Important note: I just performed four or five updates all at once. If you are you to "skip to latest chapter" like many of us are, you really need to go back a ways to get it in order. For most of you, that will be Drekthac's "Valhalas," which is the first of today's many updates. For others, you will want "A Changed World," which is Thomas' chapter I posted yesterday, if you haven't read it yet.
BE SURE YOU'VE READ THE CHAPTERS BEFORE THIS!
Chapter 13
Fool King
X Beacon X
The rest of the day was spent putting the Argent Vanguard to rest. Balinda's comment about even the stones not surviving the attack proved to be less exaggerated than expected. The foundations of buildings, the supporting columns, every arch and cornerstone, all splintered and cracked clean through until whatever they supported fell.
They found no corpses to redeem, no bodies to bury. Instead, made a circular zygarot from the remaining stone in the center of the town, where that tainted black circle was that had held the enemy's banner. A former stonemasen carved a short plague in memorial and they mounted it on the stone wall of the zygarot just as dark was falling.
Nothing could be salvaged from the city; the enemy had made sure of it. When their work was finished, Malthon had them move away from the graveyard-city and back into the heart of the vale. They broke camp over the snow, raising tents and picket walls from the ravaged fortifications of the war.
Everyone wished to hear Balinda's report, but with two hundred ears, she would need to be surrounded and shout out her words. Quietly, she told Malthon she'd have none of that. Jayce told Malthon to permit military structure, where he and select officers or commanders could hear, and then each pass on the word to those beneath them, so all could hear. Malthon and Balinda both were against the idea – paladins did not march under fellow paladins. This was Malthon's mission, so they followed him as comrades, but he was no general, no king, to possess their loyalty and discipline.
Eventually, Balinda summoned certain men and women from the army, including Malthon, Jayce, and their last churchyard friend Terichon Galean. It was a total of fifteen that entered the wide command tent, with Balinda and Malthon in the center. Malthon noticed both Ironhawk's present, Arvin and Bardin, in addition to the one female dwarf that marched with them.
What Jayce was to Malthon, Jenn Stoutmantle was to Balinda. The dwarf was closer to Balinda, actually. They were friends, companions, but Jenn always deferred to Balinda in direction and decision making. They had been traveling together through all Northrend, Malthon knew, and perhaps met even before. They came together when her party joined his, on his way to New Hearthglen.
When Balinda started, though she spoke aloud for the room, it was clear she was speaking directly to Malthon:
"Let me say now, our foe is not of the forest, nor is their threat contained in it. Alas, they are hardly present in Crystalsong at all! Storm Peaks is their central, though from where I still do not know."
"What are they?" Malthon asked. "How many can we expect?"
"I don't know," she admitted. "But I saw many crawling over the snow. They come in different sizes and shapes, and I guess strengths. Not all are like that we faced in Crystalsong – some are less fearsome. Some are more so. I feel the brewing of a great storm, that which will sunder the world in ways even the Scourge could not."
"A Fourth War?" Jayce asked quietly. Those from Lordaeron showed especial discomfort at the idea.
Balinda nodded once. "If these creatures mass together and move south, it will be so. By the state of the Vanguard, I fear it has already begun. Worst still, it does not take much of them to do damage." Each of them recalled the battle against the one in the forest. "In the corrupted span of Crystalsong, one of them shattered a crystal tree, using a spell I knew not. Not even the strength of that forest could oppose it."
"Light, protect us," someone uttered, voice betraying the same shock that overtook them all. The crystal trees were vast, ancient colossi that floated and spun under their arcane-corrupted magicks. They were central points of major power. The corrupted creatures of the forest flocked to them like flies to carcasses.
Terichon's soft voice rose up, marred with defeat: "First the orcs, then the Burning Legion, then the Scourge, and now this. This world is steeped with adversaries that seek to destroy it."
"And we have preserved through each of them, Terry. This one will be no different," Malthon gently argued. To Balinda, he asked, "Is there any connection between these and that... Death God that Rhonin spoke of during the war? Saron-something, that's blood made saronite, who was holed up in Ulduar?"
"Yogg-Saron," Balinda clarified, and her stormy eyes seemed to glow with a new fire. "And I would like to find out. I never ventured that far north."
"No," Malthon answered immediately. "No more chasing after shadows. We are in the Scourgelands now, and we must maintain our focus. Baneful though it sounds, the Scourge will even serve as a buffer between us and these darklings. First, we do as we came here for – we seek out each remaining town and city and bring deliverance before they end up like the Vanguard – and once the stranded are free of the Onslaught Harbor, we will send the weary, the civilians, and the wounded south to New Hearthglen. After that, we can make our stand against this new threat."
"You do nah process the authority to command Lady Crowngarde as you please, Mistah Eyenhart," Jenn Stoutmantle declared, sitting with her arms crossed on her stool. Her dwarven accent was heavy.
"On this expedition, he does," Arvin returned in a low growl, from behind Malthon. "The gryphon is his to loan out, and each of us came here on request to help his cause. If you do not like that, lassy, then you are free to leave." Jenn glared at him, blowing red strands of hair from her eyes.
When Balinda did not reprimand Jenn's outburst, Malthon decided to decline the same for Arvin. Balinda stayed quiet, clearly mulling some other plan over, so he asked, "How were you hurt?"
Her attention returned to him. "Two nights ago, I camped at a nook in the mountains, thinking myself safe. Not even the Light's warning could prepare me for the ambush that came. It took too much effort just to kill one, especially while trying to keep Cloudrend from harm, so I fled instead. I haven't had time to clean up. That was the only conflict that was involved, but there always seemed something ready to prevent me from landing. It has been much riding and little rest."
And she was ready for a second round of it. Light, but Balinda was a monster of willpower and strength.
"Anything else you would like to report of this foe? Names, faces, anything more specific than a massing in Storm Peaks?"
Balinda nodded twice, slowly. She had a thoughtful drawl as she declared, "That reluctance of the Light we felt, it comes from this adversary. More importantly, the feeling did not diminish in the flight from Storm Peaks to here. There is something on the glacier waiting for us, down the road. Everyone needs to keep the Light close."
Peachy, but nothing unexpected. "Any other questions for our sister?" he asked those around them. No one said anything. "Then
let's clear out. Balinda, you get some rest. You've Light-blasted earned it." Seeing her without comment, not even a quick "don't tell me what to do," said numbers about her state at the present. Her eyes stared blankly more often than not.
They cleared out.
XxX
After returning his iron dinner plate to his chest, Malthon took to a short patrol through the camp. He met with each station of nightwatch, speaking to the men who's turn it was, hearing their concerns and words. After, he made his way back to his tent, ready to sleep himself, but in passing Balinda's tent, he paused.
He felt an urge to visit her, to speak privately and check up on her, but he assumed her already asleep. She truly must have been exhausted to leave her candle lit while sleeping. So he thought, before seeing a shadow pass over the orange line beneath her tent flap. Emboldened, he approached.
Voices inside the tent stopped him just at the threshold, and he paused to listen.
"He may be bright as a log," a female, accented voice was saying. Jenn. "But his heart be in the right place, milady. You need sleep. I cah handle the rest of the work meself."
Balinda's voice was steady and stern, as it always was: "Just a few more minutes."
Malthon lowered his hand from the tent flap and turned away, leaving them to their privacy. He didn't know what he'd been thinking anyways, visiting Balinda in her tent. They weren't that way anymore, and even if he wished they were, she had moved well beyond him. She was sworn to celibacy.
