Chapter 16

Of Light and War Horns


X Fool King X

War horns greeted King Malthon's congregation. Commander Jake, of the 7th Legion, made a deep hum from his horse as they slowed down. His agitation was tightly contained.

Malthon wanted his party small, non-threatening in its appearance. He had taken with him only Balinda Crowngard, Jayce Greylane, Denell Goldwind, Arvin Ironhawk, the commander called only "Jake," and two protectors – one paladin and one death knight. At the Shadow Vault, Terrichon Galean was acting regent, with the heavyset Bardin Ironhawk his enforcing hand.

Their current location was the snowy mountains of Jotunheim, marching through to the vrykul megalopolis nestled on the nook beyond. It hadn't been long before they were noticed, and already they could see several bands of the giants charging towards them, with two drake-riding scouts above.

The death knight protector, a twice-raised undead called Sir Richard Houndson (without explanation to his entitlement), asked morosely, "So while you Light-folk bubble up against them, what am I supposed to do?"

Jake sniffed from his own war horse. "You'll die with me, the blood of a score staining your princely tunic."

"Such a shame. I do enjoy a finely made black," Sir Richard sighed, looking at the tunic his saronite armor was laid over. "I dare say a score and a half, however. You haven't seen these clumsy brutes in action."

For a twice-raised, the man did retain some sense of humor, if always dry, and always sarcastic. It was a far more pleasant personality than what Malthon usually faced.

"You never fought a Ymirjar," Jake returned with a voice of stone. "Let's see how the commonplace measure up." He drew his sword with a sharp ring.

"Put it away," Malthon commanded. He gestured Crown forward at a walk. "We're here to talk of peace, not war."

As he followed on a death charger, Sir Richard couldn't leave the topic there: "If its a dagger in your back that you're looking for, my lord, I can gladly-"

"Stop talking," Balinda cut in quietly but sharp as her own sword. The undead closed his hanging jaw with a click.

Though Malthon said nothing, he turned a look to his once-friend. Since his anointment as King, rifts had opened anew between them, and she remained withdrawn though clearly devoted to her duties. The Balinda that had sat beside him on the bluffs of the Argent Tournament was gone once again.

The hulking scores of the vrykul reached them finally, and Malthon's party stopped their advance. The men and women stopped at a safe distance, holding round shields before them and clashing their weapons against them in a cacophony of noise, adding to it with deep calls and shouts.

One of the proto-drake riders came closer, and he yelled, "What business have you in our lands, small one?"

Malthon remained a pace before the rest, dressed in his shining gold armor, with Crown a steed of brilliant white and colorful barding. He took a breath and returned, loud enough to be heard by all, "I am King Malthon of the small ones of Northrend! I seek words of negotiation with your Overthane – or King if he is present – about the Skinless threat that plagues this land!"

"Hah!" the rider returned. "You expect us to believe that the Fool King would come with a band of so few? We know how you small ones gather armies around your kings, to hide like cowards!"

At once, the Light slammed down onto the collected Paladins, while Commander Jake gladly returned his longsword to his hands. Sir Richard looked from one to the other, then called to him swirling darkness and green mists of undeath, to spiral around his hand and body, and finally a coat of frost crystallized over his armor.

Radiating brilliant moats of Light, his body untouched by shadows, Malthon said in a quiet tone – voice now amplified to be heard even louder – "Vrykul know best that it is not the number of men, but their individual greatness and strength. Show us the way to your ruler."

Though grudging, the vrykul headed his words. In this time where the war was done, it was for the Overthane to decide the fate of outsiders, and they knew from the Dragon not to underestimate those who were small. The vrykul scouting parties led the mounted humans, elf, and dwarf into the city. At sight of them, many of the occupants, civilian or otherwise, took to jeers and even greetings, while the scouts argued away anyone showing hot tempers.

Malthon saw the fortress from the very instant they cleared the path through the mountains. It was raised on the far bluff, and the structure scraped the skies like the lone finger of a titan. It was some miles to reach it, and he took to observing these giant peoples (their heads level with his while mounted), seeing really a simple village life, with perhaps a bit more arms laid about than a human one.

Early on, Sir Richard uttered in his observation, "Ah, my home away from home." Malthon recalled that the death knights had fought the front here for nearly the entire Lich King war, and prejudice had them at each others throats for the time after. The undead would know this place well, in the many tours.

Arvin, keeping to Malthon's left opposite of Jayce, asked, "You sure this is wise, milord? This city goes for miles in every direction. It must have the population of Stormwind or Ironforge."

Malthon did not smile, but serenity and resolve shone through his being. "Not nearly so many. I'd guess a few hundred thousand, but do not worry, old friend, the Light will see us out. And if not the Light, the vrykul will." The leading scout turned a hard eye his way before continuing forward. Malthon spoke for him to hear, "The vrykul aren't buffoons or blood-drunk children. They are men of hard honor and glory-driven, much like the orcs and even the humans of old: the Azotha."

Arvin noticed the louder voice, picking up the intent. In an obstinate tone, he followed, "So?"

"So," Malthon continued, grateful, "We are not here offering sword points, surrender, demands for passivity, or any collars for them to wear. They know our strength belies our size, they know we too follow the ways of war, and we've come now to offer them new war, not with us but from the Skinless fiends that pound at their walls, that drag their women off into the night and leave no remains for the funeral pyres. This is not an insult to our might or there's, but a brotherhood in the ways of arms, and any thane with a level head will know the advantage of an alliance between us."

"Hah," the leading man dismissed. "You speak like the Whelp. We will see what Overthane Ufrangsson thinks of your pretty words and shiny lights."

At the fortress, they dismounted and entered, while the escort of scouts was replaced by an escort of guards. The band leader gave Malthon's party one last look, then urged his men back into the rolling city of Jotunheim. The new escort was stoic, not even sneering as they walked, while Malthon's comrades remained close to him as the guards pressed in against them in the walk through the corridors.

Entirely unlike human palaces or castles, the throne room was furthest from the entrance. They walked up massive stairways, with the stone vrykul steps reaching over their knees each ("-not very dwarf friendly!"). Outdoors, they passed twice, walking along high terraces with outstanding views of the city and the thorny mountain range. Hundreds of guards manned the fortress, inside and out, and they gave cold looks Malthon's way in passing.

Finally, one last stairway remained, this one of longer and thinner steps, and the guards stopped them there. The commander, or whatever rank vrykul passed to their men, told them with a voice like a whip, "Draw your weapons at your own peril, worms. When you greet him, you will bow – like this!" The hulking man clasped a fist over his breast and bent at the hips, lowering his eyes to the floor. Righted again, he continued, "If he rises, you bow again. Should he offer challenge, only one may fight. Should you dishonor him by speaking over his words, your lives are forfeit. Should you displease him, your lives are forfeit."

Denell frowned at the vrykul. "You would have a king – and lords, mind you – bow to another? Your boldness is atrocious and barbaric!"

The giant's lips curled. "I do not expect a woman to understand respect, long ears! You do not kneel because you do not serve him, but you bow for he granted your requested audience, has taken you into his court, and risks his life to hear your miserable words!"

"Woman?" Lord Denell Goldwind repeated, affronted. Arvin and even Sir Richard laughed at the high elf lord.

"Yer too pretty, lad!" Arvin managed between guffaws. "Get yourself a beard like Malthon's."

Denell pointed to his scarred face, rent apart from temple to lip. "This, pretty?"

"If you are quite done!" the vrykul shouted at them, spittle flying and face reddening in rage. "Try to compose yourself like grown men when addressing the Overthane! Now approach, you worms."

They began to advance up the stairs. The commander kept the lead, while the rest of the guard crowded behind them, weapons drawn and ready. During the ascent, Arvin continued to Lord Goldwind, "Aye, milord – pretty for a vrykul." Even the elven lord smiled.

Malthon made no comment to the conversation, but he appreciated the heart his men kept in the face of this danger. They were in hostile lands, to speak to the very ruler of the savage people. Balinda beside him was as grim and stoney as Jayce at his right flank, and he kept himself as somber. It was well for a king to present himself as composed, always.

At the final steps, Sir Richard Houndson and Knight Marcanus Fouster added to Malthon's escort, taking to their duties with appropriate severity. Lord Goldwind, Arvin, and Commander Jake followed at a measured distance, content to leave Malthon to the negotiations.

Atop the stairway was not a throne room like that of King Ymiron, down in Howling Fjord. It appeared to Malthon to serve as an armory and trophy room, for weapon and armor racks were common along the walls, and with them were plaques, mounted weapons glowing with enchantments and runes, and also many war banners. Malthon recognized a few, including 7th Legion's, but what caught his attention most was the one he had also hung on the walls of the Shadow Vault – the white flag, featuring three black circles, each within the one before in decreasing size.

