Stormrage

2 CONVOCATION

Lucan Foxblood had not slept in days. That was by both choice and necessity. He even tried to keep his moments of rest to a minimum, for every pause in his endless flight meant risk of slipping into sleep. Yet there always came the point when the sandyhaired cartographer could go no farther, when his legs buckled and he fell to the ground, often already unconscious and dreaming.

And suffering nightmares… the same nightmares that had taken so many others in places through which he had traveled, such as Goldshire, Westfall, and his own Stormwind City…

Lucan bore the semblance of one who might have once been a soldier and, indeed, had briefly been one, though he had never served in any conflict. But now, a little more than three decades old, he looked as if he were in the very midst of war. His once-deep brown tunic and pants had turned the color of mud, and the fine threading at the rounded shoulders and along the sides of the legs had begun to fray. His leather boots were stained and cracking.

The cartographer fared little better than his garments. While there still remained evidence of his patrician features, the pallor of his skin and the days of unkempt growth on his face made him appear almost like a slowly decaying creature of the undead

Scourge. Only his eyes, nearly as green as a cat’s, showed any spark whatsoever.

During his dazed wanderings, he had lost all the tools of his trade and even the pack in which he had kept his meager supplies and a blanket for sleeping. Lucan could not recall the name of the last settlement in which he had found lodging. He could barely even recall his life before the dreams and nightmares had taken over and sometimes he was not certain if those memories were real…

or remnants of the nightmares themselves.

The region through which he traveled was thickly wooded, but it might as well have sprouted mountains of pure diamonds for all he noticed it. Lucan Foxblood wanted only to keep moving.

He blinked, the first time he had done so in several minutes.

The landscape around him abruptly turned emerald green with hints of a soft blue, and the misty air seemed to wrap around the staggering figure like a thick blanket. Many of the distinctive markings vanished, making the cartographer’s surroundings look like a drawing only half-completed. Yet, despite this remarkable change, Lucan stumbled along without interest.

He blinked again. Around him, the land returned to a normal hue

… but details had changed. It was no longer the region through which he had been journeying. True, there were still trees, but in the distance there now arose a settlement that had not been there before. Moreover, the scent of the sea now wafted past his nose, though it went as unnoticed as the dour shadow over the entire landscape.

Lucan passed a stone marker, one with script that would have proven illegible to him, had he even noticed writing at all. But that script would have been very legible to a night elf and in reading it, they would have known exactly where they were about to arrive.

Auberdine…

A colder, harsher wind confronted Broll and the tauren as they wended their way to where Hamuul said the convocation was to meet. Both druids bent their heads down, thrusting against that wind as if it were an enemy. Hamuul made no remark, but the tauren did unleash a grunt at one point that seemed to echo the night elf’s growing disquiet.

A great rustling of leaves arose. Curious, Broll glanced up.

The druid froze. His eyes widened in horror.

Teldrassil stood changed. The great branches above were filled with leaves, yes, but many had abruptly turned dried and wrinkled, while others now grew black and curled. All of them, even those that were still green, were covered with sharp thorns.

Broll heard Hamuul’s voice, but it was as if the tauren were miles away. The leaves continued to twist and blacken and now the fruits the great giant bore were changing, too. Among gnarling branches there sprouted round, deathly pale berries the size of his head and even larger and from them emitted a stench like decay. No druid — no night elf — would have dared dine on such offerings even if starvation were the only other choice.

The horrific metamorphosis left nothing untouched. Teldrassil’s bark had cracked in many places and through those cracks could be seen pulsating veins of black sap. The sap emerged first as a dribble, then steady streams. Tiny vermin sprang forth over the World Tree, millipedes and other creatures crawling in and out of the trunk in numbers that suggested even greater corruption within.

“No …” murmured Broll. “No …”

A darkness spread from Teldrassil, quickly expanding beyond the two druids. Although the night elf did not turn to watch its growth, he immediately knew that it had already stretched far beyond Teldrassil’s physical reach all the way to the mainland, infecting the lands there with the giant’s disease.

Then a sound erupted, like that of heavy rain. Tearing his gaze from the befouled trunk, Broll looked again to the crown.

What he had taken for rain proved instead an even more violent rustling of the leaves. The branches were swinging back and forth, shifting with such force as if seeking to free themselves of the sinister leaves.

