Stormrage (wow-7)

by Richard A. Knaak

  The defenders returned to their overall efforts, but Broll sensed his comrades’ morale drop. This could not have been the first such loss and would certainly not be the last.

  Twice this number and more were there of us once, the spirit sadly verified to him. Zaetar clenched his fists. But one way or another, they were taken…and now, as corrupted, they serve it…

  “Lethon…” the night elf muttered. The shadow had reminded him of the foul green leviathan.

  There are worse things than dragons even, but Lethon and Emeriss have served the Nightmare well…

  Broll had seen enough…or too much. “I’ve got to find Tyrande

  …she went in search of Malfurion! There’s an orc loose here and she carries a weapon capable of slaying him…”

  I have already reached out to all to see if there has been a sign of this, the flickering Zaetar responded, confirming that he saw within Broll’s thoughts. None have responded in the affirmative…

  “She headed toward what she thought a keep—”

  There is no such structure…

  “I saw the outline myself! I was following after—” Broll looked to Arei, but the ancient shook his massive head. “We saw it—”

  The mist began to surround them again. One by one, the distant defenders faded from the worried night elf’s view. Somewhere out there was his shan’do and the high priestess.

  And a murderous orc.

  Zaetar looked disturbed. I know what you plan…it is foolishness! You will only give yourself to the Nightmare —

  “If it’s to happen, it’ll happen one way or the other!” Broll said with a snarl. He thought hard. “Where’s the Nightmare worst?”

  With resignation, the spirit pointed far to his left. The mist thinned enough to show the undulating emerald-black darkness.

  That is only a shadow itself of what is within…stay and fight with us, Broll Bearmantle…

  In response, the druid transformed into his cat shape and bounded toward the spot. Arei started after, but Zaetar shook his head. Let him continue on his quest…it may be that he will succeed and they will free Malfurion Stormrage…

  “Is this possible?” the ancient asked.

  The spirit turned back toward the battle against the evil tide.

  Though he stood far from the visual edge of the struggle, his powers already assaulted the ever-growing evil. No…but just as we are doomed to failure and still fight…so, too, will Broll Bearmantle and others such as Malfurion’s love — the high priestess Tyrande Whisperwind — continue to seek him…even though in the end the Nightmare will consume them all…

  She was almost there. Thura could smell her prey…or at least thought that she did. He hid somewhere in the shadowy keep.

  The orc did not know this foggy land, but what discomfort she felt while traversing it was minor compared to her eagerness at finally closing in on the cowardly murderer. Soon, so very soon, she would avenge her kin.

  Something moved in the mist. Thura had been aware for some time that there were others around her. They were more than beast, though they also seemed not quite like any foe she knew. In her mind, they likely served Malfurion Stormrage. Of course he would have others defend him.

  She hefted the ax. Since entering the Emerald Dream, it had taken on a golden hue. Thura had accepted that as another of the weapon’s mystic properties.

  Something just at the left edge of her vision moved toward her.

  The orc swung. The ax met no resistance, but she heard a hiss, followed by a wail. Thura caught a glimpse of something that stood on two hooved legs melt away as if it were truly only made of shadow.

  But even as the ax cleaved through that figure, another came from the opposite side. The orc spun around. The ax felt so right in her hands as it sliced through another shadowed form.

  Again, there came the hiss and the wail.

  There were no traces of her fallen enemy nor any of the one preceding it. The other shadows in the mist had withdrawn to greater distances, a sign that they rightly feared her and the ax.

  Sneering at their weakness, Thura turned back to her chosen path.

  The keep was no longer there.

  Thura uttered an epithet, then looked again. The keep was no longer there, but something else was.

  It was a tree.

  Orcs had learned to carve out lives in harsh, unforgiving lands and so the twisted, almost painful bend of the nearly obscured tree only slightly bothered her. However, Thura decided that such a tree was suitable for this dank place.

