The vast legions that wore the faces and forms of the defenders’ blood kin were there more to unsettle those still standing watch.

When the darkness struck…it would strike each warrior in the most indefensible part of him or her.

His soul.

That the attack had not yet come did not give the shaman much hope, though. The signal — whatever it might be — was imminent.

Very imminent.

“We must alert all…” the shaman muttered as he stepped back from the wall. “We must have everyone, young and old, prepare…”

However, what he did not add as he departed was that against such a foe, who likely could not be touched by ax, there was very little the defenders of Orgrimmar could do but fall.

Broll thought that he had lost Arei, but then the ancient returned to him.

“Stay near. We are very close. He knows you are coming.”

“‘He’?”

Before the ancient could reply, a sudden, even thicker emeraldtinted darkness swept over them.

Gibbering voices filled Broll’s mind. A chill seized his heart. He felt as if his skin were peeling away from his flesh and, worse, amongst the voices the cries of his daughter regaled him. The druid was being dragged into an abyss, where desperate hands clutching at him pulled him deeper…deeper…

Away with you! commanded a new and vibrant voice that gave the night elf a tether upon which to mentally grasp. The gibbering receded. The hands slipped away. The chill over his heart melted…

The darkness returned to the still-ominous mist. Broll discovered that he was on his knees, gasping. One hand clutched his chest.

A soft light spreading from in front bathed the druid. Broll lifted his gaze.

“Remulos?” he blurted.

But although the gleaming figure resembled the guardian of the Moonglade, Broll quickly saw that it was not him. Indeed, the druid realized that what he was seeing was not, as he and the ancient were, a being of solid form.

And when the night elf finally recognized who it was who stood — nay, floated — before him, he swallowed hard.

The reason for the resemblance to Remulos was obvious; this was his brother…Zaetar.

But Zaetar was dead.

Broll leapt to his feet. Zaetar had fallen in love with Theradras, an earth elemental. With her, it was said that he had sired as their progeny the first of the centaur. But Zaetar’s violent children had rewarded him for their existence by slaying the woodland keeper.

Legend said that a grief-stricken Theradras, unable to let go, had hidden away his remains.

Stay your hand! the antlered giant said. His mouth did not move, but Broll heard the words clearly. Your concern is understandable, but the truth has changed…

Even taking in account their surroundings and the fact that he was not flesh but spirit, Zaetar was of a greener tint than his living, younger brother. Otherwise, the two titanic figures were very much the sons of Cenarius. However, Zaetar’s face was faintly longer a n d bore in it a constant sadness, the latter perhaps logical considering his state of life.

The druid looked to Arei, who nodded. The ancient of war appeared more haggard than just before the attack on Broll, which made the night elf wonder if Arei had also suffered.

You were both touched by the Nightmare, though Arei was better prepared for it, Zaetar said, an indication that he had read Broll’s thoughts. That raised further wariness in the druid.

We are allies, Broll Bearmantle, the spirit insisted, spreading his open palms toward the night elf. As he “spoke,” Zaetar’s form wavered, as if he were part of the mist.

“He has led us throughout this trial,” Arei added. “And is one reason we still stand…”

Though it is doubtful that we can stand more than the few weeks we have…

“‘Weeks’?” Broll blurted. “You’ve been fighting this for weeks?”

The spirit’s expression darkened. He looked away.

“When I and mine entered, Zaetar and those he gathered had thought that they had been here for more than a year even though it had been but a few scant weeks,” the ancient of war answered.

The craggy face twisted into a frown. “What day was it when you entered, Broll Bearmantle?”

The night elf told him.

Arei’s shock was clear. “Only eleven days? I was certain that we had been here ourselves for nearly a season…”

The Nightmare twists time even as it is known in this place, Zaetar commented angrily. All is meaningless here save the struggle…

“You spoke of others in here who also fight against the Nightmare,” Broll said, thinking that perhaps one of them had found Tyrande. “I’m hoping that they can find she who was with me!

Where are they?”

Now the spirit wore a grim aspect. He gestured at the dark mist.

Druid, they are all around us…

As Zaetar said this, his hand seemed to sweep back the foul fog from all around. The air did not exactly clear, but Broll could now see for some distance.

And what he saw was the most shocking yet.

They stood alone or in small groups. They were scattered for as far as the mist allowed him to see, and he had no doubt that there were others farther on. They were druids, ancients of war, dryads, and others with ties to Azeroth’s nature and the Emerald Dream.

Some wore solid forms; others were in dreamform. A few were like Zaetar.

Among those in dreamform were some whom Broll did recognize and in that recognition was overwhelmed with horror. They were druids long lost on Azeroth, their bodies unable to cope anymore without food and water. Some had been dead for months, but their dreamforms appeared unaware that for them there was no returning.

Or perhaps they did know, for many of them remained at the forefront, doing what they could to halt the Nightmare.

And the Nightmare itself came in the form of the same dire darkness that had briefly overwhelmed Broll. It most resembled an insidious cloud or perhaps a massive swarm of black ants. It moved and weaved, and wherever one of those fighting it faltered, it poured forth with obvious eagerness. Lengthy tendrils darted well beyond Zaetar’s companions, proof that their efforts were not sufficient.

The defenders struck at the Nightmare with a vast array of spells, the only real defense against such a foe. As most were druids, they fought using their calling. Hulking bears battled beside swift, darting cats, each bite or slash of claw accompanied by flashes of power. Yet although this seemed to hold the darkness in check, Broll could not help feeling that the defenders did not truly injure what they fought.

Above, a dreamform storm crow soared over the edge of the Nightmare. It showed some desperation that even in dreamform the druids had to turn to their other guises to add weight to their fight. The Emerald Dream had been a place where their calling had known no bounds, yet now all that had changed.

Other druids retained their original forms. These sought to manipulate the Dream against the Nightmare. Under the guidance of some of Broll’s brethren, lush grass grew taller than trees, then, as if swaying in some tremendous wind, sliced the encroaching shadows to ribbons that dissipated.

There came an avian cry. Caught up in its attack, the dreamform storm crow had not paid sufficient attention to some of the tendrils that it had severed from the Nightmare. Now some of those loose bits of evil had snared its wings.

As it plummeted toward the sinister mass, the spirit of Zaetar moved to help it. His power reached out to the stricken druid —

But before Zaetar could finish his effort…a murky shape that resembled a great dragon’s head thrust out of the Nightmare and swallowed the storm crow whole. The horrified onlookers watched as the avian descended through the misty fiend’s “gullet.” In desperation, the druid reverted to his normal shape, but though he was in dreamform, he could not penetrate his monstrous prison.