Richard A. Knaak - WarCraft - War Of The Ancients Book 1 - The Well Of Eternity

CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

About the Author

A TERRIBLE HOWL ECHOED THROUGH

THE PASS.

A massive, eight-legged lupine form dropped down on Rhonin. Had he been other than what he was, the

wizard would have perished there, the meal of a savage, saber-toothed creature with four gleaming green

eyes to go with its eight, clawed limbs. The monstrous wolf-creature brought him down, but Rhonin,

having magicked his garments to better protect him from the elements, proved a hard nut to crack. The

claws scraped at a cloak they should have readily tattered, only to have instead one nail snap off.

Gray fur standing on end, the beast howled its frustration. Rhonin took the opening, casting a simple but

effective spell that had saved him in the past.

A cacophony of light burst before the creature’s emerald orbs, both blinding and startling it. It ducked

back, swatting uselessly at flashing patterns.

Dragging himself out of reach, Rhonin rose. There was no chance of flight; that would only serve to turn

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his back on the beast and his protective spell was already weakening. A few more slashes and the claws

would be ripping the wizard to the bone.

Fire had worked against the ghoul on the island and Rhonin saw no reason why such a tried and true

spell would not benefit him again. He muttered the words—

And suddenly they came out in reverse. Worse, Rhonin found himself moving backward, returning to the

wild claws of the blinded beast.

Time had turned in on itself…but how?

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s

imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead

is entirely coincidental.

AnOriginal Publication of POCKET BOOKS

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For Martin Fajkus and my readers

throughout the world.

THE WELL OF ETERNITY

ONE

The tall, forbidding palace perched atop the very edge of the mountainous cliff, overlooking so

precariously the vast, black body of water below that it appeared almost ready to plummet into the

latter’s dark depths. When first the vast, walled edifice had been constructed, using magic that melded

both stone and forest into a single, cohesive form, it had been a wonder to touch the heart of any who

saw it. Its towers were trees strengthened by rock, with jutting spires and high, open windows. The walls

were volcanic stone raised up, then bound tightly by draping vines and giant roots. The main palace at the

center had originally been created by the mystical binding of more than a hundred giant, ancient trees.

Bent in together, they had formed the skeleton of the rounded center, over which the stone and vines had

been set.

A wonder to touch the hearts of all when first it had been built, now it touched the fears of some. An

unsettling aura enshrouded it, one heightened this stormy night. The few who peered at the ancient edifice

now quickly averted their gaze.

Those who looked instead to the waters below it found no peace, either. The ebony lake was now in

violent, unnatural turmoil. Churning waves as high as the palace rose and fell in the distance, crashing with

a roar. Lightning played over its vast body, lightning gold, crimson, or the green of decay. Thunder

rumbled like a thousand dragons and those who lived around its shores huddled close, uncertain as to

what sort of storm might be unleashed.

On the walls surrounding the palace, ominous guards in forest-green armor and wielding lances and

swords glared warily about. They watched not only beyond the walls for foolish trespassers, but on

occasion surreptitiously glanced within…particularly at the main tower, where they sensed unpredictable

energies at play.

And in that high tower, in a stone chamber sealed from the sight of those outside, tall, narrow figures in

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iridescent robes of turquoise, embroidered with stylized, silver images of nature, bent over a six-sided

pattern written into the floor. At the center of the pattern, symbols in a language archaic even to the

wielders flared with lives of their own.

Glittering, silver eyes with no pupils stared out from under the hoods as the night elves muttered the spell.

Their dark, violet skin grew covered in sweat as the magic within the pattern amplified. All but one

looked weary, ready to succumb to exhaustion. That one, overseeing the casting, watched the process

not with silver orbs like the rest, but rather false black ones with streaks of ruby running horizontal along

the centers. But despite the false eyes, he noted every detail, every inflection by the others. His long,

narrow face, narrow even for an elf, wore an expression of hunger and anticipation as he silently drove

them on.

One other watched all of this, drinking in every word and gesture. Seated on a luxurious chair of ivory

and leather, her rich, silver hair framing her perfect features and the silken gown—as golden as her

eyes—doing the same for her exquisite form, she was every inch the vision of a queen. She leaned back

against the chair, sipping wine from a golden goblet. Her jeweled bracelets tinkled as her hand moved

and the ruby in the tiara she wore glistened in the light of the sorcerous energies the others had

summoned.

