Stormrage (wow-7)

by Richard A. Knaak

  Malfurion made his way toward that direction, avoiding all contact with other night elves, even druids. For their own safety, he did not want anyone knowing of his presence. For whatever reason, the Nightmare Lord had no desire to attack Darnassus just yet. It was a precarious situation and Malfurion did not like his choices, but so it would have to be.

  He knew even before he reached it that he had arrived at the new Cenarion Enclave. This place of meditation and gathering in the proposed city had been long discussed. Malfurion himself had suggested many of the details that he now saw standing in bloom before him. But his heart was sickened when he sensed that the taint was strong here as well.

  Malfurion alighted, his form shifting in the process. The area was silent, much too silent for a place where birds and other fauna should be in evidence day or night.

  There was little choice but to avoid the trees lining the enclave.

  The archdruid knew that they were like the branches against which he had fought.

  A suspicion that had long been growing in him stirred. The attack had all but verified it, although Malfurion still wanted to deny the possibility —

  The thought was interrupted by a brief contact by Hamuul. It was stark in its need for haste. Malfurion tried to reach the other archdruid, but to no avail.

  But he knew from where Hamuul had contacted him. Malfurion headed toward the structure that was center to the enclave’s design.

  It was also where he who had come to lead the druids since Malfurion’s absence had chosen to make his new sanctum.

  Malfurion neared the building — and stopped short in horror.

  There were three figures bound in the vines that covered the sanctum. Their limbs were stretched tight and pulled to the side as much as possible. One was Hamuul Runetotem. The second was Naralex. The third was none other than Shandris Feathermoon.

  They all appeared to be unconscious…or worse.

  Which meant that Malfurion had been tricked into coming here.

  “So the legendary shan’do returns to grace us with his undeserved glory,” the voice of Fandral Staghelm declared from all around Malfurion. “Always the only one who can save the world, because he deems himself the only one. I sensed you coming long ago and prepared a proper welcome…”

  Malfurion did not turn to seek Fandral, aware that this was what the other desired. Instead, he spoke toward the building. “What’s happening here, Fandral? Why are you doing this?”

  “Is it not obvious?” the voice replied. “These three are a danger to our people! To all Azeroth!”

  “These three?” Malfurion subtly sought Fandral’s true location.

  In his mind, the Nightmare Lord had clearly played tricks on the other archdruid’s mind. If Malfurion could confront Fandral, then he might be able to snap his brother druid out of the spell. “Shandris is a staunch defender of our race and Hamuul is an honest, worthy member of our calling as is Naralex—”

  “Lies, lies, lies!” The words reverberated through Malfurion’s head. “They seek to bring down everything! They seek to tear us apart! He has told me so!”

  “Who, Fandral? Who?”

  A section of the vines not being used to hold the pair in place suddenly curled around. They formed a thicker and thicker mass as tall as Malfurion.

  The vines suddenly gave way.

  Fandral Staghelm stared at his former shan’do. “You would want to know that, would you not? It is clear to me that you are a traitor, too!” His expression was one of honest grief — tinged with madness. “But you are too dangerous! The female, Naralex, and the beast — they’re misguided. But now they sleep and dream. They will awaken refreshed, as everyone else will!”

  Malfurion took a step toward Fandral. “No one will wake! The Nightmare extends beyond the Emerald Dream now! Everywhere save here is under siege by its evil and that evil fills this World Tree!”

  “You still dismiss the need for my Teldrassil!” the other archdruid snarled, a sudden ferocity overcoming him. “But I have done so much with it! It has helped reshape not only our race, but all of Azeroth as well!”

  “Teldrassil is tainted, Fandral! The Nightmare Lord infests it!

  Can’t you feel that? Look into yourself and touch Teldrassil’s heart!

  ”

  Fandral stared down his nose. “I know Teldrassil’s heart better than you or anyone! I have given it my heart in turn and for that sacrifice, it gave him back to me…”

  Only then did Malfurion note a shadow hovering behind the other night elf’s left shoulder. It was one of the foul creatures that had attacked him on his way here.

