The battle surged around Uther. He decapitated a skeleton warrior and
paused to wipe the sweat from his brow. He didn't know how much more of
this he could take. On the hill overlooking the village, a dozen or so of
the dark-robed men stood, muttering incantations. Every time Uther cut down
an enemy, the robed men raised it up again in his path. He could not reach
them, for the undead ranks had swollen and come around behind his men.
There was no where to run, no path out of the carnage. They were
surrounded, outnumbered seemingly ten to one.
Uther had long since abandoned his steed. It lay nearby, drowned in its own blood, a group of ghouls grotesquely gnawing at its steaming flesh. An abomination's cleaver swung at Uther's head, and he quickly muttered 'Ithul', one of the few magical words the paladins ever used. There was a flash of light, and the abomination shrieked in pain. A glowing shield surrounded the paladin, repulsing the undead attacks. He hefted his warhammer and bellowed a battle cry, swinging it at the nearest enemy.
At the edge of the fray, a meat wagon loaded a corpse into its gutter and let fly. The stinking flesh fell to earth on the last, burning guard tower, which collapsed sideways into the knights' dwindling ranks. Uther, his mind on his foes, did not see the flaming wall of wood and brick as it fell upon him. He buckled under its weight as it fell on him from behind, and he blacked out momentarily. When he awoke moments later, he could feel the debris being pulled from his back. Shuddering, he lifted himself from the pile of stone and looked around.
For now, the undead had been driven back a few yards, startled by the collapsing turret, but that would not keep. Arthas was extending his hand towards the elder paladin. Uther took it, and the prince pulled him to his feet. "Now, Uther," he said mockingly, "this battle is far from over."
"Aye," Uther agreed. "It is at that." The paladins muttered 'Ithul' in unison and surged back into the fray.
***
Perenolde was terrified. He was not what many would call a brave man, and many brave men he knew would have been more than frightened at the waves of undead monsters. Perenolde had done what any rationally thinking man with a survival instinct would have done - he had run for the nearest tree and climbed out of the fiends' reach.
Now that he was out of harm's way, Perenolde's pluck was returning somewhat, although he had not yet committed himself to returning to the ground. From his new vantage point, he could see the entire battle, and he was relieved to find it was a much smaller thing than it appeared to be when one was in the middle of it. The paladins and Arthas' force were not really as far outnumbered as he had first thought; the undead warriors were dying at about the same rate as the living.
What was giving the dead army their advantage, Perenolde decided, were the dark-robed men he had seen as he had rode in. The men (wizards, they seemed to be) had taken hold the short hill beneath him, which overlooked the battle, and a dozen or so of them were pacing and chanting. Every now and then, a warrior below would appear to fall in battle. One of the chanters would stop and wave his arms wildly, and the fallen would rise anew and march against the living.
Perenolde leaned farther out on his branch, trying to get a better look at the men. Inevitably, there was a loud cracking sound, as the branch gave way beneath him. His terror returning, Perenolde shrieked into the night as he fell through the air towards the necromancers. He landed with a dull 'thud' in the center of their circle, and groaned. He looked up.
The robed men stood over him, their serpent-headed staves pointed at him menacingly. Several of them opened their mouths to curse him, but they never had a chance. There was another loud cracking sound. The tree Perenolde had fallen from was tipping comically towards him. This really isn't my day, he thought, grasping his hammer, which had landed nearby, and fleeing down the hill. The robed men scattered as the tree crashed to earth.
The crashing sound had drawn the attention several of the knights, who were now staring at Perenolde rather curiously. He blinked, then grinned, raising his warhammer to the skies in salute. Slowly, one by one, they returned the salute, then they turned their attention back to the battle. As he had seen from his tree, the undead were being steadily beaten back. This battle would be won after all.
Exhausted, shaken and relieved, Perenolde sat down at the foot of the hill and put his head in his hands. Maybe, he thought, adventure wasn't so great after all.
