Chapter 3: Colliding Convictions

Far Eastern Plaguelands

Elise Marjhan stomped along the budding walls of Light's Hope Chapel. Bowmen and scouts gave the raven-haired paladin wide berth when they read the anger on her face. Heavy armor plates of gold and crimson clattered against black ringmail. Two huge shoulder pauldrons carved from brightiron into the shape of two swords shimmered in the early morning moonlight. Elise Marjhan was always ready for battle.

"The Argent Dawn is a band of impotent, delusional idealists." She grumbled. As a paladin of reputable name for the Knights of the Silver Hand before the Third War, Marjhan had been assigned by the Grand Crusader, Saidan Dathrohan himself, to be the envoy and ambassador to the splinter-group, "Argent Dawn".

The paladin had just left from another one of Maxwell Tyrosus' epically long strategy sessions. She'd urged Tyrosus and the others once more to attack while the Scourge was recuperating from their losses due to the war in Northrend. The most infuriating of the group was the Argent Dawn's highest ranked paladin in the Plaguelands, Sir Duncan the Boldstrider. Indeed he was a handsome sight to look at, but his stubborn state of mind and infuriating personal philosophy on the Light was ridiculous. Here they called him the next 'Uther the Lightbringer'. She had called him the next corpse.

She'd worked with the 'leadership' of the Argent Dawn now for years in order to create an atmosphere of mutual cooperation between the two organizations. The mission was somewhat a secret to the rest of the Crusade who looked down on the Argent Dawn for accepting the unkempt filth of the Horde into their ranks.

At the beginning of the new war against the Lich King, most of the Argent Dawn's strength had accompanied the Horde and Alliance invasions of Northrend, leaving their meager possessions in the Plaguelands severely undermanned.

To make matters worse, the Scourge had then launched an intensive campaign against the Scarlet Crusade. Their strongholds across Lordaeron had fallen one after the other like dominoes while Elise could only watch in horror. The battles and sieges had occurred from Hearthglen to New Avalon, Tyr's Hand to Havenshire. At Tyr's Hand nearly 9,000 had perished alone, including most of her close friends.

The losses, coupled with the departure of General Abbendis and her most loyal forces to Northrend, had left the Scarlet Crusade mortally wounded. Elise Marjhan found herself becoming more and more isolated at Light's Hope Chapel. With the remnants of the Scarlet Crusade basically a nonentity in the Eastern Plaguelands, her clout as ambassador had decreased significantly. In the strategy session Tyrosus and his cronies had ignored her superior advice.

We were so pious. We fought so hard for the Light. Our mission was holy…how could this happen? Those words echoed in her mind like an aching scar. The loss of so much planning, history, so many loved ones… in Lordaeron, entire generations and civilizations had been wiped out in the Scourge's horrific genocide. Now would the only flame of hope be extinguished too?

"No, I cannot lose trust in the Light. This is another test of our faith." She shook her head. A miracle had occurred here not too long ago. Remembering that restore her belief, if only momentarily.

Elise not been present at the battle of Light's Hope Chapel, but she had heard the stories along with perhaps the rest of the world. The same Scourge force that had assaulted and defeated so much of the Scarlet Crusade had attacked the Argent Dawn. The legendary paladin, Tirion Fordring, had led the forces of the Light against the numberless unholy dead on these very plains—and won. It was said that he'd even fought the Lich King Arthas in single combat. Elise was not sure whether to believe that or not. Tales of battle always seemed to be blown out of proportion, especially by the peasantry.

After their routing defeat, the Scourge had pulled back to their strongholds and remained quiet. For six months an eerie quiet descended upon the Plaguelands.

One of the tauren cow-men from Kalimdor heaved a sack of newly quarried stone before her. The golden piercing in his nose bobbed as hot breath rushed in and out of his snout. He was helping to complete the defensive wall system around the Light's Hope.

"Another heathen. I am surrounded by the sewage of the world." Elise hissed with venom in her voice. She turned to look out over the ramparts toward the heartlands of Lordaeron. The moon cast a silvery light over the dead forests in the distance. The barker trees and splinterbranches seemed to writhe and wriggle in the wind.

The tauren here gathered around a strange tree they'd managed to grow in the fetid soil. Day after day druids would circle the tree and chant in their pagan tongue, performing their witchery and tainting the minds of the good humans around them. Already there were the beginnings of some foul cult among the peasantry.

"I must escape this place and return to the Scarlet Crusade. These sods will perish soon. They refuse to march on the Scourge while they are unprepared and licking their wounds." She mused disgustedly to herself. If it were the Scarlet Crusade in Light's Hope Chapel, they would have mustered and marched the day after the battle. Elise felt the anger blossoming inside her once again.

She looked at the tauren laborer as he set the cut stones atop one another.

By the rights I ought to smite this beast where it stands, she brooded.

Before she could continue the thought, the sky abruptly lit up with forked green lightning. A white flash blotted out the world before Elise Marjhan for a moment. A clap of thunder and a gust of bind blasted over her, nearly knocking her off the wall. When color returned to her vision, the paladin peered up.

A necropolis! Elise's mouth dropped.

Thick blankets of steam rose off walls blacker than night and covered in the terrifying visages of giant skeletons and bones. The stepped pyramid floated ominously over the encampment, blinding light erupting from its peak shot upward to the heavens. A noise that shook Elise to the bone emanated out of the necropolis. Black clouds of gargoyles detached from the necropolis.

