Hello chaps. This was my entry for the 2011/2012 Blizzard Writing Contest; it didn't place, but I hope you can take some enjoyment from it regardless. I apologize for any discrepancies or mistakes; I'm still doing a bit of editting here and there, and I wrote the last three-thousand words the night before the deadline. In any case, I hope you enjoy it for what it's worth - and your comments and criticisms would be most welcome :]
By Fire and Faith
Blessed Light, we beseech thee
That you may grant us your strength in these times of cataclysm
For we, your humble servants, must take up arms to combat the darkness
That would see the faithful destroyed
The man moved with purpose through the ashen streets of Stratholme, the wicked balefire that lingered upon the buildings to either side of him reflected in his cold, steel eyes. Before him lay the city streets – the pavement blackened with ash and littered with the crushed bones of the dead. The desolate, tortured city was as silent as the grave; the eerie stillness broken only by the slow, hungry creaking of the unholy flames. This place was cursed; for over a decade now, the entire city had been engulfed in flame, yet the buildings remained as rotten and decrepit as ever – their blackened structures wreathed in a balefire that refused to consume the tainted wood. A scowl tugged at his lips, and he rested an armored gauntlet against the hilt of his blade; from here on, he must be cautious.
As he continued onwards his caution proved its merit; for about him the flame-gutted buildings stirred, charred doorways creaking open as the city's inhabitants shambled forwards to greet him. Stratholme had been infected with the plague of undeath nearly a decade ago, and in order to keep the unholy disease from spreading further, the city had been purged to the last man, woman and child. Not a soul had been spared - the infection could not be allowed to spread, and thus the city had been purged of life..Yet spread it had, and Lordaeron was now a grave for its people, who now roamed the land as mindless, hungering abominations. Here now they came, tattered clothes clinging to their rotting, lifeless frames, the hollow sockets of their eyes filled with an eternal hatred of the living. A chorus of unearthly groans rose up about him, and without turning he knew that the way he had come had been blocked. The dead here may have been mindless but they were still the puppets of a greater, fell intelligence and had allowed him to come this far only so that he might be encircled and destroyed. Most men would have despaired; surrounded on all sides by the living dead, cut off with no chance of retreat, no chance of escape. But he did not quaver. He did not tremble. Rather he smiled, a hollow, vicious look that twisted at his weathered features. "And thus shall the lost return to the Light," he intoned reverently, a soft corona of radiance forming about his forehead as the dead drew closer. "Through fire they shall be cleansed, their mortal husks purged of sin; and freed from sin, their souls shall be saved. Amen."
His invocation finished, the Crusader drew his blade and lunged into action, raising his swordarm to parry the first rotting claw that came swiping in; severing the hand at the wrist and stepping into the blow as he raised his shield upwards to smash it against the zombie's head, caving in the undeads head with a sharp crack. He allowed his momentum to carry him forward into the next undead, lashing outwards with his shield to send it stumbling back before lashing out with a brutal, decapitating blow; yet before the rotten head had fallen to the cobbled stone below, he was in motion once more, his blade whirring up to fell another of the living dead. There was no pause between each strike, no distinction made between his foes; he was a maelstrom of steel and violence, and nothing could stay his wrath. The dead fell before him like wheat to the scythe, their mangled, broken forms littering the fire-scorched pavement.
Time held no meaning as he vented his wrath upon the hated dead. When he finally came to a halt, he stood alone once more in the ashen streets; the pavement before him littered with their broken forms. Blackened necrotic fluid dripped down the channel of his blade, each droplet letting out a putrefying sizzle as it hit the heated stone beneath him. He breathed no heavier than he had before, and it was with a stern frown that he stepped over the bodies to continue down the street, readying himself for the next mob that would come to bar his path; for surely, this was not the end of them.
As he continued down the street, something caught his eyes; a gleam against the sidewalk where ages ago merchants had peddled their wares. He approached cautiously, his shield held warily as he came to stand before the storefront window. A sign hung above the shop, creaking mournfully as a dead wind caused it to swing to and fro. Flame had charred the paint from it long ago, and he could not make out what it said. Brushing away at the window with the back of his mailed fist to clear away the ash, he saw a gleam shining faintly in a corner of the abandoned shop. Cautiously he turned to look over his shoulder, making sure that the streets were clear before he moved to the door, smashing the knob with his shield and breaking the lock. With sword in hand he stepped inside, a quick survey showing that the place had not been visited in years; the dust upon the floor was thick and undisturbed. Satisfied that the place was devoid of unlife, he moved towards the corner, squinting his eyes in the gloom as he struggled to make out what had caught his eye. A rectangular object stood against the far wall, shrouded in cloth.
