The Well of Eternity (13 page)

Looking to his brother, Malfurion muttered, “Now! Hurry!”

Illidan reached down, at the same time whispering under his breath. As he grasped the bars, his hands flared a bright yellow and the cage itself suddenly became framed in red energy. A slight hum arose.

Malfurion glanced anxiously at the sentries, but even this wondrous display passed unnoticed by them. He exhaled in relief, then watched as Illidan worked.

There were advantages to night elven sorcery and his brother had learned well how to wield it. The astonishing yellow glow surrounding his hands spread to the cage, rapidly enveloping the red. Sweat dripped from Illidan’s forehead as he pressed his spell, but he did not falter in the least.

At last, Illidan released his hold and fell back. Malfurion caught his brother before the latter could stumble into one of the sentries. Illidan’s hand continued to glow for a few seconds more. “You can open the cell now, Tyrande…”

Releasing Brox, she touched the door of the cage—which then immediately swung open almost of its own accord.

“The chains,” Malfurion reminded Illidan.

“Of course, brother. I’ve not forgotten.”

Squatting, Illidan reached for the orc’s manacles. Brox, however, did not respond at first, eyes narrowing warily at the sight of the male night elf. Tyrande had to take his hands and guide them to her companion.

With more muttered words, Malfurion’s brother touched each of the bonds at the lock. The manacles snapped open like small mouths eagerly waiting to be fed.

“No trouble whatsoever,” Illidan remarked with an extremely pleased smile.

The orc emerged slowly, his body stiff due to the cramped conditions of his cell. He curtly nodded his gratitude to Illidan, but looked to Tyrande for guidance.

“Broxigar, listen carefully. I want you to go with Malfurion. He’ll take you to a safe place. I’ll see you there later.”

This had been some cause of argument between Tyrande and Malfurion, the former wanting to see the orc to safety herself. Malfurion—with Illidan’s more-than-willing assistance—had finally convinced her that there would be trouble enough when Brox was discovered missing without Tyrande, who had been seen caring for him, also vanishing. It would not be hard for the Moon Guard to add the facts together.

“They’ll make the connection quickly,” Malfurion had insisted. “You were the only one to give him aid. That’s why you need to stay here. They’re less likely to think of me and even if they do, it’s doubtful that they’ll blame you, then. You are an initiate of Elune. That you know me is no crime with which they can label you.”

Although Tyrande had given in, she still did not like Malfurion taking on all the responsibility himself. True, he had been the one who had come up with this startling course of action, but it was she who had instigated everything in the first place simply by introducing Malfurion to the imprisoned orc.

Now the young priestess also asked the orc to have faith in one he did not know well. Brox studied Malfurion, then glared again at Illidan. “That one be with?”

Illidan curled his lip. “I just saved your hide, beast—”

“Enough, Illidan! He’s grateful!” To Brox, Tyrande answered, “Only Malfurion. He’ll take you to a place where no one will be able to find you! Please! You can trust me!”

Taking her hand in his huge fists, the brutish figure fell to one knee. “I trust in you, shaman.”

At that moment, Malfurion noticed one of the guards beginning to fidget.

“It’s starting to wear away!” he hissed. “Illidan! Take Tyrande and leave! Brox! Come!”

With astonishing speed and grace, the massive orc leapt to his feet and followed after the night elf. Malfurion did not look behind him, praying that his druidic spell would hold long enough. For Tyrande and his brother he had little fear. Their destination was Illidan’s quarters, only a short distance away. No one would suspect either of any duplicity.

For Malfurion and Brox, however, the matter was different. No one would mistake the orc for anything but what he was. The two had to escape the city as fast as possible.

But as they left the square and entered the winding streets of Suramar, the sound that Malfurion had feared most arose.

One of the guards had finally awakened. His shouts were quickly multiplied by those of his companions and, mere seconds later, the blare of a horn filled the air.

“This way!” he urged the orc. “I’ve mounts awaiting us!”

In truth, Malfurion need not have said anything, for the orc, despite his sturdy build, ran with at least as much swiftness as his rescuer. Had they been out in the wilderness, the night elf suspected Brox would have even outrun him.

Everywhere, horns sounded and voices cried out. Suramar had sprung to life…much too soon for Malfurion’s taste.

At last, the night elf spotted the corner for which he had been waiting. “Here! They’re just around here!”

But as they turned into the side street, Brox suddenly stumbled to a halt, the fearsome orc staring wide-eyed at the mounts Malfurion had secured.

