The Well of Eternity Read Free

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. Something was 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.
    The notion so staggered the shaman that he did not notice until almost too late that the funnel now sought to draw him 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

    A n 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.”
    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,