Elise turned to witness a thick carpet of undead emerging from the tree line. They had been taken completely by surprise. A few yells were just now being lifted, but the disillusioned paladin knew it would be of no avail.

"Light help us…" She whispered, watching the monstrous army approaching the undefended, unprepared Light's Hope Chapel.

Elsewhere

Alaric floated upward through the cold ocean depths. The inky murk of the abyss lighted to dark blue, and at last he broke the surface. The waves carried the elf to a sandy shore, the water lapping gently against his side. His head was filled with white light, and for an eternity he lay under the dull sun, feeling like he was both burning and freezing at the same time.

At last he gasped for air, his body battered and shocked. He curled into the fetal position; the webs in his mind began to clear. The images flashed before his eyes once again: a sapphire dragon with shimmering scales, a crown of ice, a burning city, a tree stump at the crest of a mountain, and a figure clad in black armor bearing a sword entombing numberless souls. The blade plunged into his chest.

The elf awoke with a start. A scream echoed down the dark hallway.

"The same dream." Alaric murmured to himself. The air was cold. It pierced his lungs as he inhaled and frosted as it left. He felt around his cell again. The walls were dank and covered in some slimy moss. The hay beneath him stank of urine.

Weak. You leaned on magic too much.

The words rang within the elf. Without his magic he felt as if he'd lost a limb. No, he felt like he'd lost three. If he could still touch that beautiful, delicious flow of magic these paltry bonds would be easily broken. He would have set things right…now he was but a cripple; a shadow of his former self. He had been entirely sealed off from all universal magic, and not a year of trying to return his power had brought him an answer.

The blood elves had all felt the thirst after the desecration of the Sunwell. It was a stinging, remorseful reminder of their loss. It was what had driven Kael'thas and his followers insane. Alaric found himself wishing even to feel that thirst.

All he felt now was nothingness. There was no addiction anymore, but it only deepened the black emptiness of his heart. Only the three ghostly faces that filled that space now.

Lor'themar Theron's haughty face laughed as he guided the blood elves to their damning fate. It was because of him that Alaric had been ostracized and now hunted down.

The second face floated in front of him: Halduron Brightwing. Halduron, once proud and strong-willed, stood by and watched as the blood elves were steered under the umbrella of the Horde simply because he'd been appointed the rank of Ranger-General by Theron. To him, prestige and rank was worth more than the wellbeing of his people. Brightwing was a sellout and despicable.

The last face brought the hateful bile of betrayal to the tip of Alaric's tongue. Salvos Fysian was perhaps the world's greatest swordsman, honing his ability over fifteen hundred years. His unique and unbeatable style had earned him fame and the second name, 'The Duke of Blades'. Fysian was once man he'd felt was a dear friend, perhaps even best friend. The thought of him now was more like tarnished steel.

A light appeared down the distant hallway, twinkling like a distant star. Shadows began to flicker on the walls as it neared. Perhaps it was Osra, come to try and change his mind again? The elf couldn't remember the last time he'd seen sunlight.

How long have I been down here?

Suddenly Alaric felt a chill run down his back. The sounds echoing down the long hallway were not human footsteps. Click clack scrape! Click clack scrape! It sounded like something was dragging against the stone floor. The elf saw the torchlight reflect off a long, bloody sword.

"Come at last for me have you?" The elf said. He tried to sound strong, but his voice was hoarse with thirst and weak with hunger. Ever since they'd been cut off from the Sunwell, such mortal worries had grown in the elves.

The figure came into focus. It was his gaoler wearing the customary Argent Dawn hauberk. Blood seeped from a deep wound that cleaved his skull near in two. One eye, milky with death stared at him ominously. Another wound had savaged his thick leg, leaving it in ruins. The reddened sword hung from a limp hand while the other was occupied with the burning torch.

"Dio, you look different." Alaric jested. The zombie edged closer.

A thunderous roar shook the dungeon. Dust fell from the cracks fell like brown snakes. Suddenly he realized the scream that had woken him was not his own. It was Dio's.

What is happening above?

The zombie loomed above him. If it just came a little closer he could kick the sword from its hand and snap its neck between his legs.

"I am Alaric'Faltron Quel, Lord of Tranquillen and Warden of Quel'thalas. The blood of the Sunstriders runs through me!" Alaric shouted out defiantly. "I will not be butchered like a helpless pig!"

The zombie stopped. It realized what he was about to do. Instead of advancing and mindlessly thrusting the weapon, it held its arm up, bringing the blade to Alaric's throat. From this distance he could do nothing chained as he was.

"Clever bastard." Alaric sighed.

In a bloody split-second the zombie's head flew off as a blade flashed through its neck. Still-warm blood splashed onto Alaric's tunic. As the headless body fell Osra stepped forward, cleaning her blade with a cloth.

"It seems I owe you my life once more." Alaric chuckled.

"Whether you wish it or not you will fight with us now. The Scourge is at our gates. They've already penetrated the central bastions where the land walls and breastworks were incomplete. They took us by complete surprise, scattering our force." The warrior stated, blue eyes flashing over Alaric's chains. She took the gaoler's key and unlocked his manacles. "We need every man possible. I had to fight my way into the dungeons—our own dungeons!"

"You're going to need this." The swordswoman handed Alaric the leafblade and a water skin which he chugged deeply. Life flowed back into him. He noticed she sported a long scratch on her cheek. Sweat and the grit of battle adorned her brow as if her crown.

