Heartwell
Part 1
Prologue
"Idiot! Fool! How could you let an infidel into the heart of my lands?!"
In the darkest recess of a forsaken continent, a being of incalculable power and evil raged. The Lich King's massive throne room had little decoration, for the Frozen Throne and its occupant were sure to draw the eyes away from any mere ornamentation. Besides the Throne, the only other object of note in the room was a dark altar, upon which countless human lives had ended. The aura of evil here was so palpable that, if any priest of the Light were to behold it, they would surely be driven mad.
Before the Throne, a servant of the Lich King trembled before the wrath of his master.
"Lord! Great One! It was not my fault the intruder got so far. She had --"
"It is your job as the Defender of Icecrown to protect this glacier. You had an entire legion of my minions at your command, Serrax, and you could not find a single elf! That I actually had to use my psychic powers to find her for you, that I actually had to dirty my hands with this simple task is an insult that I will assuage to your extreme discomfort--"
"I'm so sorry, Great Lord! The ranger wench-"
"Silence!" Ner'zhul snarled, his powerful voice echoing through the vast confines of the chamber. The lesser lich's apologies died on the instant.
"Bring in the elf."
The door to the throne room swung open, and a half-dozen acolytes entered carrying a struggling woman. The markings on her tattered green cape identified her as a Pathfinder, a member of the highest cadre of the elite ranger corps. Her auburn hair was disheveled and her clothing was ripped and torn, but she appeared to be unhurt.
"Secure her to the altar," ordered Ner'zhul and his acolytes obeyed. He could have his lackeys do this, the necromancers. Some of them were quite good at the Black Arts, but he wanted to make certain that this was done perfectly. He needed to know why the ranger, alone, had attempted the perilous journey into the heart of his domain, and for that he would need the entirety of her spirit intact.
He had learned the value of caution over the years, and the value of understanding one's enemy. He had suffered setbacks, even outright defeats in his life, but he had come too far to leave anything to chance now. When his servants commenced the invasion of Lordaeron, he wanted to know exactly what type of enemy he faced.
"Think you that I will beg, that I will grovel?" spat the high elf. "You are a coward! You are nothing! It took a hundred of your servants to capture me, and I killed half of them while they tried it. Lysa sheris! If ever we were to meet in combat, you would be the one to beg for mercy!"
Behind her bravado Ner'zhul sensed her fear, and felt her pounding heart. Trapped as he was within the Frozen Throne, the Lich King had lost the ability to physically move. Now he had to make do with the power of telekinesis. Calmly he used that power to grasp a glowing dagger beside the altar, and shear away what was left of the ranger's clothes. Muttering arcane words, he floated the dagger high above the altar to strike, while the naked Pathfinder desperately, futilely struggled with her bonds.
When Ner'zhul was alive, he would have thought the ranger beautiful, even though the blood that had flowed through his veins had been orcish. But Death had stolen his appreciation for pleasures of the flesh, just as it had stolen his capacity for mercy, small as it had been.
He finished the incantation and plunged the dagger downward.
The woman grunted, but seemed surprised to find the dagger embedded in her belly button. Apparently she had thought Ner'zhul would pierce her heart, or slit her throat. Her struggles redoubled, for the wound she had taken was minor, hardly life threatening. A glimmer of hope appeared in her eyes, for it was Death she feared, and now it seemed this sacrificial ritual was not what it seemed--perhaps a magical interrogation instead, or some type of divination spell. Perhaps she would live, for a while longer at least.
If it had been possible, the Lich King would have shaken his head. The pitiful mortal did not understand the nature of the runeblade. The danger of the glowing dagger lay not in its keen edge, but in its capacity to steal souls.
The hope in the ranger's eyes died as she realized the blade was not what it seemed. The vampiric blade began to glow more forcefully, slowly pulling her elf spirit inside. Her terror was now evident, and she made no more pretense of bravado. Her struggles became frantic, her breathing rapid, the runeblade a tiny parasite sucking her life away.
"No! No! NO!!"
Ner'zhul ignored her futile struggles and focused on the dagger. As the ranger's spirit was drawn inside, it became chained to Ner'zhul's essence just as firmly as he was chained to the Frozen Throne. The spirit was strong in this one, and he savored the delectable taste -- the fact that she resisted so strongly only increased his ecstasy. His consciousness became awash in her emotions, life essence, and memories.
It was the memories that concerned him. The high elves were a long-lived race, and this particular high elf was several hundred years old. Like a fine wine that had been perfectly aged, he greedily drank in her memories--of her childhood, of a loving family, of playing in the majestic forests of Quel'thalas, of her decision to begin training as a ranger, of her swift promotion through the ranks, of a long romance with a boyfriend, of a long friendship with another ranger named Bryony, and finally, what the Lich King sought…
Her decision to travel to Northrend. Her friends and family had all been against it, but she was a headstrong elf and would not be deterred.
"There's a growing evil in Northrend, and I would be remiss in my duties as a ranger if I did not find out if it threatens our people," she had told them.
What a relief! She had acted alone, without support from either Quel'thalas or the Alliance. She was not a scout for a larger force, and no one would be coming to find her. His carefully crafted plans were intact. The dagger was finishing its work.
The Pathfinder's struggles had ceased and her breathing was shallow. She moaned faintly as she stared at the blade. A few seconds later, she closed her eyes, let out a deep sigh, and did not draw in another breath.
The dagger stopped pulsating with light, and the Lich King muttered a minor preservation spell to keep the lifeless corpse from decaying. She was the first high elf he had ever Taken, and her memories had showed him that this race had many skills to offer the Scourge. Lordaeron was the primary threat of course, but he would now be certain to send forces to take Quel'thalas once the heart of the Alliance had been dealt with.
But there was one last thing to attend to. Using telekinesis to grasp the hilt of the dagger with an invisible hand, he sent a portion of the ranger's essence back into her body. The dead elf coughed, and her eyes fluttered open.
"What…what have you done to me?" she groaned.
"You are neither dead, nor alive, but somewhere in between, elf. I have given you…a new outlook on existence," said the Lich King as he used his power to withdraw the runeblade and sever her bonds.
"I'm so cold!"
"Yes, for the warmth of life does not belong to you anymore, Kirielle. Yes! I know your name. My name is--"
"I don't care what your name is!" cried the pale high elf, now leaping to her feet, unashamed of her nakedness. She grabbed the floating dagger. "Big mistake, cutting those bonds. You won't believe how quickly I'm gonna kill you, even with this puny blade! That block of ice won't protect you for long!"
"You forget Kirielle, you're dead. You have no soul, and therefore no will. No will, except my own of course. You serve me now…"
"Like hell I do you-"
"Prostrate yourself before your new god, child."
A look of absolute horror on her face, the ranger found herself unable to resist the command.
"I'll have my acolytes bring some new clothes for you, and give you your weapons back."
Kirielle started sobbing uncontrollably.
"Ah, my dear, that is no way to react to the great future that has been set out before you! After all, I could have brought you back as a ghoul, skeleton, or some lesser type of undead. But you have been allowed to keep your form and intelligence, so that your unique skills can be better put to use to aid the Scourge. You will soon learn that all who serve me have a special place in our society. You will never eat, drink, sleep, or tire again as my servant, nor will you fear death through natural causes. These are the boons that I give to you. Serve me well, and you will gain power beyond your wildest dreams. Serve me poorly, and-"
A magical blast of energy shot out from the Frozen Throne, engulfing Serrax. The lesser lich had time for only one brief shriek before he was pulverized into nothingness.
