Prologue
Praesidia was once a thriving center of commerce and learning, a gathering hub for merchants and scholars across Lordaeron. Its streets teemed with goods from all over Azeroth, and great works of art celebrating the achievements of mankind adorned its museums and halls. Though not as great as the capital city itself, Praesidia in its heyday rivaled and even surpassed Stratholme or Andorhal in splendor and magnificence. Thousands were proud to call this great city their home, keeping the moral high as the banner of the Alliance flew upon its parapets.
When the Scourge came, the city became one of the chief bastions of Lordaeron against the undead. Although Praesidia's former prosperity was greatly diminished due to disrupted trade and constant threat, the refugees who flocked behind its gates could breathe a little easy, protected by the remnants of the Lordaeron army headed by several paladins of the Silver Hand. Even as the world around them crumbled into madness and ruins, the residents of Praesidia held fast, placing their hopes in their traditional faith and human strength in face of peril.
Good armor and sturdy sword will keep those rotting buggers at bay, they said. Those bastards will always fear our Lordaeron steel and the goodness of the Light.
Perhaps Praesidia's greatest flaw lay rooted in such naïve beliefs, combined with stubborn insistence in simply barricading themselves behind thick walls rather than pursuing more aggressive strategy. Ignorance of their foe quickly bred false sense of security and unfortunate indifference towards their current urgencies. After the city repelled several minor undead incursions, its residents were quick to divert their attention to more trivial matters—namely, political disputes that rent the fragile peace in two. Despite the paladins' efforts to mount an effective defense against the impending Scourge onslaught, many citizens rose to challenge their leadership, protesting against the exercise of authority geared towards benefiting the society as whole rather than catering to individual freedom and rights. Calling themselves, "The Patriots of Lordaeron," this group of peasants mixed with social dissenters were led by a woman named Rahap Anlis, a former district magistrate turned demagogue. Despite their propaganda espousing justice and peace, the Patriots grew ever more fanatical and xenophobic, even burning books and attacking non-humans in broad daylight.
Slowly but surely, Praesidia was collapsing into anarchy.
Yet, social dissension was not as dangerous compared to widespread misconceptions festering amongst the populace; namely, those concerning the nature of their external enemy. The first one was a ridiculous speculation that the undead could only be inferior to the living. After all, the Scourge was not—contrary to popular belief—a mob of mindless zombies only apt at attacking in large numbers. In fact, much of the undead possessed a great deal of cunning and intelligence, even somewhat heightened in un-death. One might say that the only thing those humans had more of than the undead was pride and plenty of snobbish attitudes—aside from flesh and blood of course. Somehow in one way or another, it was inevitable that the Scourge would figure out a way to breach the city defenses. As for Lordaeron steel and the goodness of the Light, the undead simply did not give a damn.
Praesidia's second mistake was to categorize the entirety of the Scourge as undead. As it turned out, not all of its members had succumbed to un-death.
Those chosen few, for their part, had simply gone beyond death itself.
Praesidia burned under the starry sky.
The flames grasped at the darkness of the night, illuminating the city as it began to fade into the annals of forgotten history along with its past glories. The air was thick with heat, smoke, and horrible stench of blood and gore. Total chaos had gripped the city as its citizens frantically tried to flee for their lives. But there was simply no respite from the roaring fire, collapsing buildings, and the endless waves of undead closing in from all sides.
All of this was lost on Ronarius Ignell.
The paladin let out a defiant cry as he smashed the head of a zombie with his mighty war hammer as the undead clambered over the barricade. The desiccated corpse fell with a soft moan, spraying bits of bone and rotten flesh onto the paladin's plate armor and blue cloak—only to be replaced by three more. Undaunted, Ronarius muttered a short incantation, instantly bathing the ghouls with holy fire. The creatures writhed wildly as they slowly disintegrated into ashes, screeching in blind fury. Spitting into their still forms, the paladin took a quick glance around to assess his situation.
