“‘Roots’! He’s not the only one who can root! He—” The archdruid suddenly spun from her. Peering at something Tyrande could not see, he growled, “Go back, Tyrande! Everything will be just as needed if you can do that! If you’re not there, his trick will fail and mine will succeed!”

“What trick? What—”

Turning back to her, Malfurion muttered, “I can feel him! He knows, but not enough! I dare not say anything more, even to you, for your thoughts are more open to him! Now leave! It’s your only hope!”

And, with that, he broke contact. Tyrande strained to maintain the link, but to no avail.

Yet she still felt as if he were near. It was a feeling she could not shake. Tyrande looked around. The foul mist was inches from her.

At its edge crowded the black vermin, who seemed eager to return to the area where she stood.

The high priestess almost dismissed her notion…then for some reason she could not comprehend, glanced down next to her.

Less than an inch from her foot was a small, upturned root. It was like a thousand other roots nearby…and yet not. There was something, something not visible, that drew her to it. She felt an urge to touch it.

But as she started to, Tyrande felt Elune fill her. The high priestess stiffened as the Mother Moon made her understand.

The root…was somehow bound to Malfurion.

His words came back to her, his pleading for her to leave him be. Yet, despite the earnestness with which he had spoken to Tyrande, the high priestess was not at all prepared to retreat. If Malfurion had one fault, it was that he felt certain that only he should bear the burdens of the world and only he should risk himself. Tyrande suspected that it had something to do with all the lives he had watched be lost so cruelly during the War of the Ancients, lives that he likely felt he should have somehow been able to save.

She no longer had the glaive, but that did not matter. The night elf started on. There was no sign of the keep, only the cloying mist and the half-seen shapes ever lurking just beyond the edge.

That briefly made her ponder Malfurion’s warning. Am I being guided? Is he right?

But even if that were true, the fact that she had been made aware of it gave her some advantage. Malfurion had gone out of his way to be very cautious when warning her. He had worked so that his captor — this Nightmare Lord — would not know.

Tyrande finally shrugged off her concerns. All that mattered was that she reach Malfurion.

The landscape did not change. The illumination she cast kept the vermin scurrying for the cover of the mist, and whatever else watched her from it also kept back. Satisfied that they were kept at bay, the high priestess continued to search for some sign of her beloved. He was near. The root proved that.

She allowed herself a very brief smile at his cunning. Even with his dreamform captive, he had managed to raise and manipulate some plant — some tree — for his purposes.

The root! Tyrande studied the angle of it. She made an estimation of direction. Certain that she had calculated correctly, the high priestess peered into the mist.

And in the dire fog, she suddenly caught a glimpse of one.

Though it could have been any of ten thousand trees, Tyrande knew that it was the one she sought. The one that would lead her to Malfurion.

It was scarcely more than another shadow, but what a shadow it was. It rose and rose above her even though it was still some distance away. There were no leaves that she could make out, merely a number of wicked, skeletal limbs that at times resembled several giant hands.

The shadow wavered. Tyrande could not make out the actual tree itself, but it had to be somewhere near. Despite its clearly awful appearance, the night elf was encouraged by its very existence. She took a step toward it —

Something converged upon her from her right.

Tyrande whirled to meet it.

A powerful force struck her hard, a muscular body that crashed into the night elf with such force that Tyrande was thrown far. She landed on her back among the carrion creatures, crushing several.

The rest scattered as the light of the Mother Moon spread over the area.

The high priestess started to rise — only to have the deadly edge of an ax pressed against her throat.

An ax she recognized even after more than ten thousand years.

“Night elf,” rumbled the female orc wielding Brox’s gift from Cenarius. “You’re his mate…”

It was not a question. That the orc had not immediately attacked her again for being Malfurion’s supposed partner both encouraged and concerned Tyrande. There was a chance that she might be able to talk sense into the other female…but there was also the question as to just why the night elf still had her head.

“My name is Tyrande—”

The ax pressed closer. “Name doesn’t matter! You know him!

He knows you! He’ll come to you…”

“Malfurion is not your enemy—”

“He is enemy to all of us! He would destroy Azeroth!” The orc’s eyes radiated hatred for the archdruid. “And, yes, the blood of my kin is also on his hands! Broxigar will be avenged! I, Thura, will take the coward’s head — and maybe yours, too!”

Despite the threat to her, the high priestess could not let the accusation pass. “Malfurion is no threat to Azeroth! He is one of its protectors!” Tyrande’s expression steeled. “And Brox was our friend! He perished saving us! We honor his memory!”

Her captor growled furiously. Yet she suddenly pulled the ax back.

Tyrande read the confusion in the orc’s expression. Thura had obviously not slept much and that had taken its toll. It was also possible, the high priestess considered, that Thura also realized that she was being tricked into hunting Malfurion.

But the orc swung the ax toward Tyrande again. “Up!”

The night elf obeyed. On her feet, she had more of a chance against Thura, yet not only did Tyrande respect the warrior’s skills, she also saw the orc as an innocent caught up in the machinations of the Nightmare Lord.

“Thought I had him,” Thura muttered, half-speaking to herself.

“Saw him and got close to where he was supposed to be…but wasn’t there…” She glared at Tyrande. “Druid’s tricks! Your mate’s tricks!” The brawny female brandished the ax. “You’ll take me to him!”

Tyrande stood steadfast. “To kill Malfurion? No.”

“Then I’ll cut you in two!”

“Is that what Brox would have done?” the high priestess countered. “Would he have slain someone for refusing, someone who will not battle him?”

Thura glared, then repeated her demand. “Lead me to him!

Now!”

“I will not—”

She stopped as the orc suddenly glanced to the side. Tyrande heard nothing, but trusted to the skilled warrior’s instinct.

The orc snarled again. Thura peered around, then grinned at something she saw. “The tree! The tree beckons again!”

Following the orc’s gaze, Tyrande saw that the huge shadow had returned. She could still not see the tree that cast it, but knew it had to be close.

“He will be there!” Thura muttered gleefully to herself. “The vision said so…”

The high priestess could take no more chances. With Thura’s attention diverted, she attacked. Tyrande could not trust to Elune’s magic, the illumination too much of a warning against such a foe. It had to be her own martial skills.

Her outthrust fingers shot toward the orc’s vulnerable neck.

Thura spun back. The blunt bottom of the ax handle swung against the side of the high priestess’s head at a speed even greater than that with which the night elf moved. Tyrande had only a moment to realize that she had been outmaneuvered before the bottom hit her on the temple.

But the night elf’s reflexes, honed by centuries of practice and battle, kept the blow a glancing one. As Thura shifted the ax around for a strike, Tyrande dove under, then kicked.