The Well of Eternity

13

He’s strong of mind, strong of soul, strong of body…said a powerful, aggressive voice in Rhonin’s head.

An admirable quality…at other times…replied a second, calmer voice otherwise identical to the first.

The truth will be known, the first insisted. I’ve never failed to make it so…

Rhonin seemed to float outside his body, but where he floated, the wizard could not say. He felt as if he hung between life and death, sleep and waking, darkness and light…nothing seemed quite right or absolutely wrong.

No more! interjected a third voice somehow familiar to him. He has been through enough! Return him to me…for now…

And suddenly Rhonin awoke in the glade of Cenarius.

The sun hung high overhead, although whether that meant it was noon or merely a trick of the enchanted area, the human could not say. Rhonin tried to rise, but, as before, his body would not obey him.

He heard movement and suddenly the sky filled with the antlered aspect of the forest lord.

“You’re resilient, Rhonin wizard,” Cenarius rumbled.

“You surprised one who is usually little surprised…and, more to the point, you held your secrets, however foolish that may be in the long run.”

“Th-there’s nothing…I can…tell you.” It amazed Rhonin that his mouth even worked.

“That remains to be seen. We will know what happened to your companion and why you—who should not be here—are.” The demigod’s visage softened. “But for now, I would have you rest. That much you deserve.”

He waved his hand over Rhonin’s face…and the wizard slept.

Krasus himself would have liked to know the answer of exactly where he was. The cavern in which he now awakened stirred no memories. He could not sense the presence of any other creature, especially not one of his own kind, and that worried him. Had the watcher simply brought him here to be rid of him? Did he expect Krasus to die here?

The last was a very real danger. Pain and exhaustion continued to wrack the dragon mage’s lanky frame. Krasus felt as if someone had ripped half of him away. His memory continued to fail him and he feared that all his maladies would only grow worse with time…time he did not have.

No! I will not give in to despair! Not me! Forcing himself to his feet, he peered around. For a human or orc, the cavern would have been all but black, yet Krasus could make out its interior almost as well as if the light of the sun shone within. He could see the huge, toothy stalactites and stalagmites, identify each crack and fissure along the walls, and note even the tiny, blind lizards darting in and around the smallest crevices.

Unfortunately, he could not make out any exit.

“I do not have time for these games!” he snapped at the empty air. His words echoed, seeming to grow more self-mocking with each repetition.

He was missing something. Surely he had been put in this place for a reason…but what?

Then Krasus recalled the ways of his kind, ways that could, for those not dragons, be very cruel, indeed. A grim smile played across his face.

Straightening, the cowled mage slowly turned in a circle, eyes never blinking once. At the same time, he began reciting a ritual greeting, speaking in a language older than the world. He repeated the greeting three times, emphasizing the nuances of it as only one who had learned it from the very source of that language could.

If this did not garner the attention of his captors, nothing would.

“It speaks the tongue of those who set the heavens and earth in place…” thundered someone. “Those who brought us into being.”

“It must be one of us,” said another. “For it can surely not be one of them…”

“More must be known.”

And suddenly from the empty air they materialized around the tiny figure…four gargantuan red dragons seated around Krasus, their world-spanning wings folded in dignified fashion behind them. They eyed the mage as if he were a small but tasty morsel of food.

If they thought to shock his supposedly primitive senses, then once again they had failed.

“Definitely one of us,” murmured a heavier male, so noted by his larger crest. He snorted, sending puffs of smoke Krasus’s way.

“And that isss why I brought him,” a smaller male bitterly remarked. “That…and hisss incessant whining…”

Perfectly at ease surrounded by the smoke, Krasus turned to the second male. “If you had the sense the creators gave you, you would have known me for what I am and the urgency of my warning immediately! We could have been spared the chaotic retreat from the realm of the forest lord.”

“I am ssstill not certain that I did not make a missstake in bringing you here!”