Ronarius had taken a stand in the market square fortified with makeshift barricades, along with two of his brother paladins and a handful of soldiers and militia. Praesidia, for all intents and purposes, was lost. Despite hours of valiant stand against the Scourge, the walls were eventually overrun, and even now waves of undead monstrosities streamed past the gates to join the great massacre. All resolves of resistance had crumbled, leaving each and every man to fend for himself. Ronarius could see panicked civilians running amok screaming and crying, some chased down by ghouls and ripped apart into pieces. A group of Patriots, with their trademark red, white, and black bandanas, was huddled against the building wall and feverishly praying in incoherent words, their expressions full of despair and denial. Their futile supplications to the light turned into screams as a large abomination tore into their midst, each swing with its oversized cleaver rending limbs and slices of flesh. Such shall be the fates of the fools, Ronarius thought bitterly. If only they had abandoned their hatemongering and saw the real danger facing them.
But the paladin would not suffer the same fate. He had served as a knight of the Silver Hand for more than a decade, fighting against orcs and helping to restore order across Lordaeron. He had faced off against death on more than one occasion, and was sure as hell not about to shirk away from another. It was clear that there would be no hope of escape or salvation. Ronarius would instead make his last stand amongst these ruins, shoulder to shoulder with his brothers, taking as many of the undead scum as he can with him to a glorious death. The others, despite lingering fear, would be thinking the same thing.
"Incoming!"
A shout jerked Ronarius from his thoughts. Brother Etienne, one of the younger members of the Order, gestured towards the western barricades. Behind the thick veil of smoke, Ronarius could see another horde of undead rushing towards them, roaring and moaning. This particular wave appeared to be larger than the previous ones, and the paladin knew a tough fight lay ahead of him. Even now, the stench of rotten flesh overpowered his senses, forcing Ronarius to fight down the bile creeping up his throat.
"Brothers, we stand face to face with death itself. But, remember, we are the shield of Lordaeron, champions of the Light, defenders of the weak, and we shall be so until the very end," Ronarius muttered through his gritted teeth. "Whatever may come to us, we shall never fear or falter. We go as one, into the glorious ascension that awaits us beyond."
"I'm with you, brother," said Brother Farrick, another of the paladin who had taken a stand alongside him. Usually a jovial fellow, his normally merry expression was now replaced by grim, determined façade, passion burning brightly in his eyes.
"As am I," Brother Etienne said, looking equally brave. "It had been an honor serving with you all, brothers." Despite his youth, Etienne exerted an impressive control over himself, his calm countenance unbroken.
"Light be with us!" cried Ronarius as the first of the undead crashed into the barricade. The flimsy structure, already weakened by earlier attacks, gave way before the assault. Within seconds, the market square was filled with the undead, locked in a fierce melee with the defenders.
Ronarius brought down a ghoul with a mighty pound, and bashed another in the jaw with an upward swing. Beside him, Etienne deftly decapitated an undead warrior with his two-handed sword, while Farrick sparred with three armed skeletons simultaneously with his large axe. The soldiers and militia were simply fighting for their lives, but lacking the skills and powers of the paladins, human casualties were slowly mounting high. Despite the bravery, the paladins found themselves slowly being surrounded.
With a loud whoosh, Ronarius' war hammer was suddenly sheathed in a burning light, bathing the paladin with a brilliant aura. Great fury and zeal filled him as he tore into the undead with a renewed vigor. Claws and fangs shattered before his blows, while rotten flesh was simply burned away by the light.
"WE ARE THE HANDS OF RETRIBUTION, THE HAMMERS OF JUSTICE!" roared Ronarius as swung his weapon in a wide arc, felling several skeletons.
"EVIL SHALL NOT TRIUMPH, FOR WE ARE EVER VIGILANT AND READY!" his brothers took up the cry, joining Ronarius in his onslaught.
"WE ARE THE LIGHT THAT PURGES DARKNESS, THE BANE OF ALL THAT IS UNHOLY!"
An off-hand strike with his mailed fist crushed a skull in, knocking the foe back into its companions and toppling the small posse into a messy heap.
"NONE SHALL STAND THE AGENTS OF THE LIGHT, FOR WE ARE THE SALVATION OF THE PEOPLE AND THE PUNISHERS OF THE WICKED!"
A large abomination lumbered into the square, roaring and swinging hooks and cleavers from its many limbs. Undaunted, Ronarius lunged at the monster, deftly ducking under a sweep to close his range. With all his might, he smashed down his hammer onto the broad belly of the monster, a brilliant explosion of light accompanying with the impact. With a moan of pain, the abomination momentarily staggered, giving room for Etienne to leap towards its bulbous head and cleave the skull in twain. The undead behemoth collapsed with a heavy groan, squashing the lesser minions underneath with its great bulk.
