He straightened, looking a bit more confident. “Yes, yes, my lady! It…it’s my calling to know locations and directions!” The cartographer pointed to his left. “That way…”

“We would fly,” offered Eranikus, “but I fear he would not be able to direct us from above. The mist would be too thick to see…”

Tyrande had already taken Lucan by the arm. “Then we move now.” To the human, she commanded, “Lead us!”

Nodding, Lucan walked a step ahead. Tyrande kept her glaive ready. Broll took the man’s other side and the dragon rose just above the trio.

“This orc still bothers me,” the druid said. “I fail to see what danger she holds for my shan’do.”

The green dragon sneered down at him. “And you are correct!

An orc is hardly a menace in a place like this! Even if the Nightmare guides her, your Malfurion Stormrage is first among you druids! His deeds are honored among my own kind! No earthly weapon would be a danger to him…”

Lucan swallowed. “She has an ax.”

Tyrande looked at him, her expression wary. “The orc carries an ax?” She spun him to face her. “Describe it to me!”

“It was an ax with two edges. A battle ax.”

“And how made? Was the head of iron or steel? Quickly! Tell me!”

Broll moved to calm the high priestess, but she waved him back.

Tyrande waited breathlessly for Lucan to answer.

“Not iron or steel,” he finally answered, his face screwed together in concentration. “I think…it looked as if it was all made of wood…” The human nodded. “Yes, wood! I’ve never seen an ax head made of wood before! Doesn’t sound very practical unless it’s really sharp, and even then it’s likely to break—”

“‘Made of wood,’” the female night elf whispered in clear dismay.

She looked to the other night elf. “You don’t know! You weren’t there when Cenarius himself made it for Brox!”

“I remember hearing something about that,” Broll replied. His expression mirrored hers now. “Forged from wood, blessed by the demigod…and so powerful it is said to even have cut Sargeras…”

“And she hunts Malfurion with it,” Tyrande added. The high priestess stared into the mists, especially at the half-seen structure — the only structure. “Lucan, did you really escape her?”

“No…she said she didn’t need me anymore. She was near.”

“Near…” Eyes widening, Tyrande gripped her glaive…and suddenly rushed into the mist.

No! Malfurion could not help thinking. No…

He had known that as matters came together, that his secret hopes would be at greater risk. The Nightmare Lord had taunted him about rescue, even tortured him with suggestions and images of Tyrande lost and dying in the mists.

Or worse…becoming a part of what the archdruid knew was gathering more and more near the nexus of the Nightmare and just beyond the mists surrounding him.

I must…do something more…

He could not sense his captor near, which by no means meant that he was not being observed. Thus, Malfurion had to act in the most subtle of manners.

With effort, he made the branches that had been his arms move. The night elf had done so more than once, generally in search of some relief of his agony. That agony remained, but the tiny part of his mind shielded from it had something different in mind. A possible distraction.

The true act was below the surface, below where his roots anchored him to the ground. For the most part, they served the Nightmare Lord’s purpose, keeping him in one place and feeding into him the horror that dwelled even below. However, with the night elf so trapped, it was not a surprise that his captor might be confident and in confidence might miss the fact that a single, tiny root had become of the greatest importance to Malfurion.

Through concentration and will, the archdruid had managed mastery over it. The smallest of a multitude, it was ignored by the Nightmare Lord. Thus, Malfurion used his every moment to strengthen his power over that one part, make it do what he needed.

And now he needed it to feed deeper into the ground, feed beyond the other roots. Malfurion called upon all his teachings in this, the binding of druid to nature. He coaxed the root to growth, pushed it down, down, past the vermin that burrowed in the dirt, that worked to more undermine what had once been the Emerald Dream.

Then, when he was deep enough, he had it turn. Always wary for the presence of the Nightmare’s master, the archdruid focused his will on driving the root beyond his vicinity and into the mist.

Closer and closer it came to its goal. He had no choice but to press on, even if it alerted the shadow tree. Time was a nebulous term in this place, but for Malfurion, at least, it was running out.

Either freedom was to be his…or damnation would take him and he would find himself willingly serving the horror.

Inch by inch the night elf pressed. The lone root was nearly there.

Malfurion sensed the shadow tree stretching forward.

The skeletal branches traced the earth before him. The Nightmare Lord did not speak, which boded ill. The shadows spread toward the direction that Malfurion had sent the root.

Low, insidious laughter touched his thoughts, but Malfurion fought back fear of discovery.

The fools still press uselessly…the Nightmare Lord mocked.

Even with their numbers dwindling…and their losses drawn to the Nightmare…

They will persevere! the archdruid responded, hoping to draw any attention away from his own efforts. The Nightmare will be vanquished! You will be vanquished!

They do not even know what it means to persevere… the shadow tree retorted. They do not even know what it means to plan and wait…and wait…There came more of the horrific laughter. And we shall be rewarded for our waiting…we shall engulf Azeroth…

The shadow retreated from sight. Malfurion did not for an instant take heart in that. Not only would the Nightmare Lord be observing him, but the dark fiend was constantly manipulating countless matters. The archdruid knew better than most what was happening.

If his plan did not work…

The root reached where he desired.

All Malfurion could do now was wait…and pray.

Unable to stop Tyrande, Broll had no choice but to race after the high priestess. He did so not as himself, however, but as a great cat. Pouncing into the thick fog, the druid used his heightened senses of smell and hearing to make up for the limited visibility.

He picked up her trail immediately. In fact, it turned out to be easier to follow her than Broll had even imagined. Although she had put her love for Malfurion above her own safety, Tyrande was not foolish enough to forget the dangers they faced here. Broll was certain that they had not yet confronted the worst of the Nightmare.

The high priestess of Elune left a path of moonlit steps that cleared away the horrific flow of ghoulish parasites. Broll was not so delicate with his own effort; his claws ripped away at the creatures as he raced on.

He caught a glimpse of a figure ahead, but it did not exactly follow the route taken by Tyrande. Letting out a low growl, the druid veered to avoid it. Broll had no time for confrontations —

The ground before him swelled up. Black bugs poured away from the eruption.

Father! Father!

Anessa was there before Broll, her arms outstretched in desperation, her face beseeching. She had been slighter of build than Tyrande and a hand shorter. Her eyes were full of innocence and incomprehension.

Broll buried his claws in the ground and came to a halt. You’re not real! he thought at the apparition. You’re not real! In his mind, he saw her again engulfed as the merged power of the idol and the demon taint swept over her. This was how she had perished, due to Azgalor’s strike and his failure. Anessa was dead…dead.