Stormrage (wow-7) Read online

  But, once again, he had proven insufficient to the task.

  Exhaustion assailed him. Azgalor’s malevolent blade, Spite, wielded expertly, finally overcame the night elf’s weakening defenses. Broll lost his grip on the idol as Spite’s edge cut into it.

  The demon blade’s power instantly corrupted the figurine’s own energies, and it erupted with a warped magical force — one that enveloped the last remaining defender at Broll’s side.

  There had been many times, especially since then, that the night elf had considered cutting his antlers off and burning the nubs to prevent future growth… and yet he never managed to take the final step toward doing so.

  Broll realized that Hamuul had been silently and very patiently watching him.

  “She will always be with you. The spirits of our beloved kin ever watch over us,” the tauren rumbled.

  “I wasn’t thinking of Anessa,” the night elf murmured, lying.

  Hamuul’s ears flattened. “My humblest apologies for bringing her up.”

  Broll waved off the tauren’s regrets. “You’ve done nothing wrong,” he muttered. “Let’s move on. The others will already be gathering at the portal as per custom—”

  Hamuul’s brow knitted. “But we are not to go up to Darnassus and the Cenarion Enclave. Fandral intends our convocation to take place down here… in fact, on the side opposite from where we now stand! You did not know that?”

  “No …” Broll did not question the archdruid’s decision. After all, as leader of the druids, Fandral Staghelm had their best interests at heart. If he thought it wiser to meet down here than in Darnassus, so be it. There was surely a good reason why —

  And then it came to him. Perhaps Fandral had found a way to save their shan’do.

  “Let’s get going,” he said to Hamuul, the night elf suddenly impatient to be there. Spurred on by the deep, unswerving hope that consumed him each time he returned to Teldrassil, Broll was certain that Fandral had some answer to Malfurion’s dire situation.

  And if not… the night elf shuddered to think what course, if any, would be left to the druids…

  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 recogni
zed… 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…