By this time, a great number of undead lay broken around the three paladins. Though bloody and tired, the holy knights stood back to back facing the horde with unmitigated anger and vigor. The undead horde, though numerous, now seemed hesitant, as if they saw an insurmountable strength in their foes. The mob collectively drew back, allowing the paladins some respite. The situation still looked grim, however. All except the paladins were now dead, overwhelmed by the hunger of the Scourge. The undead surrounded them on all sides, their hollow or desiccated eye sockets staring blankly at the last defenders of Lordaeron. They had momentarily stopped their attacks for now and yet allowed no room for retreat.
"Come on, you bastards! What are you waiting for!" Farrick shouted into the silent horde, his face covered with sweat, blood, and fury. "Are you afraid?"
"The undead are not supposed to feel any fear, Farrick," Etienne muttered urgently. "Be on your guard, brothers. Something is up…."
As on cue, the momentary silence was abruptly cut off by a sharp neighing that rent the cold air. Something was galloping towards them at a high speed, the rushing of hooves drawing near and growing louder. But Ronarius could sense instinctively that this was no ordinary horse. The air around them had suddenly grown cold, dreary, and tense, even mounting high pressure against their own auras of light.
"I don't like this. Be prepared to-"
With a great force, a dark form charged forth from the midst of the undead horde, crushing some unfortunate corpses that happened to stand in its way. Ronarius caught a sight of a monstrous skeletal steed covered in dark armor split seconds before it bore down on them in full speed. Only the years of training saved the paladins from the initial onslaught. The three leapt clear out of the way just before the heavy hooves, recovering hastily as they rolled onto the ground. Ronarius's momentary relief was dashed however as he spotted a tall figure swiftly leap off from the back of the steed as it passed by. As the undead horse disappeared back amongst the undead horde, its rider landed amongst the scattered paladins. The gathering darkness around them betrayed only the rough outline of the newcomer.
Before Ronarius could shout off a warning, the figure drew a large blade and rushed at Farrick with an unnatural speed. The veteran paladin roared as he swung down his axe, but his assailant twirled gracefully around the stroke and rammed into Farrick with a shoulder tackle.
Before he could recover from the blow, the blade plunged deep into the paladin's chest, piercing clean through the plate mail and all the way out to his back. The attacker swiftly drew out the weapon with a sickening squelch, as Farrick—with an expression of shock and surprise on his face—fell gurgling and clutching at his gory wound. The bout had lasted only for a few seconds.
A wild cry broke from Ronarius's side. The sight of his brother's sudden demise had finally snapped the calm demeanor that had held Etienne together. The young paladin charged at the Farrick's killer with reckless abandon, swinging his two-handed sword. His mask was that of grief and wrath, the serene, composed light of his eyes replaced by a cocktail of chaotic emotions.
A rookie mistake.
The figure parried Etienne's blow with a visible contempt, redirecting every stroke into slicing at empty air. The paladin's attack forms became increasingly erratic with every passing second, faster than Ronarius could take in. Four clumsy strokes, followed by a misstep, were all it took. With a clean swipe, the young paladin's head rolled onto the ground. His body swayed and collapsed, a fountain of blood vigorously spilling onto the ground as a crimson river.
Ronarius stood dumbstruck by the spectacle, shaken out of stupor when the figure slowly turned to face him. The moonlight now allowed for a clearer view of his opponent. Clad head to toe in dark plate armor adorned with silver sigils and spikes, the newcomer was almost tall as he but slimmer. A black cloak whirled behind him while a monstrous winged helm—with a dragon wing ornament jutting upwards on each side—completely hid his face, although eyes burning with intense blue fire shone behind the slits. To top it all, a monstrous yet ornate rune blade was clutched in his gauntleted fist, which the warrior now raised and pointed towards Ronarius. Faint twinges of fear began to gnaw at his nerves as the paladin realized whom he was up against.
A Death Knight. The greatest champions of the Scourge, commanders of the undead horde. Though he had never faced one before, the rumors he had heard—now validated by the deaths of his brothers—were certainly terrifying.
