The Well of Eternity

11

It had taken Krasus an entire day to realize that he and Rhonin were being observed.

It had taken him a half day more to come to the conclusion that the observer had nothing to do with Cenarius.

Who it was with the ability to keep their presence hidden from the powerful demigod, the dragon mage could not say. One of Cenarius’s counterparts? Not likely. The lord of the forest would surely be too familiar with their tricks or any of the servants they might send. The night elves? Krasus dismissed that possibility immediately, as he did the chance that any other mortal race could be responsible for the secretive watcher.

That left him with only one logical conclusion…that the one who spied upon Cenarius and his two “guests” was of Krasus’s own people.

In his own time, the dragons sent out observers to keep track of those with the potential to change the world, either for good or ill. Humans, orcs—every race—had its spies. The dragons considered it a necessary evil; left to their own devices, the younger races had a tendency to create disaster. Even in this period of the past, there would be spies of some sort. He had no doubt that some kept a wary eye on Zin-Azshari…but, as was typical of Krasus’s kind, they would do nothing until absolutely certain that catastrophe was imminent.

In this case, by then it would be too late.

From Cenarius he had kept his secrets secure, but from one of his own, even those of the past, Krasus decided he needed to tell what he knew. If anyone could avert the potential ruin his and Rhonin’s presence might have already caused, it was the dragons…but only if they would listen.

He waited until the human had gone to sleep and the chances of Cenarius returning became remote. The needs of Krasus and Rhonin were attended to by silent, invisible spirits of the forest. Food materialized at appointed times and the refuse vanished once the pair were finished eating. Other matters of nature were handled in similar fashion. This allowed Cenarius to continue his mysterious discussions with his counterparts—which, with deities, could take days, weeks, months, or even longer—without worrying that the two would starve to death in his absence.

No matter what the cycle of the moon, the glade remained almost as lit as day. Once satisfied that Rhonin slept deeply enough, Krasus quietly rose and headed toward the barrier of flowers.

Even at night, they immediately fixed on him. Moving as close as he could without stirring them, the dragon mage peered out at the forest beyond, studying the dark trees. He knew better than any the secrets of stealth used by his kind, knew them better than even a demigod could. What Cenarius might have missed, Krasus would find.

At first, the trees all looked the same. He studied each in turn, then did so a second time, still with no results. His body cried out for rest, but Krasus refused to let his unnatural weakness take control. If he gave in once, he feared he would never recover.

His gaze suddenly stopped on a towering oak with a particularly thick trunk.

Eyeing it sharply, the weary spellcaster mentally shielded his thoughts, then focused on the tree.

I know you…I know what you are, watcher…

Nothing happened. No reply came. Briefly Krasus wondered if he had erred, but centuries of experience insisted otherwise.

He tried again. I know you…cloaked as part of the tree, you watch us and the lord of the forest. You wonder who we are, why we are here.

Krasus felt a presence stir, however slightly. The observer was uncomfortable with this sudden intrusion in his thoughts, and not yet willing to declare himself.

There is much that I can tell you that I could not tell the lord of the forest…but I would speak with more than the trunk of a tree…

You risk us both, a somewhat arrogant mind finally responded. The demigod could be watching us in turn…

The dragon mage hid his pleasure at garnering an answer. You know as well as I that he is not here…and you can cloak us from the knowledge of any other onlookers…

For a moment, nothing happened. Krasus wondered if he had pushed too far…

Part of the trunk suddenly tore away, assuming as it separated a humanoid figure of ridged bark. As the tall shape approached, the bark faded away, transforming to long, flowing garments and a slim face shadowed to obscurity by a spell with which Krasus himself was long familiar.

In robes the color of the tree, the all-but-faceless figure paused on the outer perimeter of the magical glade. Hidden eyes surveyed Krasus from head to foot and although the imprisoned mage could not read any expression, he was certain of the other’s frustration.

“Who are you?” the watcher quietly asked.

“A kindred spirit, you might say.”

This was met with some disbelief. “You do not know at all what you suggest…”

“I know exactly what I suggest,” Krasus returned strongly.

“I know it as well as I do that she who is called Alexstrasza is the Queen of Life, he who is called Nozdormu is Time itself, Ysera is She of the Dreaming, and Malygos is Magic incarnate…”

The figure digested the names, then, almost as an afterthought commented, “You did not mention one.”

Biting back a gasp, Krasus nodded. “And Neltharion is the earth and rock itself, the Warder of the land.”

“Such names are known by few outside my kind, but they are known by a few. By what name might I know you, that I should think you kindred?”

“I am known as…Korialstrasz.”

The other leaned back. “I could not fail to know that name, not when it belongs to a consort of the Queen of Life, but something is amiss. I have observed everything since your capture and you act like none of my kind. Cenarius is powerful, very much so, but he should not so readily hold you as his hostage, not the one called Korialstrasz…”

“I have been injured badly.” Krasus waved that away.

