CHAPTER 12
That night, as Idira stood over Blackie's grave under a smoke blackened sky, she sensed someone watching her. She looked up, wary. Clad in black leather, a female slid from the shadows of the acacia trees and paced towards her, as graceful like a cat. Idira took a step back, wary. She had nothing with which protect herself, save her Light, which she wasn't sure she could count on. She half-turned to glance at the house, where she could see Unambi, bathed in candlelight, moving around, cleaning up the mess of broken crockery. She need only scream—
"I won't hurt you," a feminine voice murmured, right behind her. "I just wanted to make certain you were safe, after that."
Her heart in her throat, Idira turned and met the dark eyes of the hooded young woman, lit by the soft light from the house.
"Vanessa?" she asked, uncertain, eyeing the set of large, vicious looking daggers the other woman wore on her belt.
The young woman nodded, terse. She pulled back her hood, just a little, so the deeper shadows left her face.
Idira stepped back, astonished, her hand going to her mouth. For a heartbeat her heart stopped, believing she was seeing the ghost of Myra when they still lived on the farm, for in Vanessa's face Idira glimpsed the same expressive eyes, and the familiar contours of her sister's cheekbones, jaw and brow.
Vanessa held up her hand, as though asking Idira to wait. Idira nodded, though her heart continued to pound, her mind caught in the echoes of the past as Vanessa glanced from side to side before cautiously pulling her hood back. Her niece's short, dark hair, mottled with sweat at the temples transformed her from memory into reality. Idira lowered her hand. This was no ghost, but the grown-up daughter of VanCleef and Myra, bearing Myra's features and VanCleef's colouring.
Vanessa glanced down at the little mound of muddy soil, bearing a stone at its head with Blackie's name etched across it. Her face tightened.
"Today?"
Idira nodded, her heart clenching in a fresh arc of pain.
"I'm sorry. She was a nice cat."
Idira didn't say anything. She didn't know what to say. Logan's words tumbled through her mind, jagged and angry. Aggressor. Murderer. Bitch. She rubbed her hands against her hips, nervous and conflicted. Vanessa was her blood. Even if she was doing wrong, she was still her niece, the child of her sister.
"I know about you and Logan," Vanessa said, low, as she lifted her hood back over her head. "I'm guessing after I caught him discovering my latest strike he told you everything."
Idira couldn't muster the energy to ask how her niece knew so much about her situation. Instead she looked over the farm yard, cleared of its debris and nearly dry from the heated air washing over Westfall from the burning city. There was only one question she wanted answered, so she asked it.
"A patrolman? Why?"
Vanessa shrugged. "He saw me. I had to. I didn't enjoy it. Of course my efforts were wasted now that Logan knows. I just wish what happened before I met the patrolman hadn't happened . . . " She prodded at a loose stone with the toe of her boot. "Well, it is what it is. It's done now."
Despite the heat in the air, Idira shivered. Vanessa sounded just like her father. Cold. Calculated. Dangerous. Idira wasn't going to ask Vanessa what she was referring to that had happened before the patrolman. She didn't want to know.
"You won't . . ." Idira couldn't finish the question. She shook her head. The thought of losing Logan, after losing so many others was unbearable.
Vanessa smirked. "Don't worry. I let him go, for your sake. But then," she cast her eyes towards the red-flamed glow in the skies above Stormwind, "I have a feeling I might be the least of his problems for the next little while, at least." She slipped back into the shadows. "You always took good care of me, Idira. I have never forgotten that. I am glad you are safe. When Westfall is mine, I will make sure you will be well taken care of, you have my word."
A sudden whisper of air washed over Idira. She pivoted, following it just in time to see a shadow slip past the acacia trees and merge with the night. The light from the moon and stars, swallowed by thick layers of ash meant Idira could only see as far as the house's candlelight. Beyond, the night lay thick, ominous and claustrophobic; a wall of impenetrable black. She sighed again, her heart heavy. For a little while longer, she lingered, gazing at the little gravestone marking Blackie's resting place before going to the house, determined to tell no one of the one who had come to visit from the depths of the night.
