Chapter Fourteen
Daellin always found a somber joy in church bells. On one hand, they signified faithful unity. When those beautiful chimes echoed throughout Andorhal, crowds would gather to listen to the day's joyous service. After each service, the bells would ring to indicate that service was over and that the denizens of the humble town would go about their day. The flock that embraced the Holy Light would take the messages to heart as they went about their business. It was a soothing sound and the hallowed messages that accompanied the bell contributed to the tranquility.
Yet, the church bells were not always reserved for delightful days. Like most things that brought joy, there was a woeful side. The bells would also alert the town of a last rites ceremony and the subsequent funeral. Those mournful notes that resonated throughout the church and all of Andorhal pained Daellin to the core.
"Upon angel wings we fly with the embrace of the Holy Light."
Daellin slowly rose from his weak knees. While the sun was high on this day, sending rays of warmth through the windows into the church, Daellin's head was held low. His eyes were set on the closed cherrywood casket that rested on top of the altar. Two flower arrangements, filled with red roses and white lilies, flanked the casket with withered petals adorning the casket. It was a divine yet haunting display.
"Beautiful words, as always, Daellin," Ahran contemplatively muttered as he walked up to his friend from the pews. While Daellin wore his traditional pastor robes, Ahran wore a raggedy blue suit jacket with casual slacks. No one else was in the church to criticize the former knight's casual attire for such a formal occasion.
Daellin, eyes still locked on the final resting bed, replied, "I hope she liked it. It is the least…I can do."
Ahran nodded slowly as he gleaned over the casket. "I know she did. I'm-I'm sure she heard it," he muttered.
The pastor began to hymn a familiar and soothing tune, but could only get out the third note before choking. His throat collapsed on itself as his eyes swelled. Everyday, when he held church service, he was the picture of composure. Now, in the dimly lit church that he called home, he was a broken man. His tears flooded the pews as his cries of agony echoed throughout the empty chamber. Wounds brought on by blades and maces paled in comparison to the pain ravaging his heart.
Ahran threw himself on his friend, wrapping his withered limbs around his writhing friend. Daellin heaved, his body and cries shuddering to the comfort his friend bestowed upon him. In their embrace, they found their cores connected as one; their misery shared in a common bond that tied them together like a tight knot.
Daellin composed himself enough to mutter, "I swore...to protect her." Andorhal's pastor wiped away the tears from his eyes and cheeks. He raised his face, tear-stained and flushed, and met Ahran's eyes. Not since Blackrock had his face been so tear-stained.
"And you did," Ahran replied with a weak voice. "She lived a long, happy life. You protected her and she was so damn proud of you, Daellin."
Daellin nodded, understandingly. He turned back to the casket one final time, feeling Ahran's reassuring hand on his shoulder. An eerie peace filled Daellin as he meekly stood there with his lifelong friend, in their hometown church, with only a mournful church bell ringing every minute to mark the sorrowful funeral.
"I'll protect everyone. I swear it."
The church bell rang.
And rang.
Rang.
Rang.
There was only one reason for the city's grand bell, perched in the high rafters of the Crusade's headquarters, to ring.
"Get somewhere safe," Daellin breathlessly commanded Demetria, then flew for the door. In contrast to the low, booming echo of the bell, the restaurant was disturbingly quiet. The debauchery and merriment moments ago were as dead as King Terenas. Everyone, from the bar mistresses to the plastered drunks, were silent. The only sound made was Daellin's quick steps against the ground, followed by the front door swinging open with reckless abandon. A half second after the paladin rushed out of the Top N' Bottom Buns, all hell broke loose.
Citizens screamed at the top of their terrified lungs as they rushed in every direction imaginable. Carts of produce were abandoned and baskets of basic necessities were dropped as people ran haphazardly. Children and babies cried out of fear seeing their parents frightened, possibly for the first time in their young lives. Windows and doors slammed shut up and down the street. In the midst of it all, Daellin unsheathed Dawncrier and sped through the chaos.
"Move! Get to the cathedral!" Lightheart ordered to no one in particular. The residents of Tyr's, too scared to comprehend the direction, continued to panic and flee haphazardly. Daellin had no time to stop; he had to run to the city's front gate, all the way on the other side of the city.