Ronarius fought to slow his beating heart, quickly regaining his composure. He was the warrior of the Light, above the clutches of uncontrollable emotions and weaknesses that plagued average men. Death Knight or not, his enemy would be vanquished just like the undead minions who came before. Grasping his war hammer tightly, the paladin charged towards his foe with a battle cry on his lips.
The death knight met his advance head on. Despite the sheer bulk of his armor, the warrior was surprisingly swift and light on his feet. The seemingly cumbersome rune blade deftly parried every blow Ronarius dealt, returning furious blows of its own that often left deep gashes in the paladin's armor. The strength that had previously felled so many orcs and undead was proving ineffective against the death knight, looking clumsier by the minute against the clean strokes of his opponent. Only a few of his attacks landed a hit, and even then there were hardly any dents left on the death knight's armor. Though he was faring much better than his brothers, Ronarius quickly realized he was being outmatched. Why was the death knight prolonging the bout instead of finishing him off?
The death knight blocked a vertical hammer strike with his blade, and suddenly lashed out with a punch from his free hand. The mounting fatigue and frustration prevented Ronarius from fully registering the threat, and the paladin instantly found himself reeling from the shock. The next thing he knew, the rune blade was cutting open a long wound diagonally across his chest, mangling the armor as it bit through the metal. Immense pain, far greater than it should have been, burned through the paladin's body. Ronarius let out a cry of agony as he dropped to his knees, blood dripping past his lips and onto the ground. It was as if his blood was boiling, but at the same time clutching his heart in a chilling vice grip. There was not only raw strength but also sorcery behind this grievous attack, Ronarius realized.
Looking up, he saw the death knight studying him with a definite hint of amusement in his eyes. Amusement, the paladin raged inwardly. The bastard was simply toying with him for entertainment! Newfound indignation and fury became a reservoir of energy with which Ronarius supported himself up slowly, using his war hammer for support. If he was going to die, at least he wanted to do so with some dignity and honor. He would not go down while satisfying his opponent's need for fun.
Gathering all the remaining energy in him, Ronarius raised his weapon and charged at the death knight with a roar. His war hammer shone brightly with holy fire eager to burn away at his foe. The death knight on the other hand remained perfectly still, calmly eyeing the paladin even as the hammer began its powerful descent above him. Ronarius put all his strength and righteous anger behind the blow, the memory of his fallen brothers lingering in him.
"FOR LORDAERON!"
There was nothing, not even a burst of light, when the hammer struck a blow. To the paladin's surprise and horror, the death knight simply checked the blow with his palm, grasping at the hammer's head even as the weapon strained to force itself down all the way. The brilliance of the light began to die, only to be replaced by a thick sheet of frost that now rapidly enveloped the hammer. With a loud clang, the death knight squeezed his grasp and literally shattered the mighty weapon into several pieces, leaving only the long handle in Ronarius's trembling hands.
This was not the death he had envisioned. There was no glory or honor in his final hours, not what a paladin truly deserved.
Ronarius lay sprawled on the ground, a pool of blood expanding beneath him. He had lost all abilities to move; the death knight had taken time cutting off his limbs one by one, until he had none left. The agony was almost unbearable, but that sweet relief of death refused to come. He had truly fallen, defeated and at the mercy of the order's great enemy.
The death knight strode into his view and looked down at the paladin in silence. His rune blade dripped with blood and gore, reminder of the horrific torture inflicted.
"Finish me," Ronarius managed to gasp. "I deserve….a clean death."
The death knight simply continued to stare at him for a moment. Then, to the paladin's utmost surprise, he began to laugh—sensuous, feminie laughter so euphonious and melodious in tone that might have snared the hearts of many young men.
"I don't think you were ever good enough to deserve one, my dear," said the death knight as he removed his helmet. The face that greeted Ronarius was not what he had expected.
A long silver-blue hair fell to the shoulders around a beautiful face with a pale skin. Her lips were pale bluish in hue, topped by a dainty nose and two eyes glowing with blue fire. His opponent was a woman perhaps in her mid to late twenties, shockingly attractive if not for a cruel smile on her lips and an aura of sheer terror emanating from her being.
