The Sundering (Warcraft: War of the Ancients Trilogy, Book 3)

473 Pages·2005·0.89 MB·English

by  Richard A. Knaak

Above the center of the Well of Eternity, the Demon Soul
flared bright. Within the abyss formed by the Sargeras's
spell, forces set in play by both the Soul and the Well
churned, slowly building up into the creation of a stable
portal. From his monstrous realm, the lord of the Legion
prepared for his entrance into this latest prize. Soon, so very
soon, he would eradicate all life, all existence, from it…and
then he would go on to the next ripe world.
But there were others waiting in growing expectation,
others with dire dreams far older than even that of the
demon lord. They had waited for so very long for the means
to escape, the means to reclaim what had once been theirs.
Each step of success by Sargeras toward strengthening his
portal was a step of success for them. With the Well, with
the Demon Soul, and with the lord of the Legion's might,
they would open up a window into their eternal prison.
And once open, there would be no sealing it again.
The Old Gods waited. They had done so for so very long,
they could wait a little longer.
But only a little…
Prologue 
A primal fury raged all about him, relentlessly ripping at
him from all sides. Fire, water, earth, and air—all tinged
with raw, uncontrolled magic—spun around him in
madcap fashion. The strain to simply remain in one place
threatened to tear him asunder, yet he held. He could do no
less.
Past his gaze soared countless scenes, countless objects.
An endless, wild panorama of time assailed his senses.
There were landscapes, battles, and creatures even he
could not name. He heard the voices of every being who
had, did, and would exist. Every noise ever caused
thundered in his ears. Colors unbelievable blinded his eyes.
And most unsettling, throughout it all, he saw himself,
himself in each moment of existence, stretching forth from
almost the birth of time to beyond its death. He might have
taken heart from that save that every aspect of him was
posed in the same contorted manner as he was. Every
existence of him struggled to keep not just his world—but
all reality—from collapsing into chaos.
Nozdormu shook his head and roared his agony and
frustration.
He wore the form of a dragon—a huge, golden-bronze
leviathan who seemed as much made of the sands of time as
he was scaled flesh. His eyes were gleaming gemstones the
color of the sun. His claws were glittering diamonds.
He was the Aspect of Time, one of the five great entities
who watched over the world of Azeroth, keeping it in
balance and protecting it from danger within and without.
Those who had formed the world had created him and his
counterparts, and of Nozdormu, they had granted
particular powers. He could see the myriad paths of the
future and delve into the intricacies of the past. He swam
the river of time as others did the air.
Yet, now Nozdormu barely held disaster in check, even
though he had the aid of himself countless times over.
Where does it lie? the Aspect asked of himself not for the
first time. Where is the cause? He had some general notion,
but still not any specifics. When Nozdormu had sensed the
unraveling of reality, he had come to this place to
investigate, only to discover that he had barely arrived in
time to prevent the destruction of everything. However,
once caught up in that task, the Aspect realized that he
could do no more on his own.
To that end, the behemoth had turned to one who whose
power he dwarfed a thousandfold, but whose ingenuity and
dedication had proven him as able as any of the great five.
Nozdormu had contacted the red dragon, Korialstrasz,
consort of the Aspect of Life, Alexstrasza, in a fragmented
vision. He had managed to send the other leviathan—who
wore the guise of the wizard, Krasus—to investigate one of
the outward signs of the growing catastrophe and perhaps
find a way to reverse the terrible situation.
But the anomaly that Korialstrasz and his human protege,
Rhonin, had searched for in the eastern mountains had
instead engulfed them. Sensing their sudden nearness,
Nozdormu had cast them into the time period from which
he suspected the cause. He knew that they survived, but,
beyond that, what success they had managed appeared
negligible.
And so, while the Aspect hoped for their quest, he still
searched as best he could himself. Straining his powers to
their limits, the massive dragon continued to follow every
manifestation of the chaos. He fought past the swirling
visions of orcs on the rampage, kingdoms rising and
declining, violent volcanic upheavals, but still could find no
clue—
No! There was at last something different…something
that seemed to be influencing the madness. Power subtilely
radiating from a nexus far, far from him. Nozdormu
pursued the faint trace as a shark would its prey, his senses
diving through the monstrous maelstrom of time. More
than once, he thought he had lost it, but somehow managed
to pick up the trail again.
Then, slowly, a vague force coalesced before him. There
was a familiar sense to it, one that almost made him reject
the truth when at last it was revealed. Nozdormu hesitated,
certain that he had to be mistaken. The source could not be
this. Such a thing could not be possible!
Before Nozdormu emanated a vision of the Well of
Eternity.
The black lake churned with as much turmoil as the rest
of the Aspect's surroundings. Violent flashes of pure magic
battled over its dark waters.
And then he heard the whispering voices.
At first Nozdormu took them for the voices of demons,
the voices of the Burning Legion, but he was well familiar
with such and quickly dismissed that line of reasoning. No,
the evil he felt dripping from these whisperers was more
ancient, more malevolent…
The primal forces continued to rip at his very being, but
Nozdormu ignored his pain, caught up in his discovery.
Here, at last, Nozdormu believed, the key to the
