Chapter Eight
"You never did tell me how that land dispute in Hillsbrad went," Daellin pointed out to Ahran who had just finished giving some chores for his barmaids. By now, the rays of sunshine in Tyr's Hand were dimming and creating a soft golden haze in the tavern. Besides the occasional appearance of a barmaid cleaning the tables and wiping the floor, only Ahran and Daellin remained.
Ahran's fingers rubbed his bushy eyebrows and gave an exasperated sigh. "Not according to plan, I will tell you that," he groaned as he traced the outline of one of his facial scars. The barkeep shuddered slightly before returning to reality. It was clear to his patron that it was not a conversation to be had at that moment. Instead, Ahran changed the topic by asking, "So, how was that little ceremony between you and Uther?" His eyes looked down to Daellin's sheathed sword.
Daellin's eyes gleamed more brightly than the setting sun, either from the mention of his ceremony or perhaps the alcohol setting in. "It was a beautiful moment, Ahran. Damn, I wish you were there, too. I'm sure you can imagine how Uther relished in his moment of power, standing above me with a sword to my head. I thought he was going to lop off my head, just like at Stratholme!" he quickly recounted, barely giving himself a second to breathe in between words. For a grown man, his words almost sounded childish. He went to unsheathe his trusty sword but decided against it. It would be slightly uncouth to bring out a blade in his friend's establishment.
Ahran lightly laughed. "You're one to speak. I swore he was going to kill me on those church steps back when we were lads," he said before adding, "I wish I was there as well. It would've been nice to see Dawncrier for the first time under different circumstances."
The two fell into another bout of silence. Their time spent remembering past accomplishments and triumphs darkened to a time they wished to forget.
Months following Daellin's titlehood…
"Get the wounded into the chapel! Hold the frontline!"
Chaos. Madness. Death. All had fallen on the city of Andorhal in recent days. Not long after Uther bestowed Daellin his title and sword, a once-rumored plague proved real as it swept through the northlands of Lordaeron, killing thousands in a matter of days. But that was only the beginning. The dead began to walk again, mindless and hellbent on slaughtering the living. Every mortal that fell at the hands of the undead rose again to continue the massacre. For weeks, those that could defend what was left of their homeland fought against the unending ranks of the damned.
"Sir, the dead have cut off Winding Avenue!"
An elderly man, adorned only in traditional linens, a butcher's knife, and terror in his eyes, panted the news to Daellin Lightheart. The holy paladin nodded and replied, "Pull everyone away from the avenue and back to the chapel. We need the reinforcements." His words dripped with a mixture of calm, akin to a confident commander in battle, and anxiety. The butcher gulped and nodded before running back to where he came from.
In the weeks since the dead walked again, Daellin learned terrible news that broke his heart. It began when he heard that Prince Arthas dissolved his own order, the Silver Hand, when Uther refused to purge Stratholme. While the dissolution was only in word, the threat was just the tip of the iceberg. Weeks later, while holding down Andorhal from the undead, Daellin and Ahran learned the horrid news that Arthas, the prodigal son of Lordaeron, murdered his own father. The patricide was the straw that broke the nation; soon thereafter, the undead's numbers soared and the attacks increased tenfold. The correlation between the two was not lost on the paladins.
In the shadows of the modest chapel of Andorhal, Daellin led the living resistance against the encroaching mongrels. Their numbers were whittled down to a few dozen, with many more wounded within the holy house they were defending. The battle had been raging nonstop for days now, with the tide turning worse with each passing moment.
Daellin finished a prayer to the Light to reinvigorate the strength and will of the militiamen at the front barricade when a familiar presence walked up beside him. Ahran, fully dressed in his knightly plate, stopped next to his close friend and fellow native of this fallen city. "We were able to find a few civilians to the north. Just… a few," he softly murmured.
Daellin glanced over his dear friend. He noticed that his face was stained with blood and earth but this did not change his cold visage. "Thank the Light more were saved," Daellin said.
Before he could continue, he saw Ahran's expression turn to terror. He followed his gaze to one of the front barricades blocking the streets to the chapel square. Several militiamen and a paladin ran away as a horde of undead climbed over the makeshift roadblock, like a colony of ants hellbent on a dying worm. Most of the undead still bared resemblance to their mortal life- tattered clothes, gauged yet familiar faces, and wielding any tools they had when they died. It wasn't the eerily familiar visages of the undead that struck the living the most, but rather the pungent smell the undead had in addition to the many pulsing boils and black liquids that oozed out of every orifice.
"Hold the line! For the Light!" Daellin cried out as he unsheathed his sword and rushed into battle. Ahran ran alongside with a severely dented sword. To the disappointment of the paladins, none of the militia returned to their post but continued to flee in terror. Only the stationed paladin, a man named Langston, turned back to face the wall of undead.