He managed three steps before an angry shape blocked his path. There was no warning from the Light, so he did not flinch, but the sudden appearance did startle him. Human shape, arms folded, and excessively feminine without any blocky armor. The image clicked in his mind, just as she began shouting.
Malthon blinked at the harsh whispers and accusations that rose in a sudden flurry – all in the unintelligible elven tongue. Though fierce in tone, she kept her words quieted to prevent alerting others. Her right armed waved animatedly, gesturing to the tent a few times, while he stared gobsmacked. She slapped her forehead and drawled out a rather familiar sounding string of words, then turned away from him, only to turn her head back and glare with her silver eyes.
"Now you look here," he tried in response, sounding unsure even to himself. He paused then. "...What?"
Stubbing her finger at him, she outlined five words. He couldn't pronounce any of them if he'd practiced. "Yeah, well denor seetah yourself, broad, or whatever you said. You were supposed to stay in the forest, like all the good little ghosts there."
Fortunately, he was not the only one completely baffled by the others language. She did not react to his words other than blink. And try imitating him in turn: "Good leeter goats."
He did not ponder the absurdities in her accosting of him. "Why are you even here?"
"Malthon Eyenhart," she addressed, in the full hiss of his name.
"Ghosty ghost," he returned dryly. He tried looking for shafts of moonlight through her, but it was impossible in the cloudy sky. He stepped aside to see a torch through her torso.
She said nothing as he squinted, struggling to spot any sign of the torch past her, until he shrugged and decided to leave her be. She could go haunt Jayce instead. The somber man needed the company.
He managed only a few steps before she jumped in his way again, vehemently spitting words at him. Her hands continued gesturing towards Balinda's tent. The cogs in his mind turned, until his eyebrows rose high and he asked, "Are you... jealous of Balinda?"
She did not understand, but he felt he caught the gist of it. His hand dragged down his face. "Go away," he groaned. He walked around her, intent at escaping her fury. She was relentless, following him even to his tent, and though he tried to force the flap between them, she only pushed through after, continuing her rant at him.
"Light, woman, I'm not your lover," he complained, giving her a shooing motion. She gasped at him, hand falling over her thinly veiled breasts, and then her rant began with new fervor.
After lighting some candles, he was given a better look at her. Her purple was deep, like the shade of the sky near the end of twilight, with raven-dark blue hair left free. Her silver eyes were bright, seeming to glow with their own luminescence within, and they had no black pupils to diminish the effect. She was, admittedly, quite pretty, even in her aggressive disposition, carrying all the usual fine-featured and slenderness of the elves. Her gown, however, was simply unacceptable – might as well be wearing nothing at all!
But most shocking was the realization that came soon after. Clothes not withstanding, she was in no way transparent. Malthon stared mutely for a second, then said, nearly as quickly as she was speaking, "Wait just a ticket here, you aren't a ghost? You're a kaldorei survivor?"
She paused at the change in his response, with her eyebrows lowering in a narrow, thoughtful gaze. Her arms folded beneath a rather womanly sized bosom, adding to their shape.
Malthon continued, "Look, we need some translation in here real fast, lassy. I'm sorry for whatever slight you think I caused you, and we certainly have enough problems without adding you to the plate – granted, I might need to thank you for your help in the forest – but I really... And, you have no idea what I'm saying." He concluded to himself, turning away with a shake of his head.
Warm fingers touched his chin, threading through his beard, and turned his head back to her. She had stepped in close, and now her head had a curious tilt to the side. "Sorry?" she asked, repeating the word with surprising accuracy. Unless she meant some elven "saree" or "sahri."
Assuming the former, he nodded, pointing to himself, and feeling like a loon. "I'm sorry."
"Malthon sorry," she agreed, nodding – it was a very eager, birdlike tilting of her chin. A wide, beautiful smile overtook her lips.
Malthon smile too. "I'm glad we have that sorted out. I guess you managed to pick that word up around ca- mph!" She pulled his face to hers as she stepped in and kissed him, cutting off his words.
The shouting began again after he threw her outside his tent.
XxX
Hrothgar's Landing, it was called, that nub of land jutting from the blue plane of ocean below. It was strange recalling the time when those rippling waters were thrashing with monstrous leviathons, with narrow elven ships and hulking kvaldir ones. He couldn't see it in his mind anymore, staring down there now as he had a year and a half prior.
He recalled then taking one of the Argent Crusade's gryphons, and like a key to what was hidden, his mind filled again with a sudden rush of memories. His stomach had dropped the moment the bird pitched over the icy edge, dropping in free fall a thousand feet before icy waters and jagged cliff. The bird's wings snapped out, catching the roaring wings, and his stomach once again felt the change of momentum as it swooped outward.
Around him, other gryphons and their riders swooped down with him, all of them wielding flaming harpoon guns. The dwarves had adapted vrykul technology for them, he had been told. Together, their small contingent of white birds approached the waters, where beyond a massive battle raged. Ships clashed against ships, the sounds of muskets and inhuman roars reaching them even this far.
First, they reached the water line, where it slapped about in white caps, and they soared over it, heading towards the battle. Then Malthon had looked down, into the water, as a dark shape caught his attention. An eye was staring back. A second later, his mind connected the rest of the picture, seeing a beast hundreds of feet long paralleling their flight from just below the water, and it's eye was the size of his body.
He grew sick to his stomach with fear, even against the surging Light within – not even all the Light he could command would help him against this monster. "UP!" he cried out, drawing the attention of the riders as he pulled hard on the reigns. "Fly UP!"
Hell's Bells.
The leviathan breached the surface, sending the other gryphon riders into screaming panic. Several were struck by its hulking body, with thick flesh like an oiled dinosaur. The gryphons, shrieking now, struggled to ascend higher, but as it's head rose above the water line, jaw open, some were too slow, and it chomped down in a gush of red blood over an unfortunate rider.
The Light did away with Malthon's own fears then, and he was bidden to raise his harpoon gun and begin firing, only yards from this colossal horror. The remaining riders came to their senses upon seeing the harpoons ripping into its flesh easily, each blow staggering this behemoth, and together they worked at bringing it down.
Then, Malthon was standing at the edge of the cliff again, without ship or beast in sight. Only pale water and a dark sky, with a distant rock of ice in the distance. He drew a calm breath of frozen air, lungs burning at it, and exhaled a drawn out wisp of white fog. His skin had goosebumped under his armor, leaving him uncomfortable and itchy, wishing he could rub some heat back into them.
Perhaps it was for the best that he did not remember such days.
"Really, I don't know how you didn't starve during the war without a woman," a feminine voice sighed behind him.
Malthon turned his head to see Balinda there, and she offered him a plate – his plate – of food. Balinda recovered well from her excursion, with no signs of her previous wounds or stains anywhere, just two days later. Her personality had fallen into its usual manner since then as well.
He accepted the food and thanked her. In truth, he was ravenous. He'd forgotten to break his fast that morning, instead re-plotting his course on his map in the rest before the march, though how Balinda knew, he wasn't sure. Perhaps she only knew he missed dinner.
The Argent Tournament had packed up their coliseum long ago, but base grounds remained in a battery camp for those who still fought. The location had assumed the name to Tournament Grounds for familiarity, though no tournaments still went on here. Unlike the larger Vanguard, the Grounds remained intact with full stock and supply, manned by near a hundred Argent Crusaders.
Malthon sat on the icy ledge he had stood above, and he gestured for Balinda to sit with him. They spoke while he ate, falling back into the habit of it again. Their reunion, just before New Hearthglen, proved to repair some of the rapports between them. Malthon did not mind it as much as Jayce did.