catastrophe lay. Whether or not it was still within his power
to affect matters, he could not say, but at least if he was able
to discover the truth, there might be a chance for
Korialstrasz to yet succeed.
Nozdormu probed the lake further. He was better aware
than most that what appeared a body of water was, in fact,
so many things more. Mortal creatures could not
comprehend the full scope of it. Even his fellow Aspects
likely did not understand the waters as well as Nozdormu
did and he knew that there were secrets hidden to him.
Visually, it was as if he flew over the black depths. In
actuality, however, Nozdormu's mind plied a different
realm.
He battled a labyrinth of interlocking forces that shielded
the core of that which was called the Well from revelation.
Almost it was as if either the waters themselves were alive
or something had so insinuated itself into the Well that it
now was part of it.
Again, Nozdormu thought of the demons—the Burning
Legion—and their desire to use the Well of Eternity's power
to open the way and eradicate all life on Azeroth. Yet, this
was too shrewd for them…even their master, Sargeras.
A sense of unease swelled within him as he wound his
way through. Several times, the Aspect almost became
trapped. There were false paths, alluring trails, all designed
to forever bind him to the Well and devour his power, his
essence. Nozdormu moved with utmost caution. To become
trapped would not only mean his demise, but perhaps also
the end of all things.
Deeper and deeper he dove. The intensity of the forces
making up the Well astounded him. The power the dragon
sensed brought back memories of the creators, whose
ancient glory made Nozdormu the equivalent of slug
climbing out of the mud. Were they somehow tied to the
Well's secrets?
The visual image still remained of him hovering just
above the shadowed surface. Only he and the Well had any
stability in this place beyond the mortal plane. The waters
floated in space, a bottomless lake stretching worlds across.
He drew closer to the violent surface. On the mortal
plane, it should have reflected at least some of his image,
but all Nozdormu saw was blackness. His mind reached
deeper yet, burrowing along, closing in on the core…and
the truth.
And then tendrils of inky water stretched up and seized
his wings, limbs, and neck.
The Aspect barely reacted in time to keep himself from
being dragged under. He struggled against the watery
tentacles, but they held him fast. All four limbs were
trapped and the tentacle around his throat tightened,
cutting off his breath. Nozdormu understood that these
perceptions were only illusion, but they were powerful ones
representing the truth. His mind had been snared by that
which lurked in the Well. If he did not free himself quickly,
he would be just as dead as if the illusions were real.
Nozdormu exhaled—and a stream of sand turned the
Well into a glittering display. The tentacles jerked,
slackened.
They withered, the magic that had created them worn
and old.
But as they collapsed, others darted forth. Expecting this,
Nozdormu flapped hard, rising swiftly. Four black limbs
slashed futilely, then sank.
But the dragon suddenly jerked, his tail snagged by a
tendril from behind. As Nozdormu turned to deal with it,
more shot out. They jutted up from every direction, this
time so many that the Aspect could not avoid them all.
He swatted away one, then another, then another—and
then became trapped by more than a dozen, each binding
him with monstrous strength. The dragon was inexorably
drawn toward the swirling Well.
A maelstrom formed beneath him. Nozdormu felt its
horrific suction even from above. The gap between the
Aspect and the waters narrowed.
Then, the maelstrom changed. The waves rushing around
its edges grew jagged, then hardened. The center deepened,
yet from it issued forth what at first appeared another,
albeit different, tendril. It was long, sinewy, and as it rose
up toward him, its tip blossomed into three sharpened
points.
A mouth.
Nozdormu's golden eyes widened. His struggles grew
more adamant.
The demonic maw opened hungrily as the tentacles
forced him toward it. The “tongue” lashed at his muzzle, its
very touch searing harshly his hide.
And the whispers from within the Well grew more
virulent, more eager. Distinctive voices that sent a chill
through the Aspect. Yes, these were more than demons…
Again, he breathed the sands of time upon the tendrils,
but now they cascaded off the black limbs as if simple dust.
Nozdormu twisted, attempting to get even one of the
tendrils loose, but, they held onto him with a vampiric
passion.
This did not sit well with the Aspect. As the essence of
Time, he had been granted by his creators with the
knowledge of his own demise. That had been given as a
lesson, so that he would never think his power so great and
terrible that he had to answer to no other. Nozdormu knew
exactly how he would perish and when—and this was not
that moment.
But he could not free himself.
The “tongue” coiled around his muzzle, tightening its
grip so much that Nozdormu felt as if his jawbones were
cracking. Again, he reminded himself that this was all
illusion, but knowing that did nothing to stop either the
agony or the anxiety, the latter eating away within him in a
manner he had never experienced.
He was almost at the teeth. They gnashed together,
clearly in part to unnerve him—and succeeding. The strain
of also holding together the bonds of reality put further
stress to his thoughts. How much more simple just to let the
Well take him and be done with all the effort—
No! Nozdormu suddenly thought. A notion came to him,
a desperate one. He did not know if he had the power to
make it pass, but there was little other choice.
The Aspect's body shimmered. He seemed to withdraw
into himself.
The scene turned backward. Every motion made reversed
itself. The “tongue” unrolled from his muzzle. He inhaled