Sheathing his sword, he gripped the cloth in hand and tugged it away, revealing a mirror – taller than him by at least a head, and cased in soft, polished amberwood. Untouched by the flames which had ravaged the city, it stood tall, proud; as fine as the day it had emerged from the glassblower's forge. He looked into the pane, and there saw a stranger – a man of aging years, clad in plate armor as black as coal, its tarnished surface wrought with the scars of a lifetime of battle. A shield hung by the man's side as well, a solid thing forged from steel and banded with iron, paired with a heavy blade in his other hand; its gleaming edge nicked and weathered from years of violent use. Yet it was his face that caught the eye, for it was haunting. Ashen, the sockets sunken into weathered skin, those eyes stared back at him with a hard, appraising gaze for an instant before softening in self-reflection. The man in the mirror, of course, was himself; and by the Light did he look tired. He'd had no time for vanity these past few months; indeed, he could not remember the last time he had looked into a mirror. He was bleak, morose; the only splash of life upon his form was the tabard he wore upon his chest. It was weathered from wear, the edges tattered and threading; but the crimson flame stitched upon it was no less prominent than the day it had been made.
Lord Chaplain Naevius Bellorum, last living officer of the Scarlet Crusade, looked into the mirror, his eyes narrowing. He did not have time to waste here. Not when his sacred oath of retribution lay unfulfilled. With a scowl, he turned heel and left the shop, leaving the mirror to gleam and glimmer, unsullied by the advent of time.
Returning to the streets, the Crusader frowned; it was hard to tell the time in this city, as the smoke all but hid the sky from view. But he had dallied too long as it were; he needed to keep moving. Armored feet jarred against the stone as he walked forward, heading towards Kings Square – the first point along his path. It was littered with the undead; their hunched, rotting forms bunched together in disparate mobs that cluttered the streets. He reckoned there were thirty of them, perhaps more – a sizeable force, by any standard. He could not tackle them head-on; there were simply too many, and he would be overrun. Or would he? They were slow creatures, unable to manage more than a limping gait. If he sprinted, he could reach the porticullis on the left-hand side of the square, which lead further into the city. Undoubtedly there would be more undead waiting for him, but he could deal with them later.
He could delay no further "Blessed Light, watch over your faithful servant; illuminate my path so I may tread it righteously" He whispered, reciting the simple litany under his breath as he broke out into a run, pushing his aging frame hard as he cut across the staggered groups of the undead and sprinted towards the portcullis. As he passed each group of Scourge they let out a lumbering groan and turned heel, rotting maws gnawing at the air with an endless hunger as they began to limp after the Crusader. But he did not engage them, instead barreling towards a group of ten or so undead which stood hunched before the gate – invoking the power of the Light and unleashing a harrowing blast of Holy Energy which swept over the undead, blasting their rotting flesh into dust. Those which were not destroyed staggered back, and he wasted no time in cutting them down, dispatching the tottering zombies in quick succession. The mass of undead behind him were still ten yards away; still he had time. With a snarl, he dashed forward and ducked under the open portcullis, kicking the lever with his boot as he passed by – the ancient mechanism creaking into life and lowering the iron gate as he ducked through, emerging onto the Market Row unscathed.
Years ago, this had been the traders lane – thronged with merchant stalls and shops, it had born witness to goods from all over the continent, from the high vales of Quel'thalas to the frosted peaks of Dun Morogh; the wares of an entire world had come here, to be squabbled over and haggled. Now it stood empty, save for the vigilance of its undead sentinels. With no time to waste, the Crusader struck forth and charged towards the nearest assembly of undead, a warcry on his lips and a corona of blinding radiance billowing outwards from the face of his shield; a terrible, scourging light that decimated the shambling ranks of the dead, stunning them and leaving them ripe for slaughter. And thus he carried on in this way, savaging anything and everything that stood in his path. Where lesser men would have stumbled, would have shirked and frozen in the face of death, he pressed on – fueled by a burning, zealous fury.
His goal stood close, now. So close. The Grand Cathedral of Stratholme towered in the distance, smoke wreathing its crumbling towers. That fortress had once been the religious center of the city; and up until recently, it had also served as a bastion for the Crusade, a stronghold from which they fought to purge and reclaim the cursed city. Those walls had once held an army of the faithful, had served as the Scarlet Crusades headquarters in this desolate land.
