“Her name is Thura,” Lucan offered almost tonelessly. “She came to kill him. She came to kill your Malfurion Stormrage.”
The pronouncement made even the dragon gape. Tyrande seized Lucan by the throat, but Broll managed to calm her.
“Hear him out, my lady! He’s not to blame!”
“He said that she wants to slay Malfurion! He brought her here to do it—” But Tyrande finally caught herself. “Against his will, though…I know that…Lucan…I am sorry…”
Lucan gave her a nervous smile. It was clear that he liked the high priestess.
Broll brought him back to the subject. “The orc! She came to kill Malfurion…why? How would she know how to find him? Did she say?”
“The visions…she babbled something about visions…she said that…that they led her to me…that they showed her the path to him piece by piece…the visions were helping her avenge her kin and save Azeroth, too, she said…”
“An orc blood oath,” Tyrande muttered. “I know them well. She will not stop until she either is slain or succeeds.” The high priestess shook her head. “The second part…it must be madness…”
“Whatever the case, something wants her to succeed,” the druid added. To Lucan, he asked, “But the first thing…she thinks Malfurion slew one of hers? What of it? Orcs understand death in battle.”
The human concentrated. “She said — she said that he was a
‘base murderer.’ That he betrayed his friend and killed him when his back was turned in trust…I think.”
It was more than Tyrande could stand. She brandished the glaive, which made Lucan step back in concern. “Lies! All of it! A threat to Azeroth? Ha! Truly madness as I said! And even the declaration of betrayal — Malfurion would never do such a thing! As proof of that, he has rarely even had the opportunity, for the number of orcs he could claim as comrade could be counted on one hand!”
“It was only one time she mentioned! She said a name! Bruxigan
…Broxigan—”
“Broxigar?” The high priestess staggered back. She dropped the glaive. Tears welled up in her eyes. “Brox!” Tyrande shouted to the others. “An orc who lived before his time! As a novice, I befriended him when he was captured by my people! He fought the Burning Legion and Azshara’s servants alongside us”—she swallowed—“and he died holding the way, so Krasus has affirmed, against the demons’ dread lord himself, Sargeras!”
The druid’s gaze sharpened. “It must be him who she speaks about.”
“But he was Malfurion’s friend!” the distraught high priestess went on. “They never fought with one another, and Malfurion honored him with me when it was all over! You must remember, Broll! Our people raised up a statue to him, the only orc ever to be given homage by us!”
“I recall it…now.” Broll frowned. “Then if it’s him she speaks about, she’s been tricked…and the Nightmare sounds like the cause…”
“For what reason, though?”
“Isn’t it obvious, my lady? Because he’s a threat to the power behind it even now. It gives us some hope at least, then. It means he must have some ability to fight for himself.”
Tyrande seized on that hope. Eyes drying, she said, “Then we must hurry to him! Lucan, when you escaped, did you pay attention to which direction she went? I know the mist is everywhere, but there is that…castle…” The high priestess pointed at the distant shape. “Do you know in relation to that?”
He straightened, looking a bit more confident. “Yes, yes, my lady! It…it’s my calling to know locations and directions!” The cartographer pointed to his left. “That way…”
“We would fly,” offered Eranikus, “but I fear he would not be able to direct us from above. The mist would be too thick to see…”
Tyrande had already taken Lucan by the arm. “Then we move now.” To the human, she commanded, “Lead us!”
Nodding, Lucan walked a step ahead. Tyrande kept her glaive ready. Broll took the man’s other side and the dragon rose just above the trio.
“This orc still bothers me,” the druid said. “I fail to see what danger she holds for my shan’do.”
The green dragon sneered down at him. “And you are correct!
An orc is hardly a menace in a place like this! Even if the Nightmare guides her, your Malfurion Stormrage is first among you druids! His deeds are honored among my own kind! No earthly weapon would be a danger to him…”
Lucan swallowed. “She has an ax.”
Tyrande looked at him, her expression wary. “The orc carries an ax?” She spun him to face her. “Describe it to me!”
“It was an ax with two edges. A battle ax.”
“And how made? Was the head of iron or steel? Quickly! Tell me!”
Broll moved to calm the high priestess, but she waved him back.
Tyrande waited breathlessly for Lucan to answer.
“Not iron or steel,” he finally answered, his face screwed together in concentration. “I think…it looked as if it was all made of wood…” The human nodded. “Yes, wood! I’ve never seen an ax head made of wood before! Doesn’t sound very practical unless it’s really sharp, and even then it’s likely to break—”
“‘Made of wood,’” the female night elf whispered in clear dismay.
She looked to the other night elf. “You don’t know! You weren’t there when Cenarius himself made it for Brox!”
“I remember hearing something about that,” Broll replied. His expression mirrored hers now. “Forged from wood, blessed by the demigod…and so powerful it is said to even have cut Sargeras…”
“And she hunts Malfurion with it,” Tyrande added. The high priestess stared into the mists, especially at the half-seen structure — the only structure. “Lucan, did you really escape her?”
“No…she said she didn’t need me anymore. She was near.”
“Near…” Eyes widening, Tyrande gripped her glaive…and suddenly rushed into the mist.
14
THE NIGHTMARES WITHIN
No! Malfurion could not help thinking. No…
He had known that as matters came together, that his secret hopes would be at greater risk. The Nightmare Lord had taunted him about rescue, even tortured him with suggestions and images of Tyrande lost and dying in the mists.
Or worse…becoming a part of what the archdruid knew was gathering more and more near the nexus of the Nightmare and just beyond the mists surrounding him.
I must…do something more…
He could not sense his captor near, which by no means meant that he was not being observed. Thus, Malfurion had to act in the most subtle of manners.
With effort, he made the branches that had been his arms move. The night elf had done so more than once, generally in search of some relief of his agony. That agony remained, but the tiny part of his mind shielded from it had something different in mind. A possible distraction.
The true act was below the surface, below where his roots anchored him to the ground. For the most part, they served the Nightmare Lord’s purpose, keeping him in one place and feeding into him the horror that dwelled even below. However, with the night elf so trapped, it was not a surprise that his captor might be confident and in confidence might miss the fact that a single, tiny root had become of the greatest importance to Malfurion.
Through concentration and will, the archdruid had managed mastery over it. The smallest of a multitude, it was ignored by the Nightmare Lord. Thus, Malfurion used his every moment to strengthen his power over that one part, make it do what he needed.
And now he needed it to feed deeper into the ground, feed beyond the other roots. Malfurion called upon all his teachings in this, the binding of druid to nature. He coaxed the root to growth, pushed it down, down, past the vermin that burrowed in the dirt, that worked to more undermine what had once been the Emerald Dream.