My apologies for the long, long delay in updating. I kind of burned myself out, and to be honest I was kind of disheartened by the lack of response my story's been getting. There's only one chapter left after this one, and then the story continues in my Outland/Northrend novel.
So here's the deal. I have a lot of material for my second book, but at the moment I'm not feeling too interested in continuing it if nobody's enjoying it. So I'm going to finish this one, and see if anyone cares whether I start on the second one. If you've enjoyed this so far and want me to continue please tell me.
Chapter Twenty-one
The Assault
It took longer than he'd expected to find the camp of his "allies", the naga.
Of course the fact that the entire eastern bank of Lordamere Lake was a massive marsh didn't help. Not even levitation kept him completely dry, and he was leery of using it out in the open. He might know they were allies, but there was no guarantee the naga wouldn't stick him a trident or whatever it was the snakey bastards used.
He froze at a strange gargling noise on the other side of a bank of willows, and went in more cautiously, one of his heavy daggers enchanted for superior piercing in his hand. The whip-like branches of the trees provided very good cover, allowing him to look out from them without being visible.
A long, curving inlet to the lake stretched out ahead, everything beyond fifty yards obscured by predawn mist. On the bank of this inlet was one of the oddest sights he had ever seen. If he was feeling uncharitable he might have said it was the pathetic attempt at a village created by small children.
There were five of the rickety structures of twigs and branches, lashed together with willow stems. They'd been crudely thatched with lake grass, and the above-ground bucket that formed the floor of the structure was overflowing with more of the grass. One was occupied by an odd whitish-pink creature, vaguely manlike but with a fishlike head and odd, red spines jutting from its back. Both hands and feet were thickly webbed.
Out in the water, accompanied by more of the strange gargling noises, he could see several vees that might have been more of the creatures swimming just below the surface. One popped up with a triumphant "mmmmrrrrrrggggglllll!", a fish flopping in one webbed hand. It swam with surprising swiftness to the little village and tossed the flopping fish into a crude basket woven of more of the grass and willow twigs. Inside were another half dozen fish. Having deposited its catch, the creature dove back into the lake and resumed its fishing.
Nex fell into a squat, watching the odd sight from the cover of the willow branches. He'd heard of these creatures, or something like them. The hot, teeming jungles of Stranglethorn hosted some strange creatures, and murlocs were one of the residents. The fish-men were reclusive, and rarely came within sight of land, but they weren't uncommon down there. North of Stormwind he'd never even heard rumor of them.
Doubtless they were servants-or slaves-of the naga. That they were so busily at work gathering food they obviously didn't need seemed to justify his conclusion.
Now he was faced with a choice. He could continue his search, delving deeper into this miserable swamp with no idea where he was going. Or, banking on his assumption, he could wait until the murlocs filled their basket and one of them ran it to their masters. That would lead him directly where he wanted to go, or at least to a creature that could do so. If his assumption was correct.
Another murloc rocketed to shore, a fish held in its teeth, and close behind it a third was surfacing with a triumphant gurgle. They were going fast, these murlocs. It likely helped that most of the men who fished these waters were dead, or undead, and the lake was probably teeming with easy catches. At the rate they were going he wouldn't lose much by waiting, and if he was following a murloc it would reduce his chances of stumbling on more of the creatures or their masters and being forced into a confrontation.
As he'd hoped, before too long one of the murlocs tossed a fish into the basket, which was piled so high that the fish slide right back out again. The murloc gave a confused gurgle, stuffed the fish back in, then turned as if to dive back into the lake. Almost immediately half a dozen more gurgles assailed it, and it hunched in on itself, then bent and picked up the basket. Before too long it was staggering away under the weight and gurgling to itself in obvious ill temper.
Nex waited until it had gone a short distance then eased himself away from the willow branches, skirting wide to avoid the sight of the other murlocs as he followed after the courier. He hadn't gone far before it paused, head bobbing suspiciously, and started to turn around. He quickly sent a web of soothing energy into the murloc, and it continued on its way, completely ignoring him. He stayed a cautious distance back, far enough that any creatures up ahead would see the courier but not him, and he would be able to hide in time should any intercept it.