Now and then her gaze shifted ever so slightly to study the dark-eyed figure, her full lips pursing in

something approaching suspicion. Yet, when once he suddenly glanced her way, as if sensing her

observation, all suspicion vanished, replaced by a languid smile.

The chanting continued.

The black lake churned madly.

There had been a war and it had ended.

So, Krasus knew, history would eventually record what had happened. Almost lost in that recording

would be the countless personal lives destroyed, the lands ravaged, and the near-destruction of the entire

mortal world.

Even the memories of dragons are fleeting under such circumstances,the pale, gray-robed figure

conceded to himself. He understood that very well, for although to most eyes he resembled a lanky,

almost elven figure with hawklike features, silvering hair, and three long scars traveling down his right

cheek, he was much more than that. To most, he was known as a wizard, but to a select few he was

calledKorialstrasz —a name only a dragon would wear.

Krasus had been born a dragon, a majestic red one, the youngest of the great Alexstrasza’s consorts.

She, the Aspect of Life, was his dearest companion…yet once again he dragged himself away from her

to study the plights and futures of the short-lived races.

In the hidden, rock-hewn abode he had chosen for his new sanctum, Krasus looked over the world of

Azeroth. The gleaming emerald crystal enabled him to see whatever land, whatever individual, he desired.

And everywhere that the dragon mage looked, he saw devastation.

It seemed as if it had only been a few years ago when the grotesque, green-skinned behemoths called

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orcs, who had invaded the world from beyond, were defeated. With their remaining numbers kept in

encampments, Krasus had believed the world ready for peace. Yet, that peace had been short-lived. The

Alliance—the human-led coalition that had been the forefront of the resistance—had immediately begun

to crumble, its members vying for power over one another. Part of that had been the fault of dragons—or

theone dragon, Deathwing—but much had simply been the greed and desire of humans, dwarves, and

elves.

Yet, even that would have passed with little concern if not for the coming of the Burning Legion.

Today, Krasus surveyed distant Kalimdor, located on the far side of the sea. Even now, areas of it

resembled a land after a terrible volcanic eruption. No life, no semblance of civilization, remained in those

areas. It had not been any natural force, however, that had rent the land so. The Burning Legion had left

nothing in its wake but death.

The fiery demons had come from a place beyond reality. Magic was what they sought, magic they

devoured. Attacking in conjunction with their monstrous pawns, the Undead Scourge, they had thought

to lay waste to the world. Yet, they had not counted on the most unlikely alliance of all…

The orcs, once also their puppets, had turned on them. They had joined the humans, elves, dwarves, and

dragons to decimate the demonic warriors and ghoulish beasts and push the remnants back into the

hellish beyond. Thousands had perished, but the alternative…

The dragon mage snorted. In truth, there had beenno alternative.

Krasus waved long, tapering fingers over the orb, summoning a vision of the orcs. The view blurred

momentarily, then revealed a mountainous, rocky area further inland. A harsh land, but one still full of life

and capable of supporting the new colonists.

Already, several stone structures had risen in the main settlement, where the Warchief and one of the

heroes of the war, Thrall, ruled. The high, rounded edifice that served as his quarters was crude by the

standards of any other race, but orcs had a propensity toward basics. Extravagance to an orc was having

a permanent place to live at all. They had been nomads or prisoners for so long that the concept of

“home” had been all but lost.

Several of the massive, greenish figures tilled a field. Watching the tusked, brutish-looking workers,

Krasus marveled at the concept of orc farmers. Thrall, however, was a highly unusual orc and he had

readily grasped the ideas that would return stability to his people.

Stability was something the entire world needed badly. With another wave of his hand, the dragon mage

dismissed Kalimdor, summoning now a much closer location—the once proud capital of his favored

Dalaran. Ruled by the wizards of the Kirin Tor, the prime wielders of magic, it had been at the forefront

of the Alliance’s battle against the Burning Legion in Lordaeron and one of the first and most prized

targets of the demons in turn.

Dalaran lay half in ruins. The once-proud spires had been all but shattered. The great libraries burned.

