The Well of Eternity (26 page)

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.”