Prologue
The landscape flowed onward like an endless painting. Green hills rose and fell between sparse towns and holdfasts, while distant mountains speared the sky. Slight clouds dotted the blue depths of the sky. It was a quiet, beautiful day. Snaking through the hills was a cobbled road that led north. Brown grass grew through the crags of the ancient highway, a signature to nature's slow reclamation over civilization.
The sounds of heavy hooves on the stones echoed between the rolling hills. Alistair Sancre surveyed his surroundings with a deep-set suspicion. The land hid their enemies; orcs and undead. Cold wind blew from mountains, rustling the long grass of the hills. That northern wind had long been known as the Breath of Strom. It made him shiver even through his furs and leathers.
Shouts of command came from the head of their column. Alistair could not hear through the chilling wind so he held his spurs into the horse's flanks a little harder, hurrying forward to listen in. They were thirteen, knights and warriors of the highlands. They were the blood of humanity's womb, its first kingdom and empire; Strom. Each wore thick fur cloaks made from wild fox hide which despite their weight fluttered due to the speed with which they pushed their mounts. Silver and crimson chainmail shined in the bright sun. Lances tipped with red pennants reached for the thin white clouds. Above all a flag, a mailed fist of crimson on a snow white field fluttered beside Prince Galen Trollbane.
"…Trol'kalar beckons before us!" Alistair heard.
The ancient weapon of the Trollbanes, the kings of Stromgarde, had been stolen. It was their holy mission to retrieve it. At the head of the questing knight's column was Galen Trollbane, the heir of the last king, Thoras. A full head of sandy brown hair blew back in the wind. Alistair could not see the Prince's face, but he knew it was filled with determination. Just the thought of the young Trollbane's conviction settled Alistair's ever troubling thoughts about the future of their nation.
The Scourge had sacked the chief city of Strom and wreaking havoc through the countryside during the latter days of the Third War. King Thoras was assassinated and the nobles with their scattered agendas flew to the four winds. The vacuum appeared so quickly that Galen hadn't even had time to be crowned. The country had nearly fallen, and only Galen's will held what little was left together.
The group made camp near the ruins of a small town called Hillock Hamlet, about a mile off the Iron Road. It too had been ravaged by the Scourge three years past and then utterly ruined in the strife that had ensued following King Trollbane's death.
The moon had climbed into the sky, peeking just above the mountains. The winds had calmed, but cool breezes still swept their camp, slanting the small fire they'd lit in a dug out hole. Galen gathered his men about him.
"The thieves will not be far off. We begin again before first light. Hopefully we can catch them unawares." The Prince spoke in a subdued voice, the firelight flickering shadows off his rough face.
"Sire, we lost their trail today and no hound can keep up with our pace." One of the knights, a noble's son, reminded him.
"They are not gods, Padril. They are undead scoundrels. They shan't be far off. They've been taking predictable patterns of movement, so tomorrow we will catch them before they reach Thoradin's Wall. We must." Galen slammed his gauntlet into unarmored palm.
"Aye, but—" As another cavalier began to speak, Alistair held out his hand. He felt a twinge, heard a noise, saw a shadow.
"We are being watched." The knight whispered. Before the knight could even turn, hissing filled the air. Arrows fell about the armored group, screeching through metal and thudding through flesh.
Alistair raised his shield which had been slung over his shoulder. The wood seemed to explode as he brought it up to his face, three arrowheads trying to squirm through. They were slick with poison. The world lurched, and Alistair lost his balance. He saw the horses burst into frenzy as the arrows descended on them too. His own mount, Igneaus, squealed as one pierced its eye.
Several other warriors had already been felled. He saw the fiery haired Lord Hailes Braddock clutching his breast where one of the missiles had struck, face twisted in agony. Sir Wallace Rosehart lay lifeless, his rose embroidered tabard fittingly colored red with blood.
"For Strom!" "Thoras!" War cries took flight. Alistair looked up to the hills. It had been a trap. Forsaken, the faction of the undead that had aligned itself with the Horde, had crested the mounds, some continuing to pour arrows upon their targets while others raced downward intent on hacking apart the remnant of the armored column. Beside them slinked blue skinned island trolls and thundering orcs on wargs.
