And all around them, other slithering forms converged. Those that were female bore some resemblance to night elves, but the males were more primitive and savage. Their faces had become like those of carnivorous fish, and it was clear from their eager red orbs that they would not have been averse to tasting her flesh.
If this was Azshara, then Tyrande knew that these could only be the Highborne, the caste of loyal servants who had joined her in her madness. Nothing had existed for them but to serve her glory, even if thousands of other elves perished.
Now…they still served her. Now, they, like Azshara, had become a horror of which Tyrande was familiar. The serpent form was unmistakable.
They were naga. The foul underdwellers of the seas.
“Once I offered you a place in my court,” the queen murmured cheerfully as with her tail she pulled Tyrande so near that only inches separated their faces. A thick stench emanated from Azshara…a stench associated with a corpse left rotting for days in the waters. “Such a fine lady-in-waiting you would have made…”
Tyrande struggled to call upon Elune. Yet the light she already wielded only faded more. As it decreased, the naga pressed closer, more eagerly. They crowded her…
“And serve me you still shall…” the queen said with a fanged smile.
The night elf’s legs began to meld together. Azshara was turning her into a naga.
Tyrande pulled tighter at the coil around her throat. She could hardly keep conscious, much less think.
Yet in that last haze of consciousness, Malfurion’s face filled her thoughts. He said nothing, only gave her a look of encouragement.
It stirred the high priestess to one more effort to call upon her patron. Although Tyrande could not speak, she mouthed Elune’s name.
The silver glow of the Mother Moon filled her.
She lost consciousness.
Azshara — all the naga — were nowhere to be seen. Tyrande lay motionless on the slick ground, the carrion bugs slowly encroaching on her body. The mists tightened around the high priestess.
But Tyrande still did not move. She lay there, with her hands at her throat…around her throat.
As if she had been strangling herself.
15
DEFENDING THE DREAM
The stout walls of Orgrimmar lacked the “cultured” touch of Stormwind City’s, but their savage glory could not be ignored. Tall and with massive watchtowers overseeing the surrounding lands, they offered warning to any foolish enough to attack that a high price in blood would be paid. Stern orc guards patrolled the walkways inside, and it was not uncommon to see among their number the Darkspear trolls, tauren, and even the undead Forsaken.
And though the interior might have seemed to humans as a barbaric place, with its populace divided into small valleys rather than quarters and its village-like construction more in tune with the nomadic past of the orcs, it was clear that Orgrimmar was as important a center of community to those who dwelled there as the capital of Stormwind. Thousands lived here, trading, learning, preparing for war…
Lying at the base of the mountain nearest the valley of Durotar, Orgrimmar was a symbol of the struggle the great liberator Thrall had faced to finally give his followers a true home. As Thrall had done in naming the valley after his murdered father, so had he named the city for the warchief who had taken the then-escaped slave and gladiator into his protection and who had later chosen Thrall as his successor.
Thrall himself ruled from Grommash Hold, set in the Valley of Wisdom, a central part of the capital. Grommash Hold displayed every bit the barbaric beauty of the orc warchief’s domain, with great, rounded buildings topped with sharp spikes, huge rounded entranceways leading inside, and displays on many of the gray stone walls that marked past victories of both the warchief and the Horde in general. Among those displays were the fearsome, mummified heads of the creatures used by the Burning Legion, weapons and armor from the demons themselves, and, further on, armor and banners of another foe — the Alliance. That the last was now an ally did not matter to the orcs — these had been victories and so were honored as such.
But glorious victory was not on the minds of the orc guards and the shaman who clustered in the warchief’s sanctum. The warriors watched anxiously as the shaman drew circles over a prone figure lying in the rough-hewn oak bed and covered by the wide animal skins used as blankets. Each time the shaman withdrew his hand, the warriors would lean forward in anticipation…and then pull back in defeat.
The figure in the bed suddenly thrashed, then muttered something. His hands clutched in vain at the open air. Then one hand swung as if wielding an ax.
The violent actions did not encourage the onlookers; they had witnessed them many, many times. Thrall was no closer to stirring than he had been after the shaman’s previous attempts.
“He continues to the terrible dreaming,” the grizzled shaman muttered. “It plays itself over and over and nothing I do penetrates it…” The aged orc, his remaining strands of hair silver-white, peered through deep-set eyes at a sinewy dagger set on a round, wooden table nearby. With care, it had been used to prick the slumbering warchief in the hopes that a sudden, sharp pain might break the nightmare.
That, too, had failed.
“Do we put him with the others?” asked one guard tentatively. He was immediately struck hard on the side of the head by another orc. The first glared at the second and, if not for the wizened shaman thrusting himself between the pair, a fight would have broken out.
“Shameful, both of you! The great Thrall lies spelled and you turn against one another! Is this what he would want?”
The two chastened warriors shook their heads. For all that they were twice the girth of the bearskin-clad shaman, they feared his power. He was not the most skilled of his calling in Orgrimmar — in fact, that title rested with Thrall himself — but of those shaman still awake, he was the best hope.
That hope, though, was fading.
From the other side of the chamber, there came a mournful howl. As one, the orcs turned to eye a huge, white wolf baying at the window. The animal was so great in size that any one of the warriors could have ridden on it as if it were a horse. Indeed, the warchief used his most loyal companion just for that purpose. The two were legendary partners in battle. The wolf had the run of the building, and no guard ever complained over that situation.
The massive beast let out another howl. The sound shook the warriors and the shaman more than anything else had since the discovery of Thrall’s condition.
“Hush, Snowsong,” murmured the shaman. “Your hunt-brother will be freed yet…”
But the wolf then began trying to crawl up and out of the window.
However, the gap, though large, was not suitable for the giant hunter. With a frustrated growl, Snowsong turned and lunged for the closed door.
The shaman’s eyes widened. “Open it for her! Quick!”
One of the guards rushed to obey. He barely had the door swung back before Snowsong barreled into him. Like a loose leaf caught by a fierce gale, the burly orc flew back, finally crashing against a wall. The wolf continued on unimpeded.
“Follow her!” the elderly shaman ordered. “She senses something…”
Pursued by the orcs, the white wolf charged through the hold.
She paused at two more windows that were of insufficient size, then finally scurried toward the huge doors at the front entrance.
The guards on duty there stiffened at the astounding sight racing their direction. Before the shaman could call to them, one had the sense to shove a door open. If the wolf sought the outdoors with such urgency, the guard had likely assumed that there was some danger lurking there.