The attack was not entirely without warning. Lookouts posted on the points of the Argent grounds signaled a warning and soon a bell was ringing in the piercing tones of freezing metal. Eonthane took his time responding. Men and women wearing the Argent Crusade tabard hurried about him, forming up into units at key locations. A squire ran past, panting in the cold air, carrying quivers of arrows that were taken up one by one by archers. They formed up facing south. The blood elf priest looked first in that direction at the advancing Scourge. Mostly ground troops, just a rabble of shambling dead, with a spotting of valkyrie and gargoyles in the sky. Just another wave of expendable flesh for the slaughter, in the hopes that they would kill enough of the Argent to drag away and reanimate to make it worthwhile. Judging by the looks on the faces of those he walked past, just the mere thought of having to face their former brothers in arms was enough to make it worthwhile. He smiled thinly.
A horn sounded. It was not one Eonthane had heard before. He had spent several weeks at the Argent Crusade encampment in Icecrown and had grown used to the daily activity and fervent discipline of those wearing the tabard. Others came and went, including his own Blood Wolves, in confusing disarray. One of the Argent captains had made it clear that Eonthane was to follow orders while in their camp. Eonthane had made it clear that he would take it under consideration. Now, it looked like the dedication of the Argent soldiers were faltering. The ranks were breaking. The units were being forced to reform as people dropped out of formation. Holes appeared in the line of archers. Curiously, the units became more and more dominated by Horde. Eonthane stopped walking, eyes narrowing in thought. He did not believe the Alliance were naturally cowards, so why...?
A familiar cry pierced the air. Eonthane winced and pulled the hood of his cloak up, momentarily forgetting the strange desertion of the Alliance troops. It was a female's cry, rallying people to her and invoking the ancestral spirits to aid them in battle. In other words: it was Warraven calling up the Blood Wolves to reinforce one of the front-line units. He hurried in the opposite direction, losing himself in the flow of Alliance towards the strange horn.
It was quickly apparent that the Alliance were not deserting their posts but reinforcing a middle unit, forming a formidable army around a central figure. Eonthane froze, sudden terror and excitement flooding through his mind as he understood. Varian. Their King was at the Argent grounds. He stood with his elite around him, one of them blowing a war-horn that had summoned a force to protect their King. The priest backed away, kneeling between some tents that had been knocked over in the rush to battle. He rested his staff on one shoulder and watched. Already he could hear the hisses and moans of the advancing undead, creating their own languid battle cry out of the creak of aged bones and rattle of chains. It was drowned out by the living. "For the Alliance!" "To the King!" And feeble in comparison was "For the Horde!" rising up intermittently from the scattered troops. Then battle was met.
Eonthane had the high ground and a good vantage point. The Scourge split into two forces, one heading directly for Varian and the other swinging to the west to flank the encampment. On the east he could see the Blood Wolf Totem banner, tattered red cloth mixed with a wolf's pelt. Their unit swung wide and then closed in on the Scourge flank. Eonthane recognized the maneuver. Hammer and anvil. They were going to be the hammer and Varian's people the anvil. The Scourge was the hapless metal caught in-between. His knuckles were white against the wood of his staff and he forgot the cold for a brief time. The dying had begun.
The archers did not make much of an impact on the undead. A few got in lucky shots that tore enough damage into the rotting flesh that it was unable to stay animated. The rest fell uselessly against the waves of the dead. A few smarter archers aimed high and forced the valkyrie to break up and scatter. They were among the first to die. The valkyrie targeted them in response and Eonthane could feel the energy from their deaths as the pale women landed among their ranks and tore men apart with swords that gave off a cold light. He shivered in pleasure and fought to keep from drinking too deeply. The mages had cut loose and fire and ice rained from the sky. Then the melee crashed with the Scourge and all battle plans fell down to who could hold their ranks. The sound of bodies hitting shields was deafening and it drowned out every other sound; the cries of the dying, the roars of the triumphant, and the maddening groan of the undead. There was nothing but the naked struggle of physical force, straining to force the other to give.
The center was the hardest hit. Varian flashed here and there, clearing a bloody path wherever he went. Eonthane closed his eyes. There was too much magic being loosed here and it tore at him, the addiction burning in his throat and begging him to open up, drink, and damn himself. The priest drew in a ragged breath and stood, reluctantly approaching the battle. He stepped over a dying archer, snarling as the man reached out with a bloodied hand and grabbed at his robes. He tore away and left him there. There were no Horde nearby and reluctantly, unable to hold his own power at bay, Eonthane reached inside himself and let go.
