Date: 2010-02-23T05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Adventure; Fiction; Fantasy; Epic; General; Games; Role Playing & Fantasy; Science Fiction; Action & Adventure; Video & Electronic
Description: When the world of Azeroth was young, the god-like titans brought order to it by reshaping its lands and seas. Throughout their great work, they followed a magnificent design for what they envisioned Azeroth would become. Although the titans departed Azeroth long ago, that design endures to this day. It is known as the Emerald Dream, a lush and savagely primal version of the World of Warcraft.Many are the mysteries surrounding the Emerald Dream and its reclusive guardians, the green dragonflight. In times past, druids have entered the Dream to monitor the ebb and flow of life on Azeroth in thei
Publisher: Simon and Schuster

STORMRAGE

WORLD OF

WARCRAFT®

STORMRAGE

RICHARD A. KNAAK

Gal ery Books

A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and
incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are
used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or
persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2010 by Blizzard Entertainment, Inc. Al rights
reserved. Warcraft, World of Warcraft, and Blizzard Entertainment
are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Blizzard

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First Gal ery Books hardcover edition February 2010

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Manufactured in the United States of America

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

ISBN 978-1-4165-5087-7

ISBN 978-1-4391-6066-4 (ebook)

For the twelve million and more
who have breathed life into Azeroth

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Special thanks go to those involved in this project and my other
forays into Azeroth! Here’s to the folks at Blizzard in no particular
order—Rob, Gina, Evelyn, Micky, Tommy, Jason, Glenn, Samwise

…and everyone else I may have missed!

At Gal ery Books—my hardworking editor Jaime, Anthony,

Marco, and more!

And, with the utmost appreciation, Chris Metzen, who’s been
there from the beginning!

Again, thanks, everyone!

“I understand that I must find out the truth wherever that
truth leads…even if in the end it costs me my very life…

”

—Malfurion Stormrage, The Well of Eternity

PROLOGUE

BLOOD QUEST

Thura stood at the end of the great jagged chasm. The young orc’s
powerful hand instinctively tightened on the ax as she sought in
vain a way across. Thick and muscular of limb and torso, the orc
was a skil ed fighter despite barely being of adult years. Yet now
her broad, rough-hewn features twisted into something more
childlike, more fearful, as she ran back and forth without success in
her search. Her wide, tusked mouth frowned. Thura shook her
head and murmured a wordless protest. Her heavy brown mane of
hair, general y bound in a tail but at the moment set loose, spil ed
over the left side of her face.

On the other side, a tremendous battle took place, the focus of it
a single, brawny male of her race and someone she knew mostly
from childhood memories and tales spoken by the great orc ruler,

Thral . Facing her was a graying warrior, with a stern visage and
powerful arms. Like her, he was clad in the leather kilts and
harnesses of a fighter. His body was covered in old scars from
other battles, other wars. Even though surrounded, the male
bel owed his contempt for his monstrous foes.

And monstrous they were indeed, for they were demons of the

Burning Legion…fel creatures far tal er than the brave lone
warrior. They were armored and burning from head to foot with
virulent yel ow-green fire whose intensity vied with the fierce
determination in the brown orbs of the single orc. With wicked
blades and other vile weapons, they slashed again and again,
seeking to break through his guard. But ever he kept them at bay
with his ax, a stunning weapon that was made more fantastic in that
it was carved of wood.

No…not carved. Thura recal ed that a shaman had once
inspected it and declared that great magic had shaped the twin-
edged ax into being, magic rumored to be that of the demigod

Cenarius. Cenarius had been a keeper of nature, a protector of
the forest.

Whatever the amazing origin of the ax, though, it clearly had
magic of its own, for it sliced through strong blades and thick armor
with the ease of passing through air. Great flashes of sinister
yel ow-green fire sparked from the deadly wounds inflicted on them
as they fel one after another to the orc’s sure hand.

A deep, almost hazy emerald aura that had nothing to do with the
flames of the Burning Legion draped over al , even the solitary
champion. The aura itself was touched by a slight blue hue that
added a sense of surrealism to the moment. Thura paid little mind
to the aura, though, her anxiety rising as she continued to fail to
find a crossing.

Then a new, arresting figure materialized just behind and to the
left of the male orc. He was an astounding being whose tal , violet-
skinned race was known to Thura. A night elf. Yet this was no
ordinary representative of that people, for thrusting from his head
were a pair of mighty and elaborate antlers. Moreover, he was clad
in a striking outfit that marked him not only as a druid—one of the
revered keepers of nature—but clearly one of high standing,
perhaps even an archdruid.

The night elf had a broader, more mature visage that gave him
more individuality. He also wore a thick, green beard. His glowing,
golden eyes—almost as arresting as his antlers—were plainly
visible even from far away.

The coming of the night elf caught Thura’s breath. Unarmed, he
leaned close to the male orc to whisper something and his very
presence seemed to assure the battling champion. Already the
victor over many demons by himself, the older orc looked confident
that he and the night elf would surely be able to stand against the
bloodthirsty throng stil converging on the spot.

Behind the orc, the night elf’s hands suddenly fil ed with a long,
wooden staff. He raised the staff high and as he did, the closest
end suddenly sharpened to a wicked point. In front of him, the orc
slashed at yet another impetuous demon, slicing off its long,
narrow head, curled horns and al .

The night elf touched the point of the staff in the back of the
male orc’s neck.

Thura saw too late the duplicity. She shouted in vain, her words
smothered by distance and the clash of arms.

From the back of the male’s neck there burst a smal growth. It
resembled a weed, such as Thura might have trod upon a
thousand times a day. Yet that weed sprouted rapidly, growing and
growing within a single heartbeat.

The other orc final y sensed it. He reached back, but several
dark green leaves wrapped around his wrist. The weed continued
to spread, pouring over the hapless warrior’s body. As it did, the
leaves began sprouting terrible thorns, al pointed inward. They
jabbed into the orc and wherever they did, they drew blood.

With a smile, the duplicitous night elf stepped back to admire his
handiwork. Rivers of blood poured from every thorn.

The male orc shivered. His mouth gaped and he fel to one
knee. The weed’s tendrils covered his body until they completely
bound him. Blood continued to gush from the monstrous wounds as
the night elf watched with amusement.

Thura cal ed out the male’s name even though it was already too
late to save him. “Broxigar!”

Suddenly, the demons faded to mist. There was only the night
elf, his victim, and Thura. The night elf stepped back farther, his
mocking gaze turning to her.

The golden orbs turned utterly black. They became deep pits
that coldly pul ed at the orc’s soul.

Then from those dark pits poured forth monstrous, ebony
carrion bugs. Beetles, mil ipedes, roaches, and more flowed forth
from the night elf’s eyes in horrific streams that spil ed to the
ground. The vermin spread in al directions and as they did, trees
and other flora materialized in their path. Yet the lush wildlife barely
appeared before the vermin swarmed it. Bushes, shrubs, even the
tal est trees became enveloped.

And as they were, they withered. Everything withered. Thura’s
world became a twisted, hideous vision.

The night elf laughed. From his mouth spil ed forth more fiendish
vermin—

He vanished.

Thura shouted out Broxigar’s name again. With effort, the dying
warrior managed to look her way. One hand broke free of the
strangling weed, then stretched forth, the magical ax held out.

His mouth whispered a name—

Thura awoke with a start.

She lay there for a time, stil shivering despite the fact that the
woods in which she currently traveled were of a comfortable
temperature. The dream played over in her mind, just as it did
whenever the orc was not reliving it in her sleep.

With some effort, Thura final y rose. The smal campfire that she
had built earlier had long died out, only a few faint wisps of smoke
left in memory. Momentarily setting down her weapon, Thura used
some dirt to smother what remained of the fire, then looked around
for her pack. Seizing up the smal , leather sack, she retrieved the
ax and started off.

It was always like this. Walking until she was dead on her feet,
catching her supper, then sleeping until the dream woke her up and
left her in such a state that she knew it was better to move on. In a
macabre way, that suited the orc just fine. Not only was there risk
of late for any who were merely sleeping, but each step took her
closer to her goal, closer to avenging her blood kin.

And even more, she had come to realize, she was spurred on by
another mission: to prevent a catastrophe that would not only
engulf her own people…but all else.

The male orc, Broxigar, had been brother to her father, although
their own fathers had been different. She knew of his legendary
stand with his comrades against the Burning Legion, a stand which
had resulted in Broxigar—or Brox—as the only survivor. Even as a
child, Thura could sense the guilt he had felt at living when his
friends had not.

And then Thral , the great orc leader, had sent the veteran
warrior on a mysterious mission with another. Neither had ever
returned, but then, as rumor had it, an old shaman had brought
back the wondrous wooden ax from the dream and left it with Thral .

That shaman had also spoken of Brox becoming a hero who had
helped to save not only the orcs, but all else. Some there were who
said that the shaman had then sprouted wings and flown off into the
night, transforming into a gigantic bird or dragon.

Thura knew not whether al the last was true, only that when she
had come of warrior age and proven her skil s, Thral himself had
given her the fabled ax. She was, after al , the only left of Brox’s kin
save for her sole remaining uncle, Saurfang the Elder, who had
himself recently lost his son in battle. The ax might have previously
gone to either of the other pair, but Thral ’s most trusted shaman
had seen in a dream that it should go to Thura. Why, no one knew,
but Thral had listened.

Thura felt honored to wield such a weapon, an irony, she knew.

Years ago, under the influence of the demon lord Mannoroth’s
bloodcurse, orcs under the legendary Grom Hel scream had
invaded the forests of Ashenvale and slain Cenarius as he came
forth to resist them. That had been in the days before Thral had
returned to his people their respect for nature. The death was
regrettable…but Thura had not been part of it and so, with orcish
practicality, she assumed that the spirit of Cenarius would have
understood that, also.

The moment that Thura had placed her hands on it, it had felt
right. But the ax had brought with it something else. Not at first, not
even through the initial seasons after she had been given it. No, its
secret had not revealed itself until later, and at first she had ignored
it. A dream was just a dream…

Or not.

It had not taken the same shaman to final y make Thura see the
truth. The spirit of her lost kin had been trying to reach out to her to
demand vengeance. The dream was a hint of the truth, of that she
felt certain. She had been shown how Brox had actual y perished

…betrayed by one he believed a comrade.

The night elf.

And although she could not say how she knew, Thura also
understood that the night elf stil lived and that he could be found. Al
she had to do was pay attention to the dream. Each time she
awoke from it, she sensed the direction that she had to walk.

The direction in which she would find the brave Brox’s
treacherous slayer.

Brox had spoken his name, which had rung in her head from the
very first dreaming despite her never having heard it said out loud
by the male orc.

Malfurion Stormrage…Malfurion Stormrage…

Thura hefted her ax…once Brox’s ax. The female orc had
sworn an oath to her dead uncle. She would find Malfurion

Stormrage, no matter how far she had to journey and no matter
what her blood quest demanded she face.

She would find Malfurion Stormrage…and then not only would
the ax mete out long-overdue justice, but perhaps Thura would be
able to save Azeroth before it was too late…

1

TELDRASSIL

A sense of foreboding that the sleek night elf priestess had not
felt since the fall of Zin-Azshari shook her to the core.

Tyrande Whisperwind tried to settle into her meditations.

Darnassus, the new night elf capital, had been built to honor the
survival of the race, as was appropriate, and not to honor a mad
queen. While it was far smal er than its predecessor, Darnassus
was in its own way no less spectacular, in part due to its location
high in the western boughs of Teldrassil … the World Tree. So
huge and mighty was it that the night elves had been able to build
upon it such imposing edifices as the Temple of the Moon—crafted
much of stone brought from the mainland and transported by
magical means up the incredible height of the trunk. Indeed, greater
than even the fact that the capital sat nestled in Teldrassil’s boughs
was that it was the largest of a handful of settlements existing
among the foliage.

And much of al of that could be credited to the druids, who had
raised up the tree.

Tyrande tried not to let even the slightest of thoughts concerning
the druids interfere with her need for peace. She respected their
cal ing, for nature had been and always would be an integral part of
the night elf existence, but thinking of them even in passing always
brought to the forefront thoughts and concerns of her childhood
friend, of her lover, Malfurion Stormrage.

The soft light of the moon goddess shone down through the
rounded, stained-glass skylight into the vast central chamber,
temporarily turning from silver to a soft purple as it did. Yet silver it
became again of its own accord as it draped upon the glistening
pool surrounding the statue of Haidene—the first high priestess
who had, as a child, heard the blessed voice of Elune. As she was
wont to do, Tyrande sat cross-legged at the edge of the pool upon
the massive stone steps before Haidene’s upraised arms,
desperately seeking from both her predecessor and her goddess
the blessing of comfort and guidance … and to help her shake off
her growing feelings of anxiety. Though the chamber was often a
place where priestesses and novices came for their own
meditations and peace, Tyrande was this hour alone.

Eyes pressed shut, she sought unsuccessful y to force any
thought concerning Malfurion from her mind. Their tumultuous bond
stretched back to the beginning of the War of the Ancients, when
she, Malfurion, and his twin brother, Il idan, had lost the innocence
of their youth and become seasoned fighters. She stil vividly
recal ed Il idan’s betrayals and her own imprisonment in Azshara’s
palace. And though the tale of her unconscious body’s transport
there was something she had learned after the fact, Tyrande
occasional y relived how she imagined it to have been—captured
by the servants of the queen’s foul counselor, Xavius—himself
transformed by the Legion’s master into a monstrous satyr. Also
burned into her memory was the near loss of her dear Malfurion at
the very end, just when he had managed to cast out most of the
demons from their world. Her heart ached at the memory of him
summoning his last shred of might to save her.

But, most of al , most persistent, she recal ed the hopes and
dreams the two had shared after the conflict. There had been talk
of truly beginning a life together, of Azeroth no longer demanding
great sacrifices from the two of them.

But to Tyrande’s utter disappointment, Malfurion’s cal ing pul ed
him away yet again. He began training other druids, for Azeroth
itself had required much healing and they would be among its most
ardent tenders. And when Malfurion chose to leave Tyrande behind
for years at a time to walk the Emerald Dream, she had sometimes
come to wonder if he had ever truly loved her.

Tyrande, meanwhile, had been thrust into the role of high
priestess of Elune against her desire, and then, through
circumstances and necessity, the ruler of her people. Only in that
latter role had she been able to make such major changes in night
elf society such as disbanding the traditional—and often flawed

—system of military command based on bloodline and create the

Sentinels, whose officers rose on their merits. Becoming leader
was not a destiny she would have chosen for herself, but neither
could she give it up, so much did she wish to help protect the night
elf race.

Mother Moon, grant me calm, the high priestess silently
pleaded. Although she was mil ennia old, the night elf physical y
appeared little older than that day so long ago when the mantle of
leadership had been thrust upon her. She stil had the lush head of
midnight blue hair that flowed over her shoulders, its streaks of
silver with her since her youth. Her face was that of a young
maiden, and although some fine lines had begun to crease the
edges of her silver eyes, even they were more the result of the last
six or seven years of true aging, and not a mark of the ten harsh
mil ennia she had lived.

But trying to rule wisely for some one hundred and more
centuries took its tol within, which was why the high priestess on
occasion sought respite through meditation. Tyrande only asked an
hour once in a while, surely no tremendous request of Elune. Here,
bathed in the ever-present light of the Mother Moon, she was
general y able to find her focus with little trouble. However, this time
a sense of peace continued to evade her. Tyrande understood the
reasons why but refused to give in to them. She focused deeper—

Tyrande let out a gasp. The soft moonlight blazed, growing both
blinding … and, for the first time ever, painful.

Her surroundings transformed. No longer did she sit in the
security of the temple. Instead, the night elf stood in a darkened
place whose earthen wal s immediately marked it as a barrow den.

Details of the underground chamber il uminated for her as if the
pages of a tome turning. Tyrande saw the pouches of herbs, the
gathered feathers, teeth, and other objects from many of Azeroth’s
fauna. There were markings, too, some of which were familiar to
her while others remained incomprehensible.

A chil ran up and down her spine. She knew where she was but
stil sought in vain to deny it.

Then another priestess of Elune stepped into view. Tyrande
knew her by name as wel as by her thinner, unlined face. Merende.

Far younger than the high priestess, but a wel -respected acolyte
of the Mother Moon.

A second priestess fol owed Merende, this one also known to
their leader. That priestess was fol owed by a third. Al wore somber
expressions and kept their heads bowed. They were clad in simple
silver robes with hoods. The plain garments were worn in respect
to their surroundings, for these priestesses were not among their
own kind, but rather in a domain under the watch of the druids.

Indeed, this was the barrow den—a home, so to speak—of one of
their kind.

And even as Tyrande thought this, her view shifted, fol owing not
by her choice the gazes of the troubled priestesses. A body, laid
flat on a mat of woven grass, a faint, silver light—Elune’s light

—draping over the stil form. Her heartbeat quickened at this
solemn sight, even though from the past she should have long been
used to it.

Even in repose, his proud visage bore the marks of time and
effort even more than hers. His long, green hair had been set by
the priestesses so that it lay atop his chest, where it seemed to
meld with his lush, lengthy beard. He had a thick, angled brow that
made him appear serious, contemplative.

He was clad more elaborately than most druids—a choice not
his own but determined by his great station. Massive armor with
jutting thorns protected the shoulders, while matching guards did so
for the forearms and shins. Although made of wood respectful y
harvested from dead trees, the spel -crafted armor was more
durable and resilient than metal. The sleeveless robe stretched
down al the way to his sandaled feet and bore on the sides of the
legs the color and pattern of draping leaves. Near the bottom, a
layer of blue marked by what seemed to be crescent moons
perhaps gave some bit of honor to Elune.

Malfurion Stormrage stared up at the ceiling, his golden orbs
vacant.

Tyrande drank in the sight of him, her lover. Her legs felt weak
as she studied him—how could a being so bright and bursting with
spirit be rendered utterly lifeless and hopelessly lost? She smiled
weakly as she gazed at Malfurion, who looked so regal, so
distinguished. As noble as the male night elf looked, ever one
aspect about him demanded foremost attention. Sprouting from his
forehead and thrusting forward were two proud antlers. More than
two feet in length, they were no defect of birth, but rather the gift
and the mark of Cenarius. Few there were of the druids who bore
the four-legged, hooved demigod’s blessing and of that few, the
first and greatest was he who lay here.

Tyrande had not been taken aback when first the antlers had
begun to grow. She had only seen them as recognition of the
greatness she had always known existed in Malfurion.

“Malfurion…” she whispered to the body, though no one there,
especial y him, could hear her at al . “Oh, my Malfurion … why did
you have to leave me again?”

She watched as her fol owers knelt beside the stil body and
placed their hands over his head and chest. Tyrande knew what
they were doing, for she had given the orders herself.

Only through the blessings of the Mother Moon did Malfurion

Stormrage stil survive. Her faithful kept the archdruid’s body alive
and healthy, hoping against hope for the day when Malfurion would
stir again. Hoping against hope that his dreamform would return
from wherever it had become lost in the Emerald Dream …

The high priestess wanted desperately to leave. Of what
purpose was there in Elune revealing this scene? Al it did was stir
up more anxiety, more terrible reminders. She couldn’t stand to see
him like that, lost to her … perhaps forever.

Malfurion’s tenders stepped back. They looked somber. They
had been at this task day after day and knew their duties wel .

The archdruid’s skin suddenly darkened.

The three priestesses gave no reaction to this transformation,
almost as if they could not see it. Tyrande, on the other hand, leapt
to Malfurion’s side, paying no attention to the fact that her body
glided through those of her fol owers as if they were but a mist. Al
that mattered was her beloved’s horrific transformation.

And as she watched, helpless and unable even to touch him, the
archdruid’s body continued its macabre change. As his flesh
darkened, it also crusted over, like the bark of a tree. His legs and
arms grew gnarled. Jagged, ebony leaves sprouted throughout his
hair and beard, quickly overwhelming both. At the same time, the
leaves began slowly waving back and forth, as if a wind from
somewhere far beyond this underground place blew upon them.

The golden orbs paled back to the silver of their birth, then, more
horribly, they sank in, turning into black pits.

The rhythmic fluttering of the leaves seized the high priestess’s
attention from the awful eyes, although she at first could not say
why. There was a familiar movement to the fluttering. And then a
faint sound accompanied the movement, a steady, pulsating beat
that swel ed in intensity as it fil ed her ears.

A heartbeat.

She glanced around wildly—it was as though the other
priestesses could not hear it. It became louder and stronger stil .

The sound became deafening; the leaves flickered in concert, and
then …

The beat began to slow. Only by a minuscule rate at first, but it
was slowing, as if the wind were ceasing to blow.

And as if a heart were gradual y beginning to stil …

Panicked, Tyrande thrust a hand toward Malfurion—

The barrow den vanished. Darkness and a stark silence greeted
the high priestess. She discovered that her eyes were shut.

With a gasp, she opened her eyes and adjusted to Elune’s glow,
finding herself once more seated in the temple. Haidene’s statue
stood poised over her. Al was as she recal ed it and Tyrande knew
that what she had experienced had taken place in perhaps the
space of a single short breath.

But her own situation did not concern her in the least. Only the
vision mattered. She had received only a handful of such gifts from
her mistress over the centuries and al of them had been
messages of great import. Yet this one … this one was the most
troubling of al .

Despite the best efforts and tremendous vigilance of his
tenders, it was now clear that Malfurion was dying.

The storm crow’s wide, powerful wings beat hard as the avian
neared the vicinity of the island. Woodland brown with tinges of
silver gray at the edges of its feathers, it was large, even for one of
its kind. A sloping silver crest crowned its head and twin tufts of
like-colored feathers hung from both sides of its skul , giving it an
almost elder, scholarly look. Deep silver eyes peered out from
under the brow, drinking in everything.

Although a thick mist enshrouded the night sky, the storm crow
soared through the air with a swiftness that suggested familiarity
with its surroundings. Lightning flashed some distance further out
at sea, and the bird took advantage of the momentary il umination
to search for some sign of the island.

Suddenly, the lone traveler was forced to brace itself against an
oddly cold gust of wind that seemed determined to drive him back,
as if warning that only a fool would continue on. But continue the
storm crow did, struggling hard against the icy current. It sensed
that it was very near its goal.

And, in fact, as if curtains parting, the mists final y gave way. The
island came into view at last, dwarfed beneath that for which it was
both known and named. From a distance, those who beheld the
great sight for the first time might have thought they were viewing
some grand mountain with sides markedly perpendicular and rising
so high that the clouds themselves were forced to gaze up at its
majesty. But if they were able to peer up during daylight and
weather far more agreeable than that through which the storm crow
flew, they would discover that it was not a mountain at al —or even,
perhaps, some great edifice built by hand—but was, in fact, a thing
yet more remarkable.

It was a tree.

It fil ed most of the island, no smal patch of ground. In the tree’s
very roots lay the port vil age—cal ed Rut’theran by the night elves
who inhabited it. It was clear the island existed purely to house the
leviathan for which it was named and for which al knew it.

This was the home of Teldrassil … the second World Tree.

Ten thousand years earlier the original World Tree, Nordrassil,
had been raised up on Mount Hyjal after the destruction of the night
elves’ original fount of power, the Wel of Eternity. Set atop the
second Wel created through Il idan’s duplicity, Nordrassil had
served two purposes. Not only had it been designed to keep others
from abusing the magic of the new Wel , but also to prevent the
second fount’s power from growing too great overtime. Blessed by
three of the great Dragon Aspects—Alexstrasza the Life-Binder,

Nozdormu the Timeless One, and Ysera the Dreamer—the vast
tree had not only watched over Azeroth but been bound to the night
elves’ immortality and power.

But less than a decade ago venerable Nordrassil had suffered
terrible damage during the titanic struggle against the same
demons—the Burning Legion—whose initial invasion had first
caused its raising. Its weakened state had left the night elves bereft
of much of their vaunted power and, worse, their very immortality.

And though Nordrassil’s roots were slowly regrowing, that
immortality had not yet returned.

And so eventual y the druids—their apprehensions put at ease
by their new leader, Fandral—had raised up Teldrassil, its
successor.

The storm crow banked as the tree continued to spread before
its gaze. If Teldrassil was not quite as overwhelming as its
predecessor had been at its greatest majesty, none could deny that
the new World Tree was a wonder of the world, a phenomenal
nurturing of nature through the world of Azeroth’s own magic as
wielded by the druids. The width and breadth of Teldrassil’s trunk
were vaster than some lands. Yet, incredible as that was, it
compared little to its massive, green crown, which seemed to
spread along the horizon forever.

Something briefly caught the avian’s attention, and it cocked its
head slightly to observe it. Within the huge boughs, the storm crow
sighted movement among what appeared to be not only one stone
structure, but several. Indeed, protruding above the branches were
the tops of several buildings.

As the flyer soared on, other smal er settlements whirred by.

Even a lake momentarily glimmered among the leaves, so wide and
furrowed were the gargantuan branches. And wel ahead there
jutted the tip of a mountain.

The storm crow approached the higher branches. There it
glimpsed another wonder atop the highest of the great boughs.

From that shadowed wonder came il umination not only in the form
of torchlight, but also what appeared to be bits of living moonlight.

The magnificent city of Darnassus, capital of the tree-dwel ing
race, beckoned. Even from a distance, it was clear that Darnassus
rivaled fabled places such as the humans’ Stormwind City or the
orcs’ Orgrimmar.

The World Tree col ected enough dew to create and feed many
rivers, streams, and lakes among its boughs—one of the last so
wide that part of Darnassus had been itself raised up on it. The
night elves further manipulated the waters here to maintain the
splendor of the Temple Gardens and the stunning waterway
coursing through their city. Further north and on the other side of
the water, the druids had set up their own sanctum, the woodland-
shrouded Cenarion Enclave.

But the bird veered away, not just from Darnassus, but from the
rest of the incredible cities nestled atop the crown. Inviting though
the sight was, the storm crow’s destination was far below.

The huge avian dropped until only a dozen yards or so from the
dirt, then, with innate ability, arched its wings to slow its descent. It
extended its talons out as it prepared to land.

Just before the storm crow touched ground, it swel ed in size, in
only a single breath growing to a height greater than any human. Its
legs and talons shifted form, the former becoming thicker and
longer and the latter now turning into feet that were sandaled. At the
same time, each of the wings melded and stretched and fingers
blossomed. The feathers vanished, replaced by thick hair of forest
green that was bound tight in the back and flowed down in the front
in a lush beard that extended to what was now a cloaked chest.

The beak had receded into the face, becoming a separate and
stil prominent nose and a broad mouth bent into what was almost a
perpetual frown. Ebony feathers had given way to flesh of a dark
violet hue that marked the shapeshifter as of the race that lived in
this land and above it.

Brol Bearmantle, being a night elf, looked much akin to most
druids. True, he was brawnier and seemed much more like a
warrior than the others. His less-than-peaceful, troubled existence
gave him ful er, more weathered features, but he stil passed
among his fel ow druids as close kin to any of them.

He peered around. There were no immediate signs of other
druids, though he sensed them near. That suited him. He had
wanted a moment of solitude before joining the others.

There were many thoughts swirling around his head, most of
them concerning his shan’do, his teacher. Each time Brol came
back to Teldrassil, the broad-shouldered night elf thought of his
shan’do, knowing that without him, he would not be who he was

—even if Brol considered himself a sorry excuse for a druid. In
fact … none of those gathering for this sudden convocation, not
even Fandral, would be here at al if not for the legendary Malfurion

Stormrage.

Malfurion had not merely been their leader; he had been the first
of Azeroth’s mortal druids, trained in his cal ing by the demigod

Cenarius himself. The woodland deity had seen in the then-young
night elf a unique quality, a unique link to the world, and had
nurtured it. And before Malfurion’s mystical training had even been
completed, he was thrust into that first titanic struggle against the
demons and his own traitorous kind … including the night elves’

very queen, Azshara, and her treacherous advisor, Xavius. If not
for Malfurion’s efforts, so many believed, Azeroth itself would
surely have ceased to exist.

The tales of his extraordinary feats stretched through time.

Malfurion had sacrificed the considerable centuries of his life for
the sake of his world and his people over and over. When others
had fal en, he had taken up their battles and added them to his own.

For a master of the ways of nature, Malfurion had also become a
champion in war.

Yet, most recently, with lasting peace once more perhaps
possible, Malfurion had reorganized his fel ow druids and tried to
set them on their original, destined path. The past was the past; the
future a fascinating enigma to be quietly and calmly explored.

Indeed, Malfurion had said they were better off as they were now

—without their immortality—for that forced them to become more a
part of the vibrant life of Azeroth rather than some staid,
unchanging element merely observing the passage of time …

“Malfurion …” he muttered. But for two others in his life, no one
had affected Brol like his shan’do. He owed a great deal to

Malfurion … and yet, he, like the rest, felt helpless to do anything to
save the archdruid from his dreadful fate.

Brol blinked, returning to the moment. He had sensed another
coming up behind him. Even before turning, the night elf knew who
it had to be. The scent alone marked this one particular druid.

“The blessing of the forest upon you, Brol Bearmantle,” rumbled
the newcomer. “I felt you near. I had hoped to see you.”

Brol nodded. While he hadn’t expected to see the newcomer, he
was glad for it. “Archdruid Hamuul Runetotem … you made swift
passage from Thunder Bluff.”

Where Brol looked akin to his fel ow druids, his new companion
did not. The torso of the newcomer somewhat resembled that of a
night elf or a human, albeit one even broader of shoulder than the
powerful y built Brol . Unlike the other druids, he was clad in the
loose, tanned garments of his tribe. Two long, red straps fastened
his leather shoulder armor to his red-stained leather kilt. Striped
bands of red, gold, and blue adorned each forearm near the wrist.

But what marked Hamuul as different, not only from Brol but the
rest of the night elves was that he was a tauren. Thick, cloven
hooves carried his massive body, and his head resembled that of a
bul —as was characteristic of the tauren race, though none ever
said so to their faces without risking life and limb. He had a great
snout in which he wore a ceremonial ring, and long horns that
curved to the side first before thrusting outward.

Hamuul stood over eight feet tal , even with the characteristic
humpback of his kind. His fine, gray-brown fur tended more toward
gray these days than when Brol had first met the tauren. Hamuul
also wore two thick braids, also graying, that hung down over his
chest. He had come late to the druidic cal ing, brought to it in great
part, natural y, by Malfurion Stormrage’s encouragement. The
tauren had been the first of his race to join the ranks in almost
twenty generations, and although there were now more, none was
as accomplished as him.

“The journey was uneventful, if oddly quiet,” the tauren
remarked. His light green eyes narrowed under the thick brow
ridge, as if he wanted to add something but chose not to.

The night elf nodded, his thoughts briefly turning to how he
himself would be received by the others. So much had been
expected from Brol , so much since birth … and al of it stemming
from a singular feature that he shared with Malfurion, a singular
feature that, to Brol , was also the ever-present sign of his lacking.

The antlers thrusting out of his temples were nearly two feet
long, and if they were not quite as impressive as those that
adorned the famed archdruid, they were certainly something
arresting to behold. They had marked Brol even as an infant, the
then-tiny nubs seen as a sign of future distinction. Even as a child,
he had been told that one day—someday—he would be the stuff of
legends.

But where others had seen the antlers as a gift of the gods, Brol
had quickly come to consider them a bane. And in his eyes, his life
had thus far proven him al too correct.

Of what use had they been, after al , when he had needed aid at
the most critical moment of his life? When Brol had stood facing
an onslaught of demons and undead under the vile mastery of the
pit lord Azgalor, it had seemed that at last al the predictions might
have borne truth. Wielding the Idol of Remulos, his druidic powers
had expanded. The enemy had been pushed back while Brol ’s
comrades had made use of his sacrifice to pul back toward the
main army.

But, once again, he had proven insufficient to the task.

Exhaustion assailed him. Azgalor’s malevolent blade, Spite, wielded
expertly, final y overcame the night elf’s weakening defenses. Brol
lost his grip on the idol as Spite’s edge cut into it.

The demon blade’s power instantly corrupted the figurine’s own
energies, and it erupted with a warped magical force—one that
enveloped the last remaining defender at Brol ’s side.

There had been many times, especial y since then, that the night
elf had considered cutting his antlers off and burning the nubs to
prevent future growth … and yet he never managed to take the
final step toward doing so.

Brol realized that Hamuul had been silently and very patiently
watching him.

“She wil always be with you. The spirits of our beloved kin ever
watch over us,” the tauren rumbled.

“I wasn’t thinking of Anessa,” the night elf murmured, lying.

Hamuul’s ears flattened. “My humblest apologies for bringing her
up.”

Brol waved off the tauren’s regrets. “You’ve done nothing
wrong,” he muttered. “Let’s move on. The others wil already be
gathering at the portal as per custom—”

Hamuul’s brow knitted. “But we are not to go up to Darnassus
and the Cenarion Enclave. Fandral intends our convocation to take
place down here … in fact, on the side opposite from where we
now stand! You did not know that?”

“No …” Brol did not question the archdruid’s decision. After al ,
as leader of the druids, Fandral Staghelm had their best interests
at heart. If he thought it wiser to meet down here than in

Darnassus, so be it. There was surely a good reason why—

And then it came to him. Perhaps Fandral had found a way to
save their shan’do.

“Let’s get going,” he said to Hamuul, the night elf suddenly
impatient to be there. Spurred on by the deep, unswerving hope
that consumed him each time he returned to Teldrassil, Brol was
certain that Fandral had some answer to Malfurion’s dire situation.

And if not … the night elf shuddered to think what course, if any,
would be left to the druids …

2

CONVOCATION

Lucan Foxblood had not slept in days. That was by both choice and
necessity. He even tried to keep his moments of rest to a minimum,
for every pause in his endless flight meant risk of slipping into
sleep. Yet there always came the point when the sandyhaired
cartographer could go no farther, when his legs buckled and he fel
to the ground, often already unconscious and dreaming.

And suffering nightmares … the same nightmares that had taken
so many others in places through which he had traveled, such as

Goldshire, Westfal , and his own Stormwind City …

Lucan bore the semblance of one who might have once been a
soldier and, indeed, had briefly been one, though he had never
served in any conflict. But now, a little more than three decades old,
he looked as if he were in the very midst of war. His once-deep
brown tunic and pants had turned the color of mud, and the fine
threading at the rounded shoulders and along the sides of the legs
had begun to fray. His leather boots were stained and cracking.

The cartographer fared little better than his garments. While
there stil remained evidence of his patrician features, the pal or of
his skin and the days of unkempt growth on his face made him
appear almost like a slowly decaying creature of the undead

Scourge. Only his eyes, nearly as green as a cat’s, showed any
spark whatsoever.

During his dazed wanderings, he had lost al the tools of his
trade and even the pack in which he had kept his meager supplies
and a blanket for sleeping. Lucan could not recal the name of the
last settlement in which he had found lodging. He could barely even
recal his life before the dreams and nightmares had taken over
and sometimes he was not certain if those memories were real …

or remnants of the nightmares themselves.

The region through which he traveled was thickly wooded, but it
might as wel have sprouted mountains of pure diamonds for al he
noticed it. Lucan Foxblood wanted only to keep moving.

He blinked, the first time he had done so in several minutes.

The landscape around him abruptly turned emerald green with
hints of a soft blue, and the misty air seemed to wrap around the
staggering figure like a thick blanket. Many of the distinctive
markings vanished, making the cartographer’s surroundings look
like a drawing only half-completed. Yet, despite this remarkable
change, Lucan stumbled along without interest.

He blinked again. Around him, the land returned to a normal hue

… but details had changed. It was no longer the region through
which he had been journeying. True, there were stil trees, but in the
distance there now arose a settlement that had not been there
before. Moreover, the scent of the sea now wafted past his nose,
though it went as unnoticed as the dour shadow over the entire
landscape.

Lucan passed a stone marker, one with script that would have
proven il egible to him, had he even noticed writing at al . But that
script would have been very legible to a night elf and in reading it,
they would have known exactly where they were about to arrive.

Auberdine …

A colder, harsher wind confronted Brol and the tauren as they
wended their way to where Hamuul said the convocation was to
meet. Both druids bent their heads down, thrusting against that wind
as if it were an enemy. Hamuul made no remark, but the tauren did
unleash a grunt at one point that seemed to echo the night elf’s
growing disquiet.

A great rustling of leaves arose. Curious, Brol glanced up.

The druid froze. His eyes widened in horror.

Teldrassil stood changed. The great branches above were fil ed
with leaves, yes, but many had abruptly turned dried and wrinkled,
while others now grew black and curled. Al of them, even those
that were stil green, were covered with sharp thorns.

Brol heard Hamuul’s voice, but it was as if the tauren were miles
away. The leaves continued to twist and blacken and now the fruits
the great giant bore were changing, too. Among gnarling branches
there sprouted round, deathly pale berries the size of his head and
even larger and from them emitted a stench like decay. No druid

—no night elf—would have dared dine on such offerings even if
starvation were the only other choice.

The horrific metamorphosis left nothing untouched. Teldrassil’s
bark had cracked in many places and through those cracks could
be seen pulsating veins of black sap. The sap emerged first as a
dribble, then steady streams. Tiny vermin sprang forth over the

World Tree, mil ipedes and other creatures crawling in and out of
the trunk in numbers that suggested even greater corruption within.

“No …” murmured Brol . “No …”

A darkness spread from Teldrassil, quickly expanding beyond
the two druids. Although the night elf did not turn to watch its growth,
he immediately knew that it had already stretched far beyond

Teldrassil’s physical reach al the way to the mainland, infecting the
lands there with the giant’s disease.

Then a sound erupted, like that of heavy rain. Tearing his gaze
from the befouled trunk, Brol looked again to the crown.

What he had taken for rain proved instead an even more violent
rustling of the leaves. The branches were swinging back and forth,
shifting with such force as if seeking to free themselves of the
sinister leaves.

And they were succeeding. Thousands of macabre leaves
began to fal . It was indeed raining, though the drops were not
made of water.

The fal ing leaves had also transformed. They became smal ,
black and emerald creatures vaguely shaped like night elves, but
with legs like beasts and backs bent like tauren. They were but
dread silhouettes, with no distinct features to their narrow heads
but wicked, curled horns. Emitting nerve-fraying hisses, they
plummeted in endless streams toward the two druids—

“Brol Bearmantle, are you al right?”

Startled, the night elf staggered back. But when he regained his
composure and opened his eyes, he found that the World Tree had
returned to its normal state. The branches were stil and the leaves
were again attached and lush green.

Hamuul leaned close, the tauren’s expression al concern. Brol
belatedly nodded, and when a horn sounded, he was grateful y
spared from trying to either understand or explain what had just
happened.

“We need to move on,” Brol urged. “The convocation is about to
begin.”

The tauren blinked and fol owed the night elf. A few moments
later the two came into sight of the area where Fandral had
decided to cal the gathering.

There were more druids than Brol had seen at any other recent
convocation and stil others continued to arrive from the opposite
direction. Two in particular immediately caught his eye. A dour
young female stood speaking with a male who, though outwardly
confident and indeed radiating much power, constantly clenched
his hands as if anxious about something. Elerethe Renferal and

Naralex were partners in regret, even if the reasons for each were
different. Elerethe had sought to save the flora and fauna of

Alterac Val ey during the last war between the Al iance and the

Horde, but had been unable to prevent the carnage caused by not
only two fighting armies, but an orc shaman. After the war, she had
sworn to restore the val ey. Several years later she was stil trying.

Naralex had been the victim of greater ambitions, seeking to
bring life back to a place long without it. Accompanied by a smal
group of like-minded companions, he had walked into the desolate

Barrens and had, with cunning spel work, managed to bring forth
enough water from deep, deep below to the parched realm to
create a handful of smal oases. But then something malevolent
had seized control of not only his work, but also an unsuspecting

Naralex and many of his companions. The trapped had then
become corrupted … twisted, evil versions of themselves with no
desire other than to spread the darkness. Naralex himself had
slipped into madness, then sanity, then madness, and on and on,
finding rescue only through the unexpected aid of a party of
adventurers.

Unfortunately, while his mind was again more or less whole,

Naralex could recal no clue as to what had taken him and the
others. As for the Barrens, although they were at present quiet, on
the orders of Fandral neither he nor any other druid had as of yet
returned there. The archdruid saw no point in risking lives and
energies for a place that the Great Sundering at the end of the War
of the Ancients had made into a desert. As Fandral saw it, even
arid lands had their place in the purpose of Azeroth.

Their gazes and those of several others fixed upon the
newcomers … and reminded Brol yet more of his shame. The
further a druid became attuned to nature and his cal ing, the more
chance that his eyes took on the golden glow of Azeroth’s life.

Great druids were marked so.

But Brol Bearmantle’s eyes remained silver with only a slight
blue glow to them that thus far appeared to mean very, very little.

Shaking off his frustration, Brol started toward the pair, but then
a second horn blared. The assembled druids turned as one toward
the direction of the sound. A single druid with a green band on his
left forearm lowered a goat’s horn, then faced Teldrassil.

The ridged bark upon which the trumpeter focused rippled. Brol
shuddered, momentarily recal ing his bizarre vision. Then the bark
cleaved, opening up a gap large enough for a night elf to enter …

or, in this case, from which to step forth.

The druids bowed their heads in respect as Fandral Staghelm
strode out among them with the bearing of one ful y in command of
al about him. His eyes gleamed gold as he nodded to many of
those gathered. Fandral was clad more simply than most of the
night elf druids, his upper torso covered only at the shoulders by
protective wooden armor shaped somewhat like the heads of
beasts, even down to their glaring eyes. His hands were covered in
protective, open-fingered, woven gloves that extended al the way
to the elbow, where the wooden ends flared out.

Fandral walked barefooted, a choice of his to display his
oneness with nature. At the waist was the only sign of
extravagance on his part—an ornate belt with a great ruby-colored
clasp and a decorative, segmented ring hanging below it. Wrapped
around each side was a long, flowing col ection of pieces of bark.

“The forest is the lifeblood of the world,” Fandral intoned.

“The forest is the lifeblood of the world,” Brol and the other
druids repeated.

“Teldrassil is the lifeblood of the world …”

Brol and the rest again repeated his chant.

“I am glad so many of you have heeded the summons so
quickly,” the archdruid then uttered. “I must confirm to you the
worst. Teldrassil is il …”

The news caused the rest of the druids to look at one another in
some anxiety. In truth, what Fandral said to them was no great
surprise, but it was a shock to hear the archdruid starkly speak it.

Although nearly al the druids had had a hand in its creation,

Teldrassil’s growth had original y been Fandral’s suggestion and he
above al others guarded its health.

Fandral Staghelm had been the first to suggest the second

World Tree, but Malfurion had ever blocked such a suggestion
from becoming anything more. But despite Malfurion’s opposition,

Fandral’s loyalty remained intact—after the discovery of the great
archdruid’s terrible fate, Fandral had stepped in and, with little
protest from others, taken up the mantle of leader. His first
mission, so he had solemnly proclaimed, was to save their beloved
shan’do.

Under his guidance, the senior druids of the Cenarion Circle
had determined that Malfurion’s limp form should remain in his
barrow den, located in the revered Moonglade. There, surrounded
by the world’s natural energies and the magical ministering of the

Sisters of Elune, the body, deemed perfectly healthy otherwise by
the Sisters, did not starve or suffer from lack of water. With this
came the hope that, as powerful as he was, Malfurion might yet be
able to return on his own.

Fandral had not relied on that hope alone, though. The Circle
had made attempts to not only restore the body, but also cal

Malfurion’s spirit back to it. The attempts failed every time. They
had even turned to the mistress of the Emerald Dream—the great
green dragon Ysera—but even that had gone for nought. She of
the Dreaming, as Ysera was also cal ed by the druids, had had no
success in contacting him, either.

Until recently, al of this had been kept secret from the night elf
race as a whole and even most of the Sisterhood and the druids.

However, increasing questions had at last forced a reluctant

Fandral to alert his fel ow druids—if not the rest of the race—of the
direness of the situation, hence the overriding reason so many had
come to this sudden convocation. Brol believed al of the druids
here had guessed, as he had, that the gathering would be
somehow related to Malfurion’s rescue.

But Teldrassil was at least as important a reason—if not a
greater one to the night elves as a whole. The original goal of using
the new World Tree had been to regain their immortality and
enhance their powers. But Fandral had pointed out that the magical
tree might also be their only hope to locate their founder’s
dreamform and initiate his rescue.

If Teldrassil is truly so ill, though … Brol frowned and saw his
apprehension reflected in the faces of Hamuul and the rest.

Fandral strode among the others. His sharp gaze briefly rested
upon Brol . Although it was clearly not the archdruid’s intention, the
glance again reminded Brol of his terrible failure. But then, that
memory was never far from his mind.

The senior archdruid smiled, as a father to his children. “But do
not dwel in utter despair, my friends,” he said. “I have not cal ed
you here merely to speak of doom—”

“There is some hope?” one of the other druids blurted.

“There is more than hope!” Fandral proclaimed. “I have
summoned you to this place, here at the roots of Teldrassil, so that
we may aid the World Tree in its healing!” He smiled encouragingly.

“And with Teldrassil wel again, we can then return to the focus of
our search for Malfurion Stormrage—”

“But how can we aid Teldrassil?” someone else cal ed.

“With this.” The archdruid extended his hand. In it lay an object
that al recognized … and brought forth from Brol ’s lips a gasp of
dismay and surprise.

Fandral held the Idol of Remulos.

The title was perhaps misleading, as the idol did not look at al
like the one for whom it was named. Rather, the figurine had been
crafted to resemble a rearing green dragon by Remulos, the
immortal son of Cenarius and who himself was an astonishing
sight. The lower half of Remulos’s body was that of a proud stag,
but where the shoulders of the front legs should have met the neck,
instead a powerful, humanoid chest rose above. His hooves were
cloven and powerful. Like his father, Remulos was half forest
animal, the upper half most resembling a night elf druid. But the
similarity ended there. His hands ended in leafy, wooden talons,
and his hair and beard were comprised of leaves and shrubbery
and moss.

Remulos was also guardian of the Moonglade. Indeed, Brol had
wondered if the immortal druid would appear here, though Remulos
had not joined in the convocations for some time. Rumor had it that
he had performed his own search for Malfurion …

But it was not for the artistic merit that Fandral had brought forth
the idol. A powerful magical artifact, it was certainly capable of
aiding the druids’ spel s … if it did not do more harm first.

Indeed, Brol could not restrain himself. He dared blurt,

“Archdruid, with the greatest respect … should that be part of our
efforts?”

Fandral turned and eyed Brol sternly. “Your worry is
understandable, good Brol . Anessa’s loss was no fault of yours.

You did what you could to save many lives and beat back the
demons.”

Brol fought not to cringe as he listened to Fandral’s words, even
though they were meant to put him at peace. A human face stirred
in Brol ’s memories, a determined, dark-haired man with eyes that
spoke of more loss suffered than even the night elf who had
befriended him. Varian Wrynn had stood beside Brol when the
druid had gone to retrieve the accursed figurine from a mad
furbolg, the two having forged a deep bond earlier as fel ow slaves
and gladiators. Varian had done so even though he had had no
inkling of his own past, no recol ection that an entire realm was
bereft of the man who was its king …

Fandral turned from Brol again. He held up the figurine, then
indicated the World Tree.

“Once, we fed it so that it could rise from a single nut to the
wondrous leviathan it is now! The effort cost us dear, but the
rewards have been manyfold … a new home, food and water in
bounty, and protection from our enemies …”

The druids nodded. Brol noted that Fandral made no mention of
the immortality that remained lost to their people, but then, as

Teldrassil’s growth had not yet restored it, he thought perhaps the
archdruid was sensitive on the subject.

The archdruid thrust the idol toward one of the nearest of the
gathered. The other night elf instinctively backed up a step. “But in
giving back so much, Teldrassil left itself open to il ness! It now
needs us again! In return … it wil then surely show us the path to
finding our shan’do!”

Fandral’s enthusiasm was contagious. The others rumbled their
agreement.

“The Dream is quickly being devoured by the Nightmare …” he
went on more solemnly, stating the dread knowledge al shared.

“With no recent word from its mistress, I have forbidden entry by
any others after the last foolhardy attempts …” Fandral stared
down his audience, as if daring any to disobey. “For Malfurion
would surely want no more lives lost for his sake …”

He put his hand to his chest, then drew the outline of a circle in
which he then added two vertical, curving streaks. The streaks
represented the antlers of Cenarius. The ful symbol itself
represented the Cenarion Circle.

The druids clasped their hands together in preparation for the
beginning of their efforts. Brol cleared his mind of concerns and
petty mortal thoughts and instead began to put himself into a
meditative trance. Beside him, Hamuul did the same.

Turning to Teldrassil, Fandral touched the great trunk with his
free hand. His fingers ran down the coarse bark.

Within the World Tree, something stirred, something that every
druid could feel as if it were a part of them. Even in his meditative
state, Brol sensed a tremendous presence joining the convocation

… Teldrassil’s essence touching those who had helped raise it up.

The World Tree was more than merely the home of the night
elves. It was linked to the very health of Azeroth. Il , it affected not
merely its immediate surroundings, but those lands beyond the
island. Even the very air or the rushing seas were not immune. At
the very least, a Teldrassil that was not wel could not maintain the
balance between nature and decay.

The ground shook, but neither Brol nor any of the others felt any
fear, not even when what first appeared to be tentacles burst
underneath them.

But these were not tentacles. Rather, they were the very roots
of Teldrassil. Toward each of the druids a root moved, snaking up
to them as if about to strike. Yet none moved away. They knew that

Teldrassil did not seek to harm them, but instead asked for their
help …

One massive root already twined about Fandral. As it did, from
the main root tiny extensions sprouted. They, in turn, wrapped
around the archdruid like creeper vines, until he stood half-
shrouded by them.

It was a variation—a tremendous one, natural y—of one of the
ways in which the druids communed with the flora of Azeroth. What
could not be seen was that the tendrils permeated their very
beings, almost merging night elf and plant as one.

Fandral held forth the Idol of Remulos. It now glowed a faint
green, the color of the dragon it not only represented but also that
of the true beast bound to it. Not even Remulos knew to which of
the green dragons his creation had been bound, for that choice
had been made in secret by Ysera. Whatever dragon had been
chosen, it had been a mighty one, indeed.

Brol felt some trepidation as the magic of the figurine touched
both him and Teldrassil’s root, but his trust in the archdruid
overcame his memories of the artifact’s foul deeds. The magic
seeped into the druid’s mind and soul …

He became Teldrassil and Teldrassil became him.

Brol could not keep back the euphoria that fil ed him. He felt as if
al Azeroth lay open to him, so deep and so far did the World Tree’s
roots already spread. He saw beyond the island, beyond the
surrounding waters …

But before his consciousness could stretch further, Brol felt a
tug. A hint of weakness touched him. But Fandral’s thoughts fil ed
his mind, assuring him—and the rest—of the safety of what he
planned.

The power of the druids flowed into Teldrassil, feeding it.

Strengthening it. With so much wil and desire behind their offering,

Brol was certain that whatever ailed the Great Tree would be
vanquished and that then, as the archdruid had indicated, it would
then be able to assist them in rescuing Malfurion—

No sooner had he thought of his shan’do, than Brol experienced
a jarring in his consciousness. A darkness spread through his
thoughts and he felt the same uneasiness that had hit him when he
had imagined Teldrassil monstrously corrupted. Brol tried to
dismiss that uneasiness, but it grew—

Broll Bearmantle …

The cal ing of his name shattered the last of the druid’s calm.

Did he know that voice? Was it—

The binding between Teldrassil and him snapped. Brol let out a
gasp and fel to one knee. Vaguely, he sensed others around him,
including Hamuul. Was it Hamuul who had cal ed out to him, as he
had earlier? No, it almost didn’t seem real; the sound of it had
vanished from his thoughts without a trace.

It was hard to focus, as if, like a dream, his mind was already
slipping away to his subconscious …

Hamuul put a hand on his shoulder. Brol looked up. A handful of
druids had surrounded him, mostly friends.

“I’m wel ,” he told them, breathless. “Forgive me for shattering
the spel —”

“You had nothing to do with it,” Naralex commented as he
crouched beside Brol , sounding quite puzzled. “Hamuul cal ed
attention to your bent body and we who were nearest quickly came,
but you did not cut off our efforts …”

Naralex and Hamuul aided the druid in standing. Brol was flush
with embarrassment. “If not my lacking, then what?”

But even as he spoke, he sensed through the land around him
that the druids were no longer alone. A presence was fast
approaching.

Brol looked toward Fandral, who was standing with his back to

Teldrassil and his gaze upon the path to their left. It was now clear
to him that the archdruid had stopped the spel work due to the
approach of outsiders.

A group of newcomers marched into the convocation without
hesitation, those behind spreading out in protection of their leader.

Although they were night elves, they could never be mistaken for
druids.

Al female and clearly of a religious order, they wore empty
sheaths at their sides and quivers on their backs; Brol figured they
must have left behind their weapons in respect to those of the
druidic cal ing. He could tel from their lithe forms and gracefulness
that these females were proficient in not only a variety of weapons,
but hand-to-hand combat as wel .

There were eleven in this party, though the number of their order
was greater than that by far. They were clad in shimmering
moonlight-silver robes that stretched down to their ankles. Long,
elegant teardrops of silver began from the middle of their bodices
and descended roughly halfway down, each end encased in a blue
orb. Near the waist, arched, linked belts clasped onto decorative
crests. The robes were very free-flowing, al owing much room and
maneuverability for those also trained in martial arts. Even without
blades or bows, the eleven represented a ready fighting force.

Their leader quickly—almost impatiently—scanned over the
druids. She spread her hands … and through the overcast sky
there suddenly shone the larger of Azeroth’s two moons,
il uminating the area.

“Our presence is not troublesome here, is it?” Tyrande

Whisperwind politely asked. “After al , this is not where the Circle
general y convenes …”

“The Sisterhood of Elune is ever welcome,” Fandral answered.

“Although surely a convocation of druids is of little import to the
high priestess of the moon goddess and ruler of al night elves …”

“It would not be important, even with its location unusual,” she
replied, her expression hardening in a manner that made Fandral
frown and the other druids stir, “if Elune herself had not revealed to
me the dread truth.”

There were rumblings among the druids. Fandral waved for
silence. Frowning, he asked, “What ‘dread truth,’ High Priestess?”

Tyrande swal owed, the only sign that the news touched her
especial y. “Malfurion is dying …”

“Impossible! We have kept his barrow den secure and your own
priestesses minister to his body daily. There is no reason for such
a dire circumstance—”

“Nevertheless, there is,” she returned. “His situation has
changed. Malfurion is dying and we must act with al possible haste.

”

Before Fandral could respond, Brol found himself uttering, “And
what shal we do, High Priestess?”

Tyrande’s voice was edged with steel. “First, we must journey to
the Moonglade.”

3

THE TREE

The pain tore through him again and again …

He felt his body continuing its slow, horrific twisting. His arms
had long contorted about his head and his fingers splayed and
stretched in various directions. Of his legs, there was nothing but a
thick trunk, the two appendages having merged what seemed more
than a lifetime ago.

How long had he been standing here, rigid and unmoving? How
long since he had fal en prisoner to the Nightmare Lord? What was
happening on the mortal plane?

What had happened to Tyrande?

As he had done so many times already, Malfurion Stormrage
fought against the agony. He would have cried out from the terrible
effort—if he stil had a mouth. Only his eyes remained untouched
by his monstrous captor, for the fiend desired him to see his own
transformation, to see the hopelessness of his fate.

Gone was Malfurion the night elf. In his place was a macabre,
skeletal tree, an ash. Leaves with sharp thorns already grew from
what had once been the arms and fingers and were now branches.

The trunk bent at awkward angles where once the torso had met
the hips. The feet had splayed out into what were now crooked
roots.

Trying to tear his mind from his agony, Malfurion pictured

Tyrande’s face, recal ing that moment when the two of them had
silently realized their love, when she had chosen him over his
ambitious brother, Il idan. He had secretly thought she preferred his
twin, for, though reckless, Il idan had made great leaps in his
learning of sorcery. More than that, his efforts in the struggle
against the Burning Legion had shown him to be something of a
savior—at least in the hearts of many night elves, and sometimes
in that of Malfurion himself. But Tyrande, by then an apprentice of

Elune, had apparently seen something greater in the fledgling druid,
something special. What it was, he stil did not know.

Malfurion found himself drawing some strength from his vision,
but tremendous guilt also accompanied thoughts of Tyrande. It had
been by his decision that she had been left alone to guard Azeroth
for so many centuries while he and the druids walked the Emerald

Dream. It mattered not that his choice had been for the sake of
their world and had proven the correct one to make. He had stil
abandoned her.

The archdruid suddenly wanted to howl. The thoughts and
emotions were his own, but were they influenced by his captor? It
would not be the first time. The insidious presence had infiltrated
his mind many times already, playing havoc with the night elf’s
memories and thoughts. This, as opposed to the horrific
transformation, was the more subtle part of his torture.

There should have been no pain. After al , this was the Emerald

Dream and he had entered it in his dreamform, not his physical
one. Pain such as this should have been impossible under those
conditions.

As if to disprove that fact, his body wrenched further. Again, he
could not release his agony by screaming.

Malfurion?

The voice cut through his pain. He seized onto its existence as
if a lifeline. It was distant … barely a whisper … but it sounded like

… sounded so very much like—

Malfurion? It … Tyrande … you are …

Tyrande! If his cal would have been audible, he felt certain that it
would have been heard miles away. Tyrande!

Malfurion? The voice grew stronger. Malfurion felt his hopes
leap. For ten thousand years and more he had known her and for
ten thousand years and more he had loved her. She should have
hated him for al the absences that he had taken in quest of his
cal ing, but always she had been there in the end. Now … now
once again, Tyrande had proven that nothing would stand between
them.

Malfurion? Her cal was more solid, more imminent. Almost as if
she were actual y near—

A shadowy form coalesced ahead of him. Al sense of pain had
now fled his dreamform. The archdruid felt as though he might
weep as he peered at her approaching silhouette.

The glow around Tyrande marked her as different from he or
any druid traveler, for it was a subtle yet powerful silver that marked
the power of Elune. Malfurion would have smiled, had he had a
mouth. How she had come here, he did not know … but she was
here.

Tyrande spoke, but the words took a moment to reach his mind.

Malfurion? Is that … is that you?

He started to reply, but Tyrande’s next reaction left him stunned.

She pul ed back in clear revulsion.

How … disgusting! the archdruid heard.

Tyrande retreated farther. She shook her head.

Tyrande … Tyrande … But his cal s to her went unheeded, as if
she no longer could hear him. Instead, the high priestess put out a
hand as if trying to ward him off.

No … she final y blurted. I expected better of you …

The archdruid was confused. However, before he could again
attempt to speak to her, a second form materialized behind her.

I warned you, my love, the second, larger figure rumbled. I
warned you that he was not what you hoped …

Malfurion was speechless. He knew that voice. Dreaded that
voice. It reminded him of yet another great failure, perhaps the
greatest.

Il idan came into focus, yet it was not Il idan as Malfurion’s twin
and brother, but rather as the monstrosity that he had become.

Il idan Stormrage was a demon. Atop his head were huge, curled
horns like those of some gigantic ram and massive, leathery wings
that sprouted from near his shoulder blades. Il idan’s countenance
was now a distortion of its former self, the jaw more pronounced
and the mouth ful of sharp teeth. The cheekbones were higher. A
mass of wild, midnight blue hair draped the face.

A band covered where once Il idan’s mortal eyes had been.

Eyes that had been burned out by the Dark Titan Sargeras during
the War of the Ancients—a mark of Il idan’s loyalty to the master of
the Burning Legion. In their place, a searing green glow that
marked demon fire enabled Malfurion’s brother to see not only the
world around him, but al the mystical energies inherent in it.

Illidan, Tyrande murmured with affection. Her gaze stil upon

Malfurion—and no less revolted—she added, Illidan, just look at
him …

The demon tromped forward on heavy hooves. He was much
larger than he had been as a night elf. His chest was broad,
indeed, broader than it should have been. Il idan’s upper torso was
naked save for arcane tattoos that also glowed green with power.

His only garment was a pair of ragged pants, a remnant of his
mortal past.

Calm yourself, my love, Il idan responded, his lips moving out of
sync, too. To Malfurion’s horror, his twin draped a muscular arm
across Tyrande’s shoulder, cupping it with a hand that tapered into
twisted talons.

And to the archdruid’s greater horror, Tyrande took comfort in

Il idan’s embrace.

I cannot stand to see him! He is not at all what I once thought!

Il idan grinned over her head at his altered brother. The fault is
not yours, Tyrande! He is the one to blame … he left you … he
abandoned me … he demanded that all follow his dictates, even
if that meant tragedy for them … he is only earning his just
reward …

A lie! Malfurion insisted, but neither paid him any attention.

Instead, Tyrande turned her back upon Malfurion, returning Il idan’s
embrace with fervor.

So many centuries wasted on him! the high priestess bitterly
remarked. He was always content to let me wait … his own
desires were always more important than me …

The demon looked down at her and lifted her chin with a hooked
claw. I would never do that to you, my love … I would make you
and me one …

Tyrande met his horrific gaze. She smiled. Then, do it!

My love … He put both taloned hands upon her shoulders.

His eyes blazed. The fire shot forth. It enveloped Tyrande.

Malfurion cried out, but for naught. The high priestess was
engulfed.

And then … Tyrande changed.

Horns thrust out of her forehead, horns that rose high, then
curled. From her back issued forth two smal nubs that quickly
swel ed, then expanded. Webbed wings stretched. The nails of the
slim hands that held Il idan grew and blackened.

No! Malfurion tried again to shout. No!

Tyrande turned her eyes back to the archdruid … but now they
were fiery green orbs. She frowned at the helpless Malfurion.

You did this to me … she said. You …

The archdruid let out a silent plea—and woke.

He was stil in his dreamform; stil trapped and painful y twisted.

But he discovered that the heart-wrenching pain he had just
suffered was not real—at least, not yet.

But Malfurion took no relief from that. This was not the first time
he had endured such a nightmare and it was becoming harder to
tel when he slept and when he was awake. His tormentor played a
wicked game with him, one that the archdruid knew he was slowly
losing.

And even though it had only been a nightmare, it left him more
exhausted, more susceptible.

Tyrande … Malfurion thought. I am so sorry …

Perhaps she no longer even thinks of you, came a new voice
in his mind. After so long, after being abandoned so often, after
leaving the fate of so many to her while you hid from the world
and your responsibility …

Malfurion tried to shake his head, but he no longer had a head to
shake.

The voice came again, seeming much like a poisonous adder
slithering through Malfurion’s soul. Just as you abandoned the
other so important to you, abandoned him to betrayal, to
imprisonment, to damnation …

Il idan. Malfurion had tried to save his twin, but in the end,

Il idan’s ambition had turned him into the very thing against which he
had fought. A demon. Had Malfurion acted differently from the
beginning, perhaps seeking to help his brother rather than imprison
him … Il idan might have been saved. No! the captured archdruid
managed to think. I did try to help him! I came to his prison time
and time again in the hopes of turning him from his fatal path …

But you failed … you always fail … you failed yourself and
because of that, you will fail your Azeroth …

In the Emerald Dream—the Nightmare—what had once been

Malfurion Stormrage contorted yet more. He no longer glowed the
bright green hue that dreamforms took on when they entered this
magical realm. Instead, a darker, more sinister shade of green now
swathed him.

An even greater darkness hovered around the imprisoned
archdruid, the only visible evidence of the thing that cal ed itself the

Nightmare Lord. From that foul gloom, scores of tendrils fed into

Malfurion, not only fueling the alteration of his form, but seeking to
tear further into the night elf’s mind as he slowly transformed ever
more into a tree.

A tree of inconceivable, agonizing pain …

Malfurion’s barrow den was as Tyrande Whisperwind had seen it in
both her vision and previous excursions. Little there was that
spoke of the person behind the legend. It consisted of a series of
underground passages that never saw the light of the sun, but night
elves were creatures of the darkness, and, in addition, had
mystical powers at their command. Instead of oil lamps, the cool,
soft il umination of the moon now kept the main chamber lit,
compliments of the devoted prayers of the Sisterhood.

The archdruid lay as if sleeping, which, in a sense, he was. Only
his open eyes gave any initial hint that there was more to the
matter.

The priestesses on duty had moved aside. One by one, the
party stepped before the unmoving body, the druids kneeling in
homage to their founder while the newly arrived Sisters of Elune
simply bowed. Brol thought the scene more one of a funeral or at
least a family gathered around a loved one’s deathbed, but kept
such thoughts to himself, especial y with Malfurion’s beloved so
near.

When it was the high priestess’s turn, she leaned so close that
at first it appeared she was going to kiss Malfurion. To most, that
would have not been surprising. However, at the last moment,

Tyrande pul ed back and instead briefly stroked his forehead.

“Cold …” she muttered. “Colder than he should be …”

“We have kept constant with the prayers,” Merende immediately
responded, a hint of surprise in her tone. “Nothing should have
changed …”

There was no anger in Tyrande’s voice as she replied, “I know

… but he is colder … Elune’s vision is truth …” She stared. “And
his eyes are losing their gold … as if he is losing his ties to Azeroth

…”

She final y stepped back, making room for the lead archdruid.

Fandral spent even more time over Malfurion than the high
priestess had. He muttered under his breath and passed both
hands over the body. Brol saw him send a pinch of powder over
the chest and wondered what Fandral intended. The priestesses
and druids had performed scores of spel s to aid Malfurion not only
in the preservation of his body, but also his potential return.

Wiping away a single tear, the senior archdruid stepped back.

Brol prayed to the woodland spirits that whatever Fandral
attempted would help. They needed Malfurion more than ever,
especial y if Teldrassil’s il ness proved something beyond their
powers to cure.

“My Sisters shal increase their efforts,” Tyrande said after a
brief discussion with Merende and the other tending pair. “Elune wil
surely enable them to keep the body alive … at least for a while …

but this must be solved soon.”

“There is nothing more that we can do here,” Fandral remarked
with a respectful glance at Malfurion Stormrage’s body. “Let us
return to the outside …”

As the druids and others obeyed, Brol noticed Tyrande return to
touch Malfurion on the cheek. Then her expression hardened and
she strode after Fandral as if about to rush off to war.

The somberness of Malfurion’s chamber gave way to the lush
beauty of the land above—a hil y forest region dotted with
countless mounds, beneath which lay the sanctums of other druids.

Between the barrow dens, stone and wooden arches draped with
lush, living greenery gave the Moonglade an exotic look.

Yet it was more than just its physical appearance that made the

Moonglade what it was. As a druid, Brol in particular could sense
the inherent peace of this place. There was little wonder that it had
been chosen as a sacred location by those of his cal ing.

“So tranquil a place,” the high priestess commented.

“The spirit of Cenarius is very much a part of it,” Fandral replied,
looking pleased by Tyrande’s compliment, “and present also in its
guardian, his son …”

“Would that I were my father,” came a voice that brought with it a
sense of springtime. “Would that I were …”

The druids had not heard the figure approach, as his footsteps
produced no hint of a sound. They immediately knelt in respect and
even the priestesses acknowledged Remulos’s appearance with a
formal bow. However, he looked not at al pleased with such a
greeting.

“Rise up!” he demanded of the druids as the air around him fil ed
with the scent of flowers and the grass grew more lush beneath his
hooves. “I am in no need of honoring from any of you,” Remulos
added dourly, his leafy mane shaking. “I am an abject failure!”

Fandral stretched a hand forward in protest. “You, great one?

Surely no such words could be used for the lord of the Moonglade!”

The almost–night elf visage peered down at the gathered
figures, his nostrils flaring the way an angered stag’s might. He
focused briefly on Brol —who immediately looked down—then
turned toward Fandral. “They are apt words, Fandral, for my efforts
to seek aid for Malfurion have accomplished nil. He stil sleeps …

and now, worse, I presume. For what other reason could there be
for such a contingent to come to the Moonglade?”

“He is … dying at last,” Tyrande admitted.

Shock overtook Remulos’s expression. The four, swift legs
stepped back soundlessly, colorful wildflowers blossoming in his
tracks.

“Dying …” The shock faded, replaced by something darker. “It
makes sense … for the Nightmare is swel ing faster than ever, its
gibbering madness now audible throughout most of the Emerald

Dream! Worse, it moves more swiftly, too, catching more of the

Dream’s defenders unaware … and corrupting them in both body
and spirit …”

To hear even Remulos speak so only added more credence to
the fears that Brol , Tyrande, and the others felt. Brol clenched his
fist, for a brief moment wishing for the comparative simplicity of his
years as a gladiator.

Despite how brief the clenching was, either it or some other
noticeable sign of emotion made Remulos look again to him. Yet

Remulos’s words were not for Brol , but rather Fandral. “The idol is
stil in your care, Archdruid?”

“Yes, great one.”

Remulos eyed Fandral. “Make no use of it. Hide it away. Let not
its power touch Azeroth … at least for now …”

Several of the druids, Brol included, glanced at their leader.

Fandral did not mention his recent choice, merely nodding to

Remulos and responding, “It is safe within my dwel ing. And so shal
it remain.”

“Bear in mind what I said. I can give no more reason at this time

… for I am not certain myself on it …”

“I give you my oath,” Fandral swore.

The towering deity acknowledged, then retreated more. As he
did, his form somehow blended with his surroundings—both near
and far. “This news, though dread, stirs me to new action. High

Priestess, you have my sympathies …”

A brief lowering of her eyelids was Tyrande’s response. By then,
though, Remulos had already become his surroundings, vanishing
as if an il usion created by the leaves, branches, and other flora of
the mystical glade.

But his voice yet remained. “One last warning, my friends …

there have been whispers … of sleepers appearing throughout the
various kingdoms, sleepers of al races … they are said to be
those who cannot awaken no matter how much their loved ones
might try … listen for tales of those, just as I wil … they may be of
import …”

And then, he was gone.

“Sleepers … who cannot awaken …” Tyrande muttered. “What
can he mean?”

“He may mean nothing at al ,” Fandral pointed out. “As Remulos
said, these are but whispers. They are likely no more than that.”

Hamuul grunted. “I have heard … from an orc whose word I trust

… that there is a vil age where five strong warriors could not be
stirred.”

The lead archdruid did not look convinced in the least. “The word
of an orc—”

The tauren shrugged. “There was no reason for him to lie.”

“Malfurion is caught in the Emerald Dream …” Tyrande
remarked thoughtful y. “Does not this sound as if tied to that
somehow?”

Giving a low bow to her, Fandral shook his head. “High

Priestess, you make a reasonable mistake. Though we cal it the

Emerald Dream—or Nightmare, as it is now—druidic projection
and normal mortal sleep are two entirely different matters.”

“Yes … I suppose you’re right.” A bitter cast returned to her
face. “He should have never gone by himself. Not after warning
others of your cal ing to beware the changes in the Emerald

Dream.”

Brol watched as Tyrande closed her eyes for but a moment, and
her anger transformed into sadness.

“He knew druids had already been found as he is now,” Tyrande
continued, “poor souls who didn’t have his strength and wil to keep
their bodies alive after their dreamforms were gone far too long …”

That the high priestess was so knowledgeable about their cal ing
surprised no one. She had been there since the beginning, since
their shan’do had first begun his training. As her lover, he would
have surely shared his experiences with her.

“He did what he did, Tyrande Whisperwind, as we shal do what
we must do,” the lead archdruid responded. Fandral looked more at
ease. “And the World Tree Teldrassil stil remains our best hope of
saving him.”

The high priestess did not seem so confident in the archdruid’s
declaration, though she did nod agreement. She glanced at Brol ,
whom she knew better than most other druids. He gave her what
he hoped was an expression of reassurance.

Fandral began to say something else to the high priestess, but a
sound caught Brol ’s attention, turning it from the conversation.

The hair on the former slave’s neck stiffened as he recognized
the noise. His eyes darted to the trees and other greenery, where
the leaves shook as if rattled by a violent wind.

As had occurred with Teldrassil earlier, the leaves of the trees
and bushes al over the Moonglade burst into the air, rendering
deathly nude the branches and stems. The leaves rose up into the
sky … then poured down with deadly accuracy toward the party.

As they did, they once again began to change shape, to become
the swel ing silhouettes of creatures with hints of cloven feet and
legs more animal than night elf.

But then there came a change to the previous vision. Between
the night elves and the monstrous attackers there formed a figure
that glowed with the light of the Emerald Dream. Brol instinctively
thought of Malfurion, but this shape was smal er and not at al
formed like one of his people. Rather, it more and more resembled

—

“Brol !” a gruff voice whispered in his ear. “Brol Bearmantle!”

The night elf shook. The demons again became leaves and the
leaves, yet once more in a replay of the vision of Teldrassil,
returned to their proper places among the greenery.

Brol looked into Hamuul’s concerned eyes. He realized that he
and the tauren were alone. The rest could only be seen in the
distance, already leaving the area.

“Brol Bearmantle, something ails you.” Hamuul stepped around
to face his friend. “The others did not notice, for when I saw you
stiffen, I stood so that they would think we spoke. Even then, the
false conversation I had with you did not even penetrate. You were

—you were as our shan’do is.”

Feeling his legs weaken, Brol seized Hamuul’s arm for support.

