Stormrage (wow-7)

by Richard A. Knaak

  But Tyrande still did not move. She lay there, with her hands at her throat…around her throat.

  As if she had been strangling herself.

  15

  DEFENDING THE DREAM

  The stout walls of Orgrimmar lacked the “cultured” touch of Stormwind City’s, but their savage glory could not be ignored. Tall and with massive watchtowers overseeing the surrounding lands, they offered warning to any foolish enough to attack that a high price in blood would be paid. Stern orc guards patrolled the walkways inside, and it was not uncommon to see among their number the Darkspear trolls, tauren, and even the undead Forsaken.

  And though the interior might have seemed to humans as a barbaric place, with its populace divided into small valleys rather than quarters and its village-like construction more in tune with the nomadic past of the orcs, it was clear that Orgrimmar was as important a center of community to those who dwelled there as the capital of Stormwind. Thousands lived here, trading, learning, preparing for war…

  Lying at the base of the mountain nearest the valley of Durotar, Orgrimmar was a symbol of the struggle the great liberator Thrall had faced to finally give his followers a true home. As Thrall had done in naming the valley after his murdered father, so had he named the city for the warchief who had taken the then-escaped slave and gladiator into his protection and who had later chosen Thrall as his successor.

  Thrall himself ruled from Grommash Hold, set in the Valley of Wisdom, a central part of the capital. Grommash Hold displayed every bit the barbaric beauty of the orc warchief’s domain, with great, rounded buildings topped with sharp spikes, huge rounded entranceways leading inside, and displays on many of the gray stone walls that marked past victories of both the warchief and the Horde in general. Among those displays were the fearsome, mummified heads of the creatures used by the Burning Legion, weapons and armor from the demons themselves, and, further on, armor and banners of another foe — the Alliance. That the last was now an ally did not matter to the orcs — these had been victories and so were honored as such.

  But glorious victory was not on the minds of the orc guards and the shaman who clustered in the warchief’s sanctum. The warriors watched anxiously as the shaman drew circles over a prone figure lying in the rough-hewn oak bed and covered by the wide animal skins used as blankets. Each time the shaman withdrew his hand, the warriors would lean forward in anticipation…and then pull back in defeat.

  The figure in the bed suddenly thrashed, then muttered something. His hands clutched in vain at the open air. Then one hand swung as if wielding an ax.

  The violent actions did not encourage the onlookers; they had witnessed them many, many times. Thrall was no closer to stirring than he had been after the shaman’s previous attempts.

  “He continues to the terrible dreaming,” the grizzled shaman muttered. “It plays itself over and over and nothing I do penetrates it…” The aged orc, his remaining strands of hair silver-white, peered through deep-set eyes at a sinewy dagger set on a round, wooden table nearby. With care, it had been used to prick the slumbering warchief in the hopes that a sudden, sharp pain might break the nightmare.

  That, too, had failed.

  “Do we put him with the others?” asked one guard tentatively. He was immediately struck hard on the side of the head by another orc. The first glared at the second and, if not for the wizened shaman thrusting himself between the pair, a fight would have broken out.

  “Shameful, both of you! The great Thrall lies spelled and you turn against one another! Is this what he would want?”

  The two chastened warriors shook their heads. For all that they were twice the girth of the bearskin-clad shaman, they feared his power. He was not the most skilled of his calling in Orgrimmar — in fact, that title rested with Thrall himself — but of those shaman still awake, he was the best hope.

  That hope, though, was fading.

  From the other side of the chamber, there came a mournful howl. As one, the orcs turned to eye a huge, white wolf baying at the window. The animal was so great in size that any one of the warriors could have ridden on it as if it were a horse. Indeed, the warchief used his most loyal companion just for that purpose. The two were legendary partners in battle. The wolf had the run of the building, and no guard ever complained over that situation.

  The massive beast let out another howl. The sound shook the warriors and the shaman more than anything else had since the discovery of Thrall’s condition.

