The Well of Eternity

17

Darkness came and the world of the night elves awoke. Merchants opened their businesses while the faithful went to their prayers. The general populace lived their lives, feeling no different then on any other eve. The world was theirs to do with as they chose, whatever other, lesser races might believe.

But for some, tiny annoyances crept into their lives, minor deviations from their routines, their notions.

A senior master of the Moon Guard, his long silver hair bound behind him, absently raised one long, nailed finger toward a flask of wine at the opposite end of the room as he perused the star charts in preparation for a major casting by the order. Although he was among the eldest of the sorcerers, his skills had remained undiminished, a reason for his continued high position. Spellcasting was to him as much a part of his existence as breathing, a matter simply and naturally done, almost without thought.

The crash that jarred him from his plush chair and made him crumple the parchment nearly to shreds proved to be caused by the flask’s swift and fatal descent to the floor. Wine and glass spilled over the rich emerald and orange carpet the sorcerer had only recently purchased.

With a hiss of fury, the spellcaster snapped his fingers at the disastrous spill. Bits of glass suddenly rose into the air as the wine itself puddled together and formed into the shape of the container that had held it. The glass then began to mold together over the wine…

But a second later…everything again spilled all over the carpet, creating a worse mess than before.

The aged sorcerer stared. With a grim expression, he snapped his fingers again.

This time, the glass and the wine performed as he desired, even the slightest hint of stain removed. Yet, they did so with some sluggishness, taking far longer than the Moon Guard master would have expected.

The aged night elf returned to his parchment and tried once more to concentrate on the coming event, but his gaze constantly shifted back to the bottle and its contents. He pointed a finger at the flask again—then, with a frown, pulled the finger back and purposely turned his chair away from the cause of his annoyance.

At the edges of every major settlement, armed sentinels patrolled and guarded the night elves from any possible foe. Lord Ravencrest and those like him ever watched the areas beyond the main boundaries of the realm, their belief that the dwarves and other races constantly coveted the night elves’ rich world. They did not look inward—for who of their own people would ever threaten them?—but permitted every settlement to maintain its own security simply in order to comfort the general citizenry.

In Galhara, a great city some distance on the opposing side of the Well from Zin-Azshari, sorcerers began the nightly ritual of realigning the emerald crystals that lined its boundaries. In conjunction with each other, the crystals acted, among other things, as defense against general magical attack. They had not, to anyone’s recollection, ever been utilized, but the people took great comfort in their presence.

Despite there being hundreds, it was no troublesome feat to set the crystal arrays. All drew their power directly from the Well of Eternity and the sorcerers merely had to use the stars to adjust the lines of force that ran from one to another. In truth, this mostly required a simple twist of the crystal on the tall, obsidian pole upon which each had been placed. Thus, the local spellcasters were able to do several in the space of only a few minutes.

But with more than half already realigned, the crystals began to dim, even darkened completely. The sorcerers of Galhara, while not as proficient as the Moon Guard, knew their tasks well enough to understand that what happened now should not be happening. They immediately began checking and rechecking the arrays, but found nothing wrong.

“They are not drawing properly from the Well,” one younger spellcaster finally decided. “Something has tried to cut them off from its might!”

But no sooner had he said that than the crystals renewed their normal activities. His elder associates looked at him in bemusement, trying to recall if, when as new to their roles as he was, they had made such outrageous statements.

And life among the night elves went on…

“It hasss failed!” Hakkar roared. He nearly whipped the closest of the Highborne, but pulled his savage lash back at the last moment. Eyes deathly dark, he looked to Lord Xavius.“We have failed…”

The felbeasts at the Houndmaster’s flanks echoed their handler’s fury with sinister snarls.

Xavius was no less displeased. He eyed the work that both the Highborne and Hakkar had wrought and saw in it hours of futility…and yet both he and the Houndmaster had seen the merits of the queen’s suggestion.

They simply did not have the knowledge or power needed to make it happen.

That the efforts of the Highborne had still enabled more than a score of Fel Guard to join those already on the mortal plane did nothing to assuage them. Such numbers were only a slow dribble and did nothing to pave the way for the great one’s coming.

“What can we do?” asked the night elf.

For the first time, he read uncertainty in the Houndmaster’s haunting visage. The huge warrior turned his baleful gaze toward the portal, where others of the Highborne ever continued to try to make it stronger and larger. “We mussst asssk him.”

