Chapter 18
The Light and the Dragon
X Fool King X
The water may as well have been tapped from the Frozen Sea itself, with aesthetic ice blocks floating within. Malthon Eyenhart, also called King, dipped himself inside it mindlessly, letting the sensation and shock of the freezing water roll over him, dunking even his head beneath its line.
Only a bath at this time. Malthon had requested the absence of heated water, saving his attendant from work, and though the man still simpered over the request, he abided by the King's wishes. The Light would refuse to allow Malthon harm within the arctic tub; once again, he was learning the lines between his will and its coincidence with the Light's own. He'd remember something and leave before he could reach hypothermia.
Surfacing again, Malthon was struck with sensation of water drizzling from his beard. It had become unkempt. Balinda would chew his hide over that, if she saw, yet it was precisely that reason he had allowed it to reach that point. Balinda, she was no longer among them. Taken by the Ymirjar, taken by the Dragon – and she spurred his attempt to rescue him, desired the company of the human called the Immortal.
The loss had hit Malthon swifter and stronger than he could have expected. He had never in his life felt so lost as he did in recent weeks. He got by on instinct alone, using the merit of the Light to make his kingly decisions. For the first time in his life, he had realized that the Light did have a purpose for him: it guided him, sure as any paladin, but with a hand so finely tuned to his personality and nature, grooming him to his great purpose.
The Light had groomed him. For what purpose, Malthon sought to ask, but the cold silence always returned him. Casting his thoughts back to his life, now as he had before, he saw nothing exceptional earned from his actions. Lordaeron had fallen, most refugees had perished, and it was not him alone who saw to the fall of the Lich King. Yet, the puppeteer behind his every action still tugged the strings, still protected him from any fatal harm in the world.
Protecting him, guiding him, grooming him. He was sat on a path of purpose, sheltered like a... like a bloody weapon, to be unleashed at just the right moment. And who was he aimed upon? The master of the Skinless? Certainly, that seemed the current shift of fates. Malthon was king now, and he knew... he knew, no matter his desires, that he would never be allowed to pass away that crown while he lived.
His father's deep voice spoke then, from a memory: "Yes, my son, you have come far. The Light moves mountains for your will, and you have shaped finely to your duties as an Eyenhart. But that is not all you must learn. Come, sit – and you as well, miss Balinda; I will not separate you from your fiance, and these are words that must reach both ears."
There was pain in this recollection. A beautiful hurt, of sunny days and a future spoken in bright tones, now so long burnt to ash, with the rest of the cities and land. Eighteen-year-old Malthon and a delightful, round-cheeked Balinda had sat at the outdoor table with Lord Eyenhart. Malthon remembered the glance he had given his betrothed then, still two years from their uniting ceremony, not knowing that in half that time, it would be called off in the wake of Lordaeron's sacking.
The brown of her immaculate hair had been pristine then, without a single speck of silver. Always, she kept that finely brushed, and under her bangs were vibrant, intelligent green eyes, lively as the trees overhead. That button nose of hers, above pink lips he fantasized about kissing – well, she was going to be his wife soon enough, he had justified to himself.
At the present, Malthon dipped himself back under the icy water, feeling it like fingers of the dead clinging at his face, until he was smothered by them. Numb, he continued the memory:
"As you both know, all high nobility – excepting your family, Balinda – must be prepared to accept the crown of the King of Lordaeron, should they ever be called to serve the Kingdom so." Lord Eyenhart had snorted after that, dismissing the possibility entirely, but he shrugged as he accepted a goblet of wine from Mister Black, their butler. "The chance is as fat as Bussy, but I will do my part in your education."
Bussy, their prized cow at the Eyenhart Estates. Rather than eat her, they had planned on breeding her for a whole stock of beefy calves. Balinda had scoffed, and Malthon remembered his shock when her foot playfully touched his beneath his father's attention.
"Hardly necessary, Lord Eyenhart," the playful Balinda had said then, "I'm the sole heir of Lord Crowngarde, so once Malthon and I marry, he will be exempt of the crown." Then the slanted, challenging look she sent his way, "Unless this lummox has ambitions that run deeper than our marriage." The reminder had Malthon grin, and Balinda's bright eyes sparkled as she returned it.
Lord Eyenhart's laughter was deep and bassio, and he shook his head, "So it is, but as you know, the Eyenhart line has always stood as leaders, if not as political as the royal family. When my father sat me down here, like this, with your mother on my lap- that is, at my side... oh, stop that!" Malthon's father had complained at the laughter of them, and the raised eyebrow Malthon had for Balinda. She swatted his arm, entirely unladylike, but the churchyard had taught them informal mannerisms.
"Continuing," Lord Eyenhart growled over them, "when my father sat us here, I had found the talk to be insightful, about the duties of the King, and one day, may it never come, it might prove essential for the sake of our people."
So he had spoken. Malthon remembered it all, every word and trait of a ruling king. It was a political world, one of shifting forces – and the difference was the King was one who could push more influence than the rest. Lord Eyenhart, in their conversation, had taught him the importance of respect, honor, and loyalty to the crown from the people. Discipline and code could not be ignored for royalty, and Malthon learned why.
That one conversation alone, over its many hours, ensured Malthon's indifference to such ambitions. To be a good king was both work and an act – Malthon called those two together a mantle – that could not be dropped except with only the most precious of friends, and even then, as his father had confirmed over political marriages, there was not even the certainty of trust in domestic life. Worst still was the evidence that sometimes the "right" decision... did not always involve a right action. It was like warfare: there were no flawless victories. The trick was to minimize losses, not eliminate them.
Yet that was not all Malthon's mind wished to show him. Still submerged, unsure of how long he'd been without air, he saw the vision stretch further, to when Lord Eyenhart left he and Balinda, with the sun now glittering oranges through the tree leaves. The sun had nearly set by the end of that chat.
The two youths remained silent for nearly a full minute, until Balinda had stood from her chair and offered him her hand. "Follow me," she told him. So Malthon did, because it was she who asked.
Balinda worked them to a run, pulling and pulling his hand until they were sprinting around the side of the estates, letting the evening breeze wash the heat of the fading sun from their skin. The iron gate she led him to remained open, and they passed by unabated, chasing after the whimsical Balinda until she stopped all at once.
Pain clenched within Malthon's chest, and his lungs burned at the need for air. He knew what came next.
As the young Malthon approached his fiancee, she spun quickly, jumping before him to catch him in strong arms. The churchyard had done wonders to her strength, and though it was mostly he who caught the weight of their collision, she remained stout through it, until she turning them in tight embrace, laughing. Two cycles she spun them, then released him to behold the estate gardens.
"Why here?" he had asked her, with an arm still around her waist as they approached an apple bough.
Charming Balinda took an apple from the tree, one both juicy and dark crimson, and with eyes upon its depths, she said, "It's supposed to give me luck."
"Trying to tempt me, are you?" he inquired, skeptical. Stern Balinda would be last to turn from the Light, between them two. Righteous, beautiful – and bloody strict – Balinda.
Smiling, she took a bite into the apple, quickly wiping the juices from her chin as she chewed. She said, "I want you to promise me something, Malthon."
Her hand, callused much like his, yet still so dainty and feminine, offered him the once-bitten apple. He noticed the green lacquer that colored her fingernails, remembering her disdain for the practice in the churchyard, then turned away from her. His arms went behind his back, copying the stance he often saw from his father. The paladins of their order disdained the image, but Malthon always saw a regal-ity to the look; they called him a fool for it, should he be wearing a cloak at the time.
He wasn't then, in that simple yet flawless tunic, and he wished to seem bigger than he was, before Balinda. She could make him almost shy sometimes; none had a tongue sharper, or a mind keener, or an eye more able to pick right from wrong, and though he thought himself often right – sought to do right, at least – Balinda always seemed able to find a fault, should she wish.