  But even though Fandral looked at the shadow, he did not seem bothered by its obviously sinister presence. Instead, Fandral smiled with familial affection at the fiend.

  “Teldrassil has given me back my son, Malfurion. My son! Is not Valstann as proud and handsome as ever?”

  He is consumed by his madness, Malfurion sadly realized. He is beyond reach…

  And that meant that Malfurion had only one recourse. He concentrated —

  Fandral frowned, his expression as sad toward his former shan’do as Malfurion’s had been toward him. “I had hoped otherwise. That was your last chance, my teacher…”

  The shadow that pretended to be Valstann laughed darkly, though only Malfurion appeared to hear it.

  There was a terrible rumble. Malfurion was thrown to the ground.

  Only the spot where Fandral stood appeared stable.

  The ground erupted and the trees bent down as if seeking to uproot themselves. A dark dread filled Malfurion as he sensed the taint swell within Teldrassil.

  “I advised him that we should wait!” Fandral shouted. “But it seems Valstann spoke the truth! You, Darnassus…all of it…must be cleansed! Valstann and I will show our people the way and they will be the better for it! Teldrassil will be the instrument of a new, glorious Azeroth!”

  He continued to babble on, heedless of the awful truth around him. Malfurion fought to regain some balance, but the ground burned like fire. Before his eyes, it blackened. Monstrous leaves as dark as night and with savage thorns sprouted everywhere.

  The trees shook with more violence, some of them finally ripping free. They bore a rot that had not been evident before. From their shaking crowns fell hundreds of smaller thorned leaves.

  The leaves began changing into the shadow creatures.

  For the first time, Malfurion also heard shouts and screams from without the enclave. Darnassus had finally joined the rest of Azeroth. The terror of the Nightmare had arisen, if in a different and in some ways more frightening form.

  The night elves’ very home — Teldrassil — was their enemy.

  21

  STORM OVER STORMWIND

  Broll stirred to consciousness, still aware that he could not recall just when he had fallen prey to the Nightmare. He found himself standing with Tyrande, Lucan, and the orc… and facing a very aggrieved Eranikus.

  Worse, they were back in the Emerald Dream, or what remained of it. The group was situated in a deep valley that still retained the fading glory of the once-fabled realm. Tall hills surrounded them, but although they looked like strong, stern sentries, the druid was well aware how little protection they truly were.

  The green dragon eyed Lucan as if he were a pest best disposed of by devouring. To his credit, the cartographer faced the behemoth without shaking.

  “For the first and last time, take yourself and these others away from me! Whatever foolish link ties us two together, you would best be served removing it, human!”

  “I only hoped to take us away from where we were,” Lucan responded with more than a bit of exasperation. “I didn’t know that we’d also return to you!”

  The dragon hissed. “If I had known that you would be so much trouble to me, I would have left you as an infant in the Emerald Dream! That a human would come to possess such dangerous and haphazard abilities merely by being born here! Yes, better I had left you to the
whims of fate, then…”

  Despite his protests, Eranikus’s tone indicated to Broll at least that his anger was not truly focused on Lucan. The behemoth’s fury was actually meant for himself.

  But that was a matter with which Eranikus had to deal. Broll was more concerned with another situation, one which Tyrande voiced for him.

  “Can you take us to Malfurion?” she asked the dragon. “We have got to find him! I have to find him!”

  “For what purpose?” Eranikus mocked. “All is coming to a dire end! The Nightmare has taken my queen, my mate! There is no more hope! I have failed her again…”

  This earned him a look of contempt from the high priestess.

  “And so you dwell in that failure! Well, we will not!”

  Eranikus stretched his wings wide. He glanced around, almost as if afraid that the Nightmare would now sense him. Then, his anger momentarily overcoming his fear, he hissed, “You may go wherever you wish and do what foolishness you desire, just so long as I must never be reminded of what happened again!”

