Stormrage

21 STORM OVER STORMWIND

Broll stirred to consciousness, still aware that he could not recall just when he had fallen 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 valley that still retained the fading glory of the once-fabled realm. Tall hills surrounded them, but although they looked like strong, stern sentries, the druid was well 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 Broll at least that his anger was not truly focused on Lucan. The behemoth’s fury was actually meant for himself.

But that was a matter with which Eranikus had to deal. Broll 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. “All 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 dwell in that failure! Well, we will 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. Broll 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 walls 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. Hollow 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 Broll’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 called 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 Broll. “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. Broll 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 Broll Bearmantle, comrade to King Varian! The orc is with us. She means no harm…”

“Broll 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 Broll 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 wall. As they reached this, Broll called to their guide, “The city! How’s it standing?”

“In pieces scattered around! The Trade District, the harbor, the Valley of Heroes…all dark!” the man shouted back. “Some noise from the Old Town, Cathedral Square, and the Dwarven District

…and the Mage Quarter is still bright!” He gestured to his right, where the druid saw a constantly shifting array of colors that marked spells 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, Broll?”

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!”

Broll 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, will fall.”

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.

Broll had no answer for that. He could not tell her what constantly ate at him. The last nightmare involving his daughter had brought his great failure back to him full-blown. He was not Malfurion Stormrage. He was not even an archdruid.

He was only a rebellious former gladiator and slave.

But that was also what kept Broll moving on. The soldier finally brought them toward a familiar figure. Even with the armor obscuring everything, the stance was that of but one person.

“Lo’Gosh!” Broll 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’ll die this night for what’s happening! I’ll—”

Broll took to the forefront. “Your sight’s getting bad, Lo’Gosh!

Not good for a king, much less a poor excuse for a gladiator!”

“Broll Bearmantle!” Despite registering his friend’s presence, the king did not lower his sword. “Away from that damned green monster! I’ll strike her down—”

“She is with us! She is not to blame for what’s happening, nor is Thrall!”

Varian’s disbelief was clear, but it was also clear that to reach Thura — who was quite willing 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. “Tell me that you’re real, Broll…”

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!”

Broll 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 skills now, Broll. 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. All 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, Broll? What were you thinking? Her warchief used a fog to skulk up to our walls 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—”

“Thrall 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, Broll 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, Broll—”

“Stop it! There are more important matters! Tell me truthfully; 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. Still, our weapons are for the most part useless against them and all 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 all that might save us, I’ll lend what help I can.

You know that.”

“I’m grateful to hear that. I hope you’ll still 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’ll take your word for it, Broll,” the monarch finally said. “The question remains, what to do about it?”

“My shan’do is the key…somehow. I believe he’s the key.” Broll 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 still 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 all 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 recall 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 Broll.

Finally, “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 Broll. “I know you…”

“And I you,” Broll returned. “You serve under General Marcus Jonathan—” The night elf broke off, recalling what the soldier who had brought them here had said. The Valley of Heroes, where the general and Mattingly would have been stationed, had already fallen.

The major’s eyes verified Broll’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 valley…”

“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. Broll 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 follow him.

Varian made no attempt to stop the orc from following the night elves and neither Broll 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 followed.

“You’re home,” Broll muttered. “Stay here!”

“I might be needed,” Lucan argued, his eyes filled 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 all of them immediately noticed.

“The mist is thick here, but those poor souls are nowhere to be seen…”

“Why should they be here?” Broll 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 all 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 dwelling 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 still defending it and we might get caught up in a spell. 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’ll 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 still 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 Hall of Champions could be found here, as well 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 Broll and the others would have become lost. Even Lucan, a mapmaker, did not seem to know this part of Stormwind City well. 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 all were victims, whether still alive or dead being pointless.

With much relief, Broll 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. Still, 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, Broll 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 Broll’s gaze narrowed, Tyrande added, “There is no threat to Varian or Stormwind; the ambassador’s duties are steered toward just the opposite, Broll. 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 overall benefit of all the Alliance.

The Trade District bore the semblance of a much better kept, even more eclectic quarter. Broll would have been happy to walk its cobblestone streets had it been as it normally was. The bustling activity, the various races and callings…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 collapsed 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.

Broll 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 still street. The sounds of struggle were muted, as if Stormwind City’s last defenses were failing.

“I will find the room,” Tyrande decided.

“And I’ll come with you,” Broll 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’ll stay, too.” Lucan eyed the major and the orc and took up a place between them. Mattingly handed him a long dagger.

“We’ll 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.

Broll 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.

Broll eyed the man a moment more, for some reason finding this victim of particular interest. Then, still dissatisfied, the druid followed 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 Broll joined her, he saw nothing but a nearly empty chamber with several flowering plants — still fresh and well-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,” Broll 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 spell patterns…”

Long, oval and crystalline, 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 well for her, didn’t it?”

The high priestess said nothing, instead intent on the artifact.

Originally, 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,” Broll whispered, looking around. “Something very wrong—”

Tyrande paid no attention. “The hearthstone is resisting. The ambassador is still 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 rolling free.

The maniacal creature lunged toward Broll. 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’ll not take my children, demons!” she screamed. “You’ll not take them!”

Her eyes seized Broll’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 call 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 still 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 called, “Broll!

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 all 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. Broll understood the necessity of what she wanted, though it pained him to leave her and the others in such straits.

“I’ll find him! We’ll 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. Broll knew that he had to keep his focus on the hearthstone and the location to which it was tied.

Silver light swallowed 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. Broll almost pursued the creature, but Tyrande glared at the druid.

The hearthstone flared.

Broll vanished from the room —

— And materialized in Darnassus.

A Darnassus in the midst of a horror all its own. Broll 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 Broll’s people.

And only now could Broll sense just how horribly tainted the World 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 spells were adding to the World Tree in a manner that he could not believe they understood.

Broll 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. Broll 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. Broll 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, Broll 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 still gathered further on.

With four strong limbs, Broll 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 filled Broll. He recalled 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. Broll 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.

Broll could feel his muscles growing slack. He was semiconscious, but unable to move. Broll felt himself slipping back into his true form, but that brought him no relief.

A hand roughly gripped his arm. Broll was unceremoniously rolled 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 tell Fandral,” one of them said. “Someone should tell him we’ve got the traitor…”