Inspecting an orchid, he asked mildly, "And what might that be, future wife?"
Though he could not see her face, Malthon knew what smile she held there for him. A thrum of Light first pulled then pressed against his soul, and he knew her to be satisfied, happy, or otherwise elated. That was a game they had begun playing, to manipulate the Light and let the other feel it, to communicate feelings without words. It had become reflex, and he was sure she didn't even notice.
He heard the scrape of the brick path as the stones shifted beneath heavy boots. One step, then two, closer to him, before Balinda announced earnestly, "I want you to promise me, my Lord Eyenhart, that should a day come that the crown is offered to you, that you will reject it without second thought or hesitation."
Malthon huffed a laugh, but kept the sound from her. In jest, he said with mock pension, "I may be the next Thoradin of the Arathor, able to unite all the humans to one banner again. You would have me deny now, without knowing the details or terms of the request, may that day never come?"
Something had crashed against the back of Malthon's head, and he yelped as he stumbled forward, nearly into the orchid, and he saw the apple rolling by him, now dirty. He shot Balinda a withering look, while she laughed, and those twinkling eyes just did him in as they always did. He could never be angry or frustrated with her, and he supposed he shouldn't have jested.
"We both know you'd make an awful King, Malthon. Like your father said, there will be times you must make decisions that will produce good but are not right, and you would kill yourself trying to find another way. This request is selfish, but it's for the good of us both: I keep my future husband, and you stay the Malthon I love."
"Sounds like the victory is twice in your favor," Malthon had grunted sourly, but she could feel the thrum of Light pass her way from him. It was inevitable, whenever either spoke of love or the certainty of their marriage. He felt so blessed to be betrothed to this one. He could not recall a single moment of reluctance about their arranged marriage, from childhood on.
Now, she was asking him for a promise, and he knew that, because it was Balinda asking, she would have it. "I cannot predict the Light's plan for either of us, but I will be damned before I allow it or anything else separate us. I will not take up the crown of Lordaeron, now or ever. You have my promise."
And the pulse of Light came from them both, meeting at the center, then reflected back for them both to feel.
Fifty miles east, halted in the midst of the morning meal and breaking her fast, a grown Balinda Crowngarde trembled at the conclusion of a memory, and the feelings she had once experienced.
Finally, Malthon broke free of the water's surface, and he heaved in a great breath of fresh air. His skin prickled and stung, and he recognized again just how awful the icy water of his bath was. Just as he was about to call his attendant for a towel, he felt a flame of caution from the Light. Nothing dangerous, but things were not as he expected.
Malthon wiped his eyes as his skin erupted into gooseflesh, and he resisted the urge to shiver pathetically. Peering about him, he saw his attendant prone on the floor, dead or asleep, near the cloth entrance of his private sanctum. A tent within a tent, for the king's bath. Two guards had been posted outside that flap, and another four before and around his main tent. From the silhouette he saw past the crème-colored cloth, both guards inside his tent were similarly disabled.
The movement of a shadow caught his attention, and he kept his arms on the edges of his tub. Malthon stared directly at the shadow, frowning, but a cold suspicion reached him. Surely, this was not... The veil of shadows dropped, and Malthon knew that it was. He closed his eyes and groaned, leaning back against the metal wall.
"Malthon..." a deceptively sweet, and so sultry, voice pressed against him. "Malthon Eyenhart..."
"You are testing my patience," he growled in return. The kaldorei woman, once again, now present even as they marched from the Shadow Vault.
A whisper of cloth touched his ears, sliding past flesh, and he debated the simplest way to go about his next course of action – and the Light knew it would not be her idea of action!
"My experience with you has proven that to be a simple feat, and so its dangers have lost merit," the voice returned, in the same tone, accent, and suggestion, yet so clear now. Malthon felt it was hardly worth mention, but it did tell him she had stopped at just the far end of his tub, and he could feel the stir of water as her hand tested it. She continued, "The victory of the cold is overwhelming, where beating heart must also flood our channels of life with vapid rime. Let our senses know the heat of hearth, and passion, so silk and sail may be pleased and strong."
Hm, Malthon thought to himself. Denell had been right; Issielaro did not translate well to Common. Still, he recognized the brief words of magic she said next, just before the entire tub of water switched to heat. The abrupt change set Malthon's nerves afire, causing him to jump at the shock. For it, he nearly missed the strong wake of someone entering the tub with him.
Forcing himself to calm, Malthon said with his eyes still closed, "I hear you are quite the rhetorician, from the readers of your letter."
There was a pause of silence from her, and his eyes cracked to see just her head floating across from him, dark as the midnight sky both in skin and hair, yet with eyes bright in their silver. Her expression seemed scrunched with distaste. "Such thoughts were for my intended, not another. You shame me for what error?"
"Should have left it in a language I can bloody read, if I was the one intended to read it," Malthon replied, opening his eyes entirely. The water obscured their forms.
A dark eyebrow rose, and her smile showed her teeth. "Send your attention to my lips and tongue, and watch the flick, curve and ejaculation of all you see. Realize the disconnection between word and mouth, and know the nature of my spell. My tongue is gifted with many tricks."
Malthon pressed his own lips together for a pensive moment. "So a translation spell." Light, was it him, or had her explanation been one running sexual innuendo?
Her lips shifted next to an obvious pout at his reply, and her eyes seemed to regard him in new light. "Do you disdain the way of tongues, or does your species exalt those who are simple in manner? You speak like this, as if an artisan's brush has been taken up by a child. Why shy from the emulsion of the most intimate art, gifted from the highest medium of evolution?"
In his years of schooling, Malthon had learned elves took to speech in a manner different from humans, and Denell had confirmed that in their exchange – if this was the elven regard for language, Malthon wanted no part in it. Though noble, he had taken to the ways of war, not intellectual sophistication.
Not that he was stupid; he just felt there wasn't a need to overcomplicated simple things by phrasing alone. Albeit, here he was, still in a bath with a very naked kaldorei – perhaps he was wrong on the stupid part.
He spoke diplomatically, for her sake, "Short lived races invest their time and studies in matters deemed important. I reckon eighty years from womb to grave, so given that we can communicate with ease already, there are few who seek to master language in its entirety in face of a countless multitude of other fields, all relevant to the course of our race."
"Better," she seemed to admit grudgingly, "yet the courts would cringe at every line. Perhaps, our whole should be as an acorn. The beauty of the shell is its simplicity for its many fields of manner, yet its triumph is its rigidity, strong against all who seek its other half – the seed, the bearer and orchestrator of life that will be the tree, to shape itself as its mind wills, the artist and the secreter. Yes, I will speak simpler for you, Malthon Eyenhart."
"Great," he returned dryly. "So who are you, why are you here, and what did you do to my men?"
The kaldorei's smile was akin to that of a lioness, and she leaned forward to approach him in the wide tub, swimming closer. "When obscured but for ourselves, join me as Lysora Olivorae es sin'do Nightingale. Upon other eyes, summon upon the name Majestor Lysora Jaedreena Shroudfin." He drew himself in as she reached his feet, eyes shining. In reply, she only lifted herself higher in the water, exposing her chest down until her dark-skinned breasts crested the water line.
Before he could argue, she was already continuing, pressing closer, "I am here to begin relations with he of this band of arms, to share in your trials of the moving night. Your men, as you say, sleep now under Elune's divine fingertips, because their blood cannot boil for what they do not fully understand. Let the deception of beauty entrap them in their own imaginations, unknown to what only Malthon Eyenhart may elevate himself to."
Malthon assured himself that they only slept, but her reason had him grimace. If Balinda could see him now, she'd tan his hide from here all the way down to Valiance Keep – and back, to have him finish what he'd begun!
