The Well of Eternity (29 page)

The world turned upside down.

* * *

Mannoroth felt the loss. Mannoroth felt the emptiness even before it happened.

The huge, bestial commander paused in the rear of the horde, turning his ugly, tusked head in the direction of the tower.

The tower that was no longer there.

“Noooooooo!”
he roared.

Rhonin felt it. He felt the sudden surge of power, the surge of strength. He suddenly imagined himself able to build worlds, take the stars from the heavens and rearrange them to his desire. He was invincible, omnipotent.

The spell sealing off the Well of Eternity had been destroyed.

Immediately he looked to Illidan, to see if the young night elf had sensed the same. Rhonin need not have feared, though, for Illidan clearly had experienced the same rush of strength as he had. In fact, not only did the Moon Guard all look strong and ready, but so did the
rest
of the defenders as well.

The Well and the night elves are one,
the wizard realized. Even those who could not cast spells were still tied to it to some extent. Its loss had stripped them in ways that they could never realize. Now, though, Rhonin saw in every figure, from Lord Ravencrest down to the lowliest soldier, a renewed confidence and determination. Truly they now thought themselves unbeatable by any force.

Even the Burning Legion.

Horns blared. The night elves gave a collective roar well matching anything emitted prior by the demons. The front lines of the Legion faltered, not at all certain what this abrupt change meant.

“Have at them!” shouted Ravencrest.

The defenders surged forward. Demons suddenly found themselves harried as never before. Felbeasts were slaughtered before they could make their way back to the horde. Tusked warriors dropped one after another as each time the night elves’ blades sank true. The encroaching Legion was stopped dead in its tracks.

Illidan led the Moon Guard against the invaders, continuing to guide their efforts through his own spells. The land itself rippled beneath the Burning Legion’s feet, tossing demons about as if they were nothing. Several of the winged Doomguard burst into flames as they darted overhead, becoming instead fiery missiles that added further mayhem to their own ranks.

Rhonin did not stay out of the battle, either. With the memories of all those who had died this day and all those who would perish in the future war in mind, he struck again and again at the ones responsible. An Eredar warlock who foolishly sought to match him was enveloped by his own robes, which twisted tightly until they snapped the demon in twain. From the wizard then came a punishing series of blue lightning bolts that methodically hunted down other spellcasters among the Legion, leaving behind only slight piles of ash to mark the former foes.

For the first time, true pandemonium broke out among the fearsome warriors. This was not the battle expected, the bloodshed desired. There was nothing here now save their own deaths, a prospect even the demons found daunting.

Their lines buckled. The night elves pushed forward.

“We have them now!” shouted Lord Ravencrest. “Give them no quarter!”

The defenders rallied further around his cry. Despite the imposing size of the invaders, the night elves advanced undaunted.

And Rhonin and Illidan continued to pave the way to victory. The wizard looked up, spying several of the savage Infernals plummeting toward the defenders. As ever, the fiery demons were rolled up into balls, dropping like boulders to create the most disastrous results.

For once, Rhonin made some use of Illidan’s tactics. With the Well from which to draw, he created a huge golden barrier in the sky, one which the Infernals could not avoid. The barrier was not simply a wall, however, for Rhonin had another purpose in mind. He shaped it according to those desires, curving it and forcing those demons who crashed into it to bounce instead in the direction he chose.

The very midst of their own army.

Even the bolts he had cast down upon the demons earlier could not have done as much devastation as the fearsome behemoths did now. More than two dozen Infernals struck the Legion’s center at various points, decimating the ranks and creating huge, smoking craters. The bodies of the enemy flew everywhere, crashing down upon others and multiplying the damage tenfold.

From far to his side, the wizard heard triumphant laughter. Illidan clapped his hands in honor of the human’s successful effort, then pointed at the harried enemy.

A part of the Burning Legion’s left flank suddenly floundered, many immediately sinking to their knees. The solid earth below them had become as soup and the heavy, armored forms of the demons could do nothing but plunge beneath its surface like stones. A few struggled, but, in the end, any who had the misfortune of being where Illidan had cast vanished.

With a wave of his hand, the young night elf resolidified the earth, erasing all trace of his victims. He then turned back to Rhonin and, with a grand flourish, bowed to the wizard.

Rhonin kept his expression set, only nodding again. If nothing else, Illidan surely kept the demons at bay.

At last, under such brutal assault, the Burning Legion did the only thing it could do—retreat en masse.

There was no horn, no call. The demons simply began to back away. They kept a semblance of order, but clearly it was all their commanders could do to maintain that much. Even still, they did not move fast enough to suit the defenders, who took full advantage of the victory.

The Moon Guard in particular savored the turn of events. They hunted the felbeasts especially, turning some into gnarled bits of wood, others into rodents. Several simply burst into flames as they ran—their tails between their legs—for the questionable safety of the Legion ranks.

Here and there, pockets of resistance remained, but those were quickly whittled down by the eager soldiers. Fel Guard lay everywhere. Rhonin had no doubt that each night elf thought about the countless dead the Burning Legion had already left in its wake. There had to have been many friends and loved ones among Zin-Azshari’s victims.