Light protect them. Light give me strength. The paladin repeated the prayer over and over again in his head and heart. With each repetition, he felt his grip on Dawncrier grow tighter and his feet grow lighter. The aged buildings that lined the city streets and the alarmed masses were a blur in his vision. Daellin ran too quickly to get a small waft of the prevalent smell of the restaurants, butcher shops, and disposed human waste in this part of Tyr's. Similarly, the only sound that graced his ears was the collective chaos. The individual cries melded into one body of madness.
Suddenly, the world stopped. He only had half of a second to put on the brakes before crashing into the lone child standing in the middle of the road. Seeing as Dawncrier was unsheathed, Daellin was relieved he saw the little boy when he did. The boy wore snot-drenched rags and was balling his eyes out.
Daellin knelt down beside the child. "Shhh…" the paladin comforted the young boy with a pat on the head. The boy's dirty blonde hair was a tangled mess that challenged Daellin's fingers. "Everything will be alright."
"I want my mommy!" the boy wailed with his hands pressed firmly against his face. "Where is my mommy!?"
Daellin snapped his head around, looking for any signs of a distressed mother looking for their terrified child. All he saw were the masses, completely unconcerned with the paladin and sobbing child, running in the opposite direction. If it were not for the city bell continuing to alert the city, Daellin would have stopped the whole world to help this child. However, with each daunting echo of the bell, Lightheart grew more impatient.
"Excuse me," a calm voice said from behind. Both Daellin and the crying child turned to see a blonde lady, younger than he, clearly concerned for both of them. "Daellin Lightheart, I presume?"
The rushed paladin snapped to the lady, placed a firm hand on her shoulder, and briskly said, "Please take this child to the cathedral. Don't let him out of your sight!"
The lady's eyebrows furrowed, confused by the order. Before she could say anything, the paladin was off running again. As he ran, the paladin turned to see the lady awkwardly tapping the boy's shoulder; it looked like when a stranger hesitantly pats an unfamiliar dog afraid that it will bite. But he did not have the time to ponder if he made the right decision.
The bell chimed once again.
With clouds of dust kicking from his feet, Daellin rounded a corner to the main road leading to the main gate. While he kept his sprint, impressive considering his age and adorned equipment, the world around him slowed down. He noticed that there were no more citizens running away from the imposing gate that served as Tyr's line of defense from the outside world. In their place, however, were scores of crimson Crusaders running towards the fray. Lightheart spotted some in full plate with all manner of weapons at the ready; others wore little more than their undergarments.
With the formidable gate a few blocks away, Daellin could see ranks of Crusaders beginning to form. The rows of crimson were aimless and scattered like a colony of ants under assault by a Hillsbrad Anteater. While the military might of the Scarlet Crusade prided itself on order, the soldiers and knights assembled to protect their beloved city from an inevitable threat were more distraught than the fleeing citizens. Clearly, order from any officer or individual with any sense of leadership or calm collective had yet to be established.
As Daellin arrived at the square before the main gate, he found out why leadership was sorely lacking.
"C'mon you idiots! Get in your ranks!"
The unmistakable shrill of Lord Valdelmar pierced the ears like a squeaky wheel that desperately needed some grease. Perched on a bench, the man that claimed dominion over Tyr's Hand flailed about, trying to give directions to his subordinates. Daellin could not help but find humor in hearing the broken commands from the broken commander. The signs of their earlier scuffle were still clear; his face was bandaged, his legs wobbled, and a makeshift crutch under an arm held up his weight. Lightheart mentally chuckled at the sight. But now was not the time for vindictive retribution on the bastard's expense.
"Get in formation or I'll-" Valdelmar's crutch had enough. It gave out from under him, sending the broken commander sprawling to the bench. The audible gasp that escaped his weak lungs was somehow louder than the assembled Scarlets in the square. Perhaps some in attendance would laugh at the pathetic display from their commanding officer; however, given the circumstances, the soldiers of Tyr's were too preoccupied with whatever grave threat was gathering on the other side of the gate. The looming fortification, adorned with sheets of steel that encased the giant slabs of wood, hid the looming threat. But everyone knew exactly what could cause Tyr's Hand, the most fortified city remaining in Lordaeron, to go on such a high alert.
The Scourge.
With the Lord of Tyr's currently on his ass and lower ranking officers failing to muster any semblance of military organization, Daellin brought it upon himself to establish order. With a straight back and Dawncrier pointed to the sky, he yelled, "Scarlet Crusade! Alpha, Beta, and Gamma assume combat ranks by the south end! Epsilon, Zeta, and Eta to the north! The rest establish files in the square proper!"