Naevius looked up at the ash-blackened archway that lead into the courtyard of the fortress, his heart heavy with loss. The Lord-Chaplain had departed to Northrend along with ten-thousand other Crusaders, to strike at the heart of the Scourge and destroy it once and for all.
But they had failed. Thousands perished upon the frozen plains, and he had narrowly escaped the rest of the his comrades fate - escaping the massacre at Onslaught Harbor, he had lead a band of other zealous survivors in battle against the Lich King's forces. They struck with blistering fury at the Scourge's outposts and Cults, but they too few to do more than harry the undead war machine. One by one they fell, till only he remained: and then the war was over, and he had been left purposeless. The traitor prince Arthas had been slain, and without his unholy leadership, the legions of the dead he had commanded fell apart. Hiding his colors, he had boarded an Alliance ship to Menethil Harbor at the wars end – and a torturous journey that had been, confined as he was below-decks with a motley multitude of non-humans.
After two months on the open sea's, they docked at port; and immediately he rode north across the Thandol Span and upwards through the Arathi Highlands – fighting off bands of roving Syndicate highwaymen and Mossbark trolls, desperate to reach one of the Crusades strongholds in the Plague Lands. He had hoped to find a welcome there.\What he found instead was a nightmare. Every outpost – every city, every fortress and every bastion that the Scarlet Crusade had held within the Plaguelands had been destroyed, sacked and butchered by a monstrous force.
Now he hunted the one responsible.
Naevius stepped forward across the ashen pavement, the flames gleaming upon the tarnished surface of his armor as he passed beneath the portcullis which granted access to the Scarlet Bastion – and as he did, more undead shambled forward to face him. These creatures bore armor, and livery of red and white. In life, they had been Scarlet Crusaders – members of the elite Crimson Legion that had been under the command of Grand Crusader Dathrohan. Now they were nothing but rotting, mindless flesh, animated by an unholy power.
His heart lurched in his chest, and he whispered a quiet prayer as the undead Crusaders limped towards him. This had been the final fate of all those who had stayed behind. To be slain by a traitors hand... and risen as undead. A more grievous insult could not have been made, and he felt bile rising in his throat as he moved to engage the rotting platoon "Blessed Light" He intoned, smashing his shield into the face of the first undead "Grant me the strength to hate" He decapitated it in a clean strike, before pivoting on his heel to face the zombie that had sought to take him from behind "As we purge those who would blasphemy against you" His blade hacked apart the undeads rotting mail, crushing its rib-cage and sending it tumbling to the ground "In your name, we beseech thee" A violent shock-wave of holy energy erupted from the face of his shield, turning the undead before him to ash and clearing his way as he ascended the steps of the Cathedral.
Opening the great doors, he stepped inside only to be beset by a pair of slumped undead dressed in the regal armor of the Crimson Legion. Snarling an invocation he summoned forth a hammer wrought from Holy Light and sent the divine weapon smashing down upon the first creatures head and sending it toppling to the ground. The second was struck with a crushing bash across the sternum that sent it stumbling backwards, to be dispatched by a quick, decapitating blow. He moved past the felled pair and down the carpeted entryway, turning a corner to entered the main hall of the Cathedral. It was much as he remembered it; a tall, crested ceiling wrought in the style of Cathedrals across Lordaeron, crenelated windows gleaming upon it's high arches, wrought of fine marble. Bookcases and pews lined the sides of the hall, small chambers pocketed along the walls every twenty feet – private, isolated rooms intended for study and prayer. Two further platoons of Risen stood solemnly at the far end of the hall, guarding another wooden double-door which lead deeper into the monastery. These creatures, however, seemed far more alert than their slower brethren – and as he stepped forward, they turned to present a shield wall against him, their rotting forms creaking as rusted blades were raised menacingly. A horrified pang cut through him when he saw that an officer stood with them; whereas most of the undead crusaders had succumbed to rot, this one still bore a face – and it was one he knew.
"What have they done to you, Menelaus?" He whispered hoarsely, his voice echoing in the grand chamber. The officer gave him a leering grin, revealing a smile stained by blood and writhing maggots "The Scarlet Crusade shall smite the wicked, and drive evil from these lands!" Menelaus proclaimed in a hoarse, empty voice that lacked the conviction it'd had in life. Naevius fought down the bile which rose in his throat – such blasphemy, from the lips of the dead... but he knew then that no soul remained in that rotting husk. Menelaus – or rather, what he had become – was simply repeating from some vague, tattered scrap of memory. A mindless recitation.
