Chapter 28
Discipline
X Assassination X
Merridan's eyeless head turned slightly as a sign of his attention, once he was inside the tent. "An interesting assemblage," he acknowledged, while sealing the entryway behind him with some spell.
"My trust is coming in shorter supply than usual," Thomas muttered back, seated in the far corner with Sarrine on his lap. His voice was firm, as it had been since the Singing Blade attack. "Two Ashblades are dead. Of my two portal masters, one is dead and the other is teetering on the verge of insanity. And Jerath, my best, loses himself to the Void."
"And the Swan? She will not be present?" Merridan asked. In this tent was only Thomas, his court, the stern Meyanna, and the last of the troublesome trio, Loraeoth. The latter duo both carried two ashblades, the extra belonging to the fallen. Loraeoth, whom carried the blade of his friend Jaden, and Meyanna, sworn to the vengeance of the murdered Jon'ah.
Thomas' head shook slightly. "Genveera lies to me. Jon'ah was found dead outside her tent, murdered by one of us, the Exilee. Perhaps it was Snow, perhaps it was Genveera herself. But I will not tolerate her secrets any longer."
Merridan took his seat on the open pillow in the center. His blindfolded gaze remained on Thomas. "Jack, certainly this gathering isn't about... removing Genveera the Swan, is it?"
"I wish that it were so easy, friend," Thomas sighed. His expression did not soften with it. "No, this is about the frothing pot of madness that is the Exilee, and the eruption that is soon to come. There is a pressure in the darkness, in the whispers, and we must prepare for the moment of release."
"Then there are two others I would like to invite to this scheming. My pupils, Lord Dasen and Velanee Moonburst, your own."
"Meyanna?" Thomas addressed, leaving the decision to her. The redhead had a wry smile, answering, "This is about exposing secrets, is it not? Bring the human lord. Let us hear his heartsong."
The lines tightened along the edges of Merridan's face, but ultimately he nodded, rising against to depart. A few minutes later, he returned with the duo in tow, and the tent was spelled to privacy once more. The two additions sat at either side of Merridan, with the silver-haired Velanee kneeled and the elder noble at a less dignified cross-legged.
"Now I'm starting to get embarrassed," Sarrine whispered to Thomas, and she slipped from his lap to his side. Velanee did not stare at their duo, Thomas noticed. The Ashblade lady had changed in the recent weeks. Not for the first time, Thomas wondered just what Buck's mentoring entitled. Velanee was already an established ranger, one of the better ones.
"So what is this truly about?" Merridan asked, once they were settled. "Secrets and pressures and madness make nice buzzwords, but I would rather behold something more tangible."
"Something more tangible than an Ashblade murdered off the battlefield? Then how about Exilee elves who have fed on Sightless magicks, running amok with corrupted purple eyes. Let's start there."
"Thomas," Merridan snapped, his voice sharp, while Lord Dasen paled beside him.
The human Ranger-General did not stop there, already shaking his head. "Snow, stripped of her glamor, has those eyes, and I fear she is not alone. I have grown tired of glamors, Buck. Tired of veils, illusions, and masks. Right now, Farron and Deynora are out hunting. They are hunting my people, my Exilee, and they have orders to find, dispell, and capture each man and woman found using glamor, no matter the function."
"That sounds a delicate task better suited for Jerath," Merridan mentioned. "For the subtleties of perception."
"Oh, we aren't being subtle. Jerath is in a bit of a funk, ever since his shadow buddy was slain by the Singing Blade. We're going for a very heavy handed, very human approach. I told them to just run a powerful dispell over every single Exilee. That's why I chose Deynora. It's the same thing we're about to do to you three. Meyanna?"
"Thomas, wait-!" Merridan tried, a true shock in his voice, but it was too late. Meyanna gladly wove the spell, and a trembling wave rolled over the newly arrived. Velanee received it calmly, letting it pass through her without affect. Merridan was still jumping to his feet when it hit, and he too remained unchanged – Thomas knew already that Merridan did not hide his mutation under glamor, only the blindfold.
The last, and most exciting, was Lord Dasen McAnole. Thomas had had his suspicions for long enough now, and with his decision to use aggressive force, he had been anxious to see just what might be hiding under that seemingly elderly skin. The human did not react much to the sudden assault, looking confused by the sudden outbursts, and the same confused look remained on his face during and after the dispelling rolled through him. Only, it was a different face that remained in wake of the spell.
Every eye turned to the human lord after the dispelling, even Velanee, whom had arrived with him. Boyish blue eyes blinked back, still confused, until a slow dawning of realization began to light up a much more youthful face.
"Thomas, is that...?" Sarrine began to ask, trailing off. He nodded mutely. His mouth opened, but words refused to come, so he closed it again. Even cold and hard Meyanna could only look surprised at the realization, and she too had no words.
Finally, Thomas sighed out slowly, and too much suddenly made sense in the relationship between "Lord Dasen" and his friend Merridan. "Merridan," Thomas said softly. "Recast the glamor over our young friend here. Quickly." Bitter and quiet, Merridan began to do so. It was a masterful weave that the Ranger Lord took to; it was no surprise Thomas hadn't noticed the magic over the human earlier.
With another slow breath, Thomas nodded, understanding just how far that trick ran. Of all the decisions that would be made in this tent, this one was the easiest. "Everyone, I will hear you vow it, to me and our young friend, that what has been seen just now will remain secret, even under pain of death, until the moment this young lord chooses to reveal himself to the survivors of Azeroth. I, Thomas the Swiftblade, raised by Merridan Twilwing in the shadows of Stormwind and the Kingdom of Azeroth, swear that I will not betray you or your identity until you decree otherwise, my lord."
"And I, Velanee Moonburst..." "-Sarrine Longray-" "-Loraeoth Secondson-" "-Meyanna Firewing, swear to you, Prince Anduin, that not a word will spoken outside this tent of your identity and presence amongst us. This I swear, under penalty of death."
