Stormrage (wow-7) Read online

  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.”

  3

  THE TREE

  The pain tore through him again and again…

  He felt his body continuing its slow, horrific twisting. His arms had long contorted about his head and his fingers splayed and stretched in various directions. Of his legs, there was nothing but a thick trunk, the two appendages having merged what seemed more than a lifetime ago.

  How long had he been standing here, rigid and unmoving? How long since he had fallen prisoner to the Nightmare Lord? What was happening on the mortal plane?

  What had happened to Tyrande?

  As he had done so many times already, Malfurion Stormrage fought against the agony. He would have cried out from the terrible effort — if he still had a mouth. Only his eyes remained untouched by his monstrous captor, for the fiend desired him to see his own transformation, to see the hopelessness of his fate.

  Gone was Malfurion the night elf. In his place was a macabre, skeletal tree, an ash. Leaves with sharp thorns already grew from what had once been the arms and fingers and were now branches.

  The trunk bent at awkward angles where once the torso had met the hips. The feet had splayed out into what were now crooked roots.

  Trying to tear his mind from his agony, Malfurion pictured Tyrande’s face, recalling that moment when the two of them had silently realized their love, when she had chosen him over his ambitious brother, Illidan. He had secretly thought she preferred his twin, for, though reckless, Illidan had made great leaps in his learning of sorcery. More than that, his efforts in the struggle against the Burning Legion had shown him to be something of a savior — at least in the hearts of many night elves, and sometimes in that of Malfurion himself. But Tyrande, by then an apprentice of Elune, had apparently seen something greater in the fledgling druid, something special. What it was, he still did not know.

  Malfurion found himself drawing some strength from his vision, but tremendous guilt also accompanied thoughts of Tyrande. It had been by his decision that she had been left alone to guard Azeroth for so many centuries while he and the druids walked the Emerald Dream. It mattered not that his choice had been for the sake of their world and had proven the correct one to make. He had still abandoned her.

  The archdruid suddenly wanted to howl. The thoughts and emotions were his own, but were they influenced by his captor? It would not be the first time. The insidious presence had infiltrated his mind many times already, playing havoc with the night elf’s memories and thoughts. This, as opposed to the horrific transformation, was the more subtle part of his torture.

  There should have been no pain. After all, this was the Emerald Dream and he had entered it in his dreamform, not his physical one. Pain such as this should have been impossible under those conditions.

  As if to disprove that fact, his body wrenched further. Again, he could not release his agony by screaming.

  Malfurion?

  The voice cut through his pain. He seized onto its existence as if a lifeline. It was distant… barely a whisper… but it sounded like… sounded so very much like —

  Malfurion? It… Tyrande… you are…

  Tyrande! If his call would have been audible, he felt certain that it would have been heard miles away. Tyrande!

  Malfurion? The voice grew stronger. Malfurion felt his hopes leap. For ten thousand years and more he had known her and for ten thousand years and more he had loved her. She should have hated him for all the absences that he had taken in quest of his calling, but always she had been there in the end. Now… now once again, Tyrande had proven that nothing would stand between them.

  Malfurion? Her call was more solid, more imminent. Almost as if she were actually near —

  A shadowy form coalesced ahead of him. All sense of pain had now fled his dreamform. The archdruid felt as though he might weep as he peered at her approaching silhouette.

  The glow around Tyrande marked her as different from he or any druid traveler, for it was a subtle yet powerful silver that marked the power of Elune. Malfurion would have smiled, had he had a mouth. How she had come here, he did not know… but she was here.

  Tyrande spoke, but the words took a moment to reach his mind.

  Malfurion? Is that… is that you?

  He started to reply, but Tyrande’s next reaction left him stunned.

  She pulled back in clear revulsion.

  How… disgusting! the archdruid heard.

  Tyrande retreated farther. She shook her head.

  Tyrande… Tyrande… But his calls to her went unheeded, as if she no longer could hear him. Instead, the high priestess put out a hand as if trying to ward him off.

  No… she finally blurted. I expected better of you…

  The archdruid was confused. However, before he could again attempt to speak to her, a second form materialized behind her.

  I warned you, my love, the second, larger figure rumbled.I warned you that he was not what you hoped…

  Malfurion was speechless. He knew that voice. Dreaded that voice. It reminded him of yet another great failure, perhaps the greatest.

  Illidan came into focus, yet it was not Illidan as Malfurion’s twin and brother, but rather as the monstrosity that he had become.

  Illidan Stormrage was a demon. Atop his head were huge, curled horns like those of some gigantic ram and massive, leathery wings that sprouted from near his shoulder blades. Illidan’s countenance was now a distortion of its former self, the jaw more pronounced and the mouth full of sharp teeth. The cheekbones were higher. A mass of wild, midnight blue hair draped the face.

  A band covered where once Illidan’s mortal eyes had been.

  Eyes that had been burned out by the Dark Titan Sargeras during the War of the Ancients — a mark of Illidan’s loyalty to the master of the Burning Legion. In their place, a searing green glow that marked demon fire enabled Malfurion’s brother to see not only the world around him, but all the mystical energies inherent in it.

  Illidan, Tyrande murmured with affection. Her gaze still upon Malfurion — and no less revolted — she added, Illidan, just look at him…

  The demon tromped forward on heavy hooves. He was much larger than he had been as a night elf. His chest was broad, indeed, broader than it should have been. Illidan’s upper torso was naked save for arcane tattoos that also glowed green with power.

  His only garment was a pair of ragged pants, a remnant of his mortal past.

  Calm yourself, my love, Illidan responded, his lips moving out of sync, too. To Malfurion’s horror, his twin draped a muscular arm across Tyrande’s shoulder, cupping it with a hand that tapered into twisted talons.

  And to the archdruid’s greater horror, Tyrande took comfort in Illidan’s embrace.

  I cannot stand to see him! He is not at all what I once thought!

  Illidan grinned over her head at his altered brother. The fault is not yours, Tyrande! He is the one to blame… he left you… he abandoned me… he demanded that all follow his dictates, even if that meant tragedy for the
m… he is only earning his just reward…

  A lie! Malfurion insisted, but neither paid him any attention.

  Instead, Tyrande turned her back upon Malfurion, returning Illidan’s embrace with fervor.

  So many centuries wasted on him! the high priestess bitterly remarked. He was always content to let me wait… his own desires were always more important than me…

  The demon looked down at her and lifted her chin with a hooked claw. I would never do that to you, my love… I would make you and me one…

  Tyrande met his horrific gaze. She smiled. Then, do it!

  My love… He put both taloned hands upon her shoulders.

  His eyes blazed. The fire shot forth. It enveloped Tyrande.

  Malfurion cried out, but for naught. The high priestess was engulfed.

  And then… Tyrande changed.

  Horns thrust out of her forehead, horns that rose high, then curled. From her back issued forth two small nubs that quickly swelled, then expanded. Webbed wings stretched. The nails of the slim hands that held Illidan grew and blackened.

  No! Malfurion tried again to shout. No!

  Tyrande turned her eyes back to the archdruid… but now they were fiery green orbs. She frowned at the helpless Malfurion.

  You did this to me… she said. You…

  The archdruid let out a silent plea — and woke.

  He was still in his dreamform; still trapped and painfully twisted.

  But he discovered that the heart-wrenching pain he had just suffered was not real — at least, not yet.

  But Malfurion took no relief from that. This was not the first time he had endured such a nightmare and it was becoming harder to tell when he slept and when he was awake. His tormentor played a wicked game with him, one that the archdruid knew he was slowly losing.