The war effort was not going well, according to the crusaders here. When they heard report of the Argent Vanguard burning, they assumed it was the Scourge; apparently, something stirred them up into a strange restlessness, and what few remained were banding together for violent rampages. The Argent Crusade's systemic method of elimination that they had been following was put to a grinding halt, as actual conflicts and battles began to erupt again as they had during the war.
The towns further south, in the heart of the land, where still in jeopardy, if they remained at all. Malthon had spoken to Lord Goldwind, suggesting they break down the battery for travel. They were not safe, this close to Storm Peaks, and Lord Eyenhart wished to band together all the crusaders he could to send the weary home and establish new outposts less susceptible to danger. Goldwind was informed of the new threat brewing to the east.
The high elf paladin listened to Malthon, and he promised to sleep on the proposal. It was no small matter, abandoning Icecrown's only battery. Any adventurer or lone crusader that came for refuge would find only snow where he expected supplies and rest. The usual reserve would be left behind in a fox hole, and appropriately marked for wayward travelers, but such was a hefty decision.
Malthon looked over at the sound of heavy plate crunching against ice, and he saw Balinda laying on her back now, staring up into the stormy, darkening clouds. Her red cape had been pulled high enough to pillow her head from the ice. He recognized the intent, pondering expression, following their chat, and after setting aside his cleared iron plate, asked, "Copper for your thoughts?"
"You're going to need a lot of copper," she muttered idly, unperturbed. From his pocket, Malthon fished a Lordaeron gold coin and flipped it to her.
Balinda caught it in a fist and turn it over in the fingers of her gauntlet. She smiled slightly, a rare expression. "The past, the present, the future... and all the topics that fall into those three. I have a busy mind."
"The past, huh?" he asked, curiosity tweaked. "How far back?"
"Too far."
Malthon snorted. "Too far would be us trying to fish with our bare hands in the river outside my estates, three years old and naked, until you slipped on your clumsy feet and got rushed away in the current."
With distant eyes, Balinda's smile widened at the memory. "Your father was the one who had to catch me, with you running at his side the whole way."
"Aye, and when we scooped you out of the water, shivering and crying, you remember what he said?" Her eyes shifted to him, waiting, as his smile threatened to slip free early. In perfect likeness to his father, he deepened his voice an octave further and shouted, ""You might be bare-ass as a fish, but you sure as the Bell's of Hell cannot swim like one!"
Balinda laughed. Malthon started at the sound, nearly forgetting what her chuckle sounded like, especially as she caught herself and ended up snorting once. She was shameless over the sound, laying sprawled out in her armor, but it sent Malthon into his own rich chuckling. Before puberty, they had been told their laughter sounded exactly alike, except she snorted if she wasn't careful. He had found it cute.
Still did.
In the lands of the Scourge, their mirth sobered very quickly, but Malthon was left feeling at ease with her, for the first time in years. This was someone he had grown up knowing, and she could still acknowledge the fact.
There was silence once again between them, until a voice called from behind, "Sir Malthon Eyenhart!"
Here at the battery, they weren't all paladins anymore. Many of the defenders and administrators were regular men, who came to the Light's call. To them, all paladins were sirs and dames.
They turned to see the approaching messenger, with the Argent Crusade tabard flapping over his simple tunic and breeches. When he reached them, he bowed deeply to both. Malthon asked, "What is it, lad?"
"Lord Commander Goldwind wishes for your presence in his private quarters. He says he has a matter of importance to discuss with you," the squire said. The boy was young, and though he stood with a stiffened spine an squared shoulders, it was not tense with unfamiliarity. Malthon noted a budding strength in the youth's build; he was in training.
"May I have a guest accompany me?" he asked, gesturing to Balinda beside him.
The boy hesitated. "He did not specify, milord."
Balinda waved a dismissive hand at Malthon. "Always trying to drag me into the political scene, Malthon. I told you, I'm having none of it. You don't need to fret over my presence; I won't be going."
The boy bowed again in reply. Malthon huffed and pushed himself to his feet again. "I didn't have much of a choice in it myself." He offered his hand to help Balinda stand. Their armor was a heavy burden.
She ignored the offer, also pushing herself up. One gauntlet fell on his shoulder as she mentioned softly, "You've done a fine job with what was forced into your hands. Your father would be proud of your representation of the Eyenhart name."
A complement, from Balinda. Just what kind of mood was she in! Malthon stared after her departing form until she disappeared on the battery grounds. It was then the boy reminded him of his waiting presence. "Erm... milord?"
"Boy, let me tell you one piece of golden wisdom, the secret of the world around you as even a lord knows it," Malthon started. The squire's eyes gleamed at the opportunity, and he nodded. Malthon rumbled gravely, "You will never, in all your life, come to understand women."
The youth's eager expression fell, and he began to lead Malthon to the quarters while Malthon chuckled softly from behind.
XxX
"Ah, Lord Eyenhart, welcome," Lord Goldwind greeted as Malthon was let inside. They both wore their armor, embossed as lords' were, so Malthon did not feel any discomfort at it. Goldwind nodded to the squire, dismissing him, and the boy left with another bow. "Forgive the late summons, but I feel it is a revelation of some importance."
"Think nothing of it, brother," Malthon told the high elf commander. "The Light knows no timetable."
Standing at six foot five, the elf stood even taller and broader than Malthon himself. Armor always veiled bodies, but elven women were not the only ones to carry idealized proportions – he had the narrow waist and wide, wide shoulders of his kind, trained to be even larger. Goldwind might have been considered handsome once, before the war. Now, under his long golden hair was an angular face shredded with nicks and scars, the most noticeable of which ran from left temple down over his nose to his lip. It must have been an ugly wound, to heal that wide even with magic.
The scar stretched noticeably when Goldwind smiled. He kept no beard, keeping the clean shaven appearance his kind liked to tout. "Indeed. I have heard much good word proceeding you, and in your short time here I can see why. The Light is... different in you. Stronger, shining like the midnight star."
Or a beacon. Malthon had heard it all before. "We all serve as we can. What thoughts ail you, friend?"
Goldwind nodded, inviting Malthon over to his map that stretched over a table in the center of the room. "Your darklings do, and my experience in similar affairs. I'd appreciate a more suiting name for them, something official if you don't mind. Which appeals most to you: the old common word "Daemon," "Skinless" from the faceless wanderers, "Lightless," or a simple "Shadow?""
Remembering their trademark black skin, Malthon mentioned, "Footmen and those hearing only rumor would benefit most from labeling them Shadows, but I believe the name would fall into misuse, fear-mongering, and simple confusion. I'd have them called Skinless, if they are indeed connected to the Death God of Ulduar."
"Skinless it is," Goldwind concluded. "With the rise of these Skinless, other forces will soon be sure to move, if the past is any indication. Do you remember the sudden rise of the Twilight's Hammer just before the freedom of Yogg-Saron here in Northrend? Or Burning cults with the imminence of the Legion?"
"We had enough on our plates in Lordaeron when the Legion threat was happening, but I heard the reports. You are afraid of a following rising behind these Skinless?"
Goldwind nodded somberly. "I doubt any cult will ever gain the pervasive influence that the Cult of the Damned had ever again, but their problem is real even in small scales. Once they decide to permeate our men and poison us from within, or organize in to a guerrilla task force... I think the reaction of our Scarlet... allies will be the least of our worries when we march against the Skinless."
Light knew how awful the Cult of the Damned had been. "What do you propose we do about it?"
Goldwind collapsed onto his stool recklessly. Malthon was surprised the wooden legs didn't snap at the weight of him and his armor. With a shrug, Goldwind asked, "What can we do, Lord Eyenhart? I'm only speculating a strong possibility."