"...serve me poorly, and you'll be lucky if mere oblivion is the only punishment you receive. By the way, did I mention that the post of Defender of Icecrown was just vacated? Would you like a promotion?"
Chapter 1, One year later….
Aramoor feared. It was an all-consuming, all-encompassing fear which flowed through him, permeated him. For he knew he was about to die.
He huddled in his tent, blankets wrapped around him, his tarnished armor providing little protection from the cold. Gods he had grown to hate the cold! He had grown to hate everything about this forsaken continent, from the abnormally short days to the almost constant snowstorms. And of course, there was always the undead.
They were everywhere in Northrend, a continual force of opposition. The continent crawled with the damned, with those who had fought against the Undead Scourge… and lost. Soon, Aramoor knew, he would be joining them.
"Arthas was a fool to have come here," Aramoor muttered out loud. And I was a fool to have followed him here, the footman amended to himself.
A bell tolled in the distance. It was time.
He shrugged off his blankets, checked his armor one last time, and thrust open the flap of his tent. Immediately a blast of ice-cold wind whipped him in the face, nearly knocking him off his feet despite his heavy armor. Aramoor gritted his teeth and pressed forward, through the dreary encampment towards a building that towered above the others. A town hall. From the top of it flew a tattered banner of the Alliance.
As Aramoor trudged through the muddy slush which passed for a street, he heard another coming up behind him. Hand on his sword hilt, he turned around. It was always good to be cautious in Northrend, even in the heart of an Alliance encampment. The undead occasionally tried to infiltrate plagued humans into their ranks, to spread terror and disease.
But Aramoor recognized the man who now approached him. He was a paladin from Cernick's battalion named Rolan. They had gone through training together back in Lordaeron.
"Aramoor! Glad I found you! We missed you at the service. The priest gave a really-"
"What do you want?" snapped Aramoor. He had known about the service, where a priest of the Light would bless the soldiers of Lordaeron before an upcoming battle. But religion was for those who had hope, who had faith. He had neither. Hope and faith did not belong in Northrend. Only the undead thrived here. Aramoor had grown to despise his fellows like Rolan, who thought they had a chance to live, to escape. Their optimism actually offended him.
Rolan sighed. "All right, Aramoor, no need to be so touchy. They can't fit all the troops in the town hall for a briefing. Since you're with Kappa company, I'm supposed to direct you to the north staging area. They'll brief you there."
Aramoor nodded in acknowledgement, and turned to go. But Rolan had one more thing to say.
"Aramoor! Good luck. In case we don't see each other again…I wish you well. May the Light always shine upon you."
Aramoor nodded again and left.
Chapter 2
"All right, you all know the situation," the officer said to the assembled troops.
The two hundred footmen of Kappa company stood at rigid attention on the icy tundra. A large but crude map of Northrend had been drawn in chalk on the side of a granite rock formation.
Aramoor knew the situation all too well. They were all going to die. Prince Arthas had disappeared after killing the dreadlord Mal'Ganis, leaving his expedition leaderless and stranded on Northrend. They had been attacked repeatedly by increasingly large numbers of the undead. Food was almost gone. The bitter cold claimed more lives every day. Scouts were sent out and did not come back. Slowly, the Scourge had tightened the noose around their doomed encampment. All exits were covered. They were trapped, outnumbered, cut off from the rest of the Alliance.
No contact had been made with Lordaeron since Arthas disappeared. The mages said that their magical sendings were being blocked. In all likelihood the Alliance leaders in Lordaeron did not know of their plight. They would not be sending help.
Or, perhaps, thought Aramoor ruefully, they do know of our plight. But they won't come to Northrend to save us. I wouldn't. Sane men do not travel to Northrend, unless they are fools like Rolan who believe their insane commanders, like Arthas.
Or unless they are like me, Aramoor reflected. Men who have nothing to live for.
He didn't join the Alliance army for glory, prestige, money, righteousness, or even revenge. He joined the army -- he volunteered to go to Northrend -- to die. Somehow, he had known the expedition would end in disaster.
His entire family had been killed by the Scourge in Lordaeron. The fields his family had tended for generations were laid waste. The barn he had helped his father build was burnt to ashes. He was alone in the world. It was as if a searing iron had been thrust into his heart, cauterizing his soul, his emotions, the whole of his being.
And as much as he wanted it all to end, as much as he wanted to embrace Death, still, he feared it. Fear was the only emotion he had left. That, and disgust, a feeling that flowed through him as he listened to his commanding officer.
"Now, it looks like the Scourge hasgot us boxed in, but now is not the time to lose hope! Their forces are spread out in preparation for a long siege. If we mass our troops we can easily break out of their encirclement, and make it to safety before they even realize what's happened."
Aramoor had to restrain himself from shouting a few choice expletives at the officer. Was the man stupid? Blind? If they had hope, it would be in the breakout. But there was no hope, for there was no way for them to "make it to safety" here. This was Northrend! Northrend!
Safety lay on the warm shores of Lordaeron, more than a thousand miles away. Their ships were gone and there was no time to build new ones--there was no safety, no hope, and no escape.
Aramoor already knew what would happen. They would flee, with the undead nipping at their heels, picking off stragglers, until they found a new place to hide. Eventually, the undead would find them of course. They always seemed to find them, no matter where they ran. It was as if they had a sixth sense, a way of sniffing out the living like a bloodhound stalking its prey.
And then the whole process would start over again. The encirclement, the desperate breakout, the stench of fear. Until finally…finally, there would be no one left to run.
"We're all going to die," muttered Aramoor, somewhat louder than he had meant.
The officer interrupted his briefing, trying to figure out who had spoken, but it was impossible to tell. Two hundred footmen with helmets that covered their faces stood silently at attention. The briefing resumed.
"Our main force, two thousand soldiers, will drive west, towards a big glacier our scouts found. They say the place is a natural fortress, easily defensible, so we'll stay there until help arrives from Lordaeron. To the north there are impassible mountains; to the south a snowy plain. It'll be our job to cover that snowy plain and protect the southern flank as the main force advances. We don't expect much organized resistance after we break through their siege force, but don't get overconfident. Scouts say we'll mostly be going up against skeletons and ghouls-- not much of a threat except in numbers, and certainly nothing we can't handle. Questions?"
There were none. They began the breakout.
Chapter 3
Aramoor savored the feeling of heat, so alien in this frigid land. As the Alliance encampment was consumed in the blazing inferno, he could not help but feel a small twinge of satisfaction. How he had hated living in that dirty, dreary place! The cramped buildings, lousy food, and drafty tents had all taken their toll on him. The settlement had been an unnatural, filthy stain on the pristine white quilt that was Northrend. But now the stain was being purged by fire, and the snow would soon reclaim its territory.
It was not the undead who had set the fire though -- the arsonists belonged to Kappa company.
The Alliance didn't care about the settlement falling into enemy hands, for the dead had little use for humanity's buildings. Indeed, Arthas's expedition had passed many abandoned, decaying villages during their journey across Northrend. These were remnants of a time when Northrend had been populated by primitive humans--fishermen and hunters--but now these people had all fallen under the sway of the Scourge.
The Alliance commanders had torched their own settlement to deliver a message: There was no turning back.
They were committed to the breakout now. It was their only hope.
And it started well. The undead besieging the settlement seemed surprised and confused at the Alliance forces taking the offensive. The few ghouls that stayed to fight were easily cut down. Even Aramoor the defeatist had to concede that the first part of the plan went perfectly.
When the two hundred footmen of Kappa company split off from the main force to cover the southern flank, morale was still high. It began to snow, but not enough to impede their advance. They made good time.
