Varian scowled. “Caught in her sleep like so many others…in her chambers, if I recall the report.”
“We need someone to take us to her,” the high priestess insisted.
“I can’t leave command.” The king looked from Tyrande to Broll.
Finally, “Major Mattingly!”
A gray-haired veteran soldier in bright gold-and-red armor with a royal blue surcoat bearing the proud Stormwind lion head rushed up. His face was lined by long experience and he wore a short beard. In his right hand he wielded a longsword.
“The druid!” the major rasped when he saw Broll. “I know you…”
“And I you,” Broll returned. “You serve under General Marcus Jonathan—” The night elf broke off, recalling what the soldier who had brought them here had said. The Valley of Heroes, where the general and Mattingly would have been stationed, had already fallen.
The major’s eyes verified Broll’s concern. “The general sent for reinforcements when first the mists began to take our men. He sent me to procure them. Before I could return, the mist covered the valley…”
“Damned fool here almost rode into it even then,” Varian added without any anger. “But Mattingly knew we needed every man and ordered his just-gathered force back here…” To the major, the lord of Stormwind said, “You know where the night elf ambassador lived — lives. I need someone trusting but wary enough to get them there
…though I’ve not been told exactly why.”
Tyrande did not hesitate. “She has a hearthstone.”
Varian’s eyes were not the only ones to widen. Broll also knew of what the high priestess spoke, though even he himself had only twice seen one of the artifacts. A hearthstone was a palm-sized crystal, oval in shape, that was bound by arcane magic to not only its bearer, but a particular place. Most often, they were tied to great locations such as, apparently in this case, Darnassus. Distance did not matter.
“I’d thought them only legend,” Varian remarked warily. “Things heard only in stories concerning magi…or elves.”
“Or elves,” the high priestess repeated with a brief, dour smile.
“Interesting that your ambassador should have one.”
“But good for us now, perhaps.” Tyrande calmly responded.
Nodding, the king said no more. He looked to the major, who saluted. Mattingly signaled the others to follow him.
Varian made no attempt to stop the orc from following the night elves and neither Broll nor Tyrande dared leave her with the humans. Thura likewise appeared to have no inclination to stay.
But one member of their party proved a surprise. Rather than remaining with his king and countrymen, Lucan Foxblood also followed.
“You’re home,” Broll muttered. “Stay here!”
“I might be needed,” Lucan argued, his eyes filled with a determination that would not be denied. “My abilities may be unpredictable and dangerous, but they may be of some use…in case of a need to escape…”
The druid said nothing more. They were already at the keep gates.
A shouted command from the major opened the way, though the sentries were quick to shut the entrance right behind them. As they exited the keep, Tyrande remarked on what all of them immediately noticed.
“The mist is thick here, but those poor souls are nowhere to be seen…”
“Why should they be here?” Broll grimly returned. “This part of Stormwind’s already under their master’s reign!”
Indeed, there came not a sound from anywhere nearby, though in the distance they could hear the shouts, screams, and explosions that marked the dwindling defense. The eerie silence was a stark reminder of what much of Azeroth was like at this point.
“She must hold on,” the druid rumbled, referring to Ysera. “She must…”
“And we must pray that Malfurion is all right and can help us,”
Tyrande added. She did not say what was clear in her tone, that she was also simply fearful for him for his own sake and for the love she bore for him.
“Your ambassador keeps a dwelling in the Trade District,” the major informed them, “though I’ve never understood why she would prefer that to the Park, where your people tend to congregate.”
When the high priestess did not explain, Mattingly tugged on his beard and changed the subject. “Best we avoid Cathedral Square.
They’re still defending it and we might get caught up in a spell. Also, we’ve got to avoid the canals…the mists are particularly strong in them…they caught a lot of people unaware down there when they first flowed into the city.”
Lucan grimaced. “But that means we’ll have to pass through the Old Town district.”
This brought a harsh laugh from Mattingly. “At this point that won’t make too much of a difference to most of the rest of the capital, Foxblood!”
They ran along a stone street upon whose northern side was marked an entrance to the Dwarven District. From there flowed more sounds of desperate struggle. The dwarves, at least, were still fighting.
With continued vigilance, the major led them across a walkway and into the Old Town. There, despite their guide’s comment, the others could see that Lucan had been rightly concerned about entering. The Old Town district was a part of Stormwind City that had not been so hard hit by the orcs and thus had never needed true rebuilding. However, that also meant that less attention had been paid to its upkeep since then, and so while preserved, it was not nearly as pristine as the rest of the capital. True, the Hall of Champions could be found here, as well as the army’s barracks, but so could beggars, thieves, and the poor. The streets were far dirtier than what the party had traveled thus far and there was an odor of decay that had nothing to do with the Nightmare save that it enhanced it yet more.
“Bodies…” Mattingly warned.
Three ragged humans lay sprawled to the side. The first had one hand curled into a fist. His mouth gaped. The other two looked as if they had been trying to help one another walk, for each had an arm around the other. The major left the others long enough to prod them.
“The first one’s dead — of fright, it looks like to me — but the other two are sleeping like the rest,” he reported. “We move on.”
It was soon evident that, if not for their guide, there would have been a good chance that Broll and the others would have become lost. Even Lucan, a mapmaker, did not seem to know this part of Stormwind City well. In addition to the mists, the streets had a way of meandering to them that fueled the party’s already great anxiety.
They came across more bodies, but Major Mattingly this time did not pause to examine them. It was clear that all were victims, whether still alive or dead being pointless.
With much relief, Broll saw that they were approaching the canal entrance to the Trade District. The mists were as thick there as in the Old Town, but there was no sign of the attack going on around the keep or the cathedral. Still, no one assumed that they would remain untouched by the Nightmare.
“We make a left once we get out of the passage,” the officer informed them.
Leaning close to Tyrande, Broll murmured, “Why is the ambassador living in this part of the capital rather than the Park?”
In a barely audible whisper, the high priestess replied, “Because there are those I need her to meet in secret who would be too obvious in the Park.” As Broll’s gaze narrowed, Tyrande added, “There is no threat to Varian or Stormwind; the ambassador’s duties are steered toward just the opposite, Broll. Now ask me no more.”
He did as she bade, aware that, as leader of her people, Tyrande was forced into political actions of which perhaps even her trusted Shandris was unaware. It would not be simply for the sake of the night elf race, though that was paramount, but for the overall benefit of all the Alliance.
The Trade District bore the semblance of a much better kept, even more eclectic quarter. Broll would have been happy to walk its cobblestone streets had it been as it normally was. The bustling activity, the various races and callings…they reminded him of the richness that had been Azeroth.