The death knight kneeled, drawing her face closer to the paladin and locking their eyes. The fires of her eyes seemed to flare, threatening to bore through his very soul. No matter how head he tried to turn away, Ronarius could only stare into the dreadful light.
"Tell me, paladin, what do you see?"
It was then that his mind exploded into a wild kaleidoscope of horrors, some of which were scenes from his campaigns mixed with the horrors of wars he had witnessed—all magnified tenfold. The paladin saw kingdoms fall, lives lost, and dark powers revel in their victories as they drank from the souls of the fallen. He learned of forces far greater than he had even imagined, and then full realization of his helplessness struck him; of his foolishness to revere what was most insignificant, blindly carrying out his orders unaware that he was merely a pawn in some greater game. But most of all, he began to feel….regret and sorrow, not for his demise, but for his life wasted in pursuit of false visions and ideologies fabricated and tainted by the evils of men. As he felt the last vestiges of his faith and resolve melt away, the death knight viciously plunged her rune blade straight into his still-beating heart.
Ronarius Ignell, the paladin of the Silver Hand, screamed in horror as the ravenous rune blade began to feast on his soul and blood.
The death knight straightened up and replaced her blade at her waist, her gaze fixed on the broken wretch lying before her. The misguided fool had placed his lot in the holy Light, and had forfeited his life and dignity for this folly. There had been a time when she was blind as he, so naïve and full of optimism, believing that she would someday become the greatest champion of the Silver Hand. The light had lured and trapped her with so many false promises, taking everything while giving nothing in return. A low chuckle escaped her as a cruel grin marred the death knight's beautiful features. She mentally noted that in the future, she would make sure to do those paladins a favor by freeing them from hopeless oaths.
As the death knight turned away from her fallen foe, a tall undead clad in heavy armor shambled from the crowd of minions, bowing at her approach.
"Milady….we have finished securing the city and neutralizing its defenders. Our forces are currently looting the place for supplies and fresh corpses," the undead spoke. "And may I say what a spectacular performance you've put on against the human warrior?"
The death knight's cold countenance broke into a delightful smile as she giggled innocently at the compliment.
"Awww, that's so sweet, my dear Sir Trivion! But you know, that really wasn't my best. I mean after all, I couldn't go out all the way on someone as pathetic as him…. Give a day or two, and I shall put on a performance you'll never forget! Anyways, I trust our objectives are still intact?"
"Yes, my lady. No damage has been done to the tower of sorcery as per your orders. Lord Blackwind is going through the ancient texts with his acolytes even as we speak."
"Those musty parchments had better be important," said the death knight with a feigned pout. "I still don't see why that stupid lich needed my troops to take over this blasted place. Do you, Sir Trivion?"
"No, milady. I do not."
"Oh, well. At least now he owes me a big favor. And besides, we all got to have some fun, didn't we? After all, there's nothing like a good slaughter to spice up your day."
The death knight sighed contentedly before giving a high pitched whistle. Her skeletal steed trotted out to her, its head bowed. After an affectionate scratch behind its bleached skull, she gracefully climbed onto her saddle.
"Sir Trivion, make sure we are prepared to move out in another hour or so. I don't want to miss our rendezvous with Imho'Nurak at the Silverpine Forest like the last time. You know how he babbles on and on about punctuality and that crap, always going yakkity-yak-yak-yak….And would you be a sweetheart and hold onto my helmet for a while? All that weight is wreaking havoc on my hair, for crying out loud," the death knight tossed her silver-blue hair to one side, trying to straighten out her bangs clumsily with her gauntleted hand. "I think I'll have my squire braid me again. I could use a new style once in a while."
"Of course, milady," Sir Trivion replied as he accepted the heavy helm from his liege. "But before you depart….what would you have me do with the prisoners?"
"Hmm?"
The death knight turned to spot a small group of humans guarded by her minions, huddled closely together and looking positively frightened. Most of them were women, the elderly, and children, hardly fit to become fresh troops for her growing army.
Aurelia Silviandir—commander of the Black Wolves legion, Lady of the Moonblade Keep, and the self-styled consort of Prince Arthas—hardly spared a moment to ponder on their fate.
"Oh, boys~" the death knight crooned towards her undead minions, a sadistic smile spreading across her face.
"How about some midnight snack?"
R&R! (If you wish to see more)