The cunning, tempting elf drifted ever closer, now nearing his chest, and he fought down rising panic. "I told you once and then again: whatever you are hoping for from me, you won't get it. I will not be seduced, and my focus will not deter from where I must go. You have not that power, be it in mind or spell, Lysora."
"I would hear it all from you, Malthon: Lysora Olivorae es sin'do Nightingale."
"Lysora Olivorae es sin'do Nightingale," Malthon repeated, bland, yet the night elf seemed to recoil in ecstasy. Her eyes closed in the pause, trembling once in the water with a sound like a purr. When the moonlight-silver orbs drew open, they were aflame with desire, all fixed on him.
Light, but what a look from a woman! Malthon was once familiar with eyes full of love, he'd seen devotion, and he had been subjected to the "come hither" appeals of the broads within a brothel, distasteful though his encounters there were. The raw, genuine lust he witnessed here touched even the core of Light within him, like a brush with silk – yet leaving smoky, burning tendrils behind.
There was power within one's name. The saying was repeated, most often among warlock circles, but mortals never really understood the meaning. Even now, Malthon could not see why, yet the influence and effects were clear here. He had to stop himself from saying it again, curious of her response to it, but he knew now to make it taboo. This was not right.
Lysora stood up within the tub in a single, graceful motion. Malthon could not help his eyes in the first instant of it, but then he remained fixed on her own eyes, oblivious to all else he might be able to see. That fleeting glance remained seared into his mind despite it:
The torchlight gave shape to her dark-skinned body. Golden droplets left her body like molten steel, flooding from every end of her slender shape in that instant of standing. The reed-thin body of night elf sentinels had been expanded upon with Lysora – the hips exaggerated farther, the breasts swollen – and it was clear she was not one of fighting, though the strong legs remained. The orange light reflected off her wet skin, giving her further depth, and he knew the tips of her nipples, the feminine arm from shoulder to elbow, and wrist. He knew the smooth stomach, without the definition of a strong core, and he knew where the rigid shell of ribs dipped in for that flat expanse.
Eyes upon hers now, he let the image fade from his mind, replacing it with intimate study of her silver eyes. They gleamed with their own luminescence, the silver and white dancing about like dyes in water, with her pupils remaining steady dots of white, with her dark lids nearly touching the top of those centers in their half-lidded appeal to him. He could hear the tinker of water drops returning to the tub from her body, and he could see the gleam of orange off her chin, throat, and upper chest despite his focus.
"You have my attention, my desire, and my demand, Lord Malthon Eyenhart," she told him, in a voice that did not sound of such a slender throat. The burning undertones, the guttural suggestion, within it seemed to grab Malthon's ears and tug him towards her. He had to confirm to himself that a spell wasn't involved! "The men witness to the thoughts of your letter will never know the realization of that fantasy, as you will now. Cast your attention upon my honest self, my lord – upon my unmasked face, my unclothed shape, and my open temple. Witness your sovereignty with a raised chin and ravenous mind, and seize upon the tightness within your chest and decorate the brazen, sanctified grounds neath your thundering order!"
What wits are about this one! wondered Malthon, mute in his shock. She seemed already in her fantasy, entangled in a knot of pleasure and yearning – the two so closely enter woven that a touch of one would rebound through the other. He had to stop this, before this trembling elf lost herself to these ideas.
"I will not," he told her, raising himself to be of equal footing. Icy Northrend air bit at him as the heated water spilled away from his body.
Eyes flashing, she countered with lips moving separate from the sounds, "You will."
Claws of psychic influence scraped at Malthon's mind, but they found no purchase against him. A woman who got what she wanted, Denell had warned. A conqueror. Malthon was no mindless lad, anchored by earthly pleasures; he lived with a purpose higher than himself, not to rule but to serve. He served his men by keeping them unified, guiding their direction and purpose. He kept the living and unliving from quarreling, to stand together for the good of mankind.
This poor elven noble, this ancient kaldorei, she knew not of mortals with his disposition. The kaldorei did not know paladins, the servants and warriors of the Light.
Their first touch was of hands, as Lysora reached for him and he caught her from trying. In short moments, her elation died in the realization that he was not swayed. Her long, elven eyebrows drew down with confusion, and even her back-reaching ears seemed to slump.
"Is it the woman?" she whispered. "With suspiring heart, your eyes look her way. I though you emboldened beyond your floundering after her, even expressing the words of regret."
"It is much more than that."
Silver eyes flicked back up to stare into his own. "Explain it to me."
Malthon did not yet release her hands. "I won't stand for this happening, not between myself and a stranger, and not even between myself and a friend. Pretending you have no ulterior motive, what you want here means nothing without love. It cheapens the bond that would be shared between and a man and his wife; it forms ugly counterfeits of it without substance."
"A political arrangement was my intent, for the benefits of us both," she replied. The expression of her face changed, suddenly very fey to Malthon. It was like the study of a bird. "Such rapports establish in time, and trust, and union."
A gentle smile touched Malthon's face. "And for me, they have. For another."
"The other," Lysora confirmed, still alien in her bearing. "Yet the embers of her hearth had grown cold, and for you there is no warmth, growth, body, or future in wait for you from her."
A flash of a furious face reached Malthon's mind, the sharp sting of a slap against his cheek. Total rejection, old bonds sundered completely, the immense, boundless wedge shoved between them by her calloused hands. "I know," he whispered.
The King and the Crowngarde had different roles to play, separate paths guided by the Light. There was hope for those paths to converge again – the reasons for ensnaring her in Ymirheim were very few – but it was clear to him, despite his own hopes, that the time to stand together with her was not yet to come.
And to think that hardly two months ago, he was entirely convinced he had moved beyond his ex-fiancee. Then they had met again on the frozen plains of Dragonblight.
The night elf before him opened her mouth again, but Malthon released her wrist to catch her lip with a finger, halting her words. "This, Lysora Olivorae es sin'do Nightingale, is rejection. Even the greatest of figures must face it eventually."
Flashing silver eyes gleamed brighter, and the lush lips spread into a pleased, nearly devious, smile. "This, my Lord Malthon Eyenhart, is love."
Lysora then... dissipated.
One moment, Malthon had his eyes upon her bright silver orbs, surrounded by a dark-skinned body glittering with light, and then the darkness melted away like it did before the light, until all he saw was the silver orbs, and with a blink, they vanished with the rest.
Water sloshed in the tub, filling sudden voids, and Malthon was left touching the air, naked and cold with his feet in a pool of heated water. He sighed into the empty room, recognizing that this one would find only hurt before the end. He did wish for better phrasing from her, however.
XxX
"The King is not to be disturbed presently!" Jayce announced loudly, standing belligerently between the entrance to the tent and the colossal form that was Overthane Ufrangsson.
It was not necessary for Malthon to see the grin that came to Ufrangsson's face; it was obvious to all who could hear. "I welcome a challenge, small one. Raise your blade, and we will let fate decide if your Fool King may be disturbed."
Have things gone this far? Malthon wondered. Isolation was the natural state for him, after the severing of the Crowngarde from the crown. Yet, he still had a people to lead, and allies to remain within the graces of. Could a king afford meditations upon the Light, or must he be prepared for action at any call?
"Emit him, Jayce," Malthon called from his tent. Light, that he withdrawn this far, where his men must stand as a buffer between them. Men like Ufrangsson were not won through front men.
The towering vrykul had to bend low to enter the tent, grumbling as he did, until he could stand easier within, head nearly scraping the roof of the tent. Malthon remained seated on the ground, turning his eyes upward to meet the dark gaze of the vrykul. Hooking fingers under his belt, Ufrangsson snorted and said, "A lesson in strength is needed in that one. Respect is good, but not when done in foolish insistence."