The huge panthers were black, sinewy shadows. They snarled and hissed upon first sighting the newcomers, then calmed as Malfurion approached them. He patted each on the flank.

Brox shook his head. “We ride
these?”

“Of course! Now hurry!”

The orc hesitated, but then nearby shouts urged him forward. Brox took the reins given to him and watched as Malfurion showed how to mount up.

It took the former captive three tries to climb atop the huge cat, then another minute to learn how to sit. Malfurion kept glancing behind them, fearful that at any moment the soldiers—or, worse, the Moon Guard—would arrive. He had not given any consideration to the fact that Brox might not know how to ride a night saber. What other beast could the orc have expected?

Adjusting his position one last time, Brox reluctantly nodded. Taking a deep breath, Malfurion urged his mount onward, Brox following as best he could.

In the space of but a few minutes, the night elf had forever changed his future. Such an audacious act might only serve to condemn him to Black Rook Hold, but Malfurion knew that he could not let this chance slip away. Somehow, Brox was linked to the disturbing work of the Highborne…and come what may, Malfurion had to find out how.

He had the horrible feeling that the fate of all Kalimdor hinged upon it.

Varo’then had little desire to face Lord Xavius, but that choice was not his. He had been commanded to appear before the counselor the moment his party arrived and commands given by Lord Xavius were to be obeyed with as much urgency as if they had been made by Queen Azshara herself…perhaps even more so.

The counselor would not like the captain’s report. How to explain that they had somehow been led astray, then attacked by a forest? Varo’then hoped to use the late, unlamented Koltharius as a scapegoat, but doubted that his lord would accept such a pathetic offering. Varo’then had been in charge and to Lord Xavius that would be all that mattered.

He did not have to ask where the counselor could be found, for when was his master anywhere but the chamber where the spellwork took place? In truth, Captain Varo’then preferred blades to sorcery and the chamber was not his favorite place. True, he also wielded a bit of power himself, but what Lord Xavius and the queen had in mind overwhelmed even him.

The guards came to attention as he approached, but although they reacted with the respect he was due, something in their manner seemed different…almost unsettling.

Almost as if they knew exactly what awaited him better than he did.

The door swung open before him. Eyes down in respect, Captain Varo’then entered the Highborne sanctum—and a nightmarish beast filled his view.

“By Elune!” Acting instinctively, he drew his curved blade. The hellish creature howled, two menacing tentacles above its muscled form groping eagerly toward him. The captain doubted his chances against such a monstrosity, but he would fight it as best he could.

But then a hissing voice that chilled Varo’then’s bones to the marrow uttered something in a language unknown. A fearsome whip snapped at the beast’s hunched back.

Cringing, the demonic hound retreated, leaving Varo’then to gape at the one who had summoned it away.

“His name is Hakkar,” Lord Xavius remarked pleasantly, appearing from the side. “The felbeasts are entirely under his control. The great one has sent him to help open the way…”

“ ‘G-great one,’ my lord?”

To the captain’s dismay, the counselor placed an almost fatherly arm around his shoulder, guiding Varo’then to the fiery sphere over the pattern. Something about the sphere looked different, giving the night elf the horrible sensation that if he stood close enough, it would devour him body and soul.

“It’s all right, my good captain. Nothing to fear…”

He was going to be punished for his failure. If so, at least Varo’then would make a declaration of his mistakes beforehand, so that he would not lose more face. “My Lord Xavius, the captives were lost! The forest turned against us—”

But the counselor only smiled. “You will be given the opportunity to redeem yourself in good time, captain. First, you must understand the glorious truth…”

“My lord, I don’t—”

He got no further, his eyes snared.

“You understand now,” Xavius remarked, his false eyes narrowed in satisfaction.

Varo’then sensed the god, sensed how the wondrous presence peeled away every layer that was the captain. The god within the fiery sphere looked into the deepest depths of Varo’then…and radiated a pleasure with what he found there.

You, too, will serve me well
…

And Varo’then fell to one knee, honoring the one who honored him so.

“He will be coming to us soon, captain,” Lord Xavius explained as the soldier rose. “But so magnificent is he that the way must be strengthened in order to accept his overwhelming presence! He has sent this noble guardian to open the path for others of his host, others who will in turn guide our efforts in strengthening the vortex…and bringing about the fruition of all of our dreams!”

Varo’then nodded, feeling both pleased and ashamed. “My lord, my failure to capture those strangers I found near the site of the disruption—”

He was interrupted by the hissing voice of Hakkar “Your failure isss moot. They will be taken…the great one isss mossst interested in what Lord Xavius hasss told him about this—
disssruption
—and their posssible connection to it!”