"Light help me, Merridan," Prince Anduin, freshly disguised, uttered to his companion.
Though still bitter, it was clear Merridan took pleasure in this moment. He said, "I believe it is, my lord. I believe, without doubt, this is your help."
"I have so many questions," Thomas blurted out, only to shake his head. "But this is not the time. There are other secrets, darker and more dangerous. Sin de Rath has given me his desert bandits, those former Twilight cultists, to add to our shock forces, and they are not the only ones to notice treachery in our midst. If we fail to act and react properly, we may very well lose half of the Exilee to the enemies within. So I wish to extend the last of my trust to those of you here. In fact, I encourage you to trust no one else, none beyond those who hold the ashblades, until we weed the corruption out of our ranks."
"Then perhaps I may be of help, after all," Anduin said. "For long I have been struggling against the darkness that seeps within your forces. I am not quite skilled enough to pinpoint those who have held the old god's magic, but I begin to recognize it."
"We do not have long, my friend," Thomas told him. "For even tomorrow, King Malthon will have the Exilee depart our stronghold here back into the wastes. We are to slip past the enemy lines and hold the next strategic point. Donvorei will begin construction of a new base of operations, and we must hold until the body of our forces reach us again. Like so, we will continue moving north.
"I must have my officers cleared and trusted before then, at the least, starting with Genveera the Swan and Commander Raeloth, my two closest."
"Even if she proves clean," Meyanna warned, "the Swan is assailed by darker plagues. Shadow, it is no animosity that has me urge you to keep her away. If nothing else, exchange her to Sin de Rath. That madman is better for using such a woman."
"I need Genveera," Thomas returned hotly, but Merridan could hear the lack of strength behind those words. The bonds between the Ranger-General and his second were growing strained. "The Ashblades are my honor guard. Who, then, will dirty her hands on the field on my behalf? Who can I trust behind enemy lines like I can trust Genveera?"
"I will take her place," the slight ranger urged. "Lord Merridan will take place of her counsel."
"No, you are already tasked with the hunt within our ranks, and Buck has his hands full already with his noble duties. It must be Genveera."
"The Master Assassin," Meyanna tried, and Thomas looked at her dubiously, asking, "You would trust the Exilee assassins more than the Swan?"
The redhead deflated. "No, I suppose I would not. But my fears are real, Shadow."
"I can go to her," Prince Anduin piped in. Thomas and Meyanna looked over, surprised. The glamor-hidden lord appeared sheepish, but there was the same steely determination to him that Thomas had detected before. "I am young, yes, and my skills are nowhere near as grand as our elven friends. But I am my father's son, and even the sin'dorei priests have admitted I have a great aptitude for channeling the Light and cleansing darkness with its touch. Additionally, since meeting King Malthon, I've only found my abilities growing almost exponentially. I can go to Genveera the Swan; I can help her."
The group of them digested the lord's explanation in silence, until Thomas asked quietly, "Buck?"
"My lord's choices are his own," Merridan returned in similar tones. "I will say, however, that he has the ability. I have seen him slack the mana-thirst of the blood elves with just a touch. If Genveera's addictions still assails her, he can help."
Thomas nodded. "Then go with my blessing, and maybe burn the shadows out of Jerath's mind while your at it. Light help you, friend." Lord Dasen smile gratefully. "We still have the issue of Snow. From my few interactions with her, that woman worries me. She is skilled, to an a level I don't yet fully understand. Perhaps she surpasses me. I fear she may be of equivalent skill to a Ranger Lord."
"I swear it could have been Genveera, when I saw her," Sarrine added with a little frown.
Velanee finally spoke: "Genveera the Swan is no Ranger Lord."
"And that worries me too," Thomas agreed. "Genveera cannot be responsible for it. I had already checked. Yet... she's involved somehow. You all saw it; Genveera is afraid of Snow."
Meyanna made a small harrumph. "We shall know soon enough. Farron and Deynora will reach her tonight. Then we shall see what secrets the Swan is hiding."
"I assume tonight will also cover the potential influence of Miss Alissa and the possibility of the cult?" Merridan asked, changing the subject. "It is my understanding that both King Malthon and Master Sin de Rath could help us there."
"Oh, we have something better in mind," Thomas admitted, a hum of satisfaction in his voice. "We need not be so dependent on our allies. It will take some work, but listen close..."
XxX
Baelin Drkethac curled his lip at the sight of the silver bow trained upon his armored breast. Genveera maintained an unwavering grip on her weapon, even at full draw, as she spat, "If I catch you insulting my Ranger-General one more time, I will not hesitate to pierce your boorish heart with this silver arrow. Test me at your own peril, you hapless brute."
"That one shot is the only shot you'll get, leaf bitch. If you are going to take it, make it count," Drekthac growled, dropping his heavy hands on the hilts of his swords. "Just remember how far your prissy leader got when he tried."
Beside either of them came a softer voice: "To be fair, Drek, you could be far kinder in how you speak. She was plenty kind, and you were an ass."
"Look whose talking," Drekthac grunted to his chill nymph companion. Genveera assessed the scarred fae yet again, finding no threat in the creature but many questions. With a loud huff, the warrior took his hands from his swords and said, "Alright, fine. Your leaf boy is an ace shot and a damned slippery bastard. I like him. Forgive my rough tongue for not sparring any damn honey for him."
Genveera slowly eased back on the bowstring, watching him carefully. When the string was at rest again, she slid the arrow back in her quiver. "Apology accepted."
"Great. Now fuck off," Drekthac said, turning away to resume his return to the Ymirjar camp.
Genveera was about to let him go, when an itching thought crossed her mind. "Why do you stay?"
