The Well of Eternity

21

The night saber hissed as Rhonin tried to mount it. He held the reins tightly, hoping that the beast would understand he was supposed to be where he was.

“Are you settled?” Illidan asked him.

Malfurion’s brother had become the wizard’s unofficial warder, a task which Illidan seemed not to mind at all. He constantly watched Rhonin as if trying to learn from his every movement. Whenever the human did anything at all remotely magical, the night elf paid the utmost intention.

It had not taken Rhonin long to understand why. Of all those present, he represented the most potent source of magic available. For all their arrogance, the night elves apparently had limited understanding of the forces they wielded. True, Rhonin found it more difficult to draw the power for his spells, but not so much that he was helpless as most of them were. Only young Illidan came anywhere near having Rhonin’s ability.

I can help him, the wizard decided. If he wants to learn, I’ll help him learn. Whatever his personal opinion of Malfurion’s twin, Rhonin saw in Illidan much potential.

He only hoped that some of that potential would be available by the time they confronted the Burning Legion.

They rode out of Suramar, heading at the swiftest pace the panthers could set for Zin-Azshari. Rhonin felt some trepidation at leaving, for now he put more distance between himself and Krasus. More and more the wizard was certain that he was destined never to return to his own future. He could only hope that, whatever time had in store for Vereesa and their children, it would be a life worthy of them.

That assumed, of course, that there would be any future at all.

Lord Ravencrest kept his force riding for the rest of the night and into the day. Only when it was clear that many of the animals could go no farther did he reluctantly call for a stop.

Their ranks had grown, others joining them along the way thanks to advance riders sent out. They now numbered more than a thousand strong, with more arriving constantly. Lord Ravencrest wanted as huge an army as possible before they encountered the enemy, a desire matched by Rhonin, who knew well the terrible might of the demons.

Having settled on his own course of action, the wizard finally approached Lord Ravencrest, offering whatever information he could recall of their potential foes. As a way of explanation, he indicated that the Burning Legion had once invaded his “far-away land,” ravaging everything—the last, at least, certainly the truth. Rhonin also described to the noble the course of the terrible war and how much devastation had been caused before the defenders were able to beat the demons back.

While it was not clear how much Lord Ravencrest believed, he at least took Rhonin’s descriptions of the demons to heart, ordering his soldiers to adjust their tactics as necessary based on what he saw as their weaknesses. Latosius and the Moon Guard looked askance at the prospect of confronting the felbeasts in particular, but Ravencrest assured them that a contingent of his finest would surround them at all times. He also made certain that the fighters in question would know to strike first at the tentacles if they could, removing further the danger to the spellcasters.

The night elven commander obviously recognized that Rhonin had left much out, but did not press the latter further because of the valuable knowledge already gleaned. He also rightly assumed that Rhonin held his own life in enough regard to do what he could to see that defeat was out of the question.

Despite the massive growth of their force, they never slowed. One night became two, then three. Casting a minor spell that enabled him to see in the dark as well as his companions, Rhonin quickly adjusted to the nocturnal activity. However, he remained well aware that the demons cared not in the least whether the sun or the moon shone down and impressed this upon the noble. The monstrous warriors of the Burning Legion would fight until they could fight no more. The defenders had to be ready to face them even during the day.

As the night elves neared Zin-Azshari, they noticed an eerie green light illuminating the area ahead, a light that seemed to emanate not from the murky heavens, but from the city itself.

“By Elune!” muttered one soldier.

“Steady,” commanded Lord Ravencrest. He stretched up, peering ahead. “Something is coming…and fast.”

Rhonin did not have to ask what. “It’s them. They already knew we were coming and plan to meet us as quickly as possible. They never waste time. The Legion lives only to fight.”

The commander nodded. “I would’ve preferred a chance to scout the area and make judgments on the enemy. But if they wish to fight immediately, then by all means, we shall not disappoint them. Sound the call!”

Horns blared and the lines of the night elves spread out, moving into battle formation. Now an army of several thousand, the armored riders and foot soldiers were a tremendous sight to behold. Rhonin recalled the might of the Alliance and how it had similarly awed him the first time he had seen it prepare to battle the demon’s allies, the Scourge.

He also recalled how the lines that day had been shattered by the monstrous fury of the invaders.

It won’t happen again! He looked to Illidan, who seemed far less confident now that he faced reality.

