Stormrage

4 SHADOWS STIR

“The mangy curs must be holding out in the lowest shafts,” Marshal Dughan growled to his men as he peered through the eye slits of his helmet into a deep passage of the Jasperlode Mine. A spray of dust caught in his throat, and he turned and spat on the ground. “I think it’s safe to call a momentary halt.”

The sounds of clanking armor echoed off the mine’s walls as the marshal’s fifteen men relaxed their guarded stances. But Zaldimar Wefhellt, a fair to middling mage from Goldshire who had accompanied the group on their quest, maintained his position with eyes fixed on the dark tunnel.

“I told you to stand down,” Dughan snapped.

The gray-haired, bearded mage ambled toward the others.

Although he was well respected in Goldshire, Zaldimar would not have made a name for himself in one of the capital cities. Still, though the group of men Dughan had scrounged together was strong enough to defeat the mongrels on their own, he was sure the mage’s spells would help bring about a swift and merciless execution.

Located in the northern foothills of Elwynn Forest, Jasperlode Mine had been one of the crucial supply points for the raw metal ore needed for weapons and armor. But with so many pressures on Stormwind, the number of military forces guarding the forest’s mines had dwindled to nil, and Jasperlode and the rest had become horribly infested.

Unchallenged, the kobolds — long-snouted, whiskered humanoids who were generally more annoying than dangerous — had moved back into the area. They were not skilled fighters, nor were they particularly bright, but they bred like rabbits and existed in large numbers… but not for long, if Marshal Dughan had his way. He had made major progress over the past few weeks; between Jasperlode and Fargodeep Mine further southwest, he could not begin to count how many he had already slain, so constant had the hunt become.

Dughan removed his helmet. Broad-faced with cropped hair, a thick mustache, and a goatee, he had done his share of fighting in his younger days. Elected as marshal after the mysterious death of his predecessor, Dughan had, over the past few seasons, brought and kept order and peace to Goldshire by clearing out not only the kobolds, but wild wolves and bears, bandits, the fishlike murlocs, and more.

But now, the kobolds had returned.

“Those vermin are going to fight tooth, nail, hammer, and ax when we come upon them,” Dughan said, “but they’ll also be cramped together in some narrow places… and that’s where you come in, Zaldimar …”

The mage, his purple and blue robes immaculate despite the dust that caked the rest of the party, nodded gravely. “A series of arcane blasts would be the most effective course—”

Dughan cut him off with a wave. “Spare me explanations. Kill, wound, and panic as many as you can before we need to wade in.

Can you do that?”

Zaldimar nodded. Dughan replaced his helmet, then signaled the group on. He chopped at several thick webs obscuring part of his path, remnants from the huge mine spiders that generally preyed on anything foolish enough to enter and, especially, on kobolds.

Indeed, cutting one web sent an old kobold skull dropping to the floor, where its rattling echoed throughout the mine.

Dughan swore. The kobolds might already have suspected the men’s presence, but now he’d given them confirmation.

Several of the men coughed from the dust, which seemed thicker than usual. And it did not take long to discover why. One of the side shafts — a passage that would have led to a secondary exit for the miners — had collapsed. Several tons of rock, earth, and shattered wooden braces met the marshal’s intent gaze.

“An accident,” Zaldimar proclaimed. “I warned them they were putting too much stress on that area when last we came down here to clean out kobolds.”

“Never mind,” Dughan said. “What matters is it makes our task simpler.”

Zaldimar nodded. There were limited directions the kobolds could have gone. The only exits were now cut off. A confrontation was only moments away…

They came upon a corpse, but not one they expected. It was a mine spider, one the size of a large dog. With its poison and other weapons, it was more than capable of trapping a kobold… and possibly a human.

This one had been hacked to pieces. In the dim illumination, the marshal could see several sets of prints.

“The kobolds are getting smarter, it seems. They’re ganging up on the spiders to wipe them out.”

“Something to think about,” Zaldimar commented.

Nodding gruffly, Dughan tightened his grip on the spiked mace.

With his free hand, the marshal instinctively dusted off his tabard.

The fierce gold-and-blue lion’s head on his chest once more shone prominently. He gave the order to move forward again —

Far in the darkness ahead, a gravelly voice muttered and a second, anger-tinged voice followed.

A brief flame — like that from a candle — materialized further down… then was quickly doused.

