Stormrage

22 THE TAINTED

The victims of Stormwind City were coming for them. Lucan, Thura, and the major were surrounded by the bedraggled, slumbering figures. Each was screaming about some dire event that they somehow blamed on the three. Worse, they all moved unerringly toward the defenders with their eyes tightly shut.

“What do we do?” Lucan asked.

“We fight them!” growled the orc, the ax ready. “We fight them or they tear us apart, fool!”

“They are innocents!” Major Mattingly countered reprovingly.

“Would you do this if they were your own people?”

“Yes…because it must be done.”

The look on the officer’s face when she said that was proof enough that Mattingly understood her logic. Yet he still shook his head at the thought.

“Foxblood! Take her and see what has happened to the night elves!” Mattingly finally ordered.

“But that’ll leave you alone here…”

The two humans eyed one another for a moment. Lucan finally understood. Mattingly was trying to spare the innocents from Thura, who would surely take a terrible toll on them even if she was eventually overwhelmed. The major was also obviously hoping for some miracle to come from Tyrande’s and Broll’s efforts.

“Come!” the cartographer ordered the orc. As surprised as she was at his commanding tone, Thura reluctantly followed, while the major swept his sword across the shrinking gap between him and the sleepwalking locals.

But no sooner had they entered when a stout figure wielding a work ax charged Lucan.

“ ’Tis my farm!” the man shouted. “I won’t let ya burn it!”

The ax would have buried deep into Lucan’s chest if not for Thura. She blocked the strike with the shaft of her weapon. The sleepwalker turned to face her, his shut eyes disconcerting. The rage in his face was overwhelming.

He swung at the orc. She parried the attack, then struck.

“No!” But Lucan could not stop her.

Her enchanted ax cut a red line across the possessed man’s chest. He dropped his own weapon, then fell to the floor.

The cartographer was furious. “He couldn’t help himself!”

Thura did not look happy with her own actions, but she asked, “What would you have done?”

Lucan had no answer. From above there came the sounds of struggle and more screaming. The pair ran upstairs.

They were met at the top by Tyrande, who struggled with a wild figure who could only have been the night elf ambassador. Lucan raced to help the high priestess, only to be confronted by a shadow creature.

“Go to her!” roared Thura. The orc thrust past Lucan. Although her ax did not reach the shadow, it recoiled at the nearness.

The way cleared, the cartographer joined Tyrande. He seized one of the screaming figure’s arms, enabling Tyrande to focus better.

The high priestess touched the sleepwalker’s chest. A faint silver glow covered the flesh.

The sleepwalker let out a gasp and crumpled into their arms.

Lucan and Tyrande gently laid her down.

As they did, the orc thrust. The ax cut through the shadow, which hissed…then faded.

But though there was a moment of calm where the trio stood, the same could not be said for without. The screams grew louder, more terrifying. One briefly rose above the rest before abruptly cutting off.

“That was the major!” Lucan gasped. He tried to go to a window, but Tyrande pulled him back.

“It is too late for him.” The high priestess looked into Lucan’s eyes. “Too late for so many. But there is still hope for Azeroth and hope for us…if you take us from here.”

He nodded. “I can’t promise that we might not end up by that green dragon again…”

“Eranikus is the least of our problems…indeed, Eranikus is his own worst problem.”

Lucan concentrated. Tyrande extended a hand to Thura, who took it.

The world took on an emerald hue.

And then a darker one. Mad shrieks assailed their ears and the landscape was covered in the familiar, cloying mist in which halfseen, grotesque shapes moved about. Vertigo shook each of them, heightening a growing sense of anxiety and disorientation that they knew was far from natural.

They were back in the Nightmare.

“No…” Lucan muttered. “Let me—”

The shadow of a massive, skeletal tree stretched over them, its silhouette obvious even despite the darkness.

Welcome… came a dread voice in their heads. And, especially, welcome to you, Tyrande Whisperwind…

The high priestess turned as pale as death. Even the orc shivered at the dire tone in the night elf’s denial.