  “Hush, Snowsong,” murmured the shaman. “Your hunt-brother will be freed yet…”

  But the wolf then began trying to crawl up and out of the window.

  However, the gap, though large, was not suitable for the giant hunter. With a frustrated growl, Snowsong turned and lunged for the closed door.

  The shaman’s eyes widened. “Open it for her! Quick!”

  One of the guards rushed to obey. He barely had the door swung back before Snowsong barreled into him. Like a loose leaf caught by a fierce gale, the burly orc flew back, finally crashing against a wall. The wolf continued on unimpeded.

  “Follow her!” the elderly shaman ordered. “She senses something…”

  Pursued by the orcs, the white wolf charged through the hold.

  She paused at two more windows that were of insufficient size, then finally scurried toward the huge doors at the front entrance.

  The guards on duty there stiffened at the astounding sight racing their direction. Before the shaman could call to them, one had the sense to shove a door open. If the wolf sought the outdoors with such urgency, the guard had likely assumed that there was some danger lurking there.

  Snowsong bounded outside. The wolf paused only to regain her bearings, then ran toward the nearest part of Orgrimmar’s surrounding wall.

  Although he was far older than his companions, the shaman surprised them by proving the faster. With lithe movements more akin to the wolf’s, he almost kept pace with Snowsong. There were other methods by which he could have moved even faster, but some innate caution stayed the elder orc’s hand.

  Trolls and orcs who had been going about their duties tumbled out of Snowsong’s way. As they recovered, most drew their weapons. Orgrimmar had been on high alert for days and the wolf’s urgency appeared to those who saw her to mark that the time of battle had come.

  The shaman peered around as he followed. For all their numbers, there were less defenders of Orgrimmar present than there should have been. Worse, as they neared the wall, he saw that the mist had breached further into the capital. It was almost impossible to see the guards above.

  Not for the first time, the elder orc wished that those greater in their knowledge and use of the old ways had not, with Thrall, been among the first of the unwaking.

  Snowsong did not run all the way to the steps leading up to the watchtowers. Instead, the white wolf found purchase on a ladder leading to one of the lower levels of the wall. There, the cunning animal located one path after another until she finally reached the top of the wall.

  The frosty fur of the wolf stood out even in the thick, emerald mist. The shaman climbed to the top a few steps behind the animal.

  As he did, he noted the nearest sentry standing as if frozen.

  “What ails you?” the elder orc demanded. When the sentry did not respond, the shaman touched his arm.

  Only then did the other orc’s head tip to the side.

  The shaman thought at first that the warrior was dead, but a hand to the chest enabled him to feel the rise and fall of breathing.

  He looked into the face and saw that the eyes were shut.

  Though he stood, the sentry was asleep.

  The shaman looked to the next…and saw the same.

  Some of the guards following him reached the top. They stared with astonishment at their comrades.

  “Send word!” the elder orc commanded. “Find more to protect the—”

  Snowsong howled mournfully again. The wolf stood on her hind legs, her forepaws dr
aped over the edge so that she could see beyond Orgrimmar.

  The orcs looked to the area at which Snowsong gazed.

  There were figures in the mist. Hundreds or more.

  One of the guards seized a horn dangling from a wooden peg on the inside of the wall. However, before the orc could bring it to his mouth, he, the shaman, and the rest stood frozen.

  The figures had stepped up to the edge of the mist.

  They were orcs.

  “Grago,” one warrior grunted in surprise. “My brother sleeps

  …but I see him out there…”

  “Hidra…my mate, Hidra, marches with them!” gasped another.

  “A trick!” someone else insisted. “Mage tricks! The Alliance—”

  “It is not the Alliance,” the shaman baldly stated. He leaned forward. “It is all the ones who sleep…all the ones…”

  And as he said that, his own greatest fear revealed itself in the forefront. Thrall suddenly stood there, but a Thrall that was a grotesque mockery of the warchief. His skin hung as if decaying and some bone showed through. He also had eyes that blazed red

  …the red of the demon-tainted.