The undead used their decomposed bodies as scaffolding to scale the barricade with a few trickling down on the living's side. Daellin nearly flung his body into the first undead he came across before he ran Dawncrier through the ghoul's torso. Rotted organs and bile exploded from the entry wound, yet the monster, a grain salesman adorned in casual clothing, showed no signs of pain. The paladin gave a quick prayer to limn his body and weapon with righteous fury, causing the blade to singe in heat. The undead caught aflame before Daellin pulled out his blade and kicked away the damned. Still no sign of pain or remorse on the damned.
Sir Lightheart took two steps back and winced from the smell of rotten flesh burning. As he turned away from the burning corpse, he saw Ahran following through with a decapitating arc with his sword. The two of them may have quickly disposed of two undead already but even more were flooding down the barricade. Daellin quickly rushed to the forward position, Dawncrier readied for its next victim, with Ahran catching up behind. The two paladins continued their defense, using both their combat and Holy skills to their benefit. For every foe slain by Ahran's cracked blade, Daellin would send a piercing bolt of radiant Holy Light at their undead enemies. Likewise, with each burnt corpse by Dawncrier's blade, Ahran would lop off the flailing limbs.
The two continued their valiant defense, making slow but steady progress back to the barricade. Sweat baked on Daellin's skin in addition to the vile fluids that flung from the undead, creating a terrible itching sensation all over his body. It did not help that the sun beat on them as hard as the undead. He could not help but notice that the sun was as strong as it was the day Uther anointed him Lightheart. It was a sad reminder of how peaceful this very city was only months ago. Now, it was burning to ash with the air polluted with necromantic energy and the streets lined with corpses- both still and walking corpses.
A shrill cry broke Daellin's trance. Aways from the barricade, Langston, the brave paladin that turned back to defend the position while most fled, was being overwhelmed by the undead. The young lad flailed his warhammer about but missed every blow. Daellin sprung to action by calling upon the Light to create a protective barrier around Langston. The holy shield burned the undead but the mindless ghouls continued their assault like mice to a trapped piece of cheese. Lightheart ran to his fellow paladin's side but by the time he reached him the ghouls had disarmed Langston and forced him to the ground. The young paladin cried out in agony as Daellin slashed through the piled up mob of ghouls. After several vicious hacks, the walking corpses were once again dead.
Underneath the pile, the severely wounded paladin twitched. "S-sir…" Langston stammered as Daellin knelt to his side. His already shoddy mail armor was ripped asunder and his flesh was thoroughly clawed and gnashed. His face was hardly recognizable without his eyebrows, ears, and an eye. Blood was pooling around his abdomen and Daellin could sense his life force was rapidly escaping the poor lad.
Daellin tried to calm Langston down by placing his gauntleted hand on his forehead, wiping away his greased hair to reveal a single blank eye. His body shook violently as Daellin ushered the Light to heal his wounds. His reassuring words of prayer brought life to Langston's eye yet the convulsions worsened and blood continued to pool. Frustrated, Daellin pushed his body and mind further to mend the wounds of his brother-in-arms.
A blur of motion in the corner of Daellin's eye took his attention away from his comrade. He swung around to see another ghoul leaping at the paladin, its body preserved fairly well in comparison to most of the undead. Daellin used the undead's leap to his advantage as he fluidly pierced Dawncrier into the neck of the undead. The undead glided down the blade, catching fire as it slid. He noticed that this undead was a mother that regularly attended his church services. As he often felt in the recent days, sorrow and pain pierced his heart. However, now was not the time.
The paladin pushed the corpse off his sword before quickly returning to Langston. The young man ceased to convulse but his wounds had opened up even more, creating ravines in his body. Daellin once again called upon the Light with all of his might to heal the wounds. While the golden aura limned the body, Langston's agony and wounds were not improving.
Langston placed a limp hand on Daellin's arm and visibly mustered all the strength he had left to say, "I-I don't want to be...one of them… S-send me..to the Light, Sir…" The elder knight tried to find a reassuring response but could not find the words. Defeated, he nodded, stepped away from Langston, and with a heavy heart and a single tear pooling under his eye, performed an abbreviated last rite prayer. He then called down a pillar of Holy Light upon Langston which caused a small flame to erupt. The fallen paladin did not cry out in agony and within moments all that was left was ash. Daellin stared at what was left of a paladin that, besides age, was no different than him in the eyes of the Light. The ashes were already floating away in the hot summer wind.
"Daellin! Need some help here!" Ahran called out, oblivious to Langston's death and cremation. His sword, after defeating many foes, had finally broken in two. Much like how Turalyon used Anduin Lothar's broken sword to slash down orcs at the battle of Blackrock years ago, Ahran continued to fight on with what was left of his blade attached to the hilt. In between arcing slashes, he used his own fists to punch the walking dead or a quick shock of Holy energy to create some space.
Daellin, still trying to steel himself, once again called upon the Light to smite the undead. His muscles tensed and his arteries tightened to the point that they were like ropes latched to a fishing boat. Much like moments ago, pillars of radiant gold crashed down on the undead from the sky above. The same pungent smell of burning flesh pierced his nose as the ghouls withered away to bone and ash. Content, Daellin ran to his friend's side, snapping cracked bones of the dead as his feet carried him. Reunited again, the two paladins nodded and turned their attention back to the barricade.