Alaric examined the leafblade. The light of the torch flickered off it, giving it the appearance of a living creature.

"And why do you still think I'll help you?"

"You seem to value your life."

The elf did not reply, simply standing. Taking a deep breath, he readied himself for what was about to come.

"Give me your word you'll only fight the Scourge. Leave Bartholomew out of this—at least for now." Osra insisted.

"Very well. Let us be on with it then." The elf announced.

Silvermoon, Quel'thalas

Lor'themar Theron clasped his forehead in his hand. He studied the parchment before him. More calls for blood elves for Warchief Thrall's war in Northrend. The Regent Lord of Quel'thalas knew well enough the importance of the war, and that his people were ever willing to fight the undead Scourge, but the less elves in Silvermoon the greater the threats to the re-forged city.

The Sunstrider Spire, once a monument to the classical peak of high elven culture had been rebuilt from the ruins. Now the palace was known as Sunfury Spire. The Spire had been utterly ruined during the Scourge's invasion in the Third War, but now it was a glory to behold once more. Nay, it was the crown jewel of the reign of Lor'themar Theron. The Regent Lord examined the intricate winewood carved staircases that depicted the exodus of the highborne. Paintings of the tall and brilliant heroes of elven lore were etched onto the grand domed roof above the throne room. Gems and lines of silver had been worked into the artwork to give it ethereal realism; eyes shining, swords glinting.

From the roof fell grandiose, purple curtains wrought from the finest silks in the world. Pink petals had been sewn into the curtains from the cherry blossoms that grew in the courtyards. They flowed gently with the slight breeze that blew in from the sun drenched city beneath the Spire. It had all been meticulously reworked to bring back and enhance the beauty that had once existed here.

The blood elves will endure and prosper…under me, Theron thought. The blood elves needed a sane leader who would direct them to a new, glorious future. There were still those that opposed his reign, but in time the title 'Regent Lord' would slowly become 'King'. It all required patience though. After discovering King Kael'thas' dirty secret in his dealing with the demons, Lor'themar had been quick to cut off all association with the madman.

Theron had dissolved the Convocation of Silvermoon, stating that Kael'thas' spies filled its halls. With the people so distraught and stinging from Kael's betrayal it had been easy to subtly assume absolute power. To return the blood elves to their rightful place under the sun, it was a necessary evil.

Footsteps echoed through the chambers of Sunfury Spire. The elf presented himself before the Regent Lord. Lor'themar Theron felt a chill run down his spine when he came eye to eye with his subject. His armor was light ringmail brought to shape from hammered adamantium. A ponytail of shining black hair was slung across his shoulder, held tame by circlets of gold. Across the newcomer's back were two leafblades. They were the finest weapons ever forged by elven hands; Tel'ar and T'eis.

Tel'ar, the Karma of Deeds, shone bright and blue like the sky. The lore behind Tel'ar was an epic that filled entire tomes with dauntless and valiant poems. T'eis, the Karma of Chains, was black like the eyes of its owner. Its hilt was carved from the bones of an arch demon, and the weapon rumored to be cursed.

"Regent Lord Lor'themar Theron, I humble myself before you. You have requested my presence and I have taken honor in your wish." The swordsman said, bowing his head to the shadows.

"We have but one loose end to tie before our nation can move forward." Lor'themar spoke. His voice was carried by the acoustics of the chamber. "Duke of Blades, Salvos Fysian, you will pursue and eliminate Alaric'Faltron Quel. His continuing survival poses a threat to our plans for our people. As long as he lives, he is a banner around which the conservative factions may rally. He is yet a hero to some in Quel'thalas."

"Yes, my lord. I will depart at once." The Duke of Blades replied.

"I know you will not fail me as others have." The Regent Lord said.

"I will deliver Alaric'Quel to the very gates of the hells." The Duke turned, walking into the light beyond the doors of Sunfury Spire.

Light's Hope Chapel

The two dashed through the dark, dank tunnel with the sounds of battle growing overhead. Emerging into the sudden light of the sun rising just beyond the horizon, Alaric and Osra were confronted with the swirling chaos of battle. Alaric glimpsed for a moment Maxwell Tyrosus in battle attire fighting an abomination before he disappeared behind a wall of armor and flesh.

There was no tactic to the carnage, no crisp battle lines. There were only pockets of resistance and scattered men desperately fighting to stay alive. The chapel itself was ablaze, setting off an orange glow in the early morning air.

A thick cloud of dust was trampled up by the battle, hiding the tops of the walls surrounding Light's Hope. For the first time the elf noticed the massive necropolis above them blotting out the moon and clouds.

The experience, emotion, and instinct from thirty years of war flooded back into Alaric. The Scourge was a devious enemy, and almost always numerically superior. Their weakness lay in their chain of command. Necromancers, mind-freed undead, liches, and the various demons in the employee of Arthas Menethil all commanded the masses. Without their middle and upper hierarchies the roving hordes would crumble eventually unless control was reasserted by another intermediary. Immediately he began to look for targets.

Before them a quartet of slain Argent Dawn soldiers lay motionless. Behind the bodies stood a man in rich black velvet trimmed with orange runes, his head half hidden by a neckband that rose in two peaks. Black eyes examined them for a mere moment.

"Esir Gnik Hcil eht fo rewop eht yb." A hiss spilled from the necromancer's lips.

