The Well of Eternity

9

They were dying all around him.

Everywhere he looked, Brox saw his comrades dying. Garno, with whom he had grown up, who was practically a brother, fell next, his body hacked to pieces by the screaming blade of a towering, fiery form with a hellish, horned face full of jagged teeth. The demon itself was slain moments later by Brox, who leapt upon it and, with a cry that made even the fearsome creature hesitate, cleaved Garno’s killer in two despite its blazing armor.

But the Legion kept coming and the orcs grew fewer. Barely a handful of defenders remained, yet every minute another perished in the onslaught.

Thrall had commanded that the way be blocked, that the Legion would not break through. Help was being gathered, but the Horde needed time. They needed Brox and his fellows.

But there were fewer and fewer. Duun suddenly dropped, his head bouncing along the blood-soaked ground several seconds before his torso collapsed in a heap. Fezhar already lay dead, his remains all but unrecognizable. He had been enveloped in a wave of unnatural green flame belched by one of the demons, flame that had not so much burnt his body, but dissolved it.

Again and again, Brox’s sturdy ax laid waste to his horrific foes, never seemingly the same kind of creature twice. Yet, whenever he wiped the sweat from his brow and stared ahead, all he saw were more.

And more, and more…

Now, only he stood against them. Stood against a shrieking, hungry sea of monsters hell-bent on the destruction of everything.

And as they fell upon the lone survivor—Brox awoke.

The orc shivered in his cage, but not from cold. After more than a thousand repetitions, he would have thought himself immune to the terrors his subconscious resurrected. Yet, each time the nightmares came, they did so with new intensity, new pain.

New guilt.

Brox should have died then. He should have died with his comrades. They had given the ultimate sacrifice for the Horde, but he had survived, had lived on. It was not right.

I am a coward…he thought once more. If I had fought harder, I’d be with them.

But even though he had told this to Thrall, the Warchief had shook his head and said, “No one fought harder, my old friend. The scars are there, the scouts saw you battle as they approached. You did your comrades, your people, as good a service as those who perished…”

Brox had accepted Thrall’s gratitude, but never the Horde leader’s words.

Now here he was, penned up like a pig waiting to be slaughtered for these arrogant creatures. They stared at him as if he had grown two heads and marveled at his ugliness. Only the young female, the shaman, had shown him respect and care.

In her he sensed the power that his own people talked about, the old way of magic. She had healed the fiery wound that her friend had caused him with but a prayer to the moon. Truly she was gifted and Brox felt honored that he had been given her blessing.

Not that it would matter in the long run. The orc had no doubt that his captors would soon decide how to execute him. What they had learned from him so far would avail them nothing. He had refused to give them any definitive information concerning his people, especially their location. True, he did not quite know himself how to reach his home, but it was better to assume that anything said concerning that might be hint enough for the night elves. Unlike those night elves who had allied themselves with the orcs, these had only contempt for outsiders…and thus were a threat to the Horde.

Brox rolled over as best as his bonds allowed. Another night and he would likely be dead, but not in the manner of his choosing. There would be no glorious battle, no epic song by which to remember him…

“Great spirits,” he muttered. “Hear this unworthy one. Grant me one last struggle, one last cause. Let me be worthy…”

Brox stared at the sky, continuing to pray silently. But unlike the young priestess, he doubted that whatever powers watched over the world would listen to a lowly creature such as him.

His fate was in the night elves’ hands.

What brought Malfurion into Suramar, he could not quite say. For three nights he had sat alone in his home, meditating on all Cenarius had told him, on all he himself had witnessed in the Emerald Dream. Three nights and no answers to his growing concerns. He had no doubts that the spellwork continued in Zin-Azshari and that the situation would only grow more desperate the longer no one acted.

But no one else even seemed to notice any problem.

Perhaps, Malfurion finally decided, he had journeyed to Suramar simply to find some other voice, some other mind, with which to discuss his inner dilemma. For that he had chosen to seek out Tyrande, though, not his twin. She gave more care to her thoughts, whereas Illidan had a tendency to leap into action regardless of whether or not he had hatched any plan.

Yes, Tyrande would be good to talk with…and just to see.

Yet, as he headed in the direction of the temple of Elune, a large contingent of riders suddenly bore down from the other direction. Edging to the side of the street, Malfurion watched as several soldiers in gray-green armor rushed by on their sleek, well-groomed panthers. Held high near the front of the party was a square banner of rich purple with a black avian form at the center.

The banner of Lord Kur’talos Ravencrest.