The flow of undead into the chapel square had ceased. Everything was still in this part of Andorhal, thankfully even the dead.
But a chorus of groans, shrieks, and other unnatural sounds beyond the barricade reminded the paladins of the inevitability. "We can't keep holding these barricades forever," Ahran grumbled.
Daellin grunted. He glanced back to the chapel to see the militia and remaining paladins exhausted. They had all been at this for days and it was taking its toll on the living. In contrast, the undead did not tire or need rest. The living desperately needed some respite from the nonstop fighting.
Lightheart pointed to the wall of haphazard furniture and wood that blocked that entrance into the chapel square. "I have an idea. You might not like it," he announced. Before Ahran could ask about said idea, Daellin jogged to the barricade and plunged Dawncrier into the wall. After a short prayer, crimson and gold Light erupted from his sword and engulfed the exposed wood in fire. As the fire grew in intensity, Daellin walked back to Ahran whose mouth was agape.
After a few moments of watching the fire, then to Daellin, back to the fire, and finally back to Daellin, his expression grew in anger. "Your idea was to burn down our defense?!" he yelled.
"Watch," Daellin responded. The two watched as an aura of gold melded with the dancing fire. The crimson and gold morphed to create a barrier magical in nature. The wall, glimmering from the fire and the sun above, grew in height until it passed the height of the ruined buildings that lined both sides of the street. "See, you can trust me," Daellin jested.
Ahran snarled, "You have some crazy ideas sometimes, you know that? Where the hell did that idea come to you?"
"A trick I picked up for crop rotation a few weeks ago."
Perhaps another time the two would laugh from the friendly tension. Perhaps another time they would have time to rest and drink some ale. Perhaps another time the dead would stay in the ground.
"So, shall we do the same to the other entrances?" Ahran asked.
Daellin shook his head. "We can't cut the escape routes for the survivors to reach us," he grimly replied.
"Daellin," Ahran sighed, "I can't imagine there are many survivors out there, if any at all."
"Even if there was one living soul out there, we need to find and protect them," Daellin snapped.
"And risk us all dying?!"
"The Light will protect us here!"
Ahran did not bother to continue in arguing. "Light preserve us," he softly prayed. The two walked back to the steps of the chapel, a few feet separating them. As they approached the holy building, a few of the militia and paladins in the square dragged themselves into the church. A fresh batch of defenders came to take their place. It had been like this ever since they were holed up in this corner of the city. Thankfully, the undead were not at the walls at this moment, providing an eerie sense of calm. Despite the calm, no one exchanged words.
Daellin plopped down on the church steps. He leaned on his sword to provide stability while Ahran, too, collapsed down next to him. The two did not talk. Instead, they both looked around, taking in how far their hometown had fallen. This was the town they grew up in and shaped who they were today. In addition, following the Second War, they spent most of their time spreading the love of the Holy Light to the men and women they considered more than neighbors- they were beloved family.
"Hey," Ahran broke the silence, "remember when you ate shit down that road?" he asked as he pointed to one of the barricaded entrances.
Daellin chuckled, "Yeah, yeah I do. I remember that a certain someone pushed me down because I got to bed Katherine first."
"Then you gave that poor bastard a good shiner for that."
Ahran playfully smacked the backside of Daellin's head for that remark. The two's laughter grew into a full on howl fest which made the others turn to their direction and raise a tired eyebrow. A few even dared to whisper amongst themselves about the cackling paladins. It was quite the sight to see two battle worn knights laugh in a burning city with the walking dead crawling to murder each and every one of them. In each paladin, the faintest reminder of their youth grew with each hoot.
A deafening boom halted their laughter like an explosion snuffing out a flame. The two paladins snapped to their feet and looked to one of the northern barricades. Daellin readied his trusty blade as Ahran pulled out his half-broken sword in preparation for another battle. Another boom was followed by echoes of voices too indistinct to tell if they were alive or undead.
The two took a few cautious steps towards the barricade.
Without warning, the barricade erupted with entire pieces of furniture and shrapnel sent flying. The two knights, alongside the few militia and paladins available, rushed to engage the walking dead once more. However, instead of the grunts and growls of the undead, the common language of man called out from the dust cloud that settled around the fallen barricade.
"Stand tall, men! The Light has blessed us this day!"
The voice was instantly recognizable to Daellin and Ahran. Once the dust had settled, a squadron of Silver Hand paladins stood valiantly in their ornate plate armor. At the head of this squadron was the Lightbringer himself.
The stout paladin sauntered to the two paladins while the rest of his squad of knights manned the now-broken barricade. The silhouettes of undead ghouls and skeletons dragging their decomposing legs down the street towards the square could be seen but it was nothing that the combined might of the Silver Hand could not handle. The sight of Uther and his fellow paladins delighted Daellin, perhaps more so knowing that they would not have been able to get here if they followed Ahran's earlier suggestion of blocking off all entrances with holy fire.
Uther placed his large warhammer on his shoulder pad. "How goes the defense, lads?" he asked in his typical booming voice.
