Chapter 26

Morning Glory


X Jihad X

Fear.

Fear.

Sin expressed curiosity at it, slowly at first, then in excess upon realizing he was free to respond. Gently, he reached out to those thoughts, conjuring mental images and scenes of comfort and ease. Meditations with his mother, the scene of enchanted tools cleaning his home, the feel of the hot breeze as it rolled over the scorching dunes of Tanaris. Be at peace, he urged.

A flinch at his reaching. Though it had been some time, Sin still recognized which was qiraji and which was actually him. Peace, he insisted. His psychic reaching touched the sojourn in his head. Fear. Fear. Peace. The entity had the mental equivalent of quivering in his touch.

Sekara, he called. All is well. No more fear. Even with his reassurance, she was hesitant to listen.

Her response came with much more coherence than Sin remembered from qiraji communication: I am in sorrow. Sekara has made an accident. I wish for no harm to Master. It surprised him to realize he still only heard translations. With effort, he could deconstruct the words to their mental impulses, yet the auto-translation was a subconscious thing now.

After a moment of marvel, Sin cut short her excuses. This is not the qiraji bond. Fear no injury.

That caught her attention. Her emotions shifted from fear, delving into some unrecognizable blend that could have been wonder or excitement or curiosity or something else. However, after some reflection from her, Sekara faded into sight before him; Sin hadn't realized they were surrounded in blackness until she gave it color.

Sekara dreams? she wondered in psychic voice. The red nub of her arm reached for him. He only knew his own body was visible when his tanned hand met her arm.

He let amused thoughts return her. Do the qiraji even dream?

Only with Master, was her swift reply. That strange emotion he couldn't place burned brighter. I like dreams of Master.

Gently, Sin pulled that image to his, into that awkward hug they were trying to improve. He felt something skitter across his psyche, a chilling sensation he was wholly unfamiliar with, yet realization came when her stance shifted so that she fit perfectly against his frame, exactly as Lynona does. She had transcribed his memories.

Unsettling though the realization was, the delving was entirely unlike the invasive probing of letting someone inside his self. He expressed his distaste to Sekara but did not reprimand her.

Homogeneity, she replied. To become one. That is the purpose of life. The sisters are one. Sekara is one. I wish for us to be one. The communication paused, then concluded with a word so loaded that Sin was forced to break it down to its compiled qiraji-speak:

We.

All at once, Sin's mind took that powerful word and ran with it. No longer would there be an "I" from her, no longer would there be a "Sin de Rath" for him. To call upon Sekara was to demand of Sin de Rath, and to request of Sin de Rath was to expect of Sekara. Their two bodies like the two separate hemispheres of the brain, individual but uniform in intent, purpose, and thought. In the hazy lust of Fire, Sekara would see them unified in body, unified in mind, unified in soul.

Speak through me, she urged, Think through me. Sekara is your servant and vassal, the vessel of your will. Allow me to serve as I was born to do.

Sin faltered at her fervor. So used to her readied obedience, hearing desire or wants from Sekara was a foreign experience. Tempered by wonder, his mental question was like a whisper, Why? Why are you so willing to serve me? How did I earn this extent of loyalty from the sisters?

Sekara loves. I love.

The lightning bolt that slammed into Sin was not a result of her words. It was not the words. The thundering realization that shook him from crown to toe came when he realized he couldn't break those words down to qiraji thought-speak. Those thoughts were as human as the emotion she declared to him. Outrageous and impossible yet so profound was her comprehension of love that it needed no translation. It also confirmed Sin's suspicions that the qiraji bond had altered more than just his mind.

While he struggled for a response to either revelation – her words of love or the humanized thoughts – he felt another skittering across his mind, that crass transcription of his memories for her pleasure. But it was Sekara who read him, and he could not even raise a complaint this time.

What is "wife"? she questioned then, childish.

Sin had no words that could answer her. Not right then. So he gave her the qiraji version of it; he gave his listless mind excuse to function again, flung back to the little years of his life, scraping across childhood and growth. He beckoned forth images of his mother and father, when they made company, when they were in companionable silence as they worked over their respective fields of magic and engineering. Sitting beside each other at the upstairs window, staring out at the light-speckled city in the peace of Witching Hour. His mother, comforting his distraught father when his archeologist friend of twenty years was found dead and water-bled in the dunes.

His psychic hand was cut over a jagged memory, and he showed that too: a cultist in love, screaming hate and fury through tears after Sin killed his partner. Through the hellfire that burned the man away, Sin could still see his terrible eyes until the moment that he followed his lover into the grave.

For only a moment did he hesitate, then he pulled up every memory of Lynona that he could. Not just their tentatively budding love or the slow building of it; he showed Sekara the moments when he fell into her embrace, weary and aching. He let her feel the gentle hands of her coaxing him to relax, the sweet words always ready on her lips. With Lynona, he could showcase affection, trust, argument, companionship, and most importantly the need for both support and the feeling of being wholly accepted and wanted by someone.

Was Lynona his wife? Not by human law, but by Light and by Shadow, Sin couldn't see her as anything less, and he let that be known to Sekara.

When it was finished, he found the words to settle, That is what "wife" means.

The bright teal qiraji eyes were wide and glittering at the conclusion of those sensations. Not with surprise – that wasn't how qiraji functioned – yet he could detect some powerful emotion bubbling behind those eyes, in her mind across whatever link they held now. She asked finally, Can Sekara also be your wife?

I don't know, he told her honestly. Sometimes the affection and protectiveness I feel for you convinces me that I'm raising a daughter. Other times, I just want to fall into the embrace of you and the sisters and just make Fire until the world burns away behind us. I like you, Sekara. I like the sisters, and I feel quite possessive of all of you. But I'm just not the sort of person that can say, "You and all of you, let's do it." I need a bit more than that.

Sekara will try, she replied in earnest. Sekara will learn from Lae'Parnona.

Don't use that name, Sin snapped. Too late he remembered the real fears behind the reading of his memories, especially when he had no control over what was seen. You must call her "Lynona," otherwise terrible things may happen. Harm will come to her, and harm will come to me. Promise me, Sekara.

Sekara will obey Master.

The mental equivalent of a slow exhale filled the silence. Thank you. Now, I don't know what brought us together here, but it bares investigation so we can repeat this at a later time. In the meanwhile, we need to wake up, for tomorrow marks our beginning in this war. Are the sisters ready?

The sisters are ready for Sin de Rath.

And hearing that will never fail to please me, no matter which connotation. Let's go to war.

XxX

Morning Glory.

The thunderous and lighting-wreathed stormheads that christened the land Storm Peaks clashed violently around them that morning, yet with the dawn, a celestial spear from the horizon pierced clean through the quaking, corpulent cloud bodies, illuminating like a spotlight the arrival of Sin de Rath the Mad and Ranger-General Thomas to the valley.

As one with an outright appreciation for dramatic flare and felicitous showmanship, Sin took a moment to admire the tableau that welcomed their entrance to the war, with glittering armor and glowing skin, though even he admitted an annoyance for the way the low rays shined directly into their eyes against the scene, with the brilliant sun just skirting the tops of the far hillside peaks.

As hoped, the grandiose appearance did not escape notice from any of the parties already in the valley – not the fortress watchmen from the south, not the omnipresent black sea that dominated the entire landscape, and not the machine of steel and muscle that churned up Skinless fiends like a meat grinder a mere half-mile from their intercepting position.

Sin relished the attention, like it was the adoration and worship he'd never get for his demigod status. But hubris (arguably) was not his way, and Sin had the reassurance of an act greater than the introduction soon to follow. Thomas and Raeloth commanded with military efficiency, sending forward their engineered monstrosities, calling their men to form up into those radiantly shining battalions. Archers nocked, mages gathered, and legionnaires found stances.

Not to be outdone, Sin passed the word to Darnin, who led with the bloody war cry, "It's killing time!" which Handon and the undead were the loudest to return. A few dozen yards away, Skinless were in full assault against them, spells and other organic missiles in flight, and like a rising tsunami of tar, hundreds took to the skies on insect-like wings to crash upon them all at once. A mere whistle sent the entirety of the qiraji sisters up to meet them.

And while it was all well and pretty and heroic, the perfect image for a tapestry to forever remember this first clash between them, Sin had no intention of allowing a fair contest of wills on this glorious morning. Drawing upon every boon he had, from Shed'lahk to Freya's power to the Demon Soul between he and Lynona, he inflicted first blood in a titanic wave of shadow-flame.

Even the greatest Sightless was turned to harmless ash in that first strike. Fierce Storm Peak winds carried the black flakes away, first like a dark fog, then like grey snow. Thomas followed with ballista fire, then the hundreds of dazzling spellbolts and enchanted arrows punched through the wastes into the disoriented few that stood at the rims of the attack. Finally, the arcane sentinels whirled to life and the qiraji sliced into the remaining fliers. The war truly began.

"And MARCH!" Commander Raeloth ordered, leading the first steps forward behind the golems.

Sin followed suit, though his eyes were wont to turn upwards at the writhing mess of aerial combatants. Black shapes dropped and popped, with almost no tanned bodied Sister in between. From behind him, a scratchy, inhuman voice confirmed, "No mantid "Paragons" fly among the enemy, Sin de Rath."

Sin acknowledged his old qiraji speaker with a nod. "That tells us about the assault Ghat is sending here. Go and join them, Ressact. Remind this foe who evolved to be the superior aqir."

"Yes, Sin de Rath," the white-dressed qiraji agreed. Her wings roared like thunder as she took off into the cloud of bodies.

Their sudden and fierce headway into the black ocean was not alone. Those other fighters, the resistance that could only belong to King Malthon Eyenhart and the monolithic vrykuls, surged to life at the interference. Holy Light, soaring proto-drakes, ghastly val'kyr – all that and more churned and frothed like an unstable cauldron on the brink of combustion, and they began to make forward as scythers do in a field of wheat.

Ghat'Nothos' siege broke that day. It was a subtle thing, but gradually, more white could be seen in the distance, like hives retreating from the skin. Trampled snow began to show its face. Black, broken bodies piled higher in the valley, yet the movement in the distance no longer seemed a straight charge south towards them. Skinless were retreating – ordered back, more likely, but the endless waves stopped rising against them.

Sin noticed this change not long into their assault. The hole in the sky that allowed that single beam of sunlight had shifted by then, from their body over to the other defenders. Val'kyr split away to join the qiraji in the sky, where Sin saw dark magic passing hands and blessing bodies in great vrykul runes. He himself had the fortune of receiving one such blessing, and it felt like all his physical and magical exhaustion was burned right out of him.

It was also around then, when the Skinless assault faltered, that Sin noticed the lightcaller that they had subtly been following since leaving Crystalsong Forest. Taller than even the vrykul, he stood; a titan dressed and bathed in gold, a massive flaming sword in one fist, and each swing of his arm sent dozens of the enemy into early graves. For a moment, Sin felt his very soul elate with true bliss, for he in his short life had now beholden one of the mythic titans, the Creators.

By Light and by Shadow, a titan fought with them.

However, memories that were not his rose in Sin's mind. He was showed the silver fist that "titan" possessed, and given examples in forgotten histories where that Creature of Light made an appearance before. The zeal in his heart retreated, but his mood remained with the recognition: Lord Tyr, brother of Freya, the last of the gods of Azeroth to still live. Much like his sister and Har'koa before, Tyr seemed to have blessed a mortal champion with vast portions of his power.

Once the Skinless were no more than faint drops of black retreating over the far hills, Sin called back his qiraji. The Exilee were working on reforming themselves, checking on the arcane golems, tending to the wounded. The desert bandits seemed nonplussed by the combat, their numbers seeming unchanged, but they hadn't had Sin's attention to know for sure. Darnin, of course, lived through the battle. Sin had a vague suspicion that that leather husk couldn't be killed.

His inspection concluded with a glance at Narelle and Lynona both, then a glimpse of the gold-clad qiraji uniform that could only mark Sekara. Finally he faced the two dozen val'kyr that waited above them, found one that stood out by an elaborately etched armor suit. "You, val'kyr, what is your name?" he called to her.

The white-winged woman dipped from her vantage point to hover before him. No weapons were in her hands or on her person. A formal bow returned him. "This one is called Hilda, my lord."

Compared to the vrykul Sin had met before, she had a pleasant, silvery voice. A Scourge woman was she, yet clearly on their side. An interesting contrast, reminiscent of he and his qiraji. He kept the smokey Shed'lahk readied before him as a reminder to her of the dark power that served him.

"Miss Hilda, you have our collective thanks for your aid in this battle. We seek the one called King Malthon, to combine our strengths for the final resistance of our world. Might you lead us to his whereabouts?"