  But it was not that for which she was searching. The keep had been her guide. Frustrated, the orc started to turn away. The keep had to be somewhere —

  Just before the tree would have vanished from her peripheral vision, the orc noticed a change. She immediately focused on it again.

  Only…the tree was now the distant and murky silhouette of a tall, cloaked figure.

  Almost as quickly as Thura spotted the figure, the mist wrapped around it. What remained of the silhouette once more resembled the tortured tree.

  But it was enough to the fixated orc to thrust her toward it. The silhouette had been telling. She recognized that outline, so often had she seen it in her dreams. A tall figure with the shape and stance of a night elf and adorned at the head with antlers. It could be no one else.

  Gripping Brox’s ax tighter yet, the orc grinned without humor. At long last, Thura had found Malfurion Stormrage.

  16

  THE SHADOW REACHES

  Tyrande felt the gentle touch of a hand on her cheek. She stirred to find someone kneeling next to her.

  It was a smiling Malfurion. He was exactly as she last remembered him. Tall, broad-shouldered for a night elf though not built like a seasoned warrior as Broll Bearmantle was. His face and eyes bore the centuries of toil he had performed in service to his calling and Azeroth. His antlers were long and proud, a symbol of his closeness to nature, to the world that he loved.

  Heart leaping, the high priestess pushed herself up enough to tightly embrace the archdruid.

  “Mal…” Tyrande whispered, sounding for the moment many millennia younger than she was. “Oh, Mal…I found you at last!

  Praise Elune!”

  “I have missed you so much,” he returned, holding her just as tight. His tone suddenly lost its pleasure. “But you shouldn’t be here. You should go. I wasn’t expecting you to be the one to find me first…”

  “‘Go’?” The high priestess stood. Her expression showed her tremendous disbelief. “I won’t leave you now!”

  The archdruid looked around as if wary of something. Tyrande followed his gaze, but saw only the pristine, sweeping landscape of the Emerald Dream. It was as beautiful, as untouched, as Malfurion had ever described it —

  Tyrande’s head pounded. “This isn’t right…there’s something wrong about us…”

  “This is only an image in your mind,” the archdruid answered, his wariness growing. “I wanted you to see me, to know it was me!”

  “Malfurion…”

  “Listen to me! It’s all about to fall into place. I need you to turn back! You can only be here because he suspected! I should have known that he would plan for this! I should not even be speaking with you, for fear he senses us and gleans the full truth!”

  “Who? Who is ‘he’?”

  Malfurion grimaced. “You have to listen! If the Nightmare Lord has something in mind for you, then you need to leave as quickly as possible! He’s why you managed to get this far—”

  “I’ve nearly died more than once to reach you!” the stricken high priestess returned somewhat angrily. “No one has led me by the nose—”

  “He likes to play his games, torture even those he needs! He roots into your dreams—” Malfurion broke off, laughing bitterly.

  “‘Roots’! He’s not the only one who can root! He—” The archdruid suddenly spun from her. Peering at something Tyrande could not see, he growled, “Go back, Tyrande! Everything will be just as
needed if you can do that! If you’re not there, his trick will fail and mine will succeed!”

  “What trick? What—”

  Turning back to her, Malfurion muttered, “I can feel him! He knows, but not enough! I dare not say anything more, even to you, for your thoughts are more open to him! Now leave! It’s your only hope!”

  And, with that, he broke contact. Tyrande strained to maintain the link, but to no avail.

  Yet she still felt as if he were near. It was a feeling she could not shake. Tyrande looked around. The foul mist was inches from her.

  At its edge crowded the black vermin, who seemed eager to return to the area where she stood.

  The high priestess almost dismissed her notion…then for some reason she could not comprehend, glanced down next to her.

  Less than an inch from her foot was a small, upturned root. It was like a thousand other roots nearby…and yet not. There was something, something not visible, that drew her to it. She felt an urge to touch it.

  But as she started to, Tyrande felt Elune fill her. The high priestess stiffened as the Mother Moon made her understand.