Ahran spoke first. "More casualties, Lord Uther. I'm not sure how much longer we can last."
Daellin tried to interject a more positive thought on the matter but Uther grumbled and said, "I understand, lad. The situation in Andorhal and the surrounding region grows more dire everyday. Nevertheless, the Light has protected us so far and will continue to do so." Daellin softly prayed to the Light while Ahran nodded slowly. "That being said," Uther continued, "Gavinrad is out finding an escape route."
Both Daellin and Ahran's faces lit up in hope for the first time in weeks. If they could find a way for the civilians to escape, then surely they could regroup in a more favorable position, away from the constant onslaught of undead. No more holding on to this square as endless waves of the damned poured in. No more providing last rites to the recently deceased. No more pain and suffering in this damned city.
"I am sure Gavinrad will find a way," Daellin mused as he gleaned over the ruined buildings that lined the square. The shattered buildings gave only a faint reminder that this city was once a bastion that he called home for decades. While the good memories were there, deeply buried under the stress and anguish of recent days, they seemed further and further away with every passing second.
Uther nodded as he, too, peered over the square. "In the meantime, we need to make sure the chapel stands. We will need to move out the-" A shrill beastial cry interrupted Uther's train of thought and forced everyone in the square to turn their attention to the barricades. Another cry, this time echoed by more shrieks and baritone groans, pierced the eerie peace the paladins enjoyed.
Suddenly, one of the northern barricades exploded in fire and dark magic. The deafening explosion made everyone in the square to double-over and cover their ears. Through their squinted eyes, they could see dozens of undead storming into the chapel square. Many were the well-preserved corpses of farmers with pitchforks and hatchets, yet many more were unrecognizable ghouls or skeletons, oozing with puss and coagulated blood.
"To arms, Silver Hand!" Uther called out. "For Lordaeron! For the Light!"
The living, despite being grossly exhausted and ill equipped, took to arms to combat the living dead. Once more, Daellin Lightheart gripped Dawncrier and charged into battle with Uther and Ahran by his side. Uther was the first to engage with the damned as he swung his famed warhammer to obliterate a monstrosity that, in life, was a humble farmer. Simultaneously, Ahran stabbed the exposed spine of a ghoul, popping a boil of bile that painted his plate leggings a sickly green. Then there was Daellin, sending down pillars of scorching Light on the walking corpses of his countrymen.
The trio, alongside the assembled militiamen and few remaining knights of the Silver Hand, fought in a flurry of Light and weapon. Before the dead walked again, it had been years since Daellin had to engage in such chaotic conflict. Despite this, he had clearly brushed off any rust. Dawncrier danced from one foe to another, slicing and dicing like the putrid bodies were nothing more than warm butter. With each slash, the blade left a cauterized blow that singed with fire and Light.
"For a pastor, you fight pretty well!" Ahran called out as he pulled out his half-broken blade out of the torso of another ghoul.
"Not the time!" Daellin replied as he fought his way back to his friend. Meanwhile, Uther did not enter the verbal banter, instead his warhammer did all the talking by continuing to destroy the fragile bones of the damned. For a man that recently celebrated his sixty-fourth year on Azeroth, his fighting skills were as impeccable as ever, with a sense of beauty and grace for each swing of his mace. He, alongside his former pupils now in their early forties, made up the venerated bulwark while the militia and younger paladins picked up the straggling undead. Someone may have suggested this was the older generations protecting the young from the horrors of life. Granted, they were not exactly fighting life.
In the midst of battle, Daellin heard the cry of one of the militiamen yelling out to the sky. Daellin followed the direction and saw something he had never seen before, a true marvel considering the circumstances. Above the buildings, floating on bat-like wings, were large monstrosities with lion faces that none had seen before. Without warning, these creatures swooped down with their protracted claws, aimed directly at the defenders. The paladin trio were able to repel the bat creatures with the Holy Light but one of the beasts grabbed a farmer by his shoulders. In a blink of an eye, the creature and its yelling prey were high up in the sky.
Daellin tried to shoot down the creature with a bolt of Light but the beast swooped away from the attack before devouring the head of the farmer in its retractable mouth. Content with its dinner, the bat creature dropped the decapitated body, the corpse landing right next to Ahran. Horror struck the paladin momentarily before regaining his composure, just in time to block a ghoul's attack.
"Daellin! Take out those things!" Uther ordered. Daellin grunted as he lept backwards from an undead's wild arm swing, dispatching it with a quick slash through the torso. Following this small victory, he plunged Dawncrier into the ground as he knelt next to it. He stared at the bat beasts with piercing eyes as he recited a prayer of retribution. Like a meteor shower, a dozen pillars of Holy Light fell from the sky above. Several of the bats disintegrated in a matter of moments, however a few were quick enough to dodge the attack. Uther assisted Daellin by tossing his warhammer to the sky, hitting one of the bats. Like if it had a mind of its own, the warhammer then arched to the last creature, knocking it out of the sky. Just like how a Troll can throw an axe and have it arch back to its owner, so, too, did Uther and his warhammer.