"Principle is something to uphold against any odds or challenge. Not a single man beneath my flag would bend under threat of brute force, not even a simple tailor," Malthon told him. Urfangsson lifted his chin belligerently, but he also nodded. "What brings you personally, Overthane?"
"Honor," the vrykul answered. "Or perhaps you are asking after my news; control your ambiguous tongue, Fool King, if you wish to keep it." After a short, pensive pause, Malthon nodded agreement. He was starting to realize the threat-but-not in vrykul speech. "A messenger has arrived from home, relaying word of my city and my people. It appears that despite the absence of many of our warriors, we are hosting a Valhalas tournament, beginning today. The motions of the val'kyr were swift, without warning, and cause for consideration."
Malthon did not see the issue, but he offered his input: "Perhaps after the losses faced in the recent skirmishes, the Ymirjar seek to replenish their numbers."
Immediately, the boulder-sized head turned in decline. "Ymirheim and the Ymirjar clan are an idea, not a people. Should they be slain to the last man, the val'kyr Arbiters will proceed apace, selecting only the most worthy warriors to undergo the trials of Valhalas. This cannot change."
"Then what is your concern?"
"I have assumed it to mean the Arbiters are eager to see this one raised exalted, yet it is confirmed from three reports that the combatant is of the small races, not even vrykul. The situation reeks of Ymirjar plotting, and in these uror days, these times of Wyrd, where Ymirjar leave their paradise for war, I wish to keep loyal men close at hand."
"Sounds like the Dragon has himself a friend," Malthon mentioned neutrally.
"Aye." Ufrangsson's dark eyes glittered maliciously, but his attention seemed inward, mulling over the possibilities. "In two days, we will reach the first spines of what you call Storm Peaks. I am not keen on opening our offensive with Ymirjar blades poised at our backs."
"Nor am I, but they are not a presence that will simply vanish. Perhaps that swarm that struck at their walls yesterday will hold them from action for at least another day."
A frightful evening that had been, seeing the hordes of Skinless from the far distance, angling directly towards Ymirjar peak in the south. The aerial host that warded it would have proven painful against their forces. Malthon's paladin army was not one for ranged combat. The movement of that black mass had been abuzz around their scouts, both vrykul and human.
"We can hope, Fool King, but the fates have already been decided. We must face what we have been dealt, and plan with all caution for it."
"Agreed."
The musings of the two were interrupted by a sharp, "Halt, in the name of the King!" Jayce, stopping another visitor.
"That one needs a tighter leash," Ufrangsson muttered darkly.
Malthon agreed but said, "He wishes to ensure my privacy, but that is a luxury I can no longer afford."
The vrykul leader regarded Malthon with a long stare before nodding. "A sound head is on your shoulders, Fool King. I look forward to the bonds that might form between our peoples. I should add, do not lament the choice of your woman to remain with the Ymirjar. There is much honor and glory to it, even as captive."
Malthon covered his grimace by calling Jayce off from the visitor. "There is far more to her choice than that."
"You mean as much to me as a king does to a Crowngarde." Balinda could not lie to Malthon, nor he to her. They could always tell if the other tried. In that one sentence, the words lacked the ring of truth, but the turbulent emotion behind it was painfully genuine: betrayal. Salt was rubbed into the wounds with her following: "Exactly as you wanted!"
Malthon had asked himself a dozen times since why the coronation had hurt her so dearly. It was Balinda's own choice to end their relationship, so when he became a king to keep their men united, why did losing the option of romance affect her? She must first still care for him, which she had certainly demonstrated otherwise. Even their relationship as friends had been a damaged, strained rapport.
"My king!" the scout addressed upon entering the tent. The flap closed behind him, and he froze mid-salute when he noticed the enormous pillar of vrykul also present. Quickly, the man shook off his surprise, facing Malthon. "I'm returning from a deep south reconnaissance, and I bring... grave news."
Deep south. Ymirheim. Ufrangsson and Malthon shared a look. To the lad, Malthon said, "Well, speak up. What has happened?"
The scout took a moment long to compose himself, drawing a deep breath, and then he announced, "The vrykul clan of Ymirheim has gathered itself for war, and it has left its dreadgate in... my liege, I believe in full force. Hundreds march carrying rations, weapons, and mounts burdened with supplies to last long terms. The val'kyr harpies and scores of proto-drakes line the skies above them, and the they march to this location."
Overthane Ufrangsson broke into a loud rant of curses, spat in the Vrykul tongue. Malthon felt ready to jump to his feet, yet any sense of panic was absent from his gut. He pressed curiosity against the Light, but only a trickle of power returned it, strengthening him.
"Can you still run, lad?" Malthon asked, though the paladin wasn't truly much younger than him. With fear giving his eyes white rings, the man nodded. "Then I need you to rally my commanders to the war tent. Lord Commander Goldwind, Lord Terichon, Commander Jake, and any officer you can spot within a reasonable amount of time. What estimate do you have for Ymirjar arrival?"
"Sir! Had they been a normal force, perhaps twelve hours. But Ymirjar, they could be here in two."
Ufrangsson spoke, growling, "Messenger, find my thanes and Vagrim. Send them to the tent as well."
"Obey the Overthane," Malthon ordered swiftly. The paladin nodded and saluted, then ducked out of the tent.
While Malthon began to push himself to his feet, his vrykul ally mentioned, "The dragon knuckles have been cast, Fool King. Let us see what fate lies before us."
Trust in the Light.
X Ymirjar X
Coralhide screeched yet another complaint about being grounded. Drekthac paid it no mind, remaining seated in the saddle with his body rolling at each reaching step of the proto-drake. With each beat of his heart, a vrykul-sized mace beat against his temples, drilling into his head with hangover, yet not even that mental agony could erase or mask the pains of his body. His swords and armor remained strapped to the saddle – hilts in reach for draw, but gods forbid he would need to exert that much movement.
With a deep set frown on his face, he glanced to the west, where a huntress marched with a val'kyr over her shoulder. As if knowing, she turned just then to catch his gaze, and Britta grinned widely at him, winking a pale blue eye. Drekthac's white-hot flash of rage expressed itself only as a single grunt before he faced forward again.
The day and night following the battle had been admittedly great. He and Britta had drank and sang, while the Hall of Heroes grew rowdy and loud. They had fought in the brewing brawl, they had danced with locked arms and spilling mugs, and they had kissed with Britta thrust on her back over the table, spilling food and plates around them.
With the coming of night, they had drunkenly returned to Britta's longhouse in the mid of the city close to the Hall of Heroes, both bruised and battered from the celebration. The assumption of what came next should not have been a difficult thing, yet as passions soared and clothes fell away like rain – and Drekthac had himself a mouthful of icy frost vrykul tongue – they had been interrupted by Britta lifting him into the air off her and questioning him.
The blighted huntress, he discovered, had taken Maldrid's place in order to dig out the secrets between he and Hilda. Britta the Blood Maid wanted information, to know why the two schemed to break down Ymirjar traditions, and what else had transpired in the mating of the Dragon and the great Hilda. And she kept him blue-balled until he told her.
In hindsight now, Drekthac had no clue what led him to believe that tumbling with Britta would be pleasant. Maybe it was her beauty or just a return to a body of flesh rather than spirit – perhaps even her pleasant heart when she sang, fought, and spoke – but while she continued to prove exceptionally attractive, with a body strong as vrykul yet limber and fit and oh so pleasantly taut, he somehow forgot that Britta was bloody batshit insane, and a gods damn sadist!
He had gone down on her, and though she kept herself clean, the pleasantries ended there. Her thighs wanted to see his head, or even body, split like a melon between them, and the challenge of holding back her strength with his own while pleasuring her had bloody Britta laughing. She had got off on it!
