Indeed, Malfurion had said they were better off as they were now — without their immortality — for that forced them to become more a part of the vibrant life of Azeroth rather than some staid, unchanging element merely observing the passage of time…
“Malfurion …” he muttered. But for two others in his life, no one had affected Broll like his shan’do. He owed a great deal to Malfurion… and yet, he, like the rest, felt helpless to do anything to save the archdruid from his dreadful fate.
Broll blinked, returning to the moment. He had sensed another coming up behind him. Even before turning, the night elf knew who it had to be. The scent alone marked this one particular druid.
“The blessing of the forest upon you, Broll Bearmantle,” rumbled the newcomer. “I felt you near. I had hoped to see you.”
Broll nodded. While he hadn’t expected to see the newcomer, he was glad for it. “Archdruid Hamuul Runetotem… you made swift passage from Thunder Bluff.”
Where Broll looked akin to his fellow druids, his new companion did not. The torso of the newcomer somewhat resembled that of a night elf or a human, albeit one even broader of shoulder than the powerfully built Broll. Unlike the other druids, he was clad in the loose, tanned garments of his tribe. Two long, red straps fastened his leather shoulder armor to his red-stained leather kilt. Striped bands of red, gold, and blue adorned each forearm near the wrist.
But what marked Hamuul as different, not only from Broll but the rest of the night elves was that he was a tauren. Thick, cloven hooves carried his massive body, and his head resembled that of a bull — as was characteristic of the tauren race, though none ever said so to their faces without risking life and limb. He had a great snout in which he wore a ceremonial ring, and long horns that curved to the side first before thrusting outward.
Hamuul stood over eight feet tall, even with the characteristic humpback of his kind. His fine, gray-brown fur tended more toward gray these days than when Broll had first met the tauren. Hamuul also wore two thick braids, also graying, that hung down over his chest. He had come late to the druidic calling, brought to it in great part, naturally, by Malfurion Stormrage’s encouragement. The tauren had been the first of his race to join the ranks in almost twenty generations, and although there were now more, none was as accomplished as him.
“The journey was uneventful, if oddly quiet,” the tauren remarked. His light green eyes narrowed under the thick brow ridge, as if he wanted to add something but chose not to.
The night elf nodded, his thoughts briefly turning to how he himself would be received by the others. So much had been expected from Broll, so much since birth… and all of it stemming from a singular feature that he shared with Malfurion, a singular feature that, to Broll, was also the ever-present sign of his lacking.
The antlers thrusting out of his temples were nearly two feet long, and if they were not quite as impressive as those that adorned the famed archdruid, they were certainly something arresting to behold. They had marked Broll even as an infant, the then-tiny nubs seen as a sign of future distinction. Even as a child, he had been told that one day — someday — he would be the stuff of legends.
But where others had seen the antlers as a gift of the gods, Broll had quickly come to consider them a bane. And in his eyes, his life had thus far proven him all too correct.
Of what use had they been, after all, when he had needed aid at the most critical moment of his life? When Broll had stood facing an onslaught of demons and undead under the vile mastery of the pit lord Azgalor, it had seemed that at last all the predictions might have borne truth. Wielding the Idol of Remulos, his druidic powers had expanded. The enemy had been pushed back while Broll’s comrades had made use of his sacrifice to pull back toward the main army.
But, once again, he had proven insufficient to the task.
Exhaustion assailed him. Azgalor’s malevolent blade, Spite, wielded expertly, finally overcame the night elf’s weakening defenses. Broll lost his grip on the idol as Spite’s edge cut into it.
The demon blade’s power instantly corrupted the figurine’s own energies, and it erupted with a warped magical force — one that enveloped the last remaining defender at Broll’s side.
There had been many times, especially since then, that the night elf had considered cutting his antlers off and burning the nubs to prevent future growth… and yet he never managed to take the final step toward doing so.
Broll realized that Hamuul had been silently and very patiently watching him.
“She will always be with you. The spirits of our beloved kin ever watch over us,” the tauren rumbled.
“I wasn’t thinking of Anessa,” the night elf murmured, lying.
Hamuul’s ears flattened. “My humblest apologies for bringing her up.”
Broll waved off the tauren’s regrets. “You’ve done nothing wrong,” he muttered. “Let’s move on. The others will already be gathering at the portal as per custom—”
Hamuul’s brow knitted. “But we are not to go up to Darnassus and the Cenarion Enclave. Fandral intends our convocation to take place down here… in fact, on the side opposite from where we now stand! You did not know that?”
“No …” Broll did not question the archdruid’s decision. After all, as leader of the druids, Fandral Staghelm had their best interests at heart. If he thought it wiser to meet down here than in Darnassus, so be it. There was surely a good reason why —
And then it came to him. Perhaps Fandral had found a way to save their shan’do.
“Let’s get going,” he said to Hamuul, the night elf suddenly impatient to be there. Spurred on by the deep, unswerving hope that consumed him each time he returned to Teldrassil, Broll was certain that Fandral had some answer to Malfurion’s dire situation.
And if not… the night elf shuddered to think what course, if any, would be left to the druids…
2
CONVOCATION
Lucan Foxblood had not slept in days. That was by both choice and necessity. He even tried to keep his moments of rest to a minimum, for every pause in his endless flight meant risk of slipping into sleep. Yet there always came the point when the sandyhaired cartographer could go no farther, when his legs buckled and he fell to the ground, often already unconscious and dreaming.
And suffering nightmares… the same nightmares that had taken so many others in places through which he had traveled, such as Goldshire, Westfall, and his own Stormwind City…
Lucan bore the semblance of one who might have once been a soldier and, indeed, had briefly been one, though he had never served in any conflict. But now, a little more than three decades old, he looked as if he were in the very midst of war. His once-deep brown tunic and pants had turned the color of mud, and the fine threading at the rounded shoulders and along the sides of the legs had begun to fray. His leather boots were stained and cracking.
The cartographer fared little better than his garments. While there still remained evidence of his patrician features, the pallor of his skin and the days of unkempt growth on his face made him appear almost like a slowly decaying creature of the undead
Scourge. Only his eyes, nearly as green as a cat’s, showed any spark whatsoever.
During his dazed wanderings, he had lost all the tools of his trade and even the pack in which he had kept his meager supplies and a blanket for sleeping. Lucan could not recall the name of the last settlement in which he had found lodging. He could barely even recall his life before the dreams and nightmares had taken over and sometimes he was not certain if those memories were real… or remnants of the nightmares themselves.
The region through which he traveled was thickly wooded, but it might as well have sprouted mountains of pure diamonds for all he noticed it. Lucan Foxblood wanted only to keep moving.