Alas, despite their efforts, the undead kept flooding into their position. A few militia had fallen to the gnarled claws and sharp teeth of the undead while the paladins stood strong. In the days following Andorhal's fall, the undead would have relented in their guttural barrage. However, this was different. The undead were far more persistent than Daellin had seen before.
The paladin side-stepped an undead's pitchfork when he noticed several figures in the rear of the undead horde. These figures were not the ravenous undead ghouls they were fighting; instead they were robbed humans, clearly still alive. The mysterious hooded men's hands glowed in a sickly purple-black color. Daellin was familiar with the glow of this magic, but from where? Then it hit him.
"Necromancers!"
Daellin could barely get the word out before the necromancers completed their incantations. Those that had fallen in the square glowed purple and black before slowly rising to their feet once more- not from the breath of life but in the sorrow of undeath. Their eyes were obsidian black and turned on their fellow countrymen with wolf-like ferocity. The still-living militiamen were horrified to see the men they were just fighting alongside, live alongside with for years, turn on them so suddenly. The remaining Silver Hand knights, only a half dozen strong at this point, remorsefully disposed of the recently risen undead. But the fact remained that the undead horde had necromancers raising even more undead. For each human that died at the hands of the ghouls, another would be raised in their undead army.
"Retreat back to the chapel! Silver Hand, defend the retreat!" Uther ordered. The farmers of Andorhal did not need anymore convincing to retreat back to the church. A few of them even dropped their make-shift weapons in terror while the remaining paladins had to defend the rear as waves of ghouls crashed upon them. No longer were they protected by the chokehold of the fallen barricade but instead exposed in the open space of the square.
"Lord Uther, what-what are your orders?" Ahran asked as the paladins re-established a defensive position on the footsteps of the chapel. Their armor was blotched with blood and other bodily fluids while their exhaustion was taking its toll. Thankfully, the undead were too preoccupied with the corpses of the recently deceased to continue their advance. One of the paladins, one that neither Daellin or Ahran knew, collapsed to the ground, breathing heavily. Another paladin knelt next to his collapsed brother and tried to get him back to his feet.
Uther gently laid the head of his warhammer on the church steps as he closed his eyes and prayed, "The Light has never forsaken us. It will not forsake us this day." Ahran was not amused by this comment as frustration grew in his face. It was not the concrete answer the practical paladin was looking for. Daellin, despite being the pious man he was, was also hoping for specific orders.
The mindless undead horde were done feasting on the bodies of the fallen and continued their march towards the chapel. Some of the undead even growled and raised the limbs of their meal, almost like a battle cry with a drawn sword. Darkness was closing in on the last bastion of light in Andorhal.
"Lord Uther!"
A voice, a human one, cried out from the south. Everyone turned to where Darrowmere Lake met the shores of Andorhal and saw a half dozen row boats, each manned by a single person. Hope enlightened Daellin's face. This must have been Gavinrad's escape plan!
Uther turned back to the remaining knights. "Get the wounded and civilians to safety!" he barked. The Silver Hand, besides Daellin and Ahran, ran into the chapel to begin the evacuation. For the first time in days, the two felt a faint sense of relief. All they had to do was hold off the encroaching undead until everyone else was safely boarded on the boats. Then they could finally escape this hell hole. A tall task, for sure.
As the first wave of wounded were rushed from the chapel to the boats by the few remaining knights, Daellin got an idea to hold off the undead, one that Ahran alluded to earlier. Like earlier, he plunged Dawncrier into the ground and ushered the Light into the sacred blade. The cobbled road below began to crack as thick lines etched from the sword to the undead frontline.
"Light give me strength!"
In that instant, the cracks plumed out golden fire, creating several walls of golden flame. The undead that stood under the cracks were instantly purged to ash while more mindlessly walked into the fire. With each new victim, the fire snapped and popped, creating an orchestra of non-stop violence. Despite the awe-inspiring display of power, Daellin knew that this barrier would not last. Already some of the flames flickered as a dying campfire would. They had to get out as soon as possible or else they risked losing everything.
Knowing that the walls of righteous flame would not last forever, Daellin ran back to Uther and Ahran's side. The two continued to orchestrate the chaotic evacuation as more from the chapel poured out of the square and onto the small fishing boats. Out of the chaotic scene, one of the beleaguered paladins that arrived by boat meakishly approached the Lightbringer. The trio knew of this man, Phillip of Hearthglen, to be a tactical genius and strong in spirit. "Lord Uther," he panted, "Gavinrad has fallen."
No. That can't be. Daellin and Ahran gasped in shock while Uther lowered his head. Ahran stumbled a second from hearing the grave news, like an elder having a hot spell, as Daellin collected his close friend in his arms. Without saying a word, Daellin looked into his friend's eyes to comfort him. However, their faces said it all. They could not comprehend how Gavinrad, a paragon of brute strength in body and spirit and a founding Silver Hand knight, could have fallen.
"Light bless Brother Gavinrad," Uther prayed. He lowered his voice to a simple whisper, "You are home now, old friend. Give my regards to Gwen for me."