"I know the one," she replied. There was a diplomatic undertone that said there was more to the matter. "If you would follow my sisters and I, my lord, we will show you the way." Sin looked to Thomas for approval, then agreed to her offer.

Four Battleguards – pink garb – were dead in that fray. Unlike mortals, there was no resurrection for their kind. As for the wounded, there were none that left unscathed, but still only two dozen needed to regrow limbs or close open holes. Despite Sekara's assurances that dead bodies meant nothing to the sister All-Mind, "-like losing toes-", Sin felt the small loss inside his heart.

Sin found verbal confirmation that the fighting against the bandits was inconsequential, then summoned his dreadsteed for the march to meet the other fighters. Narelle was pulled behind him on the saddle, while Lynona remained close-by under invisibility and even closer in his thoughts.

I don't trust the way she says, "My lord," Lynona was telling him as they walked. Even focusing on their mental link, her next thoughts were less coherent, but he picked up suggestions of "insincere," "indicators," "deception," and attempts to use Burning Legion inquisition as example. This was the kind of subtleties she was trained to detect.

While he was crafting his response, Narelle leaned against his back to whisper, "That woman, she's a ghost?"

"Far more than that," he said. "Val'kyr, Scourge elite. A champion amongst her kind, converted from living flesh."

"That explains the warning stones glowing inside my head," she murmured. "My instincts are regarding her as a threat."

Like two halves of the same bloody coin. Sin kept his mirth inside, though its presence raised suspicion from Lynona. With Hilda at their lead, the extent of her armoring was revealed – which was to say, very practical for someone who never turned her back to a foe and very... motivational for the men she rallied behind her.

Sin cleared his throat. "Well, she dresses like you and lies like you. You've got that bit in common at- umf!" Her plated knuckles left their impression in his ribs.

"Tonight," she said casually, as if already forgetting the pass, "you let me inside your head."

Once more Sin cleared his throat, though it sounded like a cough. "This time for sure." A day ago they'd made the same agreement, only for the nasty wrench of a brief death to interrupt their chance.

King Malthon and the other resisters were coming to meet them. The giant of Light was gone, yet as Sin's eyes passed one blue-cloaked paladin, the image of it flashed before his mind. He knew the one. With some surprise, Sin noticed his fingers tapping listlessly over the smooth wood of Shed'lahk and recognized his own anxiety. He retreated to old warlock tricks and wrapped his mind in shadows.

"What kind of impression will you strive to make with this one?" Narelle asked. Her voice was too tight to be conversational. She would have those hawklike eyes watching everything, her sharp mind analyzing and assessing the various threats and possible turns of conversation. She would have violence ready in her limbs, though she wouldn't show it. Only those stony eyes would mark her thoughts, much like their early weeks traveling together.

"We move to meet a man even greater than me," was his reply. "I will ensure my responsibilities to the qiraji and the cultists. Everything else is in his hands."

Still pressed firm against his back, her presence marked by the hard lumps that were her many weapons, Narelle drawled, "You were supposed to alleviate my worry."

He said nothing; right now, the cold calculations that dominated his thoughts were a match to hers.

X Crusade X

The Light was a sturdy presence in Malthon's being, reminiscent to Balinda behind him. It gave him confidence, even a strange dominance. He was left comfortable standing in the center spotlight of attention, as the center authority, just like how his every step was the center of the golden ray that shone down upon them. This meeting was according to the Light's plan.

He recognized Hilda as the leading figure among these allies that aided in breaking the Skinless siege. That woman had been first to command val'kyr aid for these surprise reinforcements, and of course, she would be quick to tangle herself in their affairs, no matter how subtle her silken webs were.

Elves and elvish constructs, that is what he noticed first. Malthon was glad to see other survivors of the world cobbling together their warriors for a final defense. But those were only half of the arrivals, for on the other side was a robed man on a powerful dreadsteed. When Malthon's eyes came to that man, to that warlock, he felt the boundless Light inside him quake with distaste – not fear, not fury – and he was reminded of the dark power that rose up in the south a mere day prior. This man was the one responsible.

And on that same steed was a kal'dorei warden, sworn to oppose demon and dark alike, and behind even them were ranks of winged, buglike qiraji Battleguards and a ragtag team of cloaked men and woman with a desert aesthetic to them. Such was a different strand of defender, and its match-up as alien as paladins with Scourge and Scourge worshipers. Malthon had no judgment for them.

Drekthac was with him, standing closest to a nymph more chewed up and scarred than the warrior was. The pair had an echo of familiarity around them. Curious though it was, King Malthon did not have the attention to spare for it; he raised his hand in hail.

He did not shout, though his voice rose with unnatural loudness, "Peace be upon you, friends, along with our gratitude. You are a welcomed addition to our campaign against the one that threatens all of Azeroth. I am King Malthon Eyenhart, who stand before the small ones of Northrend. With me are the Jotunheim and Ymirjar vrykuls. Who has come to our aid?"

"Bal'a dash, friend," hailed a red-armored man with no helmet, speaking first for the Exilee. He bowed with elvish formality. "I hear the accent of Lordaeron in your voice, King Malthon. Our peoples were close friends once. It is my hope that we may be again, as the night consumes our world. I am Raeloth Bloodmist, Commander of the Exilee."

Beside that war-forged leader was a masked archer, wrapped in dark leathers. Though he lacked the signature Ranger-General cloak, it was the only rank that would stand as equal to the commander in elvish military. The man removed his leather mask, revealing a face that was shockingly abnormal for an elf. Only upon noticing the round ears did Malthon realize he was human.

"I am Thomas of the Exilee and acting Ranger-General. I too wish that we may unify against the old god that had taken our homes and loved ones. We have to offer the entire legacy of the elvish people, manifested in our warriors, magisters, and rangers here before you."

Malthon nodded to him, beginning to address the final figure when a rude snort interrupted their moot. Only experience withheld the long-suffering sigh.

"That's a piss-poor representation of a legacy," Drekthac declared in his lazy way. It seemed the blood frenzy had left him in the breaking of the siege. "Shit, I think we have more Ymirjar than elves here, and that's a real fucking warrior legacy."

The human ranger received the news with the grace of an elf: voice frosty, he intoned as neutrally as could be hoped, "Alas, it is all that remains."

"Then you needn't speak of it like it's an Azotha gold. All that glitter and fucking sparkle in your arrival here only tells me that you haven't gone balls deep yet in this enemy. Green flags and matching green armbands. Perfect for the fucking green army."

"Peace, Drekthac," Malthon ordained. He knew better than the provoke that man, but Light take him if Drekthac couldn't ruin everything he stuck his big, ugly mug in. All this was according to the Light's plan?

"Peace on your shriveled cock," Drekthac spat back. "We don't need soldier fodder, we need champions, heroes, only the greatest, bloodiest fighters brewed from Azeroth's most blighted pits. We need monsters like you and the death knights here, not haughty, untested long ears and long ear lovers."

Malthon closed his eyes, drawing breath for that inevitable, lengthy sigh. He could hear the curt sound from Balinda behind him, just as that Raeloth groaned, "No use trying to stop it now, Gen."

"Untested?" Thomas returned, a real heat to his voice now.

And blow out. Count to five.

"Jack, think." Some elvish voice. Fortunately, one with weight, for two seconds passed without further comment.

Then Thomas: "The words of some strong-arm who doesn't know loss, doesn't know desperation, who doesn't know what it is like to fight when there is nothing left to fight for, such a man's opinion holds no consequence in my regard. King Malthon Eyenhart, you-"

The grinding sound of Drekthac drawing his monster swords interrupted those words. Malthon extended his count to ten, opening his eyes to the beginnings of a duel. He met the mellow gaze of the warlock. To think that he had assumed that one would be the abrasive one here.

"Put your wood where your mouth is, leaf boy, before you find mine bottoming out in your throat."

The angry voice of Balinda asked quietly from behind, "Want me to step in?"

"This is between them. A bandage fix will only rip at a time we can't afford it," he groused in reply.

Thomas slung his bow from his shoulder to the trampled snow, resting his hands on his daggers. That interested Malthon, in a disconnected, academic way. A Ranger-General that spurred his bow for his blades? "You doubt my words and you doubt this people. Test me, dog."

Only one dared to deter Drekthac. Only one lamb stuck herself before the Dragon's fangs. The scarred chill nymph, with eyes fair as fae, met those dark burning orbs and cautioned, "In this world, even a nymph can learn to war."

It was nothing short of a miracle, how Drekthac's shoulders seemed to relax, how his fury abated under her gaze. Yet even that change was not enough. He acknowledged her words with a nod, then turned back to Thomas with all his pride and personality. "He thinks himself a brother. Let him prove himself." He took that first step against the Ranger-General.

Smoke appeared where man once stood with lazy grace. Drekthac spun on heel and blocked a falling dagger on his bracer. His wide mouth showed all his teeth in a fierce smile. He struck with his plated elbow. Thomas' feet slipped over snow, throwing his body down under the strike, but his physical blow against the back of Drekthac's knee was rendered useless by the braces. That gave the man pause, once he realized the contraptions that held Drekthac together.

Then came the swinging of those ungodly blades. Thomas parried properly, yet the snow had its say, sending him skidding roughly into the vrykul lines. The callus people were glad for the show, uninterested in interference. A sturdy shield stopped Thomas' stumble, then he vanished in the shadows once more.

Knives like fangs came for the armored man. They hit, biting through, and Thomas' assault was savage. Drekthac would know by it that this man was not the pushover that Drekthac claimed he was. Yet the steely sentinel wouldn't be lowed by such things, and the injuries would only fuel his rage. The fire of the Dragon, the strength that defined him, the reason for all those thick, meticulously crafted braces.

With a stomp, Drekthac swung again. Misty snow rose from the force of it, then shivered from the air currents of the passing blade. Too late Thomas realized the speed of the massive weapon, unable to block properly, and he contorted his body just enough to escape its path. The second sword followed low, angled for the position, and his feet left the snow for a nimble leap. The first returned even more swiftly than before, and the daggers caught it once more.

Snow kicked up aplenty beneath Thomas' feet, but he did not slide. Such eyes on that one. Malthon witnessed the steely green eyes of the unhooded ranger, the focus and fierceness that could be a match to Drekthac's own. The warrior had a foot of height over Thomas, with a body that could have been twice as thick, but the dextrous human wasn't cowed. He had fought larger, stronger opponents. Still, Drekthac's capacity for speed wasn't something that experience could prepare one for.

A twist of Thomas' daggers assailed the grip over Drekthac's swords. Malthon knew better than to expect rewards for that effort. The blade-flat from the other punished Thomas for trying, sending him tumbling away with a bang, yet in the first turn, the rogue was gone once again. He did not reappear immediately.

With broad sweeps of his head, Drekthac studied the arena around him. The hidden man, so clearly a rogue by his manner of fighting, did not wait for long. Drekthac made a furious, pained sound, just before the daggers descended upon his back again. Only when Drekthac stumbled forward, revealing bloody holes in the soles of his boots and little spikes of ice in his footsteps, did they realize that a touch of spellcraft had been involved in the ambush.

"Fucking... magic!" Drekthac roared, and he turned his momentum around with a stomp and a swing in a fraction of a second. He had tapped into his rage, Malthon noted. Green eyes went wide, unprepared, and his parry was clumsy. He was flung back into the open snow, where he crumpled. Drekthac did not let up, charging again with both swords ready.

"Shadow!" cried a fair voice, tight with fear and desperation. The title of honor placed on the human was not for show, to these Exilee. There was loyalty in that voice. Devotion.

At the last second before the swing of the swords, the fallen ranger performed a flip, escaping just under the swords and landing on his feet. "Leave me!" he roared back, sparing no attention more away from Drekthac. He did not have such luxuries. Shadows crept up his armor, blending into the air, until his whole shape was a transparent, murky image. The rogue Evasion.

Thomas' return to the fight was fierce and ruthless as the opponent he fought. Blades sank through armor and flesh alike, harrying like lone wolf, while Drekthac accepted pain and dagger alike to secure what crushing blows he could. Human blood splattered the snow. It was an even match, as Thomas learned the peculiarity of Drekthac's armor and rage, using every trick in his arsenal to endure the moments of ungodly assault.

Enrapturing though that match was, Malthon found his attention better spent on the reactions of the audience. Muttering elves exclaimed that they had never seen Thomas fight all-out before, lamented that his best wasn't securing an easy victory. Shortly into the fray, stoic vrykuls realized this Thomas was holding his own against the Dragon; it gave them energy, and they began to cheer at impressive exchanges. Above, the val'kyr waited patiently. Arbiters judged in silence, and Hilda watched with the gaze of a spider.