The firm orders must have sent a bolt down the spines of every Crusader in the vicinity because the moment Lightheart finished his commands, the assembled Scarlets darted straight to their assigned positions. The squad leaders, mostly lieutenants and low ranking centurions, found their voice as they racked their squadrons in order. In contrast to a few moments ago when the Crusade looked like headless chickens running amok, the Scarlets resembled a military force prepared for an engagement.
Despite the quickly choreographed assembly, one Crusader was not pleased. Daellin could hear disgruntled groans coming from Valdelmar as he limped to the center of the square. "Took you all long enough!" he yelled with a bite. The exclamation must have taken everything his body could handle as he went into a pained coughing fit right after. One poor Scarlet soldier, a young man barely old enough to drink, had the misfortune of bearing the brunt of the coughs. Saliva and phlegm splattered across the soldier's chest and legs. Only out of proper military decorum did the soldier hold his composure.
Daellin made sure to keep his distance from his phlegmy adversary. The still-ringing city bell and the assembled might of the Scarlet Crusade were holding him back from launching into another tirade against the tyrant. It already felt like a lifetime ago that he beat Valdelmar to a pulp in front of the masses. The getaway to the Top N' Bottom Buns with Demetria seemed even more buried in the past.
If it were not for the incessant bell, Daellin may have lost himself in thought in that morning's fun. Every minute, the bell would chime, scratching at his brain and sending a shiver down his spine. Every minute, the silence among the Scarlet ranks grew more deafening. Every minute, the gate that protected their city from the damned grew smaller. Despite the unsettling feeling growing in every Scarlet stomach, they all stared at the gate; a terrible anticipation swelled in their throats and hearts as the bizarre silence acted as their only companion.
In the middle of the anticipation and assembled rank and file, Lightheart gripped Dawncrier tightly. Only once before did the grand city bell made him quack in terror. It was not long after his initial arrival at Tyr's Hand. The remnants of Lordaeron's standing army could barely hold off the seemingly endless waves of undead flooding into the hallowed city. Hundreds died over the course of three days. By the Light's grace, however, the Scarlet Crusade were able to repel the invading undead forces and reinforced the colossal gate. Outside of the occasional skirmish on the outskirts of the city's walls, Tyr's had known relative peace. As peaceful as being a small island of life in a sea of undeath, that is.
"I'm not ready for this!" a shrill voice cried out.
A knight, frail in frame, fell to his knees, creating an unsightly bump in the otherwise uniform line. He dropped his sword and quaked like a baby. Nobody else batted an eye at the sobbing knight; nobody, except for one. Daellin rushed over to the crying knight. While the soldier's face was buried in his hands, the venerated paladin could tell that he was barely old enough to wield a sword. In fact, he was somewhat impressed that he could put an entire plate regalia on his tiny body. The knight's body trembled and his throat choked on his tears.
Daellin bent to the knight's level and placed a comforting hand on the crying knight's shoulder and muttered, "Steady, lad. There is nothing to be afraid of when we have each other and the Light."
The knight pulled his face away from his gauntleted hands. "Light-Lightheart?" the knight stammered. His face was the same color as the vibrant red that adorned his attire and the surrounding buildings. Water pooled under his baggy eyes like the Darrowmere Lake then cascaded down like a waterfall.
"Aye. All is well, friend," Daellin replied. Despite the knight's ruined visage, he could recall his identity. Percy Wheathand was, indeed, a young man that called Tyr's home. In passing conversations after church services, Daellin gathered that Percy's family was slaughtered during the fall of Lordaeron. Like many other sons and daughters of Lordaeron, he believed serving the Crusade would vindicate their losses. For some, that may be the case. For most, however, the losses would only stack.
"I'm-I'm not ready...for this. I'm not ready...to die…" the knight whimpered, his weeping eyes fixated with the ground below. The cobble below was equally as stained as his face. While the ground of Tyr's Hand was accustomed to bodily fluids, it was more of a crimson variety.
No one is, kid. Daellin lifted Percy's chin so that their eyes met. "Stay strong, Percy. I can see your wings of Light growing now," he said assuredly. Percy only half-nodded in response. Daellin was about to give more reassurance to the weeping Crusader when he noticed something. Silence.