With Ahran still in his embrace, Daellin asked, "Phillip, how could he have fallen?" Within his arms, Ahran trembled like a cold dog. While it was easy to understand how thousands had perished at the hands of the undead, it was hard for both to rationalize that one of the strongest paladins Azeroth had seen could fall.
Still in the boat, the terror in Phillip's eyes worsened. His skin was flushed of any color and was as white as the encroaching undead skeletons. He looked off in the distance, perhaps too weak to meet the eyes of his superiors, and muttered grimly, "It was him, sir. Arthas."
Uttering the name alone made everyone shutter and wince. Of course the fallen prince was the culprit. Who else would be as sick and vile in killing one of the most holy men in all of Lordaeron? The man already betrayed his kingdom and father, he may as well have been the one to end a comrade.
Daellin, pulling away from Ahran, almost erupted from the anger that swelled within him. He may have done something brash if it were not for Uther's gentle hand placed on his back. The former pupil looked up to his mentor once more and saw both sorrow and vindication in his eyes. Ahran, too, sensed the conflicted emotions that grew within Uther. Afterall, Uther was the one that personally trained the prince and raised him to be a just man only to see the unimaginable happen.
Uther cleared his throat. "Are there any more boats on their way?" he asked, clearly moving away from the topic at hand. Phillip gravely shook his head. The Lightbringer turned to his fellow paladins and said, "Daellin, Ahran, we will hold the line until everyone is safely away from this hell." With that, the trio walked away from the Darrowmere shore and back to the raging inferno that was Andorhal.
The first boat, helmed by Phillip, filled with the most gravely wounded departed from the shore. With such few boats, they had to overfill it in order to get everyone out of the hellish landscape. As the trio of paladins stood by the protective wall of fire that Daellin created with the Light and Dawncrier, they watched as the next few boats, mostly filled with women and children, departed. The few remaining men readied themselves for combat, knowing they would be last to leave this forsaken city. With each departed boat, the flames that shielded the remaining living flickered and weakened.
Daellin was caught in the flames trance. The vague outlines of undead throwing themselves to the fire did not disturb him. What did disturb him, however, was how cold he felt. Even with the summer sun and fire all around, his very soul was frozen solid. The flame no longer provided safety. Am I lost? How has it come to this? Why do I only feel...void?
Despite the weakening flame, the last boat of civilians departed into the grand expanse of Darrowmere Lake after several hectic minutes. The only living remaining were the handful of paladins brave enough to ensure that the innocent escaped. Only one boat remained for the half dozen paladins to escape the wretched city by the choppy waters of Darrowmere.
They were just about to board when the inevitable happened; the majestic walls of golden flame finally withered away into nothingness. The barrier that had protected the living during this traumatic escape finally fell, exposing them to the hordes of undead. The moment the fires were snuffed away, the undead leapt and ran to the last bastion of life in Andorhal like predators to prey.
"Stand strong men! The Light protects us! Destroy these ungodly creatures!" Uther cried out to rally his fellow paladins. This righteous call brought a new vigor to the tired bodies as each raised their mace or sword once more in defiance of the undead. Lightbringer turned to Daellin and said, "Hold the line, Sir Lightheart. I need to retrieve one last thing from the chapel before our escape. You're in charge, friend." Before Daellin could reply, his mentor and the ultimate beacon of holiness ran off to the chapel. I have no idea what you would need right now, Uther, but it better be good!
Daellin, Ahran, and the few remaining Silver Hand paladins charged into battle against the swarming undead. Dawncrier seared from one ghoul to the next, recreating the burning rotten flesh smell Daellin grew to be accustomed to. Meanwhile, Ahran, now wielding an unbroken blade he picked up from a fallen comrade, displayed his combat prowess akin to his campaign in Hillsbrad all those years ago. Even in his forties, the former soldier effortlessly vanquished any undead that got close to him. The same could be said for the few remaining paladins that fought alongside the Andorhalan men. It was evident that the remaining knights were the best of the best, as they smote their foes with righteous holy might.
Despite the beautifully executed combat maneuvers by the paladins, when each ghoul fell, two seemed to replace it. Never before, not even during the Second War, had Daellin fought so hard but felt so empty inside. Empty because he knew that his enemies were his countrymen only days, some hours, ago. These were the people he swore to protect when he took up the paladin mantle. The same people that he protected against the orcish horde years ago. The same people that listened to his sermons and took to heart to what he had to say. The same people he loved. But he could not stop. He could not relent in his defence or else face the same grim result as his flock. Don't dwell on it, he thought with each swing of Dawncrier. They will return to the Light, as we all do in the end.
"Daellin! We need to go now!" Ahran called out as he pulled out his sword from the neck of an undead farmer. "Make for the boat!"
"No! We have to hold out for Uther!" Daellin feverishly replied.
At this point, fighting had become a daze. His vision was blurred with the dreadful situation collapsing on him, as well as the copious amount of bodily fluid obstructing his view. This lack of vision was the opening an undead took as it swung its hatchet at Daellin's shoulder pads. The armor protected most of the blow but it still deeply cracked, sending a painful shockwave down Daellin's spine. Lightheart retaliated and obliterated the undead that landed its attack. Daellin, even in his age and lull of combat experience for years, seldom let an opponent land a hit. Not since Uther toyed with him as a student.
