Even after millennia, Malfurion recalled all too well Cenarius’s near death in battle and how it had also cost the life of Malorne — the White Stag — at the hands of the demon Archimonde.
Malorne had been the sire of Cenarius and, thus, the grandsire of Remulos.
“Xavius has Tyrande…” Remulos continued. “…and he also has the ax fashioned by my father for the brave orc Broxigar…”
The news struck Malfurion harder than even Broll or Hamuul likely realized. He knew what he had to do, though it threatened everything.
Turning to Broll, the archdruid ordered, “Broll, I must ask you to help guide the druids and the others while I am gone. Hamuul, I have given you much to do, but you must also help him, if you can.
Can I rely on both of you?” When both had bowed their heads in acceptance, Malfurion said to Remulos, “Tyrande and the ax are in the same place? You are certain?”
“I am. Deep in the Nightmare.”
“Then we need to enter through Fandral’s portal.”
The forest guardian shook his great antlered head. “No, I have another method.”
Malfurion’s brow arched. “You do?”
“The manner by which I came here.” Remulos drew a huge circle with the spear tip. As he completed it, the circle flared into being, the edge a searing dark green.
The hooved forest lord muttered something that Malfurion could not make out. The circle swelled, expanding enough for both of them to enter it side by side.
“Come!” Remulos insisted.
A concerned Broll reached toward Malfurion. “Shan’do—”
“All will be well.” The archdruid pointed toward Fandral’s portal.
“Do what must be done.”
With that said, he joined Remulos in stepping through the forest lord’s circle.
A chill swept over him as they entered the Nightmare. Malfurion sensed that they were very near where the sinister shadow had kept his dreamform imprisoned and reshaped. The thought of what Xavius might do to Tyrande stirred a struggle within the night elf that he kept secret from his companion.
“Beware…” Remulos whispered. “One of the dragons is near…I think it Emeriss…”
Malfurion felt something nearby and trusted that Cenarius’s son had rightly identified the threat. But then the night elf sensed something more. In addition to the dragon, there was someone else nearby. His heart pounded as he realized just whose presence he felt.
Tyrande…
However, Remulos was not heading in that direction. “The ax of Broxigar is this way. We must hurry! If the Nightmare succeeds in gaining its power, it’ll become an additional threat, but if we regain it, we may be able to use it to free Ysera before she can no longer prevent the Nightmare from using her power…”
Malfurion frowned. “You were not able to take it yourself?”
“This hand is the result of that last attempt. It’ll take the two of us to deal with the dragon and take the ax…and also rescue your Tyrande, my friend…”
Nodding solemnly, the archdruid let the forest guardian continue to lead. Malfurion studied their surroundings — or lack thereof — as they moved.
“It is very silent…why?”
“The Nightmare Lord is likely more concerned with your valiant army now,” Remulos replied without looking back. “And with Emeriss to guard both the weapon and the high priestess, of what concern is there here?”
“If the ax is of such importance to the Nightmare, there should be more than merely one dragon to watch over both it and Tyrande,” Malfurion commented. “I know I would not leave them so lightly guarded…especially her…”
“Your faith in your love is laudable, but do not underestimate the power the corrupted dragon wields! Moreover, the Nightmare has many plots in play and its servants must attend to those as well…”
The archdruid did not answer, for at that moment they heard the sound of heavy breathing. Malfurion’s heart began to match the sinister breathing, which he knew must be from Emeriss.
“Be prepared!” Remulos murmured. “Between the two of us, we should be able to at least ward her off…”
The murky outline of a huge, winged form began to coalesce ahead. Emeriss appeared to be fixated upon something on the ground near her forepaws…very likely the fabled ax.
Malfurion chose that moment to glance behind him, but almost immediately Remulos demanded his attention. “Look there to the side! Not all that far from the dragon! The high priestess!”
