The Sundering

Twenty-One

R honin thanked the stars that he saw little in the way of life before reaching the host. It would have been impossible for two dragons and a weary wizard to save anyone still so near the region of the Well. The only people he discovered was a large band of Highborne riding for their lives toward the host. Fortunately, they had nearly made it by the time he and the dragons came upon them.

A quick descent and an even quicker conversation revealed the surprising truth. Their leader, one Dath’Remar Sunstrider, told the story of their attempt to flee with Tyrande. Dath’Remar’s regret over losing her was clear and Rhonin, who had sensed Malfurion’s contact with her, informed the sorcerer that she had survived the escape. He could not promise that Tyrande still lived, although the wizard doubted that Malfurion would let anything happen to the female night elf once he had been reunited with her.

Rhonin and the dragons guided the Highborne to the host, preventing, in the process, any fight breaking out between the two factions. With the bronze dragon guarding the Highborne — for their own safety — the human and his mount sought out Jarod.

They found the commander already astride his night saber and anxiously awaiting word. Rhonin smiled in relief as he realized that the night elves and their allies were already prepared to move.

Still atop the red, he quickly greeted Jarod, then said, “We have to get the host moving! All the way to Mount Hyjal! The portal’s been destroyed, but all that spellwork around the Well has caused chaos! It’s eating itself up and taking everything around it with it!”

“Gods…” But Jarod’s shock quickly subsided as his inherent sense of responsibility took over. He summoned a herald who Rhonin realized the former guard captain had kept handy just for such news. “Give the signal to reverse direction!” Calling up two more riders, Jarod added, “Send word to the officers and nobles! We move at swiftest pace to Mount Hyjal! No stopping! Those who need assistance will be granted it, but no one hesitates and no one stays behind! Go!”

“We’ll keep watch from above,” the wizard said.

“What about… what about those who might be other directions?”

Rhonin was grim. “The Burning Legion cleared the way for us there. I would say that any survivors are as far from the Well as we hope to get. We were the strongest resistance, after all.”

“We can only hope for the best for those, then.”

“And pray for ourselves at the same time.”

As if to emphasize that point, a distant rumble caught the attention of both. Both the wizard and the soldier looked in the direction of the sound… and saw utter blackness just at the horizon.

“Get them moving, Jarod! Fast!”

The host started toward Mount Hyjal mere minutes later, but still not swift enough for Rhonin. Each time he glanced back, the darkness appeared to have swollen. The human swallowed, aware just what was happening and wondering if the catastrophe had already taken Krasus and the others.

A short distance into their desperate trek, the night elves and others began to realize their danger. It would have been impossible to keep them ignorant and neither Rhonin nor Jarod had any desire to do so. What did matter was to maintain some order and Jarod Shadowsong proved adept at that. The dragons, too, aided, swooping down and guiding back to the throng those who began, in their panic, to turn off.

Rhonin kept looking back, seeking some sign of Krasus and the others, but finding nothing. The darkness continued to encroach at an incredible pace and the ominous rumble grew more and more strident.

It’s catching up to us! The wizard looked ahead. Mount Hyjal stood in the distance, enticingly close and yet still so far.

Would even reaching it be enough? Krasus thought so and Rhonin’s recollection of history agreed… but so much had been altered.

Vereesa… I did what I could…

The darkness drew nearer. The roar as the ground miles back was torn and sucked into the Well pounded in his head. Below, many started to run and scream…

And still there was no sign of Krasus and the others.

Hillsides were ripped away. Entire lands simply crumbled into the churning, hungry whirlpool, quickly vanishing into its center. High above, Krasus watched whole settlements — fortunately long emptied by the war — vanish in a heartbeat. Nothing could stand before the onslaught of the Well’s death throes. The carnage caused by the Burning Legion paled… no… it could not even compare to what now took place.

The first hint of Mount Hyjal appeared at the horizon. From high above, the mage could make out the desperate mass of bodies moving toward it. Providing that he had not guessed wrong, they would just barely make it to safety.

If there were any survivors of the war in the other directions, Krasus could do nothing for them. He could only again thank the stars that so little of worth remained in the areas over which the demons had marched.

He still had hope that the destruction would soon cease, that in this instance, at least, things would go as history recalled. They had the Demon Soul, an important factor in that, and —

He suddenly had a premonition of danger. Krasus quickly looked back.

A monstrous, black tendril arose from within the gargantuan Well… a tendril darting up toward an unsuspecting Ysera and the trio astride her.