He hadn't gone far through the thick swamp before they came upon another school of murlocs, these ones sifting water through the hollowed stems of some water plant for some inexplicable purpose. Nex threw a soothing web over them as well as they passed through the crude village. Beyond that they reached a drier patch, one he would have thought ideal for an encampment. But oddly enough (or perhaps not oddly, considering the nature of the naga) the land was bare for several minutes of walking before they passed through an even larger murloc village, this one with a handful of naga in the center directing the efforts of the creatures with long, wicked tridents. It proved more difficult to soothe the minds of these creatures, but Nex managed it and continued on. The courier ignored the naga overseers, and the naga ignored it, and soon they were through the village and in sight of the main encampment.
It was huge. Easily hundreds of naga, half again that many murlocs, and all sorts of odd aquatic creatures. He could see giant turtles, weird massive lizards with long flared tails, odd flying serpents, and more. The naga reclined in more ornate pavilions than the crude huts the murlocs made do with, and many of the turtles were being directed in the effort of moving blocks of stone for a more permanent structure that might have been a fortress or a temple or both.
Soothing the minds of such a throng was a task he couldn't have managed even with the vast power of Stormrage himself at his command. He slowed in following the murloc with its fish basket, and was just considering making himself known when from an oddly circular pool a short distance ahead massive head rose. It had the appearance of a snake or an eel, but if it was either it was larger than anything he'd ever seen before. It was comparable in size to the giant turtles. Worse, its smooth black scales crackled with electric charge, lines of energy rushing towards the head. The creature made an odd hiccuping convulsion, and then it opened its massive mouth and extended a slender, rubbery tongue, the electric current forming a ball at its tip.
Nex fell into a crouch, calling out the words of power for the strongest shield he could manage on such short notice, racing the growing ball of lightning in the creature's mouth. It discharged with a sinister hiss, arcing towards him almost faster than his eye could follow, and hit his shield with a roar. His shield stood for a moment, then buckled, and he felt every bit of hair on his body stand on end before he was blown back ten feet, slamming into one of the crude murloc huts and crumpling it beneath him. From the pain, he was afraid his shoulder had crumpled as well.
The eel rose higher into the air, hissing as more lines of electricity arced up its body towards the head. It had risen high enough to block the rising sun, leaving him in shadow and the watery guardian a black silhouette before him, lit by the actinic glare of the shocks gathering at its mouth. It was recharging with terrifying speed, and it wouldn't be more than ten seconds before it could loose another bolt of lightning.
Nex pushed shakily to his feet. This time rather than trying to shield himself from the blast he loosed his magic offensively, trying to counter the creature's attack. It was more powerful than he had expected, but he was just about certain he would stop it in time when a razor tip pricked his neck, and he heard a strange hissing that he didn't identify as communication for several moments. Then the guardian eel's ball of electricity dissipated, and with a somewhat disappointed hiss the creature sank back below the surface of its circular pool.
Nex moved only his eyes as he glanced over at the weapon held to his throat. There was another wicked prong in sight, and he assumed the third was on the other side of his neck. At the end of the trident loomed one of the most massive naga he'd yet seen, a bulky brute that looked to weigh nearly four hundred pounds, all of it muscle and sinew. The creature hissed a question at him. Then, seeing his incomprehension, spoke fluent if archaic Kaldoreen in a strange sibilant voice. "You've stumbled into an unfortunate secret, Arathi. It will be your death."
Arathi. It was what the first humans to come in contact with the high elves had called themselves. Nex took the risk of turning his head slightly. "It would be," he replied in the same tongue, "if it were a secret to me, and if I had merely stumbled here."
The huge creature did an admirable job of displaying displeasure on that alien face. "Explain," it said curtly. Obviously not one for subtleties.
"I am a servant of Illidan Stormrage, your master. I've been ordered to report to your leader."
The naga continued to glare at him. "The demon hunter is not my master," it finally said. "I serve the Lady Vashj, handmaiden of Immortal Azshara. It was her pleasure to put us at his service, and we will serve as long as it remains her will."
Nex inclined his head. "My mistake, naga. But I have been ordered to report to her in any case."
