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Warcraft: Bones of Ironforge
Chapter 13: Where Death Has Damnation
Jarlath wanted nothing more than to bring his hammer against the necromancer's face, but first, there was his army of skeletons to deal with.
No fear touched his heart, as he stood by with shield and hammer. He had experienced terror on the snow of Coldridge, when similar abominations had attacked him under the light of star and moon but here, inside the mountains of Dun Morogh, terror was beyond him.
This was the home of his ancestors. Generations of dwarves had lived and died in these caves. This man, this filth, had desecrated this with his profane simulacrums. Just as the Horde had used the living dead as a weapon in the Second War, so too had the Scourge, on a scale greater and more horrifying than anything the orcs had managed. Entire kingdoms had fallen to undeath, and he knew, as all did in their hearts, that the dead would stir once more. A tidal wave of madness coming down from the far north, that the living would have to confront.
And this necromancer intended on establishing a bastion of that madness here, in the heart of Dun Morogh. A delusion, perhaps, but a dangerous one. As a paladin of the Silver Hand, as a Bronzebeard, as a member of the living, he had to end this.
So with a war cry that echoed through the mountain's bones, he began his work.
The necromancer hadn't thought this out well. He'd chosen a cave with a single entrance and single passageway to make his stand. It might have stopped an attacking force from using its weight of numbers against him, but now, it was to his disadvantage. The skeletons shambled forward, but such was the narrow width of the tunnel, only four could move abreast, and given their disparate sizes, their coordination was stymied – an orc stood twice as wide as a human, and here, it was to their shared disadvantage.
Not so with Jarlath and his fellows – while their sizes were likewise different, they had long learnt how to fight together, to use their disparate skills to their advantage. He and Botrek formed the first line, as Jarlath raised his shield, Botrek swung his sword like a madman. Calling upon the powers of the Light, Jarlath extended its grace outwards, giving him and Botrek a layer of protection beyond their armour.
Behind them were Jarlath and Cerise. Jarlath sent fire and ice into the attacking skeletons, hitting with every shot in a symphony of frost and flame. Cerise, her powers limited within the cave, nevertheless thrust her longsword forward again and again, akin to a spear. While brute force rather than precision was required to deal with skeletons, her blows nevertheless slowed them down, allowing Botrek and Jarlath to finish them off.
What Lugni and Yinny were doing, he could not say. Lugni, he didn't expect much from – despite his earlier rage, the dwarf had done nothing bar lead them here, and he didn't expect him to join the fighting now. No doubt he was cowering in the corner, being as much use as he'd been on the snow.
But Yinny? There was no sign of her. No arrow in flight, no dagger in the dark. Her weapons would have been of limited effect, but they would have still been useful.
What's wrong with you, girl?
Something was eating away at Yinny, and Widge had already copped some of it. When this was over, the two would have to sort things out. Maybe use the gold to buy a pack mule or something, or invest in getting Yinny better weapons. But for now, it mattered not. All that mattered was the goal.
Defeat the Scourge. Kill Toren Snapjoint.
He and Botrek began to move forward. Through his eye, he could see the necromancer trying to channel his magic, sparks flying from his hands before letting out a stream of barely contained energy into his skeletons. Their eyes glowing with unholy frenzy, as the pace of their attacks picked up…before five of them collapsed into dust.
"Shit!"
Jarlath laughed as the necromancer cursed. The boy had talent. In another world, perhaps he would have taken a worthier path. Used his magic for the betterment of life rather than its detriment. Even in this world, under different circumstances, he might have offered him the Light's mercy. He was a paladin, and justice, not vengeance, was what meant to drive him. Justice, it was said, was better found at the tip of a quill rather than a blade.
But then, dwarves had used chisels for writing long before quills. He wielded a hammer, not a blade. And this necromancer had raised the dead across Coldridge, and had defiled the home of his ancestors. Death was the justice he deserved.
So he kept fighting.
He smashed the leg of a trogg, before doing the same of its skull.
He parried the spear of a troll, before its weapon was set alight by Maith'hal, and Cerise thrust her sword through its socket.
He thanked the Light as the blow of a gnome's knife bounced off his body, before Botrek brought his sword down, cleaving it in two.