The Old Gods! I should have known!

“Turn! The Old Gods still seek the Demon Soul for their use! This is their last chance before they are sealed off again!”

Alexstrasza veered around. Ysera noted their sudden action, but at that moment, the tendril reached her… and plucked the druid from the dragon’s back.

“Malfurion!” cried Tyrande. The priestess tried to grab him, but he was already well out of her reach.

Frowning, Illidan also stretched a hand toward Malfurion. From his fingertips, a claw of crimson energy formed that immediately sought to snare the druid by the arm. Unfortunately, the claw only made it midway to his twin before abruptly fading, the violence of the Well disrupting the sorcerer’s handiwork.

Malfurion gaped in horror as the tendril swiftly drew him back. Alexstrasza beat her wings hard. Krasus concentrated, trying to focus on Malfurion and the disk. At the very least, the dragon mage knew that he had to try to retrieve the Demon Soul. It was not a cold decision; the loss of the druid would be a tremendous one… but the loss of the Demon Soul to the dread elders would be calamitous.

Wild, rampaging magical forces battered Krasus and his queen. The spells he sought to cast went awry. The foul tendril brought Malfurion to the Well’s gullet.

Then… what Krasus had prayed for but had, at this point feared would not pass, saved the night elf. The Well of Eternity had, finally, reached the end of its struggles. Now, it no longer devoured Kalimdor, but only itself. With a rapidity against which even the dark entities could not match, Krasus watched the vast, black body fall in upon itself. Even the storm surrounding them sank into it. Alexstrasza flapped furiously, barely able to keep them from following it.

The black waters receded, pouring into the Well’s own gullet. The tendril tried to retract faster, but before it could… the very last of the Well of Eternity sank down into its own throat.

The tendril faded away like so much smoke. Krasus sensed the malevolent presence of the Old Gods vanish with it.

Flailing, the druid suddenly tumbled loose over a new threat. Below, filling the abrupt void left by the Well’s apocalyptic hunger, came the seas of Kalimdor. Great waves a thousand feet high crashed against one another, hundreds of tons of water pouring each second into what had been the middle of the continent.

Krasus watched, awestruck, as the Sundering came to a crashing end and the Great Sea formed.

Yet, although taken by the sight, he did not forget Malfurion and the Demon Soul. With the Well had gone the last of its untamed and turbulent energies. Now, Krasus had full command of his power…

But before he could use it, a magnificent giant of bronze appeared from nowhere, a huge male dragon who glittered despite the remnants of the gloom still overshadowing the sky.

“Nozdormu!” the mage uttered.

The Aspect of Time swooped down, catching both the night elf and the disk. He soared quickly toward Alexstrasza and Ysera, but his golden gaze was for Krasus alone.

“Just in Time…” was all the male rumbled. Then, he flew past them, heading toward Mount Hyjal with Malfurion and the disk still clutched in one huge paw.

The other Aspects immediately banked, following. Krasus watched Nozdormu fly on as if nothing at all had happened to the world.

The mage finally shook his head and, for the first time since being cast into the past, breathed easier.

The survivors of the host did not breathe easier, not yet, for although they began to recognize the end of the danger, they also knew that their world had been forever altered. Many simply stared hollow-eyed at the new sea. The waters were already stilling, the waves beginning to lap gently at the ravaged shoreline.

So many had lost loved ones. The repercussions would only just begin materializing over the weeks and months — even years — to come. One of those who understood it best was Jarod Shadowsong. Despite his own shaken soul, he kept on a face of determination for his people. Even the nobles for the most part turned to him in need of reassurance. From those who seemed more steadfast, such as Blackforest, he appointed commanders to oversee the requirements of the host.

Mount Hyjal became a rallying point, for it remained untouched by the war and disaster that had followed. Jarod ordered banners made with the peak as their centerpiece, a new flag for a new beginning.

Aid came to the night elves from the tauren and others less affected by the ruination of Kalimdor. All had suffered, but no one’s home had been so utterly destroyed as had that of Jarod’s race. He greatly accepted the help of Huln’s people and was glad to see that there were few incidents of prejudice from the other night elves toward outside assistance. How long that would last would depend on the future of the refugees. They no longer had their elegant and extraordinary cities — their cities with the huge, living tree homes and magically-sculpted landscapes reserved only for themselves — from which to look down upon all else. In fact, most no longer even had roofs over their heads, the number of tents in very short supply. Jarod had donated his own tent to younger refugees orphaned by the ordeal.