"You may address me as Myrmidon Salatros," the creature snarled. The finny frills that had lain flat along its neck rose to enclose its face in a circle of spines which rattled together threateningly. Salatros hesitated, then shifted the trident until two of the prongs formed a sort of collar around Nex's throat. "I will guide you to her," it said coldly. A moment later the spot where the two prongs met slammed into the back of his neck, and he stumbled forward awkwardly.
A curiously unfriendly way to treat an ally, but Nex wasn't complaining. He didn't think he'd ever had a warm reception, even among his own kind. As long as he was taken before this Vashj the stupid brute could pick him up and toss him for all he cared.
Farther into the camp the murlocs and aquatic pets and servants thinned, until it was only naga they passed. And among the naga he was starting to see a marked trend the closer they got to the temple under construction at the camp's center. The lighter, more slender naga he assumed to be female were becoming more and more delicate, the frills surrounding their heads becoming larger and larger. What he assumed were the males were becoming larger and larger as well, some of them truly massive. None wore any sort of clothing or ornamentation, but he could feel magic around the females, and some of the males.
Finally they reached a knot of females whose faces appeared nearly human, or at least elvish. Their frills were elaborate, the membrane brightly colored. At their center was a female who looked most elvish of all, at least from the waist up. She had actual hair, black as night and tightly coiled along her back. Whatever changes had come over the highborne night elves during the collapse of the Well of Eternity and the formation of the Maelstrom, the ones which had allowed them to live on the bottom of the sea, it was obvious this female had been one of the first so changed, and only lightly.
She turned with an impatient hiss, surprisingly graceful on her snake-like body, and the way her eyes pierced him dispelled his previous impression that she was nearly elvish. They were reptilian, cold and calculating. "What is this...filth...doing here, Salatros?"
Nex shoved aside the trident, slamming the myrmidon with a powerful psychic blast that froze it, stupefied, for the moment. "I am Nex'thanarak, servant of Illidan Stormrage. I was ordered to report to you."
Her disquieting eyes narrowed. "Were you?" she said softly. Her voice had a breathy, throaty quality to it, but it wasn't nearly as sibilant as many of the other naga. "Many claim to serve him, but where is the proof?"
Nex flat out could not believe anyone would know enough about either the naga or Stormrage to claim any such thing, and even if they did how many would be able to speak to the naga in Kaldoreen or, at least he assumed, Thalassian. Still he had his proof, although it wasn't exactly available. "You know the feel of my Master's power," he said, and drew lightly on the Illidari stone.
The naga were no strangers to magic, and this Vashj herself was very, very powerful. She knew what he was doing. Her eyes widened, and seeing her distress her handmaidens drew protectively around her. The sea witch waved them back, reaching into her coiled hair to draw out a stone identical to his. "I was not aware the Master had any other agents so high in his confidence," she said quietly. "Are you his lieutenant?"
The question seemed innocuous, but Nex was no fool. This Vashj had expected to be second to Stormrage himself, and was not pleased to find a possible contender. Nex looked around at Salatros and the way he, recovered from Nex's attack, now practically groveled in her presence. Her arrogance was not simply the product of her power, though that was great. She also displayed signs of high birth, one used to authority and command. Scattered around the area dozens of her myrmidons lounged a respectful distance away, but it would take but a gesture from her and they would converge and rip his limbs off.
Well. It wasn't usually his style to pay attention to rank or honorifics. Stormrage put up with his cheek for whatever reason, likely too secure in his own power to care. But Nex had a feeling this Lady of the Naga would be somewhat more prickly about it. And standing in the middle of her camp with hundreds of her warriors a command away from trying to kill him was hardly the place to test her patience. So for once he bent the knee. Literally.
"I am merely a servant, Lady," he said, "tasked with errands the Master considers important enough to spare a fraction of his attention upon. I was ordered to deliver to you the item I was sent to retrieve, then accept your commands for future tasks."
She looked at him, her fine, too-human features looking odd with the finny frill surrounding her head like a crown. If he had seen just her face he might even have called her attractive. If here eyes were shut, at least. "Give me the item," she said imperiously. Nex quickly drew out the scroll he'd meticulously memorized and copied, holding it out to her. One of her handmaidens took it from him with a menacing hiss and proffered it to her mistress in a low bow. She took it with idle curiosity, cracking it open and perusing the contents. "Ah yes. The spell to enchant weapons for undead slaying. A minor thing, but it will aid our new allies in the task to come."