Indeed, the shadowy outline further on was that of a female night elf clad much like Tyrande had been. Malfurion gritted his teeth at the half-seen sight; Tyrande hung several feet off the ground as if bound to some invisible post or perhaps tree. Her arms and legs were pulled tight behind her. Worse, there were more than a dozen of the shadow satyrs clawing at the air below her. Their talons just barely missed her.
“Fend off Emeriss and the curs will flee,” the son of Cenarius assured him. “Be ready.”
Remulos raised the spear. The tip flared green.
A similar glow flared to life around the dragon. In its light, Emeriss’s disease-ravaged form looked even more hideous.
As his companion struck, Malfurion gestured at the ground. The Emerald Dream had itself been much corrupted, but, unlike the foul behemoth, there was still inherent in it some of its true nature.
Fresh tendrils — vines — instantly grew up under Emeriss. The moment they made contact, the dragon reacted as if they burned her. Some attempted to ensnare her legs and tail. She hissed and howled, batting with her paws at both the vegetation and the glow.
In what was apparent desperation, Emeriss exhaled on the tendrils. The vines yellowed, then withered.
Malfurion thought of Remulos’s ruined limb and felt a pang of remorse. Then he strengthened his spell.
The tendrils grew higher, the blades sharper. Emeriss howled again. The glow also grew stronger.
With a furious roar, the dragon took to the sky and fled.
Remulos’s spell still surrounded her.
As the dragon vanished into the mist, the shadow satyrs turned to the pair. However, Remulos pointed his spear at their ranks and a similar glow surrounded the fiends. Unlike Emeriss, however, they simply melted to nothing.
Malfurion started toward Tyrande, but Remulos reared up in front of him.
“The ax! Take it quickly!”
The weapon lay as if abandoned, though Malfurion knew that Thura would have never given it up willingly. What had happened and whether she was dead or alive were questions to which the archdruid would have liked an immediate answer.
The sickly green taint of the Nightmare surrounded Brox’s former weapon, but there was also another, lighter green aura in between, one that seemed to radiate from the ax.
“We’re in time,” Remulos said with much relief. “The ax has not been turned.”
“No…” Malfurion knelt down near it. Setting his palms over the weapon, he tried to sense what was happening. The archdruid could feel the innate magic used so long ago by Cenarius, magic that had drawn upon Azeroth’s most primal energies. “What should we do?”
“You must draw the ax’s energies out. Reshape them to their original state.”
Looking up, the night elf commented, “That might weaken the ax, even cause it to disintegrate.”
“I will stand ready to reclaim the energies and see to it that they’re shaped as needed.”
Frowning, Malfurion rose. “Perhaps it might be better if you did the first, I the second. I fear that I might fail you.”
Remulos’s hoof scraped impatiently on the ground. “You won’t, Malfurion! Now hurry! There’s still Tyrande, remember?”
“I have never forgotten.” The archdruid started to turn toward where the shadowed figure hung. “I will attend to her first.”
“You will do as I command!”
Having expected what was about to happen, Malfurion leapt. In his wake, the green glow that Remulos had used on both the dragon an
d the satyrs struck where he had been standing.
However, now there was a strong dark touch to it, one very much akin to the evil aura surrounding the ax.
Malfurion faced Remulos…but not the Remulos he knew. The limb was still withered, no doubt, as the forest guardian had said, the result of having confronted Emeriss earlier…but Cenarius’s son was now a vile, twisted version of himself. The foliage in his beard and hair consisted of thistles and black weeds. His face and form had a skeletal semblance to them. His skin was now the white of death, and his eyes were the macabre, madly shifting colors of the Nightmare.
He had been corrupted. His new master had clearly worked very hard to shield the keeper’s transformation and for a few seconds after Malfurion had spoken with Remulos in the enclave, the archdruid had thought that his old friend had indeed returned injured but with mind intact.
But Remulos had been too eager to separate him from his companions, too eager to focus only on the ax and not so much on Tyrande. The Remulos that Malfurion recalled would have been greatly concerned for her, even before dealing with retrieving the ax.
