The Sundering

Twenty-Three

Rhonin awoke to find himself lying in a field of grass. At first, he feared that something had gone awry, but then, as he sat up, a familiar and very welcome sight greeted his eyes.

A house. His house.

He was home.

More important, he sighted Jalia, the townswoman who had been taking care of Vereesa during her pregnancy. She seemed in a fair state, anxious but cheerful. Rhonin unsucessfully tried to calculate the time passing since he had vanished. He wondered how old the babies would be by now.

Then, to his horror, he heard Vereesa cry out, “Jalia! Come!”

Without hesitation, he leapt to his feet and followed after the woman. For a full-bodied person, Jalia moved quickly. She raced through the doorway, even as Vereesa called out again.

The wizard burst through the door a few moments later, hand already up in preparation to defend his bride and children. He looked around, expecting a home ransacked or burnt, but found everything in place.

“Vereesa? Vereesa?”

“Rhonin! Praise the Sunwell! Rhonin, in here!”

He ran toward the bedroom, fearful of what he would find. A moan set the hair on his neck standing.

“Vereesa!” Rhonin barged inside. “The twins! Are they — ”

“They’re coming!”

He stared wide-eyed. His wife lay in the bed, still very much pregnant… but not for long.

“How — ” he began, but Jalia shoved him aside.

“If you don’t know how, then you’d best just stand back and let her and me handle it, Master Rhonin!”

The wizard knew better than to argue. He fell back against the wall, ready to be of any help should the need arrive, but saw quickly that Vereesa and Jalia had things well in hand.

“The first one’s coming,” Vereesa announced.

As he watched and waited, Rhonin thought of all the astounding events he had recently been a part of. He had passed through time, survived the first coming of the Burning Legion, and had aided in the effort to save the world and the future.

But none of that, he discovered, was as miraculous as what he was a part of now… and for that he gave thanks that he and the others had succeeded.

And in that time so long ago, Jarod Shadowsong presided over a gathering far more dour than the one on the island. Those who now represented the leaders of the host — and their allies, too — stood ready to hear judgment.

Soldiers prodded along the one on trial. His mouth was wrapped shut with a cloth but bonds of metal now kept his arms behind him and his hands from gesturing. Invisible spells cast by Malfurion and others ensured that there would be no repeat of the terrible incident at the lake.

When he stood in the center of the circle that his accusers had formed, Illidan, monstrous eyes scarved, stared arrogantly at the figure before him. One of the soldiers cautiously removed the gag.

“Illidan Stormrage,” began Jarod, sounding nothing like the simple Guard captain he had once been. “Many are the times you fought valiantly alongside others against the evil encroaching on our world, but, sadly, too many are the times you’ve proven yourself a danger to your own people!”

“A danger? I’m the only one who sees honestly! I was planning for our future! I was saving our race! I — ”

“Attacked those who disagreed with you — slaying many — and recreated what should have been best forgotten!”

Illidan spat. “You’ll all be praying to me as if I were a god when the demons return! I know how they think, how they act! Next time, they won’t be cast out! You’ll need to fight them as they fight! Only I have that knowledge — ”

“Such knowledge, we’re better without.” Jarod looked around, as if seeking someone. When he apparently did not find that person, the leader of the night elves sighed and continued, “Illidan Stormrage, as it falls to me, I can think of only one thing to do with you! It pains me, but I hereby declare that you shall be put to death — ”

“How original,” sneered the sorcerer.

“Put to death in a manner — ”

“Jarod… forgive me for being late,” interrupted a figure behind Illidan. “May I still speak?”

The armored night elf nodded almost gratefully. “This is yours to decide as much as it’s mine.”

Malfurion walked around his brother. Illidan’s face followed him as the druid stepped between the sorcerer and the soldier. “I’m sorry, Illidan.”

“Ha!”

“What is it you want to say, Master Malfurion?” urged Jarod.

“There is some truth in what my brother says about the Burning Legion, Jarod. They may come again.”

