chortled a voice from everywhere. “I bid you welcome, one called Rhonin!”

Coalescing from the moonlight itself, a huge, inhuman figure half elf, half stag stepped forward. He towered even over the tall, lanky Krasus. Rhonin stared openly in awe at the antlers, the bearded visage, and the unsettling body.

“You slept long, young one, so I doubt that the food brought earlier was sufficient for your hunger.” He gestured behind them. “There is more for the two of you now.”

Rhonin glanced over his shoulder. Where the emptied bowl of fruit had sat there now stood another, this one filled high. In addition, a thick piece of meat, cooked just to the wizard’s liking if the aroma indicated anything, lay on a wooden platter next to the bowl. Rhonin had no doubt that the jug had also been refilled.

“I thank you,” he began, trying not to be distracted by the nearby meal. “But what I really wanted to do was ask—”

“The time for questions will be coming. For now, I’d be remiss if you did not eat.”

Krasus took Rhonin by the arm. With a nod of his head, the wizard joined his former mentor and the pair ate their fill. Rhonin hesitated at first when it came to the meat, not because he did not want it, but because it surprised him that a forest dweller such as Cenarius would sacrifice a creature under his care for two strangers.

The demigod read his curiosity. “Each animal, each being, serves many purposes. They are all part of the cycle of the forest. That includes the necessity of food. You are like the bear or wolf, both of whom hunt freely in my domain. Nothing is wasted here. Everything returns to feed new growth. The deer upon which you now feed will be reborn to serve its role again, its sacrifice forgotten to it.”

Rhonin frowned, not quite following Cenarius’s explanation, but knowing better than to ask him to clarify it. The demigod saw both intruders as predators and had fed them accordingly. That was that.

When they were finished, the wizard felt much improved. He opened his mouth with the intention of pressing on the matter of their captivity, but Cenarius spoke first.

“You should not be here.”

Neither Rhonin nor Krasus knew how to answer.

Cenarius paced the glade. “I’ve conversed with the others, discussed you at length, learned what they know…and we all agree that you are not meant to be here. You are out of place, but in what way, we’ve yet to determine.”

“Perhaps I can explain,” Krasus interjected. He still looked weak to Rhonin, but not so much as when they had first materialized in this time.

“Perhaps you can,” agreed the young wizard.

The dragon mage glanced at his companion. Rhonin saw no reason to hold back the truth. Cenarius appeared to be the first being that they had come across who might be of assistance to them.

But the story that Krasus passed on to their host was not the one the human expected.

“We come from a land across the sea…far across, but that is unimportant. What is of significance is the reason why we ended here…”

In Krasus’s revised tale, it was he, not Nozdormu, who had uncovered the rift. The dragon mage described it not as a tear in time, but as an anomaly that had upset the fabric of reality, potentially creating greater and greater catastrophe. He had summoned the one other spellcaster he trusted—Rhonin—and the pair had traveled to where Krasus had sensed the trouble.

“We journeyed to a chain of stark peaks in the bitter north of our land, there being where I sensed it strongest. We came across it and the monstrous things it spewed out at random. The wrongness of it struck us both hard, but when we sought to investigate closer…it moved, enveloping us. We were cast out of our land—”

“And into the domain of the night elves,” the demigod completed.

“Yes,” Krasus said with a nod. Rhonin added nothing and hoped his expression did not betray his companion. In addition to Krasus’s omissions concerning their true origins, the wizard’s former mentor left out one other item of possible interest to Cenarius.

He had made no mention of being a dragon.

Backing up a step, the woodland deity eyed both figures. Rhonin could not read his expression. Did he believe Krasus’s altered story or did he suspect that his “guest” had not been completely forthcoming with him?

“This bears immediate discussion with the others,” Cenarius finally declared, staring off into the distance. His gaze shifted back down to Rhonin and Krasus. “Your needs will be dealt with during my absence…and then we shall speak again.”

Before either could say anything, the lord of the forest melted into moonlight, leaving them once more alone.

“That was futile,” Rhonin growled.

“Perhaps. But I would like to know who these others are.”

“More demigods like himself? Seems the most likely. Why didn’t you tell him about your—”

The dragon mage gave him such a sharp glare that Rhonin faltered. In a much quieter tone, Krasus replied, “I am a dragon without strength, my young friend. You have no idea what that feels like. No matter who Cenarius is, I wish that to remain secret until I understand why I cannot recover.”

“And the…rest of the story?”

Krasus looked away. “Rhonin…I mentioned to you that we might be in the past.”

“I understand that.”

“My memories are…are as scattered as my strength is depleted. I do not know why. However, one thing I have been able to recall based on what was told me during your induced slumber. I know now
when
we are.”