He marched forward, breaking ranks as more bones were broken. The necromancer yelled something about a "skully," before a human skeleton, missing an arm and half of its head, swung its sword at Jarlath.
The dwarf raised his shield, the blade hitting with surprising force. However, he brought his war hammer around, breaking the skeleton's left leg. The necromancer let out a cry…of grief, to Jarlath's confusion – but he made no hesitation as he brought the hammer upwards, shattering the skeleton's skull.
"You filthy stunty!"
Stunty. Not a term that many dwarves enjoyed hearing from their human cousins – while the two races had been close for over a thousand years, hatred and prejudice could spring up between them as surely as any other race.
But that was the least of Jarlath's concerns, as the necromancer sent a stream of green energy into him. Slowing his movement as he struggled to march forward.
"I am Toren Snapjoint! This is the Cave of the Dead! This is my kingdom, and you're finished!"
Jarlath grit his teeth, but fell to one knee. The necromancer's eyes blazed with golden light – anger, it seemed, was a focuser of his power.
Good for him. He still needed to die.
Shouts and cries filled the cave as the battle with the skeletons continued. His companions might have beheld his plight, but they could not offer aid as the battle continued.
Jarlath took another step, then another, but not a third, as his other leg gave out. In horror, he felt his skin begin to wither. Age take body and spirit alike.
"Can you feel it?" The necromancer whispered. "The slow decay? The inevitability?"
Jarlath struggled to speak. Spit dribbled from between his lips. His hair, already white, began to wither, falling upon the stone ground like wisps.
"This is what awaits all living things. You will die here. You shall be raised. My army will be rebuilt. What happened at Dalaran will happen to every bastion of the living. I will take my place at the Lich King's side, and you, dwarf, will see all of it." The necromancer smirked. "Through socketless eyes, of course."
If you're socketless, you don't have eyes by definition.
The thought was unbidden, and at first, unwanted. But as he clenched his hammer, Jarlath smiled.
"You smile at death, dwarf? How brave. Foolish, of course, given what's coming. But brave."
"Nay." Jarlath's grey eyes met the necromancer's. "Not foolish."
The necromancer sneered at him.
"My name is Jarlath Brewbelly," he whispered, as he dropped his hammer, clenching his fist, even as his muscles began to decay, even as sweat poured from his forehead. "I am the son of Enki and Freyan Brewbelly. I am three-hundred and nineteen years old. I hold a flagon in one hand, a tome in the other, for I am both brewer and paladin of the Silver Hand."
"Three-hundred and nineteen," the necromancer whispered. "Shame you'll never reach the big twenty."
"And I…am not…dying…today!"
The necromancer laughed. "Without your hammer?" He sneered, looking at the war hammer.
"Not that one," Jarlath whispered. "This one."
He unclenched his fist, and a golden hammer cut through the air, just as it had when he'd been attacked in the valley. The power of the Light made manifest, unconstrained even in this gloom.
The hammer did the necromancer little harm, but it did cause him to stumble, and consequently, interrupt the channeling of his necromantic magic. Healed Jarlath as soon as it struck his enemy through the Light's judgement.
The dwarf got to his feet. Picked up his hammer with both hands. Staggered towards the necromancer, who, eyes wide in fear, swung his staff.
Jarlath grabbed its shaft and tossed it away. Blubbering, the necromancer fell. Extended his hand in a last, desperate bid to keep the dwarf away. Began to blubber like a child, shielding himself from an angry parent.
"Please," he begged. "Please, don't kill me…"
Jarlath stared at him, unsure whether to laugh, shout, or listen. There were many things in this world children cowered from. He had seen such horrors in two wars…
"My master, he forced me to serve him. I didn't want any of this. I only wanted to live."
"Live," Jarlath murmured. He glanced at the skeletons that remained, fighting his fellows. "And yet you've raised the dead, brought death to countless others, and-"
The necromancer let out a yell, which sealed his doom. Had he remained silent as he thrust the dagger towards Jarlath's, he might have survived…provided it had penetrated his armour.
But it never made contact, as the dwarf grabbed his arm. Eyes blazing with the Light, Jarlath broke the human's arm with one hand.
