Prologue: The Attack
I would be at a loss to tell you precisely which moment it was that I knew something terrible, something nigh unthinkable, was happening.
Was it the slick, almost musical sound of a well-maintained blade being pulled with deliberate skill from its sheath? Perhaps it was, though I somehow doubt that the expert fingers folded around the hilt could have belonged to one so insidious as to make it this far and yet so careless as to produce such a telltale sound.
Was it the wet, indelicate sound of lifeblood splattering across otherwise pristine white stone, then? The inevitably uncouth finale to the delicate non-sound of a human throat parting easily beneath a sharp and delicate blade? Perhaps it was, but by the grace of the Light, it has been many years since I've heard such a sound - with grace everlasting, it will be longer still – and my wakeful ears surely could not have heard at this distance the details my unconscious ears cannot forget.
Was it the sudden, oppressive silence which fell across the normally bustling halls, the sudden, terrible stillness which shattered the pleasant serenity of the Cathedral? Perhaps it was, and I hope never again to hear the quiet reverence of our sanctuary ravaged by something so insidious, so terrible, as a silence devoid of Light.
Perhaps, though, I simply imagined all these things. Perhaps I, like many of the victims I have aided throughout my career, simply manufactured these false memories to match the images I have since been unable to un-see.
The roar of fury from Lord Shadowbreaker's throat, though, I know I did not invent. The man has always terrified me – and for a physician to admit that a single, battle-scarred veteran of the utmost regard, no matter how dark the memories flickering in his one remaining eye, has the power to liquefy her knees, that is no easy task – but he is a man of the Light and his goodness shines with it. It is easy to forget that he is a man who has survived two wars and that his piety alone can account for only part of his success.
His roar, a guttural, almost animal sound that could more easily have come from the ravaged throat of an orcish blademaster, echoed through the Cathedral and I exchanged a wide-eyed glance with dear Brother Cassius. It was that odd moment immediately after something terrible and unexpected has happened, that moment where you invariably wonder "Was I the only one who heard that?", but the color quickly draining from Brother Cassius's wizened face told me all I needed to know.
I half-hoped that Brother Cassius would stay where he was – the dear man, for all the times I've caught him trying valiantly not to ogle me when I wear my white robes, truly does know little more than what wild quillvine and fish oil tell him and anything that could cause Lord Shadowbreaker to yell as if the entire Burning Legion were upon him would certainly cause Brother Cassius's old heart to give out – but I did not spare the time to check. I ran out to the main chamber of the Cathedral, grabbing my medical bag but clipping my shoulder on one of the bookcases in my haste, and ignored the hiss of Brother Cassius's whispered, "Shaina, be careful!"
I came to an abrupt halt as soon as I entered the mail hall of the Cathedral, struck both dumb and still by the chaos which greeted me.
A body garbed in the white robes depicting some kind of service to the Light lay splayed before the altar, directly behind the Archbishop, his lifeblood staining the normally blue altar carpet a slick, ominous black. Even from the distance, I could see the clean, almost surgical edges of the wound which belied the violent strength that had inflicted them; the brother had been nearly decapitated in a single, violent, practiced swipe.
The High Priestess was on her knees beside the body, her normally immaculate blond tresses falling haphazardly into her face, and it was obvious that her attacker had struck her as soon as she flew around the altar to help the fallen brother. Her beautiful features were marred by an expression of pain, her eyes bright. She was clutching the obviously ravaged flesh of her upper arm in a white-knuckled grip – "Good girl," I told her silently - but the tatters of her sleeve were already soaked with her blood and her normally golden face was ashen. A young priestess I could not identify – perhaps a young girl simply unfortunate enough to be seeking wisdom within the Cathedral's walls at the time the visiting brother was cut down – was scrambling to extricate herself from where she'd thrown herself over the High Priestess. She was taking deep, desperate, gulping breaths, no doubt trying to steady herself just enough to perform the delicate incantations that might stabilize the weakening Laurena. A younger brother – Brother Joshua, was it? – dropped to his knees beside her, the horror and shock of his "By the Light…" somehow clearly resonating through the tumult of the Cathedral, frantically tearing at his own robes to help bind Laurena's wounds. Children, I noted to myself tiredly but without venom, but mouthed a silent "thank you" to the desperate pair for their quick thinking nonetheless.