"Forgive me, Brother" He murmured, as he raised his blade before him. If Menelaus could still speak, it was a grave indication; the undead within this once-hallowed place would be a far more challenging foe than those he had faced thus far. They had been Crusaders in life, and despite all that had been thrown at them, though they had stood alone for years as a bastion against the undead and the heretics who sought to corrupt what little of Lordaeron remained, there were none who fought harder than a Scarlet.
Without another word he charged, roaring a furious litany as he slung his shield forward - a shimmering veil of Holy Light propelling it with terrible force as it came to strike against the first undead, smashing apart it's rotting chest and sending the creature flying back – yet it did not stop there. Defying all reason, it rebounded and struck another of the Risen, crushing rusted mail armor and bone to send the creature clattering to the floor before it surged off once more to crash into the hip of a third undead, a resounding crack ringing out as it shattered the bone. It all happened in the span of seconds, breaking apart their ranks and giving him the opening he needed.
Naevius crashed into the staggered mob with a fury that knew no likeness. But what his foes lacked in speed and skill, they made up for in tenacity, toughness – and armor. With every undead that fell before him, a rusted blade scraped against the surface of his plate, or stabbed against the joints of his armor. They fought with all the strength they had in life. Yet he shrugged off each blow with a stoicism that would have put a Dwarf to shame, a litany of hatred spewing from his lips as he came face to face with the last of the undead – Menelaus.
The former Crusader charged towards him, raising a stout warhammer over his shoulders as he yelled in a disturbingly emotionless voice "You carry the taint of the Scourge! Prepare to enter the twisting nether!" Naevius scowled and stepped in to meet the charge – lashing out with the flat of his blade to smack against the hammers shaft, sending the blow wide as he kicked out viciously, his armored sabaton smashing into the Risen's chest with a sickening 'crunch'. The force of the kick, coupled with Menelaus's own momentum, sent the former officer stumbling back. Naevius gave his foe no respite, lunging forward with a savage snarl as he lashed outwards with his blade, striking the handle of the hammer and sending it flying from the undeads grasp. Disarmed, the undead let out a mindless howl and lunged for him, lashing out with clumsy, grasping blows – but Naevius payed them no heed, charging forward and tackling the undead to the ground. He pinned the Risen beneath him, the blade of his sword pressed against Menelaus's exposed neck – a push downwards, and it would be over. But he hesitated in the moment, and instead of ushering in the killing blow, he looked at the mans face, contorted now in an expression of utter... soullessness. Of absolute inhumanity. It no longer mattered that this man had been a devout, pious soul in life – that he had once loved, had felt. He was nothing now. A puppet dancing upon razored strings.
It was a face that could easily have been his, had he stayed behind.
"What did they do to you, Brother?" He whispered, staring down into those soulless eyes for an answer he knew he would not receive. Menelaus continued to struggle, fueled by a mindless determination, his eyes milky white and unblinking, unrecognizing "The Scarlet Crusade will smite the wicked, and dri-" Naevius pressed down with his blade, silencing his former comrade before he... it... could finish the recitation. He rose from the corpse, wiping his blade clean of crusted blood, while his eyes scoured the shadows at the far end of the hall, ears alert for the sound of approaching foes. But there was only silence.
Slowly, he stooped down to pick up his shield from where it lay upon the floor; he hadn't time to retrieve it during the melee. It's crimson surface shone in the weak candlelight, the stylized L of Lordaeron embossed up its surface gleaming gently. He traced his fingers against the letter, his weathered features sharpening, his eyes closing as he remembered... remembered his life, before the plague. Remembered his wife, standing by the door to their home. Remembered his king, wise and just. Remembered his country, so powerful, so proud. And he remembered it's fall – saw it over and over again in his mind, a wordless crescendo of screams and wails rising into the night as the capital burned.
He had rallied those who survived, as the hordes of the undead spread. He had given himself over utterly to the Crusade, becoming a vessel of wrath, of holy retribution – a battlefield preacher who lead the men under him into battle with a litany on his lips and a blade in his hand. He had fought for over a decade to reclaim his home, fought alongside thousands of others – the faithful, the dedicated. The Scarlet Crusade did not fight for Lordaeron – it was Lordaeron. It was it's people, it's clergy, it's knighthood. It was their shield against the darkness. It – they – had done what was necessary to ensure the survival of the kingdom and its people. It had not been easy; there were many who sought to see their kingdom made extinct; from the soulless Scourge that stalked the land, to the enroachment of the genocidal Forsaken and their inhuman allies – and the Argents, who sent mercenaries of every creed and color to assail their strongholds. Hardest of all was determining who carried the taint of the plague. Whole villages had been set to the torch, to keep the plague from spreading; grim work, but necessary. The Cult of the Damned preyed upon human nature, upon it's fallibility's – and so his methods had become cold. But through it all, the Crusade – Lordaeron itself – had lived on.