The necromancer screamed…all the more so when Jarlath, screaming in anger rather than fear, brought the hammer against his skull.
This man wasn't a child, he reminded himself. He was the monster.
The skeletons kept fighting – the dead were not bound to the one who raised them – but to Jarlath, in that moment, it made no difference.
The creed of the Holy Light made no difference.
All that mattered was his rage. Justice. The hammer in his hands.
The blood that stained its face with each blow. The sound of crunching bone.
The tears that mingled with his sweat.
Life coming back to him, as he dealt death. As the Light channeled life to him with every blow.
How many times he struck, he could not say. How long his descent into darkness, he dared not guess.
But it mattered not. The Light's work had been done this day. The necromancer, Toren Snapjoint, lay dead before him.
For a moment, Jarlath Brewbelly just stood and stared. He had taken life before. During the Second and Third Wars alike. He had taken lives, he had saved lives, he had wondered why he was blessed with the joy of life while so many perished in this world of perpetual conflict.
But here, now…one so young, to have been seduced by the Scourge? He looked at the corpse before him. Pity, however faint, lurked in his breast. Human lives were so short, their bodies so…fragile. Granted mere decades to find their place in the world, was it any wonder so many stumbled into darkness?
He knelt down, and began to speak in the stone-tongue, offering what solace he could to the man's spirit. "Måtte dina forofedre hilsa," He began "Oå dagu, era-"
His prayer in the tongue of his people was left incomplete, as iron cut his throat.
What?
His body fell to the ground before he was even aware of what had happened. His hands went to his exposed neck, driven by instinct – the desire to survive. Desire that would not be met, as the blade had cut deep. Blood poured from the wound, like snowmelt feeding a lake.
How…?
He looked up in fear, expecting to see an eyeless face look down at him. A skeleton of the damned. But instead, his eyes turned to sorrow, to confusion, as he beheld the face of the one looking down on him.
Yinny?
And in her hand, the blood-stained dagger.
"Jarlath!"
Few skeletons were left in the cave. Fewer still were of any threat. What mattered was that the necromancer was dead.
What mattered more was that Jarlath was on the verge of joining him.
"Jarlath? Jarlath!"
Botrek cradled the dwarf as best he could – despite their size, dwarves were heavy, all the more so in Jarlath's case with his armour. Blood poured out of his neck. Bubbled out of his mouth. Red blood, the same colour as his. For all the differences between the races of Azeroth, blood often remained the same colour.
And Jarlath's was staining the stone.
"Jarlath? Jarlath, come on. Heal it!"
It was a ridiculous request – Jarlath was dying. The life was leaving his body at the same rate as his blood. Despite that, he rose his right arm, pointing to the wall of the cave.
"Jarlath?" Botrek pressed his hand down against the dwarf's neck, taking the dwarf's hand with his own. "Hey now, you're not going anywhere, okay? Just do your magic light thing and we'll…we'll be okay, okay?"
Jarlath's mouth opened and closed, blood escaping with every breath.
"Jarlath?"
His arm was still raised towards the wall.
No. Not the wall, Botrek realized, as he truly followed the dwarf's arm. Yinny.
Yinny. Member of the group. His friend.
Yinny, whose dagger was stained with Jarlath's blood.
Yinny, who casually wiped it, and began walking up the tunnel, as if entranced.
"Yinny, what the hell did you do?!"
Yinny, who paid him no mind, who uttered no word, as she continued to walk like the living dead.
"Cerise, do something!"
He would deal with Yinny in due time. His blade was stained with the dust of skeletons, but would welcome blood, especially for a traitor. But for now?
"Cerise, please!"
He would beg, if need be. He'd lost more men than he could count. In Stormwind. In Lakeshire. He'd drunk to ease the pain, but not all the beer in all the world could save him, any more than he could Jarlath, whose life was slipping away before his tear-stained eyes.
But a druid of the night elves?
"Cerise!"
She stuck her longsword through the socket of a skeleton and dashed over. She looked pale. Her lavender skin a little dimmer, her blue hair drenched with sweat. Her silver eyes shone in the gloom as she pressed her hands on Jarlath.
As nothing happened.
"Cerise?"
