Chapter 6: Ghosts
A quiet wind slipped through the mountains, pushing back the tepid air in the great vale that separated Lordaeron from Quel'thalas. The bleak, desolate landscape, a testament to the Scourge's ultimate pursuit, had seemingly been cleansed by a thick, white snow. The precipitation had fallen gently from the clouds as they reached over the towering, rocky ranges. The decay of the land however, ran too far deep. The snow was merely a cosmetic.
In the midst of the white purity two elves circled; one a black shadow, and the other golden. The past swirled around the two, and emotion simmered just below the surface. Destiny and twined them together like none others. Neither could tell their fate.
The Duke was dressed in a black doublet, under which was slashed scarlet velvet. Similarly dark cuisses hung from thigh to knee. Two scabbards hung from a coal-shaded belt that was lined with amber scrollwork. A silver medallion fell about his bare neck. The rest was black shadow.
Alaric fought to calm himself. From the icy shores of Northrend to the rent ruins of Outland to the rebuilt splendor of Silvermoon, the passions of time threatened to topple his grip on himself.
If blind hate took over now he would be cut down in an instant. The elf forced his mind clear, bringing the falchion blade up to bear. The weapon was light, but the curve and feel of it was unfamiliar. The chainmail was weighing him down. It weighed at least fifty pounds.
He cannot have entered this battlefield without facing some enemies, Alaric told himself. Doubt and confusion flittered through him. How did he get here? Is he here to finish what he began back at Silvermoon?
Salvos Fysian, the Duke of Blades, unsheathed his two blades in such a slow and relaxed fashion he might as well have been reaching for a simple twig. Every movement was calculated and thought through. His fluid motions spoke of a thousand years of experience. One wrong move could mean a head lost.
Alaric stared in awe. Even seeing Tel'ar and T'eis drawn so many times in the past, it was still a haunting image. Tel'ar was like a sharp stripe of blue sky, clear and deadly. T'eis though, was as black as its wielder's eyes. Both weapons had long, storied histories that stretched back in the canvas of elven history. One legend had it that the blades were hammered and forged before the War of the Ancients.
"Alaric'Faltron Quel, Regent Lor'themar Theron sentences you to death-immediately." The Duke spoke softly. He struck the blades together, causing them to vibrate erratically. A strange, flat pitched tune emanated, as if the swords were oversized tuning forks. Instantly the Duke was inches from Alaric, the ends of his blades thrusting up toward the chin.
Alaric threw himself backwards, feeling the blood run from a deep wound on his chin dribbling down his neck. Another tenth of a second and he would have been skewered, and the weapon hadn't even hit him. Tel'ar's vibrations cut through the air itself, extending its range. Strangely enough for an elf, Salvos despised magic.
"Did you really come to kill me? If so, why even allow me to escape in Silvermoon four months ago?" Alaric questioned.
"Cease your efforts to buy time. You're exhaustion from battle will not lessen with a few words, and cut off from magic, the elements take their toll on you as much as any other non-elven mortal." Salvos said.
The pressure was incredible. Alaric could almost taste it in the air. Fysian's strength was legendary. Despite only reaching his chin in height, Salvos Fysian seemed a giant.
The exiled elf swung and missed as the Duke deftly stepped aside. Alaric pressed forward, striking again and again. The Duke calmly bypassed every swing.
"You are too open. Your attacks are wide and uncontrolled. Your stance is poor and your footwork is still abominable...as it always has been." Salvos stepped in, each blade pointed at Alaric's heart. He froze for a moment. Alaric cursed and pushed him away. In that moment, Fysian could have stabbed him ten times over.
He's playing with me.
"Why are you here!" Alaric spattered.
"For the good of Quel'thalas. For the good of the world."
Alaric snapped. He charged forward, intent on cutting down the man before him. He no longer cared about his well being or his goals. The only thing in sight was the elf who'd one time been a brother to him.
Something stabbed through Alaric's boot, pinning him to the ground. Grunting, the elf fell. Fysian had avoided his attack and run Alaric's lead foot through with Tel'ar, shining pale blue under the clouds. Before Alaric even reached the ground, T'eis pierced his torso. The sword dug halfway into his gut, grinding against rib bone. Rings from his armor flew apart, tearing away under the unstoppable force of the sword point. A gasp escaped him, surprise and pain mixing.