The elven commander rode at the forefront, his mount larger, sleeker, and clearly the dominant female of the pack. Ravencrest himself was tall, lanky, and quite regal. He rode as if nothing would deter him from his duty, whatever that might be. A billowing cloak of gold trailed behind him and his high, red-crested helm was marked by the very symbol of his name.

Avian also best described his features, long, narrow, his nose a downward beak. His tufted beard and stern eyes gave him an appearance of both wisdom and might. Outside of the Highborne, Ravencrest was considered one of those with the most influence with the queen, who in the past had often taken his counsel.

Malfurion cursed himself for not having thought of Ravencrest before, but now was not a good opportunity to speak with the noble. Ravencrest and his elite guard rode along as if on some mission of tremendous urgency, which made Malfurion immediately wonder if his fears about Zin-Azshari had already materialized. Yet, if that had been the case, he doubted that the rest of the city would have remained so calm; the forces at play near the capital surely presaged a disaster of monumental proportions, quickly affecting even Suramar.

As the riders vanished, Malfurion moved on. So many people clustered into one area made the young night elf feel a bit claustrophobic after his lengthy period in the forest. Still, Malfurion fought down the sensation, knowing that soon he would see Tyrande. As anxious as she made him feel of late, she also calmed his spirit more than anything else could, even his meditations.

He knew he would have to see his brother, too, but the idea did not appeal to him so much this night. It was Tyrande he wanted to see, with whom he wanted to spend some time. Illidan would still be there for him later.

Vaguely Malfurion noted a number of people crowded around something in the square, but his desire to see Tyrande made him quickly ignore the scene. He hoped that she would be readily available and that he would not have to go asking one acolyte after another. While the initiates of Elune were not bothered by friends and relatives desiring to speak with one of them, for some reason Malfurion felt more anxious about it than usual. It had little to do with his concerns about Zin-Azshari, either, and more to do with the odd discomfort he now felt whenever he was near his childhood friend.

As he entered the temple, a pair of guards surveyed him. Instead of robes, they wore gleaming, silver breast plates and kilts, the former marked by a crescent moon design at the center. Like all of Elune’s initiates, they were females and well versed in the arts of defense and battle. Tyrande herself was a better archer than either Malfurion or Illidan. The peaceful teachings of the Mother Moon did not preclude her most loyal children learning to protect themselves.

“May we help you, brother?” the foremost guard asked politely. She and the other stood at attention, their spears ready to turn on him at a moment’s warning.

“I come seeking the novice priestess, Tyrande. She and I are good friends. My name is—”

“Malfurion Stormrage,” finished the second, nearer to his age. She smiled. “Tyrande shares novice chambers with myself and two others. I have seen you with her on occasion.”

“Is it possible to speak with her?”

“If she is finished with her meditation, then she should be free this hour. I will have someone ask. You may wait in the Chamber of the Moon.”

The Chamber of the Moon was the official title of the roofless center of the temple, where many of the great rituals took place. When not in use by the high priestess, the temple encouraged everyone to make use of its tranquil environment.

Malfurion felt the touch of the Mother Moon the moment he entered the rectangular chamber. A garden of night-blooming flowers bordered the room and in the center stood a small dais where the high priestess spoke. The circular stone path leading to the dais was a mosaic pattern outlining the yearly cycles of the moon. Malfurion had noted from his past few visits that no matter where the moon floated in the heavens, its soft light completely illuminated the chamber.

He strode to the center and sat on one of the stone benches used by initiates and faithful. Although eased much by his surroundings, Malfurion’s patience quickly deteriorated as he waited for Tyrande. He also worried that she might be displeased by his sudden appearance. In the past, they had always met only after making prior arrangements. This was the first time that he had been so bold as to intrude without warning into her world.

“Malfurion…”

For a moment, all his concerns vanished as he looked up and saw Tyrande step into the moonlight. Her silver robes took on a mystical glow and in his eyes the Mother Moon could have looked no more glorious a sight. Tyrande’s hair hung loose, draping her exquisite face and ending just above her decolletage. The nighttime illumination emphasized her eyes and when the novice priestess smiled, she herself seemed to light up the Chamber of the Moon.

As Tyrande walked toward him, Malfurion belatedly rose to meet her. He was certain that his cheeks flushed, but there was nothing he could do about it save hope that Tyrande did not notice.

“Is all well with you?” the novice asked with sudden concern. “Has something happened?”

“I’m fine. I hope I haven’t intruded.”

Her smile returned, more arresting than ever. “You could never intrude upon me, Malfurion. In fact, I’m very glad you’ve come. I wanted to see you, too.”

