The Well of Eternity (4 page)

“When we have succeeded with our mission, I will return here and end this abomination,” Korialstrasz declared. In a softer tone, he added, “There are already too many abominations in this world.”

Rhonin did not answer him, instead taking one last glance down. It might have been a trick of his eyes, but he thought that he saw more of the ghouls emerging now that the dragon had left. In fact, it seemed to him that they gathered by the dozens, all of them looking up hungrily…at the wizard.

He tore his gaze away, actually happy to be on the journey to Kalimdor. Surely after a night such as this, whatever awaited the pair could hardly be worse.

Surely…

K
orialstrasz reached the shores of Kalimdor late in the day. He and Rhonin paused only to eat—the dragon imbibing in fare away from the wizard’s sight—and then set off again for the vast mountain chain that covered much of the western regions of the land. Korialstrasz flew with more and more urgency as they neared their goal. He had not told Rhonin that every now and then he attempted to contact Nozdormu…attempted and failed. Soon, however, that would not matter, for they would know firsthand what had so distressed the Aspect of Time.

“That peak!” Rhonin shouted. Although he had slept again, he hardly felt fresh. Nightmares concerning the sinister island had haunted his dreams. “I recognize that peak!”

The dragon nodded. It was the final landmark before their destination. Had he not seen it at the same time as his rider, he would have nonetheless sensed the wrongness in the very fabric of reality…and that meant something terrible indeed awaited them.

Despite that certainty, the leviathan only picked up his pace. There was no other choice. Whatever lay ahead, the only ones who might stop it were him and the tiny human figure he carried.

* * *

But while the sharp eyes of man and dragon had sighted their destination, they failed to notice eyes that had sighted them in turn.

“A red dragon…” grumbled the first orc. “A red dragon with a rider…”

“One of us, Brox?” asked the second. “Another orc?”

Brox snorted at his companion. The other orc was young, too young to have been much use in the war against the Legion, and he certainly would not have remembered when it had been orcs, not humans, who had ridden such beasts. Gaskal only knew the stories, the legends. “Gaskal, you fool, the only way a dragon’d carry an orc these days would be in his belly!”

Gaskal shrugged, unconcerned. He looked every inch the proud orc warrior—tall and muscular with a rough, greenish hide and two good-sized tusks thrusting upward from his broad, lower jaw. He had the squat nose and thick, bushy brow of an orc and a mane of dark hair trailing down between his shoulders. In one meaty hand Gaskal hefted a huge war ax while with the other he clutched the strap of his goatskin backpack. Like Brox, he was clad in a thick, fur cloak under which he wore a leather kilt and sandals wrapped in cloth to preserve heat. A hardy race, orcs could survive any element, but high in the mountains even they required more warmth.

Brox, too, was a proud warrior, but time had beaten at him as no other enemy could. He stood several inches shorter than Gaskal, part of that due to a slight but permanent stoop. The veteran warrior’s mane had thinned and started going gray. Scars and lines of age had ravaged his wide, bullish visage, and unlike his youthful companion, the constant expression of eagerness had given way to thoughtful distrust and weariness.

Hefting his well-worn war hammer, Brox trudged through the deep snow. “They’re heading for the same place as us.”

“How’d you know that?”

“Where else would they be going here?”

Finding no argument, Gaskal quieted, giving Brox the chance to think about the reason that had sent both of them to this desolate place.

He had not been there when the old shaman had come to Thrall seeking an immediate audience, but he had heard the details. Naturally, Thrall had acquiesced, for he very much followed the old ways and considered Kalthar a sage advisor. If Kalthar needed to see him immediately, it could only be for a very good reason.

Or a very bad one.

* * *

With the aid of two of Thrall’s guards, withered Kalthar entered and took a seat before the towering Warchief. Out of respect for the elder, Thrall sat on the floor, enabling the eyes of both to meet at the same level. Across Thrall’s folded legs lay the massive, square-headed Doomhammer, bane of the Horde’s enemies for generations.

The new Warchief of the orcs was broad-shouldered, muscular, and, for his position, relatively young. No one doubted Thrall’s ability to rule, however. He had taken the orcs from the internment camps and given them back their honor and pride. He had made the pact with the humans which brought about the chance for the Horde to begin life anew. The people already sang songs of him that would be passed down generation after generation.