And they were succeeding. Thousands of macabre leaves began to fall. It was indeed raining, though the drops were not made of water.

The falling leaves had also transformed. They became small, black and emerald creatures vaguely shaped like night elves, but with legs like beasts and backs bent like tauren. They were but dread silhouettes, with no distinct features to their narrow heads but wicked, curled horns. Emitting nerve-fraying hisses, they plummeted in endless streams toward the two druids —

“Broll Bearmantle, are you all right?”

Startled, the night elf staggered back. But when he regained his composure and opened his eyes, he found that the World Tree had returned to its normal state. The branches were still and the leaves were again attached and lush green.

Hamuul leaned close, the tauren’s expression all concern. Broll belatedly nodded, and when a horn sounded, he was gratefully spared from trying to either understand or explain what had just happened.

“We need to move on,” Broll urged. “The convocation is about to begin.”

The tauren blinked and followed the night elf. A few moments later the two came into sight of the area where Fandral had decided to call the gathering.

There were more druids than Broll had seen at any other recent convocation and still others continued to arrive from the opposite direction. Two in particular immediately caught his eye. A dour young female stood speaking with a male who, though outwardly confident and indeed radiating much power, constantly clenched his hands as if anxious about something. Elerethe Renferal and Naralex were partners in regret, even if the reasons for each were different. Elerethe had sought to save the flora and fauna of Alterac Valley during the last war between the Alliance and the Horde, but had been unable to prevent the carnage caused by not only two fighting armies, but an orc shaman. After the war, she had sworn to restore the valley. Several years later she was still trying.

Naralex had been the victim of greater ambitions, seeking to bring life back to a place long without it. Accompanied by a small group of like-minded companions, he had walked into the desolate Barrens and had, with cunning spellwork, managed to bring forth enough water from deep, deep below to the parched realm to create a handful of small oases. But then something malevolent had seized control of not only his work, but also an unsuspecting Naralex and many of his companions. The trapped had then become corrupted… twisted, evil versions of themselves with no desire other than to spread the darkness. Naralex himself had slipped into madness, then sanity, then madness, and on and on, finding rescue only through the unexpected aid of a party of adventurers.

Unfortunately, while his mind was again more or less whole, Naralex could recall no clue as to what had taken him and the others. As for the Barrens, although they were at present quiet, on the orders of Fandral neither he nor any other druid had as of yet returned there. The archdruid saw no point in risking lives and energies for a place that the Great Sundering at the end of the War of the Ancients had made into a desert. As Fandral saw it, even arid lands had their place in the purpose of Azeroth.

Their gazes and those of several others fixed upon the newcomers… and reminded Broll yet more of his shame. The further a druid became attuned to nature and his calling, the more chance that his eyes took on the golden glow of Azeroth’s life.

Great druids were marked so.

But Broll Bearmantle’s eyes remained silver with only a slight blue glow to them that thus far appeared to mean very, very little.

Shaking off his frustration, Broll started toward the pair, but then a second horn blared. The assembled druids turned as one toward the direction of the sound. A single druid with a green band on his left forearm lowered a goat’s horn, then faced Teldrassil.

The ridged bark upon which the trumpeter focused rippled. Broll shuddered, momentarily recalling his bizarre vision. Then the bark cleaved, opening up a gap large enough for a night elf to enter…

or, in this case, from which to step forth.

The druids bowed their heads in respect as Fandral Staghelm strode out among them with the bearing of one fully in command of all about him. His eyes gleamed gold as he nodded to many of those gathered. Fandral was clad more simply than most of the night elf druids, his upper torso covered only at the shoulders by protective wooden armor shaped somewhat like the heads of beasts, even down to their glaring eyes. His hands were covered in protective, open-fingered, woven gloves that extended all the way to the elbow, where the wooden ends flared out.

Fandral walked barefooted, a choice of his to display his oneness with nature. At the waist was the only sign of extravagance on his part — an ornate belt with a great ruby-colored clasp and a decorative, segmented ring hanging below it. Wrapped around each side was a long, flowing collection of pieces of bark.

“The forest is the lifeblood of the world,” Fandral intoned.

“The forest is the lifeblood of the world,” Broll and the other druids repeated.

