Yet the inhabitants of the capital were not without their defenders. The Sisters of Elune stood at the forefront, protecting as best they could those around them. Their light hindered, if not held back, the evil.
But the very grass at their feet was as devious a foe as the dark leaves or the shadow creatures that formed from those leaves.
Anything that was a part of Teldrassil had now turned on Broll’s people.
And only now could Broll sense just how horribly tainted the World Tree was. Yet just as disconcerting was a powerful force that not only fed Teldrassil, but fueled that taint.
Druids were aiding the terror. Their spells were adding to the World Tree in a manner that he could not believe they understood.
Broll rushed in the direction of the portal that would take him down to where he could feel the druids at work. They had to be warned and warned quickly.
But as he ran, the leaves took special interest in him. Broll spread a glowing light purple fire before him that burned the leaves before they could touch. The way momentarily cleared, he shifted to cat form for better swiftness.
The portal came into sight. Broll did not hesitate to leap through.
Once he reached the others, they could help put an end to this awful attack.
The world swirled about him. It was a different sensation than that he had experienced using the hearthstone. The druid felt as if he were thrust forward.
Indeed, barely a breath later, Broll leapt out of the portal at the base of Teldrassil. The great cat surveyed the vicinity and was not surprised to find no one there. The druids were still gathered further on.
With four strong limbs, Broll tore along the edge of Teldrassil, seeking the convocation. How could they be so unwary? he wondered. At the very least, Fandral and the other archdruids should sense what’s happening —
Fandral.
Foreboding filled Broll. He recalled how close Fandral was to Teldrassil. The World Tree was like the lead archdruid’s own child.
Fandral truly should have sensed what was happening.
Unless —
A rain of thorns struck the great cat. Broll roared in pain, lost his footing, and tumbled forward. He felt dizziness, an unsettling dizziness that could not be normal.
The thorns were drugged. His experienced mind quickly calculated which herbs with which they had been tipped. To his relief, none were poisonous. They were designed to incapacitate.
Broll could feel his muscles growing slack. He was semiconscious, but unable to move. Broll felt himself slipping back into his true form, but that brought him no relief.
A hand roughly gripped his arm. Broll was unceremoniously rolled onto his back. Through blurred eyes, he made out at least four druids leaning over him, but not the details of their faces.
“Someone should tell Fandral,” one of them said. “Someone should tell him we’ve got the traitor…”
22
THE TAINTED
The victims of Stormwind City were coming for them. Lucan, Thura, and the major were surrounded by the bedraggled, slumbering figures. Each was screaming about some dire event that they somehow blamed on the three. Worse, they all moved unerringly toward the defenders with their eyes tightly shut.
“What do we do?” Lucan asked.
“We fight them!” growled the orc, the ax ready. “We fight them or they tear us apart, fool!”
“They are innocents!” Major Mattingly countered reprovingly.
“Would you do this if they were your own people?”
“Yes…because it must be done.”
The look on the officer’s face when she said that was proof enough that Mattingly understood her logic. Yet he still shook his head at the thought.
“Foxblood! Take her and see what has happened to the night elves!” Mattingly finally ordered.
“But that’ll leave you alone here…”
The two humans eyed one another for a moment. Lucan finally understood. Mattingly was trying to spare the innocents from Thura, who would surely take a terrible toll on them even if she was eventually overwhelmed. The major was also obviously hoping for some miracle to come from Tyrande’s and Broll’s efforts.
“Come!” the cartographer ordered the orc. As surprised as she was at his commanding tone, Thura reluctantly followed, while the major swept his sword across the shrinking gap between him and the sleepwalking locals.
But no sooner had they entered when a stout figure wielding a work ax charged Lucan.
“ ’Tis my farm!” the man shouted. “I won’t let ya burn it!”
The ax would have buried deep into Lucan’s chest if not for Thura. She blocked the strike with the shaft of her weapon. The sleepwalker turned to face her, his shut eyes disconcerting. The rage in his face was overwhelming.
He swung at the orc. She parried the attack, then struck.
“No!” But Lucan could not stop her.
Her enchanted ax cut a red line across the possessed man’s chest. He dropped his own weapon, then fell to the floor.
The cartographer was furious. “He couldn’t help himself!”
Thura did not look happy with her own actions, but she asked, “What would you have done?”
Lucan had no answer. From above there came the sounds of struggle and more screaming. The pair ran upstairs.
They were met at the top by Tyrande, who struggled with a wild figure who could only have been the night elf ambassador. Lucan raced to help the high priestess, only to be confronted by a shadow creature.
“Go to her!” roared Thura. The orc thrust past Lucan. Although her ax did not reach the shadow, it recoiled at the nearness.
The way cleared, the cartographer joined Tyrande. He seized one of the screaming figure’s arms, enabling Tyrande to focus better.
The high priestess touched the sleepwalker’s chest. A faint silver glow covered the flesh.
The sleepwalker let out a gasp and crumpled into their arms.
Lucan and Tyrande gently laid her down.
As they did, the orc thrust. The ax cut through the shadow, which hissed…then faded.
But though there was a moment of calm where the trio stood, the same could not be said for without. The screams grew louder, more terrifying. One briefly rose above the rest before abruptly cutting off.
“That was the major!” Lucan gasped. He tried to go to a window, but Tyrande pulled him back.
“It is too late for him.” The high priestess looked into Lucan’s eyes. “Too late for so many. But there is still hope for Azeroth and hope for us…if you take us from here.”
He nodded. “I can’t promise that we might not end up by that green dragon again…”
“Eranikus is the least of our problems…indeed, Eranikus is his own worst problem.”
Lucan concentrated. Tyrande extended a hand to Thura, who took it.
The world took on an emerald hue.
And then a darker one. Mad shrieks assailed their ears and the landscape was covered in the familiar, cloying mist in which halfseen, grotesque shapes moved about. Vertigo shook each of them, heightening a growing sense of anxiety and disorientation that they knew was far from natural.
They were back in the Nightmare.
“No…” Lucan muttered. “Let me—”
The shadow of a massive, skeletal tree stretched over them, its silhouette obvious even despite the darkness.
Welcome… came a dread voice in their heads. And, especially, welcome to you, Tyrande Whisperwind…
The high priestess turned as pale as death. Even the orc shivered at the dire tone in the night elf’s denial.
“No…” Tyrande shook her head. “No…”
Yes…oh yes… the voice answered.
“Think, Fandral, think!” Malfurion called. “Is this truly all as you want it to be? Did you create Teldrassil to destroy your people?”
“I am not destroying us; I am saving us from you and others who betray our world!” As he spoke, Fandral leaned his head toward the shadow he believed his son. The crazed archdruid nodded, then added to Malfurion, “You spoke against Teldrassil’s birth! You knew that it would restore our people to their glory and return to them the immortality that was stripped away!”