Bad End: The Path of Blood

Author's Note: This piece is non-canonical to the rest of the story, but only insomuch as that Alindrianna does not canonically react the way that she does in this vignette. And I shamelessly admit that the inspiration to write this came out of my desire to see a certain character in Jaina Proudmoore: Tides of War die. As such, it contains some spoilers for that novel, which I highly suggest to anyone who enjoys World of Warcraft fiction.

A cloaked figure moved through the deserted streets of the orc city. Anymore, few dared to brave the shadows of Ogrimmar's nights, for fear of the increasing liberties taken by their warchief's personal guards. The figure in question, though, was making no effort to conceal its presence, despite the tattered brown cloak that concealed its features. Only size offered any clue at all, and admittedly that was a significant one; it could only be an undead or blood elf, for it was too tall to be a goblin, too small to be an orc or tauren, and too short to be a troll.

Despite that those two races had become increasingly scarce in the horde capital, the figure did not hesitate, moving purposefully along them, almost as though hoping to be noticed by the ever-increasing patrols of kor'kron. But that idea was absurd; no one would willingly be caught by the brutish personal guaard of the warchief, not when anything at all seemed to be enough grounds for arrest or even execution.

And yet, when a patrol came into sight, the cloaked figure made no move to conceal itself. Anyone with any hint of sense would've fled from sight, particularly when it became apparent that a large, blackish-gray orc armed with twin axes led this particular patrol. Above the rest of the kor'kron, Malkorok was known for his cruelty by now-and his unrelenting persecution of anyone found to be guilty of the remotest treason, such as speaking the name of Garrosh Hellscream as though it were anything less than the most sacred of divine utterances.

"You there! Halt! What business have you?" The barking, cruel voice of the blackrock orc in question shattered the near-silence of the night, his voice echoing off the steel walls of the buildings that surrounded them.

The figure froze at the words, as Malkorok's massive form diverted the two guards from their course and toward it. That stillness lasted only a fraction of a second, though; then, without so much as a word to distinguish gender or race, the unknown interloper was bolting away.

It moved with a swiftness that was hard to match, and yet not quite enough to lose the orcs trailing it. Indeed, all three of them had instantly burst into pursuit, not bothering to call for backup or assistance. No, they had come to imagine themselves too much masters of the darkness for one single enemy to possible be a threat, much less one that fled from them...

Their prey clearly knew Orgimmar well, however. Each time they seemed to be upon the unknown offender, they wound round the corner to yet again see just the briefest flicker of brown cloth as it escaped through some little-known byway of the city. Indeed, with its construction yet unfinished, such a chase was much like navigating and endless labyrinth. Against a foe so knowledgeable, there could be no hope of entrapment until it made a mistake. But such a mistake would have to come...

And, indeed, it came. At last, they emerged into the crisp night air atop one if the great metal bridged that spanned the city. There was very much no exit at the other end-this was one place that the orcs knew well, for the chase had led them to the very grounds upon which both the twin kor'kron guards had spent hours upon hours training themselves in the art of combat.

But, impossibly, they emerged into the moonlight alone. The tower itself just as surely had no second exit, but the figure that they had chased here was gone. Malkorok growled, entirely unused to being outmanuvered. "...one of you, guard the door. That little fool has to be up here somewhere! We'll find him and plant his head on a pike!"

The other orcs seemed a touch more... uncertain, but even so, one of them was nodding. The other joined the blackrock in searching the various training equipment, which admittedly offered a myriad of places that one could hide. For efficiency, the two of them split up...

Malkorok was growing increasingly frustrated with the lack of results. He had been given free reign by his warchief and that along with his considerable strength and skill with his weapons meant that he was rarely refused anything, and so he was very much accustomed to swift-if not immediate-results.

He had begun to growl under his breath when a shrill but very much orcish cry of fear echoed through the darkness from behind him. Instantly, he was straightening and spinning, his twin battles axes drawn and raised menacingly. It was, however, only barely fast enough to see a flash of ornate armor. The sickening crunch that followed and the fact that he was now alone on the bridge confirmed that it had been the other guard he had seen tumbling from the massive structure.

For just a moment, an emotion he had thought himself entirely rid of ran through him-in that brief moment, Malkorok felt a flash of fear. It was, however, quickly pushed aside as he glanced toward the door. "Look alive, you fool!"

The words fell upon deaf ears, however-or, more accurately, dead ears. The orc who had stood guard there lay sprawled out on the cold steel, a deep wound in his back still seeking to drain away all of his blood.

"Coward! Come out and face me!" Anger had replaced that momentary flicker of fear. Suddenly, the blackrock orc regretted ever letting his eyes acclimate to sunshine; there had been a time when no one ever could've eluded him in such thin darkness as this, which was positively bright compared to Blackrock Mountain.