He barely felt the ground as the flakes covered him like blankets. T'eis was still lodged in his ribs, the wound leaking his life blood to wet the snow.
Why did it turn out this way? The Duke's face had grown sad.
"Finish me." Alaric spat a glob of blood from his mouth. His voice sounded weak. "I have nothing else...what more can you take?"
"You still have a part to play. It is a strength to fight against destiny, rather than laying down to meekly succumb." Salvos freed Tel'ar from Alaric's foot, wiping the blood from the blade with a oiled cloth.
"How does it feel for your entire family, companions, and race to turn on you, your sole remaining friend slain at my hands. It must be maddening to look upon me."
"I'll - never forget - forgive - what you did."
"Embrace that obsession. Use it as a sword to defy fate. Do not forget what I told you in Silvermoon."
Alaric remembered the moonlight night he'd escaped from Lor'themar's troops. Fysian stood over him much as he did now, fully able to kill Alaric. The spires of the city glowed pale silver in night sky, reaching to impossible heights.
In the ancient Tower of Arathor in the highlands of Stromgarde lies the true answer to the Scourge.
"I haven't forgotten...but even if what you say is true -" Alaric struggled with the words. He tried to pry T'eis from his gut, but the pain threatened to shatter his consciousness. He could barely breath. Every movement of his chest or legs shot searing red agony through him.
But with that power, will you stop there? I know I would not. Fysian's questions from the past bubbled ceaselessly in his mind.
"It is. Farewell, Alaric'Faltron Quel. This shall be the last time we see each other for quite some time. Our last encounter I gifted you with your life. This time, I give you the possibility of recovering your power."
"What?" Alaric's voice had dimmed from weak to frail whisper.
Fysian strode over to him and in one swift motion drew T'eis from Alaric. A flood of blood followed. White flashed before the wounded elf's eyes.
The Duke held out a finger that gleamed with crimson energy. He traced a finger across the surface of the sword, engraving the base of the weapon; a circle with twelve unequal dots all coming together in the center to form a larger thirteenth. It was a rune.
"I do not have the ability to break Kael'thas' seal on your magic, but with this you can reach into the Ley-lines...and perhaps in time, recover your abilities." Fysian took Alaric's hands in his own and passed the blade to him. Alaric found no strength to speak.
"Goodbye." The Duke of Blades said, a momentary sadness in his eyes disappearing. As he walked away, the snows began falling again. He disappeared behind a wall of white.
Before the world slipped away, he could hear Osra calling his name in the distance. Reality passed into memory, and then returned to swallow him.
"Alaric!" The headmaster called out.
"Yes, master?" The young elf replied groggily, shaken awake by the apprentice sitting next to him.
"Pay attention you fool." The wizened old human snapped. "If you don't learn the basics, you'll end up dead, deformed, or worse, call the denizens of the Nether upon innocents."
Alaric cheeks burned with a blush. He'd fallen asleep again. It wasn't his fault though. The old mage was so boring talking about dichotomy of mana and the history of magic as practiced by humanity and the high elves.
"Tell me, Ears, what is the source of magic?" Alaric winced at the nickname he'd been given at the Stormwind's Academy of Arcane Arts and Sciences. The humans never ceased to tease him for his different features.
"Magic in itself is a mortal construct. The thing we call magic is nothing but an ambient energy that resides within the world, but whose true origin is in the Twisting Nether. It flows through every mortal being, but only a few are talented enough to touch it, to release it like a flow of water from a faucet."
"Yes, textbook. Now, what are the aspects of arcane energy?" The headmaster asked, his face twisting in a wry smile. Alaric smiled as well.
"That is a trick question, master. Arcane energy does not have aspects. It is a simple energy. However, it is impossible for mortals to fully master arcane energy in its purest form. Thus magi and magical constructs either refer to brief bursts of this energy, or channel it into certain elemental forms, the two most common being fire and ice. The channeling is done through their bodies, depending on mood, incantation to aid concentration, or through icons."
"Very good, Ears. Now, explain to me, what is holy magic? Shadow magic? Runic?" The wrinkled man's smile grew even more, revealing yellow, grinded teeth.