The city bell that had been ringing nonstop had ceased its terrifying droning. The subsequent silence was somehow even louder. The assembled Scarlets remained mute, even Valdelmar was miraculously silent. Daellin could hear the faint heartbeat of his fellow crusaders; some hearts ran faster than others. The only other audible sound were Percy's whimpers. Through his choked tears and sobs of terror, the young lad called out for his mother to save him.
Disturbed by the silence, Daellin rose to his feet and tightly grasped Dawncrier. His trusted blade grew hot as burning coals in his hands. The blade radiated with steam that harmlessly floated skywards. In the years since he was bestowed the blade, his sword had yet to physically burn him. Hopefully, that would not change today.
A dull breeze blew by.
Someone sneezed.
A robin braved the plaguelands by flying over the gate with elegance and grace, almost out of spite to humanity.
Suddenly, commotion erupted on top of the ramparts that capped the imposing walls. Daellin squinted to see archers and mages running all along the city wall, yelling at each other. The archers knocked their arrows and unleashed volleys upon an unseen enemy. Meanwhile, the magi channeled arcane energy and tossed hellfire. Even from the ground level, the chaos on the ramparts was clear. Seeing their fellow Scarlets desperately combat an unseen adversary, anticipation swelled in the hearts and stomachs of the assembled knights.
"That's it, game over! We're all dead!" Percy shrieked as he threw his whole body against the ground. Despite being on the ground for only a moment, the tears that stained the ground rusted his armor. If the young man had any wings of faith, they were ruthlessly snapped off. He was not the only one. The uniform and orderly rank and file began to lose their composure. Some knights nervously looked around, trying to find comfort in their fellow man. Some braved to look up to the gloomy sky, searching for anything. All the while, their compatriots on the ramparts fired volley after volley, holding off whatever was behind the large gate.
Without warning, the ground itself shook like an earthquake rumbling the foundations of Lordaeron. The knights and soldiers staggered as their once perfect ranks were now in shambles. Even the buildings themselves swayed like trees in a gust. Those on the ramparts got the brunt of the earth shaking to its core; an unlucky pair of magi lost their footing and plummeted to the ground below. Their bodies splattered like ripe tomatoes. The grizzly sight only added to the growing terror in the Scarlets.
Whatever caused the ground to shake made its presence known. A growl unlike any man or beast echoed throughout all of Lordaeron. It was low and deep in tone yet had varying overtone pitches. It sounded like a war-horn being accompanied by a church choir of children and women. The sheer volume of the growl suggested the size of the creature- large beyond comprehension. The Scarlets on the ramparts must have seen the creature because they began to flee from their position. Shouts and yells of terror from the retreating archers and magi added to continuing drone of the unknown creature. The crescendo of fear and sound created an atmosphere so disturbing it felt like the world itself was experiencing an apocalypse far greater than the Scourge's destruction of Lordaeron.
Despite the world itself collapsing in on itself, Daellin threw himself upon the Light to find the strength to persevere. "Soldiers of the Light! Let the Light give us strength!" he called out. All around him, more and more Crusaders grew more anxious. The looks on their faces, from the young and inexperienced to the mature and venerate, were grim. Even those that hid their visage behind a helmet were clearly scared.
Just as Daellin was about to run towards the front of the ranks, a limp pressure wrapped around his ankle. At his feet, Percy loosely grasped Lightheart's leg like a lame sloth meekly hanging onto a branch. "We're going to die…we're going to die…" he muttered ad nauseum. Even with the drone signaling the end of days snuffing out any other sound, Daellin could hear the chattering of Percy's teeth and his heartbeat crawling to a standstill.
Lightheart placed his hand on Percy's trembling head and declared, "We won't die today, lad. I swear it."
With the uttered promise, Daellin softly pulled his leg away from Percy's grasp. The young knight fell to the ground once again, embracing the ground that would, in his frantic mind, serve as his earthen tomb. Lightheart ran towards the front gate to see if he could better ascertain what the rangers and magi were dealing with on the ramparts.
Something equally terrifying as the thunderous drone met him before he got to the other end of the square.
The gate that separated Tyr's Hand from the rest of the plagued lands of Lordaeron was opening. The complex system of pulleys, gears, and chains that raised and lowered the imposing gate grinded like nails on a chalkboard. The gears to open the gate were stationed on top of the wall among the ramparts, well out of reach from the Scarlets on the ground level. The mechanical machinations that were created to establish a protective barrier between the living and the damned were now opening the last threshold.