"You dare to speak of cowardice, you who stalk the night? You who would bring two others with you to chase down someone half your size, who did nothing to threaten you?" The voice was cold and disdainful, but it seemed to come from empty air.

A moment later, however, there was a flash of movement; then, from the shadows, a form in black armor materialized. From the way that the blood elf appeared out of nothing, it was clear that she had been concealed by some potion or magic, but now she stood bereft of any such thing. That was not to say that she was bereft of magic, though.

No, her black and red armor glowed with a certain inner golden light, a telltale sign of the holy power that reinforced it. In contrast, the sword in her hands was lit by silver-blue light, primarily shining from the runes engraves upon the sign. A former servant of Nefarian, the orc immediately recognized draconic, though he could not comprehend the dragons' tongue. The sword itself was long, its blade silver and slightly curved, while the handguard was shaped into a dragon's claw and the hilt tipped with a sapphire gem.

Malkorok tore his hateful eyes from the sword and sneered at its owner. "You'll pay for that, bitch. All that pretty armor won't save you, and when I'm done with you-"

Despite the anger in his voice, he found himself cut off as the other spoke again, her voice cold as ice. "Not that I care about that. You and both those kor'kron fools would hardly constitute a challenge together. But I lured you here for a very particular reason, orc. The girl you killed..."

Malkorok snorted with cruel laughter, "You'll have to be more specific than that. You think I remember every wench I've had to kill? I'm sure I'll remember you, though-I'll make you scream for every word you say." His axes gleamed in the moonlight as he advanced.

Despite that the Blood Knight fell naturally into a crouch, her blade at the ready, she continued to speak as though the orc had said nothing. "You did not so much as have the nerve to do it with your own hands, did you? Once, she was nearly my apprentice. I watched her grow, despite everything that the world threw at our people, orc. You think you know of suffering, but you orcs have suffered nothing that you did not call down upon your own heads. And this is no different. No, I lured you here because I have no desire for a challenge. This is your execution."

The words were still as chill and biting as the winds of Northrend, but her actions betrayed an anger far hotter than that as she launched into a swift series of attacks, each of barely deflected despite that the orc carried two weapons to her one.

Indeed, under the flurry of blows she unleashed, Malkorok did not have the time to launch a counterattack, much less respond to her words. He was forced to retreat, until with a roar of rage, he was leaping backward to give himself distance, feeling another uncomfortable twinge of that long-forgotten emotion; this time, it was stronger.

But, if anything, that fueled his own berserker rage as he rejoined the battle with renewed vigor. Orcs were, after all, known for their bloodlust, and his twin axes had oft proved nigh-unstoppable upon the field of battle. Now it was the blood elf who was on the defensive.

For her part, Alindrianna had allowed herself to fall into the calm of battle after that initial driving assault. She had no doubt that, fueled by her anger, she could do far more damage to this orc than he could to her. However, a clear sense of purpose filled her mind. It was as she had said.

She had not come to fight this orc who had murdered one of the few of Silvermoon's youth who had shown promise and ability and willingness to adapt to the new world. No, it was as she had said-she had come to execute him. And so, instead of simply winning, she intended to win flawlessly. No matter how hard he fought, the Blood Knight would not allow him to land so much as a single blow.

That, however, was far more easily said than done. Despite her hatred of the foul monster, she had to admit he had a fair bit of skill. Even with the near-precognition that her mastery of the light gave her, his blows were quick, and knowing which way they would come from only helped so much-it was never easy to match two blades against one in a contest like this, when she had to wield the larger, heavier weapon with twice as much finesse.

But the image of Kelantir Bloodblade, preserved in her mind perfectly as a portrait of youth, gave her strength. The Blood Knight knew instinctively that she could not have performed to such near-perfection for herself. No, for herself she would've ended the battle by now. Her armor would have new dents, despite that it had not been worn in nearly three years-not since she had chosen to pledge herself to the Argent Crusade-and perhaps her body would have new wounds for the light to mend into new scars, but she would already stand over the foul orc's corpse.

With that perfectly preserved image, however, she was not even beginning to tire. Malkorok's strength would fail long before hers would, and from the desperation that had started to infuse his frenzied blows, he was as aware of that as she was. She did not falter-he could throw himself at her until he died of exhaustion, and still she would not allow him to land a blow...

Their battle raged back and forth, across the top of the bridge. They were evenly matched in speed, while the blackrock orc was slightly stronger, and Alindrianna was far more agile. She had always considered her smaller stature an advantage against larger foes, who often were thrown off by it alone.

Kelantir. Her oldest memory of the girl was from just before they had journeyed to Outlands. Liadrin had seen potential in the girl, despite that she had been one of the freshest adepts, and so assigned her as a squire to the most promising of the new Blood Knights. That, of course, had been Alindrianna-who was soon after appointed Knight-General over all of Kael'thas's expedition. Together, they had gone to Outlands; together, they had faced Kael'thas's betrayal.

