And now that strength and magic had been turned upon Malfurion. She could only assume that this was the Nightmare’s last horrible jest for both she and her love.
No! You will not die! Tyrande almost angrily thought at Malfurion.
I will not let you do this!
Her anger was misplaced, of course, but it drove her on.
Tyrande had only the vague shape of a keep that evidently should not exist here to guide her path. Even through the thickest of the mist, it remained just visible enough. Again, she was aware that it could be a trap, but it was her only clue.
Tyrande remained aware that there was something else lurking in the mist, something that ached to reach her. She knew that it was tied to the sleepers that Eranikus had feared he had harmed through attacking their dream shapes, but sensed that it went deeper and darker than even those.
And whatever it was pressed closer and closer as she progressed.
The murky keep appeared no nearer than previous, which also concerned her. In the Emerald Dream, distance and time were without finite meaning. Malfurion had taught her that much. For him, his captivity might have seemed like centuries, not years. He could be very nearby, yet she might have to run the equivalent of days to reach his location.
“No!” she murmured. “I will reach him and soon!”
No…no…no…the mist suddenly whispered in a thousand voices. No…no…no…
The high priestess glared at the dank, nearly unseen landscape, seeking the whisperers. She prayed to Elune and the glaive glowed. Tyrande brought the weapon’s illumination to the left, but the wedge it cut revealed only more scattering carrion bugs.
But just beyond the light-Tyrande moved toward it, but whatever it was retreated with the mist. It was there, just vaguely seen.
And waiting for her to make a fatal misstep.
Mother Moon, guide me now…steel my will… the night elf prayed.
Will…will…came the whispers.
She could not help but shiver. They did not only echo her words, but her very thoughts. Was there nothing safe?
Nothing safe…nothing safe…nothing safe…
Tyrande had her answer. Nevertheless, she did not even consider retreating. Her desire, her mission, was a clear one. She had never thought that she might sneak up unnoticed to Malfurion.
The high priestess expected to fight and fight hard. Therefore, if the Nightmare did know she was there and what she intended, it hardly made a difference.
“I will face anything you throw at me,” she muttered to the mist.
“And I will vanquish it!”
There was no mocking whisper. Whether that was for good or ill, Tyrande could not say.
She pressed on. Although the vermin fled from her, she could hear them quickly returning in her wake. In addition, the ground itself grew more and more slick as a black-green substance that reminded her of the bugs’ insides covered everything. She had to pull her feet free, an act most often accompanied by a sickening, sticky sound. Her progress slowed.
“It will take more than this,” she told the mist.
A feminine chuckle wafted through the mist.
The chuckle chilled Tyrande more than anything else thus far.
She knew that laugh, still dreamed of that laugh.
It was Azshara’s laugh.
But the queen of the night elves was at the bottom of the sea that marked where her city and the Well of Eternity had once been situated…at least, as far as Tyrande knew. It was that tiny bit of doubt, though, that knowledge that she had never actually witnessed Azshara’s death, that had caused the nightmares she had suffered on and off over the centuries. Even though the mad queen — enthralled by the power of Sargeras and thinking herself the titan’s future consort — had surely had no opportunity to flee Zin-Azshari, perhaps she still had managed somehow.
So, this is your plan now! she thought defiantly at the mist.A bold choice, but overreaching!
To emphasize her defiance, she spread her hands wide as if welcoming this new attack. However, nothing happened. There was no sudden materialization of the dread queen nor even a further chuckle.
“Play your games, then,” the high priestess said out loud. “I have more serious matters with which to deal.”
Once more she trod on, scattering the vermin and fighting for footing. At last the night elf seemed to edge closer to the shrouded keep. Tyrande felt in part that her utter determination now aided her in making progress; the Nightmare was bending — at least somewhat — to her will. Nevertheless, she took the added precaution of making a silent prayer to Elune that the keep would neither abruptly disappear nor recede at the last moment.
The smell of decay, already present, grew more powerful. The ground became more slick. At times Tyrande could almost swear that it pulsated, as if some great thing slowly breathing. The high priestess told herself that this was merely the Nightmare seeking to break her resolve, but she moved more warily nonetheless.
Then her foot slipped. Tyrande could do nothing to keep herself from falling face-first into the nauseating muck. A foul slime covered her lips and burned her tongue. She quickly spat it out, not certain if it was poisoned.
Her glaive lay some distance away, the point of one blade obscured in the fog. Tyrande pushed herself to a kneeling position, the effort taking more than she expected. The ground was so slick here that her hands could barely find a hold.
A scraping sound turned her attention back to the weapon.
Something was pulling it into the mist. The glaive slid along the ground, more and more of it disappearing.
The night elf lunged for it, only to fall flat again. Now only the tip of one blade remained visible.
Calming herself, she summoned forth the light of Elune, directing it toward the glaive —
Something slithered behind Tyrande. The night elf immediately looked in that direction, but saw nothing. Quickly, she returned her attention to the glaive.
It was gone.
Azshara’s chuckle once more touched Tyrande’s ears.
Trying to whirl to the source of the sinister laugh, Tyrande only succeeded in miring herself even more. She finally resorted to Elune’s light again, hoping that it could make the ground harder.
But as she attempted this, once more she heard slithering.
Tyrande refused to give up her effort but could not help also trying to see what was coming toward her —
Something muscular but moist curled around her throat with the harshness of a whip. Tyrande abandoned her spell to struggle with what was now choking off her air.
It lifted the high priestess more than two feet from the ground. At the same time, the slithering grew louder.
And again came the too familiar laughter.
“Such a darling, beautiful creature you are! I had forgotten!”
Tyrande, still struggling to breathe, was turned to her right.
A monstrous, blue-green face leered at her. It was elven, yet almost akin to some monstrous fish. Finlike projections extended not only from the head, but coursed down the scaled back. Indeed, scales covered the face and curved chest as well.
The hands were webbed and clawed, more like those of some ocean predator. They, though, were still more akin to a night elf’s form than the lower part of the thing’s body. Rather than legs, it moved upon what appeared some combination of a snake’s and an eel’s slippery torso.
It was, in fact, the lengthy, spiny tail of that torso which sought with growing chance of success to strangle Tyrande.
“So pretty,” it cooed in Azshara’s voice.
Despite her losing battle for air, Tyrande stared wide-eyed at the creature. It was and was not the queen. There was just enough of Azshara’s features in the scaled face, though the eyes were fiery red orbs that sought to burn into the high priestess’s mind.