Vanessa had been right about one thing, in the aftermath of the dragon's attack, Logan's problems increased exponentially. He sat in the kitchen nursing a mug of fresh brewed coffee, turning it from side to side in his big hands, complaining about the sudden influx of Stormwind refugees flooding into Westfall, looking for aid and shelter in Sentinel Hill, its fortifications still under construction and supply lines barely enough for those fighting to free Westfall from its oppressors. To top it off, the sudden return of the People's Militia's once-leader, Gryan Stoutmantle, now a Marshal allied with Stormwind, meant Westfall no longer belonged to the people but answered to the Alliance, whose mandates took precedence over the activities of the People's Militia, renamed on Stoutmantle's return to The Westfall Brigade. After more than one run-in with the long absent leader, Logan found his wings clipped so hard, he said they felt like they bled.
"And the worst of it," he said, his tone veering dangerously close to a whine, "is no one believes my report that Hope Saldean is VanCleef's daughter. They simply can't accept that such a nice girl, whom they've watched grow up could be behind the killing of our men and the agitator of the situation in Moonbrook. It's incredible, she walks into the town looking the picture of innocence in her plain homespun dress and apron, going to the market to sell her vegetables. It's sickening. I tried arresting her once, and do you know what happened?"
Sitting across from him at the table, Idira set a peeled sweet potato into a pot of water and picked up a new unpeeled one from the bowl, keeping her eyes on the knife's blade cutting into the skin of the tuber. She shook her head, even though she already knew the answer, hoping her expression wasn't revealing anything about having seen her niece a fortnight before.
"I was put on probation!" Logan tilted the cup of coffee back, and gulped its contents down, finishing the last dregs with noisy slurps. He slammed the cup back onto the table so hard the pot containing the peeled sweet potatoes rattled against the board. "Can you believe it? Stoutmantle just rolls in from the Light knows where after leaving us to fend for ourselves for the last nine years, expecting to take over where he left off without so much as a by-your-leave. He decides everything now, and all he's interested in are two things: keeping Stormwind's transients out of Sentinel Hill and trying to find out who killed the Saldeans and Blanchy the same day the dragon arrived." He scoffed. "He's even brought SI:7 investigators from Stormwind to get to the bottom of it, like that's the most important thing the People's Militia—I mean The Westfall Brigade—should be worrying about." He leaned back in his chair, his legs sprawled out, rebellious. He huffed and crossed his arms over his chest and turned to look out the open front door, his eyes narrowed, hostile, looking for stray travellers.
Idira kept working, she had heard him rant about this subject often enough over the last week. She pulled the last of the peel away from the potato, feeling a tiny shimmer of pleasure, she had managed to take the peel off in one long piece. It was a game she liked to play with herself, although she lost more often than she won.
Logan got up to pour himself another coffee. He sat down again and sipped it, moody. She noticed he hadn't asked if she would like her coffee mug, sitting empty beside her, to be refilled. She sighed and leaned back to stretch the kinks out of her shoulders, thinking for the hundredth time how glad she was she hadn't ended up with him; once he got in a sulk, there was no shifting him, and at times he was insufferable.
Though it was disloyal, a tiny part of her could understand why he had been sent on his way. Logan might be strong, but he wasn't particularly clever when it came to dealing with those in power. When he'd been slapped with his probation he'd had to give back his horse, so he turned up on foot, carrying a sack with all his worldly possessions over his shoulder, saying he'd decided to stay at the farm, declaring he might not ever go back, calling his comrades-in-arms arse-lickers and ingrates.
She had to admit, despite his non-stop railing, it was useful to have him around. He was doing an excellent job using his pent-up anger scouring the farmland for the occasional wanderer, leaving them in no doubt which way they should be headed: towards Sentinel Hill. Over the last days, he'd kept them safe without Unambi ever having to be involved, or any of their precious supplies, greatly depleted since the garden and wheat field were destroyed, from being stolen.
"Gives that know-it-all Stoutmantle something to do," he would mutter each time he sent someone away, his features ugly and twisted by bitterness.
Idira got up and refilled her coffee mug, taking her time, enjoying the sudden moment of quiet as she cradled the mug's warmth against her hands and inhaled the coffee's bitter, earthy scent.