When he answered, it was with a rasping voice that startled him.

“No … I was not like Malfurion. I had … I had a vision …”

“A vision? How can that be?”

The night elf considered. “No. Not quite a vision. It was as if …

as if Azeroth … or something else … were trying to warn me …”

Realizing that he now needed to confide in someone, Brol
quickly and quietly told the tauren what he had experienced.

Hamuul’s nostrils flared often as the tale was told. As was common
when one of his kind was unsettled or excited, the tauren also
snorted more than once.

“We should pass this on to the others,” Hamuul suggested when

Brol was finished.

Brol shook his head. “Fandral won’t see it as anything more
than anxiety … or maybe madness. To him, Teldrassil is the key …

and he is probably right.”

“But your visions—now twice seen, as you say—must be of
significance, Brol Bearmantle.”

“I’m not so sure … if there’s truth to what I saw … whatever I
saw … why am I the only one to see it?”

The tauren mul ed this over for a moment, then replied, “Perhaps
you were the one best suited …”

“The best suited for what?”

“Though I have been honored to rise to archdruid, Azeroth yet
contains many mysteries the answers to which I do not know. The
answer to your visions is something I suspect you wil discover on
your own as Azeroth desires it …”

The night elf frowned, then nodded. With nothing more to add to
their secret discussion, they hurried on to catch the others.

However, as they journeyed, Brol glanced surreptitiously at the
tauren, a great wave of guilt washing over the night elf.

He had left out one thing from his visions … or from the last to
be precise. Just before Hamuul had stirred him from the sinister
tableau, Brol had final y come to recognize the figure that
appeared almost as a guardian against the evil raining down on him

…

It was the Idol of Remulos.

4

SHADOWS STIR

“The mangy curs must be holding out in the lowest shafts,” Marshal

Dughan growled to his men as he peered through the eye slits of
his helmet into a deep passage of the Jasperlode Mine. A spray of
dust caught in his throat, and he turned and spat on the ground. “I
think it’s safe to cal a momentary halt.”

The sounds of clanking armor echoed off the mine’s wal s as the
marshal’s fifteen men relaxed their guarded stances. But Zaldimar

Wefhel t, a fair to middling mage from Goldshire who had
accompanied the group on their quest, maintained his position with
eyes fixed on the dark tunnel.

“I told you to stand down,” Dughan snapped.

The gray-haired, bearded mage ambled toward the others.

Although he was wel respected in Goldshire, Zaldimar would not
have made a name for himself in one of the capital cities. Stil ,
though the group of men Dughan had scrounged together was
strong enough to defeat the mongrels on their own, he was sure
the mage’s spel s would help bring about a swift and merciless
execution.

Located in the northern foothil s of Elwynn Forest, Jasperlode

Mine had been one of the crucial supply points for the raw metal
ore needed for weapons and armor. But with so many pressures
on Stormwind, the number of military forces guarding the forest’s
mines had dwindled to nil, and Jasperlode and the rest had become
horribly infested.

Unchal enged, the kobolds—long-snouted, whiskered humanoids
who were general y more annoying than dangerous—had moved
back into the area. They were not skil ed fighters, nor were they
particularly bright, but they bred like rabbits and existed in large
numbers … but not for long, if Marshal Dughan had his way. He
had made major progress over the past few weeks; between

Jasperlode and Fargodeep Mine further southwest, he could not
begin to count how many he had already slain, so constant had the
hunt become.

Dughan removed his helmet. Broad-faced with cropped hair, a
thick mustache, and a goatee, he had done his share of fighting in
his younger days. Elected as marshal after the mysterious death of
his predecessor, Dughan had, over the past few seasons, brought
and kept order and peace to Goldshire by clearing out not only the
kobolds, but wild wolves and bears, bandits, the fishlike murlocs,
and more.

But now, the kobolds had returned.

“Those vermin are going to fight tooth, nail, hammer, and ax
when we come upon them,” Dughan said, “but they’l also be
cramped together in some narrow places … and that’s where you
come in, Zaldimar …”

The mage, his purple and blue robes immaculate despite the
dust that caked the rest of the party, nodded gravely. “A series of
arcane blasts would be the most effective course—”

Dughan cut him off with a wave. “Spare me explanations. Kil ,
wound, and panic as many as you can before we need to wade in.

Can you do that?”

Zaldimar nodded. Dughan replaced his helmet, then signaled the
group on. He chopped at several thick webs obscuring part of his
path, remnants from the huge mine spiders that general y preyed
on anything foolish enough to enter and, especial y, on kobolds.

Indeed, cutting one web sent an old kobold skul dropping to the
floor, where its rattling echoed throughout the mine.

Dughan swore. The kobolds might already have suspected the
men’s presence, but now he’d given them confirmation.

Several of the men coughed from the dust, which seemed
thicker than usual. And it did not take long to discover why. One of
the side shafts—a passage that would have led to a secondary exit
for the miners—had col apsed. Several tons of rock, earth, and
shattered wooden braces met the marshal’s intent gaze.

“An accident,” Zaldimar proclaimed. “I warned them they were
putting too much stress on that area when last we came down here
to clean out kobolds.”

“Never mind,” Dughan said. “What matters is it makes our task
simpler.”

Zaldimar nodded. There were limited directions the kobolds
could have gone. The only exits were now cut off. A confrontation
was only moments away …

They came upon a corpse, but not one they expected. It was a
mine spider, one the size of a large dog. With its poison and other
weapons, it was more than capable of trapping a kobold … and
possibly a human.

This one had been hacked to pieces. In the dim il umination, the
marshal could see several sets of prints.

“The kobolds are getting smarter, it seems. They’re ganging up
on the spiders to wipe them out.”

“Something to think about,” Zaldimar commented.

Nodding gruffly, Dughan tightened his grip on the spiked mace.

With his free hand, the marshal instinctively dusted off his tabard.

The fierce gold-and-blue lion’s head on his chest once more shone
prominently. He gave the order to move forward again—

Far in the darkness ahead, a gravel y voice muttered and a
second, anger-tinged voice fol owed.

A brief flame—like that from a candle—materialized further
down … then was quickly doused.

“Zaldimar …” Dughan whispered.

The mage stepped to the forefront. He raised his hands and
gestured.

A purple light flared, accompanied by a pulsating sound. The
arcane blast darted down the tunnel toward where the brief flame
had been.

A moment later it struck … then struck again … and again. The
mine shook. Dust and smal fragments of rock pelted the fighters
and the marshal cursed the mage’s carelessness.

The passage ahead was briefly fil ed with a purple aura so bright
that Dughan had to shield his eyes. From the other end came a
chorus of growls.

The marshal blinked as his eyes adjusted.

“By the king!” Dughan gasped.

The passage was packed wal to wal with kobolds. There were
more rat-faced fiends than any of the reports had indicated—far
more. Suddenly, Dughan’s trained force appeared very lacking.

The kobolds in the front of the throng let out bestial cries and
waved their weapons. Their tails whipped back and forth, signaling
their growing agitation. Not one of them appeared wounded from

Zaldimar’s attack.

“Prepare for an orderly retreat,” Dughan commanded. The
fighters were il prepared for this. Instead of clearing the mine, he
and his men were now at risk of being slaughtered.

Ahead of him, Zaldimar stood silent, staring at the creatures as
the il uminating effects of his arcane blast began to fade.

“Do something, mage! Fire another one!”

The spel caster twisted around. Zaldimar’s expression was of
utter puzzlement.

“I—I must have another minute … these spel s, they are draining
on my body …”

Though he was no mage, the marshal knew that Zaldimar
needed to muster everything he could—and quickly. He seized

Zaldimar by the arm and dragged him back to the rest of the party.

“You must try, Zaldimar! Our lives … very wel may depend on it!”

Before the mage could respond, the kobolds poured forth. What
had once seemed comical and only of threat to smal children

—kobolds were no more than four feet high at best—was now a
frightening and deadly danger to al .

“Pul back! Pul back! You three! Keep your blades up front with
my mace!” Dughan shoved Zaldimar behind him. Even if the mage
wasn’t of any use, the marshal was not going to leave him behind to
be slain.

The first of the kobolds reached the defenders. Dughan swung
at one, then dueled another, much larger creature.

“You no take candle!” it roared, the item in question set atop its
head on a smal holder. Kobolds could see wel in the dark, but in
the mine they stil needed il umination in the deepest places.

“I—don’t—want—your damned candle!” Dughan shouted back.

He swung again and again. One rat face after another came
into view, only to be cut down by the marshal’s skil ed hand. Around
him, his men proved their mettle—smashing, slicing, and stabbing
the kobolds without mercy.

The tide had turned. The vast scores of kobold enemies
became piles of corpses. A grin crossed Dughan’s face.

In the end, Goldshire’s force stood knee-deep in blood and
bodies. The stench of dead kobolds proved a hundred times worse
than their living odor, but the men were wil ing to suffer it, so
complete had their victory been. Even the last of the kobolds’

candles had been doused.

Marshal Dughan counted his troops. They were al present.

Some had minor injuries—mostly scratches—but al were stil
accounted for and fit.

No … there was one who was not present. “Where is the mage?

”

The others shook their heads. Dughan prodded the bodies
where he had last seen Zaldimar. There was no sign of the
spel caster’s presence or departure.

Dughan guessed that the powerless Zaldimar had likely fled
before the battle. The coward would no doubt be found back in

Goldshire. “Let’s be moving on,” the commander decided. “Make
sure the other shafts are clear.” He was doubtful that they would
find more than a couple of kobolds after this, but even those had to
be eradicated.

They started back, Dughan taking the lead. The marshal
covered his nose; the smel of dead kobold was growing worse
even though the men were leaving the corpses further and further
behind. Next time, we’ll flush them outside, where the wind’ll help

…

Suddenly, Jasperlode shook as if some explosion had taken
place deeper down.

The braces ahead of the party creaked ominously.

Dughan thrust his sword ahead. “Move!”

But as the band surged on, one of the more distant braces
cracked. The two halves swung down.

“Watch out!” the commander roared.

The roof of the mine col apsed at the weak point. Worse, it

began a chain reaction. Other braces snapped.

Masses of earth and stone crashed to the ground.

The men fled back, but then the roof gave way. The dust and
darkness blinded Dughan and his men, who shoved into one
another as they sought escape.

Then the marshal heard a bloodcurdling scream.

He stumbled into an open area just as the col apse began to
subside. Coughing, Marshal Dughan tried to focus and was able to
make out the shadowy forms of at least three men.

When it became quiet enough for him to be heard, he cal ed,

“Sound off!”

Eleven voices responded, some of them pained. Eleven, not
fifteen.

The devastation made it pointless to try to see if the other four
were stil alive. As it was, Dughan had to get the rest of his men to
safety. There was only one choice, to head back to where they had
fought the kobolds. Sometimes kobolds dug secret burrows in the
mines, ways out. At least it was a hope.

“Fol ow me!”

The path proved darker and longer than he recal ed. Only the
powerful stench verified to Dughan that he was nearing the area.

But as he led the group swiftly through the passage, he col ided with
a rocky wal .

“What is this?” The wal meant that they must have passed the
spot where the kobolds had first been seen … but where were the
bodies?

Dughan fumbled in his pouches for something to il uminate their
surroundings, but found nothing.

A purple glow suddenly arose just to his side. The marshal
whirled, his mace at the ready.

Zaldimar stared back at him from behind the glow. Dughan could
see nothing else save that face. The mage had a drawn, intense
expression.

“Does that help?” he rasped.

“Where the blazes have you been? Have you seen any sign of
a way out? The area we came through is impassable!”

Zaldimar nodded. “I know. I made certain.”

“You—what?”

The glow expanded. Dughan’s eyes widened.

The mage’s garments had changed. He now wore a black,
armored outfit with skul s at the knee braces and on the chest. A
cowl rose high behind his head. His eyes glowed a monstrous dark
purple.

“And as for escape, a simple spel wil enable me to leave here.”

Marshal Dughan thrust the pointed tip of his mace under

Zaldimar’s chin. “You’l take us with you, then!”

Something moved at the edge of the light. It struck down the
marshal’s weapon. As Dughan fought to retain his grip, he caught a
glimpse of a familiar snout.

“Kobold—” But the word died on his lips as Zaldimar further
increased the insidious il umination.

It was not merely a kobold … but a dead one. The creature’s gut
was wide open and putrefying organs half-hung loose in the gap.

The kobold clutched its weapon and stared with sightless eyes at
the officer.

And as the light expanded, Marshal Dughan saw that there were
many, many more … al the kobolds he and his men had
vanquished and seemingly numbers beyond even that.

“What’s happened?” he demanded.

“They serve me now … as I serve our rightful lord …” rasped

Zaldimar, his grinning face like a skul . “And as you wil , good
marshal …”

The kobolds moved forward. Marshal Dughan and his men
pressed together.

“It won’t hurt long …”

Utterly silent, the kobolds surged forward. Dughan smashed
through the throat of one, which had no effect. In desperation, he
struck harder and lopped off the entire head.

But the body kept attacking.

“I must leave you for a little while,” Zaldimar murmured. “I have to
prepare for Goldshire next … a task with which you and your
soldiers wil assist once you’ve been … converted.”

“Damn you—” But Marshal Dughan cut off as the necromancer
vanished … and with him, the light.

The air grew thick, harsh. The fetid smel of dead kobold was
everywhere. Without the magical il umination, he could not see the
figures coming toward him.

A man shrieked. Sounds of fear arose from the others. Dughan
could do nothing to help; he was desperately trying to fend off the
horrific tide of attackers.

Another man cried out. A moment later, the monstrous sound of
something moist being torn apart echoed in the shaft.

“Marshal?” the man next to him pleaded.

“Keep fighting!”

But then Dughan nearly fel to the side as the soldier was
dragged past him. The hapless fighter cal ed out again … then
produced a sickening scream as the familiar soft sound of
weapons thrusting into flesh echoed from the wal s.

The clash of arms grew fainter … fainter …

Marshal Dughan knew he was the last standing. He felt the
undead kobolds converging on him. For the first time, their eyes
glowed, a deathly white aura that sent shivers up his spine.

And among them, he saw the il umination of the eyes of tal er
figures—torn and beaten figures, from what he could make out.

His own men, now part of the ungodly throng.

They surged forward. Marshal Dughan swung wildly. His mace
met flesh again and again, but the kobolds and the mutilated
soldiers with them pushed on unimpeded. They were everywhere
now, seizing at him with their claws, biting, or striking him with their
weapons. He cried out as the undead overwhelmed him—

•••

Marshal Dughan lay in his bed even though daylight already shone

upon the town of Goldshire. He shifted uneasily. His brow was
furrowed and sweat drenched his body. His lips moved slightly, as if
he sought to speak—or scream—and his hands clenched so tightly
that the knuckles were bone white.

Without warning, Dughan rose to a sitting position and shrieked.

Yet the marshal did not awaken, but rather slumped down upon the
bed again, where he once more shifted and sweated and moved as
if fighting off something in his dreams.

His shriek had been a loud one, loud enough to be heard
through much of the town. Yet no one, not family nor servants,
came to see what ailed the marshal. They could not. There was no
one in al of Goldshire who could … for al were in their beds. Al
were asleep.

And al were suffering nightmares.

Although she was high priestess of the moon goddess, Tyrande
always thought the sunrise a beautiful sight, if somewhat stinging to
the eyes of a nocturnal being such as herself. When she had been
young, so very young, she had not thought it so painful. In fact, she,

Malfurion, and Il idan had often ridden out during the day, when
most others had slept, exploring the world of light. Malfurion had
even begun his lessons with Cenarius during daylight.

Perhaps I am growing old at last, she thought. Among night
elves, Tyrande was one of the longest surviving. She had outlived
so many friends, and al her loved ones save two.

The distance required to reach the Moonglade meant that the
high priestess, her personal guard, Archdruid Fandral and his
accompanying druids had to sleep there for a day before returning
to Darnassus. While many of the druids were comfortable enough
using the barrow dens, the underground chambers reminded

Tyrande too much of other places in the past she wished to forget,
such as the dungeons of Azshara’s palace.

As queen, Azshara had chosen to sacrifice her people for her
vanity and obsession, and had wil ingly opened the way to the

Burning Legion. Her chief advisor, Xavius, had goaded her on, and
the two contributed greatly to the countless deaths caused by the
demons. Tyrande wished never to think of Azshara again, but many
reminders were there that forced her to remember.

Thus, forsaking the barrow dens, she, her fol owers, and a few
druids utilized tents created from vines and leaves nurtured by her
hosts.

In her tent—set a respectful distance from where Fandral and
his fel ow druids rested—the ruler of the night elves practiced her
fighting skil s. The tent was ten feet by ten and woven from leaf
strands taken from Teldrassil itself. Expert weavers had created
patterns in the tent that bespoke of the Sisters of Elune, especial y
the moon symbol, which was repeated over and over. Blessed by
the Mother Moon, the tent also had a faint silver glow about it.

There was little décor within, Tyrande caring only for the
necessities. A smal wooden table and stool were the only furniture,
and those had been provided by the druids here. Her moonglaive
she had left by the blankets—the latter also woven from Teldrassil’s
leaves—that served as her bed. The ancient, triple-bladed weapon
was a favorite of her race and especial y of the elite Sentinels.

Aware of the many threats looming in the world, Tyrande practiced
often with the glaive.

Now, however, she sought only to work on her hand-to-hand
skil s, in great part due to a need to stretch her muscles. Dealing
with Fandral had caused her enough tension, but having had to sail
with him to see Malfurion’s body had dealt her far more damage
than she had imagined it would.

Fandral … while she had respect for him and his position, his
plans did not satisfy her. She had acquiesced for the moment, but
more and more the long wait his work suggested went against her
natural tendency to act quickly and decisively, act as a warrior …

Dueling with her own desires, Tyrande thrust herself harder into
her efforts. The high priestess arched her arms and kicked out.

She had come far since her days as a novice, in some ways
further than Malfurion, who, during those past ten mil ennia, had al
too often left Azeroth for the apparent perfection of the Emerald

Dream. There had been times during his disappearances when
she had grown to resent him for leaving her … but always their love
had overcome those darker emotions.

Tyrande spun and struck out with her left hand, the straightened
fingers forming a curved edge capable of crushing in a throat. She
positioned herself on the toes of her right foot and extended her
right hand upward—and suddenly sensed something behind her.

The high priestess spun fiercely on her toes and kicked out at
her assailant. No one should have entered without warning. Where
were her sentries? Stil , Tyrande attacked merely to incapacitate,
not slay. Any intruder would be needed alive in order to answer
questions.

However, instead of striking anything solid, Tyrande watched her
foot go through a murky black-and-emerald figure. The shadowy
assassin scattered into a thousand patches of mist, then re-
formed.

But the night elf had already moved on to take up the
moonglaive. As she did, she glimpsed two more of the nightmarish
figures. There was a blurriness to them that made it impossible to
identify any true features, but Tyrande thought them to appear half
animal in form. For some reason, that stirred up irrational fears in
her.

In that short moment the other two demonic shadows lunged.

Tyrande brought up the silver glaive just in time, the curved blades
slicing through both.

But the glaive only caused the upper and lower halves to
momentarily part. Immediately re-forming, the fiends slashed at her
with long talons that suddenly sprouted from their hands.

“Unngh!” Tyrande stumbled back as best she could, trying to
recover from the attack. There were no bloody slashes where the
talons had cut, but the night elf felt as if daggers of ice stil impaled
her. A part of her wanted to drop her weapon and curl up on the
ground.

But to do that surely meant death. The high priestess swung
wildly with the glaive, more to force her attackers to keep re-
forming than because she hoped it might hurt them.

A second, more terrible cry escaped her as she felt icy daggers
plunge into her back. Distracted by the others, she had not sensed
another attacker behind her.

The glaive slipped from her shaking grip. Tyrande wondered why,
with both her cries, no one had come to investigate. Perhaps the
demons had made it so that, to the outside, al was silent here. The
assassins would slay her and no one would be wiser until someone
came for other reasons.

No … that will not happen … Tyrande insisted to herself. I am a
priestess of the Mother Moon … the light of Elune is a part of
me …

And as this thought coursed through her, it melted both the ice
within her and the fear seeking to dominate her wil .

“I am the high priestess of the Mother Moon …” she declared to
her shadowy adversaries. “Feel her light …”

The silvery glow fil ed her tent. The black-and-emerald figures
cringed from its glory.

Despite this promising reaction, the night elf did not relax. She
opened herself up to Elune. The soft comfort of the Mother Moon
enveloped her. Elune would protect her daughter.

The silvery light intensified a thousand times stronger.

With low, hissing sounds, the monstrous assassins dissolved as
if truly made of nothing but shadow.

Suddenly, al was black as pitch. Tyrande gasped. The light of

Elune was gone, and she was somehow seated on the ground, in a
meditative pose. The high priestess shot a glance toward the glaive

—it was stil by the blankets, where it had been before the intruders
had burst in. Or had they? The icy pain in her back returned—or
perhaps it was just a chil creeping down her spine. She swal owed,
her mouth dry and her heart stil racing.

As Tyrande stood up, a guard suddenly burst into the tent.

Masking her emotions, Tyrande met the sentry’s puzzled gaze.

From the other priestess’s expression, she knew nothing about the
attempted slaying of her mistress.

“Forgive me,” the guard murmured. “I heard a gasp and feared
something had happened …”

“I merely overpracticed and was out of breath.”

The other night elf frowned, then nodded. She bowed at the
waist, beginning to depart at the same time.

Something came to Tyrande’s mind. This strange, sinister vision
had settled matters in her mind, but if she planned to move
independently of Archdruid Fandral’s intentions, then Tyrande first
needed to make certain of one thing. “Wait.”

“Mistress?”

“I have a task for you … concerning one of the druids …”

Having been a slave once, Brol Bearmantle found barrow dens too
cramped; thus, he slept, as some others did, out in the open in a
chosen part of the Moonglade. Hamuul slept a short distance away
to his right. There existed a kinship between the pair, as both were
somewhat unique in one way or another among those of their
cal ing.

Indeed, other than Varian Wrynn and young Valeera Sanguinar

—a blood elf rogue, of al things—Hamuul was perhaps the night
elf’s closest friend. It made for a strange—and to many,
disturbing—col ection of characters, but Brol no longer cared what
others thought.

Several troublesome thoughts weighed on the night elf as he lay
there—too many to al ow him to fal asleep. As the tauren snored
next to him, Brol ’s concerns focused for a time on Valeera, who
had become almost like a daughter to him. As a blood elf, the
youngling was addicted to the absorption of arcane magical energy,
a path her kind had turned to after the destruction of the high elves’

fount of power, the Sunwel . Brol had almost managed to help her
overcome it … but then circumstance had forced Valeera to return
to her kind’s ways. They had parted company, at least for a time,
shortly before his summons to the convocation. He hoped she was
better, but feared that her addiction might have worsened again.

Grunting, Brol tried to calm his mind. At the moment, he could do
nothing for Valeera, unless he had help … and that brought his
thoughts back to his shan’do. For the first time something occurred
to him—or rather, tried to occur to him. The main thrust of it
remained just outside of his weary mind’s reach. The druid tried
over and over to concentrate enough, but instead, the truth
seemed to slip further and further from him. He almost—

There came a sound from among the trees behind him, a hint of
something like a gasp of breath.

Father …

The night elf stiffened. Had he heard … her ?

Brol quietly pushed himself up to a sitting position.

Father …

There it was again. He knew that voice better than he knew his
own. Brol trembled. It could not be her.

It could not be … could never be … Anessa?

He glanced at Hamuul, whose snoring remained steady. The
sharpeared tauren had noticed nothing. To Brol , that verified that
he had only imagined that he had heard—

Father … I need you …

Anessa! Brol gasped. He had heard her!

The druid reacted instinctively, rising up and peering into the
woods in search of his daughter. He did not cal out, fearful that not
only would that alert others to his situation, but also send his
beloved daughter running.

But … a part of his mind reminded him … Anessa is dead …

and I’m responsible …

Despite being wel aware of that fact, Brol felt his heart beat
fast. He took a tentative step in the direction from which he
believed the cal had come.

Father … help me …

Tears wel ed up in the otherwise stolid druid’s eyes. He
remembered her death and his part in it. The old agony stirred
again. Memories of the battle arose anew.

Yes, Anessa was dead …

But she calls me! the most basic part of him insisted. This time,

I can save her!

Something shadowy moved among the trees wel ahead of him.

Brol veered toward the half-seen form. Suddenly, the druid’s world
rippled. The trees twisted as if made of smoke. The indistinct
figure grew more distant. The sky became the ground and the
ground the sky. Brol felt as if his bones had turned to liquid. He
tried to cal out to his daughter.

Something moved toward him from the woods. As it neared, it
swel ed to horrific proportions. Even then, the druid could not make
out any distinct features. It almost looked like—

Brol tried to scream … and then woke.

His focus began to return. Slowly, the night elf registered several
things wrong with what he last recal ed about his surroundings. He
did not stand at the edge of the woods, but rather lay on the ground
as if stil sleeping. Squinting, Brol glanced up. By the position of the
bright sun, several hours must have passed.

The songs of birds and the sigh of the wind greeted his ears, but
another sound was missing. He looked over his right shoulder and
saw Hamuul solemnly gazing back at him. The archdruid was down
on one knee next to his shaking friend.

“You are awake, yes,” the tauren remarked, reading Brol ’s
remaining uncertainty. “Is there something amiss? You look—”

The night elf did not let him finish. “It was a dream. Or rather, a
nightmare …”

“A dream … as you say …” Hamuul was silent for a moment,
then said, “I awoke sooner than you know, for, this being day and I
not a night elf, I but lightly napped. I heard you say something. You
mumbled a name,” the tauren went on with some slight hesitation.

“A name close to you.”

“Anessa …” Bits of the nightmare came back. Brol shivered. He
had dreamed of his daughter before, but never in such a manner.

The tauren briefly bowed his head again at mention of Brol ’s lost
child. “Anessa, yes …” He peered up at the night elf. “You are wel
now, though, Brol Bearmantle?”

“I am good now. Thank you …”

“This was not natural, Brol Bearmantle … no more than your
earlier visions … though different from them in al other ways, I
think.”

“It was only a bad nightmare, Hamuul.” Brol ’s tone told the other
druid not to argue that point. “Neither it nor the other instances
mean anything.”

The tauren blinked, then final y shrugged. “I wil not press the
point, my friend, as I would only worsen your pain … but we both
know better …”

Before anything more could be said, there came a faint rustling
sound from the woods. Brol immediately tensed and Hamuul’s
eyes widened.

From behind the trees, a figure emerged. However, it was not
some shade of Anessa returned to the mortal plane. Rather, it
proved to be one of the priestesses who had accompanied

Tyrande to the Moonglade.

“My mistress wishes to speak with you, druid,” the slim figure
murmured to Brol . Her gaze shifted to the tauren. “She would have
you come alone … with al due respect, Archdruid …”

The priestess did not wait for a reply from either, instead
vanishing back into the barrow den woods. As a druid, Brol could
have easily fol owed her, but her cautious stance and her short,
somewhat mysterious message had made it clear that such a
reaction would have been unwise. He was to come on his own, as
if the decision were his.

“Wil you go?” asked Hamuul.

“Yes,” came the night elf’s immediate reply. “I wil .”

“I wil tel no one.”

The tauren’s promise meant much to Brol . Nodding his
gratitude, the night elf fol owed the priestess’s path. His thoughts
were already on the possible reasons why the high priestess of

Elune and the ruler of the night elves would desire a secret
encounter with him. Tyrande Whisperwind had something in mind
that she wished few others to know … including Archdruid Fandral

Staghelm.

And, unsettling as it was, Brol had the terrible feeling that he
knew just what she desired.

5

A DRUID’S BETRAYAL

“He has come,” the guard murmured to Tyrande from the tent’s
entrance.

“Bid him enter and watch for anyone who might approach,” the
high priestess commanded.

With a nod, the guard retreated outside. A moment later Brol

Bearmantle respectful y entered. The druid bowed deep, as a
subject would to a ruler. In a low voice he said, “High Priestess,
you summoned me …”

“Be not so formal with me here, Brol . We have known each
other for some time.”

The druid nodded, but said nothing.

“Please,” the high priestess started, gesturing at a grass mat
with intricate moon patterns fashioned into it. “Be seated.”

Brol shook his head. “I prefer to stand, thank you … no
disrespect meant.”

She nodded. “Very wel . I shal keep this short, anyway … and I
say right now that you have every right to turn my request down.”

His thick brow rose. Tyrande could, if she truly wanted to,
complicate his life by ordering him to do whatever it was she
desired.

But that was not her way. “Brol … you are the only one here I
could ask of this. Malfurion trusted you very much, and so I place
my faith in your hands—after al , you wear the mark of greatness,
a n d your actions during the Third War have demonstrated its
capabilities.” She glanced up at his antlers.

“You flatter me, my lady …” The druid cast his eyes downward.

“And exaggerate. My time away from my cal ing would hardly have
left me high in his opinion …” His eyes shifted to the glaive, which
now lay up on the table.

Tyrande watched him closely. She had placed it within view on
the chance that the primitive weapon would remind Brol of his
gladiatorial past. She had considered him for this task hoping that
his recent outside exploits might stir his personal loyalty to

Malfurion enough that he would step beyond the Cenarion Circle’s
current chosen course of action.

“I do not exaggerate. Before he vanished, Malfurion made
himself very clear. He understood the grief and anger you suffered
and knew that you had to work through it by yourself.” Her eyes
narrowed. “Let me be blunt, Brol . Malfurion’s dreamform must
return to his body. Elune’s vision was clear; he is dying and dying
quickly! He wil not last through Fandral’s plans! I am certain of that.

I know he means wel , but it is clear that Fandral is unwavering

—not even I can change his mind. You and I must rescue Malfurion
from whatever prison holds him.”

He hesitated. “You’re absolutely certain? There can be no
mistake about your vision?”

“It was from the Mother Moon.” She stated it with absolute
confidence. Elune played no tricks on her faithful.

To her relief, the druid final y nodded. Brol ’s determined cast
showed her that she had chosen correctly.

“I know you. I know Elune.” Like most night elves, Brol had
grown up worshipping the Mother Moon. The cal ing to the path of
the druid had come later, but it had in no manner erased the
respect he had for the deity. “And though there’s much merit in

Fandral’s course, there’s been that which leads me to believe more
as you do. If you’ve a plan, my lady, I’m agreeable to it. Something
must be done and, with al due respect to Archdruid Fandral, I fear
that Teldrassil wil be more of a distraction than a path. What do
you have in mind?”

His decision to agree was an abrupt one, but not without
substance behind it. Yes, Brol had at first been satisfied, even
hopeful, with Fandral’s plan; but hearing Tyrande’s plea had stirred
to the forefront thoughts of uncertainty that he realized had been
growing since the last and most heinous of his visions. Something
foul was at work—something that surely was the Nightmare. That
these visions suddenly pressed him so, and that the last concerned
his deceased daughter, had added weight to the high priestess’s
concerns. Something very terrible was imminent and that thing
seemed most likely Malfurion’s doom.

No … healing Teldrassil would indeed take too long, the druid
thought. But Fandral wouldn’t understand that …

There was stil no answer to his question, so he repeated it.

She looked away. Much of what Tyrande intended was based on
knowledge gleaned about the druids through Malfurion. There was
a tremendous possibility that the high priestess had made some
false assumptions and, if so, then her plan had failed before it had
even begun.

“I want you to go to Bough Shadow …”

He rightly stiffened at mention of that name. It was immediately
clear to him her intention.

“Bough Shadow,” the sturdy male muttered. “I understand what
you want. It makes the most sense … especial y with time so
precious as I now believe …”

Her hopes grew. “Do you think it might work?”

“My lady … it may be the only chance left to us … but it won’t be
easy … unless …”

She waited, but when Brol continued to look inward, final y had to
ask, “Unless what?”

Shaking his head, the druid murmured, “Best you not know.”

Looking more determined, Brol added, “But I’l get there.”

“There is stil the question of the convocation and Fandral’s
plans,” the high priestess went on. “You wil have to wait until al that
is settled—but I’m afraid we’ve no time to waste.”

“There is only one thing with which I need to deal, High

Priestess, and if Archdruid Fandral does not catch me at it, I wil be
gone immediately after.” His brow furrowed. “It does require I first
return with the rest to the Cenarion Enclave, though …”

Again Tyrande waited for more explanation and again Brol gave
none. She final y nodded to the druid, trusting that whatever secret
he held from her was for her own—and Malfurion’s—good.

“I thank you,” Tyrande murmured. Her expression tightened. “But
there’s one more thing. You won’t go alone. I wil be sending

Shandris to meet you … you are familiar with Auberdine, I’d
imagine?”

“I’ve been there. It’s not a place conducive to druidic ways …

and, like my brethren, I prefer another mode of travel. Is that where
we’re to meet?”

“Yes, then the two of you can proceed on to Ashenvale.”

His expression did not hide his dislike for her decision to add a
partner to his travels. “With al due respect to the general and her
considerable skil s, I’d much prefer to go alone.”

She was adamant. “You wil not. If I must order you to—”

Brol grunted. “You needn’t. If you real y think this best for

Malfurion, then … I’l trust to you, high priestess.”

Tyrande’s mood softened. She reached out abruptly to touch his
shoulder. As she did, a faint glow of moonlight briefly spread over
the spot. The moonlight briefly engulfed Brol before fading into him.

“You have the blessing of the Mother Moon … and my gratitude,
too.”

The male night elf bowed low. “I’m deeply honored by both, my
lady.”

“I am Tyrande to you.”

The druid bowed, then began to retreat from her presence. “No

… to Malfurion, you are … to me … you are my high priestess, the
embodiment of our people’s hopes …”

He slipped out of the tent. Tyrande pursed her lips, wondering if
she had done the right thing.

Then her gaze returned to the glaive … and her determination
hardened.

• • •

Brol said nothing to Hamuul when he returned and the stolid tauren
did not ask. The night elf did not sleep much that day, and when the
druids prepared to take their leave of the Moonglade, he only
acknowledged the high priestess with a respectful bow no more
intimate than that performed by any of his brethren.

The Sisters of Elune had their own method of travel—mighty
hippogryphs—for the return to Darnassus, and so, after sharing a
few words with Tyrande Whisperwind, Fandral Staghelm led the
druids to a private clearing in the Moonglade.

“I have determined that the situation here merits immediate
continuance of our efforts to heal the World Tree,” the lead
archdruid announced as they prepared to depart. “We wil renew
our efforts this very night—”

“This very night?” a druid blurted. “After so long a flight?”

“There wil be a period of meditation first, natural y, and I wil work
to reconsider how best to utilize our power, since we’l not have the

Idol of Remulos to add to it after al …” Fandral waved away further
discourse. “It is settled! Now, for Malfurion’s sake, let us be on our
way quickly …”

Fandral raised his arms.

As one, the druids shrank. They bent forward and feathers burst
from their violet skin. Their noses and mouths distended, becoming
beaks.

The smal flock of storm crows took to the air, nearly invisible
against the night sky.

Fandral, a larger bird with silver streaks along each wing, led the
druids at a swift pace, eager to reach Teldrassil. The sight was a
rare one, for only the most skil ed and powerful of druids were able
to learn the mysteries of flight. Indeed, with the exception of Brol ,
al the rest were archdruids of reputation. It was another hint of the
power he wielded, yet could not focus enough to truly attain his
place among his brethren. That he was here at al was Fandral’s
doing, and that made Brol feel even more guilt for what he
intended.

Brol flew further back in the flock than usual. Hamuul flew some
distance ahead. The tauren was the only other concern Brol had
other than Fandral, but Hamuul was focused on maintaining his
pace. The tauren was mighty, but he was also fairly old for his kind
and thus had to push harder than most of the night elves.

After several long hours, the World Tree materialized ahead.

Fandral banked and the flock descended … and Brol stealthily fel
back, veering upward. Beating his wings as hard as he could, the
transformed night elf surged higher and higher. The great trunk of

Teldrassil was like an impossible barrier ever before him, yet the
druid pressed on.

And then … the enormous crown welcomed him. Brol the bird
darted in among its vast branches.

Part of what looked to be the foliage itself moved. Though he
only glimpsed it for a mere second, the long, thrusting tusks, the
massive, woodlike form, and the leafy coat were enough for the
druid to recognize it as an ancient, one of the primal beings who
not only protected the World Tree and the night elf realm, but also
taught Darnassus’s warriors the darker side of nature and how to
use it in combat.

The ancient did not appear to notice Brol in turn, which was to
the druid’s preference. While not of any physical danger to him, he
feared the being might inadvertently tel Fandral of Brol ’s presence.

Though the reason for that would eventual y become known to the
archdruid, Brol desired that it be later rather than sooner. For by
then, he would be long gone.

And, if things did not work as Brol intended, very likely dead.

The druid adjusted his path to avoid other, more cunning
sentries hidden among the branches. The Sentinels, Darnassus’s
armed force, guarded Teldrassil’s crown. They were led by the
zealous Shandris Feathermoon, who was total y devoted to her
ruler.

There were few more capable or experienced than Shandris,
whom Tyrande had rescued on the battlefield during the initial
conflict against the Burning Legion so long ago. Shandris had been
an orphaned child, one of so many. Under the high priestess’s
tutelage, she had risen to become one of the race’s most skil ed
warriors.

It made for perfect logic that Shandris would be Tyrande’s
chosen servant for this crucial mission. The high priestess would
trust no other with such a desperate mission. Indeed, Brol was
honored to be among her chosen servants.

Sensing that he was near his destination, Brol pushed aside al
other thoughts. Barely a wing beat later, the storm crow burst
through the foliage … and into the area of the capital known as the

Cenarion Enclave.

As with so much of Darnassus, it was impossible to see that this
sacred place was part of a city built atop a tree itself. Tal trees

—oaks and ashes especial y—lined the enclave. Each tree bore
mystic runes shaped from the very bark. Within the circular grove
created here, a handful of unique structures molded from both
living trees and careful y shaped stones represented the usual
gathering place for convocations. The largest of these served as
the new residence of Fandral Staghelm.

The storm crow did not head directly for the archdruid’s
sanctum, instead alighting on a branch that al owed him to overlook
the area. The Cenarion Enclave radiated a sense of tranquility

—and it was indeed a restful place—but it was not without its own
guardians, especial y those set into place by Fandral himself.

Brol fluttered to another branch deep enough to avoid being
detected from anything within the enclave and yet near enough to
the archdruid’s sanctum. He had to make his incursion swift, but
cautious.

Al looked calm, but as Brol studied the green and crimson
edifice, he noted the fine strings of vines crisscrossing it. Cocking
his head, he eyed the tiny buds running along the vines. They were
a subtle indication of just what plant decorated the building … and
the only hint of Fandral’s cunning. Even most of the other druids
would have proven hard-pressed to identify it.

Twisting his head, the storm crow plucked a feather from his
body. Ignoring the slight twinge of pain, Brol took to flight, drifting
high above the vines. He dropped the feather.

The feather drifted onto a bud, which opened immediately. From
it burst a sappy substance that encased the feather, causing it to
drop to the ground with a thud. The sap had quickly hardened.

There were hundreds, perhaps thousands, of such little buds.

With such numbers, they could easily cover Brol with a similar
prison, leaving him trapped until Fandral returned.

Brol surveyed the vines, watching. A few smal bees darted past
the buds unhindered.

The storm crow let out a smal but triumphant sound, then
fluttered down to the ground. He made certain to keep away from
the archdruid’s sanctum.

Once on the ground, Brol returned to his true form. He wasted
no time, murmuring under his breath. The druid did not speak
words, but sounds that al had a sharp, buzzing tone to them.

A moment later Brol heard more buzzing. Continuing his own
sounds, he watched as bees began to gather before him. They
flew around him, seeming more curious than anything else.

The druid changed the tempo of his spel work, and the swarm
immediately reacted. The bees flew en masse toward the vine-
covered structure.

Brol transformed into a storm crow again and fol owed behind
the bees, whose numbers continued to swel even as he joined
them. They were al here in response to his cal , which he had
broached as an invitation. The bees congregated where the night
elf now indicated, a thick part of the vines surrounding a window
opening.

It would have been impossible for Brol to dart through the
window, even if he had raced as fast as the wings would let him.

However, the bees now clustered over the buds, seeking in vain
the blossoms that they had been told were there. Brol regretted the
subterfuge, but had not had any other choice.

The moment that it appeared al the buds were occupied, the
druid dove for the window. As he reached it, he saw some of the
buds move. However, the bees’ presence prevented them from
unleashing their imprisoning sap.

His avian bulk barely fit through, but fit it did. Brol alighted on the
floor, then reverted to his normal self. He knew where Fandral kept
what he sought, and knew that the archdruid would not think anyone
audacious enough to commit the offense Brol now intended.

Paying no attention to the rest of his surroundings, Brol went
straight to a chest woven from steelgrass. While outwardly
appearing to be soft, when used in such a manner, steelgrass was
as strong as metal. A normal night elf would have been unable to
either cut through it or pry open the bound lid, but Brol was familiar
with Fandral’s methods, both of them having been taught closely by

Malfurion. Indeed, Brol had learned a few things that he believed
even Fandral did not know.

Placing his hands close together, the druid tested the weaving of
the chest. He felt the binding spel s Fandral had used and the
manners by which the archdruid had had the steelgrass shape
itself.

The strands sealing the lid unbound. Brol hesitated, then opened
the chest.

The Idol of Remulos stared back at him, the dragon figurine
seeming almost eager at his arrival.

The battle bloomed again in his thoughts. He saw the demons of
the Burning Legion, and their commander, the pit lord Azgalor. Brol
once more watched helplessly as the idol slipped from his grasp,
then was cut by the demon’s blade.

And again he saw those unleashed and corrupted forces
envelop the only one stil standing at his side. His daughter.

Anessa’s death had not been an easy one. She had been burned
horribly, her flesh withering before his eyes—

Brol gritted his teeth as he forced the pain of his failure back.

He dared not let his emotions take control of him. He had the
statuette; that was what mattered most now … that and Malfurion’s
fate.

There had been a chance that Fandral might have disobeyed

Remulos and summoned the statue back to him. But Fandral had
indeed heeded the Moonglade’s guardian and thus enabled Brol to
achieve his goal here. The night elf gingerly removed the figurine,
admiring not for the first time its surreal majesty. For a moment, he
marveled that such an exquisite work could have also been the
source of great evil. Of course, the idol had since been “cleansed”;
perhaps that made the difference.

The night elf thought of Remulos’s warning, but could see no
choice, considering the course he intended. Brol needed the idol.

He would just have to take special care.

His hesitation at an end, the druid quickly resealed the chest.

So now I add thief to the list of my accomplishments, Brol
thought bitterly. How Varian and Valeera would laugh …

He secreted the statue in the confines of his cloak. As with the
rest of his garments and personal effects, it would go in that
magical place they did when he transformed.

But when the druid shifted once more to the semblance of a
storm crow, he heard a heavy thud. Cocking his head, Brol found
the idol lying at his talons.

Letting out a low, frustrated caw, Brol fluttered up, then gripped
the statuette in his claws. When at last he wielded the idol, he was
urged to greater swiftness. Others might not take too much notice
of a storm crow in flight, but a storm crow carrying a statuette
would surely raise more questions than he preferred.

Flapping, Brol turned himself toward the window. As he did, his
gaze fel upon another statuette, this one set upon a branch that
had been shaped to act as a table or shelf. There were runes
etched into the statuette, but it was the subject matter that caught
the druid for a moment. The figure was that of a younger night elf
with some great semblance to Fandral. However, it was not Fandral
himself.

Valstann … Brol dipped his head in acknowledgment of the night
elf the statuette represented. Like Brol , Fandral had lost his only
child, in this case his son. Although the circumstances had been
highly different—the archdruid had not been responsible for

Valstann’s demise—the losses had always been one bond between
the two older night elves.

A bond that Brol ’s act would forever sever.

He could sense the bees beginning to lose their interest.

Pushing hard, Brol headed for the window. Outside, the druid could
feel the first of the swarm taking off. He beat harder, then folded in
his wings as he dove through the window.

Bees scattered out of his path. Too many. That meant that some
of the buds were now unobstructed.

Something struck his left wing near the tip. Brol rocked to the
side. The involuntary action was al that saved his head from being
encased in the sticky substance.

He was struck again on the right leg before he final y flew out of
range. Even then, Brol did not slow. He had done the unthinkable
and his only hope was that his mad plan would make al the
difference.

Malfurion was lost in the Emerald Dream. There was no contact
with the Great Aspect Ysera, nor any of the other green dragons
who guarded the magical plane. Tyrande’s suggestion to go to

Ashenvale made the most sense, but for there to be a true chance
of success, they would need aid of a kind greater than a lone druid
of questionable skil and some priestess of the moon goddess.

And through the Idol of Remulos, Brol hoped to contact just that
aid … if the attempt did not kil him in the process.

Thura chopped her way through the thick vegetation, her
straightforward orc mind seeing no reason why the magical ax
could not be used for such a mundane task. After al , what was a
weapon good for if one was unable to reach one’s foe?

She felt that she was nearing her goal. The journey might stil
take days or it might be over tomorrow, but the key to finding the
treacherous night elf was so very close.

The forest final y gave way to more open ground and the
beginning of a chain of tal hil s. The orc saw several cave
openings of various sizes among them. Thura gripped the ax as a
weapon again. Caves could mean danger, especial y in the form of
hungry animals or feral trol s.

As she entered the hil s, Thura noted an odd silence draping
over the region. Where were the birds? A few insects announced
their presence, but nothing large cal ed out or even flew in sight.

That suggested that the hunting would not be good here … and that
perhaps she might become the hunted.

However, barely minutes into the new terrain, rest final y
demanded Thura’s complete attention. She had no choice but to
r i s k sleep. She glanced at the dark cave mouths around her,
choosing at last one that looked too smal to house some great
predator, but large enough to suit her needs.

The cave extended only a few yards before ending at a curved
wal . After assuring herself that there were no hidden openings that
might obscure some threat, the female warrior settled down in a
corner that gave her a view of the cave and the entrance.

She had little in the way of sustenance left and this Thura
cautiously divided up. Three pieces of dried goat meat, some
slowly rotting tubers, and half a sack of water. Thura ate one of the
pieces of meat and one tuber, then permitted herself two smal
swal ows of the brackish water. She ignored the protests of her
stomach, which had been left insatiate for days. Both game and
fresh water had grown extremely scarce since she had entered
this region. Somewhere, she would find enough to keep her going
until she had fulfil ed her blood oath. Only then, if she survived that,
would Thura concern herself with her mundane needs—

A hiss reverberated through the cave.

It took the orc a moment to realize that the sound had come
from without. Fighting back her exhaustion, Thura rose and headed
to the mouth. She clutched the ax tightly. The hiss had come from
no ordinary serpent or lizard, but rather something much, much
larger.

The lack of birds and animals in the area now made more
sense.

Thura waited, but heard no repeat of the sound. She final y took
a step out, ever ready to take on any foe.

A great wind suddenly rose up, so powerful that it almost shoved
the sturdy orc back into the cave. The darkened region became
darker yet, as if something sought to block out the stars and
moons.

And, briefly, something did. A great patch of shadow darted over

Thura’s location. It raced past her, continuing on deeper into the
region.

The orc stepped farther out, trying to see it better. In the
distance, the massive form descended beyond the horizon.

After waiting to see if it would take to the sky again, Thura
returned to the cave. She settled down, but kept the ax in her grip.

A faint glimmer now shone in her eyes.

This was a sign. When last she had slept, there had been one
difference in the ever-repeating dream. There had been a hint of
something at the end—a briefly glimpsed, vague form she had only
belatedly identified.

A form very much like the one that Thura had just now observed.

There had been a dragon.

6

DRAGONS AND DECEIT

Malfurion felt the shadow loom over him and knew what it meant. A
new torture was imminent.

The dark emerald lines spread further over him, at first seeming
to form jagged, bony fingers that turned out to seem instead the
silhouette of a vast, macabre tree that dwarfed that which the
archdruid had become. Yet even as limited as his field of vision had
become, the night elf knew that though there was a shadow …

there was no other tree.

Can you taste their dreams? the Nightmare Lord taunted. Can
you taste their fears? Even your dearest are not immune to it …

Malfurion did not respond, though he knew that his captor could
stil sense his emotions. In that regard, the archdruid continual y
sought to focus inward. The more calm that he could bring to
himself, the better his hopes for the others.

And the better that the Nightmare Lord did not know of his true
efforts. His captor believed the spel s surrounding the night elf
prevented Malfurion from reaching out to his beloved Tyrande or
anyone else and, for the most part, that was true. But the archdruid
had not trained hard over ten thousand years to be utterly
defeated. He could not, and dared not, reach out to Tyrande or
certain others, but there were paths of communication, though they
required delicacy and complicated paths. If the Nightmare Lord
even suspected once … then Malfurion was surely lost and with
him perhaps al else.

The shadow grew and twisted, almost as if the sinister tree
slipped around to better view its prey. Malfurion himself suddenly
twisted anew, the tree of pain that he had become taking on a new,
more vile aspect. From his boughs, the leaves sprouted black
flowers. Each flower’s birth was as a needle thrust into the night
elf’s eyes. There were hundreds, soon covering most of his upper
torso.

From each blossom there suddenly swel ed an emerald egg.

Malfurion wanted to scream, but, of course, could not.

Out of one of the eggs burst a thing with tentacles and wings. As
it moved, it oozed pure terror.

A second fiend burst free, fol owed by a third, and more. They
crawled over Malfurion, scraping and biting as they moved.

At last the horrific multitude left the archdruid. They flowed over
the smal patch of space that he could see, as if awaiting
commands.

The shadow moved nearer, as if caressing them. Wrought from
your own fears, stirred by my desire … they are beautiful to
behold, are they not?

As if by some unheard signal, the swarm spread out in different
directions. They quickly vanished in the deep, dank green fog that
surrounded al but Malfurion’s immediate vicinity.

There are more and more sleepers, my friend, more and
more of those susceptible to these pets and those before them

… their nightmares are feeding me through you and the others

…

Malfurion did his best not to acknowledge this truth, that his own
abilities were aiding in the spread of the Nightmare beyond the

Emerald Dream, yet concern did creep in. Concern that,
unfortunately, his captor could sense.

Yes, my friend, you have betrayed your people, your world,
and your beloved … you know the truth of it …

The archdruid’s form twisted more. Another silent scream
echoed through the night elf’s mind, but it was insufficient to stifle
al the pain. Despite his training, despite his skil s, Malfurion could
not hold back the torture completely.

Go mad, Malfurion Stormrage … go mad … but know that
even it is no refuge … I know … I will be there waiting for you …

there is no place within where you may hide …

The shadow of the monstrous tree receded from Malfurion’s
sight, but the archdruid could stil feel its nearby presence. Even as
new, gnarled branches sprouted from what had once been his
arms, Malfurion remained aware that the Nightmare Lord had only
just begun to use him. The night elf was key to the creature’s plot,
for Malfurion was a powerful link to both this realm and Azeroth.

But he was not the only key. Malfurion knew that al too bitterly.

The evil that was the Nightmare had snared others more powerful
in their own way than him … and while the night elf had been
granted a particularly horrific fate, those others served in a more
accursed manner. They were now wil ing fol owers of the darkness,
helping to spread it, eager to see it engulf the mortal plane.

The Nightmare Lord had dragons to do his bidding. Green
dragons …

There is something unspeakable seeking dominion over the
world, the cowled figure thought as he perused a series of floating
globes before him. Seated upon a chair carved out of a stalagmite,
the gaunt, almost elven figure studied the image within each globe.

At his wil , they reflected images of places al over Azeroth.

He wore the violet robes of the Kirin Tor, though his current
course of action was his own. Indeed, there was much about his
activities that they did not know—not even their leader, who had
been his pupil and who understood the truth about him. The figure,
who oft watched over the younger races, now had to focus on the
various dragonflights, for after so many centuries of consistency,
the great winged creatures were in flux. That was a concern that
would have been important to many, but especial y to Krasus.

After al , he was one of them.

In appearance, he was lanky, hawklike of features, and had
three long, jagged scars running down his right cheek. His hair was
mainly silver, with streaks of black and crimson. The silver did little
to bespeak his true age though. To learn more of that, one had to
peer into his glittering black eyes—eyes of no mortal creature. The
eyes and the scars were the only hints of his true identity as the
great dragon Korialstrasz.

He was also chief consort of the queen of the red dragonflight
and the Aspect of Life, the glorious Alexstrasza, and, as such, was
her principal agent when it came to protecting Azeroth.

And such was his role now, for a situation had arisen that
touched upon both his great concerns: Azeroth and his own kind.

There was an evil spreading not only through the mortal world, but
one that greatly touched the Emerald Dream, too. He had tried
contacting Ysera, but she was not to be found. Indeed, he could not
contact any of the green dragons save one … and Krasus would
have nothing to do with that particular figure.

He did not have to ask just who was truly responsible. For
anyone else, the question would have had no definite answer, but

Krasus knew. He knew with al his soul the evil behind it.

“I know you, Destroyer,” he whispered as he viewed another
globe. “I name you, Deathwing …”

It could only be the black dragon, the crazed Aspect once cal ed

Neltharion the Earth-Warder. Krasus rose. He would have to act
immediately—

Familiar laughter echoed throughout his mountain sanctum, a
hidden place situated not al that far from where once fantastic

Dalaran, city of the magi, had once stood. However, now a gaping
crater marked what even Krasus had been forced to admit was
one of the most astounding—if potential y catastrophic—spel s
ever cast. Dalaran’s absence meant that few had reason to come
to this desolate place … unless they sought the dragon mage
himself.

Krasus leapt to his feet. He instinctively waved his hand to
dismiss the images from the globes—then saw with dread that they
al bore one vision. It was an eye, the burning eye of the Destroyer

…

“Deathwing—”

Even as he blurted out the black dragon’s name, the globes
exploded. Savage shards flew throughout the chamber, striking
stone wal s, limestone outcroppings, and, most of al , Krasus. The
spel he cast to shield him from them proved useless and the force
of the shards’ attack sent Krasus flying back against the stone
chair.

Though he appeared mortal, his body was stil more resilient
than that of any elf or human. The stone cracked and both Krasus
and the chair went tumbling. However, Krasus paid the col ision little
mind, the agony caused by the many shards embedded in him far
worse.

Yet stil he struggled to his feet and prepared a counterattack.

While not as powerful as an Aspect, Krasus was among the most
versatile and cunning of his kind. Moreover, Deathwing had dared
attack him in his sanctum, where a number of elements existed that
would serve Alexstrasza’s consort.

But the moment he summoned the energies needed for his spel ,
the shards glowed bright. Shock ran through his body.

Those pieces that had struck elsewhere around the sanctum
tore loose of their places. Registering this, a pained Krasus
hunched over. His body began to swel and his arms and legs
twisted, becoming more reptilian. From his back burst two leathery,
vestigial wings that immediately began to grow.

Deathwing’s laughter fil ed the sanctum. Again the shards
glowed. Krasus, midway through his transformation into

Korialstrasz the red dragon, faltered.

The other shards reached him. However, instead of striking

Krasus as the previous had, they began adhering to his body.

Krasus sought to burn them off, even shake them off, but to no
avail.

Then, those in his flesh pressed hard. The dragon mage could
not move. To his horror, he found that the shards were
compressing him. They crushed him into a smal er and smal er
thing, as if he had no bones, no substance.

And as the shards utterly encased him, Krasus found himself
trapped not in a globe, but a golden disk.

His eyes widened. “No …”

A monstrous face peered at him from outside. The scarred,
burnt visage of Deathwing. “Korialstrasz …”

In response, the dragon mage attacked his prison with al his
magical might. Yet instead of weakening the disk, his efforts only
made it glow brighter.

“Yes,” mocked Deathwing. “Feed my creation … it’s only fair …

you destroyed the last …”

Krasus shook his head. “This is not possible …”

“Oh, yes,” the black behemoth returned, his grin growing
toothier. “You wil feed my creation forever … you wil be the heart
of my new Demon Soul …”

The dread disk flared. Krasus shrieked from pain—

And then, for a brief moment, he saw himself—or rather, his true
self, Korialstrasz—asleep in the mountain sanctum. Overwhelmed
by the pain, the vision was gone in an instant, yet Krasus had a
revelation. He had wondered how he could have so poorly
expected this confrontation. More to the point, he doubted that

Deathwing would re-create the foul artifact in such a manner.

Krasus knew the truth.

He was dreaming.

His real self was the sleeping dragon. He was caught in a
nightmare such as he had never experienced.

With that knowledge, Krasus fought against what was
happening. His prison was not real. Deathwing was not real. It was
al il usion.

But nothing happened.

Deathwing laughed, his face contorted through the side of the
disk. “I wil conquer your queen and make her my mate! My children
wil rule the skies and Azeroth wil be scorched to a cinder,
eradicating the short-lived vermin you love so much!”

This is only a dream, a nightmare! Krasus insisted. A
nightmare!

Yet, though he knew that, though he began to understand the
reason for it, Krasus could not wake …

The hippogryphs waited uneasily near the shore, the winged beasts
unfamiliar with the terrain here. They were used to flying to

Auberdine, but the severity of the situation had meant the party
needed to land close to the Moonglade.

One of the males—a frayfeather with rich blue and turquoise
plumage—reared up on his equine hind legs. Named after the
highlands from where they came, frayfeathers were excel ent
flyers. A priestess next to the hippogryph quickly murmured
soothing sounds. The male dropped back down, the talons at the
end of his avian forelegs digging into the ground. The antlered
head—akin to that of a huge bird of prey—bent down to be petted.

The Sisters of Elune were alone, the druids having flown on
ahead using their miraculous shapeshifting abilities. Tyrande had
not pushed for them to wait, and she knew that Fandral had been
eager to depart. That suited her needs.

She studied the Moonglade for a moment, then said to her
everfaithful guards, “I wish to walk alone for a moment. Please wait
here.”

They clearly did not care for her suggestion, but they obeyed.

Tyrande turned from them and headed back to the wooded area
from which they had but recently emerged. She entered, savoring
both the moonlit night and the calm of the forest.

Despite the serenity of her surroundings, the high priestess stil
found herself yearning for the peace of the temple. She had never
felt comfortable as ruler of her people, especial y in regard to
decisions that could endanger others’ lives. Each life was precious
to her. Yet she recal ed how the night elves’ previous ruler had
wil ingly let her people be slaughtered for her own glory. To Azshara,
the people had simply existed to live or die at her whim.

“But I am not Azshara … I wil never be Azshara …” the high
priestess growled not for the first time to herself.

“You could never be her, mistress … you’re a far more worthy
ruler.”

Tyrande turned, her frown growing. “‘More worthy?’ Her most
devoted fol owers probably gave her similar praise, Shandris.”

The newcomer wore armor from the neck down, including a
form-fitting breastplate, shoulder guards, and padded metal and
leather leg guards running from her hips down to her matching
boots. Most of her armor was of greenish hue, though trimmed with
a violet that was akin to the skin color of most night elves.

“At least you earn that praise.” Shandris Feathermoon removed
her gauntlets. She came unarmed to the high priestess, as was
custom back in Darnassus … a custom that the general of the
night elves’ army herself enforced with vigor. Her features were
even sharper than those of most of her kind, and there was in her
ever-narrowed eyes an almost zealous determination. Tyrande
knew that zealous determination was al due to her, that Shandris

Feathermoon in many ways felt she existed only to serve the high
priestess.

Tyrande recal ed the orphan whom she had saved during one of
the Burning Legion’s horrific advances during that terrible war
some ten thousand years past. The innocent, fearful eyes were so
different now. Shandris had become the daughter Tyrande had
never had … and like none she would have expected.

Shandris stretched her neck, which was protected by a leather
and metal col ar. Below her eyes, the jagged tattoos that marked an
earlier rite of passage now seemed to mock Tyrande, for they
added to the younger elf’s fearsome look. The high priestess had
never wanted to turn the frightened young orphan into a war
machine, but she had.

“We wil not debate the issue, Shandris,” the high priestess
remarked dourly, referring to her general’s lofty opinion of her.

“Good, because I’m right.” Although she paid her savior every
respect, Shandris was the one person who also spoke plainly and
bluntly to Tyrande. Changing the subject, the general asked, “I
came separate and in secret to this place, as you commanded
before you departed the island. Now, perhaps you can tel me why. I
assume from our proximity to the Moonglade that it has something
to do with the druids.” The younger night elf paced back and forth
as she talked, in many ways her movements reminiscent of a
nightsaber, one of the great toothed cats used as both ground
transport and a heavy weapon by the Sentinels.

“Yes, it involves the druids … and Malfurion, in particular.”

Shandris nodded, her expression unreadable.

“We must find a way to bring him back to us, Shandris. For many
reasons. Whatever is going on in the Emerald Dream not only
involves the druids, but I believe that it is touching Teldrassil … and
perhaps other parts of Azeroth as wel …”

The general’s eyes narrowed to slits. “There were some vague
reports … mostly scattered and uncertain at first … from the
human and dwarven lands. They mentioned in part something
about those who can’t wake up. Something like Malfurion’s
situation, come to think of it …”

Tyrande glanced at the moon for reassurance. Then, putting a
hand on the other’s shoulder, she murmured, “Elune indicated to
me that Malfurion is dying. I expect you know that already.”

The general gazed into her eyes. “I do. And I’m sorry. So sorry.”

Tyrande smiled sadly. “Thank you. But Elune also indicated that
this is beyond my own personal concerns and that I must look to
absolutely whatever must need to be done for the sake of Azeroth
itself … and that is why I have summoned you.”

Shandris Feathermoon immediately went down on one knee.

“Give whatever command you must of me, mistress! I wil do what
you say, go where you say. My life is yours … always!”

The old guilt returned. “I have a tremendous favor to ask of you.

A favor, not a command …”

“Ask it!”

“You know of Brol Bearmantle.”

“More warrior than druid, that one, mistress,” Shandris said as
reply.

“Brol is heading to Ashenvale in the hopes of rescuing

Malfurion. You understand how?”

In her desire to be the best commander possible, Shandris had
created a network for gathering information that stretched far
beyond Darnassus and the night elf lands. Thus, Ashenvale, a part
of the latter, was easily within the province of her studies.

Shandris’s expression tightened, but there was also a hint of
approval.

“It’s daring. Dangerous. And the only hope at this point, I’d say.”

“I do not intend for him to enter alone.”

“I suspected you had something in mind, so I prepared in
advance for a longer journey!” The other night elf’s eyes glowed
with anticipation. Shandris leapt to her feet, her fist pressed
against her breast. “I can depart immediately from here! I know the
danger and the necessity of this mission! It cannot be entrusted to
just anyone—”

“Exactly.” Tyrande straightened, determined that she speak now
as ruler. “And that is why I shal be the one who wil join him.”

Her words struck like lightning. Shandris stumbled back a step.

She gaped at the high priestess.

“You? But Darnassus needs you! I am the one who must go—”

“Elune has shown me that I, as her high priestess, am best
suited. This task wil require the ful teachings of the Sisterhood and
as its head I could ask no other to do this. In addition, no one
knows Malfurion as I do … no one is bound to him as I am. If his
dreamform can be found, I am the one who wil be able to do it.”

Her gaze was strong. “And while saving Malfurion is of the utmost
desire for me personal y, he may also be Azeroth’s only hope. As
high priestess I must be the one who accompanies Brol …”

Shandris final y nodded. But though agreeing, the general stil
had questions.

“What does Fandral think of this?”

“I do not answer to Fandral.”

“Sometimes he seems not to understand that.” There was a
brief moment of humor in Shandris’s eyes. She was one of the
handful aware that he and her mistress did not always see eye to
eye on matters of how Tyrande governed, especial y when her
decisions affected the druids and his sphere of influence. Then,
growing serious again, she continued, “And Darnassus?”

“Darnassus must be yours to guard, Shandris, as you have
done when I have had to leave it for other matters of state.”

“This is hardly the same …” Stil , once more the warrior went
down on one knee. “But I wil protect the city and our realm as
always until your return. ”

Her pointed emphasis of the last word was almost a demand
that Tyrande make certain that she would come back. The night elf
ruler reached out and touched Shandris on the cheek.

“My daughter …”

At those words, the hardened warrior leapt forward and wrapped
her arms around the high priestess. Shandris buried her face in

Tyrande’s neck.

“Mother …” she whispered in a voice that sounded exactly like
that of the frightened orphan of so long ago.

Then, just as quickly, Shandris pul ed back. Other than a
tearstain down one cheek, she looked again like the seasoned
commander of the Sentinels. She saluted Tyrande.

“I’ve just the mount for you,” Shandris said. “As I said, he’s
ready for a long journey. Also, there is no finer. He’s not far away.

Just fol ow me.”

Shandris turned crisply and led her deeper into the woods.

Neither spoke, but both were deep in thought.

After almost five minutes Tyrande heard the shuffling of a large
creature. As Shandris did not show any concern, the high priestess
was content to fol ow.

A moment later they confronted a large male hippogryph
tethered to a massive oak. His plumage was more striking than
those animals ridden by the group, the feathers darker and more
dramatic, with crimson lines across the ebony wings and slight
turquoise markings on the upper edges. Crimson feathers also
lined the otherwise blue-black head. The hippogryph also wore a
protective helm over his head and some body armor. Although al
hippogryphs were powerful, this one was of a species especial y
adept at war.

“He and I have flown into battle together often. You may trust him
as you trust me,” the general said quietly. “His name is Jai’alator.”

“‘Noble blade of Elune,’” Tyrande translated. “A proud name that.

”

The hippogryph bowed his great head. The winged creatures
were not simple beasts. They had an intel igence and were
considered allies, not servants. They allowed themselves to be
ridden.

“I am honored to fly with you,” Tyrande told the hippogryph.

Shandris undid the reins and handed them to her mistress. “He
answers to ‘Jai.’ If you fly just above the trees, the others won’t see
you depart. I’l join the party in a few minutes, then delay them some
more.”

Nodding, the high priestess took the reins. “Thank you,

Shandris.” Tyrande recal ed one last thing. “Shandris … be on
alert.”

The general’s eyes narrowed. “For what?”

How to explain what she had fought against? “For that which the
light of Elune must melt away …”

Shandris frowned at the explanation, but said nothing. She
saluted once more, then whirled around and marched off in the
direction of the other priestesses.

The high priestess wiped moisture from her own eye, then
turned her thoughts to her imminent journey … not the least
problem of which would be convincing Broll Bearmantle to take her
to Ashenvale.

To the Great Tree.

And to the portal into the Emerald Dream.

7

AUBERDINE

Brol landed just beyond sight of Auberdine, already impatient to be
on his way from its vicinity. Although official y part of the night elf
realm, the region in general—cal ed Darkshore due to the odd mist
that tended to blanket everything—was mostly shunned by his race.

There had been attempts made to settle this land—some of them
not by his kind—but al had fal en to failure. Ruins dotted the wilds,
many of them now housing threats to travelers wil ing or forced to
journey through the area.

Auberdine was the only stronghold, if it could be cal ed that. It
was a dismal place by not only night elf standards, but even those
of humans or dwarves. There ever seemed a cover of storm
clouds over the area and a chil wind that cut through to the soul.

Auberdine existed more out of necessity than anything else, for

Darnassus required some place on the immediate mainland where
dealing with the outside world could take place.

Those of his people who populated the town were general y
looked down on by the inhabitants of the capital, a failing that even

Brol found himself suffering at times. Auberdine consisted of
outcasts and misfits. True, there was a garrison of the Sentinels
there and even some druids, but they remained as separate as
possible from the towns-folk.

Brol returned to his true form, and cursed as he shook his foot.

In his storm crow form, his arms became his wings and his feet his
talons. Unfortunately, some of the buds had struck at the latter,
leaving the druid with the idol sealed to that foot.

Brol drew some herbs from a pouch at his waist and scattered
them over the sap. As if snow touched by the sun, the sap final y
softened, then melted away. The Idol of Remulos dropped
ignominiously to the ground.

Retrieving it, Brol peered ahead. The path was dark, and
although that did not bother a night elf much, he wondered why
there was not some il umination on the horizon even despite the
mists. In fact, he could not recal any glow at al during his descent.

Auberdine should have been lit enough to be seen from where he
was, if only for the sake of the other races who frequented the
settlement.

With a grunt, the druid moved on. He could have landed closer
to the town but had not wanted to cal any more attention to his
presence than necessary.

Secreting the idol in a hidden place in his cloak, Brol picked up
his pace. He hoped that Fandral would not notice his theft for some
time. There was no reason for the archdruid to retrieve the figurine

… but Brol never trusted his luck.

As he reached the top of a hil , the druid grew more wary. He stil
could not see any il umination from Auberdine, and this close the
mist should have been no impediment whatsoever.

A sense of dread rising within him, Brol reconsidered his earlier
choice not to fly directly to the town. He drew the idol out again,
placing it down by his foot.

But as he raised his arms, he realized that he was not alone.

The flapping of wings immediately stirred images of Fandral in
pursuit of the errant druid, but what Brol located in the sky was no
storm crow, but rather the hazy shape of a hippogryph.

The beast had a rider, too. Although he could not make her out,
there was no doubt in his mind that it was Shandris Feathermoon.

The figure was maintaining a low height, flying just above the
trees. Indeed, she vanished from his sight before he could signal
her. Brol doubted that Shandris was going to land directly in

Auberdine; like himself, she would find a place just beyond the
town. They were both being overly cautious, but it was a trait that
had served Brol wel in the past and no doubt had done the same
for the general … and it made more sense with the odd lack of
light.

Brol quickly finished his transformation, then, clutching the
figurine, rose up into the air. Like the hippogryph rider, he kept low
over the trees. The druid traced the other’s path as best he could,
but Shandris was nowhere to be seen. That likely meant that she
had already landed.

Auberdine was now not that far off. The low-slung, wooden
buildings rose like shrouded tombs. At the very least, there should
have been bridges and paths il uminated by lamps, but al Brol
could make out were the arched outlines of what might have been a
pair of the structures.

What’s happened in Auberdine? None of the druids at the
convocation had mentioned anything amiss and surely at least a
few of them had passed through or over the region. If anything had
taken place here, then it had done so in the last day or two.

The druid descended. Shifting back into his true form, he
secreted the idol, then moved to the outskirts of town. A deathly
silence was al that greeted Brol . Indeed, even the woods lacked
the cries of nocturnal creatures, not even insects.

Brol touched an oak, hoping to learn something from it, but
discovered something unsettling. The tree was asleep and not
even the druid’s prodding could wake it up. He went to a second
tree, this one an ash, and found it the same way.

More disturbed, Brol final y decided to enter the mist-shrouded
town. Curiously, the mist thickened as he entered. Even the sharp
vision of the druid could pierce the veil only a few feet at a time.

The druid sniffed the air. To his relief, there was no hint of rotting
flesh. He had feared that some disaster—plague or attack—had
taken the population, but, for the moment, that did not seem the
case. The wetness of Auberdine’s air, due in great part to the
nearby sea, should have been enough to cause swift decay of any
dead body. Several hundred bodies would have made quite a
stench.

The architecture of Auberdine bore the typical curves of night
elven culture and in general these would have been some comfort
to Brol , but in the mist, the arched buildings began to resemble
macabre structures made not of wood, but rather bone. Brol even
went so far as to touch one just to make certain that some dread
metamorphosis had not actual y taken place. Yet the wood was
wood …

Something moved further in. The sound was a brief one and not
repeated, but Brol had caught it. Reflexes trained by his cal ing and
honed by his years of fighting immediately enabled the sturdy night
elf to leap into hiding behind a building. He did not think that the
other had heard him, which gave the druid the advantage.

A brief grunt escaped the mist. It was no sound uttered by a
night elf nor any similar race. The sound had a bestial origin.

Something very large prowled Auberdine’s stone and earthen
streets.

Reaching into a pouch, Brol brought out a powder that mildly
stung his fingers. Ignoring the irritation, he leaned around the
corner.

A huge shape converged on his location. Whatever the beast, it
had final y smel ed him.

Brol threw the powder directly at it.

The beast let out an angry squawk and leapt up. Brol ducked,
hoping that the creature would not land atop him. However, not only
did it not fal upon the night elf, but the beast did not even alight on
the path behind him.

Instead, it continued skyward, leaping atop one of the nearby
buildings. Once there, it perched and began sneezing and growling.

At the same time a silver light ate away the mist surrounding

Brol . He whirled to his right.

The light emanated from above, and bathing in its glory was
clearly a priestess of Elune. Brol started to tel her to douse the
il umination, then saw exactly who it was who approached.

“My lady … Tyrande! What’re you doing here?”

“Meeting you, though not as I original y planned.” Her eyes
darted from one shadowed corner to the next, as if she expected
other, less desired, companions to join them.

The druid gaped. “You told me it was Shandris who was to meet
me! I expected her to come—”

“So did she. This had to be my quest, though … and the more I
see of this place, the more I know my decision was the right one. If

I’d told you then that it would be me, you might have refused and I
could not let that happen. My apologies for the subterfuge.”

“High Priestess, you shouldn’t be here! There’s something
terribly wrong going on in Auberdine …”

She nodded gravely. “Come with me and you wil see just how
wrong it is.”

Above them, the beast—her hippogryph, as Brol had suspected
even before he had accosted him—made a low, angry squawk.

