Stormrage (wow-7)

by Richard A. Knaak

  In fact, Dalaran had particularly fallen to it. Malfurion’s first glances at the grand, magically illuminated streets of the flying city revealed nothing but emptiness shrouded in mist. As he entered the various oddly shaped structures, he came upon the first of the sleepers. They lay there by the scores, some in their beds, others where exhaustion had taken them.

  And in one of those beds he found not only Rhonin, but the archmage’s mate, the high elf Vereesa. Though Malfurion had not met her, he knew of her through Rhonin’s words. They had been caught in their slumber. Their faces even now revealed that their sleep was, like those of all the other victims, caught up in the horrors of the Nightmare.

  There were no sleepwalkers, though Malfurion sensed that many of the victims were at the edge of doing so. But some spell held them where they were…and finally he found its source in the

  Violet Citadel.

  The mighty structure rose above all else. Its basic form was a huge tower with cone-shaped additions flanking its lower sides. Far above the rest of the city, the sharply pointed tip was surrounded by a circular array kept in place by powerful magic spells.

  Ignoring this and the countless purple-tipped spires below, Malfurion touched those within. One name came to mind immediately, an elder female mage by the name of Modera. The image of a strong-willed figure with short, gray hair and a faint, perpetual frown came to Malfurion. She was clad not in the elaborate blue and violet robes that marked the ruling committee, the Kirin Tor, but rather gray and blue armor.

  The archdruid… she responded back with much exhaustion.

  So, not all of Azeroth is fallen…

  His admiration for her immediate identification of him was tempered by her second statement. The magi in the chamber were utterly cut off from the outside world.

  It is all that enables us to keep our brethren from rising again

  …we barely caught it in time…we lost several of those left in our band when the first sleepwalkers appeared…

  She had answered his question before he could ask it. Those magi left in Dalaran could not join his plan. They were doing all they could to contain the greatest of their kind from joining the Nightmare’s army of darkness.

  Malfurion let Modera know as much as he had Varian. Modera nodded, though she did not appear overly confident in him. You’ve spoken to other magi beyond Dalaran?

  I have.

  She nodded. Modera was clearly very exhausted, as were the few dozen spellcasters with her or in other parts of the citadel.

  May they be of some assistance…and may good fortune guide your efforts…I fear what you plan is our last chance…

  Malfurion broke contact with her. He hoped that he had not betrayed himself. Modera might have wondered at his hubris if she had known what he truly intended for her fellow magi and all the others he was gathering…

  And as Malfurion spoke to Varian, spoke to Baine, spoke to Modera, he also spoke to scores of others. He spoke to the orc shaman Zor Lonetree in Orgrimmar, to King Magni’s counselor in Ironforge, to the troll scout Rokhan — now forced to lead a band of his people trapped outside the orc capital to safety — and many, many more. Like the trolls, several were of races with enmity toward Malfurion’s race, but he sought to convince them nonetheless. With some he succeeded; with others he did not.

  He could not blame any who rejected his offer of aid. He asked them to leave themselves defenseless before the Nightmare.

  And among those who accepted, Malfurion still sensed wariness and concern…until they found what many thought their spirits but what were in truth their dreamforms materializing in a place most could not even imagine.

  The Emerald Dream.

  What is this place? Varian asked for all of them.

  Also in dreamform, Malfurion explained, This is the place where dreams and the waking meet…once a place of gentle communion, but now all but overrun by the Nightmare…

  Then…what point is there in bringing us here? At least we should fall in our own lands? Many agreed.

  Because only here can you make the difference…only here will your weapons find use…

  That was the encouragement they needed. Yet, even then, many began to divide up by race and treaty. That would not do. Malfurion needed them as one, not many.

  Varian will lead you… he stated flatly.

  But the king looked outraged at the sight of the orcs. I won’t lead this filth! Let the Nightmare take them and be damned —

  As it took your son and so many others in Stormwind City?

  Only by defeating the Nightmare can you ever hope to have Anduin returned to you…and that can only happen if we all work together…

  I — Varian visibly struggled between his hatred and his love.

  Love won out. Very well…let it happen…

  Now, though, many of the Horde looked reluctant to join any force led by Varian. But then the tauren leader Baine took up a place by the human. I will trust that this one chosen by a friend of my people will act with honor toward all…

  The tauren’s declaration shattered resistance. Malfurion gave thanks, then concentrated. He found those that had been from the start seeking to stem the Nightmare. Their numbers were fewer yet, which raised his concern. He reached out and touched the spirit of Zaetar.

  Malfurion Stormrage? Remulos’s brother asked in surprise and desperate hope.

  The night elf let him touch his memories, instantly giving the spirit all he needed to know. Zaetar’s hopes swelled, then dropped. My brother?

  I have no news of him.

  Zaetar let this pass, though the lack of news clearly bothered him. He accepted Malfurion’s plan as the archdruid had revealed to him, but asked one last question, And these, all of these whom you have brought to us…they suspect nothing of your true intentions?

  No…and if they do not…the Nightmare Lord may not…

  The spirit said no more on the subject. Instead, Zaetar reached out to Varian. The king did well in concealing his surprise when he felt Zaetar’s distant presence.