Malthon counted a total of twelve guards stationed inside the room, not including any hunters hiding in shadows with drawn bows. The crowd now blocking the stairway behind them doubled that number. He paid them all no mind though, focusing on the massive figure resting on the throne before them.

Overthane Ufrangsson made an imposing figure, with muscles ripping past tight armor confines, much like the smaller Bardin Ironhawk. His beard was long and braided, deep red in color, and his crown of dark iron was a regular horned helmet, much like Malthon who only chose to wear his smooth centurion helmet similar to Balinda's. But the Overthane did not show menace or loathing on his face. His eyes were narrowed with thought and lips pensive, and one hand touched his beard as he looked at those who entered.

Malthon stopped himself in the very center of the throne room, as he had been taught by his father, with his four guards right behind. His fist came to his chest, prompting the others to follow, and he bowed as he had been shown. The sound of jolly laughter surprised him.

"Ah, I see Vagrim already sank some teeth into you. Right yourselves, small ones, and obey court law as you know it. I have read extensively on the subject, to carry proper welcome in moments such as these." The voice of Ufrangsson was deep, resonating in its power, but it was smooth and twinged with the same buzz Malthon heard from court wizards and Dalaran mages, that of a certain intrigue to all matters in the world.

As the Light had assured the others through him, Malthon knew there would be no worry in the proceeds of this conversation. He barely warded off his smile.

As their gazes rose, the Overthane continued, "Welcome, small ones, to Balargarde Fortress, my home and the ruling seat of Jotunheim. Speak quick and speak honest, and on this day we may all part with our hearts still beating. Why have you requested audience?"

"My name is Malthon Eyenhart, and I am he who was anointed ruler and king over the many small ones of Northrend, most particularly those remaining upon this glacier. I come not with words of peace, but with words of war."

Ufrangsson had a wide grin at the words, and he straightened on his throne. "Yes, some of your kind fight well despite your size. So you wish to spread more blood on our lands, do you?"

"I do," Malthon replied, and the guards of the room began to mutter. He paid them no mind, instead pointing to the left at the white and black banner. "But not your blood. We call them the Skinless, and I know we both have faced trials in the new incursions from them."

The mellow, amused expression of the Overthane remained in place, and Malthon realized he couldn't read the vrykul because of it. "So, the Fool King seeks vrykul help against the darklings, does he? Is your steel and muscle not enough to weather this storm?"

Malthon lowered his hands and closed his eyes. He opened a link to the Light, to channel it into him, and then faced the Overthane again. "If I may speak honestly, then I will say neither is yours."

Thud!

A metal polearm slammed into the stone floor, sending a loud, vibrating ringing into their ears. "Shall I take his head, my liege?" the one called Vagrim asked.

Ufrangsson waved him back. "Not yet... As you can see, human Malthon Eyenhart, such slanders against our strength have consequences. Can you defend your insult, or will I repay it in blood and challenge?"

Malthon remained calm. "The incursions we have withstood are nothing but the overflow of a larger force. In the lands of the Storm Peaks, the true army of the Skinless – of the darklings – lays in wait like a boiling cauldron. If I have read my reports correctly, even the Scourge has been nearly obliterated by this new foe, and soon, I fear their master will send them into the world, raping and burning everything to ash. My kingdom, your city, and all the rest."

Ufrangsson was nonplussed. "The darklings die in droves to our blades. You have not proven their threat."

"Aye, many die easily, no better than basic footmen or a vrykul villager. But they have warriors too, those whom might be marked by their lack of eyes. They are larger, even more wrong in shape, and with them comes a power I feel even the vrykul would respect... and they are not few in number."

"Truly, small one?" Ufrangsson rumbled in a deep, thoughtful tone. "Tell me, how many of these sightless creatures have you felled?"

"Many. They come sometimes in the daily attacks."

"No, human. How many has the "King of Northrend" himself felled?"

Malthon paused, spine straight and hands behind his back. He felt more along the lines of a soldier than a king as he looked into the glittering dark eyes of the Overthane. "Six. I have personally seen to the slaying of six."

A new wave of muttering overtook the guards of the room, while Ufrangsson grinned on his throne. "Good, good. It is well to see that the humans choose their leaders on more than tongue, but in strength too. I know of the sightless creatures you speak of, and they are indeed glorious enemies to cut down. You! Flesh-earthen, what do you know of the vrykul?"

Arvin started at being singled out, but he stepped forward, beside Malthon, and he bowed once again before speaking: "Little, sir. Only what we've learned since coming for the war."

"And if I told you that once, in an age past, the earthen and the vrykul were once stanch allies against the evils of the old world. The earthen did the labor, in building and crafting, and we served on the fronts, defending the lands in glorious battle."

Arvin stroked his own beard then for a long moment, carefully considering his next words. They came finally as: "Then I would say that such an alliance has continued to the progeny of the earthen and vrykul." He gestured to himself and Malthon.

Ufrangsson nodded. "So I have seen. But your kinds are now weak, taken by the curse of flesh, and you are prone to the psychic advances and deadly powers once common in the old world. I have heard that even saronite can overtake the mind of your kinds."

Malthon returned, "Yet it was our kind that slew the Death God of Ulduar, to whom saronite was attributed as the blood of. And it is our kind, as the collective small ones, who also slew another, called C'Thun. Behind me is one who both overthrew the psychic chains of the Lich King and also wields and wears saronite with ease."

"Yes, the rotting one. He whom runs from death and the glory of the afterlife."

Sir Richard whispered, "May I speak, my King?" Malthon assented. To the vrykul Overthane, Sir Richard said, "Far from run, I have been thrust back into this world and more than once. Your val'kyr are largely responsible for such, so if you dare call me a coward for being risen, when it aches my soul in every moment this dead heart beats, you will take upon yourself the title of fool."

"My liege!" Vagrim shouted, but again Ufrangsson waved him back.

The vrykul nodded at the undead death knight. "Good. And the women. I see you also carry steel, and you, elf, have gained much marks of beauty on your face." Malthon could see Denell physically struggling with his restraint to not speak over the thane in complaint. "Do your soft hearts falter on the killing blows of enemies? Could you give the hand of mercy to a loved one in the greatest of pains?"

Malthon remained quiet, but the question was surprising. Balinda, falter? Never. But could she euthanize one she cared for...? For all her stone, her sharpness, her indomitable spirit... she was still human and a woman. Cold deeds, even a mercy-killing, were burdens for men to bear.

With all her usual gusto, she returned boldly, "If it were my king himself, I could grant him the mercy of freedom."

Ufrangsson's eyebrows rose, and he sat straighter still. "Ah, good! I hear a lie in your voice, but in time, and repeated enough, even lies become truth."

"Have you finished your tests of our mettle, Overthane?" Malthon asked, in the following moment. He did not want to consider those words and their validity.

A grin returned his question. "You must forgive my curiosities. My conversations with your kind are few, and the one stood there before, though he had much heart, was not one for words at length. So you have come to offer alliance between your forces and my city, but that is not all. Another matter plagues your mind. Speak it."

Malthon nodded reluctantly. "The Ymirjar. We have not incited war or their attention, but in the midst of our growing offensive against the darklings, they have descended their mountain to try for our defenses and positions. The unprepared have been claimed prematurely, and even when a proper defense brutally crushes an ambush, they seem entirely undeterred, even glad for their defeat."

For once, the Overthane sobered. His hand returned to his crimson beard. "The Ymirjar march for war, you say? Such is an unusual occurrence, for they are content in their paradise. But to gladly die at your hands, that is their way, though it says much of you. They believe your armies to be great enough to grant them glorious deaths in battle. If such a scent is found by them, then like sharks, they will frenzy about your kingdom until no one left carries the strength to give them their deaths. You have my respect, small one."

Malthon's confidence was unphased. The Light had a plan here; he could feel it. "Tell me, who rules the vrykul now? You are Master of Jotunheim, but what of the rest of the vrykul people?"

Ufrangsson shrugged his massive shoulders. "Queen Angerboda was slain before she could conceive a child, and we have not organized enough to anoint a new king... Let me assure you now, small one, that you certainly won't be him." The guards within the room laughed. Malthon noticed that they held a firmer presence here than human courts. Any present vrykul always seemed like a council, or a brother, with voice, not silent statues to fight and die for the king.

It also meant that the Overthane must speak for their benefit, to their likings, rather than take his own actions. It made a nice check and balance, if it didn't restrict speech into the patterns and traditions of the vrykul people – it worked like tribe chieftains, Malthon realized.

"Then the choice is solely yours," Malthon announced. "You, Overthane, hold the decision of finding the glory in a new war, with us former enemies at your side. If I may express a presumption, this foe may very well be a horror of the old world, and hardy vrykul are exactly the brothers in arms that I wish to see. You need not be involved with our dealings against the Ymirjar; I will personally see to the end of their threat soon enough."