“Zaldimar …” Dughan whispered.

The mage stepped to the forefront. He raised his hands and gestured.

A purple light flared, accompanied by a pulsating sound. The arcane blast darted down the tunnel toward where the brief flame had been.

A moment later it struck… then struck again… and again. The mine shook. Dust and small fragments of rock pelted the fighters and the marshal cursed the mage’s carelessness.

The passage ahead was briefly filled with a purple aura so bright that Dughan had to shield his eyes. From the other end came a chorus of growls.

The marshal blinked as his eyes adjusted.

“By the king!” Dughan gasped.

The passage was packed wall to wall with kobolds. There were more rat-faced fiends than any of the reports had indicated — far more. Suddenly, Dughan’s trained force appeared very lacking.

The kobolds in the front of the throng let out bestial cries and waved their weapons. Their tails whipped back and forth, signaling their growing agitation. Not one of them appeared wounded from Zaldimar’s attack.

“Prepare for an orderly retreat,” Dughan commanded. The fighters were ill prepared for this. Instead of clearing the mine, he and his men were now at risk of being slaughtered.

Ahead of him, Zaldimar stood silent, staring at the creatures as the illuminating effects of his arcane blast began to fade.

“Do something, mage! Fire another one!”

The spellcaster twisted around. Zaldimar’s expression was of utter puzzlement.

“I–I must have another minute… these spells, they are draining on my body …”

Though he was no mage, the marshal knew that Zaldimar needed to muster everything he could — and quickly. He seized Zaldimar by the arm and dragged him back to the rest of the party.

“You must try, Zaldimar! Our lives… very well may depend on it!”

Before the mage could respond, the kobolds poured forth. What had once seemed comical and only of threat to small children — kobolds were no more than four feet high at best — was now a frightening and deadly danger to all.

“Pull back! Pull back! You three! Keep your blades up front with my mace!” Dughan shoved Zaldimar behind him. Even if the mage wasn’t of any use, the marshal was not going to leave him behind to be slain.

The first of the kobolds reached the defenders. Dughan swung at one, then dueled another, much larger creature.

“You no take candle!” it roared, the item in question set atop its head on a small holder. Kobolds could see well in the dark, but in the mine they still needed illumination in the deepest places.

“I — don’t — want — your damned candle!” Dughan shouted back.

He swung again and again. One rat face after another came into view, only to be cut down by the marshal’s skilled hand. Around him, his men proved their mettle — smashing, slicing, and stabbing the kobolds without mercy.

The tide had turned. The vast scores of kobold enemies became piles of corpses. A grin crossed Dughan’s face.

In the end, Goldshire’s force stood knee-deep in blood and bodies. The stench of dead kobolds proved a hundred times worse than their living odor, but the men were willing to suffer it, so complete had their victory been. Even the last of the kobolds’ candles had been doused.

Marshal Dughan counted his troops. They were all present.

Some had minor injuries — mostly scratches — but all were still accounted for and fit.

No… there was one who was not present. “Where is the mage?”

The others shook their heads. Dughan prodded the bodies where he had last seen Zaldimar. There was no sign of the spellcaster’s presence or departure.

Dughan guessed that the powerless Zaldimar had likely fled before the battle. The coward would no doubt be found back in Goldshire. “Let’s be moving on,” the commander decided. “Make sure the other shafts are clear.” He was doubtful that they would find more than a couple of kobolds after this, but even those had to be eradicated.

They started back, Dughan taking the lead. The marshal covered his nose; the smell of dead kobold was growing worse even though the men were leaving the corpses further and further behind. Next time, we’ll flush them outside, where the wind’ll help

…

Suddenly, Jasperlode shook as if some explosion had taken place deeper down.

The braces ahead of the party creaked ominously.

Dughan thrust his sword ahead. “Move!”

But as the band surged on, one of the more distant braces cracked. The two halves swung down.

“Watch out!” the commander roared.

The roof of the mine collapsed at the weak point. Worse, it began a chain reaction. Other braces snapped.

Masses of earth and stone crashed to the ground.

The men fled back, but then the roof gave way. The dust and darkness blinded Dughan and his men, who shoved into one another as they sought escape.

Then the marshal heard a bloodcurdling scream.

He stumbled into an open area just as the collapse began to subside. Coughing, Marshal Dughan tried to focus and was able to make out the shadowy forms of at least three men.

