The Well of Eternity (5 page)

But despite his confidence in his choice, Rhonin did not yet turn around. Curiosity drove him on. Surely a few steps more would hardly matter—

He had barely taken more than one, however, when he sensed something new, something quite disturbing. Rhonin paused, trying to detect what felt different about the anomaly.

It was moving, but there was more to his anxiety than that alone.

It was moving toward
him
…and rapidly.

He felt it before he saw it, felt as if all time compressed, then stretched, then compressed again. Rhonin felt old, young, and every moment of life in between. Overwhelmed, the wizard hesitated.

And the darkness before him gave way to a myriad flaring of colors, some of which he had never seen before. A continual explosion of elemental energy filled both empty air and solid rock, rising to fantastic heights. Rhonin’s limited mind saw it best as a looming, fiery flower that bloomed, burnt away, and bloomed again…and with each blooming grew more and more imposing.

As it neared, he finally came to his senses. Whirling, the mage ran.

Sounds assailed his ears. Voices, music, thunder, birds, water…
everything.

Despite his fears that it would overtake him, the phenomenal display fell behind. Rhonin did not stop running, fearing that at any moment it would surge forward and envelop him.

Krasus surely had to have sensed the latest shift. He had to be hurrying to meet Rhonin. Together, they would devise some way in which to—

A terrible howl echoed through the pass.

A massive, eight-legged lupine form dropped down on him.

Had he been other than what he was, the wizard would have perished there, the meal of a savage, saber-toothed creature with four gleaming green eyes to go with its eight clawed limbs. The monstrous wolf-creature brought him down, but Rhonin, having magicked his garments to better protect him from the elements, proved a hard nut to crack. The claws scraped at a cloak it should have readily tattered, only to have instead one nail snap off.

Gray fur standing on end, the beast howled its frustration. Rhonin took the opening, casting a simple but effective spell that had saved him in the past.

A cacophony of light burst before the creature’s emerald orbs, both blinding and startling it. It ducked back, swatting uselessly at flashing patterns.

Dragging himself out of reach, Rhonin rose. There was no chance of flight; that would only serve to turn his back on the beast and his protective spell was already weakening. A few more slashes and the claws would be ripping the wizard to the bone.

Fire had worked against the ghoul on the island and Rhonin saw no reason why such a tried and true spell would not benefit him again. He muttered the words—

…Which, inexplicably, came out in reverse. Worse, Rhonin found himself moving backward, returning to the wild claws of the blinded beast.

Time
had turned in on itself…but how?

The answer materialized from further in the passage. Krasus’s anomaly had caught up.

Ghostly images fluttered by Rhonin. Knights riding into battle. A wedding scene. A storm over the sea. Orcs uttering war chants around a fire. Strange creatures locked in combat…

Suddenly he could move forward again. Rhonin darted out of the beast’s reach, then turned to face it again. This time, he did not hesitate, casting his spell.

The flames burst forth in the form of a great hand, but as they neared the monstrous creature, they slowed…then stopped, frozen in time.

Swearing, Rhonin started another spell.

The eight-legged horror leapt around the frozen fire, howling as it charged the human.

Rhonin cast.

The earth beneath the abomination exploded, a storm of dirt rising up and covering the lupine creature. It howled again and, despite the intense forces against it, struggled toward the mage.

A crust formed over the legs and torso. The mouth shut tight as a layer of rock-solid earth sealed it. One by one, the inhuman orbs were covered by a film of dust.

Just a few feet from its victim, the creature stilled. To all appearances, it now seemed but a perfectly cast statue, not the actual monster itself.

At that moment, Krasus’s voice filled Rhonin’s head.

At last!
the dragon mage called.
Rhonin…the disturbance is expanding! It’s almost upon you!

Distracted by the fearsome beast, the wizard had not glanced at the anomaly. When he did, his eyes widened.

It filled a space ten times higher and, no doubt, ten times wider than the pass. Solid rock meant nothing to it. The anomaly simply passed through it as if it did not exist. Yet, in its wake, the landscape changed. Some of the rock looked more weathered, while other portions appeared as if newly cooled from the titanic throes of birth. The worst transformations seemed to take place wherever the edges of the fiery flower touched.

Rhonin did not want to think what would happen to him if the thing touched him.

He started running again.

Its movement and growth have suddenly expanded much faster for reasons I do not understand,
Krasus went on.
I fear I will not reach you in time! You must cast a spell of teleportation!

My spellwork doesn’t always work the way it should!
he responded.
The anomaly’s affecting it!