Alaric witnessed the spell as he'd seen it a hundred times before. A shadow seemed to pass through the air before being enveloped by the dead bodies. The dead began to stand as their muscles and bone tissues were given instruction instead of true life. The four shambling soldiers drew their blades, closing in on Alaric and Osra.

"Can you handle them?" Alaric asked.

"Certainly." The swordswoman said, lowering into a fighting stance. Her short sword dripped with blood, but she stood almost innocently. Alaric noticed the gaze of calm on her face that spoke of her experience in the blade. For a moment the elf felt a flash of envy. He knew the blade well, but he'd never dedicated himself to studying its art. The peace she felt when holding her sword was above his level of understanding.

Alaric turned heel and ran to the right. The heat of the blazing chapel atop the hill felt like it would blister him even from down here. Suddenly a spear flew at him, cutting loose the cloth on his cuff and ripping a gash in his flesh. The elf ducked as another was thrust from the side. Two undead minions, both human bodies in advanced decay bore down on him.

The elf swung the sword, turning his hips for extra power to knock aside the first enemy's weapon. He swirled closer and took off its head with a quick strike. Parrying another spear blow, Alaric fell to his knees and pierced through the neck of his second assailant. The corpse crumbled.

Standing, Alaric found himself behind the necromancer. The fallen mage was too busy controlling his forces against Osra and the others to notice he'd been taken unawares. Charging, Alaric ran his weapon through the necromancer's heart up to the hilt. Blood sprayed from the wound onto the elf's hands. A gasp fled the necromancer as he fell to the ground, a pool of red forming around him.

Osra finished the last reanimated corpse with an upward slice that sent half the zombie's head flying off. For a moment Alaric thought she'd been wounded as she clasped a slender bicep. When she removed the hand, he saw she'd somehow fastened her muddied feral-dog armband in the middle of the fight.

The temporary disruption of communications after the death of the necromancer caused many undead to break formation. Some wandered aimlessly while others fell on each other. The greater bulk withdrew to the outer walls of Light's Hope to reorganize.

"You're smiling." Alaric said, surprised. Indeed, Osra Leone had a white-toothed grin spread across her face in the midst of the battle. Her eyes were bright behind dark bangs.

"You are too."

Alaric suddenly realized his own foolish smirk. He wiped it off his face.

Why am I smiling? Was it this little victory? No, that's not it.

"Rally warriors of the Argent Dawn! To me!" Maxwell Tyrosus' voice echoed from the ridge near the burning chapel.

Knots of warriors were gathering, reorganizing themselves in their brief respite. A banner unfurled atop the mound, silver, gold and black. The sun blasted over the horizon at that moment, flinging its rays of light upon the flag and the warriors around it. The air around the hilltop glowed like a halo above the defenders of Light's Hope Chapel, the sunrise giving light to the dusty air. Spearheads, mail, and helms sparkled like a starry night sky. For a moment the elf paused at the beautiful sight.

As soon as the calm had come the chaos returned. The dirt beneath Alaric's feet shook like an earthquake. The ground split and cracked, throwing him backwards as a huge nerubian spider burst through the ground.

The undead spider climbed over Alaric, bending its head back toward its bandage-wrapped thorax straight at the elf. The two came face to face, one set of eyes facing four. The nerubian screamed, opening its mouth to reveal a terrifying triple set of razor teeth between two huge pincers. Alaric jammed the leafblade into one of its unblinking black eyes. The nerubian spun away spraying green viscera from its wound.

Alaric quickly backed up as another nerubian clambered out of the burrow and flew toward him. Dozens more began to emerge like a turned over ant pile.

So damn weak, Alaric thought bitterly. If it was before he could have sent a wave of white-hot fire through the burrow to incinerate them all. The undead were advancing once more, endless ranks rushing through the incomplete defensive walls of Light's Hope Chapel.

Looking around, it was obvious the Argent Dawn had been split into two positions. The defenders still on the walls were continuing to unload missile fire from catapults and bows, even throwing rocks and stones meant for the construction of the walls. Across the battlefield atop the far hill and with the mountains to their backs, Tyrosus' forces were falling into battle ranks.

Seven or eight hundred men perhaps, the elf observed.

"Osra, we need to retreat to Tyrosus!" Alaric shouted over the hiss of arrows flying from the walls. It was too late now though. The monstrous spiders had surrounded them. Slowly they crept closer, carapaces rubbing together to birth an awful sound. The deadly advance stopped.

Osra stared up at the necropolis, eyes wide. Her armor and clothing was wet and sticky with blood.

"What is that?" Fear crept into the woman's voice.

A visibly decaying gryphon screamed out of the belly of the hovering stepped pyramid. Patches of mottled, corrupt flesh hung loosely to a skeletal frame. The eye sockets held orbs of swirling blue, and atop its back rode a figure dark figure. The elf realized in horror that the leather saddle had been sown together from the flayed hides of humans.

The gryphon circled around once and landed in a cloud of dust not twenty feet from Alaric and Osra.

"I taste prey in the air." A voice emerged from the haze. It was deep and somber like a mournful dusk. "I come to find who snuffs my necromancers and find two calves cut off from the herd."

As the haze cleared the death knight came into full view. The death knight's dark gray, pockmarked armor was chiseled into the likeness of a set of bones from some ancient, ferocious animal. The monster stood seven feet tall, more than a head above Alaric. Two eyes shined from beneath the fanged helm. They were the eyes of a predator.