Drekthac stopped, turning his head slightly back. Genveera saw a heavy steel in those eyes, but he was listening. Shouldering her bow, Genveera continued, "You don't belong here, in this camp. You don't know a thing about discipline. In fact, it is obvious you fight best outside of organized armies. You and all the Ymirjar, why do you stick around, following that human's orders?"
"We don't follow anyone's orders," Drekthac growled. "And certainly not the Fool King's."
"That's not how it looks to us," Genveera shrugged. "Wasn't it his plan for you to begin the raids tomorrow?"
"It was Thodin's, not that you'd care," Drekthac grunted. He turned away once more, began walking. "We are here because you lot need Ymirjar commanders. There's not a single force in this whole damn planet that compares to them. We'd rather our allies have at least some sense of guidance in this war. It'll give us the best shot."
Genveera's eyes narrowed. To his back, she added, "Didn't one of them die, because the great Baelin Drekthac hides in this camp?"
Drekthac stopped once more. Slowly, the long rasp of steel being drawn could be heard, while he muttered to the nymph, "I'm gonna kill her."
Genveera waited while he turned around, sword drawn. She kept her bow over her shoulder. "I am serious. You do not belong here, Drekthac the Immortal. Our forces have the Ymirjar commanders, yes, but why are you still around, waiting to dance in the rank and file? You would be better suited out in the wastes – on the raids yes, but not back here. My Ranger-General and Commander are two hotheaded baffoons. Damn them, I will follow them to the deepest hells, but they struggle so much to keep their own discipline, and I see the way they look at your rampages, and I can't stop them from joining in.
"You need to go. You need to stop hiding and go." Seeing Drekthac still marching forward, Genveera began her own walk towards him, fearless. "If these words are worth my blood on the snow, then so be it. Kill me and go. We will all be better off with you gone."
They did not stop until they were in striking range, with the short ranger glaring up at the behemoth of a man. Drekthac's own eyes were dark in the sockets. "Haughty bitch," he growled. "We take orders from no one. If we want to be here, we will damn well be here."
"These aren't orders," Genveera spoke back. "This is a request, a reasoning, for the good of our fight. It is your choice to make the right call, Baelin Drekthac."
"Fah," he spat back. "Fucking elves." He spat once more into the snow for emphasis, then turned on his heel to walk away. Genveera watched him go stoically. She noticed the nymph watching her, and she looked back until Leyanna turned away with Drekthac, walking at his side. Only then did Genveera let herself smile, pleased with his reaction.
If all went well, that miserable pest would be gone, out softening the enemies assault before the Exilee marched out to claim their next targets. Light, but Drekthac rubbed her all the wrong ways, and that was doubly so for his effects on the Shadow. The Ymirjar had all the arrogance of the immortal elves, and it seemed twice the skill to reinforce their ideas. A special brand of nightmare to her.
"Lo, Genveera!" a voice called. Turning swiftly, Genveera saw it was only her fellow rangers, Farron and Deynora. She relaxed slightly, knowing these were some of the few that Thomas could actually trust in their camp. She waved back, letting them catch up. In Thalassian, she asked, "Word from the Shadow?"
"Yes," Farron answered. "I apologize to say it is a frustrating task, but you'll understand, I'm sure. Deynora will take care of the details. Deynora?"
"It will only take a second," Deynora assured as they reached the Ranger-General's second.
XxX
"Up! Up, up, and up! This time is now. We must go now!"
"Why? What has happened? We are so close to-"
"The suspicions have come to a head! The Shadow has sent his Ashblades out to hunt infiltrators. They are searching for Snow, casting dispells over everyone. They will find her!"
"Ah, so the fear in your face is real. Such a delicious expression."
"I will leave you here for them, if that is what you wish."
"You haven't the courage or strength of will, little addict. Ah, much better without these shackles. Have you brought my staff?"
"Here."
"Hmm. If you will indulge a curiosity, how many of your kind have you killed already? This tent was guarded, as I recall."
"Shut up and move. I must change glamors, and you must disguise yourself as sin'dorei. The Commander is still out testing the bandits on the field; we will shoot straight for them, answer any inquiry as messengers relaying between a Captain and the Shadow himself. Maloree won't do. Captain Magnessa. Yes, messengers between the Ranger-General and Captain Magnessa."
"Will you raise a call to those already enlightened?"
"And watch them be slaughtered between King Malthon and the Madman? No. We will flee with but a few."
"After you, lady traitor."
"Watch your tongue! I will never betray the Shadow, not even for you. Now, let's go."
"Hmm- Who is this?"
"Min delor belash'ana. Sin begash!"
"Highborne! Fight!"
XxX
Lorrin Foxfire turned over on his cot, unable to stop his trembling. His eyes were closed, but still he could see everything. Two Singing Blades ran right for them, him and darling Ysanna. Together they mounted such a pitiful offense: throwing up half-portals, hoping to split the creatures apart, sending half to far away lands. He thought they might have managed at least an arm, but so quickly did the creatures come, reeking of hell and madness, and so quickly did those blades descend with awful screams.
And Ysanna, lovely Ysanna, was claimed by the blade. Eaten alive, just before him! His rock, his sanity, his longest partner from that forsaken bog, snuffed and eaten right before his very eyes! And with that chink in his mental armor, the madness that assailed them- him, just him now, the madness that assailed him exploited every bit of his great fears. Over and over and over again, he saw her die, saw her soul be devoured by the Mlachwah blade, and he- he-!
There was sound – there was always sound, but this one was different, like the sound of flapping cloth rather than ripping flesh. Lorrin stirred but refused to open his eyes.
"Master Lorrin, we are in need."
"I am in need," he moaned back. Was the voice real? Was it the ghostly voice of Ysanna, come to torment him?
"Mister Foxfire, this is not the time. Harden yourself against the pain and rise up."