***
"I'm surprised you kept things together as long as you did, lad," Uther was saying. The battle was over. The bodies of the dead littered ground. The smoldering remains of Hearthglen village made a paltry funeral pyre for both those newly slain and those finally laid to rest. "If I hadn't arrived just then-"
"Look, I did the best I could, Uther!" Arthas was not calmed by Uther's casual banter. The elder paladin took a step back in surprise at the ferociousness of his pupil. Perenolde looked up. "If I'd had a legion of knights riding at my back, I would've-"
"Peace, lad!" Uther tried again to soothe the boy. "Now is not the time to be choking on pride! What we faced here was only the beginning. The undead ranks are bolstered every time one of our warriors falls in battle."
"Then we should strike at their leader! I'll go to Stratholme and kill Mal'Ganis myself if I have to!"
There was fire in the boy's eyes; something angry that had long been suppressed. Perenolde had seen it before in warriors just before their final charge. This boy is so young, yet so full of rage, Perenolde thought. His passions rule him.
"Easy, lad. Brave as you are, you can't hope defeat a man who commands the dead all by yourself." Uther was now standing next to the boy, his hand on Arthas' shoulder.
"Then feel free to tag along, Uther," the prince said venomously, throwing the Lightbringer's hand off him. "I'm going... with or without you." He turned and ran off down the wooded path. At the sight of their commander leaving, the peasants, dwarves and foot soldiers picked up their things and set off at a brisk trot after him.
Uther sighed. "Good luck, then, lad," he said softly. "I hope you know what you're doing out there." Perenolde nodded in agreement, though no one saw him do so.
***
Morning came, and Perenolde arose to find the camp being hastily disassembled. He made his way to the mess tarp and sat down next to a very tired-looking Lord Uther. From the looks of things, the Lightbringer had had little or no sleep the previous night, and had resigned himself to an equally horrid day. To match his mood, rain clouds had descended to pepper the soldiers with water droplets, casting a pall over everyone's disposition. Perenolde took a tray of what appeared to be boiled eggs - one was never sure with army food, and the dwarven cooks was not the best Perenolde had heard of - and dropped it loudly onto the table to grab Uther's attention.
"Good Morning," he said to the fatigued paladin. Uther gave him a look which seemed to say, "No, I don't suppose it is," and sighed. He's been doing a lot of that lately, Perenolde thought. He looked around as he put a large bite of egg in his mouth. There seemed to be a greatly larger number of men present than he had seen the night before. He spotted Sage Truthbearer and Baron Morte exchanging conversation at the edge of the camp. Convinced that Uther had nothing else to say to him, Perenolde finished off his eggs, rose from the table, and made his way towards the two paladins.
They stopped talking as they saw him approach. He thought nothing of it; they did still think of him as the 'Great Betrayer', after all. He smiled politely and a bid them good morning. They nodded in acknowledgement.
"So," Perenolde said, attempting to break the ice. "Are we heading for home?"
"Lord Uther has decided we are to join with Arthas' men at Stratholme," said Morte. "However, I don't think we'll be fighting. Uther still believes he can dissuade the boy from this madness, the old fool."
"Now, Morte," Sage said to the other paladin, "I really don't think we should blame Uther for having faith."
"Faith is one thing, Sage - naïveté is another. If Uther is not careful, that boy will be all of our undoings."
"How can one little whelp scare you so much?" Perenolde laughed. The paladins stared at him. They clearly did not think the matter funny.
"There is something wrong with that boy, Betrayer," Morte said sternly. "I've seen it in his eyes - something dark, waiting to be let out. He's obsessed with his quest, and it is driving him mad. Nothing good will come of it."
Perenolde swallowed, remembering the flash he himself had seen in Arthas' eyes just the night before. Perhaps there is some truth to it, he thought. Perhaps there's more to that boy than meets the eye.
"Perenolde," said a familiar voice behind him. He turned around. Uther stood there, frowning at him. "I am not asking you to come with us. I don't know-" He paused and cleared his throat. Has he been crying? Perenolde wondered. "I don't know what is going to happen in Stratholme. I don't know what Arthas will do. He is headed for trouble, and I've got to do something - but I am not asking you to come along. Your debt, whatever you think you owe me - I don't need your help for this. Understood?"