Unfortunately, it did not take long for the first threat to the stability of the host to rear its ugly head. With the Well no more, the rest of the night elves did not fear the High-borne as they once had. Muttering began to grow among the refugees, muttering which intensified the more the High-borne made themselves visible.

“You’ll have a new war on your hands,” Krasus advised him. “You need to quell this now.”

“Some will never forget the horrors wrought upon us by their actions.” Jarod’s gaze shifted off toward the new waters. Below it lay the ruins of his own lost Suramar. “Never.”

The pale figure confronted him. “You must put aside the differences, Jarod Shadowsong, if you wish your people to survive!”

Steeling himself, Jarod summoned the nobles and other ranking members of the host. He also called forth Dath’Remar Sunstrider and the seniormost Highborne. The two factions met him under the old banner of Lord Ravencrest, which Jarod used as a substitute until the new ones could be finished. Krasus had suggested this last, both of them aware that the reputation of the late noble was one that had been respected by both the aristocracy and palace alike.

“We are here under protest,” Blackforest growled, eyeing the robed figures. His gauntleted hand rested on the pommel of his sword. “And will not long abide such foul company…”

Dath’Remar sniffed disdainfully, but said nothing. His opinion of the nobles was clear enough.

“Haven’t you learned anything from all this?” snapped Jarod. He gestured toward the sea. “Isn’t that enough to put an end to animosities? Do you both intend to finish what the demons began?”

“And what these willingly assisted in!” pointed out another noble.

“We make no excuses for what we did,” Dath’Remar returned defiantly. “But we tried to make amends. Did you never wonder why the full portal took so long to come to fruition? We risked ourselves to keep it from doing so under the very eye of the demon lord! We sought to rescue the high priestess of Elune and many of us perished fighting the Burning Legion ourselves!”

“Not enough!”

“May I speak?”

A group of Elune’s followers joined the fray, Tyrande Whisperwind and Jarod’s sister at the forefront. Maiev looked uncommonly subdued in the high priestess’s presence and Jarod could understand that. There was something about the young female that immediately eased his heart.

Everyone bent down on one knee, but Tyrande, an embarrassed frown appearing, gestured for them to rise. Jarod bowed slightly, then said, “By all means, the voice of the Mother Moon may speak whenever she so desires.”

Tyrande nodded gratefully, then, to the assembled parties, she said, “Our world will never be the same. That which we were we are no more.” Her expression grew solemn. “We are in flux. What our people are to become, I cannot say, but it will likely be nothing akin to what we once were.”

Uneasy rumbling rose from both the nobles and the Highborne. The words of the high priestess were not to be taken lightly.

“We have survived this struggle, but, if we do not come together, we may not survive our own evolution. Consider this before you begin resurrecting old enmities…”

And with that, Tyrande turned. Maiev eyed her brother with what Jarod realized was confidence in him.

As his sister followed Tyrande, he saw that Shandris Feathermoon had been standing behind her. The departing novice gave Jarod an unabashed smile that made him more uncomfortable than the presence of the nobles and the sorcerers, yet, at the same time added to the lightening of his heart.

Blackforest cleared his throat. Jarod quickly returned to the matter at hand. “You’ve heard the voice of the Mother Moon and I couldn’t agree more with her words. What say you?”

Blackforest opened his mouth, but Dath’Remar managed to answer before the armored aristocrat could utter a sound. “We greatly respect the word of the high priestess and will do what we can to make further amends for our past transgressions… if we will be permitted the opportunity by our august companions.”

The lead noble let out a grunt. “We will do no less. If the Highborne have seen the error of their ways, we will accept their return to the fold and welcome their effort as we all seek to rebuild our home.”

Both answers were spoken with some lingering animosity, but it was the best that Jarod could hope for at this point. There would be confrontations ahead, but perhaps none that would drag his people down to oblivion.

“I thank you all for coming and for seeing reason. Let us now begin to consider how best to take advantage of the miracle that’s let us survive.”

Several voices from both factions began speaking at once, each trying to come up with better ideas than the others. Jarod grimaced, then started trying to pick out the best ones.

