At Dusk's Last Light

This story is a World of Warcraft adaptation of the Thirty Nine Steps, an adventure story by John Buchan. All OC's are mine. Any WoW Canon characters belong to Blizzard. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

(I know, that sounds like a movie title, but hey, blame the damn legalese!)

This story is set during the prelude to the Cataclysm. For the purposes of the story, a year has passed since the end of the Northrend War against the Scourge, but the Cataclysm has not yet hit.

Chapter One - The Dead Elf

I returned home to my quarters in the Trade District of Stormwind at around Five, on a sunny May afternoon, and pretty much disgusted with life in general. I'd been about six months in peacetime, back in the Home Regions, and I was fed up - you have no idea how much. If some idiot had told me that I'd be this way when I was in Northrend fighting the Scourge, I'd have laughed my head off, but there - I can't disregard the facts. The weather was too mild, the talk of the ordinary Stormwind men and women made me sick, there was not enough exercise, and the amusements of the Kingdom were about as stale as a mug of Ale left in the sun. "John Hannay", I said to myself, "You got into the wrong foxhole, buddy, and you'd better climb out."

I felt like kicking myself when I thought of the plans I'd been building up for the past ten years I'd spent fighting across Azeroth. Like most mercenaries out there, I was rich - not like a one of those snooty lords, mind you - and I'd figured there were all kinds of ways of enjoying myself. I'd left Stormwind a few months after the fall of Lordaeron in the north, seeking my fortune, and I'd not returned even once since then, so Stormwind had been like some distant dream then. I counted on stopping here for the rest of my days.

But from the first, I was disappointed. In about a week, I got tired of sightseeing, and in less than a month, the peace and quiet of the countryside made me go mad. I had no real pal to go about with, which probably explains things. Plenty of people invited me to their houses (old friends, friends of my family, their friends - you get the idea), but they never could quite connect with my way of thinking - no surprise there, they'd never done anything more aggressive than shake their fists at some errand boy. They'd fling a question at me about Kalimdor, Northrend, Outland and probably even Stranglethorn Vale, and then get on with their own business. A lot of Nobles asked me to tea to meet other toffs like them, and that was the most dismal business of all. Here I was, thirty-two years old, sound in wind, sound in limb, with enough money and time to enjoy myself, and I was yawning my head off all day. I had just about settled to get back to the mercenary life, for I was the best bored man in the Alliance.

That afternoon, I went to the Stormwind Counting House to worry my bankers about my investments, to give my mind something to work on. On my way home, I turned into the nearby Inn (rather a pothouse, for there were always ex-military in there). I had a long drink, and began to read the evening papers. They were full of the row in Dalaran between the Silver Covenant and the Sunreavers, and there was an article about Thrall, the Orcish Warchief. Despite him being the Horde faction chief, I kind of fancied the chap. From all accounts, he was the one big man in the show - and he played a straight game too, which was more than could be said about most of those losers. I gathered the Warsong Clan didn't like him much, but that everybody respected him, and that he was the only thing standing between Azeroth and all-out War, especially after the Wrathgate Incident and the Battle for the Undercity. I remember wondering if I could get a job in Kalimdor again - those parts seemed like the place to go - yet again - that could keep a man from yawning.

Around seven, I went home, dressed, dined at the Blue Recluse, and went to watch a musical performance in the Mage Gardens. It was all crap, of course, more silly-faced men and women prancing around, and I left at half-time. The night was fine and clear (again, and it was irritating me even more). The people in the street went past me, busy and chattering, and I envied them for having something to do. Those shop-girls, clerks, guards, dandies - they had some interest in life that kept them going. I saw that beggar near the Trade District yawn, and I tossed him a silver - he was a fellow sufferer. Standing on the bridge of the Valley of Heroes, I looked up into the night sky and swore - oh, I'd been swearing away all the while internally, but this was a swell affair - a terrible oath and followed it up with hawking and spitting into the canal, which made some of the guards nearby wince. As I did that, I vowed to myself that I'd give the Kingdom another week to give me something to work on. If not, I was going to get on the first boat to Kalimdor.

