Richard Knaak: The Sundering

“How original,” sneered the sorcerer.

“Put to death in a manner — ”

“Jarod… forgive me for being late,” interrupted a figure behind Illidan. “May I still speak?”

The armored night elf nodded almost gratefully. “This is yours to decide as much as it’s mine.”

Malfurion walked around his brother. Illidan’s face followed him as the druid stepped between the sorcerer and the soldier. “I’m sorry, Illidan.”

“Ha!”

“What is it you want to say, Master Malfurion?” urged Jarod.

“There is some truth in what my brother says about the Burning Legion, Jarod. They may come again.”

“And you want us therefore to forget his crimes and his danger?”

The druid shook his antlered head. “No.” He glanced at his twin, the other half of him, then briefly at Tyrande, who stood at the edge of the circle with Maiev and Shandris. She had stayed with him all the while he had suffered through what should be done. The high priestess supported his decision, not that it eased his ache.

“No, Jarod,” Malfurion repeated, steeling himself. “No. I want you to imprison him… even if it means he stays so for ten thousand years… if necessary…”

As the rest of those assembled suddenly broke out into startled muttering, Malfurion closed his eyes and tried to calm himself. He had his suspicions concerning the future, knowing as he did now about Krasus and Rhonin. The druid prayed he had made the right decision.

But only the future would tell…

And, lastly…

Thrall had not heard from the two he had sent to the mountains to investigate the shaman’s vision. They might still be searching, but the orc leader had the suspicion that the truth was far worse. No good ruler, not even of his race, liked to send loyal warriors to their death without something coming from it.

Night had long fallen and most of his subjects were deep asleep. Only he and the guards outside still stirred. Thrall should have been sleeping, but his concern over this unsettling quest had grown with each day since Brox’s and Gaskal’s departure.

The torchlights flickered, creating shadows that moved as if alive. Thrall paid them no mind until he suddenly noticed that one by the door was solid.

The orc immediately leapt up from his stone throne. “Who dares?”

But instead of an assassin — and there were always plenty of those — a wizened orc wearing wolf skins and bearing a totem with the carved head of a dragon on it shuffled forward.

“Hail, Thrall!” the elder figure called in an oddly-strong voice. “Hail, savior of the orcs!”

“Who are you? You are not Kalthar!” Thrall growled, referring to his shaman.

“I am one who brings news… news of a valiant warrior, Broxigar.”

“Brox? What of him? Speak!”

“The warrior is dead… but dead sending many enemies before him! He has again fought the Legion and cut down so many it would take a day just to count them one by one!”

“The Legion?” The orc’s worst fears were realized. “Where? Tell me so that I can gather our warriors and fight them!”

The almost hairless elder shook his head, then gave Thrall a grin without teeth. “There are no more demons! Broxigar and those fighting beside him defeated the Legion and it was your warrior who stood at the pass again, even when faced by their master!” The figure bowed his head respectfully. “Sing songs of him, great Thrall, for he was part of those who saved the world for you…”

For a time, the younger orc stood silent, then, “This is true? All of it?”

“Aye… and I bring this, all that remains to honor a hero.” Despite his seeming infirmity, the shaman brought forth a huge, twin-edged ax. Thrall blinked, somehow not having noticed it earlier.

“I’ve seen nothing like it.”

“It is a weapon crafted by the first druid, formed from the magic of a forest spirit. Fashioned especially for Brox’s hand.”

“It will have a place of honor,” Thrall whispered, gently taking it from the crooked figure. He eyed it in admiration. Light as a feather and, from the look of it, wood from bottom to head — even the blades — but clearly a capable ax. “How is it you have this — ”

But the shaman did not answer… because he was no longer there.

With a grunt, Thrall rushed through the entranceway. He instinctively gripped the ax, suddenly wary that this had all been some intricate plot to do away with him.

He confronted the two guards stationed outside what passed for his throne room. “Where is he? Where is the old one?”

“There’s been no one!” the senior guard quickly answered.

With a frustrated growl, Thrall pushed past them. He hurried out into the open. The full moon well illuminated the surroundings, but still the ruler of the orcs saw nothing.

Not, that is, until he happened to look up at that moon.

And in it, just passing into the night, he saw a huge, winged form.

A red dragon.

Krasus/Korialstrasz veered in the direction of his flight’s lair. Rhonin was with his Vereesa and, through the dragon, the legacy of brave Brox had been brought to the orcs.

Now it was his turn to at last go home… and see tomorrow what the future would bring.

THE END