"I had already decided to go," Perenolde replied matter-of-factly. "Not for you, he said, seeing Uther's expression. "For me. I've come this far, what else have I got to do? Build more farms? No," he concluded. "I'm seeing this through. Whatever happens in Stratholme, I am sticking with you and your men."
He expected Uther to protest, but Sage said, "Let him come along Uther. We can keep an eye on him, at least." Uther nodded in defeat, and muttered, "Get your horses, then," and walked off to rally the soldiers.
A heavy, gloved hand set down on Perenolde's shoulder. "I always said the Silver Hand should have kept its eye on this bloke," Morte said. Perenolde brushed the hand off.
"Leave him be, Morte," said Sage. "We do still have to find Frederick, after all. If we end up needing an extra man, I don't want you to have frightened this one off."
"Aye," the other paladin ceded, turning and walking towards the stables.
"And as for you," Sage added, as he turned to follow suit, "do try to stay out of trouble. Don't fall out of any more trees."
***
They were once more on horseback, galloping through the back roads of the country. As the gates of Stratholme came into view, Sage yelled a garbled order over his shoulder. The other knights seemed to understand it well enough, for their formation shifted, evening out from a flanking orientation to a pair of straight lines. In front of them, Jaina, Uther, Sage and Morte rode across the city's threshold together. Perenolde and the lower soldiery brought up the rear.
Uther called something friendly out as they slowed and approached Arthas' camp. The riding and the brisk late-morning air seemed to have improved his demeanor. However, Perenolde reminded himself, the test is still ahead. Uther had halted, but not dismounted, and Arthas had stepped forward to speak with him. Jaina Proudmoore also drew near, intent to participate in the conversation. Perenolde slowed to a stop beside one of Uther's knights and focused on the three.
"Glad you could make it, Uther," Arthas said caustically. Uther cleared his throat.
"Watch your tone with me, boy," he rebuked. "You may be the prince, but I am still your superior as a paladin."
The prince rolled his eyes. "Listen, Uther," he said, climbing onto a small outcropping of land. "There's something about the plague you should know-" He trailed off, staring at a group of townsfolk who had turned suddenly and were rushing into their homes. The prince looked around for a moment, and spotted a pile of opened crates with insects buzzing quietly around them.
"Oh, no," Arthas murmured. "We're too late. These people have all been infected! They may look fine now, but it's just a matter of time before they turn into the undead!"
"What?!" exclaimed Uther.
Arthas looked back at him. "This entire city must be purged."
"How can you even consider that?" Uther looked as if Arthas had told him the King was dead. "There's got to be some other way!"
"Damn it, Uther!" Arthas cursed. "As your future king, I order you to purge this city!"
"You are not my king yet, boy!" Uther retorted. "Nor would I obey that order even if you were!"
Arthas frowned acidly. "Then I must consider this an act of treason."
"Treason? Have you lost your mind, Arthas?"
"Have I?" the prince said to himself. Then, the shadow Perenolde had seen in the boy's face the previous night returned. He turned completely forward and spoke up, so all those present could hear him.
"Lord Uther," he said, "? Lord Uther, by might of succession and the sovereignty of my crown, I hereby relieve you of your command and suspend your paladins from service."
"Arthas," Jaina said, in a shocked voice, "you can't just-"
"It's done!" he shouted at her. "Those of you who have the will to save this land," he continued, "follow me. The rest of you... get out of my sight."
Several of the assembled knights began to nudge their mounts away, as if to say, "We've seen enough." Most remained, waiting to hear Uther's reaction. For several long moments, the old crusader was silent, as if unsure what to say. Then, as the autumn sun high above dipped behind a cloud, he muttered, "You've just crossed a terrible threshold, Arthas." He turned and rode off. The majority of his knights followed.
Arthas looked at Perenolde. Don't look at me, Perenolde thought. I go where Uther goes. He began to leave after the others.
"Jaina?" Perenolde paused, looking back. Arthas had come down from the shallow hill he had been standing on, and was looking at Jaina Proudmoore, who looked as though she was about to cry. She begun to turn away as well, and Arthas was obviously looking to her for loyalty. She faltered for a moment, and than said simply, "I'm sorry, Arthas. I can't watch you do this." She spurred her mount.
