The Well of Eternity

15

The felbeasts charged through the enchanted forest, their snouts raised high as the scent of magic increased. Their hunger and their mission urged them on, the huge hounds snarling their impatience.

But as one leapt over a fallen trunk, limbs from another tree nearby bent down and entangled its legs. A second felbeast racing along a path found its paws sinking into suddenly muddy earth. A third collided with a sprouting bush filled with razor-sharp brambles that pricked even the demon’s hard flesh and brought it immense agony.

The forest came alive, defending itself and its master. The charge of the five monsters faltered…but did not fail. Huge claws tore at the tangling branches, ripping them from trunks. Another felbeast aided the one trapped in the mire, dragging its comrade to solid ground before moving on. Hunger and fury enabled the one caught in the sharp brambles to burrow through even though it meant bleeding cuts everywhere.

The hunters would not be denied their prey…

“Shan’do! What is it?”

The demigod glanced down at his pupil, no recriminations in his fiery gaze. “The hounds of which you spoke…they have followed you here.”

“Followed? Impossible! There was only one left and it—”

Brox interrupted, his rumbling voice offering no comfort.

“The felbeasts…they are dark magic. Where there was one…there can be more if they’re able to feed well…this I saw…”

“A good friend and able guardian fell to one,” Cenarius commented, attention once more on the thick woods ahead of them. “He bore within him magic most ancient, most powerful. It only served to make him more susceptible to their evil.”

The orc nodded. “Then the one is now many.” Brox instinctively reached behind his back, but his beloved war ax did not await him there. “I’ve nothing to fight with.”

“You will be armed. Quickly find a fallen limb the length of your favored weapon. Malfurion, attend me.”

Brox swiftly did as commanded. He brought to the demigod and the night elf a massive branch, which Cenarius then had him place before Malfurion.

“Kneel before it, my student. You, too, warrior. Malfurion, place your hands upon the branch, then let him place his palms atop your hands.” When they had done this, the forest lord commanded, “Now, warrior, clear your mind of all but the weapon. Think only of it! Time is of the essence. Malfurion, you must open your mind and let his thoughts flow to yours. I will guide you more when that is done.”

The night elf did as he was told. He cleared his thoughts as his shan’do had early on taught him, then reached out to link himself to the orc.

Instantly a primal force bullied its way into his mind. Malfurion almost rejected it, but then calmed. He accepted Brox’s thoughts and let the image of what the warrior wanted take shape.

You see the weapon, my student? came Cenarius’s voice. You sense the feel of it, the lines of its forming?

Malfurion did. He also felt the orc’s relationship to the weapon, how it was more than simply a tool, but also a true extension of the warrior.

Guide your hands over the wood, ever keeping the image in your head. Follow the natural grain and turn it to the shape desired…

With Brox’s hands atop his own, the night elf began running his fingers along the branch. As he did, he felt it soften at his touch, then shift in form.

And under his guidance materialized a thick-bladed ax composed entirely of oak. Malfurion watched it shape, felt the satisfaction of creating a good solid weapon like the one he had lost when captured by the night elves—

He tensed. Those were the orc’s emotions, not his. Quickly thrusting them back, Malfurion concentrated on the final bits—curvature of the handle, the sharpness of the blade.

The task is done, interjected Cenarius. Return to me…

The night elf and the orc pulled away. For a brief moment, they stared into each other’s eyes. Malfurion wondered if Brox had experienced some of his own thoughts, but the green-skinned creature gave no hint of such a thing happening.

Between them lay a smoothly polished re-creation of that which Brox desired, though even the night elf wondered how the weapon could last more than one or two strikes.

In answer, the forest lord extended his hands—and suddenly the ax lay across them. Cenarius studied the weapon with his golden eyes.

“Let it always swing true, always protect its master. Let it be wielded well for the cause of life and justice. Let it add to the strength of its master and, in turn, let him strengthen it.”

And as he spoke, a blue radiance surrounded the ax. The light sank into the wood, adding a sheen to Malfurion’s creation.

