“Through others… and what I did not know then was that it would call to me again… every moment… it calls to me! It desires me more than most, for I am… was… her most favored… her consort …”
“‘Consort’?” Broll gritted his teeth. “You are—”
The dragon roared, silencing him. The eyes — the cold, emerald eyes — fixed on the druid and Tyrande. “Yes… I am Eranikus, first consort of Ysera …” His jaws opened wide. “And, knowing that, knowing I exist here… all of you must die …”
10
ONE BY ONE
Stormwind was the strongest of the remaining bastions of the human race, a kingdom that had survived the destruction of much of the continent and even rebuilt itself after the First War. Varian Wrynn now ruled Stormwind — or ruled it again, since he had been king, then vanished for a time, only to recently return. From Stormwind Keep, in the capital city also named for the kingdom, the brown-haired, fiery leader sought to keep both his land and the Alliance intact. Varian was a driven man, made more so by the death, nearly thirteen years earlier, of his beloved wife, Tiffin, during a riot. His only solace was his son, Anduin — only an infant in his mother’s arms at the time of her tragic death — who had suffered as king during Varian’s long absence.
And so it was not surprising that with so much tragedy and struggle already behind him that King Varian had trouble with dreams. Of late, he preferred to sleep only with the use of numbing potions that kept those dreams away, but only as a last resort. Until weariness demanded that, it was more likely that Varian would be found walking the battlements.
A tall man in midlife with a rough-hewn handsomeness and brown hair that refused to be tamed, Varian was to his people the epitome of a champion. But now there came a threat that Varian could not understand how to handle.
His people were not waking up.
More to the point, each day found the numbers growing. It had started with one or two, then five, ten, and more. With each newly discovered slumberer, the populace grew more pensive. Some thought it a disease, but the scholars with whom the king conferred were certain it was far more. Some force was specifically attacking Stormwind through a curious form of attrition… and Varian knew exactly who it was.
The Horde.
There was no proof, but it made perfect sense to Varian. There were far too many elements among the Horde that could not be trusted to keep the peace. The orcs aside — and they were also among those of whom Varian was suspicious — the king could not see any reason to believe in the honor of blood elves — high elves who had turned to absorbing demonic magic after the loss of their vaunted power source, the Sunwell, and had subsequently become addicted to the fel energies. Nor did he have any faith in the undead Forsaken, who claimed to be free of the Lich King’s mastery. Of all the Horde, the tauren were the only ones who did not immediately make Stormwind’s ruler want to reach for his weapon, but since they sided with the orcs, that made them, too, untrustworthy.
Varian decided to compose a missive to send to Lady Jaina Proudmoore, archmage and ruler of Theramore Isle off of the southeastern side of the continent of Kalimdor, which itself lay west across the Great Sea. He had debated composing one for the past several days, but, ever reliant on himself, had put it off over and over. Now, though, the king suspected that he should have done so the very first time he had thought of it.
A helmed and armored sentry on the wall, the proud Stormwind lion on her breastplate, saluted sharply. She was the first guard that Varian had come across for some time. Even the keep’s personal contingent was down by more than a third its normal strength.
“All clear?” he asked.
“Yes, my lord!” The sentry hesitated, then added, “All clear save for that damned mist building up yonder …”
Varian glanced over the battlements. It was thicker than the night before… and the night before that. The sentries had initially noted its slow buildup about a week ago… just before the morning when the first sleepers had been discovered.
He recalled the last time Stormwind had been draped in such a mist. That had been to cover the advance of the undead Scourge.
The ghouls had used it to sweep toward the capital. But while there was that distinct similarity, there was something more ethereal and even more sinister. This fog seemed alive… and touched the mind as well as the body. Indeed, it seemed as much out of a dark dream as it did real.
The king blinked. For a moment he could have sworn that he saw something moving in the mist. Varian leaned forward but could not make anything out. Still, he was not a man prone to imagining things.
“Keep alert,” he warned the sentry. “Pass that on to the others.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
As he left, Varian could not stifle a yawn. He would have to rest at some point soon, but not until he took some of the potion the alchemists had created for him. Then at least there would be no dreams —
Varian frowned. The potion seemed to help him sleep. Did it also help keep him from whatever touched those who could not wake?
He had not considered that. The king knew he was not by any means versed in alchemy, but he seemed more rested than anyone else. Was there a connection between the nightmares the sleepers all seemed to be suffering and the fact that he did not have any dreams at all?
The notion made enough sense to Varian that he picked up his pace. It should still be possible to convene the alchemists and others who might better understand and press his argument. If they believed him, then perhaps it might be possible to let others use the sleeping potions and avoid more victims —
He almost ran into an out-of-breath guard just stepping up to the battlements. Varian, assuming that the man was late for duty but having no time to reprimand him, shifted around the soldier.
“My lord! I’ve — I’ve been sent to find you!” the man gasped.
“Dire news, my lord!”