And now it was all gone. All of it. Everything he'd dedicated his life to had been destroyed overnight. The realization that he was the last threatened to overwhelm him, and bowed his head forward, his forehead resting against the cool surface of the shield. He allowed his doubts in, and all his fears – mustering them within himself, for if he did not do so willingly, it would overwhelm him. And then he expelled his fears, wiping his mind clean of doubt and fear and sorrow - forcing the grave weight back to the deepest recesses of his mind, so that when his eyes opened they were hard and focused. Now was not the time to mourn, not the time to reflect.
Now was a time for vengeance.
His face set in a grave, wrathful mask, he gripped his shield and rose to his feet, turning and stepping over the mangled, broken bodies of the undead as he headed towards the vast doors that lead to the rest of the bastion, pushing them open and stepping into a long, narrow corridor flanked by pews on either side. Tattered banners bearing the stylized crimson L of Lordaeron hung along the windows, and at the far end of the passage stood three more Risen, garbed in the crimson livery they'd worn in life – and flanking them were a pair of robed figures. A curse flew from his lips and he barreled forward, raising up his shield as the undead moved into action, the reanimated crusaders limping forward whilst the Risen Magi raised their hands and made arcane sigils, tendrils of flame forming about their fingertips as they prepared a harrowing arcane assault.
He could not allow them to finish their casting – so as he charged, he slung his shield forward with a ferocious roar, a halo of blinding light forming about the shields edge as it whirled forward to strike the leading mage upon the chest, interrupting it's spellcasting with a brutal "crack" and sending the robed figure tumbling to the ground – but before it could rebound, the caster finished his spell and unleashed a blazing orb of flame towards the Crusader. Naevius swore and dove to the side, the crackling fireball singing the plates of his armor as it passed by him in the narrow corridor; but before he could rise, the undead were upon him, smashing and stabbing with rusting blades and maces. He raised an arm above his head, weathering the blows as he leaped forward to tackle the closest of the Risen, stabbing his blade through it's open maw and putting it to eternal rest before seizing it's mace and turning to deal with the others. There was no elegance, no finesse in his movements – he fought with all the grace of a brawler, smacking the iron macehead against the second Risen's head, crushing the skull and sending the creature tumbling forward, using the momentum of his strike to pivot and smash the pommel of his blade against the final sentry's helm. The blow must have jarred the creatures rotting brain, for it stumbled back dazed – granting him the reprieve he needed to part it's head from it's shoulders.
The crackling of arcane energies' reminded him that there was one threat left to deal with. Gripping his blade tightly in hand he ran forward, barreling down on the Risen arcanist while it was still muttering its mindless incantation, interrupting the cast with a savage blow across the head – blessed steel cutting through rotting flesh and bone. With a hoarse cry he wrenched his blade and shoved down, snapping the undeads neck as he sent it tumbling to the floor "Filth" He spat, wiping his blade clean of corpulescent fluids, before he picked up his shield from where it had come to lay. Fitting it back upon his arm, he buckled the straps tight before he seized the handle of the door and stepped through into the next hall.
Time no longer held any meaning for Naevius, as he made his way through the innermost sanctums of this once-hallowed place; his blade rising and falling in swift mechanical motions, every blow fueled by a cold, insensate rage. But the wear of battle began to show, as rusted blades cut into his armor, piercing spears and fiery spells taking their toll upon the embittered arbiter; yet despite his wounds, he fought on. Then there was nothing – silence. He stood alone in the corridor, the corpses of the guards – truly dead now – lying broken before him. Before him lay a vast pair of wooden double doors, enameled in gilt and gold and bearing the great seal of the Crusade. There lay the great antechamber, where Grand Crusader Dathrohan held his quarters.
Behind those doors, he would find the man responsible for all of this. He had long been aware of the rumors, whispered amongst the Crusades ranks – but he had never placed any credit in them. Dathrohan had always been the most fervent amongst them, asides from Naevius – but to think that the Grand Crusader could even be believed of such heresy? That had been before the failure in Northrend – before he had returned home to Lordaeron and found their holdings in ruins, their people slaughtered wholescale. Gripping the handle of the door, he pushed it open and stepped inside.