Nex remained on one knee, waiting, but she seemed to have forgotten about him. Finally he risked himself enough to speak. "What are my orders, Lady?"
She snapped a surprisingly chill glare in his direction. "You are still here, mortal?" He made no reply, and she gave a more delicate hiss of irritation. "The master has gone on ahead. If he had plans for you I do not know them; he has not contacted me in some time. For the moment we prepare to aid our new allies in combating the Scourge. Personally I have no interest in the filthy undead, but if our allies are prepared to take the brunt of the losses I would be happy to hand the Master an army at the cost of a few boats and some myrmidons to guard them."
"If the Master has no task for me then I am at your service, Lady," Nex said. After a short hesitation he took a risk. "He awaits us in Outland, then?"
She hissed, in anger this time, and lightning danced from one frill to the next and down the fins covering her spine. "If he has not seen fit to tell you, mortal, do not suppose I will." She turned away. "If you're so eager to help do feel free to join our allies in battling the Scourge. Whatever trivial part you play in furthering the Master's plans will doubtless speak well for you when next you have occasion to use that pretty little toy of yours." She started to slither away in that oddly graceful serpentine glide the naga had perfected for use on land.
Nex stopped drawing on the stone's power, wondering if he should simply leave. He didn't have long to wonder. One of the guards paused in turning to follow his mistress, and his frills made an odd rattling noise as he shook them at Nex. "The mistress has given you orders, lesser creature. Be gone from our camp until you obey them."
"And when I do?" Nex asked.
The naga hissed. "Then hide in whatever hole you rat-creatures dwell in until you are called for."
. . . . .
"Discipline is good," Lord General Garithos was saying, "but even so there are some who find time to betray their own even while battling a terrible enemy."
"So I see," Puros said, gazing at the figure hanging still atop the scaffold. An unsanitary practice, leaving the body to rot after it had been hung. If discipline was truly as good as Garithos claimed such displays should not have been necessary, but it wasn't his place to say so. "What was his crime?"
The general snorted sourly. "Treason, to whit failure to obey the direct order of a superior. Lieutenant Kolarn considered himself a man of principles, but his actions suggested otherwise."
Puros shook his head. "Tragic, to see such things in these desperate times. And a false man indeed who turns on Azeroth when our situation is so desperate."
"Tragic indeed," Garithos agreed, turning away. "Would that the army had more worthy souls such as yourself, Lord Puros. Had we a hundred more like you Arthas himself crouching in the ruins of our once-great city would tremble on his shattered throne."
"You know of me?" Puros was surprised.
"We know you well," the general replied, moving slowly across the clear area at the center of camp towards where the command tent stood open to the chill breeze. "The contingent Stormwind sent to reinforce Chillwind Pass remains there still. You have our gratitude for leading those men north and seeing their position fortified before you went in pursuit of Church matters."
"My part was small," Puros demurred, falling into step beside Garithos. His paladins flanked him not far behind, along with a huddle of Garithos's senior officers. "How fares that contingent?"
"Well. It has endured numerous attacks, but weathers them stoically. It is obvious King Wrynn sent the best of his soldiers to answer the call, though a lesser man might have sent the dregs. I had occasion to tour that outpost recently, and reinforced your men with a team of dwarven riflemen and siege engineers. Sturdy as your men are, their ranged support was a trifle lacking."
There was an odd edge to Garithos's tone as he spoke of the dwarves. Puros wondered if that team had insulted the general in some way, and detailing them to reinforce Chillwind Pass was the man's way of getting them out of his sight. "I'm grateful to you for taking care of my men in my absence, Lord General."
Garithos waved that away. "It was during that time that I heard the stories of you venturing alone into the Plaguelands in pursuit of a dreadlord. That you returned from that foul place at all bespeaks your valor and might, but succeeding in destroying the dreadlord as well is an impressive feat indeed. Perhaps you would honor me with a recounting of the events."
"I should be glad to." They reached the command tent and passed through the open flaps, where the general led them to seats around a solid oak table surrounded by fine chairs. The presence of such unwieldy furniture was testament to how long this camp had stood in one place. Against an enemy where the usual recourse was retreat or be overrun, what Garithos had accomplished here was truly impressive.