And she would not pleasure him in turn, she vowed with her dazzling white teeth showing. Not unless he made her. So still sore from battle, still sore from the celebration, Drekthac had wrestled her down and- and it didn't end there! Puckered welts and torn rings lined his body where Britta's teeth had taken him during it, his back carried the lines of her finger nails. His cheek still stung, and his nose smarted, and his bruises had nearly doubled in it. She offered him her mouth in a lull of the struggle, and he flat out refused, believing she might try to skin his manhood with her teeth while down there!
Wily, swift Britta seemed to take the whole encounter as a true challenge. When she had him pinned, once even dislocating his shoulder by wrenching his arm up too far, she would free one hand to slide over his chest and down and fondle him, mixing pain and pleasure, but always she kept it as a slow tease until he could free himself and get her in turn. Like a man could keep himself aroused in the midst of that!
Drekthac's one moment of triumph, he recalled rather vividly, was first getting one of her strong legs pinned to her chest, and as she fought back, he pressed harder and harder against her, lifting up her massive, heavy body rear-first into the air, to scrunch into itself nearly upside-down, until her knees were pressed against headboard, her head and arms pinned in the tight trap of it. Stepping forward, he slammed his knees against her then exposed back, locking her in place, and with the final wrench of his arms, had her thighs spread wide open. With her long torso, it left her womanhood right there before his face, vulnerable.
The next few minutes kept Britta entirely immobile and at his mercy, and he left his own marks along the inner side of her thighs with his teeth, while his hand worked inside her, and her sculpted, luscious buttocks were free for rough fondling. Britta had screamed during it, squirting in her orgasms and entirely helpless to his hunger, until he freed her twitching, shaking body at his leisure.
That had only been their foreplay.
Waking up this morning, Drekthac felt as if he'd spent the night forced through a meat grinder. Still did. It left him unable to appreciate the curled body of his naked, mellowed lover or the offer for Helgrin to start his day with her mouth. It didn't matter how many songs of praise Britta was ready to sing for him this morning, he did not consider that night worth the effort – he still did not know which of them had a worse limp.
Fucking Britta. Her pulling a thrice-damned knife to make a blood game of the night had been a step too far. How was he supposed to war today?
"You are certain you do not wanting healing, my liege?" Maldrid asked mildly, not for the first time.
"I'm fine," Drekthac grunted sourly.
Maldrid paused for a second, before adding, "It's just that... there are rumors, from Helgrin, about Britta in pleasure..."
"Maldrid," Drekthac cut in. "Drop it."
"Of course, my liege."
The words made him think, however. That poor val'kyr, Britta's handmaiden, would have been made to pleasure Britta before. She would know of it all firsthand, like him. To remain sane as she was despite it spoke volumes about Helgrin.
Hardly another minute of marching had passed before Maldrid added, "If it helps, Helgrin has told me you utterly shattered Britta's world last night. Britta hasn't stopped talking about it."
"Maldrid," Drekthac growled one final time, sharp.
"Forgiveness, my liege," was the mellow reply, yet Maldrid did not sound sorry at all. Intrigued, even. Bloody val'kyr. Bloody Britta. Bloody Hilda too, for that matter!
From the looks of things, they would arrive at King Malton's camp in the next hour. Already, their hunters had spotted movements within the army, gathering paladins before ranks of Jotunheim vrykul. Overthane Ufrangsson clearly had little desire to incite war with his heroes, but the man was reported as no fool, and he knew where the enemy was and where needless interference was. He would do what he must, at the foot of the enemy's land.
"Drekthac the Immortal," a smooth voice hailed, and Drekthac sighed as his mind burst into images and scenes of a painfully unforgettable night. He returned bluntly, "Hilda."
The val'kyr goddess remained dressed in armor and scandalous wear, still without weapons. Her runes would cover that. Her embellished face mask remained on, showing only her mouth and chin. "The Ymirjar speak of sending an envoy to express negotiations with the Fool King of Northrend. Your name has been mentioned."
Drekthac sniffed. "I am the last one King Malthon will wish to see. There will be no opposition if you herald our approach and purpose."
"You forget that King Malthon heads an army of paladins, and we val'kyr are seen as undead monstrosities to them, never to be trusted. I would not be given fair audience, where you would be given that of a giant treading a thinly frozen lake."
"Hmph. You should have interrogated the White Lady while given the chance. King Malthon fought for the Argent Crusade, who tolerates freed undead. He accepted even the death knights, if my eyes were straight in our battle."
Once again, Hilda's words returned unhindered, yet her lips did not move to match what he heard: You should be quicker in the decision to accept or reject me as your handmaiden, Baelin, or at least invited me over. Then, her lips moved to say, "Alas, the terms of val'kyr ascension means we cannot know freedom from the Lich King's cold, sleeping grasp." Even... displaced as he is.
Yes, you can, Drekthac thought to himself, remembering Freydis' earlier request. He would not say it aloud, however, knowing of the secrecy needed to-
Hilda had stopped cold in the air, letting Drekthac and the many Ymirjar near him to pass her by. Sore, frustrated, but now curious, Drekthac turned in his saddle to see Hilda's blank mask boring silent holes at his back. A cold feeling crept through his spine, recalling that Hilda was a rather promiscuous psychic, listening to thoughts she had no right to. Had she heard that one?
"I will see to the announcement of our forces," Hilda told him, loud for the distance.
Watching her rise high into the sky and dart forward did nothing to alleviate Drekthac's panic, and the thoughts churned darkly, considering ideas Drekthac was not prone to. To turn the Lich King's bond over into his hand, making a slave of the val'kyr to his will instead. He would not allow Freydis to become less than she was to him... but Hilda. What if she were chained to his will?
And like the dark bubble it was, it burst, and Drekthac's wits returned to him. What if Hilda was his mind-slave? She would twist and manipulate him until he was but a shell of himself, a vassal to her will in turn. Don't go tangling with snakes just because you found one with a leash around its neck; its poison was no less fatal.
With a growl, Drekthac sourly reminded himself he was in no condition to be debating these thoughts. Fucking Britta.
X Fool King X
"It is not your undeath that worries me, val'kyr, but the feeling that every sugar-coated word you say is only a new strand of the spider's web attempting to encircle me," Malthon said. "I have enough of that already."
Beside him, Lord Goldwind laughed gently beneath his breath, while on the other end, Overthane Ufrangsson intoned, "This small one, Lady Hilda, is wise beyond expectations."
"I insist again that the Ymirjar come only to battle the darkling hordes, but while I cannot fault your preparations, I sense a readied hatred in your heart, King, and I see your men fixing baleful eyes at the approaching clan. You wish to fight."
"Hatred?" Malthon questioned, grunting a laugh. "You are dearly mistaken, val'kyr. Dearly, lethally mistaken. Core men, march!"
A psychic hand reached for his mind, and the Light scalded it in a brilliant flash yet again. The owner, presumably the val'kyr, showed no flinch or reprimand, only patience. A spider, that one was. Perhaps he could send Lysora after her and let them strangle themselves in their mixes of weaves.
Around Malthon marched only his finest. Lord Commander Denell Goldwind, Commander Jayce Greylane, Lord Terichon Galean, Commander Jake, Sir Bardin Ironhawk, the Sir Richard Houndson's Black Guard, Sir Marcanus Fouster's White Guard, and the irate, smoldering Dame Jenn Stoutmantle. With them was Overthane Ufrangsson, his second Vagrim, and a dozen trusted thanes.
They alone sat ahead of the ranks of troops, and now they left the army to meet the massive body of Ymirjar approaching. Certainly, they numbered less than than the equally tall Jotunheim vrykul behind, yet there was something to each Ymirjar warrior – the specialized, detailed armor sets, the inhumanly scaled weapons, the fearsome helmets of darkened steel and bestial designs, the bodies hardened and grizzled to the ways of war. They appeared as 7th Legion men, scaled up.