Logan snapped out of his thoughts and glanced at her. "What's for dinner tonight? I'm starving."
"Eggs, fried potatoes and fish," Idira answered as she attempted to sip her coffee. It was still a little too hot. She glanced at the fish waiting to be gutted. "You'll get your dinner quicker if you give me a hand."
He looked at the pile of fresh fish, caught earlier by Unambi. "You want those gutted and filleted or just gutted?"
"Filleted please," Idira murmured over her cup. "I'm going to make a hash."
"Fine," he got up, oozing resentment. Soon though, the mood in the kitchen lightened, as the work distracted him, soothing him. Idira smiled as she carried on with the potato peeling. She should have thought of this days ago. From now on, she would make sure he had plenty of little jobs to do in between his tours around the farm. Sitting and stewing was only making everyone unhappy, even Unambi had started keeping his distance from them, working from dawn to dusk restoring the garden or down at the beach, making new crab pots. Even Margle didn't show up as frequently anymore, sensing Logan's antagonism. The poor murloc had lost everything, so one of the first things Unambi did was help to build him a new home, raised up on stilts, using salvaged pieces of wood from the shipwrecks.
"I've been thinking of joining the Stormwind military," Logan said, apropos of nothing.
Idira started, her knife slipping and severing the length of peel. She bit her lip, annoyed. She had almost made it through again, with one long peel. She turned and glanced up at him, finding him already watching her.
"Oh?" she asked, wondering if he really meant it, or if he was just trying to goad her, like he was wont lately.
He didn't say anything, but Idira sensed his disappointment. He had wanted a reaction, after all. He shifted his weight, exposing the board behind him. The fish lay filleted in three glistening piles. She lifted a brow, impressed. He had done a good job. He dipped his hands into the wash bowl on the table, and reached out to take the linen towel from the hook on the wall.
"You want me to start frying these?" he asked as he dried his hands.
Idira nodded. "Yes, low heat though."
He pulled the copper frying pan down from its hook and set the fish into it with the fish slice, deft. "Are you going to say anything more than 'oh'?" he asked, quiet.
Idira hesitated, he sounded serious this time. So this wasn't just another one of his attempts to ease his anger by starting a quarrel. The quiet pop of the fish beginning to fry filled the quiet air.
"I won't go if you'd rather I didn't," he said as he poked the fish, making sure the fillets weren't sticking to the pan.
"Is this because of the changes at Sentinel Hill, or is it because you . . ."
He turned and eyed her. "Because I what?"
Idira blushed and turned back to her peeling, she would have to hurry if she wanted everything done on time.
"Because you want to meet someone," she blurted out, peeling her potato with jerky movements, cutting away far too much flesh. She tried to slow down, there was no point in being wasteful.
He didn't say anything. Embarrassed, she rushed on to fill the space where he had left her hanging, unable to stop the words from tumbling from her lips.
"I mean, I know the pickings are slim in Westfall," she said, rushing ahead without thinking. "Because you and me—well we both know that's not going to happen after that one time—so I understand if that's what you want to do. I mean, I really do, you have to live, after all."
She peeked up from under her lashes, trying to gauge his reaction. He'd turned back to the fish and stood bent over the pan, busy with the fish slice, shifting the pieces around far more than they needed. She was glad she'd planned to make a hash, the way he was going at the fish, it'd be in pieces by the time he was done anyway.
"Well," he finally said, "I just thought that maybe there's no future for me here since Stoutmantle and his crew don't want to listen to people who have been here for years, who know what's what. Not much point in going back if I have to take orders from people like that. Besides I heard the pay in Stormwind is triple what The Westfall Brigade is paying." His shoulders lifted and fell, the fish slice moved a little faster. "That's all, really," he hesitated for several moments, then continued, "I mean I guess if I met someone, then I'd see, but I honestly haven't really thought about it. Military life, you know? Not much room for a wife and children when you're out saving the world."
"Is that what you want to do? Save the world?" Idira asked, quiet.
