Richard A. Knaak - Stormrage

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 and 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.