Pain? Lorrin would be glad for pain. Pain was normal, no matter how awful. Pain and hurt were not the agonies of a failing mind, of a conscious infiltrated and stirred by abominable hands. Lorrin felt pains that were not even his. How was he to harden himself against that?
But the aged elf stirred, glaring up through the pulsing black silhouettes to the single elf that stood at his tent entrance. The man had no appreciation for the blazing constellation of random patterns that churned about above them, not even for the little effect it had against the shadows.
"What is it?" Lorrin demanded. His body trembled, but now it was with a mix of rage. Fear and rage made a violent combination, but his limbs did not strain with tension. Perhaps it was a sign of his lack of control over his own body. Or maybe it was an example of the control he still had.
"The Shadow has a use for you. You are to leave this tent immediately and make way to him."
"My time hasn't yet come," Lorrin argued weakly. "Sin said... said that... thing."
With a small scowl, the soldier leaned down and grasped Lorrin by his arm. As he did, the shadows shrieked and jump, causing Lorrin to flinch hard, nearly flailing, but the other elf's grip was firm and he pulled Lorrin to his feet. Then he strong armed the portal master out of the tent. Lorrin whimpered the whole way.
XxX
"Miss Genveera the Swan!" an elderly human voice called. Lord Dasen, as was his appearance, approached with a wave to the lead ranger.
The blond turned with a small, amused smile. She said, "It seems I am the target of many this night. More word from the Shadow?"
Lord Dasen chuckled softly, pleased at the rasp in it. "I see Masters Farron and Deynora have already reached you. A troublesome night this one is. You must forgive Lord Thomas for his precautions."
"It is a smart choice, one I never would have expected the Shadow to take. There is nothing to forgive." Brushing some strands of hair from her eyes, she asked softly, "What is your part in it, Lord Dasen?"
"Nothing so intrusive, I am pleased to say. It seems I have a gift for handling the Light – little things, like easing the pains of sin'dorei addictions. It is the hope of Lord Thomas to ease Miss Meyanna's frustrations regarding you, that I might try to ease some of your burdens."
Genveera's brows rose. "Oh? Such a kindness from you. To be honest, I am in an important rush, but I would be glad to see what help you can offer."
"It will be quick. All I must do it lay my hands upon you, much as the paladins might." Lord Dasen's hands erupted into balls of holy light. With a gentle smile, he said, "Please bear with me, and let yourself be cleansed." And he dropped his hands onto her shoulders.
XxX
Thomas and Raeloth greeted each other with salutes. The Exille Commander spoke first, saying, "Ranger-General, I present to you Masters Darnin and Jern, of the desert lot."
The two men in question, with a very skeletal third, stepped forward, not one bothering to salute Thomas. He could tell the disregard for formalities irked the Commander, but Thomas paid it no mind, nodding to each. He'd met them earlier, of course – standing behind Sin de Rath, whenever they marched together, and thus knew them by proximity.
Not for the first time, Thomas considered how inhuman the two bandits appeared. Despite the time away from the desert, Darnin's visible skin was still dark and leathery as ever, as if wearing an animal's hide drawn tight over him. Thomas half-wondered if that was why he so often wore his black veil. Jern, however, was the other end of desert-blasted ugly: red as freshly dyed sin'dorei cloth, with so many freckles he could have been powdered by dried clay. His red hair and red beard and red skin and dusty freckles all blended like threads of a single weave, or a model still unpainted. And if that perpetual sunburn was as painful as it looked, Thomas couldn't blame the man for being a homicidal bandit ravaging the desert wastes. It hurt just to look at.
The two men also contrasted in their builds. Darnin was lean as an elf, muscles like corded ropes pulled tight to his bony frame. He was short, and the two hidden blades at his sides were slender. Quick daggers, for quick killing. Thomas understood him well. Jern, however, was a bull of man, built much like Drekthac. His long axe captured his style perfectly. If only appearances were so simple; Thomas noticed Jern had his own share of knives in his winter clothes, and he knew the man could be as quick on the kill as Darnin beside him.
"You'll forgive me if I skip the formalities," Thomas said. He'd be amused in a better mood. "Time is pressing upon us. You three are from Sin's band, which turns me towards a hesitant disposition, but I have Sin de Rath's explicit approval and assurance that you are both capable and trustworthy, if short on discipline.
"What I take from that is that none of you are given to the current old god or his cult. The irony is not lost to me, and neither have I chosen to give you my unwavering trust. That said, I will trust that you are yet unswayed, and I wish to ask for your aid in a delicate matter."
"Hell's fucking Bells, he talks slippery as a salamander," the lead skeleton spat. "I thought we were done with that when Sin threw us away."
Darnin nodded. "I agree with my longtime friend. I trust that you haven't forgotten that trust is a two-way bridge, and your half is... shall we say, unsavory. It is my hope that your request is about addressing the shifty planks you stand upon."
"Keen as Sin warned, Master Darnin," Thomas replied stoically. "It is no secret to us, as to you, that the Exilee has been infiltrated, that unrest stalks our ranks with a speckling of betrayal. Yes, it is on this that I will ask for your help. You are the offspring of the Twilight's Hammer. You once served old gods, knew their power down to the blood in your veins and marrow in your bones. You know the psychology, the dogma, the touch of such rabble.
"That Commander Raeloth has brought you to me means that you have done well in the field, collaborating fairly and operating with a reasonable head on your shoulders. That Raeloth himself is here means that he has been tested by my own inquisition and found faithful. The hunt has already begun, and I would hope to see you join in."
Darnin's eyes were narrowed, but he also nodded with Thomas' words. "Good. The Specter was right in sending us to you; this is our forte, where we may strike our hardest."
The skeleton made of show of spinning his skull all the way around his remaining neck. He groused finally, "All this talk is turning my head in circles. What're you saying, Darnin? Is there killing to be done?"