He spun around, irritable again, holding up the fish slice, sticky with pieces of fish meat and greasy with oil. "What else is there for me to do?" he erupted, "I mean, if I can't have you and I can't make a difference anymore in Westfall—" He shook his head, and jabbed the fish slice towards the window facing the mountains, where behind its heights the broken city of Stormwind lay. "What's the point of anything anyway with that insane dragon flying around destroying the world? I just want to make sense of things. Do something that matters, you know, for once."
Idira nodded. She understood. How she wished she could make sense of things too, do something that mattered, instead of just waiting for the next thing to happen to her. She went to him, pulled the fish slice out of his hand and set it aside, her fingers tracing the length of its handle.
"I think you are making the right decision," she said, soft. "I will miss you of course, but perhaps it is for the best. It truly does seem as though there is nothing left for you in Westfall, and look at you," she smiled as she glanced up at him, trying to lighten the mood, "you would cut a fine figure in a suit of armour. A proper hero."
He smiled a little at her flattery, the lines of tension etched into his face over the past weeks easing, granting a rare glimpse of his handsome features, hidden for far too long behind a mask of anger. "Really? You don't mind if I go?"
Idira shook her head, thinking of the floating city, and of Khadgar. One step closer. Even though it had hurt Logan, she had become canny enough about her life to know his shunning by The Westfall Brigade meant more than what it seemed. Azeroth was pushing him on, just like a piece on a game board, for what purpose she couldn't guess, but it wasn't going to be used here in Westfall with its growing population of transients and new Alliance-allied regime. No, Logan was meant for something greater, she could sense it. He had come when she needed him, and now he was leaving when she wouldn't anymore. Soon, she suspected she would leave Westfall, too. It would be wrong to hold him back until then for her own selfish reasons. She suspected if she needed another protector, her Light would provide it.
"I don't," she said, when he cleared his throat, reminding her he was still waiting for her answer, "although I think Unambi would like it if you stayed one more week until he finishes planting the wheat field."
He nodded, and smiled, pleased. "No problem. I can do that." His stomach growled, loud. He picked up the fish slice and checked the fish, glistening, white and perfectly done. "The fish is ready," he announced, "when can we eat?"
Idira stood up on her toes and kissed him on his cheek, her heart filled with affection though her thoughts were tinged with sadness and nostalgia; another friend and ally, just like Nin, Arinna, Lanira, Kip and Benny would shortly be gone. "Soon," she said as she went back to her seat and finished peeling the last potato. She handed him the pot to put on the stove to boil, and picked up the basket to collect the eggs. "Very soon."
Once in the chicken pen, loneliness engulfed her. When she was sure he wasn't looking, she slipped into the coop and cried.
But he didn't leave after a week. Instead, five months of productive, labour-filled days slid by before Logan finally decided things at the farm were in good enough shape for him to admit there wasn't any more reason for him to stay. It seemed to Idira that once he knew he could leave his disappointments in Westfall behind, he relaxed, his agitation and resentment dissipating and his easygoing nature returning.
Over the months, he had hunted out big jobs that needed doing, poking around the farm, looking for problems and bringing them up over dinner, suggesting he help with them before leaving, oblivious to the knowing looks Unambi shot Idira over his mug of coffee.
With the abundance of shipwrecked wood washed up along the beach, he was able to build a dock so they could put their crab pots out much further into the sea. Then he set his mind to rebuilding the chicken coop. He then declared the kitchen garden wasn't enough for their needs, so he spent a month creating a beautiful garden in the front yard by building a dozen raised beds made from ship timber prepped with fertilised soil. Already the planted boxes had begun to burst to life, filled with new green things, unfurling their nascent leaves to the sun. Idira savoured the sight, anticipating how beautiful the farm would look once all the beds filled out; an oasis of green in a world of desiccated browns and yellows.
Not satisfied with his work, Logan built a little stone enclosure around Blackie's grave and together with Unambi they transplanted wild catnip Logan had found growing north of the farm near the river boundary to Elwynn Forest. Now a riot of purple flowers waved in the breeze, attracting butterflies and fat bees, the sight warming Idira's heart.