The counselor swallowed, but before his monstrous counterpart could take the step, Lord Xavius pushed himself forward, falling down on one knee before the portal. He would not shirk from his failures, not to his god.

Yet, even before his knee touched the stone, Xavius heard the voice in his head.

Is the portal strengthened?

“Nay, great one…the work in that regard has not progressed as we hoped.”

For just the hint of a moment, what almost seemed an insane fury threatened to overwhelm the night elf…but then the sensation passed. Certain that he had imagined it, Xavius awaited the god’s next words.

You seek something…speak.

Lord Xavius explained the notion of sealing off the Well’s power from all but the palace and the failure to make that come to pass. He kept his head low, humble before the power that made the combined might of all night elves look no more terrible than that of an insect.

I have already considered this…the god finally answered. The one I sent first has failed in his duty…

Behind Xavius, the Houndmaster let out a brief sound bordering on dismay.

Another will be sent to you…you must make certain that the portal is made ready for him…

“Another, my lord?”

I now send you one of my…one of the commanders of my host. He will see to it that what is needed will come to pass…and quickly.

The voice departed Xavius’s head. He swayed for a moment, the departure as stunning to him as if someone had just cut off one of his arms. Another of the Highborne helped him to his feet.

Xavius looked at Hakkar, who did not seem at all happy despite what the counselor saw as the most wonderful of news. “He sends us one of his commanders! Do you know which one?”

The Houndmaster anxiously rolled up his whip. Beside him, the two felbeasts cringed. “Aye…I know which one, lord night elf.”

“We must make ready! He will be coming immediately!”

Despite whatever disturbed him, Hakkar joined Xavius as the latter inserted himself among the casting Highborne. The pair added their knowledge and skill, amplifying as best they could the framework of energy that kept the portal ever open.

The burning sphere swelled, sparks of multicolored forces constantly shooting out from it. It pulsated, almost breathing. The portal stretched, a savage, roaring sound accompanying the physical change.

Sweat already poured down Xavius’s face and body, but he did not care. The glory of what he sought gave him strength. Even more than the Houndmaster, he threw himself into making the spell not only hold, but expand to what was needed.

And as it grew to touch the ceiling, the portal suddenly disgorged a huge, dark figure at once so wonderful and terrible that it was all Xavius could do to keep from crying out in gratitude to the great one. Here now stood one of the celestial commanders, a figure before whom Hakkar seemed as unworthy as Xavius had felt before the Houndmaster.

“Elune save us!” one of the other sorcerers gasped. He pulled free, all but destroying the precious portal. Xavius barely seized control and, straining mightily, held it in place until the others could recover.

A huge, four-digited hand large enough to encompass the counselor’s head stretched forth, pointing a taloned finger toward the careless spellcaster. A voice that was both the roar of a crashing wave and the ominous rumble of an erupting volcano uttered a single, unrecognizable word.

The night elf who had stumbled away screamed as his body twisted like a piece of wet cloth being drained of water. A grotesque procession of cracking sounds matched the faltering scream. Most of the other Highborne immediately looked away and Hakkar’s felbeasts whined.

Black flames erupted all over the macabre sight, enveloping what was left of the unfortunate sorcerer. The flames ate away at him like a pack of starved wolves, swiftly devouring the victim until but seconds later only a slight pile of ash on the floor remained to mark his passing.

“There will be no more failure,” the thundering voice stated.

If the Houndmaster and the Fel Guard had not amazed Lord Xavius enough, surely only the god himself could have awed the counselor more than this new arrival. The fearsome figure moved forward on four thick, muscular limbs reminiscent of a dragon, save that these ended in blocky feet with three massive, clawed toes. A magnificent, scaled tail swept the floor over and over, the movement very likely a sign of the celestial one’s impatience. From the top of his head down his back to the very tip of his tail ran a wild mane of pure green flame. Huge leathery wings also stretched from his back but even despite their span, Xavius wondered if they could lift so gigantic and powerful a form.

His hide, where black armor did not cover it, was a dark gray-green. He stood twice as wide as Hakkar and at least sixteen feet high, if the counselor was any judge. The massive tusks sprouting from the sides of his upper jaw nearly scraped the ceiling and the other, daggerlike teeth measured as long as the night elf’s hand.