And quiet Jern answered him in a voice softer than appearances suggested: "He's saying your bones are too white, and he wants to give them a fresh coat of red paint."
The skull head might always be grinning, but now it beamed. He lifted his chin to the bandit leader, jesting, "I think I may like you after all, ya windy bastard. Well, I'm in. I'd love to hew down some damned elves, no matter the type. I've got a ten year grudge brewin' in my bones."
"First," Darnin interrupted, "I would hear what you intend for us, Ranger-General."
Thomas kept himself indifferent as he spoke: "If you are comfortable with the idea, I would have you pretend to be cultists once more, already in the throes of the old god. Like that, lure out the sympathizers and kill them."
Laughter was the immediate response, originated from Jern. Smiling wide enough to show teeth, he said, "How about it, Storm of the South? Are you comfortable with telling your men to bring out the ritual and blessings once more? They won't turn on us now, certainly!" And he laughed again.
Leathery Darnin spared him not even a glance, keeping his squinting eyes fixed upon only Thomas. Once Jern's laughter finally began to subside, he settled firmly, "We'll do it, but this blood is on your hands, Ranger-General."
Thomas was cold. "It always is."
XxX
Merridan watched Thomas depart towards the Commander, knowing of the offers about to be extended. He started to worry for the lad, knowing Thomas felt a strong responsibility for the Exilee, but he also knew Thomas was ready to slink into the shadows and be the dagger to kill the wrong in this world. He'd done it enough already, before Outland. Jack would be alright, Merridan knew.
"Ranger Lord?" Meyanna asked, following him out of the tent.
Rather than respond, Merridan ordered, "Velanee, if you would please." It sounded a request, but the silver haired woman knew better. She pulled her bow from her shoulder and, with a nod, delved into the shadows to pace after Jack. Just a precaution, on this night.
Turning to the redhead, Merridan saw Meyanna was pleased by his decision. Ashblade to her her core, holding Thomas' life paramount. He said, "It has taken my friend Lord Dasen quite some time. Shall we check on his progress?"
"Cleansing the Swan of her darkness is quite the task. I fear he may have worked himself into unconsciousness," the woman joked. However, there was a tightness that agreed with his own fears. Perhaps allowing the young lord to go alone was a mistake. He was too valuable to allow accidents.
It took only seconds for Merridan to trace out the bootprints of Lord Dasen in the snow. With a gesture to the ranger, he began the trip along the path, following the lord's steps. Yet again, he began to consider his current form of vision. A gift from Ghat'Nothos, unblinking and 360 degree range, clear at great distance, and all without any disorientation. He could only assume it was the same sight granted to the Twilight Prophets in Silithus, whom cut out their own eyes in fanatical devotion.
So fixated on his thoughts and the trail, Merridan missed what was ahead until Meyanna called out, "My lord!"
His attention snapped forward, onto the disheveled lump around thirty yards beyond. His damnable sight made it very clear, the exact garb of the fallen man. His apparent age, the frailty, the light impression against the snow where he fell. It also saw the blood, beginning to pool and stain the white powder. It saw the arrows, studding his body and even poking out his back again, from when he had fallen and forced them through.
Merridan nearly lost his breath with his shock. How had he not heard this from the tent, how had no one seen or helped him? Then a fury not entirely becoming of a high elf roared up in his chest, and he screamed, "VAL'KYR!"
"By the Sun," Meyanna gasped, realizing shortly after him the identity of the fallen man. "Shall I raise the alarm?"
"No," Merridan snapped, already running to the fallen prince. As quickly as the flames had come, they were cooling, cold as the land they were stationed in. An icy fury took its place. "We would lose them in the confusion."
"Lose her," Meyanna corrected, her contempt heavy. She was looking at the boot prints beside Anduin, small and feminine, and certainly belonging to Thomas' second. "Can you still doubt Genveera is at fault here?"
Merridan ignored her, checking the pulse of the disguised Anduin. He found a trace of it, a faint beat of his heart. Thank the Light; he didn't wish to submit the poor youth through a resurrection just yet. He saw several val'kyr already approaching, knew the Ymirjar handmaidens would be the best medics they could offer.
He turned his attention to the area, studying it as only he could. Anduin's footfalls ended across from Genveera, whom had turned to face him. Anduin had come close enough to touch her, and probably did. Genveera's boot moved aside a bit – had she stumbled? Then they left, at walking speed. Other boots were here, around the same size, and with firm impressions – violent, hard steps. Not befitting an assassin, but suiting a murder. Silver arrows in Anduin's body, the trademark of the Swan. Snow used the Swan's identity.
"Genveera or Snow," Merridan presumed. He couldn't find any other footprints fresh enough to be responsible. Snow wouldn't make such heavy steps, would she? Why the rush, if she killed by bow? Merridan stood, seeing two separate tracks leading away: Genveera's and the one in rush. "Meyanna, see to my lord's recovery. Keep this quiet." He drew his elven longbow. A gift for a Ranger Lord, given years ago.
"Couldn't they be the same person?" the redhead spat.
Merridan's heart was hammering. Burn it, a deluge of adrenaline was already coursing through him; he hadn't felt like this in decades. He tried to think, to force back its awful hand. "Jack already checked them, from both ends. He's sure of it." A pause, and he decided on Snow's tracks. "Plus, Farron and Deynora would have discovered Skinless eyes, if that was true."
"Lady Meyanna!" a voice called. Both turned, seeing a messenger approaching swiftly. Panic was etched into his face. While still running, he announced, "Lady Deynora and Lord Farron have been felled! Their bodies have just been discovered! We're under attack, my lady!"
Merridan turned sharply, facing the lady ranger. Her green eyes were wide, the news shaking her down to her solid core. He knew, as they all knew, the relations between her and Farron. "Meyanna," he snapped. "Attend my lord."