But by midday, the snow had ended, and the nightmare began.
It was a flat plain they traveled across, with no sign of danger. Any enemy approaching them would be spotted miles away, so nobody was expecting trouble. Of all the two hundred footmen, only Aramoor had his sword out of its sheath. For him, Northrend was never a place to let down your guard.
As it turned out, Aramoor's caution saved his life. When a dark figure suddenly erupted out of the snowdrift before him, he instinctively thrust out his arm to protect his face. His sword arm. The howling creature impaled itself on the end of Aramoor's sword, creating a gaping wound which would have immediately slain any living creature.
But this was not a living creature. Though hideously wounded, the ghoul still tried to claw at Aramoor's head. He had to get that thing off his blade! Once, twice, thrice he slammed his broadsword (and the ghoul that was stuck to it) to the ground. Finally the thing shuddered one last time and was still.
But there were other ghouls erupting out of the snow now, hundreds of them…no, thousands of them! His comrades' cries of shock and terror turned to cries of pain and death as the mass of horrifying undead tore into their ranks.
Aramoor knew that all was lost, that the moment of his death had come. Yet still he fought on, hacking at the ghouls with a ferocity born of desperation. A broad swipe from his sword decapitated a ghoul feasting on the remains of a Kappa company footman, and he was able to reverse the blade in time to parry a vicious blow from the ghoul's partner.
"Run, run, run dammit!" Aramoor screamed at himself. He tore his way through the mass of attacking ghouls and dying footmen, trying to get out, to break out, before it was too late. All who stood in his way were cut down.
Finally he was through them, clear of them, but still he kept running. His heavy armor weighed him down, and his muscles were on fire, but he couldn't stop himself. He ran and ran and ran until he could run no further.
Chapter 4
Aramoor had to give credit to the leaders of the Undead Scourge. It had been a spectacular ambush. The ghouls had buried themselves deep in the snow, probably a few hours before Kappa company arrived. Since the undead did not need to breathe, they could remain buried indefinitely. The recent snowfall had covered up any traces of the ghouls' presence, and when the Alliance soldiers had unwittingly walked into their midst, the trap had been sprung.
It had all happened so fast, and now, Kappa company was gone. Of two hundred footmen, only Aramoor was still alive. He berated himself.
"Idiot! Why did you run away! You came here to die! Having second thoughts? Or are you just a coward?"
Those were interesting questions, but best pondered at another, safer time. The important thing was that he was alive and relatively unharmed. Not that it mattered, for he had only postponed the inevitable by running. He was still going to die, along with the rest of the expedition.
"Maybe the main force got wiped out too. Maybe I'm the only one left."
Well, there was only one way to find out. He would go to find the main Alliance army, if it still existed, and report to them the fate of Kappa company. It would be a good way to pass the time before he died.
Chapter 5
The glacier was awesome. It towered high above the frozen tundra of Northrend, its peak reaching out for the heavens. There was only a short, narrow pass up to the top, which meant the undead would have a hell of a time attacking the place.
That of course was why it was chosen as the objective of the Alliance breakout/offensive. Stay on top of the glacier, and wait out the undead until help arrived from Lordaeron… If help was coming at all. If the main Alliance force had survived, this was where they would be.
Aramoor was halfway up the icy peak when he encountered an Alliance patrol. They were the first living beings he had seen since the decimation of Kappa company, more than five hours ago, and for a moment all he could do was stop and marvel at their beauty. A dwarven rifleman stepped forward, his blunderbuss pointed at Aramoor but with the safety on.
"We saw ye from the summit and came to escort ye the rest of the way up. But first why don't ye take off that helmet so we can see yer not plagued."
Aramoor did as he was told, and the blunderbuss was lowered instantly. He was dirty, bloodied and unshaven, but definitely not plagued.
"Aramoor! Is that you?" a familiar voice called from the back of the Alliance patrol.
For the first time ever, Aramoor was glad to see Rolan the paladin. The holy man cast a healing spell that erased the battered footman's minor wounds, and together they started up the snowy slope.
"It's so good to see you again, Aramoor! But what are you doing here? Kappa company isn't due to rendezvous with us for another four hours. There isn't bad news I hope?"
So he told them. About the ambush, the thousands of ghouls, and running until finally making it to the glacier. By the time he had finished, Rolan's expression was grim.
"This is ill news indeed. The loss of Kappa company will be greatly felt by all. They died heroes deaths, and will be remembered as such."
Aramoor didn't think being massacred by ghouls was very heroic, but if the paladin wanted to cling to such delusions that was his business. They were nearing the glacier summit now, and it was an amazing sight that greeted them.
A new settlement was halfway constructed! Already several barracks and a town hall had been completed. A thick wooden barricade had also been thrown up, so even if the undead reached the summit they would be in for a nasty fight.
"Pretty impressive," Aramoor remarked to Rolan, gesturing at the settlement.
"Yes, isn't it? One thing's for sure, we don't have to worry about the undead anymore!"
"Are you so sure?" remarked the defeatist footman with more than a trace if bitterness.
"Now Aramoor, must you always be such a pessimist?" replied the paladin in a condescending tone. "Look at all we've accomplished here already! Do you really mean to tell me-"
"No Rolan, don't look at your pretty settlement! Look at the bottom of the glacier! Those undead you 'don't have to worry about' are on their way up to pay us a visit!"
"Somebody better get the Captain over here."
Chapter 6
Captain Cernick had been third in command of the expedition, after Arthas and Muradin. But with Arthas missing and Muradin dead, it was Cernick who had been placed in charge of the remnants of a once mighty army. They had come to Northrend with five thousand of the finest troops in the Alliance. Now only half that remained. Or, really only two thousand, since a few days ago five hundred of Muradin's dwarves had decided to strike out on their own under their leader Baelgun. Aramoor gave them little chance of surviving more than a week.
The number of Alliance soldiers paled in comparison to the number of undead -- this was the homeland of the Scourge after all. Cernick's troops looked on in growing horror as the swelling mass of the damned was joined by ever larger groups of ghouls. Scouts estimated one thousand, then two thousand, then three thousand ghouls. When the Scourge had amassed four thousand flesh-eating killing machines, they began their attack.
Aramoor found himself with Rolan's troops on the center barricade.
"Just sit tight and don't do anything stupid," Rolan advised his troops. "Let them come to us."
Good advice, thought Aramoor. But not enough to save us. Memories of the slaughter of Kappa company flooded through him, of his comrades' deathcries, of claws tearing at metal armor, of the unearthly howls of the dead. Soon it would all be happening again. He felt his fear welling up inside him, and realized he was visibly shaking. Looking at the other Alliance troops, he saw he was not the only one.
What happened next was surreal. The sun had begun to set, but it would be a few hours before only the stars provided illumination. The sky had turned an angry orange, and it was from the direction of the sunset the undead came in their massive numbers.
There was no discipline, no real cohesion in the ranks of the damned. They charged as a disorganized mass up the glacier, screeching inhuman cries all the while, and with no other goal in their simple minds than to rip the enemies of the Scourge to ribbons.
As the undead made it halfway up the glacier, the lead ghoul suddenly exploded. Huh? Aramoor looked into the ranks of the Alliance troops and had his answer.
Mortars. Several dozen mortar teams had lined up, and they opened up a terrifying barrage of destruction on the massed enemy troops as they came into range. The ghouls had no way of firing back, and no way of dodging the hot death being lobbed at them, so it quickly became a slaughter.
Ghoul after ghoul after ghoul met a grisly end, but for every one that fell, two more seemed to take its place. They clambered over the shattered bodies of their brethren, and continued their relentless climb up the glacier.