"Uh…" Alaric was unsure. "Shadow magic is obtained using arcane energy tainted somehow, most likely by demons…and holy…" His voice trailed off.
"Holy magic, to put it simply my pupils, is simply unexplainable." The teacher laughed. "How old are you, son?" The wrinkled old bag asked him.
"Twenty three, master."
"Ah, so young for an elf. You are but a newborn. You even look like a teen. However in the year that you've been here, you have surpassed many of my old students. And you have thousands of years to live. You might become fearsome indeed. Class dismissed." The elder's comments drew glares from his fellows. They hated him enough for simply being an elf. Now he would be hated by them for simply surpassing them without trying.
It mattered not though. Alaric descended from the long spiraling ramp in the center of the institution, walking out of the main chamber into the warm summer air.
In the dream, the smell of the lavender thick in the air seemed so real. Students bustled to and fro. The Academy of Arcane Arts and Sciences was the largest magical learning institution outside of Quel'thalas and Dalaran.
The students wore long, cotton robes died in indigo or violet. The denizens of Stormwind preferred a strange set of clothes in their equally strangely warm climate. Many of the local smallfolk he'd seen since arriving wore silly wide brimmed hats, billowy tunics, and long, but light trousers. They also wore bold, bright colors. Their fashion was somewhat amusing compared to the more drab northern countries.
The elf blocked those thoughts out of his mind though and quickly turned a corner into a small, but secretive alleyway. The thin alley was known as Heart's Arrow. Students whom had fallen for one another often gathered here during their breaks. He saw two lovers kissing in the shadow of the Academy. And then he saw her…Vaela Blackrow, with her shining blue eyes and thick, auburn hair. Tiny dimples formed at the sides of her smile as she spotted him. Their eyes met, and instantly they were entangled in each other's arms, kissing. His lover gasped and murmured in glee.
Alaric slowed himself for a moment. "Vaela…I love you, but are you truly sure in this? In us?" The two had been a couple for several months now, but in secret. She was different from the others.
"Of course! I love you too, sweet. I don't care if these other bastards annoy me a little here and there. We shouldn't have to hide ourselves!" He smiled. She had been the first light in this dark place for him. She was his first true love.
He remembered every detail of her in the dream. The elf had long thought he'd banished her picture in his mind, but it rolled back to him like a warm embrace.
He moved his lips closer to hers, but just as they were about to touch, a strong hand clasped his shoulder and pulled him away. Alaric turned, angrily. His fist balled and he prepared to punch the interloper when he saw none other than his father's cold, stern face.
"What are you doing, Alaric?" Ruahal Tenar'Quel spoke, his voice filled with poisonous disapproval. His blue eyes were chilled as ice.
"Father, I—"
"Get away from here you damned whore! Run before I crush you where you stand!" Ruahal yelled at Vaela. She stood her ground. Her mouth opened for a moment to argue.
"Run, Vaela! I will find you later!" Alaric yelled. He knew his father was serious. After a moment of the two lovers's eyes interlocking, Vaela turned and ran, her auburn hair bouncing, the image burned into his memory. Alaric then turned to his father who grabbed him by the collar. One, two, backhands flew to Alaric's face. Warm blood filled his mouth. The two others in Heart's Arrow squealed and fled. Alaric felt fear for a moment, but resolved his heart. His father stood an imposing six and a half foots by human standard, and had tied his blonde hair into a ponytail that bowed outward from his head then dipped and touched his waist.
"You wish to debase our blood? I'd heard the rumors of your escapades with this human girl and I thought it to be a lie. I should have known better than to bring you to this city." Ruahal said, disgusted.
"She and I—" Alaric was cut off again.
"I don't care what you feel for her. You ought to be more responsible. You are a Quel, and for seven thousand years our family has stood high in Silvermoon. Through us flows the blood of the Sunstriders! The blood of kings! You damned impulsive, impudent brat! Your lineage is a treasure." Alaric's father shoved him out of the alley, chiding him the entire way.
Ruahal was known to be the right-hand man of the King of Quel'thalas, high in his favors. For a thousand years he'd guided his family through the turbulent politics of the Convocation with his intellect and savvy. He was also an expert mage and powerful to boot. Or so Alaric had been told. His father had been assigned by King Anasterian to be the ambassador to the distant, almost mythical human kingdom of Stormwind. The position was a station Ruahal had disagreed with though. He felt as if the Queen had edged him out of Silvermoon. Looking back on the situation, Alaric decided that he had to agree with his father's sentiment.