Then, finally, there was the warlock on the dreadsteed. The dark skinned man had no care for the battle between sides taking place, as his brown eyes remained firmly upon Malthon alone. But now it seemed he had waited enough, for there was an urgent whisper from his night elf warden, to which he replied, "I've decided."

The flaming horse vanished into smoke, so both his and the elf's feet touched the snow. Malthon felt tension creep over him, apprehensive to the point of resting a hand over the hilt of his mace. Cold were those eyes, and powerful was that staff when it first thumped the snow of the plains. Corruptive, shadowy power pressed against Malthon's being like the thrums of Light he and Balinda used occasionally.

The outcome of the duel wasn't to be determined today. With a wave of the staffhead and a word, a shockwave forced the combatants apart, and black rings secured their limbs when they tried scrambling back to their feet. Vrykuls roared at the interruption, several drawing arms. Malthon realized he was among them, but it was not for the same reason. The warlock approached.

"Malthon Eyenhart, King of Northrend, Champion of Tyr!" he announced. Grand was that voice, suited for courtrooms and assemblies for kings. Drekthac broke his arcane bounds, to which the warlock casually waved his hand and resecured him. That, if nothing else, was the most foreboding indicator of the strength of this man of shadow.

His address continued: "I before you am Sin de Rath of the Tanaris Desert, son of Grand Warlock Margaret de Rath ex Dalaran; also called Sin de Rath the Mad, the Specter of the Sands; also called the Holder of the Bane-Heart, the Warden of the Gardens; also called the Master of the Qiraji, Enemy of Ghat'Nothos. I before you am the chosen Champion of Lady Freya the Lifewarden and Har'koa of the Loa Pantheon. I know of no human kingdom or court that holds authority over me or my name, and as so, I have come to judge you! If you believe yourself fit to lead the campaign against Ghat'Nothos, The Always Watching, then you will prove yourself now!"

An explosion of power came to the warlock at the conclusion of his words, but he was not alone. Without summons, the Light thundered down from the ruptured heavens above and flooded Malthon to a degree seen only in the thickest battle against the Skinless. It poured and poured into him, casting him in a brilliant golden glow that engaged in a proxy-struggle against the pitch and dusky anti-light that began to surround the warlock.

Malthon's vision began to distort, from human eyes to something higher, and he saw – he saw – the truth behind Sin's words. The shadows of goddesses stood with that man: the tall and blossoming form of his sister Freya, the sleek and powerful animal form of the Loa goddess, but also something else. Something greater than either goddess, greater than Malthon himself. A formless, shapeless entity stood behind that warlock, feeding dark tendrils of power that put even the Skinless ilk to shame. It injected into the warlock's body, yet rather than corrupt the man, something else fought back, isolating and neutralizing the poison. Such a battle of power waged within that one human...

His hand was silver-coated. Malthon suspected it, but that image confirmed that he and Tyr had unified once again, in whatever act of Light it was. He would appear to everyone as that giant of Light, standing against the might and power of this warlock judge. With a loud huff of dismissal, Malthon crossed the distance between them and bore down on that blazing beacon of shadow magic. He looked into the Void with stalwart and wizened eyes, unflinching, and stood before everything the Void embodied like a beacon of attention.

"I am the Light of the Creeping Rime," Malthon declared in return. His voice boomed and resonated. "He with the Crimson Hands. I will not be judged by the likes of you." The black chains that held Thomas and Drekthac broke, freeing them to return to their feet. That image of power around the warlock began to falter.

Once it did, Sin de Rath surprised him by ceasing all outwards show of power. The black vanished as if it never was – the colored world rushed to fill the cracks in reality, returning a scene of normalcy around Malthon's gold-shrouded image – and left behind was only a warlock in purple robes with a black staff.

Then Sin stooped to a knee and bowed his head in a perfect image of submission, and he said, "All is well then. You have given sufficient reason to believe that the Jihad I wage against this dark god may join your Crusade for the same. I pledge myself and all my cheap parlor tricks in vassalage to you, King Malthon Eyenhart, and swear a sacred oath upon my name Sin de Rath, son of Margaret de Rath, that I will serve you loyally and faithfully, if you'll have me."

The Tyr in Malthon saw that the words were genuine, strange though this warlock was. In a normal state of mind, he might have hesitated, but not now, with the Light of the World condensed into his being. "I accept your oath of servitude, Sin de Rath, son of Margaret. Until the the day I or death releases you, I will honor and uphold you and yours under my authority. Now stand, and rise a knight of my kingdomless court."

Sin stood, shaking snow from his robe hems. He said in a pleasant voice, "Well, that is just grand. At your leave, my liege, I'd like to see us behind walls so we may hold council."

"In that, we are in agreement. Men, return to the fortress! Sirs Thomas, Raeloth, you are welcome to our shelter as well. For as long as this siege remains broken, I hope to discuss our future and course of action." With that settled he exhaled and relinquished his hold over the Light. It dissipated from his being, leaving only a man before them.

"Malthon," a womanly voice called – Balinda's – and he accepted her place at his side as he turned towards the south. Crown and Justice trotted evenly for it.

Behind, a panting Drekthac leaned on one sword with the other resting against his shoulderplate. To Thomas, equally weary and hurting, he said, "You aren't half useless, twinkle boy, but spew your shit to a Son of Blackrock once again and I will murder you in such a way that you can't be recovered." He didn't wait for a reply, turning to Sin instead, "As for you...!"

Thomas' retort died on his tongue as his mind caught up. Son of Blackrock. A survivor of Blackrock War. In Stormwind, there were no kind words for such men, but Merridan had given him the other side of it – the philosophy behind that Pyrrhic victory, the desperation. Thomas had practically captured it in his own words: to fight when there was nothing left to fight for. "He thinks himself a brother," Drekthac had said. Perhaps wisely, Thomas kept his mouth shut while the warrior tried intimidating Sin de Rath.

XxX

A hectic frenzy seemed to have overtaken the fortress, despite the broken siege. Or, Malthon suspected, it was because Ghat'Nothos had retreated his assault that had the vrykuls anxious. Scryers were scouring the arctic land for answers, yet all that confirmed was Ghat'Nothos was not at lack for martial power. The alternatives were more harrowing; the resistance had now consolidated its powers in one place.

Sin de Rath confirmed those fears, admitting that only aspirant Skinless had taken place in the assault. The champions of Ghat'Nothos were yet to come. Sin told him of the Singing Blades. Sin told him of the world taken from them south of Northrend.

Positive news was found in the form of the Exilee – specifically the dozens of carts they had in caravan. Every sort of supply and resource was found in those elven wagons, some laden with wealth worth more than a small kingdom. Thomas confirmed Sin's words of the south by mentioning they had salvaged Stormwind's cold remains, but the boon was great for the craftsmen, vrykul and human alike. It was something of a miracle in an unlikely place.

Finally, although Malthon and Sin wished to fall deep into discussion as soon as possible, the Ymirjar were fiercely against the idea of words instead of action right now. Thomas' ballista could be mounted on their walls, the sentinels could be etched with vrykul runes, defenses could be improved. If they had time to blow air, they had time to entrench themselves.

Reluctantly, Malthon agreed with the sentiments. He encouraged the others to establish themselves, to install batteries or at least set camp. Their nameless fortress would not fall this night. With over 12,000 bodies crammed inside its walls, the only challenge to their lives was finding a living space.

As a king in title, Malthon found his work was never done. He remained at the strategic head with the Ymirjar and Overthane Ufrangsson, plotting their defenses and passing the orders for execution.

X Assassination X

Lorrin Foxfire did not respond to his tent flap opening. Around his island of solitude was the movement and work of the Exilee as they set up their own stations, but that damned swamp he left had taught him survival tricks, including a nifty way of spelling a non-enchanted tent into place for him. Right now, he needed the isolation; he needed the loud sounds of normalcy around him.

Even through all that noise, he knew from familiarity the sound of she whom stopped at his tent entrance, and he knew the light presence when she sat at his bedside. Lorrin's arm remained draped over his eyes, shielding from the hundreds of blazing light orbs that floated above their heads.

"With a touch of effort, you could array a beautiful, cozy system rather than spartan survival. Imagine a drifting constellation, or the Sceneworks of Elora," said his mellow companion, no doubt watching his sporadic cloud of lights.

"Irregularity is necessary," he mumbled. "Patterns perverse, driving the maggots of madness deeper into your skull. You cannot doubt what you never knew."

Ysanna, his longest partner of the craft, waited to respond. Then she asked, "Does it still make you afraid?"

His arm fell so he could glare incredulously at the lady elf. "The day I lose my fear of madness is the day it is upon me!"

Her eyes were not upon him. She beckoned down a dot of light, let it dance between her fingers. "But is it madness, my friend? Our every perception, our every thought, is a system of firing neurons and reacting chemicals. I accept that a stirring hand is stimulating false visions and false sounds, thus not all I perceive is what is true. I can only bear it patiently, until this war is through."

Against the burning light, Lorrin only dragged his arm back over his eyes with a groan. By the Sunwell, Ysanna was a comforting one. To share this curse with another, he might never have lasted as long as he had. His reply: "What is truth to a man but his perceptions?"

"What is a body but in wellness? Like so, what is a mind but in wellness? We are sick, and like in sickness, we can still operate with diminished function – and we must. Until we are well again, we know not to trust in perception, so trust not, but why wallow in fear of what you know?"

"Because of the alternative," Lorrin growled. He swept his arm away once more, extinguishing all his floating lights.

The tent plunged into darkness, with hardly a crack from the flap to give contrast. The first pair of eyes opened. Each glaring, blood-flecked orb was the size of hand span, monstrous and glowing with eerie fell green. A dozen bloodshot, human-like eyes followed, wide as if in fear or desperation, all of them watching the two on the elven cot. More eyes followed, like spots against a black coat, until the two were alone under the attention of a thousand beings.

In the dark, things began to move. Arms, black as the dark, began to reach out. Things shifted and shuffled. A slimy tracer felt along Lorrin's leg, then began to drag upwards. Sharp, heavy claws skittered around his shoulder. A hulking palm settled against his chest, fingers clenching around him, and then pressure began to build.

Lorrin remained unmoving, though his heart hammered under this unholy attention. The pressure against his chest grew and grew, until he could no longer breath, and he knew Ysanna beside him was being dragged away under similar or worse treatment.

"I fear," he called out to the dark, hating himself for the tight and breathless way his Thalassian came, "because I, like you, can feel the currents of the leyline under- agh!" He choked as the squeeze became too much. A tendril slid over his mouth, with the taste of sour mucous clinging to his lips, dripping into his mouth – then gushing into his mouth. He was dying. He was dying!

A snap of his fingers summoned an orb of light. For the barest of moments, the extent of the horror was revealed, with black limbs reaching from the walls, the floor, every surface imaginable to caress, strangle, and molest their duo. And Ysanna, dear Ysanna, suffered the likes of which not even the most perverse fantasy could take pleasure in.

But with another orb of light, and another, the darkness was gone as if it never was. Ysanna was still there beside him with a bored expression and a raised eyebrow, unknowing of what he had just seen. He resummoned the patternless assembly of moving lights above him and covered his eyes once more.

He started when her cool palm rested over his forehead. She said nothing, only letting him feel the connection of the touch. Quietly, he pleaded, "Why does this happen to us, Ysanna? Is it the same for Blood de Rath? It must be."

"Sightless stalk our shadows," she said, no less calm. "Watching from the leylines, twisting begotten spells with subtlety. They want to break us, because we threaten them. If nothing else, that gives me confidence that we can endure this and win. As for Blood, in this game of fear, I would think they are more afraid of him than they could possibly instill."

Lorrin snorted a bitter laugh, surprised to feel some genuine amusement in it. "I can see it, as they reach those ugly fingers out for him, he just turns around and yanks the fiend right out of the leylines for a lesson in punishment."

Her soft laugh was his world for few simple seconds. When it was over, he sighed. "So long as those vrykuls hold the leylines closed here, we have nothing to fear materially. I can only hope this lasts."

Her soft palm left him, only to be replaced by the gentle touch of her lips. It was a non-sensual act. In her slight whisper, she settled, "We are the Children of Blood. We will endure."

XxX

Jon'ah was not a well-liked ranger, and that bothered him none.

Over the last fifteen years, Jon'ah had been witness to the orc invasions, the sacking of Silvermoon, the elf genocide by humans, the betrayal of their world by their beloved prince, the subsequent betrayal of their people, begotten contracts to strange horrors, and the final slaughter of those who hoped that Kael'thas hadn't been truly lost to the Burning Legion in the end. The end result was a bitter man with little compassion for those around him. After his people fell to their addictions and bloodgems, he knew the only way to endure was to keep his focus on himself.

