Stormrage
( World of Warcraft - 7 )
Richard A. Knaak
When the world of Azeroth was young, the god-like titans brought order to it by reshaping its lands and seas. Throughout their great work, they followed a magnificent design for what they envisioned Azeroth would become. Although the titans departed Azeroth long ago, that design endures to this day. It is known as the Emerald Dream, a lush and savagely primal version of the…
WORLD OF WARCRAFT
Many are the mysteries surrounding the Emerald Dream and its reclusive guardians, the green dragonflight. In times past, druids have entered the Dream to monitor the ebb and flow of life on Azeroth in their never-ending quest to maintain the delicate balance of nature.
However, not all dreams are pleasant ones. Recently the Emerald Nightmare, an area of corruption within the Emerald Dream, began growing in size, transforming the Dream into a realm of unimaginable horror. Green dragons have been unexpectedly caught up in the Nightmare, emerging from it with shattered minds and twisted bodies. Druids who have entered the darkening Dream lately have found it difficult — sometimes even impossible — to escape.
Nor are these the Nightmare's only victims: more and more people are being affected. Even Malfurion Stormrage, first and foremost of the druids on Azeroth, may have fallen victim to this growing threat. As uncontrollable nightmares spread across the world, a desperate quest begins to find and free the archdruid.
Soon nature's enemies will learn the true meaning of the name
STORMRAGE
PROLOGUE
BLOOD QUEST
Thura stood at the end of the great jagged chasm. The young orc’s powerful hand instinctively tightened on the ax as she sought in vain a way across. Thick and muscular of limb and torso, the orc was a skilled fighter despite barely being of adult years. Yet now her broad, rough-hewn features twisted into something more childlike, more fearful, as she ran back and forth without success in her search. Her wide, tusked mouth frowned. Thura shook her head and murmured a wordless protest. Her heavy brown mane of hair, generally bound in a tail but at the moment set loose, spilled over the left side of her face.
On the other side, a tremendous battle took place, the focus of it a single, brawny male of her race and someone she knew mostly from childhood memories and tales spoken by the great orc ruler, Thrall. Facing her was a graying warrior, with a stern visage and powerful arms. Like her, he was clad in the leather kilts and harnesses of a fighter. His body was covered in old scars from other battles, other wars. Even though surrounded, the male bellowed his contempt for his monstrous foes.
And monstrous they were indeed, for they were demons of the Burning Legion…fell creatures far taller than the brave lone warrior. They were armored and burning from head to foot with virulent yellow-green fire whose intensity vied with the fierce determination in the brown orbs of the single orc. With wicked blades and other vile weapons, they slashed again and again, seeking to break through his guard. But ever he kept them at bay with his ax, a stunning weapon that was made more fantastic in that it was carved of wood.
No…not carved. Thura recalled that a shaman had once inspected it and declared that great magic had shaped the twinedged ax into being, magic rumored to be that of the demigod Cenarius. Cenarius had been a keeper of nature, a protector of the forest.
Whatever the amazing origin of the ax, though, it clearly had magic of its own, for it sliced through strong blades and thick armor with the ease of passing through air. Great flashes of sinister yellow-green fire sparked from the deadly wounds inflicted on them as they fell one after another to the orc’s sure hand.
A deep, almost hazy emerald aura that had nothing to do with the flames of the Burning Legion draped over all, even the solitary champion. The aura itself was touched by a slight blue hue that added a sense of surrealism to the moment. Thura paid little mind to the aura, though, her anxiety rising as she continued to fail to find a crossing.
Then a new, arresting figure materialized just behind and to the left of the male orc. He was an astounding being whose tall, violetskinned race was known to Thura. A night elf. Yet this was no ordinary representative of that people, for thrusting from his head were a pair of mighty and elaborate antlers. Moreover, he was clad in a striking outfit that marked him not only as a druid — one of the revered keepers of nature — but clearly one of high standing, perhaps even an archdruid.
The night elf had a broader, more mature visage that gave him more individuality. He also wore a thick, green beard. His glowing, golden eyes — almost as arresting as his antlers — were plainly visible even from far away.
The coming of the night elf caught Thura’s breath. Unarmed, he leaned close to the male orc to whisper something and his very presence seemed to assure the battling champion. Already the victor over many demons by himself, the older orc looked confident that he and the night elf would surely be able to stand against the bloodthirsty throng still converging on the spot.
Behind the orc, the night elf’s hands suddenly filled with a long, wooden staff. He raised the staff high and as he did, the closest end suddenly sharpened to a wicked point. In front of him, the orc slashed at yet another impetuous demon, slicing off its long, narrow head, curled horns and all.
The night elf touched the point of the staff in the back of the male orc’s neck.
Thura saw too late the duplicity. She shouted in vain, her words smothered by distance and the clash of arms.
From the back of the male’s neck there burst a small growth. It resembled a weed, such as Thura might have trod upon a thousand times a day. Yet that weed sprouted rapidly, growing and growing within a single heartbeat.