Alaric unconsciously stepped backwards. The very air around the death knight was heavy. Alaric suddenly realized breathing rhythm had changed. Was it fear?

"A death knight…prepare yourself." Alaric said.

"Do you have a strategy for this?" Osra asked. Her voice was tremulous.

"No."

The death knight placed a hand on the hilt of his runeblade, slowly drawing. The weapon stood as tall as Alaric at just over six feet. Along its dark length were carved runes of frost and blood to call upon even more unholy necromantic magic. The base of the blade was serrated and adorned with an infant's skull. Frosty breath came from beneath the shadows of the helm. The sunlight seemed to be sucked in by death knight's armor, giving off a shadow even larger than his frame.

"I had not believed it so when I was told that Alaric Faltron'Quel was at Light's Hope Chapel. Now this threat to the Lich King can be purged forever."

There's no way we can fight him. Without magic I'm weak as a mewling child.

All of a sudden, a high pitched yell filled Alaric's ears. Osra charged forward, sword raised high, shining in the morning sun.

"You fool! Don't!" Alaric shouted out.

She struck at the death knight's chest, but met his blade instead. With one arm holding the sword, the death knight delivered a backhand with his thick, gauntleted hand. Osra flew sideways, falling to the ground in a heap. She tried to stand, swaying back and forth dizzily as if concussed. Blood leaked from her mouth and nose.

The warrior of the Scourge lifted his arm once more. A lance of pink energy shot out of his fingertips and enveloped her. The death grip spell pulled the helpless Osra through the air toward an outstretched runeblade.

"No!" Alaric gave a shout and dashed forward, just knocking the runeblade aside in time. With one arm, he caught Osra and danced away from a counter-strike.

"Just wait here for a moment. We'll be out of this soon." He said, setting Osra down gently on a patch of soft ground. She tried to say something, but her words would not come. Her jaw was broken. A feeling deep within Alaric's heart began to well up. The roiling emotion was one forged in blood and battle, and through strength shared with another. It was something he'd not felt in a long time…comradeship.

"I will try to weather this storm for you." He told her. Envisioning a circle around Osra, Alaric began to attempt to formulate a defensive plan.

The sounds of trumpets and battle cries filled the air. Alaric saw the troops on the hill surging forward like the tsunami consuming the land before it. On the walls fighters armed scorpions and retaliated against the veils of gargoyles.

Make it in time!

Alaric brought himself to bear against the enemy in front of him. He had to hold out until they made it here. The runeblade fell from the sky, striking, piercing, and swinging time and time again. Each clash of metal felt like it would dislocate his shoulders. His arms throbbed with pain.

Alaric brought his sword up to parry, but with a resonating crack the weapon shattered in two. The elf's eyes opened wide as the next attack wound up. He redirected the next blow with the side of his hilt. The vibration rattled the bones in his body.

The elf ducked away from another attack, but the mysterious warrior's free hand pointed straight at the ground. One of the runes on his blade burst into blue light that stung Alaric's eyes. The soil beneath the two began to frost and steam with more unholy magic. The icy infection quickly spread, consuming all the land between the walls of Lights Hope Chapel. It seemed to spread to the undead specifically, coating them like armor. Dodging another hit, Alaric nearly slipped on an ice slick.

This one is truly powerful. Such a radius for spells…if I could channel and cast magic, perhaps we would be even. All I can do now is delay.

The ground fell away from the Lord of Tranquillen without warning. The death knight's hand was outstretched. He was casting his death grip spell, binding matter with magic and reeling it in. The elf was pulled almost instantaneously through the air toward the runeblade. Vision blurred with speed.

Alaric brought his ruined sword to bear without a thought. He would not be skewered without taking the death knight down with him. The edge of the runeblade neared quicker than anything the elf had ever seen. At its end for a moment he thought he could see home shining in the sun.

"Zacharias Morde!" A voice cried out. The sweet song of metal on metal chanted through Alaric's ears.

The figure standing between the elf and the death knight looked much like the other living dead littering the battlefield. His claymore, Death's End, was grinding against the runeblade. Alaric tumbled to the ground as the spell was interrupted.

"Leonid Bartholomew." The death knight acknowledged. "It has been a long time."

"Too long, Morde." Bartholomew hissed. His claymore trembled beneath the might of the death knight's weapon. It was obvious to the elf that the men before him had a long and black history.

Bartholomew was clothed in a hodgepodge of mismatching armor. He looked almost paltry in comparison to the dark glory of the death knight, Morde. Nevertheless, the two engage in a dance of blades. They were almost equal. Alaric noticed that Bartholomew's footwork especially was something extraordinary.

Behind the two the Argent Dawn's counterattack was blazing through the bulk of the Scourge now. In the center of it all, Lord Tyrosus was surrounded by a veritable tsunami of men and women. The elf recognized several of the Dawn's leaders striding toward the death knight at full speed.

Even Chambers was decked head to toe his elaborate and formidable heavy armor. Its plate was cooled to a deep blue and set in a way to make the man appear an impenetrable fortress. Razor shoulder pads discouraged any grabbing for hand-to-hand combat, and spiny grooved shin guards and boots allowed for even more weapons. Beneath it all, Chamber's heavily muscled frame kept the whole thing not only standing, but moving almost like a warrior would without the load of so much protection. Each one of his axe swings were thrown with so much force that they clipped the heads and arms not off just one or two opponents, but as many were standing in front of the ferocious death dealer.