“Time is of the essence! I must reach Alexstrasza and tell her what I know! Can you take me to her?”

“Just like that? You do have the arrogance of a dragon! Why should I risk for all dragons the umbrage of the woodland deity on your questionable identity alone? He will know from now on that he is observed and will act accordingly.”

“Because the potential threat to the world—our world—is more important than an insult to the dignity of a demigod.” Taking a deep breath, the dragon mage added, “And if you only will permit, I will reveal to you what I mean…”

“I do not know if I trust you,” the darkened watcher said, cocking his head to one side. “But in your condition, I do not think I have much to fear from you, either. If you know how…then show me what colors your words with such anxiety.”

Krasus refrained from any retort, despite his growing dislike for this other dragon. “If you are ready…”

“Do it.”

Their minds touched…and Krasus unveiled the truth.

Under the rush of intense images, the other dragon stumbled back. The shadow spell around his face momentarily lost cohesion, revealing a peculiar reptilian and elven combination locked in an expression of total disbelief.

But the shadows returned as quickly as they had dissipated. Still obviously digesting what he had been shown, the watcher nonetheless recovered some of his composure. “This is all impossible…”

“Probable, I would say.”

“These are pure figments of your creation!”

“Would that they were,” Krasus remarked sadly. “You see now why I must speak with our queen?”

His counterpart shook his head. “What you are asking is—”

The two dragons froze, both sensing simultaneously the nearing presence of an overwhelming force.

Cenarius. The demigod had made an unexpected return.

Immediately the watcher began to retreat. Krasus, fearful that his one chance might be lost, reached out. “No. You cannot afford to ignore this! I must see Alexstrasza!”

His arm passed over the flowers. The blossoms reacted, immediately opening wide and spraying him with their magical dust.

Krasus’s world swam. He teetered forward, falling into their midst.

Strong arms suddenly caught him. He heard a quiet hiss of anxiety and knew that the other dragon had taken hold of him.

“I am a fool for doing thisss!” the other gasped.

Krasus gave silent thanks for the watcher’s decision, until a sudden realization struck the collapsing mage. He tried to say something, but his mouth would not work.

And as he blacked out, his last thoughts were no longer of gratitude to the other dragon for finally taking him with him…but rather fury with himself for not having had the chance to make certain that Rhonin would be included in the escape.

The panthers darted through the thick forest, Brox’s racing with such ferocity that it was all the hapless orc could do to keep seated. Although he was used to riding the huge wolves raised by his own people, the cat’s movements differed in subtle ways that constantly left the orc anxious.

Just within sight ahead, the shadowed form of Malfurion bent low over his own beast, urging it this direction or that. Brox was glad that his rescuer had a path in mind, but he hoped that the arduous journey would not take too much longer.

Soon it would be sunrise. The orc had thought this a bad thing, for then they would be visible from a greater distance, but Malfurion had indicated that the coming of day was to their benefit. If the Moon Guard pursued them, the night elven sorcerers’ powers would be weaker once the darkness faded.

Of course, there would still be soldiers with which to deal.

Behind him, Brox heard the growing sounds of pursuit. Horns, distant shouts, the occasional snarl of another panther. He had assumed that Malfurion had more of a plan than simply hoping to outpace the other riders, but apparently that was not the case. His rescuer was no warrior, simply a soul who had sought to do the right thing.

The black of night began to give way to gray, but a murky, foggy gray—a morning mist. The orc welcomed the unexpected mist, however temporary it would be, but hoped that his mount would not lose Malfurion’s in it.

Vague shapes appeared and disappeared around him. Now and then, Brox thought he made out movement. His hand ached for his trusted ax, still in the custody of the night elves. Malfurion had provided him with no weapon, perhaps a wary precaution on the former’s part.

The horns sounded again, this time much closer. The veteran warrior snarled.

Malfurion vanished into the fog. Brox straightened, trying to make out his companion and fearing that his own animal would now run off in an entirely different direction.

The panther suddenly twisted as it adjusted its path to avoid a massive rock. The orc, caught unaware, lost his balance.

With a grunt of dismay, Brox slipped off the fleet cat, tumbling onto the hard, uneven ground and rolling headlong into a thick bush.

Trained reflexes took command. Brox shifted into a crouch, coming up ready to remount. Unfortunately, his cat, oblivious to his misfortune, continued on, disappearing into the mist.

And the sounds of pursuit grew louder yet.

Immediately Brox sought out something, anything, that he could use as a weapon. He picked up a fallen branch, only to have it crumble in his beefy hands. The only rocks were either too small to be of use or so huge as to be unmanageable.

Something large rustled the shrubbery to his left.

