Stormrage

5 A DRUID’S BETRAYAL

“He has come,” the guard murmured to Tyrande from the tent’s entrance.

“Bid him enter and watch for anyone who might approach,” the high priestess commanded.

With a nod, the guard retreated outside. A moment later Broll Bearmantle respectfully entered. The druid bowed deep, as a subject would to a ruler. In a low voice he said, “High Priestess, you summoned me …”

“Be not so formal with me here, Broll. We have known each other for some time.”

The druid nodded, but said nothing.

“Please,” the high priestess started, gesturing at a grass mat with intricate moon patterns fashioned into it. “Be seated.”

Broll shook his head. “I prefer to stand, thank you… no disrespect meant.”

She nodded. “Very well. I shall keep this short, anyway… and I say right now that you have every right to turn my request down.”

His thick brow rose. Tyrande could, if she truly wanted to, complicate his life by ordering him to do whatever it was she desired.

But that was not her way. “Broll… you are the only one here I could ask of this. Malfurion trusted you very much, and so I place my faith in your hands — after all, you wear the mark of greatness, a n d your actions during the Third War have demonstrated its capabilities.” She glanced up at his antlers.

“You flatter me, my lady …” The druid cast his eyes downward.

“And exaggerate. My time away from my calling would hardly have left me high in his opinion …” His eyes shifted to the glaive, which now lay up on the table.

Tyrande watched him closely. She had placed it within view on the chance that the primitive weapon would remind Broll of his gladiatorial past. She had considered him for this task hoping that his recent outside exploits might stir his personal loyalty to Malfurion enough that he would step beyond the Cenarion Circle’s current chosen course of action.

“I do not exaggerate. Before he vanished, Malfurion made himself very clear. He understood the grief and anger you suffered and knew that you had to work through it by yourself.” Her eyes narrowed. “Let me be blunt, Broll. Malfurion’s dreamform must return to his body. Elune’s vision was clear; he is dying and dying quickly! He will not last through Fandral’s plans! I am certain of that.

I know he means well, but it is clear that Fandral is unwavering — not even I can change his mind. You and I must rescue Malfurion from whatever prison holds him.”

He hesitated. “You’re absolutely certain? There can be no mistake about your vision?”

“It was from the Mother Moon.” She stated it with absolute confidence. Elune played no tricks on her faithful.

To her relief, the druid finally nodded. Broll’s determined cast showed her that she had chosen correctly.

“I know you. I know Elune.” Like most night elves, Broll had grown up worshipping the Mother Moon. The calling to the path of the druid had come later, but it had in no manner erased the respect he had for the deity. “And though there’s much merit in Fandral’s course, there’s been that which leads me to believe more as you do. If you’ve a plan, my lady, I’m agreeable to it. Something must be done and, with all due respect to Archdruid Fandral, I fear that Teldrassil will be more of a distraction than a path. What do you have in mind?”

His decision to agree was an abrupt one, but not without substance behind it. Yes, Broll had at first been satisfied, even hopeful, with Fandral’s plan; but hearing Tyrande’s plea had stirred to the forefront thoughts of uncertainty that he realized had been growing since the last and most heinous of his visions. Something foul was at work — something that surely was the Nightmare. That these visions suddenly pressed him so, and that the last concerned his deceased daughter, had added weight to the high priestess’s concerns. Something very terrible was imminent and that thing seemed most likely Malfurion’s doom.

No… healing Teldrassil would indeed take too long, the druid thought. But Fandral wouldn’t understand that…

There was still no answer to his question, so he repeated it.

She looked away. Much of what Tyrande intended was based on knowledge gleaned about the druids through Malfurion. There was a tremendous possibility that the high priestess had made some false assumptions and, if so, then her plan had failed before it had even begun.

“I want you to go to Bough Shadow …”

He rightly stiffened at mention of that name. It was immediately clear to him her intention.

“Bough Shadow,” the sturdy male muttered. “I understand what you want. It makes the most sense… especially with time so precious as I now believe …”

Her hopes grew. “Do you think it might work?”