"To me! Warriors of Stromgarde, to me!" Galen Trollbane called out above the din of battle. Alistair leapt to his feet and ran to his Prince. A small knot of warriors had gathered around the young Trollbane, whose noble black sable cloak was already matted with blood. Alistair saw the Prince pointing to the hills. He and several retainers rushed forward, scaling the grassy knoll toward the bowmen. They were met with a new wave of attackers.
Alistair ran toward them, but one of the walking corpses stepped into his path. Whoever he was in life, he must've been a fearsome warrior. He stood a head taller than Alistair, who was tall among Stromgardians, and well muscled. He did not seem to have died long ago, but his cause of mortality was apparent. A gruesome horned helm hid most of the damage, but it looked as if an axe had taken its due course through his head, cleaving off the nose and an eye.
"Have at your dance then!" Alistair goaded, unsheathing a long, steel blade that glittered in the moonlight. A knight was his lance, and his armor, dagger, sword, and honor. He took pride in this weapon especially, polishing it whenever the chance presented itself.
Alistair moved forward, stabbing at the forsaken's stomach as a fencer would, quickly switching to a swift uppercut. The sword dug lightly into the undead barbarian's lifeless chin flesh, vibrating as it hit bone. Alistair's dueling partner swung a vicious maul at his ribs, but the knight danced backwards, grasped his sword with the other hand, and brought it down on his enemy's elbow. Bone and flesh ruptured violently across the cobblestones as sword amputating both arms. Pulling his weapon in, the knight finished his personal battle with a quick strike to the neck, almost severing his opponent's head. Blood, purple from slow decay and hastily prepared embalming fluid splattered upward.
Alistair almost gagged at the smell that came with his victory but ignored the instinct. White pain sliced through his skull and a cracking noise accompanied it. Hot blood poured down the right side of Alistair's face, but the knight stayed standing. He could not tell what hit him, raising his shield above his head. Another, savage blow came from the side, this time fully crushing his shield and biting through his vambrace. The knight howled in pain, but stayed standing. Out of the corner of his left eye's vision, he saw his Prince surrounded. Six swords fell up and down around him as his last companion fell.
"Prince Trollbane!" Alistair called out, his voice hoarse. He tried to run toward his liege, but his legs gave out as the world swam dizzily from his blood loss. The Prince fought gallantly, slicing off fingers and arms that approached him. Suddenly, his chest burst outward, blood and viscera staining the grass before him. A spear had struck home.
Alistair cried out, his legs not working. The Prince stood tall and haughty for a moment, unbelieving of his fate and bloody as the day he was born. Another blade approached. The Prince moved to intercept it with his own, but he found no strength left in his body. The forsaken's sword wove deep into Galen's arm, forcing the Prince to the ground.
Alistair could not find his voice any longer. He had risen to his knees, but another strike crushed his ribs and tore open his side. The knight fell to the ground, watching as the forsaken fell upon his remaining comrades. He noticed his gut seeping from the terrible wound to his side. The world was going dark, and Alistair knew he had failed in his utmost task. A single thought echoed in his mind as he saw one last glimpse of Prince Galen Trollbane's lifeless form.
There is no hope for Stromgarde.
Author's Bullet: Hey all! It's been a long time since I last published or wrote anything for but I'm excited, recharged, and gunning to get this new tale on the road. This story is a sequel to both 'The Third War' and 'War of the Ruins', of which major characters such as Osra Leone and Alaric'Quel star.
The story will follow a little bit of a different format than my previous works. It will be a deeper, more personal story following fewer characters than usual. You'll still recognize the same style of epic battles, emotional narratives, and thrilling conclusions that were in both TTW and WotR.
The timeline for this story is set during the World of Warcraft: Wrath of the Lich King. The story kicks off about 4-6 months after the beginning of Wrath of the Lich King and will continue from there.
Thanks for helping me started in this new endeavor. I think I'm more excited for this story than I've been for any others I've written, so I hope that excitement bleeds over into you all as well.
If you read and have a FF account, please do drop me a review! Flames, praise, criticism all help motivate me and get me writing faster.
Here's to hearing from you all soon. I hope you enjoy reading this new saga as much as I have in writing it.
-Omegatrooper