Tirion rode west, passing north of Crown Guard Tower before veering south. He encountered several roaming packs of undead, but they all steered clear of him, wary of his magic and the heavy mace strapped to the horn of his saddle. For his own part, Tirion ignored them; his mind was going over the same track it had been on since he'd returned from Northrend two years before.
As he travelled, ghosts of the past rode with him. Arthas, finally brought down by Tirion and the heroes he had led into the heart of Icecrown itself. Taelan, Tirion's only son, dead these many years at the hand of Isillien and the cursed men and women of the Scarlet Crusade. Bolvar… "Yes, hmm," he muttered to himself. "Bolvar."
Tirion could still hear the words of his old friend echo in his skull, words Bolvar had said to him as he and his little company had fled Icecrown just after Arthas' fall. Now, go! Bolvar had shouted in a voice that rang through the halls of the cursed fortress. Leave this place, and never return!
Tirion had returned to Light's Hope after a month's leave in Stormwind, where he had been celebrated and embraced by a grateful populace. It was only a short time later that the Scourge had returned to Stratholme, once again making predations throughout the countryside.
Varian had sent forces to build guard towers along the main route through the Eastern Plaguelands, putting the old paladin in charge of their construction and staffing. Tirion had stayed busy for a year, caught up in the logistics and planning, and occasional skirmishes with the Scourge. But soon, nightmares began to haunt his dreams at night, dreams of a figure on a throne of ice, a figure with eyes of flame that burned hot and bright.
The gelding pulled up, snorting, and Tirion grasped his mace as he surveyed the terrain. He had veered too close to Andorhal and his heart began hammering as a group of shadowy figures materialized on the path before him. "Who are you and what do you want?" he asked, barely managing to keep a tremor of fear from his voice. "I have no quarrel with you today. Leave me be."
"Tirion?" The paladin stared into the trees, squinting until his eyes adjusted to the dark.
"Jaran?" he managed to gasp. The undead warrior stepped forward, wincing as the sunlight caught his pale skin.
"Aye, Fordring. What in all hells are you doing here in this cursed land?"
"I need you to take me to Windrunner, at once." Tirion was careful not to let the disgust he felt at his former soldier's plight cross his face or come out in his voice. In life Jaran had been a fierce, proud warrior, and Tirion did not doubt that the traits had carried over in death.
"You truly believe that the Dark Lady will waste time on a warm-blood?" One of Jaran's comrades moved to the warrior's side, an undead priest judging by the robes, and a shiver ran through Tirion as Jaran turned to face the flaming blue eyes.
"It's my decision, Brightleaf," he growled. "This is Lord Tirion Fordring and there is no question of his honor." Facing forward, he bowed low. "Allow me to lead you, my lord," he said, ignoring the murmurs of his command. "I shall see that you reach the Dark Lady, on my honor."
Tirion inclined his head in acknowledgement of the unspoken warning: one false move and Sylvannas would gain another servant in her unholy army. Jaran vanished back into the scrub, reappearing in a moment astride a pale horse whose eyes glowed red in the setting sun. "Let's go, my lord," Jaran said. If we hurry, we can make it to the border before nightfall." Turning to Brightleaf, he said, "Take the men back to Andorhal," he told the priest. "I will return in a few days."
"Of course, Jaran," Brightleaf replied, but there was something in his voice that caused Tirion to glance sharply at the Undead. Jaran kicked his mount forward and Tirion followed, looking back once as the Forsaken faded back into the forest. Brightleaf stood looking after them and he felt a finger of fear at the look on the priest's face.
The two rose side by side, Undead and paladin, until they reached the narrow passage leading into Tirisfal. "Do you wish to continue on tonight?" Tirion looked at his companion. Jaran's face was sober as he stared into the gloom of dusk.
"What are the odds of us getting to Lordaeron if we take the chance?" Tirion would never admit to the thrill of adventure that the thought provoked in him.
Jaran shrugged. "Maybe three in ten. I can protect you here; my men are loyal to me. There…" His voice trailed off. "Sylvannas would never want you to know this, but her grip is slipping, Tirion. She still rules Lordaeron outright, but the Scourge's grasp increases every day." He turned his glowing blue gaze on the old paladin. "Is it not the same in the lands surrounding Light's Hope? Do they not grow bolder with each rising and setting of the sun?"
"Aye," Tirion admitted after a long moment. "I've had reports from Redpath at Crown Guard and Elgior has brought me disturbing reports from the other Tower commanders as well." His voice dropped so low that Jaran was forced to lean forward to catch his next words. "We must return, Jaran. We must finish what we started in Icecrown."
The Undead recoiled; he had been among those with Sylvannas and Tirion for the last assault on Arthas. His thoughts had been haunted by the atrocities he'd seen in that cursed place, and he shuddered. "You're mad, Tirion," he said, but there was a sense of resignation in his voice that lifted Tirion's spirits. He knew that the warrior would be a valuable ally, and he thrilled at Jaran's next words. "When do we leave?"
Tirion clapped his old friend on the shoulder. "As soon as Sylvannas can get us outfitted. If all goes well, a week, no more."
Jaran sighed as he dismounted. "All right, Tirion," he said, tossing his saddlebags to the ground. "If it's that important, we'd better make camp here. No sense in tempting the Scourge. We'll be safer in daylight."
"Agreed," Tirion replied as he tied his mount to the low-hanging branch of a nearby pine. "You want to stand the first watch, or should I?"
"I'll do it," Jaran said, beginning to gather small sticks and dried pine straw. "You look about done in." Piling the kindling in a chimney-like structure, he pulled steel and flint from the pouch at his belt. A few minutes later, he'd built a small blaze, feeding it carefully until he had a respectable fire.
A sensation of cold permeated Tirion's dreams and he swam up out of sleep, gasping for air, as if he were drowning. Dark shapes surrounded the camp; he could just make out the sound of steel sliding free and he leapt to his feet, yelling for Jaran. The warrior was at his side at once, sword flashing in the dim light of the dying fire.
The priest muttered and Tirion's skin began to crawl as the spell took effect. He could sense his life force leaching from him in a nearly visible stream. Raising the mace, he whispered the words taught him when he'd first joined the Silver Hand, words first spoken to him by Uther himself. The Undead flinched as he swung it in a vicious arc, the glow of the Holy magic driving back the darkness. Tirion grunted in satisfaction as it connected with the priest's shoulder, eliciting a squeal of pain.
Jaran's back was to a tree and two of his assailants had already fallen. The only remaining combatant, a dagger-wielding blood elf, had withdrawn out of range of the warrior's sword, eyeing the man warily. When Brightleaf fell, he vanished into the wood, as silent as the grave as he disappeared.
"You have no idea what you're up against, Fordring." Brightleaf spat, his lips stained green with ichor. The blue flame in his eyes was fading, and Tirion leaned close to hear the last words. "Bolvar is coming, Tirion," the Undead said. "The Jailer of the Damned is going to finish what Lord Arthas started." A sigh, a last rattling breath, and he slumped to one side, the fire guttering out completely.
"He's dead," Jaran said, his hand cold on Tirion's shoulder. "Come, we must get through Tirisfal before nightfall.
Tirion squinted up at the warrior. "It's barely light now," he said. "We've plenty of time."
"No, we don't," Jaran said, tightening the cinch on his saddle. He jerked his head at the dead Scourge troops. "If Brightleaf was bold enough to make an attempt on our lives, I fear we may encounter resistance before we reach Lordaeron. I doubt the roads are safe, Tirion and the country is rough."