Boisterous laughter. The Overthane shook upon his throne, hand on his knee, and the others within the room fared no better. When he could right himself again, Ufrangsson said, "So bold, small one! I would pay a king's ransom to see you in a pit with the Dragon!"

"Dragon?" Malthon asked, curiosity seeping into his mellow tones.

Ufrangsson's eyes twinkled maliciously. "He came here some seasons past. A ferocious fighter, with fangs that reach over six feet, and an appetite that no vrykul could ever sate. Fierce, majestic in battle, ripping apart his foes with the grace and ease of a bird in the sky... A human, much like yourself, only the blood of vrykul, the blood of the Ymirjar flowed through his veins. He proved himself worthy of Valhalas, slaying the mighty Thane Byjron and even felling Ymirjar warriors, taking Gjonner the Merciless as a brother in arms!"

Malthon's brows rose. He could only imagine the reactions of those behind him. "A human?" The Whelp comments, the mentions of Dragon within the city. It became clear to him. "A human has become Ymirjar?"

Ufrangsson hissed through grimy teeth: "Indeed. I trust you will encounter him soon enough, perhaps even watch him claim your head."

"Or he may listen to reason," Malthon mentioned pensively. "But for later. Have you reached a decision, Overthane?"

"Indeed I have!" Ufrangsson announced. "I have decided you may leave with your lives, every one of you."

Malthon didn't have to look to know what was coming, and he silenced any complaints with a raised hand. Closing it into a fist, he lowered it and nodded to the vrykul. Dryly, he said, "You are too generous. Is that all then?"

"That is all for you and now," the Overthane confirmed. He pointed a massive finger at Malthon, however. "But in two days hence, the armies of Jotunheim will pound on your saronite doors, Fool King. We are long overdue for a glorious war. Hope our banners are raised and the horns are silent, otherwise I will have decided that you small chimps do not amuse me enough for anything more than easy blood."

Malthon smiled. He was surprised at the wolfish feel of it. "I will see you then, Overthane. I look forward to a second meeting."

Ufrangsson returned it with a grin of his own, eyes still dark in their intent, until he glanced over to where Vagrim waited. "Let them go. See them through the valley."

Without further preamble, the guards against formed around Malthon's band and took to their tight escort back through the fortress. Vagrim did not follow after the orders were passed. Looking to Ufrangsson, once the small ones were far from earshot, he asked, "Do I send the call for war, my liege?"

"Once they are through the mountains," Ufrangsson nodded. He snorted a laugh to himself, rethinking their conversation over.

"My liege, will we finally see to the end of the small ones?"

Urfrangsson stood from his throne, and all the present vrykul dropped to their knees. "End them? By the gods, no! Could you not see the blessings bestowed upon the Fool King? Should he have lifted that hammer, not a single one of us would have survived. And a fool that king is not; he is a warrior and clever. We shall watch how they fare against the Ymirjar, and should they survive, we will accept their arms in an offense against the darklings. Now rally the thanes!"

"Right away, my liege," Vagrim growled beneath his breath, chastised but not shaken. He hesitated. "You believe they might hold against the Ymirjar?"

Ufrangsson nodded slowly, then took to pacing before his throne. Finally, with a hand stroking his beard, he stopped before the white flag with three circles and stared at its plain face. "That human is a match for the Dragon himself, and those with him are no less. We shall see their faring, when Fenrir meets Dragon."

"My liege! You would praise the humans so? They are small and pathetic!" Vagrim sputtered, and he lifted his head to Ufrangsson.

Ufrangsson turned, his expression flat and dangerous. Vagrim bared his teeth but did not retreat. "How did my father die, Vagrim?"

"Small one cowardice! Thane Ufrang the Mighty allowed a "messenger" only to meet an executioner!"

"Allegiance," Ufrangsson countered coldly. "He fought for the Scourge when the thanes moved towards independence, and when the small ones came for him, he fought and died alone. My father was a great tactician and warrior, but it was his allegiances that killed him, underestimating the small ones, even a messenger. I will not fall into his mistakes. I will use them to honor and outgrow his legacy."

Vagrim stood finally and made for the stairway in silence. At the edge, he stopped to face the Overthane. "My liege, an alliance with them is Hela's work. It will get you killed."

The stomp sent all the stones of the palace shivering, as Ufrangsson roared, "I do not fear death, maggot! I will do what is best for my people, and I will gladly die to save them from certain death! Now begone, and do not return until you have meditated upon the tomb of Iskalder and relearned honor!"

Vagrim fled to complete his tasks.

XxX

Malthon's party did not speak until they were already at the path between the Jotunheim mountains, alone again. It was Lord Goldwind who spoke first:

"Well that went quite well, did it not? The fresh arctic air still biting our lungs, the sun shining over head, and an army of what might be a hundred thousand soon to siege our walls. A good day, friends."

Balinda glared at him. "You could not feel it? Are you that weak in the Light or only a fool?"

Denell raised his long eyebrows at her, but his lips pressed pensively. "Malthon did his usual "bend the world's knee to me" trick, but I... Oh... Ohoho! Is that what that was? Malthon, you sly dog!"

"I haven't a clue of what you're suggesting," Malthon returned calmly, not turning his attention from the path. Denell laughed.

"What is it?" Jayce asked finally. Jake was also looking, though he'd been unwilling to voice his own questions.

It was Balinda who spoke, bitter: "The Light does as the Light wills, or as King Malthon wills. It wrapped the Overthane in his gravitation, controlled his thoughts and will towards amiability, inescapable in its grasp. Two days hence, Malthon's army will have arrived, ready and waiting for our war."

"It can do that?" Sir Richard cried from his skeletal horse. "Sounds no better than the Shadow!"

All the paladins glanced at him, and after a hanging moment, his jaw clicked shut. He gave them a shrewd returning look until they returned to their conversation.

"We can only hope he agrees to the alliance," Malthon said finally. "For now, we must arm ourselves to face the Ymirjar. I will take my place on the front lines. I need to find someone who can speak for them, even if they operate with no leader. That Dragon will have to do."

"My king, it is not wise to be direct with the Ymirjar," Sir Marcanus argued. "Not even the best of us can assure your safety against them." Balinda snorted loudly at that. Nervously, he added, "Excepting Lady Crowngarde, of course."

"Excepting the Light you mean," she said. "Have faith. It wouldn't let this lummox die even if he danced on the Frozen Throne and pissed off the edge of the citadel."

"Ah, the Crowngarde, hard at work," Jayce cut in wryly. She shot him a baleful look.

"Enough," Malthon rumbled in his solid voice. "Bicker all you like in private, but with me, you will compose yourselves appropriately. Should a Ymirjar spy be watching us now, he'd have nothing to report between his laughter, and we'd have no terms in negotiation."

Balinda turned away with her expression tight, watching the snow, brooding. He hated to treat her like this, but there were duties now, responsibilities, and they needed a sense of unity if they were to survive this barren wasteland. "How's our food and water stores looking?"

Lord Goldwind answered, "Between my battery and the death knights, we are looking at a good six month campaign of non-perishables, if we don't establish a supply line. With the vrykul numbers, we will need to recalculate, but at least then we might know of a steady supply."

"I could do for a few more mages. They work like damned walking feast tables, but my two men couldn't supply more than a score each continuously," Commander Jake added in, his voice gruff as his bearing and armor were.

Malthon said, "That is still forty less mouths to feed. We will figure matters out when the vrykul come. We cannot afford to march into the Storm Peaks only to starve to death. Let's pick up speed; I don't want to return only to see the vault in flames from the Ymirjar. Yah!"

XxX

"Lord Goldwind. Glad you could come," King Malthon greeted upon Denell Goldwind's arrival. The chambers within the Shadow Vault were few, but with proper accommodations, it had been fixed into an impoverished king's quarters. It suited the paladin who'd have rather have a spartan tent, the one also called Fool King. In a building where all the walls were saronite, the decorators had little choice but to cover them entirely with drapes and even an extensive painting rolling green hills.

Denell felt the usual pull on his face of the stretching scar as he smiled at the smaller human. "Of course, my king. I was told this is a matter of no importance, but your messenger did well in appealing to my curiosities."

The king was seated in a wood chair at his small table, thumbing over an opened letter. Though dressed in full armor, minus his helmet, King Malthon came to his feet swiftly and offered the second chair. "Just wanted a friendly face, and someone who is more on my side than the usual bowing and scraping before the king."

"We are all on your side, my king," Denell told him, amused, but he sat as offered, careful with the weight of himself and his own heavy plate. "You bear the duty well, and order has been maintained through the impossible. Scarlets and Ebon Knights, Light, you can seem a miracle."