We will stay linked! That should help strengthen your casting! I will guide you to me and we can regroup!

Rhonin did not care to teleport himself to places he had never seen, the inherent risk being that of ending up encased in a mountain, but with Krasus linked to him, the task would be a much simpler one.

He focused on Krasus, picturing the dragon mage. The spell began to form. Rhonin felt the world around him shift.

The fiery blossom suddenly expanded to nearly twice its previous dimensions.

Only too late did Rhonin realize why. It was reacting to the use of magic…his magic. He wanted to stop the spell, but it was already too late.

Krasus! Break the link! Break it before you’re also—

The anomaly swallowed him.

Rhonin?

But Rhonin could not answer. He flailed around and around, tossed about like a leaf in a tornado. With each revolution he flew faster and faster. The sounds and sights again assailed him. He saw past, present, and future and understood each for what it was. He caught a glimpse of the petrified beast as it flew wildly past him into what could only be described as a whirlpool in time.

Other things flew by, random objects and even creatures. An entire ship, its sails tattered, its hull crushed in near the bow, soared by, vanishing. A tree on which still perched a flock of birds followed. In the distance, a kraken, fifty feet in length from tip of head to end of tentacle, reached out but failed to drag Rhonin along before vanishing with the rest.

From somewhere came Krasus’s faint voice.
Rhonin…

He answered, but there was no reply.

The whirlpool filled his gaze.

And as it sucked him in, Rhonin’s last thoughts were of Vereesa and the children he would never know.

H
e sensed the slow but steady growth of the leaves, the branches, and the roots. He sensed the timeless wisdom, the eternal thoughts within. Each giant had its own unique signature, as was true with any individual.

They are the guardians of the forest,
came his mentor’s voice.
They are as much its soul as I. They
are
the forest.
A pause.
Now…come back to us…

Malfurion Stormrage’s mind respectfully withdrew from the gargantuan trees, the eldest of the heavily wooded land. As he retreated, his own physical surroundings gradually reappeared, albeit murky at first. He blinked his silver, pupilless eyes twice, bringing everything back into focus. His breath came in ragged gasps, but his heart swelled with pride. Never before had he reached so far!

“You have learned well, young night elf,” a voice like a bear’s rumbled. “Better than even I could have expected…”

Sweat poured down Malfurion’s violet countenance. His patron had insisted that he attempt this next monumental step at the height of day, his people’s weakest point of time. Had it been at night, Malfurion felt certain that he would have been stronger, but as Cenarius pointed out again and again, that would have defeated the purpose. What his mentor taught him was not the sorcery of the night elves, but almost its exact opposite.

And in so many ways, Malfurion had already become the opposite of his people. Despite their tendencies toward flamboyant garments, for instance, Malfurion’s own were very subdued. A cloth tunic, a simple leather jerkin and pants, knee-high boots…his parents, had they not perished by accident years before, would have surely died of shame.

His shoulder-length, dark green hair surrounded a narrow visage akin to a wolf’s. Malfurion had become something of an outcast among his kind. He asked questions, suggested that old traditions were not necessarily the best, and even dared once mention that beloved Queen Azshara might not always have the concerns of her subjects foremost on her thoughts. Such actions left him with few associates and even fewer friends.

In fact, in Malfurion’s mind, he could truly only count three as friends. First and foremost had to be his own twin, the equally troublesome Illidan. While Illidan did not shy away from the traditions and sorcery of the night elves as much as he, he had a tendency to question the governing authority of the elders, also a great crime.

“What did you see?” his brother, seated beside him on the grass, asked eagerly. Illidan would have been identical to Malfurion if not for his midnight blue hair and amber eyes. Children of the moon, nearly all night elves had eyes of silver. Those very few born with ones of amber were seen as destined for greatness.

But if greatness was to be Illidan’s, he first had to curb both his temper and his impatience. He had come with his twin to study this new path that used the power of nature—their mentor termed it “druidism”—believing he would be the quicker student. Instead, he often miscast spells and failed to concentrate enough to maintain most trances. That he was fairly adept at traditional sorcery did not assuage Illidan. He had wanted to learn the ways of druidism because such unique skills would mark him as different, as nearing that potential everyone had spoken about since his birth.

“I saw…” How to explain it even to his brother? Malfurion’s brow wrinkled. “I saw into the hearts of the trees, the souls. Not simply theirs, either. I saw…I think I saw into the souls of the entire forest!”

“How wonderful!” gasped a female voice at his other side.