"At the least, we can hope this Light-shaking effect remains constant. That will give us some clues at least, at close proximity," Malthon replied. He stopped to look over the map, at Storm Peaks. There were many places an enemy could hide there. The titans had too many holes, too many labs and bunkers and workshops, built into and under the mountains. The peaks themselves were already an impossibility for an army – no supply carts or wagons could be taken past the goblin city K9. Staging an attack there would be a march through hell.
"Yes, well, we shall see in the coming days, certainly," was the shrewd reply. Softer, Goldwind added, "Secondly, I'd like to readdress the problem of leadership here in Northrend. The Ashbringer, Dalaran, the Alliance and Horde – everyone has cleared out, it seems. The largest forces still out here seem to be us that invested too much into the war to depart now, and the death knights of the Ebon Blade. I think nearly half of them felt some obligation to remain out here and in the Shadow Vault, in Icecrown and near the Lich King.
"The Scarlets lost their High General. We lost our Ashbringer. The two of us, we are lords, and Lankral is a duke, but whom can we all, even the two of us, look to for leadership? Whom can promote unity among the remaining forces? It is said those vrykul champions at Ymirheim have no leader, only common cause; we cannot function to the same efficiency as them without one."
"We have common cause, but all too different methods," Malthon agreed. "What do you propose? Do you have someone in mind whom could take up the mantle of High General? A King of Northrend?"
Goldwind's smile stretched his scar again. "Yes, indeed I do. Someone who would loath the position, with no ambition for such rank and prestige, but would serve it dutifully and with wisdom. Someone even paladins could look to for command and guidance."
Malthon blinked. He hadn't heard of anyone with such personal influence still remaining in these begotten lands. "Who is this person? I'd like to judge his or her character myself."
"Then simply look into a mirror, Lord Eyenhart."
There was a beat of pause. Then, "No. Absolutely not."
Goldwind seemed amused; Malthon certainly was not. "There is none, I feel, more suited to the task. Pray tell why you should not take up sole, undisputed leadership of our remaining forces?"
"Balinda!" Malthon started, holding up a finger. "She'd tan my hide from the Frozen Throne to Lordaeron city and back before bending knee to me. Jenn Stoutmantle!" A second finger. "The death knights." He stopped there, shaking his head. "That isn't how I want my men, my brothers and sisters, to behave around me. We are all equals in the Light, all kin. We should stand together as such, not one elevated above the rest. We can do as I've already done, and take only the paladins back into the Storm Peaks after sending the rest of the peoples to safety."
"And who determines how and where we fight, Lord Eyenhart? Do we hold a triumvirate council? Two paladins and a death knight? Lankral will not allow himself to miss out on the opportunity."
"I am a paladin first, Lord Goldwind, and a lord second. I will not reverse the order."
The elf remained bemused at his insistence. "And that, brother, is precisely why you are the prime candidate for the position. You do not know ambition, only duty."
Balinda should have accepted his invitation to join him here!
He spent a long moment in silence, brooding over the offer. He needed calm, rational thought here. Even though he desired that all brothers and sisters saw themselves as equals, sometimes it was necessary for someone to stand up. This was not a perfect world, he knew well. Finally, he answered slowly, "Until such time as that position is absolutely necessary for our success, I will not take it up. On this, I will allow no argument."
Goldwind lost his smile, but he nodded his acceptance. "So be it, Lord Eyenhart. Time will tell what the Light holds in store for all of us."
Malthon nodded absently, letting those words bounce around his skull. "If you don't mind, I'd like to return to my own quarters now."
"By all means, you are free to go," Goldwind said, standing from the stool. They nodded to each other, and Malthon left.
Aye, a king he'd be. A Fool King.
XxX
Malthon doubted he had ever witnessed such a team of hardened soldiers. There was no softness to them, not in armor, not in expression, not even in skin. Even the gnome, his missing eye covered with a heavy patch, and his armor with the worn appearance of a training post, with a sword longer than he was tall, demonstrated none of the childlike demeanor of his kind. His green hair was cropped short in military cut, his facial hair of similar close trim.
"They come down 'ere in sport," a dwarf told them. "When they get bored. We are all that's left of those they couldn't kill." He spat black tobacco onto the snow.
A full score of them – only a score was left. Light, have mercy on them.
After sleeping on it, Goldwind agreed to Malthon's proposal, ordering the battery broken down and a fox hole dug and supplied. It took them two days of work, so after a third night sleeping on the grounds, they left together in a horde now three hundred strong. Plenty of horses had been stabled there, but not enough for over a hundred additions at the small battery. It took a day to cross the icy plains to the edge before the canyon of blight that ran through the heart of the glacier.
Once they managed the climb from the plateau into the blight-covered canyon, they spent the remaining few hours traveling further south, just before Ymirheim territory, and stopped again as the dark began to deepen. It wouldn't do well to chance those lands at night. It wasn't much further south that they found the camp of Alliance, and a small few Horde, soldiers.
From the hundreds that had been stationed here to siege the vrykul city, only twenty remained. But Light, these 7th Legion men were the hardest Malthon had ever met. The three Horde, an orc and two troll beserkers, had taken up the insignias of the 7th Legion – they had garnered the respect and trust of these stone-faced warriors. That spoke volumes about their skill and tenacity.
"Well, we are giving you a choice now," Malthon told them. "No vrykul can pin your down with three hundred men at your back. Any who wishes to go free, to find home or battle elsewhere, can march on with us."
All twenty laughed. The sound was like stones scraping over stones. The orc leaned forward – he was seated on an icy boulder, beside one of their few supply crates, with his two-handed sword planted into the ice before him. "It would take only a small party of them to see your "tree hundwed" torn into slimy bits."
A bolt of Light thundered down from overhead, slamming into Malthon. It's radiance peeled off of his skin like an aura, and his Lordaeron shield shone with brilliant, blinding Light, in the sigil of a cross-like dagger. "Fifty are groundkeepers, keeps, squires, and servicemen. The rest of us are full paladins. Two hundred and fifty Light-blessed knights. Never, orc, in all the history of Azeroth has such a potent force stood before you as you see now. Let them come, even the Ymirjar. Such would be a battle for endless history books to come."
Silence from the Legion men. Eventually, the dwarf spat more black, sniffing his bulbous nose, and he demanded, "Yeah? Where were you a year ago, when we were a dozen times this number?"
Malthon looked to him, lips drawn thin. "Disarrayed, without order or purpose. The past is in the past though, no matter the scars, and what is lost, is lost. Again, any who wish to leave this rotting hole is free to do so. You will not be challenged by the vrykul."
A final spit, then the dwarf's cloak fanned about him as he bent down to pick up his battered, darkened rifle from the snow – its steel nose bent and chipped, the scope cut off to two nubs – and he shouldered it in a practiced motion. At the action, the orc ripped free his sword, swinging off the chunks of slushy ice from its grimy blade, and he stood as well, grabbing the crate beside him under one massive arm.. The other Legion men did the same, grabbing weapons and supplies, and they stood.
Malthon nodded to them, still bursting with Light, and they all nodded back. No mounts remained among them for these men. Their speed wouldn't slow any further because of them, Malthon suspected. Malthon stepped into Crown's stirrup and mounted him.
His arm rose above his head, glistening with white light, and he shouted loud enough for any Ymirheim scout to hear, "Forward!"
The marched on, north now, to skirt around the vrykul mountain. They were unopposed.
XxX
Aldur'thar, the Desolation Gate. It's long, saronite arm reached from the northern vault all the way south to the steppes below Ymirheim city. A mile of cold saronite walling, stretching a hundred spans high of face the whole way, except for the single, smoldering gateway in its center.