“No…” Tyrande shook her head. “No…”

Yes…oh yes… the voice answered.

“Think, Fandral, think!” Malfurion called. “Is this truly all as you want it to be? Did you create Teldrassil to destroy your people?”

“I am not destroying us; I am saving us from you and others who betray our world!” As he spoke, Fandral leaned his head toward the shadow he believed his son. The crazed archdruid nodded, then added to Malfurion, “You spoke against Teldrassil’s birth! You knew that it would restore our people to their glory and return to them the immortality that was stripped away!”

Malfurion dodged as a flower bloomed in front of him. It was a black lily and from it shot forth a white pollen. He had no idea what that pollen would do, but any plant tainted by the Nightmare was surely a threat.

The pollen landed short. The area upon which Malfurion had stood burned and withered.

There was a sharp pain on his left hand. A single grain had landed near the thumb. That one grain was enough to make

Malfurion grit his teeth. Had a thousand touched him…

A pressure built in his chest. Malfurion fell to his knees. The pressure increased. It became impossible to breathe.

The archdruid quickly searched his body, seeking what assailed him. It proved all too easy.

The pollen had been a ploy, albeit a dangerous one. Too late Malfurion realized that Fandral had utilized a more subtle druidic attack. While Malfurion had been evading the lily, he had also been inhaling the altered plant’s tiny spores. They now filled his lungs.

But as he had done with the morrowgrain poison, Malfurion forced the spores from his body. It was not as simple and gradual a feat as he had utilized in his barrow den; after all, time was not on his side. Malfurion ejected the spores with one fierce exhalation, sending them toward their caster.

The effort caused a brief sense of lightheadedness during which Fandral might have been able to attack him if not for the fact that the other night elf had to deflect the all but invisible spores. Fandral gestured and the wind scattered the counterattack before it could reach him.

Yet though Malfurion had saved himself, he knew that every second that he was forced to combat Fandral only worked in the Nightmare’s favor. Fandral was lost; his madness consumed him.

Unless…

Palms turned skyward, Malfurion concentrated.

A calm settled over the enclave. The trees stilled and the other plants grew calm. Malfurion smiled grimly. The taint might infest Teldrassil, but not all of Teldrassil had been consumed by it. He had called out to that which was still whole to listen to him, to remember what it was.

But a mere breath later, the terror returned. Fandral stood with arms outstretched and the shadow at his side.

“I will not permit you to take my son from me again!” he cried.

Malfurion no longer listened to Fandral’s incoherent words. He focused again on drawing that which was still good in Teldrassil. It was not as great as what was tainted, but with his guidance it held, at least for the moment.

And that was all Malfurion could ask.

But it was no longer merely the enclave that he affected.

Malfurion strained as he spread his spell to encompass all of Darnassus. There were still screams and shouts of struggle, but they were less and he sensed that it was because his plan was working.

His body, his very soul, ached. Malfurion was fighting not one foe, but two. Somewhere deep in the World Tree was a touch of the Nightmare Lord, a physical presence. He wanted to seek it out, the better to combat it, but that would leave him defenseless against Fandral.

The strain grew. Malfurion felt his power waning. It was not that Fandral was stronger; it was that Malfurion was at the same time seeking to protect the citizenry as well.

It must happen soon! They must understand! he thought.

Then he felt the presence of others in the enclave, and both his hopes and his concerns rose. How they reacted meant the difference between victory and defeat.

Fandral lessened his attack, maintaining it only enough to keep Malfurion on edge. Malfurion had assumed that. He, in turn, dropped his hands and cut off his spellwork.

For a moment he was buffeted, but then Fandral followed suit.

Now was not the time for either to look the aggressor. They were about to be judged.

The other archdruids and druids gathered around them, most with wary or uncertain looks. Malfurion met the gaze of each, letting them see into his soul. He had nothing to hide, whereas Fandral did.

