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. Tall, broad-shouldered for a night elf though not built like a seasoned warrior as Broll Bearmantle was. His face and eyes bore the centuries of toil he had performed in service to his calling 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 millennia 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 followed 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 all about to fall 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 full 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 will be just as needed if you can do that! If you’re not there, his trick will fail and mine will 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 still 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 small, 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 fill 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 all 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 all the lives he had watched be lost so cruelly 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 finally shrugged off her concerns. All that mattered was that she reach Malfurion.

The landscape did not change. The illumination 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 allowed 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 still 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 still had her head.

“My name is Tyrande—”

The ax pressed closer. “Name doesn’t matter! You know him!

He knows you! He’ll come to you…”

“Malfurion is not your enemy—”

“He is enemy to all 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 will be avenged! I, Thura, will 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 pulled the ax back.

Tyrande read the confusion in the orc’s expression. Thura had obviously not slept much and that had taken its toll. 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 skills, 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’ll take me to him!”

Tyrande stood steadfast. “To kill Malfurion? No.”

“Then I’ll cut you in two!”

“Is that what Brox would have done?” the high priestess countered. “Would he have slain someone for refusing, someone who will not battle him?”

Thura glared, then repeated her demand. “Lead me to him!

Now!”

“I will not—”

She stopped as the orc suddenly glanced to the side. Tyrande heard nothing, but trusted to the skilled warrior’s instinct.

The orc snarled again. Thura peered around, then grinned at something she saw. “The tree! The tree beckons again!”

Following the orc’s gaze, Tyrande saw that the huge shadow had returned. She could still not see the tree that cast it, but knew it had to be close.

“He will be there!” Thura muttered gleefully 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 illumination too much of a warning against such a foe. It had to be her own martial skills.

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 falling 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 called 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 all because of the voice. The high priestess fought to regain her breath in time to save herself.

And yet, the killing blow did not land. Finally 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. Still 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 illumination, 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 still she could not make out the tree that cast it.

But she did make out something else. Another, smaller 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 followed 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 still 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 filled 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 illumination 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 accidentally done to an innocent by her follower.

As she touched the root, once more Tyrande felt Malfurion’s presence. It was so strong that she could almost believe that he was actually 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 Broll 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 Broll’s only regret was that behind him he knew that new ones formed from the shattered remnants of the old.

The mists continually 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 Broll and his surroundings.

Despite his keen reflexes, the great cat was tossed around. Broll managed to roll back on his feet, then buried his claws in the ground as he regained his senses.

A huge shape swooped overhead. It was followed 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 still 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, Broll 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 will take you with me!”

“My friends—”

“Climb atop me! I will explain when we are aloft!”

She did not add anything about it being safer up above and Broll knew better than to believe it so. With corrupted such as Lethon lurking about and the abilities of the Nightmare still 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, Broll 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 hills.

No, he could make something else out. In what seemed every direction — even farther up — brief but brilliant 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 call? 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 call. It was the summons of the last one he would have expected to hear from, but the one from whom Broll had most hoped to hear.

Malfurion’s call.

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 called back, beating her wings harder. “Can you not feel its wrongness? Look ahead

…and look within!”

Broll 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 Broll 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 filled 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. Broll could sense astounding forces at work and knew that what he saw was only a hint of the monumental spells at play.

However, for all 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 Broll 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 Broll to cover his ears — what they were saying could still not be understood. The druid found himself shivering uncontrollably 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 Broll 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 still heading toward the evil gullet.

“It — is the power of their fear — the fear of the screaming voices — that pulls 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 all I can do to — to keep us this far from it!”

“A spell—”

“If I attempt to concentrate — on that — we will be in it before I can — can finish!”

But Broll had not been talking about a spell cast by the dragon.

He could see that, despite her tremendous abilities, she needed her entire focus on fighting the pull. 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 Broll 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 gullet, the druid began channeling an unusual spell. It was meant to be a healing one, a spell of tranquility.

He concentrated, trying to recall what his shan’do had taught him. Indeed, as he focused, Broll 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. Broll 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 spell was a small thing in comparison to the evil and fear it confronted. Broll did not in the least hope to destroy the sinister gullet.

He only wanted to give the female dragon the chance she needed.

“Be ready!” the druid warned.

It all hinged on what Broll believed the screams were. All he had seen thus far indicated that the Nightmare drew much of its strength from the growing legions of innocents falling prey to it when exhaustion finally made them sleep. The Nightmare used their darkest emotions to stir up their fearful visions. And that fear was what attacked now.

The spell 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. Broll 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 small speck.

But as quickly as the spell acted, it shattered. The screaming rose higher and more frantic again. The horrific abyss swelled, 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 called 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 call.