Richard Knaak - The Well of Eternity

She feared that they would have to fight their way outside, but the crowds moved quickly to avoid Brox. He took their continual repulsion of him in stride, but Tyrande felt embarrassed. Elune had always preached respect of all creatures, but few night elves cared for other races.

The two stepped into the square. A cool breeze touched her, reminding Tyrande of times as a child. She had always loved the wind and, had it not looked unseemly, would have stretched out her arms and tried to embrace it as she had when little.

For several minutes, Tyrande and Brox simply stood there. Then, guilt once more caught hold of the priestess, for her childhood memories began to include times with Malfurion. She finally apologized to the orc and insisted that they return inside. Brox merely nodded his understanding and followed.

Yet, they had not quite reached the steps of the temple when one of the Suramar Guard called out to her. Tyrande hesitated, uncertain if the soldier sought to bother her because of Brox.

But the officer apparently had another mission in mind. “Sister, forgive me. I am Captain Jarod Shadowsong.”

She knew his face if not his name. He was only slightly older than she and with somewhat round features for a night elf. His eyes were slanted slightly more than average, too, giving him a probing expression even when he tried to be friendly and courteous, such as now.

“You wish something of me, captain?”

“A bit of your time, if I might be so bold. I have a prisoner who has need of aid.”

At first Tyrande wanted to decline, her urge to return to Malfurion foremost in her thoughts, but her duties took priority. How could she turn from some unfortunate in need of her healing skills? “Very well.”

As the orc started to follow, Captain Shadowsong looked askance. “Is that coming with us?”

“Would you rather he stand out in the square by himself, especially during these troublesome times?”

The officer reluctantly shook his head, ending the matter. He turned and quickly led the pair on.

Suramar had only a small facility for prisoners, most of any import ending up in Black Rook Hold. The structure that Captain Shadowsong led them to had been created out of the base of a long dead tree. The roots formed the skeleton of the building and workers had created the rest from stone. There was no more solid a building than this save Lord Ravencrest’s hold and the Suramar Guard were proud of that.

Tyrande eyed the rather bland building with some trepidation, imagining from its monotone exterior that it could only house the worst of villains. However, she steeled herself and did not reveal any misgivings as the captain bid her to enter.

The outer chamber was devoid of any furnishings save a simple wooden desk where the officer on duty no doubt worked. With most of the armed might of Suramar gone, the rest of Captain Shadowsong’s comrades were no doubt out trying in vain to keep the peace.

“We found him in the woods the very evening Lord Ravencrest and the expeditionary force departed. Many of our detection spells have failed, sister, but some do contain their own power. One of those alerted us to the intruder. With some escapes in the recent past—” He looked momentarily at the orc. Captain Shadowsong clearly knew of Brox’s present status, else he would have immediately tried to arrest him. “—we took no chances and immediately went to investigate.”

“And how does that pertain to me?”

“The—prisoner—we found was quite weary. After deciding it was not a ruse, we brought him back. He grows no better since then. Because of his peculiar nature, I want him alive if and when Lord Ravencrest returns. That’s why I finally came to you.”

“Then, by all means, please lead the way.”

There were only a dozen cells in the chamber behind, although the officer was willing to tell Tyrande that he had more down below. She nodded politely, now a bit curious as to what sort of being lay inside the one. After Brox, she almost expected it to be another orc, but Captain Shadowsong’s reaction to Brox made that assumption inaccurate.

“Here he is.”

The priestess had expected something huge and warlike, but the figure within was no taller than the average night elf. He was also thinner than most. Underneath the hood of his rather plain robes she noted a gaunt face very much akin to one of her own, but pale, almost ghostly, and with eyes less pronounced. Judging by the shape of his hood, his ears were also smaller.

“He looks like one of us…but not,” she remarked.

“Like a ghost of one of us,” the captain corrected.

But Brox moved forward, almost seeming hypnotized by the unsettling figure. “Elf?”

“Perhaps…” remarked the prisoner in a voice much more deep and commanding than his appearance let on. He seemed equally interested in Brox. “And what is an orc doing here?”

He knew what her companion was . Tyrande found that extremely interesting, especially with so many strange visitors of late.

Then the prisoner coughed badly and her concern took over. She insisted that Captain Shadowsong open the door for her.

As she neared the mat on which he lay, the young priestess could not help but look into that face again. There was more to it than appearance alone indicated. She sensed a depth of wisdom and experience that literally shook her to the core. Somehow, Tyrande recognized that here was a very, very ancient being whose condition had nothing to do with his age.

“You are gifted,” he whispered. “I had hoped for that.”

“Wh-what ails you?”

He gave her a fatherly smile. “Nothing even your abilities can cure. I convinced the captain to find one such as you because time is running scarce.”

“You never told me to do any such thing!” Jarod Shadowsong protested. “I went by my own choice.”

“As you say…” but the prisoner’s eyes said otherwise to Tyrande. He then looked again at Brox. “Now you are something I did not calculate on, and that worries me. You should not be here.”

The orc grunted. “Other said so, too.”

“Other? What other?”

“The one with flame for hair, the one who said…” Here Brox paused and, after a surreptitious glance at the Guard captain, murmured, “The one who spoke of this as past.”

To Tyrande’s astonishment, the prisoner sat up. Captain Shadowsong started forward, his weapon already drawn, but the priestess waved him back.

“You saw Rhonin?”

“You know him?” asked Tyrande.

“We came here together…I thought him trapped…elsewhere.”

“In the glade of Cenarius,” she added.

He actually laughed. “Either chance, fate, or Nozdormu moves this matter forward, praise be! Yes, that place…but how do you know of it?”

“I’ve been there…with friends of mine.”

“Have you?” The gaunt face moved closer. “With friends?”

Tyrande was uncertain now what to make of him. He knew many things that most ordinary night elves did not, of that she was certain. “Before we go on…I would have a name from you.”

“Forgive my manners! You may call me…Krasus.”

Now Brox reacted. “Krasus! Rhonin spoke of you!” The orc actually went down on one knee. “Elder…I am Broxigar…this is the shaman, Tyrande.”

Krasus frowned. “Perhaps Rhonin spoke too much…and likely has inferred more.”

Her companion’s reaction settled one matter for the novice priestess. Rising she turned to the captain. “I would like to take him with me to the temple. I believe he could be better cared for there.”

“Out of the question! If he escapes—”

“You have my promise that he will not. Besides, you yourself said that it was essential he be well. After all, if he must face Lord Ravencrest—”