Under a thick brow ridge that almost completely obscured his burning orbs, the chosen of the great one stared down at the lord counselor…and the Houndmaster, especially.

“You have disappointed him…” was all the winged commander declared.

“I—” Hakkar paused in his protest, hanging his head. “I have no excussse, Mannoroth.”

Mannoroth tilted his head slightly, looking at the Houndmaster as if studying an unpleasant bit of refuse found on his dinner plate. “No…you do not.”

The felbeast on Hakkar’s right suddenly whined loudly. Black flames akin to those that had removed the negligent sorcerer enveloped the frightened hound. It rolled desperately on the floor, trying to douse flames that would not be doused. The fire spread over it, consuming it…

And when only a wisp of smoke marked where the felbeast had stood, Mannoroth said again to the Houndmaster. “There will be no more failure.”

Fear filled Xavius, but a wondrous, glorious fear. Here was power incarnate, a being that sat at the right hand of the great one. Here was one who would know how to turn their defeat into victory.

The dark gaze turned on him. Mannoroth gave a short sniff with his blunt nose…then nodded. “The great one approves of your efforts, lord night elf.”

He had been blessed! Xavius lowered himself further. “I give thanks!”

“The plan will be followed. We will cut off the place of power from the rest of this realm. Then the arrival of the host can begin in earnest.”

“And the great one? He will come then?”

Mannoroth gave him a wide smile, one with which he could have swallowed the counselor whole. “Oh, yes, lord night elf! Sargeras himself will want to be here when the world is cleansed…he will want to be here very, very much…”

Grass filled Rhonin’s mouth and nose.

At least, he assumed it was grass. It tasted like grass, although he had not had much experience in such dining. The smell reminded him of wild fields and more peaceful times…times with Vereesa.

With effort, he pushed himself up. Night had fallen and while the moon shone fairly brightly, it revealed little beyond the fact that he lay in a lightly wooded area. Rhonin listened, but heard no sound of civilization.

The sudden fear that he had been catapulted into yet another era briefly overwhelmed him, but then the wizard recalled just what had happened. His own spell had sent him here, his desperate attempt to escape the demon draining him of his magic—and in the process, his life.

But if in the same time, then where had he landed? His surroundings gave no hint. He could be a few miles away or on the other side of the world.

And if the latter…could he return to Kalimdor? He hoped Krasus still lived somewhere, and only with his former mentor’s aid did the wizard think that they might yet return home.

Staggering to his feet, Rhonin tried to decide which direction to go. Somehow he had to at least discover his whereabouts.

A noise in the woods behind him made the human whirl about. His hand came up in preparation for a spell.

A hulking figure emerged.

“No quarrel, wizard! Only Brox before you!”

Rhonin cautiously lowered his hand. The huge orc trudged forward, still clutching the ax Malfurion and the demigod had fashioned for him.

At the thought of the night elf, Rhonin looked around. “Are you alone?”

“Was until I saw you. You make a lot of noise, human. You move like a drunken infant.”

Ignoring the jibe, the wizard looked past the orc. “I was thinking of Malfurion. He was also nearby when I cast the spell. If you were drawn into it, he might’ve been.”

“Sound.” Brox scratched his ugly head. “Saw no night elf. Saw no felbeast, either.”

The human shivered. He certainly hoped that he had not included the demon in his escape. “Any idea where we might be?”

“Woods…forest.”

Rhonin almost snapped at him for the useless answer, but realized that he could do no better. “I was planning to go that way,” he said, pointing toward what he believed was east. “You have any better ideas?”

“Could wait until sunrise. Better able to see and night elves, they don’t like sun.”

While that made much sense, Rhonin did not feel comfortable waiting for daylight and told his companion so. Brox surprised him by nodding in agreement.

“Better to scout, wizard.” He shrugged. “Your direction as good as any.”

As they started off, a question occurred to Rhonin that he simply had to ask. “Brox…how did you get here? Not this exact location—I know that, of course—but how did you come to this realm?”

At first the orc only clamped his mouth shut, but then he finally told the wizard. Rhonin listened to the tale, careful to hide his emotions. The veteran and his ill-fated partner had been right behind Krasus and him and, like the others, had been caught by the anomaly.

“Do you understand what swallowed us?”

Brox shrugged. “Wizard’s spell. Bad one. Sent us far from our home.”

