Richard Knaak - The Well of Eternity

But the warlock had made the mistake in assuming that the Moon Guard were the ones responsible for the most devastating spells. That gave Rhonin the opportunity he needed.

He watched the warlock cast again, but as the latter let loose with his dark spell, Rhonin usurped it, turned it back on its creator.

The demon gaped as his skin slipped free of his body. His fanged mouth stretched in an inhuman cry and his gaze turned toward the wizard.

It was the last act by the warlock. The demon’s mouth continued to stretch, but only because nothing now held the jaw bone tight. For the briefest of moments, the fleshless figure stood there…then the skeletal remains collapsed in a pile that disappeared beneath the endless wave of Fel Guard.

With no one to command them, that part of the Legion grew disoriented. The night elves pressed forward. The front ranks of the demons buckled…

“We are defeating them!” one young officer near Ravencrest proclaimed.

But as quickly as the demons had wavered, they now moved forward again with even more determination. In the back came Doomguard who drove them forward with whips. More felbeasts struggled to get through the defenders and reach the sorcerers.

Night elves screamed as two Infernals barreled their way into the riders, tossing animals and soldiers alike. A hole opened up and demons poured through.

“Advance!” Ravencrest shouted to those with him. “Don’t let them cut up the lines!”

He and the other riders charged the monstrous warriors who had broken through. Ravencrest himself slashed off the tentacles of a felbeast, then drove his blade into its head. A night saber fell upon one of the demon soldiers, ripping apart the latter with its claws and long fangs.

The gap dwindled…then vanished. The night elven lines reformed.

But although they now had a solid front again, the defenders were still pushed back. For all the armored horrors that the night elves had slain, it seemed twice as many came to reinforce the swarm.

Rhonin swore as he cast yet another spell that inflicted the Burning Legion with a series of deadly lightning bolt attacks. As magnified as his power still was, he knew he could have done even more with the Well open to him. More important, he and Illidan still provided the vast bulk of magical support for the night elves, but neither could be everywhere. Illidan, for all his eagerness to use whatever spell he could to slaughter the demons, was tiring quickly and Rhonin felt little better. With the Well’s power free to their use, both could have cast fewer times yet with much more satisfactory results.

More screams arose as the night elves continued to be pushed back. Fel Guard smashed in heads, caved in armored chests. Their hellish hounds ripped apart foot soldiers. Doomguard leapt above the fray, then dove into the elven throngs, swinging away with their weapons. Infernals began popping up everywhere, raining down upon the defenders much the way the night elves’ arrows had done to them earlier.

Another of the Moon Guard cried out, but this time because a felbeast had slipped through. Four soldiers managed to sever its tentacles, then thrust their blades through its chest, but by then it was too late for the sorcerer.

Another volley went up from the archers…and then immediately arced around and flew back at them. Although many had the good sense to run, several stood transfixed by the astonishing reversal.

Those died swiftly as their own bolts pierced their throats and their chests.

Rhonin searched, but could not see the Eredar warlocks responsible. He cursed again that he could not be in more than one place and that the actions he took were not what he had hoped.

We’re losing! For all their dedication, against the demons the soldiers needed the Moon Guard…and the Moon Guard needed the Well. Back at Black Rook Hold, Malfurion had said that he hoped to deal with the shield the Highborne had placed, but that had been days ago. Rhonin could only assume that the young night elf’s spell had failed…either that, or Malfurion had died in the attempt.

“The line’s buckling again!” someone called.

Rhonin forgot all about Malfurion. There existed now only the battle…the battle and Vereesa. With what perhaps might have been a last silent farewell to her, he focused once more on the endless ranks of demons, trying to devise yet another devastating spell and already knowing that, by itself, it would not be nearly enough.

But was there anything anyone could do that would be enough?

“Shaman, has there been any change?”

Tyrande shook her head. “Nothing. The body breathes but the spirit is absent.”

The orc frowned. “Will he die?”

“I don’t know.” Would it be better if he did? She had no idea. For more than three nights, Tyrande had watched over Malfurion’s body, first in the Chamber of the Moon, then in an untenanted room further inside the temple. The senior priestesses had been quite sympathetic, but they had clearly believed that nothing could be done for her friend.

“He may sleep forever,” one had told her. “Or the body may wither and die from lack of sustenance.”

Tyrande had tried to feed Malfurion, but the body was limp, unresponsive. She dared not trickle water down his throat for fear that he would choke to death.

Last night, Brox had cautiously made the suggestion that perhaps, if they knew there was no hope, it would be better to quickly end Malfurion’s suffering. He had even offered himself as the one to do it. As horrifying as it had been to hear, the novice priestess understood that the orc had offered what he would have given a good comrade. He cared for Malfurion.

They had no notion what had happened to his dream form. For all they knew, it floated around them, unable for some reason to enter the body. Tyrande doubted that, however, and suspected that something had happened to him when he had tried to destroy the shield spell. Perhaps his spirit had been eradicated in the attempt.

The thought of losing Malfurion stressed Tyrande more than she could have ever thought possible. Even Illidan’s precarious mission did not bother her as much. True, she worried about the latter twin, too, but not quite in the same way that she did the one whose body lay before her.

Putting a hand to his cheek, the priestess of the moon thought not for the first time, Malfurion… come back to me .

But once again, he did not.

Thick, green fingers gently touched her arm. Tyrande looked into the worried eyes of the orc. He seemed not at all ugly to her at this moment, simply a fellow soul in this hour of grief.

“Shaman, you’ve not slept, not been out of this room. Not good. Step out. Breathe the night air.”

“I can’t leave him—”

He would not hear her protest. “What’ll you do? Nothing. He lies there. He’ll be safe. He’d want you to do this.”

The others saw the orc as a barbaric creature, but more and more Tyrande realized that the brutish figure was simply a being who had been born into a more basic society. He understood the needs of a living being and understood the dangers of losing track of those needs.

She could not help Malfurion if she herself grew weak or ill. As difficult as it was for her, Tyrande had to step away.

“All right…but only for a few minutes.”

Brox helped her to her feet. The young priestess discovered then that her legs were stiff and almost insufficient to keep her standing. Her companion had been correct; she needed to refresh herself if she hoped to go on for Malfurion.

With the orc beside her, Tyrande journeyed through the temple to the entrance. As before, the outer halls were filled with frightened and confused citizens, all trying to gain reassurance from the servants of the Mother Moon.