Perenolde rode after her. He cast one last glance over his shoulder. The boy had gone over to his captains and was busy planning their purge of the city. You're on your own, now, boy, Perenolde thought. I hope you know what you're doing.
***
Uther had long since abandoned his steed. It lay nearby, drowned in its own blood, a group of ghouls grotesquely gnawing at its steaming flesh. An abomination's cleaver swung at Uther's head, and he quickly muttered 'Ithul', one of the few magical words the paladins ever used. There was a flash of light, and the abomination shrieked in pain. A glowing shield surrounded the paladin, repulsing the undead attacks. He hefted his warhammer and bellowed a battle cry, swinging it at the nearest enemy.
At the edge of the fray, a meat wagon loaded a corpse into its gutter and let fly. The stinking flesh fell to earth on the last, burning guard tower, which collapsed sideways into the knights' dwindling ranks. Uther, his mind on his foes, did not see the flaming wall of wood and brick as it fell upon him. He buckled under its weight as it fell on him from behind, and he blacked out momentarily. When he awoke moments later, he could feel the debris being pulled from his back. Shuddering, he lifted himself from the pile of stone and looked around.
For now, the undead had been driven back a few yards, startled by the collapsing turret, but that would not keep. Arthas was extending his hand towards the elder paladin. Uther took it, and the prince pulled him to his feet. "Now, Uther," he said mockingly, "this battle is far from over."
"Aye," Uther agreed. "It is at that." The paladins muttered 'Ithul' in unison and surged back into the fray.
***
Perenolde was terrified. He was not what many would call a brave man, and many brave men he knew would have been more than frightened at the waves of undead monsters. Perenolde had done what any rationally thinking man with a survival instinct would have done - he had run for the nearest tree and climbed out of the fiends' reach.
Now that he was out of harm's way, Perenolde's pluck was returning somewhat, although he had not yet committed himself to returning to the ground. From his new vantage point, he could see the entire battle, and he was relieved to find it was a much smaller thing than it appeared to be when one was in the middle of it. The paladins and Arthas' force were not really as far outnumbered as he had first thought; the undead warriors were dying at about the same rate as the living.
What was giving the dead army their advantage, Perenolde decided, were the dark-robed men he had seen as he had rode in. The men (wizards, they seemed to be) had taken hold the short hill beneath him, which overlooked the battle, and a dozen or so of them were pacing and chanting. Every now and then, a warrior below would appear to fall in battle. One of the chanters would stop and wave his arms wildly, and the fallen would rise anew and march against the living.
Perenolde leaned farther out on his branch, trying to get a better look at the men. Inevitably, there was a loud cracking sound, as the branch gave way beneath him. His terror returning, Perenolde shrieked into the night as he fell through the air towards the necromancers. He landed with a dull 'thud' in the center of their circle, and groaned. He looked up.
The robed men stood over him, their serpent-headed staves pointed at him menacingly. Several of them opened their mouths to curse him, but they never had a chance. There was another loud cracking sound. The tree Perenolde had fallen from was tipping comically towards him. This really isn't my day, he thought, grasping his hammer, which had landed nearby, and fleeing down the hill. The robed men scattered as the tree crashed to earth.
The crashing sound had drawn the attention several of the knights, who were now staring at Perenolde rather curiously. He blinked, then grinned, raising his warhammer to the skies in salute. Slowly, one by one, they returned the salute, then they turned their attention back to the battle. As he had seen from his tree, the undead were being steadily beaten back. This battle would be won after all.
Exhausted, shaken and relieved, Perenolde sat down at the foot of the hill and put his head in his hands. Maybe, he thought, adventure wasn't so great after all.
***
"I'm surprised you kept things together as long as you did, lad," Uther was saying. The battle was over. The bodies of the dead littered ground. The smoldering remains of Hearthglen village made a paltry funeral pyre for both those newly slain and those finally laid to rest. "If I hadn't arrived just then-"
"Look, I did the best I could, Uther!" Arthas was not calmed by Uther's casual banter. The elder paladin took a step back in surprise at the ferociousness of his pupil. Perenolde looked up. "If I'd had a legion of knights riding at my back, I would've-"
"Peace, lad!" Uther tried again to soothe the boy. "Now is not the time to be choking on pride! What we faced here was only the beginning. The undead ranks are bolstered every time one of our warriors falls in battle."