When it became quiet enough for him to be heard, he called, “Sound off!”

Eleven voices responded, some of them pained. Eleven, not fifteen.

The devastation made it pointless to try to see if the other four were still alive. As it was, Dughan had to get the rest of his men to safety. There was only one choice, to head back to where they had fought the kobolds. Sometimes kobolds dug secret burrows in the mines, ways out. At least it was a hope.

“Follow me!”

The path proved darker and longer than he recalled. Only the powerful stench verified to Dughan that he was nearing the area.

But as he led the group swiftly through the passage, he collided with a rocky wall.

“What is this?” The wall meant that they must have passed the spot where the kobolds had first been seen… but where were the bodies?

Dughan fumbled in his pouches for something to illuminate their surroundings, but found nothing.

A purple glow suddenly arose just to his side. The marshal whirled, his mace at the ready.

Zaldimar stared back at him from behind the glow. Dughan could see nothing else save that face. The mage had a drawn, intense expression.

“Does that help?” he rasped.

“Where the blazes have you been? Have you seen any sign of a way out? The area we came through is impassable!”

Zaldimar nodded. “I know. I made certain.”

“You — what?”

The glow expanded. Dughan’s eyes widened.

The mage’s garments had changed. He now wore a black, armored outfit with skulls at the knee braces and on the chest. A cowl rose high behind his head. His eyes glowed a monstrous dark purple.

“And as for escape, a simple spell will enable me to leave here.”

Marshal Dughan thrust the pointed tip of his mace under Zaldimar’s chin. “You’ll take us with you, then!”

Something moved at the edge of the light. It struck down the marshal’s weapon. As Dughan fought to retain his grip, he caught a glimpse of a familiar snout.

“Kobold—” But the word died on his lips as Zaldimar further increased the insidious illumination.

It was not merely a kobold… but a dead one. The creature’s gut was wide open and putrefying organs half-hung loose in the gap.

The kobold clutched its weapon and stared with sightless eyes at the officer.

And as the light expanded, Marshal Dughan saw that there were many, many more… all the kobolds he and his men had vanquished and seemingly numbers beyond even that.

“What’s happened?” he demanded.

“They serve me now… as I serve our rightful lord …” rasped Zaldimar, his grinning face like a skull. “And as you will, good marshal …”

The kobolds moved forward. Marshal Dughan and his men pressed together.

“It won’t hurt long …”

Utterly silent, the kobolds surged forward. Dughan smashed through the throat of one, which had no effect. In desperation, he struck harder and lopped off the entire head.

But the body kept attacking.

“I must leave you for a little while,” Zaldimar murmured. “I have to prepare for Goldshire next… a task with which you and your soldiers will assist once you’ve been… converted.”

“Damn you—” But Marshal Dughan cut off as the necromancer vanished… and with him, the light.

The air grew thick, harsh. The fetid smell of dead kobold was everywhere. Without the magical illumination, he could not see the figures coming toward him.

A man shrieked. Sounds of fear arose from the others. Dughan could do nothing to help; he was desperately trying to fend off the horrific tide of attackers.

Another man cried out. A moment later, the monstrous sound of something moist being torn apart echoed in the shaft.

“Marshal?” the man next to him pleaded.

“Keep fighting!”

But then Dughan nearly fell to the side as the soldier was dragged past him. The hapless fighter called out again… then produced a sickening scream as the familiar soft sound of weapons thrusting into flesh echoed from the walls.

The clash of arms grew fainter… fainter…

Marshal Dughan knew he was the last standing. He felt the undead kobolds converging on him. For the first time, their eyes glowed, a deathly white aura that sent shivers up his spine.

And among them, he saw the illumination of the eyes of taller figures — torn and beaten figures, from what he could make out.

His own men, now part of the ungodly throng.

They surged forward. Marshal Dughan swung wildly. His mace met flesh again and again, but the kobolds and the mutilated soldiers with them pushed on unimpeded. They were everywhere now, seizing at him with their claws, biting, or striking him with their weapons. He cried out as the undead overwhelmed him —

•••

Marshal Dughan lay in his bed even though daylight already shone upon the town of Goldshire. He shifted uneasily. His brow was furrowed and sweat drenched his body. His lips moved slightly, as if he sought to speak — or scream — and his hands clenched so tightly that the knuckles were bone white.