As she sat on the rocking chair on the porch, a book on her lap and the setting rays of the sun sliding over her shoulders, Idira realised they hadn't seen a single transient for at least a month, not even while out at the wheat field, a ten minutes' walk distant. Peace, of a sort it seemed, had finally returned to Westfall. Although she never said anything, a part of her thought perhaps this new Marshal of Westfall might be more than capable of his job. She hoped Vanessa had seen sense and given up her game now that someone with real power and clout had arrived, bringing with him with all the might of Stormwind.
Within the house, Idira could hear Logan and Unambi conversing as they played cards, talking about rotating the wheat fields to spare the soil, and Logan's planned departure first thing in the morning.
She smiled, completely at ease. Life felt good again. The hard edges of the terrible memory of what had happened when the dragon came had finally begun to fade, her pain from the loss of her cat joining the hidden place in her heart where all her other hurts lived, silent, and still, buried but never forgotten. She glanced at Blackie's little plot, overflowing with spreading catnip, and busy with bees, still gathering nectar even as the sun began to set. Blackie would have loved that. She hoped she was safe and happy now, out there somewhere with the Light.
She turned back to her book and lifted it up with a sigh. Realising she had lost her page, she leafed through the book, lazy. Over the top of her book, movement caught her eye. A gleam, flashing every now and again in the lowering light. She stood up, squinting, trying to focus. The gleam merged into a horse. She backed up, sidling to the door. A soldier, headed straight for the house.
"Logan?" Idira called out, as she edged to the door, hoping whomever it was hadn't seen her yet. She slid inside.
"Someone's coming, " she breathed.
Logan got up and reached for his sword. "More transients?" he asked. "I thought the influx was finally over. I guess I'll have to stick around a little while longer, after all." He smiled, cocky. "No problem."
"It's a soldier," Idira murmured, feeling her heart begin to pound. Something terrible was going to happen, she could feel it. "He's wearing armour and riding a horse."
Logan paled. Already Unambi was rolling back the rug in the bedroom and opening the concealed trap door, cleverly hidden within the seams of the planking. He lowered himself into the cramped space, usually used for storage and held up his hand to Idira, who hurried to clear away the evidence of there being someone else at the table. She sat on the edge of the opening and slipped down onto the dusty ground under the house, watching Logan through the cobwebs as he lowered the door over them, filled with dread.
"Don't worry," he said, though he looked uneasy, "It's going to be fine. We planned for this remember? 'I live here alone. Found the place abandoned after the dragon attack, blah blah blah.' I got this. No problem. They won't find you. I won't let them."
Idira nodded, listening as Logan kicked the rug back into place and his boots moved across the floorboards out onto the porch.
"Hello!" he called out.
A muffled reply. His tread went down the steps, and across the yard. She could hear talking, but the words were too low and indistinct. She looked at Unambi, he sat, completely still, listening, his eyes narrowed into slits.
Several minutes passed. Unambi shook his head.
"Ah. No," he said, quiet. He glanced at Idira and shook his head again, pity in his eyes. Idira couldn't bear it, she clung to his arm, pulling on it, as she crouched beside him in the shadows, imploring him. Please. Tell me.
But Unambi lifted a finger to his lips, so he could continue to listen. She slumped back, defeated, and leaned against one of the support beams, cobwebs and dust trailing after her in her wake, sticking to her hair and dress. The sound of boots came up the porch steps and crossed the house. Only one person. She looked at Unambi, hopeful. Is it alright?
He nodded. The rug rolled back and slivers of candlelight slipped between the floor boards, streaming down onto them, like sunbeams in a cave. The trap door opened with barely a creak, proof Unambi had been keeping it well oiled.
Logan knelt and thrust his hand down into dusty space, making the motes caught in the light spiral away, swirling in the disrupted air. Idira grabbed onto him, holding onto the edge of the opening as he hoisted her back up into the house. Unambi clambered up after her, brushing at the cobwebs plastering his shoulders and chest. She turned and caught them sharing a look. Pity, again.
Logan cleared his throat. He glanced at her quick, then away again, uneasy.
"How about some fresh coffee?" he asked. He didn't wait for her to answer. He turned and left the room, busying himself in the kitchen, his head down as he ground up fresh beans.