"Sacrilege!" shouted an enraged Benedictus. I had never heard the Archbishop speak at more than a reverent murmur and somehow, I found this more shocking than even Lord Shadowbreaker's war cries. The Archbishop's voice, normally a soft and gravelly tone that has always reminded me of my grandfather, reverberated thunderously around the stone walls. The Archbishop, displaying a power I knew a man of his position must possess but one which I had never before actually seen, stood at the base of the altar with his arms outstretched and his mighty staff glowing bright with his fury. Even across the great hall of the Cathedral, I could feel the crackling energy of the holy shield protecting him as he roared, "Defend the Cathedral!"
Whatever had killed the brother on the altar, whatever had disabled the High Priestess, seemed little more than a whisper of darkness. As a physician, I relate far more to science than I do to the occult. It occurred to me even then, with my heartbeat pounding in my ears and my vision tunneling down, that something had virtually severed the brother's head. Something had sliced through Laurena's delicate flesh. And yet, I wasn't quite sure what I was looking at, or even if, at any given point in time, I was actually looking in the right place to see it.
Duthorian Rall bellowed in frustration and I realized that I was not the only one who could not readily identify the threat. If Lord Shadowbreaker noticed his companion's slip, though, he did not comment. Instead, his voice dangerously low, he said merely, "Knights, to me."
Both Rall and Katherine joined him immediately at the center of the main hall, light, tinted into misleadingly charming colors by the grand stained glass ornamenting the windows behind the altar, glinting off their armor. They exchanged brisk nods with one another then abruptly turned outwards, forming a triangle between the three of them, three golden hammers at the ready. Even from my position farther down the hall, I could feel their power. I shuddered.
I served in the Third War, you know. Primary physician at the front lines. Dr. Van Howzen and I saw more blood in a single day on those fields than I ever hope to see in the rest of my days. I still cannot wear red because out of the corner of my eye, I always see something, someone, swathed in blood. Not a day goes by that I don't think about having to use the bodies of the people I couldn't save as cover from torrential arrow fall.
And to this day, I can think of nothing more awe-inspiring, nothing more awful, than the brothers and sisters of the Silver Hand united together in defense of the Light. Our teachers, our guardians, our spiritual leaders… our blood-covered defenders, our righteous slayers, our battle-hardened warriors.
I had breakfast with Katherine that morning, you know. I teased her about the way Thornberry, that toady little warlock, looked at her when we passed; as befits a paladin of her stature and a bearer of an epithet like "The Pure", Katherine had been righteously indignant and as one of her closest friends, I had chortled righteously at her expense. As my laughter had echoed throughout the Cathedral – I had attempted to gather myself prior to entering the sacred walls, mind you, but of all the reasons I chose to become a physician rather than a priest, an inherent lack of proper decorum was perhaps the most compelling – Duthorian Rall had grunted his displeasure at me; it surely would have been more impressive if the man ever did anything but grunt his displeasure at me but as it was, it was the start to yet another pleasant day. I'm sure even Lord Shadowbreaker himself came to the Cathedral that morning for his meditations, fully expecting to spend the day guiding and teaching the young paladins who drift constantly in and out of the Cathedral, his patience limitless and his wisdom key.
As I saw their proud, magnificent forms in the center of the Cathedral, saw the cold stones beneath them begin to glow with the same terrible fire engulfing the Archbishop's staff, it occurred to me that I had sorely misjudged my colleagues. Oh, they were certainly as pious as I thought, probably more so. They were certainly as good-hearted. They were undoubtedly talented instructors and dedicated spiritual leaders.
