The Well of Eternity (16 page)

And as Krasus heard the weakened giant speak, his world turned upside down again. He stumbled to his feet, backing away from the male in open dismay.

The Queen of Life was quick to notice his reaction even though her gaze for the most part remained on the newcomer. “I asked your presence here, yes. Forgive me if the effort strains you too much.”

“There is…nothing I would not do for you, my love, my world.”

She indicated the mage, who still stood as if struck by lightning. “This is—what do you call yourself?”

“Kor—Krasus, my queen. Krasus…”

“Krasus? Krasus it is, then…” Her tone hinted of amusement at his sudden choice of names at this moment. She turned again to the ill leviathan. “And this, Krasus, is one of my most beloved subjects, my most recent consort, and one to whom I already greatly look for guidance. Being one of us, you may have heard of him. His name is
Korialstrasz…”

Along the winding forest path they rode, Malfurion finally coming to believe that they had lost any possible pursuit. He had chosen a route that led over rocks and other areas where the night saber’s paws would leave few tracks, hoping that anyone following would soon ride off in the wrong direction. It meant taking more time than usual to reach the point where he always met Cenarius, but Malfurion had decided he needed to take that chance. He still did not know what the forest lord might think when he heard what his pupil had done.

As they neared the meeting place, Malfurion slowed his cat. In a bit more ragged fashion, Brox did the same.

“We stopping?” grunted the orc, looking around and seeing nothing but more trees. “Here?”

“Almost. Only a few minutes more. The oak should soon be in sight.”

Despite being so near his goal, the night elf actually grew more tense. One time he thought he felt eyes watching them, but when he looked, he saw only the calm forest. The realization that his life had forever changed continued to shake him. If the Moon Guard identified him, he risked being shunned, the most dire punishment that could be inflicted upon a night elf other than death. His people would turn from him, forever marking him as dead even though he still breathed. No one would interact with him or even meet his gaze.

Not even Tyrande or Illidan.

He had only compounded his crimes by leaving the hunters to face the demonic creature, something Brox had called a “felbeast.” If the felbeast had hurt or slain any of the pursuit party, it would leave Malfurion with no hope of ever mending his situation…and, to make matters worse, he would be responsible for the loss of innocent lives. Yet, what else could he have done? The only other choice would have involved turning Brox over to the Moon Guard…and eventually to Black Rook Hold.

The oak he sought suddenly appeared ahead, giving Malfurion the opportunity to dwell no more, for the time being, on his growing troubles. To anyone else, the tree would have simply been a tree, but to Malfurion, it was an ancient sentinel, one of those who had served Cenarius longer than most. This tree, tall, thick of trunk, and so very wrinkled of bark, had seen the rest of the forest grow over and over. It had outlasted countless others of its kind and witnessed thousands of generations of fleeting animal lives.

It knew Malfurion as he approached, the leaves of the wide crown audibly shaking despite a lack of wind. This was the ancient speech of all trees and the night elf felt honored that Cenarius had taught him early on how to understand some of it.

“Brox…I must ask a favor of you.”

“I owe you much. Ask it.”

Pointing at the oak, Malfurion said, “Dismount and go to that tree. Touch the palm of your hand to the trunk where you see that gnarled area of bark.”

The orc clearly had no idea why this would be required of him, but as it had been Malfurion who had requested it, he immediately obeyed. Handing the reins to the night elf, Brox trudged over to the sentinel. The huge warrior peered closely at the trunk, then planted one meaty hand where Malfurion had indicated.

Twisting his head so as to look back at his companion, the orc rumbled, “What do I do n—”

He let out a snarl of surprise as his hand sank into the bark as if the latter had become mud. Brox almost pulled the appendage free, but Malfurion quickly ordered him to remain still.

“Do nothing at all! Simply stand there! It’s learning of you! Your hand will tingle, but that’s all!”

What he did not go on to explain was that the tingling meant that tiny root tendrils from within the guardian now penetrated the orc’s flesh. The oak was learning of Brox by becoming, however briefly, a part of him. Plant and animal meshed together. The oak would forever recall Brox, no matter how many centuries might pass.

The vein in the orc’s neck throbbed madly, a sign of his growing anxiety. To his credit, Brox stood as still as the oak, his eyes ever fixed on where his hand had vanished.

Suddenly he fell back a step, the appendage released as abruptly as it had been taken. Brox quickly flexed the hand, testing the fingers and possibly even counting them.

“The way is open to us now,” Malfurion proclaimed.

