And even though it had only been a nightmare, it left him more exhausted, more susceptible.
Tyrande… Malfurion thought. I am so sorry…
Perhaps she no longer even thinks of you, came a new voice in his mind. After so long, after being abandoned so often, after leaving the fate of so many to her while you hid from the world and your responsibility…
Malfurion tried to shake his head, but he no longer had a head to shake.
The voice came again, seeming much like a poisonous adder slithering through Malfurion’s soul. Just as you abandoned the other so important to you, abandoned him to betrayal, to imprisonment, to damnation…
Illidan. Malfurion had tried to save his twin, but in the end, Illidan’s ambition had turned him into the very thing against which he had fought. A demon. Had Malfurion acted differently from the beginning, perhaps seeking to help his brother rather than imprison him… Illidan might have been saved. No! the captured archdruid managed to think. I did try to help him! I came to his prison time and time again in the hopes of turning him from his fatal path…
But you failed… you always fail… you failed yourself and because of that, you will fail your Azeroth…
In the Emerald Dream — the Nightmare — what had once been Malfurion Stormrage contorted yet more. He no longer glowed the bright green hue that dreamforms took on when they entered this magical realm. Instead, a darker, more sinister shade of green now swathed him.
An even greater darkness hovered around the imprisoned archdruid, the only visible evidence of the thing that called itself the Nightmare Lord. From that foul gloom, scores of tendrils fed into Malfurion, not only fueling the alteration of his form, but seeking to tear further into the night elf’s mind as he slowly transformed ever more into a tree.
A tree of inconceivable, agonizing pain…
Malfurion’s barrow den was as Tyrande Whisperwind had seen it in both her vision and previous excursions. Little there was that spoke of the person behind the legend. It consisted of a series of underground passages that never saw the light of the sun, but night elves were creatures of the darkness, and, in addition, had mystical powers at their command. Instead of oil lamps, the cool, soft illumination of the moon now kept the main chamber lit, compliments of the devoted prayers of the Sisterhood.
The archdruid lay as if sleeping, which, in a sense, he was. Only his open eyes gave any initial hint that there was more to the matter.
The priestesses on duty had moved aside. One by one, the party stepped before the unmoving body, the druids kneeling in homage to their founder while the newly arrived Sisters of Elune simply bowed. Broll thought the scene more one of a funeral or at least a family gathered around a loved one’s deathbed, but kept such thoughts to himself, especially with Malfurion’s beloved so near.
When it was the high priestess’s turn, she leaned so close that at first it appeared she was going to kiss Malfurion. To most, that would have not been surprising. However, at the last moment, Tyrande pulled back and instead briefly stroked his forehead.
“Cold …” she muttered. “Colder than he should be …”
“We have kept constant with the prayers,” Merende immediately responded, a hint of surprise in her tone. “Nothing should have changed …”
There was no anger in Tyrande’s voice as she replied, “I know… but he is colder… Elune’s vision is truth …” She stared. “And his eyes are losing their gold… as if he is losing his ties to Azeroth…”
She finally stepped back, making room for the lead archdruid.
Fandral spent even more time over Malfurion than the high priestess had. He muttered under his breath and passed both hands over the body. Broll saw him send a pinch of powder over the chest and wondered what Fandral intended. The priestesses and druids had performed scores of spells to aid Malfurion not only in the preservation of his body, but also his potential return.
Wiping away a single tear, the senior archdruid stepped back.
Broll prayed to the woodland spirits that whatever Fandral attempted would help. They needed Malfurion more than ever, especially if Teldrassil’s illness proved something beyond their powers to cure.
“My Sisters shall increase their efforts,” Tyrande said after a brief discussion with Merende and the other tending pair. “Elune will surely enable them to keep the body alive… at least for a while… but this must be solved soon.”
“There is nothing more that we can do here,” Fandral remarked with a respectful glance at Malfurion Stormrage’s body. “Let us return to the outside …”
As the druids and others obeyed, Broll noticed Tyrande return to touch Malfurion on the cheek. Then her expression hardened and she strode after Fandral as if about to rush off to war.
The somberness of Malfurion’s chamber gave way to the lush beauty of the land above — a hilly forest region dotted with countless mounds, beneath which lay the sanctums of other druids.
Between the barrow dens, stone and wooden arches draped with lush, living greenery gave the Moonglade an exotic look.
Yet it was more than just its physical appearance that made the Moonglade what it was. As a druid, Broll in particular could sense the inherent peace of this place. There was little wonder that it had been chosen as a sacred location by those of his calling.
“So tranquil a place,” the high priestess commented.
“The spirit of Cenarius is very much a part of it,” Fandral replied, looking pleased by Tyrande’s compliment, “and present also in its guardian, his son …”
“Would that I were my father,” came a voice that brought with it a sense of springtime. “Would that I were …”
The druids had not heard the figure approach, as his footsteps produced no hint of a sound. They immediately knelt in respect and even the priestesses acknowledged Remulos’s appearance with a formal bow. However, he looked not at all pleased with such a greeting.