Now nearly to the summit, the ghouls came within range of Alliance riflemen. The air became filled with the sounds of the business ends of blunderbusses and the smell of gunpowder. The firepower now being directed at the undead was amazing to behold -- Aramoor had never seen anything like it. For a minute he thought the undead might be totally decimated before they even reached the Alliance settlement.
It was a naïve hope, almost immediately discarded. For the fire from the mortars slowed and then, a few seconds later, ceased totally. They had run out of ammunition.
The fire from the riflemen began to slacken off as well, and there were still several hundred ghouls to be dealt with. It was going to get real ugly, real fast for Aramoor and the other footmen manning the barricade.
The ghouls were within four hundred meters of the barricade when a rain of arrows started dropping them. What the hell? Aramoor didn't realize their expedition had included any archers, but it was a welcome surprise. Arrow after arrow thudded into the ranks of the undead, dealing terrible damage.
Screeching in frustration and rage, their prey denied to them, the last of the ghouls fell dead into the snow. They had been within a mere twenty meters of the barricade. A ragged cheer came from the ranks of the Alliance soldiers, for it had been a sound victory.
Chapter 7
"How could the undead be so stupid?"
That was the question on everyone's mind. The glacier was clearly impregnable, but yet the Scourge had attacked anyway. Was their hatred of the living really so intense? Or were their commanders simply incompetent?
Aramoor decided it definitely had to be the former. The brilliant ambush of Kappa company had ingrained a healthy respect in him for whatever tacticians directed the actions of the Scourge. Aramoor bitterly wished that the Alliance leaders had been so gifted. But that fool Captain Cernick had ordered a celebration! A victory party, here on Northrend!
No matter that their food supply was almost gone; that their ammunition was gone! Apparently Aramoor was the only one who believed the undead could return at any moment. Everyone else seemed to think the Scourge was finished.
"There's no way they can take the kind of losses they took today and keep fighting," Cernick had assured his troops after the battle. The soldiers echoed his thoughts.
"We beat em, we finally beat em!"
"We'll all be heroes when we get back to Lordaeron!"
"Wait'll I tell my friends back home about this!"
Aramoor was disgusted. As the idiotic euphoria spread through the Alliance army, he sought refuge in the newly constructed barracks. He had no love for parties, not now, not after all that had happened. His love of life had died with his family, and that was that.
Gods he was tired of it all--the idiot commanders, the fighting, the dying, the running, everything. In the space of only one day he had fought in two major battles and nearly died half a dozen times. It was too much.
Without bothering to take off his armor, he collapsed onto the nearest bunk. He was delighted to find the sheets cozy and warm. At last, he would have some peace today.
He had just settled down to sleep when the barracks door burst open. Panic gripped him as he fumbled for his sword. Had the fool Cernick even bothered to post guards? Had the entire settlement been overrun? He half expected to see a pack of ghouls rush into the room.
He was almost disappointed when he saw it was only Rolan the paladin. The holy man drunkenly staggered into the barracks, both hands holding half-full bottles of whiskey.
"Ah, Aramoor mah boy! Where have yah been?" slurred the drunken man. "Cernick puts on one helluva party. The mages are even putting on ah magic light show. You need to tah come drink with me and tha boys, take yer mind off yer troubles, yah know?"
"I thought paladins were forbidden from imbibing liquor," Aramoor replied coolly as he got up from his bunk.
"Nah, a little liquor nevah hurt no one! No sir! Come on Aramoor, even the stoic high elves ah getting' drunk! You need tah live a little!"
Pushing past the paladin, Aramoor replied, "I'm already dead."
With the celebration now in full swing, Aramoor realized that the barracks would not grant him the privacy he wished. He knew there was only one place the revelers would not go, and that was his destination.
The glacier slopes were littered with dead ghouls and pieces of dead ghouls. They had been left where they had fallen -- there was no need to bury them, for the snow would do that within a few hours. The revelers avoided the place like the plague -- they wanted to forget the horrors of the past few weeks and the past few hours especially.
Aramoor, on the other hand, wanted to remember. Looking at the death, the destruction, he would remember why he came to Northrend. To die. To be with his dead family.
As night descended on the desolate, lifeless continent, the Alliance troops tried to beat the cold darkness with liquor, wild debauchery, and lights. Lights were everywhere on the glacier summit-- in torches, flaming braziers, and energetic sparkles created by mages that illuminated the starry night with fluorescent colors. The flame of life, so abnormal, so wrong on Northrend, shed a bright, comforting radiance over the small bastion of humanity.
Aramoor, alone, turned his back on the lights, closed his eyes, and remembered.
Chapter 8
"Mmmm, strawberry pie, my favorite! Oh, Aramoor, you're the best brother ever!"
And she smiled that smile that made him feel warm all over because he knew, he knew she was happy and it was because of him. To feel wanted, to feel loved…it was sweet, oh so sweet, like strawberry pie.
Bright, warm sunlight shined in through the kitchen window, and outside he could see his father tending the fields. It was an important day-- his sister's sixteenth birthday--and he wanted it to be perfect. He'd saved the money he'd made working as an apprentice to the local blacksmith, and now he had enough to buy Christina her present.
The ruby necklace would be expensive, but his sister's happiness was worth so much more. Now all that remained for him to do was pick up the present at the jeweler's shop, in the nearby town of Hearthglen.
"Just wait, Christina. I'll have an even better present for you today, after I go into town."
"Oh I can't wait!"
"Tell father I'll help him with his chores after I get back. Then we can have your birthday party when we're done."
He turned to go, but then smiled and said in mock severity, "Oh, and don't eat that pie all by yourself, like last time! We wouldn't want you getting fat!"
She laughed, that sweet, musical laugh of hers, "Oh, Aramoor, you're too much. I'll leave plenty of pie for you, don't worry!"
Still smiling, he waved goodbye to her, and set off for town. He set his horse on an easy pace, and watched the beautiful Lordaeron countryside slide by. Taking a deep breath of fresh summer air, he closed his eyes and reveled in the perfect, idyllic life he led.
"Wouldn't have it any other way," he said to the horse.
Shouts from up ahead startled him out of his reverie. The town square of Hearthglen was swarming with panicked villagers and…soldiers? What were Alliance soldiers doing here? Were the orcs on the warpath again, threatening to disrupt their pastoral paradise?
Then a thoroughly nauseating smell assaulted his nostrils. Looking towards the back of the town square he noticed a pile of bodies, human bodies burning. As he watched, Alliance footmen threw another corpse onto the heap, a corpse which he recognized as the Mayor of Hearthglen. What the hell was going on here?
An Alliance officer spotted him and shouted a command. Immediately a squad of footmen surrounded him and forced him off his horse at swordpoint. He found himself pinned to the ground by two burly soldiers.
"Check him!" shouted the officer. A red-haired Alliance trooper with an ugly scar running down his face knelt down beside Aramoor and stared intently at him.
After a few seconds the trooper shook his head and got up. "He's clean, let him go."
Angrily, Aramoor got to his feet. "What's the meaning of this?" he demanded.
"Just precautions," replied the Alliance officer. "We're looking for people with a slightly purplish or greenish tint to their skin. They're plagued see, and we got orders to find 'em and kill 'em before they turn into the undead! If you know anyone you think might be plagued, tell us where they are, and we'll take care of 'em."
Aramoor's mouth went dry. Earlier that morning he had noticed a slight purplish tinge to Christina. Or had it just been his imagination?
"This…this plague, there's a cure right?" Aramoor asked hoarsely.