They were also battle-hardened holy warriors, trained killers, and I was shocked that even I, a veteran myself, could have forgotten so easily. There was no hint of a girlish blush across sweet Katherine's cheeks; her blue eyes were hard, her jaw set, and the fingers which had only a few hours earlier covered her mouth in horror at one of my particularly bawdy jokes were wrapped with expert ease around a gilded hilt. To her left stood Rall, showing no hint of the practiced though ultimately harmless gruffness that intimidated young paladins but provided endless amusement to the herds of altar boys who were too young to be properly impressed, and he and his companions were all momentarily engulfed in a bright, almost blinding golden light as he summoned raw power from deep within his faith. And finally, completing their triad, was Lord Shadowbreaker whom I did not recognize as the almost grandfatherly advisor and mentor at the very nucleus of Stormwind's paladin forces; in his place, I saw only the second-in-command of the Silver Hand, one of the most powerful holy warriors alive, his body –even the very stones beneath his feet – gleaming with an awful holy fury that made his utterly impassive countenance that much more striking.
The stones of the Cathedral were now actually aflame, pulses of holy fire throbbing from the warriors, heating the stone beneath them in a fiery, awful cleansing until they gleamed with a fury all their own. I knew the fury was not for me, that even if I were so brave as to step into its midst – I was not – that I would not be burned, but I could feel the deadly heat on my face, could feel the stone trembling beneath me.
I didn't hear Lord Shadowbreaker issue a command but the three paladins suddenly moved outwards in unison, each taking three deliberate steps away from their tight circle. And here again they called upon the Light, consecrating the stones beneath them with holy flame. I was awash in another wave of heat.
I suddenly felt a whisper of something cold against my cheek as a shadow passed me, felt the warmth of the surrounding skin suddenly drain away to be replaced with a deep chill that was, impossibly, much less the brittle iciness of winter itself and somehow much more the lonely, echoing despair of a departing autumn and a long-forgotten spring. I recoiled, a gasp of horror lodged in my throat, and stumbled on suddenly weak knees.
Thankfully, though I could not force a sound from my lips, Lord Shadowbreaker somehow knew of my distress and he came flying towards me, a golden blur that was somehow both light and sound. An irrational part of me knew that I would be struck down under a devastating blow from his hammer, that in the heat of battle and the confusion of the moment, he had mistaken me for the enemy… and this part of me recoiled from him, a shriek on my lips, as he drew the weapon back. But the other part of me recognized the glimmer in his eyes as not the bloodlust that had taken lesser warriors before him but instead, the singular, controlled focus of a battle master; and this part of me was not surprised when the golden hammer came within mere inches of my horrified eyes. Time slowed, my vision tunneled, and as the golden blur of his hammer flew before me, a trail of unmistakable warmth followed in its wake, removing some of the desolate chill that had befallen me.
As I fell to the ground, my legs suddenly unable to support me, I heard the unmistakable crunch of a weapon hitting solid flesh and bone and the sound of the impossibly solid shadow shrieking in a combination of rage and pain. The stones beneath me began glowing and the bleakness that had suffused my bones began to recede, replaced with a gentle, comforting warmth; at the same time, though, the shadow's shrieks of anger quickly became choking, desperate screams of agony. I weakly lifted my head in time to see the shadow – but she was not a shadow anymore; had she ever been?; I shook my head, trying to clear it, but only managed to blur my vision again - desperately trying to ward off the unforgiving rain of blows from Shadowbreaker, even as the fury of the consecrated stones beneath her began searing her flesh.
