Richard A. Knaak - Stormrage

“The spirit of Cenarius is very much a part of it,” Fandral replied, looking pleased by Tyrande’s compliment, “and present also in its guardian, his son …”

“Would that I were my father,” came a voice that brought with it a sense of springtime. “Would that I were …”

The druids had not heard the figure approach, as his footsteps produced no hint of a sound. They immediately knelt in respect and even the priestesses acknowledged Remulos’s appearance with a formal bow. However, he looked not at all pleased with such a greeting.

“Rise up!” he demanded of the druids as the air around him filled with the scent of flowers and the grass grew more lush beneath his hooves. “I am in no need of honoring from any of you,” Remulos added dourly, his leafy mane shaking. “I am an abject failure!”

Fandral stretched a hand forward in protest. “You, great one?

Surely no such words could be used for the lord of the Moonglade!”

The almost — night elf visage peered down at the gathered figures, his nostrils flaring the way an angered stag’s might. He focused briefly on Broll — who immediately looked down — then turned toward Fandral. “They are apt words, Fandral, for my efforts to seek aid for Malfurion have accomplished nil. He still sleeps… and now, worse, I presume. For what other reason could there be for such a contingent to come to the Moonglade?”

“He is… dying at last,” Tyrande admitted.

Shock overtook Remulos’s expression. The four, swift legs stepped back soundlessly, colorful wildflowers blossoming in his tracks.

“Dying …” The shock faded, replaced by something darker. “It makes sense… for the Nightmare is swelling faster than ever, its gibbering madness now audible throughout most of the Emerald Dream! Worse, it moves more swiftly, too, catching more of the Dream’s defenders unaware… and corrupting them in both body and spirit …”

To hear even Remulos speak so only added more credence to the fears that Broll, Tyrande, and the others felt. Broll clenched his fist, for a brief moment wishing for the comparative simplicity of his years as a gladiator.

Despite how brief the clenching was, either it or some other noticeable sign of emotion made Remulos look again to him. Yet Remulos’s words were not for Broll, but rather Fandral. “The idol is still in your care, Archdruid?”

“Yes, great one.”

Remulos eyed Fandral. “Make no use of it. Hide it away. Let not its power touch Azeroth… at least for now …”

Several of the druids, Broll included, glanced at their leader.

Fandral did not mention his recent choice, merely nodding to Remulos and responding, “It is safe within my dwelling. And so shall it remain.”

“Bear in mind what I said. I can give no more reason at this time… for I am not certain myself on it …”

“I give you my oath,” Fandral swore.

The towering deity acknowledged, then retreated more. As he did, his form somehow blended with his surroundings — both near and far. “This news, though dread, stirs me to new action. High Priestess, you have my sympathies …”

A brief lowering of her eyelids was Tyrande’s response. By then,

though, Remulos had already become his surroundings, vanishing as if an illusion created by the leaves, branches, and other flora of the mystical glade.

But his voice yet remained. “One last warning, my friends…

there have been whispers… of sleepers appearing throughout the various kingdoms, sleepers of all races… they are said to be those who cannot awaken no matter how much their loved ones might try… listen for tales of those, just as I will… they may be of import …”

And then, he was gone.

“Sleepers… who cannot awaken …” Tyrande muttered. “What can he mean?”

“He may mean nothing at all,” Fandral pointed out. “As Remulos said, these are but whispers. They are likely no more than that.”

Hamuul grunted. “I have heard… from an orc whose word I trust… that there is a village where five strong warriors could not be stirred.”

The lead archdruid did not look convinced in the least. “The word of an orc—”

The tauren shrugged. “There was no reason for him to lie.”

“Malfurion is caught in the Emerald Dream …” Tyrande remarked thoughtfully. “Does not this sound as if tied to that somehow?”

Giving a low bow to her, Fandral shook his head. “High Priestess, you make a reasonable mistake. Though we call it the Emerald Dream — or Nightmare, as it is now — druidic projection and normal mortal sleep are two entirely different matters.”

“Yes… I suppose you’re right.” A bitter cast returned to her face. “He should have never gone by himself. Not after warning others of your calling to beware the changes in the Emerald Dream.”

Broll watched as Tyrande closed her eyes for but a moment, and her anger transformed into sadness.

“He knew druids had already been found as he is now,” Tyrande continued, “poor souls who didn’t have his strength and will to keep their bodies alive after their dreamforms were gone far too long …”

That the high priestess was so knowledgeable about their calling surprised no one. She had been there since the beginning, since their shan’do had first begun his training. As her lover, he would have surely shared his experiences with her.

“He did what he did, Tyrande Whisperwind, as we shall do what we must do,” the lead archdruid responded. Fandral looked more at ease. “And the World Tree Teldrassil still remains our best hope of saving him.”

The high priestess did not seem so confident in the archdruid’s declaration, though she did nod agreement. She glanced at Broll, whom she knew better than most other druids. He gave her what he hoped was an expression of reassurance.

Fandral began to say something else to the high priestess, but a sound caught Broll’s attention, turning it from the conversation.

The hair on the former slave’s neck stiffened as he recognized the noise. His eyes darted to the trees and other greenery, where the leaves shook as if rattled by a violent wind.

As had occurred with Teldrassil earlier, the leaves of the trees and bushes all over the Moonglade burst into the air, rendering deathly nude the branches and stems. The leaves rose up into the sky… then poured down with deadly accuracy toward the party.

As they did, they once again began to change shape, to become the swelling silhouettes of creatures with hints of cloven feet and legs more animal than night elf.

But then there came a change to the previous vision. Between the night elves and the monstrous attackers there formed a figure that glowed with the light of the Emerald Dream. Broll instinctively thought of Malfurion, but this shape was smaller and not at all formed like one of his people. Rather, it more and more resembled —

“Broll!” a gruff voice whispered in his ear. “Broll Bearmantle!”

The night elf shook. The demons again became leaves and the leaves, yet once more in a replay of the vision of Teldrassil, returned to their proper places among the greenery.

Broll looked into Hamuul’s concerned eyes. He realized that he and the tauren were alone. The rest could only be seen in the distance, already leaving the area.

“Broll Bearmantle, something ails you.” Hamuul stepped around to face his friend. “The others did not notice, for when I saw you stiffen, I stood so that they would think we spoke. Even then, the false conversation I had with you did not even penetrate. You were — you were as our shan’do is.”

Feeling his legs weaken, Broll seized Hamuul’s arm for support.

When he answered, it was with a rasping voice that startled him.