"Keep this up, and I'll toss you out on your elven behind myself," Malthon warned wryly, but they grinned at each other following. Denell understood how the human must feel. The ceaseless reverence could make a lonely life, always isolated. Dame Balinda had taken to a wide avoidance of him, despite her place as protector; she was his next stop this night.

"So if not the important matters, what unimportant matter ails the king now?" Denell asked, and he nodded thanks as Malthon poured them both goblets of wine. Lifting gold chalice, he added, "If it is a drinking companion you want, I know a glamor to fit you in with the usual raff among the troops. Can't promise any bar fights with these boys, but stir some waters and you'll find a few lashes of tongues."

"I'll keep it in mind," Malthon replied, finding an easy smile. "But no, my wits must remain about me. I do not mean any offense by this, but can you perchance read or understand Darnassian? I received a splinter in Crystalsong Forest that hasn't bothered to dislodge since."

He slid the opened letter over to Denell. Fine parchment – cloth, silk by touch, with precise, flawless ink strokes in what could easily be recognized as elven letterings. Though only a high elf of Quel'thelas, he began to scan the enchanting lines. Malthon spoke to him as he read, sounding aggravated:

"A kaldorei woman has been haunting our camp since then. A Light-blasted living kaldorei, from perhaps before the breaking. She's taken a fondness to dropping in on me, testing my mind with spells or my nerve with complaints. I think she even saved my life once."

Unable to help himself, Denell began laughing. He deliberately closed the letter and slid it back, though he had read much further than he likely should have. It was difficult not to, with a letter like that. Grinning at the human lord turned king, he said, "The fondness is certainly clear there! If she ever tires of you, send her my way, and I'll pledge House Goldwind to the Eyenhart line for ages to come."

"So you can read it?" King Malthon asked, surprised. "Would you translate for me?"

"Mostly, I can connect their runes to our own – the writing seems closer to Thalassian than the words, at least – but I hope you're certain you want this. So far as I can tell, this is a piece of high class, articulate pornography, one of the finest of its kind." Denell barely strangled a bark of laugh at the look that came to Malthon's face. He covered it with a cough, adding, "This woman has a sound head for these things, and an ingenuous wit for both its presentation and... events."

Finally, Malthon set down his goblet and groaned, leaning back with a gauntlet falling over his face. "Tell me you are joking."

Denell retrieved the letter and cleared his throat, fighting against the smile trying to form. "Let's see... 'By the river brook, in freshest moonlight sky, I would have you see my temple in the sheen against my flesh. Take the wind from my mouth, and fill that ghastly void with pleasure serpent of-'"

"Enough!" Malthon cut in, and with the elbow braced against the table, his head fell into his palm. "Light, man. Light."

"Light indeed," Denell exclaimed, staring into the innocent depths of the letter. "Though from the entwining circle of vipers, I think she means tongue with that last one." He mumbled something in the smooth elven tongue, coming like a whispered song, then shook his head, "The human tongue is so clumsy for art like this. What you describe as locations is read here as states of being, and the seamless flow of runes here an old elven slang I cannot even explain, but its beautiful in reference. Light, man, she's thrown together more intricacies of language than I'd even remembered existing."

"So who is she?" Malthon asked in a tired voice. "A queen? Or perhaps a rhetorician of high courts and boundless libraries?"

Denell traced the bottom lines, soon shrugging in reply. "The thing about our runes are they are in meaning, not sounds. I haven't a clue how to read her name, and the titles are equally unfamiliar. High class, though, that is seen by the "elite" ending here of the first word, but I do not recognize the detailing prefix."

"Do you think you could speak with her if she shows again?"

Denell gave a hesitant shrug. "Thalassian and Darnassian both descended from the kaldorei tongue, so it might be easier than conversing with a modern night elf. But I make no promises, and I doubt she'd welcome my appearance even so. This woman is a conqueror, if not of kingdoms, then of men, and I am the last who wants to intrude on her campaign."

"Always glad to have stout brothers at my side in times of hardship," Malthon droned with a deliberate look.

Denell snorted, and his scar stretched again at his wide smile. "She very clearly outlines only two things are going to be hard with her: your... well, humans call it driftwood, but we have a praising form for wood that has been smoothed and softened by waters; the other, of course, is the implied pace of things. Everything else from her is smooth, silken, shivering-ecstasy softness."

King Malthon's glare was brief, and Denell's insolent smile never left him. "Is there anything of use in there? The address to me, the conclusion, anything apart from... that?"

After another glance through, Denell shook his head. "So long as we are on topic of unimportant things, however, I will say I am reminded of my disdain for the Common tongue. Her whole style of writing is a provocative tease. The, shall we say, juicy bits are completely shrouded in liberal use of metaphors, allusions, and- and, well, you don't even have a word for this. Issielaro, where descriptions of the internal represent the happenings of the external. And, I'd even forgotten, but she has a clever use of "Congruent Issielaro," which is the description of the internal to describe the physical internal. Raunchy minx; Light, but the lines of suitors she must have had once."

Malthon accepted the letter back with a shake of his head, then stood. Denell watched him move to his iron-clad chest, carefully returning the letter to a collection of others, while Malthon said, "And by her experience, I bet she also moved through them one by one."

Had Denell been of a lessor sort, the wine he was currently drinking would have sprayed entirely over the table. Instead, he stopped the latest swallow, holding the wine in his mouth while he chuckled, then finished his drink with a grin. "If I find myself a wife with half that language skill and wit, I'd count my luck as one with the stars. My advice to you, brother, is do not turn her away solely for that appearance. She might believe, as is true for nearly any man not strong in the Light, that the easiest way to establish peaceful ties is through the bedchambers. She could be an educated virgin, or reciting an aged poem, for all we know."

"No one of noble line begins with their true face," Malthon agreed, though his reply was bitter. He had interacted with this elf before; he wasn't sure she could compose herself any other way.

"Ah, but you do," Denell countered, amused at his own twist of sides. He stood when Malthon did from the chest, and he saluted. "For its worth, may you find a deep sleep tonight without the warmth of a darling courtesan, my king. And may I never have to pass a blessing like that to another!"

Malthon waved him away, but they parted with friendly grins. Outside the king's chambers, Denell shook his head, laughing softly. His hands found the pockets beneath his breastplate, hiding from the cold of the vault, and he proceeded with a soft whistle, an old elven tune. His thoughts were of home, where such rhetoric would have faced great scrutiny and acclaim.

Though his walk appeared whimsical to the soldiers and servicemen who bowed to him, Denell knew his exact destination, though his path was not at all linear. After a time of watching the distant lands outside their tucked fortress, he turned away from the snow and returned to the depths of the vault. This one had chosen her quarters exactly opposite of the king.

He made a count to five after his two short raps when the saronite door swung inward. Like him, like the king, Dame Balinda Crowngarde never seemed to leave her armor. Even her heavy blue cloak remained fastened to her wide shoulders. Surprise did not touch her face, though by hesitation he knew she hadn't expected his appearance.

Bowing formally, he said to the small human woman, "Pardon, but I wished to speak to you, if you don't mind the company, my lady."

She was a rather charming-looking lass, he noticed, though far rougher than any elven women. Despite what the rest of the world thought, they enjoyed the roughness of the other races, much like he was told of their fondness for the slender, flawless, refined features of the elves. To Denell, elves were like fine paintings, but humans were real people.

He kept his attractions to himself, however, as he patiently studied her face. That line of silver in her neatly brushed hair caught his attention, as it always did. He wished to ask, but he did not.

"Lord Goldwind," she greeted finally, stepping aside. "Come in. I can spare a spell before I retire."

Though a hard woman, he was glad to see her expression soften a tad. That would change before his parting.

Inside was King Malthon's dream room. Entirely spartan: bare metal walls, a lone cot in the corner, a chest, a fold chair and matching table, and a mat with only a blue-plumed helmet. There was not room for them both to sit, but he did not intend to stay long.

Dame Balinda closed the door behind them, and she settled at the wall with her arms crossed, facing him. She said, "Forgive my lack of proper reception. I was not expecting visitors."

"And it is not like me to drop in, unannounced," he told her. A moment later, his head bowed, but he kept his eyes upon her stormy grey ones. "I would like to discuss King Malthon with you."

"Oh?" The hardness returned as quick as the donning of a mask or armor. There was much duty to this woman on the matter, and much conflict.

"Ease yourself, Lady Crowngarde. I mean only to bring certain knowledge to light, for your sake."

"You have my ears, Lord Goldwind."

"And apparently your ire as well," he mentioned with a light grin, but he wilted under her steely gaze. He recalled Malthon's embellished letter, and he thought of the ways he might speak if this were a formal Thalassian meeting. He remained constricted to the Common tongue: "This conversation cannot go the way I wish, for you will reject me before a point can be driven home, but I will test my limits with you. Warn me when you must, but try to bear more than you ought."