“Don’t lose yourself in fear,” the wizard remarked, having seen where it could lead. “You have a gift, Illidan. I’ve taught you some on how better to draw power. The Well may be cut off from us, but its essence permeates the land, the sky, and everything else. If you know how to sense it, you can do anything you did before the shield appeared.”

“I follow your wisdom, shan’do,” returned the young night elf somberly.

Rhonin had heard the word before, especially when Malfurion had referred to his teacher, the demigod, Cenarius. He wondered where the forest lord was now. Such an elemental being was needed at a time like this.

Then the first horrific figures marched into sight and Rhonin’s thoughts turned only to survival.

Survival…and Vereesa.

The Burning Legion had laid waste to everything up to this point and yet they hungered for more destruction, more mayhem. The felbeasts bayed and the demon troops behind them roared in pleasure and anticipation upon seeing the row upon row of figures before them. Here were more lambs to the slaughter, more blood to be spilled.

With a single horrific battle cry, they charged.

Lord Ravencrest nodded.

“Archers stand ready!” shouted an officer.

More than a thousand curved bows aimed skyward.

The noble held his hand high, watching. The demon horde drew nearer…nearer…

He dropped his hand.

Like a flight of screaming banshees, the rain of arrows flew toward the enemy. Even knowing that death fell toward them, the Burning Legion did not slow. All they saw were those who must die.

The shafts descended.

Demons they might be, but they were demons with flesh. The first rank fell almost to the warrior, some with so many arrows in them that they could not lie flat on the ground. Felbeasts collapsed everywhere. One or two Doomguard dropped from the sky.

But the Burning Legion trampled over their own as if not even seeing them. Felbeasts ignored their dead brethren, howling and slavering as they neared the night elves’ lines.

“Damn!” muttered Ravencrest. “One more volley! Quickly!”

With smooth precision, the archers readied. The bearded noble lost no time in signaling them to fire.

Again death rained down upon the horde, but this time with far less effect. Now the Legion raised shields, formed better ranks.

“These are not mere beasts,” uttered an officer near Rhonin. “They learn too fast!”

Lord Ravencrest ignored him. “All archers to the rear! Position and be ready to fire on the inner ranks! Lancers! Prepare to charge!”

“My lord!” Rhonin called. “May I?”

“At this point, wizard, anything you wish to do is granted! Just do it!”

Rhonin stared at the area before the front ranks of the oncoming demons. He concentrated, drawing in the power. It took more effort than usual, but not enough to keep him from success.

His eyes narrowed.

The ground erupted before the Burning Legion, an explosion of dirt and rock that assaulted the monstrous warriors like a line of heavy catapults. Many Fel Guard flew in the air while others were buried under tons of earth. A huge boulder landed atop one felbeast, cracking its spine in two like a twig. The rushing mass halted, many colliding.

The archers took advantage, sending another volley into the packed horde. Scores more fell, adding to the chaos.

Cheers rose among the soldiers. The Moon Guard, on the other hand, looked somewhat jealously at Rhonin. Latosius snarled at his fellow sorcerers, urging them to action.

The efforts of the night elven spellcasters proved to be far less spectacular than Rhonin’s. Rings of energy that fell upon warriors of the Burning Legion often faded without any effect. A handful of demons dropped, but even some of those recovered.

“They’re useless!” Illidan snapped.

“They’re trying,” the wizard corrected.

Instead of arguing, the young night elf suddenly pointed at the horde, muttering.

Serpentine tentacles of black energy snaked around the throats of several dozen of those in the Legion’s forefront. The demons dropped their weapons and shields and tried to tear the tentacles free, but before they could do that, the tentacles burned through their necks, going through flesh and bone with little trouble…and eventually decapitating every one of Illidan’s targets.

It was all Rhonin could do to hide his distaste. Something about the night elf’s choice of attack did not sit well with him, but when Illidan looked for approval, the wizard still managed to nod. He could not discourage the only other person who had any ability. If they survived, Rhonin would teach Illidan other, better ways to deal with a foe.

And if they did not survive…

Once again, the Burning Legion surged on. Under their feet they crushed the corpses of their comrades. They roared as they approached, their maces and other horrific weapons held high and ready.

“We have to close with them now,” Ravencrest decided.

“You two stay in the back and continue doing whatever you can! You’re our best weapons for now…possibly forever!”

Illidan bowed his head to the noble. “Thank you, my lord.”