It became rather obvious to me, even in my addled state, that the attacker's primary advantage was surprise; once fully exposed, she couldn't seem to regroup enough to unleash onto any single target, let alone the three paladins surrounding her, the same amount of devastation she had so easily bestowed upon the fallen brother and the High Priestess. She caught Duthorian Rall with the edge of a blade – I saw the unmistakable arc of blood and heard his enraged bellow – but it seemed almost incidental, as if it were nothing more than a wild, uncontrolled blow that had managed through luck alone to connect; what grace and fluid control she had exhibited earlier seemed gone, lost in a wild disarray of desperate, unconnected movements.
With a final blow from Shadowbreaker, her daggers were loosed from suddenly nerveless fingers and clattered unceremoniously to the ground. She crumpled to the ground a moment later, soundlessly.
After a seemingly interminable moment in which the entire Cathedral was in stillness, Lord Shadowbreaker spoke merely two words: "Secure it."
Duthorian Rall retrieved one of the fallen daggers, running a callused finger over the engraved hilt, eyes narrowing. Sweet Katherine, her face utterly impassive, kicked the remaining dagger to the far wall then nudged the body over with a brusque toe, patting it down with her foot for any indication of additional weapons. The head lolled ominously – if Shadowbreaker hadn't snapped the neck with that last blow, he'd crushed everything else – and a sudden wave of foulness roiled over me; I gagged instinctively, involuntarily, and in my humiliation, could feel Lord Shadowbreaker's single eye observing my weakness.
"Clear," Katherine said.
Rall wordlessly handed her the dagger before he hefting his weapon up again and stalking towards the altar, a fist clenched around the wound he'd sustained. Katherine looked at the dagger's hilt and an expression I couldn't read passed over her delicate features; she abruptly turned on her heel after Rall, giving no indication that she was even aware of the waves of dueling death and undeath permeating the air around the corpse. As my stomach churned and my eyes watered, I envied her this; I let my head fall back to the cooling stones in my misery.
"Are you recovered?"
Shadowbreaker's voice was gentle enough – oddly so, I supposed with clinical detachment, considering the amount of brain matter still decorating his hammer - that I did not respond with the obvious, "Do I LOOK like I'm recovered?" Instead, I responded with what I hoped was a lucid and infinitely more polite, "Getting there, m'lord." It sounded muffled even to me as I had spoken directly into the stones rather than lift my head up.
Shadowbreaker was silent for a moment. At first I thought that he had either left in pursuit of more engaging conversationalists or that he was simply wondering if the encounter had left me completely and permanently addled, but then I felt a gentle warmth fall over me like a blanket. It took me a moment to realize that as the warmth dissipated, it took my nausea with it. I blinked once… twice… then raised my head experimentally.
I began to express my thanks but as my vision cleared, I saw the unmistakable glint of light over Lord Shadowbreaker's shoulder. I opened my mouth to warn him but before I could even utter a sound, I heard a female voice shout, "No!", her voice echoing through the otherwise quiet of the Cathedral.
A lot of things happened just then. As soon as the young woman's voice pierced the quiet, Shadowbreaker dove over me. The metal dagger that had glinted ominously behind him sliced down through the air; I heard him grunt and sensed his trajectory in the air change abruptly. As he crashed down on the other side of me, the shadow holding the dagger coalesced into something decidedly physical but before I could even register fear, it suddenly grabbed its head, dropping its daggers to the floor, and howled in agony as the unmistakable chill of dark magic descended onto it. It was a cloud of cold, bitter agony completely unlike the furious, burning power of the Light, and the Cathedral itself – despite the fact that this magic was used in its defense - seemed to protest its use within its walls.
By this time, heralded by the clamor of hardened armor against stone, both Katherine and Duthorian Rall were upon the latest intruder. This one lasted no longer than the first, perhaps even less, and unlike her equally ill-fated predecessor, did not even manage to land a lucky hit against the paladins. She joined her predecessor on the stone floor with little fanfare. After the previous events of the morning, it would have all been rather unremarkable save for the horrified expression on the High Priestess's face as she beheld the wide-eyed young woman at her side whose arms were still outstretched with the power of her spell.
I chose that moment to pass out.