Clad in thick, ebony plate armor etched in bronze—handed down to him along with the huge weapon by his predecessor, the legendary Orgrim Doomhammer—the greatest of warriors bent his head low and humbly asked, “How may I assist you who honor my presence, great one?”

“Only by listening,” Kalthar returned. “And by
truly
listening.”

The strong-jawed Warchief leaned forward, his startling and so very rare blue eyes—considered a portent of destiny by his people——narrowed in anticipation. In his journey from slave and gladiator to ruler, Thrall had studied the path of the shaman, even mastering some of the skills. He more than most understood that when Kalthar talked so, he did with good reason.

And so the shaman told Thrall of the vision of the funnel and how time seemed a plaything to it. He told him of the voices and their warnings, told him about the wrongness he had felt.

Told Thrall what he feared would happen if the situation was left unchecked.

When Kalthar finished, the Warchief leaned back. Around his throat he wore a single medallion upon which had been inscribed in gold an ax and hammer. His eyes revealed the quick wit and intelligence that marked him as a capable leader. When he moved, he moved not as a brutish orc might, but with a grace and poise more akin to a human or an elf.

“This smells of magic,” he rumbled. “Big magic. Something for wizards…maybe.”

“They may know already,” returned Kalthar. “But we cannot afford to wait for them, great Warchief.”

Thrall understood. “You would have me send someone to this place you saw?”

“It would seem most prudent. At least so we may know what we face.”

The Warchief rubbed his chin. “I think I know who. A good warrior.” He looked to the guards. “Brox! Get me Brox!”

And so Brox had been summoned and told his mission. Thrall respected Brox highly, for the older warrior had been a hero of the last war, the only survivor of a band of brave fighters holding a critical pass against the demons. With his war hammer Brox himself had caved in the skulls of more than a dozen of the fiery foes. His last comrade had died cleaved in two just as reinforcements had arrived to save the day. Scarred, covered in blood, and standing alone amid the carnage, Brox had appeared to the newcomers as a vision out of the old tales of his race. His name became almost as honored as that of Thrall.

But it was more than the veteran’s name that garnered the respect of the Warchief and made him Thrall’s choice. Thrall knew that Brox was like him, a warrior who fought with his head as well as his arm. The orc leader could not send an army into the mountains. He needed to trust the search to one or two skilled fighters who could then report their findings to him.

Gaskal was chosen to accompany Brox because of his swiftness and absolute obedience to orders. The younger orc was part of the new generation that would grow up in relative peace with the other races. Brox was glad to have the able fighter at his side.

The shaman had so perfectly described the route through the mountains that the pair were well ahead of the estimated time the trek should have taken. By Brox’s reckoning, their goal lay just beyond the next ridge…exactly where the dragon and rider had vanished.

Brox’s grip on his hammer tightened. The orcs had agreed to peace, but he and Gaskal would fight if need be, even if it meant their certain deaths.

The older warrior forced away the grim smile that nearly played across his face at the last thought. Yes, he would be willing to fight to the death. What Thrall had not known when he summoned the war hero to him had been that Brox suffered from terrible guilt, guilt that had eaten at his soul since that day in the pass.

They had all perished, all but Brox, and he could not understand that. He felt guilty for being alive, for not dying valiantly with his comrades. To him, his still being alive was a matter of shame, of failure to give his all as they had done. Since that time, he had waited and hoped for some opportunity to redeem himself. Redeem himself…and die.

Now, perhaps, the fates had granted him that.

“Get a move on!” he ordered Gaskal. “We can reach ’em before they get settled in!” Now he allowed himself a wide grin, one that his companion would read as typical orc enthusiasm. “And if they give us any trouble…we’ll make ’em think the entire Horde is on the rampage again!”

If the island upon which they had landed seemed a dire place, the mountain pass in which they now descended simply felt
wrong.
That was the best word Rhonin could use to describe the sensations flowing through him. Whatever they sought…it should not be. It was as if the very fabric of reality had made some terrible error…

The intensity of the feeling was such that the wizard, who had faced every conceivable nightmare, wanted the dragon to turn back. He said nothing, though, recalling how he had already revealed his uncertainties on the island. Korialstrasz might already regret summoning him.