And one thing that Fandral hid was the shadow creature he believed was Valstann come back to him. The other archdruid stood before his brethren bearing a pious smile, as if he had been the one to summon the rest here. However, that responsibility lay with two unlikely figures — perhaps three, Malfurion saw — who now stepped into the center of the fray.

Fandral could not help but glance behind him. Hamuul Runetotem and Shandris Feathermoon were no longer his prisoners.

Malfurion’s attack had involved many subtle aspects. In addition to fighting the other archdruid’s efforts, Malfurion had used the distraction of the struggle to also manipulate the sinister vines holding the trio.

Malfurion tried to revive Naralex, but the other male night elf remained unconscious. He had better success with Hamuul and Shandris. Placing Naralex in Hamuul’s care, he then sent them off to the portal, all the while hoping that Fandral’s madness would keep the other night elf from noticing what was happening.

Malfurion had succeeded, but it was still a question as to whether the pair had come with aid for him — or more support for Fandral. The third member of the party gave indication of the latter, for he all but growled at several druids. How Broll Bearmantle had come to be here, Malfurion desperately wanted to know, but the answer to that had to wait.

“Very good!” Fandral proclaimed to the newcomers. “The traitors are rounded up! Excellent work!”

“They claim that you are the traitor, Master Fandral,” one druid cautiously responded.

Broll stepped toward the speaker. “And he is, though even I was slow in understanding that he was forcing you to feed that which taints Teldrassil rather than curing the World Tree!” To Malfurion, he explained, “When I went to warn them, a group captured me!

Fortunately, before they could do much else, Hamuul and Shandris came along and managed to talk some reason into them…”

“We did what we believed right!” the druid who had spoken countered. Some of the druids looked ready to fight with Broll.

Hamuul Runetotem joined the night elf. Shandris started toward them, but then looked to Malfurion.

Nodding to her, he said to the gathered throng, “You know me.

Most of you were trained by me. Look into yourselves and see if you still have faith in my word.”

“The Nightmare has seduced him!” Fandral interjected. “You know how long he has been missing! Great though our shan’do once was, he is now an emissary of the darkness! Heed not his words!”

“And why should they heed yours, Fandral?” Broll countered.

“You promised Teldrassil would restore our people, but now all they have to do is truly seek with their senses to see what it’s become!”

Malfurion looked on with approval at Broll. “Always you underestimate yourself. You know what lurks within the World Tree, don’t you, Broll?” He turned to the tauren. “And you, also, Hamuul…”

“I sensed it, but could not believe, Malfurion Stormrage. I came here with Naralex, who felt the same, and we found the general also in search of the truth—”

“Naralex?” Malfurion looked around, but there was no sign of the night elf.

“He is still unconscious,” the tauren clarified dourly. “He was the most injured of us. I have done what I can for him…but there needs to be more—”

Many among those assembled stirred, clearly upset by these revelations. Naralex was a powerful druid well-liked by many. They looked upon Fandral with new understanding…and dismay.

Fandral defiantly stared down those in the crowd who were now clearly against him. “Naralex is another traitor! He gave me no choice! They are all traitors!”

His arrogant words only further inflamed his audience against him. Several of the remaining druids joined Broll and the others who had already taken Malfurion’s side. Malfurion pushed to the forefront, determined that he would take responsibility for any and all of Fandral’s actions.

“How many more must suffer or die?” Malfurion asked. “All Azeroth is falling, Fandral!” To the assembled druids, he explained, “While he kept you here, claiming to heal the World Tree, the rest of the world was attacked. See into yourselves and feel Azeroth’s pain…”

They did as he bade. Almost immediately, several druids gasped in horror.

“The Moonglade!” blurted one. “Even the Moonglade! But where’s Keeper Remulos? He’d surely not abandon it?”

It was an excellent question whose answer worried Malfurion.

He knew that the other archdruid was not by himself either powerful or cunning enough to have taken down the keeper. However, the malevolent force behind the insane night elf certainly might have been. “Well, Fandral? Where is Remulos?”

