The Sundering wwotat-3

by Richard A. Knaak

What first he took for deafening thunder rattled the druid. He clutched his ears, waiting for it to pass.

  “Look!” cried Tyrande, her lips near enough to him for her voice to still be heard. “The city!”

  They watched… watched as the ground beyond Zin-Azshari broke apart. A great canyon miles deep opened. The entire capital literally began sliding toward the Well.

  “The… pull… grows… greater!” Ysera roared.

  The Well was drawing the surrounding regions into its maw, literally devouring Kalimdor. Zin-Azshari now floated in the black waters, an island bobbing about like so much flotsam. Ironically, the palace still stood mostly intact, although the tower where the Highborne had moved after the destruction of their previous sanctum leaned precariously.

  Ominous bolts of energy played around the city as it neared the maelstrom’s gullet. Unlike much of what the Well tore loose from Kalimdor, Zin-Azshari headed straight for the center. Malfurion felt Tyrande’s grip on him tighten to the point of pain.

  “It’s going…” she whispered. “It’s going…”

  Around her, Azshara’s handmaidens screamed. Vashj clung to her leg. The queen held her empty goblet, refusing to accept what was happening to her palace. She was Azshara, Light of Lights, supreme ruler of her people! She had not permitted this!

  Sargeras would not be coming. Azshara understood that, although she had not said so to her followers. It would not do to let them know that she realized that she had erred. Somehow, the rabble had kept him from coming to Kalimdor… from coming to her.

  The rumbling grew louder. A darkness in which even night elves could not see suddenly enveloped the palace. The only illumination came from the untamed forces of the Well. Black water began pouring into the palace, washing away two of her servants. Their screams were quickly drowned out.

  I am Azshara! she silently insisted, her expression constant. With but a thought, the queen created a shield that surrounded her and those still remaining. My desires are absolute!

  Her power kept the water at bay, but the pressure of maintaining her shield quickly grew troublesome. Azshara’s brow furrowed and beads of sweat — the first sweat of her life — appeared on her forehead.

  Then… voices whispered from the gloom, voices calling to her, promising her escape.

  There is a way… there is a way… you will become more than you ever were… more than you ever were… we can help… we can help…

  The queen was no fool. She knew her shield would not last much longer. Then the Well would claim her and her followers and the glory that was Azshara would be lost to the world.

  The silver-tressed night elf nodded.

  “Ungh!” The goblet fell from her hand. Her body was wracked with pain. She felt her limbs twisting, curling. Her spine felt fluid, as if much of it had instantly melted away…

  You will be more than you have ever been… promised the voices. And when the time comes, for what we grant you… you will serve us well…

  The last vestiges of her shield spell failed. Azshara shrieked as the waters overwhelmed her. In the background, she heard other cries as well… her handmaidens, the guards, and the rest of the Highborne who still served her.

  The Well filled her lungs…

  But… she did not drown.

  Krasus, too, watched as the vast city, the epitome of the night elf civilization, was sucked whole into the throat of the maelstrom. He shivered, not only because of the destruction before him, but of the knowledge that he had of the future. The dragon mage had hoped to see Zin-Azshari torn apart before it sank, but that part of history had remained true. The city would sink to the depths… and, over the centuries, begin to birth a new horror.

  There was nothing he could do about that now. Krasus looked away from the Well, looked away from the devastation spreading rapidly in all directions. Huge chunks of Kalimdor continued to be torn into the Well with no sign of the terror lessening. Already several miles of land beyond Zin-Azshari had vanished. The only good thing was that the Burning Legion had long ago sent fleeing any life that had remained. So far, only parched soil and the bones of the dead fell victim… but if the catastrophe did not slow soon, Krasus wondered if anything would remain.

  It has to, though! he insisted. History says it must be so!

  But he knew too well that Time had already unraveled far too much… and that he was, in great part, responsible.

