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 fo
r 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 risk 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.
6
DRAGONS AND DECEIT
Malfurion felt the shadow loom over him and knew what it meant. A new torture was imminent.
The dark emerald lines spread further over him, at first seeming to form jagged, bony fingers that turned out to seem instead the silhouette of a vast, macabre tree that dwarfed that which the archdruid had become. Yet even as limited as his field of vision had become, the night elf knew that though there was a shadow… there was no other tree.
Can you taste their dreams? the Nightmare Lord taunted. Can you taste their fears? Even your dearest are not immune to it…
Malfurion did not respond, though he knew that his captor could still sense his emotions. In that regard, the archdruid continually sought to focus inward. The more calm that he could bring to himself, the better his hopes for the others.
And the better that the Nightmare Lord did not know of his true efforts. His captor believed the spells surrounding the night elf prevented Malfurion from reaching out to his beloved Tyrande or anyone else and, for the most part, that was true. But the archdruid had not trained hard over ten thousand years to be utterly defeated. He could not, and dared not, reach out to Tyrande or certain others, but there were paths of communication, though they required delicacy and complicated paths. If the Nightmare Lord even suspected on
ce… then Malfurion was surely lost and with him perhaps all else.
The shadow grew and twisted, almost as if the sinister tree slipped around to better view its prey. Malfurion himself suddenly twisted anew, the tree of pain that he had become taking on a new, more vile aspect. From his boughs, the leaves sprouted black flowers. Each flower’s birth was as a needle thrust into the night elf’s eyes. There were hundreds, soon covering most of his upper torso.
From each blossom there suddenly swelled an emerald egg.
Malfurion wanted to scream, but, of course, could not.
Out of one of the eggs burst a thing with tentacles and wings. As it moved, it oozed pure terror.
A second fiend burst free, followed by a third, and more. They crawled over Malfurion, scraping and biting as they moved.
At last the horrific multitude left the archdruid. They flowed over the small patch of space that he could see, as if awaiting commands.
The shadow moved nearer, as if caressing them. Wrought from your own fears, stirred by my desire… they are beautiful to behold, are they not?
As if by some unheard signal, the swarm spread out in different directions. They quickly vanished in the deep, dank green fog that surrounded all but Malfurion’s immediate vicinity.
There are more and more sleepers, my friend, more and more of those susceptible to these pets and those before them… their nightmares are feeding me through you and the others…
Malfurion did his best not to acknowledge this truth, that his own abilities were aiding in the spread of the Nightmare beyond the Emerald Dream, yet concern did creep in. Concern that, unfortunately, his captor could sense.
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