One immediately caught his attention. “Water!” he interrupted. Something that had been reported to him by a scout came to mind. A lake at the very top of Hyjal. It was worth investigating. He decided to do so himself, though, if only to gain some reprieve from all his other responsibilities. “Lord Blackforest! I’d like three volunteers from among you! I’ve a short excursion in mind…” To Dath’Remar, he added, “From your group, too…”

As they chose from among themselves, Jarod congratulated himself. The excursion would also be a good opportunity to force the parties to work together. It was a safe, quiet event, but one, because of the importance of water, that would resound well among his people. If the nobles and sorcerers reported the findings together, the rest would see that cooperation was possible.

Jarod fought back a smile. Perhaps he was finally learning about leadership after all…

“Malfurion…”

The druid tore his gaze from the new sea. “Master Krasus.”

The dragon mage grimaced. “Equals need no title between one another. Please, for the last time, I am merely Krasus.”

“I will try.” Unconsciously, Malfurion took a step back from his friend. “Did you want something?”

“No… but they do.”

A great beating of wings filled the night elf’s ears. Dust arose around him and suddenly three gargantuan forms alighted behind the cowled figure.

Alexstrasza. Ysera. Nozdormu.

“You know why we have come,” the red female said softly.

Malfurion’s hand slipped to the pouch at his side. “You want it. You want the Soul.”

“The Demon Soul,” Krasus corrected. “You forgot to give it over to the Aspects once we landed. The heat of the moment, no doubt.”

“Yes… yes…” The druid’s hand thrust into the pouch. His fingers encircled the disk, caressing it in the process. Why did he have to give it up? Had he not proven that he had the right to it? Had he not singlehandedly used it to rid Kalimdor of not one menace, but two?

“Malfurion…”

If they felt that they deserved it more than him, why did he not just make them try to take it? Between his own skills and the power of the Soul, he could surely slay them all —

Disgust filled the druid. He quickly drew the damnable disk from its hiding place, then held it out for the mage to take.

Krasus nodded. “I knew you would make the correct decision.” Yet, he did not accept the Demon Soul directly, instead pointing to the ground. “Please place it there.”

Brow arched in curiosity, Malfurion obeyed. The moment that the disk left his grasp, he felt as if a tremendous weight lifted from his back.

“Step away, please.”

When the night elf had obeyed, Krasus faced the three Aspects. “Will your power be enough?”

“It will have to be,” replied Nozdormu.

The trio arched their necks, bringing their colossal heads within inches of the Demon Soul.

“We cannot bind it completely,” Alexstrasza uttered. “That is beyond even all of us put together. Yet, we can ensure that Neltharion — Deathwing — cannot wield it any better than us.”

“A wise maneuver, as I said,” Krasus responded. Yet, Malfurion sensed again that the cowled figure, the dragon in mortal form, held back important information from even the queen he so obviously adored. What it was, the night elf could not even hazard, but there was a sadness in Krasus’s ancient eyes that the mage quickly hid whenever the leviathans glanced his way.

The three giants stared at the tiny object, the simple golden disk that had caused so much calamity. They stared at it… and the Demon Soul was suddenly engulfed in a rainbow of energies. Dominating were red, green, and the brilliant bronze of the sandy Nozdormu. The Demon Soul rose several inches off the ground, hovering just before the Aspects. The magical forces unleashed by the dragons circulated around it, in the process turning the disk over and over.

Then… one by one, those energies sank into the black dragon’s abomination. Red, then green, then bronze, followed by the myriad colors accompanying each.

The spellwork ceased. The Demon Soul dropped, clattering on the hard ground. It looked unchanged, undiminished.

“Did it work?” he asked.

“It has.” Krasus met the druid’s eyes. “Malfurion, I ask you to pick it up again.”

Loathe as he was to touch the piece, the night elf acquiesced. Oddly, Malfurion discovered that he had no more desire to keep the Demon Soul. Either the dragons had made that so or his will had grown stronger.

The mage glanced at the Aspects, who nodded in unison. To Malfurion, he respectfully said, “There is a place we know. A place the black one would not. With your permission, we will show it to you in your mind… and then I ask that you call upon your own skills to send that foul thing there.”

Although he felt capable of doing as Krasus asked, Malfurion frowned. “Can’t you do it?”

“Before, I alone might have been able to carry the disk, albeit with difficulty. The others, they could not because of Deathwing’s handiwork. Now, this new spell has made it impossible for the black one or any other dragon to touch the Demon Soul, much less use it. That is why we need you for this.”

Nodding, the druid held out the disk. “Show me.”

Krasus and the Aspects stared deep. Malfurion shook momentarily as they entered his thoughts.