Tyrande whispered something to her mount. The hippogryph
reluctantly descended, landing near his rider. He kept one baleful
eye on the druid.

“What did you do to Jai?” she quietly asked, one hand running
over the creature’s beaked countenance.

“An herb with stinging properties …”

The high priestess briefly smiled. “You were fortunate. I daresay
if you had tried that anywhere else, Jai would not have flown from
but rather through you. He knew, though, that I wanted a prisoner if
possible. A live one.”

As Tyrande continued to pass her hand over the beast’s face,

Brol commented, “The effects of the herb wil pass in a few more
moments.”

“We do not even have time for that.” A faint glow from above
emanated over the hippogryph’s eyes. Jai shook his head, then
seemed much happier. Nodding her satisfaction, the high priestess
looked again to the druid. Her expression remained dark. “Come
with me. I have something to show you.”

With the hippogryph trailing her, Tyrande led Brol to the nearest
of the dwel ings. She then shocked the druid by entering the
domicile without any hesitation, a sign that things were even worse
than he had imagined. He was fil ed with a sense of dread over
what they would find inside.

The interior had some of the trappings of a night elven home, but
the plant life within looked sick, weak. The mist that covered

Auberdine permeated even inside the dwel ing, adding to the feeling
of imminent disaster.

Jai, too large to fit through the entrance, peered uneasily inside.

Brol watched as Tyrande glanced into the sleeping quarters.

Withdrawing, she indicated that Brol should look as wel .

With much wariness, the druid complied. His eyes widened at
the scene within.

Two night elves—a male and a female—lay on woven mats. The
female’s arm was draped over the male’s chest. They were utterly
motionless, which told Brol the worst.

“It is the same in the other places I have looked,” his companion
solemnly remarked.

The druid wanted to approach the pair but held back out of
respect. “Do you know how they perished?”

“They are not dead.”

He looked back at her. When Tyrande added nothing more, the
druid final y knelt by the two. His eyes widened.

Quiet but steady breathing escaped from both.

“They’re … asleep?”

“Yes—and I could not awaken the ones I found earlier.”

Despite what she said, Brol could not resist gently prodding the
male’s shoulder. When that failed to wake him, he did the same to
the female. As a last attempt, Brol took hold of an arm from each
and shook. Backing away, the druid growled, “We must find the
source of the spel ! There must be some mad mage at work here!”

“It would take a powerful one indeed to do al this,” said the high
priestess. She indicated the door. “Come with me. I want to show
you one more thing.”

They left the home, and with Jai in tow, Tyrande led Brol over a
bridge that connected to the more commercial areas of Auberdine.

The mist kept many of the details of the vil age hidden, but Brol
spotted a sign written in both Darnassian and Common that read,

LAST HAVEN TAVERN.

Brol knew that the tavern, of al places, should have been lit and
alive. Along with the local inn, the tavern was one of the few public
gathering places in the town.

Jai took up a position outside the entrance, the hippogryph
peering into the mists in search of any potential foe. The high
priestess strode inside without a word, her silence again warning

Brol of what was to come.

The tavern was not like the home, which had been in order
despite the bizarre scene inside. Chairs were scattered over the
wooden floor, and some of the tables had been overturned. The
bar at the end was stained not just from years of inebriated
patrons, but also from several smashed bottles and barrels.

And al over the tavern lay sprawled the bodies of night elves, a
handful of gnomes and humans, and a singular dwarf.

“I landed not far from this area and was disturbed when I saw no
life or lights,” the high priestess explained. “This was the most
immediate public place, and so I entered.”

“Are they also … asleep?”

Tyrande bent down by one human. He was slumped over a table,
and looked as if he had fal en there from sheer exhaustion. His
hair and beard were disheveled, but his garments, despite some
dust, were clearly of a person of some means. Next to him lay a
night elf, a local. Although the night elf lay on his side on the floor,
his hands were stil stretched forth toward the human. Like the
human, the night elf looked oddly unkempt. They were the worst in
appearance, though al of the sleepers in the tavern looked as if
they had been through some struggle.

“A fight broke out here,” Brol decided.

Tyrande stood. “A very polite fight, if that was truly the case. The
only bruises I found were caused by their fal s. I think these two
col apsed.” She gestured at the dwarf and a few of the other
patrons. “See how these others are positioned?”

After a moment’s study, Brol scowled. “They look like they’re
taking a rest. Al of them!”

“They are al asleep now, even this first desperate pair. Look
around. The tavern looks as if it was set up for defense.”

“I should’ve seen that myself.” Indeed, the druid noted now that
the tables and chairs created a wal of sorts that faced both the
entrance and the windows. “But a defense from what?”

Tyrande had no answer for him.

Brol squinted. In fact, he had been compel ed to squint more
often for the past few minutes despite the fact that, with the sun
down, his vision should have been sharper. “The mist is getting
thicker … and darker.”

Outside, Jai let out a low warning squawk.

Tyrande and Brol hurried to the entrance. Outside, the
hippogryph moved anxiously about. However, there was no sign of
anything in the vicinity, as more and more the deepening mist
limited the distance that could be seen.

A moan came from inside, and Brol brushed past the high
priestess to investigate its source among the slouched figures
near the back end of the tavern. Then another moan arose from a
different direction. Brol identified it as coming from the night elf
near the human. He bent down next to the figure.

Tyrande joined him. “What is it? Is he awake?”

“No …” Brol turned the sleeper’s head slightly. “I think he’s
dreaming …”

A third moan joined the previous. Suddenly, al around them, the
slumbering figures wailed. The hair on the back of Brol ’s neck
stiffened as he detected the thing al the voices had in common:

fear. “Not dreams,” he corrected himself, rising and glancing back
at the entrance. “They’re having nightmares. Al of them.”

Jai again made a warning sound. Returning to the hippogryph,
the pair saw nothing … but heard much.

There were moans arising from al over Auberdine.

“This is tied to Malfurion,” Tyrande stated with utter confidence.

“But how?”

Jai stepped forward, the beast’s head cocking to the side,
listening.

A murky figure briefly passed into and out of sight. It was shorter
than a night elf, more the height of a human. The hippogryph
started after it, but Tyrande quietly cal ed his name. The animal
paused.

The high priestess took the lead again. Brol quickly moved to
her side, ready to use his arts to aid her. Jai kept pace behind
them.

“There!” she hissed, pointing to the left.

Brol scarcely had time to view the figure before it again
vanished in the fog. “It looks as though it’s stumbling. May be a
survivor.”

“The mist seems to thicken most around our quarry.” Tyrande
put her hands together. “Perhaps the Mother Moon can remedy
that.”

From the shrouded sky directly above the high priestess, a silver
glow descended in the direction of the mysterious figure. It burned
through the fog, revealing everything in its path. Brol ’s brow rose
as he watched the glow veer like a living thing stretching out to find
the stranger.

And there he suddenly stood: a male human. His clothing
bespoke of better times but he had clearly been put through a long
decline of station. He stared back at them with eyes hol ow from
what seemed to be a lack of sleep. The human was more haggard
looking than any of the group they had found in the tavern.

Somehow, though, he kept moving.

“By Nordrassil!” blurted Brol .

The human had not only kept moving, but before the eyes of
both night elves, he had also just vanished.

“A mage,” Tyrande snarled. “He is the cause, then, not a victim

…”

“I don’t know, my lady.” Brol could explain no further, but there
had been something in the manner of the man’s disappearance
that had felt … familiar.

The druid focused on what he had seen. The human had looked
at them, then he had started to take a step …

“He walked through something … walked into something,” Brol
muttered to himself. And when it had happened, the druid had
sensed … what?

“Vanished, walked into or through some portal—what does it
matter?” argued Tyrande, her aspect even grimmer. She quickly
stepped back to the hippogryph and seized from the side of the
saddle her glaive. “He may be the key to Malfurion …”

Before Brol could stop her, the high priestess darted toward the
spot where the human had stood. Brol could not deny that perhaps
the stranger was the culprit, as Tyrande had said, but even he
knew that more caution was needed, especial y if their quarry was
indeed a spel caster.

Arriving at the human’s last location, Tyrande held the glaive
ready while murmuring a prayer. The light of Elune surrounded her,
then spread for several yards in every direction.

But of the human, there was no sign.

Brol joined her. “Great lady, I—”

She grimaced at him. “I am not Queen Azshara. Please do not
cal me by such titles as ‘great’ and such—”

More moans—the fright in them so very distinct—pierced the
thick mist as sharply as the light of Elune had.

“We must wake them somehow!” Brol growled. “There must be
some way …”

Jai let out a warning. Suspecting that the human had
reappeared, both night elves turned at the sound—

And there, obscured by the mysterious fog, several figures
lurched toward them as the mist carried forth a haunting, col ective
moan.

Brol experienced a rising anxiety. He suddenly felt the need to
run or cower. He wanted to rol into a bal and pray that the
shadowy figures would not hurt him. A nervous sweat covered the
druid.

What’s happening to me? he managed to ask himself. Brol was
not prone to fear, but the urge to surrender was powerful. He
looked to Tyrande and saw that the hand in which she held the
glaive was shaking, and not due to the weapon’s weight. The high
priestess’s mouth was set tight. Even Jai revealed hints of stress,
the powerful hippogryph’s breathing growing more and more rapid.

Tyrande looked to the left. “They are over there, too!”

“And to our right,” Brol added. “If we look behind us, I’l wager
they’l be there as wel .”

“I wil not be sent to my knees crying like some frightened child!”

Tyrande abruptly declared to the half-seen shapes. Her hands
shook harder despite her words and served to fuel Brol ’s own
swel ing anxiety.

From above the high priestess emanated a silver light that
wrapped over both night elves and the hippogryph. It spread toward
the shadows, il uminating the first staggering shape.

And in the moonlit glow, they beheld a thing that was rotted and
decayed. It stared with blank, unseeing eyes and a face twisted in
pain even in undeath—a face that Brol suddenly registered as
identical to the night elf lying on the tavern floor.

But if the face was that of the sleeper, the form was not. Rather,
it was the shadowy outline of a thing Brol hoped never to see
again. The night elf wore in body the semblance of a demon of the

Burning Legion.

As the mob closed in, a second being was revealed, bearing the
tormented face of the human, but his form, too, was otherwise that
of a demon.

“They’ve—” Brol muttered to himself. “They’ve returned …”

“No … it cannot be them!” Tyrande murmured. “No satyrs …

please … no satyrs …”

The two night elves remained frozen. They wanted to defend
themselves, but the monstrous figures converging on them had left
the pair with minds in such turmoil that their bodies were paralyzed.

At that moment a new figure stepped out right in front of the
druid and his companions—the ragged human they had been
chasing. He stumbled toward them, his eyes looking past.

Brol blinked his eyes, trying to adjust them, but it seemed the
mist had thickened—or had his eyes gone out of focus? The
fiendish forms with the faces of Auberdine’s unfortunate
inhabitants were once again simply murky shapes. Suddenly, the
druid had the sensation of being near to the ground … and, feeling
around with his hands, discovered he was on his knees. He
realized then that he had been dreaming; that the demons he had
seen had existed only in his subconscious.

“By the Mother Moon!” he heard Tyrande growl, but only as a
faint echo. “What—?”

The hol ow-eyed human who had stepped out of nothing final y
spoke through the unnatural darkness. “Don’t fal asleep again …

Don’t sleep …” he whispered. Brol felt an arm drape over his
shoulder and then he and Tyrande, kneeling alongside one another,
were held together weakly by the haggard human who crouched
behind them.

The world faded. It did not vanish. It faded, as if it were more
memory than substance.

And, in addition, it took on a deep green hue.

There was no Auberdine. Merely a landscape barely seen. Brol
tried to focus his thoughts enough to comprehend where they were,
but then the landscape shifted as if they were racing along it at a
pace impossible for any mortal creature.

Just as suddenly, their new surroundings lost their greenish hue.

Distinct features popped up al around them. It was again night and
though there was mist, it was not nearly so thick as in Auberdine.

Brol discovered he was moving. This revelation made him react
by trying to control his movement when apparently he should not
have done so. The druid fel forward.

The ground was hard but, fortunately, covered by some
vegetation. Brol managed to land on one knee. Next to him,

Tyrande had better fortune, continuing on for several steps until
able to control her own actions.

It was the high priestess who first managed to speak. On legs
that were clearly unsteady but able to hold her, she surveyed their
surroundings. “Where—where are we? This is not Auberdine!”

It was not Auberdine and, at first glance, it was nowhere with
which the druid was familiar. He shook his head, trying to better
focus. Some things that had just happened were beginning to make
sense … not the sense he desired, though.

“Not Auberdine …” rasped the cause of their confusion. The
bedraggled human stumbled by Brol . He looked from the druid to
the high priestess, his expression beseeching. “You woke me
enough for that … I managed to walk …”

Rising, Brol took hold of the man by the arm. While the stranger
in no physical manner reminded him of Varian Wrynn, his distress
stirred the night elf’s memories of his friend. Whatever this human
suffered, it was at least as terrible as Varian’s long loss of memory.

“What did you do?” Brol asked. “Did you real y take us
through—”

The stranger pressed against him, the eyes burning into Brol ’s.

“I’m so tired! I can’t stay awake! Please don’t let me sleep—” He
let out a guttural sound, then col apsed unconscious against the
night elf.

Taken by surprise, Brol had to quickly adjust his hold. He gently
lowered the human to the ground.

“We need to wake him up!” Tyrande declared. “You heard what
he said! You saw Auberdine!”

Brol peered closely at their new companion. “We couldn’t wake
him now even with both our abilities combined. He’s deep asleep.”

“He is our only clue to Malfurion!” The high priestess reached
down as if to shake the human, then hesitated. Her expression
suddenly calmed. “Forgive me …”

“There’s nothing to forgive.” Brol looked over the man. “He
wears an outfit that once saw courts, but other than that, there’s
nothing I can identify.”

“He seems a most unlikely mage to me.”

The druid nodded. “That I’l agree … and no mage could’ve done
what he did.” The former gladiator snorted. “No human or dwarf
and not even many night elves, for that matter … unless I’m
powerful y mistaken what just happened to us.”

She frowned. “What else could it have been but magic? Odd
magic, but certainly that! He took al of us—” Tyrande paused. “Not

Jai …”

Brol had already considered the hippogryph. “He sleeps, my
lady. Jai is part of Auberdine now.”

The high priestess looked sad. “Poor creature … so many poor
creatures …” Steeling herself, she asked, “And what of this one,
then? If not a magic spel , then how did he take us out of Auberdine
and deposit us here?”

“There’s only one way.” Brol ’s tone could not hide his own
disbelief at what he was saying. “I think … I think that for perhaps a
single moment … he took us into and out of the Emerald Dream. ”

8

LUCAN

Something different moved near Malfurion’s enshrouded location,
something both familiar … and not.

The archdruid wondered what new torture the Nightmare Lord
intended now. The agony of his continual transformation stil
assailed him, but Malfurion had managed to keep that one part of
his mind shielded off from it. He knew that his captor was aware of
this and sought to break down that shield and so expected that this
was to be the next effort.

Malfurion was not certain of his own ability to hold off anymore.

To do what he had done and stil suffer his torments had taken so
very, very much out of him. The Nightmare Lord knew wel how to
torture him, striking through just who and what the archdruid loved
or feared the most.

The shape was huge, though not so much as the shadow of a
gigantic tree that was al Malfurion knew of his foe. The new shape
moved with a confidence and sinuousness that disturbed the night
elf. He wished that the thick, unsettling mist surrounding his tiny
prison would just for a moment disperse so that he could see the
thing better and understand what new evil it brought with it.

I am here … came a voice in his head. However, it was not the

Nightmare Lord, but rather the new shape. Nor was it talking to

Malfurion; he simply heard it as it reached out to another.

And that other came forth. The shadow of the tree bent over

Malfurion’s own twisted form, the Nightmare Lord’s branches
reaching like tendrils toward the newcomer.

There was silence. Malfurion realized that his captor spoke to
the shape, but unlike the latter, the Nightmare Lord kept his desires
hidden from his prisoner. The night elf wondered why that was
necessary.

The new shadow let out a mocking laugh. Yes … it shall be
done so … what a jest it will be …

The archdruid would have frowned if he could. This was not a
new torture for him—at least not directly. Rather, his tormentor had
some task for this other shadow.

Understanding that brought resolve to Malfurion. He let his pain
focus his powers. He was stil in the Emerald Dream—or

Nightmare now—and although his efforts thus far to pierce the mist
and see how the realm had been changed by the evil that had
swept over it had failed, perhaps … perhaps Malfurion could
manage enough for something more focused.

The veil would not part. The shape continued to be nothing more
than that. Stil , the archdruid concentrated, using the same methods
needed to peer into oneself for the meditation that preceded the
dreamform leaving the body. Sensing al there was to this unsettling
visitor became Malfurion’s al . He had tried this with the Nightmare

Lord and failed, but if they did not expect him to try again on the
newcomer …

Too curious a vermin you are!

Malfurion’s mind was struck by a mental force so great it
momentarily stunned him. That had the curious effect of lessening
his agony—if but for a second.

I go … the shape said to the night elf’s unheard tormentor. The
archdruid managed to refocus enough to see the shape dwindle in
the thick mist.

The shadow tree that was the Nightmare Lord’s presence here
now twisted back to loom over Malfurion. Too much spirit still, but
not for long … so much effort costs, does it not? How fares your
mortal cloak, my friend?

The night elf understood immediately. He felt the weakness that
originated not from his dreamform but his actual body increase.

His attempt to learn more had cost him valuable power.

The shadow branches draped over his eyes, almost as if they
desired to pluck them out. Yet Malfurion was aware that his eyes
were perhaps the safest part of his dreamform. The evil that held
him wanted him to see, even if there was nothing to see … or
perhaps because there was nothing.

You wish to see? Why you only had to ask, my friend … it is
the least I can do for one who gives so much to our desires …

The branches stretched forward, separating into two sets that in
turn acted as monstrous hands that pushed away the mist …

revealing for the first time what the emerald realm had become.

Malfurion would have screamed if he could, albeit not because
of pain.

The branches receded. The mist closed about the trapped
archdruid once more.

The mocking voice fil ed his head. The glee in it was like daggers
that constantly thrust at the night elf’s mind. And we are indebted
to you for so much of this, Malfurion Stormrage … so much …

The shadow tree vanished. The voice stil ed. For the moment

Malfurion was being left to dwel on the horror that he had seen. It
was but the latest torture designed to break that part of him that
had not yet surrendered.

But what his captor did not know was that the night elf had also
learned something that he desired to know. Two significant things,
in fact. One was the identity of the Nightmare Lord’s servant. The
answer should have been obvious, but due to Malfurion’s constant
suffering, it had taken the creature’s own abrupt anger to reveal
him.

A green dragon indeed served the evil … but not just any green
dragon … He prayed that Ysera knew, lest she be caught by
surprise. If the mistress of the Emerald Dream was captured, then
al was truly lost.

And the second thing, which had come with the unveiling of

Malfurion’s true surroundings, served to verify a choice that the
archdruid had made long ago.

If there was a chance at al of him saving Ysera and the Emerald

Dream, then Malfurion would have to die.

Despite what they had seen, despite what that potential y meant for
them, Tyrande and Brol knew that they also had to sleep. The
shocking struggle in Auberdine had taken more out of them than
they had realized.

They had no idea as to where they were in conjunction to either

Auberdine or Ashenvale, but the druid had told her that he thought
that they were closer to their goal. Unfortunately, she was now
without Jai, which meant that they could not fly. As powerful as

Brol ’s storm crow form was, it could not carry her and their
intriguing companion.

Tyrande continued to study the slumbering human. He appeared
a harmless figure and she sensed no overwhelming magical
presence around him, even though, as not only high priestess of

Elune but one who had through the centuries studied the various
magics, she should have noticed something. There was that about
him that bespoke of some kind of magic, but it was very subtle,
almost as if an inherent part of his most basic being and not
enhanced by any study of the mystical arts.

She glanced at the heavens, which were going from gray to
black. A day had passed, a precious one lost as they waited for the
human to wake up. Though he muttered in his sleep, he did not act
like the townsfolk. His nightmares might be vivid, but they had not
come to life.

Recal ing Auberdine again, the high priestess shuddered. She
and Brol had come close to fal ing victim just as poor Jai had.

Tyrande relived the nightmares she had suffered—hel ish, grinning
satyrs come to take her to their master—and gave thanks that the
human had come when he had. Brol had told her of his own
monsters, in his case ghastly demons of the Burning Legion. For
both night elves, the creatures had worn horrific parodies of the
sleeping inhabitants of Auberdine.

Not for the first time, Tyrande wanted to shake their new
companion until he woke. Malfurion slipped closer and closer to
oblivion—or worse—with each passing day. However, she and the
druid had come to agree that there was no use in attempting such
a futile act again. The human had remained unconscious even
despite their initial harsh efforts; it seemed he would not wake until
he chose to wake.

But I will not lose him again! Tyrande insisted, her expression
tightening. I will not lose him even if it is his own fault that he’s
come to these straits—

A sense of shame washed over her even as she thought that.

Malfurion had gone in search of a possible threat. He had had the
best interests of not only the druids, but al Azeroth when he had
gone … just like so many times before—

Tyrande shook her head, trying to clear it of her regrets. She
gave thanks when she heard Brol stir.

He did not notice her expression shift, his attention first on the
human. “Stil sleeping, I see.”

“I have my doubts that he wil awaken.”

“Me, too. He doesn’t act like the others, but to sleep the day
through after half the night before that …”

The high priestess toyed with her glaive. She was glad that she
had taken it from Jai’s saddle. If she had not, the weapon would
have been left behind in Auberdine. While Tyrande carried within
her the gifts of the Mother Moon, they did not make her invincible.

The glaive was a sturdy and necessary weapon. “Do we leave him
here? I dislike doing that, considering how he helped us.”

“I’m of the same mind. Stil , we need to reach Ashenvale and
while I could carry him for a time, he’l slow us down even more.”

She final y said to him what she had been considering for most
of her time awake. “You should go on alone. You planned to do that
when first I suggested Ashenvale.”

Brol looked aghast. “I wouldn’t abandon you here! Especial y
after Auberdine! We proceed to Ashenvale together”—he thrust a
thick thumb at the human—“and hopeful y with this one in tow …”

“Then what do we do?”

The druid looked guilty. “Something I planned to do beyond

Auberdine, anyway.” From his cloak, he produced what he had
taken from Fandral’s dwel ing. “It’s time I tried to bring some
worthiness to my theft, if that’s possible.”

She could not believe what she was seeing. “Is that—is that the

Idol of Remulos?”

“Yes.”

“I had heard that you passed that on to Archdruid Fandral’s
keeping—”

“And now I’ve borrowed it.” His expression asked her not to
pursue that matter further. When Tyrande nodded, Brol , appearing
no more relieved, added, “It may be our best hope if we’re to make
successful use of the portal.”

“How so?”

“Remulos said it was linked to a green dragon of great power.

The Aspect Ysera would not tel him which when she added her
influence in its crafting. He suspects the identity, as do I, having
faced it briefly when seeking to cleanse the idol of its corruption.

Though I didn’t know the name, I felt its great power. It should be
one of her consorts.”

Which meant to the high priestess a dragon with knowledge and
might comparable to few. Tyrande understood Brol ’s reasoning.

“You think you can contact him through the figurine?”

“It was worth my honor to hope that, yes.”

She did not like the sound of that. “What wil Fandral do when he
finds out you removed this from his sanctum?”

Brol shrugged. “I’ve no idea, but if I survive al this, I’l find out
then.”

Tyrande studied the figurine, praying that it would be worth the
price for the druid … and for them. “What do you hope to do … and
can I help in any way?”

“There’s nothing you can help with. I’ve got to do this myself.”

Brol set the figurine down on the ground in front of him, then sat
with legs crossed. The eyes of the dragon stared directly into the
druid’s. “I’m trying something different. Don’t want to use the idol
itself …” He suddenly choked up. “Never thought I’d have to see
the damned thing again, for that matter …”

The high priestess said nothing, aware of the pain involved in

Brol ’s previous encounter with the figurine. She knew the agony he
had suffered when, weakened, he could not save his daughter from
the idol’s twisted forces. He was speaking more to himself than
her.

Facing his palms toward the idol, Brol began muttering. The idol
was stil bound to the dragon, wherever he was. The druid hoped to
tie into that link and touch the dragon’s mind. Tyrande knew exactly
why. The green dragon might be able to give them a clue to what
was happening, but, more important, it was possible that he might
be able to assist them in passing through into the Emerald Dream.

Once, the idol itself had been able to do that—Brol had used it so,
where there he had battled his own rage in the manifestation of his
bear form. But that had been before the Nightmare had made even
the untouched places difficult to reach. Certainly, having one of that
realm’s guardians at their side would increase their chances of not
only survival, but success.

A faint hint of emerald light softly bathed the idol and as it did, a
faded stream of energies rose from the figurine.

The magic linking the idol to the mysterious dragon.

Her attention was suddenly taken by Brol , around whom another
faint glow of a more forest green now arose. Curiously, it did not
emanate from him, but rather had arisen from the grassy soil upon
which he sat. As a druid, Brol received much of his power through
the flora and fauna of Azeroth and for the first time, Tyrande was
seeing it so. There was also power within him—she was wel aware
of that from Malfurion—but this was an aspect of her beloved’s
cal ing that she had not real y considered. In some ways it was akin
to her cal ing upon the Mother Moon.

Perhaps Malfurion and I are not so different even there, the
high priestess thought. And perhaps that is why we have been
pushed apart so much …

It was a reminder of what she should have known so wel , having
experienced the teachings of Cenarius and having fought beside
her beloved and other druids. Azeroth was so much a part of a
druid; it touched them constantly. Malfurion, so attuned, surely felt
everything much, much more than Brol .

He can no more turn from his calling than I can from mine …

yet those callings intersect just as our lives do … if we survive
this … we will learn how to make both intertwine … and learn
how to finally be together …

If we survive …

The forest green then began to expand to the magical stream
that reached through the plane of Azeroth to wherever the dragon
currently lurked. Yet barely had it begun when it seemed to falter.

There was resistance.

Brol muttered something.

The resistance lessened.

“No! You mustn’t!”

The human was in their midst, as wild-eyed as ever. He was half
on his knees, desperately reaching for the idol.

As he closed on it, Tyrande saw around him a landscape that
was and was not where the trio was situated. Part of it seemed so
simple.

The other part—

The high priestess kicked out. However, it was not the human
who was her target, but rather the Idol of Remulos.

The dragon figurine went flying. It bounced against a rise, then
landed atop a smal rock.

Brol , his spel shattered, peered at the pair with a combination of
frustration and confusion. “What by the World Tree are you doing?

” he demanded of Tyrande. The druid leapt to his feet and seized
the human by the scruff of the neck. “What mischief are you
about? What sort of trick have you played on her?”

The man’s mouth moved, but no sounds escaped it. The images

Tyrande had seen around him had faded, and despite her best
attempts to sear them in her memory, they vanished into oblivion …

just as dreams both light and dark tended to do.

But she recal ed one thing. Jumping to Brol ’s side, she kept him
from further frightening the disheveled human. “Leave him be! He
was trying to help us!”

“Help us? He tricked you into breaking the spel just when it was
starting to work!” Yet clearly respecting her opinion, Brol stil
loosened his hold.

“Wasn’t working, wasn’t working,” the man babbled, his eyes
looking past them. “Only working for them, bringing them …”

“Who?” Tyrande asked, putting a calming hand on his shoulder.

Some focus final y came to his gaze. He glanced at her. “I … I
don’t know … them … the nightmares …” The man looked down. “I
slept … I can’t sleep … don’t sleep …”

“Who are you?” Brol asked, his tone much kinder. “What name
do you have?”

“Name?” For a moment the focus vanished. Blinking, their
companion seemed to pul himself together a bit. “Lucan … Lucan

Foxblood …” Some vestigial pride made him straighten. “Third
assistant cartographer to His Majesty, King Varian! On a mapping
mission to—to—” His expression became that of a lost child. “I
don’t remember that, anymore …”

“Do not concern yourself about that,” Tyrande quietly urged. “Tel
us. How did you know that what we did risked danger?”

“I—I just did. It—it has to do with that place in my dreams … I felt
them … I felt something near …”

Brol retrieved the figurine. “Might’ve just been the one we were
trying to reach.”

Although this made sense, Tyrande stil recal ed how she had felt
after viewing whatever it was she had seen behind Lucan

Foxblood. “No … he has the right of it, Brol . There was something
sinister approaching us. That’s why I did what I had to. I trust his
word in this …”

Lucan looked at her as if she had just saved his head from the
ax. “Thank you, glorious lady! Thank you!”

“Calm yourself, Lucan. You are among friends … and do not
thank me. Your instinctive reaction may have saved us.”

“You real y think so?” the druid asked, stil eyeing the statuette.

“Maybe so … maybe so …” He set the statuette down. “In that
case, there’s one thing left to do.” Brol looked to Lucan. “Do you
know where we are?”

“No … no … I just kept going … I just kept going …”

“As I thought.” Brol stepped back. To Tyrande, he said, “Didn’t
tell you before, but while you slept I took a brief fly up. Didn’t
recognize where we were, but thought if I tried once more, we might
have a better idea of what to do next.”

Tyrande was not bothered by the revelation, aware that Brol
would not have endangered her and Lucan. She nodded
agreement to his new plan. “What of the idol?”

He shrugged. “What of it? We don’t use the damned thing, it
won’t be dangerous. It can sit there until I return.”

Spreading his arms, he took on his storm crow form. Lucan
gasped and stumbled back to Tyrande, who felt some guilt. She and

Brol were far more versed in magic than most humans.

“It’s nothing,” she told Lucan. “Nothing to worry about.”

“My—my cousin took up the cal ing … wizardry, I mean,” Lucan
muttered, almost sounding pleased at remembering. Then his frown
returned. “He’s dead now.”

As so many are, the high priestess thought, recal ing the lives
lost in the last struggle. And now … what comes to wreak havoc
on Azeroth this time?

Brol took to the air, diverting her musings. She and Lucan
watched with admiration as the huge bird soared up into the sky.

Tyrande envied this particular skil of Malfurion’s cal ing. To fly like
that …

Yet hardly had the storm crow reached a respectable height than
he immediately dove back toward his companions. Lucan simply
stared, perhaps not understanding, but Tyrande knew that Brol
would not have returned so quickly if not for news of import.

She grabbed the idol before Brol reached them, certain for
some reason that they would need to move. The druid’s
countenance when he changed back was verification that her
notion was at the very least close to the truth.

“Did you find out where we are?” Lucan innocently asked.

“What did you see?” Tyrande interjected. “Are we somewhere
near the Horde’s territory?”

“The Horde’s the least of our troubles,” Brol growled. “We need
to find cover and quick …”

He seized Lucan by the arm and started to drag him toward one
of the hil ier areas. Tyrande kept pace at the druid’s side, the idol
tucked under her arm.

“What is it? More of those nightmarish creatures, like in

Auberdine?”

Brol snorted. “No … just possibly a bigger nightmare.” He jutted
a finger toward the sky to the east. “We’ve got a dragon out there

… and it’s black.”

Thura eyed the strangers from a hil top further to their west. Two
night elves and a human. Two males and a female. She discounted
the human immediately, for despite seeming in the prime of his life,
he hardly looked the warrior. The two night elves, on the other
hand, appeared to be more worthy opponents. The male was likely
a druid. Thura respected the power of those who drew from nature.

The female most intrigued the orc, for she had always had the
desire to compare her skil s to those of her gender from the other
races. The night elf moved with impressive grace and the glaive
she carried was one that required strength and long training. Thura
natural y trusted to her ax but wondered how the fight would have
gone otherwise.

But the reality of her situation quickly erased such idle curiosity.

What mattered was that these three were here. Here when she
was. They were tied somehow to her quest, the most obvious
reason having to do with the two night elves. Her prey was one.

These were likely comrades from battle. The female might even be
his mate.

The orc’s broad mouth split into a wide, grim smile. They are
why I am here, she decided. They will lead me to him … they will
lead me to this Malfurion … this betrayer of comrades and
destroyer of life …

She had seen the druid perform great magic, becoming a bird
that could fly high. Even more than the female, he would have to die
quickly when it came to fighting them. He looked to be powerful,
though clearly not as much as the murderous druid in her dreams.

Stil , he would be good practice for the duel with her true foe.

Then Thura saw why the druid had flown for so short a time. The
great dark form rising into the sky was the one that she had seen
only as shadow before. Now it was flying toward the area where
the trio had been, and though they were fleet of foot, even the
human, they were surely doomed. The orc cursed, realizing that the
best clue to her prey’s whereabouts was going to be eaten.

Then, an astounding thing happened.

The dragon’s prey simply became nothing. One minute they
were running and the next they were gone. Only a momentary hint
of some greenish il umination gave her any sort of answer. She
assumed that one of the night elves had cast some sort of spel
taking the trio far away.

Yet what surprised her more was when she looked again to the
dragon. The great leviathan immediately turned, then, wings beating
hard, left the vicinity. There had been no hesitation; the dragon had
departed with al haste.

And most curious to Thura was that, though the darkness had
not given her a perfect view of the departing behemoth … she
would have sworn that the dragon had fled in sudden fear.

9

TO PURSUE A DRAGON

The druids were weary. They had given of themselves as much as
any living being could, and though Fandral told them that their
efforts were not in vain, stil it was difficult for many to believe that.

Teldrassil looked no different … and, indeed, to Hamuul

Runetotem, there was something about the World Tree that now
bothered him more.

Worse, his concern was compounded by Fandral’s sudden
curiosity as to Brol ’s absence. With so many gathered and so
much urgency, the disappearance had managed to go unnoticed
until after the casting. Now, though, the lead archdruid seemed to
be making a particular point about it.

Hamuul had promised to look for Brol , but that had mainly been
to assuage Fandral. Unfortunately, there was only so much Hamuul
could do in regards to a promise that he knew—with much guilt

—had no hope of being fulfil ed.

He had tried to stay far from the convocation, but knew that his
own absence would eventual y be noticed as wel . Hoping to avoid
further questions, he kept to the edges of the group, moving here
and there as if stil seeking.

Hamuul edged his way to Naralex. Although as exhausted as the
rest, the night elf stood observing a single seed in his hand. As the
tauren neared, Naralex gently waved his other hand over the seed,
at the same time murmuring as if to an infant.

The seed burst open. A tiny tendril rose out of it. When it grew to
more than four inches, Naralex shifted his free hand to the left. The
shoot arched in that direction.

The night elf made a curving motion to the right. Retaining the
arch to the left, the new plant now grew to the indicated direction.

“This is what we’re meant to be,” Naralex solemnly stated to

Hamuul. “Nurturers of life. Gardeners of paradise …”

“If Azeroth were perfect, yes,” agreed the tauren, “but it is not.”

“No … it isn’t.” Bending, Naralex set the seed on the ground. He
drew a circle around the seed.

The ground within the circle churned. The seed sank down until
only the shoot remained.

Naralex tidied the area around the plant, then turned his
attention to Hamuul. “And have you found our brother Brol ?”

The tauren fought to keep his nostrils from flaring. “I am stil
searching for him.”

The night elf’s eyes narrowed. “We both know that he never
returned with us, brother Hamuul.”

Hamuul neither confirmed nor denied it. “I promised Archdruid

Fandral Staghelm that I would look for Brol . I must continue.”

In what under some circumstance might have proven a
dangerous act, Naralex thrust a hand out to stop the departing
tauren. “Archdruid Fandral’s moved on to other things. He’s not
even here at the moment, brother Hamuul.”

“Not here?” Again, the tauren sought to hide any wariness.

“While you were … elsewhere … he suggested that we al do
what we can to cleanse our thoughts so that when he returned, we
could begin anew with another spel for Teldrassil.”

“And where has he gone in the meantime?”

Naralex gazed up … and up. “The enclave, natural y. He said
he’s seeking guidance in the seclusion of his sanctum there.”

Hamuul snorted before he could stop himself. He had his
suspicions as to where Brol Bearmantle had flown, though exactly
what the night elf had intended then was a matter of conjecture.

The tauren could imagine one thing in particular, but Brol would not
have been so audacious … would he?

Naralex lowered his arm. “I thought you’d like to know. Do you
think that perhaps our brother Brol might have had a similar
thought … seeking guidance in the enclave, I mean?”

Ful y recovered, Hamuul replied, “I doubt that Brol Bearmantle
wil be found up there.”

The night elf nodded ever so slightly. “I thought as much, also.

I’m glad we’re in agreement.”

Leaving Naralex, Hamuul pondered matters. Naralex had been
trying to give him a warning, in case there was some reason that

Brol would be up in the enclave. The night elf had likely wondered
why Brol would not have returned for the convocation and came up
with what he believed the most likely answer.

And that meant that Fandral had probably done the same.

Frowning, the tauren bent back to look up in the direction of
unseen Darnassus. He hoped he was correct in one thing, that

Brol Bearmantle was not up in the enclave. In truth, the only
reason he would have gone there would have been to seek
something in Archdruid Fandral’s sanctum. Hamuul feared that it
would turn out to be the Idol of Remulos. The tauren knew of no
other thing that Brol would have thought of to use. After al , it was
tied to the Emerald Dream, where Archdruid Malfurion Stormrage’s
dreamform had gone missing.

And it was also bound to the one method that someone as
impetuous as Brol might use to find their missing shan’do.

He would not … Broll would not risk that …

Hamuul blinked. Yes. Brol would.

A shadow passed over him. Turning, he saw a huge storm crow
descending. It could only be Fandral returning, the lead archdruid
this time choosing the swiftness of the avian form to the more artful
entrance he had utilized at the beginning of the convocation.

As the storm crow alighted, it transformed. Wings became arms,
legs grew. Talons became feet. Feathers flew away or became hair
and garments. The beak receded, turning into a mouth and nose …

Fandral once more himself, straightened. Among al the druids
assembled, his eyes fixed upon distant Hamuul.

Grave disappointment fil ed the night elf’s gaze. It was al Hamuul
needed to see to understand that Fandral knew everything Brol
had done.

The tauren prayed that his friend knew what he was doing.

They had shifted again. Brol knew it, even though once more he
had been unable to focus long on the place through which they had
moved. He was certain that it had been the Emerald Dream … but
then why were his memories of those moments as hazy as the mist
enshrouding Auberdine?

And, more important, how was a human—a human! —able to
physical y cross into the mystic realm almost without realizing it?

There was, however, no time at present to seek such answers
from Lucan Foxblood. The three were stil on the move, for Lucan’s
sudden action had taken them not farther from the dragon … but
rather nearly underneath it.

“Get down!” Tyrande whispered.

The shadow swooped past them as if racing the wind itself. The
gust it in turn created nearly accomplished the high priestess’s
suggestion. The trio were buffeted to their knees.

Yet … the dragon did not turn. It did not bank and drop upon
them. Instead, it dove deep into the hil s just beyond their position

… and did not rise up again.

Brol was the first to voice what the others also surely thought.

“At that speed, it should have either come up or crashed …”

“What is a black dragon doing here?” Tyrande asked.

“Wherever here might be …”

“It wasn’t black.”

The night elves looked to Lucan. Stil very wild-eyed, he
repeated himself. “It … it wasn’t black … it was green …”

“A color-blind human,” Brol grunted.

“If he were color-blind, he would not be seeing green instead of
black,” the high priestess pointed out. Her tone reassuring, she
said to Lucan, “Tel us why you say the dragon was green.”

He shrugged. “It was near enough to see.”

The druid shook his head. “Wel , that’s an answer. Not the right
one, since we were just as close to see it and it was black.”

Tyrande studied the human. Final y, “Yet an answer I sense with
some grain of potential truth, Brol … at least as Lucan knows it.”

She checked her glaive. “I think we should investigate this dragon
who might be black, might be green. There could be a reason we
ended up so near it.”

“And if it turns out to be a black dragon?”

She started in the last direction that they had seen the beast fly.

Tyrande readied the glaive for tossing. “Then, we kil it.”

Lucan looked to Brol as if hoping he would tel the man that she
did not mean what she said. Instead, the druid gripped the
cartographer by the arm and led him after, saying, “You’re better
with us than not …”

Lucan did not look at al convinced.

They wended their way over the hil s, moving as quickly as

Lucan’s presence permitted. He was not slow, but he was neither
in optimal health nor a night elf. Stil , he kept pace better than Brol
would have expected, considering al the human had been through.

They paused only once, when Brol felt an itch on his neck. He
looked behind them.

“What is it?” Tyrande quietly asked.

“Thought someone was fol owing us … but I’m wrong.”

A short while later the high priestess cal ed a halt. Lucan took
the moment to catch his breath while the night elves conferred.

“If the dragon landed … it must be very near here,” Tyrande
remarked.

“Agreed. We’ve seen a few caves, but nothing large enough for
such a huge creature … and this one’s bigger than many, no matter
what its color might be.”

“Yet we never saw it in the air and the landscape, while hil y,
would also force the dragon out in the open if it tried to crawl along.

”

Brol considered. “Maybe there’s something to what Lucan said
after al . If the dragon’s—”

Tyrande stared after him. “Where is Lucan?”

The druid spun around. The human was no longer where he had
just left him.

For a moment the night elves looked at one another as if
thinking the same … that Lucan had once more drifted off into what

Brol suspected was part of the Emerald Dream. Then, a brief
clatter of rocks beyond them told the pair of a simpler truth. Lucan
had merely stepped away.

Or rather … he was climbing up the side of the hil at a pace
impressive considering his exhaustion.

“Lucan!” the druid cal ed as cautiously as he could. “Lucan!”

But the cartographer ignored him. Brol final y went in pursuit,

Tyrande only a step behind. This near a possible dragon’s lair, they
could il afford being given away.

Lucan pushed himself to the top of the hil . Brol managed to grab
him by the ankle just before the human would have started down
the other side. The druid pul ed himself up next to the other.

“Have you gone mad—?” Brol thought for a moment that he
already had his answer, for Lucan stared at him as if what
remained of his sense had abandoned him once more.

“It’s down there,” Lucan final y murmured. He pointed at one of a
handful of caves marking the area below. “That one with the sharp
point to the entrance. That’s where the dragon is.”

“And how do you know this?”

In answer, Lucan could only shrug.

Tyrande joined the two males. “Did I hear him correctly? The
dragon is down there?”

“He’s sure about that, if nothing else.” A sound caught Brol ’s
attention. He eyed the path from which they had come. “There is
something or someone behind us …”

“Never mind! Lucan is moving again!”

Brol turned to see that with the druid no longer holding him and
both night elves distracted, the man was indeed heading down the
other side of the hil . Aware that they left some pursuer on their
trail, Brol nevertheless leapt down after Lucan.

He managed to catch up with the cartographer near the base.

Spinning Lucan to face him, Brol was confronted by the same
almost blank look.

“Do you wish to die?” he asked the human.

“No …” Lucan seemed to final y register where he was. His face
grew even paler. “I just … I just went where I had to.”

Giving up the hope of making sense of his companion, Brol
started to tug Lucan back to Tyrande, who was just behind them.

A low, mournful reptilian hiss escaped the cave.

The three stood frozen. The high priestess took a step toward
the cave.

“There must be another entrance!” she muttered. “That’s far too
smal for a dragon.”

Brol grimaced at what he was thinking. “Then … it’s a good
entrance for us!”

Tyrande nodded. Lucan swal owed and said nothing.

Concerned for the human, who was certainly no experienced
fighter like Varian Wrynn, Brol said, “There are some large rocks
over there. You can hide among them. If we don’t return in roughly
an hour’s time, keep heading on the path we’re taking. I think I do
know vaguely where we are and it’s closer to Ashenvale than I
thought.”

To both night elves’ surprise, Lucan steeled himself and replied,

“No. I come with you. You helped me … and I brought you here.”

There was no time to discuss it. Brol nodded. Tyrande pul ed a
dagger from her belt and handed it to Lucan. He took it, though he
clearly understood its uselessness against a dragon. Stil , the
weapon gave some comfort … and it was probable that the human
knew that he could also use it on himself if it came down to it.

Brol sought to take the lead, but Tyrande had already moved
ahead. She looked almost eager to confront the dragon, as if that
would somehow bring Malfurion back to her.

Or bring her to him if they both die? the druid wondered with
some sudden worry.

Tyrande held the glaive ready to throw as she entered the
mouth. The cave was dark, but while that might have bothered

Lucan, it did not concern either night elf. Stil , the high priestess
cast a tiny glow, perhaps for the human’s sake or perhaps to
attract the dragon’s attention.

“Stay close,” Brol reminded the cartographer. He did not doubt
that Lucan intended to, but with the man’s habit of wandering, it was
good to remind him.

The cave twisted from one side to the next and grew narrower
as they entered. It was now barely large enough for two of them to
walk side by side. That a dragon lurked somewhere ahead meant
that there had to be another entrance. That was something to
remember, if this one became blocked to them.

Of course, that other entrance would also enable the dragon to
give chase.

The cave grew cooler. Black dragons tended to prefer more
warm abodes, which added merit to Lucan’s suggestion that Brol
had been mistaken. Yet the druid and the high priestess had both
seen an ebony creature. If not a black dragon, then why would one
of any other color masquerade as such?

Brol abruptly recal ed something that their current dire
circumstances had pushed to the back of his memory. Once, in the
past, he had faced the dire daughter of the great black dragon

Deathwing. Onyxia had been a monster herself, but what Brol now
remembered was that she had been able to transform to other
forms … including much smaller ones.

He touched Tyrande on the shoulder. The high priestess silently
turned.

“Beware,” Brol whispered. “These tunnels may be large enough
for the dragon after al .”

Her eyes narrowed. Tyrande Whisperwind, too, was aware of
this particular draconic ability, even more so than Brol , who did not
know of her ties to the red dragon Korialstrasz. “Yes,” she
muttered. “We must be very wary …”

There came a sound, a slight movement, from deeper within.

The three immediately tensed. Brol kept Lucan behind Tyrande
and him. The high priestess pushed forward before Brol could
keep her back.

Only a few yards farther they came to a larger chamber riddled
with gaps large enough to mean passages. The chamber was
perhaps ten times the druid’s height, and the rough edges revealed
paths—some of them precarious—that could be used to reach
many of the possible passages.

But more important … among the stalagmites that dotted the
chamber floor, Brol saw prints. He knelt down to investigate them.

“They look to be from one of our own,” the druid commented to

Tyrande, “or maybe one of Lucan’s. They’re on top of one another,
too. Whoever they belong to has tread this area often.”

“I feel a draft,” she commented. She lowered the glaive. “There’s
at least one other entrance nearby.”

“Do we search for it?”

“Which way do the footprints most head?”

He studied them closer, final y pointing to his right. “That way …”

As Brol rose, Lucan blinked, then started to speak to Tyrande.

Sensing this, the high priestess slipped her free hand to his wrist
and gently squeezed.

“The direction of the air current matches up with what you say,”

the high priestess remarked, releasing the human’s wrist. “We can
either fol ow them or—”

Tyrande cut off, her expression suddenly focused.

The light of Elune bathed the chamber.

And in its light was revealed a figure invisible to them until now,
but whom Lucan had evidently sensed with that peculiar talent of
his. Tyrande had realized what he was about to say and silenced
him in order to surprise the watcher.

He was clad in a long, hooded garment that resembled a
combination of a mage’s outfit and that of some human priests.

The figure stood a few inches tal er than Brol , who was not short
himself at seven feet, but was more lithe of form. His hands were
akin to those of the night elves, but though his face also had some
similarity to theirs, it was of a much paler cast, like no elven
offshoot either knew.

That was as much of a view as any of the three were permitted,
for the hooded figure immediately stretched forth a hand toward the
most obvious threat, the high priestess.

It was a mistake of which Brol eagerly took advantage.

The druid flung himself at the mysterious caster, but not as a
night elf. Gone was Brol , replaced by a hulking, furred figure more
than twice his girth. The druid’s mouth and nose elongated, growing
together at the same time to create a savage maw. Huge, clawed
paws seized the caster. Brol was now a ferocious bear.

His foe staggered back under the bulk and momentum. For a
moment the hooded figure looked ready to fal back.

Suddenly, a green aura surrounded Brol ’s adversary. The druid
went flying to the side, final y col iding with two hard stalagmites,
shattering one. The bear slumped, momentarily stunned.

Tyrande held her glaive ready, but did not attack. The high
priestess met the caster’s gaze.

And only then, seeing those eyes, did the high priestess feel she
should know who it was she faced. His guise was somewhat
changed, of that Tyrande was certain, else his identity would have
immediately been known to her. She tried to recal his name …

Then, to the shock of al three, he let out an anguished cry, flung
an arm over his face … and began to transform.

“Wait!” Tyrande shouted. “Wait! Unless you are of the black
dragonflight, we seek your help, not battle!”

The transformation, so barely begun that his true form had not
even been in the least noticeable, ceased. Letting his arm drop, the
caster stared at her with what seemed pity.

“You would be best served facing one of Deathwing’s ilk, little
night elf! One of them would be less of a monster for you to face
than me!”

“A monster, are you?” Brol rumbled, reverting to his true form.

He peered around him, seeking what in his guise as a bear he
could not carry with him.

It lay at the feet of his foe, who now plucked it from the chamber
floor. “Ah! This damned thing! I felt its presence! Would that she
had never asked of me to lend my power to it!”

The druid rose. “Then you are the green dragon bound to the

Idol of Remulos!”

“‘Bound’ is the proper word!” The figurine went flying in Brol ’s
direction. As the night elf caught it with one hand, the dragon
hissed, “Tied to it with al my essence … though admittedly even my

Ysera could not have foreseen the terrible things that would come
from that. When it was first done, it was to al ow us to be of
immediate aid to Remulos or those he thought worthy to wield it.”

He glared at the druid. “And speaking of wielding … I know you by
the signature of your magic, if not your name! You employed that
thing some time past and with dread results …”

Brol grimaced. “Aye, very dread ones … and then, when I
thought it lost, it turned out instead to have become tainted.”

The hooded form laughed harshly. “That taint was nothing to the
true danger, druid … you are fortunate that I am a wreck of a
creature rather than the foulness that might have touched your
heart a short while back …”

The druid stood ready to attack again, though he was wise
enough to hold off for the moment. There was more to learn … and
perhaps a chance to avoid blood. “What do you mean by that?”

His adversary looked incredulous. “Are you blind to the

Nightmare? Have you not felt it?”

“Aye, I’ve felt it, as have most others of my cal ing! Dragons we
may not be, but we, too, have fought for the Emerald Dream—”

“Utter babble!” The lanky “elf” swel ed in size as he shouted, his
words ending in a roar. “You know nothing! You understand nothing!

I did not understand, I who stood at her side! I betrayed her,
betrayed the Dream, and helped the Nightmare Lord begin his
encroachment on not only that realm … but this mortal plane as
wel !”

Now Brol at least understood what faced them. Even as the
dragon became less “elf” in shape and more true to his nature, the
druid shifted toward Tyrande. They would need al their power to
hope to even escape from this dragon.

“I know you now,” he calmly said to the half-altered leviathan.

“You’re one of the corrupted! You’re one of those turned by the

Nightmare against Ysera—”

Great leathery wings spread across the length of the chamber.

Long, sharp horns thrust back from the head. The dragon’s girth
fil ed more than two-thirds of the space. Green dragons were
sleeker than most, more ethereal, but this one was a behemoth
who had to arc his lengthy neck in order to stand. The eyes—Brol
realized that the dragon had been peering at them al the time,
when, in general, the eyes of a green dragon were shut, for the
beasts lived half in the Dream at al times—stared with a wildness
that more than matched Lucan at his worst.

“‘One of the corrupted’.… what a simplistic turn of phrase, little
night elf … you hardly understand what that means! You hardly
understand what it is to have your mind, heart, and soul—‘soul’ as
we dragons understand it—stripped away, eaten by darkness, and
forced back into your screaming shel !” Again the harsh laughter
erupted, shaking the cave so much that some of the stalactites
broke loose. The trio was able to avoid those nearest and the
dragon was not in the least distracted by the tons of limestone and
rock that crashed against his scaled hide.

“‘One of the corrupted,’” the green leviathan repeated with self-
mockery. “Would that I would have been merely ‘one’!” The great
reptilian head dove down, coming within a few yards of the night
elves and the human. Brol and Tyrande stood their ground and
even Lucan brandished his tiny dagger. “I was more than that, little
creatures! I was the one most trusted of her, most dear … and
because of that, my betrayal was far worse and far more terrible in
ultimate consequence! Have you seen the sleepers? Have you
seen their shadows? Al of that began with my help …”

Tyrande dared speak up, her voice even and comforting. “I know
you now, though you wear another unfamiliar form. But clearly you
are free of the corruption now. Clearly you overcame it …”

“Through others … and what I did not know then was that it
would cal to me again … every moment … it cal s to me! It desires
me more than most, for I am … was … her most favored … her
consort …”

“‘Consort’?” Brol gritted his teeth. “You are—”

The dragon roared, silencing him. The eyes—the cold, emerald
eyes—fixed on the druid and Tyrande. “Yes … I am Eranikus, first
consort of Ysera …” His jaws opened wide. “And, knowing that,
knowing I exist here … al of you must die …”

10

ONE BY ONE

Stormwind was the strongest of the remaining bastions of the
human race, a kingdom that had survived the destruction of much
of the continent and even rebuilt itself after the First War. Varian

Wrynn now ruled Stormwind—or ruled it again, since he had been
king, then vanished for a time, only to recently return. From

Stormwind Keep, in the capital city also named for the kingdom, the
brown-haired, fiery leader sought to keep both his land and the

Al iance intact. Varian was a driven man, made more so by the
death, nearly thirteen years earlier, of his beloved wife, Tiffin,
during a riot. His only solace was his son, Anduin—only an infant in
his mother’s arms at the time of her tragic death—who had
suffered as king during Varian’s long absence.

And so it was not surprising that with so much tragedy and
struggle already behind him that King Varian had trouble with
dreams. Of late, he preferred to sleep only with the use of numbing
potions that kept those dreams away, but only as a last resort. Until
weariness demanded that, it was more likely that Varian would be
found walking the battlements.

A tal man in midlife with a rough-hewn handsomeness and
brown hair that refused to be tamed, Varian was to his people the
epitome of a champion. But now there came a threat that Varian
could not understand how to handle.

His people were not waking up.

More to the point, each day found the numbers growing. It had
started with one or two, then five, ten, and more. With each newly
discovered slumberer, the populace grew more pensive. Some
thought it a disease, but the scholars with whom the king conferred
were certain it was far more. Some force was specifical y attacking

Stormwind through a curious form of attrition … and Varian knew
exactly who it was.

The Horde.

There was no proof, but it made perfect sense to Varian. There
were far too many elements among the Horde that could not be
trusted to keep the peace. The orcs aside—and they were also
among those of whom Varian was suspicious—the king could not
see any reason to believe in the honor of blood elves—high elves
who had turned to absorbing demonic magic after the loss of their
vaunted power source, the Sunwel , and had subsequently become
addicted to the fel energies. Nor did he have any faith in the
undead Forsaken, who claimed to be free of the Lich King’s
mastery. Of al the Horde, the tauren were the only ones who did
not immediately make Stormwind’s ruler want to reach for his
weapon, but since they sided with the orcs, that made them, too,
untrustworthy.

Varian decided to compose a missive to send to Lady Jaina

Proudmoore, archmage and ruler of Theramore Isle off of the
southeastern side of the continent of Kalimdor, which itself lay west
across the Great Sea. He had debated composing one for the past
several days, but, ever reliant on himself, had put it off over and
over. Now, though, the king suspected that he should have done so
the very first time he had thought of it.

A helmed and armored sentry on the wal , the proud Stormwind
lion on her breastplate, saluted sharply. She was the first guard that

Varian had come across for some time. Even the keep’s personal
contingent was down by more than a third its normal strength.

“Al clear?” he asked.

“Yes, my lord!” The sentry hesitated, then added, “Al clear save
for that damned mist building up yonder …”

Varian glanced over the battlements. It was thicker than the night
before … and the night before that. The sentries had initial y noted
its slow buildup about a week ago … just before the morning when
the first sleepers had been discovered.

He recal ed the last time Stormwind had been draped in such a
mist. That had been to cover the advance of the undead Scourge.

The ghouls had used it to sweep toward the capital. But while there
was that distinct similarity, there was something more ethereal and
even more sinister. This fog seemed alive … and touched the mind
as wel as the body. Indeed, it seemed as much out of a dark
dream as it did real.

The king blinked. For a moment he could have sworn that he
saw something moving in the mist. Varian leaned forward but could
not make anything out. Stil , he was not a man prone to imagining
things.

“Keep alert,” he warned the sentry. “Pass that on to the others.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

As he left, Varian could not stifle a yawn. He would have to rest
at some point soon, but not until he took some of the potion the
alchemists had created for him. Then at least there would be no
dreams—

Varian frowned. The potion seemed to help him sleep. Did it also
help keep him from whatever touched those who could not wake?

He had not considered that. The king knew he was not by any
means versed in alchemy, but he seemed more rested than
anyone else. Was there a connection between the nightmares the
sleepers al seemed to be suffering and the fact that he did not
have any dreams at al ?

The notion made enough sense to Varian that he picked up his
pace. It should stil be possible to convene the alchemists and
others who might better understand and press his argument. If they
believed him, then perhaps it might be possible to let others use the
sleeping potions and avoid more victims—

He almost ran into an out-of-breath guard just stepping up to the
battlements. Varian, assuming that the man was late for duty but
having no time to reprimand him, shifted around the soldier.

“My lord! I’ve—I’ve been sent to find you!” the man gasped.

“Dire news, my lord!”

Varian instinctively thought of the movement that he believed he
had noticed in the mist. “Out there—”

The helmet hid most of the man’s features, but his tone revealed
his great confusion. “Nay, my lord! We—we found him sprawled in
a chair in the great room! He—he was not outside!”

Intense fear gripped the king. Seizing the soldier by the
shoulders, Varian roared, “Who? Who?”

“The—the prince! Prince Anduin—”

Varian felt the blood drain from his face. “Anduin—my son—is
dead?”

He al but tossed the man aside as he charged down the steps
into the keep. Al was a blur to Varian. He had only just regained his
memory and his son! What vicious assassin had claimed Anduin?

Speeding to the great room, where once confirming the guest list
for the bal s that took place there had been the most important task
concerning the wide, high-ceilinged chamber, Varian came across
an anxious group of guards, servants, and other staff.

“Aside!” the king cried out. “Make way!”

The wal of people separated. Varian saw his son.

The youth was a fine mix of his father and mother, with hair a bit
lighter than Varian’s and a face softer not only due to Tiffin’s traits
but less worn by the ravages of life. Stil , for someone not quite
thirteen years of age, Anduin seemed much older.

He also appeared at that moment, at least to Varian’s eyes,
unbloodied.

Anduin stil lay half in the chair. The captain of the guard, a gruff
veteran with a cropped brown beard, looked as if he wanted to
adjust the prince to a more comfortable position but was afraid to
touch the royal heir.

Varian saw only his son, and so with nothing else on his mind but
that, he barged past the captain and reached down to Anduin.

He saw the youth’s chest rise and fal . The king’s hopes rose …

until he heard Anduin let out a whimper.

His son had joined the sleepers.

“No …” the lord of Stormwind whispered. He shook Anduin, but
the boy would not wake. “No …”

Final y rising, Varian growled, “Carry him to bed. Gently. I’l be
there before long.”

Two of the guards did as he commanded. To the captain, the
king added, “Summon the alchemists! I want to see them al
immediately—”

A horn sounded. As one, those assembled looked up. Varian
knew by the signal from where the cal originated: the battlements
from which he had just departed.

“Take care of Anduin!” he reminded the guards. “And summon
the alchemists, Captain!”

Not bothering to wait for any response, the king raced back to
where he had just been walking. On the battlements, a handful of
soldiers stared off into the direction of the mist. When one
happened to look back and see the king, he immediately warned
the rest. The sentries stood at attention.

“Never mind that!” Varian stepped past them to look beyond

Stormwind City’s edge. “What do you—”

He froze. Now there were definitely distinct figures moving
within the mist. Hundreds of them … no … there had to be
thousands …

“Get every available fighter to the—” Again Varian stopped, but
this time for another reason. Even though the mist and those within
were stil far away, for some reason the king was certain that he
recognized all of them. In one way, that was not so astounding, for
they were the same two people over and over and over.

They were Anduin … and his mother.

But this was not the beloved Tiffin of Varian’s memory. Each of
the doppelgängers staggered toward the city on legs that were half-
bone, half-greenish, rotting flesh. Tiffin’s once-beautiful face was
ravaged by worms and other carrion insects. Spiders crawled in
her ragged hair and the gown in which she had been buried was
soiled by dirt and torn. The monstrous scene repeated on and on.

And as for Anduin, while whole, he stayed close to his mother,
al owing one skeletal hand to wrap around his neck in what looked
more possessive than loving. To Varian, it was as if the horrific
apparition was tel ing the king that their son was now hers.

“No …” Varian wanted this to be a nightmare. He wanted to find
out that he was among the sleepers. There was little that could
shake him, but this was a dark tableau of which he could have
never imagined. It had to be a nightmare … it had to be …

But Varian realized that, unlike his son, he was living something
real, even if it, too, was in its way a nightmare. The king had been
taking the potions before the first of the sleepers; he was certain
that they had somehow protected him by granting him no dreams.

Unfortunately, Varian had not made the connection in time to
prevent his own son from fal ing prey.

And now, whatever lurked behind the sleepers, behind their
troubled dreams, was encroaching on the capital wielding his own
worst fears.

That gave Varian some strength. He turned to the nearest guard

—the female with whom he had earlier spoken—and asked, “Do
you see anything in the mist?”

Her shaking voice was enough to tel him how terrible the sight
was to her. “I see … my father … dead in battle … Tomas … a
comrade in arms … I see—”

King Varian looked to the assembled guards. “You see nothing
but your imagination! Nothing but your fears! It or they know your
fears and are feeding on them! These are nightmares, which mean
that they are not what you think …”

They clearly took some heart from the strength of his voice.

Varian hid deep his own anxiety at the thought of Anduin and Tiffin.

If even while aware that they were false visions he was stil
affected by them, how were the rest of those in the city faring?

From outside the capital’s wal s and near the edge of the mist,
another horn sounded. One of the patrols on evening duty. Varian
had for the moment forgotten about them. They were one of about
half a dozen out this night …

“Give the recal !” he ordered the nearest trumpeter. “Give it
now! I want them al in!”

The soldier blew the signal. Varian waited.

One patrol to the west responded. Another further south did.

From the northwest came another.

The fourth signal came from those near the mist. Varian
breathed a sigh of relief as the horn blared—

And then the sound cut off too soon.

Worse … there was no reply at al from the other two.

“Again!”

The trumpeter blew. The king and the soldiers waited.

Silence.

Varian eyed the moving figures in the mist. Again, it was as if his
view magnified to give him a much closer look. He knew that it was
not by chance, but rather some work of whatever encroached upon
his city. It sought to let him see what was happening, see and fear

…

And what the monarch of Stormwind saw did make him shudder,
for it answered more questions. The many Anduins and Tiffins
were no longer alone. Their ranks had been joined by shambling
figures clad in armor marked by the proud lion on the breastplate.

Yet Varian could also see the prone bodies of those same men on
the ground, even their steeds col apsed with them. Indeed, many of
the gauntfaced soldiers rode mounts that had eyes without pupils
and bodies that were twisted.

“It is the Scourge come to claim us again!” someone shouted.

Without looking at who had been speaking, the king
commanded, “Silence! This is magical trickery, nothing more!

Nothing!”

Then … the mist and its army paused just before the wal s. The

Anduins and the Tiffins looked up, their soul ess eyes upon those
of Varian. Behind them, the other figures also stared up at the
battlements.

Without warning, the Anduins and Tiffins looked over their
shoulders at the unholy throng. Varian could not help but fol ow their
gazes.

At first he saw only the soldiers mixed with them. Then other
half-seen figures became apparent. Though their forms were
indistinct … dreamlike … their faces were horrific parodies of
normal folk.

And then … among them he saw a more distinct figure. A
woman fair of face and with long, blond hair. If she had not been
dressed as a mage, Varian might have ignored her as one more
shadow.

It was Lady Jaina Proudmoore.

Her expression was as dire as the rest, a thing caught between
horror and death. Varian stepped back, understanding that the
situation was even more terrible than he had imagined. As if to
verify this, to Jaina’s right another figure formed from the very mist.

The face was unknown to the king, but that did not matter. He
spotted another take shape and another.

“Why do they not attack?” asked the guard with whom he had
original y spoken. “Why?”

He did not answer, though he knew the reason. They were
attacking. Piece by piece. The attrition of which he had earlier
thought had a second purpose to it. The enemy was not merely
reducing the ranks of the defenders; it was adding to its own. With
each new sleeper—especial y those like Anduin, caught
unexpected by exhaustion—their numbers grew.

King Varian understood that al they had to do for the moment
was wait … and victory would be theirs.

Tyrande prayed … and Elune responded to her servant.

As if a ful , silvery moon itself suddenly fil ed the chamber, the
light of the goddess magnified a thousand times, bathing al in its
glory. Yet for the high priestess, Brol , and Lucan, the il umination
comforted. It did not hurt their eyes, but soothed them.

Not so for Eranikus. The green leviathan reared back, his sleek
yet massive form col iding with the wal and ceiling behind him. The
chamber shook and huge chunks of stone broke from the cave
wal s. However, the Mother Moon’s light kept any of it from the trio.

The dragon let out a furious hiss. Yet rather than lunge again,

Eranikus backed further. As he did, he began to shrink and
transform.

“Consider yourselves fortunate!” he roared. “More fortunate
than I could ever be …”

Already the dragon had al but reverted to the false elven shape.

Only traces here and there marked him as what he truly was.

Brol was already in action, but this time his attack was not
physical. Instead, he cast a spel .

Eranikus let out a tremendous exhalation. The false elf blinked.

He looked upon the high priestess.

“A powerful attempt,” he complimented, “and almost successful

… but I can never truly be soothed, even by the calm, loving light of

Elune … too much tortures my heart …”

Stil , the hooded figure neither renewed his attack nor fled.

Instead, he fel against the wal and shut his eyes. A shudder ran
through Eranikus.

“I failed her so much. I failed her and al else …”

Tyrande prayed to Elune to lessen the moonlight, leaving it at a
level that stil served to al ow Lucan to see al .

Eranikus slumped, final y ending up sitting on a part of the wal
that thrust out like a chair.

“Great one,” she murmured. “If corrupted you once were, now
that is clearly not so. Whatever failures you think you have
committed, you now have the chance to right them.”

For her suggestion, Tyrande received another bitter laugh.

“Such naïveté! You have lived how long, night elf? A thousand,
five thousand years?”

She stood proud. “I fought the Burning Legion when it first came
to Azeroth! I faced Azshara! I was there when the Wel of Eternity
was destroyed!”

“More than ten thousand years, then,” Eranikus responded, his
tone sounding not at al impressed. “A mere speck of time and
experience compared to that of one of my kind and certainly one of
my age in particular. Stil , you have some meager way by which to
measure my misery. Can you think of your most terrible failures?”

“I am wel aware of them, yes …”

“Then multiply them by a magnitude as great as the World Tree
is high and you wil quite possibly barely understand …” Eranikus
glowered, but his mood was steered toward himself. “I have done
terrible things … and the worst of it is, I might do them again!”

Brol and Tyrande looked to one another. The high priestess
final y said, “But you’re free of the corruption … I was there … it
was the light of Elune, in fact, through myself and several
priestesses that final y cleansed you! I would’ve recognized you
immediately, if not for your changed form!”

“So I believed also … but as the Nightmare grew stronger, I
discovered the truth! The shadow of it wil always be within me so
long as it exists … and because of me, it exists throughout my
queen’s realm …” He snarled. “And that is why I do not wear the
night elven form you know, and why I disguised myself as a dragon
of black when forced to fly out for sustenance! I wanted no one to
know it was me! I wanted no one to come in search of me!”

“But Ysera and the Emerald Dream—” the high priestess began.

“Cal it as it should be! Cal it as it wil be! Cal it the Emerald

Nightmare! Our Nightmare!” As he shouted, Eranikus leapt to his
feet. His form shifted, becoming again something part elf, part
dragon. There was also more of an ethereal look to him, as if he
were part dream himself.

Then the hooded figure solidified. Eranikus stared off into
space, his expression horrified. “No … I almost … I should not
have nearly done that … the line between the two realms is fading

… but it should not be this bad yet …”

Behind Tyrande, Lucan shifted into the shadows. Brol noticed
the movement and Eranikus noticed Brol observing it.

“Humannn …” the green dragon, stil a bizarre mixture of his two
selves, stalked toward Lucan. The elven face now bore a blunt
muzzle and teeth too sharp for the mortal form. Smal wings flapped
back and forth in agitation, and what should have been hands were
savage paws with long nails. “It comes from the humannn …”

The high priestess took up a defensive position in front of the
cartographer. “With al respect, this one is under the protection of

Elune.”

Brol moved toward her. “And under the protection of this
particular druid, too.”

Eranikus waved a hand.

The two night elves found themselves thrust in opposite
directions, leaving Lucan to face the green dragon.

Steeling himself, the man stepped forward. “Slay me and get it
over with, if you want! I’ve been through far too much to be worried
about being eaten by a monster.”

“I prefer simpler fare,” Eranikus answered bluntly. His
countenance reverted to something more elven as he studied the
haggard mortal. “I only wish to see you deeper …”

Tyrande was on her feet, the glaive ready to throw. However,

Brol , also rising, gestured for her to hold back. He could sense that
the dragon did indeed mean no harm … at least for the moment.

And should that change, Brol already had an attack in mind.

Eranikus towered over Lucan, who was not that short a human.

The cartographer bravely looked up at the half-transformed
dragon, who reached a taloned finger toward his chest.

“You humans are always the most fascinating of the dreamers,”

Eranikus murmured, sounding more calm. “Such a diversity of
imagination, of desire. Your dreams can create beauty and horror
in the same moment …”

“I don’t like to dream,” the man stated.

This brought an unexpected chuckle from the dragon. “Nor do I
these days … nor do I.”

The taloned finger came within a hair’s breadth of Lucan … and
suddenly both figures took on an emerald glow.

Brol shook his head. “That can’t be possible! He’s a human!

There are no human druids!”

“What do you mean?” Tyrande asked the dragon.

“The other realm touches him, is part of him, can be open to
him,” Eranikus replied, marveling. The finger withdrew. “I know you,
if not by name! I have seen you, though you were barely out of the
shel then …”

Lucan Foxblood swal owed, but otherwise remained steadfast.

“I’m merely a cartographer.”

“A maker of maps, a student of landscapes … the closest your
human mind could come to recal ing and accepting a part of you
that was not of your doing …” Eranikus hissed. “Nor hers, either.”

“ ‘Hers’?” the human repeated.

“She who bore you, little one! Your mother, brought to the Dream
most foul y by a fey creature who seduced a young female whose
man had abandoned her just as she was about to give birth! I came
upon the thing as it waited for the infant in order to claim it for
whatever dark purpose it had. The creature fled at my coming,
leaving a mother dying from her great exertions and a lone, weak,
male child …”

Lucan looked to Brol and Tyrande as if hoping this made more
sense to them. It did not.

“You were not a dream and so did not belong. My queen did
pass you on to one who knew humans better, though he was of our
kind, a red dragon cal ed Korialstrasz—”

“I know that name!” blurted the high priestess.

“Wel you should! He is chief consort to the Queen of Life,

Alexstrasza”—Eranikus’s brow furrowed angrily—“and a more
competent, trustworthy mate than I was to my beloved …”

Tyrande began to comprehend some things. “You carried him
out of the Emerald Dream?”

“After using a spel to heal his weakness! At my queen’s
request— though it was a strange one, I thought—I gave some
minute part of myself so that he would live …”

“Which would explain why he saw you as your true self, when we
saw you as the black dragon you desired others to believe hunted
here.”

Eranikus hissed. “Hunger forced me out farther and farther. It
seemed the best disguise … against al but him.” He eyed Lucan
dubiously. “Never did I think I had created some link between us
with that act so early on …”

“And so this is why he runs in and out of the Dream almost
without realizing it?” Brol asked.

To the surprise of the two night elves, his question had the effect
of fil ing the powerful dragon with renewed dread. “Does he? He
does?” Eranikus bared his teeth at Lucan, causing the man and the
night elves to prepare for the worst. “He passes into the

Nightmare?”

“So we believe,” Brol replied, his spel ready. “And comes out of
it uncorrupted, if not untouched.”

“It should not be … but the birth was there, and so the cal ing is
from there … yet Azeroth cal s him, too …” Eranikus stepped back,
his gaze never leaving Lucan. “And how long have you suffered
this, little mortal?”

“My name is Lucan Foxblood.” Having found he could stand up
to a dragon, the cartographer had also found he did not like being
cal ed “little mortal.”

“The right of correction is yours in this instance,” Eranikus
returned in a tone that said not much else was the human’s right.

However reasonably a dragon might converse with a creature not
of his kind, most stil did so with the innate sense that their kind
were the first and foremost children of Azeroth. “Tel me now!

