More shrieks erupted from the upper recesses of the Undercity.
The banshee looked to her queen, but there was no hope of guidance from Sylvanas.
“The mist…” warned a rasping voice. The speaker barely wore any remnants of flesh and only the magical properties of his undead state enabled him to speak, for his jaw hung loose on one side. “This mist…” he repeated.
Sharlindra looked to the steps leading down to their location. The dark green mist was seeping down the stone steps, as if a living creature slowly approaching its prey.
The Forsaken pressed away from it. As they did, though, in the mist there began to form figures.
The banshee stepped back. She knew some of them. By their reactions, others, too, recognized their kin and friends — the living who were more tortured than they.
The banshee let out a shriek that began as a desperate attack and ended in despair…
The Nightmare enveloped the Undercity.
In Stormwind City, King Varian watched as the mist and its ghoulish force surged toward the keep. From various parts of the rest of the capital, he heard screams.
We’re being assaulted…and we can’t fight them…Arrows had been tried. Arrows with oil-soaked, fiery tips. They had been no more effective than the swords, lances, and other weapons. What magi and other spellcasters were still conscious in the city were doing their best, but their effectiveness was limited.
The brave defenders of the keep awaited their monarch’s orders.
Varian saw his son and dead wife, both still multiplied a hundred times over, cross through the gate as if it were air. Nothing impeded these living nightmares.
And knowing that, Varian found himself with no orders that he could give…even as his citadel, his kingdom, began to fall before him.
Throughout nearly all the known lands of Azeroth, the Nightmare surged forth. As it did, the mists faded enough for the waking to see what had become of its victims…and what would be their own fate. Despite that, though, despite whether it was the orcs in Orgrimmar, the dwarves in Ironforge, or any other race in any other realm, those left to defend against its terror did not for the most part surrender. They knew that they had no choice but to keep fighting…no matter how little hope they had left.
But there was one realm oddly free of the mists. That was Teldrassil and, thus, Darnassus, too. That did not mean that Shandris Feathermoon did not know much of what happened on the mainland and beyond. The general was well-informed through her network.
A network, though, that was quickly collapsing.
Shandris lowered the last missive received from an agent near Orgrimmar. It echoed those from Stormwind City, tauren Thunder Bluff, and other locations where Shandris had spread her web.
The mysterious mist was moving. Worse to her, though, was the fact that she also had no information as to her mistress’s location.
Tyrande had been heading toward Ashenvale…and then had seemingly disappeared.
She is not dead! the younger night elf insisted to herself.
Discarding the parchment, Shandris abandoned her quarters.
She could have taken up residence in the high priestess’s abode, as Tyrande insisted whenever departing for matters of state, but Shandris preferred her spartan quarters. There were no decorations honoring nature, only weapons and trophies of war.
Defending her mistress and her people had become Shandris’s entire existence. Indeed, she had tried more than once during her mistress’s absence to locate some trace of Tyrande through the visions of other priestesses.
That had failed. Instead, Elune had granted each of those priestesses another vision, one that confused the general.
It was a vision of Teldrassil being eaten from within. A horrid, festering decay would spread not from the roots but rather the crown. It would quickly devour the World Tree inside out. The vision had always been short, only three or four breaths in span. Shandris had gone over it thoroughly with each priestess and still did not understand it.
The vision had so troubled her today that Shandris could no longer sit still. Hoping to clear her thoughts, she had personally begun patrolling the length and breadth of the capital, wending her way from the fortified bastion of the Warrior’s Terrace down into the commercial sections of the Tradesmen’s Terrace, on through the mystic Temple of the Moon and across the lush, sculptured islets of the garden. There she had made a detour to the industrious Craftsmen’s Terrace before returning to her quarters in the Warrior’s.
That left only the Cenarion Enclave. Shandris did not fear stepping into the druids’ stronghold. Nor did she respect Fandral so much that she would have stayed clear because of him; her first loyalty was to Tyrande. Even now, the general would have normally bypassed the enclave, but Shandris had learned long ago that to find answers it was often better to not seek the obvious source.
The dread vision still in mind, she suddenly realized that there was one among the druids who might be of use to her. Someone who might be able to explain the vision without turning to Fandral.
Never one to ask of her Sentinels what she herself would not do, Shandris quietly departed the Warrior’s Terrace. As she passed the more dour wooden structures, the constant sound of military training sang in her ears. To Shandris, such was more sweet than the music of her people. Not since her parents had been lost in the War of the Ancients had the general truly ever enjoyed music anymore…save for the songs and chants used by the priestesses during battle when calling upon Elune’s power. Those had purpose,
after all.
She started to turn…only to see a furtive figure crossing from the Temple Gardens to the north. The cloak marked him as a druid, but otherwise she could not individually identify him.
Shandris started on…then turned. She could not say why, but she decided to follow the druid.
The figure quickly vanished into the thick grove that was part of the enclave. Shandris easily followed. The Sentinel commander moved like a shadow among the tall trees. Many reminded her of miniature versions of Teldrassil, which in turn brought back thoughts of the priestesses’ vision.
The druid came into sight again. There was something odd about his — she assumed the figure a male — gait and the fact that he kept the obscuring cloak around him. It was almost as if he did not like being in the enclave.
Then the druid came to a halt. The hooded form looked left and right, as if deciding where to go.
The figure made his choice. Shandris smiled, having guessed.
She followed —
Or rather, she tried to follow. Her foot caught on a root that the night elf was certain she had avoided. As Shandris moved aside, the root seemed to stretch from the ground, again catching her foot.
The Sentinel lithely twisted to avoid the root — and a branch caught her face. The force of it caused Shandris to fall back against the nearest tree.
The tree’s roots bound her ankles. Shandris reached for the dagger she always carried, intending to quickly cut her way loose and move on.
Another branch struck her hard on the head. Stunned, Shandris momentarily went limp.
In that moment, the craggy bark opened. Even through her daze, Shandris sensed herself being drawn into the tree trunk.
She struggled to regain her concentration, but again she was battered on the side of the head. The interior of the vast oak surrounded her. Through blurred vision, the general watched the bark seal itself again.
A darkness even her vision could not penetrate surrounded her.
Worse, a pressure was building in her chest. Shandris vaguely realized that the space she was in was too tight. She could not breathe —