Varian instinctively thought of the movement that he believed he had noticed in the mist. “Out there—”
The helmet hid most of the man’s features, but his tone revealed his great confusion. “Nay, my lord! We — we found him sprawled in a chair in the great room! He — he was not outside!”
Intense fear gripped the king. Seizing the soldier by the shoulders, Varian roared, “Who? Who?”
“The — the prince! Prince Anduin—”
Varian felt the blood drain from his face. “Anduin — my son — is dead?”
He all but tossed the man aside as he charged down the steps into the keep. All was a blur to Varian. He had only just regained his memory and his son! What vicious assassin had claimed Anduin?
Speeding to the great room, where once confirming the guest list for the balls that took place there had been the most important task concerning the wide, high-ceilinged chamber, Varian came across an anxious group of guards, servants, and other staff.
“Aside!” the king cried out. “Make way!”
The wall of people separated. Varian saw his son.
The youth was a fine mix of his father and mother, with hair a bit lighter than Varian’s and a face softer not only due to Tiffin’s traits but less worn by the ravages of life. Still, for someone not quite thirteen years of age, Anduin seemed much older.
He also appeared at that moment, at least to Varian’s eyes, unbloodied.
Anduin still lay half in the chair. The captain of the guard, a gruff veteran with a cropped brown beard, looked as if he wanted to adjust the prince to a more comfortable position but was afraid to touch the royal heir.
Varian saw only his son, and so with nothing else on his mind but that, he barged past the captain and reached down to Anduin.
He saw the youth’s chest rise and fall. The king’s hopes rose…
until he heard Anduin let out a whimper.
His son had joined the sleepers.
“No …” the lord of Stormwind whispered. He shook Anduin, but the boy would not wake. “No …”
F
inally rising, Varian growled, “Carry him to bed. Gently. I’ll be there before long.”
Two of the guards did as he commanded. To the captain, the king added, “Summon the alchemists! I want to see them all immediately—”
A horn sounded. As one, those assembled looked up. Varian knew by the signal from where the call originated: the battlements from which he had just departed.
“Take care of Anduin!” he reminded the guards. “And summon the alchemists, Captain!”
Not bothering to wait for any response, the king raced back to where he had just been walking. On the battlements, a handful of soldiers stared off into the direction of the mist. When one happened to look back and see the king, he immediately warned the rest. The sentries stood at attention.
“Never mind that!” Varian stepped past them to look beyond Stormwind City’s edge. “What do you—”
He froze. Now there were definitely distinct figures moving within the mist. Hundreds of them… no… there had to be thousands…
“Get every available fighter to the—” Again Varian stopped, but this time for another reason. Even though the mist and those within were still far away, for some reason the king was certain that he recognized all of them. In one way, that was not so astounding, for they were the same two people over and over and over.
They were Anduin… and his mother.
But this was not the beloved Tiffin of Varian’s memory. Each of the doppelgängers staggered toward the city on legs that were halfbone, half-greenish, rotting flesh. Tiffin’s once-beautiful face was ravaged by worms and other carrion insects. Spiders crawled in her ragged hair and the gown in which she had been buried was soiled by dirt and torn. The monstrous scene repeated on and on.
And as for Anduin, while whole, he stayed close to his mother, allowing one skeletal hand to wrap around his neck in what looked more possessive than loving. To Varian, it was as if the horrific apparition was telling the king that their son was now hers.
“No …” Varian wanted this to be a nightmare. He wanted to find out that he was among the sleepers. There was little that could shake him, but this was a dark tableau of which he could have never imagined. It had to be a nightmare… it had to be…
But Varian realized that, unlike his son, he was living something real, even if it, too, was in its way a nightmare. The king had been taking the potions before the first of the sleepers; he was certain that they had somehow protected him by granting him no dreams.
Unfortunately, Varian had not made the connection in time to prevent his own son from falling prey.
And now, whatever lurked behind the sleepers, behind their troubled dreams, was encroaching on the capital wielding his own worst fears.
That gave Varian some strength. He turned to the nearest guard — the female with whom he had earlier spoken — and asked, “Do you see anything in the mist?”
Her shaking voice was enough to tell him how terrible the sight was to her. “I see… my father… dead in battle… Tomas… a comrade in arms… I see—”
King Varian looked to the assembled guards. “You see nothing but your imagination! Nothing but your fears! It or they know your fears and are feeding on them! These are nightmares, which mean that they are not what you think …”
They clearly took some heart from the strength of his voice.
Varian hid deep his own anxiety at the thought of Anduin and Tiffin.
If even while aware that they were false visions he was still affected by them, how were the rest of those in the city faring?
From outside the capital’s walls and near the edge of the mist, another horn sounded. One of the patrols on evening duty. Varian had for the moment forgotten about them. They were one of about half a dozen out this night…
“Give the recall!” he ordered the nearest trumpeter. “Give it now! I want them all in!”
The soldier blew the signal. Varian waited.
One patrol to the west responded. Another further south did.
From the northwest came another.
The fourth signal came from those near the mist. Varian breathed a sigh of relief as the horn blared —
And then the sound cut off too soon.