Corrupted, it appeared that Remulos could no more wield the ax than his master. The Nightmare was everything unnatural, the opposite of Cenarius’s creation. That was why Malfurion had been needed, and why only Emeriss and the shadow satyrs had been here to guard the weapon and Tyrande.
As for Tyrande, she had been bait to ensure that the archdruid would come this far, just in case the ax proved insufficient.
Malfurion had come to understand the truth shortly after arriving.
Too many things seemed too convenient. Xavius and the Nightmare had underestimated him this time.
They had also underestimated his deep bond with his beloved.
All this flashed through his thoughts in but the space of a single breath. At the same time, the archdruid prepared to meet his former friend in battle. The hooved figure charged Malfurion, who shifted into the form of a dire bear. Claws clashed with talons. The natural energies flowed around the archdruid, but the foulness of the Nightmare fueled Remulos. Their battle became a standstill that Malfurion could ill afford.
Then Remulos’s expression shifted. His voice changed. Worse, his eyes became the deep, black orbs with the ruby streaks running across them that, after ten millennia, were still all too familiar to Malfurion.
“There is no hope for your struggle this time…”
The voice sent a shiver through Malfurion. He knew it very, very well. Almost without thinking, the archdruid reverted to his true form.
“I was too kind to you, Xavius…”
“ ‘Kind’? I lived trapped, tortured for more than ten millennia!”
Xavius/Remulos roared, spitting on his foe. “Watching and waiting and screaming for release! I burned when the land burned, only to have my bark heal and my branches grow anew! What you suffered was but a minute expression of what I lived through over and over and over!”
“I’m sorry, then…” Malfurion replied, truly meaning it. He had done his work too well. Xavius the Nightmare Lord was as much his creation as the counselor’s. “I would go back and change it, if I could…”
Xavius/Remulos laughed harshly. “But I no longer desire it changed! All that suffering, all that waiting…now it has all been worth it! Azeroth will be remade anew and everyone will suffer agonies only my own long, endless torment could have allowed any to conceive! It will be glorious!”
The talons raked Malfurion’s chest. The night elf cried out in pain but did not falter. He sought out Remulos in his foe.
But there was nothing to find of the keeper within the menacing figure before Malfurion. Cenarius’s son had either been utterly consumed by the Nightmare or was buried so deep within his soul that there was no hope of freeing him.
“I’m sorry,” Malfurion murmured.
“Still the mournful fool!” Xavius mocked through his host.
But the archdruid was not apologizing to him. Reaching into a pouch, Malfurion drew out what he sought. He immediately rubbed the contents of his hand against the body of Remulos.
Cenarius’s son roared. His skin began to harden, to take on the appearance of thick bark.
It was a unique variation of a spell used to strengthen a druid’s own skin against attacks. Malfurion had developed it to use against the Burning Legion. Long ago, he had come to the realization that every spell could have a reverse — and, in this case, adverse — reaction from that originally intended. The powder had been ground from the hardest of barks.
Remulos stiffened. He now was more statue than living. The rage still in his eyes was clearly that of the Nightmare Lord. The irony of the spell was not lost on Malfurion; he had transformed Xavius into a tree and now he did virtually the same to poor Remulos. A part of the archdruid wanted to stop what he was doing, but a tearful Malfurion knew he had no choice but to complete the horrific spell.
A wordless cry escaped Remulos before even his mouth would not work. One hand sought to throw the spear, but failed.
Stumbling back, Malfurion ignored his handiwork. He took one short glance at the ax, knew it could not be touched by his foes, and then raced not toward the shadowed figure of his love, but rather to the place where he had originally sensed her.
That, more than anything, had verified his suspicions concerning Remulos’s “quest.” He had realized that he was being led away from her, that the false image existed purely to lead him toward the ax.
Shadow satyrs jumped from the mists, flinging themselves upon him. Malfurion shifted to cat form and tore through them.