The officer's hard demeanor softened for a moment. "Sorry son, there's no cure yet. If you know someone who's plagued, the best thing you can do for 'em is tell us where they are. You'll be saving 'em from a fate worse than death, trust me."
Aramoor felt his world crashing down around him. He had to see Christina, he had to!
"In any case, this entire town has been placed under quarantine, so you won't be able to leave until--hey!"
Quickly Aramoor grabbed the reins of his horse and mounted it. Several Alliance soldiers tried to stop him, and were nearly ridden down for their efforts. It was a very desperate young man that set off at a breakneck speed towards his family's farm.
The sight of burning fields, slaughtered farm animals and his father's half eaten corpse greeted him at the entrance to the farm. Apparently the undead had been here, but the main house seemed untouched. She might still be alive!
He burst into the house, and his heart sank. The room had been brightly decorated for Christina's birthday party later in the day. Her half-eaten strawberry pie sat on the kitchen table, and Christina herself sat in a nearby chair, arms wrapped tightly around her chest and shivering. She had a definite purplish tinge to her skin now, and the look she gave him was heartbreakingly sad. It was the look of someone who knew they were about to die.
He ran over to her, grasping her in his arms.
"Christina, oh Christina!"
"I'm, si-sick, Aramoor," she whispered weakly.
"I know," he replied gently.
They didn't say anything after that. Aramoor wanted to comfort her, to tell her how much he loved her, but, looking at her, the words wouldn't come. Instead he held her tightly and listened as her breathing became more shallow and her heartbeat more erratic. Finally she gave a sigh, and went limp.
Aramoor died on that day, at that moment. There was nothing left for him in the world, he was certain.
The Alliance soldiers from town had followed him, and tried to take Christina from him, to add her to their pile. For a moment the urge to kill was strong and clear and pure, but only for a moment. Christina was gone; it was only an empty husk the Alliance soldiers took away.
With nothing else to do, he wept unashamedly.
Chapter 9
Back on the glacier slope, back on Northrend, Aramoor realized he was crying. The cold night air made the tears burn on his face, but he was beyond pain now. For a while he just sat and stared at the stars, at all the hopes of his life that were so far out of reach, forever.
But in the pale moonlight he gradually became aware that he was not alone. A dark figure, still as night, was regarding him from a nearby rock outcropping. Slowly, quietly, he slid his sword out of its sheath.
"There's no need for that, human," whispered the dark figure in a feminine voice. "I'm with the Alliance."
"Is that so?" retorted Aramoor. "Why don't you step out of the shadows then, and tell me what you were doing spying on me."
The figure gracefully leapt off the rock outcropping and into the dim moonlight. Aramoor was startled to see the delicate features of a high elf. Curiously he looked her over, for he had never seen one of her kind up close before. The high elves rarely left their forested kingdom of Quel'thalas, save for a few priests and wizards who went to study in the Magicracy of Dalaran. Some of those priests and wizards ended up joining the Alliance -- in fact a few of them had even joined the expedition to Northrend, but they always kept to themselves.
"I wasn't spying on you," the elf said softly, in a musical voice.
"Then what were you-"
"Watching the slope in case the undead returned. Captain Cernick asked me to."
"Oh."
"But I'm pretty sure Cernick didn't ask you to watch the slope, human. Kara shalas! What troubles you so much that you would come here, alone in the cold night, and weep for hours on end?"
"You were here the whole time?!" growled Aramoor, angry that someone had intruded on his mourning.
"We Pathfinders of the elven ranger corps are skilled in the art of camouflage and concealment. I'm surprised you noticed me at all. I didn't mean to intrude upon your grief-"
"Too late for that!"
"Yes, well I'm sorry. But I was ordered to watch the slope. I'll leave if you want-"
"No, no, you have a job to do," sighed Aramoor. "Guess I'll head back to the barracks; it looks like Cernick's party is finally winding down so I can get some sleep. Goodbye, uh…"
"Bryony."
"Goodbye Bryony. My name's-"
"Aramoor, I know. I overheard you and Rolan talking on the slopes earlier today, though you probably didn't see me. I was the one who spotted you, and sent Rolan's patrol to meet you halfway up the glacier."
"Jeez! Do you know what color underwear I'm wearing too?! For someone who claims not to spy on people--"
Bryony laughed a sweet, musical laugh that sounded like…no, it couldn't be…
"Christina?"
"What? I'm sorry, I guess I'm not as fluent in humanspeak as I thought. What does 'Christina' mean?"
Aramoor suddenly had the urge to talk to this woman, to get to know her, to hear her voice…
"Bryony, do you mind if I ask you a question?"
"Go ahead."
"What're you doing in the Alliance? I mean, why…why did you volunteer for the Northrend expedition?"
"To find a friend."
"This friend must be pretty important to you…"
Bryony sighed. "She was my best friend. We had a lot of fun together, we got into a lot of trouble together…" The ranger sighed again, and turned her gaze to the stars, lost in memories.
"She traveled to Northrend over a year ago, before anyone had even heard of the Undead Scourge, and no one ever heard from her again. Of course," Bryony said bitterly, "I'm sure the undead must have killed her by now. But I had to know. Her name is…was…Kirielle."
"I'm sorry to hear that," said Aramoor, and he meant it. Somehow, talking to Bryony made the wound in his own heart hurt so much less. Her voice was so similar to Christina's… He had come to Northrend certain he wanted to die, but now…
"So what are you doing in Northrend, Aramoor?"
"I…I don't know, Bryony. I thought I knew, but…I just don't know anymore."
"Hmmm…"
The footman shook his head. "My family died in Hearthglen, and I thought I wanted to die too. It all seemed so hopeless, and…I guess it still is, but-"
"There's always hope Aramoor," said Bryony, suddenly intense. "How could we go on, if not for hope?"
"I did."
"That's not right Aramoor. You have to find what it is you want in life -- there's always something! And you have to pursue it! Life is far, far too precious to be squandered and-"
Aramoor realized he was crying again. "What's gotten into me?" he demanded of himself, but he had no answer.
"I miss them so much, Bryony, so much…"
"I know," said the ranger gently, as she wrapped her cloak around him. "I know."
Chapter 10
The morning saw Aramoor and Bryony conscripted for scouting duty, as they were the only people in the encampment without hangovers. Normally, Aramoor despised scouting duty, but if it meant passing more time with Bryony, he didn't mind. Not at all.
After spending the night on the slope with the high elf, Aramoor had had to rethink a lot of things, about himself and his future. The pessimism and gloominess which had shrouded his heart had begun to lift, and just being around the ranger, being close to her, made Aramoor feel alive again.
As the two of them waited to be briefed in Cernick's command tent, Aramoor got his first good look at the Pathfinder in daytime. Her clothes were simple, yet practical and light. She wore a green cloak with black flecks on it that somehow made her blend in with even Northrend's snow-white terrain. She carried a long bow, a large quiver of arrows, and a deadly-looking belt knife. Her boots were doeskin, her gloves soft padded leather, and she looked every bit the high elven ranger.
But it was her face that held Aramoor's attention. As with all elves, her features were fair. Her hair was a golden mane the color of sunshine, her piercing blue eyes shone with self-confidence, and her long delicate ears honored her elven heritage. The footman felt his throat tighten gazing upon her exotic beauty.
"Good morning Bryony, and ahh, what's your name again, soldier?"
As Captain Cernick entered the tent, the ranger and footman snapped to attention.
"Private Aramoor sir, Kappa company."