The memory floated into the distance, just like Stormwind and Vaela. Alaric never saw her again after Father had sent him home to Quel'thalas. His dreams blurred and became unfocused. Bits and pieces of the past mixed with fears and hopes creating new realities. After a long while, the memories returned.
"My father is dead, and Stormwind, ever our ally, yet burns! Now the Horde sails north and king Terenas has called together a meeting to propose a common alliance, yet we choose to ignore his requests?" Alaric yelled incredulously. He was dressed in rich black velvet in a sign of mourning. Though he'd never been close to his father, he still felt the pain of the loss.
His voice rang in the sunstone halls of the Convocation of Silvermoon. The great domed roof was painted a thick, twilight blue, glazed with stars and a sliver of moon shined with the captured light of their real counterparts, adding a mysterious ambience. They slowly shifted with the heavens, reflecting the night sky even during the day.
The Convocation was set in a descending circle, with the King's chair in the center. It was empty. Anasterian had already made up his mind not to help the humans and dwarves. The entire meeting was ceremonial. Alaric's anger rose.
"Your position of Duke of Tranquillen merits your presence in the Convocation, but you are young and brash. You must cool your head Alaric'Quel!" One member of the Convocation called out.
"King Terenas is another one of Lordaeron's leavings. He has no power to call such a meeting." Someone else shouted.
"Let the humans deal with this problem. Such distant occurrences would never threaten us."
"If they even exist." Another added.
"What of our promise to aid the sons of Arathor? The descendants of Thoradin now flee across the sea and seek the same help they gave us when the trolls were poised to wipe us out 3,000 years ago!" Alaric contended.
During the dark days of the Troll Wars the scattered and primitive splinters of humanity had been rallied by a powerful warrior known as Thoradin. He'd united the tribes and become king of the mighty Empire of Arathor and fought alongside the elves to defeat the trolls. It was from that Empire's collapse that the seven modern human nations had formed.
"That debt has been repaid, Quel. Must you always be so difficult?" The silver-haired Thalon Yel'mar argued.
"Can we not even send an ambassador to hear Terenas' request?" Alaric spoke, exasperated at the blindness of his people. The members bristled at his insolence.
"If you wish so badly to aid the humans, then perhaps you ought to be our ambassador!" One member, of the Drathir family, joked. Others laughed.
"Perhaps I should, and perhaps this council ought to grow a spine. I can stomach this farce no longer!" Alaric said with brittleness in his voice. He immediately arose from his seat amongst the Convocation members and stormed out of the hall. Voices called after him, but he cared not. They were all flatterers and fools.
Time passed again. Alaric felt cold, like he was buried deep under the snow. Suddenly warmth splattered across his face. He opened his eyes to see he was covered in blood.
"What is this?" He heard himself ask.
Looking down he saw purple blood dripping from his hands and armored chest. The orc in front of him collapsed, his blade still lodged in its throat. Had he killed it? Was it over?
His answer was clear enough when another orc appeared behind the one that had fallen. He lifted his shield that had his house's emblem, the bleeding branch, hammered into it. The blow came heavy, denting his kite shield toward his face. He gasped in surprise and horror.
It was his first battle against the Horde. His first battle ever. They were positioned somewhere in Silverpine Forest, but the location truly didn't matter. There was no strategic advantage to the location and nothing to protect. It was all just senseless killing.
Kill, kill, kill.
Alaric cowered behind his shield, the blows pelting down like rain. The metal began to twist and rip away under the repeated hits, revealing the enraged orc's face behind it. The greenskin's eyes were bloodshot and ravenous.
Glancing to the side, he could barely see twenty feet through the smoke. The pollution died the sun a deep red, like blood. Here and there orcs and humans fought in a messy tangle underneath the trees.
Alaric took a step back, but tripped on a vine of silverweed. The orc raised his axe. Instinct took over, and Alaric felt his last remaining weapon surge forth; magic. The greenskin let loose a bloodcurdling cry, something so inhuman and unworldly that Alaric wondered what hell these monsters came from. The thought came forth in fire.