The demigod offered the ax to the orc. “It is yours. It will serve you well.”

Eyes wide, the graying orc took the gift, then swung it back and forth, testing the quality. “The balance…perfect! The feel…like a part of my arm! But it will crack—”

“No,” interjected the forest lord. “In addition to Malfurion’s work, it now has my blessing. You’ll find it stronger than any mortal-forged ax. You may trust me on that.”

As for the night elf, he did not reach for a weapon nor did he desire one such as Brox now carried. Despite knowing that the demonic beasts fed off of magic and sorcery, he still understood that his chances were better with spells than with some weapon with which he had only moderate skill. He already had some ideas as to how to use his talent without it becoming the cause of his defeat.

And so the three faced the coming foe.

The nightmares of Rhonin’s recent past had come back to haunt him, but now they did so in the flesh. Felbeasts, the harbingers of the Burning Legion, were already here in the mortal plane. Could the endless ranks of horned, fiery demon warriors be far behind?

Krasus had put into the red-haired wizard’s mind the fear of what would happen if either interacted more with the past. What might seem a victory could spell the end of the future as they knew it. To best preserve the lives of those he loved, it behooved Rhonin to do nothing at all.

But as the first felbeast leapt into the glade, such noble notions instantly vanished from his thoughts.

Thunder crashed around the demigod as he stepped up to meet the felbeasts. His stomping hooves shook the ground and even caused the earth to crack open slightly. He swung his hands together and lightning flashed as they met.

And from those hands, Cenarius unleashed what seemed a miniature sun at the foremost demon. Perhaps the demigod only tested his adversary or somehow underestimated the resilience of it, for the felbeast thrust forth both tentacles and, instead of the sunburst striking dead its target…the demon’s hungry appendages absorbed Cenarius’s spell with ease.

The felbeast hesitated, shimmered…and suddenly, where there had been one, there were now two.

They leapt upon the stag lord, clawing at him and trying to drain him of his great magic. With one hand Cenarius held the first at bay, the demon wriggling madly and snapping at the arm that kept him high in the air. But the other clamped itself onto his shoulder, the tentacles seeking the demigod’s flesh. The three combatants fell back in a frenzy of movement.

They never did that! Rhonin himself had not faced felbeasts, but he had studied their corpses and read all the information gathered about them. He had heard the few rare tales of the hounds multiplying themselves, but only after gorging on magic and even then the process had been said to be slow, difficult. It must be the ancient magic that the demigod and the forest itself wield…it’s so rich and powerful that the creatures are made even more terrible by it…

He shivered, knowing that magic had always been his best tool. He could fight by hand, yes, but he had no weapon and doubted that Cenarius could give him one now. Besides, against these creatures, his skill with a sword would be more than lacking. Rhonin needed his magic.

When Cenarius had first brought Krasus and him to the ring, Rhonin had found himself unable to cast any spell. The forest lord had placed an enchantment on his mind, keeping the might of both his “guests” in check. However, Rhonin had felt that enchantment removed from him the second that Cenarius had realized the danger to them all. The demigod meant no true harm to the wizard; he had acted only out of concern for his forest and his world.

But even if he disobeyed Krasus’s recommendation, Rhonin wondered just how much good having his powers back would do him. Surely the demons would be most eager for his magic, just as they had hungered for the magic of so many wizards sucked dry in the future war against the legion.

The felbeasts pressed their foes, in the process drawing nearer and nearer to Rhonin. His hands curled into fists and words of power stood ready on his tongue.

And yet…still he did nothing.

As Cenarius and the twin felbeasts met, two more charged at Brox. The huge warrior met the creatures head on with a war cry that made one demon falter slightly. The orc used that hesitation to his advantage, swinging hard at his adversary.

The enchanted ax buried itself deep in the forepaw of the felbeast, severing three clawed toes as easily as if the orc had cut through air. The foul greenish fluid that passed for blood in many of the demons spilled over the grass, burning the blades like acid.