The crimson behemoth arched his wings as he dropped the final distance. His massive paws sank into the snow as he sought a stable landing area.

Rhonin clutched the dragon’s neck tightly. He felt every vibration and hoped his grip would last. His pack bounced against his back, pummeling him.

At last, Korialstrasz came to a halt. The reptilian visage turned the wizard’s way. “Are you well?”

“As well—as well as I could be!” gasped Rhonin. He had made dragon flights before, but not for so long.

Either Korialstrasz knew his passenger was still weary or the dragon himself also needed rest after such a monumental trek. “We shall remain here for a few hours. Gather our strength. I sense no change in the emanations I feel. We should have the time to recoup. It would be the wisest choice.”

“I won’t be arguing with you,” Rhonin answered, sliding off.

The wind blew harshly through the mountains and the high peaks left much shadow, but with the aid of some magic and an overhang, the wizard managed to keep warm enough. While he tried to stretch the kinks out of his body, Korialstrasz strode along the pass, scouting the area. The behemoth vanished some distance ahead as the path curved.

Hood draping his head, Rhonin dozed. This time, his thoughts filled with good images…true images of Vereesa and the upcoming birth. The wizard smiled, thinking of his return.

He woke at the sound of approach. To Rhonin’s surprise, it was not the dragon Korialstrasz who returned to him, but rather the cowled, robed figure of Krasus.

In response to the human’s widening eyes, the dragon mage explained, “There are several unstable areas nearby. This form is less likely to cause them to collapse. I can always transform again should the need arise.”

“Did you find anything?”

The not-quite-elven face pursed. “I sense the Aspect of Time. He is here and yet he is not. I am disturbed by that.”

“Should we start—”

But before Rhonin could finish, a horrific yowl echoed harshly through the mountain chain. The sound set every nerve of the wizard on edge. Even Krasus looked perturbed.

“What was that?” asked Rhonin.

“I do not know.” The dragon mage drew himself up. “We should move on. Our goal lies not far away.”

“We’re not flying?”

“I sense that what we seek lies within a narrow passage between the next mountains. A dragon would not fit, but two small travelers would.”

With Krasus leading, the pair headed northeast. Rhonin’s companion appeared unbothered by the cold, though the human had to enhance the protective spell on his clothes. Even then, he felt the chill of the land upon his face and fingers.

Before long, they came upon the beginning of the passage Krasus had mentioned. Rhonin saw now what the other meant. The passage was little more than a cramped corridor. Half a dozen men could walk side-by-side through it without feeling constricted, but a dragon attempting to enter would have barely been able to get its head in, much less its gargantuan body. The high, steep sides also created even thicker shadows, making Rhonin wonder if the two might need to create some sort of illumination along the way.

Krasus pressed on without hesitation, certain of their path. He moved faster and faster, almost as if possessed.

The wind howled even harder through the natural corridor, its intensity building as they journeyed. Only human, Rhonin had to struggle to keep pace with his former patron.

“Are we almost there?” he finally called.

“Soon. It lies only—” Krasus paused.

“What is it?”

The dragon mage focused inwardly, frowning. “It is not—it is not exactly where it should be anymore.”

“It
moved?”

“That would be my assumption.”

“Is it supposed to do that?” the fiery-haired wizard asked, squinting down the dark path ahead.

“You are under the misconception that I know perfectly what to expect, Rhonin. I understand little more than you.”

That did not at all please the human. “So what do you suggest we do?”

The eyes of the inhuman mage literally flared as he contemplated the question. “We go on. That is all we can do.”

But only a short distance ahead, they came across a new obstacle of sorts, one that Krasus had been unable to foresee from high up in the air. The passage split off in two directions and while it was possible that they merged further on, the pair could not assume that.

Krasus eyed both paths. “They each run near to our goal, but I cannot sense which lies closer. We need to investigate both.”

“Do we separate?”

“I would prefer not to, but we must. We will each journey five hundred paces in, then turn back and meet here. Hopefully we will then have a better sense of which to take.”

Taking the corridor to the left, Rhonin followed Krasus’s instructions. As he rapidly counted off paces, he soon determined that his choice had potential. Not only did it greatly widen ahead, but the wizard thought he sensed the disturbance better than ever. While Krasus’s abilities were more acute than his, even a novice could sense the wrongness that now pervaded the region beyond.