When did you first suffer so? Do you remember?”

“I’ve always dreamed of an idyl ic land, free of the interference
of time and people …” Lucan remarked, looking almost nostalgic.

His expression then darkened, though. “But the first nightmares …

the first bad dreams …” He paused to think, then told them.

Eranikus frowned. “A few scant years. A blink for dragons, but
much time for mortals, I know …”

“Too long a time,” the cartographer returned.

“And too coincidental a time!” snarled Brol , causing the rest to
look to him. He peered grimly at Tyrande. “From what I’ve gleaned,

Lucan’s nightmares began just before you found Malfurion’s body

…”

For al their size, orcs could be extremely stealthy. Thura was one
of those stealthy orcs. She had successful y tracked the trio
without being seen and had even fol owed them near enough to
hear their voices. Not al the words had made sense and some had
been unintel igible, but one word in particular spurred her on.

The evil one’s name. The base night elf. Malfurion.

Thura missed the word that fol owed his name, or she might
have wondered if her prey was already dead. Thus, she only knew

—or believed—one thing. Soon she would confront Brox’s slayer
and he who would also ravage Azeroth …

The orc slipped back, stil amazed. The dragon was not there
now, but rather some wizard, it seemed. She had not heard enough
to know the truth there, either. To Thura, wizards did not rate highly;
they were cowards who fought from the back of the battle using
methods no honorable warrior would accept. That she felt
differently about shaman and even druids was merely a prejudice
based on her people’s choices. In her eyes, it only meant one
more obstacle that she would face in order to avenge her blood kin.

The orc crept along the landscape seeking a spot from which to
watch the hil as a whole. No matter from which exit they left, she
would see them. Then, as she had always done, Thura would fol ow
the trail she was given, whether it be by dreams or tracking

Malfurion’s companions.

A sound from above sent her flattening against a nearby hil side.

Gazing up, Thura grunted. Now she could account for al her
enemies. The last had revealed itself, though the orc stil did not
know how it had slipped out without her seeing it.

The shrouded form of a dragon glided over the region. Thura
watched as it hovered above the hil s where she had thought it
nested. In the night sky, the dragon was a great, black silhouette.

Indeed, it was hard to separate the dragon from the darkness. It
was fortunate that Thura had seen the beast under better
conditions, or else at this moment she would have questioned her
eyes. The dragon looked much, much larger than before, huge in
comparison. In fact, it was so huge that there was no possibility of
it being the one she had seen earlier. This was truly a giant among
giants.

Thura gripped the ax, ready to use it if need be, but the dragon
ceased its hovering and went on the move again. Beating its wings
hard, it flew away.

And if Thura had known the land better, she would have realized
that the dragon was heading in the direction of Ashenvale.

11

TO BOUGH SHADOW

Little light filtered in from outside. Most of the il umination in the
cave was stil due to Tyrande’s work. Stil , the faint light from without
appeared to put the dragon further on edge.

“This is not natural,” he muttered at one point. “The sky should
be brighter than this.” Eranikus shut his eyes for a moment. His
expression hardening, he opened them again and informed them,

“You should not have stayed! I have seen the outside. There is
less cloud blocking the sun than a mist that should have burned
away by now. It is not natural…I feel…I feel the Nightmare closer
than ever…”

The green dragon rarely cal ed the realm by the name by which it
had been known since time immemorial. For him there existed only
the horror that it had become.

He made no mention either of the fate of its mistress, Ysera,
which boded il to Brol . Yet despite also clearly being concerned
about his queen and mate, Eranikus refused to accompany them to

Ashenvale—the central subject of what had become an argument
raging al night.

Eranikus remained in his false elven shape, as if even being
himself for a short time risked being corrupted again. The dragon
had bade them leave more than once, but neither the druid nor the
high priestess would, not even when threatened. It was obvious to
both that with matters so grave in the dream realm, they would
need the aid of someone who knew the realm even better than

Brol . Fortunately, it had become quite obvious that for reasons of
his own, Eranikus had no intention of causing them harm.

“I have been very patient,” the dragon growled, turning from
them. “Leave before I cast you out of this place.”

“You could’ve done that more than once,” Brol pointed out. “And
you haven’t.”

“Mistake not my misery for weakness!” Eranikus retorted,
turning on the night elf. “Nor my regret! I have done great evil and
know that, but there are limits to my patience…”

Lucan listened to al of this with a sense of impending doom. The
points of the discussion were wel above his head, but he did
understand that matters were growing worse and that, despite his
desire otherwise, he was somehow linked to them.

A desire to have at least a little quiet had been gradual y building
up inside him. The cartographer final y gave in to it. With the night
elves stil arguing— arguing—with the dragon, Lucan decided to
step away from them. Not far. Just enough to give him some
peace.

Eranikus blocked the path by which the trio had entered, so

Lucan headed in the opposite direction. He chose a passage at
random, only caring that it be lengthy enough to escape the voices.

More and more, he just wanted to be away.

Although he was hardly as stealthy as either the druid or the high
priestess, the human escaped the chamber without notice. Already
breathing easier, Lucan stumbled down the jagged, narrow
passage.

The voices drifted after him. Dissatisfied, Lucan moved further
on. The argument faded to mere sounds, but that was stil not
enough.

Lucan had left the field of il umination, but a dim finger of light
from ahead gave him at least some visibility. He instinctively strode
toward it.

An exit to the outside world final y greeted him. It was barely
brighter outside than where he was and tendrils of mist crept into
the passage, but despite his wariness, Lucan felt the urge to
continue. There could be no harm in taking a single step outside. If
it looked even the least treacherous, al he had to do was enter
again.

Convinced by such logic, the human left the passage. He was
greeted by a vague landscape that at first put him in mind of the
pristine, emerald one of which he had always dreamed and which,
though he apparently stepped into it, now feared.

Stil , being outside after a night in the cave gave Lucan some
relief. I’ll only stay out here a moment , he promised. Perhaps

…perhaps then they’ll know what to do…

The one thing of which he was certain was that not in the least
did he desire to travel to this Ashenvale. He had already realized
that in some manner the place was tied to the dream realm. Lucan
had not told the night elves that the more he was near things bound
to what the dragon rightly cal ed the Nightmare, the more the feeling
of constantly slipping between Azeroth and it increased. Everything
related to the dream realm cal ed to him.

That, Lucan final y understood, was why he had ended up here
in the first place. He had been heading toward the dragon from the
start, for Eranikus was not only a part of his astounding and terrible
past—a past with which Lucan was stil coming to grips—but the
dragon had, at least in the past, been an integral part of the

Nightmare. Whatever had stirred up this part of Lucan seemed
determined to set him on a path into the other realm…something
he desperately wanted to avoid.

The cartographer paced back and forth. Throughout the night,
while the others had struggled to come to some agreement, he had
tried to comprehend why this should be forced upon him. An orphan
raised by good folk in Stormwind, he had expected his life to begin
and end as it did for most people. Magic and monsters were not for
him. His thirst for travel focused only on how better he could make
the maps on which his master would sign his own name. Lucan had
no desires above that.

He was not a coward, not in the least, but neither was he an
adventurer beyond his dreams.

The last thought made him grimace. ’Tis my dreams that are
the problem!

A clattering of stone made him look around. Only then did Lucan
see that he had walked farther away than he had intended. The
passage was now a faint shape some distance behind him.

Turning, he headed with al haste for it.

A powerful figure seized him from behind. He smel ed a body
more unwashed than his. Lucan caught sight of the hands gripping
the ax handle that squeezed the air from his chest—thereby also
keeping him from shouting for help—and noted foremost that they
were thick and green.

“Orc—” he gasped, the word barely even a whisper. Lucan tried
again, but this time did not have any air. He began to grow dizzy
and his vision grew cloudy.

It also grew…green.

As that happened, the pressure on his chest vanished.

However, a powerful force shoved him to the ground. Lucan fel on
his face, the ground feeling much softer, more pleasant, than he
knew it should have.

“Yes…” rumbled a voice that, though deep, was also female. “I
am close…the place of emerald shadows…”

“Em—emerald?” Lucan managed. He looked up, and to his
horror saw that the voice had spoken the truth. He was in the other
realm…only this time he had not merely passed through.

Before the cartographer could register more, he was dragged
up to a standing position, then spun halfway around.

It was an orc and it was female, although with a face that Lucan
hoped for her sake was attractive to her kind. The mouth was very
broad and the nose short and squat. The eyes so baleful y fixed on
him were the only features he could cal attractive. In fact, they
would have been striking on a human female.

The head of an ax jutted up under his chin. The orc growled,

“Take me to him!”

“To—to who?”

“The honorless one! The base slayer! The evil threatening al !

The night elf who cal s himself Malfurion Stormrage!”

Lucan tried to pul his chin up, but the ax fol owed. Through
clenched teeth, he answered, “I don’t know—know where to find
him!”

This did not sit at al wel with his captor. Lucan wondered why he
did not slip back into Azeroth as he always had in the past. He
concentrated…but nothing happened except that the orc pressed
the ax head deeper into his chin.

“You know! The vision told me only last night! I saw you there,
when he slew great and loyal Brox—”

“I’ve no—no idea what you’re—” He stopped when a stinging
sensation under his chin informed him that the ax head had drawn
blood.

“It was different again! Each time it tel s me what to do! I am
close, human! I wil avenge my blood kin…and you wil help, or you
wil share the night elf’s fate!”

Lucan knew that she meant it. He careful y murmured, “Yes…I’l
lead you there.”

The ax head lowered. The orc leaned close, her breath almost
as strong as the scent of her body. She looked through him, her
mind elsewhere. “My vengeance is destined…I dreamed that you
would come out and where that place would be and it happened!

Malfurion will die…”

She spun him back around again so that he could lead her. Only
then did Lucan for the first time see the place through which he had
previously only stumbled half-dead or rushed through.

The landscape nearest them was of an idyl ic nature, an
untouched place of natural beauty. Long, flowing grass spread over
fields dotted with sloping hil s and lush trees. It was clearly a place
untouched by civilization. There were signs of wildlife, especial y
birds in the distance. It was truly like something out of a dream, he
thought.

Then the cartographer noticed that there were no birds in the
immediate area. All of them were far away. Seeing nothing in the
direction he faced, he peered over his shoulder.

Lucan gaped. Even though the sight was stil some great
distance from their location, it so shook the human that he instantly
tried desperately to return to the mortal plane to escape what he
saw…but to no avail.

As if she did not see what no living creature could miss—and
what no living creature should desire to face—the orc used the ax
handle to brusquely shove Lucan forward…toward the Nightmare.

Eranikus shivered. “The way was opened!” He peered around.

“Where is the human?”

Al argument was forgotten as the trio sought Lucan. Brol picked
up the trail first. “He went this way!”

Tyrande fol owed the druid, but Eranikus whirled the opposite
direction. Neither night elf had time to concern themselves with the
dragon, who seemed steadfast in his refusal to help them.

Brol broke out into the open moments later. The mist was
thicker and much too reminiscent of Auberdine.

“Do you see him?” the high priestess asked.

“No, but in this muck, he might be only a few yards away.”

Tyrande held one palm before her and began praying under her
breath. The mist began to move back, as if pushed by some
unseen hand.

But in the area revealed, there was no immediate sign of the
cartographer. The druid again studied the ground, quickly finding

Lucan’s barely visible tracks.

“He went along this way, but it looks like he was pacing a lot.

He—” Brol paused, then al but pressed his face against the hard
ground as he took in other details. “There’s another set of prints

…and by their shape, I’d guess an orc. ”

“An orc? Here?”

A heavy flapping of wings caused both night elves to look up and
behind themselves. Overhead, the immense form of the green
dragon appeared in al his terrible majesty. He was huge in
comparison to most dragons either had seen, other than the Great

Aspects. Yet Eranikus was also sleeker, longer, than many. He
hovered, his huge, webbed wings spreading far to each side. Two
long horns darted back from the top of his head. His narrow jaws
opened, revealing an unnerving array of sharp teeth as long as

Brol ’s arm. Under his chin, a slight tuft of hair gave Ysera’s
consort a more scholarly look.

More astounding, Eranikus shimmered slightly, as if not
completely attuned to the mortal plane. It added an ethereal quality
to the leviathan and marked the ties he stil had with the Emerald

Dream despite his previous troubles.

Eranikus surveyed the region.

“There is no sign of the little human, anywhere, though
admittedly I am near blind, using my eyes like some mortal
creature!” the dragon final y hissed. Unsaid by him was the fact
that, under the circumstances, he dared not view the world through
dreamsight. That risked too much contact with the Emerald Dream

…and so, the Nightmare. “And the way has closed again!”

“He was taken,” Brol explained, “by an orc, it seems.”

The behemoth bared his sharp teeth. “He must have tried to
escape using his unique circumstances.”

“If he did…then he took the orc with him,” Tyrande pointed out.

Stil hovering, Eranikus cocked his head. “I have smel ed orc
here, but it was a smal scent, meaning perhaps one, and no orc
would be foolish enough to seek me…” He hissed again. “Unlike
night elves!”

Brol did not like the sound of the first part. “Why would an orc
stay here for days? What could they want from this place?”

“It could be coincidence,” replied the high priestess, “but I rather
think someone wanted the orc here from the start. The orc’s
presence, coupled with Lucan’s own and his past association with

Eranikus, make it too difficult to believe that any of it is due to
chance…”

A sinister rumbling escaped the green dragon. He glared at the
night elves. “I wil join with you long enough to bring you to

Ashenvale and make certain that your path is clear! No more than
that!”

While both were grateful, Brol had to ask, “But why change your
mind? Why draw so near to what you dread so much?”

Eranikus stared into empty air as he contemplated something.

Final y, “Because I do not like the notion that perhaps something
has been working al this time…just so this orc can reach the

Nightmare!”

The druid was incredulous. “But for what reason?”

The great dragon looked troubled, so troubled that the night
elves’ unease grew by volumes. “Wel we might ask, little druid

…wel we might ask…”

He descended to the ground and with a tip of his head indicated
that the two should climb atop near his neck. Tyrande had ridden
dragons before and so obeyed without hesitation. Brol frowned,
but fol owed immediately. His avian form could not possibly keep up
with a dragon’s pace.

The moment they were ready, Eranikus took to the sky. He
circled once, then headed in the direction that the druid had
assumed Ashenvale lay.

“How long before we reach it?” Tyrande shouted. “How long
before we reach Ashenvale?”

“Not so long, but perhaps too long!” the dragon roared back.

“Press yourselves against my neck and hold tight!”

They raced through the heavens at a speed that nearly took the
night elves’ breath away. The gusting wind might have been harder
to take, but Eranikus arched his neck to give them some
protection.

Brol dared lean to his right just enough to see something of the
ground. What he noticed left him with more concern. There was
mist everywhere. It was not one thick blanket, but neither was there
any separate patch. Indeed, the pattern reminded him of
something.

As a druid, it final y came to him. Branches…the tendrils of mist
look like branches from some evil tree…

The resemblance was enhanced by areas that brought to mind
leaves with jagged edges. That brought back memories of the
visions Brol had earlier suffered, and he pondered their
connection to al this.

On and on they flew. The hil s became wooded lands. The air
cooled some. The woods thickened into lush, green forest that Brol
knew from past journeys.

“I see it…” Eranikus informed them. “Bough Shadow lies just
ahead…”

“Just ahead” to the dragon stil meant to his passengers that it
was out of sight for several minutes more. Then…

“I see it!” cried Tyrande.

Brol tapped her shoulder in acknowledgment. He, too, could at
last make out the Great Tree.

It was dwarfed by its mightier siblings, but it stil rose high over
the region, a monarch in its own right. From a distance, the tree
seemed in good order, even if its base was covered by mist. Its
vast branches spread nearly a mile across, and within its boughs
could be found a multitude of creatures, including many of those
who served as its guardians. It was one of a handful of such trees,
the others located in the astounding Crystalsong Forest—a mystic
place in chil Northrend where, in addition to normal fascinating
trees, formations of crystal grew—the Hinterlands—east of Aerie

Peak, home of the gryphonriding Wildhammer dwarves—murky
and dangerous Duskwood, and the deep, dank jungle of Feralas.

There were portals located in al these places, but for the druids
and Brol in particular, Ashenvale was the most secure, the most
safe. Thus far.

However, as they neared, the dragon said, “The area is empty. I
see no one, night elf or otherwise…”

“That can’t be,” Brol returned. “The druids were summoned
away, but there were others who would be here!”

“We shal see.” Eranikus circled once, then descended.

As the dragon alighted, the night elves got their first glance at
the tree’s huge base…and the portal that represented their best
hopes.

Vine-wrapped, fluted columns with wide capitals marked their
ultimate destination. A path composed of pieces of stone passed
between them, leading to the tree.

The portal itself was round. Its surrounding border was shaped
from the tree’s living roots. They wrapped around one another,
forming an arch. With the arch was a second border violet in color
and radiating energy.

But it was the core that most demanded attention. Within the
portal, a swirling mass of emerald energy constantly shifted. At
times, streaks that resembled miniature bolts of green lightning
flared.

The key to their hopes of reaching Malfurion, the reason for
seeking this place, was this portal. The physical path to the

Emerald Dream and the Nightmare—the only path that might stil be
at al trustworthy—lay open to them.

And that in itself now presented another concern.

“It is as you said,” Tyrande remarked to the dragon. “There is no
one, though there should be many guardians.”

“Could they be to the east?” Brol suggested. “The Horde’s been
getting very cocky about trying to harvest that part of the forest. It
was something Malfurion was concerned about years ago already.”

“That is a point,” conceded the dragon, “but those who serve
here serve most my queen…they would not depart without her
com—”

Eranikus let out a fearsome roar of pain as a huge boulder
crashed down upon his back. Caught unaware and having just
carried the two night elves, he had not raised defenses against
such a primitive but powerful assault.

As the dragon sought to recover, a second missile col ided with
him. Eranikus tumbled toward the portal, bowling over several
columns.

The night elves turned to face the enemy, Brol transforming into
the ferocious bear and Tyrande wielding the glaive.

Out of the forest burst a gigantic figure who seemed spawned by
the very trees. His body was covered in thick bark and he had a
long beard of leaves. Two tusks thrust from his mouth and his eyes
were fil ed with a golden rage focused not on the night elves, but
the dragon.

“Corrupted…” he grated, his voice akin to the scraping of wood
against wood. “You wil not pass…”

“An ancient of war!” the high priestess cal ed.

As quickly as he had transformed, Brol reverted to his true
shape. He ran toward the lumbering figure, unafraid of the
fearsome paws that resembled huge, sharp splinters capable of
skewering a mere druid.

“Gnarl!” Brol shouted at the top of his lungs. “Gnarl, ancient of
war, protector of Ashenvale and Forest Song! You know me! You
know me!”

The ancient hesitated. The mighty creature wore only a few bits
of armor that looked more ornamental than protective. Fearsome
faces and mystic patterns decorated them. In truth, the ancient
needed little protecting. There was not much that could injure one
of them. The ancients were among the first creatures of Azeroth,
the first guardians of its life.

Gnarl cocked his head as he studied the druid. There was a hint
of resemblance to a hound in the jagged face, but the eyes
bespoke of an intel igence much greater. Indeed, ancients of war
helped teach night elf warriors much of their skil s.

“I know you, yes, night elf! You are the wanderer and friend
cal ed Brol Bearmantle…” Gnarl briefly bent his head. “My sorrow
stil for the death of your youngster…”

The comment made Brol clench a fist, though he hid that from
the ancient. With lives that made those of night elves look so very
short, ancients often saw years like seconds. To Gnarl, Anessa’s
death was an incident that had only just happened and so was very
wel recal ed. Gnarl did not mean to remind Brol …not that the druid
ever forgot, anyway.

But Gnarl then returned his attention to Eranikus, who had final y
righted himself. The dragon spread his wings and hissed at the
ancient, yet though Gnarl was smal er, the guardian did not look
afraid to directly face Eranikus.

“Corrupt one! You were warned…”

“I come here only to bring these two to help my queen and their
friend—your friend, also! Malfurion Stormrage!”

“Stormrage…” Gnarl looked uncertain. “We have felt his
absence strong…yet also his presence…” The eyes glared at

Eranikus. “As we have sensed your nearing presence for the past
day…and the corruption you bring with you…”

The dragon started to shrink back. It was clear by his reaction
that what the ancient had said struck a chord.

“He’s freed of his corruption!” Brol corrected, coming to

Eranikus’s defense. “He is an al y and a friend to us again! You
should know that!”

“No!” Gnarl raised a mighty hand. “I saw him return to his evil!

He—” The huge figure blinked. “No…that was a nightmare…one of
many of late. He does not seem corrupted…yet…”

Taking advantage of the ancient’s hesitance, Brol asked a
question that had been bothering him. “Gnarl…where are the other
guardians?”

The forest dwel er’s expression turned grimmer. “Some to the
east, some to the north, some to the south. The others…those who
remained behind with me…the others sleep and do not wake…” He
shook his head. “I hid them safe…but I have grown so tired myself

…I may soon be joining them.”

“What happened?”

Gnarl told them how the guardians—including ancients, night
elves, green drakes, dryads, and especial y those of the green
dragonflight—had been without commands by Ysera for far too
long. They had grown concerned. That concern had turned worse
when a dryad named Shael’dryn had come to them after fleeing her
moonwel . The wel s—bound to the magic of nature and the light of

Elune—were places of healing for both the land around them and
those who drank of their waters. Magi and other spel casters could
even refresh their mana, a gift of the Mother Moon to Azeroth’s
other defenders. Shael’dryn had been the one watching over the
northernmost.

“I know her,” Brol said with a slight, wry smile. “A jester of words,
a lover of puns…”

Gnarl shook his craggy head. “No humor was there in her when
she came. She warned of—of attackers in the dark, seeking the
wel s. The dryad only cal ed them shadows, though she said that
they reminded her of something else.”

No one heard the intake of breath from Tyrande, who then
asked, “Where is she? It might be wise to speak with her.”

“That is impossible,” the ancient answered. “She has slept for
two days now.”

He went on to tel them how, after hearing from the dryad, the
ancients and other guardians had then divided up to head to the
moonwel s and other strategic locations. They had left Gnarl and
the others in charge of the portal’s protection.

“There were more than a dozen…al strong, especial y the
dragons and drakes…and at the time, we did not know yet about
the unwaking sleep. That happened only after we divided up and
said our farewel s…”

“You were played like pieces in a chess game,” Eranikus pointed
out, not without some satisfaction at someone else’s mistakes.

“Hmmph!”

Although Gnarl obviously did not care for the dragon’s
comments, he did not defend himself and his comrades. Instead,
the ancient gestured at the portal. “I wil not stand in your way…go,
if you think it some good…”

“I am not foolish enough to enter there! That is for these two!”

Now Gnarl did show his contempt, though Eranikus ignored him.

Forgetting the dragon, the woodland guardian said to Brol , “Forest
brother, I would go with…but there must be someone here…other
than him…”

“That’s understood. I’l go alone—”

“We go together,” Tyrande curtly interjected.

As ever, there was no arguing with the high priestess. Brol
shrugged. “Then let’s get on with it.”

Eranikus moved to the side. The night elves strode toward the
glittering energies.

Tyrande exhaled. “It looks so…beautiful.”

“Once, it was.”

“How do we enter?”

“Just walk in,” the druid replied, “and then be prepared for
anything.”

“I always am.”

“Fare you wel ,” Gnarl grated, the ancient raising one heavy
hand. “There is stil the sense of corruption near…”

“The Nightmare covers much of the Dream,” Eranikus
impatiently pointed out. He acted more anxious now that the two
were about to enter. “I sense its malevolence more than ever.

Once you are through, I shal depart!”

Brol , in the lead, paused to look one last time to the dragon.

“We thank you for your aid, though.”

“Thank me not for helping you to possible disaster, little night elf!

”

Tyrande, peering at the portal, interrupted. “Brol , there is
something—”

The portal flared. The emerald energies darkened, then swelled,
expanding to encompass the pair.

As the night elves tried to come to grips with what was
happening, mocking laughter rang in their ears and a fearsome
head that seemed as much mist as real lunged toward them. Like
the energies of the portal, the creature was of a dire green shade.

“We’ve been waiting for you…” the dragon said.

12

NIGHTMARE’S SERVANTS

The green dragon was not so great in size as Eranikus, but he was
large indeed and eager to take the night elves. Brol cast the
calming spel that had worked at least in part on Ysera’s consort,
hoping to slow the attacking beast.

But for his efforts he received only more of the malevolent
laughter. The dragon would have fal en upon him if not for Tyrande,
who shoved the druid aside and threw her glaive.

Glowing with Elune’s majesty, the triple-bladed weapon whirled
unerringly at its target. The tip cut across the dragon’s snout just
above the red region that almost resembled a beard, and though
the monster seemed half-insubstantial, a wicked flash of dark
emerald energy escaped the cut. The horned dragon arched his
neck, more furious than wounded. His wings spread wide, revealing
red membrane that contrasted sharply to his overal verdant
appearance. Lethon’s fiendish orbs were wide with rage and it was
clear that, unlike Eranikus or others of the green dragonflight—who
general y kept their eyes shut and observed al through the half-
waking, half-sleeping state—the corrupted behemoth saw quite
wel .

“You must be taught your places…” the beast hissed as the
glaive returned to Tyrande.

“Away from the portal!” Brol ordered. “Retreat from it!”

The pair backed up, trying to return to Ashenvale, but the
energies of the portal spread to fol ow them. No matter how hard
they pushed, they could not reach the mortal plane.

Then a mighty figure reached for them. Gnarl, half-submerged in
the portal energies, grabbed Tyrande with one huge hand and Brol
with the other even as the sinister dragon surged forward.

“You cannot escape … the Nightmare is all around and all
within you!”

As he said that, from the very air surrounding the night elves
there formed shadow creatures that made Tyrande gasp. Although
only silhouettes, they bore the semblances of satyrs, their
muscular legs akin to those of furred goats and ending in heavy,
cloven hooves and their heads bearing sharp horns that curved
back. There were hints of other satyr features, the long tails and
beards, the torsos and heads bearing resemblance to night elves.

The outlines of their savage claws were quite clear. That they were
shadows added some new dimension of horror to those who had
faced the true fiends in the past.

Their numbers increased in rapid order, threatening to
overwhelm the trio. Gnarl thrust the night elves behind him, then
confronted the shadow satyrs. They leapt upon the ancient with
eager abandon. They scratched and tore and bit with ebony fangs
and claws. They tore through the hard bark skin. A deep brown sap
dribbled from wounds al over the ancient, but Gnarl seemed
unimpressed by the injuries he received.

The ancient seized one shadow and squeezed. The silhouette
scattered into a thousand pieces of shadow. Gnarl plucked another
off of him, then did the same.

But the pieces from the first then gathered again in different
places. From the one destroyed shadow was born half a dozen
more. The same happened to the fragments of the second.

Yet the ancient had bought his two companions time to plot their
own counterattacks. The high priestess threw her glaive. The
weapon became whirling death, severing shadow after shadow.

The moonlight surrounding the blades then burned away the cut
silhouettes.

As for Brol , he transformed, again taking on an ursine shape.

The huge, dark bear fel upon the shadow satyrs. Claws ripped and
tore at the silhouettes, claws aglow with wild, purple flames. The
shadows fel by the scores as Brol let his animalistic instincts al
but take over.

The dragon’s foul laugh drowned out al other sounds. He swept
toward Brol . “Your little flames won’t hurt me!”

The leviathan opened wide and exhaled. A great cloud of utter
darkness shot forth.

It enveloped the druid. Brol could neither see nor sense
anything. Growling, he slashed and bit, but found no substance.

Father! Father!

The massive bear snarled in distrust and anxiety. Brol knew his
daughter’s voice.

No, Father, no!

He knew that this was not real, that this was a nightmare of the
dragon’s doing…but the cry felt so real.

Just for a moment, Brol caught sight of a female night elf. That
strengthened his yearning for Anessa. The druid reverted to his
true form—

The shadows pressed him…but out of them also came the
figure he had glimpsed. She gripped him tight and pul ed him with
her.

“Brol ! Wake up!”

He blinked, not certain when his eyes had closed. “A-Anessa?”

“No! Tyrande!”

“Tyrande…” The druid’s senses returned. He stood next to the
high priestess, who had one hand wrapped around his waist while
with the other hand she manipulated the huge, gleaming glaive.

Elune’s light stil embraced the weapon, giving it power against the
shadow satyrs.

“He comes again!” she warned.

Brol did not have to ask who, for the monstrous dragon already
loomed over them. Of Gnarl there was no sight, and the druid also
wondered what had happened to Eranikus. Had he led them to this
point so that this other dragon could deal with them? No…that
makes no sense! If he had, he’d be here, too, making certain of
our deaths!

But what mattered most at the moment was surviving. The
dragon dove down. His mouth opened wide and Brol feared
another exhalation of dark nightmares.

Then, with a guttural roar, Gnarl reentered the scene. Bits of his
bark skin hung from the ancient’s body and the sap dripped
everywhere, yet Gnarl showed no slowing as he seized the reptilian
monster.

“They wil not be yours, Lethon!” he grated.

“You will all be ours…” the corrupted dragon mocked. “Azeroth
and the Dream have been inexorably intertwined since the
world’s creation…and thus you are linked to the Dream and what
it is…You cannot hide from that within all of you…”

Lethon… Brol knew that name. “He was slain!” the druid told

Tyrande as they battled to escape the energies of the twisted
portal. “Lethon should be dead!”

“Then how does he exist here?”

The druid suddenly understood. It explained why the energies
had reached out to the pair. “Only his dreamform stil thrives! He’s
a green dragon, one of those most bound to the Dream! Whatever
corrupted him must’ve been able to keep that part of him ‘alive,’ but
only so long as he stays from the mortal plane.”

“What happens if he does not?”

“We should try to find out,” Brol muttered. “Eranikus be cursed!

If he knew about this…if this is why he left us to face the Nightmare
alone…”

There was no time to say more, for the dark green shapes were
converging on them again and, worse, Gnarl was final y losing
ground to Lethon. Although the guardian was gigantic himself and
embodied the power and sturdiness of the huge tree he resembled,

Lethon was too strong. The dragon battled the wounded ancient
down, then raised a paw that ended in massive claws.

The night elves had no hope of aiding him. Indeed, they were not
only driven back by the ancient, but were then separated from one
another by the fiendish silhouettes.

“Away from me!” Tyrande roared, trying to fight her way back.

With the whirling glaive and the light of Elune, she cut a swath
through the infernal ranks. The shadow satyrs before her melted
away as if dew touched by the morning sun.

Brol returned to his bear form, using the magical purple fire to
enhance his powerful blows. Yet the nightmares seemed without
end.

Lethon, meanwhile, had returned his attention to Gnarl. The
ancient had managed to rise up on one knee but could stil not fend
off his gargantuan adversary.

“I have you now!” Lethon cried with a savage grin revealing
many, many teeth.

“I have lived long…I do not fear death…”

This caused the corrupted dragon to laugh more harshly. “Dead,
you serve us no purpose…”

With one mighty paw, he swatted Gnarl toward the deep mist.

The ancient managed to bring himself to a halt at the very edge.

Clearly staggered, he nevertheless defiantly rose to resume battle.

From out of the mist came a dark, grasping hand. It was smal ,
but it seized Gnarl’s leg with a ferocity that caused the ancient to
look down. As he did, a second, identical hand seized one arm.

Other hands shot from the mist. They clustered together, as if al
part of the same host. Gnarl growled and tried to pul away, but too
many now had hold of him.

Brol roared a warning to Tyrande. The two night elves tried to
fight their way to their rescuer.

Despite his titanic struggles, the ancient could not free himself
of even one grip. More and more hands seized him. They grasped
him as something starving might a morsel. Slowly they began to
drag Gnarl back to the mist.

Lethon came between the giant and the druid. He swirled before

Brol , the dragon’s chuckle sending involuntary chil s down the great
bear’s spine. Brol roared at the dragon as he tried to find some
way past. Farther back, Tyrande struggled as the shadows
renewed their attack on her position.

“You waste your breath…no one can escape…no one can flee

…you will belong to us…”

Gnarl was half into the mist. Even stil , more and more hands
clutched at his arms, grappled with his legs, and clawed at his
torso. Others pul ed back the brave guardian’s head and even
sought to smother his voice.

But Gnarl managed one shout. “Escape through the portal!

Escape through the—”

The hands—shaped like those of night elves, humans, orcs,
tauren, and other creatures of Azeroth—now al but covered the
ancient. There were so many that Gnarl himself could barely move.

One foot was dragged into the mist. A shoulder joined it, then the
entire arm. Gnarl’s head vanished into the impenetrable fog.

The ancient shuddered. He seemed to go limp.

The hands pul ed the rest of him within.

Tyrande had been seeking a path on the other side of Lethon,
but not until Gnarl had vanished did it suddenly open. So desperate
to reach their al y, the high priestess took a few steps forward
before realizing that not only was it too late for Gnarl, but that

Lethon had let her commit herself in order to make her the next
victim.

The first hands reached out, as hungry as ever. Forced to save
herself from Gnarl’s fate, the high priestess turned from Lethon to
battle the hands with both Elune’s light and the glaive.

A titanic bel ow shook the three combatants. A glistening form
appeared among them. Eranikus.

The emerald dragon’s closed eyes fixed on Lethon.

The corrupted leviathan suddenly roared. He twisted and cried
out, “The trees…they close in on me!”

As he said this, Brol and the others saw what appeared to be
soft, misty trees truly gathering around the corrupted dragon. To
the druid, they seemed harmless, healing…but to Lethon it
appeared as if their mere touch was poison.

But then Lethon shook his head. The trees of mist dissipated.

Lethon’s expression toward Eranikus was murderous. “I am
beyond such petty dream attacks! Indeed, you dream too much,
dear Eranikus…you dream too much and understand too little of
what I have become through the growing power of the

Nightmare…” The seared areas healed. Lethon leaned forward
and though he did not stand as great as Eranikus, he was
fearsome. “But you will understand again, when you are one of
us once more…”

Lethon’s eyes widened…and as they did, they changed,
revealing that what the party had seen earlier had been il usion.

Now came the dread reality.

They were pits, pits so dark that they seemed to want to swal ow
those upon which they were focused. There was in them the same
hunger, the same horror, that the hands had exhibited. Yet in the
dragon, it became a different evil, a personal one.

“I am only corruption now, Eranikus! It has consumed me and I
savor that consumption…”

“Then…there is no reason for you to continue to be…”

Ysera’s mate glared at Lethon.

Brol noticed that the corrupted dragon did not cringe or fight.

Instead, Lethon waited…with anticipation.

“Eranikus!” the druid shouted. “Beware! There is another!”

Lethon’s head turned and the hol ow eyes sought to tear out

Brol ’s very soul. The druid let out a gasp but fought the dread
feeling.

The mist nearest Eranikus coalesced into a horrific form that
was the Nightmare embodied. It was one of Eranikus’s kind, but
only just. The great majesty that was a green dragon had been
replaced by a thing so diseased that its flesh rotted. It was female,
but only barely recognizable as so now. There were tatters in the
violet membranes of the wings, and a stench of decay washed
over the night elves.

Tyrande shuddered, reliving the initial war against the Burning

Legion, when the land was covered in the innocent dead. Brol let
out a rumble of pain as he watched Anessa perish again, along with
so many others in the far more recent battle against the demons at

Mt. Hyjal.

The new terror had sinister black orbs whose centers were a
chil ing bone white. She seized upon a startled Eranikus, sinking
skeletal claws into his forelegs.

“Have you forgotten dear Emeriss?” the macabre dragon
asked in a voice that literal y chil ed. “We yearn to have you back
with us, Eranikus…”

“No! I wil not let the Nightmare take me again!” He turned his
stare upon her.

She spat. A putrid green substance covered Eranikus’s eyes.

He roared and tried to wipe the foul stuff away, but she held him
tight. Worse, Lethon now joined her in the attack.

“We have missed you so much…” Emeriss cooed. “Do not
fight our embrace…accept the inevitable…”

“No! Never! I cannot! I wil not!” Yet, despite his protestations,

Eranikus could not prevent the pair from beginning to drag him
toward the mists. There, the hands reappeared, grasping at the air
in anticipation of the struggling leviathan.

Neither Brol nor Tyrande could do anything; they were barely
able to hold their own as the shadow satyrs renewed their eager
assault.

Crimson fire from behind Ysera’s consort bathed Emeriss and

Lethon. Startled and enraged, they released their hold and
retreated to the mists. Eranikus immediately fled the portal, in his
anxiety utterly forgetting his two companions.

But other aid came to them. Two great hands made of soft, red
energy swept away the dark throngs, then gently lifted the druid and
the high priestess as if they were toys. The hands withdrew, pul ing
them to safety beyond the portal.

The dark emerald forces immediately after returned to their
normal state.

Eranikus lay sprawled far to the side, Ysera’s mate panting. His
gaze was turned from where the night elves and their savior stood.

Their savior…yet another dragon.

A red dragon.

A very, very large red dragon, one who dwarfed even Eranikus.

Two massive horns thrust back from a proud, reptilian head.

Most of the behemoth’s body was of a stunning crimson, but the
chest had a great patch of silver to it, as did the paws. Smal
webbed patches extended from each side of the head.

Yet what set the dragon apart from any of the others—aside
from the immense size—were the eyes. They were not the
glittering orbs of Eranikus’s flight, but rather a smoldering golden
light that, despite the night elves’ previous predicament, brought
calm and hope.

When the dragon spoke, her voice was commanding but
soothing. “They have fled. They did not expect me. Sad to say, I did
not expect them, either, or else I would have been ready to aid you
from the beginning.”

“You…are an Aspect…” Tyrande solemnly declared. “You are—”

The gargantuan dragon bowed her head. “I am…Alexstrasza.

And I know you, Tyrande Whisperwind, from both that long-ago
struggle now cal ed the War of the Ancients and the blessing of

Nordrassil soon after it.”

“Alexstrasza…” The high priestess stirred at the thought of
another name related to the Aspect, that of a second valued al y.

“Krasus! Is he here also? Does he stil live? He would have some
answers for us—”

The dragon shook her head. Her gaze grew troubled. “There
are many sleepers, Tyrande Whisperwind…and he is among them.

”

The female night elf frowned. “I am sorry for you.”

The Aspect cocked her head, startled. “You are sorry for me?”

Alexstrasza glanced at Brol , who hid his curiosity as best he could.

Like most druids, he knew of the two magi Krasus and Rhonin, very
active in these times, who were said to have played a part in

Malfurion’s growth as a druid some ten thousand years before.

How that could be, his shan’do had never made clear. “And is he,
also?”

“He does not know. I know because of Malfurion.”

“As is just, considering your part in so much, Tyrande

Whisperwind.” To Brol Alexstrasza said, “And it is just that you also
know. My consort Korialstrasz and the mage Krasus are one and
the same.”

“One and the same?” It explained so much, yet Brol knew that
he would have never made such a connection himself.

The great dragon rose up on her hind legs and folded in her
wings. As she did, she began to shrink. Her wings shriveled, quickly
turning into nubs, then nothing. Alexstrasza’s forepaws became
arms and her legs twisted outward, resembling more those of a
night elf.

Now barely twice the height of Brol and only a fraction of her
former girth, the Aspect continued her remarkable transformation.

Her maw receded into her face, becoming a separate nose and
mouth. The horns dwindled and lush hair sprouted. In another blink
of an eye the change was nearly complete, and a figure who was
and was not any sort of elven offshoot stood before the druid and
his companion.

Lush tresses of fiery hair—and, indeed, there were licks of
flame constantly escaping the wild mane—cascaded down her slim
shoulders. Alexstrasza was clad as a warrior maiden, with long,
armored boots rising to her thighs and a breastplate that accented
the curve of her feminine body. Her hands were shielded by
intricate gauntlets reaching almost to the crooks of her arms and a
crimson cloak that resembled a membraned wing in form fluttered
behind her. What had been her horns were to Brol ’s amazed gaze
either an intricate headpiece wel -placed atop her head…or stil
smal er horns.

Crimson, violet, and touches of blue-black—al framed with gold
edging—were her garments’ colors, and her skin was a soft
brownish red. Her face was rounder than that of Tyrande or any
night elf, almost as if mixed with human traits. Her nose was
smal er and her mouth perfectly curved. Her hair formed a widow’s
peak and then framed her face on both sides.

Only the Aspect’s eyes had not changed, save to have adjusted
for her size. Brol and Tyrande both instinctively went down on one
knee and bent their heads in homage. Although they served other
patrons, al honored the Life-Binder.

“Rise up,” she commanded. “I do not seek subjects, but al ies…”

Rising, Tyrande solemnly said, “If Elune grants it, what power I
wield both with my glaive and through my prayers to her wil I offer! I
stood with yours against the demons ten thousand years ago and
if, as I think, our concerns coincide, I wil do so again!”

“They do.” The glorious figure looked to Brol . “And you, druid?

What say you?”

“Our lives are owed to you already, mistress, and you’re sister
to She of the Dreaming. I can think of no other reason for you to be
here save our own, and so there’s no argument as to whom I lend
my hand…”

She nodded grateful y. “My Korialstrasz, my treasured mate, lies
in a troubled slumber from which he cannot wake, though I sense
he tries. He is far from the only one, my children, as you likely
already suspect. Not only are others of my kind affected—though
fewer since dragons do not need to sleep as much as most races

—but this dread slumber has touched every other race. Worse, it
finds particular interest in those of prominence and power: magi,
kings, generals, philosophers, and the like.”

“Shandris!” Tyrande breathed.

“If she is one of yours, my child, then her chance is better. The
night elves have not suffered to the degree of many races. I find
this intriguing. I think that we have another al y, though I am amazed
if my guess is correct…”

Before she could say more, a moan arose from the side. Brol
glared at Eranikus, who stil lay where he had fal en after escaping
his corrupted kind. “A better al y than that sorry sight, I hope!

Fleeing for his life after letting others take the lead to a place he
better knows—”

The green dragon raised his head. His reptilian features were
twisted in a pathetic look. “You do not understand even now, little
druid! Did you not see them? Did you not understand what Lethon
and Emeriss have become? Did you not also want to flee?”

“Not without any of my friends.”

With another moan, the dragon turned away. “You do not
understand…”

Alexstrasza turned to the gigantic beast. Although her
expression held no anger, her tone was not one of forgiveness.

“Nor do I, Eranikus…and that in itself says much concerning your
actions.” As the green dragon began to protest, the Aspect cut him
off. “And, yes, I know what it is like to be a slave to the dark wil of
something else, a slave responsible for abominable acts.”

Eranikus eyed her, then final y nodded. “So you do.”

“And I also know more about what is happening here than even
you do.” She stepped just in front of his immense jaws and, though
in her present form was so much tinier than him, stood as the
greater over the lesser. “I know that Ysera was aware of your
redemption and survival…and aware of your choice at the last
moment not to return to her side after al for fear that the

Nightmare might yet cause you to someday betray her again.”

His powerful gaze was as nothing to her. Brol , watching, had at
first wondered why he did not shut his lids and see her through the
ways of his kind. Only now did it occur to the druid that to resume
doing so meant Eranikus opening himself up to the Nightmare, the
last thing he desired.

“She—knew?” the behemoth final y asked Alexstrasza. “She
knew that as I flew to her in the Dream, I sensed the Nightmare
cal ing to me despite the cleansing of my corruption, cal ing to me
with such strength that I understood my renewed confidence was
but a false hope?”

“She knew immediately. Yet she loves you so much that she
accepted your choice in the hopes that eventual y you would stil
return to her.”

“And now…and now it is too late…she is taken also…”

The Aspect’s own amazing eyes narrowed. “No…not yet.”

Eranikus looked with desperate hope to her. “She is safe?”

“Hardly that.” Alexstrasza extended a hand to include the two
night elves. “There is more known to me about the Nightmare than
any of you three have thus far learned. It is a danger that Ysera
has fought for some time…”

Ysera, the red dragon informed them, had noticed her dreams
grow dark, even despite her absolute control of them. At first she
had blamed her own concerns but then had discovered the truth
too late. The nightmares she experienced touched Azeroth, took
lives of their own, and reached into the minds of the mortals there.

It was then that Ysera had made a terrible error of her own. The
mistress of the Emerald Dream had looked into the slumbering
minds, seeking the source of what had even infiltrated her own
subconscious. She did so unaware that the source of the threat
desired just that of her.

“Lethon came upon her while her mind was deep in her search
beyond,” Alexstrasza told them. “He was accompanied by
shadows, the satyrs that these night elves just fought. They fel
upon her dreaming form while he took that which was most desired

…the Eye. ”

Eranikus jumped to his feet. His gaze became al but impossible
for Brol and Tyrande to behold. “The Eye of Ysera taken? I had
feared as much! How can you say then that my beloved queen is
not prisoner?”

“The Eye is where Ysera and her flight most often congregate in
the Dream,” Brol quietly informed Tyrande. “It’s said to be the most
idyl ic place there. Malfurion’s seen it and I know Fandral, also, but
few others even among us druids. I’m told it’s a val ey nestled
among great, encircling hil s. The land is lush and fil ed with grass
and flowers, but the name comes from the magnificent golden
dome in the center, where Ysera herself dwel s…dwel ed…”

The green dragon snorted. “A pale though acceptable
description of it, little druid! There is no more perfect place in al
creation!” He suddenly moaned. “The Eye taken! Where then is
my queen if not captured?!?”

Now Alexstrasza shook her head sadly at his continued rage.

“No. Ysera avoided capture. She is fighting. She, her remaining
consorts, and a handful of others fight not only to save themselves,
but to seek the truth at the Nightmare’s dark core. She has no
intention of letting either her domain or Azeroth fal to this
monstrous thing!”

“She is mad! If she fal s prey to it, al is ended! The Nightmare
felt so powerful, I believed her already taken, but if she seeks its
truths and its power, it wil make of her something worse than

Lethon or Emeriss and, through her, alter both planes into a horror
far worse than anything we have thus far experienced!”

“She does what she must do,” Alexstrasza calmly replied. “And I
seek to help her as I can. I add my strength to hers from afar,
watch over al tentative advances by the Nightmare into this world,
seek those who can help…and watch for the corrupted, the
unwaking.”

The male dragon final y looked down. In a tone of self-loathing,
he muttered, “You do al that for her while she risks herself so and I

…I sit in a cave, hiding from the doom of the world! Hiding from the
defense of my love and my queen! I know your Korialstrasz of old
just as I know you, Life-Binder! I am not worthy to be in your
presence or that of my Ysera…” Alexstrasza almost spoke, but

Eranikus shook his head. “But if there is hope of becoming worthy
of her, there is but one path for me!”

The great green dragon spun to face the portal. Its energies
pulsated softly, innocently.

Eranikus moved toward it. “I no longer sense the Nightmare
near. The accursed corruption has shifted again. It is safe for the
moment to enter…but beyond that…” He looked to the night elves.

“Your part ends here.”

“No, we go with you,” Tyrande countered. “I do not think our
coming together was al chance. Someone seeks to bring together
those who best can serve Azeroth and its survival. Nothing
happens without reason…”

“Of course, someone does!” Ysera’s consort abruptly
responded, expression shifting to desperate hope. “It must be my
queen! Even with so much no doubt assailing her, she works and
plots for our salvation! I should have seen it—”

“Not Ysera. Not my sister,” Alexstrasza sagely interjected. She
eyed Tyrande and Brol . “I think another seeks to guide you…and I
think it is Malfurion Stormrage himself.”

It comes together, Malfurion dared hope, the archdruid doing al he
could to shield those thoughts from his captor. They may suspect

…but that is good so long as he doesn’t…

The dread shadows suddenly stretched over the tree of pain
that was the night elf. The insidious presence of the Nightmare

Lord surrounded Malfurion and fil ed his mind and soul.

Have you come to love the agony? Is it so much a part of you
that you cannot tell it from yourself?

Malfurion did not respond. There was no point in responding.

Doing so only served his captor.

Keeping counsel with your own thoughts, Malfurion

Stormrage? The skeletal tendrils of the shadow tree wrapped
around the imprisoned archdruid. Shall we discuss those thoughts

…those dreams…those hopes?

Despite himself, the night elf could not help but be jarred by the
last. Did the foul thing know?

Let us share some considerations…let us share some
ambitions…

The archdruid buried his thoughts as deep as possible. His plan
was near to fruition. There was a chance…

The Nightmare Lord laughed in his head. And, most of all,

Malfurion Stormrage, let us talk of foolish dreams of rescue…

13

AT THE EDGE OF NIGHTMARE

The druids were exhausted. They had spent themselves so much
that several would not likely be of help for any further casting for
days. Their combined might had fed and fed Teldrassil, but with no
visible success…at least so far as Hamuul could tel .

As for the tauren himself, he had become a pariah to most of
the others, although official y there had been no censure, no
condemnation by Archdruid Fandral concerning whatever Brol had
done. Fandral had not even informed Hamuul just what the missing
druid had done. He had merely eyed the tauren disapprovingly,
doing so long enough that the others understood that Hamuul had
lost favor.

Naralex and a few others defied the shunning, but Hamuul did
his best to steer clear of them out of concern that they, too, would
suffer. The aged tauren was wil ing to shoulder his responsibility in
enabling Brol to go unnoticed long enough. He trusted his friend.

Fandral had a right to be angered, though.

The lead archdruid had insisted on keeping them at Teldrassil’s
base, far from Darnassus. Only he had thus far returned to the city.

Each time he returned, Fandral pressed the druids in some new
fashion. He assured them that they were making progress, that the

World Tree was healing.

Hamuul had to assume that he was not an adept-enough
archdruid to sense what Fandral did.

The tauren sat cross-legged a bit distant from the rest. The
druids were meditating, trying to regain their strength for Fandral’s
next spel . Hamuul had never felt so drained in al his life, not even
during the weeklong hunt that had been part of his rite of passage
from child to adult. That had required fasting during the entire trial.

I am getting old…was his first thought. Yet none of the night
elves appeared any stronger than him. Thus far it seemed that the
lead archdruid’s plans had done little more than bring every
member to the brink of ruin.

Thinking again of Fandral, Hamuul looked for him. However, the
other was nowhere to be found. The tauren could only suppose that

Fandral had perhaps again returned to the Cenarion Enclave to
consult some ancient text. Hamuul hoped that it would provide them
with more tangible results than they had achieved thus far.

Finding himself unable to meditate, the tauren rose. Seeing that
none of the others paid him any mind, he strode toward the World

Tree.

Even though Hamuul had not been one of those in favor of a
second such giant, he could not only appreciate the majesty of it,
but also Teldrassil’s effect on the world. As a tauren, Hamuul very
much believed in the balance between nature and the lives of the
various races of Azeroth. That had been why he had sought out

Malfurion Stormrage in the first place and asked to be instructed in
the druidic arts. And even though Hamuul had only been a druid for
a few years, he believed that he had proven himself wel .

Otherwise, he would not have risen to become one of the few
archdruids and the only one of his kind.

The tauren wished there was more he could do beyond what he
had done for Brol . He stil felt that Brol ’s choice was somehow the
right one, despite how it crossed Fandral’s good purposes.

Standing just before Teldrassil, he looked up into the clouds where

Darnassus lay. If the portal had been very near, Hamuul might have
been tempted to just walk through it. As it was, his only other choice
was to fly…

With a grunt, he leaned with one hand against Teldrassil. There
was more he needed to do. If Brol —

Someone was whispering.

Hamuul stepped from the tree and looked for the speaker.

However, the whispering immediately ceased.

His thick brow wrinkling in thought, the archdruid neared the
trunk once more.

The whispering started up again. Hamuul stared at Teldrassil

…then looked down at his foot. There, the side of his right foot
touched one of the World Tree’s roots.

He placed his hand on the trunk.

The whispering fil ed his head. Hamuul could not understand it. It
was not any of the tongues spoken by the intel igent races of

Azeroth. Rather, it reminded him of something else, something the
tauren should know wel —

“Shakuun, guide my spear…” he murmured, blurting a tauren
oath. Shakuun had been his father’s father, and tauren cal ed upon
their venerated ancestors, who watched over them. The oath as he
spoke it was not to be taken literal y; Hamuul was asking his
grandsire to help him come to grips with what he had discovered.

The archdruid was listening to the voice of Teldrassil.

Al druids knew the language of the trees, although some
understood it better than others. This was not the first time that

Hamuul had touched and listened to the World Tree, but this was
the first time he had heard these whispers. The voice of the World

Tree was usual y heard more in the rustle of its branches and
leaves and through the coursing of the sap that flowed as blood up
and down the vast trunk. It could be heard as a whisper, but one
with understanding.

But Hamuul could make no sense out of what he heard now. The
whispers were without proper rhythm, without form. As the
archdruid continued to listen, they went on and on as if—

“What is it you do, Hamuul Runetotem?” Fandral’s voice
suddenly said.

Smothering his startlement, the tauren turned to the lead
archdruid. He had not sensed the night elf approach, which said
something for Hamuul’s present state of mind. As a tauren, he
prided himself on his belief that his people were the only ones who
could truly sneak up on one of Fandral’s race.

Hamuul chose to be honest. This was something Fandral of al
druids should know.

But how to explain it best? “I fear…Archdruid Fandral, wil you
listen to Teldrassil for a moment? I fear that things are worse than
we thought! When I touched my hand to the trunk just now—”

The night elf did not wait for him to finish. Fandral placed his
palm flat against Teldrassil. He shut his eyes and concentrated.

A few breaths later, the lead archdruid looked at the tauren. “I
sense nothing different than before. Teldrassil is not yet wel , but
there is improvement.”

“‘Improvement’?” Hamuul could not prevent himself from gaping.

“Archdruid, I sensed—”

Fandral, his expression sympathetic, interjected, “You are
weary, Hamuul, and I have been remiss in my treatment of you. You
have a loyalty to a friend who must answer for his recklessness, I
fear. It was beneath me, though, to show such disappointment with
you when he is to blame.”

“I—”

Fandral raised a hand. “Hear me out, good Hamuul. I have just
returned with some knowledge of interest. It wil make for a new
and stronger attempt to cure what stil ails Teldrassil. You, with your
strong spirit, would be of tremendous value in that effort, but you
need to recoup your strength more. If you fear that there is
something more amiss with the World Tree, then this is surely good
news to you.”

Bowing his head, the tauren replied, “As you say, Archdruid

Fandral.”

“Excel ent! Now, come with me. I would tel you more about our
next effort. It shal be very exerting. It may take more than a day’s
meditation to recover from it…”

Fandral started off. Hamuul could do nothing but fol ow. Yet even
as he listened to the night elf begin to explain, he also looked back
at the area he had touched. He had heard the incoherent
whispering and he knew that it was the voice of the World Tree.

Had not the lead archdruid also investigated, the tauren would have
been even more anxious than he was. Stil , enough of a concern
remained that Hamuul continued to wonder…and worry.

To Hamuul Runetotem, the whispering meant one and one thing
only.

Teldrassil was going mad.

They did not enter the portal immediately, although that had been
their intention. Eranikus and Alexstrasza cautiously probed ahead,
their powers reaching deep within to see if there stil lurked some
trap by the corrupted Lethon and Emeriss. Only when they were
satisfied that there was not did the dragons agree it was safe for

Eranikus and the night elves to proceed.

“About damned time,” Brol muttered. Tyrande nodded, mirroring
his opinion. They were both fil ed with an urgency to find Malfurion.

One particular thing that disturbed both was the missing Lucan

Foxblood and this mysterious orc. The orc was likely an accidental
intruder, and yet…

“You do not yet comprehend the ful threat of the Nightmare,” the
green dragon responded with some bitterness. “Be not so desiring
of entering it without al preparations made.”

“Time is of the essence.”

Alexstrasza dipped her head in agreement. “So it is, Brol

Bearmantle, but if I am correct and Malfurion Stormrage has
somehow been trying to help guide you, then he would want matters
thought through first.” The dragon smiled grimly. “And we have done
that now.”

“I am ready,” Eranikus declared.

“Are you certain?” asked the Aspect.

The bitterness grew more evident. “I am. I owe it to my Ysera.”

The Life-Binder bowed her head. A warm, comforting glow
radiated from Alexstrasza. It touched the trio. The night elves
smiled and even Eranikus looked thankful.

“May my blessing keep you safe and guide your hunt to
success,” the Aspect declared.

“We are honored and thank you,” Tyrande replied.

Eranikus took a breath, then stretched his wings. “I wil go ahead

…to guard the way.”

The energies within the portal swel ed up as he approached. To
his credit, the green dragon did not hesitate. He stepped into the
portal.

And then he was gone.

Brol and Tyrande strode up to the portal.

“You should stay here,” he said to her.

“I have remained apart from Malfurion much too long already,”

she retorted.

Before he could say anything else, she had leapt through.

Brol let out an exasperated sound, then fol owed.

The sensation of physical y entering the other realm was akin to
the feeling that one got just before fal ing asleep. Brol had not had
time to think about that when Lethon had attacked them, but now he
recognized it. It was far different from sending his dreamform here.

When he did that, it was as if he had cast off a heavy weight and
was final y free of al his worldly problems.

Not so now. More than ever, he was aware of what the

Nightmare could hold, even if at present he could only see the thick
mist ahead. The Nightmare had not entirely departed after al .

“We cannot travel like this,” Eranikus proclaimed. The dragon
fluttered just above the night elves, his wings beating in slow
motion. He looked as if seen through the ripples of a rushing river,
something else that Brol had not had time to notice during the
desperate struggle. The same could be said for Tyrande and even
the druid himself.

The dragon arched his back, then breathed upon the mist. A soft
spray of what appeared to be speckles of emerald light touched
everywhere ahead.

“Elune, protect us!” the high priestess gasped as the way
cleared.

At that moment Brol would have grateful y accepted the aid of
any deity or demigod. Even the company of a dragon did not at the
moment seem enough.

Before, the Emerald Dream had been a place that was the world
of Azeroth as seen as if no races such as the night elves had ever
existed. Its hil s and mountains had been perfectly shaped, for
erosion did not exist here. High grasses and beautiful trees had
spread across a rol ing landscape. The fauna had been unafraid,
peaceful. To druids, it had seemed a paradise.

But now no name was more apt, at least for the area before
them, than that by which Eranikus cal ed it… Nightmare.

The land was draped in a wet, festering substance that bubbled.

The beautiful emerald shading had become the putrid color of rot.

What trees there were had become deformed parodies of
themselves. Their leaves were black, sharp, and fil ed with
poisonous stickers. Smal dark vermin crawled over the scabby
bark, often pausing to dine on the thick, odorous sap dripping from
cracks in the trunks.

“Cenarius, preserve us…” the druid rasped. Stil eyeing it al in
disbelief, Brol took a step forward. A crunching sound beneath his
feet made the druid look down.

The ground was covered in smal green-black scorpions, sinewy
mil ipedes, finger-sized cockroaches, spiders with bodies as large
as fists, and more. A thick, sticky tar now coated the underside of

Brol ’s sandal, the results of crushing several of the creatures with
his step.

“They are everywhere,” Tyrande breathed. “They cover the
ground for as far as the eye can see…”

“Not for long,” the green dragon responded with much
determination. He breathed over the ground. It was as if Eranikus
had exhaled flames. The crackle of thousands of tiny bodies
burning to a crisp fil ed their ears, and even the dragon shuddered
at the sound.

The land Eranikus had razed was now charred black. He
nodded at his handiwork.

But from the crusted forms there came movement. Out of one
burnt roach carapace burst a number of segmented legs. A new
cockroach as horrific as the last emerged from its predecessor.

And to the dismay of the three, the act was repeated from every
ruined corpse. Whatever Eranikus had destroyed was replaced…

Tendrils of mist played around the macabre scenery, as if
seeking to regain the air Ysera’s consort had cleared. The green
dragon let out another burst, which pushed the mist away again

…for the moment.

“It is monstrous…” the high priestess said, trying without
success to careful y pick her steps. Each footfal was fol owed by
more crunching and the sound of the thick tar oozing from the
shattered bodies. Worse, the moment that she stepped away, the
hideous rebirth of her victims began.

“This is only part of it…” Eranikus muttered, the gleam of his
eyes muted in this place. “I sense that the Nightmare has
strengthened, worsened more than I could ever have believed…”

And as he spoke, they al became aware of movement at the
edge of the mist. Shapes that were almost seen…but not quite.

“The shadow satyrs have returned,” Tyrande decided.

Eranikus said nothing. Instead, he exhaled again, bathing the
closest of the vaguely seen forms. As with the fiendish creatures
beneath their feet, there immediately came the sound of burning.

But then, frantic and pleading shrieks al but deafened the trio.

Stunned, the green dragon quickly cut off his attack. Brol and

Tyrande clutched their ears at the terrifying sound. These were not
the cries of monsters vanquished.

“May Ysera forgive me!” Eranikus managed as the mist burned
away and his victims lay revealed.

They were—or had been—night elves, humans, orcs, dwarves

…members of al the mortal races. What remained after Eranikus’s
merciless attack were charred bodies that continued to quiver, that
sought to reach out for help or at least an end to their suffering.

Ignoring the vermin, Brol raced to the nearest, Tyrande at his
side. Eranikus remained where he was, the green dragon clearly
shaken by the harm he had done.

“The sleepers…” Brol realized. “These are the sleepers…”

“I may have slain al of them in Azeroth as if I had stood over the
bed of each and scorched them with fire!” Ysera’s consort
growled. “Unable to escape their dreaming, they would have
suffered as they have here!”

“You don’t know that,” argued the druid. “You don’t—”

The brittle bones of the night elf over which he had been
kneeling shifted.

A blackened, fleshless hand gripped his wrist and a skul with two
ruined eyes bent up toward him.

The ruined corpse shrieked its agony again. It reached with
more ravaged fingers.

Brol tugged as hard as he could. “I can’t free myself!”

Tyrande readied the glaive, then hesitated. Instead, she prayed.

The shrieking subsided. The skeleton faded away.

But other victims renewed their mournful cries. Tyrande
continued her prayer, using one hand to spread the power of her
patron across the visible landscape.

The ravaged bodies disappeared. Only when the last had gone
did the high priestess cease her efforts. By then, she was shaking.

Brol and Eranikus were not much better. “They were suffering!”

the druid spat. “They were real y suffering!”

“I did not know!” the dragon retorted defensively. “I would do no
harm to the innocent! It is the Nightmare,” Eranikus reminded them.

“It knows what hurts you the most, what you fear the most…and it
feeds off that…”

Tyrande took some hope from that. “Then, is this al il usion that
we face?”

“No…the greatest nightmare that the Nightmare offers is its
growing reality.”

That settled it for Brol . “We must find Malfurion and quickly…”

He looked into the mist, for the first time realizing the enormity of
what he suggested. “But…which direction?”

“I wil find where he is,” the high priestess declared with utter
conviction. She looked haunted. “No one, not even you as a fel ow
druid, know him as I do, Brol .”

He did not deny that fact. “But I have a thought as to how to
search, also. I—”

The landscape abruptly shifted. The night elves were tossed to
the infested ground. Eranikus chose to rise up over the trouble.

However, even there he was buffeted.

At last things calmed. Tyrande pushed herself up, quickly wiping
off those mil ipedes and other carrion creatures that stil stuck to
her. Brol murmured a spel , but the vermin would not listen to him.

They were not like the fauna of Azeroth. Like the high priestess, he
resigned himself to brushing them away.

Eranikus alighted. The high priestess eyed him reprovingly.

Surprisingly, the green dragon looked away in guilt.

“What happened now?” Brol asked Eranikus. They were now in
a hil ier region, with ominous, shadowed paths that disappeared
into the infernal mists.

“This is the Nightmare; ask me not the reason for anything that
occurs here save that it is not something we should want!”

Tyrande peered ahead. “There is a castle or some structure
ahead. On that third hil .”

Both the green dragon and Brol shook their heads, the druid
saying, “There’re no buildings anywhere save the Eye.”

“Then whatever I see must be part of the Nightmare.” Before
she could add more, there was yet again movement in the mist.

The high priestess did not waste time, il uminating the vicinity with
the Mother Moon’s light.

But what she revealed was not what any of them expected.

It was Lucan Foxblood.

“You!” Brol rumbled. He seized the human before anything could
separate them. Lucan stared at him with eyes as wide and as
hol ow as death, but was clearly no phantasm.

“You’re real…” he whispered. A faint, somewhat mad grin
flickered across his drawn face. “It’s you…” He looked to Tyrande
and his grin grew a little calmer. “And you…” Then he saw what
loomed behind the night elves and his growing relief vanished.

“We are al your friends,” Tyrande reassured him.

Lucan settled down. “Real…al of you…” His eyes darted to the
side. “I tried to leave, but something held me here…I tried to leave,
but something wanted her to keep on…”

The druid seized hold of the last part. “‘Her’? The orc, you
mean? A female?”

“Yes…yes…”

“You know as wel as I do that there is little difference between a
female and a male orc when it comes to battle,” Tyrande pointed
out to Brol . “One should never underestimate either.”

“I wasn’t thinking that. Just wondering who she might be and why
she happened to be here.”

“Her name is Thura,” Lucan offered almost tonelessly. “She
came to kil him. She came to kil your Malfurion Stormrage.”

The pronouncement made even the dragon gape. Tyrande
seized Lucan by the throat, but Brol managed to calm her.

“Hear him out, my lady! He’s not to blame!”

“He said that she wants to slay Malfurion! He brought her here
to do it—” But Tyrande final y caught herself. “Against his wil ,
though…I know that…Lucan…I am sorry…”

Lucan gave her a nervous smile. It was clear that he liked the
high priestess.

Brol brought him back to the subject. “The orc! She came to kil

Malfurion…why? How would she know how to find him? Did she
say?”

“The visions…she babbled something about visions…she said
that…that they led her to me…that they showed her the path to him
piece by piece…the visions were helping her avenge her kin and
save Azeroth, too, she said…”

“An orc blood oath,” Tyrande muttered. “I know them wel . She
wil not stop until she either is slain or succeeds.” The high
priestess shook her head. “The second part…it must be
madness…”

“Whatever the case, something wants her to succeed,” the druid
added. To Lucan, he asked, “But the first thing…she thinks

Malfurion slew one of hers? What of it? Orcs understand death in
battle.”

The human concentrated. “She said—she said that he was a

‘base murderer.’ That he betrayed his friend and kil ed him when his
back was turned in trust…I think.”

It was more than Tyrande could stand. She brandished the
glaive, which made Lucan step back in concern. “Lies! Al of it! A
threat to Azeroth? Ha! Truly madness as I said! And even the
declaration of betrayal—Malfurion would never do such a thing! As
proof of that, he has rarely even had the opportunity, for the
number of orcs he could claim as comrade could be counted on
one hand!”

“It was only one time she mentioned! She said a name! Bruxigan

…Broxigan—”

“Broxigar?” The high priestess staggered back. She dropped
the glaive. Tears wel ed up in her eyes. “Brox!” Tyrande shouted to
the others. “An orc who lived before his time! As a novice, I
befriended him when he was captured by my people! He fought the

Burning Legion and Azshara’s servants alongside us”—she
swal owed—“and he died holding the way, so Krasus has affirmed,
against the demons’ dread lord himself, Sargeras!”

The druid’s gaze sharpened. “It must be him who she speaks
about.”

“But he was Malfurion’s friend!” the distraught high priestess
went on. “They never fought with one another, and Malfurion
honored him with me when it was al over! You must remember,

Brol ! Our people raised up a statue to him, the only orc ever to be
given homage by us!”

“I recal it…now.” Brol frowned. “Then if it’s him she speaks
about, she’s been tricked…and the Nightmare sounds like the
cause…”

“For what reason, though?”

“Isn’t it obvious, my lady? Because he’s a threat to the power
behind it even now. It gives us some hope at least, then. It means
he must have some ability to fight for himself.”

Tyrande seized on that hope. Eyes drying, she said, “Then we
must hurry to him! Lucan, when you escaped, did you pay attention
to which direction she went? I know the mist is everywhere, but
there is that…castle…” The high priestess pointed at the distant
shape. “Do you know in relation to that?”

He straightened, looking a bit more confident. “Yes, yes, my
lady! It…it’s my cal ing to know locations and directions!” The
cartographer pointed to his left. “That way…”

“We would fly,” offered Eranikus, “but I fear he would not be able
to direct us from above. The mist would be too thick to see…”

Tyrande had already taken Lucan by the arm. “Then we move
now.” To the human, she commanded, “Lead us!”

Nodding, Lucan walked a step ahead. Tyrande kept her glaive
ready. Brol took the man’s other side and the dragon rose just
above the trio.

“This orc stil bothers me,” the druid said. “I fail to see what
danger she holds for my shan’do.”

The green dragon sneered down at him. “And you are correct!

An orc is hardly a menace in a place like this! Even if the

Nightmare guides her, your Malfurion Stormrage is first among you
druids! His deeds are honored among my own kind! No earthly
weapon would be a danger to him…”

Lucan swal owed. “She has an ax.”

Tyrande looked at him, her expression wary. “The orc carries an
ax?” She spun him to face her. “Describe it to me!”

“It was an ax with two edges. A battle ax.”

“And how made? Was the head of iron or steel? Quickly! Tel
me!”

Brol moved to calm the high priestess, but she waved him back.

Tyrande waited breathlessly for Lucan to answer.

“Not iron or steel,” he final y answered, his face screwed
together in concentration. “I think…it looked as if it was al made of
wood…” The human nodded. “Yes, wood! I’ve never seen an ax
head made of wood before! Doesn’t sound very practical unless
it’s real y sharp, and even then it’s likely to break—”

“‘Made of wood,’” the female night elf whispered in clear dismay.

She looked to the other night elf. “You don’t know! You weren’t
there when Cenarius himself made it for Brox!”

“I remember hearing something about that,” Brol replied. His
expression mirrored hers now. “Forged from wood, blessed by the
demigod…and so powerful it is said to even have cut Sargeras…”

“And she hunts Malfurion with it,” Tyrande added. The high
priestess stared into the mists, especial y at the half-seen structure

—the only structure. “Lucan, did you real y escape her?”

“No…she said she didn’t need me anymore. She was near.”

“Near…” Eyes widening, Tyrande gripped her glaive…and
suddenly rushed into the mist.

14

THE NIGHTMARES WITHIN

N o! Malfurion could not help thinking. No…

He had known that as matters came together, that his secret
hopes would be at greater risk. The Nightmare Lord had taunted
him about rescue, even tortured him with suggestions and images
of Tyrande lost and dying in the mists.

Or worse…becoming a part of what the archdruid knew was
gathering more and more near the nexus of the Nightmare and just
beyond the mists surrounding him.

I must…do something more…

He could not sense his captor near, which by no means meant
that he was not being observed. Thus, Malfurion had to act in the
most subtle of manners.

With effort, he made the branches that had been his arms
move. The night elf had done so more than once, general y in
search of some relief of his agony. That agony remained, but the
tiny part of his mind shielded from it had something different in
mind. A possible distraction.

The true act was below the surface, below where his roots
anchored him to the ground. For the most part, they served the

Nightmare Lord’s purpose, keeping him in one place and feeding
into him the horror that dwel ed even below. However, with the night
elf so trapped, it was not a surprise that his captor might be
confident and in confidence might miss the fact that a single, tiny
root had become of the greatest importance to Malfurion.

Through concentration and wil , the archdruid had managed
mastery over it. The smal est of a multitude, it was ignored by the

Nightmare Lord. Thus, Malfurion used his every moment to
strengthen his power over that one part, make it do what he
needed.

And now he needed it to feed deeper into the ground, feed
beyond the other roots. Malfurion cal ed upon al his teachings in
this, the binding of druid to nature. He coaxed the root to growth,
pushed it down, down, past the vermin that burrowed in the dirt, that
worked to more undermine what had once been the Emerald

Dream.

Then, when he was deep enough, he had it turn. Always wary for
the presence of the Nightmare’s master, the archdruid focused his
wil on driving the root beyond his vicinity and into the mist.

Closer and closer it came to its goal. He had no choice but to
press on, even if it alerted the shadow tree. Time was a nebulous
term in this place, but for Malfurion, at least, it was running out.

Either freedom was to be his…or damnation would take him and he
would find himself wil ingly serving the horror.

Inch by inch the night elf pressed. The lone root was nearly
there.

Malfurion sensed the shadow tree stretching forward.

The skeletal branches traced the earth before him. The

Nightmare Lord did not speak, which boded il . The shadows
spread toward the direction that Malfurion had sent the root.

Low, insidious laughter touched his thoughts, but Malfurion
fought back fear of discovery.

The fools still press uselessly… the Nightmare Lord mocked.

Even with their numbers dwindling…and their losses drawn to
the Nightmare…

They will persevere! the archdruid responded, hoping to draw
any attention away from his own efforts. The Nightmare will be
vanquished! You will be vanquished!

They do not even know what it means to persevere… the
shadow tree retorted. They do not even know what it means to
plan and wait…and wait… There came more of the horrific
laughter. And we shall be rewarded for our waiting…we shall
engulf Azeroth…

The shadow retreated from sight. Malfurion did not for an instant
take heart in that. Not only would the Nightmare Lord be observing
him, but the dark fiend was constantly manipulating countless
matters. The archdruid knew better than most what was happening.

If his plan did not work…

The root reached where he desired.

Al Malfurion could do now was wait…and pray.