“ ’Tis the truth, young one…the terrible truth.”

With that, the night elven commander urged his mount ahead of them, joining his warriors. Lord Ravencrest drew his weapon, raising it high.

The lancers tensed. Behind them, the foot soldiers stood poised to follow. At the rear, the archers prepared for another shot.

Ravencrest slashed downward with his sword.

Horns blared. The archers fired.

The night elven force charged to meet the enemy, their night sabers snarling challenge to the demons.

Just as the lancers neared, the arrows struck. Distracted by the charge, those demons in front were whittled down by the bolts. Disarray momentarily took hold of the foremost line, exactly as Lord Ravencrest had intended.

The swiftness of the night sabers enabled the lances to drive in deep. Despite their immense size, several Fel Guard were thrust into the air as the night elves’ spears penetrated not only the armor but everything within.

The sheer force of the charge actually pushed back the Burning Legion for a moment. Night sabers did more damage, biting and tearing at those packed tight before them. Foot soldiers joined in from behind, filling in gaps and thrusting at anything that was not one of them.

Their lances all but useless now, the riders drew their own weapons and did battle. Far back, the archers continued to unleash volleys at the ranks beyond the fighting.

Another row of riders, Lord Ravencrest among them, still waited. The noble’s gaze flicked back and forth, studying each individual struggle, seeking the weak areas.

Rhonin and Illidan were not idle, either. The wizard cast a spell that solidified air above one section of the horde, literally dropping the sky on them. Illidan, in the meantime, repeated his serpentine spell, throttling and beheading several demons at a time.

The Moon Guard did what they could, their efforts slight but still of some aid. They could not, despite their best efforts, overcome the lack of direct contact with the Well of Eternity and it showed in their increasingly frustrated expressions.

Then, one of the night elven sorcerers screamed and pitched backward, his skin sloughing off like water. By the time he hit the ground, he was little more than a skeleton in a pool of what had once been his flesh. The other Moon Guard stared at the corpse in consternation, only Latosius’s berating voice driving them back to their task.

Rhonin quickly surveyed the Legion, seeking the spell’s source. It did not take him long to spot the culprit, a sinister figure further back in the lines. The spellcaster resembled one of the Fel Guard, but with a long, reptilian tail and far more ornate armor. It also wore a black and bloodred robe over the armor and the eyes that watched over the battlefield revealed an intelligence far superior to those on the front line.

He had never faced one himself, but the wizard recognized from descriptions an Eredar warlock. Not only were they the sorcerers of the Burning Legion, but they also acted as its officers and strategists.

But the warlock had made the mistake in assuming that the Moon Guard were the ones responsible for the most devastating spells. That gave Rhonin the opportunity he needed.

He watched the warlock cast again, but as the latter let loose with his dark spell, Rhonin usurped it, turned it back on its creator.

The demon gaped as his skin slipped free of his body. His fanged mouth stretched in an inhuman cry and his gaze turned toward the wizard.

It was the last act by the warlock. The demon’s mouth continued to stretch, but only because nothing now held the jaw bone tight. For the briefest of moments, the fleshless figure stood there…then the skeletal remains collapsed in a pile that disappeared beneath the endless wave of Fel Guard.

With no one to command them, that part of the Legion grew disoriented. The night elves pressed forward. The front ranks of the demons buckled…

“We are defeating them!” one young officer near Ravencrest proclaimed.

But as quickly as the demons had wavered, they now moved forward again with even more determination. In the back came Doomguard who drove them forward with whips. More felbeasts struggled to get through the defenders and reach the sorcerers.

Night elves screamed as two Infernals barreled their way into the riders, tossing animals and soldiers alike. A hole opened up and demons poured through.

“Advance!” Ravencrest shouted to those with him. “Don’t let them cut up the lines!”

He and the other riders charged the monstrous warriors who had broken through. Ravencrest himself slashed off the tentacles of a felbeast, then drove his blade into its head. A night saber fell upon one of the demon soldiers, ripping apart the latter with its claws and long fangs.

The gap dwindled…then vanished. The night elven lines reformed.

But although they now had a solid front again, the defenders were still pushed back. For all the armored horrors that the night elves had slain, it seemed twice as many came to reinforce the swarm.