Daellin vaguely heard Valdelmar demand the gates be shut again. Only a few Crusaders braved the trek to the scaffolds to the top of the imposing wall; most, however, were too awe stricken to move. Some could not even breathe with the last line of defense inexplicably rising while an unknown threat continued to rumble the land itself. Daellin, too, seemed to be stuck in the mud as he watched the gate slowly open mere feet away.
As the outside world revealed itself inch by inch, more sounds added to the chaotic orchestra. They were bestial, shrill, and alien in nature. The cries were all too familiar to Daellin; the damned were at their doorstep and the door stopper was being pushed aside.
All around Daellin, fire was burning in his vision. Smoke clogged his lungs. The vile smell of the undead punctured his nostrils. Andorhal was burning once again.
"For Light's sake! Open the damn gate faster!"
The stern and gruff voice snapped Daellin out of his haze. It certainly did not come from inside the walls. Suddenly, a mound of snow white hair poked out from the other side of the gate.
Daellin was stunned. "Saidan!"
Contrasting the powder white of his thick beard and flowing hair, Dathrohan's beady eyes were red with rage and blood. "Daellin! For Light's sake get these gates open! We are getting picked apart!" the Scarlet Grand Crusader yelled.
The command washed away any apprehension about the gate being opened. If Saidan willed it, it must be for the right reason. Lightheart rushed for the gate and pulled at the seam, putting all of his might into it. He gritted his teeth and called upon the Light to aid his physical strength. Saidan's sudden appearance and order must have inspired some of the other Scarlets as more came to his side to help him pry the gate open.
After a grueling moment, the Crusaders, with the help of the chains and pulleys, opened the gate just a smidge so that a man could pass through the barrier. For Saidan Dathrohan, that meant one of his bulky arms. "Get out here, Daellin! All of ye'!" he ordered before disappearing beyond the wastes of the plaguelands.
The order stunned the assembled Crusaders. Murmurs of concern carried in the wind as each knight expressed their lack of desire to leave their protective position and enter the fray. Many felt that if they were going to take on whatever monstrosity caused such a profound sound, they were as good as dead. A skeleton or a ghoul was one thing; a leviathan-sized creature that could emit at a volume that literally shook Tyr's to its foundations was another.
Daellin had no reservations. He lept through the small opening and into the breach.
The pungent smell was always the first thing he noticed. The plaguelands reeked of vile, rot, and decay; a far cry from the honey and wet dew aroma that graced Lordaeron only a few short years ago. It seared his nose hairs and stung his eyes but he charged forward. After the scent of death grasped him in its tight fingers, horrors cursed his vision. On the road leading to Tyr's, a horde of undead were locked in combat with a dozen Scarlets. The damned, filled with animated skeletons and crazed ghouls, were quickly encroaching on their position, reeling the knights backwards. Claws and swords alike flew in the air like bees swarming their hive. All the while, the occasional arrow or blast of arcane energy flung into the undead masses from the ramparts. On the quickly deteriorating frontline, Saidan was swinging his broadsword in wide strokes, mowing down the Scourge like a scythe to hay.
"Scarlet Crusade!" Daellin shouted as he grasped Dawncrier tightly while running towards the front line. "Defend Tyr's Hand! By the Light!"
Daellin, alongside a few brave souls that left the security of Tyr's, charged. They all cried out like a murder of crows descending upon a rotten corpse. Before they could even reach the frontline, their feet stopped from underneath them. It was not the dozens of undead piling on the overmatched Scarlets that halted their advance but rather the horror that laid fifty yards beyond the frontline. It must have been at least thirty feet tall. Towering over them, an abomination unlike anything Daellin nor the rest of the brave knights had seen before.
The skin resembled a ravaged horse after a fatal encounter with a mountain lion; patches of brown and white patches sewn together like a doll. Several gashes and claw marks decorated its rotund body. Its face, if you could call it that, resembled a hood of flesh and gore that shielded a cavity filled with jagged teeth. Its body was riddled with gaping holes that pulsated like an old man struggling to breath. From each of these holes, black blood oozed out, creating still waterfalls of death around the creature's trunk. It had two bulky, grotesque appendages that sprouted from its neck-region and reached all the way to the ground, creating two pillars that swayed menacingly. One leg was bent forward while two others were submerged into the ground like beams that support a building. It appeared that the monster was struggling to pull out its legs that were still jailed to the ground. A trio of robbed figures were channeling necromantic energy into the imposing creature, seemingly trying to assist in its escape from the bonds of the ground.