Unable to stop Tyrande, Brol had no choice but to race after the
high priestess. He did so not as himself, however, but as a great
cat. Pouncing into the thick fog, the druid used his heightened
senses of smel and hearing to make up for the limited visibility.

He picked up her trail immediately. In fact, it turned out to be
easier to fol ow her than Brol had even imagined. Although she had
put her love for Malfurion above her own safety, Tyrande was not
foolish enough to forget the dangers they faced here. Brol was
certain that they had not yet confronted the worst of the Nightmare.

The high priestess of Elune left a path of moonlit steps that cleared
away the horrific flow of ghoulish parasites. Brol was not so
delicate with his own effort; his claws ripped away at the creatures
as he raced on.

He caught a glimpse of a figure ahead, but it did not exactly
fol ow the route taken by Tyrande. Letting out a low growl, the druid
veered to avoid it. Brol had no time for confrontations—

The ground before him swel ed up. Black bugs poured away
from the eruption.

Father! Father!

Anessa was there before Brol , her arms outstretched in
desperation, her face beseeching. She had been slighter of build
than Tyrande and a hand shorter. Her eyes were ful of innocence
and incomprehension.

Brol buried his claws in the ground and came to a halt. You’re
not real! he thought at the apparition. You’re not real! In his mind,
he saw her again engulfed as the merged power of the idol and the
demon taint swept over her. This was how she had perished, due
to Azgalor’s strike and his failure. Anessa was dead…dead.

Father! Please save me! the vision of Anessa cried.

And yet, despite the sure knowledge that this was not his
beloved daughter, the druid felt his nerve begin to slip. A part of him
so much wanted to try to save her—

Emerald tendrils seized Anessa. She squealed and tried to flee
them, but they held her tight.

The cat reared back, reverting to the night elf. This isn’t how
she died—

The emerald tendrils curled tighter and tighter. Anessa’s body
crackled. Her head was caught in a terrible grip.

The skul cracked, yet Anessa stil cried for his help. However,
now out of her mouth—and out of every broken part of her body

—there spil ed the mil ipedes, roaches, and other carrion eaters.

With them poured a deep, inky substance that bore the green tint
of rot.

Before Brol ’s horrified eyes, the last recognizable traces of his
daughter vanished within the tendrils. Al that remained were the
grotesque things that had poured forth from her. They spil ed to the
ground, spreading among the filth already there.

“You— are—real…” managed a voice that a stunned Brol
needed a moment to recognize was not his own. “Unlike she, who
was a semblance created to draw you into the Nightmare…”

A huge figure emerged from the mist ahead. Brol shifted to bear
form and threatened the shape with his claws.

“No, druid…I mean you no harm…” It was an ancient.

Brol reverted. “Gnarl?!?”

But almost as soon as he blurted that, the druid realized that he
was wrong. The figure resembled Gnarl to a point, but was built
more bent at the shoulder and his tusks were longer. His barklike
skin was of a more greenish hue, even taking into account the
current surroundings.

Moreover, this ancient, like Gnarl, was known to Brol . “I
remember you,” the night elf managed. “Arei…”

The ancient of war bowed his thick head. Many of the leaves
that should have been part of his beard and mane were withered.

The ancient looked very weary. “I am that one…” His gaze
surveyed the druid. “And you are Brol Bearmantle.” Arei squinted.

“As I have, through a portal you came…Ashenvale, I would
guess…”

“Yes.”

The giant being frowned. “And from your words, Gnarl no longer
keeps it safe?”

Swal owing, the night elf replied, “Gnarl was taken…by the

Nightmare…”

Arei let out a sound akin to a massive tree slowly cracking in
half. It sent chil s through Brol , for it was such a primal cry. He
could sense Arei’s great loss at this news.

“Another fal en…” the towering guardian murmured. “Our
numbers dwindle as the Nightmare’s multiplies…we fight a battle
we cannot win…”

“Who is ‘we’? What do you do here?”

“What we can.” The ancient looked away. “Come…he wil need
to know you are here…”

“Who do you speak of?” Brol asked, but the ancient had already
stepped deep into the mists. The druid stood where he was for a
moment, torn between fol owing Tyrande and obeying the ancient.

However, the answer was made for him, for the high priestess’s
trail was now gone and even in the form of the cat Brol doubted
that he would be able to pick it up.

There remained one hope…that Arei or this other of whom he
spoke would know the whereabouts of Malfurion Stormrage. That
would at the same time put the druid back on Tyrande’s trail. With
that desperate hope in mind, Brol resigned himself to chase after
the ancient…and pray that he was not fal ing into another terrible
trap by the Nightmare.

• • •

Tyrande was very aware that she had been unduly reckless in

rushing into the mist, but an overriding fear for Malfurion had taken
her. Throughout the many mil ennia that their hearts had been
intertwined, she had faced the terrible prospect of his dying several
times. Yet not since their first struggle against the demons of the

Burning Legion had the high priestess felt the horrible dread that
she did now.

Brox’s ax had brought it home to her. She knew its power, knew
its monumental strength and its powerful magic. In Brox’s grip, it
had done great things, mighty things…

And now that strength and magic had been turned upon

Malfurion. She could only assume that this was the Nightmare’s
last horrible jest for both she and her love.

No! You will not die! Tyrande almost angrily thought at Malfurion.

I will not let you do this!

Her anger was misplaced, of course, but it drove her on.

Tyrande had only the vague shape of a keep that evidently should
not exist here to guide her path. Even through the thickest of the
mist, it remained just visible enough. Again, she was aware that it
could be a trap, but it was her only clue.

Tyrande remained aware that there was something else lurking
in the mist, something that ached to reach her. She knew that it
was tied to the sleepers that Eranikus had feared he had harmed
through attacking their dream shapes, but sensed that it went
deeper and darker than even those.

And whatever it was pressed closer and closer as she
progressed.

The murky keep appeared no nearer than previous, which also
concerned her. In the Emerald Dream, distance and time were
without finite meaning. Malfurion had taught her that much. For him,
his captivity might have seemed like centuries, not years. He could
be very nearby, yet she might have to run the equivalent of days to
reach his location.

“No!” she murmured. “I wil reach him and soon!”

No…no…no… the mist suddenly whispered in a thousand
voices. No…no…no…

The high priestess glared at the dank, nearly unseen landscape,
seeking the whisperers. She prayed to Elune and the glaive
glowed. Tyrande brought the weapon’s il umination to the left, but
the wedge it cut revealed only more scattering carrion bugs.

But just beyond the light—

Tyrande moved toward it, but whatever it was retreated with the
mist. It was there, just vaguely seen.

And waiting for her to make a fatal misstep.

Mother Moon, guide me now…steel my will… the night elf
prayed.

Will…will… came the whispers.

She could not help but shiver. They did not only echo her words,
but her very thoughts. Was there nothing safe?

Nothing safe…nothing safe…nothing safe…

Tyrande had her answer. Nevertheless, she did not even
consider retreating. Her desire, her mission, was a clear one. She
had never thought that she might sneak up unnoticed to Malfurion.

The high priestess expected to fight and fight hard. Therefore, if
the Nightmare did know she was there and what she intended, it
hardly made a difference.

“I wil face anything you throw at me,” she muttered to the mist.

“And I wil vanquish it!”

There was no mocking whisper. Whether that was for good or il ,

Tyrande could not say.

She pressed on. Although the vermin fled from her, she could
hear them quickly returning in her wake. In addition, the ground
itself grew more and more slick as a black-green substance that
reminded her of the bugs’ insides covered everything. She had to
pul her feet free, an act most often accompanied by a sickening,
sticky sound. Her progress slowed.

“It wil take more than this,” she told the mist.

A feminine chuckle wafted through the mist.

The chuckle chil ed Tyrande more than anything else thus far.

She knew that laugh, stil dreamed of that laugh.

It was Azshara’s laugh.

But the queen of the night elves was at the bottom of the sea
that marked where her city and the Wel of Eternity had once been
situated…at least, as far as Tyrande knew. It was that tiny bit of
doubt, though, that knowledge that she had never actual y
witnessed Azshara’s death, that had caused the nightmares she
had suffered on and off over the centuries. Even though the mad
queen—enthral ed by the power of Sargeras and thinking herself
the titan’s future consort—had surely had no opportunity to flee

Zin-Azshari, perhaps she stil had managed somehow.

So, this is your plan now! she thought defiantly at the mist. A
bold choice, but overreaching!

To emphasize her defiance, she spread her hands wide as if
welcoming this new attack. However, nothing happened. There was
no sudden materialization of the dread queen nor even a further
chuckle.

“Play your games, then,” the high priestess said out loud. “I have
more serious matters with which to deal.”

Once more she trod on, scattering the vermin and fighting for
footing. At last the night elf seemed to edge closer to the shrouded
keep. Tyrande felt in part that her utter determination now aided her
in making progress; the Nightmare was bending—at least
somewhat—to her wil . Nevertheless, she took the added
precaution of making a silent prayer to Elune that the keep would
neither abruptly disappear nor recede at the last moment.

The smel of decay, already present, grew more powerful. The
ground became more slick. At times Tyrande could almost swear
that it pulsated, as if some great thing slowly breathing. The high
priestess told herself that this was merely the Nightmare seeking to
break her resolve, but she moved more warily nonetheless.

Then her foot slipped. Tyrande could do nothing to keep herself
from fal ing face-first into the nauseating muck. A foul slime
covered her lips and burned her tongue. She quickly spat it out, not
certain if it was poisoned.

Her glaive lay some distance away, the point of one blade
obscured in the fog. Tyrande pushed herself to a kneeling position,
the effort taking more than she expected. The ground was so slick
here that her hands could barely find a hold.

A scraping sound turned her attention back to the weapon.

Something was pul ing it into the mist. The glaive slid along the
ground, more and more of it disappearing.

The night elf lunged for it, only to fal flat again. Now only the tip
of one blade remained visible.

Calming herself, she summoned forth the light of Elune, directing
it toward the glaive—

Something slithered behind Tyrande. The night elf immediately
looked in that direction, but saw nothing. Quickly, she returned her
attention to the glaive.

It was gone.

Azshara’s chuckle once more touched Tyrande’s ears.

Trying to whirl to the source of the sinister laugh, Tyrande only
succeeded in miring herself even more. She final y resorted to

Elune’s light again, hoping that it could make the ground harder.

But as she attempted this, once more she heard slithering.

Tyrande refused to give up her effort but could not help also trying
to see what was coming toward her—

Something muscular but moist curled around her throat with the
harshness of a whip. Tyrande abandoned her spel to struggle with
what was now choking off her air.

It lifted the high priestess more than two feet from the ground. At
the same time, the slithering grew louder.

And again came the too familiar laughter.

“Such a darling, beautiful creature you are! I had forgotten!”

Tyrande, stil struggling to breathe, was turned to her right.

A monstrous, blue-green face leered at her. It was elven, yet
almost akin to some monstrous fish. Finlike projections extended
not only from the head, but coursed down the scaled back. Indeed,
scales covered the face and curved chest as wel .

The hands were webbed and clawed, more like those of some
ocean predator. They, though, were stil more akin to a night elf’s
form than the lower part of the thing’s body. Rather than legs, it
moved upon what appeared some combination of a snake’s and an
eel’s slippery torso.

It was, in fact, the lengthy, spiny tail of that torso which sought
with growing chance of success to strangle Tyrande.

“So pretty,” it cooed in Azshara’s voice.

Despite her losing battle for air, Tyrande stared wide-eyed at the
creature. It was and was not the queen. There was just enough of

Azshara’s features in the scaled face, though the eyes were fiery
red orbs that sought to burn into the high priestess’s mind.

And al around them, other slithering forms converged. Those
that were female bore some resemblance to night elves, but the
males were more primitive and savage. Their faces had become
like those of carnivorous fish, and it was clear from their eager red
orbs that they would not have been averse to tasting her flesh.

If this was Azshara, then Tyrande knew that these could only be
the Highborne, the caste of loyal servants who had joined her in
her madness. Nothing had existed for them but to serve her glory,
even if thousands of other elves perished.

Now…they stil served her. Now, they, like Azshara, had become
a horror of which Tyrande was familiar. The serpent form was
unmistakable.

They were naga. The foul underdwel ers of the seas.

“Once I offered you a place in my court,” the queen murmured
cheerful y as with her tail she pul ed Tyrande so near that only
inches separated their faces. A thick stench emanated from

Azshara…a stench associated with a corpse left rotting for days in
the waters. “Such a fine lady-in-waiting you would have made…”

Tyrande struggled to cal upon Elune. Yet the light she already
wielded only faded more. As it decreased, the naga pressed
closer, more eagerly. They crowded her…

“And serve me you stil shal …” the queen said with a fanged
smile.

The night elf’s legs began to meld together. Azshara was turning
her into a naga.

Tyrande pul ed tighter at the coil around her throat. She could
hardly keep conscious, much less think.

Yet in that last haze of consciousness, Malfurion’s face fil ed her
thoughts. He said nothing, only gave her a look of encouragement.

It stirred the high priestess to one more effort to cal upon her
patron. Although Tyrande could not speak, she mouthed Elune’s
name.

The silver glow of the Mother Moon fil ed her.

She lost consciousness.

Azshara—al the naga—were nowhere to be seen. Tyrande lay
motionless on the slick ground, the carrion bugs slowly
encroaching on her body. The mists tightened around the high
priestess.

But Tyrande stil 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 wal s of Orgrimmar lacked the “cultured” touch of

Stormwind City’s, but their savage glory could not be ignored. Tal
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 patrol ed the
walkways inside, and it was not uncommon to see among their
number the Darkspear trol s, tauren, and even the undead

Forsaken.

And though the interior might have seemed to humans as a
barbaric place, with its populace divided into smal val eys rather
than quarters and its vil age-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 dwel ed there as the
capital of Stormwind. Thousands lived here, trading, learning,
preparing for war…

Lying at the base of the mountain nearest the val ey of Durotar,

Orgrimmar was a symbol of the struggle the great liberator Thral
had faced to final y give his fol owers a true home. As Thral had
done in naming the val ey 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

Thral as his successor.

Thral himself ruled from Grommash Hold, set in the Val ey 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 wal s 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 Al iance. That the last was
now an al y 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 pul 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. Thral 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 Thral lies spel ed and you turn
against one another! Is this what he would want?”

The two chastened warriors shook their heads. For al that they
were twice the girth of the bearskin-clad shaman, they feared his
power. He was not the most skil ed of his cal ing in Orgrimmar—in
fact, that title rested with Thral himself—but of those shaman stil
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 Thral ’s condition.

“Hush, Snowsong,” murmured the shaman. “Your hunt-brother
wil 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, final y crashing
against a wal . The wolf continued on unimpeded.

“Fol ow 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 final y 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 cal 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 wal .

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.

Trol s 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 fol owed. For al their
numbers, there were less defenders of Orgrimmar present than
there should have been. Worse, as they neared the wal , 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 Thral , been
among the first of the unwaking.

Snowsong did not run al 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 wal . There, the cunning
animal located one path after another until she final y reached the
top of the wal .

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 fal 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 fol owing him reached the top. They stared
with astonishment at their comrades.

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

Snowsong howled mournful y again. The wolf stood on her hind
legs, her forepaws draped 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 wal . 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 Al iance—”

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

And as he said that, his own greatest fear revealed itself in the
forefront. Thral suddenly stood there, but a Thral 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! Il usions! I stil say the Al iance!”

The shaman said nothing, studying the figure of Thral 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 Thral …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 stil 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 al …” the shaman muttered as he stepped back
from the wal . “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.

Brol 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 fil ed Brol ’s mind. A chil 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 pul ed him deeper…deeper…

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

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

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

“Remulos?” he blurted.

But although the gleaming figure resembled the guardian of the

Moonglade, Brol 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 final y recognized who it was who stood

—nay, floated—before him, he swal owed hard.

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

But Zaetar was dead.

Brol leapt to his feet. Zaetar had fal en 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 Brol 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 Brol , 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

Brol ’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 stil stand…”

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

“‘Weeks’?” Brol 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, Brol 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,” Brol 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 al around. The air did not exactly clear, but Brol could now
see for some distance.

And what he saw was the most shocking yet.

They stood alone or in smal groups. They were scattered for as
far as the mist al owed 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 Brol 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 overwhelmed Brol . 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 wel
beyond Zaetar’s companions, proof that their efforts were not
sufficient.

The defenders struck at the Nightmare with a vast array of
spel s, the only real defense against such a foe. As most were
druids, they fought using their cal ing. 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, Brol 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 cal ing had
known no bounds, yet now al that had changed.

Other druids retained their original forms. These sought to
manipulate the Dream against the Nightmare. Under the guidance
of some of Brol ’s brethren, lush grass grew tal er 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
swal owed the storm crow whole. The horrified onlookers watched
as the avian descended through the misty fiend’s “gul et.” 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.

The defenders returned to their overal efforts, but Brol 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…

Brol 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 Brol ’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 fol owing after—” Brol 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’l happen one way or the other!” Brol 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 smel 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 final y
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,
fol owed 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 fal en 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 tal ,
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 tel ing. She recognized that outline, so often
had she seen it in her dreams. A tal 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. Tal , broad-shouldered for a night elf though not
built like a seasoned warrior as Brol Bearmantle was. His face and
eyes bore the centuries of toil he had performed in service to his
cal ing 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
mil ennia 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
fol owed 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 al about to fal 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 ful 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 wil be just as
needed if you can do that! If you’re not there, his trick wil fail and
mine wil 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 stil 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 smal , 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 fil 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 al 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 al the
lives he had watched be lost so cruel y 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 final y shrugged off her concerns. Al that mattered was
that she reach Malfurion.

The landscape did not change. The il umination 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 al owed 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 stil 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 stil had her head.

“My name is Tyrande—”

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

He knows you! He’l come to you…”

“Malfurion is not your enemy—”

“He is enemy to al 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 wil be avenged! I, Thura, wil 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 pul ed the ax
back.

Tyrande read the confusion in the orc’s expression. Thura had
obviously not slept much and that had taken its tol . 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 skil s,
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’l take me to
him!”

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

“Then I’l cut you in two!”

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

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

Now!”

“I wil not—”

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

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

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

“He wil be there!” Thura muttered gleeful y 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 il umination too much of a warning against such a foe. It
had to be her own martial skil s.

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 fal ing 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 cal ed 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
al because of the voice. The high priestess fought to regain her
breath in time to save herself.

And yet, the kil ing blow did not land. Final y 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. Stil 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 il umination, 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 stil she could not make out the tree that
cast it.

But she did make out something else. Another, smal er 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
fol owed 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
stil 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 fil ed 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.

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 il umination 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
accidental y done to an innocent by her fol ower.

As she touched the root, once more Tyrande felt Malfurion’s
presence. It was so strong that she could almost believe that he
was actual y 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 Brol 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 Brol ’s only regret was that behind him he
knew that new ones formed from the shattered remnants of the old.

The mists continual y 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 Brol and his surroundings.

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

A huge shape swooped overhead. It was fol owed 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
stil 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, Brol 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 wil take you with me!”

“My friends—”

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

She did not add anything about it being safer up above and Brol
knew better than to believe it so. With corrupted such as Lethon
lurking about and the abilities of the Nightmare stil 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, Brol 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 hil s.

No, he could make something else out. In what seemed every
direction—even farther up—brief but bril iant 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 cal ? 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
cal . It was the summons of the last one he would have expected to
hear from, but the one from whom Brol had most hoped to hear.

Malfurion’s cal .

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 cal ed back, beating
her wings harder. “Can you not feel its wrongness? Look ahead

…and look within!”

Brol 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 Brol 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 fil ed 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. Brol could sense astounding forces at work and knew
that what he saw was only a hint of the monumental spel s at play.

However, for al 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

Brol 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 Brol to cover his ears—what they were saying could stil not
be understood. The druid found himself shivering uncontrol ably
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 Brol and the
dragon by the Nightmare 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 stil
heading toward the evil gul et.

“It—is the power of their fear—the fear of the screaming voices

—that pul s 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 al I can do to—to keep us this far
from it!”

“A spel —”

“If I attempt to concentrate—on that—we wil be in it before I can

—can finish!”

But Brol had not been talking about a spel cast by the dragon.

He could see that, despite her tremendous abilities, she needed
her entire focus on fighting the pul . 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 Brol 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 gul et, the druid began channeling an unusual spel . It was
meant to be a healing one, a spel of tranquility.

He concentrated, trying to recal what his shan’do had taught
him. Indeed, as he focused, Brol 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. Brol 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 spel was a smal thing in comparison to the evil and fear it
confronted. Brol did not in the least hope to destroy the sinister
gul et.

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

“Be ready!” the druid warned.

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

The spel 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. Brol 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 smal speck.

But as quickly as the spel acted, it shattered. The screaming
rose higher and more frantic again. The horrific abyss swel ed,
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 cal ed 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 cal .

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 skil 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 stil 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 al 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 al .

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, especial y 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 tel 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 ful -
scale assault that would stil 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 smal 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 smile on his face. It was an il usion for her and her alone,
one that Malfurion had careful y crafted, just as he had careful y
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

Thral 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 fil ed 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 wil let you make amends—”

The archdruid was taken aback. Despite what she surely
thought of him, she was stil wil ing 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 pul ed back with the
ax. “I gave you a chance for life…now I give you the certainty of
death—”

A great silver sphere surrounded the orc.

No! No! No! the archdruid pleaded. Not now! You do not know
what you are doing!

But his beloved Tyrande did not hear him even though Malfurion
tried with al his wil to make her. The lithe high priestess strode
toward the orc, who completed her swing—or attempted to do so.

If not for Elune’s light, the ax would have done its work wel . As it
was, although the ax did not reach the tree, the magic of the
weapon weakened the sphere.

Letting out a grunt of surprise at the ax’s power, Tyrande
immediately kicked at Thura. Her foot struck the orc in the side as

Thura sought to spin toward her. The orc stumbled back.

The high priestess pursued her attack, kicking twice more. The
first landed hard on her opponent’s chest, but the second the half-
gasping warrior stopped with her forearm.

Thura then thrust with the ax, forcing Tyrande back. In response,
the night elf summoned forth Elune’s light, but before she could
cast whatever spel she had in mind, Thura made a slash with

Brox’s weapon. Tyrande was forced to retreat.

Al of this went on before an increasingly apprehensive

Malfurion. The longer the pair fought, the less the chance that any
of them would survive. He tried to steer his thoughts toward the
pair but could not reach either.

How had Tyrande even located him at just this moment?

Malfurion had been very wel aware just how far away she had
been. He had also done his best to secretly divert her, yet that had
failed—

Another figure entered the fray, an unexpected one. He was a
ragged-looking human who at first seemed of interest only due to
the impossibility of his being here. However, Malfurion knew
exactly who it was and now had his explanation as to how Tyrande
had reached here at this critical juncture.

In their one secretive contact, Ysera had promised that her
servants would lead to Thura the means by which the orc, as part
of Malfurion’s plan, could reach this realm without the Nightmare

Lord knowing. Malfurion had assumed it to be a druid or one of

Ysera’s very dragon-flight. But instead, she had somehow found a
very unique human.

The ragged figure had crept up behind Thura. It was doubtful that
he could have done so against a seasoned warrior if not for the
current circumstances.

To Malfurion’s further surprise, the man’s sole attack appeared
to be to grab Thura around the waist. What purpose that served
became clear a moment later as both she and her assailant began
to fade away.

And with her would go the ax…and Malfurion’s last hope.

At the last moment, though, Thura twisted away from him. She
fel to her knees.

As she did, Malfurion felt the Nightmare Lord’s attention at last
turn to what was happening around his precious captive.

It was too late, then, for the archdruid, but he tried his best to
give warning to Tyrande and the others. His branches shook and
the sharp leaves shivered as he threw al his wil into alerting them
of the danger.

Far too late… mocked the Nightmare Lord. Far too late…

Shadows draped over Malfurion, skeletal shadows of the
unseen tree’s reaching limbs.

But it was not for the archdruid that those limbs stretched.

Instead, they aimed for the others.

Malfurion again sought to warn them, but only the human
appeared to notice him. The man eyed Malfurion’s macabre form
and then gaped. He started to say something to the two
combatants, raising the archdruid’s hopes…

A tremendous emerald force swept over the area.

The shadow tree recoiled but held its position. However, the
foremost regions of mist burned away and the horror that Malfurion
alone knew stil awaited within it likewise vanished, seeking the
safety of those areas stil covered by the foulness.

Tyrande and Thura paused in their battle to fol ow with their
gazes the human’s outthrust finger. And though Malfurion could not
quite see the object of their interest, with his other senses he
perhaps understood the enormity of it even better than they did.

The sky was fil ed with dragons, Ysera’s dragons. Al those that
remained uncorrupted had come at this desperate point to attack
the Nightmare and its sinister master.

More to the point, they had come to rescue him.

This was not how Malfurion had wanted it. The dragons risked
themselves. Yet he could not help but take heart in how the

Nightmare melted away before them. What had started out as a
distraction in order for the archdruid’s plan to succeed had now
become part of the actual rescue. The Great Aspect had clearly
understood that she could no longer trust for the orc to act as
intended.

Tyrande’s
intervention
inadvertently
threatened
catastrophe.

The mists retreated as if burned. Wherever Ysera’s servants
stretched forth their power, the sinister tendrils of fog pul ed back
and the Dream was restored. The carrion bugs melted under the
great emerald glow of the dragons’ power, fading to nothing. The
grasses and trees were restored.

And at that moment Thura used the battle to fulfil her quest. She
abandoned a distracted Tyrande and shoved past the desperate
grab by the human.

Malfurion urged her on. He watched as she raised the ax.

Tyrande saw her. The high priestess glowed in preparation of
stopping the orc.

The shadow tree moved. Malfurion realized that Tyrande stil did
not believe that she could be manipulated. With nothing to lose,

Malfurion began to maneuver another root that he had been
working with since extending the other beyond his prison. That one
had original y been set to aid Thura, not Tyrande. This one would
now have to distract the other night elf, if only for a critical second.

But someone else suddenly came to Malfurion’s aid. Even
transformed, his identity was known to the trapped archdruid. Brol

Bearmantle, racing along in his giant cat form, snarled for

Tyrande’s attention. That he did so meant that he knew what was
intended, not a surprise to Malfurion as he had obviously arrived
with the coming of the green dragons.

His appearance did as intended. Startled, Tyrande lost her
chance.

Thura swung. The shadow tree that was the Nightmare Lord
reacted too slowly.

The ax cut just as Malfurion hoped. Pain coursed through him,
but after the continual agonies he had suffered at the whim of his
captor, it was pain easily smothered. What was important was that
in cutting into the tree, the ax—forged by Cenarius and with the life
force of Azeroth fueling it—also severed the spel s that had caught

Malfurion by surprise and trapped him so.

With a cry that was of relief, not anguish, Malfurion shed his foul
trappings. The black, thorned leaves melted away. The branches
that had been his arms and hands shrank and untwisted. The roots
withdrew, then became feet, which, in turn, became part of two
separate legs again.

And the dark, diseased green that had been his coloring burned
away to the bril iant emerald of his dreamform.

No… came the Nightmare Lord’s voice. It is not so simple as
that…

The shadows of several branches crossed Malfurion’s chest.

Despite neither they nor him having any solidity—or perhaps
because of that fact—the night elf felt as if his chest were being
crushed. The euphoria of his escape vanished as he felt his foe
once more slipping into his thoughts and his very soul.

“Mal!” Tyrande shouted. She and Brol both surged toward the
stricken archdruid. To his credit, the human fol owed.

Thura stood dumbstruck, the results of her attack hardly what
she had expected. Her expression was that of someone just
realizing that they had been tricked.

More shadow branches descended, brushing aside with ease

Malfurion’s would-be rescuers. Thura, realizing what was the
greater threat, swung at one of the shadows draping her former
target’s chest.

There was a hiss as the magical wood touched the shadows.

One of the shadow branches flew off as if made of substance. It
landed some distance away, where it faded to nothing.

The Nightmare Lord howled, almost causing Malfurion to black
out.

The ground erupted at Thura’s feet. Shadow roots seized her
legs and as they did, the orc suddenly let out a cry. One hand let go
of the ax to claw at the air. The other’s grip weakened dangerously.

The Nightmare means for her to lose Brox’s ax! Malfurion
struggled to help her, but the shadows squeezed tighter against his
chest.

Come… he heard his captor murmur. Come…

But the archdruid had no intention of surrendering to the
darkness. He strained and at the very least seemed to keep from
being crushed.

Al around them, the green dragons cleansed the area of the

Nightmare. The only tendril stil extending so far was around

Malfurion and the shadow tree. Yet even despite the obvious threat
of defeat, the Nightmare’s master would not release him.

Malfurion understood why. The Nightmare needed him. He was
key to the Nightmare’s growth in both the Dream and Azeroth.

But others understood that as wel . The shadow tree was
abruptly bathed with the pure energies of both nature and dreams.

The tree shivered while at the same time the night elf experienced
a sense of euphoria.

Only one being could wield the power so in his mind and
struggling to look up, he saw that she now hovered over them.

“No taint of shadow shal be left in my domain!” Ysera cal ed.

Her eyes were shut, but Malfurion knew that she saw with more
accuracy than anyone where her foe was most vulnerable. “No
child of mine left to Nightmare…”

Ysera opened her eyes. The Aspect’s gaze sparkled and though
it did not seem at al threatening to Malfurion, he sensed the
dismay and fear that it brought out of his captor. The shadow
branches fled the druid.

One of the other green dragons dove down to just above the
group. Ysera’s servant used magic to pluck up everyone, including

Thura. It did not matter even that Malfurion was in dreamform; the
dragon’s magic lifted him as if he were flesh.

But as they were carried up into the sky, the archdruid heard the
cry of a dragon ring out from near another region of the mists.

From where he floated, Malfurion caught a glimpse of a large male
of Ysera’s dragonflight.

Eranikus.

Malfurion was wel aware of the consort’s troubled past and had
sensed his presence on recent occasion. He had not expected

Eranikus to be here, but was also not entirely surprised. Perhaps
having sought to further redeem himself, the once-corrupted male
had evidently moved with too much confidence toward the

Nightmare.

And now it had him. Hundreds of horrific hands of mist clutched
him tight. Within moments, al that was visible was his head, one
forepaw, and a wing. He looked to Ysera in fear.

The Aspect reacted. She turned to rescue her mate, only for a
moment turning her attention from the Nightmare—

And that was when the shadow tree swel ed to a terrible size and
seized her.

The ghoulish branches engulfed Ysera. Before even she could
react, they thrust back, tossing her into the mists.

As that happened, Eranikus let out a savage laugh. His form
shifted…revealing the insidious Lethon. Lethon’s foul visage
mocked the stunned defenders for a moment before the corrupted
dragon, completely shed of the powerful il usion, vanished after the

Nightmare’s true prize…Ysera.

The other dragons immediately moved to rescue their mistress,
but the Nightmare surged forward again with a ferocity that none,
not even Malfurion, would have expected from it. Like a thousand
krakens, tendrils of mist stretched out to seize the unwary. Two
more of the green dragonflight were taken before the remaining
green dragons reluctantly retreated.

As for Malfurion, he screamed in denial of what had happened.

If not for Ysera seeking to save him, she would not have been lost.

The Nightmare expanded, rushing toward its adversaries with
the pace of a raging river. The tendrils whipped about. There was
no choice but for al of them to flee.

Yet, even knowing that, the archdruid fought to free himself from
the safety of the green dragon’s magic. He could not—would not

—leave Ysera as prisoner of the awful power within.

Then, though the mist continued to surge on, it also dissipated
some. Some of those among the green dragons took this as a sign
of weakness, that perhaps having seized the mistress of the

Dream that the Nightmare had overextended itself.

It was too late for Malfurion to warn the foremost of those
impetuous behemoths. The first dragon who so eagerly dove
toward the mist only made it that much more simple for the tendrils
to seize her. Like those before, she was swal owed whole.

The rest were driven back. Indeed, Malfurion sensed those
defending against the evil elsewhere were also pushed into abrupt
retreat. It was as if they faced an entirely new and far more
formidable adversary. Dragons, ancients, druids…they al fel back
if they did not wish to join those already lost.

Yet, in the wake of their escape, the mist continued to fade.

Slowly, the distorted landscape that had once been the Emerald

Dream became more distinct. Once proud hil s were now covered
in blackened pockmarks and vermin crawled over them as if atop
great nests. What trees there were had been stripped of most of
their leaves and were now covered in smal reddish suckers that
moved like mouths and bore teeth. The branches twisted and
turned as if constantly seeking anything unwary enough to step
within their reach.

The ground was saturated not only with the bugs and other
crawlers, but more of the sickening pus that oozed from jagged
crevices now opening up everywhere. The stench of decay fil ed
the air worse than ever.

And then the Nightmare at last revealed to the others what

Malfurion already knew, at last revealed what it had most kept
hidden. He had hoped that with his escape, its evil would be at least
reduced, but that was not so. Indeed, it had become even more
horrifying than what his captor had previously shown him.

Wherever the mist existed, so, too, did they cluster. Their ranks
spread on as far as the eye could see and he knew farther than
that. Worse, they were multiplying by the second, each face akin
only in its anguish and hunger.

They were the sleepers taken unaware, but they were far more.

Malfurion had fought demons and he had fought the undead

Scourge. The horrific parodies that these sleepers had become
made the former gentle-seeming in comparison. The sleepers
were creatures drained of soul and so their forms reflected it.

When they moved, it was both fluid and with evident wracking pain
that made Malfurion’s own past torture nothing.

Their shriveled flesh draped stretched skul s. Their mouths
opened in continual shrieks and stretched wider than physical y
possible. Their eyes were sunk into their skul s and stared with a
loathing at what did not share their suffering.

And stil more of them came, more than there could possibly be
on a hundred Azeroths. They were every horrible dream each
sleeper suffered, and so their numbers were potential y endless.

They grasped with clawlike hands as they moved, reaching

…reaching…

Malfurion knew for what they reached and what they hungered.

His captor had been only too pleased to not only show their
suffering, but let him sense just what the Nightmare Lord had let
them think was their salvation. To them, the only respite, even for a
moment, was to steal and experience what those who had not yet
fal en victim to the Nightmare stil had…the ability to dream without
pain, without fear.

But that was a false desire, something that they could never
actual y seize. It was merely a ploy to drive them on, to make them
so desperate as to seize upon their friends and loved ones, al for
the sake of the Nightmare.

And Malfurion knew that, despite how good most of these
people were…their nightmare selves would not hesitate in the least
to bring about Azeroth’s destruction.

Their numbers continued to swel , continued to spread. The
remaining members of Ysera’s dragonflight were as nothing to
them. The dragons attacked and attacked, but they might as wel
have been a few grains of sand seeking to stem a flood.

Malfurion knew why. He also knew that he had been manipulated
al along by the Nightmare Lord. In the archdruid’s cleverness, he
had simply given the foul shadow what it truly desired. The night elf
had served his captor as wel as if he had been one of the
corrupted…

“We must retreat from this place!” one of the elder green
dragons roared to the rest. “We must regroup!”

Regroup? Why? Malfurion silently asked, stil horrified at the
role that he had played. Of what hope is there?

The Nightmare had never actual y wanted him. Oh, its master
had, but that had been a personal desire greatly outweighed by the
ultimate need.

Malfurion had been the bait. His powers, his bond to Azeroth
and the Emerald Dream had been strong enough to instigate the

Nightmare’s intentions, but never to truly fulfil them. For that, the
shadow had needed the one being most tied to the magical realm.

The Nightmare had wanted the mistress of the Emerald Dream
al along.

18

LOST DREAMS

In Stormwind City, in Ironforge, Dalaran, Orgrimmar, Thunder Bluff,
and al other cities, towns, and vil ages, the mist began to move.

Even in the Undercity, where the undead should not dream, the mist
seized the hidden nightmares of its inhabitants. The Forsaken were
cursed with suffering their lost lives over again in dreams that
offered them escape, but did not deliver that promise.

The Undercity was wel -named for many reasons, the least of
which was that it was buried under the ruins of what had once been
one of the most grand of cities…Lordaeron’s famed Capital City.

However, in the Third War, Prince Arthas—corrupted by the Lich

King—seized his father’s capital and slaughtered King Terenas in
his own throne room.

But the dread destiny of the Lich King had drawn Arthas to cold

Northrend and during that time, the Forsaken—those undead who
had broken from the Lich King’s mastery—seized the ruins. Seeing
the defensive advantages, they had carved out what would become
their capital, stretching its catacombs to new depths and building
what to many of the living would have very much seemed a terrible
mockery of the undead’s lost existences.

A sinister crest consisting of three crossed arrows—one of
them broken—covered by a white, cracked mask could be seen
throughout the city. It was the mark of the Forsaken and, especial y,
their queen. The Undercity was a place of dark, somber colors,
stone walkways and steps. However, the undead did not sleep and
so neither did the city. The Undercity had inns, forges, and
businesses that catered not only to the undead, but visitors from
the Horde, with whom the Forsaken had al ied itself. There was
some il umination in the form of dim lamps and muted torches.

They were not merely there to serve the living, though the undead
had no true need of light, but no one wished to admit that it perhaps
gave its chief inhabitants a facade of some other existence.

But now…something new and unsettling even to those who had
built the Undercity had swept into the Forsaken’s capital.

Something that resembled sleep…

The Forsaken’s leader—the fearsome Banshee Queen,

Sylvanas Windrunner—had studied the strange state of those of
her fol owers who now seemed truly dead…and yet not. It was the
merest of movements that proved the latter, if nothing else.

The Banshee Queen was beautiful even in undeath. She had
been not only a high elf, but also ranger-general of lost Silvermoon.

And even in her current role, Sylvanas was unique, for she was not
ghostlike as banshees general y were, but had a solid form. Lithe,
elegant, and with skin of pale ivory, she strode among the supine
bodies gathered for her by her servants. Al were the same. Al
gave her no answer, and that only served to increase her
frustration.

Clad in form-fitting leather armor designed for easy movement
and adorned also with a shroudlike hooded cloak bearing deep
crimson hints, Sylvanas looked very much the harbinger of doom.

Even the four undead high elf guards in attendance, with their
rotted faces, their protruding rib cages, and their hol ow eyes could
not raise such fear as the banshee did.

“Wel , Varimathras?” she demanded of a shadowed presence in
the corner of the dank, cobwebbed chamber underneath her
citadel. Her voice was seductive in the way that darkness was to
some, yet also was akin to a chil wind. “Have you nothing to tel me
yet?”

The shadow separated from the wal , to reveal a gargantuan
figure, a demon. He wore leather and metal armor of the darkest
ebony. Sylvanas’s tone hinted of a tremendous mistrust between
them. The demon joined her, striding on two huge, cloven hooves.

His skin was of a bloody purple tone, even to the two vast, webbed
wings sprouting from near his shoulders. His head was long and
tapered, with a dark mane flowing from the base of an otherwise
bald head. Two wicked black horns thrust up from the temples.

Green gemstones marked his armor at the forearms and waist,
their color and glow matching his inhuman orbs. Those eyes now
met glowing, silver-white ones.

“I have cast spel after spel , burrowed deep into each of these
fools…and they al reveal the same thing, Your Majesty…” he
replied cool y. The demon cocked his head to the side and with
analytical interest watched his mistress’s expression contort.

“We—do—not—dream!” Sylvanas retorted, her voice so shril
now that the demon had to cover his long, pointed ears. Even then,
his body was wracked by sharp pain. The cry of a banshee was a
terrifying power and Sylvanas was the deadliest, most unique, of
banshees.

“That—distraction—is beyond us,” the queen of the undead
added in a more calm manner. “They’re not dreaming,

Varimathras…”

“Not even—Sharlindra?”

Sylvanas could not help but glance to one stil form. As opposed
to the rest, it had been careful y set upon a stone dais. The body
seemed more mirage than solid, more of an il usion fading away. It
radiated a white aura with bluish hints. In life, she had been a
beloved elven female and her grace was stil evident even in
undeath. Sylvanas had found the other banshee to be wise and, in
contrast to the demon, trusted counsel.

But Sharlindra had been the first to fal . More unsettling, when

Sylvanas, upon being brought to the body, had leaned close, she
had realized that Sharlindra was murmuring something.

She stil was. They al were. Al evidence suggested that they
were, as the demon had early on suggested, dreaming.

“This is a trick!” Yet Sylvanas knew from her own bitter
experience that such was not possible. “This is a trick, just like the
mists hovering above the Undercity…” She turned from Sharlindra,
turned from Varimathras. Her eyes blazed as she considered just
who it was who would use such tactics.

Only one name came to mind and as she spoke it—even in a
whisper—Sylvanas’s anger fueled her power and caused the very
stone to shake. “Arthas…I would say this is the Lich King’s doing

…but that is no longer poss—”

With a gasp, Sharlindra suddenly opened her eyes. She stared
up, seeing something that Sylvanas could not.

The stricken banshee smiled. She reached up a slim, ethereal
hand. “Life…I live again…”

Her eyes closed. Her hand dropped. Again she murmured,
though the words were not intel igible.

Sylvanas’s eyes burned with more rage. She leaned over the stil
form. “What twisted jest is this? She has impossible dreams of the
even more impossible! She dreams of living? Madness!”

“Not so mad,” Varimathras remarked from behind her. “A simple
spel , real y.”

Sylvanas swung around, gaping at the demon’s unbelievable
statement. Varimathras knew better than to mock her. He had
learned quickly that his kind were not the only experts of torture.

“You tread a dangerous line…”

But the winged fiend only shrugged. “I only speak the truth.

Resurrection is a fairly easy casting for any dreadlord.”

“It’s impossible, you mean! I warned you—” Sylvanas’s rage
surged. She focused on Varimathras.

Stil unperturbed, he gestured. “Let me show you.”

An invisible force akin to al of the Undercity col apsing upon her
sent Sylvanas to the floor. She instinctively went from solid to
incorporeal, but nothing seemed to happen, for she stil felt the
harsh col ision. Sylvanas briefly lost focus, but the cool, moist
stone against her cheek stirred her back to ful consciousness.

And then she realized that she should not have been able to feel
those sensations to such depth. In fact, she had not felt this way
since—

The incessant smel of rot and decay fil ed her nostrils as it
never had since the city’s founding. It was so intense that she
coughed, an act that forced her to take a deep breath to calm
herself.

Only…she did not need to breathe, either. She was dead.

Wasn’t she?

Sylvanas eyed her hand. The whiteness had given way to a very
pale pink.

“No—” She gasped at the sound of her own voice…of her voice
before her transformation into a banshee.

Varimathras loomed over her. The demon presented her with a
large looking glass with gold scrol work on the frame and handle.

“You see? I didn’t lie…this time.”

Sylvanas stared at herself, at her former, living, breathing self.

She touched her cheeks, her chin, her nose…

“I’m alive…”

“Yes, you are.” Varimathras snapped his taloned fingers.

The four undead high elves moved in and seized Sylvanas.

Their stench was terrible. Smal black creatures crawled into and
out of areas where the flesh had given way to bone. Sylvanas
wanted to throw up and the very fact that she wanted to stunned
her more.

She fought to pul herself together. She had been a commander
of the high elves and she was now queen of the Forsaken. Glaring
at the guards, Sylvanas ordered, “Release me!”

But they only clutched her tighter. Sylvanas peered into the
monstrous eye sockets of one—and saw such hatred of her that
she stood speechless.

“They might be a bit jealous,” Varimathras remarked, growing
more shadowy again. “Real y, they shouldn’t be. You won’t stay that
way long.”

The high elf was caught between fear and regret. “It doesn’t
last?”

“It would last, if we gave you the chance.”

The speaker was not the demon, but rather someone who had
entered without Sylvanas’s knowledge. Yet though she could not
see him from her angle, Sylvanas knew the voice so wel …and
shuddered because of it.

Varimathras had the guards turn her to face the newcomer.

To face a figure clad in black, icy armor.

To face the Lich King.

She fought to free herself, but the guards held her with the
proverbial death grips. Worse, they dragged her toward the Lich

King.

But this is impossible, Sylvanas remembered. He is defeated!

He is—

Arthas cupped her chin. His human traits could just be seen
through the openings of the helmet. Frosty breath escaped him as
he spoke.

“So becoming as a high elf…and so more becoming as a
banshee…”

She was placed on a stone platform, then chained. Varimathras
joined the Lich King, who again cupped the captive’s chin.

“This time…I’l make you right,” Arthas promised. His cold breath
coursed over Sylvanas’s face, but it was not the breath that chil ed
her so.

Arthas planned to make her a banshee again…

Sylvanas stil recal ed the horrible agonies her last lingering life
force had suffered before her dread transformation. She knew that
she would go through a terror a thousand times greater now.

“No!” she cried out, trying to use her powers. Unfortunately,
those powers would not belong to her until the monstrous spel was
completed.

Arthas raised his long, sleek sword, Frostmourne. Its evil was as
great as his. He held the point over her and as he did, he and the
weapon fil ed her frightened view.

“Yes, this time you’l be a properly obedient servant, my dear

Sylvanas…even if we have to raise you again and again and again
to get it right…”

Sylvanas shrieked…

“She wil not wake,” Sharlindra murmured, feeling in her a level of
fear not experienced since just before her death. She eyed the
other Forsaken around her and saw that they, too, were going
through the same thing. “She mentions the traitor Varimathras,
slain by her, and the Lich King, final y defeated! What sort of dream
does she go through—and why does she dream?”

Nearly half of Sylvanas’s subjects were in a state like that of
their queen. Al but a few of the representatives of the other Horde
races staying in the Undercity were likewise, though in their case
that made more sense.

And worse, so much worse…the Forsaken were under attack.

Under attack by shadows of their own former loved ones, who
had become something even more hideous than that which the
once-living denizens of the Undercity now were. The Forsaken
knew that they were not real, yet neither were they figments. What
stalked the undead, what unnerved them as only their original
demises had, were creatures somewhere in between. They
ravaged the Undercity in a manner that served to bring home to the
stunned Forsaken what it must have been like when the undead, as
part of the Scourge, had overcome the once vibrant realm.

A shriek shook Sharlindra anew. This time it had not come from

Sylvanas. This time it had come from directly above. She knew it
for the cry of one of the other banshees, but it was no warning nor
any weapon of battle.

It was a cry of fear…the fear of the unliving.

Sharlindra looked at those gathered with her. Frightening as they
were to outsiders, the Forsaken now had a pathos about them that
had nothing to do with their existence. Rather, those undead she
studied looked uncertain, off balance.

More shrieks erupted from the upper recesses of the Undercity.

The banshee looked to her queen, but there was no hope of
guidance from Sylvanas.

“The mist…” warned a rasping voice. The speaker barely wore
any remnants of flesh and only the magical properties of his
undead state enabled him to speak, for his jaw hung loose on one
side. “This mist…” he repeated.

Sharlindra looked to the steps leading down to their location. The
dark green mist was seeping down the stone steps, as if a living
creature slowly approaching its prey.

The Forsaken pressed away from it. As they did, though, in the
mist there began to form figures.

The banshee stepped back. She knew some of them. By their
reactions, others, too, recognized their kin and friends—the living
who were more tortured than they.

The banshee let out a shriek that began as a desperate attack
and ended in despair…

The Nightmare enveloped the Undercity.

In Stormwind City, King Varian watched as the mist and its ghoulish
force surged toward the keep. From various parts of the rest of the
capital, he heard screams.

We’re being assaulted…and we can’t fight them… Arrows had
been tried. Arrows with oil-soaked, fiery tips. They had been no
more effective than the swords, lances, and other weapons. What
magi and other spel casters were stil conscious in the city were
doing their best, but their effectiveness was limited.

The brave defenders of the keep awaited their monarch’s
orders.

Varian saw his son and dead wife, both stil multiplied a hundred
times over, cross through the gate as if it were air. Nothing
impeded these living nightmares.

And knowing that, Varian found himself with no orders that he
could give…even as his citadel, his kingdom, began to fal before
him.

Throughout nearly al the known lands of Azeroth, the Nightmare
surged forth. As it did, the mists faded enough for the waking to
see what had become of its victims…and what would be their own
fate. Despite that, though, despite whether it was the orcs in

Orgrimmar, the dwarves in Ironforge, or any other race in any other
realm, those left to defend against its terror did not for the most
part surrender. They knew that they had no choice but to keep
fighting…no matter how little hope they had left.

• • •

But there was one realm oddly free of the mists. That was

Teldrassil and, thus, Darnassus, too. That did not mean that

Shandris Feathermoon did not know much of what happened on
the mainland and beyond. The general was wel -informed through
her network.

A network, though, that was quickly col apsing.

Shandris lowered the last missive received from an agent near

Orgrimmar. It echoed those from Stormwind City, tauren Thunder

Bluff, and other locations where Shandris had spread her web.

The mysterious mist was moving. Worse to her, though, was the
fact that she also had no information as to her mistress’s location.

Tyrande had been heading toward Ashenvale…and then had
seemingly disappeared.

She is not dead! the younger night elf insisted to herself.

Discarding the parchment, Shandris abandoned her quarters.

She could have taken up residence in the high priestess’s abode,
as Tyrande insisted whenever departing for matters of state, but

Shandris preferred her spartan quarters. There were no
decorations honoring nature, only weapons and trophies of war.

Defending her mistress and her people had become Shandris’s
entire existence. Indeed, she had tried more than once during her
mistress’s absence to locate some trace of Tyrande through the
visions of other priestesses.

That had failed. Instead, Elune had granted each of those
priestesses another vision, one that confused the general.

It was a vision of Teldrassil being eaten from within. A horrid,
festering decay would spread not from the roots but rather the
crown. It would quickly devour the World Tree inside out. The vision
had always been short, only three or four breaths in span. Shandris
had gone over it thoroughly with each priestess and stil did not
understand it.

The vision had so troubled her today that Shandris could no
longer sit stil . Hoping to clear her thoughts, she had personal y
begun patrol ing the length and breadth of the capital, wending her
way from the fortified bastion of the Warrior’s Terrace down into
the commercial sections of the Tradesmen’s Terrace, on through
the mystic Temple of the Moon and across the lush, sculptured
islets of the garden. There she had made a detour to the
industrious Craftsmen’s Terrace before returning to her quarters in
the Warrior’s.

That left only the Cenarion Enclave. Shandris did not fear
stepping into the druids’ stronghold. Nor did she respect Fandral so
much that she would have stayed clear because of him; her first
loyalty was to Tyrande. Even now, the general would have normal y
bypassed the enclave, but Shandris had learned long ago that to
find answers it was often better to not seek the obvious source.

The dread vision stil in mind, she suddenly realized that there was
one among the druids who might be of use to her. Someone who
might be able to explain the vision without turning to Fandral.

Never one to ask of her Sentinels what she herself would not do,

Shandris quietly departed the Warrior’s Terrace. As she passed
the more dour wooden structures, the constant sound of military
training sang in her ears. To Shandris, such was more sweet than
the music of her people. Not since her parents had been lost in the

War of the Ancients had the general truly ever enjoyed music
anymore…save for the songs and chants used by the priestesses
during battle when cal ing upon Elune’s power. Those had purpose,
after al .

She started to turn…only to see a furtive figure crossing from
the Temple Gardens to the north. The cloak marked him as a druid,
but otherwise she could not individual y identify him.

Shandris started on…then turned. She could not say why, but
she decided to fol ow the druid.

The figure quickly vanished into the thick grove that was part of
the enclave. Shandris easily fol owed. The Sentinel commander
moved like a shadow among the tal trees. Many reminded her of
miniature versions of Teldrassil, which in turn brought back
thoughts of the priestesses’ vision.

The druid came into sight again. There was something odd
about his—she assumed the figure a male—gait and the fact that
he kept the obscuring cloak around him. It was almost as if he did
not like being in the enclave.

Then the druid came to a halt. The hooded form looked left and
right, as if deciding where to go.

The figure made his choice. Shandris smiled, having guessed.

She fol owed—

Or rather, she tried to fol ow. Her foot caught on a root that the
night elf was certain she had avoided. As Shandris moved aside,
the root seemed to stretch from the ground, again catching her
foot.

The Sentinel lithely twisted to avoid the root—and a branch
caught her face. The force of it caused Shandris to fal back
against the nearest tree.

The tree’s roots bound her ankles. Shandris reached for the
dagger she always carried, intending to quickly cut her way loose
and move on.

Another branch struck her hard on the head. Stunned, Shandris
momentarily went limp.

In that moment, the craggy bark opened. Even through her daze,

Shandris sensed herself being drawn into the tree trunk.

She struggled to regain her concentration, but again she was
battered on the side of the head. The interior of the vast oak
surrounded her. Through blurred vision, the general watched the
bark seal itself again.

A darkness even her vision could not penetrate surrounded her.

Worse, a pressure was building in her chest. Shandris vaguely
realized that the space she was in was too tight. She could not
breathe—

The night elf passed out, aware in the last moment that death
was coming.

Then the bark gave way again. The pressure eased. Fresh air
stirred Shandris, though not enough to keep her from fal ing
forward.

She landed in the arms of a powerful figure. Shandris struggled
to recover, certain that her captor had come for her.

A musky scent assailed the night elf, shaking her into
consciousness. She peered up at who held her.

It was a tauren.

Hamuul Runetotem gazed down at her with narrowed eyes. “So

…it is you…”

19

AWAKE TO THE NIGHTMARE

There was no hope. In al his long existence, Malfurion had known
such distress only once. That had been during the War of the

Ancients.

The green dragon sent earlier by Ysera stil carried him,

Tyrande, Brol , Lucan, and even Thura from the catastrophe. Not
only were the green dragons in retreat, but the defenders below,
aware of what had happened, were also in complete disarray. Their
morale was as low as Malfurion’s, perhaps even lower. They knew
that they had slowly been losing, but now they saw that their efforts
had actual y been nothing but lies. The Nightmare had teased them,
waiting for its opportunity.

With Ysera…it can do anything! Why did she risk herself for
me? True, Ysera’s actual capture had been due to Lethon’s
trickery, but she would not have been at risk in the first place if not
for her inexplicable interest in making certain of Malfurion’s
escape.

“It is gaining on us!” Tyrande cal ed.

She spoke the dread truth. In his mind, Malfurion saw the
gleaming shape of another druid in dreamform grasped not by the
tendrils of the shadow tree, but by the previous victims of the

Nightmare. The clawing hands rent the dreamform as if the night elf
were made of flimsy cloth. He screamed as his very being was torn
into a thousand pieces—

Barely a moment later, Malfurion saw the druid now at the
forefront of the Nightmare’s monstrous throng. His dreamform was
now darker and gaunt. Now corrupted, he stretched his twisted
fingers toward the nearest remaining defenders seeking to make
them join him.

Yet however terrible his failure, however impossible the odds,
the archdruid knew that he could not surrender to the inevitable. He
could not let another fal to the Nightmare while he fled.

But as he again struggled to free himself, the green dragon
shouted at him, “This is not the time! She did not give herself so
that you would be lost again! My queen emphasized to us just
before the attack that you are more valuable to Azeroth than even
she and though we had trouble believing such, we must trust in her
word now!”

“ ‘More valuable’?” Malfurion was incredulous. “Staving off the

Nightmare for as long as she already had surely affected her
mind!” He fought harder and final y felt her hold on his dreamform
loosening.

Tyrande sensed what he was doing. She reached for the
archdruid. “Malfurion! Don’t!”

Her hand slipped through his dreamform. Malfurion struggled to
pay no attention to her. A part of him wanted nothing more than to
stay with Tyrande, but his duty was elsewhere.

However, to his dismay, his surroundings began to fade away.

Too late, the archdruid realized that in seeking to free himself of the
green dragon’s spel work, he had begun something else.

“No!” Malfurion tried to stop the inevitable—

“No!”

The archdruid sat up with a start. Pain immediately wracked his
body. He clutched his chest and rol ed over.

He was back in his barrow den, the accidental result of his
attempt. It should have come as no surprise, the bond between his
body and his dreamform natural y strong.

But something was wrong. Clenching his teeth, Malfurion
struggled against agony. Was this the result of being gone so long?

The archdruid let out a guttural sound as he fought. In the back
o f his mind he became aware that he could not have possibly
survived this long without the aid of others.

His body in general was in fair shape. That he could also sense.

He felt the touch of Elune, a force the night elf knew wel through

Tyrande. Malfurion had no doubt that his love had been the one to
organize efforts to save him.

Yet, though he groaned loud, no priestess now came to his aid.

Slowly, he won the struggle. As that happened, Malfurion
suddenly sensed something only his experienced, highly attuned
druidic skil s could have uncovered.

The source of his suffering—and what stil sought to slay him

—was a smal , very smal touch of powder. He readily identified the
magical y-enhanced herb used in its making. Morrowgrain.

Morrowgrain was rumored to be used in certain primitive curses.

But while the herb itself was potent, someone had not been
satisfied with its innate power. The subtle spel around it should
have been enough addition to guarantee Malfurion’s slow but
certain death.

But whoever had done it had underestimated the healing light of
the Mother Moon. The work of the priestesses had been enough to
keep Malfurion’s unoccupied body functioning, although eventual y
the poison would have done its work.

Malfurion fixed on the powder, gathering it back together from
where in his body it had spread. He created of it a festering bal —

At that point the archdruid vomited.

He did not see the tiny sphere as it exited, but he felt its dire
influence fade. Malfurion gasped for air as he slowly pushed
himself up again.

Only then did he see the two priestesses. Both were sprawled
on the ground of his barrow den. They were alive, but not
conscious. Worse, they twitched and occasional y murmured
fearful y.

The barrow den was also fil ed with tendrils of a sinister and too-
familiar mist.

Malfurion had intended to meditate again in order to return to his
dreamform, but now he cautiously headed into the mist toward the
entrance. There was nothing that he could do for the priestesses,
a t least not for the moment. The archdruid needed to know the
extent of the threat to the Moonglade.

But the tableau that greeted him as he stepped outside proved
how wrong he could be. The Moonglade was entirely cloaked by
the mist, giving it more the appearance of a graveyard. More
disturbing was that there was not a sound to be heard, not even so
much as a cricket.

Striding cautiously through the vegetation, the night elf came
upon another barrow den. He slipped inside.

A stil form in the familiar robes met his gaze. The hood
obscured the sleeper’s face. Kneeling next to the other druid,

Malfurion touched the other night elf’s wrist.

It was cold to the touch.

Malfurion quickly moved aside the hood.

The gaping mouth of the corpse sent shivers through the
archdruid. The barrow den’s dwel er had obviously sent his
dreamform forth but had not been able to return in time. Malfurion
wondered if the unfortunate had been one of those combating the

Nightmare or if he had perished before that.

Unable at the moment to do anything for the dead druid’s
remains, Malfurion retreated from the barrow den. He wondered
how many of the other earthen dwel ings had such bodies.

Knowing that he had more of a chance to help the living than the
dead, Malfurion considered his best options. He no longer thought
of meditation; the Moonglade had been tainted. To return to his
dreamform here would be too risky. He had to go elsewhere, find
the other defenders.

Most of al , he needed to find out what had happened to Tyrande
and those with her. They had physical y entered the Emerald

Dream. To Malfurion, that meant a portal and the nearest to the

Dream and the Nightmare was located in Ashenvale.

Yet barely had he determined to go there, barely had he begun
to transform himself to storm crow form, than Malfurion realized
that his efforts needed to be focused in a direction almost opposite
to that in which he had original y planned to head. Although he had
been long trapped, Malfurion knew that his people had been
planning a new settlement to the west, an island off the coast. Even
through the Nightmare, Malfurion had sensed the other druids’

powerful efforts to do—something. Unfortunately, in trying to keep
his efforts hidden from his captor, he had not been able to discover
the results of those efforts. He had hints and suspicions…

The night elf gazed around the barely seen glade. There was no
hint even of Remulos. Surely the Moonglade’s guardian would have
appeared upon sensing Malfurion’s waking presence. Malfurion
reached out with his thoughts but could stil not find Cenarius’s son.

Had Remulos also joined the other druids?

The irony that he was as alone on Azeroth as he had been when
a captive of the Nightmare Lord was not lost upon the archdruid.

He started to ponder this—and then wondered why he was wasting
more of his time instead of acting immediately, as he should.

Malfurion concentrated. Immediately, his surroundings wavered

…and only then did he discover the true danger.

He had been daydreaming. It had not been his doing. The

Nightmare was so powerful that it saturated the Moonglade.

Caught up in his concerns for the others, the archdruid had not
noticed when he had begun to slip into this half-slumbering state. It
had likely been what had taken the priestesses guarding his body.

But the Nightmare had not been satisfied with that. Malfurion
stirred to find himself under assault from the very glade itself.

The grass twisted around his legs, torso, and arms. The trees
bent to smother him. They were al touched by the familiar dark
corruption he had seen in the Emerald Dream…only this was the
waking world. The Nightmare Lord had seized upon Ysera’s great
power to break the final barrier between dream and reality.

For just a brief moment Malfurion considered giving in to his
doom. He was responsible for the Aspect’s fal and for Azeroth’s
danger. Yet that thought quickly faded as Tyrande’s trusting face
formed in his thoughts.

The archdruid concentrated. This is not your nature, he
reminded the grass, the trees. This is a perversion of what you
are a part of…

He felt the grass begin to loosen. The trees, however, did not
yet respond. They began to shake at their roots, as if seeking to
free themselves while stil striving to reach Malfurion. At the same
time the bark shifted, forming a mockery of the night elf’s own
bearded visage.

“This is not your nature,” Malfurion now said out loud, at the
same time focusing his mil ennia of training on the flora. “This is a
place of peace, of tranquility…this place touches the heart of

Azeroth and is in turn touched by it…”

The grass released him. The trees suddenly stiffened. The
images of his face vanished from the bark.

The Moonglade was calm again, if stil mist-enshrouded.

Malfurion took a deep breath. What he had done was no smal
miracle, not against the might he had sensed at work against him.

The Nightmare Lord had focused especial y upon him. Fortunately,
the evil had underestimated the archdruid in this of al places.

That settled one matter for Malfurion. He had to return to the

Emerald Dream—what was left of it—before it was too late. The
green dragon assigned to carry him off had said something about

Ysera feeling him more important to the situation, important enough
to risk herself.

Malfurion let out a growl of frustration at himself. He was hardly
more important than the mistress of the Emerald Dream! Stil , he
owed her for her sacrifice and owed Azeroth for what his capture
had permitted the Nightmare Lord to do.

He wondered why the Nightmare had not already engulfed the
world. Its master had Ysera; why then wait? Was there something
preventing his captor from ultimate victory?

If there is, I will not discover it standing here! he angrily
reminded himself. Any answers lie elsewhere…

Without further hesitation, the archdruid transformed into a
storm crow. Taking to the air, Malfurion soared from the

Moonglade. Malfurion’s wings beat hard as he rose higher and
higher—

But then, at a place among the clouds, he suddenly hovered.

Sharp eyes drank in a sight below that made the storm crow cry
out. Perhaps he had been wrong, after al . Perhaps his hope that
there was stil some chance to salvage victory had merely been
one last nightmare thrust upon him by a mocking foe.

The mist did not merely cover the Moonglade. It covered the
land beyond it and beyond that.

In fact…it covered al of Azeroth that Malfurion could see.

“Malfurion!” Tyrande shouted. She looked to Brol . “What happened
to him?”

“He must’ve cast himself back into his body! He should be al —”

The green dragon carrying them suddenly had to bank, for,
without warning, the mists of the Nightmare erupted around them.

A horrific winged form materialized.

“The Nightmare desires these mortals…especially the female
night elf…” the foul dragon Emeriss cooed. Her diseased and
decaying body fil ed the air before them. “Come accept the
inevitable…Azeroth and the Nightmare are now one…”

“You shal not have them!” the other dragon countered. She
exhaled.

It resembled fire, but fire that was more ghost than real. Yet
when it struck Emeriss, the corrupted dragon howled in agony and
her body glittered as if suddenly covered in a mil ion fireflies.

Ysera’s servant did not wait. She dove around her struggling
foe.

But an angry roar indicated that Emeriss had already shaken off
her pain. A moment later the corrupted leviathan soared toward
them.

“She flies too swiftly and I fight against forces that I cannot see
but that slow me!” the dragon informed her charges. “There is but
one thing I can do!”

The magic surrounding the mortals flared so bright that the night
elves in particular were forced to shield their eyes.

“Find your Malfurion Stormrage!” their rescuer shouted to them.

“My mistress would not lie!”

And with that, she cast them ahead.

Surrounded by her spel , they were protected from harm. Brol
saw what she intended before the rest did.

“The portal! She’s sent us toward—”

Before he could finish, they flew through.

The magic dissipated the moment that they were back in

Azeroth. Yet the green dragon had not intended for them to be
injured in their landing. They emerged from the portal mere inches
from the ground and when the spel vanished, the four simply came
to a rest.

Al but Lucan immediately leapt to their feet. However, as Brol
approached the portal, the energies within… froze.

“Not possible…” he muttered. The druid jumped up to the portal
and thrust a hand toward the magical gap.

It was like striking an iron door. Brol grimaced at the brief pain
caused by his impetuousness.

The high priestess joined him. “Can we not get through?”

“No…either she sealed it after us…or something sealed it so
that she couldn’t fol ow…”

Tyrande shook her head. “She sent us to safety at her own
expense…and al for Malfurion!”

The druid looked over his shoulder. “It’s even a question whether
she sent us to safety at al …”

They turned to face Thura. The orc had Brox’s ax ready in her
hands. She eyed the other three with wariness.

“Where is he? Where is Malfurion Stormrage?” she demanded.

Her question caused Tyrande to stride toward the husky,
greentinted warrior. As she neared, the high priestess glowed with
the light of Elune. “He is beyond your petty reach, assassin!”

Thura met her glare…and then, to everyone’s surprise, the orc
lowered the weapon. She looked extremely weary.

“He is the one who made me chase him…he tricked me. Why
did he wish to die?”

The night elves looked at one another. “He wasn’t seeking
death, not truly, anyway.” Tyrande told her. “Your ax was needed to
break the spel , I think…”

The orc slumped. “So…my purpose is false…I am nothing.”

“Excuse me,” Lucan interrupted, causing heads to turn to him.

“Was he supposed to come through with us?”

The others looked to where he pointed. It was Brol who
recognized the towering figure first.

“Gnarl!” he roared with joy. “You—”

“Get away from him!” Tyrande shouted, dragging Brol back.

The ancient of war let out a nerve-ripping laugh. As he stepped
near, the fungus covering his body became evident. His leaves
were fil ed with rot and his eyes glowed black.

“He wishes you to return…” the towering figure rasped.

His eyes were on Tyrande.

“Keep back!” The high priestess started to pray.

Gnarl’s great arm swept toward them. Brol shoved the others
back, taking a glancing blow that was stil mighty enough to send
him to his knees.

The ancient reached for the fal en night elf. Tyrande cut in front
of Brol , her expression grimly set. “I’m sorry, Gnarl…”

The light of Elune struck the corrupted ancient dead-on. Gnarl
stumbled back…and then righted.

“He is too strong for you this time,” Gnarl mocked. “Azeroth is
his…final y…”

As he spoke, the mists thickened. In them formed shapes that
quickly defined themselves. Too familiar now were the grasping
hands, the ever-shrieking mouths, and the desperate, hungry eyes.

The Nightmare’s slaves surrounded them. The four pressed
close together. Gnarl let out a harsh laugh.

Brol blinked. He was in the midst of a different battle and in his
hand was a familiar object. The Idol of Remulos. The druid shook
his head. This is another dream! This is another trick!

But his surroundings remained constant. Worse, he heard a
voice nearby him cal ing for his help. Against his better judgment,
the former gladiator looked—

Tyrande knelt beside a stone cairn. She was weeping, but it took
her a moment to realize why.

Malfurion was buried here.

He was dead, though the cause of his death the high priestess
could not recal . She only knew that she ached for him, ached for
the life together that they had never been al owed to have.

“No!” Tyrande shouted angrily, rising at the same time. “I wil not
be cheated! We wil not be cheated!”

She looked to the sky, where the moon shone ful and bright. The
high priestess raised her hands to the moon, to Elune.

“Grant me this wish! Fil me with your light as you never have
before…”

Tyrande knew that what she hoped to do was wrong—indeed,
something about the entire situation struck her as wrong—but a
dread determination fil ed her. She would have Malfurion back!

She would!

The light of the Mother Moon radiated from her. She gestured at
the cairn. The silver glow bathed it.

The stones shook. A few at the top fel away.

A skeletal hand thrust out.

Tyrande tried to stop her spel , but it kept feeding Elune’s light
into the cairn. The hand shoved more stones away. Despite the
silver nature of the Mother Moon’s gift, the cadaverous fingers
shone a sinister green.

Then, with a great rumble, the cairn burst apart. Stone rained
down on Tyrande.

From the ruined burial mound, a monstrous Malfurion rose—

Thura stood surrounded by the elders of Orgrimmar. She felt
ashamed enough to stand before them, but at their head stood the
great Thral himself. He looked terribly disappointed in her,
disappointed and angry.

“You’ve shamed your kin,” Thral declared. “You were given a
great weapon and took a blood oath to avenge Broxigar!”

She knelt. “I failed. I know. But the night elf—”

“Lives to laugh at you while the life fluids of Broxigar stil drip
from his foul hands!”

Thura had no reply.

The orc leader reached out. “You’re not fitting to wield the
glorious ax. Give it over.”

Head bent low, Thura offered up the weapon to Thral . A sense
of guilt coursed through her as the ax left her hands.

Thral hefted the weapon, admiring its balance and workmanship.

Gripping it tight, he glared at the female orc.

“And now, you wil make amends for your failure…”

He raised the ax high, preparing for a kil ing stroke—

Lucan stared at his companions. They stood as statues and with
their eyes half-lidded. Their gazes seemed to have no focus.

They were caught up in the Nightmare.

Why he was not as they were was a question to which he had no
answer. Likely because he was the least of the threat to the

Nightmare. Even now, al the cartographer wanted most was to
hide.

And in his desperation, that seemed the wisest choice to Lucan.

The human grabbed his three companions as best he could,
hoping that his touch alone might be sufficient. They did not move
even then, but Lucan had no time to concern himself with their
conditions.

He tried to do what in the past seemed to work only when he
was not trying. Yet there had been one or two recent moments
when his conscious desire had enabled his unique ability to work
for him.

The slaves of the Nightmare fel upon the helpless group—

Lucan and the party vanished.

They materialized in the Emerald Dream, the last place to which

Lucan wanted to return. He felt certain that the Nightmare would be
upon them there as wel .

The others began coming out of their personal nightmares. They
looked tired and momentarily disoriented.

Lucan was the only one to note the shadow suddenly covering
them. He looked up.

“What do you want of me now?” Eranikus growled.

20

THE ENCLAVE

Hamuul Runetotem was not alone. Naralex, with whom Shandris
was familiar, stood with the tauren.

His presence was enough to confirm the general’s suspicions
that they were the ones responsible for her imprisonment. She
slipped out of Hamuul’s grip and drew a dagger.

But Hamuul moved swiftly and surely against her attack. He
thrust a hand out and deflected the dagger’s path, but not without
some injury to his extremity.

Ignoring the blood, the tauren barreled into her. As he did, he
said under his breath, “You must stop this or he wil certainly notice
us, Shandris Feathermoon!”

“Who?” she quietly demanded.

“A traitor in our midst! A traitor who threatens al Darnassus and
beyond!”

He stopped. Hamuul and Naralex peered at one another in
grave concern.

“He knows …” the night elf druid muttered.

“Quickly! Stand between us!” Hamuul ordered Shandris. As
some inner sense warned her to obey, the two druids began to
transform into birds.

From the ground erupted long vines that sought to ensnare the
trio. Shandris severed two with her dagger, then fended off more.

Hamuul had sought to fly up, but the tauren was caught by two
other vines. As they snared his wing, what at first appeared as
flower buds sprouted from the tips.

The buds opened…revealing wicked thorns that acted like teeth.

The tauren would have been bitten, but Naralex used his beak to
bite through the vines. The tops dropped, yet the respite was only
momentary, for, as with those that Shandris had cut, these two
grew new roots.

Hamuul squawked something to Naralex. The transformed night
elf immediately seized Shandris by her shoulders and carried her
aloft.

But as they rose, something else fel upon them from the
branches above. They were shadowy forms that seemed to sprout
from the leaves themselves. Naralex, intent on bringing his charge
to safety, flew right into their midst.

One of the shadow creatures thrust an ethereal hand into

Shandris. She shrieked as a chil touched her very soul. The

Sentinel commander lost her grip on the dagger. Her body shook.

Whatever her suffering, though, Naralex’s was far greater. The
shadow creatures swarmed al over him, tearing at the storm crow
with wild relish.

Naralex’s flight faltered. He tried to shake off his attackers, but
when that failed, the druid veered toward the ground closest to the
path out of the enclave.

He released Shandris from his talons the moment that he was
close enough to avoid her being harmed by the drop. Stil reeling
from the horrific chil , she dropped to her knees.

A roar echoed in her ears. Hamuul, once again in his true
shape, had seized several vines and with his great strength now
tore them loose. However, rather than toss them aside, he threw
them up into the air.

An emerald sheen surrounded them. Each snapping tendril
shrank rapidly.

A moment later the seeds to which they had reverted dropped
harmlessly around the tauren.