With Brox mounted once more, the night elf led the way past the oak. As he rode by the sentinel, Malfurion sensed a subtle change in the air. Had they not been given permission, he and Brox could have ridden on forever and never found the glade. Only those Cenarius permitted to come to him would find the path beyond the sentinels.

The differences in their surroundings became more noticeable as the pair journeyed on. A refreshing breeze cooled both. Birds hopped about and sang from the trees surrounding them. The trees themselves shook merrily, greeting the night elf—who could understand them—especially. A feeling of comfort embraced both to the point that Malfurion even caught a hint of a smile on the orc’s rough visage.

A barrier of dense woods abruptly barred their way. Brox looked to Malfurion, who indicated that they should now dismount. After both had done so, Malfurion guided the orc along a narrow foot trail not at first visible between the trees. This they followed for several minutes before stepping out into a richly lit open area filled with tall, soft grass and high, brightly petaled flowers.

The glade of the forest lord.

But the figure encircled by a ring of flowers in the midst of the glade could never have been mistaken for Cenarius. Seated in the ring’s center, he leapt up at sight of the pair, his odd eyes especially lingering on Brox—as if he knew exactly what the orc was.

“You…” the stranger muttered at the green-skinned warrior. “You shouldn’t be here…”

Brox mistook the thrust of his remark. “I come with him, wizard…and need no permission of yours.”

But the fire-haired figure—to what race he belonged, Malfurion could not yet say—shook his head and started toward the orc, only to hesitate at the edge of the ring. With a curious glance at the flowers—which in turn looked as if they now studied him—the hooded stranger blurted, “This isn’t your time! You shouldn’t exist here at all!”

He raised his hand in what seemed a menacing posture to the night elf. Recalling Brox’s use of the word “wizard,” Malfurion quickly prepared a spell of his own, suspecting that Cenarius’s druidic teachings would avail him better in this sacred place than the stranger’s own magic.

Suddenly the sky thundered and the ever-present light breeze became an intense gale. Brox and Malfurion were pushed back a few feet and the wizard was almost thrust into the air, so hard was he forced away from the edge of the ring.

“There will be none of this in my sanctum!” declared the voice of Cenarius.

A short distance to the side of the flower barrier, the harsh wind picked up leaves, dirt, and other loose bits of the forest, throwing them around and creating a whirlwind. The small twister grew swiftly in size and intensity while the leaves and other pieces solidified into a towering figure.

And as the air quieted again, Cenarius stepped forward to survey Malfurion and the others.

“Of you I expect better,” he quietly remarked to the night elf. “But these
are
strange times.” He eyed Brox. “And growing stranger with each passing hour, it seems.”

The orc growled defiantly at Cenarius. Malfurion quickly silenced him. “This is the lord of the forest, the demigod Cenarius…the one to whom I said I would bring you, Brox.”

Brox eased somewhat, then pointed at the hooded wizard. “And that one? Is he another demigod?”

“He’s part of a puzzle,” Cenarius replied. “and you look to be another piece of the same one.” To the figure in the ring, he added, “You recognized this newcomer, friend Rhonin.”

The robed spellcaster said nothing.

The demigod shook his head in clear disappointment. “I mean you no harm, Rhonin, but too much has come about that I and the others find disturbing and out of place. You and your missing companion and now this one—”

“His name is Brox,” Malfurion offered.

“This one called Brox,” Cenarius amended. “Another being the likes of which even I have never seen. And how does Brox come to be here, my student? I suspect that there is a tale to tell, a disturbing one.”

With a nod, the night elf immediately went into the story of his rescue of the orc, in the process laying any possible blame at his feet alone. Of Tyrande and Illidan, he scarcely even spoke.

But Cenarius, far older and wiser than his pupil, read much of the truth. “I said that the destinies of your brother and you would take different roads. I believe that fork has now come, whether you know it or not.”

“I don’t understand—”

“It is a talk for another time.” The demigod suddenly stepped past Malfurion and Brox, staring into the forest. Around the glade, the crowns of the trees suddenly shook with great agitation. “And time is not something we have at the moment. You had better prepare yourselves…you included, friend Rhonin.”

“Me?” blurted the wizard.

“What is it, shan’do?” Malfurion could sense the trees’ fury.

The sunlit sky filled with thunder and the wind picked up again. A shadow fell over Cenarius’s majestic countenance, a dark shadow that made even Malfurion wary of his teacher.

The forest lord stretched forth his arms, almost as if to embrace something that no one else could see. “We are about to be attacked…and I fear even I may not be able to protect all of you.”