The archmage Teresa Fireweaver launched waves of magic like cannon canister shot. Entire rows of undead were mowed down by her fearsome power. For the first time Alaric noticed the special clothing she wore. They were old robes from Dalaran's Kirin Tor, usually handed down to each of the ruling mageocrats in the Council of Air. They were designed to streamline magic and simply channeling using a small collage of unique amethysts and sapphires brought to the Eastern Kingdoms by the ancestors of the high elves.

The last was a paladin, calmly, almost lazily, stepping through and around nerubian and undead pike men alike. With one hand he held a leather back tome with time-browned pages overflowing with the Light's scripts. In the other was hammer glowing with the blessings of the sacred. Strategically positioning himself in the midst of their thickest numbers, his weapon flew in all directions. Every time the silver wrought hammer touched the corrupt forms of the undead they would be wreathed in holy flame. His armor was shining argent and burnished gold leaf, light but protective. The very design itself gave off the same air of faith and power that seemed to flow from its wearer.

The force of the Argent Dawn's counterattack, much of the weight behind these three, seemed to almost immediately turn the Scourge line. When they saw what was occurring, those on the walls began to stream down the roundel towers and staircases, joining their brothers and sisters.

"You'll die for what you did, Zacharias!" Bartholomew cursed, his hideous face filled with anger.

"Perhaps, but it won't be you that ends the fun." The death knight licked his lips. Morde's runeblade flew again and again, raining down a shower of attacks on Leonid who parried and countered each one.

"Your wife begged for the end. Afterwards, when I left her with nothing, I granted the bitch her wish. As a gesture of our friendship I bound her crying spirit to her ruined body. It would have been entertaining to watch you put the blade through her heart with all those tears in your eyes, old friend." Zacharias' laugh was like a black, burning rain.

Bartholomew said nothing but his milky, undead eyes spoke volumes. Raising Death's End, he charged forward. Leonid's attack brought a shower of sparks from both blades, slipped past Morde's weapon, and skirted his armor.

Suddenly the paladin Alaric had spotted earlier burst through the lines. He read an incantation from the tome and broke a seal of holy power which appeared and hovered above his head like a spinning halo.

"I don't need your help Boldstrider!" Leonid shouted.

"It matters not. I am ending this battle now." The paladin announced. He looked young, with brown hair and piercing blue eyes. Alaric could sense the confidence roiling off of him.

"Duncan the Boldstrider." The death knight tasted the name. "What twist of fate is this, to have so much prey before my eyes? I see a feast before me."

"I fear not, death knight. It is time you depart Light's Hope Chapel."

"This place slakes my thirst." Zacharias' purple lips turned upward in a smile.

"You cannot win on this ground. The power of the Light is stronger here than anywhere else."

"Test me, Boldstrider." The death knight's eyes opened widely.

"I am an instrument of the Light. These exemplars would purify this place once more!"

The paladin threw his fiery hammer to the ground. Soil flew in chunks away from the mighty blast to leave a crater. The ground erupted with a righteous conflagration that swept away the ice and minions of the Scourge, turning them to ash in a heartbeat. The inferno consecrated the ground, devouring the unholy. The storm lasted only a few moments, but its damage to the Scourge force was great.

Alaric looked on in part amazement and denial. Ash fell from the sky like a volcanic cloud, blanketing everything in white and grey. For a second, the elf thought the carnage resembled a newly fallen, peaceful snow.

The holy fires died down quickly, leaving the ground much the same as it had been before. Everything bound with unholy power within the confines of the walls was undone save Zacharias Morde.

The death knight had shielded his face with hands. His bracers and pauldrons had been melted to slag, dripping off him in steaming lines of dribble. Blood mixed in with the molten metal, but not enough to show mortal, or even deep wounds.

"That will not be enough to stop me! I will rip the piety straight out of your beating heart, you runt!" Zacharias spoke angrily.

"The Light—always—guards this land." Duncan replied, heaving like he'd just run to Stormwind and back.

"I know you have no more tricks, Boldstrider. I will be back for more hunting."

Zacharias Morde sheathed his runeblade, spitting on the ground before him. Slowly he turned, cloak fluttering in the wind. A passing cloud of dust stole his figure from the defenders of Light's Hope Chapel. The undead legions before the walls began to turn, disappearing into the forests from whence they came.

"Come back! Zacharias!" Leonid Bartholomew cursed, running forward and slashing at the ashes and sift. It was too late now though. The forsaken let loose a scream of frustration. Whatever had been done to him by this death knight, Alaric felt they had common ground.

How strange…common ground with one of the undead.

Above, the necropolis disappeared in a crackle of lightning. Its sudden absence created a void that sucked up the air above Light's Hope, lifting the smog of battle.

The elf rushed over to Osra. She lay on the mound he'd laid her down on. Her eyes were closed and a tangle of dark hair fell over her face. A great purple bruise had already begun to spread across her face. She clutched her short sword like it meant her life though. He sighed with relief.

Before Alaric could even call for help, the paladin, Duncan, appeared. He knelt down beside Alaric, gently brushing the young woman's hair aside. The magic of the Holy Light seemed to bubble from his hand as he held it over her face. The bruise began to slowly recede, though not completely.

"That power—" The elf began.

"—will not be seen again." Duncan cut him off. "It was a miracle, or should have been."

"Can you heal her?" Alaric ignored the paladin's strange statement and turned to Osra. She seemed less pained now.