The image they created was so vivid that he almost felt as if he had visited it himself. Eager to be rid of the Demon Soul, the druid quickly said, “I have it.”

With much relief, Malfurion sent the golden disk away.

Krasus exhaled. “Thank you.”

The Aspects nodded their heads in gratitude. Then, Alexstrasza looked to the sky. “The clouds… they are beginning to part…”

Sure enough, for the first time since the Burning Legion had come to Kalimdor, the sky finally started to clear. It began as small gaps here and there, then large, thick clouds broke into much smaller, thinner ones. Those, in turn, became silken wisps easily scattered by soft winds.

Malfurion felt a sudden rising of hope, of renewed life… and realized that it was not only his own, but that of the land itself. Kalimdor would survive, of that he was certain.

A warmth touched his forehead, a pleasant warmth. He reached up and realized that his antlers had grown more. Now small ones jutted from the main stems.

Ysera, her eyelids shut but her eyes moving rapidly underneath, stretched to her full height, then turned to face her fellow Aspects.

“The world will heal, but there is much more work to do. We should return to the others…”

Nozdormu nodded. “Agreed.”

Malfurion opened his mouth to thank the dragons for all that they had done… then hesitated as a sense of unease swept over him. He looked around suddenly, as if seeking someone. Only after doing so did the druid at last realize just who it was he sought so desperately, although the reason why still escaped him.

Where was Illidan?

Rhonin eyed the sea, thinking of all the deaths he had witnessed — both in his own time and in this period — at the hands of the Burning Legion. Many of them had affected him deeply, for, if several had not been friends, they had at least been parts of his life.

He knew that Krasus felt the same, perhaps even more so, for the dragon mage had lived long enough to lose generations of loved ones and companions. The wizard understood his former mentor well enough to realize that the centuries had not made Krasus immune to sorrow. The cowled spellcaster suffered deeply with each death, however much he hid those emotions at times.

And now, there was yet another to add to the losses. Rhonin had never thought to mourn an orc, but he did. Brox had become a stalwart comrade, a noble companion. Only belatedly had the human understood the warrior’s sacrifice. The orc had dropped himself through the portal knowing that horrible doom awaited him there, yet, Brox had not hesitated. He had been aware that Malfurion needed time and time the orc had granted the druid.

Rhonin knelt by the edge of the sea, the creation of which he saw in some ways as a tribute itself to Brox. It would not have existed without the orc’s action. Undelayed, Sargeras likely would have stepped through the gateway, then slaughtered everyone.

Did Brox bring history back to what it should be or was he part of it all along? the wizard wondered. Perhaps Nozdormu knew, but the Aspect of Time was not about to tell anyone. He had not even spoken of his own ordeal save that it had involved the Old Gods. Now, with the portal gone, even that threat had been removed.

Standing again, the wizard eyed the flotsam still flowing toward the shore. The tide brought in a variety of things, bits of plants, mostly, but also wreckage from the night elves’ realm. Shreds of clothes, broken pieces of furniture, rotting food, and, yes, there were bodies. Not many, thankfully, and none at this spot. Jarod had parties scanning the shore, seeking any dead so that they could have swift but proper burials. It was not just a matter of propriety, but safety, too. The dead might carry with them disease, a very real fear for the refugees.

Something floated near the wizard, bobbing up and down twice before settling just under the surface. Rhonin would have ignored it, but sensed something unusual. The thing had a touch of magic to it.

Stepping into the water, he reached down.

Brox’s ax.

There could be no mistaking it. Rhonin had seen the astonishing weapon in action enough times. Despite its tremendous size, the double-edged ax fit perfectly in his grip and felt as light as a feather. It did not even feel wet.

“This isn’t possible,” he muttered, eyeing the sea suspiciously.

But no spirit arose from the depths to give a reason for the amazing discovery. The wizard looked down at the ax, then at the sea, and lastly at the ax again.

Finally, Rhonin stared off into the direction of the lost portal. An image of Brox standing atop slaughtered demons and challenging more to come to him filled the human’s thoughts.

The wizard suddenly raised the ax high in what he recalled from his own time as an orcish salute to fallen heroes. Rhonin brandished it three times, then lowered the ax head-first.

“They’ll sing of you yet,” he whispered, recalling Brox’s words to both him and Krasus. “They’ll pass songs of you down for generations to come. We’ll see to that.”

Hefting the ax over his shoulder, he went to find Krasus.