Worse… there was no reply at all from the other two.
“Again!”
The trumpeter blew. The king and the soldiers waited.
Silence.
Varian eyed the moving figures in the mist. Again, it was as if his view magnified to give him a much closer look. He knew that it was not by chance, but rather some work of whatever encroached upon his city. It sought to let him see what was happening, see and fear
…
And what the monarch of Stormwind saw did make him shudder, for it answered more questions. The many Anduins and Tiffins were no longer alone. Their ranks had been joined by shambling figures clad in armor marked by the proud lion on the breastplate.
Yet Varian could also see the prone bodies of those same men on the ground, even their steeds collapsed with them. Indeed, many of the gauntfaced soldiers rode mounts that had eyes without pupils and bodies that were twisted.
“It is the Scourge come to claim us again!” someone shouted.
Without looking at who had been speaking, the king commanded, “Silence! This is magical trickery, nothing more!
Nothing!”
Then… the mist and its army paused just before the walls. The Anduins and the Tiffins looked up, their soulless eyes upon those of Varian. Behind them, the other figures also stared up at the battlements.
Without warning, the Anduins and Tiffins looked over their shoulders at the unholy throng. Varian could not help but follow their gazes.
At first he saw only the soldiers mixed with them. Then other half-seen figures became apparent. Though their forms were indistinct… dreamlike… their faces were horrific parodies of normal folk.
And then… among them he saw a more distinct figure. A woman fair of face and with long, blond hair. If she had not been dressed as a mage, Varian might have ignored her as one more shadow.
It was Lady Jaina Proudmoore.
Her expression was as dire as the rest, a thing caught between horror and death. Varian stepped back, understanding that the situation was even more terrible than he had imagined. As if to verify this, to Jaina’s right another figure formed from the very mist.
The face was unknown to the king, but that did not matter. He spotted another take shape and another.
“Why do they not attack?” asked the guard with whom he had originally spoken. “Why?”
He did not answer, though he knew the reason. They were attacking. Piece by piece. The attrition of which he had earlier thought had a second purpose to it. The enemy was not merely reducing the ranks of the defenders; it was adding to its own. With each new sleeper — especially those like Anduin, caught unexpected by exhaustion — their numbers grew.
King Varian understood that all they had to do for the moment was wait… and victory would be theirs.
Tyrande prayed… and Elune responded to her servant.
As if a full, silvery moon itself suddenly filled the chamber, the light of the goddess magnified a thousand times, bathing all in its glory. Yet for the high priestess, Broll, and Lucan, the illumination comforted. It did not hurt their eyes, but soothed them.
Not so for Eranikus. The green leviathan reared back, his sleek yet massive form colliding with the wall and ceiling behind him. The chamber shook and huge chunks of stone broke from the cave walls. However, the Mother Moon’s light kept any of it from the trio.
The dragon let out a furious hiss. Yet rather than lunge again, Eranikus backed further. As he did, he began to shrink and transform.
“Consider yourselves fortunate!” he roared. “More fortunate than I could ever be…”
Already the dragon had all but reverted to the false elven shape.
Only traces here and there marked him as what he truly was.
Broll was already in action, but this time his
attack was not physical. Instead, he cast a spell.
Eranikus let out a tremendous exhalation. The false elf blinked.
He looked upon the high priestess.
“A powerful attempt,” he complimented, “and almost successful… but I can never truly be soothed, even by the calm, loving light of Elune… too much tortures my heart…”
Still, the hooded figure neither renewed his attack nor fled.
Instead, he fell against the wall and shut his eyes. A shudder ran through Eranikus.
“I failed her so much. I failed her and all else…”
Tyrande prayed to Elune to lessen the moonlight, leaving it at a level that still served to allow Lucan to see all.
Eranikus slumped, finally ending up sitting on a part of the wall that thrust out like a chair.
“Great one,” she murmured. “If corrupted you once were, now that is clearly not so. Whatever failures you think you have committed, you now have the chance to right them.”
For her suggestion, Tyrande received another bitter laugh.
“Such naïveté! You have lived how long, night elf? A thousand, five thousand years?”
She stood proud. “I fought the Burning Legion when it first came to Azeroth! I faced Azshara! I was there when the Well of Eternity was destroyed!”
“More than ten thousand years, then,” Eranikus responded, his tone sounding not at all impressed. “A mere speck of time and experience compared to that of one of my kind and certainly one of my age in particular. Still, you have some meager way by which to measure my misery. Can you think of your most terrible failures?”
“I am well aware of them, yes …”
“Then multiply them by a magnitude as great as the World Tree is high and you will quite possibly barely understand …” Eranikus glowered, but his mood was steered toward himself. “I have done terrible things… and the worst of it is, I might do them again!”
Broll and Tyrande looked to one another. The high priestess finally said, “But you’re free of the corruption… I was there… it was the light of Elune, in fact, through myself and several priestesses that finally cleansed you! I would’ve recognized you immediately, if not for your changed form!”
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