Malfurion Stormrage? Remulos’s brother asked in surprise and desperate hope.
The night elf let him touch his memories, instantly giving the spirit all he needed to know. Zaetar’s hopes swelled, then dropped. My brother?
I have no news of him.
Zaetar let this pass, though the lack of news clearly bothered him. He accepted Malfurion’s plan as the archdruid had revealed to him, but asked one last question, And these, all of these whom you have brought to us…they suspect nothing of your true intentions?
No…and if they do not…the Nightmare Lord may not…
The spirit said no more on the subject. Instead, Zaetar reached out to Varian. The king did well in concealing his surprise when he felt Zaetar’s distant presence.
We’re coming, he promised Remulos’s brother.
The king of Stormwind raised his sword — what was actually a part of his dreamform — and led his host forward.
The archdruid stared at Varian as the king moved on. Just for a moment, Varian’s countenance had seemed to change to something else. A wolf’s. A name came to mind, an ancient spirit revered by many races, including the night elves.
Goldrinn… Malfurion thought, recalling the legendary Ancient.
The white wolf had slaughtered hundreds of demons during the War of the Ancients before falling to their great numbers. Yet, his spirit was said to live on, watching over those he favored.
May you be one of those, the archdruid concluded, aware that he had likely imagined what he had seen. May Goldrinn watch over you and all those marching to meet our enemy…
And as the dreamform army moved on the Nightmare, others called by Malfurion and aided in their journey by the other druids began to join them. From his multiple viewpoint, Malfurion saw the coming of not just ancients whose calling was war, but those of others. Their shapes were as myriad as the species of trees of Azeroth and though many were tenders of learned paths, they were all ferocious defenders of the natural world. Some were winged, others clawed, and though their numbers were not great, each represented a mighty force in themselves.
They were far from alone, though. With them came the treants.
Even more resembling the forests they guarded, the treants were smaller and less powerful than the ancients, but were by no means only a slight presence. More numerous than the ancients, they were a force Malfurion welcomed, as were the dryads, also forest protectors and the powerful daughters of vanished Remulos.
Flying hippogryphs by the scores came, joined in aerial endeavor by other denizens of the sky, including gryphons, gargantuan moths, carrion birds, dragonhawks, and, foremost, the remaining dragons of the red, green, and even blue flights. Though led by others than their respective Aspects, the dragons were well versed in combat. The three dragonflights flew separate from one another, for each had its own method of battle, in addition to their mighty jaws and claws. The blue wielded magic spells of incredible power, the red breathed searing fire, and the green, of course, touched upon their dream abilities.
Kobolds and other creatures with great enmity toward all else also had agreed to at least join the mighty throng. Fearsome ursine furbolgs, more comfortable among wild animals than as part of Varian’s force, let out howls of anticipation at final combat. Giant panthers, tusked boars, fearsome basilisks, crocolisks, hyenas, and other animals, many of them in part herded by the more sentient, reptilian raptors, were just a part of the animal legions that followed. The druids and others also guided the beasts, who, if they did not know what the ultimate reason was for this struggle, they knew that their lives and their progeny were endangered.
Malfurion gave thanks to all of them, realizing more and more that each had a crucial role, that he needed them as much as they needed him.
Though even fewer in number than ever and among the last to join, the Forsaken were eager to lend their monstrous might as well. They stood with their allies in the Horde, awaiting their chance to strike back.
Malfurion watched all happen and felt both gratitude and regret.
Only Zaetar understood the truth. Only Zaetar understood that all this might be for nothing if what else the archdruid intended failed.
Thinking of the spirit caused the night elf to think also of Remulos. Cenarius’s son was nowhere to be sensed. Malfurion had hoped to find Remulos during this spell and the fact that he had not boded ill. Only where the Nightmare stood ascendant in the Dream were things shielded from the archdruid…and if Remulos was there —
Malfurion could not concern himself with the missing keeper, no matter how great his power would have enhanced their chances.
Indeed, the son of Cenarius was not even the first of his concerns.
That was and would always be Tyrande, whom once more he had utterly let down.
Tyrande…
No sooner had he thought of her than a brief, ever so brief presence touched his mind. He knew without hesitation that it was her, that it could only be her. Just as some ten thousand years earlier, Tyrande had always stood with him. She had done so even though he had forsaken her time and time again for the druidic path. If she perished now…the years lost to them would that much more burn at his soul. He was the foremost — in his mind, the only — reason for their separations.
Malfurion could not help but shiver at such thoughts, for he also knew that she stood in the shadow of the tree that was his nemesis
…and that even the Mother Moon’s gifts were not the reason that she had been able to manage that momentary link.
The Nightmare Lord was inviting him.
The archdruid willed himself back into his body. He felt the tremendous relief on the part of both Broll and Hamuul at his return.
He also felt another near them…someone who should not be there.
Malfurion sprang to his feet the moment he had control. Broll and the tauren pulled back in surprise.
“Are you all right, Shan’do? Did something happen?”
But Malfurion did not answer them, instead steeling himself to face an unexpected danger to all of them.
The figure overshadowed the trio. He did not smile, but grimly nodded to Malfurion. In one hand, he held a long spear made from a single branch. In his other hand —
His other hand — and the arm to which it was attached — was a twisted, withered mass now more resembling a rotted tree limb.
Remulos stood before them, the woodland guardian, the son of Cenarius, trodding forward on his four hooved feet. Where once the sense of spring pervaded his very being, now it was as if chill winter was the mantle the forest guardian wore. His skin was grayer and the leaves in his hair brown and dry.
“Glad I am to find you here, Malfurion.” Remulos displayed the mutilated limb, then rumbled, “I have been to the heart of the Nightmare…and if you have the strength and spirit, you and I must return to it immediately… or all is lost…”
25
A CHOICE MADE
They were on Azeroth again, though no part that Lucan recognized.
The only thing familiar about it was that which all the world now seemed to have in common…the cloying mist of the Nightmare.
A powerful hand gripped his collar. Thura leaned close, the angry orc’s breath hot and odorous. “The ax! What did you do with the ax?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
Thura showed him her other hand, now formed in a threatening fist. “The ax of Broxigar! It didn’t come with us! It was in my hand — and then it wasn’t!”