Unfortunately, as this happened, the shadow creatures also
converged upon Hamuul. The tauren thrust a hand into one pouch
and then flung the contents at the nearest.

Although his attackers seemed without substance, the brown
powder the archdruid used landed on them as if the fiends were
solid. Moreover, it had a devastating effect. The shadow figures
twisted and contorted. They began to shrink and change shape.

Their doom was accompanied by a chorus of monstrous hisses.

Hamuul’s eyes widened. The shadows had been reduced to
leaves. This had not been the intention of his spel . The tauren
could only fathom that the leaves represented the true nature of
their attackers.

“No…” he rumbled. “It cannot have gone that far…”

But his distraction cost the tauren. Another of the shadows
thrust its hand through his back. As the horrific cold encased his
soul, another shadow struck through his chest.

The tauren fel to his knees. His eyes glazed over.

Shandris saw him fal , but could do nothing. She started to throw
her glaive—

Branches reached down and seized her. Some tore her weapon
from her. The rest bound her tight.

Another, heavier branch struck the Sentinel hard on the back of
the head, knocking her out.

Naralex let out a mournful squawk as he col ided with the ground.

At first glance, it appeared that he was being physical y shredded to
pieces, but each bit that the shadows tore away faded as they flung
it aside.

The night elf resumed his normal shape. Gasping, he col apsed
and lay stil .

From the trees calmly emerged another druid. He stared at the
frozen tauren, then at the stunned Sentinel.

“I’m sorry,” Fandral Staghelm honestly told them, though they
were not conscious enough to hear him. “You must believe me that

I am.”

The lead archdruid walked among the shadows, who moved
respectful y out of his way. Fandral went to Naralex, who lay
unmoving.

Leaning down, Fandral touched the other night elf’s neck.

“Stil alive…”

Rising, Fandral eyed the party with disappointment.

“Something wil have to be done with you.” He considered, a
smile coming to his face. “Valstann wil know just what! My son wil
have the answer…”

He started back to his sanctum without another glance at

Shandris, the tauren, or Naralex. The shadow creatures
surrounded the trio but did not touch them. Instead, the branches
that held the priestess drew her up among the dark, leafy crowns.

Others seized Hamuul and Naralex and carried them after her.

When that was done, the shadow creatures straightened. As
one, they dissipated, their essence also rising up among the trees,
where they reverted to their dormant form…the very leaves of

Teldrassil.

The mists extended out even far into the sea. Malfurion could not
believe its thickness. He beat his wings harder as the wind began
to pick up. A gale was brewing, a gale that the archdruid was
certain was taking shape only due to his presence.

Malfurion did not know what he planned—not completely—but
some sense drove him toward the island where his people had
chosen to make their new home. There was an urgency building
within him that there was at least one key to the catastrophe
engulfing two worlds.

A ful -fledged hurricane struck.

Despite his awareness that it was brewing, its ful intensity
startled even Malfurion. He was thrust back as if he were nothing.

Lightning raged, some of it striking perilously near. The archdruid
found himself hurtling away from the stil -shrouded island.

More bolts nearly struck him. It was not by luck that they did not.

Whatever power had forged this fury desired to hit Malfurion; only
the night elf’s instincts kept that from happening.

His anxiety swel ed with the tempest’s strength. Each passing
moment led Azeroth and al those he loved, especial y Tyrande,
toward doom. Yet, try as he might, Malfurion could barely save
even himself. Again the archdruid wondered at Ysera’s seemingly
foolish sacrifice. She thought him more valuable to both realms
than her—

Although Malfurion did not believe as Ysera had, at that moment
he did recognize one thing. Once again, he had played into the

Nightmare’s hand. His uncertainties had fed into his own dark
dreams again.

That was not to say that the storm was not real—the

Nightmare’s master now had that terrible power—but its intensity
was magnified by the night elf’s mind.

The fury lessened. Fueled by that fact, Malfurion focused on his
destination. He beat his wings faster and faster.

The storm did not break; it simply ceased. Malfurion soared
through the mists, aware that he had won a smal battle.

Overconfidence was as dangerous as fear.

Something loomed ahead, something so huge that even at the
height he flew, Malfurion could not see its top. He knew what it was,
even though he had been a prisoner since before its creation.

Fandral had so often spoken of the need to create it, to bring back
the immortality and glory of their race.

The second World Tree greeted his wary gaze. It was
impressive. It was imposing.

And as he studied it more, Malfurion knew that it was also
tainted by the Nightmare as nothing else on Azeroth had been.

The archdruid banked, his eyes ever on the gargantuan tree.

Outwardly, what he could see appeared normal; yet his senses told
him it was infested with the evil that had spread from the other
realm.

How could they not see that? Malfurion wondered about the
other druids. What were they thinking? How could Fandral let this
come to pass?

As he drew near the island, he detected great activity below.

Many druids were down there and they were al casting some
coordinated spel . His hopes rose at first; the others had come to
realize the World Tree’s taint and were fighting it.

But no…a mere breath later, Malfurion realized it was just the
opposite. The spel was a powerful one, but instead of cleansing
the tree, it was inadvertently feeding the taint. He could feel it and
was astounded that the others could not.

Without hesitation, Malfurion dove. At the same time, he sought
to reach out to the other druids and warn them of the terrible thing
they were doing.

Yet something blocked his attempt to contact the casters. It
came as no shock to Malfurion, but it meant that he had to reach
them with al due haste. The World Tree’s taint, combined with

Ysera’s capture, al but promised the Nightmare triumph.

A mind suddenly touched his. At first he thought it one of those
below, but then he determined that it instead came from above.

More important, its way of thought was so very distinct, even
despite the fragmented attempt to communicate, that he knew
exactly who it was.

Hamuul Runetotem? In response to Malfurion’s question, there
was a fragmented response. It was as if the tauren were not
entirely conscious. However, Malfurion did sense an urgency from
the tauren, an urgency and a warning.

It was a warning so intense that the archdruid veered skyward
again. He soared up, final y sighting the crown.

Al looked as it should, but Malfurion could sense that the taint
was as widespread up here as in the trunk. The archdruid
approached the first branches with trepidation but necessary
swiftness.

He passed the first boughs without any sign of threat. Indeed,
deeper within, he even saw signs of fauna in the form of birds and
squirrels. Was he wrong about the taint?

Higher and higher the storm crow rose. In one respect,

Malfurion knew what he would find. Even before his
disappearance, the discussions concerning the building of the new
capital had been going on. Its location had not been decided then,
but Malfurion had no doubt that he would find Darnassus atop the

World Tree.

Which meant thousands of lives unaware that their very home
had become something sinister.

Malfurion decided that he had no other choice but to plunge into
the crown and enter Darnassus from underneath. It was the most
direct path to where he sensed he would find the tauren…and
possibly the secret of the World Tree’s foulness.

Despite the size of his storm crow form, Malfurion darted with
ease through the huge crown. He eyed the World Tree with some
sadness, not only due to the taint, but also because of memories of

Nordrassil and what it had once been. If only they had waited!

Nordrassil could be restored…with time…

The foliage grew thicker and thicker, at last forcing Malfurion to
slow. He could feel that he was nearly at his destination—

His path was suddenly a thick jumble of branches and leaves.

Malfurion veered.

They shifted, again barring his way.

The archdruid tried to avoid them, but it was too late. He
col ided.

The foliage enveloped him. It sought to constrict his wings, to
bind his beak, and twist his body until his bones would break.

Malfurion felt the familiar and dread presence of the Nightmare

Lord. It was not direct, but rather as if the evil force had left a part
of itself here.

Gibbering laughter fil ed Malfurion’s mind. The leaves seemed to
take on faces, shadowed faces that almost but not quite coalesced
into awful creatures.

Transforming to his own shape only momentarily caught the
smothering foliage off guard. The leaves immediately began
shifting, becoming more and more hooved shadows eager to
reclaim the night elf.

Regaining his breath, Malfurion concentrated. A powerful wind
erupted in his vicinity. The huge branches were whipped back as if
blades of grass, and the changing shadow creatures were blown
away like the leaves from which they had arisen.

The night elf scrambled upward, then changed again. As the
storm raged, he flew with al his might. More leaves fol owed up in
his wake, seeking to catch him, but they were too slow.

Malfurion entered Darnassus.

There were two things that he instantly noted. One was the city
itself. It spread proudly over the huge branches. His brethren and
those others who had helped shape the new night elf capital had
truly created a masterpiece.

But the second thing that Malfurion noted was that the city
appeared utterly ignorant of al that was not only affecting

Teldrassil, but the rest of Azeroth. He saw movement in buildings
and even heard music from one direction.

How could they not know? How could they remain so
ignorant?

The answer was simple. Someone wanted them that way.

Stil , it was odd that the Sentinels were not at least informed to a
point. Malfurion knew Shandris Feathermoon very wel ; in some
remote fashion, he was almost like a second father to her. She
would not have left the city quite this unsuspecting.

But he had no time to find out what the Sentinels did or did not
know; Hamuul’s desperate contact had come from another
direction.

Malfurion made his way toward that direction, avoiding al
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 wel .

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 al but verified it, although Malfurion stil 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 pul ed to the side as
much as possible. One was Hamuul Runetotem. The second was

Naralex. The third was none other than Shandris Feathermoon.

They al 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 al
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 al 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 spel . “Shandris is
a staunch defender of our race and Hamuul is an honest, worthy
member of our cal ing 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 tal 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
wil awaken refreshed, as everyone else wil !”

Malfurion took a step toward Fandral. “No one wil wake! The

Nightmare extends beyond the Emerald Dream now! Everywhere
save here is under siege by its evil and that evil fil s this World

Tree!”

“You stil 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 al of

Azeroth as wel !”

“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 fil ed Malfurion as he sensed the
taint swel within Teldrassil.

“I advised him that we should wait!” Fandral shouted. “But it
seems Valstann spoke the truth! You, Darnassus…al of it…must
be cleansed! Valstann and I wil show our people the way and they
wil be the better for it! Teldrassil wil 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 final y ripping
free. They bore a rot that had not been evident before. From their
shaking crowns fel hundreds of smal er 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 final y 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

Brol stirred to consciousness, stil aware that he could not recal
just when he had fal en 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 val ey that stil retained the
fading glory of the once-fabled realm. Tal hil s surrounded them, but
although they looked like strong, stern sentries, the druid was wel
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 Brol at least
that his anger was not truly focused on Lucan. The behemoth’s fury
was actual y meant for himself.

But that was a matter with which Eranikus had to deal. Brol 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. “Al 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 dwel in that failure! Wel , we wil 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. Brol 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 wal s 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. Hol ow 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 Brol ’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 cal ed 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 Brol . “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. Brol 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

Brol Bearmantle, comrade to King Varian! The orc is with us. She
means no harm…”

“Brol 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 Brol 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 wal . As they reached
this, Brol cal ed to their guide, “The city! How’s it standing?”

“In pieces scattered around! The Trade District, the harbor, the

Val ey of Heroes…al dark!” the man shouted back. “Some noise
from the Old Town, Cathedral Square, and the Dwarven District

…and the Mage Quarter is stil bright!” He gestured to his right,
where the druid saw a constantly shifting array of colors that
marked spel s 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, Brol ?”

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!”

Brol 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, wil
fal .”

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.

Brol had no answer for that. He could not tel her what
constantly ate at him. The last nightmare involving his daughter had
brought his great failure back to him ful -blown. He was not

Malfurion Stormrage. He was not even an archdruid.

He was only a rebel ious former gladiator and slave.

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

“Lo’Gosh!” Brol 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’l die
this night for what’s happening! I’l —”

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

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

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

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

Thral !”

Varian’s disbelief was clear, but it was also clear that to reach

Thura—who was quite wil ing 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. “Tel me that
you’re real, Brol …”

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!”

Brol 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 skil s now, Brol . 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. Al 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, Brol ? What were you thinking? Her warchief used
a fog to skulk up to our wal s 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—”

“Thral is no assassin skulking in the fog nor is he an honorless
warrior!” she retorted. “You can’t speak of him—”

Before it could get worse, Brol interjected, “Lo’Gosh! There’s
no time for this eternal arguing! She is with us! I vouch for her with
my life! My life!”

“You place little value on your existence, then, Brol —”

“Stop it! There are more important matters! Tel me truthful y;
how long do you think the capital has left?”

“I’d have said we were lost already, but though their progress is
undeniable, they move slowly. Stil , our weapons are for the most
part useless against them and al but a few areas have grown
silent. By tomorrow—assuming that there is even a tomorrow

—there may be nothing holding out but part of the keep. If you’ve
anything in mind at al that might save us, I’l lend what help I can.

You know that.”

“I’m grateful to hear that. I hope you’l stil feel so after I’ve told
you what we hope to do.” The druid quickly explained his notions.

Varian’s brow wrinkled deeply as he tried to comprehend
everything.

“I’l take your word for it, Brol ,” the monarch final y said. “The
question remains, what to do about it?”

“My shan’do is the key…somehow. I believe he’s the key.” Brol
indicated Lucan. “Your man’s got a distinctive talent…but it has a
tendency to send us on a different path. We need to reach

Darnassus fast…faster than even I can travel on my own…”

“There are stil some flying mounts left to us here in the keep,”

Varian suggested. “A couple that might be useful—”

Tyrande suddenly stepped up. “King Varian. If you can answer a
question, it occurs to me suddenly that there might be another
manner by which one of us could reach Darnassus much more
quickly. Even more quickly than the swiftest mount you have.”

“If I can answer in any way that aids our plight, by al means
ask…”

“Do you know where our ambassador is now?”

Varian scowled. “Caught in her sleep like so many others…in
her chambers, if I recal the report.”

“We need someone to take us to her,” the high priestess
insisted.

“I can’t leave command.” The king looked from Tyrande to Brol .

Final y, “Major Mattingly!”

A gray-haired veteran soldier in bright gold-and-red armor with a
royal blue surcoat bearing the proud Stormwind lion head rushed
up. His face was lined by long experience and he wore a short
beard. In his right hand he wielded a longsword.

“The druid!” the major rasped when he saw Brol . “I know you…”

“And I you,” Brol returned. “You serve under General Marcus

Jonathan—” The night elf broke off, recal ing what the soldier who
had brought them here had said. The Val ey of Heroes, where the
general and Mattingly would have been stationed, had already
fal en.

The major’s eyes verified Brol ’s concern. “The general sent for
reinforcements when first the mists began to take our men. He
sent me to procure them. Before I could return, the mist covered
the val ey…”

“Damned fool here almost rode into it even then,” Varian added
without any anger. “But Mattingly knew we needed every man and
ordered his just-gathered force back here…” To the major, the lord
of Stormwind said, “You know where the night elf ambassador lived

—lives. I need someone trusting but wary enough to get them there

…though I’ve not been told exactly why.”

Tyrande did not hesitate. “She has a hearthstone.”

Varian’s eyes were not the only ones to widen. Brol also knew
of what the high priestess spoke, though even he himself had only
twice seen one of the artifacts. A hearthstone was a palm-sized
crystal, oval in shape, that was bound by arcane magic to not only
its bearer, but a particular place. Most often, they were tied to great
locations such as, apparently in this case, Darnassus. Distance
did not matter.

“I’d thought them only legend,” Varian remarked warily. “Things
heard only in stories concerning magi…or elves.”

“Or elves,” the high priestess repeated with a brief, dour smile.

“Interesting that your ambassador should have one.”

“But good for us now, perhaps.” Tyrande calmly responded.

Nodding, the king said no more. He looked to the major, who
saluted. Mattingly signaled the others to fol ow him.

Varian made no attempt to stop the orc from fol owing the night
elves and neither Brol nor Tyrande dared leave her with the
humans. Thura likewise appeared to have no inclination to stay.

But one member of their party proved a surprise. Rather than
remaining with his king and countrymen, Lucan Foxblood also
fol owed.

“You’re home,” Brol muttered. “Stay here!”

“I might be needed,” Lucan argued, his eyes fil ed with a
determination that would not be denied. “My abilities may be
unpredictable and dangerous, but they may be of some use…in
case of a need to escape…”

The druid said nothing more. They were already at the keep
gates.

A shouted command from the major opened the way, though the
sentries were quick to shut the entrance right behind them. As they
exited the keep, Tyrande remarked on what al of them immediately
noticed.

“The mist is thick here, but those poor souls are nowhere to be
seen…”

“Why should they be here?” Brol grimly returned. “This part of

Stormwind’s already under their master’s reign!”

Indeed, there came not a sound from anywhere nearby, though
in the distance they could hear the shouts, screams, and
explosions that marked the dwindling defense. The eerie silence
was a stark reminder of what much of Azeroth was like at this point.

“She must hold on,” the druid rumbled, referring to Ysera. “She
must…”

“And we must pray that Malfurion is al right and can help us,”

Tyrande added. She did not say what was clear in her tone, that
she was also simply fearful for him for his own sake and for the
love she bore for him.

“Your ambassador keeps a dwel ing in the Trade District,” the
major informed them, “though I’ve never understood why she would
prefer that to the Park, where your people tend to congregate.”

When the high priestess did not explain, Mattingly tugged on his
beard and changed the subject. “Best we avoid Cathedral Square.

They’re stil defending it and we might get caught up in a spel . Also,
we’ve got to avoid the canals…the mists are particularly strong in
them…they caught a lot of people unaware down there when they
first flowed into the city.”

Lucan grimaced. “But that means we’l have to pass through the

Old Town district.”

This brought a harsh laugh from Mattingly. “At this point that
won’t make too much of a difference to most of the rest of the
capital, Foxblood!”

They ran along a stone street upon whose northern side was
marked an entrance to the Dwarven District. From there flowed
more sounds of desperate struggle. The dwarves, at least, were
stil fighting.

With continued vigilance, the major led them across a walkway
and into the Old Town. There, despite their guide’s comment, the
others could see that Lucan had been rightly concerned about
entering. The Old Town district was a part of Stormwind City that
had not been so hard hit by the orcs and thus had never needed
true rebuilding. However, that also meant that less attention had
been paid to its upkeep since then, and so while preserved, it was
not nearly as pristine as the rest of the capital. True, the Hal of

Champions could be found here, as wel as the army’s barracks,
but so could beggars, thieves, and the poor. The streets were far
dirtier than what the party had traveled thus far and there was an
odor of decay that had nothing to do with the Nightmare save that it
enhanced it yet more.

“Bodies…” Mattingly warned.

Three ragged humans lay sprawled to the side. The first had one
hand curled into a fist. His mouth gaped. The other two looked as if
they had been trying to help one another walk, for each had an arm
around the other. The major left the others long enough to prod
them.

“The first one’s dead—of fright, it looks like to me—but the other
two are sleeping like the rest,” he reported. “We move on.”

It was soon evident that, if not for their guide, there would have
been a good chance that Brol and the others would have become
lost. Even Lucan, a mapmaker, did not seem to know this part of

Stormwind City wel . In addition to the mists, the streets had a way
of meandering to them that fueled the party’s already great anxiety.

They came across more bodies, but Major Mattingly this time did
not pause to examine them. It was clear that al were victims,
whether stil alive or dead being pointless.

With much relief, Brol saw that they were approaching the canal
entrance to the Trade District. The mists were as thick there as in
the Old Town, but there was no sign of the attack going on around
the keep or the cathedral. Stil , no one assumed that they would
remain untouched by the Nightmare.

“We make a left once we get out of the passage,” the officer
informed them.

Leaning close to Tyrande, Brol murmured, “Why is the
ambassador living in this part of the capital rather than the Park?”

In a barely audible whisper, the high priestess replied, “Because
there are those I need her to meet in secret who would be too
obvious in the Park.” As Brol ’s gaze narrowed, Tyrande added,

“There is no threat to Varian or Stormwind; the ambassador’s
duties are steered toward just the opposite, Brol . Now ask me no
more.”

He did as she bade, aware that, as leader of her people,

Tyrande was forced into political actions of which perhaps even
her trusted Shandris was unaware. It would not be simply for the
sake of the night elf race, though that was paramount, but for the
overal benefit of al the Al iance.

The Trade District bore the semblance of a much better kept,
even more eclectic quarter. Brol would have been happy to walk its
cobblestone streets had it been as it normal y was. The bustling
activity, the various races and cal ings…they reminded him of the
richness that had been Azeroth.

But now the Trade District was too much a twin to the Old Town.

The mist hung over the shops, inns, and other buildings as if over a
vast and intricate necropolis. Worse, bodies lay sprawled in
greater numbers, as if many of the inhabitants had simply
col apsed in midstep.

“They dead or sleeping?” Thura suddenly asked. The orc had
kept silent throughout the journey. Her tone indicated an uncertainty
she had likely been trying to hide. These were not dangers for
which a warrior trained.

“No time to check or to care,” Mattingly replied. He pointed to a
shadowed structure to the right. “That’s the building there.”

They reached the building—an inn—without any menace arising.

Brol and Tyrande exchanged concerned glances; their fortune had
thus far been too good.

“Best if some of us guard the way down here,” the major
suggested, eyeing the stil street. The sounds of struggle were
muted, as if Stormwind City’s last defenses were failing.

“I wil find the room,” Tyrande decided.

“And I’l come with you,” Brol insisted. “My shan’do would never
forgive me for letting you go alone…and neither would I.”

Thura grunted. “I stay here, where an ax has room to cleave.”

“I’l stay, too.” Lucan eyed the major and the orc and took up a
place between them. Mattingly handed him a long dagger.

“We’l hurry,” the high priestess promised. In truth, there was little
the three could do to defend the vicinity; they served best as
watchers.

The interior of the inn was marked by the body of a stout human
who was likely a patron of the establishment. He sat in a chair,
arms dangling at his side. His expression was contorted into such
a look of horror that the night elves could not help but stop in their
tracks.

Brol leaned close. The human was murmuring something. His
brow tightened.

“We must go on.” Tyrande strode up a set of wooden stairs two
steps at a time.

Brol eyed the man a moment more, for some reason finding this
victim of particular interest. Then, stil dissatisfied, the druid
fol owed after Tyrande.

He reached the upper floor to find several doors already flung
open. Far ahead, Tyrande shoved aside the one at the end.

“This is it…” the high priestess said.

But as Brol joined her, he saw nothing but a nearly empty
chamber with several flowering plants—stil fresh and wel -cared for

—and a bed that was covered with a woven green blanket.

“She’s gone…” the druid muttered. “They said she was asleep,
like the others.”

Tyrande wordlessly stalked into the chamber, seeking the
wooden wardrobe at the far end. She flung open one of the two
doors, the creaking sound echoing ominously.

The high priestess prayed. The light of Elune came down and
spread over the interior…but then focused most on one empty
corner. Tyrande reached to that area.

She clutched something unseen. As the high priestess raised it
up, the light restored the object to visibility.

It was the hearthstone.

“It looks old,” Brol commented.

“Brought by a survivor from Zin-Azshari,” Tyrande said with
some distaste. “I would have had it destroyed merely because of
its original ties to that accursed place, but creating a new
hearthstone is even more monumental than changing an old one’s
spel patterns…”

Long, oval and crystal ine, it was covered with soft blue runes
that glowed. Those runes were particular to the location to which it
was tied and the one to whom the hearthstone had been given.

With it, they could travel instantaneously from any distance to the
hearthstone’s origin point…in this case, Darnassus.

“Why did the ambassador have this?” the druid asked.

“To escape from here, if necessary.”

“Hmmph. Worked wel for her, didn’t it?”

The high priestess said nothing, instead intent on the artifact.

Original y, it had been crafted by arcane means, but the Mother

Moon had provided her with the power to alter it once already. She
clutched the stone in both hands and began a prayer, hoping that
the deity would grant her the ability to do it a second time.

“There’s something wrong here,” Brol whispered, looking
around. “Something very wrong—”

Tyrande paid no attention. “The hearthstone is resisting. The
ambassador is stil alive, wherever she is…”

From the wardrobe there came a terrible howl.

Tyrande turned, but not in time to keep from being seized by a
gaunt form that had somehow been hidden where even the light of

Elune could not penetrate. It brought the high priestess to the floor.

The hearthstone went rol ing free.

The maniacal creature lunged toward Brol . She was clad in the
ruins of the robes of a high-ranking night elf, but it was a pendant
tangled in her robes that definitively marked her as the missing
ambassador.

“You’l not take my children, demons!” she screamed. “You’l not
take them!”

Her eyes seized Brol ’s attention, for they could not be seen.

The ambassador’s lids were squeezed tightly shut.

“She’s dreaming!” he warned.

And as the druid shouted, from without came a warning cal from
the major. There also came other screams that to the night elves
were far too reminiscent of their attacker.

Tyrande prayed. Silver light from above bathed the other
frenzied female before her. The ambassador seemed to calm—

But then a shadow passed over her face. Her mouth twisted and
she began to scream anew.

On each side of her peeled away shadow creatures such as
had attacked the high priestess in her tent. They lunged at Tyrande
and would have seized her if not for the moonlight stil near her.

The light shifted as if of its own accord, coming between Elune’s
servant and her new attackers. The two shadows recoiled.

Struggling away from the ambassador, Tyrande cal ed, “Brol !

The hearthstone! Take it up!”

He did as bade, but when he prepared to toss it to her, she
shook her head. “You can use it now! It should be able to send you
to Darnassus!”

“You want me to abandon you?”

“No! I want you to help us al by finding Malfurion! Go! I
command it!”

She had never commanded the druid and he knew that she did
not like ruling in such an imperious manner. Brol understood the
necessity of what she wanted, though it pained him to leave her
and the others in such straits.

“I’l find him! We’l stop this!”

He held the hearthstone and concentrated. The stone began to
glow.

The shadow creatures focused on him. The line between
nightmare and reality was slipping more and more and the druid
had no doubt that these fiends were now capable of true and
deadly violence. Brol knew that he had to keep his focus on the
hearthstone and the location to which it was tied.

Silver light swal owed up the nearest of his attackers. The
shadow let out a pained hiss and twisted into itself before fading.

The second turned to Tyrande, who struggled with the
unfortunate ambassador. Brol almost pursued the creature, but

Tyrande glared at the druid.

The hearthstone flared.

Brol vanished from the room—

—And materialized in Darnassus.

A Darnassus in the midst of a horror al its own. Brol was tossed
up and down. He lost his grip on the hearthstone, which tumbled out
of sight.

At first the druid thought that Darnassus was suffering an
earthquake, but that was very unlikely here atop Teldrassil. Then
his heightened senses revealed the terrible truth; it was Teldrassil
itself that attacked the night elves. Branches assailed every
structure. The huge ones upon which the city had been built were
shaking, the cause of the quake. Everywhere, black, thorned
leaves stormed down on the citizenry, piercing their flesh or leaving
long, vicious cuts. Several bodies lay sprawled over the once
beautiful terrain.

Yet the inhabitants of the capital were not without their
defenders. The Sisters of Elune stood at the forefront, protecting
as best they could those around them. Their light hindered, if not
held back, the evil.

But the very grass at their feet was as devious a foe as the dark
leaves or the shadow creatures that formed from those leaves.

Anything that was a part of Teldrassil had now turned on Brol ’s
people.

And only now could Brol sense just how horribly tainted the

W orld Tree was. Yet just as disconcerting was a powerful force
that not only fed Teldrassil, but fueled that taint.

Druids were aiding the terror. Their spel s were adding to the

World Tree in a manner that he could not believe they understood.

Brol rushed in the direction of the portal that would take him
down to where he could feel the druids at work. They had to be
warned and warned quickly.

But as he ran, the leaves took special interest in him. Brol
spread a glowing light purple fire before him that burned the leaves
before they could touch. The way momentarily cleared, he shifted
to cat form for better swiftness.

The portal came into sight. Brol did not hesitate to leap through.

Once he reached the others, they could help put an end to this
awful attack.

The world swirled about him. It was a different sensation than
that he had experienced using the hearthstone. The druid felt as if
he were thrust forward.

Indeed, barely a breath later, Brol leapt out of the portal at the
base of Teldrassil. The great cat surveyed the vicinity and was not
surprised to find no one there. The druids were stil gathered
further on.

With four strong limbs, Brol tore along the edge of Teldrassil,
seeking the convocation. How could they be so unwary? he
wondered. At the very least, Fandral and the other archdruids
should sense what’s happening—

Fandral.

Foreboding fil ed Brol . He recal ed how close Fandral was to

Teldrassil. The World Tree was like the lead archdruid’s own child.

Fandral truly should have sensed what was happening.

Unless—

A rain of thorns struck the great cat. Brol roared in pain, lost his
footing, and tumbled forward. He felt dizziness, an unsettling
dizziness that could not be normal.

The thorns were drugged. His experienced mind quickly
calculated which herbs with which they had been tipped. To his
relief, none were poisonous. They were designed to incapacitate.

Brol could feel his muscles growing slack. He was
semiconscious, but unable to move. Brol felt himself slipping back
into his true form, but that brought him no relief.

A hand roughly gripped his arm. Brol was unceremoniously
rol ed onto his back. Through blurred eyes, he made out at least
four druids leaning over him, but not the details of their faces.

“Someone should tel Fandral,” one of them said. “Someone
should tel him we’ve got the traitor…”

22

THE TAINTED

The victims of Stormwind City were coming for them. Lucan, Thura,
and the major were surrounded by the bedraggled, slumbering
figures. Each was screaming about some dire event that they
somehow blamed on the three. Worse, they al moved unerringly
toward the defenders with their eyes tightly shut.

“What do we do?” Lucan asked.

“We fight them!” growled the orc, the ax ready. “We fight them or
they tear us apart, fool!”

“They are innocents!” Major Mattingly countered reprovingly.

“Would you do this if they were your own people?”

“Yes…because it must be done.”

The look on the officer’s face when she said that was proof
enough that Mattingly understood her logic. Yet he stil shook his
head at the thought.

“Foxblood! Take her and see what has happened to the night
elves!” Mattingly final y ordered.

“But that’l leave you alone here…”

The two humans eyed one another for a moment. Lucan final y
understood. Mattingly was trying to spare the innocents from

Thura, who would surely take a terrible tol on them even if she was
eventual y overwhelmed. The major was also obviously hoping for
some miracle to come from Tyrande’s and Brol ’s efforts.

“Come!” the cartographer ordered the orc. As surprised as she
was at his commanding tone, Thura reluctantly fol owed, while the
major swept his sword across the shrinking gap between him and
the sleepwalking locals.

But no sooner had they entered when a stout figure wielding a
work ax charged Lucan.

“ ’Tis my farm!” the man shouted. “I won’t let ya burn it!”

The ax would have buried deep into Lucan’s chest if not for

Thura. She blocked the strike with the shaft of her weapon. The
sleepwalker turned to face her, his shut eyes disconcerting. The
rage in his face was overwhelming.

He swung at the orc. She parried the attack, then struck.

“No!” But Lucan could not stop her.

Her enchanted ax cut a red line across the possessed man’s
chest. He dropped his own weapon, then fel to the floor.

The cartographer was furious. “He couldn’t help himself!”

Thura did not look happy with her own actions, but she asked,

“What would you have done?”

Lucan had no answer. From above there came the sounds of
struggle and more screaming. The pair ran upstairs.

They were met at the top by Tyrande, who struggled with a wild
figure who could only have been the night elf ambassador. Lucan
raced to help the high priestess, only to be confronted by a shadow
creature.

“Go to her!” roared Thura. The orc thrust past Lucan. Although
her ax did not reach the shadow, it recoiled at the nearness.

The way cleared, the cartographer joined Tyrande. He seized
one of the screaming figure’s arms, enabling Tyrande to focus
better.

The high priestess touched the sleepwalker’s chest. A faint
silver glow covered the flesh.

The sleepwalker let out a gasp and crumpled into their arms.

Lucan and Tyrande gently laid her down.

As they did, the orc thrust. The ax cut through the shadow, which
hissed…then faded.

But though there was a moment of calm where the trio stood, the
same could not be said for without. The screams grew louder,
more terrifying. One briefly rose above the rest before abruptly
cutting off.

“That was the major!” Lucan gasped. He tried to go to a window,
but Tyrande pul ed him back.

“It is too late for him.” The high priestess looked into Lucan’s
eyes. “Too late for so many. But there is stil hope for Azeroth and
hope for us…if you take us from here.”

He nodded. “I can’t promise that we might not end up by that
green dragon again…”

“Eranikus is the least of our problems…indeed, Eranikus is his
own worst problem.”

Lucan concentrated. Tyrande extended a hand to Thura, who
took it.

The world took on an emerald hue.

And then a darker one. Mad shrieks assailed their ears and the
landscape was covered in the familiar, cloying mist in which half-
seen, grotesque shapes moved about. Vertigo shook each of
them, heightening a growing sense of anxiety and disorientation
that they knew was far from natural.

They were back in the Nightmare.

“No…” Lucan muttered. “Let me—”

The shadow of a massive, skeletal tree stretched over them, its
silhouette obvious even despite the darkness.

Welcome… came a dread voice in their heads. And, especially,
welcome to you, Tyrande Whisperwind…

The high priestess turned as pale as death. Even the orc
shivered at the dire tone in the night elf’s denial.

“No…” Tyrande shook her head. “No…”

Yes…oh yes… the voice answered.

“Think, Fandral, think!” Malfurion cal ed. “Is this truly al as you want
it to be? Did you create Teldrassil to destroy your people?”

“I am not destroying us; I am saving us from you and others who
betray our world!” As he spoke, Fandral leaned his head toward the
shadow he believed his son. The crazed archdruid nodded, then
added to Malfurion, “You spoke against Teldrassil’s birth! You knew
that it would restore our people to their glory and return to them the
immortality that was stripped away!”

Malfurion dodged as a flower bloomed in front of him. It was a
black lily and from it shot forth a white pol en. He had no idea what
that pol en would do, but any plant tainted by the Nightmare was
surely a threat.

The pol en landed short. The area upon which Malfurion had
stood burned and withered.

There was a sharp pain on his left hand. A single grain had
landed near the thumb. That one grain was enough to make

Malfurion grit his teeth. Had a thousand touched him…

A pressure built in his chest. Malfurion fel to his knees. The
pressure increased. It became impossible to breathe.

The archdruid quickly searched his body, seeking what assailed
him. It proved al too easy.

The pol en had been a ploy, albeit a dangerous one. Too late

Malfurion realized that Fandral had utilized a more subtle druidic
attack. While Malfurion had been evading the lily, he had also been
inhaling the altered plant’s tiny spores. They now fil ed his lungs.

But as he had done with the morrowgrain poison, Malfurion
forced the spores from his body. It was not as simple and gradual a
feat as he had utilized in his barrow den; after al , time was not on
his side. Malfurion ejected the spores with one fierce exhalation,
sending them toward their caster.

The effort caused a brief sense of lightheadedness during which

Fandral might have been able to attack him if not for the fact that
the other night elf had to deflect the al but invisible spores. Fandral
gestured and the wind scattered the counterattack before it could
reach him.

Yet though Malfurion had saved himself, he knew that every
second that he was forced to combat Fandral only worked in the

Nightmare’s favor. Fandral was lost; his madness consumed him.

Unless…

Palms turned skyward, Malfurion concentrated.

A calm settled over the enclave. The trees stil ed and the other
plants grew calm. Malfurion smiled grimly. The taint might infest

Teldrassil, but not al of Teldrassil had been consumed by it. He had
cal ed out to that which was stil whole to listen to him, to remember
what it was.

But a mere breath later, the terror returned. Fandral stood with
arms outstretched and the shadow at his side.

“I wil not permit you to take my son from me again!” he cried.

Malfurion no longer listened to Fandral’s incoherent words. He
focused again on drawing that which was stil good in Teldrassil. It
was not as great as what was tainted, but with his guidance it held,
at least for the moment.

And that was al Malfurion could ask.

But it was no longer merely the enclave that he affected.

Malfurion strained as he spread his spel to encompass al of

Darnassus. There were stil screams and shouts of struggle, but
they were less and he sensed that it was because his plan was
working.

His body, his very soul, ached. Malfurion was fighting not one
foe, but two. Somewhere deep in the World Tree was a touch of
the Nightmare Lord, a physical presence. He wanted to seek it out,
the better to combat it, but that would leave him defenseless
against Fandral.

The strain grew. Malfurion felt his power waning. It was not that

Fandral was stronger; it was that Malfurion was at the same time
seeking to protect the citizenry as wel .

It must happen soon! They must understand! he thought.

Then he felt the presence of others in the enclave, and both his
hopes and his concerns rose. How they reacted meant the
difference between victory and defeat.

Fandral lessened his attack, maintaining it only enough to keep

Malfurion on edge. Malfurion had assumed that. He, in turn,
dropped his hands and cut off his spel work.

For a moment he was buffeted, but then Fandral fol owed suit.

Now was not the time for either to look the aggressor. They were
about to be judged.

The other archdruids and druids gathered around them, most
with wary or uncertain looks. Malfurion met the gaze of each, letting
them see into his soul. He had nothing to hide, whereas Fandral
did.

And one thing that Fandral hid was the shadow creature he
believed was Valstann come back to him. The other archdruid
stood before his brethren bearing a pious smile, as if he had been
the one to summon the rest here. However, that responsibility lay
with two unlikely figures—perhaps three, Malfurion saw—who now
stepped into the center of the fray.

Fandral could not help but glance behind him. Hamuul

Runetotem and Shandris Feathermoon were no longer his
prisoners.

Malfurion’s attack had involved many subtle aspects. In addition
to fighting the other archdruid’s efforts, Malfurion had used the
distraction of the struggle to also manipulate the sinister vines
holding the trio.

Malfurion tried to revive Naralex, but the other male night elf
remained unconscious. He had better success with Hamuul and

Shandris. Placing Naralex in Hamuul’s care, he then sent them off
to the portal, al the while hoping that Fandral’s madness would
keep the other night elf from noticing what was happening.

Malfurion had succeeded, but it was stil a question as to
whether the pair had come with aid for him—or more support for

Fandral. The third member of the party gave indication of the latter,
for he al but growled at several druids. How Brol Bearmantle had
come to be here, Malfurion desperately wanted to know, but the
answer to that had to wait.

“Very good!” Fandral proclaimed to the newcomers. “The
traitors are rounded up! Excel ent work!”

“They claim that you are the traitor, Master Fandral,” one druid
cautiously responded.

Brol stepped toward the speaker. “And he is, though even I was
slow in understanding that he was forcing you to feed that which
taints Teldrassil rather than curing the World Tree!” To Malfurion,
he explained, “When I went to warn them, a group captured me!

Fortunately, before they could do much else, Hamuul and Shandris
came along and managed to talk some reason into them…”

“We did what we believed right!” the druid who had spoken
countered. Some of the druids looked ready to fight with Brol .

Hamuul Runetotem joined the night elf. Shandris started toward
them, but then looked to Malfurion.

Nodding to her, he said to the gathered throng, “You know me.

Most of you were trained by me. Look into yourselves and see if
you stil have faith in my word.”

“The Nightmare has seduced him!” Fandral interjected. “You
know how long he has been missing! Great though our shan’do
once was, he is now an emissary of the darkness! Heed not his
words!”

“And why should they heed yours, Fandral?” Brol countered.

“You promised Teldrassil would restore our people, but now al they
have to do is truly seek with their senses to see what it’s become!”

Malfurion looked on with approval at Brol . “Always you
underestimate yourself. You know what lurks within the World Tree,
don’t you, Brol ?” He turned to the tauren. “And you, also,

Hamuul…”

“I sensed it, but could not believe, Malfurion Stormrage. I came
here with Naralex, who felt the same, and we found the general
also in search of the truth—”

“Naralex?” Malfurion looked around, but there was no sign of the
night elf.

“He is stil unconscious,” the tauren clarified dourly. “He was the
most injured of us. I have done what I can for him…but there needs
to be more—”

Many among those assembled stirred, clearly upset by these
revelations. Naralex was a powerful druid wel -liked by many. They
looked upon Fandral with new understanding…and dismay.

Fandral defiantly stared down those in the crowd who were now
clearly against him. “Naralex is another traitor! He gave me no
choice! They are al traitors!”

His arrogant words only further inflamed his audience against
him. Several of the remaining druids joined Brol and the others who
had already taken Malfurion’s side. Malfurion pushed to the
forefront, determined that he would take responsibility for any and
al of Fandral’s actions.

“How many more must suffer or die?” Malfurion asked. “Al

Azeroth is fal ing, Fandral!” To the assembled druids, he explained,

“While he kept you here, claiming to heal the World Tree, the rest
of the world was attacked. See into yourselves and feel Azeroth’s
pain…”

They did as he bade. Almost immediately, several druids gasped
in horror.

“The Moonglade!” blurted one. “Even the Moonglade! But
where’s Keeper Remulos? He’d surely not abandon it?”

It was an excel ent question whose answer worried Malfurion.

He knew that the other archdruid was not by himself either powerful
or cunning enough to have taken down the keeper. However, the
malevolent force behind the insane night elf certainly might have
been. “Wel , Fandral? Where is Remulos?”

“He is a traitor, also! He wil be held until he sees the truth!” The
mad archdruid gestured at everyone before him. “You wil al be
made to see the truth!”

Dropping al pretense, Fandral gestured. Many of the druids
suddenly clutched their chests.

From out of one burst a long vine that swayed back and forth like
a serpent. Despite his terrible wound, the druid grabbed it—only to
reveal to the rest that other wicked vines were sprouting from
various places on his hands, his arms, everywhere.

“I have prepared for treachery from any of you,” Fandral
explained, his eyes unblinking. “One way or another…you wil al
serve Teldrassil and its purpose!”

The first victim was joined by more and more. Malfurion reacted
immediately, seeking to stem the growth of Fandral’s malevolent
seeds. He could only imagine that they had been inhaled just like
the spores that had but recently attacked him. Fandral was wil ing to
kil every other druid for his desires.

But not al were affected. In fact, there were those who moved to
join Fandral, druids who had become his fol owers. That his cal ing
had itself become so tainted sorrowed Malfurion, but he had no
time to wonder why any would choose such a path. What mattered
was saving the afflicted.

However, neither Fandral nor the Nightmare Lord intended to
give him that time. The taint in Teldrassil surged again. Darnassus
was once more put under siege as more shadow creatures
sprouted from the World Tree’s blackened leaves.

Malfurion needed to deal with Fandral and his master, but to do
so meant to sacrifice his brethren. The first druid was already lost,
what remained of his body devoured by the parasitic vines’

explosive growth.

There was one hope, one other with the strength…if he
believed. “Brol ! Look into me! See what must be done!”

“These mean nothing!” Brol bitterly shouted back, indicating his
great antlers. “I’m not like you, Shan’do!”

“You are!” Malfurion insisted, the strain in his voice growing.

“Feel your tie to Azeroth! You can stop this! Or wil you just let them
al die horribly?”

It was a cold question and Malfurion despised himself for having
to ask it, but he could no longer hold off. The rest of the night elf
race—the rest of Azeroth—had little more time left than the druids
did.

Malfurion focused on Fandral. As he stared at his rival, he saw
the shadow creature behind and yet also a part of the mad
archdruid. It was guiding Fandral’s thoughts for its true master.

Malfurion understood what he had to do, though it risked much.

He threw himself at Fandral, transforming to cat semblance as
he did. Fandral reacted as expected, drawing a handful of tiny
thorns from a pouch and flinging them toward the giant feline.

Malfurion changed back, casting another spel as he did. For
most druids, even those of Malfurion’s skil , the odds of success
would have been minimal. However, Malfurion had been the first
trained by the demigod Cenarius. He had also learned his craft with
the first invasion of the Burning Legion, and honed those skil s wel
over the past ten thousand years.

The hurricane wind caught up the thorns and threw them back at

Fandral, who cast a spel of his own. The vines that had held

Hamuul and Shandris spat hundreds of drops of sticky sap at the
thorns, sealing the deadly missiles inside and causing them to al
land short of Malfurion’s nemesis.

“Hardly worthy of—” Fandral started.

Fire that glowed like the stars—Malfurion’s true attack—struck
the shadow creature behind Fandral.

The murky figure twisted into itself as the fire engulfed it. It
hissed and howled. Bits of burning shadow fluttered off in the wind.

“Valstann!” Fandral desperately clutched at the shadow. He tried
in vain to douse the fire, but only succeeded in becoming caught up
in it. Even then, the archdruid paid the agony no mind as he
grabbed at the fiend he believed his lost child.

A hand spun Fandral around. Before he could react, Malfurion
struck him in the jaw. It was the least of attacks that he could have
used against the other archdruid and Malfurion’s choice for many
reasons.

Fandral tumbled back.

There was little left of the shadow creature. Like Fandral before
him, Malfurion reached for what remained. The fire even burned
him, but he knew how to lessen the sense of pain from it. It was
vital that he make contact with the shadow.

Only fragments remained. Malfurion had tried to temper his
attack in order to give him this necessary moment, but stil he was
nearly too late.

One hand thrust into the shadow. Instantly, a horrific chil
enveloped his soul. Malfurion steeled himself and drove his mind
into the shadow.

And what he sensed verified the dread that had been building up
in him since first he was captured by the Nightmare Lord.

The last of the shadow burned away and with it went the fire.

Malfurion took a breath as he regained his equilibrium. He turned
to Fandral, but the other night elf lay sprawled where he had left
him, Fandral’s eyes open but not seeing. The second loss of his

“son” had been too much.

Malfurion turned to Brol —and his eyes widened.

Brol Bearmantle stood among the suffering druids, his hands
raised above his head and the energies of Azeroth swirling around
him. His formerly silver eyes now blazed nearly as gold as

Malfurion’s. From his hands, tendrils of energy stretched out to
each of the other druids.

Two riddled bodies lay on the ground—the first of Fandral’s
victims—but for the other druids, there appeared hope. Hamuul

Runetotem stood with Brol , giving what aid he could, but the effort
was truly the night elf’s.

You are as you were destined to be, Malfurion thought with
relief and pride.

Belatedly, he realized that there was no sign of Shandris.

Knowing her as he did, Malfurion felt certain that she had gone to
direct Darnassus’s defenders.

Malfurion transformed. Once again the great cat, he raced from
the enclave and into central Darnassus. Around him, he registered
the struggle stil going on. Even without Fandral, Darnassus was in
terrible danger, but Malfurion could only help them by continuing on.

Out into the forest beyond the capital he ran. Immediately, the
branches and leaves of the nearby trees sought to bar his path.

Malfurion lithely dodged them when he could, tore through them with
his claws and teeth when he could not. His thick fur kept his body
from much harm, but stil more than a score of bloody slashes
marked him before he reached the deep interior of Teldrassil’s
crown.

A savage, towering figure emerged from the tree, so much a
part of it that even the archdruid barely noticed it in time. The
ancient moved to take into account evasion by Malfurion, so

Malfurion instead lunged directly toward it.

The corrupted forest guardian tried to recover, but Malfurion
dove under the creature’s legs. More swift and agile, the cat eluded
the gigantic ancient.

The World Tree’s crown both thickened and darkened. Thorns
grew everywhere. No true cat the size of Malfurion could have
wended its way as he did; the night elf made use of reflexes honed
over century upon century.

But just as he neared where he sensed his goal lay, a smal ,
furred form leapt upon his muzzle and scratched at his eyes. It was
only a squirrel, one of the many denizens of the tree, but even it
had been corrupted by the taint.

The squirrel was a foe easily discarded by a shake of the head,
but that was not the true danger. Malfurion tried to compensate for
whatever was to fol ow. When a smal er branch snagged one paw
and nearly made him tumble, the archdruid immediately reverted to
his normal form and caught himself before he could be snared by
waiting branches from other surrounding trees.

Shadow creatures whose outlines he recognized dropped from
the branches above. The fiends piled upon the spot where

Malfurion had stood. They tore at both Malfurion’s body and soul—

A savage roar from within sent the shadows sprawling back.

Huge, glowing claws swiped at the creatures, reducing several to
shreds. Once more in his feline form, Malfurion utilized its inherent
abilities to decimate his murky attackers.

They fel to his claws as grass fel to a reaper. Within seconds,
there remained only Malfurion the cat, a victor who unleashed one
last powerful roar, then lunged the last few yards toward that which
he sought.

It thrust up from the World Tree’s trunk, and though on the one
hand it was shaped like one of many massive tree branches
spread throughout Teldrassil, its color marked it starkly. It was a
color that Malfurion associated with something other than a tree,
tainted or not. Indeed, as he shifted back to night elf, he had only to
gaze at his hand to see skin of a like hue.

Even without touching it, the archdruid could sense how expertly
it had been grafted into what had at the time surely been a much
less mature Teldrassil. Malfurion could tel Fandral’s work and knew
that the other archdruid must have returned several times to assist
his addition in its foul growth. It now stretched more than eight feet
in height, its sub-branches al at least three to four feet themselves
and covered with scores of the dark, thorned leaves. There was
also pale fruit vaguely shaped like skul s.

Malfurion approached the grafting. The fruits glistened and one
of them fel near the night elf. It cracked open upon impact with the
branch upon which the archdruid stood. A thick, ivory substance
poured from it, the stench accompanying the substance like that
from a field of rotting corpses.

Malfurion edged away from it, though that also put him a step
farther from the grafting. He knew that was what the Nightmare

Lord had in mind, but could do nothing else.

Another fruit dropped. As it cracked open, the ivory substance
became hundreds of bone-colored mil ipedes with heads
resembling fleshless night elf skul s.

Malfurion Stormrage… they cal ed as they converged on him.

Malfurion Stormrage…time you came to join us…

He recognized those voices. Each was different, yet he knew
every single last one of them. There was Lord Ravencrest, who
had commanded the night elf forces until assassinated by an agent
of Queen Azshara’s Highborne; the high priestess Dejahna

—Tyrande’s predecessor; the evil Captain Varo’then—Azshara’s
devoted servant—and so many, many others who had haunted
both his and surely Tyrande’s thoughts over the mil ennia.

Malfurion…we have waited so long…come join us in our long
rest…

He wavered, standing without doing anything as the monstrous
mil ipedes reached his feet. The first crawled atop his foot, its
skeletal jaws opening wide—

The archdruid reached down and seized it. He squeezed tight.

The mil ipede wailed like a dying night elf. Its ghastly outer shel
peeled away to reveal a beautiful rose sprouting upward.

The others in the swarm also began to wail. Each suffered as
the one in Malfurion’s hand did.

“Let this be their legacy,” he intoned to the grafting as roses
sprouted everywhere. “Let this honor those who stood in defense
of Azeroth…not traded their world for ultimate power…”

Teldrassil’s crown shook as if a massive wind blew through it.

The shaking leaves of the hundreds of smal er trees atop it created
what to Malfurion’s ears was an angry, bitter roar.

He used that moment of the Nightmare Lord’s anger to shift
form again, but this time into a huge bear, a dire bear. With its
tremendous strength, Malfurion seized the grafting and tore it from

Teldrassil. He dug into the very trunk, ripping even the “roots” out.

The World Tree trembled. Huge trees astride it broke free.

Malfurion the bear pressed against the trunk as the upheaval grew.

He could only hope that those in Darnassus were protecting
themselves.

The shaking subsided. The druid immediately sought out with his
mind the extent of the damage and was shocked. Despite the
brevity of the tremor, the intensity had been enough to leave the
forests of Teldrassil in ruins. Entire mighty oaks had snapped in
two. Much of the crown was a tangle of dangerous refuse.

Darnassus must be abandoned, the archdruid determined.

Until the extent of the damage to the World Tree itself was known,
everyone was at risk.

Even as Malfurion thought that, a great mass of ruined trees
suddenly proved too much for those supporting their weight. With a
sound like reverberating thunder, the holding branches cracked and
tons of wood and dirt dropped with a resounding crash. There, their
momentum wreaked havoc on other gigantic trees and the stunning
sight repeated.

Then, even despite the World Tree’s woes, the archdruid looked
to the lone branch that he had ripped free. It had paled much and
now something dripped from it. It was a thick substance with the
consistency of tree sap, but was hardly the color. In fact,

Malfurion’s ursine senses picked up a scent to it, one that stirred
an incredible fury within him.

It was the source of the taint that had spread through Teldrassil.

Malfurion let out a bestial growl. He knew what it was…and thus,
how it had come to be.

It was blood. Thick though it was, it was fresh and looked
otherwise exactly like that which flowed through his or any other
night elf’s body.

Blood…from a tree.

The druid reverted to his true shape as the realization struck
him. There was only one such tree. Mil ennia ago, Malfurion had
caused that tree to come into being. He had done so to put an end
to an evil and bring from it some good…but evidently had merely
set into motion a more terrible darkness.

The branch was from the tree that cast the shadow of the

Nightmare Lord.

A tree that had once been the dread counselor to foul Queen

Azshara.

The name was as poison on Malfurion’s lips. “Xavius…”

23

TELDRASSIL REDEEMED

Xavius. How wel Malfurion stil recal ed the queen’s malicious
confidante. It had been Lord Xavius who had fueled the spel work
by Azshara’s Highborne sorcerers that had opened the path for the

Burning Legion. Rather than be repel ed by what he discovered,

Xavius had ever been there to assist his insidious queen as she
welcomed the demons through.

Twice, Malfurion had thought him no more. That first time had
been during a desperate struggle atop the very tower where the
portal for the demons had been opened. Malfurion, his druidic
powers strong, had raised a storm that had first set Xavius aflame
by lightning, then melted him by rain, and final y unleashed a roar of
thunder that had literal y shattered the vil ain. Malfurion could stil
recal Xavius’s contorted face—especial y the sinister, magical y
crafted eyes of black with the streak of ruby running across each.

The archdruid especial y remembered the counselor’s last, nerve-
wracking shriek.

And then, Xavius had ceased to exist.

But he and the defenders had al underestimated the power of
the evil titan Sargeras. After snaring what little remained of

Xavius’s disembodied spirit and torturing it long for the counselor’s
failures, Sargeras had remolded it into something more terrible.

Xavius had been reborn as a satyr—the first of the goatlike
monsters now so long the enemies of the night elves—and his
malevolence had only grown with his new, hideous aspect.

Malfurion had nearly lost Tyrande to Xavius and his fel ow
corrupted Highborne. In the end, unable to risk Xavius escaping
death again, Malfurion had cal ed upon Azeroth’s power to
transform the satyr. Despite Xavius’s struggling, the young druid
had turned his foe into a harmless tree.

Or so he had believed for the past ten mil ennia. The evil had
been festering upon Azeroth al that time and Malfurion had never
known.

Al this Malfurion reflected upon with anger at himself as, once
more in cat form, the branch clamped in his teeth, he rushed back
to Darnassus. He blamed himself for what was happening now, yet
he also pondered how Xavius had survived so long to become the

Nightmare Lord.

But that thought was shoved aside as he entered the capital and
transformed. Darnassus was in ruins and much of that was due to
the col apse of other limbs from the vast tree. Victims of the

Nightmare’s servants also lay everywhere. The Sisters of Elune
and the Sentinels were seeking to help those they could.

He spotted Shandris Feathermoon giving commands to both
groups. The general looked weary, but in her element.

Unfortunately, she did not realize the danger stil surrounding their
people.

“Shandris!” At his voice, she whirled.

“Malfurion…” the general said, saluting him respectful y and
looking much relieved. “Praise be that you’re al right.” She noticed
the unsettling branch that he now hefted in both hands and her
brow furrowed. “By the Mother Moon! What foulness has afflicted
that?”

“This is the taint that spread through Teldrassil,” the archdruid
hurriedly answered. “But we must not concern ourselves with that
at the moment! Darnassus must be cleared! The World Tree has
suffered greatly; the ruined trees you see around you are only a
fraction! For everyone’s safety, they must leave!”

As if to emphasize this, another thundering crack echoed
through Darnassus. The city shook. Teldrassil would stand, but the
same could not necessarily be said for the capital.

“I’l see that it’s done!” Shandris promised.

“I wil see to the druids,” Malfurion told her as they separated.

“We may be able to do something to stave it off…but I cannot
promise it…”

“Understood!”

An agonized cry erupted from elsewhere, a voice ful of loss. It
did not come from any of the victims to which Malfurion looked, but
rather from an unexpected direction.

He turned toward the enclave to find the other druids already
streaming from there. Brol had the lead, with Hamuul close behind.

The source of the never-ending cry was Fandral. Eyes
unseeing, the archdruid shouted his son’s name over and over. He
pleaded for Valstann to come back to him.

Two other druids guided him by hand as he stumbled along,
cal ing to his son. Behind them, other druids guarded a smal band

…those who had chosen Fandral’s madness over al else. It was
already obvious to Malfurion what would have to be done with them.

The Moonglade had places that could hold the sick or corrupted of
mind. For those who had fol owed Fandral, there was hope that
they could be redeemed.

But as he studied Valstann’s father, Malfurion wondered if

Fandral would ever be cured. Between the Nightmare and his
personal loss, the mad archdruid looked as if he had lost himself
forever.

Malfurion met with Brol , giving him the same warning that he had

Shandris. Brol nodded his understanding, but his eyes kept shifting
to the macabre branch. Malfurion final y informed him of what he
had divined.

“Xavius…” Brol did not know the name, but had felt the immense
anger and dread in his shan’do’s voice when Malfurion had spoken
it.

“The druids must help the people leave, then be prepared to
hear from me. It wil not be very long, so they must hurry!”

“What do you hope to do?”

Malfurion seized a smal er branch thrusting out near the top. He
snapped it off. The same thick, foul liquid slowly dripped from it.

“What I must. What we must.”

That said, Malfurion quickly cal ed for a torch. Secreting the
smal er branch upon his person, the archdruid set the larger branch
afire. In just the blink of an eye, it burnt to ash, which he let the wind
carry away.

“Be ready,” he asked Brol .

“Of course, Shan’do! I—”

But Malfurion had already transformed and taken to the sky.

Tyrande knew who spoke even though she had been unconscious
during their previous encounter. She knew because Malfurion had
later told her the terrifying facts…and what he had done to her
captor.

“You cannot be…” she protested.

The shadow of the giant, skeletal tree twisted around the trio.

The high priestess felt her chest tighten, although when she
brought her hand to it, there was nothing to pul away. Tyrande
noted that Lucan and Thura acted the same.

I can and always will be…Tyrande Whisperwind…I am the

Nightmare and the Nightmare is me…we are eternal…and soon

Azeroth will be but a part of us…

“Never!” She prayed to Elune and the Mother Moon’s light fil ed
her. Tyrande immediately focused that light upon the shadow.

In the light, the tree al but faded. Tyrande felt the pressure on
her chest ease.

Then the shadow darkened again, growing more distinct than
before. The high priestess could not breathe. She struggled to
remain on her feet. The others also suffered.

The light faded, leaving only the foul dark green il umination of
the Nightmare…and the shadow of the tree that was the night elf

Xavius.

I am beyond your petty deity now…the Mistress of Dreams is
mine…as is her sister the Life-Binder…behold them both and
tremble at your lost hopes…

The mists parted…and behind the shadow stood revealed the
mistress of the Emerald Dream. She was snared tight in tendrils of
shadow that also appeared to originate from their captor. Ysera’s
head was pointed skyward as if she looked for something, but her
eyes were shut. Her wings and limbs were stretched apart in what
was surely an agonizing manner.

An emerald aura emanated from Ysera, but barely inches from
her, it altered into the foul, decaying green of the Nightmare. It was
al too clear that the Aspect’s power was being twisted to Xavius’s
desires.

And behind her, folded almost in two, hovered Alexstrasza. Her
eyes stared unseeing and her jaw was slack. She looked withered,
more dead than alive. Her vibrant red coloring had faded and she
barely looked to be breathing.

The mists enshrouded the two huge dragons again. Tyrande
was crushed by the sight. She remembered that Alexstrasza had
been in some terrible danger when last they had seen her, but she
had believed that somehow the Aspect would evade capture.

There was the flapping of wings. A massive green form
materialized from the mist. At first Tyrande thought that Eranikus
had flown to their rescue, but then the dragon that alighted between
the Nightmare Lord and the trio revealed himself a dreadful
creature whose very expression was enough to reveal the depths
of his corruption.

Lethon bowed his head to the tree. “I have come as you
summoned…”

Prepare them…it will come soon…and with its coming…the

Nightmare’s hold will be complete…

The green dragon grinned evil y at the three. “Come, my little
pets…Emeriss is waiting for us…”

They were swept up in the dragon’s magic.

Malfurion rose up into the sky, which was now as mist-enshrouded
around the island as everywhere else. The Nightmare Lord no
longer had reason to keep Darnassus ignorant of the extent of
their danger now that Fandral was lost.

The archdruid banked. Teldrassil spread below him. He could
not see its entire grand canopy, but he saw the central part, which
was his focus.

By this time, the other druids needed to be ready. They had to
be ready…

Hamuul…Broll… Though he named the two, Malfurion then
touched each and every one of the druids on or around the World

Tree. They quickly responded.

We are going to heal Teldrassil, he informed them.

Many were stunned, especial y after Fandral’s betrayal, but
because it was Malfurion, they did not hesitate to fol ow his
instructions.

Malfurion dove, then alighted on what he knew was the center
point of the canopy. There, he transformed. The air was chil here,
for he was even above the forests that grew at the top. Stil , he was
unconcerned, his plan al that mattered at the moment.

Stretching forth his hands as if to encompass the vast crown,
the archdruid strengthened his bond with the others.

Let us guide that which is the life of Azeroth into eradicating
the taint…

In his mind, he could see the other druids imitating his actions.

Malfurion reached out now to Teldrassil. The World Tree was ful of
corruption, but it was not beyond saving. He sought out the core of
its remaining health, a place buried not in its towering trunk, but far
down in its roots.

Malfurion encouraged those roots to grow, to dig deeper. They
sank far below, reaching the most primeval parts of Azeroth…and
the most pure.

Feed and heal… he told the World Tree. Feed and heal…

The reaction was sluggish, as he expected. Malfurion continued
to urge. Sick so long, Teldrassil needed to be prodded.

At last, he felt Teldrassil begin to stir. With the druids aiding it,
the World Tree began to feed as it needed. Azeroth gave forth that
sustenance, as it did in one form or another to al life upon it.

Teldrassil grew stronger.

The effort was taxing on the druids, though. Malfurion sweated
despite the cold air and he knew his fol owers were likewise
suffering. Yet, no one gave hint of quitting, which fil ed him with
pride for each of them.

What would have taken many years—what even they had
believed was beyond the original World Tree, Nordrassil—now
took place al over Teldrassil. It suddenly came in a wonderful rush
of life…

From the crown came a cacophony of ear-splitting cracks.

Malfurion feared at first that the druids’ efforts had been too much

for the stressed tree after al and that al the ruined branches were
about to go tumbling. But no branches fel . In fact, those within
sight, even the most damaged, began to heal. Breaks sealed
seamlessly. What Malfurion had heard was the branches moving
back into place.

And wherever the branches healed, new growth instantly
fol owed. Buds sprouted everywhere, then, without hesitation,
blossomed into beautiful draping leaves.

The healing was not merely on the surface, however. The
archdruid felt a surge of energy throughout Teldrassil that
originated from the roots and rose al the way to the top and into
every branch. The World Tree in turn fed the many smal er trees
and other plants growing atop it…until al were healed.

It al seemed finished, but the druids did not lessen their efforts,
for Malfurion had not given them the word. Though he and the rest
were already wel exhausted, Malfurion searched the World Tree
with his heightened senses.

He came across no lingering sign of the taint. With relief, he
gave the other druids permission to end their spel work.

Malfurion broke the link after tel ing the others to take a
moment’s respite. Despite what else was happening, the druids
would be of no use if they did not recoup. Even he dared take a
deep, cold breath of air before transforming to storm crow form
and once more taking flight.

The swift and wonderful success of their task also gave him new
strength. The archdruid rose high in order to better view what he
could of the renewed canopy for a moment…then hesitated as a
great reptilian shape emerged from the thickening mist. For a
moment, he thought that perhaps Ysera had escaped and had
come to him.

Yet though it was a dragon of immense proportions, he
immediately registered that it was not green…but crimson.

There was only one red dragon so huge…

“Archdruid!” the leviathan, a female, roared. “I know you despite
that form! You are Malfurion Stormrage!” The dragon cocked her
head. “I had thought you lost!”

The archdruid dropped down to the World Tree’s crown,
alighting. Shifting back to night elf, Malfurion cal ed, “Alexstrasza!

Great Life-Binder! Sister of Ysera! Do you bring news of Ysera’s
escape?”

Her arresting visage twisted into one of sadness. “No, mortal, I
do not! That she struggles even captive is al I have to keep heart! I
come because I sensed some great flourishing of life in a time of
peril! It was such that I could not help but come and see…and it
seems that you are the source of it!” Alexstrasza peered at

Teldrassil. “And what a feat, Malfurion Stormrage!”

“Teldrassil had to be healed, Life-Binder! Even though it was
raised up against our wishes, it now stands as one of Azeroth’s
strongest remaining forces!”

“So it does…so it does…” the Aspect’s expression was
guarded. There were clearly many thoughts racing through her
head. Final y, “Even though this was fashioned without the
blessings of any Aspect, it was stil a beautiful and proud sight, I wil
admit—”

At that moment, the archdruid suddenly felt light-headed. It was
al he could do to keep from fal ing off.

The great dragon peered close at the tiny figure. “Malfurion

Stormrage, while you have been seeking to help everyone else,
have you taken no respite?”

“There—there is not time enough—”

The red dragon briefly looked from him to the canopy, and then
back again. After a moment, she stated, “There must be time for
this.”

Alexstrasza reached out and took up the archdruid in one palm.

She then rose higher and higher, so high that the entire crown was
at last visible. Malfurion, stil clutching the smal branch, shook his
head in disbelief at seeing such a height. He could not have flown
so high himself.

“I have come to a decision,” the Aspect declared in a booming
voice. “Though I and the others did not bless this tree at the
beginning, a blessing is needed now!”

She spread her wings wide and a glorious, warm glow radiated
from her. The Life-Binder smiled down upon Teldrassil as she
would have any of her children.

“Let this blessing touch Teldrassil and al upon it!” the red dragon
commanded. “And let it create for us a new hope and a new
beginning, also!”

The golden-red glow spread from Alexstrasza to the crown. With
astounding speed, it continued down toward the trunk and then
below beyond Malfurion’s view.

And with that…it was done. Teldrassil was not only healed…it
was now blessed, if only by the Life-Binder. Stil , that single
blessing meant very much.

Alexstrasza circled high above the World Tree. The
transformation was complete. The glorious glow muted, but did not
vanish from Teldrassil.

“It is done…” she declared, “and not a moment too soon!”

“Why? What is happening now?”

“You have not felt it? The Nightmare is sealing al paths into it!

Now that it can reach out into Azeroth, it is preventing any from
physical y reaching it! You as a druid should be able to sense it!

The portals are being shut one after another!”

“The portals—” Malfurion shut his eyes for a moment and
sensed that it was true. That brought something else to mind.

“What of the green dragons? Would not Ysera’s dragonflight stop
this from happening?”

“They stil fight in the Nightmare, but their chances are waning,
as are those of the few left fighting with them! They have no time or
numbers to deal with this…”

The night elf gaped. “Darnassus!”

The Aspect eyed him. “Darnassus?”

“The portal there! It was open when I left! It may—”

Without another word, the Life-Binder veered toward the capital.

Her speed was such that in moments the city came into sight.

Alexstrasza tilted to her left, then headed toward what was left of
the Temple Gardens.

She landed, then released the archdruid. Quickly looking around,

Malfurion discovered Brol , Hamuul, and some of the other druids
rushing toward him. In addition to them, a handful of Sentinels,
including Shandris, also remained. Stunned stares took in the sight
of the dragon.

“Shan’do!” Brol cal ed as he ran. “Teldrassil is—is whole!”

“Would that the same could be said for Darnassus,” Shandris
muttered as she joined those gathering around Malfurion. “Or the
rest of Azeroth.”

The archdruid waved off further comment. “The portal? Is
everyone through? Is it stil function—”

As he spoke, Malfurion once again felt light-headed. The rush of
adrenaline was fading. Brol and Hamuul had to grab hold of him.

But as Malfurion fought to recover, he suddenly felt a comforting
presence nearby, one that he had never known before. It had a
similarity to something that the archdruid had thought lost forever

…and that was what al owed him to identify it.

Teldrassil was reaching out to him. As it had been healed, so did
it offer healing to Malfurion. Gone was not only the taint, but also

Fandral’s touch. The World Tree was nearly as it would have been
had it been Malfurion who had guided its creation.

“You know, then?” He heard Shandris growl. “It sealed just as
the tree healed! We thought it at first something you’d done, but—”

“The Nightmare is sealing off al physical routes to the Dream,”

the red dragon informed them. “So, it is too late here, as wel .”

Malfurion said nothing as his head cleared somewhat. In
touching him, Teldrassil had also revealed to the archdruid
something of great interest.

Malfurion straightened. “The enclave…we must go there.”

Without waiting, the Aspect seized up not only him, but, as they
stood with him, Brol and Hamuul, too. It was a simple thing for her
to carry them the short distance to the enclave and then land again.

Fandral’s sanctum lay in ruins, the vines that had guarded his
abode dead. There had been nothing to salvage in them; they had
been the result of the mad archdruid’s work combined with the evil
of the Nightmare.

“Is this where Fandral has always made his home?”

“Nay,” replied Brol . “He original y chose the top chamber in the
largest tree. That tree there.” The other night elf pointed to an area
not far away to the right. “But a short time back, he suddenly had
this created.”

Malfurion nodded. “That verifies what I thought. I need but a
moment.” He handed the smal branch to Brol . “Watch this for me,
but be wary of it.”

“I understand, Shan’do,” Brol murmured.

Malfurion stood with arms raised in the middle of the enclave.

Time was of the essence, and he prayed that what he attempted
would not take long. He also prayed that he was not wrong in his
assumption.

Though he stood, the night elf set himself into the beginnings of
a meditative trance. Long experience enabled him to swiftly reach
the state he desired, a place between the physical and dream
worlds. It risked leaving him vulnerable to the Nightmare and

Xavius, but it also opened him up to what Teldrassil offered.

He reached out with his mind and soul to the World Tree…and
the tree welcomed him. Feeling its gentle touch both thril ed and
saddened the archdruid. He prayed for Teldrassil’s recovery, for al
of Azeroth’s recovery, should the world survive this assault.

Teldrassil prayed with him.

The night elf opened up his defenses to the tree. If there stil
remained any hidden hint of Xavius’s evil, Malfurion also opened
himself up to his foe.

But al he felt was Teldrassil’s wondrous warmth. Al the suffering,
al the lack of food and rest, began to diminish. Malfurion smiled.

A primitive part of Malfurion wanted to escape into Teldrassil,
become part of it and abandon his mortal existence. That was
always a risk for druids, becoming so caught up in the glory of the
natural world that their own existence paled.

But then the face that always pul ed Malfurion’s heart and soul
even more than this desire brought him back to harsh reality.

“Tyrande…” he whispered to himself.

Teldrassil seemed to echo his sentiment, for its leaves shook
even though there was no wind and Malfurion swore that the sound
they made was akin to the high priestess’s name.

Malfurion did not know how he could succeed in saving Tyrande.

He could only fathom one possible course.

The Life-Binder was the only one remaining with him, Malfurion
never daring to ask an Aspect to leave. Yet, Alexstrasza remained
patiently silent, apparently deciding that the night elf was the one
whose actions meant most at the moment.

He crouched, setting one hand on the ground before the
sanctum. As he did, Malfurion spoke with Teldrassil, asking it to
help him reveal the truth.

The power flowed from both the archdruid and the tree. The
damaged structure trembled. The once-deadly vines became ash
and the artifices set in place by Fandral fel away. The sanctum
reshaped, becoming something familiar yet astounding.

“Impossible!” Brol muttered.

Rising, Malfurion stepped toward his discovery. He had sensed
its presence. He had known it would be here, despite the fact that it
should not.

Fandral had in secret created his own portal to the Emerald

Dream.

It was simple, its round form shaped by winding branches and
stonework. Powerful spel s had masked it from the others.

“It is stil open…” Alexstrasza said.

Malfurion nodded, then reached out with his thoughts to the
other druids. My friends…come to the enclave…

The other druids came but moments later. Al gaped at what

Fandral had wrought, but Malfurion could not give them time to
digest its presence.

“It is al up to us,” Malfurion said to the others. “We must make
the final stand against the Nightmare. This is what our cal ing has
prepared us for. A taint seeks Azeroth; as those who tend the
forests, plains, and other lands that are its gardens, encourage the
bounty of life that is its fruit…we must end this infestation…”

The gathered druids went down on one knee before him and
even when he gestured that they should rise, they remained in the
respectful position.

“What would you have of us?” Brol , who seemed to be speaker
for the rest, solemnly inquired.

“What I should not ask. I need you—and, yes, al those we can
stil summon to come together be they druids or not—to march
upon the Nightmare itself through this, possibly the last portal on

Azeroth…”

24

GATHERING THE HOST

Tyrande, Lucan, and Thura found themselves deposited in a murky
val ey. Around them, they heard the incessant shrieks and cries as
the Nightmare’s victims both suffered and served at Xavius’s wil .

The ground crawled with the dark vermin of the Nightmare.

“See what I’ve brought you…” Lethon said to the mist.

A huge portion of the mist melted into the putrefying figure of

Emeriss. The other dragon grinned at the prisoners he displayed.

