Richard Knaak - The Well of Eternity

Illidan aside, the rest of the night elves knew that they could go no further—not in the daylight—but that did not take away from what they had accomplished. True, the threat had not been removed, but they now saw that the demons were limited. They could be slain. They could be driven back.

The commander quickly sought volunteers to ride out through the various parts of the night elf realm, their mission of two purposes. They were to rally those they found in order to create yet a vaster force, a multipronged defense with which to meet the next assault of the Burning Legion—for surely there would be one—and also to see the extent of the devastation elsewhere.

In addition to that effort, the noble also immediately set his personal sorcerer—Illidan—in charge of the Moon Guard already with them. There was some mild protest from those most senior among the survivors, but a simple show of power in the form of one last harsh explosion among the retreating demons quickly silenced the young spellcaster’s critics.

Pleased with his new status, Illidan sought out Rhonin to tell him. The wizard nodded politely, on the one hand wondering if he had ever been so enthusiastic when younger, and on the other worried about how Illidan’s new status would affect his personality. Illidan had greater potential yet than what had so far been revealed, but his recklessness was a trap that could create of him a danger in its own way as deadly as the Burning Legion. Rhonin vowed to keep an eye on his counterpart.

Left alone again, the one human among the night elves slowly surveyed the force that had been arrayed against the demons. Sunlight made their armor glitter, giving the host an epic appearance. They looked and acted as if they could defeat any enemy. Despite that, however, Rhonin remained aware that they needed a far greater force if they hoped to win the final struggle. History said that victory was ensured, but too many factors—himself included—now muddied the outcome. Worse, the Burning Legion was well aware of the magical might against them; they would be seeking the wizard and Illidan more now.

Rhonin had been the target of the demons and their allies in his own time. He did not look forward to repeating that situation.

And what of the one most responsible for this night’s success? Not Rhonin. Not Illidan. Not all the Moon Guard or Lord Ravencrest and his legions. None of them was the real reason for victory.

What , the weary wizard thought as he gazed out at dark Zin-Azshari and the disorganized horde, what has happened to Malfurion?

He lay as still as death, that image made all the worse by the fact that none of them could sense any trace of the link they had once had with him. Tyrande nestled Malfurion’s head in her lap, the soft grass underneath acting as the rest of his bed.

“Is he lost to us?” asked a perplexed Jarod Shadowsong. The captain had accompanied the group out to this location far in the woods, ostensibly to keep an eye on his prisoner, Krasus. He had not played a role in their spellwork, but had instead ended up acting as guard when the situation had changed. He had grown from reluctant addition to concerned companion even though he still understood little of what had taken place.

“No!” Tyrande snapped. In a more apologetic tone, she added, “He can’t be…”

“He does not smell dead,” rumbled Korialstrasz.

Jarod Shadowsong looked askance each time Korialstrasz spoke. He had yet to grow used to the presence of the red dragon. It might have amused Tyrande at one time, but not under the present circumstances. She herself had quickly come to accept the behemoth, especially since she sensed some hidden relationship between Korialstrasz and Krasus. They seemed almost like brothers or twins.

Thinking of twins made her gaze down at Malfurion again.

Krasus paced the area. He seemed much healthier now and the young priestess had noted that the effect had magnified when he had come within sight of the dragon. Unfortunately, that health did not help the pale figure now, for he appeared as worried as she did about Malfurion—even though Krasus had clearly never met him before seeing the night elf in the temple.

Brox knelt across from Tyrande, his ax placed next to his stricken friend. The orc’s head was buried in his chest and she could hear him muttering what sounded like a prayer.

“The area was charged with powerful magical forces,” murmured Krasus to himself. “It could have dispersed parts of his dream self to every corner of the world. He might be able to regather himself…but the odds of that…”

Captain Shadowsong looked around at the others. “Forgive this impertinent question, but did he at least accomplish what he hoped to?”

The cowled figure turned to him, expression flat. “He did do that at least. I pray it is enough.”

“Stop talking like that…” Tyrande insisted. She wiped a tear from her eye, then gazed up at the sunlit sky. Despite the brightness, Tyrande refused to look away. “Elune, Mother Moon, forgive this servant for disturbing your rest! I do not dare ask for him to be returned…but at least give us an answer as to his fate!”

But no glorious light shone down on Malfurion. The moon did not suddenly appear and speak to them.

“Perhaps it would be better if we brought him back to the temple,” suggested the Guard captain. “Maybe she can hear him better there…”

Tyrande did not bother to answer him.

Krasus paused in his pacing. He stared to the south, where the woods thickened. His eyes narrowed and he pursed his lips in frustration. “I know you are there.”

“And I now know what you are,” returned a booming voice.

The nearest trees suddenly melded together, forming a figure with a lower torso akin to that of a huge stag and a chest, arms, and face more like those of Tyrande and Jarod Shadowsong.

Fists tight, Cenarius moved slowly toward the band. He and Krasus matched gazes for a time, then both nodded in respect.

The forest lord walked over to where Tyrande held Malfurion. Brox respectfully stepped out of the way while the Guard captain stared open-mouthed from where he stood.

“Daughter of my dear Elune, your tears touch the heaven and the earth.”

“I cry for him, my lord…one you also loved.”

Cenarius nodded. His forelegs bent in a kneeling motion and he touched Malfurion’s forehead ever so gently. “He is a son to me…and so I am pleased that he has one like you who also holds him so near…”

“I—we’ve been friends since childhood.”

The forest lord chuckled, a sound that brought songbirds near and made a cool, refreshing breeze caress the cheeks of each in the party. “Yes, I heard your pleas to dear Elune, both the spoken and unspoken ones.”

Tyrande did not hide her embarrassment. “But all my entreaties have been for nothing.”

His expression turned to one of honest puzzlement. “Did you think that? Why would I come, then?”

The others froze. The novice priestess shook her head. “I don’t understand!”

“Because you are young still. Wait until you reach my age…” With that, Cenarius opened his left hand.

An emerald light rose from his open palm. It floated a few inches above as if orienting itself.

Rising, the demigod stepped back to observe his student. “I walked the Emerald Dream, seeking answers to our many terrible questions. I hunted through there looking for what could be done about these followers of death…” A gentle smile crossed his bearded visage. “…and imagine my surprise when I found one I knew drifting in the Emerald Dream…but in a very dazed and much confused state. Why, he didn’t even know himself, much less me!”