  All the shadowy orcs had such eyes.

  “A trick!” the same warrior rumbled anxiously. “They think us fools! Illusions! I still say the Alliance!”

  The shaman said nothing, studying the figure of Thrall as closely as he dared. He tried not to meet the murky form’s gaze…but at last could not help it.

  A vast, dark emptiness with an unsettling green tint seemed to open up before him. Only with effort did the shaman manage to tear his eyes away.

  Yet, in that brief moment, his worst fears had been verified.

  This was Thrall…or at least some essence of him.

  And, worse, the elder orc had learned something else in that brief, terrible moment of contact. These nightmarish versions of the sleepers were awaiting some signal. When that signal came, the malevolent power that these shades represented would sweep down over Orgrimmar. Not in any true physical battle, of course.

  The vast legions that wore the faces and forms of the defenders’ blood kin were there more to unsettle those still standing watch.

  When the darkness struck…it would strike each warrior in the most indefensible part of him or her.

  His soul.

  That the attack had not yet come did not give the shaman much hope, though. The signal — whatever it might be — was imminent.

  Very imminent.

  “We must alert all…” the shaman muttered as he stepped back from the wall. “We must have everyone, young and old, prepare…”

  However, what he did not add as he departed was that against such a foe, who likely could not be touched by ax, there was very little the defenders of Orgrimmar could do but fall.

  Broll thought that he had lost Arei, but then the ancient returned to him.

  “Stay near. We are very close. He knows you are coming.”

  “‘He’?”

  Before the ancient could reply, a sudden, even thicker emeraldtinted darkness swept over them.

  Gibbering voices filled Broll’s mind. A chill seized his heart. He felt as if his skin were peeling away from his flesh and, worse, amongst the voices the cries of his daughter regaled him. The druid was being dragged into an abyss, where desperate hands clutching at him pulled him deeper…deeper…

  Away with you! commanded a new and vibrant voice that gave the night elf a tether upon which to mentally grasp. The gibbering receded. The hands slipped away. The chill over his heart melted…

  The darkness returned to the still-ominous mist. Broll discovered that he was on his knees, gasping. One hand clutched his chest.

  A soft light spreading from in front bathed the druid. Broll lifted his gaze.

  “Remulos?” he blurted.

  But although the gleaming figure resembled the guardian of the Moonglade, Broll quickly saw that it was not him. Indeed, the druid realized that what he was seeing was not, as he and the ancient were, a being of solid form.

  And when the night elf finally recognized who it was who stood — nay, floated — before him, he swallowed hard.

  The reason for the resemblance to Remulos was obvious; this was his brother…Zaetar.

  But Zaetar was dead.

  Broll leapt to his feet. Zaetar had fallen in love with Theradras, an earth elemental. With her, it was said that he had sired as their progeny the first of the centaur. But Zaetar’s violent children had rewarded him for their existence by slaying the woodland keeper.

  Legend said that a grief-stricken Theradras, unable to let go, had hidden away his remains.

  Stay your hand! the antlered giant said. His mouth did not move, but Broll heard the words clearly. Your concern is understandable, but the truth has changed…

  Even taking in account their surroundings and the fact that he was not flesh but spirit, Zaetar was of a greener tint than his living, younger brother. Otherwise, the two titanic figures were very much the sons of Cenarius. However, Zaetar’s face was faintly longer a n d bore in it a constant sadness, the latter perhaps logical considering his state of life.

  The druid looked to Arei, who nodded. The ancient of war appeared more haggard than just before the attack on Broll, which made the night elf wonder if Arei had also suffered.

  You were both touched by the Nightmare, though Arei was better prepared for it, Zaetar said, an indication that he had read Broll’s thoughts. That raised further wariness in the druid.