“And where is here?”

All four dragons leaned their heads back in slight astonishment. One of the two females now spoke. “If you are one of us, little dragon, then you should know it as well as you know your nest…”

Krasus cursed his addled memory. This could be only one location. “Then I am in the home caverns? I am in the realm of beloved Alexstrasza, Queen of Life?”

“You did want to come here,” reminded the smaller male.

“The question remains,” interjected the second female, younger, sleeker than the rest. “Do you come any farther?”

“He comes as far as he desires,” intruded a new voice. “If he can but answer me a simple question.”

The four leviathans and Krasus turned to where a fifth and obviously much more mature dragon suddenly sat. In contrast to the two other males, this one had an impressive crest running from the top of his head to down past his shoulders. He outweighed the second-largest dragon by several tons and his claws alone were longer than the tiny figure standing in the midst of the behemoths.

But despite his immense form and clear dominance, his eyes were sharp and full of wisdom. He more than any of the others would decide the success of Krasus’s journey.

“If you are one of us despite that guise you wear, you must know who I am,” the dragon rumbled.

The mage struggled with his tattered memories. Of course he knew who this was, but the name would not come to him. His body tensed and his blood boiled as he fought the fog in his mind. Krasus knew that if he did not speak to this giant by name, he would forever be rejected, forever be unable to warn his kind of the possible danger his presence in this time represented.

And then, with titanic effort, the name he should have known almost as well as his own sprang from his lips. “You are Tyranastrasz…Tyran the Scholarly One…consort to Alexstrasza!”

His pride at recalling both the name and title of the crimson giant must have been noticeable, for Tyranastrasz let out a loud, almost human chuckle.

“You are indeed one of us, although I cannot place you yet! I have been given a name for you by the one who brought you, but clearly it is wrong, as, among us, a name is granted to one and one alone.”

“There is no mistake,” the dragon mage insisted. “And I can explain why.”

Alexstrasza’s consort shook his mighty head. A hint of smoke escaped his nostrils. “The explanation you have given, little one, has been relayed to us…and still it is found too astonishing to be true! What you say falls into the realm of the Timeless One, Nozdormu, but even he would not be so careless as to do as you have shown!”

“He is addled, plain and simple,” said the watcher from the forest. “One of our own, I will grant, but injured by accident or device.”

“Perhaps…” Tyranastrasz startled the other dragons then, lowering his head to the ground just before Krasus.

“But by knowing me you have answered my question! You are of the flight and thus have the right and privilege to enter the innermost recesses of this lair! Come! I will take you to the one who will settle this matter for us all, the one who knows all her flight as she knows all her children! She will recognize you and, therefore, recognize the truth…”

“You will take me to Alexstrasza?”

“None other. Climb atop my neck, if you are able.”

Even with his physical debilitation, Krasus readily managed to climb up. Not only did the thought of at last finding help spur him on…but so did the simple opportunity to see his beloved once more, even if it turned out she did not recognize him after all.

The huge dragon carried Krasus through long-worn tunnels and chambers that should have been easily recognizable but were not. Now and then, some hint of memory stirred, but never enough to satisfy the mage. Even when they came across other dragons, none looked at all familiar to Krasus, who once had known all those of the red flight.

He wished that he had been awake when the watcher had flown him here. The landscape surrounding the red flight’s domain might have sparked his memories. Besides, what more glorious sight could exist than to see the dragons at the peak of their rule? To witness once more the tall, towering mountains, the hundreds of great gaps in every cliff side, each of the latter an entrance into Alexstrasza’s realm. It had been countless centuries since that time and Krasus had always mourned its passing, mourned the passing of the Age of Dragons.

Perhaps once I have convinced her…she will let me see the land of dragons from without one last time…before she decides what to do with me.