My residence was the first floor in the Central Trade District. There was a common staircase, with the landlady and porter on the ground floor, but there was no restaurant or cookhouse in the building, and each flat was quite shut off from the others. I hate servants on the premises, so I had a chap to look after me who came in by the day. He arrived at Eight every morning and left by Seven in the evening, since I never dined at home (I can't cook, unlike other mercs - my bad - and I'm far too lazy to skedaddle all over the place for it).

I was just fitting my key into the lock, when I noticed a man slouching about nearby. I hadn't seem him there, so I jumped a bit at his sudden appearance. He was a High-Elf, slim with sharp, glowing blue eyes and long fair hair. I recognized him as the resident in the flat just a few doors away from mine. I'd probably seen him once or twice, said Hello or Good Morning, but that must have been it until that evening.

"Can I speak to you?" he said. "Can I come in, just for a minute?" He was steadying his voice with quite some effort, I noted, and his hand was twitching quite a bit.

I got my door open and ushered him in. No sooner was he over the threshold that he ran to the back room, where I'd smoke and write my letters. The he ran back "Is the door bolted?" he asked feverishly, and he fastened the chain with his own hand. "I'm sorry, quite really I am," he said humbly. "It's a mighty liberty, but you look like the kind of fellow who'd understand. I've had you in mind all week when things started going to pot. Say, can you do me a good turn?"

"I'll listen", I said, "that's all I can promise for now." I was getting a bit worried over his antics - he seemed like some nervous ferret, all fired up.

There was tray of drinks nearby, from which he filled for himself a stiff Kungaloosh glass. He drank it off in three gulps, and set the glass down so hard it cracked.

"Pardon", he said, burping slightly. "I'm a bit rattled tonight. You see, I happen at this moment to be dead."

I sat down in my armchair and lit up my pipe. "What does it feel like?" I asked. I was pretty certain I was dealing with some madcap. Might as well do it in a calm and orderly fashion.

He smiled, a smile which seemed to light up his rather drawn face. "I'm not mad - not yet anyway. Say, sir, I've been watching you, and I reckon you're a cool customer. I reckon, too, that you're an honest chap, decent and not afraid of playing a bold hand. I'm going to confide in you, because of that. I need help worse than any one ever needed it, and I want to know if I can count you in."

"How about you get on with your yarn, and I'll tell you?" I propped up my legs on the coffee-table in front of me.

He seemed to brace himself for a great effort, and then began the queerest rigmarole. I didn't get hold of it at first, and I had to stop him and ask questions. But here's the basic gist of it -

He was a High Elf, from the old Quel'Thelas region, and after becoming a trained Swordsman and being quite well off financially, had wandered the world for a long time (apparently some 50 years - he was 250 right about then). He wrote a bit, fought in all three Wars, and spent some seven years in Kalimdor and Outland. I gathered he was a linguist too, and he had got to know pretty well the important people in those parts. He spoke familiarly of names I'd seen only in newspapers. He had played about with politics, he told me, at first for the heck of it, and later because he couldn't help himself. I read him out as a sharp, restless chap, who always wanted to get down to the root of things. He got a little further down than he wanted.

I'm giving you what he told me as best as I could make it out - away behind the Horde and Alliance and the bands of mercs and armies, there was a big subterranean movement going on, literally and figuratively, engineered by very, very dangerous people. He had come upon it by accident; it fascinated him; he went in further, and got caught. I gathered that most of the people in it were those apocalyptic prediction types, who wanted the whole world and all creation to end just because it didn't agree with their way of looking at things, and their backers were either nutjobs or war profiteer bands, who were playing it for the money. War is a highly lucrative business, and it suited their book too, to set Azeroth and even Outland by the ears.

He told me some queer things that explained a lot that had puzzled me - things that happened at the Theramore Peace summit which failed, why always there was some irritant in Alliance-Horde relations, why certain men and women disappeared, and where the Horde got dragons in the First and Second Wars. The aim of the whole conspiracy was to get every faction on Azeroth at loggerheads.

When I asked why, he said that the apocalyptic lot thought they'd have their chance. Everything would be powdered, and a new world would emerge. The profiteers would rake in the gold, and make fortunes buying and selling the wreckage. What nobody knew was that it was all hogwash - and that the REAL masters of the movement would make sure nothing was left standing alive on the planet except them and their chosen minions. He called them the Old Gods, and he shook visibly even at this reference, every time he made it.