The antechamber was circular in shape, its high domed ceiling swathed in shadows. The floor was marbled, though in the dusk it appeared a stained blood red. Tattered banners hung from the alcoves, the stylized crimson L of Lordaeron evident upon their tattered lengths. At the far end of the chamber stood a throne, and slumped upon it was seated an armored figure – its form hidden in shadow. Naevius stepped forward into the chamber, his shield raised before him, fully expecting some sort of treachery as he approached the throne, his footsteps echoing in the empty silence that haunted the chamber. And then, he stood before the raised dais, his swordarm raised in preparation for a killing blow. His eyes gleamed with a terrible zeal as he struck, lashing out with his blade in a swift blow that parted the figure's head from its shoulders, sending it toppling to the floor with a hollow 'crack.' But as it did, Naevius tensed; for there was something wrong with the sound.
Without warning, the sconces set about the walls of the chamber burst into life, each coming to hold a terrible violet flame that crackled and licked at the air, lighting the chamber with a fell luminescence; and revealing just who had sat before him. A rotting corpse, clad still in the armor it had worn in life, a mighty two-handed warhammer lying across its lap. Not understanding, Naevius turned to look at its head; and despite the onset of the rot, he knew those features. It was the face of the Grand Crusader Dathrohan.
"What-" was all he had the chance to say, before a low, resonant laughter began to build; deep and inhuman, it shook the walls of the once-sacred chamber, causing the violet flames to shudder and crackle. Then the light went out, and he was left standing in utter darkness; but he was not alone. Something was in the chamber with him, something large, something powerful. He heard the sound of wingbeats, the 'clop' of hooves connecting against the marbled floor – and then, the lights returned, and he stood face to face with a monster. Twice his height, the fiend stood perched upon a pair of thick, muscled legs that ended in cloven hooves. Its skin was a pallid violet, clad in archaic, gleaming plate armor that shone a scabrous red. Two vast wings hung from its back, leathery and veined like those of a bat, and its hands bore terrible claws that glinted in the darkness. A pair of arched horns framed a visage which was the picture of malevolence, inhuman features twisted in a cruel grin. Its eyes glowed a vivid green with no whites or iris, and they were ancient. This was an evil that predated humanity, a creature that knew no compassion, no mortal emotion. The Dreadlord – for that was what this demon indeed was – laughed again at him, and he could not help but feel small, insignificant; a worm standing before a creature whose age and intellect far dwarfed that of a mere mortal.
"And so the Shepard returns, ever faithful to his master's call" the Demon said softly, his eyes – if indeed this monstrous thing could be said to possess a gender – narrowing as they settled upon the Crusader. "But do you not know your flock is slaughtered?" the Demon taunted, its deep, resonant tone tainted with a dark amusement. "Do you seek to join them, perhaps? If so, I can grant your wish..."
"Demon," spat Naevius, his weathered features twisted in a fierce scowl even as he felt a wave of revulsion wash over him at the sight of this beast; he had not noticed it before, but he felt a terrible aura washing over him, as though a weight had settled upon his soul. "What did you do to the Grand Crusader? To my brothers?" He felt a powerful hate begin to fill his veins, coursing through him in a growing rage that threatened to consume him. "Answer me, you fell beast!"
The Lord-Chaplain's threats meant little to the demon, who laughed cruelly in response. "Such presumption! Such audacity! How typical of you pathetic, misguided zealots. You never saw fit to question before" The creature's mouth split in a malicious expression that could not be called a smile, revealing rows of sharp, serrated teeth. "You've no idea how infuriating it was, listening to you fanatics for all those years. Such blind faith... you humans are such fallible creatures" The Dreadlord shrugged. "But I grow tired of deception. So I will tell you the truth" The demon leaned forward, scooping up Dathrohan's head and showing it to Naevius. "My name is Balnazzar – and like the rest of these insipid mongrels, you have been deceived. Your 'Grand Crusader' was nothing more than a puppet; I murdered him and possessed his corpse long ago, and turned this 'Crusade' into a weapon with which to destroy the Scourge, and lay the path for the Legion's return" The unholy creature scowled. "But your 'brothers' failed me too many times; this charade of a crusade outlived its usefulness. I no longer had need to maintain this illusion..." Slowly, the demon's clawed fist closed about Dathrohan's severed head, crushing it as easily as he might a grape. "So I removed them. They serve now, regardless of cause – a far more useful tool, wouldn't you agree?"