Without warning, Dughan rose to a sitting position and shrieked.

Yet the marshal did not awaken, but rather slumped down upon the bed again, where he once more shifted and sweated and moved as if fighting off something in his dreams.

His shriek had been a loud one, loud enough to be heard through much of the town. Yet no one, not family nor servants, came to see what ailed the marshal. They could not. There was no one in all of Goldshire who could… for all were in their beds. All were asleep.

And all were suffering nightmares.

Although she was high priestess of the moon goddess, Tyrande always thought the sunrise a beautiful sight, if somewhat stinging to the eyes of a nocturnal being such as herself. When she had been young, so very young, she had not thought it so painful. In fact, she, Malfurion, and Illidan had often ridden out during the day, when most others had slept, exploring the world of light. Malfurion had even begun his lessons with Cenarius during daylight.

Perhaps I am growing old at last, she thought. Among night elves, Tyrande was one of the longest surviving. She had outlived so many friends, and all her loved ones save two.

The distance required to reach the Moonglade meant that the high priestess, her personal guard, Archdruid Fandral and his accompanying druids had to sleep there for a day before returning to Darnassus. While many of the druids were comfortable enough using the barrow dens, the underground chambers reminded Tyrande too much of other places in the past she wished to forget, such as the dungeons of Azshara’s palace.

As queen, Azshara had chosen to sacrifice her people for her vanity and obsession, and had willingly opened the way to the Burning Legion. Her chief advisor, Xavius, had goaded her on, and the two contributed greatly to the countless deaths caused by the demons. Tyrande wished never to think of Azshara again, but many reminders were there that forced her to remember.

Thus, forsaking the barrow dens, she, her followers, and a few druids utilized tents created from vines and leaves nurtured by her hosts.

In her tent — set a respectful distance from where Fandral and his fellow druids rested — the ruler of the night elves practiced her fighting skills. The tent was ten feet by ten and woven from leaf strands taken from Teldrassil itself. Expert weavers had created patterns in the tent that bespoke of the Sisters of Elune, especially the moon symbol, which was repeated over and over. Blessed by the Mother Moon, the tent also had a faint silver glow about it.

There was little décor within, Tyrande caring only for the necessities. A small wooden table and stool were the only furniture, and those had been provided by the druids here. Her moonglaive she had left by the blankets — the latter also woven from Teldrassil’s leaves — that served as her bed. The ancient, triple-bladed weapon was a favorite of her race and especially of the elite Sentinels.

Aware of the many threats looming in the world, Tyrande practiced often with the glaive.

Now, however, she sought only to work on her hand-to-hand skills, in great part due to a need to stretch her muscles. Dealing with Fandral had caused her enough tension, but having had to sail with him to see Malfurion’s body had dealt her far more damage than she had imagined it would.

Fandral… while she had respect for him and his position, his plans did not satisfy her. She had acquiesced for the moment, but more and more the long wait his work suggested went against her natural tendency to act quickly and decisively, act as a warrior…

Dueling with her own desires, Tyrande thrust herself harder into her efforts. The high priestess arched her arms and kicked out.

She had come far since her days as a novice, in some ways further than Malfurion, who, during those past ten millennia, had all too often left Azeroth for the apparent perfection of the Emerald Dream. There had been times during his disappearances when she had grown to resent him for leaving her… but always their love had overcome those darker emotions.

Tyrande spun and struck out with her left hand, the straightened fingers forming a curved edge capable of crushing in a throat. She positioned herself on the toes of her right foot and extended her right hand upward — and suddenly sensed something behind her.

The high priestess spun fiercely on her toes and kicked out at her assailant. No one should have entered without warning. Where were her sentries? Still, Tyrande attacked merely to incapacitate, not slay. Any intruder would be needed alive in order to answer questions.

However, instead of striking anything solid, Tyrande watched her foot go through a murky black-and-emerald figure. The shadowy assassin scattered into a thousand patches of mist, then reformed.

But the night elf had already moved on to take up the moonglaive. As she did, she glimpsed two more of the nightmarish figures. There was a blurriness to them that made it impossible to identify any true features, but Tyrande thought them to appear half animal in form. For some reason, that stirred up irrational fears in her.

In that short moment the other two demonic shadows lunged.

Tyrande brought up the silver glaive just in time, the curved blades slicing through both.