  Krasus could only pray…

  Twenty-One

  R honin thanked the stars that he saw little in the way of life before reaching the host. It would have been impossible for two dragons and a weary wizard to save anyone still so near the region of the Well. The only people he discovered was a large band of Highborne riding for their lives toward the host. Fortunately, they had nearly made it by the time he and the dragons came upon them.

  A quick descent and an even quicker conversation revealed the surprising truth. Their leader, one Dath’Remar Sunstrider, told the story of their attempt to flee with Tyrande. Dath’Remar’s regret over losing her was clear and Rhonin, who had sensed Malfurion’s contact with her, informed the sorcerer that she had survived the escape. He could not promise that Tyrande still lived, although the wizard doubted that Malfurion would let anything happen to the female night elf once he had been reunited with her.

  Rhonin and the dragons guided the Highborne to the host, preventing, in the process, any fight breaking out between the two factions. With the bronze dragon guarding the Highborne — for their own safety — the human and his mount sought out Jarod.

  They found the commander already astride his night saber and anxiously awaiting word. Rhonin smiled in relief as he realized that the night elves and their allies were already prepared to move.

  Still atop the red, he quickly greeted Jarod, then said, “We have to get the host moving! All the way to Mount Hyjal! The portal’s been destroyed, but all that spellwork around the Well has caused chaos! It’s eating itself up and taking everything around it with it!”

  “Gods…” But Jarod’s shock quickly subsided as his inherent sense of responsibility took over. He summoned a herald who Rhonin realized the former guard captain had kept handy just for such news. “Give the signal to reverse direction!” Calling up two more riders, Jarod added, “Send word to the officers and nobles! We move at swiftest pace to Mount Hyjal! No stopping! Those who need assistance will be granted it, but no one hesitates and no one stays behind! Go!”

  “We’ll keep watch from above,” the wizard said.

  “What about… what about those who might be other directions?”

  Rhonin was grim. “The Burning Legion cleared the way for us there. I would say that any survivors are as far from the Well as we hope to get. We were the strongest resistance, after all.”

  “We can only hope for the best for those, then.”

  “And pray for ourselves at the same time.”

  As if to emphasize that point, a distant rumble caught the attention of both. Both the wizard and the soldier looked in the direction of the sound… and saw utter blackness just at the horizon.

  “Get them moving, Jarod! Fast!”

  The host started toward Mount Hyjal mere minutes later, but still not swift enough for Rhonin. Each time he glanced back, the darkness appeared to have swollen. The human swallowed, aware just what was happening and wondering if the catastrophe had already taken Krasus and the others.

  A short distance into their desperate trek, the night elves and others began to realize their danger. It would have been impossible to keep them ignorant and neither Rhonin nor Jarod had any desire to do so. What did matter was to maintain some order and Jarod Shadowsong proved adept at that. The dragons, too, aided, swooping down and guiding back to the throng those who began, in their panic, to turn off.

  Rhonin kept looking back, seeking some sign of Krasus and the others, but finding nothing. The darkness continued to encroach at an incredible pace and the ominous rumble grew more and more strident.

 
; It’s catching up to us! The wizard looked ahead. Mount Hyjal stood in the distance, enticingly close and yet still so far.

  Would even reaching it be enough? Krasus thought so and Rhonin’s recollection of history agreed… but so much had been altered.

  Vereesa… I did what I could…

  The darkness drew nearer. The roar as the ground miles back was torn and sucked into the Well pounded in his head. Below, many started to run and scream…

  And still there was no sign of Krasus and the others.

  Hillsides were ripped away. Entire lands simply crumbled into the churning, hungry whirlpool, quickly vanishing into its center. High above, Krasus watched whole settlements — fortunately long emptied by the war — vanish in a heartbeat. Nothing could stand before the onslaught of the Well’s death throes. The carnage caused by the Burning Legion paled… no… it could not even compare to what now took place.

  The first hint of Mount Hyjal appeared at the horizon. From high above, the mage could make out the desperate mass of bodies moving toward it. Providing that he had not guessed wrong, they would just barely make it to safety.