Malfurion fought to keep his cheeks from darkening to black, the night elf equivalent of embarrassment. Of late, he had been finding himself more and more uncomfortable around his other companion…and yet he could not think of himself far from her, either.

With the brothers had come Tyrande Whisperwind, their greatest friend since childhood. They had grown up together, the three, inseparable in every way until the last year, when she had taken the robes of a novice priestess in the temple of Elune, the moon goddess. There she learned to become attuned to the spirit of the goddess, learned to use the gifts all priestesses were granted in order to let them spread the word of their mistress. She it had been who had encouraged Malfurion when he had chosen to turn from the sorcery of the night elves to another, earthier power. Tyrande saw druidism as a kindred force to the abilities her deity would grant her once she completed her own training.

But from a thin pale child who had more than once bested both brothers in races and hunting, Tyrande had become, since joining the temple, a slim yet well-curved beauty, her smooth skin now a soft, light violet and her dusky blue hair streaked with silver. The mousy face had grown fuller, much more feminine and appealing.

Perhaps too appealing.

“Hmmph!” added Illidan, not so impressed. “Was that
all?”

“It is a good start,” rumbled their tutor. The great shadow fell over all three young night elves, stifling even Illidan’s rampant mouth.

Although over seven feet tall themselves, the trio were dwarfed by Cenarius, who stood well above ten. His upper torso was akin to that of Malfurion’s race, although a hint of the emerald forest colored his dark skin and he had a much broader, more muscular build than either of his male students. Beyond the upper body any similarity ended. Cenarius was no simple night elf, after all. He was not even mortal.

Cenarius was a demigod.

His origins were known only to him, but he was as much a part of the great forest as it was of him. When the first night elves had appeared, Cenarius had already long existed. He claimed kinship with them, but never had he said in what way.

Those few who came to him for guidance left ever touched, ever changed. Others did not even leave, becoming so transformed by their teachings that they chose instead to join the demigod in the protection of his realm. Those were no longer elves, but woodland guardians physically altered forever.

A thick, moss-green mane flowing from his head, Cenarius eyed his pupils fondly with orbs of pure gold. He patted Malfurion gently on the shoulder with hands that ended in talons of gnarled, aged wood—talons still capable of ripping the night elf to shreds without effort—then backed away…on four strong legs.

The upper torso of the demigod might have resembled that of a night elf, but the lower portion was that of a huge, magnificent stag. Cenarius moved about effortlessly, as swift and nimble as any of the three. He had the speed of the wind, the strength of the trees. In him was reflected the life and health of the land. He was its child and father all in one.

And like a stag, he also had antlers—giant, glorious antlers that shaded his stern yet fatherly visage. Matched in prominence only by his lengthy, rich beard, the antlers were the final reminder that any blood link between demigod and night elf existed far, far in the past.

“You have all done well,” he added in the voice that ever sounded of thunder. Leaves and twigs literally growing in his beard, his hair shook whenever the deity spoke. “Go now. Be among your own again for a time. It will do you some good.”

All three rose, but Malfurion hesitated. Looking at his companions, he said, “You go on ahead. I’ll meet you at the trail’s end. I need to talk with Cenarius.”

“We could wait,” Tyrande replied.

“There’s no need. I won’t be long.”

“Then, by all means,” Illidan quickly interjected, taking Tyrande’s arm. “We should let him be. Come, Tyrande.”

She gave Malfurion one last lingering glance that made him turn away to conceal his emotions. He waited for the two to depart, then turned again to the demigod.

The descending sun created shadows in the forest that seemed to dance for the pleasure of Cenarius. The demigod smiled at the dancing shadows, the trees and other plants moving in time with them.

Malfurion went down on one knee, his gaze to the earth. “My shan’do,” he began, calling Cenarius by the title that meant in the old tongue “honored teacher.” “Forgive me for asking—”

“You should not act so before me, young one. Arise…”

The night elf reluctantly obeyed, but he kept his gaze down.

This made the demigod chuckle, a sound accented by the sudden lively chirping of songbirds. Whenever Cenarius reacted, the world reacted in concert with him.

“You pay me even more homage than those who claim to preach in my name. Your brother does not bend to me and for all her respect of my power, Tyrande Whisperwind gives herself only to Elune.”

“You offered to teach me—us—” Malfurion responded,

“what no night elf has ever learned…” He still recalled the day when he had approached the sacred wood. Legends abounded about Cenarius, but Malfurion had wanted to know the truth. However, when he had called out to the demigod, he had not actually expected an answer.