"You... removed them?" Naevius whispered, his face twisted in abject horror as he came to grips with the implications the demon's words bore. If what this fell beast said was true... then everything he had done, every righteous action, every purge – all of it had been a lie, tainted by the orders of a monster. "No," he whispered to himself, feeling his anger returning. "No, this cannot – is not true!" He snarled, leveling the blade of his sword at the grinning fiend. "Such are the ways of Demons, to lie and mislead us! Destroying your kind is the only way to ensure our faith remains pure!" He spat venomously, much to the Dreadlord's ire. "You think you can defeat me so easily? Then come, mortal, and face the true might of the Nathrezim!" Balnazzar bellowed; gone now was the demon's composure, replaced by a chilling bloodlust that was utterly inhuman.
Naevius wasted no time; with a furious roar he charged forward, raising his shield before him – but the demon did not intend to stand idly by. Moving with a speed that belied his size, Balnazzar lashed out with a clawed fist – easily the size of Naevius's midsection – in a blow that smashed aside the Crusaders defense and sent him flying back through the air. He hit the floor with a muted crash but shrugged off the blow, rising steadily to his feet – his features set in a determined scowl as the Nathrezim's mocking laughter filled his ears. "Pathetic" Balnazzar spat, a leery grin tugging at his malefic features "I had hoped at least for a challenge"
Naevius scowled and brought his sword to bear, reciting the Litany of Fury under his breath; invoking the power of the Holy Light and suffusing him with it's power, for indeed he would need to draw upon every iota of it's strength if he was to prevail against this Dreadlord. "I will end you, Demon. I will avenge all those you've slain" He declared, but Balnazzar was anything but impressed – twin goblets of violet flame flaring to life in the Dreadlord's clawed hands as the wretched demon stared at Naevius "All I have slain? What of yourself, 'Crusader', and the blood that stains your hands? The 'innocents' put to the pyre..." Balnazzar grinned wickedly at the Chaplain "You judged them infected – not I"
"They were infected; tainted by the plague" Naevius declared without hesitation "I did what was necessary – what the Light demanded" His eyes narrowed "As I am forced to do, yet again" No sooner had he spoken those words than the demon moved – flinging a clawed hand forward to unleash a blast of shadowed, violet flame towards the Crusader. He tried to move but he found his reaction sluggish – it was all he could do to raise his shield before him, yet it proved no match for the potency of the Demons magicks, which smashed it out of his hand."You acted out of paranoia! Out of fear!" The demon spat, crossing the space between them in a single stride and coming to seize Naevius in his clawed fist, raising the armored Chaplain up from the floor as though he weighed nothing at all – and though Naevius fought furiously, Balnazzar did't even seem to register his efforts. "You needed no urging to see the plague where there was none; to slay and kill and destroy the very people you were sworn to protect" The demon caught Naevius's sword in its hand as he lashed out and ripped it from him – he could only watch in despair as Balnazzar snapped it asunder with the barest of ease, the ancient blade falling to the floor in pieces "You are nothing, 'Lord Chaplain'" Hissed the Dreadlord, flinging the Scarlet violently across the room.
Naevius's brief flight was broken by the throne and a jarring crash. The world was spinning in his eyes, and he felt every wound, every injury he had sustained and ignored for so long; it was all he could do to stay conscious, as he squinted through blurred eyes at the form of the Dreadlord."You have failed, as has the rest of your pitiful Crusade. And now you will die" For once, Naevius could not reply. This was the end for him. He had failed utterly in his appointed task: he'd let his Brothers fall, let his country die... and had been too blind to see the cancer that throbbed at the heart of his beloved Crusade. Now he would pay the price for that failure. Emotions surged within him – regret, anger, self-disgust. Bitter disappointment that he would die with his sacred oath unfulfilled.
Was this how it would end? Broken and beaten, the cast-side toy of some malefic monster? Was that all he was? All he had ever been? Had he truly slain the innocent, out of some twisted, zealous misgiving?