But the glaive only caused the upper and lower halves to momentarily part. Immediately re-forming, the fiends slashed at her with long talons that suddenly sprouted from their hands.

“Unngh!” Tyrande stumbled back as best she could, trying to recover from the attack. There were no bloody slashes where the talons had cut, but the night elf felt as if daggers of ice still impaled her. A part of her wanted to drop her weapon and curl up on the ground.

But to do that surely meant death. The high priestess swung wildly with the glaive, more to force her attackers to keep reforming than because she hoped it might hurt them.

A second, more terrible cry escaped her as she felt icy daggers plunge into her back. Distracted by the others, she had not sensed another attacker behind her.

The glaive slipped from her shaking grip. Tyrande wondered why, with both her cries, no one had come to investigate. Perhaps the demons had made it so that, to the outside, all was silent here. The assassins would slay her and no one would be wiser until someone came for other reasons.

No… that will not happen… Tyrande insisted to herself. I am a priestess of the Mother Moon… the light of Elune is a part of me…

And as this thought coursed through her, it melted both the ice within her and the fear seeking to dominate her will.

“I am the high priestess of the Mother Moon …” she declared to her shadowy adversaries. “Feel her light …”

The silvery glow filled her tent. The black-and-emerald figures cringed from its glory.

Despite this promising reaction, the night elf did not relax. She opened herself up to Elune. The soft comfort of the Mother Moon enveloped her. Elune would protect her daughter.

The silvery light intensified a thousand times stronger.

With low, hissing sounds, the monstrous assassins dissolved as if truly made of nothing but shadow.

Suddenly, all was black as pitch. Tyrande gasped. The light of Elune was gone, and she was somehow seated on the ground, in a meditative pose. The high priestess shot a glance toward the glaive — it was still by the blankets, where it had been before the intruders had burst in. Or had they? The icy pain in her back returned — or perhaps it was just a chill creeping down her spine. She swallowed, her mouth dry and her heart still racing.

As Tyrande stood up, a guard suddenly burst into the tent.

Masking her emotions, Tyrande met the sentry’s puzzled gaze.

From the other priestess’s expression, she knew nothing about the attempted slaying of her mistress.

“Forgive me,” the guard murmured. “I heard a gasp and feared something had happened …”

“I merely overpracticed and was out of breath.”

The other night elf frowned, then nodded. She bowed at the waist, beginning to depart at the same time.

Something came to Tyrande’s mind. This strange, sinister vision had settled matters in her mind, but if she planned to move independently of Archdruid Fandral’s intentions, then Tyrande first needed to make certain of one thing. “Wait.”

“Mistress?”

“I have a task for you… concerning one of the druids …”

Having been a slave once, Broll Bearmantle found barrow dens too cramped; thus, he slept, as some others did, out in the open in a chosen part of the Moonglade. Hamuul slept a short distance away to his right. There existed a kinship between the pair, as both were somewhat unique in one way or another among those of their calling.

Indeed, other than Varian Wrynn and young Valeera Sanguinar — a blood elf rogue, of all things — Hamuul was perhaps the night elf’s closest friend. It made for a strange — and to many, disturbing — collection of characters, but Broll no longer cared what others thought.

Several troublesome thoughts weighed on the night elf as he lay there — too many to allow him to fall asleep. As the tauren snored next to him, Broll’s concerns focused for a time on Valeera, who had become almost like a daughter to him. As a blood elf, the youngling was addicted to the absorption of arcane magical energy, a path her kind had turned to after the destruction of the high elves’ fount of power, the Sunwell. Broll had almost managed to help her overcome it… but then circumstance had forced Valeera to return to her kind’s ways. They had parted company, at least for a time, shortly before his summons to the convocation. He hoped she was better, but feared that her addiction might have worsened again.

Grunting, Broll tried to calm his mind. At the moment, he could do nothing for Valeera, unless he had help… and that brought his thoughts back to his shan’do. For the first time something occurred to him — or rather, tried to occur to him. The main thrust of it remained just outside of his weary mind’s reach. The druid tried over and over to concentrate enough, but instead, the truth seemed to slip further and further from him. He almost —

There came a sound from among the trees behind him, a hint of something like a gasp of breath.

Father…

The night elf stiffened. Had he heard… her?

Broll quietly pushed himself up to a sitting position.