"Then we should strike at their leader! I'll go to Stratholme and kill Mal'Ganis myself if I have to!"
There was fire in the boy's eyes; something angry that had long been suppressed. Perenolde had seen it before in warriors just before their final charge. This boy is so young, yet so full of rage, Perenolde thought. His passions rule him.
"Easy, lad. Brave as you are, you can't hope defeat a man who commands the dead all by yourself." Uther was now standing next to the boy, his hand on Arthas' shoulder.
"Then feel free to tag along, Uther," the prince said venomously, throwing the Lightbringer's hand off him. "I'm going... with or without you." He turned and ran off down the wooded path. At the sight of their commander leaving, the peasants, dwarves and foot soldiers picked up their things and set off at a brisk trot after him.
Uther sighed. "Good luck, then, lad," he said softly. "I hope you know what you're doing out there." Perenolde nodded in agreement, though no one saw him do so.
***
Morning came, and Perenolde arose to find the camp being hastily disassembled. He made his way to the mess tarp and sat down next to a very tired-looking Lord Uther. From the looks of things, the Lightbringer had had little or no sleep the previous night, and had resigned himself to an equally horrid day. To match his mood, rain clouds had descended to pepper the soldiers with water droplets, casting a pall over everyone's disposition. Perenolde took a tray of what appeared to be boiled eggs - one was never sure with army food, and the dwarven cooks was not the best Perenolde had heard of - and dropped it loudly onto the table to grab Uther's attention.
"Good Morning," he said to the fatigued paladin. Uther gave him a look which seemed to say, "No, I don't suppose it is," and sighed. He's been doing a lot of that lately, Perenolde thought. He looked around as he put a large bite of egg in his mouth. There seemed to be a greatly larger number of men present than he had seen the night before. He spotted Sage Truthbearer and Baron Morte exchanging conversation at the edge of the camp. Convinced that Uther had nothing else to say to him, Perenolde finished off his eggs, rose from the table, and made his way towards the two paladins.
They stopped talking as they saw him approach. He thought nothing of it; they did still think of him as the 'Great Betrayer', after all. He smiled politely and a bid them good morning. They nodded in acknowledgement.
"So," Perenolde said, attempting to break the ice. "Are we heading for home?"
"Lord Uther has decided we are to join with Arthas' men at Stratholme," said Morte. "However, I don't think we'll be fighting. Uther still believes he can dissuade the boy from this madness, the old fool."
"Now, Morte," Sage said to the other paladin, "I really don't think we should blame Uther for having faith."
"Faith is one thing, Sage - naïveté is another. If Uther is not careful, that boy will be all of our undoings."
"How can one little whelp scare you so much?" Perenolde laughed. The paladins stared at him. They clearly did not think the matter funny.
"There is something wrong with that boy, Betrayer," Morte said sternly. "I've seen it in his eyes - something dark, waiting to be let out. He's obsessed with his quest, and it is driving him mad. Nothing good will come of it."
Perenolde swallowed, remembering the flash he himself had seen in Arthas' eyes just the night before. Perhaps there is some truth to it, he thought. Perhaps there's more to that boy than meets the eye.
"Perenolde," said a familiar voice behind him. He turned around. Uther stood there, frowning at him. "I am not asking you to come with us. I don't know-" He paused and cleared his throat. Has he been crying? Perenolde wondered. "I don't know what is going to happen in Stratholme. I don't know what Arthas will do. He is headed for trouble, and I've got to do something - but I am not asking you to come along. Your debt, whatever you think you owe me - I don't need your help for this. Understood?"
"I had already decided to go," Perenolde replied matter-of-factly. "Not for you, he said, seeing Uther's expression. "For me. I've come this far, what else have I got to do? Build more farms? No," he concluded. "I'm seeing this through. Whatever happens in Stratholme, I am sticking with you and your men."