However, one cause for which the night elves continued to fight concerned the wizard. Even now, Ravencrest shouted her name, using it to further rally the troops.

“For Azshara! For the queen! We ride to her rescue!”

Rhonin had heard Malfurion’s suggestion that the queen was likely as complicit in the slaughter as most believed her counselor and the Highborne were and he suspected that to be the truth. The wizard could only keep telling himself that the truth would come out if and when they reached the palace.

Back and back the Burning Legion went, edging into the very borders of the ruined capital. They died in droves, they died by weapon or wizardry, but they
died.
The battle raged unceasingly through the darkness, the ground buried under the corpses of the fiendish invaders.

Perhaps it would have gone on, perhaps they could have taken the fight into Zin-Azshari itself and even reached the palace, but as day forced its will upon night, the defenders at last flagged. They had given their all in an effort well worth praise, but even Lord Ravencrest saw that to go on would put the night elves at more risk than they could afford. His expression reluctant, he nonetheless signaled the horns to sound the halt.

As the horns called, Illidan’s expression grew cross. He tried to make the Moon Guard follow him forward, but while some seemed eager enough, all clearly had spent themselves of their physical energy.

Rhonin, too, was exhausted. True, he could still cast spells of great destruction, but his body was covered in sweat and he felt faintness in his head if he moved too quickly. His concentration slipped more and more…

Illidan aside, the rest of the night elves knew that they could go no further—not in the daylight—but that did not take away from what they had accomplished. True, the threat had not been removed, but they now saw that the demons were limited. They could be slain. They could be driven back.

The commander quickly sought volunteers to ride out through the various parts of the night elf realm, their mission of two purposes. They were to rally those they found in order to create yet a vaster force, a multipronged defense with which to meet the next assault of the Burning Legion—for surely there would be one—and also to see the extent of the devastation elsewhere.

In addition to that effort, the noble also immediately set his personal sorcerer—Illidan—in charge of the Moon Guard already with them. There was some mild protest from those most senior among the survivors, but a simple show of power in the form of one last harsh explosion among the retreating demons quickly silenced the young spellcaster’s critics.

Pleased with his new status, Illidan sought out Rhonin to tell him. The wizard nodded politely, on the one hand wondering if he had ever been so enthusiastic when younger, and on the other worried about how Illidan’s new status would affect his personality. Illidan had greater potential yet than what had so far been revealed, but his recklessness was a trap that could create of him a danger in its own way as deadly as the Burning Legion. Rhonin vowed to keep an eye on his counterpart.

Left alone again, the one human among the night elves slowly surveyed the force that had been arrayed against the demons. Sunlight made their armor glitter, giving the host an epic appearance. They looked and acted as if they could defeat any enemy. Despite that, however, Rhonin remained aware that they needed a far greater force if they hoped to win the final struggle. History said that victory was ensured, but too many factors—himself included—now muddied the outcome. Worse, the Burning Legion was well aware of the magical might against them; they would be seeking the wizard and Illidan more now.

Rhonin had been the target of the demons and their allies in his own time. He did not look forward to repeating that situation.

And what of the one most responsible for this night’s success? Not Rhonin. Not Illidan. Not all the Moon Guard or Lord Ravencrest and his legions. None of them was the real reason for victory.

What,
the weary wizard thought as he gazed out at dark Zin-Azshari and the disorganized horde,
what has happened to Malfurion?

H
e lay as still as death, that image made all the worse by the fact that none of them could sense any trace of the link they had once had with him. Tyrande nestled Malfurion’s head in her lap, the soft grass underneath acting as the rest of his bed.

“Is he lost to us?” asked a perplexed Jarod Shadowsong. The captain had accompanied the group out to this location far in the woods, ostensibly to keep an eye on his prisoner, Krasus. He had not played a role in their spellwork, but had instead ended up acting as guard when the situation had changed. He had grown from reluctant addition to concerned companion even though he still understood little of what had taken place.

“No!” Tyrande snapped. In a more apologetic tone, she added, “He can’t be…”

“He does not smell dead,” rumbled Korialstrasz.

Jarod Shadowsong looked askance each time Korialstrasz spoke. He had yet to grow used to the presence of the red dragon. It might have amused Tyrande at one time, but not under the present circumstances. She herself had quickly come to accept the behemoth, especially since she sensed some hidden relationship between Korialstrasz and Krasus. They seemed almost like brothers or twins.

Thinking of twins made her gaze down at Malfurion again.

Krasus paced the area. He seemed much healthier now and the young priestess had noted that the effect had magnified when he had come within sight of the dragon. Unfortunately, that health did not help the pale figure now, for he appeared as worried as she did about Malfurion—even though Krasus had clearly never met him before seeing the night elf in the temple.

Brox knelt across from Tyrande, his ax placed next to his stricken friend. The orc’s head was buried in his chest and she could hear him muttering what sounded like a prayer.

“The area was charged with powerful magical forces,” murmured Krasus to himself. “It could have dispersed parts of his dream self to every corner of the world. He might be able to regather himself…but the odds of that…”

Captain Shadowsong looked around at the others. “Forgive this impertinent question, but did he at least accomplish what he hoped to?”