He came upon Tyrande at last. Both a thrill and a stirring of tremendous fear filled him as he stared at her. She hung in a position identical to what the false image had displayed. Her eyes were shut. That she was alive, he had known; whether she was at all corrupted, the archdruid could not yet tell.
Still a cat, Malfurion leaped. Although Tyrande hung some distance in the air, it was but a small gap for his powerful form. As he neared her, the archdruid shifted into his true shape. At the same time, he saw that her body glowed a slight but consistent silver. There was no doubt of the purity of Elune’s power covering her. Captured she had been, but they had not yet had the chance to corrupt her.
She fell free as soon as he touched her. Malfurion briefly shifted to dire bear form, catching the high priestess in his mighty arms as they landed.
Reverting, Malfurion openly wept as he caressed her cheek and her hand, so grateful was he for the knowledge that she was alive and whole…
But he also finally noted that she still lay motionless, almost as frozen as he had left Remulos.
The clatter of hooves made him straighten. Worse, in their wake Malfurion also heard the beating of wings.
He had failed to stop the corrupted keeper…and now Malfurion suspected that Emeriss, made aware that the trap had not worked, was returning, too.
Remulos reared up before him. Parts of his body were still encased in bark, but he moved with great swiftness nonetheless.
He glared down at the night elf and threw the spear.
Malfurion quickly cast a spell, but one aimed at himself. He not only felt his own defenses heighten, but his strength and agility also increased. The druids called it the mark of the wild, and Malfurion had learned it from Cenarius. Now he was forced to use it to protect himself against his shan’do’s son.
Although he also did his best to evade the spear, Malfurion was only partially successful. The physical weapon but grazed him, yet that was enough for its potent energies to sear the archdruid to the very bone despite his spellwork. Still, he managed to use his own power to knock the spear to the ground beside him.
Struggling with the pain, Malfurion dropped to his knees. The act was all that saved him from Remulos’s flashing hooves. The edge of one struck the tip of Malfurion’s antler. The tip cracked off, flying away.
The night elf looked up into the scowling visage. He could not sense Xavius inside, anymore, but
neither could he yet find the true Remulos.
Again the hooves came at him. Like the spear, they flared with tremendous dark energies. Malfurion spun to avoid them and saw that the broken tip from his antler was now a twisted, bony mass.
He could well imagine what would happen to him if those hooves struck directly.
Reaching into another pouch, Malfurion sought out a particular powder. He prayed to the spirit of Cenarius to forgive him for what he intended.
With expert aim, he threw the powder at the keeper’s face.
Remulos’s hand thrust toward the flying powder. Most of the powder burned black, then vanished. A few bits managed to get through.
The keeper sneezed.
“A last, truly desperate attempt—”
But Remulos’s arrogant remark transformed into a howl of pain.
He looked down at where Malfurion now shoved the point of the keeper’s own magical spear into his chest. The night elf had merely sought the least of distractions in order to obtain the spear from where he had knocked it.
The weapon burned his palms even despite his protections, but Malfurion did not release his hold. He shoved the spear deeper.
Remulos clawed at both him and the weapon. His chest was afire with crackling veins of energy.
Then, the corrupted keeper finally let out a gasp…and collapsed.
Malfurion pulled the spear free. Remulos still breathed, but whether he would recover was another question.
“I’m so sorry…” the archdruid whispered. “So—”
He was buffeted by a tremendous force. A monstrous roar filled his ears.
Emeriss picked him up in her paw as if he were some tiny plaything. The corrupted leviathan flew up into the air.
“One way or another…you will serve us!” she hissed. “You’ll unbind the ax from Azeroth and give it to us—”
A blinding silver light materializing from the sky above enveloped both. Malfurion experienced a wondrous sense of rejuvenation. All his injuries and pain — save the emotional pain of having had to fight Remulos — faded away.
But for Emeriss, it seemed to do just the opposite. She roared.
Her body violently contorted.
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