She turned to Unambi. He closed the trap door and rolled the rug back in place, keeping his eyes averted from her.
"What's going on?" she asked, her voice rising, thin and tinged with desperation. "Why don't you tell me what they said?" Unambi kept his eyes on the rug, continuing to adjust it long after it needed it. She bellowed, frustrated and ran to Logan, slapping his hands away from the grinder. "Stop doing that! I don't want coffee! I want to know what you don't want to tell me," she screeched, hating the sound of her voice, all angles and points, like broken glass.
Logan let go of the grinder and turned to her. Unambi joined them, rubbing his hand over his mouth, slow, something he always did when he was worried. Idira waited, but the look in Logan's eyes started to make her regret her impatience. Maybe coffee wasn't such a bad idea after all. She opened her mouth to tell him to carry on when he started talking, the words coming out of his mouth so quick he was almost incoherent, as if he couldn't rid himself of the awful, horrible sentences he was forcing himself to say as fast as he wanted to.
The soldier, one of Stoutmantle's. Sent to find Logan. An apology. SI:7 Investigation. The Furlbrows' and Blanchy's murder solved. Hope Saldean guilty, wanted as Vanessa VanCleef for multiple murders. Vanessa in Moonbrook. Recruitment of transients. The Defias Brotherhood. Sentinel Hill burned. The mines a Defias stronghold once more. The Night's Cutlass repaired and prepared for use. Champions from Stormwind. Vanessa overwhelmed. Her refusal to be butchered like her father. A vial of poison. Gone to the Light.
Idira's knees turned to water, Logan caught her and helped her to a chair. She sat, looking down at her hands trembling on top of the table, numb. She looked up at Logan, at his blue eyes, usually stubborn and uncompromising, suddenly soft and filled with compassion.
She knew. Somehow she had known all along, sooner or later Vanessa was going to be caught, but not like this, back on the top deck of that awful ship, just like her father. Somewhere deep in her mind, Idira knew justice had been done, had needed to be done. But still. She blinked and looked back down at her hands, Vanessa's crimes, so distant and unreal couldn't erase the memories Idira had; comforting Vanessa when she had bad dreams on the ship, or the hours she spent teaching her niece to read and write. How proud she had been of her when Vanessa could read aloud without help.
"And now, it's just me," she sighed. She lay her head on the table and said nothing for a long, long time.
After the news of Vanessa's suicide, Logan decided to stay a little while longer. As the days rolled by, Idira sensed he seemed to be waiting for her to give him her permission to go. While she was touched by his protectiveness, she knew there was nothing he could do to soften the pain of her loss, not just for Vanessa's short-sighted, vengeful choices, but for all the others Idira had lost; her small circle of family and friends reduced to just Logan, Unambi and Margle. At times Idira morbidly wondered if Azeroth herself was trying to eliminate all proof of her existence.
Perhaps meeting Khadgar was the only reason Idira had been born, her Light meant to be channelled by him for reasons she could not comprehend. Maybe she was nothing more than a vessel, hidden away in Westfall until she would be required, all her hopes and dreams of a magical connection with Azeroth's hero a fabrication of her overactive imagination. Maybe meeting Khadgar on the balcony of the floating city was the best part of her future and she would never see him again after that, maybe that one time was all there would ever be: after that she would be used by him for some greater purpose and then die just like all the others, never knowing or understanding anything about her Light or why she had been the one chosen to carry such a lonely, dangerous burden.
She withdrew into herself, fearful and worried. Unambi understood and left her alone, giving her the space she needed to try and make sense of her life and all her losses. He didn't pepper her with questions like Logan did, who desperately struggled to fill the gulfs of silence at the dinner table, never realising the kindest thing he could do was just let her be.
When he finally decided he would leave, Idira watched him pack his belongings, a part of her broken-hearted, trying to memorise him, fearing she might never see him again and a part of her relieved to see him go, moving on to his new life filled with promise and purpose, where he might be safe from her 'curse' as she now privately called her Light. Stoutmantle's messenger had given Logan two pieces of gold in compensation, which had provoked several long conversations with Unambi about his being unwilling to keep it, wanting to leave it behind for Idira, in case she might need it.