Of the ghastly things Daellin had seen in his life, this was above and beyond the most disturbing. Not even the unholy acts the orcish warlocks committed during the Second War nor the plague's annihilation of his homeland compared to just how disgusting and unnatural this monstrosity was. It groaned its deep roar every few moments to let the whole world know of its unnatural presence.
Screams erupted from the previously brave Scarlet Knights that charged forward. A few were already back at the gate before their swords hit the ground. This only created a panicked logjam as terrified men and women desperately tried to pry their way back into the city. Others were too stunned by the creature's mere existence to even move; their souls escaped from their being through their vacant eyes.
Not Daellin. Despite a momentary lapse in composure, he continued to press forwards. With a few more bounding leaps, he was at the frontline, slashing Dawncrier at any undead that dared challenge his prowess.
"Thank the Light you were here, Daellin," Saidan grunted as he sidestepped a ghoul's bladed arm. The Grand Crusader dispatched the damned with a quick hack to its head. "I needed a man of heart."
Daellin slashed a mangled leg off another Scourge before finishing it off by impaling its neck with his trusted sword. "What the hell is that!?" Daellin urgently asked as his eyes scanned the towering monstrosity once more. The colossal abomination remained in its position, still struggling to free its lower limbs from the clutches of the plagued earth. It reminded the world of its struggles with its muddled groan that continued to shake the walls of Tyr's Hand.
"A damned nightmare!" Saidan roared to his fellow Scarlet as he plunged his broadsword into the hanging bowels of another undead. "Reginald managed to subdue it before tearing down the damn place but they got 'em."
The timing of a Scarlet Crusader being devoured by a pack of ghouls with Saidan's grisly statement was timely, uncanny, and greatly off-putting to Daellin. The two veteran paladins were holding their own admirably but the Scarlets' defenses were quickly diminishing. It appeared that Saidan only had a dozen or so men to begin with and, after those that valued their life fled, only another dozen were their to support them. Every time a Scarlet lost ground or their life, Dathrohan and Lightheart had more to handle. The quickly deteriorating situation was all too familiar to Daellin.
It's Andorhal all over again. No one is here to rescue me this time.
The bodies, undead or otherwise, as well as the lingering flames summoned by the Scarlet magi, were slowly enveloping him like a vortex. Smoke clogged his lungs as only instinct guided his attacks and defenses. Soon enough, his eyes were clouded like the smoke filled halls of Ironforge. He did not even notice the tight pressure that grasped around his arm.
"Snap out of it, Daellin!"
While parrying an attack from a skeleton, Saidan clutched his fellow war veteran like a father does to his lost child. The large man's bellowing voice snapped Daellin back to his senses. He blinked a few times before nodding and stating, "We need reinforcements. This line won't last."
Saidan, without looking, launched two bolts of holy energy into the crowd of undead, striking true. "Syndra!" the Grand Crusader yelled. Within a moment's notice, a tall lady, adorned in a lieutenant's garb and warhammer, was at his side. Despite her above average size, she was still dwarfed by Dathrohan. "Get those cowardly rats out here now!"
Syndra, as if she had all the time in the world for decorum, saluted before taking off for the gate. Daellin could not help but notice two bodies sprawled out on the ground at the gate's entrance, trampled by their own brethren. A distraught sigh escaped the paladin but a terribly decayed Scourge swinging for his kneecaps cut off his pensive moment. Lightheart severed the undead's head from its misaligned body as easily as a hot knife cuts through butter.
"We need to turn the tide or else we're fucked," Saidan grumbled as he casually cracked his neck and rolled his back. "Any ideas?"
A million thoughts ran through Daellin's mind as he surveyed the battlefield. The Scarlets holding the frontline were now dwindled down to half; a stark contrast from the seemingly dozens upon dozens of ravaging undead. Meanwhile, the threat of the mountainous abomination remained. The dark, robbed figures channeling their necromantic energy into the monstrosity doubled their efforts. Hues of sickly green and purple emanated from their bodies as unknown characters and runes embraced the hulking beast.