The orc exploded into a ball of flames. Alaric rose, choking on something that felt like laughter.
Light's Hope Chapel
Osra sat sleepily in the yellow striped tent in the midst of the Argent Dawn's center. She could feel the bags under her eyes growing heavier with each night. Light from a new morning streamed through the tent, dying everything in bright shades.
Alaric lay on a cot before her much as he had the past week and a half. His wounds were bound tightly and knit with holy magic. Still though, the priests and healers said it would take some time for full recovery. When she'd brought him to them they did not think he would make it.
The same could be said for the Argent Dawn itself. She looked at Alaric, still in his coma.
"You couldn't have known what would happen." She said. Alaric would undoubtedly place the blame on himself. She'd seen it happen with commanders before, even when the completely unexpected occurred. The worst had come when Llachus tumbled down the mountainside, straight into the oncoming wave of Argent Dawn attackers.
Still though, Field Marshal Chambers and Archmage Teresa had maintained a semblance of control over their battle lines. When Llachus fell and the Scourge forces were thrown into disarray, Chambers and his troops inflicted as much damage as possible before retreating to the old Darh Mills.
Osra had found Alaric, Duncan, and the bodies of noble Maxwell Tyrosus and the death knight, Zacharias Morde. She'd roused Duncan and with him led the remnant of the Argent Dawn's flank attack to safety.
Alaric coughed and then jolted in pain. Osra was drawn out of her lull by the noise. The elf's eyes opened, revealing two blue gems. He blinked several times as Osra took a cup of water to his mouth. He drank vigorously.
"Where?" He croaked.
"Light's Hope Chapel. We won." Relief flooded through her. A smile blossomed. So many had already been lost, and he was so much like Valdar in his own way. She did not want to lose him again.
"Is that what you call it?" A grimace fell across his face as he tried to sit up.
"Don't. You'll open the wound." She pressed his chest back down into the pillows.
"Tyrosus?"
"Slain in battle." Osra replied sadly. Alaric relaxed, closing his eyes with no expression on his face. The memory of last week's funeral was still heavy on her mind. So many good men and women had fallen; Lord Tyrosus, Lord Bartholomew, and at least four hundred others. Not all the bodies were able to be recovered or recognized, so those that survived burned in a mass pyre.
We commend these souls unto the Light. Oh, thee who hath followed thy beliefs so faithfully, extend yourself to the Light, and forever be in its embrace. Duncan had recited the funeral poems beautifully. As the flames went higher, tears had streamed from many eyes, her own included.
Each faith in the Argent Dawn had its own say; the tauren to their Earth Mother, the night elves to Elune. All the bodies were burned, so as to avoid resurrection, though the threat of an undead counterattack was gone for the moment.
"That was no victory." The elf whispered. "What happens to the Argent Dawn now? I have near ruined it since arriving."
"No! Because of you we were able to defeat Morde! He would have washed over Light's Hope Chapel had he attacked again." Osra retorted.
"The Argent Dawn?" The elf insisted on an answer.
"The leadership was put to a vote when our forces returned to Light's Hope. The commanders elected Duke Nicholas Zverenhoff as Regent Lord of the Light's Hope Chapter. The permanent position will be filled when we receive word from Sir Tirion Fordring. Zverenhoff is a good man and a capable commander. I won't be surprised if he retains the position."
"Who else fell?" Alaric asked.
"Many...Bartholomew the Revered among them."
"Just as I was warming to that sack of rot." Alaric coughed again, clutching his wound gingerly. Osra frowned at his comments but kept to herself. Now was not the time for argument.
For a long while there was quiet between the two. The elf's eyes remained closed as if asleep. Osra watched over him maternally, listening to the movement outside the tents, the cawing of the birds the druids had brought with them, and the whinnying horses.
"I promised you my tale, did I not?" Alaric's voice rose.
"Aye."
"Where to begin..."
Author's Note: Hey guys, sorry again for the delay. Had an uncharacteristic lack of motivation + a crap ton of work for my masters degree so this chapter remained buried for quite some time. I have a busy schedule up ahead until mid December but hopefully that won't keep me from posting the next chapter which I've already started writing. Thanks for sticking with me, and review for the inspiration please! :D
-Omegatrooper