Another undead, this one only the skeletal remains of a person, launched at the paladin. Daellin called upon the Light to send a bolt of light energy at the skeleton, breaking the unholy magical bond that kept its unattached bones together. The bones collapsed to the blood stained road like a chime. Still, the undead continued its onslaught.
"We don't have time, Daellin! We need to go now!" Ahran cried out as he, too, struggled to combat the damned. He sidestepped from another lunging ghoul and used the damned's momentum to push it into another ghoul.
Off a ways, a freshly risen undead plunged its pitchfork into the exposed back of another paladin, a lass from Tirisfal. Her death was instantaneous. The paladins were down to six in number and losing ground rapidly.
In between slashes, Daellin gasped, "The Light will protect us! Have faith!"
With the situation growing dire, Daellin's swings became more erratic. Instead of the graceful strikes he was known for in his youth, his attacks were haphazard. Around him, a pile of undead grew as each fell from Dawncrier. And yet, more and more came. At this point, their inhuman growls, grunts, and shrieks were nothing but white noise for the paladin. He could not even hear the voices of his few remaining comrades.
A sharp pain pierced his lower leg, breaking his trance. He looked down to see a legless undead clawing at his shin. Its claws were daggers- sharp enough to pierce the mail armor. Angrily, Daellin brought his blade through the exposed neck of the undead, severing another body part from the undead. Following his latest hollow victory, Daellin returned to his blinding flurry. Each motion carried little thought, putting him into compromising positions. When normally he would use an enemy's attack against them in a sly dodge or overpowering parry, he mindlessly attacked the damned with reckless abandon.
"What the hell is that thing?!" one of the paladins shrieked. Somehow, perhaps by providence, the shrill cry awoke Daellin from his mindless dance of sword. He tracked his blurred vision to see what the paladin was talking about. It was not hard to miss. Emerging from the horde of undead, a gigantic monstrosity lumbered its way to the front of the undead. It was ogre sized, perhaps even bigger. It looked like a grotesque version of a girl's doll sewn together with different patchworks. Its face, if one could call it that, dangled from its neck and had far too many eyeballs. Furthermore, multiple arms sprouted from its midsection of varying length. The largest arm held an oversized cleaver that looked like it could cut a horse in half. Yet another imposing arm dragged along an iron chain that loudly rattled. The stench was nothing that Daellin had experienced before, even taking into account the fact he was leg deep in a mound of undead corpses.
The sight of this abomination broke any last spirit in the paladins. In terror, all besides Daellin rushed for the last boat, their tails tucked between their legs. The large monster picked up speed and was quickly upon them. One of the paladins stumbled in his footing which gave the monster the opportunity to cleave the man in half, sending both halves in the air. Even in his haze, Daellin knew this was a fight he was not ready for. Defeated and horrified, Daellin found the energy to move his feet and run for the last boat.
Ahran was doing his best to push the boat away from the shore while the last remaining knights quivered in the boat. Suddenly, Ahran felt a tight sensation wrap around his leg. The abomination had tossed its iron chain and latched around his leg. Before he realized what was happening, the abomination yanked back on its chain, sending Ahran flying away from the boat and back to the monster. He tried his best to break the chain with his sword as he was being dragged but to no avail- the chain and the monster were too strong. Daellin saw what was happening and ran to free his friend from the monster's grasp.
He was too late. The ogre-sized beast had already pulled Ahran to within its striking distance. It brought down its cleaver to end the Andorhal paladin. At the last moment possible, Ahran rolled to one side, dodging the attack. The abomination gurgled then once more brought down its cleaver. The paladin continued to roll and dodge from the cleaver but his luck ran out. Before Daellin could reach his friend, the monster brought its weapon cleanly on Ahran's free leg, shattering the protective armor in the process. A plume of crimson blood erupted from his leg as more began to pool under. The paladin cried out in agony, more so than he ever had in his life. The pain was excruciating and robbed him of the strength to dodge another attack.
Before the abomination went in for the killing blow, Daellin lunged and plunged Dawncrier into its side, calling upon the Light to burn the creature. Annoyed by the pesky paladin's attempt to save his friend, the beast turned its attention away from Ahran and swung at Daellin with the paladin still holding onto his impaled sword. The force of the swing sent Daellin flying but thankfully the cleaver missed the paladin. Unfortunately for said paladin, he was without his blade. The abomination went for another blow, dragging Ahran along in tow like a girl carrying her doll, that Daellin barely rolled away from. He had to think of something and quickly as more undead lumbered to them.