He gestured. White fire followed his command and holy magic surged through a night elf, commanding the body to obey the priest's will. Blood beat faster, rushing to the source of the wound and clotting, building up and building up until the flow was staunched and the warrior would live. Magic thrummed in his veins like a second heartbeat and he held his staff upright in front of him with both hands. There was a veil of power around him like static in the air. Light burst forth, his will made manifest, and the energy spun out to those nearest, indiscriminately demanding they be made whole again. Eonthane's healing was aggressive, the priest's will pit against the laws of nature. Some could not handle the shock. A human fell to his knees nearby, hit with the wave of Eonthane's circle. He was pale and shaking, his sword almost falling from fingers suddenly rendered numb at the deluge of sensation. Eonthane never bothered to dull the pain associated with an injury... nor the pain of having the body wrenched off its natural course and accelerated to close the wounds.
Eonthane walked over and jammed the butt of the staff into the man's ribs.
"Get UP!" he snarled in his thickly accented Common and the human was jolted to obedience. Eonthane watched him return to the ranks and was not aware of the battle turning.
It was why he despised being on the front lines. Battle changed and changed again, too quickly to be tracked by those caught in the press of it. Someone was thrown back and slammed into the priest, knocking the staff out of his hands and bringing him to the ground with a pained cry. Eonthane struggled but was caught under the bulk of the man, crushed as someone else fell slipped and fell, the ground beneath them quickly churning into a mess of blood, melting snow, and mud. It soaked into the priest's robes and he dug one arm into the soup, trying to pull himself free.
Someone grabbed his arm and hauled. His shoulder twisted painfully and he was freed, the knight dragging him to his feet and shoving him away.
"Get back!" he ordered, "Behind the shield wall!"
Someone knocked into him again but he kept his feet, trying to find his bearings. Someone else knocked into him, trying to get past to form up in the breach the Scourge had torn. Broken fingers clawed at the men and Eonthane could smell the stench of old death. He almost gagged and then someone was pulling at him again, using his size to shield the frail priest from the press of people. The tabard of Stormwind's elite flashed past him and Eonthane could see the knight at his back, scouting the battlefield to find a way to get the priest free of the front.
"Healer!" he called at his men, "Make a hole!"
They obeyed. The knight shoved him to the path and someone else took over the task of shepherding him back to safety.
"Get yourself safe and get back to work!" Then he was gone, back to the front lines.
Eonthane didn't waste any time getting himself free. He was shaking. This was not the first time he had been so close to the front lines. It was the first time he was there by accident and not by a deliberate attempt to bait death to find him. The edge of the addiction was sated, overwhelmed by a primal instinct to survive that Eonthane had not experienced in a long time. He was frightened. He retreated to the back of the lines and worked his magic from a distance, healing almost mechanically now, no longer rejoicing in the expenditure of his power.
As quickly as it had come the battle went. The remaining Scourge retreated as the living chased them down, attempting to destroy all remnants of the attacking force before they could carry off their dead and dying. Others started scouting the battlefield, pulling the dead out to be burned, calling for healers for the wounded. Eonthane, a strange fascination taking hold, went to the battlefield as well. He stepped carefully, watching the ground. There, the archer that had grabbed at his robes – dead. The night elf he had healed earlier, down on one knee, face drawn with pain and one hand over the wound Eonthane had reduced from fatal to merely threatening. More dead he did not care about. And finally, near the front line, he found the armor and tabard of Stormwind's knighthood. The man lay on his back surrounded by a pile of dismembered Scourge. He was having trouble breathing and there was a broken spear shaft in his breastplate. Eonthane recognized the man's face. It was the same who had pulled him from the front lines to safety. The priest knelt by him.
"You're dying," the blood elf said coolly, "It will not be a bad death. In a moment you'll have lost enough blood that you'll feel sick and dizzy. That will pass and you'll be tired and be unable to stop yourself from closing your eyes. And you will never wake up. The pain will be gone in a moment or so. I will wait."
Wrapped up in morbid fascination, watching the man who had saved him die before his eyes, Eonthane failed to hear anyone approaching. In all the noise of people moving, securing their position against any straggling Scourge, it was hard to hear the footsteps of one more person. And this one walked carefully, listened closely, and did not like what he heard.
A hand closed on the back of Eonthane's robes. The priest had only a second to stiffen as the dying knight's eyes moved to stare at just above Eonthane's shoulder. Than the elf was pulled clear to his feet, spun about, and struggled to keep his footing as he came face to face with King Varian Wyrnn. Anger radiated from the King. Eonthane's eyes were wide behind their green fel glow. Varian held him there, hand tight in Eonthane's robes, pulling it back so that the priest was struggling to keep breathing.