“Teldrassil is the lifeblood of the world …”

Broll and the rest again repeated his chant.

“I am glad so many of you have heeded the summons so quickly,” the archdruid then uttered. “I must confirm to you the worst. Teldrassil is ill …”

The news caused the rest of the druids to look at one another in some anxiety. In truth, what Fandral said to them was no great surprise, but it was a shock to hear the archdruid starkly speak it.

Although nearly all the druids had had a hand in its creation, Teldrassil’s growth had originally been Fandral’s suggestion and he above all others guarded its health.

Fandral Staghelm had been the first to suggest the second World Tree, but Malfurion had ever blocked such a suggestion from becoming anything more. But despite Malfurion’s opposition, Fandral’s loyalty remained intact — after the discovery of the great archdruid’s terrible fate, Fandral had stepped in and, with little protest from others, taken up the mantle of leader. His first mission, so he had solemnly proclaimed, was to save their beloved shan’do.

Under his guidance, the senior druids of the Cenarion Circle had determined that Malfurion’s limp form should remain in his barrow den, located in the revered Moonglade. There, surrounded by the world’s natural energies and the magical ministering of the Sisters of Elune, the body, deemed perfectly healthy otherwise by the Sisters, did not starve or suffer from lack of water. With this came the hope that, as powerful as he was, Malfurion might yet be able to return on his own.

Fandral had not relied on that hope alone, though. The Circle had made attempts to not only restore the body, but also call Malfurion’s spirit back to it. The attempts failed every time. They had even turned to the mistress of the Emerald Dream — the great green dragon Ysera — but even that had gone for nought. She of the Dreaming, as Ysera was also called by the druids, had had no success in contacting him, either.

Until recently, all of this had been kept secret from the night elf race as a whole and even most of the Sisterhood and the druids.

However, increasing questions had at last forced a reluctant Fandral to alert his fellow druids — if not the rest of the race — of the direness of the situation, hence the overriding reason so many had come to this sudden convocation. Broll believed all of the druids here had guessed, as he had, that the gathering would be somehow related to Malfurion’s rescue.

But Teldrassil was at least as important a reason — if not a greater one to the night elves as a whole. The original goal of using the new World Tree had been to regain their immortality and enhance their powers. But Fandral had pointed out that the magical tree might also be their only hope to locate their founder’s dreamform and initiate his rescue.

If Teldrassil is truly so ill, though… Broll frowned and saw his apprehension reflected in the faces of Hamuul and the rest.

Fandral strode among the others. His sharp gaze briefly rested upon Broll. Although it was clearly not the archdruid’s intention, the glance again reminded Broll of his terrible failure. But then, that memory was never far from his mind.

The senior archdruid smiled, as a father to his children. “But do not dwell in utter despair, my friends,” he said. “I have not called you here merely to speak of doom—”

“There is some hope?” one of the other druids blurted.

“There is more than hope!” Fandral proclaimed. “I have summoned you to this place, here at the roots of Teldrassil, so that we may aid the World Tree in its healing!” He smiled encouragingly.

“And with Teldrassil well again, we can then return to the focus of our search for Malfurion Stormrage—”

“But how can we aid Teldrassil?” someone else called.

“With this.” The archdruid extended his hand. In it lay an object that all recognized… and brought forth from Broll’s lips a gasp of dismay and surprise.

Fandral held the Idol of Remulos.

The title was perhaps misleading, as the idol did not look at all like the one for whom it was named. Rather, the figurine had been crafted to resemble a rearing green dragon by Remulos, the immortal son of Cenarius and who himself was an astonishing sight. The lower half of Remulos’s body was that of a proud stag, but where the shoulders of the front legs should have met the neck, instead a powerful, humanoid chest rose above. His hooves were cloven and powerful. Like his father, Remulos was half forest animal, the upper half most resembling a night elf druid. But the similarity ended there. His hands ended in leafy, wooden talons, and his hair and beard were comprised of leaves and shrubbery and moss.

Remulos was also guardian of the Moonglade. Indeed, Broll had wondered if the immortal druid would appear here, though Remulos had not joined in the convocations for some time. Rumor had it that he had performed his own search for Malfurion…

But it was not for the artistic merit that Fandral had brought forth the idol. A powerful magical artifact, it was certainly capable of aiding the druids’ spells… if it did not do more harm first.