"Partly…I will repair the internal damage and knit the bones. The rest will have to heal naturally." He studied Osra's features quickly. "She is pretty, even with the grime of war."

"And strong." Alaric added.

"Aye. She'll heal quickly. I must be on to the more seriously injured." The paladin departed, visibly sagging with exhaustion.

Emotions and fatigue churned through Alaric. The sensation of camaraderie that he'd never expected to feel again still lingered. After all the betrayal, blood, and death of the last two years it was the last thing he expected to feel. Instead, he'd been chasing vengeance.

What was the meaning of her smile? And mine? He thought back to the middle of the battle. Bloodlust?

He sat back next to Osra to recover his breath. The young lady's eyes began to flutter open, blue as the sky.

"I'm glad you made it." She said, looking up at him.

Alaric took in his surroundings. The chapel atop the hill was a burned wreck. Other fires littered the battlefield, and the walls seemed painted with blood. The undefiled bodies of the fallen Argent Dawn warriors lay where they were slain, carpeting the hills and plain. Wailing for water and aid filled the air. The paladin's retaliation had left a powdery coating of fine soot across the fields of war. The clouds and sky were pastel orange, pink, and yellow. A slight breeze of clean, cool air washed the air of its stagnation. It was almost a beautiful morning.

"I'm glad you made it too."

Later That Day

Duncan Macallan opened his eyes and rolled onto the side of the cot. His muscles ached like they'd been torn from the bone. It hurt to stand on his feet. Nevertheless, the paladin forced himself up. He washed his face in a bowl of water and then put his boots on.

The footman who'd woken him stood watch outside his tent. With the Scourge attack, most of the solid structure buildings in the encampment had been burned or knocked down. He sat quickly before a stone focus-idol and uttered a quick prayer.

"Thank you, soldier. I appreciate nothing more than waking up." Duncan said dryly, exiting the tent without bothering to armor himself. He wore the same faded yellow tunic and died brown trousers he'd fallen asleep in. The sun had climbed high into the sky and was beginning to dip down now.

Duncan could still feel the essence of the Light shimmering within him. It felt warm now, instead of the burning heat that scorched his body when he'd channeled the holy magic through his body.

The bodies of hundreds, if not thousands of heroes and holy men were housed in the catacombs. The ground had been blessed and made sacred by the Archbishop of Lordaeron, Pious de Nei. Most had been moved from various cemeteries across Lordaeron during the Third War to prevent resurrection by the Scourge. The honored dead could rest without the threat of becoming nothing more than more pawns to Arthas Menethil.

During the First Battle of Light's Hope Chapel, when all seemed lost for the mere 300 defenders, the spirits of these dead had answered the call of the heroes Darion Mograine and Tirion Fordring, defeating the Scourge and driving back the Lich King himself. It had been a miracle.

As he walked along the crude roads of Light's Hope, soldiers stood cheered for him. Salutes and looks of adoration and respect showered him. Duncan felt a sickness crawling up within him. What he'd done in the battle today was not heroic or good…it was a sin.

The Argent Dawn was outnumbered, outgunned, and outmatched. They were scattered and unprepared. It was only a matter of minutes before Zacharias Morde and his Scourge had overrun the rest of the encampment.

Seeing no other option, Duncan, in desperation drew upon the spirits residing in Light's Hope and forced their combined power into himself to consecrate the very ground and destroy the Scourge army, or so he believed. They had appeared just the same as they had against the Lich King, but therein lay the dilemma. Was the despair of Light's Hope so great that the spirits had granted their strength, or had he forcefully usurped it?

Holy power should not have operated with such an approach. There was not posturing, no coercion of the virtues of the Light. There could be no compulsion and ordering. The power of the Light flowed like a gentle stream or a crashing waterfall. Neither a river nor a waterfall could flow from a person. The Light was natural. He had made it artificial. The action had nearly ripped him apart. That was why it physically hurt so much, or so he believed.

The blood elves forcefully subjugated the power of the Light through the naaru. What they did perverted the ideals and the teachings of the Church. During the battle he remembered what he'd been told of them and their ways of taming the Light. The memories from what he himself had done were too fuzzy, but he felt like it was wrong. Whatever the ploy had been it had worked. What was the cost though?

"My soul?" Duncan mumbled to himself, unsure.

I regret it. The paladin hung his head in shame as he walked through another deluge of congratulations and thanks.

Have I fallen from grace? If so, how could the Light lend itself to me to heal? Am I simply forcing it now without knowing? Have I forgotten how to listen to myself to find the power as I used to? I must cleanse myself later.

The paladin put the thoughts out of his head. He had a meeting to attend and duties yet to fulfill.

Duncan walked up the stone steps through what had been the barracks until that morning. He then crossed the planned sight for a courtyard where he'd intended to do his meditation in the future before arriving at the Druids Tree. There, the tauren who'd come so far from to join their cause usually gathered to practice their magic. From it, a great tall pine, lush and green, had grown from what was once dead soil. Most likely, it was the tallest, healthiest plant in all of Lordaeron now.

In the shade of the tree Maxwell Tyrosus, Even Chambers, Teresa Fireweaver, Leonid Bartholomew, Elise Marjhan, and strangely enough, the blood elf Alaric had all gathered.

"Forgive my lateness, Commander Tyrosus, my lords and ladies." Duncan apologized, assuming his place around the table someone had managed to salvage.