“My lady… it may be the only chance left to us… but it won’t be easy… unless …”

She waited, but when Broll continued to look inward, finally had to ask, “Unless what?”

Shaking his head, the druid murmured, “Best you not know.”

Looking more determined, Broll added, “But I’ll get there.”

“There is still the question of the convocation and Fandral’s plans,” the high priestess went on. “You will have to wait until all that is settled — but I’m afraid we’ve no time to waste.”

“There is only one thing with which I need to deal, High Priestess, and if Archdruid Fandral does not catch me at it, I will be gone immediately after.” His brow furrowed. “It does require I first return with the rest to the Cenarion Enclave, though …”

Again Tyrande waited for more explanation and again Broll gave none. She finally nodded to the druid, trusting that whatever secret he held from her was for her own — and Malfurion’s — good.

“I thank you,” Tyrande murmured. Her expression tightened. “But there’s one more thing. You won’t go alone. I will be sending Shandris to meet you… you are familiar with Auberdine, I’d imagine?”

“I’ve been there. It’s not a place conducive to druidic ways…

and, like my brethren, I prefer another mode of travel. Is that where we’re to meet?”

“Yes, then the two of you can proceed on to Ashenvale.”

His expression did not hide his dislike for her decision to add a partner to his travels. “With all due respect to the general and her considerable skills, I’d much prefer to go alone.”

She was adamant. “You will not. If I must order you to—”

Broll grunted. “You needn’t. If you really think this best for Malfurion, then… I’ll trust to you, high priestess.”

Tyrande’s mood softened. She reached out abruptly to touch his shoulder. As she did, a faint glow of moonlight briefly spread over the spot. The moonlight briefly engulfed Broll before fading into him.

“You have the blessing of the Mother Moon… and my gratitude, too.”

The male night elf bowed low. “I’m deeply honored by both, my lady.”

“I am Tyrande to you.”

The druid bowed, then began to retreat from her presence. “No

… to Malfurion, you are… to me… you are my high priestess, the embodiment of our people’s hopes …”

He slipped out of the tent. Tyrande pursed her lips, wondering if she had done the right thing.

Then her gaze returned to the glaive… and her determination hardened.

Broll said nothing to Hamuul when he returned and the stolid tauren did not ask. The night elf did not sleep much that day, and when the druids prepared to take their leave of the Moonglade, he only acknowledged the high priestess with a respectful bow no more intimate than that performed by any of his brethren.

The Sisters of Elune had their own method of travel — mighty hippogryphs — for the return to Darnassus, and so, after sharing a few words with Tyrande Whisperwind, Fandral Staghelm led the druids to a private clearing in the Moonglade.

“I have determined that the situation here merits immediate continuance of our efforts to heal the World Tree,” the lead archdruid announced as they prepared to depart. “We will renew our efforts this very night—”

“This very night?” a druid blurted. “After so long a flight?”

“There will be a period of meditation first, naturally, and I will work to reconsider how best to utilize our power, since we’ll not have the Idol of Remulos to add to it after all …” Fandral waved away further discourse. “It is settled! Now, for Malfurion’s sake, let us be on our way quickly …”

Fandral raised his arms.

As one, the druids shrank. They bent forward and feathers burst from their violet skin. Their noses and mouths distended, becoming beaks.

The small flock of storm crows took to the air, nearly invisible against the night sky.

Fandral, a larger bird with silver streaks along each wing, led the druids at a swift pace, eager to reach Teldrassil. The sight was a rare one, for only the most skilled and powerful of druids were able to learn the mysteries of flight. Indeed, with the exception of Broll, all the rest were archdruids of reputation. It was another hint of the power he wielded, yet could not focus enough to truly attain his place among his brethren. That he was here at all was Fandral’s doing, and that made Broll feel even more guilt for what he intended.

Broll flew further back in the flock than usual. Hamuul flew some distance ahead. The tauren was the only other concern Broll had other than Fandral, but Hamuul was focused on maintaining his pace. The tauren was mighty, but he was also fairly old for his kind and thus had to push harder than most of the night elves.