The only surprise to him was that there weren't more elves like him. All those petty smiles and affable dispositions out there, from these elves with the same experiences as him, they could be nothing but masks to darker truths. However, even the Shadow, their Deliverer, has noticed and commented on Jon'ah's lack of trust for his fellows. He had been warned that it hurt their ability to operate as a unit.

The Shadow's words were true, and fortunately their commitment to becoming Ashblades did much towards building faith for his comrades – for all but one. The Swan, elegant, beautiful, and utter ravaged by the trials of the Sin'dorei. Jon'ah did not like her one flaming bit. The jewel of the Exilee was the very image of false pleasantries and overwhelming secrets behind a mask.

So Jon'ah did what he always did: went off alone for his own selfish whims and snooped for information. These days, he was less motivated by his own survival as he was for the man that single-handedly delivered them from exile and gave them hope again, but his methods remained.

Inside their "stronghold," which was really just a massive wall with only a few buildings amongst thousands of tents, the endless bustle provided the perfect environment for a bit of ranger sneaking. Countless tramping feet, hammering metal, stone-shaping, rancorous shouting, and crisp order levying silenced his movements, while tricks of the trade kept him hidden amongst the endless motion.

His careful inspections remained within the Exilee portion of their stronghold grounds, flitting from fire to fire, occasionally making holes in tent sides to peak about then carefully sealing away his incisions. Only a few snippets of conversation were worth his attention, but his concerns weren't the ethics of this people but specific threats to either the Shadow or the Exilee as a whole. The years had numbed his ears to petty crimes.

As his lurking neared him towards Genveera's tent, he heard faint noises from inside her living space. That didn't seem right. He had recently seen her pacing off towards Jerath's post and hoped to use the time to rummage through her belongings. Someone, it seemed, had beaten him to the punch.

Not for the first time, he was reminded of Thomas' warning of an enigmatic "Snow." His knife found its way into his hand while he worked for an inconspicuous position around the tent. The muted colors helped him blend against its canvas, as did the ever-darkening sky. His ears caught the tinkle of glass vials being disturbed, as with a faint feminine murmuring. Oh yes, someone was ahead of him.

For less than a minute, he was utterly motionless and silent. He used the time to absolutely ensure that this stranger was indeed strange, not Genveera on early return. If the audible rustling wasn't enough, as the Swan was at least as silent and careful as a ranger should be, the particular voice of the mutterer was enough.

Holding his breath, he lowered himself from his crouch until he was nearly prone, still perfectly camouflaged and soundless. His faint breath didn't even disturb the trampled snow as his cheek came to its icy face. Ever so slowly, he brought his hand to the bottom hem of the tent, then began to drag it aside, just enough for a peak.

After fifteen seconds of trying, straining to ensure the sounds inside indicated that the intruder was not alerted, he had barely half an inch revealed for his eye. He could see cloth boots in elvish style moving restlessly. He had positioned himself perfectly, he discovered, as several items blocked the nearly unnoticeable cinch at the tent hem from the others perspective. That also meant he couldn't catch her face, however.

Just as slow, Jon'ah returned the hem back into its original position. Cloth boots, that pattern in its design. He seared the detail in his mind. Still lying on the snow, he breathed into existence a self-contained, undetectable spell to record sound. He let no weave of it reach into the tent for more accurate reception, as even that could be telling of his presence. He let it listen as he could listen, to pass onto Meyanna or the Shadow himself. This was worth Ashblade attention.

X Jihad X

"Was it intentional?" Narelle asked once they were finally alone. On Sin's other side, Lynona threw aside her invisibility, popping back into existence. "Swearing into one of those "till death" oaths?"

A sweep of Shed'lahk raised a soundproof wall around the circumference of his tent, then Sin set upon sealing the black staff away. Before he could even reply, Narelle must have seen his cocky grin, for she sighed and muttered, "What am I saying? Of course it it, just like everything else."

"Well, I don't want to boast..." Sin exclaimed. The elf shook her head, warning, "You got lucky. I'm not sure what to think of about that human king, but the last thing we need is you locked away behind an honest oath. Elune take me for saying it, but you need to be in full control of you."

"It was intentional," Lynona quipped from the side. "Honestly. I was in his head for the plan. It's times like this that I absolutely love him for." Her blue eyes seemed to shine in the dim, artificial light.

"How could you possibly...?"

Sin accepted the hanging question with his usual arrogance. "Nevermind the Tyr in him, that man is an upright, proper Lordaeron honor scout. I can play a man like that like a didgeridoo. He's predictable. He'd accept an oath of fealty from a cultist ringleader so long as the sworn is genuine."

Her hawk helmet came off, leaving her with the silver topknot. Her fingers worked at the bands that gave it shape. "If what you say is true," she drawled, "what is the plan while you play lapdog for him?"

"Exactly that," he said. Lynona had the bedroll laid out, just in time for him the crash backwards against it with a tired sigh. His tanned hand rubbed at his forehead. The succubus crawled behind him, lifted his torso into her lap, then settled on playing with his short hair. After a groan of approval, he continued, "That whole test and judgment thing wasn't for show. Wasn't entirely for show, I mean. Malthon- my lord and liege King Malthon, that is, is fit to lead this assault. For now, I will play lapdog to the very letter."

He paused and smirked to himself. "I've never served a king before. It'll be educational. My liege this, my lord that. I'll get the hang of it."

"Well, I don't believe anyone will regret you learning some humility," she quipped dryly. The heavy shoulders and cloak were pulled aside; watching her fold the article was a fascinating show, both efficient and practiced yet precise around the many teethed edges and all those daggers. When finished, she was left in just her skimpy number with its clipped-on arsenal of blades.

Rather than stare, Sin closed his eyes to lean into Lynona's caresses. Downtime just seemed too sparse these days.

Today, as it went, would be no exception. "You should put your cloak back on," he said, still with his eyes shut.

"I thought we were doing the head thing," she mentioned.

He didn't quite grimace at the reminder. Right now, even that seemed preferable to what was coming. "Later tonight. We can't afford that kind of vulnerability right now."

There was a quiet filled only by Lynona's expert hands on his shoulders, then the whispering swoosh of her cloak unfurling. Click, click latched it her spaulders, then he heard the swish of her hair as she returned it to the topknot. With her usual cutting assessment, she said plainly, "Something is coming."

"Yes."

Continued silence. She knew what it meant, for him to say that even inside this massive base with all their troops. She knew what was coming. They had, after all, taken her home and massacred her people.

"Elune, guide my blade and bring darkness to my foe," she whispered, distinctly to herself. Sin had never heard her pray in earnest before. He let her have her moment; he certainly appreciated his.

X Genocide X

Of all her traits, the most frustrating to Hilda was how easily she slipped from the minds of those she surrounded herself with. She could command a room by presence, arouse passion and spirit with an eyeless look, and what words she spoke were always held in reverence. Wheresoever she went, Hilda was always the center of all attention – and yet the moment she departed, so too did her memory.

While a spider would hope for nothing else, Hilda was still a vrykul, and a Hyldnir one at that. The day she won the Lich King's favor of everlasting "life," the day she became a val'kyr, Hilda's only renown and fame would be the results of her influence on the Ymirjar. She, named after the great Shield-Maiden Hyld that propagated the tribes among Storm Peaks; she, chief and greatest among the Valkyrion; she, that in life shattered disputes with the southern vrykuls by her own wits and strength. Never again would she be known for her martial prowess or great deeds in life.

Just the greatest among equals for the Ymirjar's handmaidens, collared for life to her duties. Even as a val'kyr, she was always to be third to the twins Fjola Lightbane and Eydis Darkbane, not even worth a summons from the Lich King when his fortress was besieged. Whom from that war, small one or vrykul, knew her name? No one.

Even with her ambitions brutally stifled, Hilda did not cease to work. If she was to lead the Ymirjar from the shadows, unknown and unpraised, then so be it. She'd give up more than her pride for her people.

Presently, Hilda waited upon the figureheads of the resistance. The Fool King, Thomas, Overthane Ufrangsson, and Ymirjar collaborated over the defenses, determining how to distribute and use the resources they had. With the siege temporarily broken, Drekthac had briefly taken part in the discourse, only to slink back at a wink and a wave from his val'kyr Freydis. That grizzled war nymph remained close at hand to him, something she made note of.

That man, Baelin Drekthac. Small one Ymirjar were not unheard of, but he was the first to settle at Ymirheim since she had joined the val'kyr handmaidens. Hilda knew better than to hope, but blazing ambitions once thought dead began to ignite at thoughts of him. Freydis had been a tad too mischievous in her night jaunts to Jotunheim. Baelin was aware of their plotting.

Baelin Drekthac may very well be the portal to freedom for val'kyr-kind.

Rather than fall into fantasy, however, Hilda remained focus upon the current assembly. Sin de Rath was absent. Like Drekthac, that warlock represented far more than his small stature suggested, but unlike Drekthac, Sin had no intention of being "available" for her use. Getting a finger on that warlock would prove a trial that tested her skill and methods, should she decide to pursue him at all.

Only a few Ymirjar refrained from the victory feasting and fucking. Chief amongst them were the five strategist that had stepped forward to command their assault, rather than war in the flesh. They, like Hilda, made sacrifice of their own glory for the good of their people. With them were three artisans, Ymirjar whose legends included epic feats of craftsmanship, whether in ingenious defenses or clever assault tools. The same three that provided mentoring to others in the clan who sought mastery in that field.

Even with such deeds attributed to their names, those three were Ymirjar first, and they would not be deterred from the battlefield for long. Even now, Bathor was itching to return to the feast, passing crude jokes and wistful glances to the great bonfires. They would complete their duties first, even so.

"If those Skinless jormungar proved anything, it is that these walls will be no obstacle. Sigarda, you mentioned a remedy in the works?" Thodin mentioned. He remained hunched over the wood and stone model of their fortress, the braids of his grey hair dangling above their carved pieces. His gruff voice seemed tinged with an energy not usually seen in men of his age.

Beside him, the only female Ymirjar strategist spoke with a heavy rasp, "Our elementalists are working reaching deep into the earth as we speak, seeking to draw up all the granite and metal we can. If all goes well, we can wall away our underbelly thick enough even for their gnawing teeth."

Sigarda the Avalanche, Hilda recognized, with her red hair tied to a braid and a brown frostweave dress dancing with intricate vrykul runes. An elementalist, one of the ancients. Like Thodin and the other strategists, her eyes burned with blue luminosity – the mark of a death knight, the "reward" from the Lich King. Much like Hilda had in life, the rune of a Binder remained branded upon each of Sigarda's shoulders.

"By the gods, the things I would have done for such feats in my campaigns," Olgin said to his sister-in-arms. Though an unassuming-appearing man, with his bark-colored hair in a neat ponytail, Olgin of the Hammer was the reason Icecrown Glacier was free of Nerubian overworld cities – single-handedly demolishing two before he gained a following potent enough to take their overworld capital.

The last two, Jarwulf and Bjorki, along with Thodin, were also warleaders of their time. Jarwulf the Crazed, who's violent conquest overthrew the King of Vrykul in his era, known for his techniques of siege and aerial assault, as well as claiming the King's wife, daughter, and granddaughter as war prizes for his bed. Icefang Bjorki, though the Icefang clan of his namesake had been killed off in King Ymiron's campaign for vrykul unity, at one time he had used it to bring all vrykuls from Storm Peaks to Howling Fjord under heel. His Hyldnir slave-wife from that campaign proved her worth in Valhalas with him, now a Ymirjar fighting in the front lines with the others.

As for Thodin... he held the highest voice of them all. Due to the agelessness of those who pass the Gates of Ymirheim, appearance was no indicator of how long the vrykul had lived, yet with their centuries long lifespans in mind, Thodin appeared weathered and greyed, his voice instilled with both wisdom and authority. Hilda knew him to be several millennia old, even before the Long Sleep. A heavy suit of black armor with golden bandings and a helmet with actual dragon horns welded in completed his assembly.

Thodin, son of Thorim, it was said. Whether it was true or not, this man had the mark of the Hyldnir god upon him, Hilda's god, and he was not one she was wont to entangle herself with. Like her, he spurred physical weapons, preferring those of arcane make; unlike her, no runes were involved in his lightning creations.

And these were only the five whom offered to work from the command tent, rather than fight in the battles. Scores of other Ymirjar boasted similar legacies and accomplishments in their leaderships, while other acquired it from experience and expanded upon strategy once living within Ymirheim.