Without thinking and only trusting his instincts and his faith in the Light, Daellin ran. He found himself running at the abomination as it readied for its next attack, cleaver raised high for a kill blow. At the last moment possible, as the creature swung its cleaver directly at Daellin's head, he rolled under the attack and through its grotesque legs. Now on the backside of the monster, Daellin quickly turned and leapt on its back. Daellin's hands and feet oozed into the gushy skin as he tried to scale up the pale back. The patchwork creature roared as it flailed to grab the paladin, swinging every way imaginable. Once Daellin was up by the abomination's head, he clasped his hands on both sides of the unholy creature's head and casted a bolt of Holy Light. It rumbled and tumbled in pain like a shot bear. Its guttural growns ceased as its head melted off from its loose neck and plopped on the ground below. Daellin, still riding atop of the glop of undeath ichor, surfed down the bodily goo and plopped on the ground. He did not have time to relish in his tactical victory like he would years ago. He had to help Ahran.
Daellin ran to his friend's side. He was writhing in agony and his unharmed leg still wrapped in the iron chain with a horde of undead approaching. Finally up close to his friend, Lightheart could get a close look at the wound. It was worse than he could imagine. Under the mess of armor, gore, and blood, Daellin could tell that the leg was fully severed from just above the knee. He would bleed out quickly if Daellin didn't do anything. He took off his gauntlets and plunged his hands into Ahran's gore. The wounded paladin screamed bloody murder as his friend found the wound and channeled the Light into it. As the holy energy flushed through his body, Ahran calmed his cries of pain. After a few moments, the bleeding stemmed to a stop. Finally, Ahran's face hinted at sweet relief and not of agony.
The relief did not last. "Watch out!" Ahran suddenly yelped. Daellin took the warning and flung around to see a few ghouls crawling over the corpse of the fallen abomination towards them. It dawned on the paladin that his sword was still impaled in the imposing creature, leaving him weaponless. He prepared to smite the undead with Holy bolts but something stopped him.
He felt hot.
It was not the unbearable heat under the Andorhalan sun beating down on him while fighting the undead he had become accustomed to. Instead, it was a comforting warmth like sitting next to the fire on a cold winter's evening. He followed the source of the warmth to the chapel and saw rays of immense light as bright as Stormwind during Midsummer. With each passing moment, the light grew in intensity to the point that Daellin had to shield his eyes. Squinting through the rays, Daellin could make out the silhouette of a figure.
"Take heart, Silver Hand!" Uther cried out as he stepped down the chapel steps. The bright rays were pouring out from his open palm while he gripped his legendary warhammer in the other. Each individual ray that sprung from the Lightbringer embraced the few remaining living of Andorhal and gave them strength. It was not just their body that healed but also their spirit. Furthermore, with each step, Uther blessed the ground below him, changing the dull and lifeless ground to a radiant gold. The undead charged at the paladin but were quickly dismantled by the power of the Light. Truly, he was the Lightbringer.
"Daellin, take everyone and get out of here. I will hold these unholy beasts back," Uther called out calmly. The Lightbringer continued his stroll down the stairs, smiting any undead that got close with his awesome power. Daellin noticed that next to his libram was an ornate box that the famed paladin did not have earlier. Daellin figured that the contents of the box must have been what he went back for.
Is he asking me to leave him behind?
Daellin called back to his mentor, "Not without you, sir!"
Uther's gaze fell upon Daellin, even as more undead ran to him only for the golden rays protruding from Uther's hand to disintegrate the damned, and the two exchanged a deep connection. With a dashing smile, Uther replied, "Daellin, the Light will bring us back together again. Remember, lad, this is but an obstacle on our path. Sprout wings of grace and fly."
The words resonated to Daellin's core and spurred him to action. He dashed to the pile of goo that was the abomination and pulled out Dawncrier. When an undead got anywhere close to him, either Dawncrier or a beam of Light from Uther rendered it to ash. With his sword secure and the way back cleared, he went back and pulled up Ahran. He felt as light as a toddler. Daellin could not help but notice the severed portion of Ahran's leg still lying on the ground. A part of him thought about grabbing it but the current situation did not give him the luxury of time. With Ahran leaning on him, the two hobbled back to the shoreline. Thankfully, the last boat of paladins stayed, inspired by Uther's display of power. The two remaining knights helped Ahran into the boat as Daellin turned back to the madness behind.
Uther was in the midst of the undead as the mindless horde continued their assault on the pious man. Daellin was not sure if Uther could hear him but he called out, "The Light protects you, Uther! Always!" The Lightbringer turned his head to his pupil, several hundred feet away, and gave a sly wink. Daellin took this as his cue to board the boat and escape.
As the last row boat went further away from shore of Andorhal, with the paladins tending to Ahran's wound, Daellin looked back to the city he called home for his entire life. Pillars of smoke and plumes of fire dotted the city skyline as the city burned. When normally the sound of people going about their day would fill the air, instead it was the low growls of undeath. Instead of the bountiful amount of grain and bread that sweetened the air, only rot remained. As the churning waves of Darrowmere rocked the boat, Daellin could see the faint outline of Uther, swinging his warhammer from foe to foe. However, the blinding light that basked the paladin moments ago was no more. In its place, an even stronger dark aura bubbled over all of Andorhal. It was like an eclipse on the city itself.
"Light protect you, Uther."