Indeed, Broll could not restrain himself. He dared blurt, “Archdruid, with the greatest respect… should that be part of our efforts?”

Fandral turned and eyed Broll sternly. “Your worry is understandable, good Broll. Anessa’s loss was no fault of yours.

You did what you could to save many lives and beat back the demons.”

Broll fought not to cringe as he listened to Fandral’s words, even though they were meant to put him at peace. A human face stirred in Broll’s memories, a determined, dark-haired man with eyes that spoke of more loss suffered than even the night elf who had befriended him. Varian Wrynn had stood beside Broll when the druid had gone to retrieve the accursed figurine from a mad furbolg, the two having forged a deep bond earlier as fellow slaves and gladiators. Varian had done so even though he had had no inkling of his own past, no recollection that an entire realm was bereft of the man who was its king…

Fandral turned from Broll again. He held up the figurine, then indicated the World Tree.

“Once, we fed it so that it could rise from a single nut to the wondrous leviathan it is now! The effort cost us dear, but the rewards have been manyfold… a new home, food and water in bounty, and protection from our enemies …”

The druids nodded. Broll noted that Fandral made no mention of the immortality that remained lost to their people, but then, as Teldrassil’s growth had not yet restored it, he thought perhaps the archdruid was sensitive on the subject.

The archdruid thrust the idol toward one of the nearest of the gathered. The other night elf instinctively backed up a step. “But in giving back so much, Teldrassil left itself open to illness! It now needs us again! In return… it will then surely show us the path to finding our shan’do!”

Fandral’s enthusiasm was contagious. The others rumbled their agreement.

“The Dream is quickly being devoured by the Nightmare …” he went on more solemnly, stating the dread knowledge all shared.

“With no recent word from its mistress, I have forbidden entry by any others after the last foolhardy attempts …” Fandral stared down his audience, as if daring any to disobey. “For Malfurion would surely want no more lives lost for his sake …”

He put his hand to his chest, then drew the outline of a circle in which he then added two vertical, curving streaks. The streaks represented the antlers of Cenarius. The full symbol itself represented the Cenarion Circle.

The druids clasped their hands together in preparation for the beginning of their efforts. Broll cleared his mind of concerns and petty mortal thoughts and instead began to put himself into a meditative trance. Beside him, Hamuul did the same.

Turning to Teldrassil, Fandral touched the great trunk with his free hand. His fingers ran down the coarse bark.

Within the World Tree, something stirred, something that every druid could feel as if it were a part of them. Even in his meditative state, Broll sensed a tremendous presence joining the convocation… Teldrassil’s essence touching those who had helped raise it up.

The World Tree was more than merely the home of the night elves. It was linked to the very health of Azeroth. Ill, it affected not merely its immediate surroundings, but those lands beyond the island. Even the very air or the rushing seas were not immune. At the very least, a Teldrassil that was not well could not maintain the balance between nature and decay.

The ground shook, but neither Broll nor any of the others felt any fear, not even when what first appeared to be tentacles burst underneath them.

But these were not tentacles. Rather, they were the very roots of Teldrassil. Toward each of the druids a root moved, snaking up to them as if about to strike. Yet none moved away. They knew that Teldrassil did not seek to harm them, but instead asked for their help…

One massive root already twined about Fandral. As it did, from the main root tiny extensions sprouted. They, in turn, wrapped around the archdruid like creeper vines, until he stood halfshrouded by them.

It was a variation — a tremendous one, naturally — of one of the ways in which the druids communed with the flora of Azeroth. What could not be seen was that the tendrils permeated their very beings, almost merging night elf and plant as one.

Fandral held forth the Idol of Remulos. It now glowed a faint green, the color of the dragon it not only represented but also that of the true beast bound to it. Not even Remulos knew to which of the green dragons his creation had been bound, for that choice had been made in secret by Ysera. Whatever dragon had been chosen, it had been a mighty one, indeed.

Broll felt some trepidation as the magic of the figurine touched both him and Teldrassil’s root, but his trust in the archdruid overcame his memories of the artifact’s foul deeds. The magic seeped into the druid’s mind and soul…

He became Teldrassil and Teldrassil became him.