"Is it any wonder?" He hissed. "For untold millennia they've slumbered underground, waiting for the time to be free. The bastards, they spread their tentacles everywhere, poisoning minds to their cause. Nobody sees the damnedness of it, that's the kicker. Ahn'Qiraj, Azjol-Nerub and Ulduar were just glimpses of what lies beyond. We'll all be screwed big time of those things get out!"

I asked him if there were not those who didn't buy it, or who broke free.

"Yes and no," he said. "Indoctrination doesn't always work, but like all autocratic ways of authority, they struck the point that can't be opposed - namely that if enough people recite a lie, it becomes the truth, even if it's not. And if it's an idea they go fanatical for and die for, thinking they'll reach salvation, so much the better. But the bastards - they have an ace up their sleeve they haven't played yet. And unless I keep alive for at least a month, they are going to play it, and win."

"But you said it yourself - you're dead."

"Mors jauna vitae," he smiled. "I'm coming to that, but you're going to have to wise up about a lot of things. If you've been reading your news regularly, I assume you've heard the name of Thrall, the Son of Durotan?"

At that, I sat up. "What about it?" I asked.

"He's the guy who's screwing up their plans. The one big brain in the whole damned show, and he's honest to the core. So they've been trying to eliminate him for some years now. I found that out - not that it was difficult, for any fool could guess as much. But, I found out HOW they were going to do it, and that knowledge was deadly. That's why I had to...decease."

He had another drink, and I mixed it for him myself, for I was getting interested in the bloke.

"Now, they can't kill him in Orgrimmar, for the Kor'Kron are the sort who'll skin their own grandmothers. But he's going to be appointed to the Earthen Ring as a senior officer, and he'll be headed for a series of initiation ceremonies, the largest, and final one, of which is on June 15th. Now he's the star of the show, and if these madmen have it their way, he'll never return to Orgrimmar alive."

"Sounds simple enough. You just warn him and keep him at home."

"And play their game?" He asked sharply. "If he doesn't come, the Earthen Ring is pretty much useless, and these madmen would have won. Besides, their new Warchief, Garrosh Hellscream, is a stupid, ogre-headed son of a bitch. He won't listen to any warnings, and if I try sending it, he'll probably use it for blowing his nose. And if Thrall isn't warned why, he won't come, for he doesn't know how big the stakes are on June 15th."

"What about the Ring itself?" I said. "They're not going to let their honored guest be murdered. Tip them the wink, they'll take extra precautions."

'No good. They might stuff the whole meeting with every possible protection known to Azerothian minds, and Thrall would still be a doomed man. The madmen aren't playing this game for candy, I tell you. They want a big occasion for the taking off, with the eyes of all Azeroth on it. He'll be murdered by a Human, and there'll be plenty of evidence to show the connivance of the folk from the Alliance, particularly the Draenei and Night Elves. It'll all be an infernal lie, of course, but the case will look black enough to the world. I'm not spewing hot air, friend - I have the whole detail of the plot, and it's the most accomplished piece of blackguardism since Medivh opened the Dark Portal. But it's not going to happen as long as I have something to say for it on the 15th of June. And that man is me - Salren Dawnstrike."

I was getting to like this Elf. His jaw had shut like a rat-trap, and there was the fire of battle on those sharp blue eyes. If he was spinning a yarn, he certainly could act up to it.

"So, where did you find out this story?" I asked.

"I got the first hint of it in an inn in Tanaris. That set me inquiring, and I collected my other clues in Everlook, in Un'Goro Crater and in Silithus. The final pieces I composed in Theramore and later on in Ulduar. I won't give you the details now, for it's one long story. When I became absolutely certain, I decided I had to vanish, and reached Stormwind by a mighty queer circuit. I left Dalaran a dandified young Magister, sailed from Shattrath as a Refugee, departed from Booty Bay as a Fishing Expert, and left Darkshore as a Real-Estate agent. I reached Stormwind on that alias, and thought I'd mucked up my trail some, so I was feeling real happy. Then..." the recollection seemed to upset him, and he downed some more Kungaloosh.