  The root…was somehow bound to Malfurion.

  His words came back to her, his pleading for her to leave him be. Yet, despite the earnestness with which he had spoken to Tyrande, the high priestess was not at all prepared to retreat. If Malfurion had one fault, it was that he felt certain that only he should bear the burdens of the world and only he should risk himself. Tyrande suspected that it had something to do with all the lives he had watched be lost so cruelly during the War of the Ancients, lives that he likely felt he should have somehow been able to save.

  She no longer had the glaive, but that did not matter. The night elf started on. There was no sign of the keep, only the cloying mist and the half-seen shapes ever lurking just beyond the edge.

  That briefly made her ponder Malfurion’s warning. Am I being guided? Is he right?

  But even if that were true, the fact that she had been made aware of it gave her some advantage. Malfurion had gone out of his way to be very cautious when warning her. He had worked so that his captor — this Nightmare Lord — would not know.

  Tyrande finally shrugged off her concerns. All that mattered was that she reach Malfurion.

  The landscape did not change. The illumination she cast kept the vermin scurrying for the cover of the mist, and whatever else watched her from it also kept back. Satisfied that they were kept at bay, the high priestess continued to search for some sign of her beloved. He was near. The root proved that.

  She allowed herself a very brief smile at his cunning. Even with his dreamform captive, he had managed to raise and manipulate some plant — some tree — for his purposes.

  The root! Tyrande studied the angle of it. She made an estimation of direction. Certain that she had calculated correctly, the high priestess peered into the mist.

  And in the dire fog, she suddenly caught a glimpse of one.

  Though it could have been any of ten thousand trees, Tyrande knew that it was the one she sought. The one that would lead her to Malfurion.

  It was scarcely more than another shadow, but what a shadow it was. It rose and rose above her even though it was still some distance away. There were no leaves that she could make out, merely a number of wicked, skeletal limbs that at times resembled several giant hands.

  The shadow wavered. Tyrande could not make out the actual tree itself, but it had to be somewhere near. Despite its clearly awful appearance, the night elf was encouraged by its very existence. She took a step toward it —

  Something converged upon her from her right.

  Tyrande whirled to meet it.

  A powerful force struck her hard, a muscular body that crashed into the night elf with such force that Tyrande was thrown far. She landed on her back among the carrion creatures, crushing several.

  The rest scattered as the light of the Mother Moon spread over the area.

  The high priestess started to rise — only to have the deadly edge of an ax pressed against her throat.

  An ax she recognized even after more than ten thousand years.

  “Night elf,” rumbled the female orc wielding Brox’s gift from Cenarius. “You’re his mate…”

  It was not a question. That the orc had not immediately attacked her again for being Malfurion’s supposed partner both encouraged and concerned Tyrande. There was a chance that she might be able to talk sense into the other female…but there was also the question as to just why the night elf still had her head.

  “My name is Tyrande—”

  The ax pressed closer. “Name doesn’t matter! You know him!

  He knows you! He’ll come to you…”

  “Malfurion is not your enemy—”

  “He is enemy to all of us! He would destroy Azeroth!” The orc’s eyes radiated hatred for the archdruid. “And, yes, the blood of my kin is also on his hands! Broxigar will be avenged! I, Thura, will take the coward’s head — and maybe yours, too!”

  Despite the threat to her, the high priestess could not let the accusation pass. “Malfurion is no threat to Azeroth! He is one of its protectors!” Tyrande’s expression steeled. “And Brox was our friend! He perished saving us! We honor his memory!”

  Her captor growled furiously. Yet she suddenly pulled the ax back.

  Tyrande read the confusion in the orc’s expression. Thura had obviously not slept much and that had taken its toll. It was also possible, the high priestess considered, that Thura also realized that she was being tricked into hunting Malfurion.

  But the orc swung the ax toward Tyrande again. “Up!”

