Richard A. Knaak: Stormrage

The ridged bark upon which the trumpeter focused rippled. Broll shuddered, momentarily recalling his bizarre vision. Then the bark cleaved, opening up a gap large enough for a night elf to enter…

or, in this case, from which to step forth.

The druids bowed their heads in respect as Fandral Staghelm strode out among them with the bearing of one fully in command of all about him. His eyes gleamed gold as he nodded to many of those gathered. Fandral was clad more simply than most of the night elf druids, his upper torso covered only at the shoulders by protective wooden armor shaped somewhat like the heads of beasts, even down to their glaring eyes. His hands were covered in protective, open-fingered, woven gloves that extended all the way to the elbow, where the wooden ends flared out.

Fandral walked barefooted, a choice of his to display his oneness with nature. At the waist was the only sign of extravagance on his part — an ornate belt with a great ruby-colored clasp and a decorative, segmented ring hanging below it. Wrapped around each side was a long, flowing collection of pieces of bark.

“The forest is the lifeblood of the world,” Fandral intoned.

“The forest is the lifeblood of the world,” Broll and the other druids repeated.

“Teldrassil is the lifeblood of the world …”

Broll and the rest again repeated his chant.

“I am glad so many of you have heeded the summons so quickly,” the archdruid then uttered. “I must confirm to you the worst. Teldrassil is ill …”

The news caused the rest of the druids to look at one another in some anxiety. In truth, what Fandral said to them was no great surprise, but it was a shock to hear the archdruid starkly speak it.

Although nearly all the druids had had a hand in its creation, Teldrassil’s growth had originally been Fandral’s suggestion and he above all others guarded its health.

Fandral Staghelm had been the first to suggest the second World Tree, but Malfurion had ever blocked such a suggestion from becoming anything more. But despite Malfurion’s opposition, Fandral’s loyalty remained intact — after the discovery of the great archdruid’s terrible fate, Fandral had stepped in and, with little protest from others, taken up the mantle of leader. His first mission, so he had solemnly proclaimed, was to save their beloved shan’do.

Under his guidance, the senior druids of the Cenarion Circle had determined that Malfurion’s limp form should remain in his barrow den, located in the revered Moonglade. There, surrounded by the world’s natural energies and the magical ministering of the Sisters of Elune, the body, deemed perfectly healthy otherwise by the Sisters, did not starve or suffer from lack of water. With this came the hope that, as powerful as he was, Malfurion might yet be able to return on his own.

Fandral had not relied on that hope alone, though. The Circle had made attempts to not only restore the body, but also call Malfurion’s spirit back to it. The attempts failed every time. They had even turned to the mistress of the Emerald Dream — the great green dragon Ysera — but even that had gone for nought. She of the Dreaming, as Ysera was also called by the druids, had had no success in contacting him, either.

Until recently, all of this had been kept secret from the night elf race as a whole and even most of the Sisterhood and the druids.

However, increasing questions had at last forced a reluctant Fandral to alert his fellow druids — if not the rest of the race — of the direness of the situation, hence the overriding reason so many had come to this sudden convocation. Broll believed all of the druids here had guessed, as he had, that the gathering would be somehow related to Malfurion’s rescue.

But Teldrassil was at least as important a reason — if not a greater one to the night elves as a whole. The original goal of using the new World Tree had been to regain their immortality and enhance their powers. But Fandral had pointed out that the magical tree might also be their only hope to locate their founder’s dreamform and initiate his rescue.

If Teldrassil is truly so ill, though… Broll frowned and saw his apprehension reflected in the faces of Hamuul and the rest.

Fandral strode among the others. His sharp gaze briefly rested upon Broll. Although it was clearly not the archdruid’s intention, the glance again reminded Broll of his terrible failure. But then, that memory was never far from his mind.

The senior archdruid smiled, as a father to his children. “But do not dwell in utter despair, my friends,” he said. “I have not called you here merely to speak of doom—”

“There is some hope?” one of the other druids blurted.

“There is more than hope!” Fandral proclaimed. “I have summoned you to this place, here at the roots of Teldrassil, so that we may aid the World Tree in its healing!” He smiled encouragingly.

“And with Teldrassil well again, we can then return to the focus of our search for Malfurion Stormrage—”

“But how can we aid Teldrassil?” someone else called.

“With this.” The archdruid extended his hand. In it lay an object that all recognized… and brought forth from Broll’s lips a gasp of dismay and surprise.

Fandral held the Idol of Remulos.

The title was perhaps misleading, as the idol did not look at all like the one for whom it was named. Rather, the figurine had been crafted to resemble a rearing green dragon by Remulos, the immortal son of Cenarius and who himself was an astonishing sight. The lower half of Remulos’s body was that of a proud stag, but where the shoulders of the front legs should have met the neck, instead a powerful, humanoid chest rose above. His hooves were cloven and powerful. Like his father, Remulos was half forest animal, the upper half most resembling a night elf druid. But the similarity ended there. His hands ended in leafy, wooden talons, and his hair and beard were comprised of leaves and shrubbery and moss.

Remulos was also guardian of the Moonglade. Indeed, Broll had wondered if the immortal druid would appear here, though Remulos had not joined in the convocations for some time. Rumor had it that he had performed his own search for Malfurion…

But it was not for the artistic merit that Fandral had brought forth the idol. A powerful magical artifact, it was certainly capable of aiding the druids’ spells… if it did not do more harm first.

Indeed, Broll could not restrain himself. He dared blurt, “Archdruid, with the greatest respect… should that be part of our efforts?”

Fandral turned and eyed Broll sternly. “Your worry is understandable, good Broll. Anessa’s loss was no fault of yours.

You did what you could to save many lives and beat back the demons.”

Broll fought not to cringe as he listened to Fandral’s words, even though they were meant to put him at peace. A human face stirred in Broll’s memories, a determined, dark-haired man with eyes that spoke of more loss suffered than even the night elf who had befriended him. Varian Wrynn had stood beside Broll when the druid had gone to retrieve the accursed figurine from a mad furbolg, the two having forged a deep bond earlier as fellow slaves and gladiators. Varian had done so even though he had had no inkling of his own past, no recollection that an entire realm was bereft of the man who was its king…

Fandral turned from Broll again. He held up the figurine, then indicated the World Tree.

“Once, we fed it so that it could rise from a single nut to the wondrous leviathan it is now! The effort cost us dear, but the rewards have been manyfold… a new home, food and water in bounty, and protection from our enemies …”

The druids nodded. Broll noted that Fandral made no mention of the immortality that remained lost to their people, but then, as Teldrassil’s growth had not yet restored it, he thought perhaps the archdruid was sensitive on the subject.