“But how will you find them? That forest is the realm of the demigod, Cenarius! I’m sure it was him!”

“Cenarius is only a woodland deity,” the counselor reminded him. “We have behind us now much, much more than that.”

Turning from the night elves, Hakkar snapped his whip at an open area before him. As the sinewy weapon cracked, a greenish flash of lightning struck the stone floor.

In the lightning’s wake, the area hit glowed brightly. The emerald flare increased rapidly in size and as it did, it began to coalesce.

The two felbeasts howled, their fearsome tentacles straining, but Hakkar kept them back.

A four-legged shape formed, growing larger and wider. It quickly took on an aspect already familiar to Captain Varo’then, which it verified with a bloodcurdling howl of its own.

The new hound shook itself once, then joined the others. As the mesmerized night elves watched, Hakkar repeated the step with his whip, summoning a fourth monstrous beast that lined up with the rest.

He then spun the lash around and around, creating a circular pattern that flared brighter and brighter until it created a
hole
in the air before him, a hole as tall as the fearsome figure and twice as wide.

Hakkar barked out a command in some dark tongue.

The hellish felbeasts leapt through the hole, vanishing. As the last disappeared, the hole itself dissipated.

“They know what they ssseek,” Hakkar informed his stunned companions. “And they will find what they ssseek…” The fiery being wound up the whip, his dark gaze turning to the night elves’ spellwork. “And now we shall begin our own tasssk…”

I
t had taken Krasus an entire day to realize that he and

Rhonin were being observed.

It had taken him a half day more to come to the conclusion that the observer had nothing to do with Cenarius.

Who it was with the ability to keep their presence hidden from the powerful demigod, the dragon mage could not say. One of Cenarius’s counterparts? Not likely. The lord of the forest would surely be too familiar with their tricks or any of the servants they might send. The night elves? Krasus dismissed that possibility immediately, as he did the chance that any other mortal race could be responsible for the secretive watcher.

That left him with only one logical conclusion…that the one who spied upon Cenarius and his two “guests” was of Krasus’s own people.

In his own time, the dragons sent out observers to keep track of those with the potential to change the world, either for good or ill. Humans, orcs—
every
race—had its spies. The dragons considered it a necessary evil; left to their own devices, the younger races had a tendency to create disaster. Even in this period of the past, there would be spies of some sort. He had no doubt that some kept a wary eye on Zin-Azshari…but, as was typical of Krasus’s kind, they would do nothing until absolutely certain that catastrophe was imminent.

In this case, by then it would be too late.

From Cenarius he had kept his secrets secure, but from one of his own, even those of the past, Krasus decided he needed to tell what he knew. If anyone could avert the potential ruin his and Rhonin’s presence might have already caused, it was the dragons…but only if they would listen.

He waited until the human had gone to sleep and the chances of Cenarius returning became remote. The needs of Krasus and Rhonin were attended to by silent, invisible spirits of the forest. Food materialized at appointed times and the refuse vanished once the pair were finished eating. Other matters of nature were handled in similar fashion. This allowed Cenarius to continue his mysterious discussions with his counterparts—which, with deities, could take days, weeks, months, or even longer—without worrying that the two would starve to death in his absence.

No matter what the cycle of the moon, the glade remained almost as lit as day. Once satisfied that Rhonin slept deeply enough, Krasus quietly rose and headed toward the barrier of flowers.

Even at night, they immediately fixed on him. Moving as close as he could without stirring them, the dragon mage peered out at the forest beyond, studying the dark trees. He knew better than any the secrets of stealth used by his kind, knew them better than even a demigod could. What Cenarius might have missed, Krasus would find.

At first, the trees all looked the same. He studied each in turn, then did so a second time, still with no results. His body cried out for rest, but Krasus refused to let his unnatural weakness take control. If he gave in once, he feared he would never recover.

His gaze suddenly stopped on a towering oak with a particularly thick trunk.

Eyeing it sharply, the weary spellcaster mentally shielded his thoughts, then focused on the tree.

I know you…I know what you are, watcher…

Nothing happened. No reply came. Briefly Krasus wondered if he had erred, but centuries of experience insisted otherwise.

He tried again.
I know you…cloaked as part of the tree, you watch us and the lord of the forest. You wonder who we are, why we are here.

Krasus felt a presence stir, however slightly. The observer was uncomfortable with this sudden intrusion in his thoughts, and not yet willing to declare himself.