“Rise up!” he demanded of the druids as the air around him filled with the scent of flowers and the grass grew more lush beneath his hooves. “I am in no need of honoring from any of you,” Remulos added dourly, his leafy mane shaking. “I am an abject failure!”
Fandral stretched a hand forward in protest. “You, great one?
Surely no such words could be used for the lord of the Moonglade!”
The almost — night elf visage peered down at the gathered figures, his nostrils flaring the way an angered stag’s might. He focused briefly on Broll — who immediately looked down — then turned toward Fandral. “They are apt words, Fandral, for my efforts to seek aid for Malfurion have accomplished nil. He still sleeps… and now, worse, I presume. For what other reason could there be for such a contingent to come to the Moonglade?”
“He is… dying at last,” Tyrande admitted.
Shock overtook Remulos’s expression. The four, swift legs stepped back soundlessly, colorful wildflowers blossoming in his tracks.
“Dying …” The shock faded, replaced by something darker. “It makes sense… for the Nightmare is swelling faster than ever, its gibbering madness now audible throughout most of the Emerald Dream! Worse, it moves more swiftly, too, catching more of the Dream’s defenders unaware… and corrupting them in both body and spirit …”
To hear even Remulos speak so only added more credence to the fears that Broll, Tyrande, and the others felt. Broll clenched his fist, for a brief moment wishing for the comparative simplicity of his years as a gladiator.
Despite how brief the clenching was, either it or some other noticeable sign of emotion made Remulos look again to him. Yet Remulos’s words were not for Broll, but rather Fandral. “The idol is still in your care, Archdruid?”
“Yes, great one.”
Remulos eyed Fandral. “Make no use of it. Hide it away. Let not its power touch Azeroth… at least for now …”
Several of the druids, Broll included, glanced at their leader.
Fandral did not mention his recent choice, merely nodding to Remu
los and responding, “It is safe within my dwelling. And so shall it remain.”
“Bear in mind what I said. I can give no more reason at this time… for I am not certain myself on it …”
“I give you my oath,” Fandral swore.
The towering deity acknowledged, then retreated more. As he did, his form somehow blended with his surroundings — both near and far. “This news, though dread, stirs me to new action. High Priestess, you have my sympathies …”
A brief lowering of her eyelids was Tyrande’s response. By then,
though, Remulos had already become his surroundings, vanishing as if an illusion created by the leaves, branches, and other flora of the mystical glade.
But his voice yet remained. “One last warning, my friends…
there have been whispers… of sleepers appearing throughout the various kingdoms, sleepers of all races… they are said to be those who cannot awaken no matter how much their loved ones might try… listen for tales of those, just as I will… they may be of import …”
And then, he was gone.
“Sleepers… who cannot awaken …” Tyrande muttered. “What can he mean?”
“He may mean nothing at all,” Fandral pointed out. “As Remulos said, these are but whispers. They are likely no more than that.”
Hamuul grunted. “I have heard… from an orc whose word I trust… that there is a village where five strong warriors could not be stirred.”
The lead archdruid did not look convinced in the least. “The word of an orc—”
The tauren shrugged. “There was no reason for him to lie.”
“Malfurion is caught in the Emerald Dream …” Tyrande remarked thoughtfully. “Does not this sound as if tied to that somehow?”
Giving a low bow to her, Fandral shook his head. “High Priestess, you make a reasonable mistake. Though we call it the Emerald Dream — or Nightmare, as it is now — druidic projection and normal mortal sleep are two entirely different matters.”
“Yes… I suppose you’re right.” A bitter cast returned to her face. “He should have never gone by himself. Not after warning others of your calling to beware the changes in the Emerald Dream.”
Broll watched as Tyrande closed her eyes for but a moment, and her anger transformed into sadness.
“He knew druids had already been found as he is now,” Tyrande continued, “poor souls who didn’t have his strength and will to keep their bodies alive after their dreamforms were gone far too long …”
That the high priestess was so knowledgeable about their calling surprised no one. She had been there since the beginning, since their shan’do had first begun his training. As her lover, he would have surely shared his experiences with her.
“He did what he did, Tyrande Whisperwind, as we shall do what we must do,” the lead archdruid responded. Fandral looked more at ease. “And the World Tree Teldrassil still remains our best hope of saving him.”
The high priestess did not seem so confident in the archdruid’s declaration, though she did nod agreement. She glanced at Broll, whom she knew better than most other druids. He gave her what he hoped was an expression of reassurance.
Fandral began to say something else to the high priestess, but a sound caught Broll’s attention, turning it from the conversation.
The hair on the former slave’s neck stiffened as he recognized the noise. His eyes darted to the trees and other greenery, where the leaves shook as if rattled by a violent wind.
As had occurred with Teldrassil earlier, the leaves of the trees and bushes all over the Moonglade burst into the air, rendering deathly nude the branches and stems. The leaves rose up into the sky… then poured down with deadly accuracy toward the party.
As they did, they once again began to change shape, to become the swelling silhouettes of creatures with hints of cloven feet and legs more animal than night elf.
But then there came a change to the previous vision. Between the night elves and the monstrous attackers there formed a figure that glowed with the light of the Emerald Dream. Broll instinctively thought of Malfurion, but this shape was smaller and not at all formed like one of his people. Rather, it more and more resembled —
“Broll!” a gruff voice whispered in his ear. “Broll Bearmantle!”