The orc braced himself. If a soldier, he had a fair chance. If one of the Moon Guard, the odds were distinctly stacked against Brox, but he would go down fighting.

A huge, panting, four-legged form burst from the fog-enshrouded forest.

Shock nearly did Brox in, for what leapt at him was no panther. It howled something like a wolf or dog, but only vaguely resembled either. At the shoulder, it stood about as tall as him and from its back stretched two foul, leathery tentacles. The mouth was filled with row upon row of savage fangs. Thick, greenish saliva dripped from its huge, hungry maw.

Monstrous memories filled his thoughts. He had seen such horrors, even if he himself had never fought one. They had run ahead of the other demons, pack upon pack of slavering, sinister monsters.

Felbeasts…the forerunners of the Burning Legion.

Brox awoke from his renewed nightmares just before the felbeast had him. He threw himself forward, under the huge creature. The felbeast tried to snag him with its claws, but momentum worked against it. The massive beast stumbled to a quick halt and looked back at its elusive prey.

The orc struck it on the nose with his fist.

For most races, such an assault would likely result in nothing save possibly the loss of the hand, but Brox was not only an orc, he was a swift and powerful one. Not only did he strike before the felbeast could react, but he did so with the full fury and might of the strongest of his kind.

The blow broke the demonic hound’s nose. The beast stumbled and a bloodcurdling whine escaped it. Thick, dark green fluid dripped from its wound.

His hand pounding with pain, Brox kept his gaze on his adversary’s own. One did not let any animal, especially one so hellish as this, see any sign of retreat or fear. Only by fac ing it did the orc have any chance, however minute, of survival.

Then, from out of the fog in which it had disappeared, Brox’s mount came charging. The cat’s cry made the felbeast turn, all interest in the orc forgotten. The two behemoths collided in a fury of claws and teeth.

Knowing that he could do nothing for the panther, Brox started to back away. However, he had managed only a few steps when the low, steady sound of heavy breathing from behind him filled his ears. With slow, very cautious movements, the orc glanced over his shoulder.

A short distance away, a second felbeast poised itself to leap on Brox.

With no other option, the frustrated warrior finally ran.

The second demon gave chase, howling as it threw itself toward its quarry. The two combatants ignored it, caught up in their own struggle. Already the panther had suffered two savage wounds on its torso. Brox gave silent thanks to the creature for even this momentary rescue, then concerned himself with trying to elude his other pursuer in the enshrouded forest.

Wherever the path narrowed most, the orc pushed himself through. The much larger felbeast had to go around the natural obstacles or, if it could, crash through them, allowing Brox to remain just out of reach. He despised the fact that he had to keep running, but without a weapon Brox knew his chances of defeating the monster were nonexistent.

A short distance away, the mournful call of a dying animal informed Brox that the panther had lost the battle and soon there would be two felbeasts out for the orc’s blood.

Distracted by the cat’s death cry, Brox did not watch his footing well enough. Suddenly a tree root seemed to rise just enough to catch his foot. He managed to keep from falling, but his lack of true balance sent him spinning wildly to the side. He grasped at a slim, leafless tree only a head taller than himself, but the entire trunk broke away in his grip, sending him colliding with a much larger, sturdier one.

Head aching, Brox could barely focus on the oncoming behemoth. The small tree still in his hand, he swung it around and jabbed with it like a lance.

The demon hound swatted at the makeshift weapon, tearing away the top third and leaving jagged splinters on the end. Eyes still blurry, the orc held tight to what remained, then charged the monster.

The damage done by the felbeast gave the makeshift lance a deadliness it had not had prior. Shoving with all his might, Brox buried the sharp, fragmented end deep into the gaping jaws.

With a muffled howl of agony, the demon tried to fall back, but Brox advanced, his entire body straining as he pushed the lance deeper yet.

One of the tentacles reached for him. The orc released one hand, snagged the oncoming threat, and pulled as hard as he could.

With a moist, tearing sound, the tentacle came free.

Now much splattered with its own foul fluids, the felbeast’s front legs collapsed. Brox did not relinquish his hold on the tree, adjusting his position to match his adversary’s increasingly desperate movements.

The rear legs crumpled. Tail twitching frantically, the fearsome beast pawed at the obstruction in its gullet. It finally managed to snap Brox’s weapon in two, but the front portion remained lodged.

Aware that the felbeast might still recover, the orc searched frantically for something to replace his lost lance.

Instead, he found himself facing his first foe again.

The other felbeast had scars across its body and, in addition to the nose wound Brox had given it earlier, a chunk of flesh had been torn from the right shoulder. Still, despite its worsened condition, the beast looked more than healthy enough to finish off the exhausted orc.

Seizing a thick, broken branch, Brox brandished it like a sword. But he knew that his luck had come to an end. The limb was hardly strong enough to ward away the huge monstrosity.