And those shocked eyes turned to him, just as the rage began to take its place. This woman carried two Ashblades, to remind her of the betrayal and her task to hunt down the responsible party. Merridan kept a scowl on his face, knowing the conflict of duties about to assail her.
Yet quickly as the storm of emotion came, the woman also planted her feet and settled to stay. She answered with only two words: "Kill her." The response taught Merridan a new lesson in the practicality of Meyanna's mind.
Jaw clenched, he nodded curtly. "The responsible one will die." The val'kyr descended upon them at the same time the messenger slid to a halt. Merridan took a breath. Body nearly shaking, he jump into a sprint, following Genveera's tracks instead.
If there was even a slight chance that Genveera the Swan hadn't passed the glamor test, that she had slew the two Ashblades when they tried and then Anduin after when he had come, then Merridan would personally see to it she paid for her choices. Thomas would have to forgive him, for he would not grant her a merciful end.
XxX
"Gen? Gen, what is it?" Jerath asked, noticing finally the ranger staggering towards him. She wore four quivers, her battle armament for a long mission, and already she looked haggard and hunted. He stood up, forgetting his meditations entirely, just in time to catch her as she began to pitch forward.
"Jerath," she whispered. Her face showed its strain. "You once said, long ago, that when the mountains on my shoulders are too much, that I can... Jerath, help. I need help. I am losing."
"Sit down, and tell me what is wrong. Losing to the bloodgems? I thought you were beating the withdrawal?" He got her seated on his coined Thinking Rock and crouched on the snow beside her, working on getting her steady. Blood was on her fingertips, he saw; its scent touched his nose. "Whose blood is that, Gen?"
"I don't know. I don't know, Jerath," Genveera moaned. "I am losing to her. To h-" Her voice hitched, and Jerath could see the fear in this defeated Genveera.
He was hardly in the right state of mind presently, but Jerath forced his thoughts to pull together, to focus on the task before him. "Losing to Snow?"
Genveera's response to the name was violent. Her eyes flew back open, furious, and she hissed, "Do not speak her name! Jerath, please!"
"Kindness is not softness," he spoke back, low and deep. "I cannot help with things you cannot speak of. Who is Snow, Genveera? And how do you know her?"
"Jerath, please," she begged, trembling. "Please, speak not her name. Don't call for her. I can't stop her from coming. I've lost, Jerath, please."
"By the Sunwell, Genveera," Jerath sighed in Common. It was a sad sight to see Genveera this way. That fear was borderline phobia, but he almost feared the consequences if it wasn't irrational at all. The world was a strange place and only getting stranger. "How can I help you then?"
"Come with me," she whispered. "I need to leave, to run. I must go, but I need you with me. Please come with me."
Jerath kept his thoughts from his face, watching the ranger. He waited before asking finally, "You mean to leave the Exilee?"
"Never," she snapped, with almost as much vehemence as when he mentioned Snow. "I will not betray the Shadow nor my kinsmen. Never, Jerath." And as it came, the strength also left her. "I cannot stay here though. I must run a tour elsewhere, far away. Without you though, I fear I won't make it back."
Jerath let out a slow breath. "Gen, I spent the whole day thinking in abstracts, and I still can't keep up with you right now. Speak clearly."
Still, the blond hesitated. Shortly into it, however, a new light began to shine in her face. In a hopeful voice, she said, "I know someone who can help you unravel the mysteries of the Shadow. If you come with me, I'm sure she will solve the riddle."
"And whom might this be?" Jerath asked. There was something about the request that unsettled him, but there was truth in her voice as she said it. She truly believed this person could answer the plague of his recent weeks.
Genveera bit her lip, then finally sagged her shoulders and admitted, "Alissa."
His heart sunk. "Alissa of the cult? Our captive?" But as was his way, Jerath began to consider. By the sun, couldn't Alissa have the answers he sought? She didn't reach her position by merit of Ghat'Nothos alone. She was a warlock, a woman of the shadow, and even Sin de Rath acknowledged her ability. A human lifespan devoted to the topic, and hands stained in black...
"Jerath, I need to run, and she is my only way out. Please believe me, I haven't betrayed the Shadow. I won't. I won't ever. But when I was on mission... the Skinless got me." Her hand waved. Jerath watched soundlessly as Genveera's green eyes began to dilate with a new color, a soft lavender, and he knew down to his core what it meant. No longer even sin'dorei, Genveera was something more terrible.
She spoke quickly, "Thomas has the Ashblades hunting through the Exilee right now. Farron and Deynora came to me, but I was using a special weave, a physical one, and they didn't find my eyes. Light, Jerath, Lord Dasen came to me too, and he almost burned the black magic right out of me. I love him for it, but he couldn't get it all, and he needed to rest. But he knows, Jerath. He saw the touch of Ghat'Nothos in me, and I know that when he wakes up, he'll tell everyone. I need to leave, to cleanse this, so I can come back without fear."
The stoic expression remained on his face. Jerath's thoughts ran in a dozen different directions, between Genveera, Alissa, and the keys to the shadow world. This moment called for a powerful decision. Light, he wanted to help her. More than anyone in the entire Exilee, Genveera deserved help. She deserved salvation and redemption.
With a final sigh, Jerath took his ashblade from his belt and buried its blade into the snow between him and Genveera. The blade was a mark of his loyalty to Thomas. He wished she had also taken one up, but Meyanna refused to test her. "Gen, speak clear and speak truthfully, and tell me everything."
Genveera nodded, visibly grateful that he would listen. "Alissa is a snake and a bitch, and the day will come soon when she will betray me. I know this. However, there is an arcane stone that the cult possesses capable of taking the Skinless magic out of the cursed, which they use on those about to infiltrate their enemies. That stone can take this awful touch out of me. It can cure me, and Alissa knows how to get one. I need her to find them and use it, and by the Sunwell, once I have it I will kill her and return.