And despite these titanic legends and valorous histories, King Malthon Eyenhart and Overthane Ufrangsson were not outshined in stature or authority in this council.

Proverbially shaking her head, Hilda turned away from the assembly, unnoticed, and carried herself by wing towards the massive wall. She moved leisurely, reflecting on her position and her opportunities. Motivating the Ymirjar to war had been a stroke of luck, but now that they were here, there was little else she could, or needed to, influence.

But, it seemed, her luck hadn't run out yet.

So used to the armors and dress of Ymirjar, the worn and plain purple robes were pathetically simple, to her perception belonging to an utterly unremarkable owner. The lacquered black staff he held, with its twisting and gnarled head, seemed like the most valuable possession to such a man. Even the way he sat cross-legged, with his knees flaring his robes out and the staff clutched possessively across his lap, stirred contempt for his clumsy and lethargic image. This man was anything but heroic, it all said.

Yet upon his shoulders and bunched awkwardly behind him was a cloak that blended colors in the modest winds. A symbolic reminder that Sin de Rath was anything but his appearance. Earlier light-show aside, he may very well be the most powerful warrior in their entire camp.

And Malthon alone held the reins to this man? Was such a bond absolute? The Fool King seemed to believe so, that those words were far more than mere words. Did the warlock abide to his contracts like the demons must?

Hilda let her astral feet touch the stony ground beside him, momentarily following his gaze to the black reaches beyond their wall. Though the night was no hamper to her sight, she wondered what this man saw, if he saw anything at all.

While she chewed over the best approach to this human, he spoke first – just a quiet murmur asking, "Are you ready, val'kyr?"

The words that first came to her lips were those she never wished to say genuinely, so she hid it behind a sly and knowing tone, "Ready for what, little one?"

He looked up at her, and there was disappointment in that look. The icy contempt that rose in her was drowned out by the sinking sensation in her gut. Still he answered her, without subtleties or gloating: "For a massacre."

The feeling inside doubled in intensity. His tone said which side was to be at the receiving end. But with all the Ymirjar and the others behind her, not a single thread in her web matched his warning. Damn her pride; if this was true, she needed his information.

Before her mouth even had a chance to open, there was purple light from Sin. Its source revealed itself as a simple crystal orb, unlike the Orb of Whispering they had used earlier. The sudden light seemed to alarm the warlock, as he uncrossed himself and righted himself on his feet at once. The staff was clenched in a tight fist now, while his eyes scoured the wastelands beyond them.

"They're coming," he told her, not bothering to even look at her now. "You are of no use to me here, val'kyr. Go, and tell my "king" that our time is up."

There was a time she'd kill a man for so easily discarding her. Instead, muscles that did not exist flexed in her cheek, and she tempered herself, eviscerating vrykul pride. Her eyeless val'kyr sight turned to the valley. This time, she did not turn away until she witnessed what he did.

Shapes moved over the snow. Only a few, like a pack of scavengers, but then the warning horns blew in her head when magic showed upon those figures. Her lips blew a rune into existence, and her vision clarified ten fold.

Lithe were the shapes. Cloaked figures, all of them, with the forerunner the most bloated of them all. The leader leaped forward, her cloak fanning wide as she spun to reveal that slender elven body, and she saw a glint of the crossbow right as it fired. Four others followed close behind. The two in the path of the loosed bolt vanished suddenly, reappearing exactly beside the landing elf runner.

In the same instant, like a blink of an eye, she was gone, carried a few dozen yards beyond the pursuers. Hilda could see the bladed weapons poised where the elf had been before, just before they were tucked under their cloaks again, and the pursuit continued.

Even without her vision, Sin made more sense of it than her. His anger lashed against her as he roared, "I said GO! Damn you!" Hilda was shocked out of her trance when some force grabbed her and hurled her from the wall towards the camps. She caught herself in the air, but she nearly gaped at the warlock's back, realizing she'd be thrown away like a child.

The magic that pooled around him now was no show. Her dark heart jolted when he released whatever spell he had just built, firing it towards the wastes. Such a spell matched her very best, and already he was gathering another of its like. Before he could unleash this one, he shouted, "Tell Malthon four Singing Blades have come! Four of them!"

His first spell impacted. No one could miss its roar, while her arcane senses screamed at it.

Hilda darted away, towards the gathering of strategists. Another hulking explosion nipped at her heels, accompanied with sounds of question and concern from their camps. There was something therapeutic to the cacophonous noise, like being back in a real battle. It set her mind straight. Immediately, lists of things to do were scribbled up inside, the order and paths plotted. She would be Sin's messenger first, but she had not forgotten herself.

"To arms!" she cried out telepathically. Only the val'kyr, those of similar dark make, were receptive to such ways. "The battle begins again! To arms, sisters, to arms!" She reached the strategists.

Without hesitation, Hilda descended in the center of the moot. Her angelic wings spread wide for the fall, halting only inches from the model, ensuring with her helmet-covered eyes that all focus was upon her. Men, Ymirjar, even those that sought the source of the noises turned to face her, giving her their attention, their respect.

Alas, such a brittle, fleeting honor this was.

"King Malthon Eyenhart," she addressed formally, though a loathsome tightness colored her voice. "Sin de Rath warns that four Singing Blades approach."

"Four?" the Fool King choked out in response. He turned to the White Lady, garnished again in proper paladin uniform, but his companion only returned those wild eyes. Then she nodded to him, and even with their mutual fear, Malthon found new confidence, turning back to them assembly with blue eyes burned.

"This is it, brothers and sisters," he announced boldly. Hilda sent herself skyward with a hard flap, but a rune left behind allowed his words to follow her. Explosions in the distance proved those enemies were not so distant at all anymore. "Ghat'Nothos now shows his best hand. Singing Blades, kingkillers and worldslayers, the best our foe has to offer. A single blade can tear down a capital city, slay a god in his domain, can make fodder of your best warriors. And we have been given four."

A psychic thrust forced Hilda into one val'kyr's mind in particular. A naked Drekthac was revealed to her, his distinct human face twisted with pleasure and passion. The mind she invaded was colored no different, mindlessly driven by similar want and ecstasy. A lazy, thoughtless question was passed at the intrusion.

"Maybe these assassins have marks. If so, I am certainly one of them. Because of this, I will stand at the very front, to give these Lightless bastards as little ground to slice through as possible. But heed my words, Ghat has seen us reclaim our dead and has sent these Singing Blades with an intent to circumvent even that. Those who go to fight now may very well find only permanent deaths here – deaths that will allow no soul to move on, to the Light, Valhal, or elsewhere."

"Freydis, the Dragon is needed now," Hilda intoned, callus to their coupling.

She could feel the mounting pleasure in Freydis's mind as the val'kyr shouted back, "Godsdamn right he's needed!" But the woman knew her duty well, and with a furious shout, Freydis stopped her efforts, slapping Drekthac's bared chest with her palm. She shoved herself off her partner, crying between angry pants, "Fuck! I was so close!"

Her wrath was reflected in Drekthac's eyes, as he demanded, "What the hell are you doing?"

Malthon's voice kept speaking: "The fate of our resistance hinges on this night. Ghat'Nothos has seen our opposition, seen us breach his lands, and this is his answer. He believes it is enough to shatter us. We will be the ones to determine if it is so! Until this night, we have had only one duty: to hold the line at all costs! Now, brothers – now, sisters – now we move to the offensive! More than hold, we will spit in his very eye and slay the best he has to offer! And with his Singing Blades driven dead before us, even that bastard god will tremble knowing that we are coming for him next!

"This world is ours! Azeroth is ours! And any one of you that wants to prove it so must go out there and carve that into their Skinless bodies with your steel and your rage!"

"We must fight. You must fight," Freydis hissed at Baelin. A pulse of hatred passed towards Hilda for the interruption, but it was quickly managed.

"There is always time for bloody fighting!" Drekthac complained. He caught his armor when Freydis hurled it at him.

But Hilda had fed King Malthon's speech into Freydis' head. She knew what was coming. "No, Baelin. This fight determines if we can ever fight again."

Her work finished, Hilda retreated from Freydis' head. Ymirjar and val'kyr were rallying in their camp. A mental command guided the val'kyr her way, those that were not handmaidens to remain on their masters.

Her senses screamed just before it happened, turning her head towards their wall and the lone Sin de Rath in time to see the barrier consumed in unholy light. There were no eyes to be burned or blinded by the explosion, so Hilda could see the many stones and wooden beams spewing out from the breach point. The fate of Sin, she could not tell, but three cloaked figures stepped out of the light, onto the grounds of their stronghold.

Lip curling, Hilda pushed herself forward. Val'kyr poured behind her, her sister-in-arms, but it would be she that remained in front. Blue runes spiraled down her left arm, and red ones along her right. Quick as thought, she could complete the sets to summon her shield and spear, but she would wait for just the right moment. Timing was critical for a killing thrust.

It mattered naught to Hilda if she was a Singing Blade target. It could be her, Drekthac, Thodin, anyone among the Ymirjar. If she was, she would face it head on. If she was not, it must best her before it had a chance to cut through their lines. Hilda was many things, and certainly "manipulative asshole" was among them, but at her most simple, she was a vrykul who loved her clan, all her brothers and all her sisters. If any were to die this day, she would see herself first among them.

Death with no promise of Valhal after? So be it.

She was almost upon the Singing Blades, the first to do so. The runes upon her flared bright as she raised her war cry, relishing the sound of a hundred sisters taking it up with her.

To war.

XxX

Drekthac's entrance to battle came with the usual fanfare. Upon exiting his tent, Freydis and Maldrid fell into line with him, hovering over his shoulder, while a chill nymph joined him on the ground in a quick gallop. He still found it hard to believe that grizzled, chewed up she-beast was the same innocent girl he had sent out into the wastes all those days ago. Leyanna, his captive, returned as a warleader with enough scars over horse and elf halves to put even him to shame.

"If these things are even half as deadly as everyone thinks," he was shouting in their sprint, "I want you far back! 'Breaker or not, you are of no use dead!"

Leyanna held a leafy nymph spear like a lance, with an expression to match some old cavalry vets he knew. "Watch your own ass. Leyanna Oakensteed is on the hunt."

Drekthac scowled. "You might have a warrior's heart now, but you're still the same girl that Jotunheim hunting party captured without issue! Do not engage!"

The night Drekthac had sent Leyanna free, she had been attacked by the darklings. He had thought sending her from Jotunheim would spare her a terrible fate, yet he merely condemned her to a worse one. The scars along her body spoke of how close to death she came that night. Even after her narrow victory, she was still left leagues from the nearest nymph glade, and she made that crawl all the way home.

Moments like that changed people. Drekthac understood her change, and he respected her ability to withstand a Skinless ambush alone, but that one event would not supply the experience and prowess to stand beside Ymirjar on the front lines.

Upon clearing the Ymirjar camp, they found the battle well underway. That firestorm of Holy Light at the center said that Malthon was in the thick of it, but the disparate of the surging bodies suggested there really was no "center" here. Only utter chaos and madness.

Only four enemies, and unless Baelin fucking Drekthac stepped in, all these men and women were going to die. Now there's a thought.

A shock of familiar purple in his peripheral interrupted Drekthac's assessment, and he slowed his run to approach the prone, beaten form that could only be Sin de Rath. He spat in the snow beside the body. "Fucking skirt-boys. Useless."

The dark skinned man only moved his head enough to glare at him. A heavy wheeze was his reply. The sack of shit warlock then broke into a fit of coughing, prompting Maldrid to descend upon him for healing. Once Sin could finally pull himself up to his knees, he groused seemingly to himself, "'Unravel the spell," he says. 'It won't even touch you,' he says. Because kinetic fucking energy is certainly a Darkness-Taken magic!"

Drekthac raised an eyebrow at his val'kyr. "You sure he's healed?"

She shrugged. "I can only undo the physical trauma. The rest is all him."

"I'm fine," Sin growled. He snapped his fingers twice, which seemed to beckon his staff from somewhere so that it would jump back into his hand. He used it to push himself back to his feet, then faced the mess of bodies beyond. "I hope you are ready for a fight, warrior. I tried ripping Ghat's magic out of these assholes, but it seems this is all them. Eredar legionnaires on old god steroids." He blinked sluggishly upon realizing the rest of Drekthac's entourage, especially at Leyanna. "Hey, a frost-dyrad-horse-thing. Want to learn a magic trick?"

"I think you should sit this one out," Drekthac drawled. "Freydis, Maldrid. Let's go."