"No" He whispered to himself, and that word was both a denial and validation. He tried to rise to his feet, but found that his entire body ached when he moved. Yet he fought back the pain, willing it away for the time being as he reached out blindly, his hand pressing against the seat of the throne till he felt his fingers curl about the shaft of the Grand Crusaders warhammer. Naevius felt a wave of cool reassurance run through him at it's touch, and the turmoil which wracked him ceased, if only for a moment. "Light grant me strength," the Chaplain murmured, as he came to kneel before Dathrohan's throne, the Grand Crusader's warhammer clutched to his chest. He spoke now to himself, his words barely a whisper, but they carried a resonance beyond this world. "For I cannot do this alone. All my life I have served you faithfully. I have given all that I can to protect and shield the weak. Now I ask – no, I beg – that you grant me this one last boon. Let me finish this. Let me avenge all that have fallen to this monster." He knelt his forehead against the maul, but his brief reverie was interrupted by a low, rumbling laughter.
"Pathetic; even now you plead for help" Balnazzar sneered, rims of violet flame pouring over his clawed hands as looked down upon the Crusader; in the time that Naevius had prayed, the Dreadlord had crossed the distance between them "The Light can no longer hear you, human. Now you will join your brethren in service to me" The demon raised his fist upwards in preparation for the final blow, and yet it seemed to come take an eon to Naevius. He felt a warmth blossoming from deep within his core, growing with every passing second till it enveloped his entire body; suffusing his limbs with energy and strength, washing away his weariness and sharpening his mind. He let out a ferocious cry – the Light had answered his prayers. "What-?" Balnazzar whispered, and for the first time the demon lost confidence as the Crusader began to shine, a powerful aura of holy energy coalescing about Naevius's frame as he turned to face the Dreadlord: Dathrohan's warhammer held firmly in his hands.
"I will avenge my Brethren" Naevius proclaimed fiercely, his voice rising with every word, the blinding luminescence which shone from his frame forcing the Nathrezim to shield his eyes and take a step back – but the Crusader had no intention of allowing the demon a moment of respite. "I will redeem this blasphemy" He snarled as he stepped in towards his foe, lashing out with sudden speed to smash the head of the warhammer against the demon's midriff, a thunderous blow that caught his foe offguards and sent him staggering back. Balnazzar must have realized then what had happened – that Naevius's prayers had been answered. The Light had given him strength "NOW FACE JUDGEMENT, DEMON!" Naevius roared as he charged forwards, his weapon raised for a vicious strike – but Balnazzar had no intention of being bested by a mere mortal. The demon met his charge with an inhuman roar and a blast of shadowed energy, which the Chaplain smashed aside with a sweeping strike; and thus, their true duel began.
What ensued was the stuff of legends; the Dreadlord Balnazzar, last of the Nethrezim dispatched to Azeroth, pitted against the vengeful Lord-Chaplain Bellorum: sole living member of the Scarlet Crusade. They fought with all the fury they could muster, yet the demon began to loose ground. It was incomprehensible to him; he was a Dreadlord! He had ended countless lives, crushed mortals underfoot without a second thought; yet he could not fell this one, damned human! And then, it happened – a piercing shock that ran through the demon's core and sent him staggering. Naevius had smote a fatal blow, utterly crushing the Dreadlord's breastplate, and Balnazzar could stand no longer.
Slowly, the demon fell to the floor with a crash that resounded throughout the antechamber, yet before he could rise, Naevius was upon him – leaping upon his chest and pinning the Dreadlord beneath him, raising his hammer in preparation for the final strike. Balnazzar cackled weakly, black fluids dripping from the corner of his mouth "Fool" The demon spat "Killing me gains you nothing, nor it will not redeem you of the innocent blood you've shed"
"No" Replied the Chaplain, his eyes burning with a terrible zeal "Everything that I have done, I did for Lordaeron. We strove to protect the weak and preserve the innocent; nothing you say can diminish that, Demon"
"Blind zealot" Snarled the Dreadlord "You are, and always will be, nothing! Do you hear me? Nothi-" Naevius brought his hammer down with a resounding crash, and as it smashed into Balnazzar's face his foe let out a glass-shattering wail of tormented defeat, before the demon's form broke down into a thousandfold swirling bats that soared up and away, disappearing into shadows past the high alcoves of the chamber. The Dreadlord had been vanquished. The strength the Light granted him began to eb away as the battle ended, leaving him weak, drawn out. But still he pressed on, limping away from the antechamber with Dathrohan's warhammer in hand. Where would he go now? What could he do? He was but one man, set against what seemed the entire world. There were still places held by the Scourge, by the Forsaken – territory that had belonged to his people, once.
Hefting the weapon over his shoulder, he staggered away, down the halls and out of the fortress-monastery, out of Stratholme itself and into the plaguelands beyond. There was much indeed that was wrong with this world.
Only by fire and faith could he put it to right.