“He is a traitor, also! He will be held until he sees the truth!” The mad archdruid gestured at everyone before him. “You will all be made to see the truth!”

Dropping all pretense, Fandral gestured. Many of the druids suddenly clutched their chests.

From out of one burst a long vine that swayed back and forth like a serpent. Despite his terrible wound, the druid grabbed it — only to reveal to the rest that other wicked vines were sprouting from various places on his hands, his arms, everywhere.

“I have prepared for treachery from any of you,” Fandral explained, his eyes unblinking. “One way or another…you will all serve Teldrassil and its purpose!”

The first victim was joined by more and more. Malfurion reacted immediately, seeking to stem the growth of Fandral’s malevolent seeds. He could only imagine that they had been inhaled just like the spores that had but recently attacked him. Fandral was willing to kill every other druid for his desires.

But not all were affected. In fact, there were those who moved to join Fandral, druids who had become his followers. That his calling had itself become so tainted sorrowed Malfurion, but he had no time to wonder why any would choose such a path. What mattered was saving the afflicted.

However, neither Fandral nor the Nightmare Lord intended to give him that time. The taint in Teldrassil surged again. Darnassus was once more put under siege as more shadow creatures sprouted from the World Tree’s blackened leaves.

Malfurion needed to deal with Fandral and his master, but to do so meant to sacrifice his brethren. The first druid was already lost, what remained of his body devoured by the parasitic vines’ explosive growth.

There was one hope, one other with the strength…if he believed. “Broll! Look into me! See what must be done!”

“These mean nothing!” Broll bitterly shouted back, indicating his great antlers. “I’m not like you, Shan’do!”

“You are!” Malfurion insisted, the strain in his voice growing.

“Feel your tie to Azeroth! You can stop this! Or will you just let them all die horribly?”

It was a cold question and Malfurion despised himself for having to ask it, but he could no longer hold off. The rest of the night elf race — the rest of Azeroth — had little more time left than the druids did.

Malfurion focused on Fandral. As he stared at his rival, he saw the shadow creature behind and yet also a part of the mad archdruid. It was guiding Fandral’s thoughts for its true master.

Malfurion understood what he had to do, though it risked much.

He threw himself at Fandral, transforming to cat semblance as he did. Fandral reacted as expected, drawing a handful of tiny thorns from a pouch and flinging them toward the giant feline.

Malfurion changed back, casting another spell as he did. For most druids, even those of Malfurion’s skill, the odds of success would have been minimal. However, Malfurion had been the first trained by the demigod Cenarius. He had also learned his craft with the first invasion of the Burning Legion, and honed those skills well over the past ten thousand years.

The hurricane wind caught up the thorns and threw them back at Fandral, who cast a spell of his own. The vines that had held Hamuul and Shandris spat hundreds of drops of sticky sap at the thorns, sealing the deadly missiles inside and causing them to all land short of Malfurion’s nemesis.

“Hardly worthy of—” Fandral started.

Fire that glowed like the stars — Malfurion’s true attack — struck the shadow creature behind Fandral.

The murky figure twisted into itself as the fire engulfed it. It hissed and howled. Bits of burning shadow fluttered off in the wind.

“Valstann!” Fandral desperately clutched at the shadow. He tried in vain to douse the fire, but only succeeded in becoming caught up in it. Even then, the archdruid paid the agony no mind as he grabbed at the fiend he believed his lost child.

A hand spun Fandral around. Before he could react, Malfurion struck him in the jaw. It was the least of attacks that he could have used against the other archdruid and Malfurion’s choice for many reasons.

Fandral tumbled back.

There was little left of the shadow creature. Like Fandral before him, Malfurion reached for what remained. The fire even burned him, but he knew how to lessen the sense of pain from it. It was vital that he make contact with the shadow.

Only fragments remained. Malfurion had tried to temper his attack in order to give him this necessary moment, but still he was nearly too late.