He expected Uther to protest, but Sage said, "Let him come along Uther. We can keep an eye on him, at least." Uther nodded in defeat, and muttered, "Get your horses, then," and walked off to rally the soldiers.
A heavy, gloved hand set down on Perenolde's shoulder. "I always said the Silver Hand should have kept its eye on this bloke," Morte said. Perenolde brushed the hand off.
"Leave him be, Morte," said Sage. "We do still have to find Frederick, after all. If we end up needing an extra man, I don't want you to have frightened this one off."
"Aye," the other paladin ceded, turning and walking towards the stables.
"And as for you," Sage added, as he turned to follow suit, "do try to stay out of trouble. Don't fall out of any more trees."
***
They were once more on horseback, galloping through the back roads of the country. As the gates of Stratholme came into view, Sage yelled a garbled order over his shoulder. The other knights seemed to understand it well enough, for their formation shifted, evening out from a flanking orientation to a pair of straight lines. In front of them, Jaina, Uther, Sage and Morte rode across the city's threshold together. Perenolde and the lower soldiery brought up the rear.
Uther called something friendly out as they slowed and approached Arthas' camp. The riding and the brisk late-morning air seemed to have improved his demeanor. However, Perenolde reminded himself, the test is still ahead. Uther had halted, but not dismounted, and Arthas had stepped forward to speak with him. Jaina Proudmoore also drew near, intent to participate in the conversation. Perenolde slowed to a stop beside one of Uther's knights and focused on the three.
"Glad you could make it, Uther," Arthas said caustically. Uther cleared his throat.
"Watch your tone with me, boy," he rebuked. "You may be the prince, but I am still your superior as a paladin."
The prince rolled his eyes. "Listen, Uther," he said, climbing onto a small outcropping of land. "There's something about the plague you should know-" He trailed off, staring at a group of townsfolk who had turned suddenly and were rushing into their homes. The prince looked around for a moment, and spotted a pile of opened crates with insects buzzing quietly around them.
"Oh, no," Arthas murmured. "We're too late. These people have all been infected! They may look fine now, but it's just a matter of time before they turn into the undead!"
"What?!" exclaimed Uther.
Arthas looked back at him. "This entire city must be purged."
"How can you even consider that?" Uther looked as if Arthas had told him the King was dead. "There's got to be some other way!"
"Damn it, Uther!" Arthas cursed. "As your future king, I order you to purge this city!"
"You are not my king yet, boy!" Uther retorted. "Nor would I obey that order even if you were!"
Arthas frowned acidly. "Then I must consider this an act of treason."
"Treason? Have you lost your mind, Arthas?"
"Have I?" the prince said to himself. Then, the shadow Perenolde had seen in the boy's face the previous night returned. He turned completely forward and spoke up, so all those present could hear him.
"Lord Uther," he said, "? Lord Uther, by might of succession and the sovereignty of my crown, I hereby relieve you of your command and suspend your paladins from service."
"Arthas," Jaina said, in a shocked voice, "you can't just-"
"It's done!" he shouted at her. "Those of you who have the will to save this land," he continued, "follow me. The rest of you... get out of my sight."
Several of the assembled knights began to nudge their mounts away, as if to say, "We've seen enough." Most remained, waiting to hear Uther's reaction. For several long moments, the old crusader was silent, as if unsure what to say. Then, as the autumn sun high above dipped behind a cloud, he muttered, "You've just crossed a terrible threshold, Arthas." He turned and rode off. The majority of his knights followed.
Arthas looked at Perenolde. Don't look at me, Perenolde thought. I go where Uther goes. He began to leave after the others.
"Jaina?" Perenolde paused, looking back. Arthas had come down from the shallow hill he had been standing on, and was looking at Jaina Proudmoore, who looked as though she was about to cry. She begun to turn away as well, and Arthas was obviously looking to her for loyalty. She faltered for a moment, and than said simply, "I'm sorry, Arthas. I can't watch you do this." She spurred her mount.
Perenolde rode after her. He cast one last glance over his shoulder. The boy had gone over to his captains and was busy planning their purge of the city. You're on your own, now, boy, Perenolde thought. I hope you know what you're doing.
***