  If there were any survivors of the war in the other directions, Krasus could do nothing for them. He could only again thank the stars that so little of worth remained in the areas over which the demons had marched.

  He still had hope that the destruction would soon cease, that in this instance, at least, things would go as history recalled. They had the Demon Soul, an important factor in that, and —

  He suddenly had a premonition of danger. Krasus quickly looked back.

  A monstrous, black tendril arose from within the gargantuan Well… a tendril darting up toward an unsuspecting Ysera and the trio astride her.

  The Old Gods! I should have known!

  “Turn! The Old Gods still seek the Demon Soul for their use! This is their last chance before they are sealed off again!”

  Alexstrasza veered around. Ysera noted their sudden action, but at that moment, the tendril reached her… and plucked the druid from the dragon’s back.

  “Malfurion!” cried Tyrande. The priestess tried to grab him, but he was already well out of her reach.

  Frowning, Illidan also stretched a hand toward Malfurion. From his fingertips, a claw of crimson energy formed that immediately sought to snare the druid by the arm. Unfortunately, the claw only made it midway to his twin before abruptly fading, the violence of the Well disrupting the sorcerer’s handiwork.

  Malfurion gaped in horror as the tendril swiftly drew him back. Alexstrasza beat her wings hard. Krasus concentrated, trying to focus on Malfurion and the disk. At the very least, the dragon mage knew that he had to try to retrieve the Demon Soul. It was not a cold decision; the loss of the druid would be a tremendous one… but the loss of the Demon Soul to the dread elders would be calamitous.

  Wild, rampaging magical forces battered Krasus and his queen. The spells he sought to cast went awry. The foul tendril brought Malfurion to the Well’s gullet.

  Then… what Krasus had prayed for but had, at this point feared would not pass, saved the night elf. The Well of Eternity had, finally, reached the end of its struggles. Now, it no longer devoured Kalimdor, but only itself. With a rapidity against which even the dark entities could not match, Krasus watched the vast, black body fall in upon itself. Even the storm surrounding them sank into it. Alexstrasza flapped furiously, barely able to keep them from following it.

  The black waters receded, pouring into the Well’s own gullet. The tendril tried to retract faster, but before it could… the very last of the Well of Eternity sank down into its own throat.

  The tendril faded away like so much smoke. Krasus sensed the malevolent presence of the Old Gods vanish with it.

  Flailing, the druid suddenly tumbled loose over a new threat. Below, filling the abrupt void left by the Well’s apocalyptic hunger, came the seas of Kalimdor. Great waves a thousand feet high crashed against one another, hundreds of tons of water pouring each second into what had been the middle of the continent.

  Krasus watched, awestruck, as the Sundering came to a crashing end and the Great Sea formed.

  Yet, although taken by the sight, he did not forget Malfurion and the Demon Soul. With the Well had gone the last of its untamed and turbulent energies. Now, Krasus had full command of his power…

  But before he could use it, a magnificent giant of bronze appeared from nowhere, a huge male dragon who glittered despite the remnants of the gloom still overshadowing the sky.

  “Nozdormu!” the mage uttered.

  The Aspect of Time swooped down, catching both the night elf and the disk. He soared quickly toward Alexstrasza and Ysera, but his golden gaze was for Krasus alone.

  “Just in Time…” was all the male rumbled. Then, he flew past them, heading toward Mount Hyjal with Malfurion and the disk still clutched in one huge paw.

  The other Aspects immediately banked, following. Krasus watched Nozdormu fly on as if nothing at all had happened to the world.

  The mage finally shook his head and, for the first time since being cast into the past, breathed easier.

  The survivors of the host did not breathe easier, not yet, for although they began to recognize the end of the danger, they also knew that their world had been forever altered. Many simply stared hollow-eyed at the new sea. The waters were already stilling, the waves beginning to lap gently at the ravaged shoreline.

