Stormrage (wow-7)

by Richard A. Knaak

  And despite the sinister aspects of the mist, the high priestess knew that the pleading was true.

  Drawn to them by her innate compassion, Tyrande again turned from the tortured tree. She stretched a hand toward one of the murky shapes she saw there. For the first time it moved toward her rather than fled.

  But something suddenly snagged her foot. Thinking she had walked into a trap, the high priestess immediately prayed to Elune, then shaped a spear of pure illumination from her light. Such an effort was costly to Tyrande, but she no longer felt as if she had any choice.

  The spear came down on what held her foot. The light pierced as if made of true steel.

  What she took at first for a tentacle immediately released its grip. Pinned by her gleaming spear, it writhed in obvious agony.

  Only then did Tyrande realize that it was not a tentacle, but a root.

  And realizing that, the enormity of what she had done struck her hard. The high priestess immediately dismissed the spear of light.

  As it vanished, Tyrande knelt to heal the root. She was not a druid, but she felt that surely Elune would take pity on the damage accidentally done to an innocent by her follower.

  As she touched the root, once more Tyrande felt Malfurion’s presence. It was so strong that she could almost believe that he was actually there as opposed to entering her dreams.

  Her eyes widened.

  She looked at the tortured tree. Her faced paled.

  “Malfurion…”

  The whispers sought to drive him mad, so Broll thought as he raced along the dank landscape in cat form. It was unfortunate that in this huge, feline shape his hearing was more acute. That only served the whispers.

  But his nose served him. He had Tyrande’s scent and it was no trick. He was near.

  His paws were caked with the sickening ooze that was the vermin’s insides, but even the acidic burn it caused was not enough to slow the druid. Each step crushed more of the foul creatures to mush and Broll’s only regret was that behind him he knew that new ones formed from the shattered remnants of the old.

  The mists continually threatened to engulf him, but with an occasional slash of his paw that was accompanied by magical purple fire, the cat kept both the mist and the lurkers within at just a safe enough distance.

  Then, a huge rumbling shook both Broll and his surroundings.

  Despite his keen reflexes, the great cat was tossed around. Broll managed to roll back on his feet, then buried his claws in the ground as he regained his senses.

  A huge shape swooped overhead. It was followed by another and another and another.

  And even through the thick mist, the druid could see that they were dragons. Dragons of an emerald hue. Ysera’s subjects were still defending the Dream. The druid counted at least ten and prayed that there were far more.

  Just as they were about to leave him behind, one suddenly broke from the group. It dove down toward the druid, who saw that it was female.

  “What do you do here alone, night elf…and in your mortal form?”

  He did not recognize the dragon, but that was not necessarily a surprise. Transforming, Broll quickly told her.

  She gasped in surprise. “Eranikus flies the Dream again!

  This—” She looked up in the direction the other leviathans had gone, as if hearing something. Her eyes widened.

  The dragon growled, then said to the druid, “Night elf, climb atop!

  I will take you with me!”

  “My friends—”

  “Climb atop me! I will explain when we are aloft!”

  She did not add anything about it being safer up above and Broll knew better than to believe it so. With corrupted such as Lethon lurking about and the abilities of the Nightmare still very much a mystery, it was possible that “above” was even less safe than the ground.

  Of course, with a dragon as his mount, the night elf felt a little safer.

  Yet, as they rose into the sky, Broll saw that the foulness of the Nightmare now extended far beyond where it had previously. He could no longer make out anything but mist-enshrouded hills.

  No, he could make something else out. In what seemed every direction — even farther up — brief but brilliant flashes of magical energy erupted like lightning during a fantastic storm. Again, there came the intense rumbling, so powerful that it even caused the green dragon to waver a moment.

  “What’s happening?” he shouted.

  The dragon twisted her head around so as to stare him square in the eye, though hers were closed, of course. “Did you not hear his call? You who are of his kind and seek him even now? Listen!”

  “His—” But even as he started to speak, the druid did hear the call. It was the summons of the last one he would have expected to hear from, but the one from whom Broll had most hoped to hear.

  Malfurion’s call.

  It was not in the form of words, and yet it summoned those fighting against the Nightmare to be vigilant. Something was about to happen, something significant.

  It was clearly also warning them. Malfurion did not want anyone hurt or perishing because of him. Yet the archdruid — wherever he was — also obviously knew that this went beyond his imprisonment.

  This threatened everything.

  “But how can this be?” the night elf asked. “And what do we do, then?”

  “Can you not see it yet?” the green dragon called back, beating her wings harder. “Can you not feel its wrongness? Look ahead

  …and look within!”

  Broll obeyed…and in the mist ahead, just barely discernible, formed a shadow. A shadow of a tree.

  A tree so foul that nature could never have produced it.

  “My shan’do is down there,” the night elf growled.

  “And with him the cause of the Nightmare,” his mount solemnly added.

  From where he was, the Nightmare was a vast gray-green mass that pulsated as if alive. Shapes moved through it, unsettling shapes that could not be identified and yet almost looked like things that Broll should have recognized. He wondered why they remained so hidden and wondered what would happen if and when they were revealed. The druid shuddered.