Father…

There it was again. He knew that voice better than he knew his own. Broll trembled. It could not be her.

It could not be… could never be… Anessa?

He glanced at Hamuul, whose snoring remained steady. The sharpeared tauren had noticed nothing. To Broll, that verified that he had only imagined that he had heard —

Father… I need you…

Anessa! Broll gasped. He had heard her!

The druid reacted instinctively, rising up and peering into the woods in search of his daughter. He did not call out, fearful that not only would that alert others to his situation, but also send his beloved daughter running.

But… a part of his mind reminded him… Anessa is dead…

and I’m responsible…

Despite being well aware of that fact, Broll felt his heart beat fast. He took a tentative step in the direction from which he believed the call had come.

Father… help me…

Tears welled up in the otherwise stolid druid’s eyes. He remembered her death and his part in it. The old agony stirred again. Memories of the battle arose anew.

Yes, Anessa was dead…

But she calls me! the most basic part of him insisted. This time, I can save her!

Something shadowy moved among the trees well ahead of him.

Broll veered toward the half-seen form. Suddenly, the druid’s world rippled. The trees twisted as if made of smoke. The indistinct figure grew more distant. The sky became the ground and the ground the sky. Broll felt as if his bones had turned to liquid. He tried to call out to his daughter.

Something moved toward him from the woods. As it neared, it swelled to horrific proportions. Even then, the druid could not make out any distinct features. It almost looked like —

Broll tried to scream… and then woke.

His focus began to return. Slowly, the night elf registered several things wrong with what he last recalled about his surroundings. He did not stand at the edge of the woods, but rather lay on the ground as if still sleeping. Squinting, Broll glanced up. By the position of the bright sun, several hours must have passed.

The songs of birds and the sigh of the wind greeted his ears, but another sound was missing. He looked over his right shoulder and saw Hamuul solemnly gazing back at him. The archdruid was down on one knee next to his shaking friend.

“You are awake, yes,” the tauren remarked, reading Broll’s remaining uncertainty. “Is there something amiss? You look—”

The night elf did not let him finish. “It was a dream. Or rather, a nightmare …”

“A dream… as you say …” Hamuul was silent for a moment, then said, “I awoke sooner than you know, for, this being day and I not a night elf, I but lightly napped. I heard you say something. You mumbled a name,” the tauren went on with some slight hesitation.

“A name close to you.”

“Anessa …” Bits of the nightmare came back. Broll shivered. He had dreamed of his daughter before, but never in such a manner.

The tauren briefly bowed his head again at mention of Broll’s lost child. “Anessa, yes …” He peered up at the night elf. “You are well now, though, Broll Bearmantle?”

“I am good now. Thank you …”

“This was not natural, Broll Bearmantle… no more than your earlier visions… though different from them in all other ways, I think.”

“It was only a bad nightmare, Hamuul.” 42roll’s tone told the other druid not to argue that point. “Neither it nor the other instances mean anything.”

The tauren blinked, then finally shrugged. “I will not press the point, my friend, as I would only worsen your pain… but we both know better …”

Before anything more could be said, there came a faint rustling sound from the woods. Broll immediately tensed and Hamuul’s eyes widened.

From behind the trees, a figure emerged. However, it was not some shade of Anessa returned to the mortal plane. Rather, it proved to be one of the priestesses who had accompanied Tyrande to the Moonglade.

“My mistress wishes to speak with you, druid,” the slim figure murmured to Broll. Her gaze shifted to the tauren. “She would have you come alone… with all due respect, Archdruid …”

The priestess did not wait for a reply from either, instead vanishing back into the barrow den woods. As a druid, Broll could have easily followed her, but her cautious stance and her short, somewhat mysterious message had made it clear that such a reaction would have been unwise. He was to come on his own, as if the decision were his.

“Will you go?” asked Hamuul.

“Yes,” came the night elf’s immediate reply. “I will.”

“I will tell no one.”

The tauren’s promise meant much to Broll. Nodding his gratitude, the night elf followed the priestess’s path. His thoughts were already on the possible reasons why the high priestess of Elune and the ruler of the night elves would desire a secret encounter with him. Tyrande Whisperwind had something in mind that she wished few others to know… including Archdruid Fandral Staghelm.

And, unsettling as it was, Broll had the terrible feeling that he knew just what she desired.