A footman began pouring drinks from a pitcher on a side table. "Will you and your men have some ale, Lord Puros," Garithos asked, motioning for the man to pour him water. The general grimaced slightly. "Only dwarvish stout, I'm afraid. Our supply lines stretch a long way from any true allies, so we can't get anything better."
"I should be pleased to. I've always considered dwarf ale to be the finest available."
Garithos's grimace twisted into a genuine frown. "To each his own," he said shortly. Puros didn't know quite what to make of the response, so he ignored it. Perhaps the man didn't like dwarves.
Puros accepted the first drink and took a long draw, sighing in genuine enjoyment. "Thank you, General. We've long been on the road and away from even such small pleasures as these."
"Think nothing of it." Puros winced slightly at the word "nothing", his mind drawn unpleasantly back to Nex and their current task. As if Garithos had read his mind the general continued. "Now that we are settled, I'd be pleased to hear what business brings you to my camp."
Puros took another long pull from his mug, frowning. "Grim business. We came north from Stormwind in pursuit of a criminal, and we pursue him still. A thief and a murderer, and a very dangerous man. He was last seen around the ruins of Lordaeron City, although we have reason to believe he made his way to Hearthglen from there."
"Ah, Hearthglen." Garithos took a sip of his own water and scowled. "Disgusting people, those Scarlet Crusade mongrels. Vicious as wild dogs and twice as likely to take a bite out of you. One of their emissaries paid us a visit a few days ago. Unpleasant fellow, wearing ill-fitting armor and gaunt as a corpse, all full of trickery and low cunning. Completely lacking in courtesy and respect for his superiors, though he spoke fairly. Despite his flaws the message he brought did aid the Alliance army, however."
Puros had perked up at hearing that description. It seemed beyond the realm of coincidence that this Scarlet emissary could be Nex, but at the same time Nex's last known destination had been Hearthglen. Was it possible the fiend had been ordered by his master to deliver some message to Garithos?
The general had continued speaking during his musings, and Puros's attention snapped back to him when he heard the words "all-out attack on the northern bank."
"Beg pardon, General?" he asked.
Garithos frowned. "Lord General," he said sternly. "I was saying that the blood elves, apparently acting of their own volition, have mounted a full-scale attack on the undead fortifications along the northern bank of Lordamere Lake."
Puros stared at the man in disbelief. During his passage through the camp he hadn't seen the slightest sign of any major mobilization. "Our allies are fighting the Scourge and we sit here idle?"
"Allies?" Garithos said with a sneer. "Fine allies they make, balking at every turn, and finally acting without my leave. A good general knows that any attack should be carefully planned and executed. I'm not going to risk my men's lives rushing in to save a bunch of demi-human fools who can't even follow orders."
Finally Puros understood the odd expressions and statements the general had been making. Though his speech was fair, in one unguarded moment Puros had a glimpse into the man's mind, and saw the raging bigotry and hatred there. Perhaps the blood elves had attacked without being ordered to. They'd endured the loss of their home thanks to Arthas and the Scourge, and they wished for vengeance. But whatever the situation here, it was obvious Garithos was delighted at the prospect of one of the Alliance's oldest and truest allies, in fact the first ally, being wiped out.
He stood, motioning for his paladins to stand as well. "If you would, Lord General, could you describe the Scarlet emissary?" Garithos hesitated, suspicious, but finally did so. The description perfectly matched Nex. So his fears were correct. "Did you learn anything of where this emissary was going next?"
"Perhaps," Garithos said slowly. "He took leave of my escort at the northeast side of the camp. Lieutenant Kolarn claims he was going to aid the blood elves, but there is no knowing what to believe from the mouth of that traitor." The general laughed harshly. "Why, Kolarn claimed he heard the man say that the emissary's master was allies with the blood elves!"
Puros met this news with alarm. Nex was a slippery speaker, and often lied, but he was also an arrogant bastard, and when he was sure it wouldn't make a difference he said exactly what he was thinking. Could it be true that Illidan was trying to co-opt the blood elves? If Garithos's racism had gone beyond words to deeds then the elves might have a reason for it. "Thank you for your hospitality and aid, Lord General. I have reason to believe this emissary is the man we seek. With your leave we will depart to continue the hunt."