"You will not wait," Varian said quietly. "You will save his life, else – Argent grounds or not – I will make you regret every scant second of the rest of your wretched life."
Varian let go. Eonthane staggered back, shaking under the King's glare. The priest had matched wills with Magisters, enemies, kin, and the Blood Wolves. Each time he had done so with the unshakable confidence that there was nothing they could do to him that he was afraid of.
Under the gaze of the King of Stormwind, Lion of the Alliance, Eonthane was afraid. He did as he was bid, kneeling beside the dying knight and drawing his strength to him. The spearhead was loose of the shaft and Eonthane grimaced as he drew the wood free and found it bare of the metal head. He drew his knife, keenly aware of the stare searing into his back. Carefully, trying not to disturb the man's injury, Eonthane cut the leather straps of the armor, pulling the tabard away and discarding it. Varian stooped to retrieve it, folding it gently between his hands. The breastplate was easy to remove and Eonthane could see the spearhead lodged between the man's ribs, the gambeson soaked with blood. The knight was about to pass out, fighting to hold on to consciousness. Varian knelt and took the man's hand.
"Don't go yet, Tarnias," the King said, "I still need you here."
"Wouldn't dare," the knight struggled to say, "My liege."
Then he gasped in pain and shuddered. Eonthane had taken the moment of distraction to pull the spear head free and press his palm onto the open hole. The blood was hot against his hand and the elf sucked in a breath, focusing his will. Shattered bone pieces dissolved and became nutrients for blood that washed away the dead bits of flesh. Fresh skin and muscle fought to cover the hole and the lungs moved with renewed strength. Eonthane drew back, the healing done, and the man groaned with new-found pain.
"Get him on his side," Eonthane said, "He has blood he needs to cough up."
Varian rolled the knight to his side. The priest was conscious of more people standing around, all wearing armor and tabards that matched the wounded knight. He was done here. The man was healed. He stood to go and found himself boxed in on all sides by humans, waiting on a word from their King. Varian was watching Tarnias cough and cough.
"There's more wounded, elf," Varian said, not even looking in his direction.
Under the watchful eye of Varian's elite, who had apparently caught on that Eonthane had somehow severely displeased their liege, he went from wounded to wounded, healing those he could. It was exhausting. He resorted to magic only when he had to, deferring as many as possible to conventional aid to preserve his dwindling supply of strength. Finally, help arrived. Warraven walked over, her face serene and seemingly unsurprised to find him among the Alliance forces at the Argent Crusade. She stopped, looked him up and down, and then turned and walked past him without a word. He stared at her, offended.
"Chieftain," she said respectfully to King Varian. He was talking with one of the commanders of the Argent Crusade, apparently completely unperturbed by the Scourge interrupting what was a state visit. The King paused the conversation at her approach and nodded, giving his leave for her to speak. She returned the gesture with an awkward bow, as if she didn't know how to make one or didn't know if she should.
"I have wounded as well," Warraven said, "We need our priest back."
"Your priest?" His orcish was almost flawless.
"The elf, Chieftain Lo'Gosh."
"Of course. Take him and go. My men tire of watching him."
She nodded her thanks.
"One thing." Warraven stopped and turned back to Varian, waiting on his question. "His name. What is it?"
"Eonthane sa'Lara."
"I will remember it. That is all. Now go."
"Thank you, Chieftain."
She walked back past Eonthane, barely acknowledging his presence. Eonthane was all too glad to follow. They walked in silence until Eonthane saw the banner of the Blood Wolves with their small group gathered around it. The shaman stopped and put herself between them and him.
"I don't want to know what you did," she said, uncharacteristically fierce, "The fact that you haven't betrayed us or turned your back when I know that is your way is the only reason I went and found you. But know this, Eonthane: we cannot have you making enemies that the Blood Wolves cannot afford. If not for the truce on Argent Crusade ground I would not have been able to take you back."
"You're afraid of him," Eonthane sneered. The tauren drew herself up and fairly loomed over him.
"Yes. I am afraid of many things. But I stand against them and if I have to, I'll stand against Chieftain Lo'Gosh and die if I must because no matter what you do, Eonthane sa'Lara is still a Blood Wolf. For now. Consider that while you tend to our wounded."
And she brushed past him, walking away to confer with the commanders of the Argent Crusade. Wearily, Eonthane continued to where the Blood Wolves were waiting. He was too tired to care anymore.