Eventually Unambi had his way, by finally admitting he still had a pair of gold candelabra hidden away. Satisfied, Logan kept his gold.
His bag packed, he went out onto the porch. Idira followed him into the yard where Unambi was already waiting. They stood together, the three of them, awkward, under a pink-smeared sky warming in the sunrise.
"It's going to be a scorcher today," Logan murmured to no one in particular as he looked up at the sky's canopy, clear and cloudless, just like every other day.
"Ya got ya waterskin filled?" Unambi asked, gruff.
Logan nodded and pulled his waterskin from his belt, giving it a jiggle to make sure he had filled it up enough. "Should last me until I get to the river, no problem." His eyes met Idira's. He opened his arms, waiting for her to hug him.
Now it was really happening, she didn't want him to leave. She bit her lip, her heart clenching so much it felt like she couldn't breathe. He came to her and gathered her up against him, enclosing her in the warm, familiar smell of his leather tunic and her homemade soap. She clung to him, her eyes wet with tears.
"Just be safe," she whispered, "I'd like to see you in your fancy armour some day—" Her voice wavered. She sniffed and continued, hesitant, plaintive. "You know, just like the heroes in the fairytales?"
He laughed, but it sounded hollow. "I'll do my best to look like a hero for you." His arms tightened around her, it hurt her ribs a little, but she didn't mind, it distracted her from the ache in her heart.
"As soon as I can, I'll come to see you. I promise," he answered, his voice tight. She felt his kiss against her brow and then he let her go. She backed up, blinking hard, trying to control the tears in her eyes. She'd promised herself she wouldn't cry. Unambi shook Logan's hand.
"Ya be takin' good care o' yaself, or ya got ol' Unambi ta be answerin' ta," he said, soft.
Logan pressed his lips together and nodded. He blinked hard and ducked his head, turning to look towards the sunrise. "Well, I'd better head out," he sighed. "It's a long walk to Stormwind. Four hours if I walk fast."
Idira knew everyone already knew that, and Logan was just talking for talk's sake, like he always did whenever he was nervous. He rubbed the back of his forefinger against the bottom of his nose, sniffed and nodded again.
"Well, then."
He hefted the sack containing his belongings over his shoulder. Scuffing the toe of his boot in the dry earth, he glanced back at the house and watched the curtains fluttering in the breeze, absently patting the front of his tunic, making sure the little leather bag holding his gold coins still hung from the cord around his neck. He looked at them one last time, his blue eyes glistening, his lashes spiky with unshed tears.
"Well, I suppose that's me then," he said, his voice creaking a little. "Time for me to be off on my adventures."
He walked out of the yard, past Blackie's grave, abundant with the purple flowers he'd planted; past the raised flower beds, burgeoning with life; past the chicken coop he'd remodelled and reinforced to withstand all but the most extreme weather. He kept walking, his stride increasing, moving faster as he passed the line of acacia trees and crossed the fallow fields, heading straight into the glare of the rising sun.
Her heart in her throat, Idira watched him go, the tears she had held back slipping free as she waited for him look back. Her vision blurred. She wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron, her heart in her throat. If he was going to turn and wave, it would have to be soon. But he didn't. He kept walking, never once looking back, moving straight into the light of the rising sun. She felt Unambi's arm come around her shoulders, supporting her as she sagged against him, crying in earnest.
"Da Light be protectin' ya, lad," Unambi murmured, his voice thick with his own unshed tears. "Da Light be protectin' ya."
Without Logan at the farm, Idira had more work to do, but she welcomed it, it kept her busy, leaving her little time to dwell on the dark thoughts that had returned and begun to plague her. In less time than she'd anticipated they resumed their old routine, with Margle once more coming up every morning with his gifts from the sea, carrying them into the kitchen to Idira, his little webbed feet slapping, soft against the floorboards.
Every night before going to sleep, she kept track of the days using the bar and gate method Nin had taught her, marking the blank endpapers of her least favourite book. The months passed. As the count approached a year, she found herself glancing towards the eastern horizon more frequently, imagining Logan arriving on his horse, gleaming in his armour. But he didn't come. More months passed, then another year, swallowed up by the daily routine of living and tending the farm.