“Farther than you might know.” Deciding that Brox had a right to the truth regardless of what Krasus might think, Rhonin told him what had happened.

To the wizard’s surprise, Brox accepted his story quite readily. Only when Rhonin thought about the history of the orc’s people did he realize why. The orcs had already journeyed through time and space from another world. A spell that would cast one into the past was hardly that much different.

“Can we return, human?”

“I don’t know.”

“You saw. The demons are here. The Legion is here.”

“This is the first time they tried to invade our world. Most beyond Dalaran don’t know that history anymore.”

Brox gripped his ax tighter. “We’ll fight them…”

“No…we can’t.” Rhonin explained Krasus’s reasoning.

But while Brox had quickly accepted all else, he drew the line when it came to leaving the past alone. The matter was simple for the orc; here was a dangerous, foul enemy who would slaughter all in their path. Only cowards and fools let such horror happen and Brox said so more than once.

“We might change history by interfering,” the wizard insisted, in his heart wanting to agree with the orc.

Brox snorted. “You fought.”

His simple statement completely repudiated Rhonin’s only argument. The wizard had fought already and by doing so had made a choice.

But was it the right one? Already the past had been altered, but to what degree?

They moved on in silence, Rhonin in battle with his inner demons and Brox keeping a wary eye out for physical ones. Nowhere did they see any hint of where they might have ended up. At one point Rhonin considered concentrating on the glade and trying to send them both back there. Then he remembered the felbeast and what it had almost done to him.

The woods thickened, eventually becoming a full forest. Rhonin silently cursed, his choice of directions now seeming a poor one. Brox gave no indication of his own opinion, simply chopping away with his enchanted ax whenever the path grew impossible. The ax sliced through everything with such ease that the wizard hoped that his companion would never accidentally cut him with it. Not even bone gave the blade any pause.

The moon vanished, the thick foliage of the surrounding trees completely obscuring the heavens. The path became impossible. After a few more minutes of fruitlessly fighting their way along, the pair decided to turn back. Again, the orc said nothing about Rhonin’s choice.

But when they turned around, it was to find that the way they came had completely vanished.

Huge trees stood where once the path had been and dense undergrowth around the trunks gave further evidence that this surely was not the right direction. Yet, both orc and human eyed the trees with distrust.

“We came from through there. I know we did.”

“Agreed.” Raising the ax, Brox moved in on the mysterious trees. “And we go back that way, too.”

But as he swung, huge, branchlike hands seized the weapon by the sides of the blade and pulled it up.

Unwilling to relinquish the ax, Brox hung by the handle, the orc’s legs dangling as he sought to use his weight to wrest the weapon free.

Rhonin ran up. He tugged on the orc’s feet with no success. Staring at the long, inhuman fingers, he began to mutter a spell.

Something struck him from behind. The wizard stumbled forward and would have soundly hit the tree before him if not for the fact that it moved aside at the last moment.

Momentum sent Rhonin flailing to the earth. However, instead of striking either harsh ground or one of the many gnarled roots around him, he landed atop something softer.

A body.

Rhonin gasped, assuming that he had come across a previous victim of the sinister trees. But as he pushed himself up, a brief glimmer of moonlight that somehow had penetrated the vast crowns above allowed him to see the face.

Malfurion…

The night elf suddenly moaned. His eyes flickered open and he saw the wizard.

“You—”

Further back, Brox shouted something. Both human and night elf quickly looked that way. Rhonin raised a hand in preparation for attack, but Malfurion surprised him by seizing his wrist.

“No!” The dark-skinned figure sat up, quickly scanning the trees. He nodded to himself, then shouted, “Brox! Do not fight them! They mean no harm!”

“No harm?” growled the orc. “They want my ax!”

“You must do as I say! They are protectors!”

From the warrior came a reluctant groan. Rhonin looked at Malfurion for explanation, but received none. Instead, the night elf released the wizard’s wrist, then pushed himself to his feet. With Rhonin trailing behind, Malfurion walked calmly toward the area where Brox battled.

They found the orc surrounded by ominous-looking trees. A cluster of branches hung above and in them was tangled Brox’s ax. The orc panted from effort, his body still tense. He looked from his companions to his weapon and back again, as if still not certain he should not try to climb after it.

“Knew your voice,” he grunted. “You better be right.”