"I am not a testy queen in earshot of her favorite headsmen, lord. Speak plain and speak clear, and the Light will ensure that right is done here."

Denell had taken to pacing at the far end of the confined room, but he ceased his restlessness and quelled his mental warnings. Facing her, he asked, plain as requested, "Do you love Malthon?"

His lips yearned to twitch in smile as he saw her immediately begin to reject the question as personal. Her quick mind seemed to note his prior words of limits, and while she fought for a just answer, he simplified the matter by saying, "You spoke boldly, but even the Overthane noticed the doubt in your voice at the thought of delivering Malthon into death, for whatever the cause. We who fight the Scourge know of this burden more so than any other, yet your thoughts hesitate."

Balinda did not look away from his face as he spoke, nor did her cheeks heat with blush or show sign of embarrassment. She truly was a hard woman. When she finally spoke, at his conclusion, it was to say, "Malthon Eyenhart is the boy I grew up with my whole life. To him, I could be open and honest, about anything. To him, I could share the pressures of being raised noble, to him I could share my revelations of the beauty of the Light. To me, he had shared his darkest secrets, his blackest fears, and it was my voice that took him from a burning home to leading the refugees of Lordaeron to safety. We were promised to each other, and had the Scourge not claimed everything from us, we would have shared a life entirely apart from where we are now...

"Lord Goldwind, I know my duties, and I know my work, but you cannot share those bonds with someone and say in a certain voice you could kill them if the need arose. Even if those bonds have vanished in time."

Denell nodded, but he had to take to pacing again, keeping his head clear in the motion. "Compassion. I am glad to see brothers and sisters still versed in its lessons, Dame Balinda. But though you address the clues, you do not address the question: do you love him, more than a sister might?"

She said nothing, pinned against the wall as she was. Just a sentinel in steel, of steel, until she slowly shook her head. A decline, but not verbalized.

Denell reminded himself to take the topic softly. "I am worried, Dame Balinda. About you more than the king – because while dissent was expected from you, this severity was not."

Not even a spark of anger broke her mask as she exclaimed, "Malthon is no king, nor high general, nor other executive figure. He is a lord and a paladin."

The doe was in the trap. Spring, not with teeth, but with net: "He is an Eyenhart, and the Eyenhart's are leaders, if I recall my Lordaeron noble lines. That is why you urged him to lead the refugees of your burning kingdom, rather than jump beside him in the support-" he needed "-of a second noble. That is why I urged him to take the place of king here."

The struggle, coming from stormy eyes and unyielding resolve: "Let's not be fools, lord. One does not need to be king to lead, and that is the flaw here. King's command different duties, different responsibilities and formalities, entirely separate from a ruling lord, which Malthon is. I'd have given him my life without being pressed onto my knee in the servitude of a Crowngarde."

Does the hunter approach the doe, to cut its throat in swift death? Or does he remove the net, releasing it into the wild to reflect upon the odd encounter? Denell showed the knife: "Malthon does not have the heart of a king, on that I agree with you, my lady." For once, she appeared surprised. "Though he has the ability and wisdom, that is not why I turned him into accepting the position. It was not ambition but necessity. Our forces: Argent, Scarlet, and Ebon, we do not mix like fine tea. We churn like cauldrons, boiling and fighting until we erupt in combustion.

"We needed stability. We needed an iron hand, not of cold strength, but of broad authority. Malthon was not only the best choice for the task, he was the only choice. And he saw that too, with the last of Lordaeron looking at him in the buzzing moment of considering themselves a rightful king. Light, he had no choice in this, not with how he is compelled into always giving himself for higher purposes."

Balinda remained silent, but her face showed a storm of new thoughts. Denell knew his words could never change who she was, and she would rebound into the same biting, ferocious maiden of steel that she was. From the intrigue of her latest stare, he knew she was thinking back on his early words of the conversation, but he hesitated in bringing the words forth.

Dare he tell her what she would not admit to herself? Dare he remind the last Crowngarde of her own oaths?

The hunter kept the knife at the doe's throat, hesitating. This was not a matter of compassion, but consequence. Take the kill, but he must follow the course of preparing himself dinner, preparing the leather, and whittling the bones – to the end. This conversation cannot go the way I wish. Grimacing, he quickly cut the doe loose of the net, freeing it:

"Malthon is lonely," he said instead. "Everyone, including you, seem to have abandoned him to his Duty. Try to understand he is still the lord you know, even as a king, and support him all the same. When this is all over, Malthon with pass down – or shatter – the crown upon his head, and he will return to the life he loves, in doing right by the Light, and treating his fellows as brothers, not subjects." Wait until then, he clipped from his conclusion, like so much else.

As Dame Balinda delayed further in replying, acting entirely improper in a conversation between nobles, Denell Goldwind sought to bridge the gap in proper manner: "Forgive my rant, my lady. It was rash, and bold, and I am shamed by its demands. I will depart now and let you rest the night." He moved towards the door, and automatically, Balinda pulled it open for him.

At the threshold, he paused at a very soft whisper: "Thank you."

Denell smiled, though she couldn't see, and he continued out, stuffing his hands into his pockets and finding his whistling tune once again. Had an elven woman said that, he'd be left wondering what revelation she thanked him for, for what path he opened or opportunity she gained, or even if a burden had been lifted in their subtle way. From a stout human woman, it was nothing more than a gratitude for his words on the matter.

He wondered if she'd sleep at all this night. He knew he wouldn't.

XxX

"Those are war horns, my king. Shall we prepare a defense?"

It was frightful to King Malthon how quickly the Scourge had fallen. When first marching through the glacier, he had hoped to use them as a buffer between his forces and the Skinless. For a time, it had worked. As the days progressed, especially now ten days after being raised king, the Scourge had been reduced down to only their citadel. The armies of Jotunheim had marched through the arctic vale challenged only by Skinless.

Those black-skinned numbers had reduced greatly these last few days, replaced by the marauding bands of Ymirjar. It was still in debate which was the worst threat. The day before, Malthon had led them into a skirmish with the Ymirjar, slaying a dozen of the behemoths himself. A hundred and fifty of his men needed redeeming following it – a fifth of his total fighting force, left in the hospital fighting the sickness of death.

Now the Jotunheim armies were here, not in a unified column of men but a blotchy trail that reached back for miles. Commander Jake had averaged them to ten thousand – hardly a fraction of the vrykul capital, yet nearly twenty times the size of Malthon's own army. The Overthane had kept much in reserve, likely to defend his city in the war.

It was a real fighting force, as seen in the days of the war against the Lich King. Malthon's troop could be called no more than a band in comparison, even though he held mostly paladins, full death knights, and 7th Legion men – over four hundred, in the census, with another hundred and fifty of basic footmen and militia. All but perhaps a score of his followers fought; the invalids had already marched south to find haven in New Hearthglen.

Standing on the bluffs flanking the Shadow Vault, heading his usual military followers, Malthon answered the question: "They are not here to war, but it would be foolish not to rally. Show them no weakness. Line the walls with range, whatever we have, and set the ranks behind barricades, same as a Ymirjar charge. We will stand at the front."

The officer saluted and turned his charger back around, disappearing quickly down the slopes. To Knight Marcanus Fouster, Malthon's paladin bodyguard, Sir Richard Houndson mentioned, "Well, at least our dear Fool King justly earned his title."

"Silence your treasonous tongue, death knight," Sir Marcanus whispered sharply. He had come from the Scarlet Onslaught paladins, down in the Dragonblight, and had marched with Malthon since. Though the tabard and many of their ideals had been discarded long ago, Marcanus had not welcomed the Ebon Blade with open arms.

The two were called the White and Black Knights, by some. They got along well, despite their differences.

"Let's move," King Malthon declared, turning his own horse around to begin the descent. He wouldn't involve himself in their dialogues unless kingly word was needed, not while in public.

In barely twenty minutes, everything was prepared and quiet. The opening war horn had been the only blare, and the vrykul had not moved to charge, slowly climbing their steps. The men remained tense in their wait, though Malthon was calm and relaxed. The vrykul could not rile him up, nor did their presence threaten him.

The Overthane was clear among the hordes, riding at the very front as one of the very few to be mounted. It was no proto-drake either – scores of those soared above the troops already – it was, strangely, a demonic felsteed scaled to meet his size. In fact, Malthon had yet to see a vrykul cavalry of anything else.

Horses of the Nether that did not need to be fed or cared for, could be summoned and dismissed anywhere without need of stabling, did not grow aged or weak, could be cast into a new body when weary. Paladins knew the reasons well, for it was the same with their own chargers of the Light. Only, they did not need to dabble in warlock arts, incite ire from demonic masters, or risk the temptations of the powers.

When the vrykul neared the last flat stretch before the hard saronite stairs, Malthon urged his cohorts down, to meet them at the flats. Already this high up, and not even half of Overthane Ufrangsson's troops had begun ascending the mountain path.

