Richard A. Knaak - Stormrage

With a growl, he warned Tyrande of his need to change form again. The high priestess expertly slipped off while still using her whirling glaive to cut at whatever branch snagged at them.

Once again himself, Malfurion looked into both Azeroth and the Emerald Dream. He had to seek deeper this time, both within the two realms and himself.

The sky roared. It roared not just above them, but all over Azeroth, all over the Emerald Dream/Nightmare. Malfurion straining more, paid it little mind.

Yet his attack was not focused on his enemy, not directly.

Rather, Malfurion concentrated on the ones he needed most.

Broll…Thura…

This time, he could sense them. This time, he could feel the other druid’s struggle to keep them from falling to the Nightmare.

Shan…do… came the weak but still determined response.

The time is now…the tools are in place…the branch I gave you, this is the truth about its origins and what we need to do

… Malfurion showed him.

Broll drank in what was revealed and to his credit accepted it immediately. He trusted in the archdruid completely. I am…ready…

It was all Malfurion needed to hear. Over the continuous rumble, he shouted to Tyrande, “Take yourself from here! I must end it now! I cannot promise—”

“No! We live or die together!”

He knew better than to argue. The archdruid looked within himself one last time.

And suddenly… the storm stirred again.

Broll had expected to fall, but somehow he had been able to stave off the attack not only on his physical body, but also, more insidiously, his mind. The Nightmare sought him for its own, aware that he was one prized by Malfurion. Cries assailed him and his thoughts filled with visions of his dying daughter and his own guilt over her demise. It was a well-calculated assault, for Anessa had always been his weak point.

But no more. Having witnessed the horrors of the Nightmare, Broll condemned himself for having fallen prey to it through her death. He did not honor her memory by doing so. Broll had not seen that until he had seen so many others suffering because of their lost loved ones. The Nightmare had been particularly good at twisting its victims’ minds and turning love into torture.

The druid cast a handful of powder mixed from plants known for their fiery qualities. As the powder touched his dark foes, it sizzled.

The shadows burned away, their vanishing accompanied by tormented hisses. Broll looked for Thura, expecting the worst, but the orc squatted next to him, her eyes closed, but otherwise well.

“I have an oath to fulfill…” she said flatly. “I will fill it…”

Broll scattered the mist from them and for the first time saw that there was not only the ax, but another, odder object nearby. It was a thing that had once been alive but no more, and the one who had brought it to this place had planted it carefully, though not with any hope or desire of seeing it bloom.

It was a branch. A foul thing that Broll instantly knew well. He also understood why it had been placed here. The plan still had a chance.

And even as he thought that, the storm swept over their area.

Yet Broll felt no fear from it, no concern whatsoever. He knew its source and that it existed to protect, not harry, him and the others.

The druid seized the branch. To that from which it had originally been plucked — so that it could then be grafted on Teldrassil — the branch was nothing anymore. Dead.

But it was still of the Nightmare Lord’s essence. “Thura! You must grab the ax at the same moment as I strike!”

To her credit, the orc warrior understood immediately. Broll then began a distasteful spell. It was possible for those who were strong to nurture from seemingly dead plants, even trees, some measure of life. For any true plant, Broll would have had no qualms trying, though he also understood the limits.

But now he sought to revive something monstrous. His shan’do had revealed all concerning the truth about the branch and the tree from which it had originally come. Broll could sense the wrongness, the demonic essence, even in this tiny piece. This was not a thing of nature anymore; this was an atrocity.

But as he began his spell, Broll also sensed the other, more ancient evil of which Malfurion had also warned him, the ancient horror that had added its own infernal influence into the creation of the Nightmare Lord.

The spark he sought was there. Broll urged it on, even though the wrongness magnified.

The branch shook, fighting his grip.

“Now!” the druid called, raising the branch.

Thura grabbed for the ax, which still glowed both from its own good power and the Nightmare’s malevolent forces.

The orc’s hand and the branch touched the glow at the same moment. That was what was needed for the defenders. It broke what hold the Nightmare had on the weapon, strong enough to keep the ax there, but not enough to corrupt the enchanted artifact.

Cenarius had forged the ax that pure and Brox, by his deeds, had made it more so.

And Thura, chosen in part by Malfurion, was an apt successor.

She took up the weapon. Broll tossed aside the branch, which, bereft of his spell, could not survive. He shifted form, becoming a cat.

Thura leapt atop. He carried her forward. The shadow of the tree stretched to take them, but the storm struck hard, bending back the smoky branches and washing away the foul mists.

Lightning burned away shadow creatures and even set some of the intangible branches aflame.

Broll marveled at what he saw. He had witnessed large convocations create storms when rain was necessary, but none so huge or so directed. Surely, Malfurion must have all the other druids focused on this!

However his shan’do had managed this, it behooved Broll and Thura to reach the shadow tree. The fiendish silhouette rose over them —

A huge hand swatted both aside. Gnarl seized a stunned Thura, who still held tight the ax.

“All will be nightmare…” the corrupted ancient grated.

As Broll rolled to a halt, he became a night elf again. Teeth clamped from pain, he managed to cast a spell.

The ancient was a plant in nature. Even corrupted, he was covered in tremendous if now malignant growth. Still, that growth was yet susceptible to a skilled student of the druidic arts.

Stunted growths became thick, curling vines that within seconds ensnared the ancient’s limbs. Those near the hand that clutched Thura tightened, forcing Gnarl’s hand to open.

The orc dropped to the ground, landing on her feet. She wavered, but then steadied.

Gnarl struggled. Some of the vines holding his legs and one arm snapped. He reached again for Thura —

Grunting, Broll increased his efforts. The vines strengthened, thickened.

Just before the thick fingers could reach the orc again, the vines bound the corrupted ancient so tightly that he could no longer move. Broll did not let up. He had the vines continue to grow, continue to tighten.

The ancient tumbled to the ground, unable to move in the least.

The night elf marveled at his own effort, aware that there had been a time not that long ago when he would have thought his skills insufficient to capture one such as Gnarl without being forced to slay him in the process.

Thura, meanwhile, had not wasted her time. She was almost upon the shadow. She hefted the ax —

The storm faltered. The winds lessened.

The tree moved.

One shadow branch thrust into the orc’s chest. Although it had no substance, it impaled her. Thura stood frozen, the ax still raised high.

The other branches reached for Broll…