“So wholesome…so untouched…” she cooed. “Won’t it be fun
twisting them?”

“You know what the master desires.”

Emeriss did not look pleased with being reprimanded. “Of
course I do!”

Tyrande listened to al this with growing dismay. Yet her concern
was more for the others and for Malfurion, wherever he now was.

She was certain that he was doing what he could to battle the

Nightmare, although with Alexstrasza now also a slave to Xavius,
the chance of victory seemed nil.

Or was the Life-Binder truly a slave? Tyrande recal ed the image
and also recal ed the deviousness of the Nightmare. The vision
had been too fleeting. Why hide it from them? Why quickly obscure

Alexstrasza from their sight?

Unless…the image of the imprisoned red dragon had been an
il usion designed to drain her and the others of hope?

The high priestess clenched her fist. Not for the first time, she
had fal en prey to the Nightmare.

“The ax first,” Lethon ordered.

The corrupted dragon’s words caught Tyrande’s attention and
she found herself wondering why the weapon had remained in the
orc’s hands this long. More important, surely Xavius should have
taken it from Thura as soon as the group stood before his shadow.

After al , being what he now was, the Nightmare Lord would surely
not want any of his foes to wield it near him.

Again, Tyrande thought of the vision of Alexstrasza. Everything
was designed to create despair in the defenders…perhaps in great
part because of this very weapon.

Emeriss stared at the orc. Thura tightly gripped the ax, clearly
unwil ing to part with it. She brandished the blade at the dragon,
who, it was interesting for Tyrande to note, made certain not to
come within striking distance.

It has to be! the high priestess decided.

“That little plaything will not help you!” Emeriss hissed. The
dragon continued to eye Thura, whose hands began to shake.

“The ax is mine!” the warrior growled.

“No longer…” Lethon interjected, joining Emeriss in staring at

Thura.

The orc’s eyes shut. Trembling, she dropped to one knee. Her
hands shook violently, but stil she did not release the ax.

The high priestess knew what they were doing to Thura. They
were assailing her with the dream-based abilities of their kind.

Thura was suffering personal nightmares over and over, al in an
attempt to get her to release the weapon.

The weapon…

“Lucan…the ax…” Tyrande quietly urged.

He glanced at her, saw the direction of her gaze and, despite a
hint of uncertainty, moved.

Tyrande reached into her heart and prayed to Elune, touching
upon what had made her first desire to become one of the Mother

Moon’s acolytes. She remembered the softness, the beauty of the
moon’s light upon her and how she knew that with it she might be
able to help others.

The silver glow materialized above her.

“Little fool!” Emeriss hissed at her. Lethon snarled and also
turned to the night elf.

Lucan grabbed Thura. The orc understood immediately what the
human intended.

Man and orc faded away as Lucan pul ed them both from the

Nightmare to Azeroth. Yet, just before they did, the shadow of a
branch passed over them. None, not even the high priestess,
noticed it.

Tyrande stil remained. She had never had any notion of
escaping with the others. She had needed to remain the distraction
for the other two. The dragons had been too confident in their
power and too focused in their desire to strip Thura of the ax.

Those had both been in her favor in seeking freedom for the orc
and Lucan.

But a terrible force struck her. Tyrande fel among the bugs, who
quickly swarmed over her. She batted them away, only to then find

Emeriss’s pus-covered head looming before her.

“Thank you for doing your part…” the monstrous behemoth
chuckled.

Lethon joined her in their sinister merriment. As Tyrande pushed
herself up, she saw that while her companions had indeed made
good their flight, something had been left behind.

“Your effort was invaluable!” Lethon mocked. “The distraction
broke the orc’s concentration and loosened her grip just enough
at the right moment…when she and the human were between
realms…”

Half-covered in eager vermin, the ax that had once belonged to

Brox lay a few yards ahead of Tyrande.

And over it hung the shadow of a skeletal branch.

No one protested Malfurion’s decision. Al trusted in him. What they
did not entirely trust was that which lay before them, that which had
been crafted at their ignorance.

The portal rose from what had been the back of Fandral’s lair. It
was not as huge nor as intricate as those others created to reach
the Emerald Dream, but the fantastic energies swirling within
marked it as functional…and thus a ray of hope as far as Malfurion
was concerned.

“How could he have had this made without us knowing?”

demanded one druid.

“There was much to distract al of you,” Malfurion said with
apology, thinking of al that his search in the Emerald Dream had
caused. “But be thankful for one thing; the portal is stil open…”

Brol eyed it warily. “But wil it stay open for what you intend?”

“I—wil see—to it, that it does.”

Even Malfurion was astounded to hear the Life-Binder
announce this. Even more surprising was how Alexstrasza now
appeared. She strode among the druids in her elven form, smal
licks of flames darting from her long, crimson tresses. She walked
as a queen and as a mother, giving looks of trust and faith to the
druids as she passed among them. Though Ysera was their patron,

Malfurion and the rest acknowledged without hesitation their
respect for Alexstrasza.

“Great Life-Binder, this is not—” Malfurion began.

“Do not question.” The fiery figure stepped toward the portal.

“Even now, the Nightmare senses that the portal of its pawn is
discovered.”

Alexstrasza did not stop until she stood before the swirling
energies. The Life-Binder stared into the portal.

The fiery glow about her body intensified. It shot forth into the
portal. There was a flash of flame within and al there were aware
that if something had stood on the other side, it would have been
utterly incinerated.

“Nothing wil come through and nothing wil seal up this last portal
from the other side,” she declared in a tone that did not brook
disagreement. “The portal will stay open, Malfurion Stormrage…I
wil see to it. It is that important.”

The archdruid nodded grimly. “Then, there’s no more reason to
hesitate! Hamuul! Your help—and yours, also, Brol —I think I’l
need! As for you others, you know what you must do…”

The druids began dividing up for their appointed tasks. Many
gathered near the portal. Others took to swifter forms and quickly
departed the enclave.

Malfurion sat down in the midst of the druids’ grove, with Hamuul
and Brol kneeling on each side of him. Malfurion shut his eyes, but
before he began his meditation, he said to the pair, “I wil need al
your strength and your wariness. I apologize for the danger I may
put you through.”

The tauren snorted and Brol growled, “I fought as a gladiator for
years, but rather would I fight at your side like this!”

Grateful for their loyalty and sacrifice, Malfurion withdrew into
himself. He needed to reach out to some of those others who
might stand with them—assuming any were left. It would demand
another tremendous sacrifice from each and possibly only make
the Nightmare’s victory that much more complete.

But there were no choices left now.

It was not difficult for Malfurion to reach the state he needed,
despite the stresses upon him. The archdruid felt the ties between
his dreamform and his physical body al but unbind. There was little
strain when he pushed free his mortal form and rose up above Brol
and Hamuul.

Although they could not see him, by instinct the two gazed up.

Malfurion reached out with his thoughts, informing them of what he
intended and seeking what guidance that they could give him about
certain aspects.

Then Malfurion tried something that he had never done before. It
was his best hope of reaching al those stil able to help Azeroth.

The archdruid reached into Teldrassil and through Teldrassil into

Azeroth, using the fact that, no matter where someone could be
found, it would be a part of the world.

And Teldrassil and Azeroth gave him what he sought.

Malfurion let out a tremendous gasp as he suddenly saw
everywhere in the world at the same time. It was almost too much.

Had it been any other mortal than him, Malfurion understood that
they would have gone insane as their mind fragmented into a
mil ion bits and more. There were things he had never known
existed and things on the periphery that fil ed him with dread,
ancient evils locked deep within the world that had a familiar hint to
them but were pushed back as thousands of other things
demanded his attention. With so much from the great to the very
tiny assailing him, even he had to fight at first to maintain both his
focus and his sanity.

Again, it was the World Tree and Azeroth from which he drew
his strength. The danger of becoming forever lost faded. Malfurion
looked upon his besieged world and found those for whom he was
seeking.

They were not nearly as many as he hoped, but among them, he
found those essential to his plan.

Varian eyed his beleaguered force. He knew that there were stil
pockets here and there throughout the capital and possibly beyond,
but they were shrinking fast. That came as no surprise to him, for
weapons were useless. Mostly, he and his men had to flee, an
ignoble course, if necessary.

Fire seemed to slow the horrific throngs—at least somewhat.

The newest wave of terror—the sleepwalkers—on the one hand
presented an even greater shock to the mind, but they were also a
foe that could be physical y battled. The only trouble was that there
remained the inherent hesitation to do harm to an innocent, even if
that innocent was wildly attacking.

But desperation had caused more than one of Varian’s dwindling
force to bloody their weapons and he himself had had to strike hard
blows.

Varian…king of Stormwind…

It was only due to the calm and comforting tone of the voice that

Varian knew he was not fal ing to the Nightmare’s power. The

Nightmare offered no reassurance; it seemed to drag its victims
immediately into their fears.

Varian…comrade to Broll Bearmantle…I am Malfurion

Stormrage…

He immediately straightened. Although Varian had not met the
famed archdruid, like many leaders in both the Al iance and Horde
he knew of Malfurion’s role as leader of the druids. The efforts of
the druids had been critical in winning the Battle of Mount Hyjal and,
consequently, the Third War. Varian had not been on Kalimdor at
the time, but had heard the tale in great depth.

That the archdruid now spoke in the king’s head was not so
surprising. However, as welcome as Malfurion’s presence was in
some regards, Varian had little time to give him. Matters were
becoming even more desperate.

“Whatever you want, better speak it fast…” the lord of

Stormwind muttered low so as not to have his soldiers worry that
he was talking to shadows.

Varian, I need you to lead those that will attack the Nightmare
where it is most vulnerable…to attack it within the Emerald

Dream…

“I won’t abandon Stormwind!” Without realizing it, Varian raised
his voice. Some of his soldiers glanced at him, then went back to
their frantic struggles.

Everyone must abandon what they cherish, if they hope to
save it…

Varian gritted his teeth. “Damn you…but how do we get out of
here and where do we go even if we make it?”

There is no need to leave…all you have to do is simply follow
my instructions…

A screaming figure lunged at the king. It was one of his personal
servants. The man’s eyes were shut and his face was drawn in
such a terrible cry that it looked as if his jaw had become unhinged.

What he was screaming about, Varian did not pay attention. The
sleepwalkers al suffered individual nightmares in which they tried to
strike back at their tormentors—who were always the defenders.

Varian attempted to strike the wild-maned man on the side of the
head with the flat of the blade. The sleepwalkers could be downed
that way, although it general y took more than one blow.

But the servitor suddenly shifted position. Rather than the flat,

Varian cut him deep with the edge.

Blood poured from the wound. The stricken sleepwalker
col apsed onto the king. One of the soldiers immediately tore the
dying man from Varian, but the lord of Stormwind did not notice. Al
he knew was that he had final y slain one of his subjects, another
nightmare to add to those he already suffered.

“Whatever you want to do, do it, then!” he snarled at the unseen

Malfurion. “And do it quick!”

The archdruid told him what to do. Varian looked incredulous,
then surrendered to Malfurion’s suggestions.

“Lay down your arms!” he shouted to others. “Sound the cal to
stand down!”

I will have to use some force… Malfurion added. I will need to
start with you, the better so that you can touch the rest…

“I hope you know what you’re doing! We’ve been taking a potion
to keep from—”

That will not matter. My work will override all…

The king grunted. As his stunned supporters watched, Varian
reluctantly shut his eyes…

And immediately went to sleep.

High above the rest of northern Mulgore—situated on the high
bluffs near the Stonetalon Mountains—lay the chief city of the
tauren. Until the building of Thunder Bluff, al tauren had lived a
nomadic life. Only in recent times, with the expulsion of the centaur
marauders from their lands, had Hamuul’s people final y
established a settlement comparable to Orgrimmar, Stormwind City,
and other capitals of Azeroth.

Four mesas made up Thunder Bluff, with the largest and most
populated in the center. The great totems of the tauren stood tal
over structures that drew much from the race’s past as perpetual
wanderers. Even the great houses were built like the long, wooden
structures once used by the tribes for the winter seasons, while the
smal er domiciles surrounding them were fashioned after the
pointed, wood-and-animal-skin tents which had for generations
served the daily purposes of the nomads.

The tauren had chosen the location for strategic means, the
mesas giving them great defense against most enemies. However,
even the bluffs were of no protection against an enemy that was
much a part of oneself…

This, Baine Bloodhoof, son of the great tauren chieftain, Cairne,
understood too wel …now. Ax in one hand and a short, thrusting
spear in the other, he stood at the forefront of a band of warriors
blocking the bridge leading to Middle Rise, where the tradeskil area
had, until recently, thrived. Middle Rise was al that was left
somewhat defended in the northern and eastern part of Thunder

Bluff. The horrors had overtaken the rest, though there were a few
tiny spots of resistance.

Cairne’s son thrust with the spear at a staggering figure just a
few feet ahead, trying to fend him off without kil ing him. Baine knew
the other tauren, a former comrade named Gam. They had fought
centaur side by side. Now Gam, eyes shut tight and mutterings
concerning the four-legged marauders slipping from his mouth,
tried to kil Cairne’s son as if he were a centaur.

Gam kept coming. In the end, Baine had no choice. His dark
brown coat and black mane already matted with blood despite the
protective leather over his shoulders, hump, and arms, Baine drove
the spear into Gam’s chest.

With a grunt, the sleepwalking tauren dropped his weapon, then
fel off the rope bridge. His body plummeted to the plains below,
fortunately disappearing into the accursed mists and thus saving

Baine from watching his friend’s body shatter.

The lifts were not far, but there was no point in descending. The
scouts that Baine had sent earlier had not returned, even though
they should have reported long ago. That likely meant that they had
been taken and were now part of the threat.

The bridge shook as more sleepwalkers surged forward.

“What do we do?” one of his warriors asked. Tauren were stoic
of nature, but this struggle had them al staring worried and wide-
eyed…which only served to better show the redness due to a lack
of sleep.

Would that you could guide me in this, Father, Baine thought.

But elderly Cairne had been among the first of the sleepers and

Baine could not help but think that had happened for a reason.

Most tauren could not imagine life without their venerable chieftain,
especial y Baine.

Snorting, Cairne’s son came to a decision. It only bought a little
time, but there was no other true choice. He said a prayer for the
innocents whom he was about to send to death.

“Cut the ropes!” Baine commanded.

“The ropes?” The other tauren looked dismayed.

“Cut them!” Baine repeated, raising his ax above the rope
nearest to him.

At that moment, a voice touched his thoughts.

Baine Bloodhoof…I am the archdruid Malfurion Stormrage,
friend to Hamuul Runetotem…I offer a chance of hope…for us

…

Baine thanked his ancestors, then, without care what the others
might think, spoke to the voice. “Tel me…and hurry…”

A question that had long bothered Malfurion was also explained in
his reaching out to the far recesses of Azeroth, the question of
what was happening in Dalaran. His first glimpse of the realm of
the magi startled him, for the entire kingdom of Dalaran was not
where it should have been. Rather, it now floated in the sky.

Night elves in general did not hold magi and other arcane
casters in the most favorable light, but Malfurion, who knew the
magi better than many of his kind, had in the past dealt with them
with cautious trust. Encouraged by this display of their incredible
abilities, he sought to reach those within—especial y Rhonin, whom
he had known some ten thousand years past—only to discover that
even Dalaran had fal en prey to the Nightmare.

In fact, Dalaran had particularly fal en to it. Malfurion’s first
glances at the grand, magical y il uminated 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 al 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 spel
held them where they were…and final y he found its source in the

Violet Citadel.

The mighty structure rose above al 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 spel s.

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-wil ed 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 al 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 spel casters 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 fel ow magi and al 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 trol scout Rokhan—now forced to lead a band of
his people trapped outside the orc capital to safety—and many,
many more. Like the trol s, 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 stil 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 al 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
al he needed to know. Zaetar’s hopes swel ed, 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 wel 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 actual y 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, recal ing the legendary Ancient.

The white wolf had slaughtered hundreds of demons during the

War of the Ancients before fal ing 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
cal ed 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 cal ing 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
al 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
smal er 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 wel
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 spel s 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 al 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
fol owed. 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 al 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
wel . They stood with their al ies in the Horde, awaiting their chance
to strike back.

Malfurion watched al happen and felt both gratitude and regret.

Only Zaetar understood the truth. Only Zaetar understood that al
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 spel and the fact that he had
not boded il . 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 wil ed himself back into his body. He felt the
tremendous relief on the part of both Brol 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. Brol
and the tauren pul ed back in surprise.

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

But Malfurion did not answer them, instead steeling himself to
face an unexpected danger to al 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 chil
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 al 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 col ar. 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 hil y
landscape was ful of treacherous ravines and equal y desolate
terrain. There were some shrubs and, on one hil , a huge, ugly tree

—

The cartographer swal owed. The tree was not in keeping with
the lack of life around it. Indeed, of al 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 wil have the ax back!” Thura insisted, unaware of what Lucan
had discovered.

A crackling sound al 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 pul ed 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’l end up in the Nightmare!”

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

They vanished…and reappeared in al -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 sacrificed 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 wil 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 ful y.

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,” Brol
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 wel —”

“And you know the true name of the Nightmare Lord.” Remulos
spoke the title with al 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…”

Even after mil ennia, Malfurion recal ed al too wel Cenarius’s
near death in battle and how it had also cost the life of Malorne

—the White Stag—at the hands of the demon Archimonde.

Malorne had been the sire of Cenarius and, thus, the grandsire of

Remulos.

“Xavius has Tyrande…” Remulos continued. “…and he also has
the ax fashioned by my father for the brave orc Broxigar…”

The news struck Malfurion harder than even Brol or Hamuul
likely realized. He knew what he had to do, though it threatened
everything.

Turning to Brol , the archdruid ordered, “Brol , I must ask you to
help guide the druids and the others while I am gone. Hamuul, I
have given you much to do, but you must also help him, if you can.

Can I rely on both of you?” When both had bowed their heads in
acceptance, Malfurion said to Remulos, “Tyrande and the ax are in
the same place? You are certain?”

“I am. Deep in the Nightmare.”

“Then we need to enter through Fandral’s portal.”

The forest guardian shook his great antlered head. “No, I have
another method.”

Malfurion’s brow arched. “You do?”

“The manner by which I came here.” Remulos drew a huge
circle with the spear tip. As he completed it, the circle flared into
being, the edge a searing dark green.

The hooved forest lord muttered something that Malfurion could
not make out. The circle swel ed, expanding enough for both of
them to enter it side by side.

“Come!” Remulos insisted.

A concerned Brol reached toward Malfurion. “Shan’do—”

“Al wil be wel .” The archdruid pointed toward Fandral’s portal.

“Do what must be done.”

With that said, he joined Remulos in stepping through the forest
lord’s circle.

A chil swept over him as they entered the Nightmare. Malfurion
sensed that they were very near where the sinister shadow had
kept his dreamform imprisoned and reshaped. The thought of what

Xavius might do to Tyrande stirred a struggle within the night elf that
he kept secret from his companion.

“Beware…” Remulos whispered. “One of the dragons is near…I
think it Emeriss…”

Malfurion felt something nearby and trusted that Cenarius’s son
had rightly identified the threat. But then the night elf sensed
something more. In addition to the dragon, there was someone
else nearby. His heart pounded as he realized just whose
presence he felt.

Tyrande…

However, Remulos was not heading in that direction. “The ax of

Broxigar is this way. We must hurry! If the Nightmare succeeds in
gaining its power, it’l become an additional threat, but if we regain
it, we may be able to use it to free Ysera before she can no longer
prevent the Nightmare from using her power…”

Malfurion frowned. “You were not able to take it yourself?”

“This hand is the result of that last attempt. It’l take the two of us
to deal with the dragon and take the ax…and also rescue your

Tyrande, my friend…”

Nodding solemnly, the archdruid let the forest guardian continue
to lead. Malfurion studied their surroundings—or lack thereof—as
they moved.

“It is very silent…why?”

“The Nightmare Lord is likely more concerned with your valiant
army now,” Remulos replied without looking back. “And with

Emeriss to guard both the weapon and the high priestess, of what
concern is there here?”

“If the ax is of such importance to the Nightmare, there should
be more than merely one dragon to watch over both it and

Tyrande,” Malfurion commented. “I know I would not leave them so
lightly guarded…especial y her…”

“Your faith in your love is laudable, but do not underestimate the
power the corrupted dragon wields! Moreover, the Nightmare has
many plots in play and its servants must attend to those as wel …”

The archdruid did not answer, for at that moment they heard the
sound of heavy breathing. Malfurion’s heart began to match the
sinister breathing, which he knew must be from Emeriss.

“Be prepared!” Remulos murmured. “Between the two of us, we
should be able to at least ward her off…”

The murky outline of a huge, winged form began to coalesce
ahead. Emeriss appeared to be fixated upon something on the
ground near her forepaws…very likely the fabled ax.

Malfurion chose that moment to glance behind him, but almost
immediately Remulos demanded his attention. “Look there to the
side! Not al that far from the dragon! The high priestess!”

Indeed, the shadowy outline further on was that of a female night
elf clad much like Tyrande had been. Malfurion gritted his teeth at
the half-seen sight; Tyrande hung several feet off the ground as if
bound to some invisible post or perhaps tree. Her arms and legs
were pul ed tight behind her. Worse, there were more than a dozen
of the shadow satyrs clawing at the air below her. Their talons just
barely missed her.

“Fend off Emeriss and the curs wil flee,” the son of Cenarius
assured him. “Be ready.”

Remulos raised the spear. The tip flared green.

A similar glow flared to life around the dragon. In its light,

Emeriss’s disease-ravaged form looked even more hideous.

As his companion struck, Malfurion gestured at the ground. The

Emerald Dream had itself been much corrupted, but, unlike the foul
behemoth, there was stil inherent in it some of its true nature.

Fresh tendrils—vines—instantly grew up under Emeriss. The
moment they made contact, the dragon reacted as if they burned
her. Some attempted to ensnare her legs and tail. She hissed and
howled, batting with her paws at both the vegetation and the glow.

In what was apparent desperation, Emeriss exhaled on the
tendrils. The vines yel owed, then withered.

Malfurion thought of Remulos’s ruined limb and felt a pang of
remorse. Then he strengthened his spel .

The tendrils grew higher, the blades sharper. Emeriss howled
again. The glow also grew stronger.

With a furious roar, the dragon took to the sky and fled.

Remulos’s spel stil surrounded her.

As the dragon vanished into the mist, the shadow satyrs turned
to the pair. However, Remulos pointed his spear at their ranks and
a similar glow surrounded the fiends. Unlike Emeriss, however,
they simply melted to nothing.

Malfurion started toward Tyrande, but Remulos reared up in
front of him.

“The ax! Take it quickly!”

The weapon lay as if abandoned, though Malfurion knew that

Thura would have never given it up wil ingly. What had happened
and whether she was dead or alive were questions to which the
archdruid would have liked an immediate answer.

The sickly green taint of the Nightmare surrounded Brox’s
former weapon, but there was also another, lighter green aura in
between, one that seemed to radiate from the ax.

“We’re in time,” Remulos said with much relief. “The ax has not
been turned.”

“No…” Malfurion knelt down near it. Setting his palms over the
weapon, he tried to sense what was happening. The archdruid
could feel the innate magic used so long ago by Cenarius, magic
that had drawn upon Azeroth’s most primal energies. “What should
we do?”

“You must draw the ax’s energies out. Reshape them to their
original state.”

Looking up, the night elf commented, “That might weaken the ax,
even cause it to disintegrate.”

“I wil stand ready to reclaim the energies and see to it that
they’re shaped as needed.”

Frowning, Malfurion rose. “Perhaps it might be better if you did
the first, I the second. I fear that I might fail you.”

Remulos’s hoof scraped impatiently on the ground. “You won’t,

Malfurion! Now hurry! There’s stil Tyrande, remember?”

“I have never forgotten.” The archdruid started to turn toward
where the shadowed figure hung. “I wil attend to her first.”

“You will do as I command!”

Having expected what was about to happen, Malfurion leapt. In
his wake, the green glow that Remulos had used on both the
dragon and the satyrs struck where he had been standing.

However, now there was a strong dark touch to it, one very much
akin to the evil aura surrounding the ax.

Malfurion faced Remulos…but not the Remulos he knew. The
limb was stil withered, no doubt, as the forest guardian had said,
the result of having confronted Emeriss earlier…but Cenarius’s
son was now a vile, twisted version of himself. The foliage in his
beard and hair consisted of thistles and black weeds. His face and
form had a skeletal semblance to them. His skin was now the white
of death, and his eyes were the macabre, madly shifting colors of
the Nightmare.

He had been corrupted. His new master had clearly worked very
hard to shield the keeper’s transformation and for a few seconds
after Malfurion had spoken with Remulos in the enclave, the
archdruid had thought that his old friend had indeed returned
injured but with mind intact.

But Remulos had been too eager to separate him from his
companions, too eager to focus only on the ax and not so much on

Tyrande. The Remulos that Malfurion recal ed would have been
greatly concerned for her, even before dealing with retrieving the
ax.

Corrupted, it appeared that Remulos could no more wield the ax
than his master. The Nightmare was everything unnatural, the
opposite of Cenarius’s creation. That was why Malfurion had been
needed, and why only Emeriss and the shadow satyrs had been
here to guard the weapon and Tyrande.

As for Tyrande, she had been bait to ensure that the archdruid
would come this far, just in case the ax proved insufficient.

Malfurion had come to understand the truth shortly after arriving.

Too many things seemed too convenient. Xavius and the

Nightmare had underestimated him this time.

They had also underestimated his deep bond with his beloved.

Al this flashed through his thoughts in but the space of a single
breath. At the same time, the archdruid prepared to meet his
former friend in battle. The hooved figure charged Malfurion, who
shifted into the form of a dire bear. Claws clashed with talons. The
natural energies flowed around the archdruid, but the foulness of
the Nightmare fueled Remulos. Their battle became a standstil that

Malfurion could il afford.

Then Remulos’s expression shifted. His voice changed. Worse,
his eyes became the deep, black orbs with the ruby streaks running
across them that, after ten mil ennia, were stil al too familiar to

Malfurion.

“There is no hope for your struggle this time…”

The voice sent a shiver through Malfurion. He knew it very, very
wel . Almost without thinking, the archdruid reverted to his true form.

“I was too kind to you, Xavius…”

“ ‘Kind’? I lived trapped, tortured for more than ten mil ennia!”

Xavius/Remulos roared, spitting on his foe. “Watching and waiting
and screaming for release! I burned when the land burned, only to
have my bark heal and my branches grow anew! What you
suffered was but a minute expression of what I lived through over
and over and over!”

“I’m sorry, then…” Malfurion replied, truly meaning it. He had
done his work too wel . Xavius the Nightmare Lord was as much his
creation as the counselor’s. “I would go back and change it, if I
could…”

Xavius/Remulos laughed harshly. “But I no longer desire it
changed! Al that suffering, al that waiting…now it has al been
worth it! Azeroth wil be remade anew and everyone wil suffer
agonies only my own long, endless torment could have al owed any
to conceive! It wil be glorious!”

The talons raked Malfurion’s chest. The night elf cried out in
pain but did not falter. He sought out Remulos in his foe.

But there was nothing to find of the keeper within the menacing
figure before Malfurion. Cenarius’s son had either been utterly
consumed by the Nightmare or was buried so deep within his soul
that there was no hope of freeing him.

“I’m sorry,” Malfurion murmured.

“Stil the mournful fool!” Xavius mocked through his host.

But the archdruid was not apologizing to him. Reaching into a
pouch, Malfurion drew out what he sought. He immediately rubbed
the contents of his hand against the body of Remulos.

Cenarius’s son roared. His skin began to harden, to take on the
appearance of thick bark.

It was a unique variation of a spel used to strengthen a druid’s
own skin against attacks. Malfurion had developed it to use against
the Burning Legion. Long ago, he had come to the realization that
every spel could have a reverse—and, in this case,
adverse—reaction from that original y intended. The powder had
been ground from the hardest of barks.

Remulos stiffened. He now was more statue than living. The
rage stil in his eyes was clearly that of the Nightmare Lord. The
irony of the spel was not lost on Malfurion; he had transformed

Xavius into a tree and now he did virtual y the same to poor

Remulos. A part of the archdruid wanted to stop what he was doing,
but a tearful Malfurion knew he had no choice but to complete the
horrific spel .

A wordless cry escaped Remulos before even his mouth would
not work. One hand sought to throw the spear, but failed.

Stumbling back, Malfurion ignored his handiwork. He took one
short glance at the ax, knew it could not be touched by his foes,
and then raced not toward the shadowed figure of his love, but
rather to the place where he had original y sensed her.

That, more than anything, had verified his suspicions concerning

Remulos’s “quest.” He had realized that he was being led away
from her, that the false image existed purely to lead him toward the
ax.

Shadow satyrs jumped from the mists, flinging themselves upon
him. Malfurion shifted to cat form and tore through them.

He came upon Tyrande at last. Both a thril and a stirring of
tremendous fear fil ed him as he stared at her. She hung in a
position identical to what the false image had displayed. Her eyes
were shut. That she was alive, he had known; whether she was at
al corrupted, the archdruid could not yet tel .

Stil a cat, Malfurion leaped. Although Tyrande hung some
distance in the air, it was but a smal gap for his powerful form. As
he neared her, the archdruid shifted into his true shape. At the
same time, he saw that her body glowed a slight but consistent
silver. There was no doubt of the purity of Elune’s power covering
her. Captured she had been, but they had not yet had the chance
to corrupt her.

She fel free as soon as he touched her. Malfurion briefly shifted
to dire bear form, catching the high priestess in his mighty arms as
they landed.

Reverting, Malfurion openly wept as he caressed her cheek and
her hand, so grateful was he for the knowledge that she was alive
and whole…

But he also final y noted that she stil lay motionless, almost as
frozen as he had left Remulos.

The clatter of hooves made him straighten. Worse, in their wake

Malfurion also heard the beating of wings.

He had failed to stop the corrupted keeper…and now Malfurion
suspected that Emeriss, made aware that the trap had not worked,
was returning, too.

Remulos reared up before him. Parts of his body were stil
encased in bark, but he moved with great swiftness nonetheless.

He glared down at the night elf and threw the spear.

Malfurion quickly cast a spel , but one aimed at himself. He not
only felt his own defenses heighten, but his strength and agility also
increased. The druids cal ed it the mark of the wild, and Malfurion
had learned it from Cenarius. Now he was forced to use it to
protect himself against his shan’do’s son.

Although he also did his best to evade the spear, Malfurion was
only partial y successful. The physical weapon but grazed him, yet
that was enough for its potent energies to sear the archdruid to the
very bone despite his spel work. Stil , he managed to use his own
power to knock the spear to the ground beside him.

Struggling with the pain, Malfurion dropped to his knees. The act
was al that saved him from Remulos’s flashing hooves. The edge
of one struck the tip of Malfurion’s antler. The tip cracked off, flying
away.

The night elf looked up into the scowling visage. He could not
sense Xavius inside, anymore, but neither could he yet find the true

Remulos.

Again the hooves came at him. Like the spear, they flared with
tremendous dark energies. Malfurion spun to avoid them and saw
that the broken tip from his antler was now a twisted, bony mass.

He could wel imagine what would happen to him if those hooves
struck directly.

Reaching into another pouch, Malfurion sought out a particular
powder. He prayed to the spirit of Cenarius to forgive him for what
he intended.

With expert aim, he threw the powder at the keeper’s face.

Remulos’s hand thrust toward the flying powder. Most of the
powder burned black, then vanished. A few bits managed to get
through.

The keeper sneezed.

“A last, truly desperate attempt—”

But Remulos’s arrogant remark transformed into a howl of pain.

He looked down at where Malfurion now shoved the point of the
keeper’s own magical spear into his chest. The night elf had merely
sought the least of distractions in order to obtain the spear from
where he had knocked it.

The weapon burned his palms even despite his protections, but

Malfurion did not release his hold. He shoved the spear deeper.

Remulos clawed at both him and the weapon. His chest was
afire with crackling veins of energy.

Then, the corrupted keeper final y let out a gasp…and col apsed.

Malfurion pul ed the spear free. Remulos stil breathed, but
whether he would recover was another question.

“I’m so sorry…” the archdruid whispered. “So—”

He was buffeted by a tremendous force. A monstrous roar fil ed
his ears.

Emeriss picked him up in her paw as if he were some tiny
plaything. The corrupted leviathan flew up into the air.

“One way or another…you will serve us!” she hissed. “You’ll
unbind the ax from Azeroth and give it to us—”

A blinding silver light materializing from the sky above enveloped
both. Malfurion experienced a wondrous sense of rejuvenation. Al
his injuries and pain—save the emotional pain of having had to
fight Remulos—faded away.

But for Emeriss, it seemed to do just the opposite. She roared.

Her body violently contorted.

In obvious pain, the dragon lost her hold on Malfurion. The
archdruid immediately shifted into storm crow form. Wings spread
wide, he descended.

And there he saw Tyrande, her face screwed up in
concentration. The high priestess’s legs wavered, but she stood
determined as Elune’s light surrounded the huge beast.

Emeriss veered around. The corrupted green dragon exhaled in

Tyrande’s direction, but the light caused her deadly breath to
dissipate. A look of incomprehension spread over the dragon’s
ghastly countenance.

“What are you doing? What are you doing?” she shrieked at

Tyrande. “I feel—I feel—”

Her body grew translucent and without definition. Emeriss
became a vaguely seen thing, almost as if she had become a part
of the mist itself.

Malfurion alighted near Tyrande. Changing form, he ran to her.

Just as her knees final y buckled, the archdruid gave her the
necessary support. He choked up inside, relieved to have again
not lost her.

Above them, Emeriss let out a gasp. She was now barely
identifiable as a dragon. Before Malfurion’s eyes, the last of the
behemoth dispersed.

Exhaling deeply, the high priestess let her hands drop.

“I did not know if it would…would work…and certainly not…not
like this…”

“If what would work, Tyrande?”

She steadied herself. “I thought of what the corrupted had
become and I hoped to try a different tact; I pushed Elune’s healing
power to its utmost, seeking to strip away the taint…”

Malfurion looked up where Emeriss had last hovered. “I
understand.”

“Yes…there was nothing left but the corruption…and when I
tried to heal that…it left only emptiness…”

The archdruid would have replied, but he sensed renewed
danger. “Xavius’s shadows come. Too many of them, I suspect. I
need to take you from here.”

“But the ax!” She clutched his arm. “Thura lost the ax here—”

“We can’t worry about it,” he curtly answered. Instead, he ran to
where the spear lay and, despite being aware of the pain it would
cause, plucked it up. Then, with Tyrande near and the unmoving

Remulos between them, Malfurion did as the corrupted forest
guardian had.

A gap opened up right before them. Shifting to ursine form, the
archdruid continued to hold the spear as he took hold of the heavy

Remulos.

“Mal, think what you’re doing! We need to retrieve the ax! I know
now! I know what—”

He roared for her to go through. With great reluctance, she
final y obeyed.

Dragging Remulos with him, Malfurion fol owed.

The gap vanished.

The shadow satyrs faded away the moment that the gap did. For a
time, there was silence. Then the shadow of the tree stretched
over the area where the ax lay.

The silhouettes of the skeletal branches draped over the
weapon but could not seize it. There was no hint of frustration on
the part of the Nightmare Lord, though. Xavius could not touch it,
but, where it lay, neither could it be of harm.

The low laugh of the Nightmare Lord echoed over the shrouded
region. The shadow of the tree withdrew…and the mists covered
the ax.

26

NIGHTMARE WITHIN THE NIGHTMARE

King Varian stood with the host, watching as the Nightmare flowed
forth. There were things both distinct and indistinct within its murky
airs, some recognizable, others not.

The gathered host awaited not only his signal, but that of Brol .

Varian was not so vain that he thought his command of the
situation absolute; indeed, he thought just the opposite. Like
everyone, he had expected Malfurion Stormrage to be the one
through whom the druids and their al ies would coordinate with his
army.

But when Brol had briefly touched his mind, tel ing him that it was
he who was to be Varian’s contact, the lord of Stormwind had not
very much minded. The two had shared savage lives as gladiators
and knew one another’s ways wel . Thus, when Brol final y warned
that the moment had come, the pair easily slipped into their old
roles as comrades in war.

The dreamform army surged forward to meet the darkness. As
the Nightmare converged on them, shadow satyrs formed in
multitudes, their claws sprouting more than a foot long.

Yet just before the first of the fiends could strike, the druids and
other spel casters gathered began their own assault. The druids led
the efforts, for they knew the Dream and the Nightmare best. Silver
fire lit the landscape, sweeping across the infernal ranks. Shadow
satyrs by the scores burned to nothing.

In the chaos, Varian’s fol owers struck. Their dreamform blades
c ut through satyr after satyr, but, unlike in the mortal world, the
creatures did not re-form. Rather, like ribbons of sliced silk, they
fel in tatters that were crushed underneath the encouraged
defenders’ feet, hooves, and paws.

The druids worked with what stil thrived in the little part of the

Dream remaining. The seeds of trees became a rain of furious
missiles that landed within the Nightmare, then sprouted. Within
seconds, new trees molded by efforts led by Brol and the druids
grew tal among the satyrs.

One satyr slashed at the nearest trunk. The tree spurted a thick
sap. The shadowy fiend pul ed back with a hiss as the sap
splattered it, despite the satyr’s supposed incorporeality.

But it did not end there, for the areas touched by the droplets
spread and as they did, they burned away the satyr. The shadow
sought to flee what it could not. Within a few scant seconds, the
sap had entirely eaten away at it.

The trees began to extrude sap from everywhere, especial y
their branches high above. A rain of searing droplets guided by the
druids fel upon a vast swath of terrain. Shadow satyrs burned.

The col apse of the Nightmare’s first lines energized the
defenders. Though they suffered losses, there seemed hope after
al . Bitter enemies wil ingly fought side by side with one another,
even shielding those left open. Not since the War of the Ancients
had so many diverse forces come together. Indeed, coupled with
the addition of the creatures summoned by Malfurion and the rest
of the druids, it could be said that Azeroth was even better
represented as one in this moment than ever before.

But Varian and Brol were concerned over what seemed too
simple a battle. Remaining linked through Brol ’s efforts, they
passed on their wariness, their suspicions that the Nightmare was
not to be so easily crushed.

And moments later their apprehension was vindicated. From the
mist flowed the nightmare forms, as Brol had come to think of them

…the hideous, cursed dream selves of the Nightmare’s thousands
of victims multiplied many times over. Drawn from the sleepers’

subconscious, they came in macabre versions of the innocents,
which made them al the more horrific to the defenders.

“We must not let what they appear to be slow us!” Brol urged

Varian. “They are only dreams!”

“I know…” replied the king grimly, already seeing multiple
versions of both his son and the nightmare of his dead wife. Varian
thrust forward with his sword and led the way, cutting at the first
image of his son. Even though the visions of his wife helped remind
him that this was not the true Anduin, he stil cringed as

Shalamayne cleaved through and the figure vanished.

And that, they al knew, was also a part of the Nightmare’s
insidious intentions. Strip away the defenders’ morale.

But under the king’s guidance, the dreamform legions continued
to press. There were costly hesitations along the way, but they
could not be helped. Varian and Brol could only pray that seeing
one’s loved one madly attacking them over and over would not
wear down the brave souls.

Then, a garbled cry arose from one of the defenders. Varian
glanced to his side in time to see one of his own soldiers from

Stormwind—his dreamform a paling green—clutch at his own
throat. The stricken fighter dropped his weapon, which, also being
a dreamform representation, faded away. With a last gasp, the
soldier keeled over.

His dreamform dissipated before it could even strike the ground.

There was no doubt in Varian’s mind that the man had not simply
woken up, but rather died…

A second fighter, a gruff orc warrior, grabbed at his stomach,
then, like the human, tumbled over and faded away.

As a third perished, Varian desperately reached out for answers
from Brol . To his surprise, however, a different voice, a different
creature, touched his thoughts.

I am Hamuul, King Varian Wrynn…you must beware…the

Nightmare now strikes against us in Azeroth in a manner that
should not be possible…

What do you mean? the lord of Stormwind demanded. Two
more of his army dropped. The others were beginning to take
notice of the mysterious, debilitating threat in their very midst.

The sleepwalkers are attacking the slumbering bodies of
those who make up your host…and somehow are causing your
fighters’ dreamforms to perish at the same time as their physical
shells…again, it should not happen so! The dreamforms should
remain “alive”…

The king bitterly recal ed the nightmarish figures assaulting his
men prior to Malfurion Stormrage’s summons. He had feared that
they would turn upon the stil , helpless bodies of the defenders and
no w that nightmare had come to pass, with results even more
terrible than he had imagined.

What do you suggest?

We must continue to fight… replied Hamuul. We must continue
to fight…

Where is Broll? Varian asked…but the tauren did not say.

Another orc warrior col apsed and vanished. Varian let out a
growl of exasperation and did as Hamuul bade. He had no choice.

None of them had a choice.

Where is Broll? he continued to wonder as he desperately
slashed again at his son and wife. And where is Malfurion

Stormrage?

They stepped out into what was clearly not any land near Teldrassil
and Darnassus. A corrupted Remulos had used his new master’s
power to drag himself and Malfurion far through the

Dream/Nightmare.

Tyrande peered around, stunned. “Mal, where are we? Where is
this desolation?”

The archdruid did not immediately answer, instead seeing to the
unconscious Remulos first. When it was clear that the forest
guardian was stil out, Malfurion shifted to his true form, then
surveyed what he could of their surroundings. The mists of the

Nightmare were strong here, but there was something vaguely
familiar about where they had stepped out. He was not surprised to
find them near this place, considering that it coincided with the area

Remulos had brought him, and had actual y wanted to reach it…but
like Tyrande, the desolation struck him hard.

“Close to where we must be, unfortunately,” the archdruid
cryptical y replied. Indeed, now was the moment he had been
waiting for, but not al those he needed—whether they wished to be
a part of his plan or not—were where they had to be.

He looked again to Remulos. The catatonic presence of

Cenarius’s son was something for which he had not planned.

“Tyrande, can you see that he is protected? We may have to leave
him here for a time…”

Malfurion did not add that the last was based on the assumption
that they survived what was to come. If not…it would not matter
where Remulos lay.

The high priestess bowed her head and prayed. A moment later,

Elune’s soft light came down, piercing the mists. It settled on

Remulos, draping him like a protective blanket. The forest guardian
was completely covered.

“This wil do him as good as anything,” she solemnly promised.

At that moment, a voice he had been anxiously waiting to hear
from briefly touched his thoughts. I have a pair of roving fools for
you…

They are not fools…any more than you, Eranikus…

The green dragon’s tone radiated his disagreement with

Malfurion. I was a fool long before you contacted me in secret
while the cartographer rode upon my back! I was a fool to agree
to any plan…and yet, I could not refuse…if only on the slim
chance it could help rescue her…

The archdruid had to push beyond Eranikus’s self-
recriminations and fast. Each moment meant that Xavius might
divine his plan. You have both Lucan and Thura with you…see
now where I need them to go…

After a moment Eranikus responded with a mocking grunt, Ah,
the irony! They were very near where you desired…indeed, the
human still babbles about the “thing” in some fissure—

No more! Malfurion warned. I will speak with them…

The archdruid reached out to the pair simultaneously. They were
both startled, though Thura only momentarily. There was much
bitterness in her mind at how he had used her. Though he had not
had any choice, Malfurion radiated his sorrow for not only doing
that, but being forced to demand more of them now. He quickly
explained what he desired, incorporating factors both good and il
that his original plan had not contained.

They accepted his words in part for the same reason that

Eranikus had…because to not accept was to welcome the

Nightmare’s victory. Stil , there was courage behind that
acceptance and Malfurion was grateful for it.

Only the green dragon was any question to the archdruid. Yet

Eranikus promised to do his part…so long as the night elf proved
himself able to do his own.

That left only Brol . It had taken mere seconds for al to pass
between Malfurion and the others. Now he reached out to Brol ,
pul ing him from the battle and leaving Hamuul in his place as guide
between the Al iance and Horde elements that made up those led
by King Varian and Azeroth’s druidic defenders.

I hear you, my shan’do… Brol replied.

You are beyond being my student anymore, Malfurion
reprimanded. No student could I dare ask what I must ask you
now!

I’ll do whatever you say.

Another who believed so much in Malfurion that it made the
archdruid sad. Many had already died because of what needed to
be done and many more likely would.

He explained what he needed and received immediate
assurance from Brol . Hamuul could be trusted to keep matters
coordinated with King Varian and the others. The tauren would
make certain that the efforts by the defenders would not flag.

They dared not…not even though it was very likely that, by
themselves, al those whom Malfurion had gathered would prove
insufficient to stop the evil tide.

And so, with the others hopeful y soon where he needed them,

Malfurion at last knew that he had to tel Tyrande where they were.

“This region looks much different now, but you must recal it.”

The high priestess had been studying their surroundings during
his brief contact with the others. Her expression had grown more
and more troubled.

“I cannot shake a feeling…” Tyrande looked into his eyes, her
own growing as wide as saucers. “Malfurion, this is not where—but

Suramar was taken—”

“Yes,” he murmured. “We are in Azshara…at the edge of what
was once Zin-Azshari.”

The high priestess shuddered, then her resolve steeled. “Where
do we go?”

The archdruid pointed to her right. There, some jagged hil s
could just be made out in the mist. The smel of the sea—the Coral

Sea, they both knew—permeated the air and in the distance they
could hear the crash of waves against the great cliffs overlooking
the dark expanse of waters. Waters where far in the past the
legendary night elf capital and the Wel of Eternity had existed.

Tyrande nodded, then frowned. “He should have been pul ed into
the sea with the rest of it, Malfurion…”

The archdruid’s gaze narrowed in thought. “Yes…he should
have been.”

Expression grimly set, she started toward the hil s. However,

Malfurion seized her arm. “No, Tyrande…this must be done
differently.”

He threw aside the spear. Then, from his belt, the night elf
removed what little bit remained of the branch that he had broken
off. Malfurion had placed it there just before fol owing Remulos.

To her surprise, he then sat down.

“Mal! Have you gone mad?”

“Listen to me,” he urged. “Watch me close. I must do something
that may put me at great risk, but it needs to be done if the others
are to play their part. Be wary…he could easily choose that time to
strike us down.”

She eyed the mist. “It’s very quiet here.”

“And that is when the danger is greatest.” Setting himself into a
meditative position, Malfurion shut his eyes. “If I do this right, it wil
take only a moment.”

Exhaling, the archdruid concentrated. Despite his concerns, he
quickly began to sink into the state he required.

That which had once been the glorious Emerald Dream greeted
him. Malfurion darted forward. His goal lay just ahead.

A shadow moved. It was not one of the satyrs, however, but
rather that of the huge, wicked tree with the skeletal branches.

I have awaited your return…

He said nothing to the Nightmare Lord. Only a few yards
remained—

The ground erupted. Malfurion’s dreamform was thrown back.

He kept his one hand tightly closed as he battled for balance.

The shadow limbs grabbed for him. Simultaneously, from the
ground there issued forth grotesque figures, al of whom were
recognizable to the archdruid as those whom he had known during
the War of the Ancients.

Come join us…come join us… they echoed in his head.

Although he knew that they were phantasms, such was the
power of his adversary that Malfurion had to struggle to remember
that. Such visions had been what had initial y set the night elf off
guard enough for Xavius to capture him.

“Not this time,” Malfurion muttered. The archdruid clamped both
hands together and molded what he held in his palms.

From Malfurion’s hands sprouted a long, silver staff. The
shadow tree recoiled. Yet it was not the staff alone that caused the
archdruid’s foe to be taken aback, it was that the staff had been
formed from the very essence of the true tree that was Xavius, the

Nightmare Lord. Malfurion, with his ancient knowledge and long
practice, had brought a part of the physical world with him when he
had entered by dreamform. It had taken much strain, but the need
was there.

Raising the staff above his head, Malfurion spun it around and
around. Emerald and gold streaks of energy flew from the tips. The
streaks ate away at the mist.

“From what has stolen the Dream wil come its salvation!” the
archdruid proclaimed.

The macabre branches of the shadow tree receded further into
the mist. Malfurion pressed toward it.

The ghastly visions of his past swarmed him, but the staff cut
through them as if they were air. They vanished with terrible sighs.

He came within sight of the ax but did not go near it. Rather,

Malfurion continued after the shadow of the tree.

But the Nightmare Lord was no longer retreating. Xavius
perhaps sensed what Malfurion had known from the beginning.

One long, bony shadow darted forth from the tree. The shadow
limb sought the archdruid’s chest. Malfurion had no choice but to
defend. Staff and shade met in a brief, dark flash.

A tiny bit of the shadow fel away from the limb, immediately
dissipating. Yet in the night elf’s head, Xavius chuckled. The

Nightmare Lord knew that he could not destroy what had been
drawn from his physical essence, but neither was it sufficient to
cause him harm.

The end of this little drama draws near, Xavius mocked. And
all you can do is fail and fail and fail, Malfurion Stormrage…

The shadow suddenly expanded over the archdruid’s view. The
silhouettes of the skeletal branches again raked at Malfurion. One
drew near the night elf’s chest.

Malfurion took the staff and drove it point first down upon the
shadow. However, his strike missed and instead he buried the tip in
the ground.

The branches sought to crush him in their grip. They failed, but

Malfurion released his grip on the staff.

Xavius’s laughter came from everywhere. The shadows
surrounded the archdruid.

Malfurion vanished—and woke.

But it was to find that the situation on Azeroth was little better.

“Mal! Praise Elune!” Tyrande cried.

Al around them dark, massive tendrils thrust from the parched
ground, racing toward where Tyrande had watched over a
meditating Malfurion. They sought the archdruid and the high
priestess like hungry leeches. Malfurion counted more than a
dozen, with others adding to their number from the great fissures
that now opened up.

Tyrande fended them off as best she could, the light of Elune
having been shaped into a weapon resembling her favored glaive.

The agile warrior leapt between the seeking tendrils—some as
thick as the trunks of oaks—and threw the deadly weapon. It sliced
at whatever drew too near her and Malfurion, then returned to her
for another expert toss. In seconds, several severed pieces lay
scattered around her, yet the archdruid noted that none of the main
tendrils looked impaired.

He saw why a moment later when she managed to cut off
another piece. The tendril immediately sealed over its wound and
regrew its tip.

“Pul back!” Malfurion shouted to Tyrande.

But in her determination to protect both of them, the high
priestess final y made a misstep. One of the tendrils seized her leg
and sought to drag her toward a steaming fissure.

Malfurion threw himself to her side, but the tendril proved
stronger than both combined. Tyrande’s legs slipped into the
fissure. She clutched at Malfurion as he tried to keep her from
being pul ed into the dark depths.

Slipping one hand to the offending tendril, the archdruid
discovered that though it was of the plant world, it was also
something more. He could not help but glance up in what he thought
the direction of its true source. Even now it was impossible to see
from whence what were not tendrils, but rather roots originated.

When Malfurion had been a prisoner of the Nightmare Lord, he
had used his captivity to create roots that had stretched long
enough to serve his purpose. Xavius, trapped as a tree for ten
thousand years, had evidently done the same, only on a far more
elaborate scale.

His roots stretched for miles around. Moreover, their mobility
gave some hint as to how the tree could be where it was, instead of
at the bottom of the sea where it belonged.

There was no time to cast a proper spel , no time to push
against Xavius from a distance. Malfurion sought for assistance
from Azeroth itself, but at first found only dead soil. There was
nothing in it, no insects, no plant life…nothing. Xavius had fed on
everything living in order to grow stronger, deadlier. The final, most
visible part of the devastation had surely taken place only recently,
though, for someone would have noted the dead land. The

Nightmare Lord had been clever, likely eating his way up from
beneath through his deadly roots, then finishing the rest when
final y ready to strike.

And Xavius had been able to do al this in great part because of
what he had been made into by Malfurion.

Both he and Tyrande struggled to keep her from not only being
dragged under, but from the pair also being assailed by more roots.

Malfurion managed to deflect them, but knew that the Nightmare

Lord was inexorably pul ing the high priestess deeper.

The archdruid thrust deeper with his mind, seeking the life that
had to be somewhere. He refused to believe that Xavius had made
a wasteland of this entire region, especial y having done so slowly
and in secret.

But what Malfurion found instead was something even more
shocking than what Xavius had done to their surroundings. It was
an evil so intense, so monstrous, that it nearly caused him to lose
his grip on Tyrande. Only his love for her kept the archdruid from
failing. Yet another piece of the puzzle fel into place. Now it was
clear how Xavius’s location had come to change.

Something wel ed up inside Malfurion. He sought again for

Azeroth’s life forces and final y found them. The archdruid drew
upon them.

Thunder roiled. The ground shook anew.

Lightning suddenly flashed farther ahead, in the direction the

Nightmare Lord truly lay.

The roots released Tyrande. However, the ground began to seal
shut. Malfurion barely tugged her free before her legs would have
been crushed by the fissure’s sealing.

The pair half-dragged one another from the region of the tremor.

The ground shook and high hil s were created by col iding ground
and rock.

“What is happening?” Tyrande shouted.

“There are two forces battering against one another! One
comes from the Nightmare!”

“And the other?”

He did not answer her, though he knew the truth. Somehow,

Malfurion had stirred up Azeroth as he never had before. It was
fighting back against the evil that was Xavius.

No…the archdruid frowned. That was more than Xavius.

They ran until they could run no more. Behind them, great
upheavals of land continued. Now it was not merely the mists that
obscured much of what lay ahead, but immense clouds of dust and
vapor.

And stil it went on.

But though Malfurion had raised up a force that astounded even
him, he felt no sense of hope. In delving deep near the fissures,

Malfurion had gone farther than he had thought. He had not only
touched near Azeroth’s core, but also touched the place from
which Xavius truly drew his sinister power. A place beyond both the
mortal world and the Emerald Dream, but infesting both of them.

And in that foul place, he sensed something incredibly ancient

—and
somehow familiar —to him. The hardened archdruid
shuddered.

There was another, darker force behind the Nightmare Lord…

27

INTO THE EYE

Humans, elves of different natures, orcs, dwarves, trol s, tauren, gnomes, draenei, undead, and more continued to struggle against a tide that proved relentless. Warriors, druids, magi, priests—they and those of other cal ings added each of those skil s that made their particular path a worthy addition to the defenders’

force.

Varian’s dreamform army continued to sacrifice itself at the forefront, striking down the endless enemy and
perishing not only by the satyrs’ claws but also the increasing deaths of their physical hosts. Hamuul, who monitored al this, pondered hard on why the dreamforms did not live on despite the deaths of their physical
bodies—as happened with druids—and could only assume that the Nightmare’s terrible magic flowed from those kil ing blows back in Azeroth into the dreamforms by the inherent link between the two parts of each victim.

The druids fed their spel s into the onslaught. Here, seeds exploded into cleansing silver fire. There, other
druids in bear, cat, or other fearsome shapes used their magic-enhanced claws, teeth, and even roars to wreak what havoc they could on the servants of the darkness.

But stil the tide slowed, stal ed…and began to shift.

And then both those who remained on Azeroth or fought in the other realm discovered the next wave of evil.

From the mists in either plane marched armies composed of shadow-possessed drakonid, lesser drakes…and
other corrupted dragons.

Then…then came something that no druid, not even Malfurion could have expected.

The barrier between the Emerald Dream/Nightmare and Azeroth began to break down…and the two slowly
started to meld into one.

The seemingly impossible melding caught Eranikus by surprise. He briefly lost control, then battled to both regain it and keep Thura and Lucan with him.

But as the dragon struggled, Lucan heard a voice cal ing out. It was not necessarily to him, but to anyone
who would listen. There was something familiar about it, something that reminded him of those lost days when
his slumber and his dreams had been gentle. He was drawn to it…

And, without thinking, he slipped from Eranikus’s back. Yet he did not fal . Instead, Lucan dropped only a foot or two in the air, then felt as if something invisible tugged him along. Eranikus and Thura vanished—

And a moment later, the cartographer reappeared in an area most definitely part of the Nightmare. The shrieks and gibbering assailed his ears. Horrific shapes moved in the mists around him…yet they no longer
disturbed Lucan so much. He picked himself up off the vermin-infested ground—ground that should have been
hundreds of feet below the dragon and his riders and yet now was not.

Then…Lucan realized that there was something just ahead of him in the mists, something that, even though
it lay in the midst of the Nightmare, stil inexplicably fil ed him with some hope.

Daring the dangers of the Nightmare, he ran toward the sight. As he neared, he marveled at his find. The
structures—an arrangement of vast domes—had not been built by men. They were too perfect. While he could
not be certain from his angle, the “smal er” domes seemed to flank or surround an even greater one that, despite the foulness of the Nightmare, retained a wondrous golden color that strangely comforted him.

The cartographer was drawn to the golden dome. Despite his previous weariness, he picked up his pace.

Lucan became so focused on the golden dome that he now barely even noticed the Nightmare. He only knew
that he had to reach the structure.

How long it took him to reach it, the cartographer could not say nor did he care. A few minutes, hours…time
meant nothing. Al that mattered was that at last he came to the entrance…only to find it sealed by a darkness that he recognized as from the Nightmare.

The foul discovery brought him back to his true circumstances and almost made Lucan turn and run away
again…but then he sensed that what had drawn him to this ethereal place was inside.

And it needed him…

The beating of wings from another direction made him suddenly dart around to the side of the structure. No
sooner had he done so than a massive shape loomed overhead.

Though Lucan would have thought it impossible for him to identify any dragon by face, he was certain that it
was the one cal ed Lethon. The dark-scaled leviathan, his ghostly form shimmering with the same sickly green
glow of the Nightmare, peered around as if suspicious.

The black, bottomless pits that were Lethon’s eyes turned in Lucan’s direction. The gaze stopped just short
of where the human hid.

Lethon snorted, then departed the area.

The dragon vanished in the distance. Letting out a sigh, the harried cartographer leaned against the wal .

The wal shimmered.

He fel through.

Yet it was not into a room that he ended up, but rather a swirling mass of constantly bombarding magical forces that left him spinning out of control as he flew through it. Worse, Lucan felt his strength also beginning to fail him. He knew that soon he would not even have enough to stay conscious.

Be at ease, young Lucan…I will stave off the effects long enough…I hope…

He knew the voice, knew it even before his body turned in the direction of the source.

As with the human, the great dragon Ysera floated in the midst of the churning forces, albeit clearly more
assailed by them. Her wings were spread wide and she was surrounded by a very thin emerald-green aura that
constantly flickered, as if seeking to vanish. The long sleek dragon’s eyes were shut tight, but she seemed to see him nonetheless.

Lucan sensed that the dragon was far from helpless, despite her captivity. She was stil fighting—

But that was wrong. He had seen her utterly defeated. The Nightmare had taken her, bent her to its wil …

Trust only lies to come from the Nightmare and its lord, Ysera answered to his unspoken question. I am a prisoner, yes, but with some resistance…though fading, I admit…

What is this place? he silently asked.

Her head twisted to the side. Long ago, when Azeroth was new and we were first sent to protect it and the

Emerald Dream, those of my flight honored me by naming the field and that created within it the Eye of

Ysera…this became the place from which we watched over everything… Her expression saddened. Now, through Lethon’s betrayal…it has become my prison…

The Great Aspect suddenly rumbled in pain. Her body shook and for a breath became as that of a ghost.

Though the effort was futile, Lucan yet reached out a hand to try to comfort Ysera.

The line between the embattled Dream and Azeroth is blurring! she proclaimed in terrible worry. Though I still fight, they are quicker and quicker leeching my will and adding my powers to the destruction of all!

What can we do? the cartographer pleaded.

Drawing from what strength remained to her, Ysera replied, Know the truth, Lucan Foxblood…I have been
aware of you since Eranikus found you when you were an infant…I decided to see what could become of
your unique birth…if anything…even Eranikus did not know…he simply acted as I knew his heart would make him…

Lucan gaped. To his tired mind, the Aspect could have prevented al his troubles, kept him from this ability he had—

There was nothing I could do to change the circumstances of your birth, but perhaps…I acted with hubris
in not giving you some…some sort of protection from early on… Ysera gasped again, then continued, But there is no time for thinking of the past…I have been attempting to…to contact another…and nearly given
up hope…but your very uniqueness may help me to reach him after all…

Me? What can I do?

Again, the dragon suffered great agony and al but faded. We are—reaching the point of no return! she managed at last. You may be the way to circumvent the Nightmare’s spells that keep me from
communicating with Malfurion Stormrage…

Malfurion? I’ll do anything, if it can help, even if it costs me my own life! the cartographer responded. He realized that he meant it. What was his life, if al else fel to the Nightmare?

Let us hope it does not come to that, the Aspect commented, again appearing to read his thoughts. Eyes stil shut, she added, Are you certain, Lucan Foxblood? Are you certain you understand the risk to you?

He nodded.

I will seek to be as gentle as possible…

Ysera opened her eyes. Her gaze met the human’s.

To the human, it was as if every dream that he had ever had began again. The eyes of Ysera carried within
them a kaleidoscope of images al tied to Lucan…and every other creature that dreamed. He became a part of
each one of those dreams and by doing so opened up the most hidden parts of his subconscious to the dragon

…

Lucan Foxblood stared in awe as he was engulfed by the Aspect’s wil .

• • •

We must return to Azeroth, Varian warned Hamuul. Tell Malfurion Stormrage it must be so! They strike our bodies down even as we fight them here!

The tauren acknowledged his words but did not otherwise reply. However, he immediately sought for Malfurion, seeking to warn him of the looming disaster.

Hamuul’s concern reached Malfurion even as the night elf came to grips with the truth behind Xavius’s astounding power. He had felt that ancient evil before and could never forget it. Smal wonder that Xavius had accomplished so much; an even greater darkness worked through him.

But Malfurion stil kept his wits about him, aware that to lose al hope was to lose everything. He listened as Varian’s demand was relayed through Hamuul to him. The archdruid understood what the king desired and why.

Malfurion cursed himself for having al owed it to happen; he had feared that Xavius would do just what he had

—strike the unprotected mortal forms of the defenders.

As he drew Tyrande back, he told her what was happening and what he had to do. She nodded
understanding, though her face fil ed with dread for al of them and pity for al that Malfurion had taken upon his own shoulders.

“Are we lost, then?” the high priestess bluntly asked, clearly having considered matters as he had. “Is al Azeroth lost?”

Before he could answer, another voice touched his thoughts, a voice he had prayed constantly that he would
hear before it was too late.

Malfurion Stormrage…can you hear my words?

Mistress?

Yes…it is Ysera…listen to me…see me…

A living image suddenly fil ed his mind. He saw Ysera in her confinement, the Aspect struggling to hold back
her ful abilities from being utilized by Xavius and his secret master.

And in seeing that, Malfurion came to a realization about his foes and their nature. He understood that he
had been about to make a critical mistake.

You see the truth, then…

Malfurion did…he also sensed that he was not alone with her in this conversation. There were two others.

One was the human, Lucan, who somehow acted as Ysera’s means by which to at least bypass her
imprisonment enough to speak.

The other—the other was not supposed to be a part of this, but he had somehow sensed the communication

…sensed it and been driven to fury by the discovery.

It is you! I felt it immediately! They keep you at the Eye! I should’ve known! The audacity…and the foolishness of them in the end…

Eranikus. Malfurion sensed that he had just set Thura down near where Brol would find her. Now, though,
having sensed his queen’s desperate contact with the archdruid, there was but one pressing thought in the male dragon’s head…to free her.

Heed me, my mate, Ysera pleaded, seeking to stop him. Your place is with the efforts of Malfurion—

No! I will save you! Eranikus interrupted, his words coming so forceful y that they gave Malfurion and Lucan pounding heads. I swear so!

Ysera forbade him, but Eranikus refused to listen. Malfurion, caught between conflicting choices in the matter, started to speak with the male. However, before he could, a hand violently shook him, breaking contact.

“Mal! Beware!” Tyrande cried.

He focused on his surroundings again.

Shadow satyrs were everywhere.

No…these were not shadows. They were very solid, very real. These were living satyrs, including those of

Queen Azshara’s Highborne servants who had fol owed Xavius into damnation. Seduced by the power the reborn Xavius had wielded, they had given up their handsome forms for these monstrous ones, al to serve the
ultimate cause of the Burning Legion’s lord, Sargeras.

And their numbers seemed endless. Malfurion was stunned. Clearly, al this time, the satyrs had been hiding
the truth, no doubt gathering in long preparation for these dire events.

My children have awaited their chance for glory! the Nightmare Lord gleeful y mocked. I have deigned to grant them such…

The satyrs had horns and though their faces retained most of their original features from before their corruption, there was a bestial touch to the demons’ expression. Savage grins revealed sharp teeth. Coarse
brown fur covered their arms, backs, and hooved legs. They had shaggy manes and beards that added to their
grotesque appearance and their eyes had a foul green cast.

It is him, indeed! Xavius declared to the oncoming satyrs. The cursed Malfurion Stormrage…

Several of the satyrs let out howls of anticipation as they charged the pair.

Tyrande took up a stand in front of the archdruid and threw the moonlight glaive.

“I know that you must focus on the true battle!” The high priestess shouted as the spinning weapon slashed
through the first of the satyrs. The three sharp blades cut deep into two of the sinister creatures before returning to her. The glaive’s victims fel , the upper halves of their torsos nearly severed from the bottoms.

The merciless and efficient strike caused the satyrs to falter somewhat as they tried to divine how best to
get around Tyrande and the deadly blades.

But Malfurion did not want to leave her to face them by herself. “You can’t hold them al off!”

“With the others’ help, perhaps I can at least delay long enough!”

Before Malfurion could ask who she meant, Tyrande brought the glaive up in a salute and murmured something in the hidden tongue of the Sisterhood. At that moment, the satyrs regained their courage and charged.

The Mother Moon’s light shone down in front of Malfurion, bathing both Tyrande and the areas to each side.

As Malfurion stared, a line of glowing figures somewhat resembling priestesses in battle garb took up a stand
with Tyrande. Indeed, each even bore some resemblance to her.

Tyrande had prayed to Elune for aid and it had come as she needed it, in the forms of guardians created
from the moonlight. With glaives, bows, swords, lances, maces, staves, and other weapons, the gleaming line
decimated the foremost satyrs. Yet more continued to pour forward.

Malfurion did not remain idle while Tyrande and those she summoned defended him. Aware that she was correct in her assumption that he had to focus on the true battle, Malfurion turned his attention on two things.

The first was to reinforce his original decision upon Varian and Hamuul. The Nightmare must be fought in
the Dream! he pressed. The core of the Nightmare’s strength comes from the sleeping and from what it has thus far managed to tear from Ysera! Force it to draw its power there to defend itself!

To their credit, they acquiesced. Stil feeling guilty that so many would likely perish despite this being the best hope, Malfurion then reached out to Brol .

Have you found Thura?

Brol Bearmantle’s response was immediate. Yes, Shan’do! But she’s not able to fight effectively here! Let’s return her to Azeroth, then—

No…you know what I need her to do.

As with Hamuul and King Varian, Brol agreed.

Malfurion looked to Tyrande again. She stood defiant against the odds, just as she had so often during the

War of the Ancients. Face so very dark—the night elf version of being flushed—she threw the glaive again and
again. The gleaming weapon severed limbs, cut deep into chests, and even removed the head of one satyr.

But the archdruid noted that the moonlight around her had grown slightly dimmer and as it did, so dimmed

Elune’s guardians beside her. It was not merely physical foes that the high priestess battled; Xavius was feeding his gathered power into the satyrs, strengthening especial y those that fought Tyrande. She was the nexus around which the guardians drew their substance. If she fel , they would quickly dissipate.

Malfurion turned to the second of his problems. He quickly sought out the mind of the male dragon.

Eranikus! Think this through!

No! I will not leave the Eye without her!

The night elf’s view shifted. Malfurion saw through Eranikus’s gaze as the Aspect’s consort descended. The
dragon was nearly at his destination.

The Eye was not as the archdruid recal ed it. Even as Eranikus approached, its appearance wavered. The
structures became jagged, toothy things that looked ready to impale the dragon. The buildings began to change
places with one another.

They can’t fool me! Eranikus said to him. Hide her in a thousand such places and they will fail! She and I are linked again and this time nothing will ever sever the bond! I will always find her!

Be wary! Malfurion cal ed futilely.

Eranikus dove toward the least impressive of the structures. As he did, it suddenly began to grow.

You see? he said triumphantly. She is in the great building, though they tried their best to make it look other—

Malfurion, paying more attention to matters in the Eye beyond that of Ysera, noted a shift in the Nightmare.

Eranikus—

Lethon materialized above the fixated dragon, then dropped upon him.

Welcome back, brother Eranikus! he mocked as his talons dug into the other leviathan. The corrupted dragon sent entrails of dark green energy into Ysera’s consort.

Eranikus shrieked as his body pulsated madly. His scaled hide twisted and shifted as if some great worm
bore through flesh and bone and sought to now burst to the surface.

Your greatest nightmare comes true… Lethon cooed. Welcome back to the fold…

Malfurion sought to maintain a link to Eranikus’s mind, but although he managed to do that, the link was so
weak that he could not sense what, if anything, the dragon thought. Moreover, none of his attempts to make

Eranikus understand him succeeded, either. The archdruid feared that Lethon spoke true; Malfurion was wel
aware of Eranikus’s dread concerning once more becoming one of the corrupted.

Indeed, the dragon moaned loudly as the foul energies of the Nightmare sank into him. Although stil aloft,

Eranikus curled as much as possible into a bal .

And then, with a raging roar, let loose his own power upon Lethon.

Caught overconfident, the corrupted behemoth hurtled back as the attack struck. With a painful roar of his
own, Lethon went spiraling from the Eye of Ysera.

Again without hesitation, Eranikus returned his attention to where his queen was imprisoned. He sank al four
sets of claws into the structure.

The prison shimmered. The green dragon was assailed by more of the Nightmare’s taint. Eranikus’s shape
twisted, perverted, as the corruption sought to overwhelm him. Yet he steadfastly held on, pouring his own might into the edifice.

Already focused on so many directions, Malfurion could do little, but he gave Ysera’s consort what support
he could. Between the two of them, the spread of the taint toward the male dragon halted.

The prison shook. The attack on Eranikus abruptly ceased. The leviathan let out a triumphant growl.

But then a powerful force ripped him from Ysera’s prison. Lethon, aglow with the Nightmare’s awful energies,
swooped down to batter his adversary.

Malfurion tried to help Eranikus regain his momentum, but the dragon now refused his aid, shouting in the
archdruid’s head, No! She’s nearly free! I’ll hold him off while you finish it!

The night elf could not argue. Freeing Ysera was far more important. She was the mistress of the Emerald

Dream, bound to it and versed in its very essence. The Nightmare needed her to strengthen its connection to
the Emerald Dream in order to manipulate its magic even more. Whatever the cost, Ysera had to be freed; the
act would surely weaken the Nightmare’s hold and, thus, further the defenders’ chances. Indeed, Malfurion could now sense the Aspect herself testing her weakened cel . Eranikus was correct; there was far greater hope now of success.

Concentrating, the archdruid attempted to draw from both Azeroth and the stricken Emerald Dream as much
as he could. He was surprised at how easy those forces, especial y from the latter realm, came at his request.

Then Malfurion decided that it could not be by his doing alone; Ysera had to be assisting somehow.

As he struggled alongside the Aspect to free her, Malfurion felt Eranikus’s battle continue. The two dragons
grappled, their power washing over one another. Neither at first seemed to have the upper hand, though the
night elf feared that before long their surroundings would final y grant that to the corrupted beast.

He felt Ysera pushing harder from within. Yet her concern was not for herself, but rather her consort, Malfurion, and Lucan.

Save him first, for he is not bound by any of the Nightmare’s spells as I am, she commanded of Malfurion, indicating the human. Although he had been able to enter the golden dome, it seemed that now Lucan was too
exhausted to make use of his odd abilities. His rescue was the least of problems for Malfurion, who was able to bring the cartographer back to Azeroth and near where Hamuul stood.

Ysera pressed harder. The barrier weakened. Malfurion could feel it straining…

No…not quite! Lethon, manipulating the powers of his master, nearly crushed the efforts of the pair.

Malfurion’s mind became awash in fear-stirring images of al his actions creating greater disaster for those he sought to protect. The archdruid knew that they were nightmares raised up by the darkness, but it took tremendous effort to not only deny them but stil maintain the assault on the Aspect’s cel .

Lethon abruptly cried out. Through his own thoughts, Malfurion caught images of a very scarred, half-distorted Eranikus gripping his corrupted counterpart through both claw and magic. Eranikus had clearly been
much ravaged by the other, but sheer determination for the moment swayed the fight to his direction.

But that could surely not last long. Reluctantly, Malfurion started to abandon the efforts to free Ysera.

NO!! Eranikus thundered in his head. She must be saved! I will finish with Lethon!

Lethon apparently caught this, for the tainted behemoth laughed at such hubris. The power of the Nightmare
fil ed him. He was now larger than the consort.

It is you who are finished, Eranikus! Give in to the Nightmare! Let it embrace you! The walls between

Azeroth and here are also weakening! Soon, I and the others like me will be able to fly Azeroth’s skies unimpeded…

Azeroth’s skies… Eranikus repeated.