Spirits rising, Rhonin blurted, “But that’s good! It gives us an anchor of sorts! Now we can determine who best—”

“Please let me finish.” Krasus’s dour expression did not bode well. “There is a very good reason why I altered our story as much as I could. I suspected that Cenarius knew some of what was going on, especially about the anomaly. What I could not tell him are my suspicions as to what it might
presage.”

The quieter and darker the elder mage’s voice dropped, the more Rhonin grew concerned. “What?”

“I fear we have arrived just prior to the first coming of the
Burning Legion.”

He could have said nothing more horrifying to Rhonin. Having lived—and nearly died more than once—battling the demonic horde and its allies, the young wizard still suffered monstrous nightmares. Only Vereesa understood the extent of those nightmares, she having fought through more than a few herself. It had taken both their growing love and the coming children to heal their hearts and souls and that after several months.

And now Rhonin had been thrust back into the nightmares.

Jumping to his feet, he said, “Then we’ve got to tell Cenarius, tell everyone we can! They’ll—”

“They must not know…I fear it may already be too late to preserve matters as they once were.” Also rising, Krasus stared down his long nose at his former pupil. “Rhonin…as it originally happened, the Legion was defeated after a terrible, bloody war, the precursor of things to come in our own time.”

“Yes, of course, but—”

Evidently forgetting his own concerns about the possibility of Cenarius listening in, Krasus seized Rhonin by the shoulders. Despite the elder mage’s weakness, his long fingers dug painfully into the human’s flesh. “You still do not understand! Rhonin, by coming here, by simply being here…we may have altered that history! We may now be responsible for the Burning Legion this time becoming the
victor
in this first struggle…and that would mean not only the death of many innocents here, but the erasing of our own
time.”

It had taken some convincing to make Illidan a part of Malfurion’s sudden and very rash plan. Malfurion had little doubt that the deciding factor was not anything he had said…but rather Tyrande’s own impassioned plea. Under her gaze, even Illidan had melted, readily agreeing to assist even though he clearly did not care for the prisoner one bit. Malfurion knew that something had happened between his brother and the orc, something that Tyrande had also been involved in, and she used that shared experience to bring Illidan to their side.

Now they had to succeed.

The four guards stood alert, each facing a different point on the compass. The sun was only minutes from rising and the square was empty of all save the soldiers and their charge. With most of the other night elves asleep, it was the perfect time to strike.

“I’ll deal with the sentries,” Illidan suggested, his left hand already balled into a fist.

Malfurion quickly took over. He did not question his brother’s abilities, but he also wished no harm to come to the guards, who were only performing their duties. “No. I said I would take care of them. Give me a moment.”

Shutting his eyes, he relaxed himself as Cenarius had shown him. Malfurion receded from the world, but at the same time, he saw it more clearly, more sharply. He knew exactly what he had to do.

At his suggestion to them, the necessary elements of nature joined to assist his needs. A cool, tender wind caressed the face of each guard with the gentleness of a loved one. With the wind came the tranquil scents of the flowers surrounding Suramar and the soothing call of a nearby night bird. The calmingly seductive combination enveloped each sentry, drawing them without their noticing into a peaceful, pleasant, and very deep lethargy that left them oblivious to the waking world.

Satisfied that all four were under his spell, Malfurion blinked, then whispered, “Come…”

Illidan hesitated, only following when Tyrande stepped out into the open after his brother. The three of them slowly made their way toward the cage and the soldiers. Despite the certainty that his spell held, Malfurion still half expected the four sentries to look their way at any moment. Yet even when he and his companions stood only a few yards away, the soldiers remained ignorant of their presence.

“It worked…” murmured Tyrande in wonder.

Stopping in front of the foremost guard, Illidan waved his hand before the watchful eyes—all to no effect. “A nice trick, brother, but for how long?”

“I don’t know. That’s why we must hurry.”

Tyrande knelt down by the cage, peering inside. “I think Broxigar is also caught by your spell, Malfurion.”

Sure enough, the huge orc lay slumped against the back of his prison, his disinterested gaze looking past Tyrande. He made no move even when she quietly called out his name.

After a moment’s consideration, Malfurion suggested, “Touch him softly on the arm and try his name again. Make certain that he sees you immediately so that you can signal for silence.”

Illidan frowned. “He’s sure to yell.”

“The spell will hold, Illidan, but you must be ready to do your part when the time comes.”

“I’m
not the one who’ll risk us,” Malfurion’s brother said with a sniff.

“Be still, both of you…” Reaching in, Tyrande cautiously touched the orc on his upper arm, at the same time calling out his name again.

Brox started. His eyes widened and his mouth opened in what would certainly be a very deafening cry.

But just as quickly he clamped his mouth shut, the only sound managing to escape being a slight grunt. The orc blinked several times, as if uncertain that the sight before him could possibly be real. Tyrande touched his hand, then, with a nod to the orc, looked into Brox’s eyes again.