Tyranastrasz’s huge form moved effortlessly through the high, smooth tunnels. Krasus felt a twinge of jealousy, for here he was, about to speak with his beloved, and forced to do so in this meager, mortal body. He greatly loved the lesser races, enjoyed his time among them, but now, when he might be putting his very existence on the line, Krasus would have preferred his true shape.

A bright yet comforting glow suddenly appeared ahead of them. The reddish glow warmed Krasus inside and out as they neared and made him think of childhood, of learning to grow up in the sky as well as the earth. Fleeting memories of his life danced in his head and for the first time since his arrival in this time period, the dragon mage almost felt himself.

They came to the source of the magnificent glow, the mouth of a vast cave. Kneeling at the entrance, Tyranastrasz lowered his head and rumbled, “With your permission, my love, my life.”

“Always,” returned a voice both delicate and all-powerful.

“Always for you.”

Again Krasus felt a twinge of jealousy, but he knew that the one who spoke had loved him as much as she loved the leviathan on which he rode. The Queen of Life had so much love not only for her consorts, but for all her flight. In truth, she loved all creatures of the world, although that love would not stop her from destroying those that in some way threatened the rest.

And that was one thing he had purposely failed to mention to Rhonin. It had occurred early on to Krasus that one way to avoid any further damage to the timeline might be to remove those objects that were not where they were supposed to be.

To save history from going further awry, Alexstrasza might have to slay both him and the human wizard.

As he and Tyranastrasz entered, all thought of what might happen to him vanished as Krasus beheld the one who would forever command his heart and soul.

The wondrous glow which permeated every corner and crevice of the huge chamber radiated from the shimmering red dragon herself. Alexstrasza was the most monumental of her kind, twice the size of the titan upon which Krasus rode. Yet, despite that, an inherent gentleness could be sensed within the massive frame, and even as the mage watched, the Queen of Life delicately moved a fragile egg from the warmth of her body to a smoking vent, where she secured it safely.

She was surrounded by eggs, eggs and more. The eggs were her latest clutch, a bountiful one. Each stood only a foot in height—large by most standards, tiny when compared to the one who had laid them. Krasus counted three dozen. Only about half would hatch and only half of those would survive to adulthood, but that was the way of dragons—a harsh beginning heralding a life of glory and wonder.

Framing the image was an array of flowering plants that should not have been able to exist under such conditions and especially underground. There were wall-crawling creepers and sprawling carpets of purple phlox. Golden daylilies decorated the area of the nest and roses and orchids lined the area where Alexstrasza herself rested. Every plant bloomed strong, all fed by the glorious presence of the Queen of Life.

A crystal-clear stream flowed through the cavern, passing within reach of the female dragon’s maw should she desire a sip at any time. The calm gurgle of the underground added to the tranquillity of the scene.

Krasus’s mount lowered his head so that his tiny rider could dismount. Eyes never leaving Alexstrasza, the dragon mage stepped to the cavern floor, then went down on one knee.

“My queen…”

But she looked instead to the huge male who had brought Krasus here. “Tyranastrasz…would you leave us alone for a time?”

Wordlessly the other behemoth backed out of the chamber. The Queen of Life shifted her gaze to Krasus, but said nothing. He knelt there before her, waiting for some sign of recognition yet receiving none.

Unable to hold his silence any longer, Krasus gasped, “My queen, my world, can it be that you of all beings do not know me?”

She studied him through slitted lids before answering, “I know what I sense, and I know what I feel, and because of both I have taken the story you have told the others under serious consideration. I have already decided what must be done, but first, there is another who must be involved in this situation, for his august opinion is as dear to me as my own—ahh! He comes now!”

From another passage emerged an adult male only slightly smaller than Tyranastrasz. The newcomer moved ponderously, as if each step was a heavy labor. Long, with faded crimson scales and weary eyes, he at first appeared much older than Alexstrasza’s consort—until the mage realized that it was not age that afflicted this dragon, but some unknown malady.

“You…summoned me, my Alexstrasza?”

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.