Rhonin swore as he cast yet another spell that inflicted the Burning Legion with a series of deadly lightning bolt attacks. As magnified as his power still was, he knew he could have done even more with the Well open to him. More important, he and Illidan still provided the vast bulk of magical support for the night elves, but neither could be everywhere. Illidan, for all his eagerness to use whatever spell he could to slaughter the demons, was tiring quickly and Rhonin felt little better. With the Well’s power free to their use, both could have cast fewer times yet with much more satisfactory results.

More screams arose as the night elves continued to be pushed back. Fel Guard smashed in heads, caved in armored chests. Their hellish hounds ripped apart foot soldiers. Doomguard leapt above the fray, then dove into the elven throngs, swinging away with their weapons. Infernals began popping up everywhere, raining down upon the defenders much the way the night elves’ arrows had done to them earlier.

Another of the Moon Guard cried out, but this time because a felbeast had slipped through. Four soldiers managed to sever its tentacles, then thrust their blades through its chest, but by then it was too late for the sorcerer.

Another volley went up from the archers…and then immediately arced around and flew back at them. Although many had the good sense to run, several stood transfixed by the astonishing reversal.

Those died swiftly as their own bolts pierced their throats and their chests.

Rhonin searched, but could not see the Eredar warlocks responsible. He cursed again that he could not be in more than one place and that the actions he took were not what he had hoped.

We’re losing! For all their dedication, against the demons the soldiers needed the Moon Guard…and the Moon Guard needed the Well. Back at Black Rook Hold, Malfurion had said that he hoped to deal with the shield the Highborne had placed, but that had been days ago. Rhonin could only assume that the young night elf’s spell had failed…either that, or Malfurion had died in the attempt.

“The line’s buckling again!” someone called.

Rhonin forgot all about Malfurion. There existed now only the battle…the battle and Vereesa. With what perhaps might have been a last silent farewell to her, he focused once more on the endless ranks of demons, trying to devise yet another devastating spell and already knowing that, by itself, it would not be nearly enough.

But was there anything anyone could do that would be enough?

“Shaman, has there been any change?”

Tyrande shook her head. “Nothing. The body breathes but the spirit is absent.”

The orc frowned. “Will he die?”

“I don’t know.” Would it be better if he did? She had no idea. For more than three nights, Tyrande had watched over Malfurion’s body, first in the Chamber of the Moon, then in an untenanted room further inside the temple. The senior priestesses had been quite sympathetic, but they had clearly believed that nothing could be done for her friend.

“He may sleep forever,” one had told her. “Or the body may wither and die from lack of sustenance.”

Tyrande had tried to feed Malfurion, but the body was limp, unresponsive. She dared not trickle water down his throat for fear that he would choke to death.

Last night, Brox had cautiously made the suggestion that perhaps, if they knew there was no hope, it would be better to quickly end Malfurion’s suffering. He had even offered himself as the one to do it. As horrifying as it had been to hear, the novice priestess understood that the orc had offered what he would have given a good comrade. He cared for Malfurion.

They had no notion what had happened to his dream form. For all they knew, it floated around them, unable for some reason to enter the body. Tyrande doubted that, however, and suspected that something had happened to him when he had tried to destroy the shield spell. Perhaps his spirit had been eradicated in the attempt.

The thought of losing Malfurion stressed Tyrande more than she could have ever thought possible. Even Illidan’s precarious mission did not bother her as much. True, she worried about the latter twin, too, but not quite in the same way that she did the one whose body lay before her.

Putting a hand to his cheek, the priestess of the moon thought not for the first time, Malfurion… come back to me.

But once again, he did not.

Thick, green fingers gently touched her arm. Tyrande looked into the worried eyes of the orc. He seemed not at all ugly to her at this moment, simply a fellow soul in this hour of grief.

“Shaman, you’ve not slept, not been out of this room. Not good. Step out. Breathe the night air.”

“I can’t leave him—”

He would not hear her protest. “What’ll you do? Nothing. He lies there. He’ll be safe. He’d want you to do this.”

The others saw the orc as a barbaric creature, but more and more Tyrande realized that the brutish figure was simply a being who had been born into a more basic society. He understood the needs of a living being and understood the dangers of losing track of those needs.

She could not help Malfurion if she herself grew weak or ill. As difficult as it was for her, Tyrande had to step away.

“All right…but only for a few minutes.”

Brox helped her to her feet. The young priestess discovered then that her legs were stiff and almost insufficient to keep her standing. Her companion had been correct; she needed to refresh herself if she hoped to go on for Malfurion.