  One wing swept toward the tiny figures. Broll pushed Tyrande toward Lucan and saw that to her credit, Thura also recognized his intention.

  As for Lucan, he did as Eranikus obviously intended. Confronted by what seemed a threat…the human involuntarily shifted out of the Emerald Dream.

  With him went the others. One moment, the green dragon loomed over them; the next, they stood on the walls of a great keep.

  And in the midst of frantic, pitched battle.

  On the one side, the horrific dreamforms of the Nightmare’s victims flowed over defenses and converged on the keep. Their twisted, agonized forms, their shrieking mouths…everything about them stirred the most basic fears within even the hardiest of the group. Hollow eyes sought out anyone with whom they could share their torture.

  On the other side, a dwindling band of defenders clad in familiar armor tried to stem what could not be stemmed. Tremendous their courage was, for none fled even though they were far outnumbered. As the cadaverous fiends neared, the fighters stood their ground.

  To Broll’s shock, he knew this place. “This is Stormwind City — and the royal keep!”

  A soldier spotted them. He took a moment to register their odd arrival, then called to a couple of companions. The trio anxiously charged toward the newcomers, brandishing both swords and torches as they neared.

  The orc moved to meet them in battle, but Tyrande blocked her path. “They think us a part of the Nightmare!” the high priestess shouted to Broll. “We must convince them otherwise!”

  Before the others could prevent him, Lucan stepped to the forefront. Hands forward with palms open to the oncoming soldiers, he shouted, “Wait! We’re friends! I’m Lucan Foxblood, third assistant cartographer to the king! We must see him!”

  The soldiers hesitated, more than one eyeing the orc among the party with great suspicion. Broll guessed what they were thinking.

  What sort of nightmare took such an odd form?

  Signaling his companions to hold back, the lead soldier moved within weapon’s reach of Lucan. He stretched the sword toward the cartographer, who did not move.

  The tip touched solid flesh. The soldier looked even more relieved than Lucan. However, he then stared at Thura again.

  The high priestess joined Lucan, cutting off view of the orc. “I am Tyrande Whisperwind, leader of the night elves and with me is Broll Bearmantle, comrade to King Varian! The orc is with us. She means no harm…”

  “Broll Bearmantle…” that name at least registered with the soldier. He nodded his head in respect to both night elves. “My lady

  …we are honored—”

  “The king…” Lucan reminded him. “We need to see King Varian immediately!”

  “Best come with me, then,” returned the fighter. “We’ve got to retreat from here anyway!”

  No sooner had he spoken than a scream broke out nearby.

  They turned to see another defender a few yards behind them struggling in the mist. Hands formed from the mist clutched at him and the macabre faces of the slaves of the Nightmare eagerly covered the hapless soldier as if seeking to devour him.

  Before anyone could help him, the man disappeared. His own scream echoed after, becoming more horrific, more a part of the Nightmare.

  “Quickly!” ordered the fighter who had first confronted Broll and the others.

  They were led with great haste down a long set of stone steps and then across a yard to another part of the wall. As they reached this, Broll called to their guide, “The city! How’s it standing?”

  “In pieces scattered around! The Trade District, the harbor, the Valley of Heroes…all dark!” the man shouted back. “Some noise from the Old Town, Cathedral Square, and the Dwarven District

  …and the Mage Quarter is still bright!” He gestured to his right, where the druid saw a constantly shifting array of colors that marked spells going off. There were a few other areas where lesser displays of light also appeared.

  “’Twas much brighter yet an hour ago,” the soldier continued.

  “We’re not holding. No one’s holding…”

  “It is amazing any part is holding!” Tyrande interjected. “What do you say, Broll?”

  The druid nodded. “As brave and as powerful as Stormwind’s defenders — warrior or mage — are, they should’ve been engulfed by now…” He considered the matter further and came up with a slim hope. “It might be Malfurion’s doing, but I think thus far it’s She of the Dreaming’s!”

  “But Ysera is taken!”