Sin refocused on him. "Right, there's no time, is there?" Purple light pooled into his hands, quickly spreading into a litany of runes around him. It ended with him on a flaming dreadsteed. "When this is over, tell your sisters to find me. I will teach you how to spell-break Ghat's magic." He snapped the reins, sending his mount forward and settling at Drekthac's side as they ran.

Along the way, a nimble figure leaped up behind Sin to join him on his horse, revealed to be his elf warden, and the two began shouting like an old married couple. Drekthac tuned them out. It said something about the warlock that he'd be so oblivious to the danger or tension of a battle – or even this battle – but a cracked egg wasn't worth speculating over.

Entering the mob of bodies was a different experience from what Drekthac was used to for battalion rotations. Shoving and shouting weren't needed; Ymirjar and paladins alike moved aside to allow them through, cheering his name or titles, like a champion on his way to the front lines. It was a good feeling. The culmination of a lifetime of war, and he was here now to make a difference.

Then they reached the fighting pits. Drekthac refused to pause, refused to hesitate. By his own definitions, he did neither, yet once they passed the rim, Drekthac's feet stopped moving at once and his mind rapidly reevaluated the situation. Before them were over a hundred corpses strewn across the arctic ground. That was typical to a battle, yes. That was typical even in Ymirheim, with their daily little wars.

Those bodies weren't Jotunheim vrykuls. They weren't soldier fodder. Male and female Ymirjar stared out with glossy eyes, male and female paladins lay quenched like flames in the bottom depths of the ocean. Above, val'kyr wailed like banshees, their words mixing Common and Vrykul, mourning great heroes in eternal loss. They did not recover the fallen. They could not recover the fallen.

But the killing stroke of this was not the devastation. It was not the death. What shook even Drekthac down to his core was that this fight began only a a handful of minutes ago – four, at most! – and that standing in the center of the slaughter was only a single cloaked figure, in the process of pulling apart a vrykul easily three times its size.

The tips of both swords touched the ground with heavy thumps, muted by the tragic noise around him. Ymirjar were first to arrive to this battle, and they were first to die. Drekthac recognized the doomed man in the center. Olgin, of the Hammer. One of the few bold men who willfully gave up glorious combat to lead their forces in the command tent. Olgin, whom single-handedly shook down Nerubian citadels when they still stood upon the surface, regarded to this day as the strongest man to ever live.

Olgin was already missing his left arm. A dripping stump remained its placeholder, while the right hand relentlessly crashed his adamantium mace against his assailant. And with a surgeon's patience, the Singing Blade continued vivisecting the man one strand of innards at a time.

What a monstrosity that creature was. Drekthac had flashbacks of Thane Byjron the Thirster pulling skin off his victims. Compared to the bodies already littering the area, it was clear this creature intended on this slow death. It recognized Olgin as someone powerful, not just as a man but as an image; so it broke him slowly, carefully, and for all the world to see. This was the shattering of an idol. It was a blow to the heart, and Drekthac felt it.

As for the creature itself, the cloak and illusionary spell distorted its features, but four stingy tentacle-seeming things acted like limbs for it, some holding the vrykul, others ripping at him, and another still holding a double-ended scythe. The weapon appeared odd, unlike those Skinless which used them before. It radiated light, bright and burning greens, blues, and pearly whites. If Drekthac wasn't mistaken, the hard metal bent and shifted like a living organism, relishing the feast of blood it had already partaken in. It was like looking at a scene from a nightmare.

In the end, Olgin wasn't allowed his excruciating and humiliating death. When his great strength began to relent, there was a high-pitched whistle as the scythe moved once more, and that nauseatingly active blade sunk into Olgin's chest and extinguished his life in a manner similar to Frostmourne. Drekthac's brother dropped to the ground and never moved again.

The might of Ghat'Nothos. A Singing Blade. This was only one of the four sent here to destroy them.

The enemy raised its cloaked head then, and Drekthac's spine crawled when he realized it fixed its gaze exactly upon him. Until that moment, it had been otherwise silent – audible only by the wind-cutting cry of its blade and the ruffle of its cloak – yet once its eyeless gaze found Drekthac, the gurgling shriek of the Skinless rose up like an elated child. The scythe was spun around three of its four hands – for that is what those spindly "tentacles" revealed themselves to be, arms that contorted without limits of bone or joint – and it advanced upon him gleefully.

Yards before contact between them, the Singing Blade was thrust back by a powerful black wave, the spell shimmering the air around it like heat rays. Though the creature fluidly turned its counter-momentum into a righting force and charged again, Sin shouted to Drekthac, "Well, soldier boy, this is your hour! Keep hold of your soul now; they seem to grow stronger off the bloody things!"

It came for him again. The Singing Blade came for him. Drekthac's heart raced, and the fear inside him was real. This was not death. This was oblivion. This was antithesis to everything he and the Ymirjar believed in. And Drekthac was its next target.

His hands gripped his swords tighter.

From what Freydis hastily explained, perhaps Drekthac was its only target. All these men and women who died here, with no hope of the Light or Valhal beyond, they died in his stead. This creature was an assassin, not a warrior. Olgin was condemned to oblivion so that Drekthac may be lured out.

Well then, if it was the Dragon it wanted, then the Dragon it would get. Drekthac split his lungs with the Dragon's Roar, and his armor accelerated his rage into a living entity within him. The sound around them faded away. The movement around them whited out. Drekthac did not wait for it to come to him.

Most foes crumpled after the first full-strength hit from Drekthac's six-foot long swords. The smart ones evaded and struck in the lingering moment. The Singing Blade, however, met his sword with a parry that did not yield, and still it struck him too. He shouted as the other blade of its weapon scraped across his breastplate, swinging up with his off-hand. Too slow, he realized, as his enemy easily slid out of his reach and returned with a controlled fury. The creature's weapon sung its howling song through the air, faster and faster than he could hope to match.

Drekthac gave himself to his rage. Human limbs slammed into braces at the extremities, barely keeping him together, but he scored his first stroke against the plain grey cloak, and the creature's chittering response told him it felt it. It replied with a burst of magic that sent Drekthac flying heels-over-head backwards, a flight that terminated against their stronghold wall.

Armor ground against stone as he slid to ground level again, but Drekthac caught sight of his opponent once more, seen to be advancing towards him unopposed by the many onlookers. No, that wasn't true. One of its four arms struck without looking, impaling one man who charged its back. A rune-user began a spell, then clutched her chest with a hand and crumpled down like she was having a stroke. It controlled the masses even as it faced Drekthac alone.

Fucking hell!

Jarred but unharmed, Drekthac clamored back to his feet and readied his stance. Britta the Blood Maid, lovely and obnoxious Britta, stepped up for a moment of glory briefly; her val'kyr Helgrin breathed runes unto her arrows, which the wild frost vrykul would fire with impossible accuracy in the midst of rapid movement along the fringes of their forces. At contact, the Singing Blade responded with its multi-jointed and far-reaching hand, missing more than once. The enchanted arrows seemed to do little more than frustrate the foe, and it settled the matter with another spell that sent Drekthac's friend tumbling through their forces like dominoes, her blue body scorched and blackened. Helgrin followed.

There would be no ally this battle, Drekthac knew. No brother or sister-in-arms to help see him through. This was all h-

In a puff of shadow, a man appeared, descending with twin daggers upon the Singing Blade's back. The creature responded with lethal swiftness, but the assailant remained a step ahead for each sweeping strike. It ended with a broad sweep of one blade, spraying black blood across the snow – visible for only a second, then it burned through the powder into the earth and likely beyond. But the ally kicked back, dodged the scythe strikes, and ended nearly beside Drekthac.

He could hear panting behind Thomas' leather mask, but the fellow human seemed unharmed in the exchange. "Another is coming," Thomas warned. His blades found sheathes and his shouldered bow his hands in half a second, a practiced motion that also drew an arrow and nocked to full draw. He released the bolt at the end of that second, sending a streaking white arrow at the Singing Blade which was only barely dodged – and finally blocked by a Ymirjar behind.

"I'm surprised you're alive, leaf boy," Drekthac returned tightly. To their right, half a dozen bodies were flung aside as a second, almost identical appearing Singing Blade appeared and joined the first, turning its scythe to make that same haunting song.

"You spent your life fighting wars and killing people," Thomas panted. "I spent mine hunting monsters."

Green ooze appeared in the air beside them, so they both jumped aside, weapons ready. The oozing light pooled on the ground, spreading into a large rune. There was a flash from the demonic light, and Sin de Rath stumbled out, looking quite a bit worse than when Drekthac had left him. He had been wondering what the warlock was up to.

"Damn it," Sin cried. "Damn it, damn it, damn it! She didn't fucking listen!" He thrust his staff forward and ripped it upwards. In the distance, a cloaked shape was flung high into the air (which the val'kyr and qiraji scattered from) and crashed into a pile of bodies at their clearing. A third Singing Blade rolled to its feet.

"You sure we want them all together like this?" Drekthac asked. In his peripheral, the titan of Light was noticeably closer. There was a resonating crashing sound, like a gong, and the last Singing Blade made a trench among the snow and bodies as it slid into their clearing. King Malthon followed in his golden splendor, radiating righteous fury and holy power.

The paladin nodded at them as he joined them in two massive steps. "So we are the four," he acknowledged. No matter his tone, the words boomed like he was shouting in Drekthac's ears. Drekthac scowled at the Fool King.

The half ring that restricted them and the Singing Blades against the wall began to fill with familiar names and faces. There was the White Lady and the high elf lord, Leyanna and a bloodied Hilda, Sin's gold-dressed qiraji whore and many of his masked bandits, the Exilee Commander and his stone-faced rangers. If they fell here, those were the ones that must see these fiends dead or die trying.

"Sin," Malthon continued, "I need you to purge them of Ghat's magic again."

Black magic was already pooling around the warlock. A real fury was on his face. "I'm going to do much worse than just that to them."

"No, you won't," Malthon firmly reminded. "Burn out that magic and keep it out."

Sin glanced at him, then back to the Singing Blades. Four glowing scythes twisted around like strings on instruments. "As you wish, my liege."

"That'll make them weaker?" Drekthac asked.

Sin's reply was curt: "Vulnerable, not weaker. Not these bastards."

While they spoke, the Singing Blades moved. Those plain cloaks, now bloody, burned, and ripped, were stripped away and discarded. Drekthac huffed. As Sin had warned earlier, these enemies were indeed derived of eredar – specifically the wrathguards. One had its masking spell stripped away, allowing the shape to have detail. The ridged brow, broad chest yet sinuous shape, the tail and stance. Only one creature fit the mark.

Nathrezim and eredar were regarded as the two most dangerous races in all of the Twisting Nether. They were the elites in the Burning Legion, the most corruptive and powerful. Nathrezim, the perverters. Eredar, the destroyers. Legionnaires, warlocks, no matter their role, the eredar reigned supreme among the legion, with potential to reach the highs of Archimonde or Kil'Jaeden. Ghat had taken those and given them his Sightless boon. Perhaps even more.

"Sin, what are you...?" Malthon's question trailed off. Drekthac was treated to the sight of a speechless Fool King. Then he saw why.

Like the Signing Blades before them, Sin had discarded his own cloak and purple robes. He stood there in only a simple white linen shirt with short sleeves and a pair of green runed, purple pants. At the looks, the warlock shrugged, saying, "I thought it fit the moment. The gloves are off."

"Idiot," Drekthac grumbled.

The song of the scythes changed tempo, pulling their attention back to their adversaries. All four Singing Blades were sprinting across the field of corpses towards them. No more words needed to be said then. Malthon and Drekthac stepped forward to meet them, while Thomas vanished from beside them at the same time that one of the four went down in a tumble of limbs with a dark shape.

Drekthac's skin crawled as a dark force passed him by, revealed to be Sin and that dark staff, but the Singing Blades responded worse to it than them. Howling and shrieking, they came, with murder on their faces. The distortion spell was down for all of them. Drekthac assumed Sin had purged them dry. With another shout, he raised his swords and prepared to see this through. The lithe eredar closest rolled under his swing, springing up against his side with its whistling blade committed on his guts.

The battle began anew.

Between the clashing of blades, screaming of voices, and trampling of swift feet, Drekthac found his memories stirred by this fight. Not in the unshakable camaraderie of Malthon at his side as they battled two against three, but of the simpler days only weeks ago, when he had undertaken the trials of worth in the Valhalas arena. Valniox the Traveler, one of his first opponents, had a style to him similar to the Singing Blades:

Their fluid, almost boneless four arms could strike with similar whipping motions, the twirling scythe passing between hands like a stage performer. Dark green scales armored their bodies, a shell so strong that even Drekthac's massive swords only scraped along them harmlessly. The mix of magic also echoed of Valniox.