The Scourge that skittered about in their way was smashed apart, holing no threat to their mounted charges, and even the bloated abominations exploding into their parts again through blasts of Light. At the gate, they expected a standing guard or a gathering of dark forces. They were not disappointed.
However, Arvin was quick to note it wasn't the Scourge that stood watch of the gateway, not the Scourge that watched from the ramparts. Blackness, he declared to them. The Skinless.
"Ey ho! Shades abound, boys!" one of the 7th Legion men announced.
"Cavalry, charge!" Malthon roared after. The footmen would have to find their own way in this battle.
The 7th Legion Commander, however, was not one for idle waiting, "On your marks, men! Get those Shades off the walls!"
Shortly into their charge, explosions sounded behind Malthon, and he could here the echoing cracks of their guns and that of ricochet. Several Skinless pitched off the wall, struck, while others retreated back. Those at the gate were already facing them. Whatever sounds they made couldn't be heard over the thunder of their horses.
At thirty yards before the collision, Light rained down over the paladins. It pooled and shone over them, gleaming off steel and shields, and their heavy cloaks of red, blue, and white whipped behind them with new energy. Above, the perpetual storm of Icecrown broke, allowing a circle of sunlight to break free of its mask and bless the men below, and it shone directly into the green eyes of the Skinless – into those that had them.
Jayce rode at Malthon's side as he overtook Arvin – the dwarf was a scout, not a leader, and he joined in the main body – but then Lord Goldwind was there at Malthon's left, accepting equal responsibility in the point. Sir Denell Goldwind was his name, when he waved off his lordship in favor of Malthon.
With all the storm of the Light raging within him, Malthon gathered together a burst of Holy Shock to open with. Those Skinless before them, ready for the hit, were disintegrated at the punch, and just after, the erect ones, without eyes, opened their maws for sonic blasts in attempt to chase away their Light.
Even Jayce managed to hold onto the Light then, and together, they three smashed their weapons into the hides of the Skinless that they could reach. The impact.
Like a charge into Scourge, it was not a battle of man against man. Skinless leapt from the floor in attempt to drag riders off their chargers. Jayce caught one on his shield, and the Light that armored it sent the Skinless recoiling off in a violent counter, smoking as it fell.
Crown trampled over a low Skinless, accepting its claws that raked over the plated breast, and Malthon swung side to side with his mace to keep back the others as Crown continued forward, towards the open gate, through the hordes. The other paladins roared with war cries as they also reached the masses, and a new violence of sound erupted behind him.
In only a few of those slow, powerful seconds, Malthon and Crown were through the black mob, gaining the crated-ground of the gate, and he turned with his mace high to shine as a beacon for those behind him. Many cheered, if they weren't presently engaged. It was only for a few moments that Malthon stood there, with Crown rearing up in victory, and he watched the tidings of the battle in it.
The 7th Legion was nearly there as well, running on booted feet with weapons drawn and their own cry outdoing even the hundreds of paladins. He saw Denell as well, engaging one of the eredar-shaped Skinless, like that they had faced in Crystalsong. The lord was easily noticed in his bright and elegant armor. His weapon of choice was a sword, and it wove about even on a clumsy steed with all the grace of the high elves. The sword suited their kind far more than maces.
Malthon charged back into the battle, even as others also broke free of the mob. They outnumbered the Skinless many times, and just in passing through, the cavalry crushed their forces, but some proved far more resilient than what a few passing blows could manage. It was especially so for those that Malthon couldn't spot the green-flamed eyes of, like the hulking eredar-shape ones or even the armored... he'd guess void lord, with a body of smooth-shaped and bloating shadows. It had a vague elemental shape.
A rider joined him, packed close to his side, as he charged at the void lord. A wispy tendril of black snapped out like a shot from a cannon towards them, and although the Light had clearly warned his companion rider to block, he or she was knocked clean off with a sound like a gong.
Malthon's mace swept through the tentacle, severing it, and it dispersed like a cloud of smoke. He didn't know if he'd done any damage to the creature. Now, the cacophony of Skinless exploding in their acid bomb deaths added to the orchestra of battle – he had nearly forgotten the horror of that trait – but his focus was singular, sharpened further by the Light. It seemed to take comfort in his presence for once, rather than vice versa.
He resided its quaking roar, then led Crown directly into its essence, crashing into its body like a missile of Light. Crown couldn't hold his footing, and he began to pitch aside, but the Skinless was also knocked back, releasing a loud grunt at the collision. Before Malthon could be forced into the ground, he let Crown dissipate back into the Light, vanishing from under him, and he hit the ground with a roll.
Jumping up again, Malthon demanded the Light's return to him, and from the circle of sunlight above, another bolt of Holy Light slammed into him, empowering him. He swung his mace through its astral body, sending motes of shadow spilling into the snowy ground. Like their blood, the motes took to dissolving away the ice.
There was a whisper of warning, and Malthon called down the shield of the divine upon him, just before a colossal wave of oily shadows washed over him. It obscured everything outside of his golden shell for a painful few seconds, and then it passed. He don't know what damage it would have done to him, but clearly, the shield on his arm would not have been enough.
From behind, a second figure jumped past him, also shielded as he was – the blast had rolled past him – and she sliced several strokes through its body, letting their shields deflect away the acidic motes. The slender shape of the armor told him she was female, but it was the voice that told him it was Balinda, even before he could see the many holy inscriptions strung to her armor.
Shoulder to shoulder, they worked against the void lord, making only small successes, while the battle shaped up around them. Their forces were pooling around the three Skinless like this – this void lord, the eredar-like one Denell Goldwind fought, and a feminine shaped one with what had to be a hundred arms, spinning about like a cyclone. The only shared trait was their black forms and the lack of radiant green eyes.
Then, there was a flash of warning, and both Malthon and Balinda broke apart to their respective sides just before a flaming javelin came hurling through where they had been standing and drove deep into the non-flesh of their opponent. A second followed, and then the hulking shape of a seven foot tall orc rushed by with his sword high, and it cleaved the void lord clean through.
The 7th Legion was here.
Two more javelins skewered the Skinless, while the orc paced back a step to avoid the hooked swipe of its counter. Then, he, with Malthon and Balinda, jumped in for a three-pronged strike. The vertical slash split it apart, but it was Malthon and Balinda's waves of Light that utterly consumed its body, trailing their weapons.
There was no hesitation as the orc turned in place, eyes wide and set in lust for blood, and he found the next opponent with a loud, inhuman shout. Spittle flew from his maws as he began to run again, sword in hand.
It was only a few moments longer before the other two were downed. Malthon glanced at Balinda as she did the same to him, catching her stormy eyes in the centurion helmet. Neither made comment of their impromptu assistance. Crown and her steed, Justice, were called forth from the Light, and they made their way through the forces. Only a few had been slain in the attack, and already the paladins were working at redeeming them.
The 7th Legion Commander was a human. He had eyes of steel on an aged face, with a thick mustache of brown covering his upper lip. He wasn't clean shaven, instead with dark stubble over the rest of his face, and his personality and voice were equally gruff. He found Malthon and observed stoically, "The shades took the wall from the Scourge."
"Aye," Malthon rumbled back, turning a pensive gaze upon the ramparts, where some still lurked. "We call them the Skinless. They are becoming a larger problem everyday. What is your name, soldier?"
"Jake, my lord. Just Jake."
Either an orphan or someone seeking anonymity. "Reel your boys in then, Commander Jake, and find a horse for yourself. I want you up in command with us."
"Aye, sir," Jake replied after a moment of thought.