  The night elf obeyed. On her feet, she had more of a chance against Thura, yet not only did Tyrande respect the warrior’s skills, she also saw the orc as an innocent caught up in the machinations of the Nightmare Lord.

  “Thought I had him,” Thura muttered, half-speaking to herself.

  “Saw him and got close to where he was supposed to be…but wasn’t there…” She glared at Tyrande. “Druid’s tricks! Your mate’s tricks!” The brawny female brandished the ax. “You’ll take me to him!”

  Tyrande stood steadfast. “To kill Malfurion? No.”

  “Then I’ll cut you in two!”

  “Is that what Brox would have done?” the high priestess countered. “Would he have slain someone for refusing, someone who will not battle him?”

  Thura glared, then repeated her demand. “Lead me to him!

  Now!”

  “I will not—”

  She stopped as the orc suddenly glanced to the side. Tyrande heard nothing, but trusted to the skilled warrior’s instinct.

  The orc snarled again. Thura peered around, then grinned at something she saw. “The tree! The tree beckons again!”

  Following the orc’s gaze, Tyrande saw that the huge shadow had returned. She could still not see the tree that cast it, but knew it had to be close.

  “He will be there!” Thura muttered gleefully to herself. “The vision said so…”

  The high priestess could take no more chances. With Thura’s attention diverted, she attacked. Tyrande could not trust to Elune’s magic, the illumination too much of a warning against such a foe. It had to be her own martial skills.

  Her outthrust fingers shot toward the orc’s vulnerable neck.

  Thura spun back. The blunt bottom of the ax handle swung against the side of the high priestess’s head at a speed even greater than that with which the night elf moved. Tyrande had only a moment to realize that she had been outmaneuvered before the bottom hit her on the temple.

  But the night elf’s reflexes, honed by centuries of practice and battle, kept the blow a glancing one. As Thura shifted the ax around for a strike, Tyrande dove under, then kicked.

  Her expert strike just below the orc’s knee sent Thura falling to the side as her leg slipped. The orc’s grip on the ax loosened. The high priestess reached for the weapon —

  Tyrande…a voice called in her head.


  “Malfurion?” She could not be certain, but it seemed to be him.

  “Malfurion—”

  Distracted, she did not sense Thura’s renewed attack. The orc’s heavy fist caught her in the throat.

  With a gasp, she tumbled to her knees. Desperately seeking air, Tyrande thought about the fact that Thura would next slay her…and all because of the voice. The high priestess fought to regain her breath in time to save herself.

  And yet, the killing blow did not land. Finally able to breathe again, Tyrande managed to look up.

  Thura was gone.

  Tyrande struggled to her feet. She saw the great shadow and knew where the orc had gone. Still astounded that Thura had not attempted to slay her, the night elf gave pursuit.

  But where the mist had in the past so readily given way to the Mother Moon’s illumination, now it pressed against the night elf as if seeking to smother her. Tyrande focused her mind, seeking to calm herself. As she did, the silver light grew stronger and the mist receded some.

  Knowing that she would have to be satisfied with that, the high priestess pushed forward. She concentrated on the vast shadow. It ever loomed nearer, yet still she could not make out the tree that cast it.

  But she did make out something else. Another, smaller tree.

  Tyrande’s step faltered at the sight of it. Its monstrously twisted form shook her to the core. She felt both repulsed by it and saddened for the obvious torture it must be going through.

  Of Thura, there was no sign, and Tyrande feared that she had followed the wrong path. Yet as she started to turn to her left, something drew her gaze back to the horrific tree. Even as it was, it did not disturb her as the shadow looming over it, the shadow that still refused to reveal its source.

  Something whispered. Tyrande spun around to face from where the sound had come, only to hear another in the opposite direction.

  A third caught her ear even before the night elf could turn to the second.

  The mists were suddenly filled with whispers, but not just any whispers. Although Tyrande could not make out what they said, their sense was that of pleading. They needed help. They begged for help.