Chapter 3
They wound their way through the ruined streets of Lordaeron, passing a number of shambling corpses. The people - former humans, almost exclusively - had all suffered some level of damage or rot. Some were missing entire limbs or chunks of torso.
"We were Arthas' shock troops," Ropart explained, while his canes and knee-caps clicked rhythmically across the misaligned cobblestones. "The front lines against his enemies. He didn't care if our bodies were torn apart, so most of the dead who survived have some form of irreparable damage. Some hide their disabilities, others flaunt them like a badge of honour... but most just accept them and try their best to move on."
The pair now entered a large central courtyard, beyond which was a great building that was likely once a keep or castle. Dozens of undead occupied the courtyard; some were talking, others studying. One was trying to fish in the green-tinted water that filled the remains of the moat. Necri even counted several merchant carts and kiosks scattered around. She slowed her pace near one of these, its counter obscured behind a cluster of customers. Finally managing to catch a glimpse of its wares, she was surprised to see the counter littered with scraps and shards of broken household items. Even in her few moments of observation, several of the items were snapped up, seemingly at random.
As she stepped back to Ropart's side, he explained in a low voice, "Memories. Even the smallest, basest piece of home can be of tremendous value to those who have lost everything. Sometimes, it doesn't even have to be -their- home. For many, any piece that might remind them of their former lives is valuable."
Ropart stopped at another merchant who was selling cloth wares. A few coins changed hands, then he turned back to Necri. "Pick a cloak."
He noted her puzzled expression, and his mouth twitched in a wry grin. "Few here care about clothing or lack thereof, but one does not have a royal audience while wearing the barest scraps of grave-bindings."
Necri hadn't even noticed her near-nudity, but she took the hint and picked up a shabby grey cloak, settling it around her shoulders and clasping it closed at the throat. The merchant bustled around to her and made a great fuss over the fitting of the garment, attention which Necri patiently endured to avoid offending him. Then she and Ropart were off again, crossing a short bridge and ascending the wide stairs that would lead them into the castle.
As they stepped into the echoing, whispering antechamber, Necri felt it best to try and get a better idea of her future direction. "So what am I to do, once we get into the Undercity?"
"I will be taking you to our Queen. Those who died during the fall of Lordaeron are well-known to us, but I have been asked to bring any others with... special circumstances to her directly."
"And what is she likely to do?"
"Talk, probably. You are not the first free-willed dead to have come our way from other places. She is always very interested to speak with such individuals. I imagine she will want to know how you became undead."
The idea of this concerned Necri greatly. She would have to be very careful what information she provided to the Queen.
A thought occurred to her. "Ropart, why were you waiting at the mausoleum?"
His smile was lopsided, but proud. "I am a caretaker. I travel to all the old graveyards and mausoleums, I maintain them and keep them safe from grave robbers. And if I see any risen dead, like yourself, I escort them to the city so that they may join our society - if they wish, of course. Nobody is forced or coerced into joining us."
"You keep the graves safe?" Necri looked down at the half-legged man, somewhat in disbelief that he could fend off rats, never mind determined humans.
"There's more life in these bones than you might think." He glanced sideways up at her. "There are those who want to desecrate or destroy those old mausoleums, but it's the possibilities of people like yourself for which we keep them intact."
She didn't feel the need to tell him that the worst any mortal could do to her, would be to delay her return from the dead.
They stepped into Lordaeron's abandoned throne room, several years of disuse showing in the ragged finery that once graced the walls and floor. This was obviously not the room used by Undercity's Queen. Ropart led her down a narrow side passage that ran underneath the nobles' balconies, which then angled downward and opened into a claustrophobic burial chamber. There was a single imposing stone crypt in the centre of the chamber, but Ropart did not stop.
The corridor continued on the other side of the chamber, and ended at a small doorway built into the stone wall. As they approached the doorway, a muscular form loomed out of the shadows, a green-skinned humanoid in savage-looking heavy armour. Its beady eyes narrowed at their approach, fixating on Necri in particular. Necri did not recognize the creature's race, but a nudge from Ropart cautioned her to follow his lead, keeping her eyes down and saying nothing. She thought they had passed it without incident.
Until a heavy mailed gauntlet fell onto her shoulder.
The creature spat some words at Ropart in a guttural tongue, to which he quickly replied in the same language. The exchange continued, and Necri could feel the creature's grip steadily tightening on her shoulder, the metal edges of its gauntlet digging into the remnants of her skin. Though it didn't hurt, she soon had enough of it.
She brought a hand out of the cloak and gently touched the back of the gauntlet. She breathed a single word, feeling dark energy building within herself. She understood that this creature stood guard over the city, and had no wish to disable it permanently, merely to have it remove the offending limb from her person. She allowed the barest fragment of the energy to coil down her arm and dissipate into the creature's living aura, where she knew it would instantly inflame the nerves in searing pain.
With a yell, the hand was jerked away, and she turned to face its owner. Ropart had paused, his eyes wide at her daring. The green-skinned creature bared its fangs, glared at her, and raised its axe threateningly.
Necri had already come to terms with the fact that the language spoken by the dead had not changed in thousands of years. There had been no difficulty communicating with Ropart even from the first; yet here was this creature speaking a completely different tongue, and expecting others to do the same. She recalled Ropart speaking of the Orcs, the leaders of the Horde, and assumed this was one of them.
Into the silence, Necri whispered, "Guard, do you speak the language of those you protect?"
The axe paused. Without shifting its gaze from her, it spat a condescending question at Ropart, who answered with what was obviously a negative.
"I should -kill- you for that," the creature growled in her language.
"In -my- time, I would have killed -you- for laying a hand on me," she responded simply. "And I -will-, if you do so again." She focused her will on the creature's eyes, feeling no fear at all at his seething glare. The yellow spirit-lights in her eyes flared with the dark power she held at ready within her mind.
Finally, the guard spat on the floor at Necri's feet. "Take your prize to your Queen, cripple. And make sure you teach her -respect-."
Ropart backed away, finally coming to the doorway at the end of the corridor, which he opened to reveal a tiny room. Necri turned to follow him, but kept her ears open for any sound that might indicate the guard was moving to attack.
The door closed behind the two, and Ropart slumped against the wall. "He could have killed you - both of us - without hesitation."
"That was an Orc, then." It was more a statement than a question.
"Yes. The Horde's Warchief forced us to accept Orcish guards. There was a certain revolutionary element that made its home here, last year, and though that has been purged, our leaders still do not trust us."
"So we are disliked, even by our allies," Necri sighed. Some things never changed.
Ropart didn't respond to that. Instead, he pulled a lever in the wall, and Necri was startled when the floor began to move downward, the walls rising wetly around them. "It uses water pressure to move up and down," Ropart explained, keeping his balance with little effort. Soon, the elevator had stopped its descent, revealing a sealed doorway which Ropart pulled open, allowing the bustling noise of a city to rush over them. They stepped out of the elevator room, closing the door behind them, and walked down a short corridor past another guard (who, fortunately, was utterly disinterested in them). The noise grew steadily. Finally, the corridor opened into a cavernous cylindrical chamber, hundreds of feet across and ringed with stone walkways, staircases and platforms. Hundreds of people, both dead and alive, conducted business around her.
"Welcome to Undercity," Ropart gestured expansively with a cane. "Home of the dead."