As the golden-armored officer sat down at his desk in front of them, Aramoor couldn't help but notice the black circles under the man's bloodshot eyes. Apparently more than a little liquor had been passed around at the party last night.
"Kappa company, huh? So you're the one Rolan's been talking about. He's been in here pestering me to recommend you for a medal you know, when we get back to Lordaeron."
Aramoor said nothing, so the Captain continued.
"Tragic what happened to your fellow soldiers. Really. I'm sure King Terenas will construct some kind of monument in honor of Kappa company's heroic sacrifice. Or at the very least commission a commemorative plaque or two. We take care of our own in the Alliance, you know."
Aramoor felt disgust welling up inside him, a typical reaction when he encountered Alliance officers. He was about to make a few cutting remarks to Cernick, but Bryony intervened.
Clearing her throat, she said, "You asked us to report here for scouting duty, sir?"
"Er, right. So I did. Let's get down to business then, shall we?"
The Captain spread out a large map of Northrend on his desk, pointing to a location a few kilometers east of their new encampment.
"I need you to go here. While we were, um, relocating to our current position, we came across an old goblin zeppelin. The thing must've crashed years ago, but maybe it's still, um, airworthy. Airworthy is a word, right?"
Bryony sighed.
"Well anyway, when we first found the thing we were in a bit of a hurry, so we didn't get to look it over. Now you've got the job. Maybe if we get it working, we can re-establish contact with Lordaeron, you know?"
Aramoor was suddenly interested. "You mean we can escape? Get off Northrend?"
"Well, err, yes. Hopefully. I mean, once King Terenas knows we need a rescue fleet, it'll all work itself out, you know? Any more questions? No? Good. The Pathfinder outranks you Private, so just follow her orders and don't get yourselves killed. Dismissed."
Chapter 11
As the pair trekked across the arctic tundra, Aramoor tried to strike up a conversation.
"So how is it that you became a ranger? Why not a sorceress or priestess or--"
She laughed Christina's laugh, and Aramoor's heart skipped a beat.
"I never had much talent for magic, Aramoor, so I doubt I'd make a good sorceress. Besides, I could never stand to be cooped up in some library, studying dusty tomes all day. I have to be outside, outdoors…in contact with Nature you know? That's why I became a ranger. We are the epitome out outdoorsmen, or ahem, outdoorswomen. We achieve balance and belonging through our friendship with the natural world."
"I'm not sure I understand," said the footman.
"It's like this. We are all children of Nature; Nature gives us life. To understand our life, our origin, our place in this world, we must understand Nature. Or at least that is what we rangers believe. To live in harmony with Nature is to live in harmony with oneself. I can walk into a forest and identify all the birds and their songs, I can track any animal across any terrain, I can tell whether it's going to rain tomorrow or not. These are the skills that rangers possess."
"But that's not all of course," added Aramoor. "I saw what you and your archer brethren did during the ghoul assault on the glacier. You decimated them, and saved us footmen a real nasty fight."
The ranger laughed her musical laugh again. "My 'archer brethren'? Who would they be? There are no archers in this expedition, myself excepted of course."
Aramoor stopped in his tracks, his eyes wide with shock. "You…you mean…that entire arrow barrage…was just you?" he asked incredulously.
She nodded. "Glad you liked the show."
"You're…you're a hero!" breathed Aramoor. "You should be the one getting a medal when we get back to Lordaeron!"
"'When we get back to Lordaeron?' Aramoor! That almost sounded like an optimistic comment from you!" she said, smiling.
"Sorry, I won't let it happen again," he said, winking at her.
"Hey, look! It's the zeppelin!" the Pathfinder said, pointing. Half buried in the snow, its wire frame looked to be mostly intact. Closer examination revealed no sign of the crew; Aramoor could only surmise that they had survived the crash or their corpses had been claimed by the Scourge.
"Yeah, all we need is to bring some dwarven engineers here and they can get this thing fixed up in no time!" remarked Bryony cheerfully.
"And we can go home," Aramoor gasped. "We can go home! They'll send a rescue fleet and…and we'll go home! Oh, I never thought I'd see our salvation so close, here in Northrend. I miss Lordaeron! I guess I never really realized how much it was home for me."
"Yeah, me too. I miss Quel'thalas; it's not like Northrend. This continent feels…wrong. Like the land is dying. It's hard for me to commune with Nature here."
She sighed. "Well, there's going to be a blizzard later today, so I guess we should hurry back to Cernick with the good news."
"Maybe he'll commission some commemorative plaques in our honor!" Aramoor giggled.
Gods it felt good to be alive again! The wound in his heart was nearly healed. The feelings of total, utter hopelessness had been replaced by…what? Contentment? Whatever it was, it felt good.
Chapter 12
"So you worship Nature?" asked Aramoor as they started their trek back to the Alliance encampment.
"Some high elves do, but not all. Most high elves worship the Light. And then there's the Sunwell…"
"Sunwell?"
"Yeah, it's the magical fountain from which we draw our immortality and mystical powers. The Sunwell is like the focal point for our worship of both Nature and the Light. It's like sum of who we are as a race."
"And you worship it?"
"Pretty much, yeah. Protecting the Sunwell is part of the vows I've taken as a ranger. If ever an enemy threatened the Well, it would be the ranger corps, our most elite warriors, who would be entrusted with its defense. When the orcs invaded Quel'thalas, they got close to the Sunwell. But we rallied under a Pathfinder named Sylvanas and counterattacked. Wiped out their whole bloody invasion force; it was beautiful."
"So you fought in the orc wars?"
"Yeah, and against the trolls before that. But none of it was like this Northrend madness."
"Well, there's the glacier," Aramoor said pointing up ahead. "Looks like Cernick was right. The Scourge is finished. No sign of them on our patrol, not even old tracks. Maybe we'll be able to come down from the glacier now, and rebuild our fleet. No need to wait for help from Lordaeron!"
"I hope you're right," replied Bryony, "I sure am--hey! What's that?"
On the glacier slope, a patch of snow had recently shifted to reveal a hard stone surface underneath. Warily, the ranger approached. She carefully knelt down and started brushing more snow off the gray-green surface.
"Be careful Bryony," Aramoor cautioned. "There are all kinds of buried crypts and tombs in this land. You wouldn't want to disturb any guardians or restless dead."
The high elf slowly stood up, shaking her head.
"It couldn't be…"
"What? What couldn't be?"
Bryony suddenly turned to face him, her face pale, her eyes intense.
"Aramoor, we've got to get back to Cernick and tell him -- aww hell!"
Aramoor saw them about the same time that Bryony did. Necromancers. Hundreds of grim, black-robed men coming out of a hole at the bottom of the glacier. It was then that the revelation hit Aramoor, chilling him to the bone, and he had an explanation for the mysterious stone surface. The glacier upon which their new settlement rested was not really a glacier at all. It was just an icy covering.
And buried beneath that vast expanse of ice and snow was a necropolis of the Undead Scourge. One far, far bigger than they had ever encountered before.
Bryony already had her longbow out, and was loosing arrows with devastating accuracy into the ranks of the black mages.
"Run to the settlement!" she shouted. "Tell Cernick to get his troops off this bloody deathtrap of a glacier now! I'll stay here and hold them off for as long as I can!"
Aramoor firmly shook his head. "It's suicide to stay here, Bryony-"
"Go Aramoor! That's an order! I need to buy Cernick time-"
"With your life?!" screamed Aramoor.
"Yes," she replied coldly. She briefly stopped her attack to pierce him with a gaze that even her deadly serrated arrows could not match. Looking into those blue eyes, so full of fierce determination, he could not help but obey her command.