There is much that I can tell you that I could not tell the lord of the forest…but I would speak with more than the trunk of a tree…

You risk us both,
a somewhat arrogant mind finally responded.
The demigod could be watching us in turn…

The dragon mage hid his pleasure at garnering an answer.
You know as well as I that he is not here…and you can cloak us from the knowledge of any other onlookers…

For a moment, nothing happened. Krasus wondered if he had pushed too far…

Part of the trunk suddenly tore away, assuming as it separated a humanoid figure of ridged bark. As the tall shape approached, the bark faded away, transforming to long, flowing garments and a slim face shadowed to obscurity by a spell with which Krasus himself was long familiar.

In robes the color of the tree, the all-but-faceless figure paused on the outer perimeter of the magical glade. Hidden eyes surveyed Krasus from head to foot and although the imprisoned mage could not read any expression, he was certain of the other’s frustration.

“Who are you?” the watcher quietly asked.

“A kindred spirit, you might say.”

This was met with some disbelief. “You do not know at all what you suggest…”

“I know exactly what I suggest,” Krasus returned strongly.

“I know it as well as I do that she who is called Alexstrasza is the Queen of Life, he who is called Nozdormu is Time itself, Ysera is She of the Dreaming, and Malygos is Magic incarnate…”

The figure digested the names, then, almost as an afterthought commented, “You did not mention one.”

Biting back a gasp, Krasus nodded. “And Neltharion is the earth and rock itself, the Warder of the land.”

“Such names are known by few outside my kind, but they
are
known by a few. By what name might I know you, that I should think you kindred?”

“I am known as…Korialstrasz.”

The other leaned back. “I could not fail to know that name, not when it belongs to a consort of the Queen of Life, but something is amiss. I have observed everything since your capture and you act like none of my kind. Cenarius is powerful, very much so, but he should not so readily hold you as his hostage, not the one called Korialstrasz…”

“I have been injured badly.” Krasus waved that away.

“Time is of the essence! I must reach Alexstrasza and tell her what I know! Can you take me to her?”

“Just like that? You do have the arrogance of a dragon! Why should I risk for all dragons the umbrage of the woodland deity on your questionable identity alone? He will know from now on that he is observed and will act accordingly.”

“Because the potential threat to the world—our world— is more important than an insult to the dignity of a demigod.” Taking a deep breath, the dragon mage added, “And if you only will permit, I will reveal to you what I mean…”

“I do not know if I trust you,” the darkened watcher said, cocking his head to one side. “But in your condition, I do not think I have much to fear from you, either. If you know how…then show me what colors your words with such anxiety.”

Krasus refrained from any retort, despite his growing dislike for this other dragon. “If you are ready…”

“Do it.”

Their minds touched…and Krasus unveiled the truth.

Under the rush of intense images, the other dragon stumbled back. The shadow spell around his face momentarily lost cohesion, revealing a peculiar reptilian and elven combination locked in an expression of total disbelief.

But the shadows returned as quickly as they had dissipated. Still obviously digesting what he had been shown, the watcher nonetheless recovered some of his composure. “This is all impossible…”

“Probable, I would say.”

“These are pure figments of your creation!”

“Would that they were,” Krasus remarked sadly. “You see now why I must speak with our queen?”

His counterpart shook his head. “What you are asking is—”

The two dragons froze, both sensing simultaneously the nearing presence of an overwhelming force.

Cenarius. The demigod had made an unexpected return.

Immediately the watcher began to retreat. Krasus, fearful that his one chance might be lost, reached out. “No. You cannot afford to ignore this! I must see Alexstrasza!”

His arm passed over the flowers. The blossoms reacted, immediately opening wide and spraying him with their magical dust.

Krasus’s world swam. He teetered forward, falling into their midst.

Strong arms suddenly caught him. He heard a quiet hiss of anxiety and knew that the other dragon had taken hold of him.

“I am a fool for doing thisss!” the other gasped.

Krasus gave silent thanks for the watcher’s decision, until a sudden realization struck the collapsing mage. He tried to say something, but his mouth would not work.

And as he blacked out, his last thoughts were no longer of gratitude to the other dragon for finally taking him with him…but rather fury with himself for not having had the chance to make certain that
Rhonin
would be included in the escape.

The panthers darted through the thick forest, Brox’s racing with such ferocity that it was all the hapless orc could do to keep seated. Although he was used to riding the huge wolves raised by his own people, the cat’s movements differed in subtle ways that constantly left the orc anxious.