  We are allies, Broll Bearmantle, the spirit insisted, spreading his open palms toward the night elf. As he “spoke,” Zaetar’s form wavered, as if he were part of the mist.

  “He has led us throughout this trial,” Arei added. “And is one reason we still stand…”

  Though it is doubtful that we can stand more than the few weeks we have…

  “‘Weeks’?” Broll blurted. “You’ve been fighting this for weeks?”

  The spirit’s expression darkened. He looked away.

  “When I and mine entered, Zaetar and those he gathered had thought that they had been here for more than a year even though it had been but a few scant weeks,” the ancient of war answered.

  The craggy face twisted into a frown. “What day was it when you entered, Broll Bearmantle?”

  The night elf told him.

  Arei’s shock was clear. “Only eleven days? I was certain that we had been here ourselves for nearly a season…”

  The Nightmare twists time even as it is known in this place, Zaetar commented angrily. All is meaningless here save the struggle…

  “You spoke of others in here who also fight against the Nightmare,” Broll said, thinking that perhaps one of them had found Tyrande. “I’m hoping that they can find she who was with me!

  Where are they?”

  Now the spirit wore a grim aspect. He gestured at the dark mist.

  Druid, they are all around us…

  As Zaetar said this, his hand seemed to sweep back the foul fog from all around. The air did not exactly clear, but Broll could now see for some distance.

  And what he saw was the most shocking yet.

  They stood alone or in small groups. They were scattered for as far as the mist allowed him to see, and he had no doubt that there were others farther on. They were druids, ancients of war, dryads, and others with ties to Azeroth’s nature and the Emerald Dream.

  Some wore solid forms; others were in dreamform. A few were like Zaetar.

  Among those in dreamform were some whom Broll did recognize and in that recognition was overwhelmed with horror. They were druids long lost on Azeroth, their bodies unable to cope anymore without food and water. Some had been dead for months, but their dreamforms appeared unaware that for them there was no returning.

  Or perhaps they did know, for many of them remained at the forefront, doing what they could to halt the Nightmare.

  And the Nightmare itself came in the form of the same dire darkness that had briefly overwh
elmed Broll. It most resembled an insidious cloud or perhaps a massive swarm of black ants. It moved and weaved, and wherever one of those fighting it faltered, it poured forth with obvious eagerness. Lengthy tendrils darted well beyond Zaetar’s companions, proof that their efforts were not sufficient.

  The defenders struck at the Nightmare with a vast array of spells, the only real defense against such a foe. As most were druids, they fought using their calling. Hulking bears battled beside swift, darting cats, each bite or slash of claw accompanied by flashes of power. Yet although this seemed to hold the darkness in check, Broll could not help feeling that the defenders did not truly injure what they fought.

  Above, a dreamform storm crow soared over the edge of the Nightmare. It showed some desperation that even in dreamform the druids had to turn to their other guises to add weight to their fight. The Emerald Dream had been a place where their calling had known no bounds, yet now all that had changed.

  Other druids retained their original forms. These sought to manipulate the Dream against the Nightmare. Under the guidance of some of Broll’s brethren, lush grass grew taller than trees, then, as if swaying in some tremendous wind, sliced the encroaching shadows to ribbons that dissipated.

  There came an avian cry. Caught up in its attack, the dreamform storm crow had not paid sufficient attention to some of the tendrils that it had severed from the Nightmare. Now some of those loose bits of evil had snared its wings.

  As it plummeted toward the sinister mass, the spirit of Zaetar moved to help it. His power reached out to the stricken druid —

  But before Zaetar could finish his effort…a murky shape that resembled a great dragon’s head thrust out of the Nightmare and swallowed the storm crow whole. The horrified onlookers watched as the avian descended through the misty fiend’s “gullet.” In desperation, the druid reverted to his normal shape, but though he was in dreamform, he could not penetrate his monstrous prison.

  The head descended back into the Nightmare.