Alindrianna's hands tightened around the hilt of her blade, Quel'delar. When she had joined with Voren'thal under the Scryer banner, her young squire had been one of the first to join her in Shattrath. Unlike so many, she had seen what needed to be done in those dark days, despite that it went against every tradition and every instinct.

Without consciously realizing it, she had shifted from defense to attack. Already, the orc's axes were chipped from the clash, while her own draconic blade remained undimmed. If anything, its blue-silver runes glowed more brightly, feeding on its mistress's fury in a very literal sense. Her own hands had reforged the broken blade; it was no exaggeration to say that it contained a fragment of her own tortured soul.

The two of them had parted when Alindrianna had realized she could find no comfort in Silvermoon, nor in all the rest of Quel'thas. She and her mentor had clashed-indeed, though few knew it, they had come to blows... The path of blood that she had walked had changed her, knew the Blood Knight, even then. And while the girl who had been her squire-the girl who would've become her apprentice-had wanted to follow... that was not a fate she was willing to share with another.

Malkorok's attacks had not slowed or lessened. If anything, the way his blows rained upon the blonde Blood Knight, who wore nothing but a mouthguard to protect her disdainful, smooth face, had intensified, but still she was pushing him back. The sound of his blows was becoming unnatural, and Alindrianna was aware on some level, skilled in the forging of weapons, that one or both of the axes was about to truly shatter.

She barely cared, her thoughts unable to leave the track they had started upon. No, she had met the girl who would've been her apprentice one final time... When the Quel'delar's battered hilt had been discovered deep within the Halls of Reflection, the Blood Knight had taken the draconic blade to the Sunwell to purify it of the Scourge taint...

It hadn't been hard to expect that she would see Liadrin there. She had not expected to find Kelantir at the right hand of her old teacher, like some reflection of her younger self. The girl could've been that; they shared the same golden hair, and the other had the sort of beauty that Alindrianna might've possessed, had hatred and disdain and bitterness not etched themselves so unforgiving into her already-sharp features. Equally unexpected had been that she had not, in that moment, felt any jealousy of the girl. No, there had only been pride.

And now, all of that was gone in a flash of fire and smoke. Such potential, erased in a single moment because of this vile orc... Hatred filled her, giving her strength anew. The next blow from Quel'delar cleanly shattered one of Malkorok's axes, and the orc stumbled back. The Blood Knight did not relent.

No, her blade glowed and was driven forward furiously; the other obviously expected his armor to take the blow, but the draconic blade pierced it as though it were merely paper. Blood gushed forth from the wound, but the blade that had made it refused to be stained; the orc stared up with unbelieving eyes, then doubled over in pain as the blood elf kicked his unbroken axe well out of reach.

She could still remember all too well when the ranger general had sent word of what had happened. Seeing Halduron's elegant script written without a single taunt or teasing word had made her aware that the letter was something she would not like, but nothing could prepare her for the rush of pain that had come; it had felt, then, as though she were the one whose stomach had been cut upon.

Alindrianna,

I wish that it was a happier occasion that made me take pen in hand to write to you, but I fear it cannot be. I am well acquainted with your views of Garrosh Hellscream, and his vision of the Horde-and you know well that I, and most of those who serve under my command, share them. I only wish that it had been you or I there instead. Either of us would've had the fortitude to suffer his rage, but I fear it was not. It is with the greatest sorrow that I bring word to you of the death of Kenantir Bloodblade; her death came not through any battle, but through the treachery of the orcs.

There had, of course, been more. But none of that mattered; she had found, upon receiving it, that her work in the Crusade could no longer offer her any comfort. No, the Crusade was paralyzed with fear after the Horde had proved it was far from above the cold-blooded murder of the leader of a neutral organization that had dared to involve itself in the war. What happened at Theramore had left a scar upon more than the land where the proud city once stood...

She had gone to Vol'jin. The troll was clearly unhappy, and yet... the debt that he owed her, for her assistance in the battles for Zul'Aman and Zul'Gurub loomed heavily between them. With reluctance-reluctance, she suspected, borne more out of fear for what would happen to her than any sort of approval of the state of things-he had told her who had almost surely carried out that crime. The foul assassination had barely stopped short of catching the troll and his tauren counterpart in its blast... Dat city, it scares me more dan da' blackest of voodoo now...

"...I could make you suffer, orc." Now, there was nothing cold about her voice; now it seethed with hatred, as she placed her heavy boot upon the fallen Malkorok's back and dug in, earning a grunt from the dying orc. "I should make you suffer. But I am better than that."

Remorselessly, the Quel'delar severed his foul head from his shoulders, and Malkorok knew no more. Alindrianna straightened; in the morning, Garrosh's soldiers would find what she had done. They would find it, and her message would be clear; once again, a power-crazed leader sought to lead her people upon the path to ruin. Once more, in response, the last of the Blood Knights would walk the path of blood...