"I see," Garithos said. By his expression he was coming to some conclusions of his own regarding that bit of news. Puros wondered just what Nex had told the general. "Yes, by all means hunt the man down. If you catch him be sure he suffers a quick and brutal death."
"Oh, we will," Jarvak said with a harsh laugh. The man had changed since Moran's death. He was grim and surly, now, and if anything pushed them to hunt and kill Nex even harder than Puros himself.
Puros couldn't spare the man much thought now, however. The thought of the elves, deprived of their home and beleaguered by an unrelenting foe, facing that foe alone set his blood to boiling. The thought of those poor souls facing further mischief thanks to Illidan and his servants was unbearable. He swung onto the remount Garithos had provided, his men mounting behind him, and with no more delay they were pushing hard for the front lines.
. . . . .
"To the south as well, now!" Eldre Theril shouted from his position atop a wagon. That wagon carried some of their most prized possessions from their abandoned village of Corona's Blaze. More prized still were the lives of the few villagers they'd managed to gather and evacuate this far south, through undead and worse. Few of them were warriors, but they'd answered the call of Prince Kael'thas to join in the fight against the Scourge.
But it seemed that before they could join that fight it had found them, and at their most vulnerable.
"Go!" Saire shouted to her father, leaping atop another wagon at the northern end of the caravan and hurling scorching flames at the undead that besieged them there. "I'll do my best here. Imperina du Highborne!"
"Greater than any foe!" Theril shouted back, before turning his powerful staff on the undead rolling like a wave over a hill to the south.
"Hiezal, gather a dozen men and reinforce the south!" she called. Hiezal, with a face that could have been chiseled by an artist seeking perfection, was now so filthy and weary from the constant struggles they'd endured that he looked more one of those magic-crazed Wretches than a proud high elf. He didn't even respond to her order, simply staggered down the line, plucking a handful of weary young elves bearing the crudest of weapons away to fight on another front. Another, when they couldn't even hold the first.
He looked so defeated. To think that when she'd first returned to Corona's Blaze to deliver Prince Kael'thas's call to arms her childhood friend had tried to snare her into his bed. Their plight was desperate indeed, if even vain Hiezal was cured of his desire to woo a mage of the Kirin Tor.
She turned away grimly as a shout from the north lines drew her attention back to the fighting. The undead which had pursued them for so long had finally caught up, and they couldn't have done so at a worse time. They'd heard word that the northern bank of Lordamere Lake was overrun with undead fortifications, but even in their darkest fears they hadn't supposed they'd reach those defenses only to be caught between them and their pursuit in a perfect vice.
"Fight on, Coronans!" she called, sending small spheres of flame out to latch onto the heads of the undead pressing their line most strongly. The spheres exploded on contact in a directional burst that usually took the enemy's head clean off. If only that was enough to stop them. "Fight on! We have to buy time for the Elder to clear our retreat south!"
But when she glanced back to see how her father's efforts fared, her heart quailed. They'd hoped to fly before their enemy, routing any that stood in their path and outrunning the rest. But to the south all she saw were skeletal enemies and shambling corpses, if anything a force greater than that which had pursued them.
She couldn't focus on both fronts at once. She had to hold the north, and while many promising young men and women had been raised in her village, few were experienced battle mages or warriors. A shout turned her head to the west, and she saw the northern front buckling to try to intercept a phalanx of undead pushing at their unprotected flank. She turned east to see a similar phalanx pushing in there, but no one was rushing to intercept them.
"Hold the line, Simarie!" she called, leaping across the wagon and sprinting east, as she went calling upon her deepest magics to strike the enemy with flame. It was perhaps fortunate that no one had moved to intercept those undead: they were for the moment separate from her people, and wide open to one of her most devastating spells. It was a spell she could not safely use along the lines, for fear of hitting her own people, but here it was ideal.
