Waiting for Nightfall

I don't own WoW. All NPCs mentioned belong to Blizzard. The Unknown Knight belongs to me. And unfortunately, my sanity belongs to Warcraft, so I can be called nuts. ^_^

Also, please review. This is my first fanfic, so I want to know how good (or how bad) it is.

The waves lapped the shore, breaking incessantly, as the man watched the sun go down. He was waiting for nightfall, so he could end his watch. This would seem perfectly ordinary...except that he was in Northrend, him and some for or five thousand or so dwarves and humans and elves left behind, by the one man who they thought would never betray them - Prince Arthas.

He was reminescing on his past, with a cold bitterness that seemed to rival the freezing air around him. He'd served Lordaeron for as long as he could remember, a Knight in the Lordaeron Army. He'd been there for some fourteen years in service, serving the King and, more recently, the Prince, with all the devotion he had. He remembered the high hopes with which they'd set out, and how mean and abject the conclusion of their journey - after all those battles, to die in a frozen hellhole, the Prince gone, the Dwarf commander Muradin dead, and no boats to go home, no supplies worth mentioning left.

So much for loyalty, he muttered to himself. He'd been unwilling to believe it when he saw the Prince run away after killing that infernal demon. But the sword the Prince had used - it had creeped him out. It was like a live thing in the Prince's hands, glowing with what he felt was an unending malevolence for all things. After he was dead, the Prince seemed to go nuts, talking to himself with that sadistic grin on his face. And then he'd simply run away into the storm that had picked up, without a word as to where or why he was going away. He'd argued it over with his comrades who'd seen it too, and they were just as puzzled as he, maybe even fearful. The thought that something existed that could make a Paladin go mad, that too valiant Uther's protege...

Or was he mad already? Indeed, the Knight had seen the uncouth behaviour of the Prince in Stratholme, killing hundreds of innocents, dismissing Lord Uther with a level of callousness and brutal comptempt he'd never expected to see from him, setting the venerable city on fire after he was done, and his obsession to kill that infernal demon, who the Knight believed was probably stringing them along all the time. He remembered the faces of the men and women he and the others had killed - begging for mercy, weeping for salvation, trying to protect their children from the blade - futilely. And when their homes were being burned, reiterating their cries of anguish heavenwards, as if the Light itself had forsaken them...and he believed in a way, it had. The stench of death, excrement, smoke and more significantly, despair and worse, the undead rising from the ground like the horrors of the nether made manifest...it had shaken many. The way the Prince behaved, no Paladin would have done what he had, not unless they were possessed, unthinkable as it was, or were insane. He'd rejected both as out of hand, but that nagging worry remained. The horrors of Stratholme had remained buried in his mind...until now.

Then that odd order when they landed in Northrend - no retreat until the demon is dead, at all costs. Initially, he'd had given no thought to it - just another pep talk for morale, but he soon started to see the horrible attrition rate they were undergoing, and just how far the Prince was willing to push on his as yet unknown goal. Even with the tech the dwarves had given them, the losses were enormous, simply because the Prince seemed driven to reach his goal, heedless of how many lives he lost to gain it. There were murmurs of resentment, fear and horror in the tents those nights, and many empty chairs in the mess halls every night after a battle. Indeed, the Knight also found his resolve weakening every day. It was almost as if the accursed continent was under the thrall of some unspeakable horror, just waiting beyond the thick mists that covered the land there, ready to lash out at the unwary and unprepared.

And after the Prince had run off, the thoroughly demoralised men had returned. Overcaptain Valonforth decided it wasn't safe there, with the storm picking up, so they'd decided to get the hell out with what few men had survived, toward the coast. A platoon - an Advance Party - had stayed behind, just in case the Prince came back, or they found Muradin, or it became too perilous for them. Only to find, on returning to the shore, that there was no way they could go back home. There were no boats, and no shipwrights among them to build even one that could survive the rough seas around the coast of Northrend. In effect, they were doomed to stay on there for Light knew how long.

Some time later, the'd received word fromtheir advance party - Muradin was dead. That pretty much settled the question as to who had to lead, the Alliance officer called Randelvarr. Valonforth had been suffering from the cold and the gangrene - this last bit of news was enough to finally kill him. He died a few hours later. And the advance party, under Flamebeard, had never returned, so it was assumed that they too had met their end. Only the runner who'd brought the news survived, and not for long - he died while out hunting for food some days later after being struck down by trolls.

