Tyrande dared speak up, her voice even and comforting. “I know you now, though you wear another unfamiliar form. But clearly you are free of the corruption now. Clearly you overcame it …”
“Through others… and what I did not know then was that it would call to me again… every moment… it calls to me! It desires me more than most, for I am… was… her most favored… her consort …”
“‘Consort’?” Broll gritted his teeth. “You are—”
The dragon roared, silencing him. The eyes — the cold, emerald eyes — fixed on the druid and Tyrande. “Yes… I am Eranikus, first consort of Ysera …” His jaws opened wide. “And, knowing that, knowing I exist here… all of you must die …”
10
ONE BY ONE
Stormwind was the strongest of the remaining bastions of the human race, a kingdom that had survived the destruction of much of the continent and even rebuilt itself after the First War. Varian Wrynn now ruled Stormwind — or ruled it again, since he had been king, then vanished for a time, only to recently return. From Stormwind Keep, in the capital city also named for the kingdom, the brown-haired, fiery leader sought to keep both his land and the Alliance intact. Varian was a driven man, made more so by the death, nearly thirteen years earlier, of his beloved wife, Tiffin, during a riot. His only solace was his son, Anduin — only an infant in his mother’s arms at the time of her tragic death — who had suffered as king during Varian’s long absence.
And so it was not surprising that with so much tragedy and struggle already behind him that King Varian had trouble with dreams. Of late, he preferred to sleep only with the use of numbing potions that kept those dreams away, but only as a last resort. Until weariness demanded that, it was more likely that Varian would be found walking the battlements.
A tall man in midlife with a rough-hewn handsomeness and brown hair that refused to be tamed, Varian was to his people the epitome of a champion. But now there came a threat that Varian could not understand how to handle.
His people were not waking up.
More to the point, each day found the numbers growing. It had started with one or two, then five, ten, and more. With each newly discovered slumberer, the populace grew more pensive. Some thought it a disease, but the scholars with whom the king conferred were certain it was far more. Some force was specifically attacking Stormwind through a curious form of attrition… and Varian knew exactly who it was.
The Horde.
There was no proof, but it made perfect sense to Varian. There were far too many elements among the Horde that could not be trusted to keep the peace. The orcs aside — and they were also among those of whom Varian was suspicious — the king could not see any reason to believe in the honor of blood elves — high elves who had turned to absorbing demonic magic after the loss of their vaunted power source, the Sunwell, and had subsequently become addicted to the fel energies. Nor did he have any faith in the undead Forsaken, who claimed to be free of the Lich King’s mastery. Of all the Horde, the tauren were the only ones who did not immediately make Stormwind’s ruler want to reach for his weapon, but since they sided with the orcs, that made them, too, untrustworthy.
Varian decided to compose a missive to send to Lady Jaina Proudmoore, archmage and ruler of Theramore Isle off of the southeastern side of the continent of Kalimdor, which itself lay west across the Great Sea. He had debated composing one for the past several days, but, ever reliant on himself, had put it off over and over. Now, though, the king suspected that he should have done so the very first time he had thought of it.
A helmed and armored sentry on the wall, the proud Stormwind lion on her breastplate, saluted sharply. She was the first guard that Varian had come across for some time. Even the keep’s personal contingent was down by more than a third its normal strength.
“All clear?” he asked.
“Yes, my lord!” The sentry hesitated, then added, “All clear save for that damned mist building up yonder …”
Varian glanced over the battlements. It was thicker than the night before… and the night before that. The sentries had initially noted its slow buildup about a week ago… just before the morning when the first sleepers had been discovered.
He recalled the last time Stormwind had been draped in such a mist. That had been to cover the advance of the undead Scourge.
The ghouls had used it to sweep toward the capital. But while there was that distinct similarity, there was something more ethereal and even more sinister. This fog seemed alive… and touched the mind as well as the body. Indeed, it seemed as much out of a dark dream as it did real.
The king blinked. For a moment he could have sworn that he saw something moving in the mist. Varian leaned forward but could not make anything out. Still, he was not a man prone to imagining things.
“Keep alert,” he warned the sentry. “Pass that on to the others.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
As he left, Varian could not stifle a yawn. He would have to rest at some point soon, but not until he took some of the potion the alchemists had created for him. Then at least there would be no dreams —
Varian frowned. The potion seemed to help him sleep. Did it also help keep him from whatever touched those who could not wake?
He had not considered that. The king knew he was not by any means versed in alchemy, but he seemed more rested than anyone else. Was there a connection between the nightmares the sleepers all seemed to be suffering and the fact that he did not have any dreams at all?
The notion made enough sense to Varian that he picked up his pace. It should still be possible to convene the alchemists and others who might better understand and press his argument. If they believed him, then perhaps it might be possible to let others use the sleeping potions and avoid more victims —
He almost ran into an out-of-breath guard just stepping up to the battlements. Varian, assuming that the man was late for duty but having no time to reprimand him, shifted around the soldier.
“My lord! I’ve — I’ve been sent to find you!” the man gasped.
“Dire news, my lord!”
Varian instinctively thought of the movement that he believed he had noticed in the mist. “Out there—”
The helmet hid most of the man’s features, but his tone revealed his great confusion. “Nay, my lord! We — we found him sprawled in a chair in the great room! He — he was not outside!”
Intense fear gripped the king. Seizing the soldier by the shoulders, Varian roared, “Who? Who?”
“The — the prince! Prince Anduin—”
Varian felt the blood drain from his face. “Anduin — my son — is dead?”
He all but tossed the man aside as he charged down the steps into the keep. All was a blur to Varian. He had only just regained his memory and his son! What vicious assassin had claimed Anduin?
Speeding to the great room, where once confirming the guest list for the balls that took place there had been the most important task concerning the wide, high-ceilinged chamber, Varian came across an anxious group of guards, servants, and other staff.
“Aside!” the king cried out. “Make way!”
The wall of people separated. Varian saw his son.
The youth was a fine mix of his father and mother, with hair a bit lighter than Varian’s and a face softer not only due to Tiffin’s traits but less worn by the ravages of life. Still, for someone not quite thirteen years of age, Anduin seemed much older.
He also appeared at that moment, at least to Varian’s eyes, unbloodied.