Stormrage

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. Broll cast the calming spell 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 fallen 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 overall verdant appearance. Lethon’s fiendish orbs were wide with rage and it was clear that, unlike Eranikus or others of the green dragonflight — who generally kept their eyes shut and observed all through the halfwaking, half-sleeping state — the corrupted behemoth saw quite well.

“You must be taught your places…” the beast hissed as the glaive returned to Tyrande.

“Away from the portal!” Broll ordered. “Retreat from it!”

The pair backed up, trying to return to Ashenvale, but the energies of the portal spread to follow 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 Broll 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 all 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 Broll, he transformed, again taking on an ursine shape.

The huge, dark bear fell upon the shadow satyrs. Claws ripped and tore at the silhouettes, claws aglow with wild, purple flames. The shadows fell by the scores as Broll let his animalistic instincts all but take over.

The dragon’s foul laugh drowned out all other sounds. He swept toward Broll. “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. Broll 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. Broll 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, Broll 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 pulled him with her.

“Broll! 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 still embraced the weapon, giving it power against the shadow satyrs.

“He comes again!” she warned.

Broll 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 Broll 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 will 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…Broll 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 still 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,” Broll 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 finally 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.

Broll 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 still 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 small, 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 all part of the same host. Gnarl growled and tried to pull away, but too many now had hold of him.

Broll 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 Broll, the dragon’s chuckle sending involuntary chills down the great bear’s spine. Broll 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 still, more and more hands clutched at his arms, grappled with his legs, and clawed at his torso. Others pulled 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 all 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 pulled 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 ally, 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 bellow 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, Broll 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 illusion.

Now came the dread reality.

They were pits, pits so dark that they seemed to want to swallow 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.

Broll 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 hollow eyes sought to tear out Broll’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. Broll 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 chilling 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 literally chilled. “We yearn to have you back with us, Eranikus…”

“No! I will 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 will 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 Broll 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, pulling 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. Small 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 called 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 ally.

“Krasus! Is he here also? Does he still 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 Broll, 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 Broll 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 Broll 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 Broll 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 Broll’s amazed gaze either an intricate headpiece well-placed atop her head…or still smaller horns.

Crimson, violet, and touches of blue-black — all 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 smaller 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. Broll and Tyrande both instinctively went down on one knee and bent their heads in homage. Although they served other patrons, all honored the Life-Binder.

“Rise up,” she commanded. “I do not seek subjects, but allies…”

Rising, Tyrande solemnly said, “If Elune grants it, what power I wield both with my glaive and through my prayers to her will I offer! I stood with yours against the demons ten thousand years ago and if, as I think, our concerns coincide, I will do so again!”

“They do.” The glorious figure looked to Broll. “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 gratefully. “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 ally, though I am amazed if my guess is correct…”

Before she could say more, a moan arose from the side. Broll glared at Eranikus, who still lay where he had fallen after escaping his corrupted kind. “A better ally 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 will of something else, a slave responsible for abominable acts.”

Eranikus eyed her, then finally 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 all for fear that the Nightmare might yet cause you to someday betray her again.”

His powerful gaze was as nothing to her. Broll, 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 finally asked Alexstrasza. “She knew that as I flew to her in the Dream, I sensed the Nightmare calling to me despite the cleansing of my corruption, calling 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 eventually you would still 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 fell upon her dreaming form while he took that which was most desired

…the Eye.”

Eranikus jumped to his feet. His gaze became all but impossible for Broll 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,” Broll quietly informed Tyrande. “It’s said to be the most idyllic place there. Malfurion’s seen it and I know Fandral, also, but few others even among us druids. I’m told it’s a valley nestled among great, encircling hills. The land is lush and filled with grass and flowers, but the name comes from the magnificent golden dome in the center, where Ysera herself dwells…dwelled…”

The green dragon snorted. “A pale though acceptable description of it, little druid! There is no more perfect place in all 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 fall to this monstrous thing!”

“She is mad! If she falls prey to it, all is ended! The Nightmare felt so powerful, I believed her already taken, but if she seeks its truths and its power, it will 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 all tentative advances by the Nightmare into this world, seek those who can help…and watch for the corrupted, the unwaking.”

The male dragon finally looked down. In a tone of self-loathing, he muttered, “You do all 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 all 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 Broll. “I think another seeks to guide you…and I think it is Malfurion Stormrage himself.”

It comes together, Malfurion dared hope, the archdruid doing all 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 filled 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…