The night elf shook. The demons again became leaves and the leaves, yet once more in a replay of the vision of Teldrassil, returned to their proper places among the greenery.
Broll looked into Hamuul’s concerned eyes. He realized that he and the tauren were alone. The rest could only be seen in the distance, already leaving the area.
“Broll Bearmantle, something ails you.” Hamuul stepped around to face his friend. “The others did not notice, for when I saw you stiffen, I stood so that they would think we spoke. Even then, the false conversation I had with you did not even penetrate. You were — you were as our shan’do is.”
Feeling his legs weaken, Broll seized Hamuul’s arm for support.
When he answered, it was with a rasping voice that startled him.
“No… I was not like Malfurion. I had… I had a vision …”
“A vision? How can that be?”
The night elf considered. “No. Not quite a vision. It was as if…
as if Azeroth… or something else… were trying to warn me …”
Realizing that he now needed to confide in someone, Broll quickly and quietly told the tauren what he had experienced.
Hamuul’s nostrils flared often as the tale was told. As was common when one of his kind was unsettled or excited, the tauren also snorted more than once.
“We should pass this on to the others,” Hamuul suggested when Broll was finished.
Broll shook his head. “Fandral won’t see it as anything more than anxiety… or maybe madness. To him, Teldrassil is the key… and he is probably right.”
“But your visions — now twice seen, as you say — must be of significance, Broll Bearmantle.”
“I’m not so sure… if there’s truth to what I saw… whatever I saw… why am I the only one to see it?”
The tauren mulled this over for a moment, then replied, “Perhaps you were the one best suited …”
“The best suited for what?”
“Though I have been honored to rise to archdruid, Azeroth yet contains many mysteries the answers to which I do not know. The answer to your visions is something I suspect you will discover on your own as Azeroth desires it …”
The night elf frowned, then nodded. With nothing more to add to their secret discussion, they hurried on to catch the others.
However, as they journeyed, Broll glanced surreptitiously at the tauren, a great wave of guilt washing over the night elf.
He had left out one thing from his visions… or from the last to be precise. Just before Hamuul had stirred him from the sinister tableau, Broll had finally come to recognize the figure that appeared almost as a guardian against the evil raining down on him…
It was the Idol of Remulos.
4
SHADOWS STIR
“The mangy curs must be holding out in the lowest shafts,” Marshal Dughan growled to his men as he peered through the eye slits of his helmet into a deep passage of the Jasperlode Mine. A spray of dust caught in his throat, and he turned and spat on the ground. “I think it’s safe to call a momentary halt.”
The sounds of clanking armor echoed off the mine’s walls as the marshal’s fifteen men relaxed their guarded stances. But Zaldimar Wefhellt, a fair to middling mage from Goldshire who had accompanied the group on their quest, maintained his position with eyes fixed on the dark tunnel.
“I told you to stand down,” Dughan snapped.
The gray-haired, bearded mage ambled toward the others.
Although he was well respected in Goldshire, Zaldimar would not have made a name for himself in one of the capital cities. Still, though the group of men Dughan had scrounged together was strong enough to defeat the mongrels on their own, he was sure the mage�
�s spells would help bring about a swift and merciless execution.
Located in the northern foothills of Elwynn Forest, Jasperlode Mine had been one of the crucial supply points for the raw metal ore needed for weapons and armor. But with so many pressures on Stormwind, the number of military forces guarding the forest’s mines had dwindled to nil, and Jasperlode and the rest had become horribly infested.
Unchallenged, the kobolds — long-snouted, whiskered humanoids who were generally more annoying than dangerous — had moved back into the area. They were not skilled fighters, nor were they particularly bright, but they bred like rabbits and existed in large numbers… but not for long, if Marshal Dughan had his way. He had made major progress over the past few weeks; between Jasperlode and Fargodeep Mine further southwest, he could not begin to count how many he had already slain, so constant had the hunt become.
Dughan removed his helmet. Broad-faced with cropped hair, a thick mustache, and a goatee, he had done his share of fighting in his younger days. Elected as marshal after the mysterious death of his predecessor, Dughan had, over the past few seasons, brought and kept order and peace to Goldshire by clearing out not only the kobolds, but wild wolves and bears, bandits, the fishlike murlocs, and more.
But now, the kobolds had returned.
“Those vermin are going to fight tooth, nail, hammer, and ax when we come upon them,” Dughan said, “but they’ll also be cramped together in some narrow places… and that’s where you come in, Zaldimar…”
The mage, his purple and blue robes immaculate despite the dust that caked the rest of the party, nodded gravely. “A series of arcane blasts would be the most effective course—”
Dughan cut him off with a wave. “Spare me explanations. Kill, wound, and panic as many as you can before we need to wade in. Can you do that?”
Zaldimar nodded. Dughan replaced his helmet, then signaled the group on. He chopped at several thick webs obscuring part of his path, remnants from the huge mine spiders that generally preyed on anything foolish enough to enter and, especially, on kobolds.
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