Certainly, these Singing Blades were much more than that traveler. When their tentacle-arms were retracted, they fought like master armsmen, beyond even the legionnaire wrathguards they had the near-shape of. Their magic was equitable to Sin de Rath in spontaneity and reckless power, escaping the best efforts of the chill nymphs' spell-breaking. Even so, Drekthac had beaten Valniox, and he had not forgotten why.

In the red filter that was Drekthac's great rage, supernatural and boundless within his body, he distantly recognized Thomas' awareness and boldness in a pitch. Knowing of Drekthac's sudden bursts of lethality only from their earlier scuffle, Thomas read into Drekthac's current state and Shadow-Stepped onto the back of Drekthac's current opponent, commanding blade and a touch of magic into rendering immobile his prey. Drekthac mustered all his rage into a Heroic Strike, only barely aware that he should put in half an effort to not also kill Thomas with the swing.

The blade came in an eye blink, and it was parried as swiftly, wiping out Drekthac's momentum. Another Singing Blade had appeared before its brother, black-skinned facial features contorted with rage. The gouge-lines were clear upon that face, its ugly sockets glaring at Drekthac while its maw split for a spine-chilling shriek.

Drekthac replied with a spittle-spraying roar. His left sword began to swing, just as a black orb appeared between them to throw Drekthac away like a ragdoll. Instead, a second sphere – purple with shadow – erupted before it and suicided into the eredar's spell. The remaining force was hardly a shove, while the Singing Blade was too slow to escape Drekthac's strike. It ripped into its guts, spraying black over the snow and Drekthac.

A gold dome erupted around Drekthac right then, forming within him and forcing its way outwards. Drekthac could see the black acid blood splattered off around him, carried away by the divine intervention, and he knew the Fool King was responsible. The Singing Blade stuck with his sword vanished, appearing again a few yards away with wounds to lick. Thomas no longer had control of the other just beyond.

One hell of a fight. It became clear to Drekthac that he might never manage this one alone. Against only a single one, it was a grim "maybe," but with more, each one aware of its brothers' plights and responding as quickly, there was no doubt that only similar cooperation and excellence between masters could meet it.

But they four weren't alone here. With a glance, Drekthac caught sight of Malthon relying upon the White Lady, sending the creature reeling her way with a crushing blow of his flaming mace, and the woman of war rose up to the opportunity. The Ymirjar could be abated no longer, and Thodin could be seen crackling with lightning as he led a procession. Thomas' rangers were in the clearing now, filling safe pockets to strike from with expert precision.

Four Singing Blades were too much for their few warriors to control. With Sin de Rath distanced from the fighting, it was them three against four, which left at least one always able to tear into the encroaching fighters. More warriors were falling with every second that trickled by.

Ultimately, Drekthac realized, they were winning. Whatever Ghat'Nothos' game was, it was clearly impossible for four assassins to survive in the midst of an army of thousands. Perhaps they expected their marks to perish quickly, or, from what Freydis said, Sin had gotten the jump on the cloaked figures when they expected subtle infiltration. Whatever the case was, it became apparent that they were winning, and that these Singing Blades would fall. Their wounds were healing slower, their fight coming less aggressively.

It was not, however, without its cost. A cost that Drekthac was made to pay with his blood.

For a moment, the battle seemed frozen in time. There was no pain, no sound, as Drekthac looked down at his chest at the odd metal thorn protruding outward for a good six inches. By the pearl and green glow and the black base, he knew it was the nothonium blade of those foolish farming tools the Singing Blades were wielding as weapons. One had managed to get behind him and impale him through with a backstab.

The unyielding grip that Drekthac so prided himself on failed then. Both hilts slipped through frozen fingers, thumping onto the snow beside him. The weapons fed on blood, sapped the soul; he could feel it in him. His strength, his lifeblood, slipping away wholly differently than from a leaky hole.

The scythe yanked downwards and out, and Drekthac's life was taken with the act.

XxX

Drekthac had never died before, so he did not truly know what to expect from it. The great beyond, the life beyond the body – he'd heard words for it, but in all his years on the battlefields, he refused to ever be slain by an enemy that wasn't worthy of taking his life. Not even a hundred Ymirjar could succeed there, for there was no individual amongst them he found worthy. It was just a hundred times of the same thing.

One thing Drekthac did know about death, however, is that he would not be going to Valhal this time. Killed by a soul-eating blade, he could not pass on. A piss-poor fucking way to finally go about it, gods damn it, but he would not regret his last battle.

There was no pain in death, but he was glad to see his rage could come as he pleased.

So of all the things Drekthac didn't know, the one thing he was absolutely certain of was that he would not ascend to Valhal. So why, then, when he opened whatever eyeless perception he had now, did he come to behold a thousand war-ready Valkyries waiting upon him?

Finding his voice was less complicated than he thought: "Either I have come across paradise, or there is no fucking and this is a cruel hell."

Many of the Valkyries laughed, and the sound sent shivers down his spine. They were all beautiful to the last, much like the Val'kyr of Ymirheim sought to imitate in their recruitment, except these were beings of warm, soft flesh. One woman nearby even looked like his Freydis, as he imagined her in life as a frost vrykul. Her clear blue eyes sparkled in the same manner as his lover's glossy orbs.

She at their forefront, more beautiful and lovely than all the rest, with a voice both powerful and angelic, commented mirthfully, "In death, as in life, I see. You will find your body properly intact, Baelin Drekthac."

Drekthac looked down and saw it was indeed so. There he stood, feet submerged on some shin-high white fog, dressed in the armor he had died wearing. He returned his eyes to the Valkyrie and shrugged his plated shoulders, noticing the tension and flexing felt much the same. He said, "I was promised a shittier death than this, Lady Valkyrie."

A fleeting smile passed the lips of she in the front, but his words also brought a new hardness to her face. She mentioned, "I never imagined I would hear you call me "lady," in life or death. Alas, your words are true. You were meant a death far more terrible than an eternity with me. It would still be so, if another had not stepped forward to take your place."

Heavy brows dropped at her words. Similar to that Freydis-lookalike, Drekthac had been noticing other echoes of familiarity, but it was the silver-sweet words of this woman that clicked the last piece into place. Though she lacked the spectral tinge in her voice that she had in the living world, this woman was unmistakably Hilda, minus her val'kyr undeath.

"You are... All of you, the Val'kyr of Ymirheim. How is this possible?" he managed. He scanned the faces again, dressed not in scandalous val'kyr plate but brilliant and ornate armors and dresses. There was his Freydis, more beautiful than ever; and Helgrin, a red haired, tanned skin vrykul; other val'kyr too, subtly changed by their living appearances.

Platinum blond haired Hilda remained somber. "We val'kyr have been gifted with some authority over death and power over the souls of others. One of us refused to allow yours to be claimed so crassly, and so she exchanged yours for her own. You are not lost yet, Drekthac."

Yes, one was missing. For whom better to look for than Drekthac's own val'kyr, only to see no face that matched she whom he knew. His stomach sank as he returned his attention to Hilda, and he put it to question softly: "Where is Maldrid?"

"Behind you, my liege," gasped a weak and raspy voice.

Drekthac spun, not realizing there was another. There was Maldrid indeed – fair skin and raven black hair, gold banded breastplate and ivory with crimson war skirt. Upon her bare shoulders were the runes of a binder. This was Maldrid as she was in life, a noble creature chosen for her skill and beauty to be one of the elite handmaidens of Ymirheim, before the Lich King had broken those great women into his winged val'kyr.

Similar as Maldrid was to the others, she was also different. She did not radiate with light; rather, she maintained the semi-transparency of the val'kyr outside, as if she was not fully present in this world of the soul. Marking her fair skin were inky black lines, afflicting her like a necrotic skin disease. Also unlike the others, whom stood proud, Maldrid was bowed, and her face strained like each second she remained here was agony.

Drekthac moved to approach his val'kyr, but she looked up with wide eyes, screaming, "Stay back! Do not touch me or you may be taken too!"

His feet stopped moving, but he fell to his knees, feeling crippled by helplessness. Hilda had laid out what transpired here plain enough. All the strength in the world could not help him here, as Drekthac was reminded of his own mortality.

"Maldrid," he addressed slowly. Wide silver-blue eyes watched him. "Undo what you have done. It is not your fate to be taken here."

"You will have to pardon... one last act of defiance, my liege," she told him.

Armor creaked around his strained knuckles. "Hilda!" he shouted, turning towards the splendorous woman. "Switch our places!"

Drekthac saw Hilda's usual comely bearing was gone. Dark-ringed eyes glared with hot rage back at him, and she hollered, "You will watch her, not me!"

He complied. Damn him, but he complied, facing his fallen val'kyr once more as she struggled on the very edge of life. His jaw ached from the pressure. Hilda's voice met his back, sounding abated but no less emotional. "You must behold Maldrid's last moments. She deserves that much. Watch her now, as she fights as vrykul fight."

"Help her, Hilda. If you have power over soul..."

"There is nothing she can do," Maldrid gasped. "Perhaps the soulblade... may be broken. Nothing else."

"Why, Maldrid?" he demanded.

"You are Ymirjar, and I am your handmaiden."

Hilda's voice was only just behind him now, speaking over him: "You were more than that, sister."

Despite her blatant pain, Maldrid managed a bark of laughter. "You were always so keen on changing our ancestral traditions, Lady Hilda... last and greatest of the Val'kyr." Her warmth was short lived, ended with a cry and almost completely vanishing before them. She winked back into half-existence with bared teeth and a tense body. The black veins were spreading over her.

"Drekthac," she said then. Her voice was tight, the sound faint. "Baelin. You must win this war. I did not spare you only to find a dozen sisters to join me in this oblivion. You must win."

"There will be no rest until they are all driven down beneath our boots. All will find the sword," he promised with a dry throat.

She smiled. It was an ugly, painful expression on a beautiful face. "Forgive me for never finding... that bed."

"I-" He never managed to finish. Maldrid vanished with the first syllable, and she did not reappear.

Hilda's sigh filled the silence, and her words solidified the fact. "Another casualty. We must be swift now, Baelin. Time has passed slower on the outside, but you must rejoin the fight soon. There are things to say before then."

He remained motionless in the wake of Maldrid's departure. She spoke to his back: "It appears your Freydis has been mischievously liberal about whispered val'kyr secrets. She has told you of the soul-bonding theorized to allow val'kyr freedom to leave their everlasting duties for the Lich King. Maldrid has shown you another facet of such a bond: if your soul would be so lost, we have the power to exchange ourselves in your stead.

"We, Drekthac, have collectively decided that you will be our portal to freedom. You, whom embody closest the ideals that the Ymirjar once stood for. Our souls bound to yours. You would also ascend beyond a mighty warrior to something... more, similar to the ways of Malthon Eyenhart and Sin de Rath. You would... Are you listening, Baelin?"

His fist pressed against his knee, beginning the effort to raise himself up once more. "Fuck off, Hilda. Just wake me up; I have things to kill."

"Baelin, this is the time to listen-"

"Freydis, wake me up." He spoke over her, stoic as the words which left his mouth. His lover bowed her head to him.

Hilda tried to interrupt it from happening, but Freydis was his, not hers, and Drekthac felt a tug remove him from that spirit world. The white world remained, even as the air around him chilled to an arctic hell, and blinking did not remove the fog. He could hear shouting, the clash of metal, the wet sound of hacking flesh. Only when red droplets splattered the white did he know it was snow that he saw.

Drekthac groaned, but he realized he was laid awkwardly upon he ground, as he was left after the scythe nearly claimed his life. He slowly pushed himself up, and the tempo of the battle around him changed to a disbelieving cheer. Vrykuls shouted his name, his titles, as Drekthac pushed himself to his knees, beholding again the battle against the Singing Blades. His swords were still nearby, so he found his grip over their hilts and felt a distant pleasure at the power still in his arms.

Drekthac stood up just as the Fool King slew the first Singing Blade. The creature found its black ribbed mug smashed in by the flaming mace, its body held in place by a gleaming silver sword that could only be the White Lady – stuck through it from behind, similar to how Drekthac had been felled. The pillar of flame crashed into its sides, breaking ribs and scales, and the thing began to seize up in a familiar way.

"SIN!" Malthon roared, retreating backwards but quickly engaged by another four-armed fiend.

Black hands, constructed of magic, grasped the convulsing monsters and threw it away, hurling it over the wall of their stronghold and far out amongst the snowy dunes. The disposal of the body halted the assault of the three others more than the defeat did. One Singing Blade vanished in smoke, perhaps even to recover it, but it was too late.