Countless generations of knowledge had been lost…and with them countless lives. Even the council had

suffered badly. Several of those Krasus had counted as friends or at least respected colleagues had been

slain. The leadership was in disarray and he knew that he would have to step in to lend a hand. Dalaran

needed to speak with one voice, if only to keep what remained of the splintered Alliance intact.

Yet, despite the turmoil and tribulations still ahead, the dragon did have hope. The problems of the world

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were surmountable ones. No more fear of orcs, no more fear of demons. Azeroth would struggle, but in

the end, Krasus not only thought it would survive, he fully believed it would thrive.

He dismissed the emerald crystal and rose. The Dragon Queen, his beloved Alexstrasza, would be

awaiting him. She suspected his desire to return to help the mortal world and, of all dragons, she most

understood. He would transform to his true self, bid her farewell—for a time—and depart before regrets

held him back.

His sanctum he had chosen not only for its seclusion, but also for its massiveness. Stepping from the

smaller chamber, Krasus entered a toothy cavern whose heights readily matched the now lost towers of

Dalaran. An army could have bivouacked in the cavern and not filled it.

Just the right size for a dragon.

Krasus stretched his arms…and as he did, his tapering fingers lengthened further, becoming taloned. His

back arched and from near the shoulders erupted twin growths that quickly transformed into fledgling

wings. His long features stretched, turning reptilian.

Throughout all these lesser changes, Krasus’s form expanded. He became four, five, even ten times the

size of a man and continued to grow. Any semblance to a human or elf quickly faded.

From wizard, Krasus became Korialstrasz, dragon.

But—in the very midst of the transformation—a desperate voice suddenly filled his head.

Kor…strasz…

He faltered, all but reverting to his wizardly form. Krasus blinked, then stared around the huge chamber

as if seeking the source of the cry there.

Nothing. The dragon mage waited and waited, but the call did not repeat.

Shrugging it off to his own uncertainties, he commenced again with the transformation—

And again, the desperate voice criedKorialstra…

This time…he recognized it. Immediately, he responded in kind.I hear you! What is it you need of me?

There was no response, but Krasus sensed the desperation remaining. Focusing, he tried to reach out,

establish a link with the one who so badly needed his aid—the one who should have needed no aid from

any creature.

I am here!the dragon mage demanded.Sense me! Give me some indication of what is wrong!

He felt the barest touch in return, a faint hinting of some distress. Krasus concentrated every iota of his

thoughts into the meager link, hoping…hoping…

The overpowering presence of a dragon whose magic dwarfed his own a thousandfold sent Krasus

staggering. A sensation of centuries, of great age, engulfed him. Krasus felt as if Time itself now

surrounded him in all its terrible majesty.

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Not Time…not quite…but he who was the Aspect of Time.

The Dragon of the Ages…Nozdormu.

There were only four great dragons, four Great Aspects, of which his beloved Alexstrasza was Life.

Mad Malygos was Magic and ethereal Ysera influenced Dreams. They, along with brooding Nozdormu,

represented creation itself.

Krasus grimaced. In truth, there had beenfive Aspects. The fifth had once been called Neltharion…the

Earth Warder. But long ago, in a time even Krasus could not recall clearly, Neltharion had betrayed his

fellows. The Earth Warder had turned on them and in the process had garnered a new, more appropriate

title.

Deathwing. The Destroyer.

The very thought of Deathwing stirred Krasus from his astonishment. He absently touched the three

scars on his cheek. Had Deathwing returned to plague the world again? Was that why the great

Nozdormu would show such distress?

I hear you!Krasus mentally called back, now more than ever fearful of the reason for the call.I hear you!

Is it—is it the Destroyer?

But in response, he was once again buffeted by an overwhelming series of astonishing images. The

images burnt themselves into his head, making it impossible for Krasus to ever forget any.

In either form, Krasus, however adaptable and capable, was no match for the unbridled power of an

Aspect. The force of the other dragon’s mental might flung him back against the nearest wall, where the

mage collapsed.

It took several minutes for Krasus to push himself up from the floor and even then his head spun.

Fragmented thoughts not his own assailed his senses. It was all he could do for a time just to remain

conscious.

