Stormrage

14 THE NIGHTMARES WITHIN

No! 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, generally 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 dwelled 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 will, the archdruid had managed mastery over it. The smallest 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 called upon all 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 will 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 willingly 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 ill. 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.

All Malfurion could do now was wait…and pray.

Unable to stop Tyrande, Broll 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 smell and hearing to make up for the limited visibility.

He picked up her trail immediately. In fact, it turned out to be easier to follow her than Broll 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. Broll 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. Broll 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 follow the route taken by Tyrande. Letting out a low growl, the druid veered to avoid it. Broll had no time for confrontations —

The ground before him swelled up. Black bugs poured away from the eruption.

Father! Father!

Anessa was there before Broll, her arms outstretched in desperation, her face beseeching. She had been slighter of build than Tyrande and a hand shorter. Her eyes were full of innocence and incomprehension.

Broll 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 skull cracked, yet Anessa still cried for his help. However, now out of her mouth — and out of every broken part of her body — there spilled the millipedes, roaches, and other carrion eaters.

With them poured a deep, inky substance that bore the green tint of rot.

Before Broll’s horrified eyes, the last recognizable traces of his daughter vanished within the tendrils. All that remained were the grotesque things that had poured forth from her. They spilled to the ground, spreading among the filth already there.

“You — are — real…” managed a voice that a stunned Broll 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. Broll shifted to bear form and threatened the shape with his claws.

“No, druid…I mean you no harm…” It was an ancient.

Broll 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 Broll. “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 Broll 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?”

Swallowing, 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 chills through Broll, for it was such a primal cry. He could sense Arei’s great loss at this news.

“Another fallen…” 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 will need to know you are here…”

“Who do you speak of?” Broll asked, but the ancient had already stepped deep into the mists. The druid stood where he was for a moment, torn between following 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 Broll 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, Broll resigned himself to chase after the ancient…and pray that he was not falling 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 millennia 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 will 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 illumination 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 will face anything you throw at me,” she muttered to the mist.

“And I will vanquish it!”

There was no mocking whisper. Whether that was for good or ill, 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 pull her feet free, an act most often accompanied by a sickening, sticky sound. Her progress slowed.

“It will take more than this,” she told the mist.

A feminine chuckle wafted through the mist.

The chuckle chilled Tyrande more than anything else thus far.

She knew that laugh, still 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 Well 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 actually witnessed Azshara’s death, that had caused the nightmares she had suffered on and off over the centuries. Even though the mad queen — enthralled by the power of Sargeras and thinking herself the titan’s future consort — had surely had no opportunity to flee Zin-Azshari, perhaps she still 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 will. 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 smell 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 falling 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 pulling it into the mist. The glaive slid along the ground, more and more of it disappearing.

The night elf lunged for it, only to fall 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 finally 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 spell 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, still 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 well.

The hands were webbed and clawed, more like those of some ocean predator. They, though, were still 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 all 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 still 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 underdwellers of the seas.

“Once I offered you a place in my court,” the queen murmured cheerfully as with her tail she pulled 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 call 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 still shall…” the queen said with a fanged smile.

The night elf’s legs began to meld together. Azshara was turning her into a naga.

Tyrande pulled 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 filled her thoughts. He said nothing, only gave her a look of encouragement.

It stirred the high priestess to one more effort to call upon her patron. Although Tyrande could not speak, she mouthed Elune’s name.

The silver glow of the Mother Moon filled her.

She lost consciousness.

Azshara — all 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 still did not move. She lay there, with her hands at her throat…around her throat.

As if she had been strangling herself.