By then, Drekthac knew the size and force of the acid bomb was proportionate to the power or "blessing" of the Skinless. Sin de Rath might have been doing his best to strip them of that gift, but these were supposedly the best of Ghat'Nothos. There was no missing the death of that Singing Blade when it came.

An avalanche of commotion marked it first, the roar and quaking ground like those natural phenomena. Then the shockwave hit the wall, sending snow and chips of stone cascading off the monolith, with snow-streaked wind blowing over it into their camp. Elves, val'kyr, mages – anyone with magic noticed the acidic mist also carried by the storm, and they conjured whatever shield they could to stave off the poison.

As it all happened, the fight continued on the ground. Drekthac finally moved towards the two-on-one battle of the Fool King, his feet shuffling first but quickly finding his vitality and strength, until he was charging with a roar on his lips. The third Singing Blade returned in a flash, wielding two of their scythe blades and ready to intercept him.

Arrows and spellbolts flew over Drekthac's shoulder as he ran, adding whistles and shrieks to the already furious noise of their arena. His opponent casually deflected the missiles, intent only upon Drekthac with that powerful, eyeless stare. Just as well, for Drekthac's own state of mind was no less. His rage was cold, crystal slush pulsing painfully through his veins. He had spent his life killing things; he'd be damned if he couldn't kill this one fucking thing before him.

In his life, Drekthac had led many charges. Against cannon sweeps, crossbow volleys, goblin minefields, even mounted cavalry advances, whether it be horse, kodo, or dragon-riding orcs – all this, Drekthac had challenged and fought on foot, and he'd seen his way through every time. His blades, not always these dragon swords he'd won for long service, had still cut through beast wing and steel tube no different than the mail-coated necks or leathery hides of his foes.

The deafening iron shots, the stench of rancid innards and black powder, the feel of a hoarse throat dried by screaming defiance in the face of death, all those sensations Drekthac knew down to his very bones. He knew it like he knew the presence of his sword-brother at his back, like he knew the wire or leather-wrapped hilt of steel in his hand.

Drekthac knew war. He loved war. But out here in this frosted waste, the war he craved was dead. Something new and grossly corrupted tried taking its place, something unfamiliar to his seasoned hands, and against this monster, Drekthac was reminded again and again that steel and muscle were relics of the past. He, Baelin Drekthac, was a relic of the past.

Oily magic swirled around the many hands of the Singing Blade. Even before his eyes, the thick gouges along its traps – Thomas' handiwork – vanished as flesh molded like mud and sealed shut as easily. Malthon had killed one, but it was not the strength or power of Man that did the creature in. Drekthac had fought and killed things of magic before, but by the gods, only the iron of his will and the endurance of his body saw him through. He had no delusion that steel was a worthy competitor to magic or to madness.

Drekthac crossed his hulking swords before him, hoping to dampen some of the spell to be sent his way, but he also knew it was a futile defense. He was vulnerable to magic, and that was the truth of it. And that truth only made him angry. Very angry.

His body ran through a blue arcane web, dissipating its strands as he did. He hit another, which resisted like a hanging cloth before also ripping asunder. Then a third web, this one red, and a fourth of the same, with each one firmer and firmer to impact, but Drekthac ran like a bull and tore down each weave as he did.

For a moment, Drekthac felt a burning confidence accompanied by a fear. Either he was breaking through its assault nigh effortlessly or those spells had some deeper, lingering effect. However, he lowered his guard enough to see his foe, only to see a massive vrykul rune spread before him, its wide strokes revealed to be composed of smaller runes, and he slammed into it like the ones before and tore right through.

The Singing Blade still gathered its magic, but now Drekthac saw Hilda behind and above it, furiously casting her spells, and by the sixth rune he crashed through, he saw a faint blue shell surrounding him much like the golden shields paladins could summon. He also reached the Singing Blade, which unleashed its mind-eating magic while also swinging its weapons, intending on an immediate and swift death.

Rather than be blown away, dissolved, and skewered once more, his red-tinted vision saw the the liquid spell splattered around the shell, while his off-hand used his overflowing rage to swat away the two scythes. Time seemed to slow as an opportunity presented itself to him. The Singing Blade's countenance twisted with surprise, unsuspecting of vanilla Drekthac's sudden persistence, while its weapon arms were left wide and open by his counter. Only the two unarmed and boneless hands remained for protection as Drekthac's main sword swung up, borne by the rage and misery of his failures here, and tore through palm, wrist, and arm before eating into its scaled side.

Murky green scales bent inward at the impact, dented like steel, before they gave in and the sword twisted apart the scales to cleave right through its torso. Blue streaks followed his sword edge in its progress, telling of some other enchantment thrown onto it by the wily val'kyr, but the heavy steel seemed unstoppable and completed its progress through the torso across to the other side, where the force peeled the upper half off the lower to tumble away.

Flesh and tendrils reached from the cut halves as if seeking to reconnect, and knowing their strange healing, Drekthac roared his defiance and slapped the chest half away with his left sword's blade flat. Sin de Rath must have noticed his success, for there was an arcane pressure that caused the very air around them to vibrate and shimmer, and black hands wrapped around ankles and wrists as if to bind the two halves away from each other.

No death-seizure took the parted creature, instead rather one clawed foot scraped against Drekthac's runic shield, so he expelled the rest of his warrior's rage in chopping those limbs into steak slabs and scattering the pieces across the snow. That left only the glowering torso, which banished its bonds and rose on legs of magic make.

For a moment, Sin succeeded against the beast, dispelling its legs and sending the stump back into the snow. Then it wove four spells simultaneously, and the warlock cried out in shock as he counter-wove desperately to save himself.

Drekthac refused to stand aside, hollering for Thomas as he rushed to the rising torso again. The rogue appeared in his usual manner, diving from a cloud of smoke behind it with daggers plunging. The twisted, melted blades reminded Drekthac of the acid blood within the creatures, but he paid it no mind as he readied both swords for an executing strike. Thomas' leather mask hid his expression, but he was fearless as he impaled the fiend along the limbs and rendered it immobile, knowing his own body would be in path of the strike.

"Val'kyr!" Sin cried behind him, his voice commanding and marked with his own battle-fury. Moments later, Drekthac felt new magic touching his body and imbuing his swords. Flames licked across his steel, and the blue shell hardened in a flash of runes.

This was not the war that Drekthac knew and loved. He could not lead here, could not stand alone here. However, if there was one thing his archaic warrior self knew, it was how to swing steel, and right now, that was all he needed to do.

The metal of his braces shrieked and complained at the sudden force, as Drekthac swung down with all his enhanced might. He could see in his peripheral the presence of another Singing Blade descending upon his side. It would reach him first, maybe even stop his strike. But there was a bright glow behind it too, and Malthon stopped the thing in its tracks, giving Drekthac the final part of a second he needed to cut through the the remaining half of the Singing Blade. He succeeded, and whatever spells were on his swords let him slice through as easily as horseflesh.

Once the swords finished their descent into the snow, thumping loudly into the ground, and the body began to separate into its pieces, Thomas jumped back with a quick glance at himself, realizing he was still whole. Just barely Drekthac had avoided him. The relieved ranger began to laugh in disbelief, just as the remains began to tremble as with their own life.

An earthquake sound began, along with a bed of shadow beneath the remains, ready to fling them away, but then the two remaining Singing Blades appeared beside their fallen comrade, dispelling Sin's attempt of escape, and they retrieved the fallen scythes for themselves.

Drekthac was not first to realize what they intended, but he was the most helpless against it. He heard Sin's voice catch, clearly silenced by arcane means, and with his disabling, the old god magic returned to the two Singing Blades, crawling over them like a living blanket. That dark power was pooled over the fallen foe, and Drekthac knew they intended to make this death the worst possible.

"SHIELDS UP, BROTHERS!" Malthon was screaming, his otherworldly voice sounding panicked. He too knew what was to come.

Paladins conjoined in their unbreakable bubbles, and other magic users forced out the strongest shields they could, while all the rest of the thousands that bunched for the fight here were left helpless. Drekthac saw the White Lady, shelled in gold, leap before the fallen Sin de Rath, right beside the unarmored succubus who reached her arms out like a human shield. Thomas vanished in shadowy cloak and Stepped away, while Malthon himself knelt before Drekthac shield-first, intent on protecting him with his aura. The val'kyr above did not shriek like harpies or helpless maidens, but too many of them were without protection, and their flight away was too slow.

The Singing Blade died. And its death rites followed, right in the center of their army.

The specifics of the acid bomb were lost to Drekthac. He survived, that much he knew. Others could not say the same, that he also knew – but after the fact, when his dazed mind cleared enough to rise again. The noise, he had forgotten. A val'kyr (not Maldrid, never again Maldrid) had to recover his ears with their magic, for only leaking holes remained aside his head. The sight was lost when the shockwave rolled through Malthon and knocked Drekthac clear out.

From the aftereffects, as Drekthac rose to his feet with ears screaming some unintelligible sound, through the acid mist and billowed snow fog, he could see most of their surviving forces were similarly laid out and struggling to rise. Paladins remained standing alone, entirely untouched, with only a few finding protection behind them. The skies held only a scant few val'kyr now, with most joining those on the snow. Drekthac also saw the two remaining Singing Blades fleeing, loping through their fallen forces without a care.

As those two ran, Drekthac also saw them sweeping their double-scythes, snuffing out any survivors out of hand. Disgusting, dishonorable, yet Drekthac and everyone else were helpless to stop it. Four arms moved at Singing Blade speed, slaughtering dozens with each passing second, until they reached where men were still standing and simply barreled their way through, escaping deeper into their base.

"The ley lines!" a pained voice warned. It was Sin de Rath, but Drekthac didn't look around to find him. "They are going for-" A coughing fit took him.

Drekthac didn't understand his concerns at first, though Malthon did. Cupping his hands, the titan made an echoing roar, "They will reopen the ley lines to escape! Binders, watch out!"

Right. Vrykuls were holding the ley lines shut in their area, preventing the Skinless from invading them anywhere at any time, forcing them to confront their walls. Former walls, at least. Two colossal breaches marred the stone faces now.

Malthon's warning proved useless. Sin moaned out, frustrated, "Too late, too late. They are dead, and the Singing Blades have escaped. The lines are open." The warlock fell onto his rear and buried his head in his hands, beside the half-decayed and severed head of his succubus.

"Sound off, who still stands among the living?" Malthon called out, moving forward both literally and otherwise. "Redeemers, val'kyr, make haste! Bowed but not broken! We have lived through the night!"

As the paladin marched on, his words were accompanied by a cloud break amongst the black sky, revealing a ray of sunlight. The beam was low, a sign that they had fought through the rest of last night, but Drekthac could pay it no notice. Dark thoughts, black thoughts, marked his mind now. He could not forget his helplessness here, nor the words of them in the spirit world, where Maldrid was taken from him. The Singing Blades escaped with their soul-eating swords, meaning she would be trapped for a time to come.

A laugh so morose that it could have been a sob escaped Sin. Drekthac glanced at the disheveled, unrobed warlock, whom showed humorless teeth as he said, "Morning glory, with victory at first light! Oh, Light and Shadow, at what cost?"

Looking out amongst the fallen, Drekthac couldn't find it in him to even snort in distaste.

Morning Glory. What a joke.


AN: Ugh, what a mess of a chapter. Over 20k words, which means I broke my 5-15k range. I did manage to put in almost everything I meant to, but satisfied as I am by the result, I had to just combine everything together and it shows, and even at 20k it feels rushed. I've been working solely on this chapter steadily since my last update, over 2 months ago, so you can tell there have been some heavy revisions as I went. I don't want to list all the things, but almost every scene was dictated by notes, meaning no wiggle room for anything else. Things like "Drekthac-Leyanna reunion" became background noise, "Thoughts of Hilda sometime, the sacrifices she'd make" didn't get any real devotion, instead just roped to a stage-builder scene as the Singing Blades attack. I did have some fun with Sin ordering her around though.

And despite all my efforts, I still had to cut the scene of Sin letting Narelle in his mind (as the original opening scene of this chapter, it is already written, at 1.8k words), along with the aftermath of how many named characters died in that last fight.

I do hope I managed to properly convey the Singing Blades as entities capable of individually slaying the leaders of the world, like pre-Cata Thrall, Malfurion, Dragon Aspects, etc., while also showing why these four were instead capable (especially Sin's role in that fight) of slaying two. Without Sin's mana purging, both Drekthac and Thomas would fail in a 1v1 battle, much like Varian or Sylvanas did.

Anyways, I'll shut up now. This was a big, important chapter, between the four characters finally meeting each other and the formal introduction of the Singing Blades, so forgive me for being a little more ramble-y in the AN than usual. Until next time, whenever that may be.