"Got one," Daellin muttered. "Remember Wiltervale?"
Saidan vacantly stared at his comrade as if he had told him the truth of the universe. After launching a few more volleys of Holy Light into the mindless crowd of undead, he replied, "Daellin, that is out of the question. There has to be-"
The grizzled Grand Crusader did not get another word in before his close ally was already running towards the bulk of the abyss. After a swear that would make a drunk blush, Saidan followed. While he was ten feet behind Daellin, Saidan launched volley after volley to act as covering fire. In the same vein, Lightheart lopped off undead limbs and heads without breaking his stride. Within moments, the two were at the forefront of the crumbling frontline. What Scarlets remained doubled back to join their paladin leaders, creating a phalanx around the two seasoned veterans. Swords and maces alike danced in the air like trapeze artists as the dancers found their undead marks. The Scarlets could hardly keep up with the paladins, despite the two being twice the age as some of the Crusaders.
"Saidan! Buy me some room up here!" Daellin called out as he yanked Dawncrier out of the chest cavity of an undead. The Scourge, drawn to the reckless paladin at the front of the battle formation, were quickly surrounding Lightheart like moths to a flame. Individually, these ghouls and skeletons were little match for the paladin but as a whole they were formidable.
Saidan spat on the rotten ground and replied, "Asking a lot from me, Daellin!" The Grand Crusader doubled his pace, matching a leaping gazelle, to catch up to Daellin. After casting a flurry of Holy Light bolts to secure breathing room for two seconds, the commanding officer of the Scarlet Crusade used his sword to do the rest. Despite decades of intense military service, his motions were as fluid as his days as a young Silver Hand knight. He gracefully lept from one undead to the next, creating a series of sundered undead collapsing to the ground. His sword, large in scale and grand in elegance, dripped with viscera and black blood. The trophies of each conquest seeped into the inlays and etchings of Saidan's blade to the point that it had enough to rebuild ten ghouls.
By some miracle, the swift phalanx was able to push deep into the horde of undead. They were only twenty yards away from the unholy behemoth and the robbed figures trying to free their creation. Without warning, Daellin stopped dead in his tracks. A zombie, adorned in Scarlet apparel, went for his throat but was easily dispatched with Dawncrier's pommel shattering its frail skull. Lightheart, with little regard for his surroundings, plunged his blade into the earth. The decayed soil gave the sword some resistance but gave way once Daellin mustered every ounce of strength he had left.
Lightheart's sudden halt caught the phalanx off guard for a moment as a few of the Scarlets collided into one another. The momentary opening proved fatal for one of the knights as a skeleton used its bladed-arm to slash open his abdomen, falling the Scarlet before he even realized it. Saidan quickly filled the gap in the formation, making sure to enact vengeance on the skeleton for its actions.
"Now or never, Daellin!" Saidan yelled.
Lightheart did not need the reminder. The aura of death was all he needed to know that time was of the essence. With a calm and collected breath, Daellin ushered his mortal strength and faith into Dawncrier. The sword responded in kind as the metal grew white-hot. The ground around Daellin shook even more so than the roars of the trapped behemoth. While knelt down to his sword, Daellin whispered to the blade, "Holy Light, grant me this victory."
As if it felt challenged by the paladin, the abomination bellowed once again. This roar was like none before; the ground violently shook so much that the ground itself cracked like the wall of Tyr's. Another earthquake added to the terrible orchestral movement as the creature was able to thrust one of its trapped legs free. The large pillar, vaguely beastial in appearance, viciously crashed on top of several undead. The creature was becoming free.
Saidan, disgruntled and neck-deep in undead flooding over him, yelled, "Light dammit! Scarlets, be ready!"
"By the Holy Light be purged in flame!"
Daellin's adamant exclamation was followed by a fleeting moment of eerie silence, as if both the living and undead respectfully waited for whatever may come. The moment was soon washed away in a torrent of flame erupting from Dawncrier like a tsunami's wave crashing. A wall of fire, twenty feet high, raged, and quickly engulfed the undead directly ahead of Daellin. The fire expanded out in two more pillars, creating a trident-esque deluge of fire. The flames, red and white in color, swallowed any Scourge that dared test Dawncrier's might. The incinerated undead emitted low, guttural sounds as they drowned in flame.