No one from the Ymirjar stepped forward to speak for them. They took no leaders, followed no command. Only ancient oaths, told Ufrangsson, where if the King of Vrykul became desperate enough to travel north and blow the horn atop Balargarde Fortress, then every clan of vrykul would unite together to battle under one banner, including the Ymirjar. Only then would the Ymirjar serve a will not solely their own.
"My King," Jayce addressed from behind, "keep in mind this could be a trap to isolate you and strike you down in deception."
"I agree with the broody one," Sir Richard announced.
Vagrim sneered. "The Ymirjar know honor first, swine. They do not need to coat daggers in poison to kill one man."
Malthon did not look away from the horde they sought to meet, but he added his input, "The Ymirjar knew honor, before the Lich King. Perhaps they seek to return to it after his downfall, but do not fear treachery here." He glanced sideways to Ufrangsson while mentioning, "It is not in the fates." The vrykul grinned.
His words were succeeded by a long, solid hiss of a heavy sword leaving its steel-lined scabbard. The mild Commander Jake said, "Forgive me, King, but I believe only in the fates I see to myself, through my own steel."
"Each man believes as he must," King Malthon nodded. "Val'kyr, I would see the Dragon first. Let him speak for the Ymirjar."
The armored woman, hovering over them without weapons, hesitated none to say, "It shall be so."
The white-winged undead passed before them, swifter with her wings than their cantering horses. The vrykuls seemed to release a heavy breath at that, as if losing a hidden tension, while Lord Goldwind chastised, "My King, do not let Dame Balinda's capture blind our purpose here."
"Ease yourself, Lord Commander Goldwind. The Light's will shall be done here, and justice will be mete in due time. I have chosen the Dragon because even the Ymirjar seemed to hold him in high respect. Just as the conclusion of our proxy-war must be found at his hands, so must any chance of an alliance."
Ufrangsson hummed deeply atop his massive felsteed. "Always, something special stood out with that one. See there, the green drake with that high head and flaming maw? He was once my prized mount, gifted to the Dragon at his ascendance to Ymirjar. There you will find the human with the blood of vrykul."
They saw the val'kyr reach that figure, speaking to the one atop the green proto-drake. In short order, the beast lurched into the air, approaching with two val'kyr in close pursuit. One was the Hilda who met them. The other, one with black wings, of no particular note. Long striding Ymirjar continued their approach, aimed after the three now, where the Dragon might meet the Fool King.
The procession stopped when the proto-drake touched the ground again, twenty yards before them. Their hardened chargers showed no fear at the sudden presence of fanged and scaled beast. With his heart clenching, Malthon searched the saddle for a second figure, to see Balinda again, but he knew inside that he wouldn't see her. The Light had its own plans for her now.
Only the Dragon rode that drake. Like Malthon, he wore no helmet now, revealing that blunt, strong featured face, with his black beard thick now. Unlike Malthon, he wore no armor at all, only a sleeveless vest and leggings made of what appeared to be red dragon scales. His visible body was thick and strong, laced with scars dark and light, wide and slender. A hell-hardened warrior.
The Dragon. Baelin Drekthac the Immortal. Those were his names.
The human Ymirjar patted the scaled drake's trunk-like neck while nodding to the Overthane. His deep, masculine voice mentioned, "A fine drake, Overthane Ufrangsson. The finest. Coralhide has served me well."
"You well earned the gift, Ymirjar," the Overthane returned, nodding his head to Drekthac.
It was then Malthon noticed a strange lethargy to the Dragon. His eyes were ringed and dark, his skin seeming pallid in the dull Northrend light, with attention coming from a dull, tired face. Gathering himself, Drekthac grabbed a long hilt that stuck from the saddle of his drake, then slid aside the beast, drawing out one of his hulking swords with the golden hilt and runic blades.
Even without the enchantments of armor, the Dragon carried that sword in one hand easily. Instead of flaunting the fact, he let the tip and weight drop to the snow, slumping against the muscled side of his drake, cracking a grin at the many who quickly drew their own blades in response.
Briefly, Drekthac gestured to Commander Jake with his long sword. "It seemed only fair, as he appears eager as the Fool King to spill my blood. Come if you dare, but this is otherwise a precaution. The Ymirjar will speak first with the Fool King of Northrend."
With a gentle word, Malthon dismissed Crown back into the Light, and the horse trickled away in motes of gold and whites, letting his heavy boots touch the snow. His shield remained locked against his back, and the weight of his mace at his hip was balanced by the helmet he carried beneath his arm at the other side. He met the Dragon at equal footing, pacing forward some steps as the Ymirjar body reached them.
The men, both small race and vrykul, muttered at the deadly circle of warriors that moved to surround the meeting, trapping them with the Malthon within the inner ring. Grounded now, Drekthac was joined by the two val'kyr, Hilda and the other, who flanked his either end like protectors.
Malthon stopped at the mid-ground between Drekthac and his escort. He noticed Ufrangsson did not follow. "Well, Dragon of the Ymirjar," King Malthon addressed, "you know our enemy. You know us here, both your fellows of Jotunheim and us, whom have met with you intimately. Your war horns and drums remain silent, so why have you come now?"
Unarmored, hardly armed Drekthac had a smirk pass over his features. "My brethren and I, we have ourselves a vendetta with the darklings."
"Many men carry vendettas these days," Malthon replied, an edge in his voice.
Another fleeting smile. "Aye, some more than others, Fool King. Does it pain you, to stand here before me, knowing I took her? That I've kept her in my home, slave to whichever desire I might enact upon?"
From behind, a high-pitched female voice roared, "You get her back, Malthon! Don't let this dog breath another breath without-!"
Malthon had raised his hand, and someone silenced Dame Jenn. Emotion tried to seize him, but he killed it fast. "Capturing a Crowngarde... I don't pity your struggles, Dragon. Not at all. But neither will I tolerate it further. We'll negotiate with the Ymirjar, but you will give us your captive back. The sour blood between us cannot clear otherwise."
"Can't, I'm afraid," Drekthac snorted, careless with his shrug.
Both Jenn and Malthon's voices overlapped in their complaint, "You-!"
"Can't." The word cut in, deep enough to be heard over and silence both objections. "Not won't. Blame this one here, the Silvertongue, for having your woman sent away."
Malthon regarded the deceptive, armored val'kyr with a renewed critical eye. Focus on the negotiations, he reminded himself. But don't back down. "Where is Dame Balinda?"
The regal Hilda had a gentle, nearly superior, smile. "Balinda Crowngarde fights in Jotunheim, within the sacred confines of Valhalas, to prove her worth. Should she succeed, new, unprecedented bonds shall form between the Ymirjar and the small ones of Northrend."
A sense of panic seized King Malthon, and emotion clamored to the surface. Behind, someone groaned, "Oh, Light!" He was inclined to agree, and he opened his mouth to burst out his complaint:
"A crass lot, you Ymirjar are. That explains the reports the Overthane has received from his homeland. You will soon reap the harvest your decisions have planted, and you will find the crop far from hoped. Until that moment, we have a war before us. The heroes of Ymirjar are figures of legend, and the turn of the world has bloomed an age where every warrior will be needed. Will you join us in taking the battle to the Skinless hordes and their master within Storm Peaks?"
Not even in part was that what Malthon had intended to say. The words, the emotions, were plucked from each sound his tongue produced, molded into that reply, and he finished it with a click of his tongue and drooping, baffled eyebrows. Had the Light taken control? He could not detect the usual hand of it, and he knew those words came from within.
The Dragon and the Silvertongue took to the words positively, however, and he realized their willingness to work with him. Yet before either could reply, someone from behind roared, "Die, you vrykul dogs!"