Their next stop was the camp at the quarry, residing between the death knights' Shadow Vault and the vrykul Jotunheim. After that, the vault itself.
XxX
In all his years, Malthon had arrived in the midst of an on-going battle more than a few times. Always, it was after the most important moments had passed or were soon to come – the capture of the defense point, overrunning of the walls, death of the leader, issued retreat, and so on. Never had he come at just the crucial moment, able to witness it happening but unable to make a difference.
Never, until this day. When they first realized that the Shadow Vault was under siege, Malthon issued an immediate charge. The station at the quarry had been cleared out, and even the fox hole was abandoned and emptied. In the distance, up the northern mountains, they knew the Shadow Vault was nestled up in a nook, but it wasn't until they could hear the echoing clangs and shouts of the battle on top, half way up the climb, that they knew there was a problem.
Rounding the top lip of the stair case, Malthon could see the death knights neck-deep in Skinless assailants, and it was not a pretty battle. Already it was difficult to see how a death knight was fairing when he utilized diseases, frost, and blood to fight, even turning himself undead or frozen to gain an advantage. It was unclean and impossible to guess the upper or lower hand.
However, at the very center was a monster Malthon could immediately recognize yet couldn't. He took it as a corrupted pit lord, with full wings that spanned back nearly thirty yards from its spined, black-scaled back. Malthon could recognize the Duke of the Shadow Vault, having met the man before, and he recognized him then, suspended in the air for all to see in a chain of corrupted arcane.
It was the most crucial moment of the battle, Malthon realized, and he was utterly helpless but to watch as the pit lord pulled on all limbs of the immensely powerful death knight at the same time, until he was pulled apart to the eruption of red blood and innards. There was no sound of remorse from the fighting Knights of the Ebon Blade, on a disruption to their ferocity in their own battles.
Then they came charging into the backs of the Skinless. The effects of cavalry were devastating – to have mounted paladins with Light-blessed and armored chargers only multiplied the damage done. An uphill charge ruined their momentum, so even with the surprise attack, it lost its advance very quickly. Malthon was quick to leap from Crown to wade through the tides of the battle himself, giving him better reach and opportunity to strike.
He found himself soon surrounded by the brothers and sisters he knew. Jayce was there, then Balinda, and Denell Goldwind. Jenn Stoutmantle was at Balinda's side, and the Ironhawk brothers became their own storm of Light. It heartened Malthon to see them. Even Terichon Galean, their churchyard friend, had come to fight with Malthon in the small circle, while the rest of them, both crusader and 7th Legion, struggled for a way into the battle. As the pathway narrowed, it left them as the only ones able to move forward.
The Shadow Vault defenders were quick to notice the aid, and they roared new commands and defiance. The pit lord monstrosity was a different kind of problem as its broad wings took it into the air with a single swoop. Towering so far above the rest, it had seen the paladins approach, and in one leap, it landed in the very center of their charge.
Malthon's gaze narrowed, and he glanced backwards at where its landing crushed a dozen men forced together in the small confines. Their attention would be split now, front and back.
"Go!" Jayce roared at him. The Scarlet Commander had his shield pushed against a team of Skinless, holding them back. Their friend Terichon rushed up beside him with his own shield and knocked the collection back. His curved sword was held ready as he lined his shield with Jayce's. Terry nodded to Malthon, eyes hard and resolute.
Balinda was also looking to Malthon, standing behind the two shields and waiting. Denell, the rest too. And then Jenn roared out in dwarven fury and left Balinda's side to accompany Jayce and Terry, pushing against the Skinless foe that way. Arvin nodded to Bardin, his brother, and then to Malthon, and he fired one last shot of his heavy rifle before throwing it into his holster and drawing his shield and hammer. He joined the push against the Skinless, leaving only the best fighters with Malthon.
The 7th Legion was having a field day with the Skinless pit lord, but it was to no real avail. Malthon and them ducked as its tail swooped by, and it snapped him into attention.
"To me!" he roared, his voice enhanced by the Light to ring clear and strong. "Advance!"
Malthon took the first step. Balinda, Denell, and Bardin followed.
Once, in a time past, Malthon had witnessed a gnome arguing with a Dalaran scholar over theory of the universe and its forces unassociated with magic. The archmage, as a master of the arcane, made his case for the web of the Twisting Nether that connected the planets together. Like kite strings, the thickest were looped to the sun, leaving them in near perfect circles of orbit around it – with the lesser pulls giving the orbital ring small variance.
The gnome, as a master of technology, denounced the theory, separating the two closely related universes. He argued a view of space-time. Malthon was an educated noble, but even he had difficulty grasping what the gnome meant by impressions of mass in a blanket of something and so forth. There was nothing physical to relate it to, nor magic to explain it, and that left him skeptical.
That is, until Malthon had come to understand the Light. When a paladin was full of Light, his very being shining and pouring forth its radiance, it created a strange... pocket on the physical world. He could not explain it well, but he could feel it – like a new force of gravity was pulling things to him, around him, sinking in towards him and the powerful Light – and amazing things were always bound to happen. When Uther had shattered Frostmourne, he had felt the tilt of the world towards that immense pocket of Light.
Paladins were usually spread around armies to stand as command and moral support to the regular troops. When banded together, strange happenings began to arise as the Light consolidated with Light. Such was the case at the churchyard, where many paladins learned together in close confines, and such was the case now, with Malthon's army of nearly all Light-favored. Even without being filled with Light, their blessings were enough.
Now, in combat conditions, four of the very strongest Light-blessed stood together, filled with every blessing and form of Power they knew. The Light was pooled into them, around them, and it spilled over to wash about the very air into a purified essence that was nearly tangible. The corruption of the Scourge was cleansed of the soil, the wind gaining a fresher scent without blood and rot. Their pockets in the world were so close together that their effects amplified into just one massive impression in the world.
And fey things were abound.
Malthon could not fully explain what happened in that moment, as the four of them approached the Skinless pit lord. When asked later, neither could the other three, but it was reported from the other men that it was not two humans, a dwarf, and a high elf that made their way towards the monstrosity – an angelic being of Light, they said, a massive archangel that towered over even their foe, had stood there, and with a single sweep of its flaming sword, the Skinless had been smote into ash. Then it had turned, towards the other end of the battle, and rays of Light had poured forth from its Just hand and washed away the rest of the enemy.
Malthon scoffed away the reports, saying – with the agreement of those he that had stood beside him – that they had only struck with the Templar's Verdict together to banish the pit lord, and against the rest of the Skinless army, they had synchronized their most powerful blasts of Holy Shock to banish the rest.
But so it was, a dichotomized view of how that battle was ended, and rumors were quick to spread of the divine guardian that was overseeing Malthon's army – or Malthon himself, others reported.
"We came to resupply, and to request bone gryphons to assist in our mission," Malthon began with the leaderless death knights of the Shadow Vault. "A mission to bring salvation to those trapped without means of leaving or rejoining the main bodies of our forces. To my understanding, the Shadow Vault was the last standing bastion of our forces on the glacier, so I'll admit to you now, I am unsure as to what our next course of action will be without a secured base for rest and stop. Is there anyone among you who can take the Duke's place of leadership at the Shadow Vault?"
A blue-eyed tauren sighed, the sound sarcastic though Malthon was sure he didn't mean it that way. "We can send someone through a Death Gate now to bring someone from Acherus Hold, but the gates are one way, so unless you have some mages ready to offer a portal back, it will be months before he or she arrives. There are none here any of us would follow if he decided to... step up."
"Would you accept Lord Goldwind as regent until you have decided upon someone new?" Malthon asked, gesturing to the elven lord.