He had also not expected Cenarius to offer to be his teacher. Why the demigod would take on so—
mundane
—a task was beyond Malfurion. Yet, here they were together. They were more than deity and night elf, more than teacher and student…they were also friends.

“No other night elf truly wishes to learn my ways,” Cenarius replied. “Even those who has taken up the mantle of the forest…none of them has truly followed the path I now show you. You are the first with the possible aptitude, the possible will, to truly
understand
how to wield the forces inherent in all nature. And when I say ‘you,’ young elf, I speak entirely in the singular.”

This was not what Malfurion had remained to talk about and so the words struck him hard. “But—but Tyrande and Illidan—”

The demigod shook his head. “Of Tyrande, we have already spoken. She has promised herself to Elune and I will not poach in the Moon Goddess’s realm! Of your brother, however, I can only say that there is much promise to Illidan…but I believe that promise lies elsewhere.”

“I—I don’t know what to say…” And in truth, Malfurion did not. To be told so suddenly that Illidan and he would not follow the same path, that Illidan even appeared to waste his efforts here…it was the first time that the twins would not share in their success. “No! Illidan will learn! He’s just more headstrong! There’s so much pressure upon him! His eyes—”

“Are a sign of some future mark upon the world, but he will not make it following my teachings.” Cenarius gave Malfurion a gentle smile. “But you will try to teach him yourself, will you not? Perhaps you can succeed where I have failed?”

The night elf flushed. Of course his shan’do would read his thoughts on that subject. Yes, Malfurion intended to do what he could to push Illidan further along…but he knew that doing so would be a harder task. Learning from the demigod was one thing; learning from Malfurion would be another. It would show that Illidan was not first, but second.

“Now,” added the forest lord quietly, as a small red bird alighted on his antlers and its paler mate did so on his arm. Such sights were common around Cenarius, but they ever left the elf marveling. “You came to ask of me something…”

“Yes. Great Cenarius…I’ve been troubled by a dream, a reoccurring one.”

The golden eyes narrowed. “Only a dream? That is what troubles you?”

Malfurion grimaced. He had already berated himself several times for even thinking of distracting the demigod with his problem. Of what harm was a dream, even one that repeated itself? Everyone dreamed. “Yes…it comes to me every time I sleep and since I’ve been learning from you…it’s grown stronger, more demanding.”

He expected Cenarius to laugh at him, but instead the forest lord studied him closely. Malfurion felt the golden orbs—so much more arresting than even his brother’s own—burrow deep within him, reading the night elf inside and out.

At last, Cenarius leaned back. He nodded once to himself and in a more solemn voice said, “Yes, you are ready, I think.”

“Ready for what?”

In response, Cenarius held up one hand. The red bird leapt down to the offered hand, its mate joining it there. The demigod stroked the backs of both once, whispered something to them, then let the pair fly off.

Cenarius looked down at the night elf. “Illidan and Tyrande will be informed that you are staying behind for a time. They have been told to leave without you.”

“But why?”

The golden eyes flared. “Tell me of your dream.”

Taking a deep breath, Malfurion began. The dream started as always, with the Well of Eternity as its focal point. At first the waters were calm, but then, from the center, a maelstrom rapidly formed…and from the depths of the maelstrom, creatures burst forth, some of them harmless, others malevolent. Many he did not even recognize, as if they came from other worlds, other times. They spread in every direction, fleeing beyond his sight.

Suddenly, the whirlpool vanished and Malfurion stood in the midst of Kalimdor…but a Kalimdor stripped of all life. A horrible evil had laid waste to the entire land, leaving not so much as a blade of grass or a tiny insect alive. The once-proud cities, the vast, lush woodlands…nothing had been spared.

Even more terrible, for as far as the eye could see, the scorched, cracked bones of night elves lay strewn everywhere. The skulls had been caved in. The stench of death was strong in the air. No one, not even the old, infirm, or young, had been spared.

Heat, horrific heat, had assailed Malfurion then. Turning, he had seen in the distance a vast fire, an inferno reaching into the heavens. It burned everything it touched, even the very wind. Where it moved, nothing…absolutely nothing…remained. Yet, as frightening as the scene had been, it was not that which had finally awakened the night elf in a cold sweat, but rather something he had sensed
about
the fire.

It had been
alive.
It knew the terrors it wrought, knew and
reveled
in them. Reveled…and hungered for more.

All humor had fled Cenarius’s visage by the time Malfurion finished. His gaze flickered to his beloved forest and the creatures thriving within. “And this nightmare repeats itself with every slumber?”