  We’re coming, he promised Remulos’s brother.

  The king of Stormwind raised his sword — what was actually a part of his dreamform — and led his host forward.

  The archdruid stared at Varian as the king moved on. Just for a moment, Varian’s countenance had seemed to change to something else. A wolf’s. A name came to mind, an ancient spirit revered by many races, including the night elves.

  Goldrinn… Malfurion thought, recalling the legendary Ancient.

  The white wolf had slaughtered hundreds of demons during the War of the Ancients before falling to their great numbers. Yet, his spirit was said to live on, watching over those he favored.

  May you be one of those, the archdruid concluded, aware that he had likely imagined what he had seen. May Goldrinn watch over you and all those marching to meet our enemy…

  And as the dreamform army moved on the Nightmare, others called by Malfurion and aided in their journey by the other druids began to join them. From his multiple viewpoint, Malfurion saw the coming of not just ancients whose calling was war, but those of others. Their shapes were as myriad as the species of trees of Azeroth and though many were tenders of learned paths, they were all ferocious defenders of the natural world. Some were winged, others clawed, and though their numbers were not great, each represented a mighty force in themselves.

  They were far from alone, though. With them came the treants.

  Even more resembling the forests they guarded, the treants were smaller and less powerful than the ancients, but were by no means only a slight presence. More numerous than the ancients, they were a force Malfurion welcomed, as were the dryads, also forest protectors and the powerful daughters of vanished Remulos.

  Flying hippogryphs by the scores came, joined in aerial endeavor by other denizens of the sky, including gryphons, gargantuan moths, carrion birds, dragonhawks, and, foremost, the remaining dragons of the red, green, and even blue flights. Though led by others
than their respective Aspects, the dragons were well versed in combat. The three dragonflights flew separate from one another, for each had its own method of battle, in addition to their mighty jaws and claws. The blue wielded magic spells of incredible power, the red breathed searing fire, and the green, of course, touched upon their dream abilities.

  Kobolds and other creatures with great enmity toward all else also had agreed to at least join the mighty throng. Fearsome ursine furbolgs, more comfortable among wild animals than as part of Varian’s force, let out howls of anticipation at final combat. Giant panthers, tusked boars, fearsome basilisks, crocolisks, hyenas, and other animals, many of them in part herded by the more sentient, reptilian raptors, were just a part of the animal legions that followed. The druids and others also guided the beasts, who, if they did not know what the ultimate reason was for this struggle, they knew that their lives and their progeny were endangered.

  Malfurion gave thanks to all of them, realizing more and more that each had a crucial role, that he needed them as much as they needed him.

  Though even fewer in number than ever and among the last to join, the Forsaken were eager to lend their monstrous might as well. They stood with their allies in the Horde, awaiting their chance to strike back.

  Malfurion watched all happen and felt both gratitude and regret.

  Only Zaetar understood the truth. Only Zaetar understood that all this might be for nothing if what else the archdruid intended failed.

  Thinking of the spirit caused the night elf to think also of Remulos. Cenarius’s son was nowhere to be sensed. Malfurion had hoped to find Remulos during this spell and the fact that he had not boded ill. Only where the Nightmare stood ascendant in the Dream were things shielded from the archdruid…and if Remulos was there —

  Malfurion could not concern himself with the missing keeper, no matter how great his power would have enhanced their chances.

  Indeed, the son of Cenarius was not even the first of his concerns.

  That was and would always be Tyrande, whom once more he had utterly let down.

  Tyrande…

  No sooner had he thought of her than a brief, ever so brief presence touched his mind. He knew without hesitation that it was her, that it could only be her. Just as some ten thousand years earlier, Tyrande had always stood with him. She had done so even though he had forsaken her time and time again for the druidic path. If she perished now…the years lost to them would that much more burn at his soul. He was the foremost — in his mind, the only — reason for their separations.

  Malfurion could not help but shiver at such thoughts, for he also knew that she stood in the shadow of the tree that was his nemesis

  …and that even the Mother Moon’s gifts were not the reason that she had been able to manage that momentary link.

  The Nightmare Lord was inviting him.

  The archdruid willed himself back into his body. He felt the tremendous relief on the part of both Broll and Hamuul at his return.

  He also felt another near them…someone who should not be there.

  Malfurion sprang to his feet the moment he had control. Broll and the tauren pulled back in surprise.

  “Are you all right, Shan’do? Did something happen?”

  But Malfurion did not answer them, instead steeling himself to face an unexpected danger to all of them.

  The figure overshadowed the trio. He did not smile, but grimly nodded to Malfurion. In one hand, he held a long spear made from a single branch. In his other hand —

  His other hand — and the arm to which it was attached — was a twisted, withered mass now more resembling a rotted tree limb.

  Remulos stood before them, the woodland guardian, the son of Cenarius, trodding forward on his four hooved feet. Where once the sense of spring pervaded his very being, now it was as if chill winter was the mantle the forest guardian wore. His skin was grayer and the leaves in his hair brown and dry.