King Malthon stopped his horse only a dozen yards before the Overthane's. He was forced still to look up to meet the vrykul's eyes, but he did not waver at the gaze, instead beginning by saying, "I see the banners are raised, and the horns seem silent. Do we fight as brothers, Overthane, or do we squabble as children?"

The thick lips split open to bare Ufrangsson's teeth. "Stepping on this "city" of cockroaches would be no more a squabble than squeezing an egg between my fingers."

"We spend our days dancing with Ymirjar. If you think believe your men measure up, come now and see how many of them remain in an attempt to siege us. It will be like swathing through the fields of Dragonflayers at Valgarde again." There was no doubt that word of that travesty had reached their ears here – the full might of King Ymiron's men marched from Utgarde Keep to the budding city and were wiped clean, with hardly any Alliance loss.

It had been their first exposure to the vrykul. They learned there that muskets couldn't penetrate the steely rib cages of vrykul, that attempts to scout and spy resulted only in death, and also connected the link between the Azotha and their forefathers, revealing the humans as vrykul descendants afflicted by the curse of flesh.

At Malthon's bold words, Ufrangsson leaned back on his steed and laughed. All of the nearby vrykul did. It was an unsavory moment, and Malthon hoped it was not a sign of hostility. When the Overthane settled, grinning stained teeth at Malthon, he nodded and said, "You will do, human. I will find my glory at your battle side, if you can make peace with the Ymirjar."

Not a few sighs of relief behind Malthon regarded the declaration. King Malthon himself, however, proceeded: "We have room for a thousand within the fortress here. The rest must camp among the hills or at the foot of the mountain. Our defenses there will be first in line for a Ymirjar incursion, and the matter will be settled within the week. For now, I would like to discuss your style of supply lines, military action, and traditions, so that we may not step on each others' feet."

Ufrangsson nodded. "My father could have made great use of a human like you, Fool King. I honor him by taking his place." Turning his head, he roared, "Blood Guard, into the keep! The rest of you rabble, make peace between your asses and snow!" Those immediately closest began to march forward, splitting around the Overthane. Malthon recognized them by oiled, shining armor and finely runed weapons.

"Make way!" Malthon ordered. "Captain, I want the stewards to show the vrykul their wings of the fortress. Have them open our caskets of mead for our allies."

"Sir!" the present captain shouted, and he turned to march back up the stairs. The other officers remained close to Malthon as the vrykul passed them on either side.

Overthane Ufrangsson approached Malthon then, bringing his flaming horse close. "Well, Fool King?" he greeted by mock. "Where shall we hold our council?"

XxX

Malthon still panted as he ripped his mace free. Pieces of bone and brain splattered from it, and red still dripped as he raised it to his shoulder, adding to its already painted look. The Ymirjar were retreating from combat, though they would be back for their dead shortly. Their voices were excited and boastful, even with their backs shone, as if leaving a victorious battle ground.

"Balinda?" he called between breaths. He struggled to find the strength to turn his body in full armor.

"I'm still here," her matronly voice hissed out. "Blast it."

He limped his way to her side, then ducked under her heavy arm to give her support. Balinda's breaths were light, shallow, and she hissed again at the movement. Her right hand was pressed firmly over a large hole in her armor, at her right side near the end of her rib cage. He remembered with great clarity the moment when a spear had taken her through, the silence from her as she cut the shaft with her sword, and the tenacity as she slew the wielder with the remaining portion still sticking from her.

The Light had already flickered from them both, too weak to maintain their blessings, but together, she and Malthon managed to weave a flash of Light to help her wound. The icy air seemed colder than usual as they hobbled together back towards their side. So many corpses, so few still standing.

In the far distance, the Jotunheim vrykul waited at the foot of the mountain, watching callously. A band of fifty reserve were already charging forward, joining those in Redeeming the fallen. No one was allowed the peace of death just yet. No one but the Ymirjar, who craved it with such hunger.

"There are more of them now," Balinda mentioned tightly.

Malthon had noticed. "They needed the reinforcements. We've felled over fifty of them now."

"And nearly half our men are stuck in the hospital after Redemption." Balinda coughed and groaned, then killed any complaining noise. Firmer, she said, "I fear they march us in whole now. We won't survive that."

Malthon was most surprised at how she was even talking to him, even if it was about their battles. Lately, Balinda had been the most distant of all his closer friends... if he could call her that. "I need to meet the Dragon. Only then can we end this stupid conflict."

"Does the Light tell you that?" she asked, still leaning most of her weight against him.

"You know-"

"Does your gut tell you that, then?" she cut in sharply, but then coughed again and stumbled. "Light, Malthon, I know you. It's the same blasted thing."

He smiled humorlessly beneath his own helmet. "I hope so, Balinda. I hope so... We need to make an offensive against them, to meet them on our terms."

Sir Richard appeared quickly before Malthon, recognizable by the exposed bones of his elbows before the white armband near his left shoulder. "My king, I can take her from you." Sir Marcanus was there too, sheathing his sword, and he agreed with Richard.

Balinda didn't move to transition her weight, and Malthon didn't let up his support. They ignored the bodyguards, who then fell in behind them, drawing their weapons again and facing the way the Ymirjar had departed.

The wounded woman said, "These are our terms, you lummox... Ah! Blasted...! We have our defenses here, the advantage, the support from stationary range... Leaving would be suicide."

"We must," he returned quietly, and this time Balinda said nothing to argue.

XxX

Overthane Ufrangsson had laughed. There had been nothing kind to the sound, nor to its meaning, and he called Malthon a child with only air between his ears, once the idea was proposed to their council.

"You think that success against skirmishes of fifty mean anything against striking their actual force? Smart men weather storms, not chase after them!" Ufrangsson told him, concerning Malthon's idea of marching to the Ymirjar.

Malthon was indifferent to the insult, peering down at the map of Icecrown. It showed their armies and defenses spread around the bottom of the Shadow Vault's pathway, and it showed the Ymirjar's camps, sitting near the mountain of Ymirheim. He told the vrykul, "The Dragon sits in his roost, watching us with lazy eyes, testing our resolve against his nearly unstoppable force. Just enough to tease us with their swords and spears, then out to celebrate their losses. We must turn this into our own game, our rules, and lure the Dragon onto the field. There, he will listen to reason... or he will fall."

Ufrangsson slowly shook his massive head, glancing briefly at the map. "A fool might praise your boldness. We are not fools here. Whomever will march to them will find only glorious deaths at Ymirjar blades. Are your men ready for Valhal, Fool King?"

Malthon did not know why he felt so determined for his plan. The Light told him nothing, answered his prayers only with strength, not with direction. He felt inside though that this was the only way he could proceed, even with the burden of the many lives that would be lost – a defeat out there would not allow them to Redeem the fallen.

His brothers and sisters told him nothing after the initial dissent. They looked to him, trusting him to lead them with the Light's own plan. Could they not see that for all his brightness, it was he that was lost here?

"I will take one hundred companions. The strongest of us, both paladin and death knight, and we will see what honor the Ymirjar return the numbers. They would take no pleasure in overwhelming us, find no glory in it. I will secure a duel with the Dragon if I am able."

Even Ufrangsson had no immediately reply, though he growled and turned away from their table. His two captains muttered to him, sounding both disgusted and troubled. Ufrangsson silenced them with a hiss.

"You will have my blade, King Malthon," a feminine voice began. Nearly everyone jolted when they realized it was Balinda who addressed him by his title. After a long moment of hesitation, Malthon nodded to her. His only thanks.

"Give me an hour, sir, and I have have a dozen of the finest death knights remaining to prepare a black guard for you," Sir Richard announced, and Malthon accepted him as well.

Sir Marcanus, the paladin twin of Richard, added, "And the white guard will be your right hand, my liege. I know stout men of the Light eager for the white band." He gestured to his armband, in the same place as Sir Richard's.

Commander Jake spoke up, his voice marked by its deepness and gruff tones, "If its Ymirjar we're hunting, I have a score still thirsty for their blood. Two dozen 7th Legion men that Lady Crowngarde brought from the south will fill any slots remaining, if there is need."

Lord Denell Goldwind pledged his own men from the Argent Tournament battery, while Commander Jayce Greylane and the Ironhawk brothers offered themselves. Jenn Stoutmantle would be sure to follow Balinda. It would be a whole slew of familiar faces, Malthon feared. Any life lost would be a dear companion.

"Tomorrow, we will march," Malthon told them. He looked to the vrykul Overthane, whom had agreed to their alliance. "If we fall out there, the remaining men are pledged to Overthane Ufrangsson for the purpose of combating the Skinless. They are a matter far more important than squabbles between us and the Ymirjar."