If she had not noticed his darkening cheeks before, she certainly had to now. Nevertheless, Malfurion pressed on. “Tyrande, can we take a walk outside the temple?”

“If that makes you more comfortable, yes.”

As they departed the chamber, he began, “You know how I said I’ve had some reoccurring dreams…”

“I remember.”

“I spoke with Cenarius about them after you and Illidan departed and we took measures to try to understand why they keep repeating.”

Her tone grew concerned. “And did you discover anything?”

Malfurion nodded but held his tongue as they passed the two sentries and exited the temple. Not until the pair had started down the outer steps did he continue.

“I’ve progressed, Tyrande. Progressed far more than either you or Illidan realized. Cenarius showed me a path into the world of the mind itself…the Emerald Dream, he called it. But it was more than that. Through it…through it I was able to see the real world as I never had before…”

Tyrande’s gaze shifted to the small crowd near the center of the square. “And what did you see?”

He turned Tyrande to face him, needing her to understand utterly what he had discovered. “I saw Zin-Azshari…and the Well over which it looks.”

Leaving nothing out, Malfurion described the scene and the unsettling sensations he had experienced. He described his attempts to understand the truth and how his dream self had been repulsed after attempting to see exactly what had transpired with the Highborne and the queen.

Tyrande stared wordlessly at him, clearly as stunned as he had been by his ominous discovery. Finding her voice, she asked, “The queen? Azshara? Can you be certain?”

“Not entirely. I never actually saw much inside, but I can’t imagine how such madness could go on without her knowledge. True, Lord Xavius has great influence over her, but even she would never stand by blindly. I have to think that she knows the risks they take…but I don’t think any of them understand how terrible those risks are! The Well…if you could have felt what I had when I walked the Emerald Dream, Tyrande, you would’ve feared as much as I did.”

She put a hand on his arm in an attempt to comfort him. “I don’t question you, Malfurion, but we need to know more! To claim that Azshara would put her subjects in danger…you have to tread lightly on this.”

“I thought to approach Lord Ravencrest on the subject. He, too, has influence with her.”

“That might be wise…” Again her eyes moved to the center of the square.

Malfurion almost said something, but instead followed her gaze, wondering what could constantly drag her attention from his revelations. Most of those who had gathered had wandered away, finally revealing to him what he had paid no mind to earlier.

A guarded cage…and in it some creature not at all like a night elf.

“What is that?” he asked with a growing frown.

“What I wanted to talk with you about, Malfurion. His name is Broxigar…and he’s unlike any being I’ve ever heard or seen. I know your tale is important, but I want you to meet him now, as a favor for me.”

As Tyrande led him over, Malfurion noticed the guards become alert. To his surprise, after a moment of staring at his companion, they suddenly fell to one knee in homage.

“Welcome again, sister,” uttered one. “You honor us with your presence.”

Tyrande was clearly embarrassed by such respect. “Please! Please rise!” When they had obeyed, she asked, “What news on him?”

“Lord Ravencrest has assumed control of the situation,” answered another guard. “Even now he is out inspecting the location of the capture in search of more evidence and possible incursions, but when he returns, it’s said that he intends to interrogate the prisoner personally. That means that by tomorrow, it’s likely the creature will be transported to the cells of Black Rook Hold.” Black Rook Hold was the walled domain of Lord Ravencrest, a veritable fortress.

That the guard was so free with his information surprised Malfurion until he realized how awed the soldier was by Tyrande. True, she was an initiate of Elune, but something must have happened that made her of particular importance to these soldiers.

Tyrande looked perturbed by the revelation. “This interrogation…what will it entail?”

The guard could no longer look at her directly. “It entails whatever satisfies Lord Ravencrest, sister.”

The priestess did not press further. Her hand, which had lightly rested on Malfurion’s arm, momentarily squeezed tight.

“May we speak with him?”

“For only a moment, sister, but I must ask you to speak so that we can hear you. You understand.”

“I do.” Tyrande led Malfurion to the cell, where they both knelt.

Malfurion bit back a gasp of astonishment. Up close, the hulking figure inside truly amazed him. He had learned of many strange and unusual creatures during his time with Cenarius, but never had he been taught of such a being as this.

“Shaman…” it—he—muttered in a deep, rumbling…and pained voice.

Tyrande leaned closer, obviously concerned. “Broxigar…are you ill?”

“No, shaman…just remembering.” He did not explain further.

“Broxigar, I’ve brought a friend with me. I’d like you to meet him. His name is Malfurion.”