One hand thrust into the shadow. Instantly, a horrific chill enveloped his soul. Malfurion steeled himself and drove his mind into the shadow.

And what he sensed verified the dread that had been building up in him since first he was captured by the Nightmare Lord.

The last of the shadow burned away and with it went the fire.

Malfurion took a breath as he regained his equilibrium. He turned to Fandral, but the other night elf lay sprawled where he had left him, Fandral’s eyes open but not seeing. The second loss of his

“son” had been too much.

Malfurion turned to Broll — and his eyes widened.

Broll Bearmantle stood among the suffering druids, his hands raised above his head and the energies of Azeroth swirling around him. His formerly silver eyes now blazed nearly as gold as Malfurion’s. From his hands, tendrils of energy stretched out to each of the other druids.

Two riddled bodies lay on the ground — the first of Fandral’s victims — but for the other druids, there appeared hope. Hamuul Runetotem stood with Broll, giving what aid he could, but the effort was truly the night elf’s.

You are as you were destined to be, Malfurion thought with relief and pride.

Belatedly, he realized that there was no sign of Shandris.

Knowing her as he did, Malfurion felt certain that she had gone to direct Darnassus’s defenders.

Malfurion transformed. Once again the great cat, he raced from the enclave and into central Darnassus. Around him, he registered the struggle still going on. Even without Fandral, Darnassus was in terrible danger, but Malfurion could only help them by continuing on.

Out into the forest beyond the capital he ran. Immediately, the branches and leaves of the nearby trees sought to bar his path.

Malfurion lithely dodged them when he could, tore through them with his claws and teeth when he could not. His thick fur kept his body from much harm, but still more than a score of bloody slashes marked him before he reached the deep interior of Teldrassil’s crown.

A savage, towering figure emerged from the tree, so much a part of it that even the archdruid barely noticed it in time. The ancient moved to take into account evasion by Malfurion, so Malfurion instead lunged directly toward it.

The corrupted forest guardian tried to recover, but Malfurion dove under the creature’s legs. More swift and agile, the cat eluded the gigantic ancient.

The World Tree’s crown both thickened and darkened. Thorns grew everywhere. No true cat the size of Malfurion could have wended its way as he did; the night elf made use of reflexes honed over century upon century.

But just as he neared where he sensed his goal lay, a small, furred form leapt upon his muzzle and scratched at his eyes. It was only a squirrel, one of the many denizens of the tree, but even it had been corrupted by the taint.

The squirrel was a foe easily discarded by a shake of the head, but that was not the true danger. Malfurion tried to compensate for whatever was to follow. When a smaller branch snagged one paw and nearly made him tumble, the archdruid immediately reverted to his normal form and caught himself before he could be snared by waiting branches from other surrounding trees.

Shadow creatures whose outlines he recognized dropped from the branches above. The fiends piled upon the spot where Malfurion had stood. They tore at both Malfurion’s body and soul —

A savage roar from within sent the shadows sprawling back.

Huge, glowing claws swiped at the creatures, reducing several to shreds. Once more in his feline form, Malfurion utilized its inherent abilities to decimate his murky attackers.

They fell to his claws as grass fell to a reaper. Within seconds, there remained only Malfurion the cat, a victor who unleashed one last powerful roar, then lunged the last few yards toward that which he sought.

It thrust up from the World Tree’s trunk, and though on the one hand it was shaped like one of many massive tree branches spread throughout Teldrassil, its color marked it starkly. It was a color that Malfurion associated with something other than a tree, tainted or not. Indeed, as he shifted back to night elf, he had only to gaze at his hand to see skin of a like hue.

Even without touching it, the archdruid could sense how expertly it had been grafted into what had at the time surely been a much less mature Teldrassil. Malfurion could tell Fandral’s work and knew that the other archdruid must have returned several times to assist his addition in its foul growth. It now stretched more than eight feet in height, its sub-branches all at least three to four feet themselves and covered with scores of the dark, thorned leaves. There was also pale fruit vaguely shaped like skulls.