She began to speak. "Quenya aldari. Quenya. Elesarril, the'deras…"
Green light appeared on her hands, then faded. Again and again. Like the blinking of a candle, hanging onto light.
Like the light in Jarlath's eyes, fading…
"Cerise, what's happening?"
"Quenya aldari. Quenya, elesarril!"
The green light came and went. Jarlath's wound refused to close.
"Cerise, what are you doing?!"
"Quenya aldari! Quenya aldari!"
Tears (or sweat, he couldn't tell) stained her eyes. Jarlath's, on the other hands, closed. His breathing shallow. His skin pale and cold.
"Cerise, what's wrong?"
She made no answer. She was whispering something under her breath, but he couldn't make it out. What little words that reached his ears were all in her native tongue – one that he had not picked up. But her words did not seem to be the ones she had uttered as she'd tried to channel the powers of nature. Rather, it sounded like…
Prayer?
She put her hands against Jarlath's chest, as he finally breathed no more. As Maith'hal walked over, standing tall, as he always did, yet diminished.
"Cerise?" Botrek whispered.
She wiped her eyes and looked at Botrek. "I'm so sorry…"
"What?"
"I'm not a healer. I never was."
Botrek stared. Cerise was a druid. She'd summoned the powers of the earth itself. She'd used vines to tear apart her enemies, used her sword to impale them, had…
Never managed to heal. Not once, in three months, have I seen her heal anything.
"I came to these lands to heal them. But now?" She wiped her eyes – silver light streamed from them, her grief itself becoming manifest. "Now I couldn't even save one person."
Botrek hesitated for a moment. In his right hand, he grasped the hilt of his sword. Not a single skeleton remained, but there was one person who was destined to meet his blade. But for now, in this moment, as Cerise wept before him…he reached out to take her hand. To offer what comfort he could, before-
"Oh look, something happened to the Bronzebeard."
…his hand never reached hers. The words reached his ears beforehand.
It was not Botrek who uttered them. Nor Maith'hal. Not even Yinny, who as he looked at her, glaring, was standing in the gloom. A silent sentinel, gently carrying her dagger.
It was Lugni.
His face was covered in shadow. Small fires flickered in the cave – the result of Maith'hal's magic. But Botrek paid them no heed, as green light of a different, more ethereal kind, flickered across Lugni's face.
"You mewling idiots," the dwarf whispered. "One week I've had to put up with you. Listened to you moan, endured your snoring, endured every inane whisper that escaped your wretched lips."
Botrek slowly got to his feet, clutching his greatsword. Cerise remained kneeling. Her eyes darted between the two dwarves – as if unable to let Jarlath go. Maith'hal was similarly silent, his blue eyes blazing with light not unlike that which had filled the skeletons' eye sockets. His grip on his staff as tight as Botrek's sword.
"Lugni?" Botrek whispered. "What are you talking about?"
"Lugni," the dwarf sniggered. "Oh, of course. I knew a Lugni once. I burnt him to death years ago. He screamed a lot"
Botrek didn't say anything. No-one did.
"But well done, heroes," Lugni whispered, as he nodded at Toren's corpse. "That necromancer was far too sloppy to be allowed free reign."
"Free reign?" Maith'hal whispered.
"This necromancer was a powerful fool, and while his magic may have killed him eventually, I didn't have time to wait. It was only a matter of time before he drew the attention of the Mountaineers and brought the hammer of Ironforge down upon him." Lugni kicked a pebble over to Toren's corpse, the stone resting against his pulverized head. "I couldn't allow that. I had my own plans for this cave, but I lacked the power to handle him myself. Once hammers start swinging, more intelligent heads are sometimes hit."
Cerise, as if reacting to Lugni's admission of supposed weakness, got to her feet with her sword in hand.
"Stay put, you animal." With a flick of his fingers, green fire appeared in Lugni's own hand. A ball of fire not unlike the type Maith'hal could capture. Yet despite being bereft of any magical ability, Botrek could sense the wrongness in the flame.
"Fel magic," Cerise whispered.
And he understood why. He had seen it four years ago. When fel fire had come to consume the world. Glancing at Cerise, he saw her recoil.
"Know. Your. Place," Lugni hissed. "And use those ears to listen, if my words you can comprehend."