“If he’s your friend, shaman, I’m honored.”

Shifting nearer, Malfurion forced a smile. “Hello, Broxigar.”

“Broxigar is an orc, Malfurion.”

He nodded. “I’ve never heard of an orc before.”

The chained figure snorted. “I know of night elves. You fought beside us against the Legion…but alliances fade in peace, it seems.”

His words made no sense, yet they stirred within Malfurion a new anxiety. “How—how did you come to be here, Broxigar?”

“The shaman may call me Broxigar. To you…only Brox.” He exhaled, then stared intently at Tyrande. “Shaman…you asked about me the last time and I wouldn’t tell. I owe you, though. Now I tell you what I told these…” Brox made a derogatory gesture toward the nearby guards. “…and their masters, but you’ll believe me no more than they did…”

The orc’s tale began fantastic and grew even more so with each breath. He was careful not to speak of his people or where they lived, only that at the command of his Warchief, he and another had journeyed to the mountains to investigate an unsettling rumor. There they had found what the orc could only describe as a hole in the world…a hole that swallowed all matter as it moved relentlessly along.

It had swallowed Brox…and ripped his companion apart.

And Malfurion, listening, began to relive his own sense of dread. Each new revelation by the orc fueled that dread and more than once the night elf found himself thinking of the Well of Eternity and the power drawn from it by the Highborne. Certainly the magic of the Well could create such a horrific vortex…

But it could not be! Malfurion insisted to himself. Surely, this could have nothing to do with Zin-Azshari! They aren’t that mad! Are they?

But as Brox continued, as he spoke of the vortex and the things he had seen and heard as he tumbled through it, it be came harder and harder for Malfurion to deny the possibility of some link. Worse, without knowing how it struck the night elf, the orc’s expression mirrored what Malfurion had felt when his astral self had floated above the palace and the Well.

“A wrongness,” the orc said. “A thing that should not be,” he added at another stage. These and other descriptions struck Malfurion like well-honed daggers…

He did not even realize when Brox’s tale ended, his mind swept up by the truth of it all. Tyrande had to squeeze his arm to regain his attention.

“Are you all right, Malfurion? You look as if chilled…”

“I—I’m fine.” To Brox, he asked, “You told this—this story—to Lord Ravencrest?”

The orc looked uncertain, but the guard responded, “Aye, that’s what he told, almost word for word!” The soldier gave a harsh bark of a laugh. “And Lord Ravencrest believed it as little as you now! Come the morrow, he’ll pull the truth from this beast…and if he has friends nearby, they’ll find us not so tempting a target, eh?”

So an invasion by orcs was all that Ravencrest suspected. Malfurion felt disappointed. He doubted that the elven commander would see the possible link between his encounter and Brox’s tale. In fact, the more he thought of it, the more Malfurion doubted Ravencrest would believe him at all. Here Malfurion was, ready to tell the noble that their beloved queen might be involved in reckless spellwork with the potential to bring disaster upon her people. The young night elf barely believed it himself.

If only he had more proof.

The guard began shifting anxiously. “Sister…I’m afraid I must ask you and your companion to depart now. Our captain will be coming shortly. I really shouldn’t have—”

“Quite all right. I understand.”

As they started to rise, Brox moved to the front of the cell, one hand reaching toward Tyrande. “Shaman…one last blessing, if you could grant it.”

“Of course…”

As she knelt again, Malfurion desperately pondered what he should do. Properly, any suspicions should have been reported to Lord Ravencrest, but somehow that seemed a futile act.

If only he could consult with Cenarius, but by then the orc might be—

Cenarius…

Malfurion glanced at Tyrande and Brox, a fateful decision coming to mind.

Bidding the orc farewell, Tyrande rose again. Malfurion took her by the arm and the two thanked the guard for their time. The young priestess’s expression grew perturbed as they left, but Malfurion said nothing, his own thoughts still racing.

“There must be something that can be done,” she finally whispered.

“What do you mean?”

“Tomorrow they will take him to Black Rook Hold. Once in there, he—” Tyrande faltered. “I’ve every respect for Lord Ravencrest, but…”

Malfurion only nodded.

“I spoke with Mother Dejahna, the high priestess, but she says there is nothing we can do but pray for his spirit. She commended me for my sympathy, but suggested I let matters take their course.”

“Let them take their course…” Malfurion muttered, staring ahead. He gritted his teeth. It had to be done now. There could be no turning back, not if his fears had any merit. “Turn here,” he suddenly commanded, steering her down a side avenue. “We need to see Illidan.”

“Illidan? But why?”