A glow suddenly surrounded Ysera’s mate. The dragon’s face bore a grim aspect. At the same time, Lethon’s expression grew uncertain.

What do you do? he demanded of Eranikus.

But the other dragon said nothing. Instead, Malfurion sensed him drawing upon other energies. Only then did
the archdruid understand Eranikus’s ploy.

And as both titanic figures began to fade, so, too, did Lethon understand…but much too late. You can’t! Do this and you’ll destroy yourself, too! I swear! The instability will take you with me!

So be it, then, Malfurion heard Eranikus reply.

My mate! Ysera cal ed…but too late.

The Nightmare sought to make both this realm and Azeroth one. Then the power of this realm would be impossible to overcome.

But that shift had not yet completed…and here, in the vicinity of the Eye, a nexus of the Emerald Dream,

Malfurion saw that the shredding boundaries between the two realms were so unstable that to be at the center
was to invite annihilation.

Eranikus refused to release the corrupted creature. The pair crossed into the instability suddenly existing
between the two realms.

As Lethon had warned and Malfurion and Ysera feared, the desperate vil ain drew the power of his master
into himself in a futile attempt to avoid the inevitable, but it was too late.

The monster howled as he was torn asunder. The fearsome forces that he in turn had been summoning were unleashed.

A fiery maelstrom erupted where Lethon had been. That maelstrom swal owed up Eranikus, who made no
move to escape it.

The wild forces struck out everywhere. Malfurion felt Ysera urge him to do something to contain them. Not
certain what she expected of him, the archdruid nevertheless tried.

A desperate plan came to him. He managed to steer those energies to a chosen spot.

They struck Ysera’s prison, reducing the center of the Eye to nothing but vapor…and freeing at last Ysera.

Roaring her relief at her release, the mistress of the Emerald Dream rose above what remained of the place
of her confinement. An emerald aura surrounded her, an aura that briefly brightened the entire Eye.

But mists began converging on her, seeking to recapture. Ysera let out another roar and the aura trebled in
scope. Whatever it touched suddenly returned to the ful , lush life and beauty for which the Emerald Dream was known. The mists immediately retreated—

And in that precious moment, the Aspect vanished.

Malfurion no longer sensed her in the other realm. Instead, Ysera had retreated to Azeroth. Aware more than any how the bonds between the two places worked, she materialized near the druids fighting out of Darnassus.

Thank you…Malfurion Stormrage… she said with much sadness. You…and Eranikus…

He did what he had to, the archdruid replied quickly, honoring the male dragon’s sacrifice but aware of so many other sacrifices taking place even now. Stil , his hopes were high, now that the mistress of the Emerald

Dream was free, Xavius had no powerful captive. With Ysera’s power to guide them—

No—Malfurion—I fear—I fear that there is little I can offer you…the effort to keep the Nightmare from utterly using me has drained me more than—I—imagined…

The words so stunned Malfurion that he almost lost his link to the others. He had waited for this hope! What
power was greater than hers when it came to the Emerald Dream and the taint spreading through it? The only
reason that she had not been able to vanquish the Nightmare before had been due to his own foolish capture.

If not for Xavius being able to draw upon his meager abilities, none of this chaos would have happened—

Un-untrue, Malfurion! It was clearly an effort for Ysera to stay conscious. You know the forces at work here and how long that they have been in play!

But what does it matter? he retorted. If even you are not able to put an end to this, we are lost!

The Aspect was losing consciousness. It was al she could do simply to protect herself. There is hope…I am

…I am of the Emerald Dream…but you…you are of the Emerald Dream…and Azeroth! In that…there is a
chance—

What do you—

She broke contact. The Aspect had failed in her battle to remain conscious. The strain had been too much.

And as her thoughts vanished, the Nightmare Lord’s laugh seemed to echo in Malfurion’s head.

Ysera had left the fate of both realms to Malfurion…who had no idea what he could do.

28

BEFORE THE TREE

Brol Bearmantle struggled to keep Thura from racing ahead of him.

The orc insisted that she had to push on, even though they were in
possibly one of the worst places of al .

The night elf was here because Malfurion needed him here.

Malfurion had not said exactly why, but Brol trusted in his shan’do.

Stil , he wished he knew why the orc was also desired. Thura had
no useful weapon and her headstrong ways were going to get her
taken by the Nightmare.

“It’s this way!” she snarled, not for the first time. “This way!”

They had not been impeded other than by the cloying tendency
of the mists. Brol did not think that good fortune. The Nightmare
likely did not believe them much of a threat by themselves, and the
druid was inclined to share that opinion.

What are you planning, Malfurion? Brol wanted to know. What?

Ahead, the mist suddenly did a new and disturbing thing. It
receded. Not al of it, but a fairly wide path more than sufficient for
the pair to move side by side.

And Thura, of course, headed right into it.

“Hold back!” the druid cal ed.

But she ignored him, instead picking up her pace. “There it is!”

Brol , more concerned with their lives—and their spirits, should
the Nightmare take them—did not at first understand what she
wanted. Then he saw the ax.

The magical ax. Smal wonder that Thura wanted it. With the
weapon, she could confront the shadows and nightmares.

But the druid doubted that regaining the ax would prove so
simple as merely picking it back up.

Thura reached for it…and the ax flared emerald green.

At the same time there was a sound of rage. Brol spun, for the
rage came from al around them. At first he feared it some new
manifestation of his own, old rage, the raw fury that he had fought
and defeated only by great effort during a previous journey into the

Emerald Dream. However, almost immediately, the druid knew that
the rage had a different, more terrible source. The Nightmare Lord
was angry.

He could not understand why. The orc appeared either unable or
unwil ing to touch the ax now. That surely benefited the unseen evil.

“What’s wrong, Thura?” he muttered. “Is it that you can’t pick it
up? You won’t?”

The orc shook her head. She glanced back at the night elf,
revealing an expression of deep confusion. “I—I don’t know, druid

…I don’t…know…”

And even as she revealed that, the mist closed about them. Brol
sensed the Nightmare Lord’s anger focus upon them. Even though
it had clearly been able earlier to strip the ax from Thura, it
evidently could not use it. Thus, it had waited for someone it had
expected would be able to do so.

“You will wield it yet, orc,” came a voice that made the druid
shudder, for he knew who spoke. “And through you, this ax will
become our weapon instead…”

A great fist materialized out of the mists, a thing covered in
festering bark. Carrion bugs crawled over and into it. It struck Brol
hard in the side. He went tumbling from the orc.

Gnarl stepped forth from the hungry fog. The corrupted ancient
grinned. His eyes were the madly shifting colors of the Nightmare.

Jagged branch growths jutted al over his body and the wicked
leaves that Brol had seen in his early visions—Malfurion’s
attempts to reach out—now covered much of the creature.

“I won’t use such a weapon for you!” Thura roared defiantly.

“You will…” he responded, in a voice that was as much the

Nightmare Lord’s as it was Gnarl’s.

The ancient reached for her. Thura sought to move, but the
ground was again awash in the carrion bugs and the orc lost her
footing. As she fel , what first appeared to be black worms burst
from the ruined ground. Yet they were not worms but, rather, the
shadows of roots.

The roots of a skeletal tree.

But even though shadow, they sought to bind the orc as if strong
rope. She struggled.

Brol rose. He had constantly been expecting attack, though not
from Gnarl. That had enabled him to be in part ready. Stil , the strike
had momentarily knocked the air out of him.

He threw himself at the ancient, transforming in his leap to cat
shape. Even stil , he was a smal foe against Gnarl.

The corrupted ancient sought to swat him again, but Brol was
more dexterous. He twisted as he approached, sending himself
lower than the huge fist. Simultaneously, the druid raked his foe’s
nearest leg.

Gnarl bel owed in pain and anger. Forgetting Thura, he turned to
where the cat landed.

“The Dream and Azeroth will soon belong to the Nightmare…”

Gnarl/the Nightmare Lord rumbled. “And for you, night elf, there
will come a particularly dread, eternal vision…”

Shadow figures began to converge on the cat from al
directions. Brol peered past them to Thura. She kept one hand
free, a hand that was just within reach of the ax. If she could only
take it—

No! Brol would have realized the truth then even if he had not
just witnessed one shadow root avoid the lone free hand. The

Nightmare wants her to seize it without thinking!

The Nightmare could not for some reason take the weapon
itself, nor could any of its corrupted. However, it clearly thought that
it could make use of the ax through Thura once she had it.

He tried to warn her, but the shadows became satyrs who
swarmed him. Brol was buried under their evil. His last view was of

Gnarl turning to watch what Thura would do.

Shan’do! the druid cal ed out in his thoughts. Malfurion!

But there was no answer.

Malfurion heard Brol ’s warning and tried to respond, but only a
terrible emptiness greeted his attempt. At first, he feared that Brol
was dead…or, worse…but then the archdruid understood that the

Nightmare Lord was seeking to keep the two from contact. That
could only mean that Xavius had divined much of Malfurion’s
original intentions, which put what was left of the night elf’s ultimate
plan in jeopardy.

But then, Malfurion was not even certain if what remained had
ever had any hope. It had relied in part on the assumption that

Ysera would be there to coordinate it. As a student of the druidic
teachings and a seeker in the Emerald Dream, Malfurion had been
like the rest of his brethren in seeing in the Mistress of Dreams the
ultimate guiding force when it came to the intertwined natures of the
two realms.

Ysera was stil unconscious, though, and Malfurion knew that it
was not by any fault of her own.

Tyrande and the guardians continued to present an
impenetrable defense against the satyrs, whose bodies lay piled
three high in some places. Yet both she and the guardians glowed
far less now and some of the ethereal priestesses were very
transparent.

She was relying on him to save them. They were al relying on
him to save them. And though they did not understand it, he was
relying on them every bit as much. They were al needed if he was
to succeed, if he was to save Azeroth. Malfurion gritted his teeth
and reached out to one last hope.

He touched Alexstrasza’s thoughts, but any hope that she might
be of aid faded immediately. The dragon was under siege.

Fearsome energies assailed the portal from the other side, and for
brief moments a part of it sealed off, only to be opened anew by
the straining dragon’s efforts as she fought back the attempt by the

Nightmare Lord.

Malfurion wondered why sealing this last portal stil mattered so
much to Xavius. It seemed a smal thing now…

The Life-Binder al but threw her thoughts at the night elf. The
attack here has come with more and more fury! The Nightmare

Lord needs the portal sealed! It takes all my power to keep it
from succeeding! I can do nothing more for you!

He had not yet even asked, but she had known why he had
reached out to her. Confronted by yet another setback, Malfurion’s
resolve weakened.

The red dragon said something more, but now other voices in
his head were demanding to be heard. King Varian and his army
were in terrible straits, their physical selves fal ing more and more
prey to the Nightmare’s slaves on Azeroth. Brol ’s fate was stil a
mystery, and Hamuul managed only a brief alert that corrupted
servants of nature—ancients, dryads, and more—were pressing
the druids and Lucan, who stood wil ing to fight under the tauren’s
guidance.

Xavius—and the true lord of the Nightmare—were poised for
triumph.

And a more immediate aspect to that horrific possibility was
represented in Tyrande, who, in seeking to protect the one she not
only loved but believed was essential to Azeroth’s survival, was
now harried as never before. The high priestess dropped to one
knee as she fought to keep three satyrs from ripping her to shreds.

As she struggled, first one, then a second of the moonlight
guardians faded like so many of Malfurion’s hopes.

With savage abandon, the satyrs surged forth to take both

Tyrande and Malfurion.

The catastrophe overwhelming Azeroth and the Emerald Dream
was forgotten. Malfurion saw only that Tyrande was doomed unless
he did something. Nothing else mattered. In fact, at that moment,
he cared not a whit whether Azeroth, whether everything survived,
if it meant that she who he loved perished.

Guilt swel ed up within him, guilt such as he had not felt before.

Not for the first time, Malfurion saw in his mind al the trials through
which he had put Tyrande and how over and over she had stood
steadfast in her support of him. He also recal ed those few
precious times when they had been al owed peace and seclusion.

Malfurion especial y treasured the building of the night elves’ first
new capital after the War of the Ancients. Through his druidic skil s
and her prayers to Elune, they had fashioned a great, living pergola
at the center outwardly honoring their peoples’ new beginning, but
also secretly marking their own deep relationship. The oaks had
been encouraged to grow intertwining with flowered vines circling
around each part, then Elune’s power, through her high priestess,
had gifted them with a soft, white-blue glow that made the pergola
radiate a sense of calm to whoever passed underneath it.

It was a smal thing, a minor thing in the measure of their titanic
struggles through the ages, but perhaps that was why Malfurion
cherished it so much. It was something they had done together for
simple, pure reasons. They could have done much, much more
together, if not for him. She should have forever rejected him for al
the long absences he had so cal ously taken over the many
mil ennia…but she had not. Despite al her other duties—and they
were extraordinary—Tyrande had always been there waiting.

And now she would die because once again his duties had
taken precedence over her.

“Not this time…” the archdruid rumbled. “Never again!”

Hands clenched, Malfurion summoned up as best he could the
innate forces that he and Ysera had together gathered to help her
escape. A maelstrom of energies rose up from the ground, while
others descended from the hidden sky.

The ground swel ed. A forest of green burst up, enveloping both
the front lines of the satyrs and Tyrande. However, where the
fiends were swal owed up, the high priestess was softly carried
aloft by the sudden growth, then guided by sprouting branches
toward her love.

In devouring al he could from the land around him, Xavius had
left smal dried seeds from his many victims, things so
inconsequential that the Nightmare Lord had not even noticed
them. But Malfurion’s druidic powers had found them, no matter
how deep or long they had been buried. The archdruid had not only
resurrected their potential, he had unleashed it.

Where the forest had been gentle with Tyrande, it had dealt
sharp, harsh death to many of the satyrs. Dozens hung pierced,
impaled, for Malfurion had no time for niceties. They had perished
swiftly; that was the best he could give them.

Yet stil more came and Malfurion, fearing that they would stil
reach his beloved, asked of Azeroth more of its power. He reached
out to Teldrassil and even Nordrassil and, to both his relief and
tremendous gratitude, they, in turn, gave as he needed…even
though Nordrassil stil struggled to recover from the last war with
the Burning Legion.

Trebling in intensity, the wind shrieked loud and long. A score of
satyrs were blown into the deadly forest, joining their fel ows. At last
their ranks hesitated. This was not the easy victim that their “god”

had promised; this was the accursed one in strength as they could
not believe.

But in Malfurion’s eyes, this hesitation was not enough. They
had threatened Tyrande. He swept them back from where they
stood and brought Tyrande nearer.

But at that point the high priestess cal ed to him, “Worry not
about me! The others need you more!”

Malfurion did not lessen his efforts to protect her, but he
understood her meaning. Indeed, the very fact that he had
considered her life and hers alone of the most importance fil ed him
with a renewed sense of his own life, not the one that he had
dedicated to his world. He had found new strength in protecting that
thing most precious to Malfurion Stormrage the night elf, not the
great archdruid of legend.

As he had done with Azeroth, a steeled Malfurion now extended
his wil into the Emerald Dream and sought to draw more of its
essence in order to help stave off the Nightmare. When the

Emerald Dream gave to him as he asked, he was relieved. With its
added energies, the archdruid swept back the mists before

Varian’s dreamform army. The green fields grew anew.

Yet, of more significance, not only did the shadow creatures
fighting Varian’s force fade as the mist did, but so, too, did the
dream slaves. No longer did the defenders also battle the images
of their former comrades and loved ones. Like the shadows, it was
as if they had never existed.

A sensation coursed through Malfurion as the last happened, a
sensation of utter calm. He knew its source, knew that Tyrande
prayed to Elune to let the high priestess’s love in turn act as not
only shield for Malfurion, but also new resolve to aid him further.

The calm and the love with which Tyrande touched his heart gave

Malfurion the impetus to push even further beyond what he had
expected to be his limits. This time the archdruid extended his wil
into Azeroth and the Emerald Dream simultaneously.

It worked. With Tyrande’s presence and power reassuring him
within, rather than feel overwhelmed, the night elf actual y found
himself stronger and more refreshed as the two realms added
more to his attack.

He could not also help but final y turn his thoughts to Ysera,
certain that she also remained an integral part in enabling him to
cope with such power. But, to his astonishment, the gargantuan
dragon was stil in a dangerous state of exhaustion and pain and
certainly not aware enough to have been of any aid.

The discovery jolted Malfurion. The revelation meant that it was
only he and Tyrande who kept the Nightmare at bay here. That
should have been impossible—

The thought vanished as the ground under his forest churned.

The new trees and other remarkable plants that he had urged to
fruition were undermined.

Gargantuan red roots tore at the area, heaving up trees and
satyrs alike. Several of the trees went flying toward the archdruid.

Transforming to cat form, Malfurion nimbly leapt to avoid the
deadly rain. As he moved past Tyrande, she jumped atop. Although
the high priestess was very weary, she continued to use Elune’s
gift to protect them as best she could. Moonlight blinded the satyrs
pouring through the gaps made by the roots and kept the nearest
of the roots themselves at bay, if for a few critical moments.

The archdruid brought her to a place of temporary safety, then
reverted. “You need to leave.”

“Be sensible! Where would I go? Al Azeroth is under siege! If
the end is to come, then, by Elune, I wil be with you at the last! We
have lost too much time together!”

“And al of it my doing,” agreed Malfurion.

“That’s not what I—”

The ground thundered again. More roots shot up near their feet.

Tyrande quickly threw her glaive, which sliced the nearest root. The
effort left her gasping, but she did not falter.

Malfurion reached into his dwindling stock of herbs and
powders. He cast a fine spray of green spores at the encroaching
roots.

As the spores touched, the archdruid encouraged their activity.

Smal , burrowing tendrils blossomed from each. The spores began
dril ing into the roots.

The roots writhed as hundreds of holes developed. One root
dropped. From several of the holes dripped the thick, bloodlike
fluid.

But that same fluid fil ed the holes in the remaining roots. The
tiny, parasitic plants were cast out, their forms now shriveled.

Futile…it is all futile… Xavius echoed in his head. Everything is
becoming Nightmare…

It was true. No matter where Malfurion sought out some hope,
some help, he found none. King Varian’s army was losing. Brol
could not be found, and lost with him was the orc. Ysera was
unconscious, and Alexstrasza’s control over the one portal was
slipping. The Nightmare was everywhere, both in the Emerald

Dream and Azeroth. It was al lost—

Malfurion let out a roar…but one of anger, not despair.

“You nearly had me again, Xavius!” he shouted at his devious
foe. Despair and fear were the greatest weapons of the

Nightmare. Xavius—no doubt with the power of the ancient evil to
reinforce his wil —had fed Malfurion’s uncertainties wel . “But no
more!”

Tyrande gripped his shoulder. Her love amplified Elune’s gifts to
him. Glaring at his unseen foe, the archdruid cal ed upon the two
realms, seeing if they could grant him just a bit more strength.

He felt the additional energies flow into him. Malfurion focused
his wil .

The sky crackled with lightning, which struck the upturned soil.

The roots slithered back into their holes…

In Stormwind City, Orgrimmar, and other embattled capitals, the
winds picked up with a directed force, striking those that were a
threat and leaving untouched the sleeping fighters made
defenseless by Malfurion’s need for them in the Emerald Dream.

Yet the archdruid did what he could to protect those victims of the

Nightmare who now unwittingly served it. They were buffeted
together, packed so tight that they could bring no harm to each
other.

Yet the shadow satyrs, the mists, and the corrupted stil assailed
the dwindling defenders. And even though the living puppets had
been pushed back, their nightmares had substance in the Emerald

Dream and even upon the mortal plane. Xavius’s power had grown
that terrible.

Sweating from effort, Malfurion fought against al those aspects of
his foe. Winds arose everywhere, even the Emerald Dream.

Whether shadow or corrupted, the Nightmare’s servants were held
from advance.

But stil it was not quite enough.

“It wil never end unless I go to him!” Malfurion informed

Tyrande. “I must strike at the heart of the darkness…Xavius is the
key…without him, even the ancient evil behind his foul work cannot
hold the Nightmare together…”

The high priestess eyed the satyrs and the roots, which had not
given up their attempts to reach them. Only Malfurion’s constant
efforts kept them at bay. Tyrande hefted her weapon of moonlight.

“Very wel …let us begin…”

“You are not coming with—”

“I wil fol ow you. You cannot do this alone and you know that. It is
beyond merely you.”

She had the truth of it. It was not for him alone to either save the
world or fail. Surrendering, Malfurion turned to face their enemies.

“I do not deserve you.”

“No, you don’t,” she replied with a forced chuckle.

Inhaling, the archdruid stretched forth a single hand.

Wind and lightning attacked. Now rain also joined them.

The satyrs retreated. The roots sought in vain to avoid the
lightning and three were left burning hulks.

A way opened.

“Now!” Malfurion became a cat again. Tyrande mounted. The
archdruid raced on at breakneck speed, leaping atop and over the
ruined landscape. Satyrs lunged, only to have claws, entire limbs,
and even heads lopped off by the skil ed priestess’s flying glaive.

Malfurion trampled others who sought to bar his path, clawed those
who stood their ground, and bit through the torsos of yet more.

Roots constantly sought for his legs or to snag Tyrande from his
back. Malfurion twisted out of their reach and Tyrande severed
more than one grasping tip. The path grew slick, but his claws
better caught purchase than the satyrs’ cloven hooves. The
landscape sped by.

And, final y, something ominously familiar broke through the mist
ahead. It was stil far from the pair and yet so gigantic. Indeed,

Malfurion realized that it was far tal er than most normal trees and
that its branches, seemingly empty of life from this distance,
stretched along the horizon. It was not Teldrassil nor any of the

Great Trees…but it was a thing of titanic proportions.

And as twisted as the shadow had been, it failed to ful y reveal
the dread majesty of the true tree. There were hundreds,
thousands of smal er branches, al as wicked as the great ones
and as the pair approached, they were at last able to perceive that
there were leaves. Yet unlike the World Tree’s corrupted leaves,
these were long, arched, and to Malfurion’s heightened gaze, very
much shaped like a reaper’s sharp sickle. Moreover, as Malfurion
brought himself and Tyrande nearer yet, it became evident that
both the leaves and the tree itself were not black, as first it had
seemed…but the same deep red color of the “sap” that flowed
through.

It was not the tree into which a much younger Malfurion had
transformed his adversary thousands of years ago. That one had
been a symbol of renewal, something that would bring life where

Xavius sought death. Malfurion had meant to return to it after the
war in order to see to its growth, but then had thought it lost with

Zin-Azshari.

But how did this abomination remain hidden from us?

Malfurion wondered, then thought of the ancient evil lurking behind

Xavius. It surely had extended much of whatever power it had in

Azeroth to shield the tree from everyone’s senses.

The dark force behind the Nightmare Lord must have been able
to reach Xavius shortly after Malfurion had left the new tree, for
what it had become had surely taken many mil ennia. It showed the
insidious patience of not only the former counselor, but his
monstrous master. Only when it had been powerful enough, dread
enough, had there been no more concern for hiding the truth of its
presence.

As if a tremendous wind gusted, the branches suddenly moved
as one toward where the pair raced. Despite the great distance stil
separating the tree from them, the branches stretched closer and
closer…

And were nearly upon them.

Malfurion sensed the ground move again. Growling a warning to

Tyrande, he threw them to the side. The roots shot up just where
they had been, spearing so high that they nearly col ided with the
foremost branches.

A sinister swishing sound cut through the air. The archdruid
twisted in mid-jump. More than a dozen smal er branches passed
within inches of them, each covered in the long sickle leaves.

Malfurion did his best to avoid al , but two caught him.

The leaves sliced into his skin and he heard Tyrande gasp.

The cat spun. The path behind briefly fil ed his gaze. There was
now a wal of roots cutting off the two from any escape and satyrs
were eagerly spil ing through the one gap left.

Xavius had wanted them to come to him.

“Beware!” Tyrande shouted. Her glaive sliced through three
branches before the deadly leaves could touch the duo.

Malfurion made a decision. He was stil in contact with the
others, stil trying to guide them. The strain was tremendous, but
the archdruid knew that he needed to do even more.

With a growl, he warned Tyrande of his need to change form
again. The high priestess expertly slipped off while stil using her
whirling glaive to cut at whatever branch snagged at them.

Once again himself, Malfurion looked into both Azeroth and the

Emerald Dream. He had to seek deeper this time, both within the
two realms and himself.

The sky roared. It roared not just above them, but all over

Azer oth, all over the Emerald Dream/Nightmare. Malfurion
straining more, paid it little mind.

Yet his attack was not focused on his enemy, not directly.

Rather, Malfurion concentrated on the ones he needed most.

Broll…Thura…

This time, he could sense them. This time, he could feel the
other druid’s struggle to keep them from fal ing to the Nightmare.

Shan…do… came the weak but stil determined response.

The time is now…the tools are in place…the branch I gave
you, this is the truth about its origins and what we need to do

… Malfurion showed him.

Brol drank in what was revealed and to his credit accepted it
immediately. He trusted in the archdruid completely. I am…ready…

It was al Malfurion needed to hear. Over the continuous rumble,
he shouted to Tyrande, “Take yourself from here! I must end it
now! I cannot promise—”

“No! We live or die together!”

He knew better than to argue. The archdruid looked within
himself one last time.

And suddenly…the storm stirred again.

29

THE TWO TREES

Brol had expected to fal , but somehow he had been able to stave
off the attack not only on his physical body, but also, more
insidiously, his mind. The Nightmare sought him for its own, aware
that he was one prized by Malfurion. Cries assailed him and his
thoughts fil ed with visions of his dying daughter and his own guilt
over her demise. It was a wel -calculated assault, for Anessa had
always been his weak point.

But no more. Having witnessed the horrors of the Nightmare,

Brol condemned himself for having fal en prey to it through her
death. He did not honor her memory by doing so. Brol had not
seen that until he had seen so many others suffering because of
their lost loved ones. The Nightmare had been particularly good at
twisting its victims’ minds and turning love into torture.

The druid cast a handful of powder mixed from plants known for
their fiery qualities. As the powder touched his dark foes, it sizzled.

The shadows burned away, their vanishing accompanied by
tormented hisses. Brol looked for Thura, expecting the worst, but
the orc squatted next to him, her eyes closed, but otherwise wel .

“I have an oath to fulfil …” she said flatly. “I wil fil it…”

Brol scattered the mist from them and for the first time saw that
there was not only the ax, but another, odder object nearby. It was
a thing that had once been alive but no more, and the one who had
brought it to this place had planted it careful y, though not with any
hope or desire of seeing it bloom.

It was a branch. A foul thing that Brol instantly knew wel . He
also understood why it had been placed here. The plan stil had a
chance.

And even as he thought that, the storm swept over their area.

Yet Brol felt no fear from it, no concern whatsoever. He knew its
source and that it existed to protect, not harry, him and the others.

The druid seized the branch. To that from which it had original y
been plucked—so that it could then be grafted on Teldrassil—the
branch was nothing anymore. Dead.

But it was stil of the Nightmare Lord’s essence. “Thura! You
must grab the ax at the same moment as I strike!”

To her credit, the orc warrior understood immediately. Brol then
began a distasteful spel . It was possible for those who were strong
to nurture from seemingly dead plants, even trees, some measure
of life. For any true plant, Brol would have had no qualms trying,
though he also understood the limits.

But now he sought to revive something monstrous. His shan’do
had revealed al concerning the truth about the branch and the tree
from which it had original y come. Brol could sense the wrongness,
the demonic essence, even in this tiny piece. This was not a thing
of nature anymore; this was an atrocity.

But as he began his spel , Brol also sensed the other, more
ancient evil of which Malfurion had also warned him, the ancient
horror that had added its own infernal influence into the creation of
the Nightmare Lord.

The spark he sought was there. Brol urged it on, even though
the wrongness magnified.

The branch shook, fighting his grip.

“Now!” the druid cal ed, raising the branch.

Thura grabbed for the ax, which stil glowed both from its own
good power and the Nightmare’s malevolent forces.

The orc’s hand and the branch touched the glow at the same
moment. That was what was needed for the defenders. It broke
what hold the Nightmare had on the weapon, strong enough to
keep the ax there, but not enough to corrupt the enchanted artifact.

Cenarius had forged the ax that pure and Brox, by his deeds, had
made it more so.

And Thura, chosen in part by Malfurion, was an apt successor.

She took up the weapon. Brol tossed aside the branch, which,
bereft of his spel , could not survive. He shifted form, becoming a
cat.

Thura leapt atop. He carried her forward. The shadow of the
tree stretched to take them, but the storm struck hard, bending
back the smoky branches and washing away the foul mists.

Lightning burned away shadow creatures and even set some of the
intangible branches aflame.

Brol marveled at what he saw. He had witnessed large
convocations create storms when rain was necessary, but none so
huge or so directed. Surely, Malfurion must have all the other
druids focused on this!

However his shan’do had managed this, it behooved Brol and

Thura to reach the shadow tree. The fiendish silhouette rose over
them—

A huge hand swatted both aside. Gnarl seized a stunned Thura,
who stil held tight the ax.

“All will be nightmare…” the corrupted ancient grated.

As Brol rol ed to a halt, he became a night elf again. Teeth
clamped from pain, he managed to cast a spel .

The ancient was a plant in nature. Even corrupted, he was
covered in tremendous if now malignant growth. Stil , that growth
was yet susceptible to a skil ed student of the druidic arts.

Stunted growths became thick, curling vines that within seconds
ensnared the ancient’s limbs. Those near the hand that clutched

Thura tightened, forcing Gnarl’s hand to open.

The orc dropped to the ground, landing on her feet. She
wavered, but then steadied.

Gnarl struggled. Some of the vines holding his legs and one arm
snapped. He reached again for Thura—

Grunting, Brol increased his efforts. The vines strengthened,
thickened.

Just before the thick fingers could reach the orc again, the vines
bound the corrupted ancient so tightly that he could no longer
move. Brol did not let up. He had the vines continue to grow,
continue to tighten.

The ancient tumbled to the ground, unable to move in the least.

The night elf marveled at his own effort, aware that there had been
a time not that long ago when he would have thought his skil s
insufficient to capture one such as Gnarl without being forced to
slay him in the process.

Thura, meanwhile, had not wasted her time. She was almost
upon the shadow. She hefted the ax—

The storm faltered. The winds lessened.

The tree moved.

One shadow branch thrust into the orc’s chest. Although it had
no substance, it impaled her. Thura stood frozen, the ax stil raised
high.

The other branches reached for Brol …

You are too weak…our foothold too strong…you have failed, my
dear Malfurion…

Malfurion refused to listen to such words, even though they had
some merit. He knew that even with Tyrande standing with him, he
was fast approaching his limits.

See how they all fall now… offered the Nightmare Lord.

Before the archdruid’s eyes, visions of al those who depended
upon him came anew. Thura transfixed. King Varian leading a
shrinking army. The other druids—Hamuul yet urging them on

—trying to do what they could against an unstoppable foe
transforming both realms…

He had been shown this before, had felt it before, but the
crushing weight of having come so close just to fail again was too
much. Perhaps if he had been a hundred Malfurions, a thousand,
he might have succeeded…but he was only one.

Despair…and know that as you do…I have only shown you
what is happening…this time, you know your failings yourself…

Xavius laughed loud.

The storm al but faded. What his adversary said was so true.

Xavius was not doing anything; he merely showed Malfurion what

Malfurion already understood…that the archdruid had let everyone
down.

Then, just as the darkness seemed about to close about his
heart, a cool, soothing light touched him from within. He knew its
source instantly.

“Malfurion!” Tyrande cal ed in his ear. Her voice was haggard,
yet stil somehow unyielding to her own pain. “Please! Do not…give
in! He plays on your mind…”

The archdruid stirred…and found both of them caught up in the
wicked branches. Only the fact that Tyrande had evidently been
holding on to him at the time of their being seized had kept them
together.

All is the Nightmare! Xavius the tree intoned. You…she…all

…How I have waited for this…trapped so long in the darkness
beneath the waves, waiting and growing in strength with its
guidance…growing until the time was right and then rising from
the depths to set down roots here upon the eastern cliffs
overlooking my lost Zin-Azshari! Here, where once my queen
ruled all, where once I was power, how more appropriate that
here you fall and the Nightmare covers all…how fitting!

All… that one word most of al struck a chord with Malfurion.

I have made a terrible mistake… he knew what he needed to do
to final y finish this. Victory or defeat was not dependent on him and
him alone nor even him and Tyrande, though together they had
stemmed the tide.

It depended upon everyone working in concert as never before.

Strengthened by this last revelation, lightning guided by Malfurion
struck the foremost branch involved in holding them. The two night
elves were flung into the air. Malfurion transformed into storm crow
form and caught Tyrande in his talons. He brought her to the
ground just beyond the grasping branches, then became himself
again.

“I made a mistake!” he informed her. “I know the truth now!”

She nodded. Tyrande knew what he expected of her. Without
waiting, the high priestess began a prayer to Elune.

Malfurion reached out to the other druids…every druid left in
either realm save Brol . Let me show you what we—together

—may accomplish…

To do what he needed, Malfurion had to ask the other druids to
leave themselves defenseless. He was surprised, grateful, and
fearful when al accepted without hesitation.

He showed them what they already knew, but did not ful y
understand even now. They were druids. They were Azeroth’s
caretakers and guardians. They also served as the same for the

Emerald Dream. Yet, though they understood that as such their
bonds with the essence of nature in both was powerful, they did not
realize that they had, as a group, believed that they were more
limited than they actual y were.

But the two realms themselves were intertwined in a manner that
even the druids had never ful y comprehended and thus, the bond
was more complex, and potential y far more powerful. The others
marveled at what their shan’do revealed, but Malfurion could not let
them dwel upon this amazing discovery. Guiding them on, he had
them turn their spel work to his intention.

The storm. His storm. The other druids were essential to its
crafting, to its growth, but it was through Malfurion—with Tyrande’s
prayers to the Mother Moon helping to keep his mind clear of the

Nightmare’s presence—that it truly swel ed, truly took on the epic
proportions he needed.

A deep rumble shook both Azeroth and the Emerald Dream.

King Varian kept order among his fighters, aware that they could
not make the assumption that this brought new hope. As the lord of

Stormwind led the fighting, at times the image of the wolf would
again superimpose itself upon his face, a sight that gave further
encouragement to those who knew of the spirit’s favor.

The Life-Binder, standing at the one gate that prevented the

Nightmare’s own efforts, smiled grimly in recognition of what

Malfurion was accomplishing. She threw her last efforts into
making certain she did not fail in her part.

Malfurion sensed it al come together. The druids became as
one under his leadership. He felt an understanding of his world and
the Emerald Dream that he could never have imagined. Yet it was
his bond with Tyrande that enabled him to most make use of that
understanding.

The storm unleashed.

It struck with a fury with which no tempest ever before had done.

Azeroth trembled. The Emerald Dream shimmered. They were two
that were one, but not as Xavius desired. He had wanted one realm
perverted into an evil mirroring his own and that of the force behind
him.

But Malfurion instead gave them the purity and strength of
nature.

The wind roared. It set the mists swirling. Its force made the
nightmarish figures and shadow satyrs ripple, then dissipate like so
much dust. Stormwind City, Orgrimmar…every embattled place
upon Azeroth was suddenly cleared.

The rain poured, rivers spil ing over the landscape wherever the
evil had spread. The pristine waters not only washed away more of
the Nightmare’s shadows and other horrific servants, but brought
new life, new growth, where the Nightmare had stunted or
manipulated it.

The carrion bugs melted in the rain, their foulness unable to
withstand its force. Those too corrupted by the Nightmare to be
saved fled from the cleansing, retreating with the melting mists that
represented the darkness’s dwindling hold.

But the Nightmare stil held sway over its many victims and the
power that their fears brought was yet tremendous. The
sleepwalkers rose in vast numbers, driven by their terrifying
dreams to strike out at those living.

Malfurion had known, though, that this would come. He cal ed
forth the thunder, stirring it to a rumble.

There had been on Azeroth no sound like it. A hundred
volcanoes could not match it. Al the combined storms throughout
history could not come even close to its fantastic power.

And no creature, no matter how deeply asleep, deeply hidden in
the lowest recesses of any cave or high up in some mountain or
behind thick stone wal s…could avoid hearing it.

The thunder roiled.

The sleepers awoke.

The hold of the Nightmare shattered.

Xavius’s outrage echoed in Malfurion’s mind a moment after, a
pitiful sound in comparison to the majesty of the storm. However,
the archdruid did not assume his victory assured or imminent.

Arms outstretched, hands clenched, Malfurion threw his wil into
what he and the druids had created, then threw it at the Nightmare

Lord.

The storm raged.

Wherever the taint resisted, lightning flashed, burning away the
darkness. The bolts were not white or yel ow, as normal, but the
bril iant green of nature in its most lush growth. The ground where
they struck was not scorched, but bloomed.

Malfurion did not let up in either realm, aware that to do so would
possibly give the Nightmare a new foothold. Indeed, as the evil was
pressed further and further back, its resistance grew. Malfurion felt
some of the druids flagging and out of concern for them took on a
larger burden. Tyrande reinforced him throughout it al , her
determination matching his. This would end here…

But in the midst of it, Malfurion felt the evil behind Xavius for the
first time exerting itself…and succeeding in pushing back.

It took a moment for the archdruid to understand why. The truth
lay in the sleepers. They were now awake, but the horrors of their
dread dreams were with them. Their fear stil fed the Nightmare.

Malfurion and Tyrande sensed at the same time what had to be
done. His left hand arced. The rain covering Azeroth altered,
growing finer, warmer. It even took on a reddish hue, such as a
rose might have. As this happened, Tyrande asked of Elune her
help. The silver light of the Mother Moon came down, joining in
concert with the rain.

As the astonishing rain touched the Nightmare’s victims, a
sense of calm instantly overtook them. They began to forget much
of what they had suffered or made others suffer as slaves of

Xavius.

The
resistance
against

Malfurion’s
spel
weakened.

Encouraged, he pushed…pushed until it reached the tree and its
shadow.

Until it reached Xavius and could go no farther.

I will always be with you, the Nightmare Lord mocked. I am you,

Malfurion Stormrage…

The archdruid made no response. He summoned up the
energies of Azeroth and the Emerald Dream and cast them at the
great and terrible tree.

They did nothing.

Malfurion turned his gaze to the Emerald Dream and the shadow
of Xavius. There he saw what he already knew: Thura impaled and

Brol fighting to keep from being snared by the smoky limbs.

The gathered energies struck at the shadow…with as little result
as against the true tree.

So, this is what you want of me… Malfurion thought to his
enemies. Very well…

Focusing within himself and utilizing the tremendous forces
gathered from both realms, Malfurion separated his dreamform
from his physical body in a manner that even he once would have
never thought possible. Malfurion now stood as two separate
beings, but stil the same person. His physical body was not
dormant. He stood and acted in both the Emerald Dream and

Azeroth, something no druid had ever done before and what should
have been impossible. Indeed, it was in part because of what the

Nightmare had caused in trying to bring the two realms together
that enabled Malfurion to accomplish this unique feat.

It was the only way by which his attack could be focused at
precisely the same instant on both the tree and the shadow. He
had to be of equal part to each, enough that they then became very
susceptible to his powers.

But it was also what Xavius desired, for, by the same reasoning,

Malfurion was now doubly susceptible to threats occurring in both
realms. The shadow limbs assailed his dreamform. The wicked
tree attacked with renewed effort his physical body.

However, as the Nightmare Lord attacked, Malfurion touched
the mind of another. Broll…we must strike…

The druid gave a brief acknowledgment. Seen now as
inconsequential, he gained that one second to bring his own
powers into play.

Transforming into cat form, Brol used his mouth and seized

Thura from the shadow’s grip. Her skin was cold to the touch, but
the moment contact with the shadow was broken, her body
warmed.

The orc stirred. Brol threw her forward.

A thousand shadowy branches plunged into Malfurion’s
dreamform. On Azeroth, Tyrande clutched the archdruid as more
agony than he had ever suffered as a tree himself tore through his
system. The high priestess cried out as she took his pain and
made it her own so that he could better concentrate on his own
attack.

Malfurion gritted his teeth. The night elf now condensed the
massive storm’s fury on but two places, one in Azeroth, the other
the Emerald Dream. The Nightmare Lord’s tree and shadow bent
under the added onslaught. The branches buried in the chest of

Malfurion’s dreamform were at last ripped away by the wind. Those
of the true tree were scorched by lightning. New ones sprouted in
their place as the Nightmare Lord sought in turn to seize his foe,
but Malfurion’s spel held sway.

And in the Emerald Dream, Thura reached the shadowed trunk.

She raised the ax, which glowed with the glory of the energies that
the demigod Cenarius had ten thousand years earlier imbued in it
for Broxigar.

Strike here! Malfurion told her, revealing in her thoughts an
image of the critical spot.

With a crooked grin, the orc caught the shadow at the very
point.

A shriek echoed over the Emerald Dream, a shriek whose twin
erupted from Azeroth. The ax sank deep, as if biting into something
solid.

The shadow wavered.

As Thura struck there, Malfurion increased his attack on the
physical tree by a thousandfold. Emerald lightning hit true time and
time again, setting vicious branch after branch ablaze.

My lord! Xavius abruptly shouted. Hear me!

But Malfurion felt the ancient darkness abandon its vile servant.

Although he wondered at that, the archdruid dared not lessen his
efforts against Xavius; he knew too wel that if any spark remained,

Xavius’s evil would rise again…and in a form likely even more
terrible. The entire terrible ordeal would begin anew.

Thura struck the shadow a second time and some of its outline
faded. Malfurion continued to assail the true tree with lightning
bolts, creating an inferno.

Xavius threw those flames back at his foes. Even though

Tyrande did her best to protect Malfurion as he worked, the
archdruid’s flesh burned.

Thura struck a third time. The fabled ax sank so deep into
shadow that the head briefly vanished.

And then…as she pul ed the magical weapon free…the shadow
tree simply faded to nothing.

The Nightmare Lord shrieked.

On Azeroth, the true tree shook. It began to rapidly wither. The
branches slumped. The great roots curled and shriveled.

The bitter, angry voice of Xavius, of the Nightmare Lord,
thundered in the archdruid’s thoughts. Malfurion Stormrage! I will
never leave you! I will ever be your nightmare! I—

The crown of the horrific tree crumbled.

Black ash marked its fal . The lower branches cracked off,
powdering as they struck the hard ground. Even the trunk
col apsed, huge pieces breaking away and scattering across the
landscape. Malfurion deflected those that would have struck him
and Tyrande. The blackened bark decayed rapidly.

In the end, only a rotted trunk—seemingly already centuries
dead—remained when the last of the dust settled.

Xavius, once counselor to Queen Azshara, once first among the
satyrs, once the Nightmare Lord…was at last no more.

Malfurion did not wal ow in his victory. Rather, he pushed on,
crushing what remained of the Nightmare, seeking to utterly
eradicate it. The grafting from Xavius’s tree, worked into Teldrassil
by Fandral, had given Xavius a tie to both realms—al owing the evil
behind the Nightmare Lord to touch Azeroth and the Emerald

Dream simultaneously. However, Xavius’s physical form had
remained most dominant in Azeroth and without the tree to sustain
that link, what was left of the Nightmare could not hold.

And when Azeroth was free of the taint, Malfurion—Tyrande
standing with him throughout—focused then completely on the

Emerald Dream, determined that it, too, should be cleansed. The

Nightmare dwindled, receded…

But in one smal corner of the Emerald Dream, in a vast, deep
fissure, known to the druids as the Rift of Aln and believed to be
where the magical realm itself first originated, even the combined
efforts of the archdruid and the high priestess could not entirely
end the struggle. The Nightmare held firmly in that place, which
those of Malfurion’s cal ing believed bled into the Twisting Nether
and the Great Dark Beyond. Gazing into it, Malfurion saw it as a
bottomless chasm which radiated with primeval energies that even
he dared not investigate. Indeed, the very rift itself seemed half-
dream, for it had a surreal quality to its expanse and to the
archdruid now and then seemed to ripple as if ready to fade or
change.

Curiously, only then did Malfurion truly sense that the ancient
evil, though it fought to keep its grip there, did so from somewhere
deep in the depths of Azeroth’s own seas. Bereft of Xavius’s link to
the dream realm, it was stil powerful enough somehow to keep that
one place under its horrific sway.

At last it became clear that there was nothing more to be gained
by pressing. Aware of those yet needing them, Malfurion sealed off
the vicinity around the rift. There was silent agreement between

Tyrande and him. The day had been saved…this other war would
have to wait for another, a better, time.

With the danger passing, the night elf felt his hold on the
incredible energies slipping away. He was not bothered, but stil had
matters with which he had to deal before they ful y vanished.

Sweeping across both realms, he sought out any surviving
corrupted. There were few, and of those only a handful could he
salvage. Gnarl was one of those, for he had been but recently
taken. Remulos was already cleansed. However, many, regretful y,
were like Lethon and Emeriss and could not survive without the

Nightmare; they melted away as the shadow satyrs had. For what
and who they once had been, Malfurion mourned them.

Next, he restored to their bodies those surviving members of

Varian’s dreamform army, no matter from where they had been
summoned. Night elves, of course, and orcs, trol s, draenei, blood
elves, tauren, dwarves, gnomes, goblins, humans…they had al
done their part, even some among the undead. He savored briefly
one sight, that of the king rushing to his son and the pair holding
one another tight. For those defenders who had no physical forms
to which to return, the archdruid attuned them better to the Emerald

Dream, so that their lives there would be at the ful est possible.

Of those who had been his closest al ies in this, he found special
time. Thura he delivered back to her people, letting their leader,

Thral , know of her significance in the struggle. Lucan Foxblood,
the human of unique abilities, became the charge of Hamuul

Runetotem. The tauren agreed to stay in the Moonglade for a time
to teach the cartographer how best to control his unique abilities.

The two were oddly suited to one another’s company and Malfurion
had great hopes that the teaching would go wel .

And even as Malfurion did this, he sensed Tyrande summon
forth the Sisters of Elune to go forth into the Al iance-held lands and
do what else could be done to bring further calm and order to those
victims at least. Shaman and druids also lent their skil s to the

Nightmare’s former slaves, tending to those with whom their
particular race had ties so as to avoid any chance of further
conflict. It was impossible for al the wounds to be healed, even by
the forces guided by the archdruid. Too many had died for any
power to be able to erase al the memories. Though banished to
the Rift of Aln—where Malfurion prayed it would stay—the

Nightmare’s legacy would haunt the world for years to come.

Malfurion saw many other things for which he would have liked
to have utilized the gifts of Azeroth and the Emerald Dream, but
knew that it was time for him to end his efforts. With much
gratitude, he let the other druids break from the spel first. They had
given much, more than he should have asked. He was proud of al .

And final y, Malfurion reluctantly separated himself from the spel ,
returning to the two realms the bounty that they had given him. The
archdruid refocused upon the real world. His gaze settled upon she
who had been with him from the beginning to the very end despite
the great faults that had eventual y led to his capture and torture
and despite the travails through which she had gone through
because of his failings. Malfurion saw the love within her and,
though he knew he was not worthy of it, was determined that they
would not be parted again.

He put a gentle hand to Tyrande’s cheek.

Exhaustion overtook him.

Malfurion col apsed in her arms.

30

A GATHERING OF HOPE

Brol Bearmantle took the news of Malfurion’s awaking with an
exuberance rarely seen in most night elves, much less druids. He
let out a hearty yel that echoed throughout the enclave and rushed
to the Temple of the Moon. He raced past those taking a more
solemn approach to the home of the Sisterhood, only caring that
his shan’do appeared to be wel .

Two armed Sisters briefly blocked his path until one recognized
him. “Our orders are to al ow only a select few in,” she explained,

“lest the temple be overwhelmed with those concerned for the
archdruid’s health.”

Brol nodded, grateful that he was one of those Tyrande had
permitted to enter. Aware where they had brought Malfurion, Brol
needed no directions. He rushed through the temple, giving
homage and thanks to the Mother Moon’s image more than once
during the trek.

They had made a place for Malfurion underneath the great
statue, where moonlight ever shone. The high priestess had
insisted that he be brought to the temple, though the first notion of
the druids had been to take their esteemed shan’do to the

Moonglade. However, Tyrande had refused to be swayed and as
she was not only ruler of the night elves but also Malfurion’s
beloved, in the end none could refuse her.

Eyes shut, Malfurion lay on a mat of woven leaves and herbs

—an offering of the druids. Tyrande knelt beside him, a soft, moist
cloth in her hand. She had been tending to him as if she were a
novice, not head of the order. Behind her, and standing guard, was
an equal y quiet Shandris Feathermoon. The general wore a look

Brol would have more expected of a child concerned over her
parents than that of a seasoned warrior.

“My lady,” Brol murmured to Tyrande as he neared. Shandris
gave him a cursory glance; she had registered his presence much
earlier and thus was not concerned. “I had heard that he was…that
he was awake…”

“And so…and so I am…” Malfurion responded, his eyes slowly
opening. The archdruid’s orbs stil shone like the sun…and always
would, it seemed. He gave the other male a brief smile. “But she”

—with his gaze, he indicated Tyrande—“insists I rest some more

…a command with which, after a failed…failed attempt to rise…I
must agree…” Malfurion’s smile grew. “But I’m remiss. I see that
the struggle has changed you as wel , Brol …”

That to which the archdruid referred was Brol ’s own eyes,
which, while not as resplendent as those of his shan’do, now also
gleamed gold. In reaching into himself and into Azeroth, Brol had
final y broken the final barrier—a self-imposed barrier—and truly
become the great druid so many had believed he was. More
important, the change went deep within. Gone was Brol ’s
uncertainty; he himself knew at last that he was as he had always
been meant to be and his every movement radiated his great
confidence in his cal ing.

But that was not of interest to him at the moment. Only one thing
mattered. “But…you are truly wel ?”

The high priestess paused in her ministrations to stare at Brol
as if he were mad. “He is in the house of Elune and I am her hand
in this world…do you think he would be otherwise?”

“Forgive me,” the druid returned with a chuckle. “I clearly wasn’t
thinking.”

Malfurion put a hand on her knee. Tyrande’s expression
softened. To Brol , the archdruid replied, “She is rather protective.

I’ve made her a promise she intends I keep.”

“ ‘Promise’?”

“It is fortuitous that you are here, Brol , for I can think of no other

I would have stand with me when I and Tyrande take our vows.”

It took Brol a moment to register what he meant. Shandris
laughed lightly at his delayed reaction.

“You two—you are to marry?”

“Please do not sound so shocked.” The high priestess smiled. “I
believe that I have waited long enough for him to come to his
senses.”

“And I believe you should have long found someone with more
sense than me,” Malfurion, sounding stronger, returned. Now
holding her free hand, he said to the other male, “Wel , Brol

Bearmantle, wil you stand with me?”

“There are surely others—”

“Many good souls, but I choose you.”

The druid bowed his head. “Then, I’m honored. I only pray that I
wil not make a mistake.”

His shan’do laughed. “You can make no greater mistake than I
did by leaving her so often throughout the mil ennia, my friend.”

“When wil the ceremony take place?”

Without meaning to, both Malfurion and Tyrande answered
simultaneously. “As soon as possible.”

Although Darnassus did not in some regards present the most
practical of places to hold such a ceremony, there was no other
place that would have been more appropriate. With Malfurion

Stormrage leader of the druids and Tyrande Whisperwind not only
high priestess of Elune but monarch of the night elves, they could
only choose the capital.

Long before the eve of the ceremony, the two had already
quickly settled any question as to their roles—or rather, Tyrande
had. Malfurion knew Tyrande was the best leader his people could
have and made no claims in that direction. However, she insisted
that there could be no other choice but for the two to rule side-by-
side, equal in al things where their race was concerned. She
remained high priestess of the Temple of Elune and he the lead
archdruid, but now those two stations would have closer ties, which
would only benefit the night elves in general.

The ceremony took place in the Temple of Elune, of course.

Granted, that meant arranging the audience involved some
maneuvering, but General Shandris proved as adept at organizing
guests as she was in battle. There were some who said, not in
earshot, of course, that she seemed to enjoy it more than her
normal duties.

Stil , in addition to the Sisters, the Sentinels were wel in
attendance, ensuring that no one would cause trouble…a
necessary point since, in addition to their own people, Malfurion
and Tyrande had as guests King Varian, Archmage Rhonin, and
other leaders. Natural y, each also came with the prerequisite
attendants and personal guards. Even with the vast recovery taking
place throughout Azeroth, Varian and the others had seen it as an
absolute priority to acknowledge this seminal event concerning the
one most responsible for there stil even being an Azeroth. Even
the independent-minded dwarves of the Wildhammer clan—the
famed gryphon riders from Aerie Peak—had come, led by their
high thane, Falstad.

Words of wel wishes for Malfurion and Tyrande came from

Thral , representing the Horde. The fragile partnership between the

Horde and the Al iance was already fal ing apart as personal
hatreds seized control now that the main threat was gone. It was al
the pair could have hoped, aware of how quickly peace could
vanish. The only other benefit of the message was that the bearer
was none other than Thura, who had asked of her warchief to be
the one to carry it. To her, the archdruid, the high priestess, and
those others beside whom she had fought were blood comrades.

Although the time of the ceremony was of course set for when
the White Lady—the great silver moon that to the night elves was

Elune herself—was at its zenith, other il umination existed that both
added to the splendor and eased those visitors who were not of a
nocturnal nature. Fireflies by the thousands decorated the trees,
and smal silver-blue orbs of moonlight hovered over the people
themselves. At the offering of Rhonin—who had in a unique
manner known the pair longer than nearly anyone else there—the
magi created a series of magnificent rainbows that, set against the
dark sky, marked the ten mil ennia of Malfurion and Tyrande’s
relationship.

Near Rhonin stood his wife, Vereesa Windrunner—leader of the
high elves of the Silver Covenant, itself created to oppose the
inclusion of blood elves in the Kirin Tor—and their twin sons. The
two boys bore a subdued look. They had their father’s crimson hair
and strong, clean jaw, but were somewhat more lithe in appearance
and with slightly longer ears. The combination of elf and human
could have proven unfortunate, but both were handsome offspring.

Triumphant horns announced the entrance of the wedding party.

An honor guard of Sentinels bearing lances topped alternately by
the lunar banner of the Sisterhood and the tabard of the Cenarion

Circle—a great leaf from which majestic antlers sprouted—led the
way. The honor guard was fol owed by a stately procession of
druids and members of the Sisterhood. Behind them solemnly
marched senior officers of the Sentinels hand chosen by General

Shandris.

And then…came Malfurion and Tyrande.

Malfurion, chin high and antlers thrusting skyward, wore a long,
draping cloak of forest leaves and a breastplate crafted from fal en
wood. On it had been shaped the World Tree with the sign of the

Cenarion Circle above it. In addition, the archdruid wore a
kneelength green kilt and sandals.

Tyrande glowed with the love of Elune, the Mother Moon clearly
giving her blessing to this union. As she passed, many night elves
instinctively knelt. Tyrande was dressed as high priestess. She was
also adorned with a grand cape of silver-and-blue light that flowed
long past the end of her mount. Her midnight-blue hair was loose
and long and though she looked as wise as al thought their ruler to
be, there was also an added youth to her tremendous beauty that
many were certain came from the joy of the moment.

Shandris and Brol strode behind the pair, both also adorned with
long cloaks akin to those of the archdruid and the high priestess,
but not quite as grand. Their task was to stand as witness and
strength for their respective companions, a task of which they were
clearly proud.

At the center of the great chamber, the party came to a halt.

Malfurion and Tyrande held each other’s hands forward, then
solemnly walked on ahead. Brol and Shandris moved to the side
and back of the pair, with the druid near his mentor and the general
near her ruler.

The honor guard, the druids, and the Sisters divided into two
columns that departed in opposite directions.

There had been great question as to who would perform the
ceremony. Had matters been otherwise, many believed that

Remulos would have done so. However, the forest guardian, now
recovered but weak, was part of the audience, as were others
such as Elerethe Renferal, who assisted Naralex beside her. Even
up to this point, only the high priestess and the archdruid knew who
it was to be. Not even Brol and Shandris were aware of the truth.

Malfurion and Tyrande stood ready. Together, they looked up.

The light of Elune suddenly shone down most upon the pair. Yet
this was not what seemed to attract their attention.

A great flapping of wings resounded from above. The audience,
which included among its members Lucan, Hamuul, and Thura,
fol owed Malfurion and Tyrande’s pleased gaze. The tauren looked
up with eyes not only strongly gold, but with a unique hint of emerald
green at the edges; he, too, had given so much of himself in
helping to guide Malfurion’s efforts that he had been likewise
marked. Lucan, now not only Hamuul’s student but newly appointed
chief cartographer of Stormwind by King Varian—who had heard
much of his subject’s part in the struggle from Malfurion and Brol

—especial y radiated pleasure at the fantastic sight high up.

Though it made some glance aghast at him, he waved as if sighting
a friend among the giants now circling.

Red and green dragons fil ed the air above Darnassus.

“Be at ease,” Malfurion calmly commanded before chaos could
erupt. “They are here as friends and guests…”

Most of the dragons hovered, but the four largest descended.

As they did, the two smal er—and clearly male—alighted onto some
of the greatest branches.

A chuckle escaped Archmage Rhonin, who, along with the
couple, knew the red male. Korialstrasz was his name and he was
chief consort to Alexstrasza. Awakened with the rest of the
sleepers, he had been active in helping restore calm to Azeroth.

But to the trio and Rhonin’s mate, Vereesa, he was also the
mysterious mage Krasus. As with Rhonin, it was quite clear from

Korialstrasz’s expression that the dragon would not have missed
this pivotal moment for anything.

And, natural y, Korialstrasz had come in the company of his
queen. Alexstrasza hovered just above the columns, next to her
none other than Ysera.

The green dragon looked worn and thinner, her titanic struggle
having taken much out of her. Yet there was also a tremendous
expression of pride from her, that pride directed at Malfurion

Stormrage.

The dragons hovered a moment more, then, before the startled
eyes of the audience, the two leviathans landed and transformed.

Wings shrank and bodies contorted. The dragons dwindled to the
size of night elves and took on shapes akin to theirs.

Alexstrasza became as Brol and the others had met her, a
glorious, fiery figure. Ysera was no less astounding, though in an
ethereal manner. Clad in a gossamer gown of emerald, the cowled
female was otherwise very much a twin in face, save that her skin
was of a pale green and her eyes were, as usual, shut.

The two Aspects smiled at the high priestess and the archdruid.

Ysera took up a place near Malfurion while Alexstrasza did so by

Tyrande.

“We are honored to have been asked to be the ones to
perform this intertwining of two spirits,” they sang in unison. “But
in truth, these spirits have been one since the beginning…”

The two females brought the pair’s other hands together, then
placed their own atop and underneath.

“Though this ceremony shall be brief, let it forever mark the
culmination of ten thousand years of love, of destiny,”

Alexstrasza and Ysera continued. “Let there be peace for this
pair, who have brought it to all others, who have sacrificed for all
others…”

The moonlight shining upon the wedding couple grew stronger.

At the same time, a beautiful crimson aura arose around

Alexstrasza, while an emerald one did so about Ysera.

The auras blended with the moonlight, bathing the high priestess
and the archdruid.

“The blessing of our kind upon you, Tyrande Whisperwind,
high priestess of Elune and ruler of the night elven people and
you, Malfurion Stormrage, archdruid and leader of the Cenarion

Circle…”

Now Malfurion and Tyrande glowed so very brightly. Their
radiance would have been blinding, if it had also not been so
soothing to the onlookers.

“This is a day to be well-marked by all Azeroth!” The Aspects
pul ed their hands away. The fantastic blending of auras and
moonlight continued around the newly married duo. “But, most of
all, this is a day well-deserved for these two here! Tyrande

Whisperwind…Malfurion Stormrage…we bless this union…and,
as our gift…we also do something else this glorious day…”

The expressions of the two night elves indicated that they were
as ignorant of what this meant as the rest of the audience. In
response, Ysera and Alexstrasza gestured toward the direction of

Teldrassil’s vast crown.

“This tree was born without our blessing…it has been
cleansed by the druids and blessed by one of us, but a more
special blessing shall now be made…let it now receive through
both us our hopes for a world and a future of which we can all
be proud…”

Fol owing their direction, the couple faced Teldrassil’s center.

The Aspects each stretched a hand that direction. Malfurion and

Tyrande smiled in understanding.

From the two transformed dragons, there shot forth a wondrous
light that flowed to the archdruid and the high priestess, then
outward.

It washed over the entire crown in a mere heartbeat, then
spread down through the branches to the trunk and quickly beyond
sight. What was visible to the onlookers clearly strengthened,
flourished. No one there could deny that Teldrassil was obviously
stronger, more vibrant.

The moment swept over Malfurion. His people, his world, was
safe. Teldrassil was purified.

Most of al , he was at last one with his beloved.

A sense of fulfil ment rose up within him. The archdruid smiled.

There were gasps from many in the audience.

“Mal!” Tyrande blurted. “What are you doing?”

He suddenly realized that he glowed and that glow now touched

Teldrassil in a manner much as had the dragons’ blessing.

The assembled guests peered around in awe as even the
surface beneath their feet was transformed.

The glow around Malfurion faded, but Teldrassil remained
il uminated. In that light, its leaves grew even more lush than when

Malfurion had cleared it of the Nightmare’s taint. Huge,
multicolored fruit blossomed from the branches and, after reaching
a thickness akin to the largest of apples, began to softly rain down.

Those assembled laughed with delight as they caught the fruit and
dared taste them.

“Like the sweetest nectar!” Elerethe Renferal blurted.

“Have to admit, nothin’ like this in the Aerie,” Falstad rumbled as
he al but swal owed one of the two he had procured.

Tyrande tasted one, then also smiled. “Mal…this is amazing…”

He looked deep into her eyes. “This is because of you…”

She flushed.

“May your life be as ful of life as Teldrassil is now,” Alexstrasza
murmured to the bride and groom as she and Ysera stepped
further back.

“Our time at these festivities is at an end,” She of the Dreaming
added. “Congratulations to you, my child,” the mistress of the

Emerald Dream said to Malfurion. “Be worthy of her…”

“I wil always try to be.”

Ysera became more serious. “This is only your beginning, both
of you…but you, most of al , my Malfurion, have entered a new
stage. When there is time…and I say when…you have a complex
level of training to start, one which no other has faced before.”

“I look forward to your teachings, great one…”

The Aspect cocked her head. “This is not something that I can
teach you…this is something that must be learned by yourself. You
have done what no other, not even I, could do.” After a pause, the
dragon added, “But I wil be happy to offer advice, though if I were

Malfurion Stormrage, I would listen most to she next to you…”

Malfurion squeezed Tyrande’s hand. “Oh, I wil .”

Alexstrasza and Ysera nodded, then, without further words,
transformed. They rose into the air, again the great behemoths.

The two night elves glanced at one another. Tyrande quickly
nodded.

To Ysera, the archdruid cal ed, “Ysera…great one…we give our
condolences for brave Eranikus!”

“And they are welcomed…” She of the Dreaming bowed her
head, sadness and gratitude vying in her tone. “From this happy
place, I go to mourn! His sacrifice I wil honor forever…”

“As do we al ,” Alexstrasza added.

With that, the two soared high into the sky. Korialstrasz and the
green male joined them, the red briefly giving the night elves a
knowing nod.

“Thank you, my good friends…” he rumbled before departing.

The party of dragons circled over Darnassus. Most expected
them to simply depart, but then, as one, the huge beasts issued a
triumphant roar…their final homage to Malfurion and his bride.

And as Ysera and Alexstrasza led their kind away, the archdruid
and the high priestess turned back to those who had come to
honor them. Malfurion looked upon the assembly and wondered if

Azeroth might have any chance not only to completely recover
from the Nightmare, but even move beyond it, to that future that
might have hope.

Then Malfurion recal ed what stil held sway over the Rift of Aln
and grew troubled. It was not a threat that could be left untouched
for long. The archdruid began pondering what they would have to
do—

He felt Tyrande squeeze his hand. She leaned and kissed him.

“Enjoy today, Mal…that’s al we can ever ask…today
together …” She kissed him again, then added more strongly, “And
then we shal begin dealing in earnest with the foulness that guided

Xavius’s evil…”

The archdruid nodded, accepting her wisdom. He would enjoy
today—and al his time with Tyrande—and knew that he could
indeed ask for no more than that. Stil , both of them could not also
help but have some hope for the future…

And Malfurion Stormrage was wel aware that great things had
been successful y built upon far less than that…

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Richard A. Knaak is a New York Times bestsel ing author of
some forty novels and numerous short stories, including works in
such series as Warcraft, Diablo, Dragonlance, Age of Conan, and
his own Dragonrealm. He has scripted a number of Warcraft
manga with Tokyopop, including the top-sel ing Sunwel trilogy and
the upcoming Dragons of Outland trilogy, and has also written
background material for games. His works have been published
worldwide in many languages.

Recent releases include Legends of the Dragonrealm, an
omnibus featuring the first three novels of his original epic fantasy
series; Beast-master: Myth, a heroic tale that brings the classic
film and television character back to his roots in an al -new
adventure; and The Gargoyle King—the third in his Ogre Titans
trilogy for Dragonlance. He is presently at work on several other
projects.

Currently splitting his time between Chicago and Arkansas, he
can be reached through his website: http://www.richardaknaak.com.

While he is unable to respond to every e-mail, he does read them.

Join his mailing list for e-announcements of upcoming releases
and appearances.

The story you’ve just read is based in part on characters,
situations, and settings from Blizzard Entertainment’s computer
game World of Warcraft , an online role-playing experience set in
the award-winning Warcraft universe. In World of Warcraft ,
players create their own heroes and explore, adventure, and quest
across a vast world shared with thousands of other players. The
rich and expansive game also al ows players to interact with and
fight against or alongside many of the powerful and intriguing
characters featured in this novel.

Since launching in November 2004, World of Warcraft has
become the world’s most popular subscription-based massively
multiplayer online role-playing game. The game’s second and most
recent expansion, Wrath of the Lich King, sold more than 2.8
mil ion copies within its first 24 hours of availability and more than 4
mil ion copies in its first month, breaking records to become the
fastest-sel ing PC game of al time. The next expansion planned for

World of Warcraft is titled Cataclysm, and more information on it
can be found on worldofwarcraft.com.

FURTHER READING

If you’d like to read more about the characters and circumstances
that shaped Azeroth and led to the events of World of Warcraft:

Stormrage, the sources listed below provide additional pieces of
the story.

• You can find more information about Malfurion Stormrage’s
past, including his valiant struggle against the Burning Legion
and its agents, in Warcraft: The Well of Eternity, Warcraft:

The Demon Soul, and Warcraft: The Sundering, books one,
two, and three of the War of the Ancients trilogy by Richard A.

Knaak. These three novels also explore Malfurion’s
relationship with Tyrande Whisperwind.

• Brol Bearmantle plays a key role in the monthly World of

Warcraft comic book by Walter and Louise Simonson, Ludo

Lul abi, Jon Buran, Mike Bowden, Sandra Hope, and Tony

Washington. The comic also reveals influential moments from

Brol ’s past, such as the tragic death of his daughter, Anessa,
in issue #4 and the battle against his own rage inside the

Emerald Dream in issue #5.

• Tyrande Whisperwind’s history with Malfurion Stormrage and
her rise to the rank of high priestess of Elune are chronicled
in the War of the Ancients trilogy by Richard A. Knaak. More
than 10,000 years after the War of the Ancients, Tyrande
encounters Brol Bearmantle and Varian Wrynn in issue #6 of
the monthly World of Warcraft comic by Walter Simonson,

Ludo Lul abi, and Sandra Hope.

• The creation of Broxigar’s enchanted ax is portrayed in

Warcraft: The Well of Eternity, book one of the War of the

Ancients trilogy by Richard A. Knaak. Broxigar goes on to
slay many demons with the powerful weapon, and he even
uses it to face the malevolent Dark Titan, Sargeras, in

Warcraft: The Sundering, book three of the War of the

Ancients trilogy.

• The mysterious Idol of Remulos’s history and the reasons
why the idol was gifted to Brol Bearmantle are revealed in
issue #4 of the monthly World of Warcraft comic by Walter

Simonson, Ludo Lul abi, and Sandra Hope.

• Archdruid Fandral Staghelm witnesses the horrific death of
his son Valstann during a battle with the qiraji and the silithid in

“Warcraft: The War of the Shifting Sands” by Micky Neilson

( o n worldofwarcraft.com). The archdruid also makes an
appearance when Brol Bearmantle gives him the Idol of

Remulos in issue #6 of the monthly World of Warcraft comic
by Walter Simonson, Ludo Lul abi, and Sandra Hope.

• Sargeras’s corruption of Lord Xavius, counselor to Queen

Azshara, is portrayed in Warcraft: The Well of Eternity and

Warcraft: The Demon Soul, books one and two of the War of
the Ancients trilogy by Richard A. Knaak. These novels also
recount Xavius’s bitter history with Malfurion, including the
brutal final showdown between the satyr and the druid.

• Further details about Ysera the Dreamer are revealed in the

War of the Ancients trilogy by Richard A. Knaak. Ysera also
plays a role in stopping the vile schemes of the black Dragon

Aspect, Neltharion, in Warcraft: Day of the Dragon by

Richard A. Knaak.

• Other tales of Alexstrasza the Life-Binder and her struggle to
safeguard Azeroth are told in the War of the Ancients trilogy
by Richard A. Knaak, Warcraft: Day of the Dragon by

Richard A. Knaak, and World of Warcraft: Tides of

Darkness by Aaron Rosenberg.

• Prior to the events of World of Warcraft: Stormrage , the wise
archdruid Hamuul Runetotem aided Brol Bearmantle and

Varian Wrynn in issue #3 and issues #23–25 of the monthly

World of Warcraft comic by Walter and Louise Simonson,

Ludo Lul abi, Sandra Hope, Mike Bowden, and Tony

Washington. Hamuul wil also be featured in the upcoming

Christie Golden novel World of Warcraft: The Shattering:

Prelude to Cataclysm.

• Before she was taken under Tyrande Whisperwind’s wing,

Shandris Feathermoon was orphaned during the War of the

Ancients. Shandris’s first encounter with Tyrande and
subsequent role in fighting the Burning Legion are depicted in

Warcraft: The Demon Soul and Warcraft: The Sundering,
books two and three of the War of the Ancients trilogy by

Richard A. Knaak.

• Although King Varian Wrynn leads the people of Stormwind in

World of Warcraft: Stormrage , his path to becoming king
was long and difficult. His early years are detailed in World of

Warcraft: Arthas: Rise of the Lich King by Christie Golden,

World of Warcraft: Tides of Darkness by Aaron Rosenberg,
and World of Warcraft: Beyond the Dark Portal by Aaron

Rosenberg and Christie Golden. Varian’s more recent
struggles are depicted in the monthly World of Warcraft
comic book by Walter and Louise Simonson, Ludo Lul abi,

Jon Buran, Sandra Hope, Mike Bowden, and Tony

Washington. Varian wil also appear in the upcoming novel

World of Warcraft: The Shattering: Prelude to Cataclysm by

Christie Golden.

• Tales of the foul nightmares tormenting three of Azeroth’s
most important figures—Warchief Thral , Lady Jaina

Proudmoore, and King Magni Bronzebeard—are told in

Warcraft: Legends Volume 5 “Nightmares” by Richard A.

Knaak and Rob Ten Pas.

• In this volume, the once-beloved queen of the night elves,

Azshara, haunts Tyrande Whisperwind in the Emerald

Nightmare. The details of Azshara’s corrupt past are
recounted in Warcraft: The Well of Eternity, Warcraft: The

Demon Soul, and Warcraft: The Sundering, books one, two,
and three of the War of the Ancients trilogy by Richard A.

Knaak.

• Sylvanas Windrunner’s torturous transformation into a
banshee—an event that plagues her dreams in World of

Warcraft: Stormrage—is portrayed in World of Warcraft:

Arthas: Rise of the Lich King by Christie Golden.

THE BATTLE RAGES ON

For now, Malfurion and his al ies have defeated the insidious evil
that took hold of the Emerald Dream—an evil so powerful and
corrupting that even two of Azeroth’s great Dragon Aspects, Ysera
and Alexstrasza, could not defend against it without help. Yet
another evils stil persist on Azeroth, evils that seek to transform
the world into a place of chaos and suffering … and you can play a
part in stopping them in World of Warcraft .

World of Warcraft ’s first two expansions, The Burning Crusade
a nd Wrath of the Lich King, take players to the alien world of

Outland and the icy wastes of Northrend. In the upcoming third
expansion, Cataclysm, players wil witness the face of Azeroth
being altered forever, as the corrupted Dragon Aspect Deathwing
awakens from his subterranean slumber and erupts onto the
surface, leaving ruin and destruction in his wake. As the Horde and

Al iance race to the epicenter of the cataclysm, the kingdoms of

Azeroth wil witness seismic shifts in power, the kindling of a war of
the elements, and the emergence of unlikely heroes who wil rise up
to protect their scarred and broken world from utter devastation.

To discover the ever-expanding world that has entertained
mil ions around the globe, go to worldofwarcraft.com and download
the free trial version. Live the story.