  “Glad I am to find you here, Malfurion.” Remulos displayed the mutilated limb, then rumbled, “I have been to the heart of the Nightmare…and if you have the strength and spirit, you and I must return to it immediately… or all is lost…”

  25

  A CHOICE MADE

  They were on Azeroth again, though no part that Lucan recognized.

  The only thing familiar about it was that which all the world now seemed to have in common…the cloying mist of the Nightmare.

  A powerful hand gripped his collar. Thura leaned close, the angry orc’s breath hot and odorous. “The ax! What did you do with the ax?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  Thura showed him her other hand, now formed in a threatening fist. “The ax of Broxigar! It didn’t come with us! It was in my hand — and then it wasn’t!”

  “Are you certain you didn’t let go?” The expression with which the orc replied quickly made him retract the question. “Then it should’ve remained with you! It did before!”

  Releasing him, the female warrior furiously gazed around. “Then where is it, human?”

  Lucan no more knew that than where they stood. The hilly landscape was full of treacherous ravines and equally desolate terrain. There were some shrubs and, on one hill, a huge, ugly tree

  —

  The cartographer swallowed. The tree was not in keeping with the lack of life around it. Indeed, of all the vegetation around, it was the only one that seemed to be thriving. Even then, it bore hardly any leaves.

  But that was not what so disturbed Lucan about the tree. It was the outline it cast even in the haze.

  Like a giant skeletal hand.

  Now he felt he understood how and why the ax had been left behind. Something else had wanted it to stay, something with the power to do so.

  “We’ve got to leave!” he blurted.

  “I will have the ax back!” Thura insisted, unaware of what Lucan had discovered.

  A crackling sound all around them made both pause.

  The ground beneath their feet began to move as if something huge was burrowing its way up. As that happened, shadows that seemed half night elf, half goat formed in the mists.

  A root shot out of one of the cracks, seeking Lucan’s ankle.

  However, Thura seized it first, cracking off a large part of the pointed tip. What looked like congealed blood dripped from both broken ends.

  The root pulled back, but others darted up. The orc brandished the root at the oncoming shadow satyrs.

  One lunged. Thura thrust the point into the murky form.

  The shadow hissed, then melted.

  But there were more and more coming. Thura looked to Lucan.

  “There’re too many! If I had the ax—”

  She stopped as she saw the human’s expression. Lucan was staring into one of the fissures created by the roots. His face was, if possible, more pale than ever.

  The orc grabbed his arm, which seemed to break whatever fascination he had with the fissure. Lucan seized her in turn.

  “I can’t promise where we’ll end up in the Nightmare!”

  Thura stabbed another shadow, watching with no satisfaction as it faded. “Just take us!”

  They vanished…and reappeared in all-too-familiar emeraldtinted surroundings.

  But they were not alone.

  “Again?” Eranikus roared. His fury caused their surroundings, a cave, to quiver. The green dragon unfurled his wings, shattering several stalactites. “I want no part of this insanity! I warned you about that!”

  “I couldn’t help it!” Lucan responded. “We had to escape them — and I wanted to go somewhere safe! I didn’t know it would bring me back to you again and again!”

  “Around me, you are hardly safe, little bite!” Eranikus’s head dropped down near the pair. “And neither are you, orc, even with that magical weapon…”

  “I no longer have the ax,” Thura growled, thrusting her open hands toward the huge head. “It seems it was somehow lost when the high priestess bravely sacr
ificed herself to enable us to escape from the corrupted ones!”

  “ ‘Corrupted ones’? You speak of Lethon and Emeriss? The night elf left herself with that odious pair…and the ax also is theirs?

  ”

  “It couldn’t be helped—” Lucan began, but Ysera’s consort was no longer listening to him.

  “It will not end…until…but I can’t…” The green leviathan hissed as he muttered to himself. “I cannot sleep…I cannot forget…she was lost…”

  A wailing roar escaped the distraught dragon. Thura and Lucan sought cover as Eranikus’s frustration with himself erupted fully.

  As the last echoes of his cry finished reverberating, the dragon returned his attention to the tiny pair. His expression was unreadable.

  “It seems there is only one way to be permanently rid of your intrusions…”

  Eranikus reached for them.

  “Your arm…” Malfurion quietly answered. “What happened to your arm?”

  Remulos glanced at it. His eyes grew troubled. “The least of injuries, you may believe me.”

  “He appeared out of nowhere just before you awoke,” Broll explained. “We almost lost our concentration, so surprised were we.”

  “And it is a credit to your teaching that neither did.” The son of Cenarius pointed his spear at Malfurion. “But we’ve no time to discuss that further, my father’s favored thero’shan — his prized student! There is one chance to help turn matters around, but we need to depart at once!”

  Malfurion eyed the others. “I cannot leave now—”

  “Archdruid, you know that the Nightmare has your Tyrande…”

  “I know too well—”

  “And you know the true name of the Nightmare Lord.” Remulos spoke the title with all the dread that Malfurion kept hidden deep in his soul. “A diabolical creature once named Xavius! The same Xavius — as you related to me later — who served your Queen Azshara in aiding the Burning Legion to come to Azeroth, and thus having a part in causing my own blood much grief…”