Malfurion approached the grafting. The fruits glistened and one of them fell near the night elf. It cracked open upon impact with the branch upon which the archdruid stood. A thick, ivory substance poured from it, the stench accompanying the substance like that from a field of rotting corpses.

Malfurion edged away from it, though that also put him a step farther from the grafting. He knew that was what the Nightmare Lord had in mind, but could do nothing else.

Another fruit dropped. As it cracked open, the ivory substance became hundreds of bone-colored millipedes with heads resembling fleshless night elf skulls.

Malfurion Stormrage… they called as they converged on him.

Malfurion Stormrage…time you came to join us…

He recognized those voices. Each was different, yet he knew every single last one of them. There was Lord Ravencrest, who had commanded the night elf forces until assassinated by an agent of Queen Azshara’s Highborne; the high priestess Dejahna — Tyrande’s predecessor; the evil Captain Varo’then — Azshara’s devoted servant — and so many, many others who had haunted both his and surely Tyrande’s thoughts over the millennia.

Malfurion…we have waited so long…come join us in our long rest…

He wavered, standing without doing anything as the monstrous millipedes reached his feet. The first crawled atop his foot, its skeletal jaws opening wideThe archdruid reached down and seized it. He squeezed tight.

The millipede wailed like a dying night elf. Its ghastly outer shell peeled away to reveal a beautiful rose sprouting upward.

The others in the swarm also began to wail. Each suffered as the one in Malfurion’s hand did.

“Let this be their legacy,” he intoned to the grafting as roses sprouted everywhere. “Let this honor those who stood in defense of Azeroth…not traded their world for ultimate power…”

Teldrassil’s crown shook as if a massive wind blew through it.

The shaking leaves of the hundreds of smaller trees atop it created what to Malfurion’s ears was an angry, bitter roar.

He used that moment of the Nightmare Lord’s anger to shift form again, but this time into a huge bear, a dire bear. With its tremendous strength, Malfurion seized the grafting and tore it from Teldrassil. He dug into the very trunk, ripping even the “roots” out.

The World Tree trembled. Huge trees astride it broke free.

Malfurion the bear pressed against the trunk as the upheaval grew.

He could only hope that those in Darnassus were protecting themselves.

The shaking subsided. The druid immediately sought out with his mind the extent of the damage and was shocked. Despite the brevity of the tremor, the intensity had been enough to leave the forests of Teldrassil in ruins. Entire mighty oaks had snapped in two. Much of the crown was a tangle of dangerous refuse.

Darnassus must be abandoned, the archdruid determined.

Until the extent of the damage to the World Tree itself was known, everyone was at risk.

Even as Malfurion thought that, a great mass of ruined trees suddenly proved too much for those supporting their weight. With a sound like reverberating thunder, the holding branches cracked and tons of wood and dirt dropped with a resounding crash. There, their momentum wreaked havoc on other gigantic trees and the stunning sight repeated.

Then, even despite the World Tree’s woes, the archdruid looked to the lone branch that he had ripped free. It had paled much and now something dripped from it. It was a thick substance with the consistency of tree sap, but was hardly the color. In fact, Malfurion’s ursine senses picked up a scent to it, one that stirred an incredible fury within him.

It was the source of the taint that had spread through Teldrassil.

Malfurion let out a bestial growl. He knew what it was…and thus, how it had come to be.

It was blood. Thick though it was, it was fresh and looked otherwise exactly like that which flowed through his or any other night elf’s body.

Blood…from a tree.

The druid reverted to his true shape as the realization struck him. There was only one such tree. Millennia ago, Malfurion had caused that tree to come into being. He had done so to put an end to an evil and bring from it some good…but evidently had merely set into motion a more terrible darkness.

The branch was from the tree that cast the shadow of the Nightmare Lord.

A tree that had once been the dread counselor to foul Queen Azshara.

The name was as poison on Malfurion’s lips. “Xavius…”