After several long hours, the World Tree materialized ahead.

Fandral banked and the flock descended… and Broll stealthily fell back, veering upward. Beating his wings as hard as he could, the transformed night elf surged higher and higher. The great trunk of Teldrassil was like an impossible barrier ever before him, yet the druid pressed on.

And then… the enormous crown welcomed him. Broll the bird darted in among its vast branches.

Part of what looked to be the foliage itself moved. Though he only glimpsed it for a mere second, the long, thrusting tusks, the massive, woodlike form, and the leafy coat were enough for the druid to recognize it as an ancient, one of the primal beings who not only protected the World Tree and the night elf realm, but also taught Darnassus’s warriors the darker side of nature and how to use it in combat.

The ancient did not appear to notice Broll in turn, which was to the druid’s preference. While not of any physical danger to him, he feared the being might inadvertently tell Fandral of Broll’s presence.

Though the reason for that would eventually become known to the archdruid, Broll desired that it be later rather than sooner. For by then, he would be long gone.

And, if things did not work as Broll intended, very likely dead.

The druid adjusted his path to avoid other, more cunning sentries hidden among the branches. The Sentinels, Darnassus’s armed force, guarded Teldrassil’s crown. They were led by the zealous Shandris Feathermoon, who was totally devoted to her ruler.

There were few more capable or experienced than Shandris, whom Tyrande had rescued on the battlefield during the initial conflict against the Burning Legion so long ago. Shandris had been an orphaned child, one of so many. Under the high priestess’s tutelage, she had risen to become one of the race’s most skilled warriors.

It made for perfect logic that Shandris would be Tyrande’s chosen servant for this crucial mission. The high priestess would trust no other with such a desperate mission. Indeed, Broll was honored to be among her chosen servants.

Sensing that he was near his destination, Broll pushed aside all other thoughts. Barely a wing beat later, the storm crow burst through the foliage… and into the area of the capital known as the Cenarion Enclave.

As with so much of Darnassus, it was impossible to see that this sacred place was part of a city built atop a tree itself. Tall trees — oaks and ashes especially — lined the enclave. Each tree bore mystic runes shaped from the very bark. Within the circular grove created here, a handful of unique structures molded from both living trees and carefully shaped stones represented the usual gathering place for convocations. The largest of these served as the new residence of Fandral Staghelm.

The storm crow did not head directly for the archdruid’s sanctum, instead alighting on a branch that allowed him to overlook the area. The Cenarion Enclave radiated a sense of tranquility — and it was indeed a restful place — but it was not without its own guardians, especially those set into place by Fandral himself.

Broll fluttered to another branch deep enough to avoid being detected from anything within the enclave and yet near enough to the archdruid’s sanctum. He had to make his incursion swift, but cautious.

All looked calm, but as Broll studied the green and crimson edifice, he noted the fine strings of vines crisscrossing it. Cocking his head, he eyed the tiny buds running along the vines. They were a subtle indication of just what plant decorated the building… and the only hint of Fandral’s cunning. Even most of the other druids would have proven hard-pressed to identify it.

Twisting his head, the storm crow plucked a feather from his body. Ignoring the slight twinge of pain, Broll took to flight, drifting high above the vines. He dropped the feather.

The feather drifted onto a bud, which opened immediately. From it burst a sappy substance that encased the feather, causing it to drop to the ground with a thud. The sap had quickly hardened.

There were hundreds, perhaps thousands, of such little buds.

With such numbers, they could easily cover Broll with a similar prison, leaving him trapped until Fandral returned.

Broll surveyed the vines, watching. A few small bees darted past the buds unhindered.

The storm crow let out a small but triumphant sound, then fluttered down to the ground. He made certain to keep away from the archdruid’s sanctum.

Once on the ground, Broll returned to his true form. He wasted no time, murmuring under his breath. The druid did not speak words, but sounds that all had a sharp, buzzing tone to them.