The injured felbeast let out a yelp and stumbled to the side, but its comrade continued its charge, throwing itself upon the orc. Brox, trying to recover from his swing, barely saved himself by using the bottom end of the ax shaft. He drove the end into the chest of the leaping behemoth.

A monstrous gasp escaped the felbeast, but did little to slow its momentum. It fell upon Brox, nearly crushing him under its massive form.

As for the night elf, the monster he faced eagerly reached for him with its vampiric tentacles. Malfurion concentrated, trying to think as Cenarius would think, drawing upon what he had learned from the demigod about seeing nature as both his weapon and his comrade.

Recalling the demigod’s own arrival, Malfurion created from the ever-present wind a roaring twister that immediately surrounded the monstrous felbeast. The sinewy, gaping tentacles swung wildly about, seeking the magic, but Malfurion’s spell had accented only the inherent forces of the wind and so the demon found little upon which to drain.

With a wave of his right hand, the night elf then asked of the surrounding trees the gift of whatever spare leaves they had to offer. He sought the strongest only, but he needed them in great numbers and quickly.

And from the crowns of the towering guardians descended hundreds, whatever each could give. Malfurion immediately used another breeze to guide the leaves toward the whirlwind.

Within it, the felbeast pushed forward, relentlessly closing on its intended prey. The twister matched each determined step, ever keeping the demon at its center.

The leaves poured into the whirlwind, spinning around faster and faster and increasing in number rapidly. At first the felbeast paid them no mind, for what were a few bits of refuse in the wind to a powerful fiend, but then the first sharp edge of a leaf sliced across its muzzle, drawing blood.

The enraged demon batted at the offending leaf, only to have several more cut it successively on its paw, its legs, and its torso. The wind now a hundred times more intense, the sharp edges of each soaring leaf became like well-honed blades, cutting and slashing wherever they touched the felbeast. Greenish ooze spilled over the demon’s body, drenching its hide and even obscuring its vision.

Cenarius and the beasts who had attacked him now fought far from the rest. The cries of the demons were well matched by the majestic roar of the forest lord. He seized the foreleg of the felbeast that had attached itself to him and with a single twist snapped the bone. The demon howled and its tentacles released their hold, flailing about in response to its pain.

Momentarily rid of one menace, Cenarius focused on the other. His countenance took on a dark wonder and his eyes blazed in fury. Suddenly, there burst from them a spark of light that enveloped the demon held at bay. The slavering creature’s tentacles greedily sought that light, drinking it in eagerly and wanting even more.

But this was not a wizard or sorcerer from which it sought to siphon magic. Now surrounded by a fearsome blue aura, Cenarius pressed with his attack, feeding his foe and giving it what it desired…but much too quickly and in abundance so great that even the demon could not take it all in.

The felbeast swelled, blowing up like a quickly filled water sack. Briefly it seemed as if about to divide…but the forces already ingested by it were more than it could handle.

The monstrous hound exploded, gobbets of stench-ridden flesh raining down upon the glade.

Thus far, Rhonin had been fortunate. No felbeast had come for him. He remained at the center of the ring, hoping that its power would keep him from having to decide whether or not to use his own abilities.

Rhonin watched Brox fend off the creature that had nearly crushed the orc. The veteran warrior appeared to have his struggle well in hand despite two foes. But as he continued to observe Brox, a terrible notion filled the human mage. If he and Krasus could not be returned to their time, Rhonin had understood that it might be best if both were slain quickly, the sooner to prevent whatever further alterations they might make to history. What neither had counted on, however, was a single orc warrior also being thrown into this era.

And as he stared at Brox’s back, Rhonin began to contemplate a different sort of spell. In the midst of the struggle, it might go unnoticed by the others and would eliminate another danger to the timeline. Krasus would have told him he was making the right decision, that, more than even the demons, Brox was a danger to the very existence of the world.

But his hand faltered, the spell forming in his mind pushed back into the darkest recesses. Rhonin felt ashamed. Brox’s people had become valuable allies and this orc now fought to save not only himself but others, including the wizard.