The other orc finally sensed it. He reached back, but several dark green leaves wrapped around his wrist. The weed continued to spread, pouring over the hapless warrior’s body. As it did, the leaves began sprouting terrible thorns, all pointed inward. They jabbed into the orc and wherever they did, they drew blood.
With a smile, the duplicitous night elf stepped back to admire his handiwork. Rivers of blood poured from every thorn.
The male orc shivered. His mouth gaped and he fell to one knee. The weed’s tendrils covered his body until they completely bound him. Blood continued to gush from the monstrous wounds as the night elf watched with amusement.
Thura called out the male’s name even though it was already too late to save him. “Broxigar!”
Suddenly, the demons faded to mist. There was only the night elf, his victim, and Thura. The night elf stepped back farther, his mocking gaze turning to her.
The golden orbs turned utterly black. They became deep pits that coldly pulled at the orc’s soul.
Then from those dark pits poured forth monstrous, ebony carrion bugs. Beetles, millipedes, roaches, and more flowed forth from the night elf’s eyes in horrific streams that spilled to the ground. The vermin spread in all directions and as they did, trees and other flora materialized in their path. Yet the lush wildlife barely appeared before the vermin swarmed it. Bushes, shrubs, even the tallest trees became enveloped.
And as they were, they withered. Everything withered. Thura’s world became a twisted, hideous vision.
The night elf laughed. From his mouth spilled forth more fiendish verminHe vanished.
Thura shouted out Broxigar’s name again. With effort, the dying warrior managed to look her way. One hand broke free of the strangling weed, then stretched forth, the magical ax held out.
His mouth whispered a nameThura awoke with a start.
She lay there for a time, still shivering despite the fact that the woods in which she currently traveled were of a comfortable temperature. The dream played over in her mind, just as it did whenever the orc
was not reliving it in her sleep.
With some effort, Thura finally rose. The small campfire that she had built earlier had long died out, only a few faint wisps of smoke left in memory. Momentarily setting down her weapon, Thura used some dirt to smother what remained of the fire, then looked around for her pack. Seizing up the small, leather sack, she retrieved the ax and started off.
It was always like this. Walking until she was dead on her feet, catching her supper, then sleeping until the dream woke her up and left her in such a state that she knew it was better to move on. In a macabre way, that suited the orc just fine. Not only was there risk of late for any who were merely sleeping, but each step took her closer to her goal, closer to avenging her blood kin.
And even more, she had come to realize, she was spurred on by another mission: to prevent a catastrophe that would not only engulf her own people…but all else.
The male orc, Broxigar, had been brother to her father, although their own fathers had been different. She knew of his legendary stand with his comrades against the Burning Legion, a stand which had resulted in Broxigar — or Brox — as the only survivor. Even as a child, Thura could sense the guilt he had felt at living when his friends had not.
And then Thrall, the great orc leader, had sent the veteran warrior on a mysterious mission with another. Neither had ever returned, but then, as rumor had it, an old shaman had brought back the wondrous wooden ax from the dream and left it with Thrall.
That shaman had also spoken of Brox becoming a hero who had helped to save not only the orcs, but all else. Some there were who said that the shaman had then sprouted wings and flown off into the night, transforming into a gigantic bird or dragon.
Thura knew not whether all the last was true, only that when she had come of warrior age and proven her skills, Thrall himself had given her the fabled ax. She was, after all, the only left of Brox’s kin save for her sole remaining uncle, Saurfang the Elder, who had himself recently lost his son in battle. The ax might have previously gone to either of the other pair, but Thrall’s most trusted shaman had seen in a dream that it should go to Thura. Why, no one knew, but Thrall had listened.
Thura felt honored to wield such a weapon, an irony, she knew.
Years ago, under the influence of the demon lord Mannoroth’s bloodcurse, orcs under the legendary Grom Hellscream had invaded the forests of Ashenvale and slain Cenarius as he came forth to resist them. That had been in the days before Thrall had returned to his people their respect for nature. The death was regrettable…but Thura had not been part of it and so, with orcish practicality, she assumed that the spirit of Cenarius would have understood that, also.
The moment that Thura had placed her hands on it, it had felt right. But the ax had brought with it something else. Not at first, not even through the initial seasons after she had been given it. No, its secret had not revealed itself until later, and at first she had ignored it. A dream was just a dream…
Or not.
It had not taken the same shaman to finally make Thura see the truth. The spirit of her lost kin had been trying to reach out to her to demand vengeance. The dream was a hint of the truth, of that she felt certain. She had been shown how Brox had actually perished… betrayed by one he believed a comrade.
The night elf.
And although she could not say how she knew, Thura also understood that the night elf still lived and that he could be found. All she had to do was pay attention to the dream. Each time she awoke from it, she sensed the direction that she had to walk.
The direction in which she would find the brave Brox’s treacherous slayer.
Brox had spoken his name, which had rung in her head from the very first dreaming despite her never having heard it said out loud by the male orc.
Malfurion Stormrage…Malfurion Stormrage…
Thura hefted her ax…once Brox’s ax. The female orc had sworn an oath to her dead uncle. She would find Malfurion Stormrage, no matter how far she had to journey and no matter what her blood quest demanded she face.