A moment later Broll heard more buzzing. Continuing his own sounds, he watched as bees began to gather before him. They flew around him, seeming more curious than anything else.

The druid changed the tempo of his spellwork, and the swarm immediately reacted. The bees flew en masse toward the vinecovered structure.

Broll transformed into a storm crow again and followed behind the bees, whose numbers continued to swell even as he joined them. They were all here in response to his call, which he had broached as an invitation. The bees congregated where the night elf now indicated, a thick part of the vines surrounding a window opening.

It would have been impossible for Broll to dart through the window, even if he had raced as fast as the wings would let him.

However, the bees now clustered over the buds, seeking in vain the blossoms that they had been told were there. Broll regretted the subterfuge, but had not had any other choice.

The moment that it appeared all the buds were occupied, the druid dove for the window. As he reached it, he saw some of the buds move. However, the bees’ presence prevented them from unleashing their imprisoning sap.

His avian bulk barely fit through, but fit it did. Broll alighted on the floor, then reverted to his normal self. He knew where Fandral kept what he sought, and knew that the archdruid would not think anyone audacious enough to commit the offense Broll now intended.

Paying no attention to the rest of his surroundings, Broll went straight to a chest woven from steelgrass. While outwardly appearing to be soft, when used in such a manner, steelgrass was as strong as metal. A normal night elf would have been unable to either cut through it or pry open the bound lid, but Broll was familiar with Fandral’s methods, both of them having been taught closely by Malfurion. Indeed, Broll had learned a few things that he believed even Fandral did not know.

Placing his hands close together, the druid tested the weaving of the chest. He felt the binding spells Fandral had used and the manners by which the archdruid had had the steelgrass shape itself.

The strands sealing the lid unbound. Broll hesitated, then opened the chest.

The Idol of Remulos stared back at him, the dragon figurine seeming almost eager at his arrival.

The battle bloomed again in his thoughts. He saw the demons of the Burning Legion, and their commander, the pit lord Azgalor. Broll once more watched helplessly as the idol slipped from his grasp, then was cut by the demon’s blade.

And again he saw those unleashed and corrupted forces envelop the only one still standing at his side. His daughter.

Anessa’s death had not been an easy one. She had been burned horribly, her flesh withering before his eyes —

Broll gritted his teeth as he forced the pain of his failure back.

He dared not let his emotions take control of him. He had the statuette; that was what mattered most now… that and Malfurion’s fate.

There had been a chance that Fandral might have disobeyed Remulos and summoned the statue back to him. But Fandral had indeed heeded the Moonglade’s guardian and thus enabled Broll to achieve his goal here. The night elf gingerly removed the figurine, admiring not for the first time its surreal majesty. For a moment, he marveled that such an exquisite work could have also been the source of great evil. Of course, the idol had since been “cleansed”; perhaps that made the difference.

The night elf thought of Remulos’s warning, but could see no choice, considering the course he intended. Broll needed the idol.

He would just have to take special care.

His hesitation at an end, the druid quickly resealed the chest.

So now I add thief to the list of my accomplishments, Broll thought bitterly. How Varian and Valeera would laugh…

He secreted the statue in the confines of his cloak. As with the rest of his garments and personal effects, it would go in that magical place they did when he transformed.

But when the druid shifted once more to the semblance of a storm crow, he heard a heavy thud. Cocking his head, Broll found the idol lying at his talons.

Letting out a low, frustrated caw, Broll fluttered up, then gripped the statuette in his claws. When at last he wielded the idol, he was urged to greater swiftness. Others might not take too much notice of a storm crow in flight, but a storm crow carrying a statuette would surely raise more questions than he preferred.

Flapping, Broll turned himself toward the window. As he did, his gaze fell upon another statuette, this one set upon a branch that had been shaped to act as a table or shelf. There were runes etched into the statuette, but it was the subject matter that caught the druid for a moment. The figure was that of a younger night elf with some great semblance to Fandral. However, it was not Fandral himself.