If the Overthane was surprised, he hid it well. With one ground-rumbling step, he was back to the map, peering down with cold and calculating eyes. Without looking to Malthon or the other silent 'small ones,' he told them, "I will hold your men to the plans you have outlined yourself, Fool King, but if the Ymirjar persist after your defeat, I cannot shelter them."

It was a tight corner that they were in, yet Malthon felt no trepidation. The Light comforted him, even in its silence. The lurking dread of the Skinless had lessened since the Ymirjar settled in the valley and had begun to deal with any that tried pressing forward.

XxX

Surprising the Ymirjar was a concept long since abandoned by the Alliance and Argent Crusade. They knew it was an impossibility from direct confrontation, and from the siege they had laid upon Ymirheim, only to be utterly destroyed for. So when King Malthon's cavalry charge came roaring over the last hill towards the closest Ymirjar camp, they expected to see the horde already banging weapons into shields with delighted cheer.

A small force of paladins squeezed beside King Malthon and his charger Crown. It had been a wordless agreement, yet they hoped to recreate the same effect they had against the Skinless pit lord at the Shadow Vault. Each of them – King Malthon, Lady Crowngarde, Lord Commander Goldwind, Bardin Ironhawk – called the Light to themselves, building up its awesome power in their bodies, letting the strange energy pull at the world around them. They drew and drew it upon themselves, until their powers pooled into one impression upon the world, a pull that was nothing physical, and when they felt it happen, Malthon raised his mace in cheer.

Around them, the one hundred companions carried the shout, and many other paladins offered their own strengths, adding to the pool like clinging droplets of water. Lord Terrichon, Jayce, and Jenn Stoutmantle shone the brightest of them, also pressing closer to Malthon.

Malthon did not know what the Ymirjar saw then from his forces as they galloped forward, bursting with Light, but it disturbed the warriors far more than any of the losses in the skirmishes before. Their lines turned to each other in quick questions, but their attention and weapons never wavered from their direction.

In the final paces of the charge, the Ymirjar hunters released their bows, and warriors threw spears, and elemental workers shattered the earth beneath them. Malthon did not perceive any damage to his side, and he raised his hand to unleash a blast of Holy Shock. He noticed with some surprise that those with him did as well, nearly synchronized.

The porcupine wall of the Ymirjar line shattered, completely washed away, from their tremendous release of holy energy. Their chargers and deathchargers burst through unchallenged, until they reached the wounded and dazed warriors beyond. That was where the battle truly began, Malthon suspected, though their pocket of Light did not disassemble easily.

Nearly a dozen more Ymirjar had perished before Crown was fatally wounded, the vrykul burned away in righteous fire or ripped apart from their weapons and the holy power therein. The faithful steed dissolved back into the realm of Light that he resided in, leaving Malthon on the ground below all of the towering giants of steel and death.

"The Fool King!" one howled, throwing his head back to bellow furiously, and then he jumped towards Malthon with axes raised. Already, the Lordaeron crest of the aegis had been replaced by lines of white light, and the axes scraped its long flat length to no avail.

The vrykul landed and spun, ready to reengage, but a mounted knight struck his back with a sword. The white armband on his left arm identified him as one of Malthon's guards, specifically a white guard. A second knight, this one in saronite armor, trampled forward and also swung a hulking claymore up the Ymirjar's back as he tried to address the first attacker.

"Lo, and behold!" a triumphant voice cried out, and Malthon recognized Sir Richard and Sir Marcanus working in unison to bring down the attacker.

Turning, Malthon left them to their opponent and began to run forward, gathering Light to his mace. Streaks of white light followed its path as he charged, until the first vrykul accepted his challenge. The giant's massive polearm was split in half, the mace cracking the wood thick as a supporting column, and the Ymirjar hooted at it, discarding the wood length to strike with the shorter head piece.

Three blows of the mace connected next, as Malthon slipped through the strikes of the blade, and the Ymirjar fell to the snow without rising, either dead or merely unconscious. He couldn't tell with their thick skulls.

Malthon saw two more stomping towards him, grinning wickedly, but before they could meet, a humanoid shape distinctly not human leapt into the two vrykul with savage furosity. It thrashed and scratched and bit and clawed, all while swinging around a thick, runed claymore. The three went down in a heap of vicious sounds and flailing limbs.

"Ah, dear Goffren," an amused voice mentioned from just behind Malthon. He recognized Sir Richard. "The worgen curse of Arugal has its uses. He makes an entertaining fiend!"

"Fight on!" Malthon roared, and both Richard and Marcanus appeared at either side, forming a trio with him in their progression forward. At the next charge of vrykul, Malthon hurled his shield at them, and the light around it gained a brighter hue as it seemed to actively seek out the foes. It crashed into each before rebounding back swiftly, yet entirely harmless – and seemingly weightless – to Malthon as he caught it and fixed it back to his wrist.

Each found themselves a Ymirjar opponent then as more mobbed for the King. Malthon found himself locked in a parry, between a boulder-sized mace head and his shield, only to stumbled forward against the Ymirjar when an unstoppable force collided with his back.

He heard the battle cry of Balinda screaming in his ear as she shoved him forward, her shield against his back, and together they knocked back the Ymirjar opponent, and Malthon's mace claimed first knee, then stomach and iron helmet while the opponent was out of balance. There was a crack and spurt of blood from the face as the mace hit the nose.

At the first free step, Balinda broke free of Malthon's back, turning like a swan with her sword in hand, and she thrust her blade in and out of a Ymirjar's stomach before it could react. Though black blood followed the wound, the blue-skinned vrykul showed no sign of it in his response.

Above, Malthon had seen glimpses of the dark harpies called val'kyr. They had been shouting since the beginning of the battle, yet it was only then Malthon realized it wasn't battle plans they were levying:

"Dane Beolvor the Mighty has been felled by the White Lady! Harken the Songs of Death, o' Ymirjar, for your brother has entered Valhal!"

"Gretild the Iron-Shot has fallen to the Elven Swan! Harken the Songs of Death, o' Ymirjar, for your sister...!"

Though Malthon's bodyguards struggled to keep apace with their king, only Balinda Crowngarde managed the spot at his side, weaving death and cutting destruction upon any who stood before her. Malthon was not so neat in his battle, crushing his opponents limb by limb before claiming a critical strike upon them.

"Lady Crowngarde!" a small, dwarvish voice screamed out, and like a cannon ball, Jenn Stoutmantle exploded into the field of vrykul, claiming feet and shins with her axe. She covered Balinda's flank with her shield, true to her name. Malthon knew his old friend was in good hands.

The pulse of the battle changed. Malthon noticed it in the lull between opponents, that the Ymirjar had begun chanting. "Dragon! ...Dragon! ...Dragon!"

Malthon developed a grim smile as he waited. He was here; the Dragon had been stirred from his lair. It was not difficult to spot the human Ymirjar either; he stood well below the others, yet his presence sent them into wide breadth around him. Light, but though the human was smaller than the vrykul, he had to be closer to seven feet than six. He filled his armor no differently than Bardin, like an orc.

The armor was a solid body of steel, smooth and flawless, with wide shoulders of iron spikes. The helmet was of vrykul make, though human size, with its large horns and sockets for eyes. It stretched just below the nose, revealing a wide mouth with thick lips between a dark beard shorter than Malthon's own, and the leather strap tucked firmly under the squared jaw.

Most attracting was the Dragon's Fangs. Two swords as long as Malthon was tall, nearly a foot side each. The silver blades glowed with obvious enchantments, the blade dancing with runes. Gold, ornate guards shaped like sinewy dragons ended the blade, and the hilts were tightly wrapped in dark leather at a length meant for either a vrykul hand or two human ones. The Dragon seemed to care for neither criteria.

Dark, nearly black, eyes remained fixed on Malthon in the Dragon's approach. White teeth gleamed in their wolfish smile, and the lust for blood was obvious. Malthon had seen the look in enough paladins of late, and he hated it, though he could do nothing for those who craved bloodshed.

"Watch my flanks," King Malthon called to his small company. The other companions still warred around them, among the sea of ringing metal and hoarse shouts.

Balinda's sharp voice demanded, "You better bloody well not die here, Malthon! You hear me?"

That was the kindest thing she'd said of him in years; he could have kissed her for it. Figuratively, of course.

The last two Ymirjar split apart to emit the Dragon to Malthon. At nearly the same moment, both Sir Richard and Sir Marcanus jumped before him, weapons and shield raised at the ready. Malthon tried to call them back, but the Dragon did not wait. He charged forward swords ready.

Malthon watched helplessly as in only a few easy strokes, his two bodyguards were slapped aside, unable to parry the swords, and then dispatched first one, then the other. Richard lost his sword arm, then was skewered to the ground. Marcanus kept his shield high, holding briefly, but then the Dragon took both legs in a low sweep, and the man fell like a tree in a spray of blood.

