"I believe an alarm may be raised after all," said Torrick, somewhat breathless.
Myrella did not look at him. Her face was transfixed on the glistening spot of land where the remains of the guards had been scattered. "I've … only heard stories. I thought they were supposed to be … Goddess preserve us!"
It was only momentary but Calen heard real fear in her voice. The next time she spoke, it was as if nothing had happened. "Lay him out, Torrick. I need to question him."
"You can't be serious!" The words flashed through Calen's mind at the same time they left the paladin's mouth.
"After what we've just seen, I can't put faith in rumors and hearsay," said Myrella, "I want facts and he's going to give them to us."
"Good luck getting him to talk, let alone say anything you can trust," Torrick said as he stretched Calen flat upon the ground, shoving his eyeball back in crooked, "I've never seen an undead, Scourge or Forsaken, react well to the Light."
"Indeed," replied Myrella, "that fact will be quite useful for encouraging him to be cooperative. However, I intend to use … other means, to make him speak."
Myrella knelt beside Calen and place her hands upon his chest while Torrick watched intently. As she did, Calen could feel dark energy begin to stir within him; the same energy that animated his rotting body. Calen could feel bone and sinew reconnect, gaps in nerves mend, and muscles fill with vigor.
As she channeled, Myrella's breath began to quicken. Calen's eyes flicked toward her and saw that she herself had grown darker, less substantial. Torrick caught sight of this and pulled her away, breaking the spell. So she knew something of the Shadow, did she? Calen had heard cultists speak of it in Brill. They said it was the antithesis of the Light. They also said it was seductive; the more you drew upon it, the more you wanted. If you weren't careful, it would consume you, and it took incredible willpower to walk the hair's breadth between control and obliteration.
Torrick held onto Myrella as she recovered herself. Concern showed plainly on his face, but not entirely for her well-being. "I can't imagine the Sisterhood teaches such techniques in Darnassus," he said.
"Ignorance is a dangerous weakness," replied Myrella, her face returning to a mask of cool serenity, "To remain oblivious to the workings of our enemies is to hand them an advantage. Besides, I only healed him enough to speak, nothing more."
Calen worked his jaw and cleared his throat. It appeared as if the priest had indeed restored him, at least partially. What she didn't know was that Calen could feel control returning to his limbs; a twitch of the hand, a slight jerk of the knee, almost imperceptible but not involuntary. Perhaps she didn't have as much discipline as she thought she did. Ignorance, a dangerous weakness indeed.
The paladin dragged Calen over to a nearby tree and rested him against it in a sitting position. Calen let his head droop and sway. He wasn't sure how much of his strength had returned to him. He needed time. Let them think he was helpless and weak. Let them drop their guards.
Torrick lifted Calen's head and spoke to him. "By what name are you called, wretch?"
Calen muttered a few curses in Gutterspeak that would have shocked a ghoul. Torrick responded by placing his palm on Calen's forehead. White searing light pulsed through Calen's head as the skin began to burn, eliciting sharp cries of pain. It took all of Calen's considerable willpower to keep his arms and legs from thrashing. He did not want them to know the priest had drawn more of the Shadow than she had intended.
The paladin only risked a few seconds worth of the Light's power on him. Any more and there might not be much left to converse with. The priest shook her head slowly.
"If you would be so kind as to speak to us in Common," said Myrella, "And do be polite. Torrick deals with rude tongues in a most unpleasant manner. Now, let us begin again. What is your name?"
"Calen," he replied through a clenched jaw. Smoke rose from the imprint of a hand branded on his scalp.
"Good," said the priest, "We have an understanding now, yes? My name is Myrella Dal'amere and this is my associate, Torrick Lighthammer. We have come here seeking information that I believe you are in a unique position to provide to us. If you would be so kind, Calen, tell us what you know of Worgen."
Calen had seen evidence of the Alliance's stupidity, but never this blatant. They put a sword through him just so they could ask him questions? Next they would chop off his leg and tell him to dance. Very well, "I know enough to stay away from them," Calen grunted, "They kill anything that gets close and they seem to hate undead with a single-mindedness that puts your pet paladin to shame."
Calen's vision blurred as Torrick's gauntleted fist cracked across his jaw. He chuckled to himself despite the throbbing pain. This one had a predictable temper. Useful.
"Have you noticed anything different about them recently?" asked Myrella, "Has there been any change in their appearance?"
"Why, now that you mention it," said Calen in mocking tones, "About a week ago, one of them was walking down the path wearing a red hood and cloak, carrying a basket to grandmother's ho-ah AHHHHH!"
Calen screamed as Torrick snatched his tongue from his mouth. Holy light surged down his throat and exploded in his chest as his mind nearly shattered in pain. The priest turned her head to avoid looking at his convulsing body.
"Oh, Calen," she said in tones of contemptible pity, "I told you how Torrick deals with rude tongues."
Calen tried to form words but the paladin maintained his grip. A fanatic light shone in Torrick's eyes and if not for an admonishing word from Myrella, Calen had no doubt he would have reduced his body to ash. As it was, on the verge of having his tongue ripped out of his skull, Torrick let go and Calen told what he knew.
"M-More … lately," Calen panted, "More of them. Past few months. Better … organized."
Torrick and Myrella shot each other a knowing glance. They shared a nod and turned back to Calen with renewed interest. "You spoke of their tactics changing," said Torrick, "Are they more coordinated? How so? Speak!"