Broll could not keep back the euphoria that filled him. He felt as if all Azeroth lay open to him, so deep and so far did the World Tree’s roots already spread. He saw beyond the island, beyond the surrounding waters…

But before his consciousness could stretch further, Broll felt a tug. A hint of weakness touched him. But Fandral’s thoughts filled his mind, assuring him — and the rest — of the safety of what he planned.

The power of the druids flowed into Teldrassil, feeding it.

Strengthening it. With so much will and desire behind their offering, Broll was certain that whatever ailed the Great Tree would be vanquished and that then, as the archdruid had indicated, it would then be able to assist them in rescuing Malfurion —

No sooner had he thought of his shan’do, than Broll experienced a jarring in his consciousness. A darkness spread through his thoughts and he felt the same uneasiness that had hit him when he had imagined Teldrassil monstrously corrupted. Broll tried to dismiss that uneasiness, but it grew —

Broll Bearmantle…

The calling of his name shattered the last of the druid’s calm.

Did he know that voice? Was it —

The binding between Teldrassil and him snapped. Broll let out a gasp and fell to one knee. Vaguely, he sensed others around him, including Hamuul. Was it Hamuul who had called out to him, as he had earlier? No, it almost didn’t seem real; the sound of it had vanished from his thoughts without a trace.

It was hard to focus, as if, like a dream, his mind was already slipping away to his subconscious…

Hamuul put a hand on his shoulder. Broll looked up. A handful of druids had surrounded him, mostly friends.

“I’m well,” he told them, breathless. “Forgive me for shattering the spell—”

“You had nothing to do with it,” Naralex commented as he crouched beside Broll, sounding quite puzzled. “Hamuul called attention to your bent body and we who were nearest quickly came, but you did not cut off our efforts …”

Naralex and Hamuul aided the druid in standing. Broll was flush with embarrassment. “If not my lacking, then what?”

But even as he spoke, he sensed through the land around him that the druids were no longer alone. A presence was fast approaching.

Broll looked toward Fandral, who was standing with his back to Teldrassil and his gaze upon the path to their left. It was now clear to him that the archdruid had stopped the spellwork due to the approach of outsiders.

A group of newcomers marched into the convocation without hesitation, those behind spreading out in protection of their leader.

Although they were night elves, they could never be mistaken for druids.

All female and clearly of a religious order, they wore empty sheaths at their sides and quivers on their backs; Broll figured they must have left behind their weapons in respect to those of the druidic calling. He could tell from their lithe forms and gracefulness that these females were proficient in not only a variety of weapons, but hand-to-hand combat as well.

There were eleven in this party, though the number of their order was greater than that by far. They were clad in shimmering moonlight-silver robes that stretched down to their ankles. Long, elegant teardrops of silver began from the middle of their bodices and descended roughly halfway down, each end encased in a blue orb. Near the waist, arched, linked belts clasped onto decorative crests. The robes were very free-flowing, allowing much room and maneuverability for those also trained in martial arts. Even without blades or bows, the eleven represented a ready fighting force.

Their leader quickly — almost impatiently — scanned over the druids. She spread her hands… and through the overcast sky there suddenly shone the larger of Azeroth’s two moons, illuminating the area.

“Our presence is not troublesome here, is it?” Tyrande Whisperwind politely asked. “After all, this is not where the Circle generally convenes …”

“The Sisterhood of Elune is ever welcome,” Fandral answered.

“Although surely a convocation of druids is of little import to the high priestess of the moon goddess and ruler of all night elves …”

“It would not be important, even with its location unusual,” she replied, her expression hardening in a manner that made Fandral frown and the other druids stir, “if Elune herself had not revealed to me the dread truth.”

There were rumblings among the druids. Fandral waved for silence. Frowning, he asked, “What ‘dread truth,’ High Priestess?”

Tyrande swallowed, the only sign that the news touched her especially. “Malfurion is dying …”

“Impossible! We have kept his barrow den secure and your own priestesses minister to his body daily. There is no reason for such a dire circumstance—”

“Nevertheless, there is,” she returned. “His situation has changed. Malfurion is dying and we must act with all possible haste.

”

Before Fandral could respond, Broll found himself uttering, “And what shall we do, High Priestess?”

Tyrande’s voice was edged with steel. “First, we must journey to the Moonglade.”