  Broll took a little pride in what he said next. “She is an Aspect, one of the great dragons! More to the point, she is the protector of the Emerald Dream! Even as the Nightmare’s captive, I think she struggles, preventing them from using her against the Dream and us…”

  Thura considered the grim tableau inexorably pressing toward them. “She struggles, but this city…and maybe Orgrimmar, too, will fall.”

  They began to ascend another set of stone steps. More than once their journey was accented by cries of terror and dismay.

  “Ysera sacrificed herself in order to obtain Malfurion’s escape!”

  the druid added. “She must think my shan’do can do something yet!

  ”

  “And what of us?” Tyrande asked.

  Broll had no answer for that. He could not tell her what constantly ate at him. The last nightmare involving his daughter had brought his great failure back to him full-blown. He was not Malfurion Stormrage. He was not even an archdruid.

  He was only a rebellious former gladiator and slave.

  But that was also what kept Broll moving on. The soldier finally brought them toward a familiar figure. Even with the armor obscuring everything, the stance was that of but one person.

  “Lo’Gosh!” Broll roared.

  The armored figure whirled. Through the helmet slits, Varian’s wide eyes took in the sight before him.

  Unfortunately, his initial focus proved to be on Thura. “An orc in Stormwind!”

  The king immediately charged forward, his legendary sword, Shalamayne, already raised to strike. Shalamayne’s great blade, with its unique narrow edge at the point and the thicker, angled edge further down, looked capable of cutting the orc in two. The gem in the lower part of the blade glowed like a furious sun.

  Thura moved to defend herself. Varian saw this only as confirmation of his suspicions. He gripped tight the long, slender hilt, the backward arch at the bottom of the blade framing his taut fingers. “Let your blood be the first from a thousand orcs who’ll die this night for what’s happening! I’ll—”

  Broll took to the forefront. “Your sight’s getting bad, Lo’Gosh!

  Not good for a king, much less a poor excuse for a gladiator!”

  “Broll Bearmantle!” Despite registering his friend’s presence, the king did not lower his sword. “Away from that damned green monster! I’ll strike her down—”

  “She is with us! She
is not to blame for what’s happening, nor is Thrall!”

  Varian’s disbelief was clear, but it was also clear that to reach Thura — who was quite willing to do battle — the lord of Stormwind would have to go through his old comrade.

  “I don’t even know if this is real,” Varian growled. “Tell me that you’re real, Broll…”

  The druid reached out a hand. After a cautious pause, the lord of Stormwind took it. His gaze softened slightly as he pressed in return.

  “It is you! Truly you — I think!”

  “If you can feel those bones you’re cracking, you know I’m real!”

  Broll and the king released one another. Their joy at their reunion was tempered by the dire moment. “Valeera! She isn’t here by any chance, is she?”

  “Haven’t seen that blood elf rogue of yours in several weeks.

  You know how independent she can be!” Varian grimaced. “Believe me, we could surely use her fighting skills now, Broll. I hope she’s not gotten caught stealing again. Hate to see her fighting for someone like Rehgar Earthfury or worse,” Varian concluded, referring to the orc shaman for whom they had battled as gladiators and slaves of the Crimson Ring. All fights in the Crimson Ring were to the death and even Valeera had slain her share.

  The druid did not hide his disappointment. He could only hope that, wherever she was, the blood elf was safe.

  But just exactly where would a safe place soon be?

  “I know you,” Varian said, gazing past the night elf to Lucan.

  “Foxblood. We thought you lost.”

  The cartographer nodded. “I have been.”

  Tyrande received a short but very polite nod. Varian had met her in the past, just before regaining his throne. “Your Majesty…” He then turned his attention back to Thura. The sword rose again and fixed with deadly purpose on the orc. “But why bring this filth into Stormwind City, Broll? What were you thinking? Her warchief used a fog to skulk up to our walls in the past, like some honorless assassin! Rather than face us directly, he used plague to soften us, a foul weapon no true warrior would wield—”