Botrek was tempted to charge Lugni then and there. There were three of them to one of him – as Rhovanion Wrynn had written over 600 years ago, "never interrupt your enemy while they are making a mistake."
But he had no doubt that Lugni knew what he was doing. That he'd known what he was doing right from the moment they'd met in the Polished Pebble…
"This necromancer took what was to be my abode," Lugni continued, as the fire continued to dance in his hand, casting light on everything bar his shadowed face. "My base of power. But he threatened to bring the hammer of Ironforge down on it before it was ready. That idiotdid everything from raiding graveyards to wagon trains, damn the consequences. Didn't even thank me when I cleared up his mess. If it wasn't for me, Toren would have been found out long ago."
Botrek's insides squirmed. The wagon train they'd found…
"That idiot boy threatened to set back my goals by months. Under normal circumstances, of little concern to a dwarf, but in this world's numbered days…" He chuckled, as if laughing at a joke only he could comprehend. "But I made a plan. Find a group of patsies to help me slay the necromancer and his puppets. To do my work for me. And lo and behold, I found a group desperate and stupid enough to do my work for me."
"You used us?" Botrek whispered.
"Yes, I did, and quite well too. I expected far more suspicion from you lot in the Polished Pebble, but all of you were just so willingto play the part of blood hounds. Even the Bronzebeard came around when I mentioned how his hammer could bash some heads in."
"You son of a-"
Botrek took a step forward. The flare in Lugni's hand prevented him from taking another.
"But that doesn't matter now. While I thank you for serving me, I'm afraid I can't let you live."
Botrek licked his cracked lips. Every instinct as a soldier told him to rush Lugni now. He was but one dwarf, unarmed, and at this short range, fire would not avail him. But his instinct as a man who'd survived on the road for four years gave him pause.
What was the extent of Lugni's power?
Why was Yinny just standing beside him, not doing anything?
And what in the name of all that was holy was the…thing…that walked out of the shadows? The creature of grey skin, yellow eyes, and needle-like teeth, which took its place beside the dwarf?
"A demon?" Botrek asked.
"An imp," Maith'hal whispered.
"Salic been kept away from master," the imp sniggered, holding a small bag that jingled with the sound of coin. "Salic got very lonely. But Salic is in this world now. Salic can kill you, and eat well. Just as he did with the caravan."
Botrek couldn't help but wince. And not only from the flash of green light that emanated from Lugni. The dwarf who continued to speak.
"The lords I serve have no need of coin, but for manipulating hapless adventurers, it serves its purpose." Lugni stepped out of the shadows, and Botrek's eyes widened. Maith'hal's eyes flashed, and Cerise whispered something – prayer, curse, it didn't matter. Human and elven eyes all beheld the same thing. "But then, I had to put on a pretty face as well. The amount of nights I had to maintain it on the snow, sneak away into the gloom…"
The trio stared at him. Gone was the dwarf of golden hair, smooth skin, and timid demenour. In his place was a dwarf of even paler skin, orange hair and beard, and two blazing red eyes, like embers in the dark. A dwarf, still. But not of the Bronzebeard clan, and certainly not the Wildhammers. Which only left…
"Dark Iron," Maith'hal whispered.
"Warlock," Cerise hissed.
Botrek said nothing. He knew the reputations of both. Reputations that made him glad he hadn't just charged in, had he not wanted to join Jarlath on the cold stone floor.
"I am Molus Blackburn," the dwarf said, his voice echoing in the bones of Khaz Modan itself. "Son of Deucalion Blackburn, born from Uzkul. Child of Blackrock Spire, master of fel magic, and servant of the Burning Legion." He took the sack of coins from the imp, and jingled them himself. "And right now, the happy owner of one-hundred pieces of gold."
Botrek took a step forward. As the fire in Lugni, no, Molus's hands grew…that stopped him from taking a second.
"Gold," Molus whispered. "The spell it holds on you…hilarious. Mined from the ground, the races of the world take part in collective insanity in the belief that these trinkets mean something." He laughed, echoing down the quiet halls. "But this gold is not yours today. Yinny here has served me well. I think the gold should be hers."
"What?!" The trio exclaimed.
