Richard Knaak - The Well of Eternity

He drifted over the walls, past stone-faced guards ignorant of his presence. Malfurion floated to the palace itself, but when he sought to enter, certain that his dream form would pass through something so simple as stone, the night elf discovered an impenetrable barrier.

Someone had encased the palace in protective spells so intricate, so powerful, that he could not pierce them. This only made Malfurion more curious, more determined. He swooped around the structure, rising again toward the tower in question. There had to be a way in. He had to see what madness was going on inside.

With one hand, he reached out to the array of protective spells, seeking the point that bound them all together, the point by which they could also be unbound—

And suddenly pain unimaginable wracked Malfurion. He screamed silently, no sound able to voice his agony. The image of the palace, of Zin-Azshari, vanished. He found himself in an emerald void, caught within a storm of pure magic. The elemental powers threatened to rip his dream form into a thousand pieces and scatter them in every direction.

But in the midst of the monstrous chaos, he suddenly heard the faint calling of a familiar voice.

Malfurion…my child…come back to me…Malfurion…you must return…

Vaguely the night elf recognized Cenarius’s desperate summons. He clung to it as a drowning person in the middle of the sea might cling to a tiny piece of driftwood. Malfurion felt the woodland deity’s mind reach out to him, guide him in the proper direction.

The pain began to lessen, but Malfurion was exhausted beyond measure. A part of him simply wanted to drift among the dreamers, his soul never returning to his flesh. Yet, he realized that to do so would mean his end and so he fought against the deadly desire.

And as the pain dwindled away, as Cenarius’s touch grew stronger, Malfurion sensed his own link to his mortal form. Eagerly he followed it, moving faster and faster through the Emerald Dream…

With a gasp…the young night elf awoke.

Unable to stop himself, Malfurion tumbled into the grass. Mighty yet still gentle hands picked him back up to a sitting position. Water dribbled into his mouth.

He opened his eyes and beheld Cenarius’s concerned visage. His mentor held Malfurion’s own water sack.

“You have done what few others could do,” the stag god murmured. “And in doing so, you almost lost yourself forever. What happened to you, Malfurion? You went even beyond my sight…”

“I…I sensed…something terrible…”

“The cause of your nightmares?”

The night elf shook his head. “No…I don’t know…I…I found myself drawn to Zin-Azshari…” He tried to explain what he had witnessed, but the words seem so insufficient.

Cenarius looked even more disturbed than he, which worried Malfurion. “This does not bode well…no. You are certain it was the palace? It had to be Azshara and her Highborne?”

“I don’t know if one or both…but I can’t help feeling that the queen must be a part of it. Azshara is too strong-willed. Even Xavius can’t control her…I think.” The queen’s counselor was an enigmatic figure, as distrusted as Azshara was loved.

“You must think about what you say, young Malfurion. You are suggesting that the ruler of the night elves, she whose name is heard in song each day, is involved in some spellwork that could be a threat not only to your kind, but the rest of the world. Do you understand what that means?”

The image of Zin-Azshari intermingled with the scene of devastation…and Malfurion found both compatible with each other. They might not be directly linked, but they shared something in common. What that was, though, he did not know yet.

“I understand one thing,” he muttered, recalling the perfect, beautiful face of his queen and the cheers that accompanied even her briefest appearances. “I understand that I must find out the truth wherever that truth leads…even if in the end it costs me my very life…”

The shadowed form touched with his talon the small, golden sphere in his other scaled palm, bringing it to life. Within it, there materialized another, almost identical shadow. The light from the sphere did nothing to push back the darkness surrounding the figure, just as on the other end the sphere used by the second form also failed. The magic cast to preserve each one’s identity was old and very strong.

“The Well is still in the midst of terrible throes,” commented the one who had initiated contact.

“So it has been for some time,” replied the second, tail flicking behind him. “The night elves play with powers they do not appreciate.”

“Has there been an opinion formed on your end?”

The darkened head within the sphere shook once.

“Nothing significant so far…but what can they possibly do save perhaps destroy themselves? It would not be the first time one of the ephemeral races did so and surely not the last.”

The first nodded. “So it seems to us…and the others.”

“All the others?” hissed the second, for the first time some true curiosity in his tone. “Even those of the Earth Warder’s flight?”

“No…they keep their own counsel…as usual of late. They are little more than Neltharion’s reflection.”

“Unimportant, then. Like you, we shall continue to monitor the night elves’ folly, but it is doubtful that it will amount to much more than the extinction of their kind. Should it prove to be more, we shall act if we are ordered to act by our lord, Malygos.”

“The pact remains unbroken,” responded the first. “We, too, shall act only if commanded by her majesty, the glorious Alexstrasza.”

“This conversation is over, then.” With that, the sphere went black. The second form had severed the link.

The other rose, dismissing the sphere. With a hiss, he shook his head at the ignorance of the lesser races. They constantly meddled in things beyond their capabilities and so often paid fatally for it. Their mistakes were their own to suffer, so long as the world as a whole did not suffer with them. If that happened, then the dragons would have to act.

“Foolish, foolish night elvesss…”

But in a place between worlds, in the midst of chaos incarnate, eyes of fire turned in sudden interest, the work of the Azshara’s Highborne having also reached them.

Somewhere, the one who gazed realized, somewhere someone had called upon the power. Someone had drawn from the magic in the mistaken belief that they and they alone knew of it, knew how to wield it…but where?

He searched, almost had the source, then lost it. It was near, though, very near.

He would wait. Like the others, he had begun to grow hungry again. Surely if he waited a little longer, he would sense exactly where among the worlds the casters were. He smelled their eagerness, their ambition. They would not be able to stop drawing from the magic. Soon…soon he would find the way through to their little world…

And he and the rest would feed .

Brox had a bad, bad feeling about their mission.

“Where are they?” he muttered. “Where are they?”

How did one hide a dragon, the orc wanted to know. The tracks were evident to a point, but then all he and Gaskal could find afterward were the footprints of a human, possibly two. Since the orcs were near enough to notice if a dragon launched itself into the air—and they had seen no such astonishing sight—then it only made sense that the leviathan had to be nearby.

“Maybe that way,” suggested the younger warrior, his brow furrowed deep. “That pass.”

“Too narrow,” growled Brox. He sniffed the air. The scent of dragon filled his nostrils. Almost masked by it was the smell of human. Dragons and wizards.