They'd been stuck there for months, perhaps a year, and the encampment had slowly started growing into a town, as stragglers from all over began to drift in, each with ther own story of misery and abandonment. It was almost a small city now, with permanent houses, even a few children and the central headquarters doubling up as a Town Hall. They'd begun calling it Valgarde, after Valonforth. It almost felt like home - except that it wasn't. 'Home is where the heart is' they said, and his heart was still in Lordaeron - home.

He looked at the sun. Still three hours to go, he thought wearily. As he miserably continued thinking in this strain, he thought he saw something on the seas...were those ships?

Perhaps his eyes were playing tricks on him. For they seemed human ships. It had been so long since he came to this light-forsaken land that he'd never actually entertained any hope of rescue. As he looked closely, he realised that it wasn't an illusion - those ships were real.

Hope surged into him. 'We can finally go home!' he thought, a wave of joy coming to him. It intensified as the ships came closer to the shore. Then, remembering his duty, he pulled out his foghorn and blew three sharp bursts from it, raising the alert. That done, he raced down to the shore from his outpost, which overlooked the bay.

Evidently, evryone in the town had seen the ships, for the shore was crowded so much the Knight could have sworn the entire town was there. He also saw people looking out of their windows, those who couldn't make it to the shore. The ships halted in the bay and his eyes picked out a boat being put out with some twelve men from the largest ship. Seemed as if someone very important was coming ashore.

It was then that he got his first scrap of unease.

The ships were flying the colours of Stormwind. 'Stormwind? I didn't even know they had a navy worth mentioning...what could this mean? Why aren't there Lordaeron ships? There are always Lordaeron ships in every Alliance expedition...that's a rule of the Alliance...of the King! Somethings wrong...' the Knight mused to himself. It seemed as if everyone around him was also coming to the same conclusion, for there were murmurs everywhere, similar to his train of thoughts in content.

He did not have very long to think, as the boat landed on the shore and the men fell out in order. One man, who was probably the leader, walked up to the waiting crowd and asked, "Who's in charge here?"

The half-elf ruler of Valgarde, Magistrate Randalvarr as everyone called him, came out of the crowd and said quietly, "I am. This town is Valgarde. What is it you seek?"

The man drew himself up and said, "I am Vice-Admiral Keller, of the newly formed Valiance Expedition, and the Fleet Command for the Stormwind Navy. We were loking for a suitable settlement as a landing port so we can set up our operations in Northrend."

"Hold on...we're under the jurisdiction of Lordaeron. Unless you've authorisation from King Terenas, you aren't setting up any base here!" Randalvarr said with some asperity.

Keller smiled sadly, "Ah yes, you don't know. But then again, you couldn't have. I have some very terrible news for you all." He took a deep breath, as if to steel himself, and said, "Lordaeron is no more. King Terenas is dead, killed by none other than his own Son, Arthas. His lands are in ruins, blighted by the plague of undeath, and Uther the Lightbringer has also been killed by Arthas. The undead control Tirisfal Glades now."

There was a collective gasp of horror from everyone on shore. The Knight saw all his hopes crash to the ground, his joy dissolve into shock, then horror and finally to despair. 'Lordaeron is no more...no more...no...more...' the thought spun around in the Knights head over and over. Randalvarr fell to his knees in stunned silence at the news.

"I am truly sorry. If you want, i will give you more details once we are somewhere...less exposed, yes?" said the Admiral gently. The Magistrate nodded slowly, getting up. In a voice just inches from cracking he said, "Very well. Everyone, back to your posts! Immediately! There will be a full ensemble tomorrow, in front of the Hall. Disperse!"

As the crowd dispersed, the Knight slowly walked back to his post above the bay. 'Killed by none other than his own son...Arthas...Lands in ruins...Uther is dead...the Undead in Tirisfal Glades.' He thought incoherently. By the time he reached his post, the sun was touching the rim of the sea, in fact it was almost gone. The ships were being unloaded, men swarming onto the beach, setting up a temporary harbour, flares were being lit for light, some were moving outside the town and setting up a perimeter. But he was still numb. Then as his thoughts began to coalesce, one thing came foremost into his mind - 'My home is no more...the heart is gone...'. His lips curled into a grimance of despair, fury and frustration. 'It's all gone...for all time....'

As the moon rose over the sea, there came a long drawn out scream, a scream of rage and anguish, from the guardpost above the bay. Only a the soft howl of a wolf answered it from somewhere inland. And the waves continued lapping the shore.