He ran for the glacier summit, cursing himself every step of the way.
Chapter 13
Panic gripped the Alliance settlement. Footmen rushed to get into their armor while dwarven marksmen, lacking of gunpowder, fixed their rifles with bayonets. Officers shouted orders and tried to get their troops into formation, but they were mostly ignored.
Aramoor stood grimly in Cernick's command tent, watching with growing disgust as the Captain and his advisors made battle plans. Finally he couldn't take it any longer.
"You idiots!" screamed Aramoor. All heads turned towards him. "Bryony sacrificed her life so you could escape, and here you are planning an attack! Did you listen to anything I've said? This glacier is a bloody necropolis. You fools actually think you can win?"
"Of course we can win," replied Cernick smoothly. "Scouts say two thousand necromancers have massed at the bottom of the glacier. That's it! Not even an escort to protect them. The footmen alone should be able to rout that rabble, but even if they can't we've got plenty of reserves to finish the job."
"And what about the necropolis?"
"Um, I find the very idea absurd. Every necropolis we've encountered before has been floating. Why would this one be buried? And anyway, I simply can't believe that a necropolis as big as a bloody glacier exists! Your ranger friend must've been mistaken."
Aramoor stormed out, angry, furious in fact. The wound in his heart had been reopened, and it hurt worse than ever before. He couldn't mourn Bryony; he wasn't ready for that yet. But he could avenge her.
Or could he? Her life was worth far more than all of the unlives of the Scourge put together. No matter how may undead soldiers he killed, he would never be able to bring the ranger back.
If ever there had been a hero on this misadventure of an expedition, it had been her. But he was no hero, for already his old friends Hopelessness and Fear were coming back to resume their vigil over his heart. He was dying again, dead again. His anger dissipated and his fatalism returned.
"There's always hope Aramoor," Bryony had told him. "How could we go on, if not for hope?"
How indeed.
The Alliance forces had finally gotten themselves organized, and a trumpet blared, sounding the call to advance. Aramoor found himself in the company of Rolan's troops.
"Stick together, don't let them isolate you," the paladin told his men. "Necromancers have no armor and weak ranged attacks, so our best bet is to charge them and cut them down before they can do much damage."
The Alliance troops charged down the slope, shouting war cries and gaining momentum. Seemingly in no hurry, the necromancers trod up the slope to meet them, leaning heavily on their black staves.
Aramoor estimated it would be three minutes before the armies clashed. Two minutes. One minute.
Suddenly the air was filled with the sound of arcane chanting. Aramoor shivered at the sound of the Black Arts being practiced, but he had no time to ponder what spell was being cast. The Alliance troops were committed to battle now by the momentum of their charge -- it would be impossible for them to pull back even if they were ordered to.
Thirty seconds before the two sides met...
Without warning all of the dark wizards raised their staves at once, and their chanting stopped. Aramoor had a very bad feeling about--
Skeletons, skeletons, SKELETONS!! Skeletons thrust themselves out of the ground by the thousands!
"How, how, how!?" cried Aramoor, despairing. The necromancers would need a huge amount of corpses nearby to raise so many; how had they done it?!
The undead warriors slammed into ranks of Cernick's soldiers, and soon all was chaos. What the skeletons lacked in intelligence and weaponry, they made up for in sheer numbers and ferocity.
Aramoor found himself fighting a desperate battle against four skeletal foes and the wizard who had raised them. The skeleton on his right launched a clumsy attack with its…claw? He hacked the bony limb off, pausing for a second to take a better look at his fleshless opponents.
They had been ghouls once, he realized; the same ghouls that had attacked the glacier earlier in an apparently suicidal assault.
"Only fools believe they will face our armies but once," sneered the necromancer Aramoor was fighting. The footman responded by delivering a savage blow to the mage, cutting through the man's wooden stave and his neck as well. Surprise etched on his face, the wizard clutched his mortal wound and dropped into the snow.
"By the Gods, there were four thousand ghouls in that attack!" Aramoor breathed, realizing the possibilities.
Two skeletons slashed at Aramoor's chest, but he was able to beat back their blows while doing some quick mathematical calculations in his head.
Four thousand dead ghouls equals eight thousand skeletons. Plus two thousand necromancers. For a grand total of ten thousand Scourge troops!
Versus two thousand tired Alliance soldiers. Half of whom were dwarven marksmen or mortar teams with no ammunition. Aramoor's heart sank. All was lost.
Chapter 14
The footman's respect for whatever tacticians led Scourge increased a dozen-fold, for surely this had been their plan all along. The suicidal ghoul attack had been merely a ploy to deprive the Alliance expedition of irreplaceable resources, like ammunition. It also served to deposit four thousand corpses right on their doorstep for the necromancers to use.
This was the time for Captain Cernick to rally his troops and lead an organized retreat, for only decisive leadership could save the expedition now. Desperately, Aramoor looked for the golden-armored officer in the swirling jumble of combatants, but he was nowhere to be found.
Either the man had run away, or he was already dead.
"Damn," muttered the footman. He racked his brain, trying to think of some way to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat, but nothing came to him.
"Aramoor! Aramoor!!"
It was Rolan. The paladin was beset by more than a dozen skeletons, and before a horrified Aramoor could react, the undead had knocked the warhammer from the holy man's hands and cut him to pieces.
Aramoor had never really liked the paladin, but yet Rolan had always been friendly and courteous to him. Were all the people in his life fated to die at the hands of the Scourge? First they had taken his beloved family--his father, his young sister with so much of her life before her. Then they had taken the beautiful, brave Bryony who had touched his soul even in the brief time he had known her. And now they had taken Rolan too.
Everywhere Aramoor looked, his comrades were being slaughtered. To his left a group of fifty dwarven riflemen were being hit hard by a horde of skeletons. Lacking ammunition, the bayonets the dwarves were using as weapons did pitifully little damage to their opponents.
To his right a band of ten knights, fighting back to back, were being overwhelmed by more than two hundred skeletal warriors.
A lone priest ran past him, followed by a group of jeering necromancers. Suddenly one of the wizards cast a spell, and the priest cried out in pain and collapsed, crippled by the necromancer's dark energies.
The Alliance troops fought on, but it was a hopeless battle with only one possible outcome. Already they had been pushed up the glacier slope, nearly to their encampment.
The undead tried and tried to kill Aramoor, but he refused to die. He had gotten quite good with his sword during the events of the past few days, and now he wielded it with deadly skill. All Scourge soldiers who came within his reach met a swift death.
At last the battle spilled into the Alliance encampment, and Aramoor found himself taking shelter in the doorway of a dwarven workshop. By defending the doorway, the skeletons could only come at him one at a time, and from one direction. But his sword arm was aching and he bled from a dozen minor wounds. He needed time to think, to find a way out of --
Hmmm. The workshop was packed with dwarven steam tanks! Their primary use was for destroying buildings, but after the defeat of Mal'Ganis they had seen little use. Captain Cernick had sent their crews out to fight with the rest of the dwarves on the glacier slope, for the tanks' siege cannons were highly ineffective against anything other than stationary structures.
"But then," Aramoor mused, "I don't really need the cannon." An insane plan formed in his mind. Finishing off the skeleton he had been fighting, he slammed shut the workshop door and bolted it.
It took him a minute to find a steam tank in good condition, and another minute to figure out how to operate it. But as an apprentice to the local blacksmith in Hearthglen he had gained some basic knowledge of dwarven machinery, and soon he had the thing running. There was no time to open the workshop's large iron gate, so instead he smashed through the wooden wall of the building, flattening the undead that had gathered outside.