  The Nightmare was also filled with powerful flashes of magic that came not only in emerald, but a brackish green, a bloody crimson and more. The druid could sense that the emerald ones were from the defenders…the others he could only assume had more vile purpose. Broll could sense astounding forces at work and knew that what he saw was only a hint of the monumental spells at play.

  However, for all that, the emerald-black that was the Nightmare had not retreated and, in fact, seemed darker yet near where he and the dragon were heading.

  So dark…and yet the shadow cast looks more distinct than ever…the night elf thought. But where was the tree that made it?

  “A question of great import, I think,” the dragon responded, as if Broll had spoken out loud. In a tone more concerned, she added, “And one we hope to discover the answer to soon!”

  The druid jerked as something else abruptly became obvious.

  There was now whispering even up where they flew. It had a frantic, hungry feel to it.

  “There’s something wrong! We’d better—”

  But the dragon had also sensed the danger. She banked sharply in an attempt to avoid whatever was about to happen.

  What had been whispers now became screams. There were so many of them that even as loud as they were — loud enough to force Broll to cover his ears — what they were saying could still not be understood. The druid found himself shivering uncontrollably and even the dragon strained as she flew.

  A great black gap opened in front of the pair.

  The druid blinked. Not a gap.

  A deep and terrible maw.

  And from its depths erupted the screams with even more force.

  Although he could not make out their words, he sensed their fear.

  Yet that fear was also a weapon being used against Broll and the dragon by the Nightm
are Lord.

  The druid noticed that the green dragon was no longer trying to fly forward. Her wings now beat hard in retreat. Yet they were still heading toward the evil gullet.

  “It — is the power of their fear — the fear of the screaming voices — that pulls us! It is chaos and evil stripping their sanity to the core that fuels the Nightmare!” his mount roared. “Such force! It is as if I fight against thousands! It is all I can do to — to keep us this far from it!”

  “A spell—”

  “If I attempt to concentrate — on that — we will be in it before I can — can finish!”

  But Broll had not been talking about a spell cast by the dragon.

  He could see that, despite her tremendous abilities, she needed her entire focus on fighting the pull. The attack had been crafted just that way, the druid saw.

  Yet an idea had occurred in that regard, an idea that came so suddenly that Broll wondered at it. He did not know if it would work, but he would try.

  And so, as his companion fought the physical fury of the shrieking gullet, the druid began channeling an unusual spell. It was meant to be a healing one, a spell of tranquility.

  He concentrated, trying to recall what his shan’do had taught him. Indeed, as he focused, Broll could almost imagine Malfurion’s voice guiding him along.

  The secret of the tranquility spell is to call upon that most peaceful, most caring part of Azeroth’s nature…of the Emerald Dream’s nature…

  They were nearly upon the dark maw. Broll sensed when he was just close enough to hope for success and so close that he dared not wait any longer. The druid reached out to that of the Dream that remained pure.

  He cast.

  The spell was a small thing in comparison to the evil and fear it confronted. Broll did not in the least hope to destroy the sinister gullet.

  He only wanted to give the female dragon the chance she needed.

  “Be ready!” the druid warned.

  It all hinged on what Broll believed the screams were. All he had seen thus far indicated that the Nightmare drew much of its strength from the growing legions of innocents falling prey to it when exhaustion finally made them sleep. The Nightmare used their darkest emotions to stir up their fearful visions. And that fear was what attacked now.

  The spell touched the nearest vague shapes, the tortured slaves of the Nightmare.

  Just for a moment — the briefest of moments — some little bit of the Nightmare’s hold of fear on the screaming voices lessened.

  The female dragon let out a roar as she thrust herself far back from the abyss. Broll grabbed hold of her thick neck as he struggled to remain with her. The emerald leviathan beat and beat her wings until the dark maw was only a small speck.

  But as quickly as the spell acted, it shattered. The screaming rose higher and more frantic again. The horrific abyss swelled, drawing them closer once more.

  Then a huge emerald form materialized between the pair and the Nightmare. It spread its magnificent wings wide and from it radiated a wondrous glow that reminded the druid of what this realm had been before the corruption.

  Away with you! it called to the Nightmare’s attack. Away!

  Behind the massive newcomer, other green dragons appeared.

  As mighty as their own efforts were, even combined those paled before the tremendous power of the gigantic dragon.

  The abyss receded some distance. Though they were not vanquished, the screams faded to something now much more tolerable.

  Ysera, mistress of the Emerald Dream, had come in response to Malfurion’s call.

  17

  THE NIGHTMARE UNVEILED

  Lucan was alone in the mist with a volatile green dragon. Worse, he was astride the neck of this dragon, something that Eranikus evidently liked less than even him.

  “We shouldn’t have split up!” the leviathan rumbled. “Not here!

  Not now!”

  The cartographer said nothing. He was feeling worthless. Thus far, he had fled from one place to the next as he sought to escape his growing nightmares, been seized by one powerful figure after another, and looked down upon by most as at best a child.