"Yinny, would you like some gold?" Molus tossed her a gold piece. She caught it easily, yet uttered no word.
"Very good." Molus shifted his eyes to Jarlath. "A dagger is not much use against the undead, but against a Bronzebeard?" He spat at the paladin. "A Bronzebeard, and a Light-serving fool. The dirt welcomes him."
"You son of a-"
"One warning, human," Molus said. "Leave, now, and never return. Or pursue me, and meet fire and death in the halls of the mountain."
The trio stood there. Rooted.
"Come, Salic. Come, Yinny."
"Must we master? Salic would like to use claws and fire."
"I said come."
Salic hissed. The dwarf turned around, leading his demon and human companion with him. Quick as a cat, Cerise dashed forward, but stopped short as a wall of fire spread across the tunnel, cutting them off…and as Maith'hal pulled her back.
"Death now, or later," Molus said, his voice echoing through the tunnel. "Choose, heroes."
The trio stood there. Beside the bodies of the dead. Of those raised in service of death itself.
By the body of the one who death had taken.
Green fire danced in their eyes, brown, blue, and silver alike.
Silence on all of their lips.
Not too bad here actually.
It was winter, but with the sun at its apex, it wasn't too chilly.
Not too bad at all.
Winter, summer, it didn't matter in Dun Morogh. Widge Whistlevale just lay on the snow, eyes closed, sunbathing like a mad goblin in Booty Bay. Of course, all goblins were mad, but some were madder than others, which was why gnomes were the better inventors, thank you very much.
Liability, they'd called him. Or rather, not called him a liability, but treated him as a liability. Story of his life, really. Of all gnome lives. Looked down by the bigger races, never trusted to do anything that didn't involve mechanical know-how.
And sure, that made sense in a way – gnomes had survived through ingenuity rather than brute strength. Dwarves flew gryphons, they flew flying machines. Humans rode horses, they rode mechano-striders. Elves were masters of magic, gnomes were masters of machines. It had served them in the Alliance of Lordaeron, it served them in the Grand Alliance as it currently stood (even if retaking Gnomeregan was low on the agenda, it seemed), and it served him right now.
Let the others do the fighting. He didn't care. Not at all.
He yawned, and lay on the snow. High above, a skylark let out a cry.
Shoo.
He didn't like birds. Birds were too big. Bigger folk might laugh, but try having a raven perch on your head, and see how you liked it, thank you very much. He'd told Yinny that tale a month ago, and she'd laughed so hard that her milk had come out of her nose. Goat's milk to be specific, as cow milk had been beyond their means.
Soon, they'd be able to afford better milk. Better drinks period. But despite that, despite the sixteen or so pieces coming her way when this was done, he couldn't' see her laughing now. Or smiling. Had her really wounded her so deeply that…
Beep.
Widge opened his eyes.
There was a beeping sound.
Beep – beep – beep.
Which was bad. Because while Widge Whistlevale had spent most of his life around things that went beep, a lot of beeps occurred before things went bang.
Beep – beep – beep.
There were good beeps. But his remote was beeping, which meant this was a bad beep.
Beep – beep – beep.
The remote was still at the top of its pole, pressed into a space of snow and soil on the mountainside. It shouldn't be beeping in regard to the undead in the cave. Which meant?
Beep – crunch – beep – crunch.
Wait, there wasn't just beeping. There was crunching. Had his friends returned?
Beep/crunch/beep/crunch/beep-
He opened his eyes, and looked into the empty sockets of the skeleton standing above him.
Beep – beep – beep!
The skeleton holding a rusty sword.
Beep!
Widge screamed.
Beep!
The skeleton thrust its sword down towards the gnome's stomach.
Beep!
High above, the skylark let out a cry.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep…
A/N
Those who've read/played the Bones of Ironforge RPG might recall that Molus brought in hired muscle to deal with the protagonists after Toren's death. The simple truth is that I cut them out from this novelization - they didn't really fit, and I couldn't think of any good way to explain where they came from - how they could be tracking the protagonists the whole time and not be seen, yet emerge at just the right moment.
You might have also picked up at this point that as the RPG lets you choose a player character to be a traitor, Yinny ended up being the choice, but I'll explain my decision to make her as such next chapter.