With the orc beside her, Tyrande journeyed through the temple to the entrance. As before, the outer halls were filled with frightened and confused citizens, all trying to gain reassurance from the servants of the Mother Moon.

She feared that they would have to fight their way outside, but the crowds moved quickly to avoid Brox. He took their continual repulsion of him in stride, but Tyrande felt embarrassed. Elune had always preached respect of all creatures, but few night elves cared for other races.

The two stepped into the square. A cool breeze touched her, reminding Tyrande of times as a child. She had always loved the wind and, had it not looked unseemly, would have stretched out her arms and tried to embrace it as she had when little.

For several minutes, Tyrande and Brox simply stood there. Then, guilt once more caught hold of the priestess, for her childhood memories began to include times with Malfurion. She finally apologized to the orc and insisted that they return inside. Brox merely nodded his understanding and followed.

Yet, they had not quite reached the steps of the temple when one of the Suramar Guard called out to her. Tyrande hesitated, uncertain if the soldier sought to bother her because of Brox.

But the officer apparently had another mission in mind. “Sister, forgive me. I am Captain Jarod Shadowsong.”

She knew his face if not his name. He was only slightly older than she and with somewhat round features for a night elf. His eyes were slanted slightly more than average, too, giving him a probing expression even when he tried to be friendly and courteous, such as now.

“You wish something of me, captain?”

“A bit of your time, if I might be so bold. I have a prisoner who has need of aid.”

At first Tyrande wanted to decline, her urge to return to Malfurion foremost in her thoughts, but her duties took priority. How could she turn from some unfortunate in need of her healing skills? “Very well.”

As the orc started to follow, Captain Shadowsong looked askance. “Is that coming with us?”

“Would you rather he stand out in the square by himself, especially during these troublesome times?”

The officer reluctantly shook his head, ending the matter. He turned and quickly led the pair on.

Suramar had only a small facility for prisoners, most of any import ending up in Black Rook Hold. The structure that Captain Shadowsong led them to had been created out of the base of a long dead tree. The roots formed the skeleton of the building and workers had created the rest from stone. There was no more solid a building than this save Lord Ravencrest’s hold and the Suramar Guard were proud of that.

Tyrande eyed the rather bland building with some trepidation, imagining from its monotone exterior that it could only house the worst of villains. However, she steeled herself and did not reveal any misgivings as the captain bid her to enter.

The outer chamber was devoid of any furnishings save a simple wooden desk where the officer on duty no doubt worked. With most of the armed might of Suramar gone, the rest of Captain Shadowsong’s comrades were no doubt out trying in vain to keep the peace.

“We found him in the woods the very evening Lord Ravencrest and the expeditionary force departed. Many of our detection spells have failed, sister, but some do contain their own power. One of those alerted us to the intruder. With some escapes in the recent past—” He looked momentarily at the orc. Captain Shadowsong clearly knew of Brox’s present status, else he would have immediately tried to arrest him. “—we took no chances and immediately went to investigate.”

“And how does that pertain to me?”

“The—prisoner—we found was quite weary. After deciding it was not a ruse, we brought him back. He grows no better since then. Because of his peculiar nature, I want him alive if and when Lord Ravencrest returns. That’s why I finally came to you.”

“Then, by all means, please lead the way.”

There were only a dozen cells in the chamber behind, although the officer was willing to tell Tyrande that he had more down below. She nodded politely, now a bit curious as to what sort of being lay inside the one. After Brox, she almost expected it to be another orc, but Captain Shadowsong’s reaction to Brox made that assumption inaccurate.

“Here he is.”

The priestess had expected something huge and warlike, but the figure within was no taller than the average night elf. He was also thinner than most. Underneath the hood of his rather plain robes she noted a gaunt face very much akin to one of her own, but pale, almost ghostly, and with eyes less pronounced. Judging by the shape of his hood, his ears were also smaller.

“He looks like one of us…but not,” she remarked.

“Like a ghost of one of us,” the captain corrected.

But Brox moved forward, almost seeming hypnotized by the unsettling figure. “Elf?”

“Perhaps…” remarked the prisoner in a voice much more deep and commanding than his appearance let on. He seemed equally interested in Brox. “And what is an orc doing here?”

He knew what her companion was. Tyrande found that extremely interesting, especially with so many strange visitors of late.

Then the prisoner coughed badly and her concern took over. She insisted that Captain Shadowsong open the door for her.