"No," more than a few voices announced immediately. Denell smirked.
Malthon was running out of options. He did not want to force his way over them and take their supplies and forces. "Is there anyone who does not carry your curse that you would accept as a temporary leading figure for our time here?"
The death knights, all three scores of them, were left silent. The Scourge they had enthralled to their cause looked about stupidly from behind. Malthon was left wondering at their lack of dismissal, until one – a female orc – stepped forward to be better seen. She let her comrades hear her thoughts:
"You offered us aid without any request, paladin, and you rescued, disgusting as it sounds, all of us that stand here now. Without you, and without our Duke, we would not have survived against that many bane fiends. We owe you a debt that will not be waited on for your convenience. For now, we will follow your orders until we consider our debt repaid in full – and any here who disagree with this, step forward now so I may take your empty head!"
There was a length of grumbling in reply, but none spoke out. The orc nodded, satisfied. Denell Goldwind glanced at Malthon with a sly, knowing expression.
Malthon showed no unease or uncertainty. He'd do what must be done, and he needed their full support in order to rescue the men stranded off the coast. "Then we welcome you, Knights of the Ebon Blade, to our forces and to our cause." A loud complaint from Jayce and many of the Scarlet forces. They were silenced quickly by the other paladins. "Any man or woman that dares raise fist or word against our allies, on prejudice of undeath or loyalties once held, will be strung up for forty lashes for dissent. If any death knight is caught inciting another to rash actions, he or she shall be raised crucified for a span of twenty-four hours, then cut down and returned to their duties."
One could not offer pain as punishment to a death knight. Most could not feel it, and those that could relished the feeling. Humiliation and a long span of discomfort seemed the only way.
"Now, we will camp tonight in the Shadow Vault, and I want a double watch tonight in case of a following attack. Tomorrow, we will begin the retrieval efforts at the Onslaught Harbor-" Now it was the death knights' turn to choke back surprise. "-and with a split in forces, rescue those in the deep south, caught between vrykul, Scourge, and Skinless."
There was the beginning of a smile at the complete dissatisfaction demonstrated by the majority of those that followed him. Malthon wondered just how many daggers would be pinning for his heart this night. "Dismissed."
XxX
It did not take long for more than a dozen men to face crucifixion or lashes. They were left on display atop the hills that surrounded the Shadow Vault, for all to see who passed in and out of the fortress. Jayce was not among them, Malthon was glad to notice. The commander hardly even left his tent. Balinda was left in charge of the operations in the south, told to return in two days or else they would be left to search.
With twenty bone gryphons and Cloudrend for Malthon himself, they departed north. Malthon wanted them over the water and off the glacier, to completely avoid the vrykul and their precise harpoon guns. They found a strong draft – not that it was difficult around Icecrown – and followed it south to the island of the Scarlet Onslaught.
In total, the flight was only an hour one way. The bone gryphons did not tire like Malthon's living one would – leading to several grinning offers to change that – but Cloudrend was a sturdy beast trained for endurance runs by the dwarves. He totaled nearly thirty hours of flight time with Balinda over two days. He could handle this.
The harbor was in a sorry state, they noticed upon arrival. The cathedral still stood, but only other buildings for their hundreds of men and women were wooden shacks raised out of the wood that had been used for their few ships – with the sails as roofing for some. The rest were less fortunate.
Malthon did notice the scores of rafts and collection of netting kept near one last remaining dock. Left stranded here for nearly a year now, it was clear their food supplies would have ran out, and they had to take up fishing to sustain the survivors. The island was sparse, with sickly trees in patches, and a few birds. He didn't ask what they did for water, though he suspected snow melt was the primary source.
They landed in the wide expanse before the cathedral. A scattered collection of curious men and women came shambling from their grimy homes or shuffled in colorful clothing out of the cathedral. These men and women... did not look like such. Their bodies were emaciated and sickly, with their eyes sunken and skin pale as death. It seemed as if a child with a sword could slaughter the whole collection of them. If Malthon didn't know better, with the Light as verification, they could have been Scourge skeletons with a last layer of skin stretched over them.
Such wasn't the case for everyone, but disease and sickness clearly ran rampart among the harbor, and Light had all but flickered out of every last man and woman here. Malthon was glad he was the only paladin here to see them in this state, but he'd have much work cut out for him.
The death knights with Malthon had knowing looks about them. Malthon's suspicions were confirmed; reports told him that during the war, the Knights had been "responsible" for ensuring the Onslaught did not cause them any trouble. They had prayed upon the harbor, stranded the men here, and knowing their ways, the quenching of Light and spreading of disease would fall into their hands.
But, it was through them that Adventurers had come and slain Mal'ganis. They struck the blow of retribution for Brigitte Abbendis, and for that, they had Malthon's thanks. The Onslaught under the Dreadlord's control were a force of Shadow, not Light.
"What is the meaning of this? Who are you? Here to finish us off, are you?" one man began, strutting up from the cathedral. His build matched the majority – lean, but not stringy or emaciated. Only the sick were that destitute.
"Peace, friend. I am Lord Malthon Eyenhart, of Lordaeron. We are brothers."
"Eyenhart, eh? Well I don't know any Eyenhart's, friend," the man continued, sarcastic and eyes aflame. "But I do know those begotten knights that stand behind you, as they burned down New Avalon and slaughtered our families in our homes."
A burly man with the build of a blacksmith stepped up then too, and his hand on the speaker's shoulders silenced the rant. "I for one do remember the nobility of our homeland, before the Scourge. Lord Eyenhart, that is a name I have not heard nor thought in some time. Staunch allies of the Crowngarde's, if I recall, and blood rivals of the... was it the Dester-Yaslin family?"
"The Crowslete," Malthon replied simply, "but only fools would care of such trivial nonsense in a world so changed. Any who serves the Light is my brother and sister, and no family name will stand between that. I have traveled the breadth of Northrend, rallying behind me those of the Light, to reach Icecrown and offer deliverance to those unable to help themselves. The Alliance and Horde have withdrawn from the conflicts here, and the Crusades have dwindled to only a few, unable to support those still caught here.
"Under my command, the Knights of the Ebon Blade, these death knights before you that have broken free of the Lich King's grasp, will offer amends to you at the Onslaught Harbor, and they come now to lend gryphons to fly off this wretched island back to the land above, where we have supplies and safe ground to rest upon. More than two hundred and fifty paladins wait above for your return, Argent Crusade and Scarlet Onslaught both."
"If you think even one of us will climb on those bone monstrosities with one of-" the man was cut short again by the blacksmith's heavy hand.
In the same calm voice, he asked, "Who is next in line for the crown, my lord?"
"Of Lordaeron?" Malthon asked, and he barked a surprised laugh. "Light, friend, I haven't a clue. The Menethil line died with Arthas a year prior, and most of the nobility with the sacking of the capital city. We do not even hold it now. So far as I know, only Lady Balinda Crowngarde and Lord Terichon Galean II even remain."
The blacksmith nodded. The silent gazes of the rest of the Scarlet men and women was eerie, as they let only those two speak for them. With a pensive expression, the blacksmith rumbled slowly, "So the nearest in relation would be the Crowngarde's, whom are oath sworn to never rise above the place of protectors of the crown. By extension then, the crown falls into the hands of... the Eyenhart's. You are the next in line to be King, Lord Eyenhart."
The other man – Malthon guessed him, by the robes, to be a high priest – threw himself away from the grip of the blacksmith, and he demanded, "Are you trying to tell me this man is supposed to be the King of Lordaeron? This man, right here?"