She skidded to a halt barely ten yards away from the undead's shambling charge, focusing the spell matrix, calling out the words of power, and finally releasing the spell. Flame gouted out of the ground in a huge ring, rising straight up into the air and setting all the undead on fire. They continued their charge almost as if they didn't notice, although a few staggered and went down, but before they could escape the ring a similar gush of flame struck them from above, smashing them flat between two fiery walls. Only one of the score of undead staggered out of that inferno, and she caught it by the chest before its barely responsive arms could reach for her. A moment later flames gouted along its bones, searing the joints to ash, and the thing fell away in a clatter of loose bones.
When she turned back, the undead had pushed through the northern front in two places and were ignoring the enemies they passed to make straight for the wagons in the center of the caravan, where nearly fifty children huddled.
Saire rushed to defend them, fighting back despair. How long could they last before being overwhelmed? Her people were fierce fighters, driven by their hatred for the monsters that had destroyed their beloved Quel'thalas and the Sunwell at its heart. But fierce as they were they still tired, in fact where on the brink of exhaustion, and the undead were relentless. Relentless, surprisingly strong, and though clumsy still eerily fast. The only advantage her people had over the waves of undead were that the creatures completely lacked subtlety. They knew no other strategy but unrelenting assault, and their attacks were crude and easy to predict. Which was why this unexpected attack on the elven children seemed so eerily sinister.
She called on the frost she had far less experience with, hurling tiny bolts of ice at the undead. On impact the bolts slowed the shambling figures, slowed them enough that the defenders from the line, horrified at realizing their enemy's intent, could abandon their posts to cut them down. But that only left larger openings for the undead to push through, and Saire was forced to rush back north while their east flank remained undefended. It was a frantic few minutes, but finally they managed by sheer desperation to drive the enemy back for a moment, coordinating a wall of flame that would hold even the undead at bay for a time.
Then with a cry of dismay a point along their southern line was breached. Not a few holes by which a handful of undead could rush in, but a full break, with three of the young elves actually turning and fleeing, while Hiezal cursed at their backs. Without hesitation or remorse the undead began pouring through, widening the breach as they attacked the defenders to either side of the hole from front, side, and rear. She was needed north, she was needed east, and now she was needed south. Theril had rushed to the aid of the defenders in the west, and for the moment was holding them back. Saire looked around helplessly, then ran towards the hole, hurling fire from either hand as she went, summoning the power for an even greater spell once she got within range. She had no choice. She couldn't hold back tragedy while catastrophe loomed behind.
Before she could reach the line and loose her spell a figure swathed in a dark cloak dropped from seemingly nowhere into the middle of the undead forcing their way through the breach. He disappeared among the seething ranks, and for a moment she thought his heroic appearance would end as nothing more than a laughable failure. Then a roaring wall of fire sprang out of the ground, expanding in all directions and washing over the undead. Skin seared, and she heard sharp cracks as bones fractured and shattered under the heat. Undead voices raised in a terrible wail, the first noise they'd made yet. Even the high elves along the line were forced to leap away with cries of dismay, although their strange benefactor had focused his spell skillfully to prevent it from reaching them.
A good half of the undead caught by the blast vanished into motes of ash and blackened bone shards. The others sprawled on the ground, some twitching but most still. The tail end of the blast had knocked undead flying in every direction, and for a brief moment there was a lull in the fighting to the south as the other undead farther away rushed to fill in the gap their fallen comrades had made.
Saire's father leapt atop one of the wagons, frost glowing around one hand, fire around the other. "Regroup!" he shouted. "Orderly retreat to the west! Now, while they're distracted!" Then he began raining fire and ice down upon the undead still blocking their escape westwards in an impressive display of arcane mastery.
In the center of the devastation to the south the cloaked figure straightened. The figure was short and slender, of a size with most blood elves, but a blast of wind created by the vacuum of his spell pushed his hood back, revealing a pale, gaunt human. In each hand he held an odd tapered rod, about a foot long and sharpened to a wicked point at either end. They seemed ridiculous tools for fighting undead, but as he quickly moved to intercept the first wave of undead filling the opening he'd created it was obvious he was no stranger to fighting this foe. Rather than trying to stab the creatures with the rods' razor tips he was instead using the rods as short, crude clubs. Crude, but nevertheless effective; in his hands, they almost seemed an extension of his arms.