The lone felbeast had followed the trail as no other animal or rider could, smelling not the scent of its quarry, but rather the magic the latter commanded. As much as blood and flesh, the energy that was magic and sorcery was its sustenance…and like any of its kind, the felbeast was always ravenous.

Mortal creatures would not have noticed the magic of the oak sentinel, but the demon did. It seized upon this unmoving prey with eagerness, the dire tentacles quickly thrusting out and striking the thick trunk.

The oak did its best to combat this unexpected foe. Roots sought to entangle the paws, but the felbeast dodged them. Loose branches dropped from high above, battering the monster’s thick hide futilely.

When that did not work, from the oak came a peculiar keening sound, one that picked up in intensity. It soon reached a level inaudible to most creatures.

But for the felbeast, the sound then became agony. The demon whined and tried to bury its head, but at the same time it refused to release its hold on the guardian. The two wills struggled…

In the end, the felbeast proved the stronger. Increasingly drained of its inherent magic, the oak withered more and more, finally dying as the Moon Guard had, slain in its duty after thousands of years of successfully protecting the way.

The felbeast shook its head, then sniffed the air before it. The tentacles eagerly stretched forth, but the demon kept its position. It had grown as it devoured the oak’s ancient magic and now stood almost twice as tall as before.

Then, metamorphosis took place. A deep, black radiance surrounded the felbeast, completely enveloping the demon. Within it, the felbeast twisted in various directions, as if trying to escape from itself.

And the more it tried, the more it succeeded. One head, two heads, three, four…then five. Each head strained harder, pulling and pulling. The heads were followed by thick necks, brawny shoulders, then muscular torsos and legs.

Fueled by the rich magic of the ancient guardian, the one felbeast became a pack. The great effort momentarily weakened each of the demons, but within seconds they recouped. The knowledge that ahead lay more sustenance, more power, urged them on.

As one, the felbeasts charged toward the glade.

Y
ou are a true servant,
the great one told Lord Xavius.
Your rewards will be endless…all you desire I will grant you…anything…anyone…

Artificial eyes unblinking, the night elf knelt on one knee before the fiery portal, drinking in the god’s many glorious promises. He was the most favored of the great one’s new minions, one to whom miraculous powers would be granted once the way had been opened.

And the more the Highborne failed to accomplish the last, the longer the god’s arrival was delayed, the more the counselor’s frustration grew.

His frustration was shared by two others. One of those was Queen Azshara, who longed as much as he for the day when all the imperfect would be eradicated from the world, leaving only the night elves—and only the best of that race—to rule the paradise that would follow. She did not know, of course, that, in his wisdom, the great one would make her Xavius’s consort, but the counselor expected any protests to fade once their wondrous god informed her.

The other frustrated with the utter lack of success was the towering Hakkar. Ever flanked by two felbeasts, the Houndmaster marched around the Highborne sorcerers, pointing out the flaws in their casting and adding his own might whenever possible.

Yet even with the addition of his arcane knowledge, only now had they at last achieved some minor triumph. Now at last Hakkar and his pets no longer stood alone among the night elves. Now there were three others, horned giants with crimson visages that some found horrific but that Lord Xavius could only admire. At least nine feet tall, they loomed over the Highborne, who themselves were more than seven feet in height.

These were anointed champions of the god, celestial warriors whose only purpose was to do his bidding regardless of the cost to them. Each was roughly nine feet in height and although built oddly thin, the bronze-armored figures had no difficulty wielding the massive, oblong shields and flaming maces. They obeyed to the letter any command given them and treated the counselor with as much respect as they did Hakkar.

And soon there would be more. Even as Xavius stepped back, he saw the portal flash. It bloomed, growing to fill the pattern over which it hovered, swelling until—

Through it came another of the Fel Guard, as Hakkar called these worthy fighters. The moment he entered the mortal plane, the newcomer bowed his fearsome head toward the Houndmaster, then toward Xavius.

Hakkar signaled for the warrior to join his predecessors. Turning to Xavius, the Houndmaster indicated the four. “The great one fulfills his first promise to you, lord night elf! Command them! They are yoursss to do as you pleassse!”

Xavius knew exactly what to do with them. “As they have been a gift to me, so they will best serve as a gift for the queen! I shall make them honored bodyguards for Azshara!”

The Houndmaster nodded approvingly. They both knew the value of pleasing the queen of the night elves, just as both knew the counselor’s secret desire. “You’d do bessst to bring sssuch a present to her yourssself, lord night elf! The work will continue while you are gone, I will sssee to that!”

The notion of making the presentation himself greatly appealed to Xavius. With a bow to Hakkar, the counselor snapped his fingers and led the four gigantic warriors out of the tower chamber. He knew exactly where he would find Azshara at this time.