“I am.”

As the wizard and the warrior watched, Malfurion stepped up to the tallest of the trees and said, “I give thanks to the brothers of the forest, the keepers of the wild. I know you watched over me until my friends could find me. They mean no harm; they just did not understand.”

The leaves of the trees began to rustle even though Rhonin could feel no wind.

Nodding, the night elf continued, “We will trouble you no longer.”

More rustling…then the branches entangling Brox’s ax separated and the weapon slipped earthward.

They could have let the ax fall harmlessly to the ground, but the orc suddenly stepped forward. He reached up with one powerful hand and caught the ax handle perfectly. Yet, instead of waving the weapon at the trees, he knelt before them, the blade turned downward.

“I ask forgiveness.”

Again, the crowns of the towering trees shook. Malfurion put a hand on the orc’s broad shoulder. “They accept.”

“You can really speak with them?” Rhonin finally asked.

“To a point.”

“Then ask them where we are.”

“I already have. Not at all that far from where we were, but far enough away. Actually, we’re both fortunate and unfortunate.”

“How so?”

The night elf smiled ruefully. “We’re only a short distance from my home.”

This was excellent news to the wizard, but not such good news to the night elf, he gathered. Nor did it seem good news to Brox, who cursed in his native tongue.

“What is it? What do the two of you know?”

“I was captured close to here, wizard,” growled the brawny warrior. “Very close.”

Recalling his own capture, Rhonin could see why Brox might be upset. “I’ll take us from here, then. This time I know what to expect—”

Malfurion held up a hand in protest. “We were fortunate once, but here, you risk being sensed immediately by the Moon Guard. They have the skill to usurp your spell…in fact, they may have, at the very least, already sensed the first one.”

“What do you suggest?”

“As we are near my home, we should make use of it. There are others who could be of assistance to us. My brother and Tyrande.”

Brox embraced his suggestion. “The shaman…she will help.” His tone darkened. “Your twin…yes.”

Rhonin still worried about Krasus, but with no notion as to how to find his former mentor, the night elf’s decision made the most sense. With Malfurion in the lead, the trio headed off. The path through the forest now proved startlingly easy, considering the trek through which the human and the orc had earlier suffered. The landscape seemed to go out of its way to make Malfurion’s journey a comfortable one. Rhonin knew something of druids and for the first time marked Malfurion as of that calling.

“The demigod—Cenarius—he taught you to speak with the trees, to cast such spells?”

“Yes. I seem to be the first to truly understand them. Even my brother prefers the power of the Well to the ways of the forest.”

At mention of the Well, a feeling of anticipation and hunger suddenly touched Rhonin. He fought the emotions down. The Well that his companion had mentioned could only be the Well of Eternity, the fabled fount of power. Were they that near? Was that why his own spellwork had become magnified?

To wield such power…and so readily…

“We’re not much farther,” Malfurion said a short while later. “I recognize that gnarled elder.”

The “elder” he referred to was a twisted old tree that, to Rhonin at least, looked like little more than a dark shape. Something else, however, attracted the wizard’s attention.

“Do I hear rushing water?”

The night elf sounded more cheerful. “It flows very near my home! Only a few more minutes and—”

But before he could finish, the forest filled with armored figures. Brox snarled and made ready with his ax. Rhonin readied a spell, certain that these were the same foul attackers who had first seized Krasus and him.

As for Malfurion, the night elf looked entirely perplexed at the sudden appearance of the attackers. He started to raise a hand toward them, then hesitated.

Malfurion’s hesitation caused Rhonin in turn to pause. That proved a mistake, for in the next instant a red shroud of energy fell upon each. Rhonin felt his muscles freeze and his strength fade. He could not move, could not do anything but watch.

“An excellent piece of work, lad,” proclaimed a commanding voice. “ ’Tis the beastman we sought—and no doubt those who aided in his escape!”

Someone replied, but too low for Rhonin to make out the words. A band of riders, two bearing glowing emerald staffs, entered the circle of soldiers. At their head was a bearded night elf who had to be the one in charge. Next to him—

Rhonin’s eyes widened, the only response left to him in his present condition. It hardly signified his astonishment upon recognizing the figure next to the commander.

The garments were different and the hair was bound back, but there was no mistaking that the dour face was an exact duplicate of Malfurion’s.