The cowled figure turned to him, expression flat. “He did do that at least. I pray it is enough.”

“Stop talking like that…” Tyrande insisted. She wiped a tear from her eye, then gazed up at the sunlit sky. Despite the brightness, Tyrande refused to look away. “Elune, Mother Moon, forgive this servant for disturbing your rest! I do not dare ask for him to be returned…but at least give us an answer as to his fate!”

But no glorious light shone down on Malfurion. The moon did not suddenly appear and speak to them.

“Perhaps it would be better if we brought him back to the temple,” suggested the Guard captain. “Maybe she can hear him better there…”

Tyrande did not bother to answer him.

Krasus paused in his pacing. He stared to the south, where the woods thickened. His eyes narrowed and he pursed his lips in frustration. “I know you are there.”

“And I now know what you are,” returned a booming voice.

The nearest trees suddenly melded together, forming a figure with a lower torso akin to that of a huge stag and a chest, arms, and face more like those of Tyrande and Jarod Shadowsong.

Fists tight, Cenarius moved slowly toward the band. He and Krasus matched gazes for a time, then both nodded in respect.

The forest lord walked over to where Tyrande held Malfurion. Brox respectfully stepped out of the way while the Guard captain stared open-mouthed from where he stood.

“Daughter of my dear Elune, your tears touch the heaven and the earth.”

“I cry for him, my lord…one you also loved.”

Cenarius nodded. His forelegs bent in a kneeling motion and he touched Malfurion’s forehead ever so gently. “He is a son to me…and so I am pleased that he has one like you who also holds him so near…”

“I—we’ve been friends since childhood.”

The forest lord chuckled, a sound that brought songbirds near and made a cool, refreshing breeze caress the cheeks of each in the party. “Yes, I heard your pleas to dear Elune, both the spoken and unspoken ones.”

Tyrande did not hide her embarrassment. “But all my entreaties have been for nothing.”

His expression turned to one of honest puzzlement. “Did you think that? Why would I come, then?”

The others froze. The novice priestess shook her head. “I don’t understand!”

“Because you are young still. Wait until you reach my age…” With that, Cenarius opened his left hand.

An emerald light rose from his open palm. It floated a few inches above as if orienting itself.

Rising, the demigod stepped back to observe his student. “I walked the Emerald Dream, seeking answers to our many terrible questions. I hunted through there looking for what could be done about these followers of death…” A gentle smile crossed his bearded visage. “…and imagine my surprise when I found one I knew drifting in the Emerald Dream…but in a very dazed and much confused state. Why, he didn’t even
know
himself, much less me!”

And as Cenarius finished, the light drifted over to Malfurion, sinking harmlessly into his head.

The night elf’s eyes opened.

“Malfurion!”

Tyrande’s voice was the first thing that registered with Malfurion and he quickly seized upon it, using it as a tether, a lifeline. He pulled himself from the abyss of unconsciousness toward a bright but comforting light.

And when he opened his eyes, it was to see Tyrande under the morning sun. Surprisingly, the daylight did not bother him and he even thought that it revealed to him a Tyrande so beautiful he could not at first believe it.

He almost told her, but then the presence of the others made him shut his feelings inside again. He settled for touching her hand, then acknowledging the others.

“The—the shield—” His voice sounded like that of a frog.

“Is it—”

“Gone,” replied a figure who was and was not a night elf. To Malfurion, surely this had to be Krasus. “For now, the Burning Legion has been held in check…at least in one place.”

Malfurion nodded. He knew that the war was not over, that his people still faced annihilation. Yet, that did not take away from the night’s triumph. If nothing else, there was still hope.

“We will fight them,” Tyrande promised. “We will save our world.”

“They can be beaten,” agreed Brox, brandishing proudly the weapon that the young druid had helped create. “This I know.”

Krasus remained pragmatic. “They can…but we will need more help. We will need the dragons.”

“You’ll need more than the dragons!” Cenarius bellowed.

“And I go now to see to that!” He stepped from the others, but gave Malfurion one last smile. “You’ve made me proud, my
thero’shan
…my honored student.”

“Thank you, shan’do.” He watched as the demigod melted back into the trees.

“Do we return to Suramar now?” asked a figure in a Guard officer’s uniform. Malfurion could not place him, but assumed the others had a reason for him being here.

“Yes,” said Krasus. “We return to Suramar.”

With Tyrande’s help, Malfurion rose. “But only for a short time. The portal through which the demons flowed was destroyed, but, unlike the shield, the Highborne can remake it easily. More will come, I’m afraid.”

Despite his wish otherwise, no one disagreed. Malfurion looked to the direction of Zin-Azshari. A terrible evil had come to his land, one that had to be stopped before it could raze all in its path. Malfurion had helped in great part to stop the Burning Legion’s initial advance and, for reasons he could not himself explain, he did not doubt that it would somehow fall to him again to assist in keeping the invading demons from destroying his beloved Kalimdor.

Malfurion only prayed that when that time came he would be found ready to face them…or else not only Kalimdor but the
entire
world risked obliteration.

CONTINUED IN

WAR OF THE ANCIENTS

BOOK TWO

THE DEMON SOUL