And as he departed, the Houndmaster, stony eyes flaring brightly, watched the night elf intently.

Although her lord counselor slept very little—almost not at all of late—as queen of the realm, Azshara had the right and privilege to rest as she pleased. After all, she had to be perfect in every way, especially where her beauty was concerned. Therefore, the ruler of the night elves generally slept through the entire day, avoiding completely the harsh, burning sunlight.

Thus, Azshara did not take well at first to the meek entrance of one of her attendants. The latter fell quickly onto both knees before the rounded edge of the queen’s room-spanning, down bed, the young female almost hiding behind the gossamer curtains that encircled it.

With a languid hand, the Light of Lights indicated that her servant could speak.

“Mistress, forgive this humble one, but the lord counselor requests an audience with yourself, stating he has brought something of interest to you.”

There was nothing which Azshara could imagine desiring at the moment that would make her leave her bed, not even for the counselor. Silver hair draping her pillows, she pursed her lips as she pondered whether or not to send Xavius on his way.

“Make him wait five minutes,” she finally purred, already artfully positioning herself. Well aware of Xavius’s tastes, the queen knew best how to use them to her advantage. The counselor might think himself superior to his monarch, but as a female, she was superior to any male. “Then grant him entrance.”

The attendant did not question her mistress’s decision. Azshara watched her depart through slitted eyes, then stretched gracefully, already planning her encounter with her chief advisor.

The young servant nervously returned…but only after Xavius had already been waiting for several minutes. Keeping her head low—and thus her expression all but hidden—she ushered the counselor through the thick, skillfully carved oak doors leading into the queen’s personal chambers.

Only a handful of times had he dared see her in this, her most private sanctum. Xavius knew something of what to expect; Azshara would appear flawless and seductive, all without seeming to notice this herself. It was the game she played and played well, but he was prepared. He was her superior.

Sure enough, the queen of the night elves lay in repose, one arm behind her head, two silken-clad attendants kneeling nearby. A silver stand with an emerald flask of wine stood within reach of the queen and one half-filled goblet gave evidence to her having already sampled its rich bounty.

“My darling lord counselor,” she breathed. “You must have something dreadfully important to say to me to request an audience at such an hour.” The thin, glistening sheet framed her exquisite shape. “I’ve therefore tried to accommodate you as best I can.”

Fist to his heart, he went down on one knee. Gazing at the white, marble floor, Lord Xavius replied, “Light of Lights, Cherished Heart of the People, I am grateful for this time given me. I apologize for disturbing you now, but I have brought with me a most interesting gift, a gift truly worthy of the queen of the night elves, the queen of the world. If I may summon it?”

He glanced up and saw that he had her attention. Her veiled eyes failed to hide both her growing curiosity and anticipation. Azshara shifted on her bed, the sheet ever clinging just so to her torso.

“You pique my interest, my dear Xavius. I grant you the honor of presenting me with your gift.”

Rising again, the tall counselor turned to the doors and snapped his fingers.

There was a gasp from the outer room and two more attendants rushed inside, fleeing to the comfort and protection of their mistress. Frowning, Azshara sat up, almost but not quite letting the sheet slip.

The four fearsome warriors marched two abreast into the queen’s sanctum, so tall that they had to duck through the doorway to avoid scraping the top with their horns. They spread out as they entered, shields before their armored bodies and maces held high in salute.

Azshara leaned forward, utterly fascinated. “What are they?”

“They are
yours,
my queen! The protection of your life is their duty, their only reason to exist! Behold, your majesty, your new bodyguards!”

He saw that he had pleased her well. There would be more and more celestial warriors sent through by the great one, but these were the very first and they were to be
hers.
That made all the difference.

“How wonderful,” she murmured, stretching one arm out to a servant. The young maiden immediately reached for Azshara’s gown. The other attendants created a wall, obscuring all but the queen’s head from the view of Xavius and the Fel Guard. “How very fitting. Your gift is acceptable.”

“I am pleased that
you
are pleased.”

The servants stepped back. Now clad in a translucent, frost-colored gown, Queen Azshara rose from her bed. With calculated steps, she walked up to the towering figures and inspected each, her gown trailing along over the marble floor. For their part, the Fel Guard stood so motionless that they might have been mistaken for statuary.

“Are there more?”

“There will be, eventually.”

She frowned. “So few after so long? How will the great one himself come through if we cannot manage more than a few of his host at a time?”