"Right now I have to work with her. This magic is making me stronger, and my addiction is gone, but I cannot do this alone. Jerath, please, I don't know what trap she has laid for me, and so long as the old god is in my soul, I don't know if I can beat it when it comes. This is the truth. I won't betray the Shadow, but so long as its magic is in my heart, I am a liability, an indirect eyes-and-ears for that damned old god."
"Where is Alissa now?" Jerath asked quietly.
Genveera flinched, and her eyes left his. "I put the guards to sleep and moved her to the eastern mountain wall, outside the stronghold. She is free but needs me to go farther. I came back for you though, because you are the only friend I've ever had. If you pretend to defect, to say you pursue the secret of shadows, she might take you into her trust, and she can give you the answer. And together, we can succeed against her kind and return."
"And whose blood is that on your hands?"
"I really don't know. We were attacked by a highborne, an honest kaldorei from the days of old. There was something off about her though, a darkness unfamiliar to even me. The skills and subtlety of an assassin, the magic of a grand magister. We didn't win, but we got away."
Jerath remained silent, watching her with his aquamarine eyes. Genveera's face began to show worry. "You believe me, don't you? I wouldn't lie to you, Jerath. You would hear it in my voice if I tried. Please, Jerath, believe me. I won't betray the Shadow. I love him. I would never betray him."
The bearded ranger nodded. "I believe you, Gen. And I bet Alissa could have the answers I need. You did right in coming to me."
Her hope was radiant. "You'll help me?"
"I'll help, as best I can." What a terrible choice this was. I'm so sorry this has happened to you, Gen. The Swan that never got to see herself shine in brilliant white. He reached for his ashblade, and the ashen metal reminded him of his never-ending loyalty to Thomas the Swiftblade. He took a breath, preparing to pry it from the hard ice.
His heavy gaze rose back to the slight woman. With a great heave, Jerath ripped the ashblade from the snow, and he turned the motion into a slice at her throat. Genveera was faster, recoiling back, and it missed entirely. The woman continued into a backflip, landing crouched on the snow behind his Thinking Rock, and her eyes were cold and furious for him.
She must have noticed the tension in his hand as warning. Jerath scoffed at his mistake, but he forgive himself, knowing this was trying decision for him.
Without waiting, he dropped his ashblade for his bow, and he drew and release an arrow before Genveera could draw her own. The arrow took her directly into her right eye. Genveera screamed, falling back and dropping her silver bow. Jerath drew another arrow, and this one hit her hip, sending her leg back with the force. Genveera fell to the snow. As he drew yet another, a lavender light began to glow around her, and the arrow was deflected off its light like a mana shield.
His next bolt gained a faint hue: an armor-piercing enchantment. Even twice-shot, Genveera found the strength and speed to dodge it, and she threw a knife back. "Damn you, Jerath!" she cried out. There was raw emotion in it. "I meant every word. Every word was true!"
"I know," he replied softly, having easily dodged the knife. "But you are wearing collars that have forced your betrayal, no matter what you want or intend. And I promised you I'd kill you before you got that far."
"I could recover!" she shouted, and he could see the tears in her purple eye. A blast of corrupted magic came for him, and he dodged that too, loosing another arrow.
His heart was stone. "You've already made the decision to not. Think! Not a single infiltrator has been cleaned of Ghat's touch yet. No such stones exist. I'm sorry, Gen."
He could see it, the way her raised arms began to waver, and he managed to hit her with the enchanted arrow. Jerath frowned as the mana shell deflected that too, with at least a heavy sound of impact. He needed them stronger to pierce it.
The shot recalled Genveera's wits to her, her good eye going wide. She knew she couldn't win this fight. She began to back up, towards the stone wall Jerath had isolated himself against. "I don't want to die," she whispered. "Please, don't. I'm still loyal. Please."
Jerath released. A great crack marked the destruction of her shield, but still she wasn't pierced. He hummed, drawing again. He could hear it: parts of the camp, the guards of Alissa's tent were dead; Farron, Deynora, Lord Dasen, all riddled with Genveera's arrows. Who knows what was true? Jerath could only help her in one way.
Ghat'Nothos' boon was a greater gift than Jerath expected, for one not yet Sightless. Genveera dodged another four bolts, always retreating. She removed the two arrows, revealing an irreparable socket for her eye. Her fear was growing, her desperation. Jerath pursued, sending arcane bolts, while Genveera began to mutter a ceaseless string of: "No, no, no, no!"
It came to a head when a third arrow finally took her in the thigh. Genveea screamed, falling against the stronghold's wall, and the sound suddenly cut silent, like she had been gagged. There was silence, then, "Weak," he heard her hiss. "I am not this weak."
Who rose next from where Genveera had fallen was not the ranger he knew. The glare of that purple eye, the set of her face, her stance – none of that was suggestive of Genveera the Swan, like another person had simply stepped into her body.
"You are the one?" she asked coldly. "The one who has made the Fighter cry?"
Jerath paid her words no mind. He loosed and loosed again, while the creature either dodged or deflected them in lavender light. That had him frown, and he began to bring magic into his arsenal.
Genveera smiled at him; it was a gruesome expression with all the blood dripping from her eye, like it did not hurt at all. "You have skill. Better than sweet Thomas, aren't you? That will make this fun." And she came for him, drawing her knife and still shining with Ghat's light.
What in the name of...? Jerath recovered his ashblade in preparation, hoping its spell-breaking enchantments could be of assistance. Immediately, he knew this person to be far, far better than Genveera. He knew it when she slashed along his wrist, and he knew it when she scored a stroke along his chest armor. He knew it when he realized he was losing.
XxX
When Thomas heard there was growing commotion within his camp, he immediately left Raeloth to find its source. His ears picked up the most of it: more Ashblades were either wounded or dead, Lord Dasen had been violently attacked. King Malthon was passing inquiry, and val'kyr were moving about as watchers and healers. He heard there was an active fight against the north-east wall, and began to run under stealth.