"Ah, Mr. Quel, here he is; one of the finest young paladins of the Silver Hand. No worries, young Duncan. I sent for you later than the rest of your peers. You deserve a rest after that masterful performance." Maxwell Tyrosus smiled. Duncan winced. Chambers put a massive, gauntleted hand on his shoulder and gave him a nod.

"He is no man above the rest that fought." Leonid grumbled. "He deserves no reward."

Elise Marjhan shot him a glance. He wasn't sure if it was filled with venom or admiration.

Leonid is right. I deserve no reward for what I did.

"What news from the battle then?" Duncan changed the subject. Tyrosus and the rest of the commanders frowned.

"Of twelve hundred reported ready at arms as of last night, we lost more than three hundred. Most came in the initial attack. There are more than fifty still missing." The Lord Commander pointed to a roster lying on the table.

"A quarter of our force." Chambers shook his head in dismay. "I recall the old Arathi proverb, 'only the dead have seen the end of war.'"

"Not these days." Alaric mused morbidly.

"We must place faith in the Light, Field Marshal. With faith, we will deliver ourselves through strengths we didn't know we had." Duncan reassured the huge man. He felt the need to redouble his own strength and faith, especially after that morning.

"We must decide our next course of action. The landwalls are nearly completed. If we quicken construction, the Argent Dawn's position in the eastern Plaguelands will be exponentially strengthened." The mage, Teresa, said.

"Just like Tyr's Hand? If you recall, it fell in a matter of hours." Elise Marjhan grunted. "Morde simply needs to reorganize his force and heal his wounds. With the black magic of the Scourge at his disposal, even a child could come to the conclusion that he will return soon."

"I can see but one option." Alaric strode forward to the head of the table. "Do you know where this Zacharias Morde is gathering his strength?"

"Our rangers spotted his necropolis and a double net of pickets flung around the old Triumphal Arch south of Stratholme and the Plaguewood. I would suspect that to be his location. What do you suggest we do, Lord Alaric?" Maxwell Tyrosus inquired curiously. He pointed out the location on the map.

The cartography was plastered onto a dried cow hide. It showed eastern Lordaeron in its days of glory. The cities of Corrin's Crossing, Northdale, Tyr's Hand, and Stratholme stood out. Each metropolis had its own unique rendering of its respective skyline to indicate the city's greatness. Roads crisscrossed the wilderness and were dotted with way-stations and inns. The Greatwood, now the Plaguewood, dominate the north.

"You must do what he will not expect. You are weakened and outnumbered. Your walls are incomplete and your wills flagged."

"What do you suggest?" Tyrosus repeated. The elf stabbed a dagger into the map abruptly.

"Attack." Alaric answered, grinning.

Character Bio: Duncan Macallan the Boldstrider

Duncan Macallan is 23 years old, and stands at 6'1. His hair is light brown and his eyes blue-grey.

Duncan was inducted into the Knights of the Silver Hand at a rather young age after his strong faith and talent in channeling holy magic became apparent. Stripped from his family in Lordaeron, he grew up around other prospective pages for the Silver Hand, constantly competing and enduring brutal training. He squired until his master, paladin Bragg Pencarr, was slain in the Third War.

Afterwards he was fully inducted into the service as a full paladin, impressing many of his elders with his various strengths. He gained the epithet 'Boldstrider' during the Battle of Northdale when he singlehandedly fought his way through the thick undead lines to slay their commanding lich.

After the war, Duncan Macallan joined the Argent Dawn. There he performed many famous actions on various missions across the Lordaeron continent before being taken under the wing of the illustrious paladin and successor to Uther the Lightbringer, Tirion Fordring. During the course of his adventures with Fordring, the young paladin matured as a leader and became more worldly.

At first meeting, Duncan may seem stoic and unbending. Beneath this outer layer lies a creative, wry, and humorous personality, though it has been mulled by the long years of war.

Factoid: The First Battle for Light's Hope Chapel

After the destructive and bloody campaign against the Scarlet Crusade, the forces of the Scourge under the death knight Darion Mograine turned their attention to the last remaining bastion of resistance in the Plaguelands at Light's Hope Chapel.

With most of the Argent Dawn's forces split up to aid with a newly constructed plague sweeping through Ironforge and Stormwind, only 300 defenders remained to guard Light's Hope under Tirion Fordring, Maxwell Tyrosus, and Leonid Bartholomew.

Late in the day, a Scourge force of 10,000 or more led by Darion Mograine struck and easily overran the outer defenses. In the midst of the chaos, Fordring and Mograine met in single combat. The paladin narrowly defeated his counterpart, cracking the Ashbringer blade that the death knight carried. From within the blade the spirit of Alexandros Mograine, Darion's father, appeared and redeemed the soul of his son.

The Argent Dawn's hopes of victory were shattered as the Lich King Arthas Menethil suddenly arrived. Realizing the depths of his betrayal, Darion Mograine charged the Lich King only to be swatted away. Mograine quickly threw the Ashbringer to Tirion Fordring. With the power of the blade and the Light itself answering the call of despair, the Lich King and his undead minions were banished from the holy ground around the chapel.

Author's Note: Hey all. Thanks for sticking in so far. This chapter has been under construction for more than a month. I'm not sure why but it was difficult to write. Luckily the next one was not!

So who is Zacharias Morde? What is his goal, and why do the blood elves truly hunt Alaric'Quel? Exactly what are Alaric's full intentions? Stay tuned for the answers!

See you all soon!

-Omegatrooper