Slowly, though, things stabilized enough for him to realize the scope of all that had just happened.

Nozdormu, Lord of Time, had been desperately crying out for aid…hisaid. He had turned specifically to

the lesser dragon, not one of his compatriots.

But anything that would so distress an Aspect could only be a monumental threat to the rest of Azeroth.

Why then choose a lone red dragon and not Alexstrasza or Ysera?

He tried once more to reach the great dragon, but his efforts only made his head swim again. Steadying

himself, Krasus tried to decide what to do instead. One image in particular constantly demanded his

attention, the image of a snow-swept mountain area in Kalimdor. Whatever Nozdormu had sought to

explain to him had to do with that desolate region.

Krasus would have to investigate it, but he would need capable assistance, someone who could adapt

readily. While Krasus prided himself on his own ability to adapt well, his species was, for the most part,

obstinate and set in its ways. He needed someone who would listen, but who could also react instantly as

unfolding events required. No, for such unpredictable effort, only one creature would serve. A human.

In particular, a human named Rhonin.

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A wizard…

And in Kalimdor, on the steppes of the wild country, a grizzled, aged orc leaned close over a smoky

fire. Mumbling words whose origins lay on another, long-lost world, the moss-green figure tossed some

leaves upon the fire, increasing the already thick smoke. Fumes filled his humble wood and earth hut.

The bald, elderly orc leaned over and inhaled. His weary brown eyes were veined and his skin hung in

sacks. His teeth were yellow, chipped, and one of his tusks had been broken off years before. He could

scarcely rise without aid and when he walked, he did so stooped and slow.

Yet, even the hardiest warrior paid him fealty as shaman.

A bit of bone dust, a touch of tannar berries…all part of a tried and true tradition resurrected among the

orcs. Kalthar’s father had taught him all even during the dark years of the Horde, just as Kalthar’s

grandsire had taught his father before that.

And now, for the first time, the withered shaman found himself hoping he had been taught well.

Voices murmured in his head, the spirits of the world that the orcs now called home. Normally, they

whispered little things, life things, but now they murmured anxiously, warning…warning…

But of what? He had to know more.

Kalthar reached into a pouch at his waist, removing three dried, black leaves. They were almost all of

what remained from a single plant brought with him from the orcs’ ancient world. Kalthar had been

warned not to use them unless he deemed it truly necessary. His father had never used them, nor his

grandfather.

The shaman tossed them into the flames.

Instantly the smoke turned a thick, swirling blue. Not black, but blue. The orc’s brow furrowed at this

change of color, then he leaned forward again and inhaled as much as possible.

The world transformed, and with it the orc. He had become a bird, a huge avian soaring over the

landscape. He flew over mountains without a care. With his eyes he saw the tiniest animals, the most

distant rivers. A sense of exhilaration not felt since his youth almost overwhelmed Kalthar, but he fought

it. To give in would risk him losing his sense of self. He might fly forever as a bird, never knowing what he

had once been.

Even as he thought that, Kalthar suddenly noted a wrongness in the nature of the world, possibly the

reason for the voices’ concern. Somethingwas that should not be. He veered in the direction that felt

correct, growing more anxious as he drew nearer.

And just within the deepest part of the mountain range, the shaman discovered the source of his anxiety.

His learned mind knew that he envisioned a concept, not the actual thing. To Kalthar, it appeared as a

water funnel—yet one that swallowed and disgorged simultaneously. But what emerged or sank into its

depths were days and nights, months and years. The funnel seemed to be eating and emitting time itself.

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The notion so staggered the shaman that he did not notice until almost too late that the funnel now sought

to drawhim in as well.

Immediately, Kalthar strained to free himself. He flapped his wings, pushed with his muscles. His mind

reached out to his physical form, tugging hard at the gossamer link tying body to soul and trying to break

the trance.

Still the funnel drew him forward.

In desperation, Kalthar called upon the spirit guides, prayed to them to strengthen him. They came as he

knew they would, but at first they seemed to act too slow. The funnel filled his view, seemed ready to

engulf him—

The world abruptly twisted around the shaman. The funnel, the mountains…everything turned about and

about.

With a gasp, Kalthar awoke.