"Then I saw one fellow standing on the street outside this building. I stayed in my room all day, and watched him for a bit from the window. I thought he seemed vaguely familiar. He came and talked with the landlady a bit, and then strolled off. About an hour later an envelope dropped into my mail slot. It bore...this." And with a half-sob, he threw a parchment piece on the table. It showed a rising sun and a mace in front of, with some illegible runes below it. "That symbol, and the name below, are the last things I'd hoped to see ever while I was alive."

I think that the look of naked fear, the terror in his eyes, completed my conviction of his honesty. My own voice sharpened a bit as I asked him what he did then.

"I realised I was fucked, and that there was only one way out. I had to die, no choice in the matter. If they knew I was dead, they'd stop, and I could buy some time."

"So, how did you manage it?"

"I told the chap that valets me that I was feeling really bad, and I got myself up to look like death. That wasn't hard, for I'm no slouch at disguises. Then I got a corpse - you can always get a corpse in Stormwind if you know where to go for it. I fetched it back in a trunk on the top of a cart, and I had to be assisted upstairs to my room. You see, I had to pile up some evidence for the investigation. I went to bed and told the Valet to mix me a sleeping-draught, then told him to fuck off. He wanted to go for a doctor, and I threw my boot at him, swore a bit more about doctors and leeches. When he finally left, I started to fake up the corpse. He was about my size, and probably died because of too much alcohol, so I put some drinks handy all over the place. The jaw was the weak point in the similarity, so I smashed it away with a sword. Unless they make a real careful check, they won't notice much, so I risked it. I left the body all dressed in my bedclothes, with a sword lying nearby and a real mess in the apartment. Then I got into a suit of clothes I keep for emergencies. I didn't dare shave, since that would leave behind traces, and it wasn't any use trying to get onto the streets. I had you in my mind all day, and there was nothing left to do but appeal to you. I watched until you came home, and then I slipped out and waited near your door...there, sir, I guess you know as much about this as I do now."

He sat there, blinking like an owl, fluttering with nerves and yet desperately determined. By this time, I was thoroughly convinced he was going straight with me. It was a wild, crazy story, but I'd heard queerer things that had turned out to be true in my time, and I'd made a practice of judging the man telling the tale rather than the tale itself. If he had wanted to grab my flat, and then slit my throat, he'd have gone for a lesser yarn.

"Hand me your keys," I said, "and I'll take a look at the corpse. Excuse my caution, but I'm bound to verify a bit if I can."

He shook his head dismally. "I reckoned you'd ask for that. I haven't got it. It's on my chain on the dressing-table. I had to leave it behind, for I couldn't leave any clues to breed suspicion. The gentry who're after me might be mad, but they're pretty bright-eyed. Just trust me, one night only, and tomorrow you'll find proof of this corpse-business sure enough."

I thought for an instant or two. "Alright. Just tonight. I'm going to lock you into this room, and keep the key. Just one thing, . I believe you're straight, but any tricks and I'll turn you into a fishing net. I'm pretty handy with a sword, so beware."

"Sure," he said, jumping up with some briskness. "I haven't the privilege of your name, sir, but let me tell you that you're a man worth his salt. I'll thank you to lend me a razor."

I took him to the bedroom and turned him loose. About half-an-hour later, a figure emerged that I didn't even remotely recognize. Only the sharp, blue eyes were the same. He was shaved clean, his hairstyle had changed to a high foxtail, and he had trimmed his eyebrows, making them look even longer. Further, he carried himself like he'd been drilled, and was the very model, even to his skin-tone, of some Officer who had had a long spell in Northrend service. He had a monocle, too, which he stuck into his eye, and every trace of the Stormwind accent had gone out of his speech.

"By the Light... , I-", I stuttered.

"Not Mister Dawnstrike," he corrected in a high-flown tone. "Captain Theophilus Sunwalker, Paladin-Champion of the Argent Crusade, presently home on leave. I'll thank you to remember that, sir, and to show the appropriate respect and titles. Pip-pip, and tally-ho, let's get on with the bloody thing."

I made him up a bed in the smoking-room, and sought my own bed, more cheerful than I'd been for the past few months. Some things did happen occasionally, even in this Light-forgotten metropolis.

I don't know if I should continue with this story or not, so let me know, will you?