Malthon answered first by shaking his head. "There is no longer a kingdom to govern, friend. Even my home estates have burned to ash. I am a lord only in title." Why did the topic of conversation always seem to fall back to this? He had turned the offer down when Lordaeron was still in flames and he'd turn it down now.
"Before you, my lord," the blacksmith said in turn, "is the final remnants of our kingdom, along with those atop the glacier that you rallied. Our land may be lost, but our people and hearts, we remain, only displaced. We have all relocated, even the Prince and the unfortunate raised undead in his wake, have all come to this frozen land of Northrend. This is our kingdom now, loathsome though it is." There was a strange passion in his voice. Malthon realized it was desperation.
"The King is dead!" someone shouted from the crowd. More were coming from the shacks. Others took up the shout, repeating it. "The King is dead!"
"The King is dead!"
"The King is dead," the blacksmith agreed, nodding his head. He concluded, "Long live the King – the King of Northrend."
"Long live the King!"
"Long live the King!" the whole of them shouted, as many rasping as those who could speak clearly.
Oh, that was much better than those that tried calling him High General. Malthon settled back in his saddle, showing only stone in his expression.
"What a wretched lot you reside over, King," one of the death knights mocked in his metallic voice. There was grainy amusement in it, and others chuckled darkly. He surprised the rest of them, and certainly Malthon, by repeating icily, "Long live the King."
A second death knight repeated it, then a third and fourth. Many of them had been Lordaeron heroes and champions, Malthon knew, but to elicit this response from them...
Only a fool would accept this nonsense, Malthon told himself. He was no king, and barely even a lord. He was a paladin, a man of Light, a servant of the world – not its ruler.
"It is not for you to decide," Malthon told them finally, his voice hard as marble.
Another man stepped forward, in a simple brown vest with tattered breeches. "And forgive me, milord, but it is not for you to decide either."
"Enough of this," he replied. "We are here to take deliver you from your prison upon this island. We can take twenty at a time. I will take to cleansing each rider of any disease or illness and bless them before departure. All who will go, approach now, and let my lay my hands upon you."
All all two hundred of the Scarlet Onslaught did, accepting even the death knights to follow their "King." It was then Malthon stopped to reconsider that blacksmith, who opted to wait until the latter evacuations were to happen. The man stood there with his arms crossed, a smile on his lips. Had he known that such a declaration would tie enough loyalty to Malthon to have the Onslaught accept passage from death knights?
The thoughts hounded him the entire ride back to the Shadow Vault.
XxX
Seventy five men and women followed Balinda's congregate back into the Shadow Vault. Alliance strandees, the forgotten or unaccounted for, and the crusaders that rallied to familiar banners.
Justice, Balinda's charger, snorted as they rounded the top of the stairs, entering the densely packed crevice of the Shadow Vault. She looked up to the hills to see a full score of men either tied to lash posts or crucified, and she shook her head at the ignorance of some men. At her side, Jenn clucked her tongue in agreement.
There was a strange energy to the rest of the forces here, she noticed. New tents had been raised at the steps of the fortress, and many more people were darting about the grounds. All seemed surprisingly well in her short absence, until a single phrase halted her and her entire precession:
"Welcome, brothers and sisters, in the name of the King."
Jenn started visibly at it. "In the name of... What blimey king are we speaking of, laddie?"
The herald blinked at her, before something clicked in his mind. He smiled sheepishly. "Why, King Malthon Eyenhart of Northrend."
"Yah!" Balinda shouted, kicking Justice into a sprint. She missed Jenn's following tirade of angry, dwarven curses, but her focus was too narrow to hear it anyways.
Men and women both leaped out of the way of the rampaging horse, and she swiftly passed the threshold of the Shadow Vault, plunging into the murky depths. The fortress was much too crowded for a horse, let alone one at that speed, but she did not care. Balinda found Malthon easily, trailed by a large group of military followers and paladins in their bulky armor.
With a command, Justice dissolved back into the Light, and Balinda hit the ground at a fast sprint, until she was right in the insolent simpleton's surprised face. Guilt trickled into his expression, but it was far, far too late for that. She felt about to rip out every blond hair of his beard at that moment.
"I am gone for two meager days, and I return to this!" she roared, stopping only when her breastplate bumped into Malthon's, sending him back a step. The collection around them quickly retreated. "King Malthon? Hell's Bells, the audacity of your behavior is absolutely unacceptable!"
Jayce was there, eye's smoldering, and his hand fell on her forearm. "Now see here-!"
He was thrown behind her in one motion, as Balinda advanced upon Malthon again. "I am going to give you ten seconds to explain exactly what in all the blighted nights you were thinking when you thought that taking up a blighted crown was a bloody good idea!"
"Hell's Bells, you weren't kidding, Malthon. She really is a bright storm on a shady leaf," Lord Danell Goldwind commented. Balinda chose to ignore him – she was, indeed, merciful when time did not permit.
He'd get something later.
Malthon had a reproachful smile then, glancing at the elven lord, and he looked back to Balinda bitterly. "Aye, a Fool King is me, of the Lordaeron refugees and forgotten men of Northrend. It became necessary to offer a High General for forces so repelled by each other."
Her gauntlet crashed into his furry cheek, sending Malthon to the metallic floor of the fortress. "But you didn't stop there, did you? You had to be a bloody king too, didn't you? You are no king, Malthon! You are a lord!" Her forgotten childhood friend was a lord, and nothing more. Their responsibilities were different. They were...
"Someone halt this accursed-" GONG! Balinda silenced the naysayer with a Hammer of Justice against his plated helm.
"He with the Crimson Hands," Malthon said softly, beginning to stand again with some difficulty. "The Light of the Creeping Rime. I did not ask for this, Dame Balinda. I rejected it as long as I could, but it became necessary. Judge my decision, Dame Balinda Crowngarde, and tell me it was not so."
He knew the workings of the Light within her. They had grown up learning of the beautiful Light together. Judgment, justice, they were her eyes, and her hands that of retribution. And Balinda had already judged him, as the Light did within her, and she railed against the fact that it deemed no reprimand!
So she said nothing, seething with fury that she struggled to continue calling righteous, as Malthon's familiar blue eyes bore into hers, his expression somber. Such was a man that could do no wrong, and the Light would tear him apart in its rampage of doing only right. His burden, his cross.
"Now, does Lady Crowngarde accept my place as the Fool King of Northrend?"
Her legs gave out from under her, like she had tripped over a rope. Balinda stared at the position it left her in, kneeling before him, caught only by her sword point digging into the ground before her. When had it even left her scabbard, or entered her gauntlets?
"Lady Crowngarde?" a high pitched voice yelped from behind her. Jenn had finally caught up.
Malthon's appeals to her different titles was not an idle thing. The paladin judged his decision, and now he asked if the Crowngarde would perform her duties, as protector of the realm, as knight and bodyguard of the king. And the Light had synchronized their actions, their words and motions. Malthon's powerful pull, his storm of Light, had swept her up and left her helpless before its strength.
So she let it move her mouth, watching as her mind spun with thoughts after thoughts. "You have my blade." She bit off the title that addressed him as her king. The Light allowed her the small victory: "You bloody fool of a man."
And so it came to pass that a King of Northrend was raised, to be accepted and defied by those who dared. And His eyes were set upon those He called Skinless.
AN: Anyone foreseeing any good things happening when Drekthac and the Ymirjar hear about this so called King? Didn't think so.
Well, that concludes The First Stage, and this burst of updates. For now, I'd like to listen to current thoughts, perhaps make some changes along what's already posted here, and overall take a break from writing before I continue on to the Second Stage.
