Then, when he was deep enough, he had it turn. Always wary for the presence of the Nightmare’s master, the archdruid focused his will on driving the root beyond his vicinity and into the mist.
Closer and closer it came to its goal. He had no choice but to press on, even if it alerted the shadow tree. Time was a nebulous term in this place, but for Malfurion, at least, it was running out.
Either freedom was to be his…or damnation would take him and he would find himself willingly serving the horror.
Inch by inch the night elf pressed. The lone root was nearly there.
Malfurion sensed the shadow tree stretching forward.
The skeletal branches traced the earth before him. The Nightmare Lord did not speak, which boded ill. The shadows spread toward the direction that Malfurion had sent the root.
Low, insidious laughter touched his thoughts, but Malfurion fought back fear of discovery.
The fools still press uselessly…the Nightmare Lord mocked.
Even with their numbers dwindling…and their losses drawn to the Nightmare…
They will persevere! the archdruid responded, hoping to draw any attention away from his own efforts. The Nightmare will be vanquished! You will be vanquished!
They do not even know what it means to persevere… the shadow tree retorted. They do not even know what it means to plan and wait…and wait…There came more of the horrific laughter. And we shall be rewarded for our waiting…we shall engulf Azeroth…
The shadow retreated from sight. Malfurion did not for an instant take heart in that. Not only would the Nightmare Lord be observing him, but the dark fiend was constantly manipulating countless matters. The archdruid knew better than most what was happening.
If his plan did not work…
The root reached where he desired.
All Malfurion could do now was wait…and pray.
Unable to stop Tyrande, Broll had no choice but to race after the high priestess. He did so not as himself, however, but as a great cat. Pouncing into the thick fog, the druid used his heightened senses of smell and hearing to make up for the limited visibility.
He picked up her trail immediately. In fact, it turned out to be easier to follow her than Broll had even imagined. Although she had put her love for Malfurion above her own safety, Tyrande was not foolish enough to forget the dangers they faced here. Broll was certain that they had not yet confronted the worst of the Nightmare.
The high priestess of Elune left a path of moonlit steps that cleared away the horrific flow of ghoulish parasites. Broll was not so delicate with his own effort; his claws ripped away at the creatures as he raced on.
He caught a glimpse of a figure ahead, but it did not exactly follow the route taken by Tyrande. Letting out a low growl, the druid veered to avoid it. Broll had no time for confrontations —
The ground before him swelled up. Black bugs poured away from the eruption.
Father! Father!
Anessa was there before Broll, her arms outstretched in desperation, her face beseeching. She had been slighter of build than Tyrande and a hand shorter. Her eyes were full of innocence and incomprehension.
Broll buried his claws in the ground and came to a halt. You’re not real! he thought at the apparition. You’re not real! In his mind, he saw her again engulfed as the merged power of the idol and the demon taint swept over her. This was how she had perished, due to Azgalor’s strike and his failure. Anessa was dead…dead.
Father! Please save me! the vision of Anessa cried.
And yet, despite the sure knowledge that this was not his beloved daughter, the druid felt his nerve begin to slip. A part of him so much wanted to try to save her —
Emerald tendrils seized Anessa. She squealed and tried to flee them, but they held her tight.
The cat reared back, reverting to the night elf. This isn’t how she died —
The emerald tendrils curled tighter and tighter. Anessa’s body crackled. Her head was caught in a terrible grip.
The skull cracked, yet Anessa still cried for his help. However, now out of her mouth — and out of every broken part of her body — there spilled the millipedes, roaches, and other carrion eaters.
With them poured a deep, inky substance that bore the green tint of rot.
Before Broll’s horrified eyes, the last recognizable traces of his daughter vanished within the tendrils. All that remained were the grotesque things that had poured forth from her. They spilled to the ground, spreading among the filth already there.
“You — are — real…” managed a voice that a stunned Broll needed a moment to recognize was not his own. “Unlike she, who was a semblance created to draw you into the Nightmare…”
A huge figure emerged from the mist ahead. Broll shifted to bear form and threatened the shape with his claws.
“No, druid…I mean you no harm…” It was an ancient.
Broll reverted. “Gnarl?!?”
But almost as soon as he blurted that, the druid realized that he was wrong. The figure resembled Gnarl to a point, but was built more bent at the shoulder and his tusks were longer. His barklike skin was of a more greenish hue, even taking into account the current surroundings.
Moreover, this ancient, like Gnarl, was known to Broll. “I remember you,” the night elf managed. “Arei…”
The ancient of war bowed his thick head. Many of the leaves that should have been part of his beard and mane were withered.
The ancient looked very weary. “I am that one…” His gaze surveyed the druid. “And you are Broll Bearmantle.” Arei squinted.
“As I have, through a portal you came…Ashenvale, I would guess…”
“Yes.”
The giant being frowned. “And from your words, Gnarl no longer keeps it safe?”
Swallowing, the night elf replied, “Gnarl was taken…by the Nightmare…”
Arei let out a sound akin to a massive tree slowly cracking in half. It sent chills through Broll, for it was such a primal cry. He could sense Arei’s great loss at this news.
“Another fallen…” the towering guardian murmured. “Our numbers dwindle as the Nightmare’s multiplies…we fight a battle we cannot win…”
“Who is ‘we’? What do you do here?”
“What we can.” The ancient looked away. “Come…he will need to know you are here…”
“Who do you speak of?” Broll asked, but the ancient had already stepped deep into the mists. The druid stood where he was for a moment, torn between following Tyrande and obeying the ancient.
However, the answer was made for him, for the high priestess’s trail was now gone and even in the form of the cat Broll doubted that he would be able to pick it up.
There remained one hope…that Arei or this other of whom he spoke would know the whereabouts of Malfurion Stormrage. That would at the same time put the druid back on Tyrande’s trail. With that desperate hope in mind, Broll resigned himself to chase after the ancient…and pray that he was not falling into another terrible trap by the Nightmare.
Tyrande was very aware that she had been unduly reckless in rushing into the mist, but an overriding fear for Malfurion had taken her. Throughout the many millennia that their hearts had been intertwined, she had faced the terrible prospect of his dying several times. Yet not since their first struggle against the demons of the Burning Legion had the high priestess felt the horrible dread that she did now.
Brox’s ax had brought it home to her. She knew its power, knew its monumental strength and its powerful magic. In Brox’s grip, it had done great things, mighty things…