  And now he was surely in a place where what little skill he had even as an assistant mapmaker was fairly useless.

  The green dragon peered at the murky realm, his ire continuing to rise. Much of it was bitterness directed at himself. “I should have been there for her, but no, I failed! Now she’s out there facing the Nightmare without me!”

  Lucan knew better than to make any comment. What point would there have been? He was nothing…no, less than nothing.

  Eranikus let out another growl, but this one directed at the Nightmare. “What is it that keeps just at the periphery of our vision? What insidious force is the Nightmare still holding in reserve…and why?”

  The human opened his mouth to make a suggestion, then quickly shut it. His ideas were hardly worth merit.

  And yet…there suddenly came to his mind a glimmer of a notion, one that suddenly excited Lucan so much that it was all he could do to keep from shouting it out to Eranikus. What held him back was knowing that the dragon would never permit him to attempt such a thing, if it were even possible…and if it was wise to try at all.

  But Lucan could not restrain himself. He had been rescued more than once by the others. It was time he repaid them for once by using his unsettling abilities to their benefit. At the very worst, he would rid them of his sorry self.

  Lucan concentrated. At first, images of Stormwind surged up.

  He saw his lanky master, Lord Edrias Ulnur, chief cartographer to His Majesty King Varian, peering down with disapproval of Lucan’s work…the same work later transcribed without change to Edrias’s name. He saw the fine courtiers admiring the maps that bore Lucan’s hand, but for which his superior earned the accolades.

  And he saw the fine ladies, especially two, who had stepped into and out of his life without knowing it.

  It was only Eranikus speaking that stirred Lucan from these moments of past failure and regret. He paid no mind to what the dragon now cursed. Eranikus was far more bitter than even Lucan.

  Lucan tried to concentrate again. This time the cartographer focused on the person he was seeking. The image came to mind immediately and with such definition that he knew he was on the right track.

  Eranikus was now shouting with great gusto, but whatever it was the winged behemoth sought to tell Lucan was lost.

  The cartographer had already vanished.

  She is near…very near… Malfurion thought anxiously. But does he know and know why?

  Despite his grisly imprisonment, Malfurion had done his best to secretly discern what little he could of those battling the Nightmare.

  He had dared not contact them, but had waited until that moment when his plans would come to fruition. Only the mistress of the realm had any inkling of what he planned, and that in itself had been through a single moment’s thought he had relayed to her.

  And now Ysera had launched her dragonflight into action. They, the druids, and other protectors of Azeroth had launched a fullscale assault that would still utterly fail unless he had calculated things just perfectly.

  But until she reached him, Malfurion would not know if he had.

  He sensed the Nightmare Lord looming near, but the sinister shadow appeared focused on the dragons and the others.

  Malfurion did his best to subtly mask her approach. It was imperative that she reach him and act without the shadow knowing.

  Something moved through the thickening mist, something that the archdruid prayed only he could sense. As cunningly as he could, Malfurion not only kept her from seeing what truly lurked around her, but also kept them from noticing her.

  She stepped into the small clearing surrounding him.

  The orc grinned as her deep-set eyes fixed on the tree. She did not see it; rather, to her, Malfurion Stormrage the archdruid, the heinous murderer and corrupter, stood staring back at her, a defiant smi
le on his face. It was an illusion for her and her alone, one that Malfurion had carefully crafted, just as he had carefully crafted each successive vision driving her to this point.

  Malfurion felt no triumph at bringing the orc Thura to this place.

  He risked both her soul and her life. Yet in his desperate search for that which could best serve to free him of this prison, he had sensed Brox’s magical ax. Malfurion knew how it had ended up back with the orcs, though that tale had been one he had learned thousands of years later. The red dragon Korialstrasz — also known to a select few as Krasus the mage — had given it to the warchief Thrall while in the guise of an elderly orc shaman. That had been to honor Brox for his tremendous sacrifice in seeking to keep the titan Sargeras at bay long enough.

  But the ax was even more powerful than the orcs knew, and no one understood that better than Malfurion. His own shan’do had imbued it with forces bound to the world, forces that made it as much of Azeroth as the very seas and land, the very air.

  And it was with that ax that Malfurion hoped to vanquish the Nightmare and free himself.

  Thura approached him. She did not question what she saw; the druid had influenced her dreams far too long. Thura took for granted whatever he desired. That filled him with even more regret; he had abused her mind, no matter what the reason.

  “Night elf,” she growled low. “You threaten my people, my world!

  And for me, there is the blood of my kin staining your dishonorable hands! I have come to put an end to your evil!”

  Strike! he silently commanded her. Strike! Malfurion even suggested where she aim. It was vital that she hit him just so.

  Eyeing what to her was the archdruid’s stomach and what was in truth the center of the tree trunk, Thura added, “I give you one chance! I will let you make amends—”

  The archdruid was taken aback. Despite what she surely thought of him, she was still willing to give him a chance to save his life!

  Strike! he repeated again, radiating an image of contempt.

  Thura glared at him.

  “That’s your answer,” the orc snarled. She pulled back with the ax. “I gave you a chance for life…now I give you the certainty of death—”