Malthon turned in place, eyebrows now raised high, only to catch sight of the mad rush of an ex-Scarlet paladin with his blade already drawn. "No!" Malthon hollered, dropping his helmet to attempt to catch the aggressor.
"Yah!" another voice yelled, and Malthon saw the dark wink of a thrown dagger whiz past him, with the telling thunk of a clean hit. The deep voice of the Dragon made an, "Oomph!"
"Treachery!" someone shouted in the midst of the confusion, and the hundreds of encircling Ymirjar retrieved their weapons at once, buzzing with excitement.
Treachery. Why had Malthon not seen this coming? The wildly coming paladin was halted in place by a Hammer of Justice, and Malthon caught the stumbling lad under a strong arm, thrusting his elbow against the plate helmet to knock it clean off, then released him.
The man began to fall, with bright blue eyes peering up with clearly dazed, stunned eyes. The blue didn't reflect like normal eyes, instead shining light like those of an animal, all pearled and pale blue. Shined eyes.
The cult had infiltrated his men.
Clarity reached Malthon then, and he demanded the Light fill his being. It came down in a pillar of bright power, slamming against him and flooding his body with its strength and radiance. Looking towards his men, the world seemed to clarify to him, processing it as if everything moved in slow motion.
Vrykul were thrusting blades into the backs of paladins, holding them close to impale them through. His men turned upon vrykul, either Ymirjar and Jotunheim, and the confused faces looked back, unprepared for the danger. Sir Richard had one man by the throat, choking him from behind while trapping the struggling death knight's sword arm. Yet, he noticed the Ymirjar were hardly involved, patiently waiting for anyone to attempt challenging them.
In the same look, he saw all the wrongness to certain figures. The cultist infiltrators. Six of them were mixed with his men, including one who remained subtle and acted surprised as the rest, yet his attention was fixed to Lord Commander Goldwind's back, slowly approaching. The Jotunheim vrykul had two, both of them thanes, and not one of the rest suspected those two were acting under ploy rather than furious response. None of the Ymirjar had been infiltrated.
As he realized these things, other paladins called the Light into them, and the power pulled at the world like his own did. The impressions touched, and though not powerful enough to merge together, men discovered the same revelation Malthon had as their forces touched his, and they jumped upon the cultists quickly.
Warning touched Malthon's mind then, and he turned back quickly to deflect a spear with his bracer. The black-winged val'kyr, her mouth split with a vicious snarl, now with wings wide to control her momentum against him. Without weapon or shield ready, Malthon only stepped aside, letting her carry past, and approached the Dragon, now slumped to the snow with his back against his drake. The winged beast had its maw gnashing, eyes set on everything close.
Hilda stooped before the downed Dragon, kneeling, and he stepped aside her, the Light telling him things a mortal couldn't know. Manipulations caught the life and soul of Drekthac in suspension, before any physical thing could harm him, and then he bent to pry out the dagger embedded in the heart. Hilda tried to stop him, but the Light seared her encroaching hand away, letting him work unabated.
As the dagger pulled free, no blood leaked from the wound and the opening remained frozen in its open state. Malthon Laid his Hands upon the Dragon. And the Dragon was healed.
At once, power and nearly all of his strength seeped out of Malthon. Yet, a second later, it flooded back into him, and he jumped to his feet to stare away the approaching val'kyr again. With Light empowering his voice, he roared, "ENOUGH!"
It whip-lashed through the clearing with magical presence, halting every man and woman in their confusion. The cultists had all been detained, and only the confused and desperate had still fought.
Loud and clear, he demanded, "Bring the cultists before me."
The many angry men did not let their rage subside, yet they watched six paladins pull forward prisoners (including two vrykul), and drop them to their knees before Malthon. Overthane Ufrangsson, wounded in his saddle with a leaking hole beneath his left hand, looked the most furious.
To him, Malthon said, "See to the judgment of your thanes. On this day, we have been infiltrated, and these men here hold their loyalty to a despicable cult." To the six of the smaller races – two dwarf and four human – he growled, "Do you think you can stop what is already in motion? Your master is right to fear us. These bonds will not be shattered so easily! May the Light grant you mercy, for we will not!"
He nodded to the captors, and as one, each executed the men with single sweeps of their swords or daggers. The two vrykul struggled to rise again as the others fell, but the captors wrestled them down.
"What is this?" Ufrangsson hollered, urging his felsteed towards the detained thanes. Vagrim, with his sword bloody, remained close. The second was visibly livid at the betrayal. "Speak now, Fool King, before your head decorates my hip! Your men strike like vipers, and you hold my two oldest brethren at blade point!"
Curiously, the Ymirjar seemed the least concerned at the attack. None appeared disturbed or infuriated, even the Dragon who struggled to his feet with a val'kyr's help.
Malthon raised his hand to point at the corpses his men had executed. "Treachery from within. A cult has risen in support of the Skinless disease. See these men, their eyes shine blue like the cats of night. Cult of the Damned trademark. Brush away make-up from their faces, and I bet you will find the marks of it and the Twilight's Hammer too."
"Release me, you milk-skinned swine!" one thane roared. "My liege, slay these traitors!"
Malevolent, crafty Ufrangsson did not behave in haste, even now. With narrowed eyes, he looked from Malthon to the slain men, and with a barked command to Vagrim, the vrykul commander brought one head to the Overthane to look over. While his thick fingers brushed at the cheeks of the frozen, screaming head, he growled, "And why do you hold Thane Bründsson and Thane Fjonr, men I grew with like blood brothers, captive like honorless, defeated slaves?"
Malthon's regard was cold, arms going behind his back as he stood before both the Overthane and the two living captives. "Because the spirits of these two men are rank with cult sludge. Their hearts and loyalty are elsewhere, and their intents opposite to our success."
"Speak not words and show proof!" Overthane Ufrangsson barked, throwing the severed head aside, one cheek exposed with cultist tattoos. "Vrykul do not fall prey to pathetic mind magicks!"
"Yes, Fool King," another voice demand from behind, sounding dull and without emotion, "Show proof." The Dragon.
A ball of bright Light filled Malthon's hand, shining brilliantly like a gnomish electric bulb. "We are men of the Light, who follow it and its teachings with our hearts, bodies, and souls. The Light knows the future, and it guides us to its purpose, as we let it, to better the world for us, for our fellow man, and for those even not our fellow. We are servants to the world, vrykul. The greater a paladin stands, the deeper his servitude to others. You do not understand this path; in your honor, you think this makes us weaker, inferior, yet it is a place of glory and honor to each of us.
"We communicate with the Light regularly, and it, our god if you must understand it, speaks back differently for each brother and sister. With the first appearance of this foe, these Skinless, the Light, our strength and confidence, has faltered. Unlike the Scourge, unlike the Burning Legion, unlike even the greatest of the Ymirjar – the Light does not know this foe. It is an antithesis not like love and hate, but like emotion and apathy. Like sight and blindness, and this foe has cast a blind spot over an all-seeing vision."
All eyes – paladin, death knight, vrykul – watched him, letting him explain what even those of the Light did not yet fully understand. Hell's Bells, Malthon himself did not yet understand it, yet he spoke: "At the first encounter, even a screech of a blind Skinless could strip from us the Light in its fear, though dark, oily magicks were behind it. The Light has learned, through our arms and steel, that though this foe is hidden from it, they can still be defeated all the same, and its confidence has returned three-fold with a fury unlike anything the Scourge could incite.
"The Light could not foresee the treachery here, but it can respond. I lent my eyes to the Light, and it returned the ability to see the spirits of men, and the mark of cult filth is inescapable. You want proof? Ymirjar spell-casters, greatest of the land, watch the nature of my spell! Behold, Overthane, and let your spirit be purged of all taint!"