Everything Krasus had said urged Rhonin to deal quickly with Brox and worry about the consequences later, but the more he watched the orc battle beside the night elf—another allied race in the future—the more Rhonin regretted his moment of insanity. What he had contemplated seemed to him as horrible as the atrocities perpetrated in his time by the Burning Legion.

But Rhonin could no longer stand and do nothing…

“I’m sorry, Krasus,” he muttered, calling up a new spell. “I’m truly sorry.”

Taking a deep breath, the hooded mage stared from under his brow at one of the felbeasts in combat with the orc. He recalled the incantations that had helped him against the Scourge and other inhuman servants of the Legion. It would have to be done in such a way that the felbeasts would have no time to draw away the power of his spell.

Far, far to his right, Cenarius had finally managed to peel off his remaining foe. With one forelimb dangling, the demon could not maintain its hold. Muscles straining, the demigod bent back, held the beast over his head, and, with a roar of triumph, threw it high over the tops of the trees and deep into the waiting forest.

Rhonin cast his spell.

He had hoped to send a withering blast at the felbeast in focus, at least wounding it enough for Brox to finish the task. What Rhonin achieved instead, however, was far beyond his hopes.

An invisible, thundering wall of power that caused the very air to ripple madly materialized before him, then raced like the wind toward his objective. It spread as it moved, covering in the blink of an eye the entire expanse of the glade.

Through Brox and the night elf it passed without even the slightest hint of acknowledgment, but for the three savage demons in its path the fury that Rhonin had unleashed gave no quarter. The felbeasts had no time to react, no time to bring their hungry tentacles into play. They were as gnats in a raging fire.

As the wall of force passed through them, the demons burned to ash. The spell ate away at them from nose on back, a cloud of dust particles scattering from each decimated felbeast as it crumbled. One managed to unleash a short-lived howl, but then the only sound after was the rush of the wind as it sent to the heavens what had once been the rampaging monsters.

Silence filled the glade.

Brox dropped his ax, his wide, tusked mouth open in sheer disbelief. Malfurion stared at his own hands, as if somehow they had been responsible, then turned in the direction of Cenarius, thinking the answer lay with the demigod.

Rhonin had to blink several times to convince himself that what he witnessed had not only been real, but of his own creation. Belatedly the wizard recalled the brief struggle against the armored night elves, a struggle in which Krasus had proven disturbingly weak and Rhonin had excelled in a manner he could never have thought possible of him.

But any pleasure at his astonishing victory vanished immediately as agony tore into him from his back. He felt himself being ripped apart from inside, as if his very soul was being drained away—

Drained away? Even despite his horrific ordeal, Rhonin understood all too well what had just happened. Another felbeast had come around unnoticed from the rear and, as was its way, sought a source of magic to attack.

Rhonin recalled what had happened to spellcasters caught by the demons. He recalled the terrifying husks that had been brought back to Dalaran for investigation.

And he was about to become yet another…

But although now down on one knee, Rhonin rebelled. With all the power at his command, surely he could escape this parasitic beast!

Escape…it became the driving thought in his pain-wracked mind. Escape…all Rhonin sought was to flee the agony, to go somewhere where he would be safe.

Through the haze of his distress, he vaguely heard the voices of the orc and the night elf. His fear for himself overlapped them. With what it had sucked from him, the felbeast would be more than a match for either.

Escape…that was all Rhonin sought. Anywhere…

Then the pain vanished, replaced by a heavy but comforting numbness that spread throughout his body like fire. Rhonin gratefully accepted the startling change, letting the numbness take hold and envelop him completely…

Swallow him whole.

Not for the first time, Tyrande slipped through the silent corridors of the huge temple—past the countless chambers of sleeping acolytes, the meditation rooms, and places of public worship—and headed to a window near the main entrance. The bright sun nearly blinded her, but she forced herself to search the empty square beyond, seeking what she would likely still miss.

No sooner had she peered out than a clank of metal warned her of an approaching guard. The stern visage of the other night elf softened a touch upon recognition.

“You again! Sister Tyrande…you should really stay in your quarters and get some sleep. You’ve hardly had any rest for days and now you put yourself at risk. Your friend will be all right. I’m certain of it.”