The fire briskly latched onto the undead behemoth. Still stuck with its last leg trapped, flames trailed up the abomination's body. The creature agonizingly roared as the fire swelled over its patched skin. The flames congealed together around the creature's shark-like mouth, snuffing out all of the sound that had sent terror down the spines of Tyr's Hand. After a few moments of thrashing and struggle, the fire proved to be the victor. The creature collapsed to one side with one final thud.
As instantaneous as the fire was, the flames flickered and disappeared. Embers floated in the sky like little boats on a calm river, taken away to better parts of the world. The smoldering ashes and burnt remains of the Scourge laid out before Daellin. With a labored grunt, the paladin pulled himself to his feet, using Dawncrier as support. While plunging the blade into the ground was met with resistance from the earth itself, unsheathing the sword from the ground was effortless. Daellin, numb to the world around him, gleaned over his art. The terrible odor of burnt, rotten flesh did not phase him as it did before. While an undead limb or two twitched, everything was still. In a way, it was the most calm he had felt in some time.
"You mad man," a voice boastfully declared beside him. "I thought you were a goner."
Flicking his sword to free it of undead blood and viscera, Saidan admired Daellin's handiwork. Behind the two paladins, reinforcements from Tyr's Hand were finishing off any straggling undead. While most of the attacking Scourge force were burnt to ash in a matter of seconds, some had to be dealt with the old fashioned way.
"So did I," Daellin softly muttered, still affixed with the floating embers and lingering embers. "Perhaps we already are."
Saidan frowned underneath his massive snowwhite beard. "You know that isn't true, friend. We aren't goners when we have the Light," the paladin stated. The Grand Crusader's eyes traveled to Dawncrier, still clutched in Daellin's hand as if it was eager for more undead to annihilate. "And that flamethrower of a blade."
Daellin chuckled. The embers in the air threatened to find a home in Daellin's mouth but the paladin did not let them get the opportunity. "I didn't want it to happen again," he murmured.
Saidan cocked his head to one side, cracking a few neck vertebrae in the process. Puzzled, he asked, "What do you mean-oh. I see."
"Grand Crusader of the Scarlet Crusade Dathrohan! Crusader Lord Valdelmar of Tyr's Hand at your service!"
The two paladins turned around, Daellin far slower than his compatriot, and saw Valdelmar standing at attention. Besides the bruises and lashes Daellin gave him a few hours earlier, the Lord showed no signs of distress from combat. His bandages were not dislodged and his sword was still fully sheathed. The crutch that rested under his arm fell to the ground with a pathetic thud.
Saidan stomped to Valdelmar and roared, "Where the hell were you, Valdelmar!? Lordaeron's finest battalions are stationed at Tyr's Hand and all I get to defend the city are breadcrumbs! What, can't spare more than a few morsels for your commander as an unfathomable monster threatens the people we are sworn to protect!? And where the hell have you been!? You look like you went through a whole war while hiding behind falling walls!"
The Scarlet Lord, notorious for drilling new recruits to the Crusade and citizens alike, finally had a taste of his own medicine. "I-I-well…" he stammered, struggling to find any words that would satisfy his superior office.
Daellin tried his best to hide his boyish giggles. He could have done a better job.
"Well!? Cat got your bloody tongue!? People are dead because of your insolence! I should strip you of all titles and give Tyr's to Abbendis! At least she would show some fucking backbone! And where the fu-"
The slightest sound from the burnt battleground forced Saidan and Daellin to ready their swords. The two scanned the scorched land for any signs of undead. The thought of another attack crossed both of their minds. Movement by the smoldering body of the large abomination caught their eye. Even after the intense inferno, two of the robbed figures were writhing on the ground. One was badly burnt to the point that its robes were no more. A layer of third-degree burns scorned its gray skin as it opened and closed one hand. It looked like it was desperately trying to resume its necromantic spell despite the battle being well over. The other figure was trapped under the fallen creature from the thigh down. While its robes were not as scorched as the other one, its hood was burnt off. Without the hood, it was evident from this distance that it was, in fact, a living woman.
Saidan relaxed his stance and lowered his sword. He erupted into one of his patented laughing fits before exclaiming, "Looks like your worthless ass still has a job to do, Valdelmar! Drag them to Isillien's dungeon. And I want you to move that crispy abomination all by your sorry ass!"
Valdelmar whimpered. Daellin grinned.