Calen's head was swimming as he tried to recover his wits. Keep them talking, he told himself, keep them asking questions. Time, just a little more time. "They began as small skirmishes," he said, "A pack three here, four there, picking off lone travelers or the weak and wandering newly risen. They were more of a nuisance the guards had to deal with. We learned to avoid certain areas, especially at night. That changed some time ago. The packs increased four-fold in the span of a week. They became bolder, too. Striking at the outskirts of towns and ransacking caravans. They set fires, drew defenders away from fortifications, and cut off supply routes."
"The ones who attacked the Deathguard," said Myrella, "Some of them wore armor. The beasts we encountered in Darkshire held no concern for their own well-being or that of their kin. Is that a recent occurrence here?"
"Perhaps," Calen said, resisting the urge to shrug his shoulders, "Thank the Lady I was never close enough to see. However, in the early skirmishes there would be a few of their corpses lying around. We couldn't use anything from them and the scavengers of the forests refused the carrion, so we just burned the bodies. From what I've heard, there haven't been any burnings in weeks, even though I know dozens have fallen." Calen leveled a stare at Torrick. "Perhaps they've begun to treat their dead with respect?"
Calen braced for an impact that did not come. Instead of striking him, the paladin stood and walked a short span away, Myrella joining him. The two began conversing in low tones not meant for Calen's ears. He didn't care for their words, only that their backs were turned. This was what Calen had been waiting for. The humiliation he had endured was about to pay off. He rose silently as his hand moved toward a secret pocket sewn into the back of his leather jerkin. They had thought him weak. They had thought him helpless. A fatal mistake.
Myrella spoke with a hushed yet urgent voice. "They may have found a way to control it. Or, at the very least, live with the worgen curse while retaining their minds."
Torrick shook his head. "You believe his lies only because you want to. I know you feel some responsibility toward them, but they are lost."
"My people were responsible for introducing this sickness to the world," said Myrella, "It is our duty to find a cure. You saw the magic they wielded against the Deathguard. No mindless beast could command nature like that. We must seek them out."
Torrick saw that she would not be dissuaded and nodded. "Very well. We may be able to pick up a trail from the road. Shall I dispose of our guest?"
Myrella gave a slight bob of her head and Torrick turned to where the prisoner had lain. He experienced only a moment of shock as Calen's dagger flew from the darkness and lodged in his throat. The paladin fell to his knees and collapsed onto his side. The priest turned in horror as another dagger flew silently toward her. The blade grazed her neck as she melted into the shadows, hiding herself.
Calen ran from the trees towards the remains of the Deathguard. The paladin was dead. The priest would die shortly from the poison, but he was not about to take any chances. Those were his only two blades. He was defenseless with a wounded enemy and a pack of bloodthirsty beasts nearby. If he couldn't find a weapon, maybe he could find a hearthstone or a summoning crystal on one of the patrol. Anything to get him away from here!
The swords were all broken and the shields were splintered and useless. A few bows remained, but he had never used one. He began searching through pockets and packs, but found nothing that could aid his escape. Desperate, he began examining dead hands, hoping that one of the rings on the fingers were magical and not just for vanity. Suddenly, upon prying open a disembodied fist, he saw something that caught his eye. This guardsman must have wrested it from one of the worgen in the fight. A small copper ring, faded and going green with age, on a broken leather strap. Calen picked up the cord and stood. What was it about this trinket? It was as if it was, familiar, somehow.
A rustle of leaves from behind him caused Calen to whip around to face the sound. As he did, he found himself frozen in place. Chains of light bound his arms and legs as tightly as steel. He remained standing, but unable to move. On the side of the road, near the trees, Myrella lay nearly prostrate on her hands and knees, one trembling arm outstretched toward Calen. The gash on her neck festered and foam had gathered at the corner of her mouth.
Calen knew she was as good as dead, but he was impressed she had managed to survive this long. No matter, if all she could do was bind him, he could outlast her. Suddenly, Calen could hear something breathing behind him which turned into a deep growl. Impossible! The elf was going to leave him for the worgen to finish off! Myrella's lips nearly curled into a smile as the light faded from her eyes. The last of her strength left her and she collapsed motionless upon the ground.
The bonds held. She must have put all she had into that last spell. Heavy footsteps thudded on the ground as the creature moved from behind Calen to face him. It was not quite as tall as he, but it managed to loom over him nonetheless. The snarl from its muzzle bore yellow teeth as sharp as knives. A dark leather tunic clung to its slender frame and two short-swords hung from its belt, though it made no motion to draw them out. Instead scythe-like claws extended and retracted from the fingers it held up to his face, as if it wanted him to know it was choosing not to use its weapons.
The beast stared into Calen's eyes and he back at it. But his fear and rage were interrupted when he saw the flickering golden eyes flash blue for an instant; an intense blue that brought memories long buried and forgotten. A woman had those same eyes he knew long ago. She had a keepsake of his, too. A copper ring. He dropped his head to look at the bauble. The snarling animal followed his eyes. When it saw the ring in his hand, its face twisted in fury as it let out an ear-splitting howl. Calen looked back up. There was a name at the back of his mind.
"Nessa," he said, as the worgen tore off his head with one swipe of its arm.
The corpse lay broken and scattered with the rest. It was necessary to shred the remains to ensure they wouldn't return, but this time Nessa took pleasure in the act. The thing had the audacity to try and take what was hers. She had gone through too much to lose that ring. She kept it safe through the riots, through the war, through the Change. She would be damned if she let some rotting scavenger steal it. The ring was all she had left of her husband.
Nessa retied the leather strap and hung it around her neck. For a moment, she gripped the ring in her hand and held it against her chest, remembering Calen. She would keep it always, until she found him again.