The guard meant Illidan, for whom Tyrande also worried, but what the novice priestess really feared was that when Illidan did return, it would be with his brother and the hapless orc in tow. She did not think that Malfurion’s twin would ever betray him, but if Lord Ravencrest captured the pair, what could Illidan do but go along with matters?

“I cannot help it. I’m just so restless, sister. Please forgive me.”

The sentry smiled sympathetically. “I hope he realizes how much you care for him. The time for your choosing is fast approaching, isn’t it?”

The other’s words bothered Tyrande more than she revealed. Her thoughts and reactions since the three had freed Broxigar had more than hinted to her of her preference, but she could not yet come to believe it herself. No, her concern was just that of one childhood friend for another.

It had to be…

There came the harsh clank of metal upon metal and the hiss of night sabers. Tyrande immediately darted past the bemused guard, heading to the outer steps of Elune’s temple.

Somewhat dust-laden, Lord Ravencrest’s party rode into the square. The cloaked noble himself seemed quite at ease, even very pleased about something, but many of his soldiers wore darker expressions and constantly looked at one another as if sharing some terrible secret.

Of either Malfurion or Broxigar, there was no sign.

All but hidden on the far side of Lord Ravencrest, Illidan rode tall and proud. He appeared the most satisfied of the group and if that pleasure had to do with keeping his twin from capture, then Tyrande could certainly not blame him.

Without realizing what she did, the young priestess stepped down to the street. Her presence caught the attention of Lord Ravencrest, who smiled graciously and pointed her out to Illidan. The bearded commander whispered something to Malfurion’s brother, then raised his hand.

The soldiers came to a halt. Illidan and Ravencrest steered their mounts toward her.

“Well, if it isn’t the most lovely of the Mother Moon’s dedicated servants!” the commander declared. “How interesting to find you awaiting our return despite the late hour!” He glanced at Illidan, whose expression bordered on embarrassment. “Very interesting, don’t you think?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“We must make for Black Rook Hold, sister, but I think I can spare a precious moment for you two, eh?”

Tyrande felt her cheeks darken slightly as Ravencrest guided his panther back to the rest of the party. Illidan dismounted quickly, stepping up to her and taking her hands in his own.

“They’re safe, Tyrande…and Lord Ravencrest has taken me under his wing! We fought a fearsome beast and I kept it from harming him! Destroyed it with my own power!”

“Malfurion escaped? You’re certain of it?”

“Of course, of course,” he returned excitedly, waving away any further questions about his brother. “I’ve found my destiny at last, don’t you understand? The Moon Guard’s all but ignored me, but I slew a monster that killed three of theirs, including one of their senior sorcerers!”

She wanted to hear what he knew about Malfurion and the orc, but it was clear that Illidan was caught up in his own good fortune. Tyrande could appreciate that, having watched him work hard and fruitlessly to achieve the glorious future so many had predicted for him. “I’m so glad for you. I feared that you were frustrated some with the pace of Cenarius’s teaching, but if you were able to protect Lord Ravencrest with it where his own soldiers could not, then—”

“You don’t understand! I didn’t use those slow, cumbersome spells that Malfurion’s adored shan’do tried to show us time and again! I used good, traditional night elf sorcery…and in the daytime, yet! It was exhilarating!”

His quick renunciation of the druidic ways did not entirely surprise Tyrande. On the one hand, she was grateful that he had successfully come into his own at such a drastic moment. On the other, it was yet another sign of the growing differences between the twins.

And another consideration for her already-overwrought mind.

Behind Illidan, Lord Ravencrest politely cleared his throat.

Malfurion’s brother grew more animated. “I have to go, Tyrande! I’m to be shown my place at the Hold and then help organize a larger party to retrieve the dead beasts and all the bodies!”

“Bodies?” It had registered on her that some of the Moon Guard had perished because of a monster, but now she realized that only Ravencrest’s band would be returning. The one that preceded them out after Malfurion had been completely slaughtered.