Valstann… Broll dipped his head in acknowledgment of the night elf the statuette represented. Like Broll, Fandral had lost his only child, in this case his son. Although the circumstances had been highly different — the archdruid had not been responsible for Valstann’s demise — the losses had always been one bond between the two older night elves.

A bond that Broll’s act would forever sever.

He could sense the bees beginning to lose their interest.

Pushing hard, Broll headed for the window. Outside, the druid could feel the first of the swarm taking off. He beat harder, then folded in his wings as he dove through the window.

Bees scattered out of his path. Too many. That meant that some of the buds were now unobstructed.

Something struck his left wing near the tip. Broll rocked to the side. The involuntary action was all that saved his head from being encased in the sticky substance.

He was struck again on the right leg before he finally flew out of range. Even then, Broll did not slow. He had done the unthinkable and his only hope was that his mad plan would make all the difference.

Malfurion was lost in the Emerald Dream. There was no contact with the Great Aspect Ysera, nor any of the other green dragons who guarded the magical plane. Tyrande’s suggestion to go to Ashenvale made the most sense, but for there to be a true chance of success, they would need aid of a kind greater than a lone druid of questionable skill and some priestess of the moon goddess.

And through the Idol of Remulos, Broll hoped to contact just that aid… if the attempt did not kill him in the process.

Thura chopped her way through the thick vegetation, her straightforward orc mind seeing no reason why the magical ax could not be used for such a mundane task. After all, what was a weapon good for if one was unable to reach one’s foe?

She felt that she was nearing her goal. The journey might still take days or it might be over tomorrow, but the key to finding the treacherous night elf was so very close.

The forest finally gave way to more open ground and the beginning of a chain of tall hills. The orc saw several cave openings of various sizes among them. Thura gripped the ax as a weapon again. Caves could mean danger, especially in the form of hungry animals or feral trolls.

As she entered the hills, Thura noted an odd silence draping over the region. Where were the birds? A few insects announced their presence, but nothing large called out or even flew in sight.

That suggested that the hunting would not be good here… and that perhaps she might become the hunted.

However, barely minutes into the new terrain, rest finally demanded Thura’s complete attention. She had no choice but to r is k sleep. She glanced at the dark cave mouths around her, choosing at last one that looked too small to house some great predator, but large enough to suit her needs.

The cave extended only a few yards before ending at a curved wall. After assuring herself that there were no hidden openings that might obscure some threat, the female warrior settled down in a corner that gave her a view of the cave and the entrance.

She had little in the way of sustenance left and this Thura cautiously divided up. Three pieces of dried goat meat, some slowly rotting tubers, and half a sack of water. Thura ate one of the pieces of meat and one tuber, then permitted herself two small swallows of the brackish water. She ignored the protests of her stomach, which had been left insatiate for days. Both game and fresh water had grown extremely scarce since she had entered this region. Somewhere, she would find enough to keep her going until she had fulfilled her blood oath. Only then, if she survived that, would Thura concern herself with her mundane needs —

A hiss reverberated through the cave.

It took the orc a moment to realize that the sound had come from without. Fighting back her exhaustion, Thura rose and headed to the mouth. She clutched the ax tightly. The hiss had come from no ordinary serpent or lizard, but rather something much, much larger.

The lack of birds and animals in the area now made more sense.

Thura waited, but heard no repeat of the sound. She finally took a step out, ever ready to take on any foe.

A great wind suddenly rose up, so powerful that it almost shoved the sturdy orc back into the cave. The darkened region became darker yet, as if something sought to block out the stars and moons.

And, briefly, something did. A great patch of shadow darted over Thura’s location. It raced past her, continuing on deeper into the region.

The orc stepped farther out, trying to see it better. In the distance, the massive form descended beyond the horizon.

After waiting to see if it would take to the sky again, Thura returned to the cave. She settled down, but kept the ax in her grip.

A faint glimmer now shone in her eyes.

This was a sign. When last she had slept, there had been one difference in the ever-repeating dream. There had been a hint of something at the end — a briefly glimpsed, vague form she had only belatedly identified.

A form very much like the one that Thura had just now observed.

There had been a dragon.