Suddenly he was the primary target of hundreds of Scourge warriors, but the steam tank's thick metal armor protected him from harm. Steering the steel behemoth towards the slope where the battle still raged, Aramoor floored the accelerator pedal.
It was hard to tell who was more surprised by a mechanical juggernaut of death plowing down the glacier -- the Alliance soldiers or the Undead Scourge. Footmen and riflemen desperately leapt to the side as the dwarven contraption picked up speed. Even the necromancers lost their calm demeanor as they frantically fought amongst themselves to get out of the way. The skeletons however, were too stupid to realize the imminent danger, and made no attempts at self-preservation. Aramoor ploughed through them by the dozen, creating a gaping hole in the ranks of the undead.
Finally the steam tank reached the base of the glacier and sped out onto the snowy plain. The engine had started to smoke, perhaps from all the damage the tank had taken, and finally, it died. When Aramoor got out of the broken vehicle, he was a good three kilometers from the glacier and there were no undead in sight. Once again, he had survived against all odds.
Chapter 15
The blizzard swept through the desolate lands of Northrend with terrible fury. Alone, Aramoor trudged through the snow, pushing against the powerful wind.
Despite his spectacular escape from the glacier summit, he was still just as doomed as the other members of the expedition had been. Aramoor doubted that any of his comrades had made it off the slopes; they had all been dead or dying when he left them. He was the expedition now; once again, the only survivor, probably the only living human on the whole of Northrend.
It made him feel so small, so insignificant, as though the massive continent actually, personally hated him and wished him harm.
He ached from the wounds he'd received in combat, and regretted the loss of his sword. To his horror he had discovered that the blade had inadvertently been left behind in the rush to get the steam tank working. He had seen many small caves where he could take refuge from the biting wind, but what he really needed was heat. His hands and feet were becoming numb from the freezing cold. He knew if he didn't find a source of warmth soon that frostbite would take his fingers and toes -- perhaps other parts of him too. He had no flint and tinder to start a fire, not that any fire would last long in this savage storm. Truly, if the undead didn't kill him, the cold would.
He had no destination and no plan; the brutal snowstorm made visibility impossible after just a few meters in any case. He wandered aimlessly, alone, unarmed, without food, without warmth, without hope, for hours on end.
As night fell and the blizzard became more unbearable, Aramoor felt himself slipping into unconsciousness. The hopelessness of his situation and the bitter cold were slowly sapping what was left of his strength. It wouldn't be long now before Death found him. His heavy armor weighed him down and provided little protection from the subzero temperature, so he stripped out of it and pressed onward, now wearing nothing more than a simple set of woolen clothing.
He was so tired, and so sleepy -- more than he had ever been in his life. But he knew if he went to sleep now that it would be his final sleep -- a sleep he would never wake up from. But then again, why should he care? Why was he fighting so hard against Death when he had nothing, nothing left?
He suddenly stumbled and fell into a snowdrift, and found to his surprise that his muscles wouldn't obey him when he tried to get up. He lacked the energy to utter the string of expletives he wanted to shout, so he just thought them instead, and with one…Herculean effort…he was back on his feet.
He started to press forward once more, but found he just didn't care anymore. He no longer feared Death.
He gave a final, pitiful cry -- a summation of all his grief, his sorrow, his ruined hopes. It was immediately, greedily snatched up by the howling Northrend wind.
Falling to his knees, he prepared to let the cold take him. Then he noticed a dim figure ahead, slowly coming towards him, barely visible through the growing darkness and furious blizzard. Was he hallucinating? Was it Death, come to take him? As the figure came closer he saw it was tall and cloaked. A necromancer, he decided.
So, the Scourge wanted him first! Well, he could live with that. Or more appropriately; die with that. Once the prospect of becoming one of the Scourge's soldiers had thoroughly disgusted him. Now…now, like with everything else, he realized he just didn't care. He gave in to his hopelessness, closed his eyes and waited for the end.
But after thirty seconds, the end hadn't come.
"What now?" thought Aramoor irritably. Opening his eyes, he saw the cloaked figure passing him by; apparently he hadn't been seen due to the poor visibility.
Well he wasn't going to stand for that! With a sudden surge of energy he didn't know he had, he found himself on his feet and running at the necromancer. He grabbed the man's shoulder and whirled him around, so that they stood face to face, and --
Bryony!!
It couldn't be! He half expected that he had gone mad, that this was a ghost, an illusion from the Heavens. But when he reached out to touch her face, she was real. Somehow, by some wonderful, Light-blessed miracle, the Pathfinder had survived.
The two of them stood staring at each other, neither saying a word. It was then that he noticed her eyes had a glazed look to them; that she gazed at him dumbly, uncomprehendingly. Looking her over, he saw that she was in even worse shape than he was. She had several minor wounds, but it was the cold that had done this to her -- she was suffering from the early stages of hypothermia, which brought on stupor and extreme weariness. If he hadn't stopped her, she probably would have collapsed within a few minutes, never to rise again.
He had to find some way to warm her before it was too late!
"Bryony! It's me Aramoor!" he shouted above the howling storm. "Can you follow me?"
No answer. The ranger continued to stare at him blankly. Sighing, the footman knew what he had to do.
Mustering the last of his strength, he grabbed the Pathfinder, slinging her limp form over his shoulder. The added weight was almost more than he could bear in his weakened state, but from the very depths of his being he was able to muster the energy to press forward. High elves were a slender, lightweight race, but the fact that this particular high elf was a dead weight did not help matters. He knew that if he ever dropped her he'd never be able to pick her up again.
He stumbled through the snow for several minutes, several times almost losing her, until at last he reached his destination -- one of many small caves etched into the icy tundra that he had passed earlier. It was just big enough for the two of them.
He pushed her limp body inside, and then followed himself. He was pleased to find the cave provided good shelter from the biting wind; they could wait out the blizzard here.
Bryony had settled into a deep slumber, and Aramoor, thoroughly exhausted by now, was tempted to join her. But hypothermia and possible frostbite had to be dealt with first.
His first priority was the ranger's extremities, as they were the most vulnerable to frostbite. He took off her doeskin boots, massaging her feet and toes, blowing hot air on them for good measure. Then he removed her gloves, working warmth into her slender hands -- the same hands which had aimed and shot countless arrows, ending the lives of so many servants of the Scourge. The only other major risk for frostbite was the elf's long ears. Tentatively, the human reached out to touch one; it felt soft and velvety. He massaged warmth into these too.
When it was done, Aramoor breathed a sigh of relief. She would live, and he would live too, for they could share each other's body heat and beat the relentless cold. And to think, they had both come so close, so very close to Death! Until they had found each other.
The realization that he was not all alone, that another living, breathing thing existed on Northrend was wonderfully uplifting. He drew her close, so close he could hear her heart beating, and basked in her body heat. Looking at her breath create a warm mist in the frigid air, he realized he was looking at Life itself.
Bryony was Life, Warmth, Hope, Perfection…the most beautiful thing he had ever seen; an angel made flesh.
On sudden impulse, he pressed his lips against hers; he stole a kiss from the sleeping angel; and as time lay still in the passionate embrace, he experienced the greatest feelings of euphoria, joy, and contentment that he had ever felt.
And suddenly his life had purpose again. The angel of Life didn't belong in this frozen land of Death. He swore to himself at that moment that would see her escape this godsforsaken continent alive, no matter the cost, even if it meant his own life. The hole in his heart was filled, the wound mended, and he would never, ever go back to being the fatalist he had been.
For he had hope now; he had a purpose. He had Bryony.