That was as much of a view as any of the three were permitted, for the hooded figure immediately stretched forth a hand toward the most obvious threat, the high priestess.

It was a mistake of which Broll eagerly took advantage.

The druid flung himself at the mysterious caster, but not as a night elf. Gone was Broll, replaced by a hulking, furred figure more than twice his girth. The druid’s mouth and nose elongated, growing together at the same time to create a savage maw. Huge, clawed paws seized the caster. Broll was now a ferocious bear.

His foe staggered back under the bulk and momentum. For a moment the hooded figure looked ready to fall back.

Suddenly, a green aura surrounded Broll’s adversary. The druid went flying to the side, finally colliding with two hard stalagmites, shattering one. The bear slumped, momentarily stunned.

Tyrande held her glaive ready, but did not attack. The high priestess met the caster’s gaze.

And only then, seeing those eyes, did the high priestess feel she should know who it was she faced. His guise was somewhat changed, of that Tyrande was certain, else his identity would have immediately been known to her. She tried to recall his name…

Then, to the shock of all three, he let out an anguished cry, flung an arm over his face… and began to transform.

“Wait!” Tyrande shouted. “Wait! Unless you are of the black dragonflight, we seek your help, not battle!”

The transformation, so barely begun that his true form had not even been in the least noticeable, ceased. Letting his arm drop, the caster stared at her with what seemed pity.

“You would be best served facing one of Deathwing’s ilk, little night elf! One of them would be less of a monster for you to face than me!”

“A monster, are you?” Broll rumbled, reverting to his true form.

He peered around him, seeking what in his guise as a bear he could not carry with him.

It lay at the feet of his foe, who now plucked it from the chamber floor. “Ah! This damned thing! I felt its presence! Would that she had never asked of me to lend my power to it!”

The druid rose. “Then you are the green dragon bound to the Idol of Remulos!”

“‘Bound’ is the proper word!” The figurine went flying in Broll’s direction. As the night elf caught it with one hand, the dragon hissed, “Tied to it with all my essence… though admittedly even my Ysera could not have foreseen the terrible things that would come from that. When it was first done, it was to allow us to be of immediate aid to Remulos or those he thought worthy to wield it.”

He glared at the druid. “And speaking of wielding… I know you by the signature of your magic, if not your name! You employed that thing some time past and with dread results …”

Broll grimaced. “Aye, very dread ones… and then, when I thought it lost, it turned out instead to have become tainted.”

The hooded form laughed harshly. “That taint was nothing to the true danger, druid… you are fortunate that I am a wreck of a creature rather than the foulness that might have touched your heart a short while back …”

The druid stood ready to attack again, though he was wise enough to hold off for the moment. There was more to learn… and perhaps a chance to avoid blood. “What do you mean by that?”

His adversary looked incredulous. “Are you blind to the Nightmare? Have you not felt it?”

“Aye, I’ve felt it, as have most others of my calling! Dragons we may not be, but we, too, have fought for the Emerald Dream—”

“Utter babble!” The lanky “elf” swelled in size as he shouted, his words ending in a roar. “You know nothing! You understand nothing!

I did not understand, I who stood at her side! I betrayed her, betrayed the Dream, and helped the Nightmare Lord begin his encroachment on not only that realm… but this mortal plane as well!”

Now Broll at least understood what faced them. Even as the dragon became less “elf” in shape and more true to his nature, the druid shifted toward Tyrande. They would need all their power to hope to even escape from this dragon.

“I know you now,” he calmly said to the half-altered leviathan.

“You’re one of the corrupted! You’re one of those turned by the Nightmare against Ysera—”

Great leathery wings spread across the length of the chamber.

Long, sharp horns thrust back from the head. The dragon’s girth filled more than two-thirds of the space. Green dragons were sleeker than most, more ethereal, but this one was a behemoth who had to arc his lengthy neck in order to stand. The eyes — Broll realized that the dragon had been peering at them all the time, when, in general, the eyes of a green dragon were shut, for the beasts lived half in the Dream at all times — stared with a wildness that more than matched Lucan at his worst.

“‘One of the corrupted’.… what a simplistic turn of phrase, little night elf… you hardly understand what that means! You hardly understand what it is to have your mind, heart, and soul—‘soul’ as we dragons understand it — stripped away, eaten by darkness, and forced back into your screaming shell!” Again the harsh laughter erupted, shaking the cave so much that some of the stalactites broke loose. The trio was able to avoid those nearest and the dragon was not in the least distracted by the tons of limestone and rock that crashed against his scaled hide.

“‘One of the corrupted,’” the green leviathan repeated with selfmockery.

“Would that I would have been merely ‘one’!” The great reptilian head dove down, coming within a few yards of the night elves and the human. Broll and Tyrande stood their ground and even Lucan brandished his tiny dagger. “I was more than that, little creatures! I was the one most trusted of her, most dear… and because of that, my betrayal was far worse and far more terrible in ultimate consequence! Have you seen the sleepers? Have you seen their shadows? All of that began with my help …”

Tyrande dared speak up, her voice even and comforting. “I know you now, though you wear another unfamiliar form. But clearly you are free of the corruption now. Clearly you overcame it …”

“Through others… and what I did not know then was that it would call to me again… every moment… it calls to me! It desires me more than most, for I am… was… her most favored… her consort …”

“‘Consort’?” Broll gritted his teeth. “You are—”

The dragon roared, silencing him. The eyes — the cold, emerald eyes — fixed on the druid and Tyrande. “Yes… I am Eranikus, first consort of Ysera …” His jaws opened wide. “And, knowing that, knowing I exist here… all of you must die …”

Stormwind was the strongest of the remaining bastions of the human race, a kingdom that had survived the destruction of much of the continent and even rebuilt itself after the First War. Varian Wrynn now ruled Stormwind — or ruled it again, since he had been king, then vanished for a time, only to recently return. From Stormwind Keep, in the capital city also named for the kingdom, the brown-haired, fiery leader sought to keep both his land and the Alliance intact. Varian was a driven man, made more so by the death, nearly thirteen years earlier, of his beloved wife, Tiffin, during a riot. His only solace was his son, Anduin — only an infant in his mother’s arms at the time of her tragic death — who had suffered as king during Varian’s long absence.

And so it was not surprising that with so much tragedy and struggle already behind him that King Varian had trouble with dreams. Of late, he preferred to sleep only with the use of numbing potions that kept those dreams away, but only as a last resort. Until weariness demanded that, it was more likely that Varian would be found walking the battlements.

A tall man in midlife with a rough-hewn handsomeness and brown hair that refused to be tamed, Varian was to his people the epitome of a champion. But now there came a threat that Varian could not understand how to handle.