With the persistent orb still in hand, Malthon opened his palm towards Ufrangsson and let brilliant rays splash over the vrykul, all without effect. His lip curled at it, dark eyes glistening. Malthon gathered another orb to his hand, turning now to the Ymirjar who carried the tattoos of rune masters on their shoulders, "Ymirjar, speak out! Have I called to me the same spell in my hand?"
It was Hilda, the armored val'kyr, who announced, "It is the same." The vrykul looked her way, nodding to themselves. Malthon made note of the reverence of this one and reevaluated her significance.
Nodding to her now, Malthon looked to the head the Overthane had tossed away, and he sent the bright rays that way. All watched as flesh seared away, revealing the white skull, and bleaching it whiter as all else vanished from the bone. Everyone mumbled at it; Malthon himself did not know the nature of this purging spell, only the fury within him as he cast it.
A third time now, he called the spell into his hand, and his eyes stopped on the blank mask of Hilda. "Val'kyr, speak out. Is this yet again the same spell in my hand? The same which left the Overthane unharmed, in his purity, and the same which burned away the known cultist in all its fury?"
The undead spirit's lips turned up in a fascinated smile, seeming amused with his display. "It is the same."
To Ufrangsson, King Malthon turned, and the Light in his hand glowed even brighter, bathing him in its brilliance. "So Overthane, shall I purge your thanes now? Are you confident that they will remain unharmed, or will they burn to bone in their sickly corruption? Lord Goldwind, Commander Jayce, stand before the fallen thanes! Let each of you experience the same, for further proof! Sir Richard, you as well! Let us test if an honest death knight can escape the flames!"
The wounded Overthane had a fierce grin now, though blood still spilled over his hand. His felsteed was moved to stand beside Malthon before the thanes, and Malthon could hear the deep laugh from the vrykul. "A fox in your own right, Fool King. A fox indeed!"
"My liege!" the captive vrykuls cried. "Do not trust his trickery! He will kill us through deception!"
The Overthane returned, "With another, I would show more prudent concern. Silence your sniveling, cowards! Lady Hilda herself watches this trial, to be certain of the spell work! You could be in no safer hands – should you be innocent. And may your final moments burn for eternity if you have poisoned your hearts in greed and ambition!"
Even wounded, he roared with raw fury. Vrykuls were stern in stature.
"My liege, I'm really not that honest," Sir Richard complained in the hanging moment, standing with Jayce and Denell. "And the Light really hates undeath, as we know, so..."
Malthon sent the spell forward. Golden rays spilled forth, washing over the lot of them. Voices screamed, roaring with agony common to inquisition rooms over battle fields. Only Sir Richard flinched at it, stepping back at the first touch, but it was not his dried lungs that made the roars.
The two thanes burned, skin blistering black for only the first moment before they split and dissolved. Vrykul were tougher than men, and it took longer for the flesh to reach bone. The extent of a vrykul's hardiness proved itself as the two thanes did not die. Ribs and skulls exposed, muscle and skin splitting away, and the Light burned deeper into their bodies. Yet they screamed longer, undying, even as the beating hearts showed themselves through the ribs and struggled to remain functioning. Even at their destruction, it wasn't until the lungs had wasted that they fell silent, thrashing still for several seconds, until finally falling still, moments before the other end of the ribcage revealed itself.
The two skeletal bodies fell forward, shattering into bone fragments against the icy Northrend ground. Silence reigned in the clearing, eerie now without the horrific death roars of the two thanes. First to speak was Sir Richard, unharmed but bent like a frightened doe. His dry voice mentioned, "My King, I am allowed to hate you, right?"
"Pathetic," Ufrangsson spat, turning his horse away. "May Hela shackle them to their cowardice and vies to weak, honorless powers." He spat again.
King Malthon nodded, and he faced Ufrangsson as he moved back towards his other thanes. "Overthane, I can take that wound from you. It is the least to offer, for this."
"No!" Ufrangsson shouted back. "I want this scar. I want to see it for the rest of my life and remember the day vrykuls abandoned their honor to devote themselves to the evil of the old world. I will not forget that even our glorious, honorable people can stoop low as fucking slave-prostitutes."
Malthon understood, and he left the Overthane to his brooding. He faced the coalition of the Dragon and his escorts. Nodding to the human, he admitted, "I am surprised at the reactions of the Ymirjar. Of all who were betrayed here, you seemed the least concerned, when you had the right to be the most."
Drekthac, the hole in his vest obvious where the dagger had taken him, grinned back. "Not one of us expected to settle this without first shedding blood. You have the right to strike us in vengeance, and we allow you that. It is a shame though that it proved to be only a treachery of a lesser sort."
"So what is the agreement of your clan?" Malthon looked around to the other hundreds of faces towering over him in the wide circle. "What is the agreement of the Ymirjar?"
Stilling holding their weapons, many of those grizzled, yet somehow regal, faces began to split with grins. Light, but these were heroes, weren't they? Those figures that Lordaeron might make into statues, each with a history of a thousand battles behind them, refined and sharpened to be even greater in the sacred grounds of Ymirheim? Not a band of brutes or barbarians, but legends of ages.
"The Ymirjar say," Drekthac said for them, "that let not a single one of us rest in the grave until the evil of the old world is thrust back into only history. We will make of its body a trophy, and if the humans of the Fool King or the warriors of Jotunheim are beside us when we rip its heart from the monster's chest, we will feast upon it with new brothers."
Malthon nodded to the Dragon, and then to the Ymirjar. The immensity of what was happening here did not escape him. An army of nearly three hundred full, Light-blessed paladins. An army of the vrykul's greatest warriors. Both absorbed together in a host of thousands of regular vrykul warriors. The Alliance and Horde together had struggled – and failed – to defeat either vrykul army in the heights of their power. Combined now with the very finest of the Alliance, an army already unprecedented in its concentrated power, they were creating an army capable of bringing down even dark gods.
Light, but before all was done, that was exactly what they might be doing.
Did the rest of Azeroth even know of the threat up here in the crown of the world? Did they realize that with the defeat of the Lich King, the horror was not done? Would Malthon fight and win... or die, without another person in the planet knowing what they had done here?
At the conclusion of Drekthac's words, the Overthane barked a laugh and shouted, "Ymirjar strategists! The gods themselves favor this war of ours! We march into the hellish maw of the Old World, and let us do our ancestors proud!"
King Malthon, and many of those gathered here, turned to the east, looking to the jutting fingers of Storm Peaks mountains reaching impossibly high into the sky, as if pillars meant to carry the weight of the clouds. Lightning flashed in the distance without prompting – some within clouds, and many simply encircling those stone fingers.
It was time to march, they all realized. Proto-drake borne supplies would keep their armies replenished, but what a hellish campaign they had before them. To where would they go? The Peaks were nigh impossible to traverse in even small groups, and they had thousands to consider. The hardy vrykul might know ways. King Malthon had to trust that. The ability to complete this successfully was outside of his hands.
Light, watch over them all.
It was time to march.
AN: And that's the first half of Stage Two. Up next, the Thomas-Sin side of it. In truth, I feel like I need to go back and rewrite the Ymirjar and Sightless scenes to better scale their power in comparison to average vrykuls and soldiers. Like Balinda on the wall last chapter, she killed ten Sightless alone. I meant to describe it as I did, a dance and reflection, and it was meant to demonstrate how unbelievable she is as a fighter, but in hindsight, it almost feels as if I wrote a fight between her and ten regular Skinless.
That was a Sightless mantid attack, to confirm any suspicions. They've already made it up north since the same call that sent the qiraji rushing out of Ahn'Qiraj in The Storm. And the perceptive might notice there is one very big, very powerful, very unstoppable creature associated with mantid that hasn't appeared yet – and those big guys are bad even before Skinless or Sightless power. The Sha shades have nothing on the power of an old god in full.