The undead who'd been flung back by his spell came around on either side of him, surrounding him on all sides. The human glanced around quickly, then darted forward to the attack. Showing uncanny speed and grace he ducked under a rusty sword swung by a skeleton and smashed his rod into the skeleton's shoulder, shattering the bone and sending sword and arm flying away. Without pausing he spun, slamming the other rod into the skeleton's face while he blocked a crude club's downward swing with the first rod. He kicked out with a booted foot, sweeping a zombie's legs out from under it and as a continuation of the spin swinging a rod in an upward slash that took the creature's head clean off its shoulders.
On and on he danced, creating a pocket in the midst of the endless ranks of undead and giving Saire's people a chance to regroup and begin their retreat with only the enemy to the north to worry about. He never seemed to stop moving, and although the undead all closed on him at once from all sides he somehow was never overwhelmed by their numbers. And his rods were not his only weapons. As he fought he sent out spells: devastating magical shackles to bind his enemies until he could strike them down; pulses of shadow energy that rippled through the undead, knocking them from their feet and leaving them stunned for a short while. He rained down fire on their heads whenever he had a moment's opening, and at one point when the press became too thick he again dropped to the ground and sent out a ringwall of fire.
As a few defenders picked off the undead that managed to get around the terrible human, the majority of her village retreated, leaving most of their goods behind and fleeing towards the safety of Lordamere Lake in the distance. Saire was one of the ones who remained, wielding her fire to keep the undead attacks scattered and lacking any momentum.
A shriek so high-pitched it made her teeth hurt shivered through the air, and she looked up to see six gargoyles dropping from the sky towards the human. Though the animate stone creatures possessed wicked teeth and claws, as well as carrying diseases and curses ingrained into the spell-matrix which animated them, it seemed their current strategy was to simply drop from the sky atop the human and crush him flat.
Saire gathered fire around her closed fist and flung it hissing towards the lead gargoyle. It struck the skeletal creature full in the head, igniting its ragged hair and cracking stone with sharp whumph. Though the magical blast wasn't enough to destroy the creature, it did send it reeling away. Without missing a beat the human dove into a roll through his undead attackers, getting out of the way just as the remaining five smashed into the ground. Almost immediately the gargoyles pushed back into the air, hovering like giant bats, and then they rushed him once more. The undead, too, were closing in, and things didn't look good for the off-balance human.
Saire pressed her lips together in irritation. Her people were still retreating, and she needed to buy more time. If the human's diversion failed now the undead would resume their attack. On the other hand, his presence had conveniently lured large numbers of undead into packing tight in a very small small space, one which was blessedly free of targets which might suffer from, ahem, friendly fire. At one point she might have worried about the human, but after humanity had stood by while Quel'thalas burned, after Garithos and the Alliance army had set her Prince to impossible task after impossible task while openly accusing him of treachery, she had no sympathy for any human. Not anymore.
So she finished crafting the matrix for the powerful spell she'd been creating, drawing in ever more fiery energy, and while the opportunity remained she called down a massive conflagration of flames directly on the human's position, striking the entire area with a devastating magical firestorm.
Gargoyles and undead withered under the punishing spell, blackening and turning to ash at the center, while along the edges they fled, spreading the flames farther through the ranks. And in their center the human crouched, hands held out to either side maintaining some sort of protective ward. His teeth were gritted, and his hair and skin were charring under the brutal assault, but somehow he managed to keep the worst of it back. And that standing in the epicenter of the spell.
The human turned his gaze to look at her, and Saire expected some sort of accusation, some sort of curse. Instead the man yelled "Go, now! Flee to the main camp while you still have a chance!"
Saire stared at him in equal parts incredulity and admiration. Then her father caught her arm and tugged at it firmly. "Come, daughter," he shouted over the roar of flames. "The human has bought us some time, let's use it."
Saire allowed herself to be led away, running after her people who had successfully broken away and were retreating with all speed towards the encampment in the distance. She looked back only once, and what she saw made her stop dead.
The undead had fallen back, but not because they'd given up their pursuit. The creature that led this band of the Lich King's minions, the one that had guided undead to break through the lines and assault innocent children in favor of more dangerous targets, had finally made its appearance and was challenging the human.
It was a banshee, one of the former Rangers of Quel'thalas who in death had been turned to slavery under Arthas.