As she neared the mat on which he lay, the young priestess could not help but look into that face again. There was more to it than appearance alone indicated. She sensed a depth of wisdom and experience that literally shook her to the core. Somehow, Tyrande recognized that here was a very, very ancient being whose condition had nothing to do with his age.

“You are gifted,” he whispered. “I had hoped for that.”

“Wh-what ails you?”

He gave her a fatherly smile. “Nothing even your abilities can cure. I convinced the captain to find one such as you because time is running scarce.”

“You never told me to do any such thing!” Jarod Shadowsong protested. “I went by my own choice.”

“As you say…” but the prisoner’s eyes said otherwise to Tyrande. He then looked again at Brox. “Now you are something I did not calculate on, and that worries me. You should not be here.”

The orc grunted. “Other said so, too.”

“Other? What other?”

“The one with flame for hair, the one who said…” Here Brox paused and, after a surreptitious glance at the Guard captain, murmured, “The one who spoke of this as past.”

To Tyrande’s astonishment, the prisoner sat up. Captain Shadowsong started forward, his weapon already drawn, but the priestess waved him back.

“You saw Rhonin?”

“You know him?” asked Tyrande.

“We came here together…I thought him trapped…elsewhere.”

“In the glade of Cenarius,” she added.

He actually laughed. “Either chance, fate, or Nozdormu moves this matter forward, praise be! Yes, that place…but how do you know of it?”

“I’ve been there…with friends of mine.”

“Have you?” The gaunt face moved closer. “With friends?”

Tyrande was uncertain now what to make of him. He knew many things that most ordinary night elves did not, of that she was certain. “Before we go on…I would have a name from you.”

“Forgive my manners! You may call me…Krasus.”

Now Brox reacted. “Krasus! Rhonin spoke of you!” The orc actually went down on one knee. “Elder…I am Broxigar…this is the shaman, Tyrande.”

Krasus frowned. “Perhaps Rhonin spoke too much…and likely has inferred more.”

Her companion’s reaction settled one matter for the novice priestess. Rising she turned to the captain. “I would like to take him with me to the temple. I believe he could be better cared for there.”

“Out of the question! If he escapes—”

“You have my promise that he will not. Besides, you yourself said that it was essential he be well. After all, if he must face Lord Ravencrest—”

The Guard officer frowned. Tyrande smiled at him.

“Very well…but I’ll have to escort you there myself.”

“Of course.”

She turned to help Krasus rise, Brox coming from the prisoner’s other side. As Tyrande held him close, she noticed Krasus hide a satisfied smile.

“Something pleases you?”

“For the first time since my inopportune arrival, yes. There is hope, after all.”

He did not clarify and she did not ask him to do so. With their aid, he left the Guard headquarters. Tyrande realized that Krasus played no game in one regard; he was seriously weak. Even still, she sensed the authority within him.

With Jarod Shadowsong behind them, they returned to the temple. Once again, it took only the appearance of the orc to create a path for them.

Tyrande feared that the guards and senior priestesses would be another problem, but, like her, they seemed to innately sense Krasus’s prominence. The elder priestesses actually bowed toward him, although she suspected that they did not quite understand why.

“Elune has chosen well,” Krasus remarked as they neared the living quarters. “But then, I knew that when I saw you.”

His comment made her face darken, but not because of any attraction. Rather, Tyrande felt as if she had been given a compliment by one at least as significant as the high priestess herself.

She intended to bring him to a separate chamber, but without thinking instead walked into the one where she had been keeping Malfurion. At the last moment, Tyrande tried to halt.

“Is there trouble?” asked Krasus.

“No…only that this room is being used for a stricken friend of mine—”

But before she could get any farther, the cowled figure struggled away from her, pushing toward Malfurion’s prone form.

“Chance, fate, or Nozdormu, indeed!” he spat. “What ails him? Quickly!”

“I—” How to explain?

“He walked the Emerald Dream,” Brox responded. “He’s not come back, elder.”

“Not come back…where did he seek to go?”

The orc told him. Tyrande had thought Krasus’s face pale enough, but now it literally whitened. “Of all the places…but it makes bitter sense. If I had only known before I left there!”

“You were in Zin-Azshari?” Tyrande gasped.

“I was in what remained of the city, but I came here in search of your very friend.” He studied the still body. “And if, as you say, he has been like this for the past few nights, I may be much, much too late…for all of us.”