“And you want us therefore to forget his crimes and his danger?”

The druid shook his antlered head. “No.” He glanced at his twin, the other half of him, then briefly at Tyrande, who stood at the edge of the circle with Maiev and Shandris. She had stayed with him all the while he had suffered through what should be done. The high priestess supported his decision, not that it eased his ache.

“No, Jarod,” Malfurion repeated, steeling himself. “No. I want you to imprison him… even if it means he stays so for ten thousand years… if necessary…”

As the rest of those assembled suddenly broke out into startled muttering, Malfurion closed his eyes and tried to calm himself. He had his suspicions concerning the future, knowing as he did now about Krasus and Rhonin. The druid prayed he had made the right decision.

But only the future would tell…

And, lastly…

Thrall had not heard from the two he had sent to the mountains to investigate the shaman’s vision. They might still be searching, but the orc leader had the suspicion that the truth was far worse. No good ruler, not even of his race, liked to send loyal warriors to their death without something coming from it.

Night had long fallen and most of his subjects were deep asleep. Only he and the guards outside still stirred. Thrall should have been sleeping, but his concern over this unsettling quest had grown with each day since Brox’s and Gaskal’s departure.

The torchlights flickered, creating shadows that moved as if alive. Thrall paid them no mind until he suddenly noticed that one by the door was solid.

The orc immediately leapt up from his stone throne. “Who dares?”

But instead of an assassin — and there were always plenty of those — a wizened orc wearing wolf skins and bearing a totem with the carved head of a dragon on it shuffled forward.

“Hail, Thrall!” the elder figure called in an oddly-strong voice. “Hail, savior of the orcs!”

“Who are you? You are not Kalthar!” Thrall growled, referring to his shaman.

“I am one who brings news… news of a valiant warrior, Broxigar.”

“Brox? What of him? Speak!”

“The warrior is dead… but dead sending many enemies before him! He has again fought the Legion and cut down so many it would take a day just to count them one by one!”

“The Legion?” The orc’s worst fears were realized. “Where? Tell me so that I can gather our warriors and fight them!”

The almost hairless elder shook his head, then gave Thrall a grin without teeth. “There are no more demons! Broxigar and those fighting beside him defeated the Legion and it was your warrior who stood at the pass again, even when faced by their master!” The figure bowed his head respectfully. “Sing songs of him, great Thrall, for he was part of those who saved the world for you…”

For a time, the younger orc stood silent, then, “This is true? All of it?”

“Aye… and I bring this, all that remains to honor a hero.” Despite his seeming infirmity, the shaman brought forth a huge, twin-edged ax. Thrall blinked, somehow not having noticed it earlier.

“I’ve seen nothing like it.”

“It is a weapon crafted by the first druid, formed from the magic of a forest spirit. Fashioned especially for Brox’s hand.”

“It will have a place of honor,” Thrall whispered, gently taking it from the crooked figure. He eyed it in admiration. Light as a feather and, from the look of it, wood from bottom to head — even the blades — but clearly a capable ax. “How is it you have this — ”

But the shaman did not answer… because he was no longer there.

With a grunt, Thrall rushed through the entranceway. He instinctively gripped the ax, suddenly wary that this had all been some intricate plot to do away with him.

He confronted the two guards stationed outside what passed for his throne room. “Where is he? Where is the old one?”

“There’s been no one!” the senior guard quickly answered.

With a frustrated growl, Thrall pushed past them. He hurried out into the open. The full moon well illuminated the surroundings, but still the ruler of the orcs saw nothing.

Not, that is, until he happened to look up at that moon.

And in it, just passing into the night, he saw a huge, winged form.

A red dragon.

Krasus/Korialstrasz veered in the direction of his flight’s lair. Rhonin was with his Vereesa and, through the dragon, the legacy of brave Brox had been brought to the orcs.

Now it was his turn to at last go home… and see tomorrow what the future would bring.

THE END