The horror of it all made Tyrande shiver…especially the fact that Malfurion had also been out there.

“The other creatures wiped out the pursuit almost to a soldier, Tyrande, didn’t you understand?” Illidan’s voice grew almost gleeful. He paid no mind to the increasing dismay on her face. “The sorcerers perished immediately, no help at all to the rest. It took the fighters all but two lives to stop them and I killed one creature with just two quick spells!” His chest swelled. “And these were monsters that devoured magic, too!”

Again, the noble coughed. Illidan quickly pulled her hands to his lips, kissing them ever so lightly. Releasing Tyrande, he leapt back atop the night saber.

“I wanted to be worthy of you,” Illidan suddenly murmured. “And soon, I will be.”

That said, he turned the cat about and headed to the waiting commander. Ravencrest gave Illidan a companionable slap on the back, then looked over his shoulder at Tyrande. The noble nodded his head toward Malfurion’s twin and winked.

As Tyrande watched, still dazed by all she had heard, the armed party rode off in the direction of Black Rook Hold. Illidan peered back one last time before he vanished from the square, his golden eyes intent upon his childhood friend. Tyrande had no trouble reading in them his desires.

Drawing her robe around her, she rushed back up into the temple. The same sentry who had spoken to her earlier met her just within.

“Forgive me, sister! I couldn’t help hearing much of what was said. I grieve for the lives lost on the futile hunt, but I also wish to give my congratulations on the fine future for your friend! Lord Ravencrest surely must have the highest respect for him to so readily take him under his guidance! Truly it would be hard to find a better match, eh?”

“No…no, I suppose not.” When she realized how she sounded, Tyrande quickly added, “Forgive me, sister, I believe my exhaustion is catching up with me. I think I should return to bed.”

“Understandable, sister. At least you know that you’ll be in store for some pleasant dreams…”

But as Tyrande hurried to her room, she suspected that her dreams would be anything but pleasant. True, she was happy with the news that Malfurion and Broxigar had made good their escape and that no one apparently had linked Malfurion to the matter. Tyrande was also glad that Illidan had finally found himself, something she had begun to fear would never come about. What bothered her now, though, was that Illidan appeared to have made a decision regarding the two of them while Tyrande herself had not yet done so. There was still Malfurion to consider in the equation, and still his emotions to define.

Of course, that all depended upon whether or not Malfurion continued to evade the wary eye of the Moon Guard and Lord Ravencrest. If either discovered the truth, it would very likely mean Black Rook Hold for him.

And from there, not even Illidan would be able to save his brother.

The trees, the foliage, nothing had stopped the felbeast’s plummet earthward. Cast into the sky by the demigod, the demonic hound could not save itself.

But the capricious nature of chance did what nothing else could. Cenarius had tossed his evil foe as far as he could, assuming logically that the fall would finish his task. Had the felbeast landed on rock or earth or hard against the trunk of one of the mightier oaks, it would have been killed in an instant.

Where the forest lord had thrown it, however, proved to be a body of water, so deep that even at the velocity with which the felbeast dropped, it did not strike the bottom.

The journey to the surface almost did what the fall failed to do, but still the demon managed to haul itself ashore. One foreleg hanging useless, the felbeast moved to a shaded depression where it paused for several minutes to recover.

Once it had recuperated as best as its wounds would allow, the demon sniffed the air, searching for a particular scent. The moment the felbeast located what it sought, it grew alert. Pulling itself forward, the injured horror slowly but steadily began to wend its way toward the source. Even from this distance, it could smell the power emanating from the Well of Eternity. There it would find the magic it needed to heal, the magic with which it could even restore the limb that had been ruined.

The felbeasts were not exactly the simple creatures that even Brox and Rhonin, who knew of them from their own war, assumed them to be. No creature that served the lord of the Burning Legion was without some wit, save perhaps the rampaging goliaths called Infernals. The demon hounds were a part of their handler and what they learned, Hakkar learned.

And from this lone survivor, the Houndmaster would learn much about those who might stand in the way of the Legion’s coming…