"They aren't who I want, Fool King!" the Dragon shouted, pacing to the side, the eyes of his helmet fixed on Malthon. His body was so lax, so graceful in its motions with armor on, like a panther. Light, but Dragon was a rightful title, he realized. This battle would test Malthon's body and strength.

Malthon stepped forward, over the groaning bodies of his two defenders, feeling righteous fury raging inside his chest. In a flat voice, he demanded, "And what is it you want, Dragon? How do I end this stupid conflict?"

"You don't end this. We do," the man told Malthon, shrugging once. He stopped pacing and faced Malthon. "For what we want, it is simple. We will break you, who dares to claim a title over the people of Northrend."

The warrior moved then, charging rapidly and striking with both swords in an overwhelming blow. Malthon caught it easily on his shield of Light, holding his place, and leaning in, he growled, "You will find we do not break easy!" He shoved back, finding no budge of the iron-clad human. Were those... braces?

Like a snake, the Dragon eased just the smallest tad on their push, then with the extra room, exploded into action again, bringing the left sword around to clip Malthon's right side – a clip from a sword like that would very well eviscerate him. Malthon caught it on his mace.

Calling upon the Light, Malthon had a Hammer of Justice crash into the warrior's helmet, immediately stunning him with supernatural efficiency. Malthon stepped back, demanding more into his mace for one finishing swing, and with streaks of brilliant Light trailing his weapon, he hit the stumbling warrior with a sound like a gong, and he flew backwards with a fresh dent in the oiled breastplate.

The Dragon scrambled to his feet with a strange sound. Malthon realized it was laughter. "Now this will be fun!" the human Ymirjar shouted, already twinged with battle lust and mounting fury. He ran back to Malthon, and rather than swinging, he slammed into him with sword flats, sending Malthon stumbling back, urged by the Light where the block the following strikes.

It was not a clean battle, not organized. The vrykul had a fighting style that was very efficient in open fields like this. Sword forward, shield up, made it impossible to overcome them straight forward. Likewise, they trained how to overcome shields, moving to the right in pattern, side-stepping until they could score hits past the range of their shields, hitting shoulder, hip, and side. No warrior sought to kill in one blow, instead weakening and wounding until an advantage, an execution, presented itself to them.

This Dragon sometimes followed that in their duel, holding his left sword angled for parries, with the right forward until he was swinging. But when carrying that much weight, and bearing that much strength, momentum played too large of a roll for the human, and the style broke to give him the extra second for overwhelming blows... and the effectiveness of those often outdid even the vrykul efficiency.

Malthon turned himself over to the Light. He couldn't win this with churchyard training, nor with his years of experience fighting weak-bodied Scourge with all-consuming flames. He was not skilled enough to beat warriors in arms; duels with Balinda told him that. But while the arms favored her, the Light favored him in ways he felt very blessed for.

No longer did he watch the oversized swords or tree-trunk arms. The Light moved his shield and legs into place always, never letting them touch him. He always knew exactly how to counter the strength of the blows, to keep his center of balance, how to brace his body. His mace no longer swung like a club. It moved with cutting precision, past skilled guards and positions, chasing like a hornet after a grumpy bear.

The most common strike to Malthon now was a thrust of his weapon. It felt strange, weak in its angle, yet this warrior was helpless to its bash against elbow, shoulder, and wrist. The thick, iron braces absorbed nearly all of the damage, and the shell of steel dented only from the strongest of his Light-blessed attacks, yet the warrior was left constantly unsteady, unable to build his precious momentum.

As their battle progressed, the warrior grew more and more enraged. Malthon could see it building in his face, see the strength building in his actions. Eventually, he could even feel the weight of blocking attacks with his shield of Light – even Ymirjar attacks felt like simple gusts. When he saw the grin that blossomed on the warrior's face, he feared he might have been too late.

Abruptly, this wrath-taken warrior broke from their strangled melee, then struck with a speed that made no sense. In hardly an eye-blink, Malthon had to thrust his shield to the far left, and he staggered forward at the ungodly blow that it defended against. He could feel the bite of the leather straps into his armored wrists and worried they would snap if blows like that continued.

They did.

Once, Malthon managed to thrust the mace into air, and the warrior appeared there in another swift rush of movement, colliding with it against the helmet. It broke the warrior's concentration, but he only howled in fury and struck harder, blood spilling from his nose.

It ended with one final blow. The warrior stopped three paces away, then threw his swords behind him and stepped forward, building every bit of momentum he could into one last strike under influence of his supernatural speed and strength. Malthon, curiously, felt only a sunburst of satisfaction from the Light within him, and he stepped forward into the path of the blow.

The shield rose, and it pooled with even more Light, glowing like the sun itself as the swords came for Malthon. They hit the wall of Light... and every bit of the energy was rebounded back with equal force.

The Dragon flew back, tumbling feet over head and roaring out in shock and rage. He hit the ground without grace, helmet first, and rolled with little control into a Ymirjar trying to reach the battle around their clearing. The warrior grunted in anger and kicked the apparent bundle away from his foot, and the Dragon landed farther forward, prone. Strangely, he held his monster swords through it all.

Many of the vrykul around them stopped at that, staring with shock at the fallen Dragon. The human began to rise, groaning, and he settled to his knees. Blood dripped from his face and beard, down his breastplate, and his eyes seemed red with their rage. He settled back onto his heels, then slowly stood from his squat, spitting blood from his mouth.

Looking, they both could see fractures running down the armor of the Dragon's arms. The bracers of his elbows must have preserved the limbs, for they were now rent apart in spokes of iron, yet the armor appeared about to shatter. The Dragon shook his head at it, impaled his swords in the snow, then removed his helmet.

It was a very human face under that helmet. The features were bold and strong, much like the vrykul around them, but the eyes were so clearly human, and even a face roughly cut from granite – like his – was still that of a human man. The beard remained well groomed, where not coated in blood. Atop his head, the hair was cropped short for helmet wear, unlike Malthon's.

Spitting another mouthful of blood and wiping his nose, the Dragon announced, bewildered, "A fucking... mirror shield? What in Hela's name...?"

Malthon had no idea either. He let the Light work through him. He did not admit as much, saying, "Peace, Ymirjar! We seek war against the Skinless invaders from the east, not subjugation of the vrykul! Join us in battle, or return peacefully to your home of Ymirheim!"

The Dragon tied his helmet to his waist, where two skulls bounced – Malthon hadn't noticed them in their battle, but nearly every Ymirjar had some – and began to pace to the side, wrenching the swords free to walk with them.

"We have finished our test of you," the Dragon continued, sounding suspicious. "We will return to Ymirheim for now... But, not without a little reward for my efforts!"

There was no warning as one of the massive swords took a warrior in the head, and the paladin collapsed in a heap. Malthon's companions, still many in their numbers, jumped at the attack and resumed their battle against the Ymirjar. Malthon stepped forward, confused, as the Dragon put his fingers in his mouth and whistled, then bent to retrieve the fallen warrior, throwing her over his shoulder.

Her. Malthon opened his eyes to the soldier, seeing then the blue cape, the inscriptions hanging from the armor, the broadsword and Lordaeron-crested aegis. The Dragon had captured Balinda?

Before he could start forward, a draconian roar from just above halted him, and a green-scaled proto-drake landed between him and the Dragon. "Coralhide," the Dragon greeted, patting the drake, before mounting still with Balinda over his shoulder. He took the reigns.

"No!" Malthon roared, and he cast a powerful blast of Holy Shock at the drake. The scales deflected the worst of it, and the beast lurched into the air with an annoyed squawk. "Balinda!" he called after them, but the sister was unconscious. The Light would have protected her, wouldn't it? Wouldn't it!

The Dragon left the battlefield, and the Ymirjar retreated back, laughing to themselves as they easily deflected the pursuing strikes of the companions. The val'kyr in the sky also turned back to their city. One in particular, with white wings, looked back to them, then departed at the tail end of the harpy horde.

"Balinda!" Malthon called, desperate, yet it was too late. Lord Goldwind, Arvin Ironhawk, and Jayce appeared at his side, but they could offer him nothing.

Balinda had been captured by the Ymirjar.


AN: As I mentioned before, I'm trying to keep the chapters more successive by subject rather than jump around between characters, for the ease of the readers. So for now, we are on the brief Malthon/Drekthac arc, where it goes Drek, Malth, Drek (more accurately Balinda), and then Malth meeting Drek. That composes the whole first half of the Second Stage, and the second half will be Sin and Thomas, in their respective fields.

Apart from that, I know what to expect review-wise from a story with only 30-50 readers, but I'd like to hear more on how things are on your ends. Are things still interesting, is there anything you'd like to see more/less of? Do you have the old god all figured out? Etc.

Thanks for reading,

-Sub