Exhausted beyond his years, he barely kept himself from falling face first into the fire. The voices that

constantly murmured had faded away. The orc sat on the floor of his hut, trying to reassure himself that,

yes, he now existed whole in the mortal world. The spirit guides had saved him, albeit barely in time.

But with that happy reassurance came the reminder of what he had witnessed in his vision…and what it

meant.

“I must tell Thrall…” he muttered, forcing weary, aged legs up. “I must tell him quick…else we lose our

home…our world…again…”

TWO

An ominous portent,Rhonin decided, vivid green eyes gazing at the results of his divining.Any wizard

would recognize it as so.

“Are you certain?” Vereesa called from the other room. “Have you checked your reading?”

The red-haired mage nodded, then grimaced when he realized that of course the elf could not see him.

He would have to tell her face to face. She deserved that.I pray she is strong.

Clad in dark blue pants and jacket, both gold-trimmed, Rhonin looked more like a politician than a mage

these days, but the past few years had demanded as much diplomacy from him as magic. Diplomacy had

never been an easy thing for him, who preferred to go charging into a situation. With his thick mane of

hair and his short beard, he had a distinct leonine appearance that so well matched his temper when

forced to parlay with pampered, arrogant ambassadors. His nose, broken long ago and never—by his

own choice—properly fixed, further added to his fiery reputation.

“Rhonin…is there something you have not told me?”

He could leave her waiting no longer. She had to know the truth, however terrible it might be. “I’m

coming, Vereesa.”

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Putting away his divining instruments, Rhonin took a deep breath, then rejoined the elf. Just within the

entrance, though, he paused. All Rhonin could see was her face—a beautiful, perfect oval upon which

had been artfully placed alluring, almond-shaped eyes of pure sky blue, a tiny, upturned nose, and an

enticing mouth seemingly always halfway to a smile. Framing that face was a rich head of silver-white hair

that, had she been standing, would have hung nearly to the small of her back. She could have passed yet

for a human if not for the long, tapering ears jutting from the hair, pointed ears marking her race.

“Well?” she asked, patiently.

“It’s…it’s to be twins.”

Her face lit up, if anything becoming more perfect in his eyes. “Twins! How fortuitous! How wonderful! I

was so certain!”

She adjusted her position on the wooden bed. The slim but curved elven ranger now lay several months

pregnant. Gone were her breastplate and leather armor. Now she wore a silver gown that did not at all

conceal the imminent birth.

They should have guessed from the quickness with which she had shown, but Rhonin had wanted to

deny it. They had been wed only a few months when she had discovered her condition. Both were

concerned then, for not only had their marriage been one so very rare in the annals of history, but no one

had ever recorded a successful human-elven birth.

And now they expected not one child, but two.

“I don’t think you understand, Vereesa.Twins! Twins from a mage and an elf!”

But her face continued to radiate pleasure and wonder. “Elves seldom give birth and we very, very

rarely give birth to twins, my love! They will be destined for great things!”

Rhonin could not hide his sour expression. “I know. That’s what worries me…”

He and Vereesa had lived through their own share of “great things.” Thrown together to penetrate the

orc stronghold of Grim Batol during the last days of the war against the Horde, they had faced not just

orcs, but dragons, goblins, trolls, and more. Afterward, they had journeyed from realm to realm,

becoming ambassadors of sorts whose task it had been to remind the Alliance of the importance of

remaining intact. That had not meant, however, that they had not risked their lives during that time, for the

peace following that war had been unstable at best.

Then, without warning, had come the Burning Legion.

By that time, what had started as a partnership of two wary agents had become a binding of two unlikely

souls. In the war against the murderous demons, the mage and the ranger had fought as much for each

other as for their lands. More than once, they had thought one another dead and the pain felt had been

unbearable to each.

Perhaps the pain of losing each other had seemed worse because of all those other loved ones who had

already perished. Both Dalaran and Quel’Thalas had been razed by the Undead Scourge, thousands

slaughtered by the decaying abominations serving the dread Lich King, who in turn served the cause of

the Legion. Entire towns perished horribly and matters were made worse by the fact that many of the

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Richard A. Knaak - WarCraft - War Of The Ancients Book 1 - The Well Of Eternity

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