She would find Malfurion Stormrage…and then not only would the ax mete out long-overdue justice, but perhaps Thura would be able to save Azeroth before it was too late…
1
TELDRASSIL
A sense of foreboding that the sleek night elf priestess had not felt since the fall of Zin-Azshari shook her to the core.
Tyrande Whisperwind tried to settle into her meditations.
Darnassus, the new night elf capital, had been built to honor the survival of the race, as was appropriate, and not to honor a mad queen. While it was far smaller than its predecessor, Darnassus was in its own way no less spectacular, in part due to its location high in the western boughs of Teldrassil… the World Tree. So huge and mighty was it that the night elves had been able to build upon it such imposing edifices as the Temple of the Moon — crafted much of stone brought from the mainland and transported by magical means up the incredible height of the trunk. Indeed, greater than even the fact that the capital sat nestled in Teldrassil’s boughs was that it was the largest of a handful of settlements existing among the foliage.
And much of all of that could be credited to the druids, who had raised up the tree.
Tyrande tried not to let even the slightest of thoughts concerning the druids interfere with her need for peace. She respected their calling, for nature had been and always would be an integral part of the night elf existence, but thinking of them even in passing always brought to the forefront thoughts and concerns of her childhood friend, of her lover, Malfurion Stormrage.
The soft light of the moon goddess shone down through the rounded, stained-glass skylight into the vast central chamber, temporarily turning from silver to a soft purple as it did. Yet silver it became again of its own accord as it draped upon the glistening pool surrounding the statue of Haidene — the first high priestess who had, as a child, heard the blessed voice of Elune. As she was wont to do, Tyrande sat cross-legged at the edge of the pool upon the massive stone steps before Haidene’s upraised arms, desperately seeking from both her predecessor and her goddess the blessing of comfort and guidance… and to help her shake off her growing feelings of anxiety. Though the chamber was often a place where priestesses and novices came for their own meditations and peace, Tyrande was this hour alone.
Eyes pressed shut, she sought unsuccessfully to force any thought concerning Malfurion from her mind. Their tumultuous bond stretched back to the beginning of the War of the Ancients, when she, Malfurion, and his twin brother, Illidan, had lost the innocence of their youth and become seasoned fighters. She still vividly recalled Illidan’s betrayals and her own imprisonment in Azshara’s palace. And though the tale of her unconscious body’s transport there was something she had learned after the fact, Tyrande occasionally relived how she imagined it to have been — captured by the servants of the queen’s foul counselor, Xavius — himself transformed by the Legion’s master into a monstrous satyr. Also burned into her memory was the near loss of her dear Malfurion at the very end, just when he had managed to cast out most of the demons from their world. Her heart ached at the memory of him summoning his last shred of might to save her.
But, most of all, most persistent, she recalled the hopes and dreams the two had shared after the conflict. There had been talk of truly beginning a life together, of Azeroth no longer demanding great sacrifices from the two of them.
But to Tyrande’s utter disappointment, Malfurion’s calling pulled him away yet again. He began training other druids, for Azeroth itself had required much healing and they would be among its most ardent tenders. And when Malfurion chose to leave Tyrande behind for years at a time to walk the Emerald Dream, she had sometimes come to wonder if he had ever truly loved her.
Tyrande, meanwhile, had been thrust into the role of high priestess of Elune against her desire, and then, through circumstances and necessity, the ruler of her people. Only in that latter role had she been able to make such major changes in night
elf society such as disbanding the traditional — and often flawed — system of military command based on bloodline and create the Sentinels, whose officers rose on their merits. Becoming leader was not a destiny she would have chosen for herself, but neither could she give it up, so much did she wish to help protect the night elf race.
Mother Moon, grant me calm, the high priestess silently pleaded. Although she was millennia old, the night elf physically appeared little older than that day so long ago when the mantle of leadership had been thrust upon her. She still had the lush head of midnight blue hair that flowed over her shoulders, its streaks of silver with her since her youth. Her face was that of a young maiden, and although some fine lines had begun to crease the edges of her silver eyes, even they were more the result of the last six or seven years of true aging, and not a mark of the ten harsh millennia she had lived.
But trying to rule wisely for some one hundred and more centuries took its toll within, which was why the high priestess on occasion sought respite through meditation. Tyrande only asked an hour once in a while, surely no tremendous request of Elune. Here, bathed in the ever-present light of the Mother Moon, she was generally able to find her focus with little trouble. However, this time a sense of peace continued to evade her. Tyrande understood the reasons why but refused to give in to them. She focused deeper-Tyrande let out a gasp. The soft moonlight blazed, growing both blinding… and, for the first time ever, painful.
Her surroundings transformed. No longer did she sit in the security of the temple. Instead, the night elf stood in a darkened place whose earthen walls immediately marked it as a barrow den.
Details of the underground chamber illuminated for her as if the pages of a tome turning. Tyrande saw the pouches of herbs, the gathered feathers, teeth, and other objects from many of Azeroth’s fauna. There were markings, too, some of which were familiar to her while others remained incomprehensible.
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