Taking a deep breath and thinking of the orc and the Well, Malfurion simply replied, “Because we’re going to let matters take their own course…with our guidance, that is.”

Xavius stood before the fiery sphere, staring into the gaping hole in its midst in rapt attention. Deep, deep within, the eyes of his god stared back and the two communed.

I have heard your pleas…he said to the counselor. And know your dreams…a world cleansed of the impure, the imperfect. I would grant your desire, you the first among my faithful…

His gaze never wavering, Xavius knelt. The other Highborne continued working their sorcery, trying to expand upon what they had created.

“You will come to us, then?” the night elf responded, artificial eyes flaring in anticipation. “You will come to our world and make it so?”

The way is not yet open…it must be strengthened…for it must be able to withstand my glorious entrance…

The counselor nodded his understanding. So magnificent, so powerful a force as the god would be too much for the night elves’ feeble portal to accept. The god’s sheer presence would rip it asunder. It had to be made larger, stronger, and more permanent.

That his supposed deity could not perform this task himself, Xavius did not question. He was too caught up in the wonder of his new master.

“What can be done?” he pleaded. Try as they might, the Highborne sorcerers had reached the limits of their knowledge and skills, Xavius included.

I will send one of my lesser host to guide you…he may pass through to your world…with effort…but you must prepare yourselves for his coming…

Almost leaping to his feet, the night elven lord commanded, “Let no one stumble in his efforts! We are to be blessed with the presence of one of his favored!”

The Highborne redoubled their efforts, the chamber crackling with raw, fearsome energy drawn directly from the Well. Outside, the skies roared furiously and anyone looking upon the great black lake itself would have turned their gaze away in fear.

The fireball within the pattern swelled, the gap in the center opening like a wide, savage mouth. What sounded like a million voices wailing filled the chamber, music to Xavius’s ears.

But then one of the Highborne faltered. Fearing the worst, Xavius pushed himself into the circle, adding his own might and skill to the effort. He would not fail his god! He would not!

Yet, at first it seemed he and the rest would. The portal strained but did not grow. Xavius concentrated the full force of his determination upon it, finally forcing the gap wider.

And then…a wondrous, blinding light forced the assembled Highborne back. Despite their astonishment, though, they somehow kept up their efforts.

From deep within, an odd-looking form coalesced. At first it stood no more than a few inches tall, but as it swiftly moved toward them, it grew…and grew…and grew…

The strain took its toll on more of the spellcasters. Two collapsed, one barely breathing. The others teetered, yet, once again, under Xavius’s manic control, they regained power over the portal.

Suddenly, the eerie cries of hounds shook them all. Only the counselor, with his eyes unnatural, saw what first emerged from the gateway.

The beasts were the size of horses and had low-set horns that curled down and forward. Their scaly hides were colored a deathly crimson accented by savage splatterings of black and on their backs fluttered a crest of wild, shaggy brown fur. They were lean but muscular hunters, each three-toed paw ending in sharp claws more than half a foot long. Each creature had back legs slightly shorter than the front, but Xavius had no doubt as to the beasts’ speed and agility. Even their slightest movements suggested hunters well skilled in bringing down their prey.

Atop their backs thrust two long, whiplike, leathery tentacles that ended in tiny sucker mouths. The tentacles swayed back and forth, seeming to focus with eagerness on the assembled sorcerers.

The face most resembled some peculiar cross between a wolf and a reptile. From the long, savage jaws jutted scores of tall, sharp teeth. The eyes were narrow and completely white, but filled with a sinister cunning that implied these were no mere animals.

Then, from behind them stepped the towering figure of their master.

He wore body armor of molten steel and in his huge, gauntleted hand he wielded a whip that flashed lightning whenever used. His chest and shoulders, so much wider than the rest of his torso, dwarfed those of even the mightiest warrior. Wherever the armor did not hide his form, pure flame radiated from his scaled, fleshless, and unearthly body.

Set deep in the broad shoulders, the flaming visage peered down at the night elves. That it most resembled a brooding skull with huge, curled horns did nothing to dissuade the Highborne that here was a heavenly messenger sent to aid them in their dream of a perfect paradise.

“Know that I am the servant of your god…” he hissed, the flames that were his eyes flashing hot whenever he spoke. “Come to help you open the way for his host and his most glorious self!”

One of the beasts howled, but a snap of the whip sent lightning crackling over the creature, instantly silencing it.

“I am the Houndmaster…” the massive, skeletal knight continued, fiery gaze fixing most upon the kneeling counselor. “I am Hakkar…”