Just within sight ahead, the shadowed form of Malfurion bent low over his own beast, urging it this direction or that. Brox was glad that his rescuer had a path in mind, but he hoped that the arduous journey would not take too much longer.

Soon it would be sunrise. The orc had thought this a bad thing, for then they would be visible from a greater distance, but Malfurion had indicated that the coming of day was to their benefit. If the Moon Guard pursued them, the night elven sorcerers’ powers would be weaker once the darkness faded.

Of course, there would still be soldiers with which to deal.

Behind him, Brox heard the growing sounds of pursuit. Horns, distant shouts, the occasional snarl of another panther. He had assumed that Malfurion had more of a plan than simply hoping to outpace the other riders, but apparently that was not the case. His rescuer was no warrior, simply a soul who had sought to do the right thing.

The black of night began to give way to gray, but a murky, foggy gray—a morning mist. The orc welcomed the unexpected mist, however temporary it would be, but hoped that his mount would not lose Malfurion’s in it.

Vague shapes appeared and disappeared around him. Now and then, Brox thought he made out movement. His hand ached for his trusted ax, still in the custody of the night elves. Malfurion had provided him with no weapon, perhaps a wary precaution on the former’s part.

The horns sounded again, this time much closer. The veteran warrior snarled.

Malfurion vanished into the fog. Brox straightened, trying to make out his companion and fearing that his own animal would now run off in an entirely different direction.

The panther suddenly twisted as it adjusted its path to avoid a massive rock. The orc, caught unaware, lost his balance.

With a grunt of dismay, Brox slipped off the fleet cat, tumbling onto the hard, uneven ground and rolling headlong into a thick bush.

Trained reflexes took command. Brox shifted into a crouch, coming up ready to remount. Unfortunately, his cat, oblivious to his misfortune, continued on, disappearing into the mist.

And the sounds of pursuit grew louder yet.

Immediately Brox sought out something,
anything,
that he could use as a weapon. He picked up a fallen branch, only to have it crumble in his beefy hands. The only rocks were either too small to be of use or so huge as to be unmanageable.

Something large rustled the shrubbery to his left.

The orc braced himself. If a soldier, he had a fair chance. If one of the Moon Guard, the odds were distinctly stacked against Brox, but he would go down fighting.

A huge, panting, four-legged form burst from the fogenshrouded forest.

Shock nearly did Brox in, for what leapt at him was no panther. It howled something like a wolf or dog, but only vaguely resembled either. At the shoulder, it stood about as tall as him and from its back stretched two foul, leathery tentacles. The mouth was filled with row upon row of savage fangs. Thick, greenish saliva dripped from its huge, hungry maw.

Monstrous memories filled his thoughts. He had seen such horrors, even if he himself had never fought one. They had run ahead of the other demons, pack upon pack of slavering, sinister monsters.

Felbeasts…the forerunners of the
Burning Legion.

Brox awoke from his renewed nightmares just before the felbeast had him. He threw himself forward, under the huge creature. The felbeast tried to snag him with its claws, but momentum worked against it. The massive beast stumbled to a quick halt and looked back at its elusive prey.

The orc struck it on the nose with his fist.

For most races, such an assault would likely result in nothing save possibly the loss of the hand, but Brox was not only an orc, he was a swift and powerful one. Not only did he strike before the felbeast could react, but he did so with the full fury and might of the strongest of his kind.

The blow broke the demonic hound’s nose. The beast stumbled and a bloodcurdling whine escaped it. Thick, dark green fluid dripped from its wound.

His hand pounding with pain, Brox kept his gaze on his adversary’s own. One did not let any animal, especially one so hellish as this, see any sign of retreat or fear. Only by fac ing it did the orc have any chance, however minute, of survival.

Then, from out of the fog in which it had disappeared, Brox’s mount came charging. The cat’s cry made the felbeast turn, all interest in the orc forgotten. The two behemoths collided in a fury of claws and teeth.

Knowing that he could do nothing for the panther, Brox started to back away. However, he had managed only a few steps when the low, steady sound of heavy breathing from behind him filled his ears. With slow, very cautious movements, the orc glanced over his shoulder.

A short distance away, a second felbeast poised itself to leap on Brox.

With no other option, the frustrated warrior finally ran.

The second demon gave chase, howling as it threw itself toward its quarry. The two combatants ignored it, caught up in their own struggle. Already the panther had suffered two savage wounds on its torso. Brox gave silent thanks to the creature for even this momentary rescue, then concerned himself with trying to elude his other pursuer in the enshrouded forest.