  So many had lost loved ones. The repercussions would only just begin materializing over the weeks and months — even years — to come. One of those who understood it best was Jarod Shadowsong. Despite his own shaken soul, he kept on a face of determination for his people. Even the nobles for the most part turned to him in need of reassurance. From those who seemed more steadfast, such as Blackforest, he appointed commanders to oversee the requirements of the host.

  Mount Hyjal became a rallying point, for it remained untouched by the war and disaster that had followed. Jarod ordered banners made with the peak as their centerpiece, a new flag for a new beginning.

  Aid came to the night elves from the tauren and others less affected by the ruination of Kalimdor. All had suffered, but no one’s home had been so utterly destroyed as had that of Jarod’s race. He greatly accepted the help of Huln’s people and was glad to see that there were few incidents of prejudice from the other night elves toward outside assistance. How long that would last would depend on the future of the refugees. They no longer had their elegant and extraordinary cities — their cities with the huge, living tree homes and magically-sculpted landscapes reserved only for themselves — from which to look down upon all else. In fact, most no longer even had roofs over their heads, the number of tents in very short supply. Jarod had donated his own tent to younger refugees orphaned by the ordeal.

  Unfortunately, it did not take long for the first threat to the stability of the host to rear its ugly head. With the Well no more, the rest of the night elves did not fear the High-borne as they once had. Muttering began to grow among the refugees, muttering which intensified the more the High-borne made themselves visible.

  “You’ll have a new war on your hands,” Krasus advised him. “You need to quell this now.”

  “Some will never forget the horrors wrought upon us by their actions.” Jarod’s gaze shifted off toward the new waters. Below it lay the ruins of his own lost Suramar. “Never.”

  The pale figure confronted him. “You must put aside the differences, Jarod Shadowsong, if you wish your people to survive!”

  Steeling himself, Jarod summoned the nobles and other ranking members of the host. He also called forth Dath’Remar Sunstrider and the seniormost Highborne. The two factions met him under the old banner of Lord Ravencrest, which Jarod used as a substitute until the new ones could be finished. Krasus had suggested this last, both of them aware that the reputation of the late noble was one that had been respected by both the aristocracy and palace alike.

  “We are here under protest,” Blackfo
rest growled, eyeing the robed figures. His gauntleted hand rested on the pommel of his sword. “And will not long abide such foul company…”

  Dath’Remar sniffed disdainfully, but said nothing. His opinion of the nobles was clear enough.

  “Haven’t you learned anything from all this?” snapped Jarod. He gestured toward the sea. “Isn’t that enough to put an end to animosities? Do you both intend to finish what the demons began?”

  “And what these willingly assisted in!” pointed out another noble.

  “We make no excuses for what we did,” Dath’Remar returned defiantly. “But we tried to make amends. Did you never wonder why the full portal took so long to come to fruition? We risked ourselves to keep it from doing so under the very eye of the demon lord! We sought to rescue the high priestess of Elune and many of us perished fighting the Burning Legion ourselves!”

  “Not enough!”

  “May I speak?”

  A group of Elune’s followers joined the fray, Tyrande Whisperwind and Jarod’s sister at the forefront. Maiev looked uncommonly subdued in the high priestess’s presence and Jarod could understand that. There was something about the young female that immediately eased his heart.

  Everyone bent down on one knee, but Tyrande, an embarrassed frown appearing, gestured for them to rise. Jarod bowed slightly, then said, “By all means, the voice of the Mother Moon may speak whenever she so desires.”

  Tyrande nodded gratefully, then, to the assembled parties, she said, “Our world will never be the same. That which we were we are no more.” Her expression grew solemn. “We are in flux. What our people are to become, I cannot say, but it will likely be nothing akin to what we once were.”

  Uneasy rumbling rose from both the nobles and the Highborne. The words of the high priestess were not to be taken lightly.

  “We have survived this struggle, but, if we do not come together, we may not survive our own evolution. Consider this before you begin resurrecting old enmities…”