Richard Knaak: The Well of Eternity

“We are safe…for the time being. Several are now less than what remains of yours and the rest have scattered into every crevice and gap in these ruins. I believe there are catacombs below and that they slumber there when not hunting victims.”

“We can’t stay here.”

“No,” agreed the dragon. “We cannot. We must move on to Kalimdor.”

He lowered himself so that Rhonin could climb aboard, then immediately flapped his wings. The pair rose into the dark sky.

“When we have succeeded with our mission, I will return here and end this abomination,” Korialstrasz declared. In a softer tone, he added, “There are already too many abominations in this world.”

Rhonin did not answer him, instead taking one last glance down. It might have been a trick of his eyes, but he thought that he saw more of the ghouls emerging now that the dragon had left. In fact, it seemed to him that they gathered by the dozens, all of them looking up hungrily…at the wizard.

He tore his gaze away, actually happy to be on the journey to Kalimdor. Surely after a night such as this, whatever awaited the pair could hardly be worse.

Surely…

Korialstrasz reached the shores of Kalimdor late in the day. He and Rhonin paused only to eat—the dragon imbibing in fare away from the wizard’s sight—and then set off again for the vast mountain chain that covered much of the western regions of the land. Korialstrasz flew with more and more urgency as they neared their goal. He had not told Rhonin that every now and then he attempted to contact Nozdormu…attempted and failed. Soon, however, that would not matter, for they would know firsthand what had so distressed the Aspect of Time.

“That peak!” Rhonin shouted. Although he had slept again, he hardly felt fresh. Nightmares concerning the sinister island had haunted his dreams. “I recognize that peak!”

The dragon nodded. It was the final landmark before their destination. Had he not seen it at the same time as his rider, he would have nonetheless sensed the wrongness in the very fabric of reality…and that meant something terrible indeed awaited them.

Despite that certainty, the leviathan only picked up his pace. There was no other choice. Whatever lay ahead, the only ones who might stop it were him and the tiny human figure he carried.

But while the sharp eyes of man and dragon had sighted their destination, they failed to notice eyes that had sighted them in turn.

“A red dragon…” grumbled the first orc. “A red dragon with a rider…”

“One of us, Brox?” asked the second. “Another orc?”

Brox snorted at his companion. The other orc was young, too young to have been much use in the war against the Legion, and he certainly would not have remembered when it had been orcs, not humans, who had ridden such beasts. Gaskal only knew the stories, the legends. “Gaskal, you fool, the only way a dragon’d carry an orc these days would be in his belly!”

Gaskal shrugged, unconcerned. He looked every inch the proud orc warrior—tall and muscular with a rough, greenish hide and two good-sized tusks thrusting upward from his broad, lower jaw. He had the squat nose and thick, bushy brow of an orc and a mane of dark hair trailing down between his shoulders. In one meaty hand Gaskal hefted a huge war ax while with the other he clutched the strap of his goatskin backpack. Like Brox, he was clad in a thick, fur cloak under which he wore a leather kilt and sandals wrapped in cloth to preserve heat. A hardy race, orcs could survive any element, but high in the mountains even they required more warmth.

Brox, too, was a proud warrior, but time had beaten at him as no other enemy could. He stood several inches shorter than Gaskal, part of that due to a slight but permanent stoop. The veteran warrior’s mane had thinned and started going gray. Scars and lines of age had ravaged his wide, bullish visage, and unlike his youthful companion, the constant expression of eagerness had given way to thoughtful distrust and weariness.

Hefting his well-worn war hammer, Brox trudged through the deep snow. “They’re heading for the same place as us.”

“How’d you know that?”

“Where else would they be going here?”

Finding no argument, Gaskal quieted, giving Brox the chance to think about the reason that had sent both of them to this desolate place.

He had not been there when the old shaman had come to Thrall seeking an immediate audience, but he had heard the details. Naturally, Thrall had acquiesced, for he very much followed the old ways and considered Kalthar a sage advisor. If Kalthar needed to see him immediately, it could only be for a very good reason.

Or a very bad one.

With the aid of two of Thrall’s guards, withered Kalthar entered and took a seat before the towering Warchief. Out of respect for the elder, Thrall sat on the floor, enabling the eyes of both to meet at the same level. Across Thrall’s folded legs lay the massive, square-headed Doomhammer, bane of the Horde’s enemies for generations.

The new Warchief of the orcs was broad-shouldered, muscular, and, for his position, relatively young. No one doubted Thrall’s ability to rule, however. He had taken the orcs from the internment camps and given them back their honor and pride. He had made the pact with the humans which brought about the chance for the Horde to begin life anew. The people already sang songs of him that would be passed down generation after generation.

Clad in thick, ebony plate armor etched in bronze—handed down to him along with the huge weapon by his predecessor, the legendary Orgrim Doomhammer—the greatest of warriors bent his head low and humbly asked, “How may I assist you who honor my presence, great one?”

“Only by listening,” Kalthar returned. “And by truly listening.”

The strong-jawed Warchief leaned forward, his startling and so very rare blue eyes—considered a portent of destiny by his people——narrowed in anticipation. In his journey from slave and gladiator to ruler, Thrall had studied the path of the shaman, even mastering some of the skills. He more than most understood that when Kalthar talked so, he did with good reason.

And so the shaman told Thrall of the vision of the funnel and how time seemed a plaything to it. He told him of the voices and their warnings, told him about the wrongness he had felt.

Told Thrall what he feared would happen if the situation was left unchecked.

When Kalthar finished, the Warchief leaned back. Around his throat he wore a single medallion upon which had been inscribed in gold an ax and hammer. His eyes revealed the quick wit and intelligence that marked him as a capable leader. When he moved, he moved not as a brutish orc might, but with a grace and poise more akin to a human or an elf.

“This smells of magic,” he rumbled. “Big magic. Something for wizards…maybe.”

“They may know already,” returned Kalthar. “But we cannot afford to wait for them, great Warchief.”

Thrall understood. “You would have me send someone to this place you saw?”

“It would seem most prudent. At least so we may know what we face.”

The Warchief rubbed his chin. “I think I know who. A good warrior.” He looked to the guards. “Brox! Get me Brox!”

And so Brox had been summoned and told his mission. Thrall respected Brox highly, for the older warrior had been a hero of the last war, the only survivor of a band of brave fighters holding a critical pass against the demons. With his war hammer Brox himself had caved in the skulls of more than a dozen of the fiery foes. His last comrade had died cleaved in two just as reinforcements had arrived to save the day. Scarred, covered in blood, and standing alone amid the carnage, Brox had appeared to the newcomers as a vision out of the old tales of his race. His name became almost as honored as that of Thrall.