He reached the wall first, but before he could run west along it to find the battle, he heard scraping and scuffle above him, atop the ramparts. He looked up, barely in time to dodge a falling body. One of the nightwatch scouts, with his throat cut out. Anger pulsed through Thomas' chest. He whistled loudly, calling attention to the fallen man, then Shadow-Stepped atop the wall.
Only a single person remained atop the wall, and she turned the moment he appeared. Thomas felt a cold sensation sweep over his rage, something sickening like fear, disbelief. Quietly, he asked, "Genveera?" It was her – with a purple, Skinless eye. She was wounded, missing the other eye and with several holes bleeding through her light armor.
Yet her voice was so sweet and perfect in the Thalassian song that he knew it was not Gen, "That name again. Tell me, Thomas, is that whose glamor I now wear? Genveera the Swan? Is that the name the Fighter has taken?"
"Yes, that is Genveera's face. What have you done, Snow?" His voice was soft, still strickened by this appearance. His daggers were drawn.
The wounded assassin laughed to herself, and she stumbled a step closer to the far edge. "That look is so ill-suited upon you, sweet Thomas. For shame. Banish your revile from your face; "Genveera" was never real. There was only the Fighter and the many masks she has worn in effort of keeping me away."
Slowly, cautiously, Thomas approached. With a wave of her hand, Genveera's face and blond hair began to melt away, back to the white mane of Snow. In the same voice, he insisted, "Who are you, Snow?"
A bloody smile, and her shoulders squared with pride. "I am Snow Duskfury, last and greatest of House Duskfury." Thomas was already past the point of surprise, but he felt the revelation down to his turbulent heart. Genveera Duskfury. Snow Duskfury. What the hell was going on here?
Her boots scraped the edge of the rampart. "I told you, Thomas, that the Fighter had betrayed you. Oh, how deluded she is in her love for you, how much pain she is in even right now, crying in my head until my ears bleed. And I told you, do not hate her for her failures. Every step she made was for you. Every choice has been for you, sweet Thomas. And now I cannot let her come back to the surface; her shackles are too tightly drawn to the other."
"Where is Genveera?" he demanded, continuing his steps after her. "Did you kill those Ashblades, those guards?"
"The Fighter is gone. Stop asking." One hand over her eye, the other on her thigh, Snow was teetering. "They came too close to the truth of me. I protected her. That is the end of it."
"Of course that's not the end of it," Thomas snapped. "You're a traitor, Snow, Genveera – whoever the hell you are. My people, my Exilee, are dead at your hands. I will see justice mete for it."
"Well, I am hardly in a state to stop you," Snow shrugged. "Which is my cue to flee. Thomas, we will meet again. And please, don't hate her or I. Choice and fate are fickle masters, and the Exilee is a breeding grounds of misfortune and madness." She began to lean backwards, falling off the ramparts.
Lip curling, Thomas Shadow-Stepped after her, catching the falling woman before her boots could leave the stone. "Like hell!" he roared. Smiling again, Snow raised the thigh-hand, where a blazing purple light brewed. Thomas barely managed to gather his Cloak of Shadows when the blast hit him, and the counter-force sent her slight body hurling away from him, ripped outside his grip.
Snow fell into the darkness, though not outside his keen eyesight. Drawing his bow, he began to fire shot after shot, until the last of his quiver was empty. Frustratingly, not a single arrowed seemed to make purchase, and the wounded woman left unhindered.
All his recent emotions returned at once, synergizing with his frustrations, until Thomas was taken to his knees. He threw his bow aside and just screamed out unintelligibly, venting the unyielding pressures of his fury, confusion, and frustration. He wanted to chase her, knew it was a suicide run. Snow had friends, accomplices, waiting on the plains.
Scratching sounds behind him caught his attention, but Thomas ignored it, feeling drained after his shout. Seconds later, a soft, feminine voice called out with worry, "Shadow! Thomas!"
It was Velanee, and she descended upon him with an arm, perhaps thinking he'd been lowed. After checking him for injuries, she asked, "Thomas, are you alright? What happened?"
"Gen- Genveera," he started, numb. "I think Genveera has turned traitor. The Swan is the traitor. She is Snow."
"How can that be?" Velanee asked, knowing as he did that he had checked.
"I- I don't know," he admitted in Common, defeated. His mind turned it over weakly. "Multiple personalities, maybe. I think "Genveera" was a glamor this whole time. Her and Snow are the same person."
A sound took their attention: a massive twang, and the scream of an arrow veering into the distance. Thomas saw Buck on the next rampart, holding his unwieldy longbow, with a scowl and rage on his face. The arrow, glowing with faint blue light, hit the fleeing Snow in the back, and this time it stuck, sending the distant figure to the ground. She began to rise again, but Merridan huffed, saying, "She damn well will be feeling that one. Traitorous bitch."
Thomas' ears picked up the panic in his camp too: Jerath had been found, hacked to pieces. Priests debated if recovery was even possible, while val'kyr fought their way to him. Even Jerath had been felled in the chaos. Alissa was gone, likely out on the plains with Genveera.
Falling back on his ass, Thomas felt a painful numbness consuming him. What the hell had happened? He felt so confident this morning, planning and scheming to catch the inevitable betrayal before it even began. Instead, his closest and finest were dead, the discipline of the Exilee broke into panic and chaos, and his second had gone rogue, playing headgames with some crazy killer with Skinless-corrupted eyes.
"Thomas," Velanee whispered, comforting. He noticed her arm was still around him when she rubbed his back. Traitor.
The war didn't even begin until tomorrow, and already the Exilee felt broken.
"Light help me," he whispered.
AN: Congratulations to King of Plot Bunnies for correctly guessing the Lord Dasen-Prince Anduin relationship.