Crouching, the felbeast tensed—

But as it jumped, the forest itself came alive in defense of Brox. The wild grass and weeds under the demonic creature sprouted madly, shooting up with such astonishing swiftness that they caught the felbeast just after it left the earth.

Limbs hopelessly entangled, the horrific creature snarled and snapped at the grass. Its twin tentacles stretched down, trying to touch the animated plant life that held it from its prey.

“Brox!”

Malfurion rode toward the orc, looking as weary as Brox felt. The night elf pulled up next to him and reached a hand down.

“I owe you again,” rumbled the veteran warrior.

“You owe me nothing.” Malfurion glanced at the trapped felbeast. “Especially since it looks as if that won’t hold him for very long!”

True enough, wherever the macabre tentacles touched the grass and weeds, the plants withered. One front paw had already been freed and even as the felbeast worked on liberating the rest, it strained to reach Brox and the night elf.

“Magic…” muttered Brox, recalling similar sights. “It’s devouring the magic…”

Face grim, Malfurion helped his companion aboard. The panther grunted, but did not otherwise protest the added weight. “Then, we’d better leave quickly.”

A horn sounded, this time so near that Brox almost expected to see the trumpeter. The pursuit from Suramar had almost caught up.

Suddenly, Malfurion hesitated. “They’ll ride right into that beast! If any of them are Moon Guard—”

“Magic can still slay a felbeast if there’s enough of it, night elf…but if you wish to stay and fight the creature with them, I will stand at your side.” That doing so would mean either his death or recapture, Brox did not add. He would not abandon Malfurion, who had already rescued him twice.

The morning fog had already begun to dissipate and vague figures could already be seen in the distance. Grip tightening on the reins, Malfurion abruptly turned the panther away from the felbeasts and the approaching riders. He said nothing to Brox, instead simply urging his mount to as quick a pace as it could set and leaving both threats behind.

Behind them, the demon freed another limb, its attention already seized by growing sounds heralding new prey…

Something stirred Rhonin from his slumber, something that made him very uneasy.

He made no immediate motion, instead his eyelids opening just enough to let him see a bit of the surrounding area. Glimpses of daylight enabled the wizard to make out the surrounding trees, the ominous line of flower sentinels, and the grass upon which he lay.

What Rhonin could not make out was any sign of Krasus.

He sat up, searching for the dragon mage. Surely Krasus had to be somewhere in the glade.

But after a thorough survey of the region, Krasus’s disappearance could no longer be denied.

Wary, the wizard rose and went to the edge of the glade. The flowers turned to face him, each bloom opening wide. Rhonin was tempted to see how powerful they were, but suspected that a demigod would hardly place them here if they could not readily deal with a mere mortal.

Eyeing the woods, Rhonin quietly called, “Krasus?”

Nothing.

Staring at the trees just beyond his prison, the wizard frowned. Something did not look the same, but he could not say exactly what.

He stepped back, trying to think…and suddenly noticed that he was in shadow.

“Where is the other one?” Cenarius demanded, no hint of kindliness in his tone. Although clear, the sky suddenly rumbled and a harsh wind came out of nowhere to swat the human. “Where is your friend?”

Facing the towering demigod, Rhonin kept his expression neutral. “I don’t know. I just woke up and he was gone.”

The antlered figure’s golden orbs flared and his frown sent chills down Rhonin’s spine. “There are troubling signs in the world. Some of the others have only just now sensed intruders, creatures not of any natural origin, sniffing around, seeking something—or someone.” He studied the wizard very closely. “And they come so soon after you and your friend drop from nowhere…”

What these unnamed creatures might be, Rhonin could only suspect. If so, he and Krasus had even less time than they had imagined.

Seeing that his “guest” had nothing yet to say, Cenarius added, “Your friend could not have escaped without assistance, but he leaves you behind. Why is that?”

“I—”

“There were those among the others who insisted that I should have given you to them immediately, that they would have found out through more thorough means than I prefer the reasons for your being here and what it is about you that so interests the night elves. I had, up until now, convinced them otherwise in this matter.”

Rhonin’s highly attuned senses suddenly detected the presence of another powerful force, one which, in its own way, matched Cenarius.

“Now I see I must acquiesce to the majority,” the lord of the forest finished reluctantly.

“We heard your call…” growled a deep, ponderous voice. “You admit you were wrong…”

The wizard tried to turn and see who now spoke, but his legs—his entire body—would not obey his commands.

Something more immense than the demigod moved up behind Rhonin.

Cenarius did not seem at all pleased by the other’s comments. “I admit only that other steps must be taken.”

“The truth will be known…” A heavy, furred hand with thick claws enveloped Rhonin’s shoulder, gripping it painfully. “…and known soon…”