“We draw from the Well as best we can, oh glorious queen. There are contradictory currents, outside reactions, the influence of other spellcasters elsewhere—”

Like a child reaching out to touch a new toy, Azshara let her fingers just graze the blazing armor of one of her new bodyguards. There was a slight hiss. The queen pulled back her fingers, an oddly pleased expression crossing her perfect features. “Then why haven’t you cut off the Well from such outside interference? It would make your task then much simpler.”

Lord Xavius opened his mouth to explain why the intricacies of the Highborne spellwork would not permit such—then realized that he had no good answer. Theoretically, Azshara’s suggestion had tremendous merit.

“Truly you are the queen,” he finally commented.

Her golden eyes seized his own. “Of course I am, my darling counselor. There has only ever been, only ever will be…
one
Azshara.”

He nodded wordlessly.

She strode back to the bed, seating herself delicately on the edge. “If there is nothing else?”

“Nothing…for now, my queen.”

“Then, I think you must have more work to do now.”

Dismissed, Lord Xavius bowed low to his monarch, then backed out of her chambers. He did not take any umbrage at her regal tone or attitude, did not even grow more than slightly annoyed at her mastery of the situation.

Cut off the Well from interference…

It could be done. If not by the Highborne alone, then with Hakkar’s good guidance. Surely the Houndmaster would know best how to do it. With use of the Well limited only to those of the palace, the power the Highborne drew from it would be more easily manipulated, more easily transformed…

Small matter what havoc cutting off the Well would wreak upon the
rest
of their people.

* * *

“He is definitely one of us…somehow I know this as well as I know myself.”

The words were perhaps the most ironic ever spoken in history, or so Krasus believed at that moment. They had, after all, been uttered by the dragon Korialstrasz, the newest of Alexstrasza’s consorts.

And also Krasus’s younger self.

Korialstrasz did not recognize himself, at least, not consciously. However, the fact that Alexstrasza had not informed him of the newcomer’s true identity raised many questions.

One question possibly related to the others had to do with the male dragon’s present condition. While it was true that Krasus’s memory was full of holes, he doubted that he could have forgotten such an illness as his earlier incarnation seemed to be suffering at this moment. Korialstrasz looked far older, far more feeble than his age. He looked older than Tyran, who was centuries Korialstrasz’s senior.

“What else do you say about him?” Alexstrasza asked her mate.

The other dragon squinted at Krasus. “He is older, very old, in fact.” Korialstrasz tilted his head. “Something in his eyes…his eyes…”

“What about them?”

The huge male drew back. “Forgive me! My head is addled! I am not worthy of being in your presence at this time! I should withdraw…”

But she would not yet let him go. “Look at him, my mate. I ask you this one last thing; with what little you know, would you trust the word of this one?”

“I…yes, my Alexstrasza…I…would.”

Suddenly, a curious thing happened to Krasus. As the dragons continued conversing about him, he began to feel stronger, stronger than he had ever felt since first arriving in the past. Not quite as strong as he should have been, but at least much closer to normal.

And it was not him alone. He also noted that, despite words to the contrary, his younger self also started looking more fit. A bit of color had returned to the scales and Korialstrasz moved with somewhat better ease than earlier. His words did not come out in gasps anymore.

Alexstrasza nodded in response to her consort’s answer, then said, “So I wanted to hear. It tells me much that you feel so.”

“Is there more that you wish of me? My strength is better; being with you, being of assistance to you, has clearly heartened me.”

The smile that Krasus knew so well graced the dragon queen’s reptilian countenance. “Always the poetic one, my loving Korialstrasz! Yes…I wish much more of you. I know it will be difficult, but I must request your presence when I bring this one before the other Aspects.”

She succeeded in stunning both versions of Krasus. The young incarnation spoke first, echoing the older’s surprise. “You would convene a gathering of the Five? Over this one? But why?”

“Because he has told a story that they must hear, a story I tell you now…and you may choose again afterward to answer whether you trust him or not.”

So at last his earlier self would know the truth. Krasus readied himself for the other’s shock.

But as he had startled Rhonin by relating a tale that left out not only part of the truth but also his very identity, so now did the dragon queen tell much the same. She spoke of the disruption and all else Krasus had told the watcher, but of the mage’s true identity, Alexstrasza said nothing. To her consort, Krasus was merely another of the red flight, one whose mind had been torn asunder by the powerful forces that had assailed it.

Krasus himself made no attempt to reveal himself. This was Alexstrasza—his life, his love. Advisor to her he might be, but she still wielded the wisdom of an Aspect. If she felt that his younger self should remain ignorant…then who was he to disagree?