Once more, just like when she was little, no one ever came. The farm was too far away, too isolated. No roads led to their farm, not even a path, and since Logan had told Stoutmantle's messenger his intention of joining the military, no one from The Westfall Brigade had ever had any reason to make the trip back, either. They were utterly alone. At times she fancied they might be the only living beings in all of Azeroth.
Two more years drifted away, marked by the careful notations her book. The unchanging seasons and the endless, monotonous days punctuated only by the memory of two severe storms, though the damage they had done was nowhere near as serious as the day the dragon arrived. They cleared up the yard, replanted the gardens, repaired the damage to the buildings, and moved on. Her twenty-sixth birthday came and went, unremarked. She never dreamed of Khadgar, nor would she even allow herself to think of him anymore. It hurt too much. The books she had about him she stashed at the bottom of the book chest, where she knew she would never see them.
Since her birthday, she had begun to despair that even her belief that her Light—even if it was of no benefit to her—had a purpose. Not since those first days thirteen long years ago, right after they arrived, had anything happened.
After the day the dragon arrived, when she couldn't help the chickens, she'd never tried to call on her Light again. It had let Blackie die when she could have protected her. She simply wanted no part of it anymore, it was easier to close herself off from it, than to be continually disappointed.
She gazed at the dozens of numbered gates filling the endpapers of her book. Four long years had rolled by, each one blurring into the next, identical and unchanging since Logan left. Idira found herself beginning to believe she would live on the farm until she died, alone and unloved, until she became an old woman, never touched by a man, destined to be buried beside her cat. Even Logan had never come back. She suspected he had moved on, found a woman, had children and long forgotten about her. She understood, he would be almost thirty years old, long past time to be settling down, but still, it hurt so much when she thought about it, her heart so consumed with envy she felt like she couldn't breathe. What had she ever done to deserve such an empty, meaningless existence? But as always, for her, there were never any answers, only a deafening wall of silence.
In the dead of the night, Idira woke. The sound of approaching footfalls came from the cliff path. She sat up, straining to listen, her heart pounding. Silence. She exhaled, slow. Perhaps she had dreamt it, though it had sounded real enough. She waited. Still nothing. She lay back again, reassured. A dream, nothing more.
The footfalls came again, shuffling, hesitant, jagged against the distant familiar susurration of the ocean's waves washing up against the shore. She slipped from the bed and went to the sitting room, thinking to wake Unambi but he was already strapping on his belt, sheathing his daggers.
"Ya be waitin' in ya room until I be callin' ya name," he said so quiet his words barely reached the edge of her hearing. She nodded and fell back as he opened the door, the oiled hinges swivelling in total silence. He slipped out, not making a sound as he left the porch and went round the house.
Her heart pounding, she crept back to her room and sat on the edge of her bed, her fingers twisting into the material of her nightdress, fear scything through her, sharp. They had had things go their way for so long she had begun to take for granted how safe she believed they were, always expecting strangers to arrive from the east, never from the sea. And now, after all these years, in the dead of the night someone was coming up the cliff path as though they knew of its existence, hidden as it was in between the long, waving grasses.
She waited, biting her lip, listening for the fight she was certain was going to break out. Silence. Uneasy, she stood and moved to the wall facing the sea. The bedroom didn't have a window facing the cliffs, so she couldn't see anything. She pressed her ear against a wooden plank, holding her breath, a wild tendril of hope shooting through her. What if it was Logan? He knew the cliff path. Another thought followed, like the flash of a fish's scales in the sunlight, arcing across her mind before she could stop it. What if it was Khadgar, finally come for her? She shivered at the thought, unable to stop herself from savouring the possibility that at any moment, the man she had waited all her life to meet could walk through her front door.
Unambi called her name, startling her, making her jump. He called her name again, urgent, telling her to join him.
She hurried to pull on her shoes and bolted out of the house, running toward the cliff path, curiosity overwhelming her. Against a glittering wall of stars, she made out Unambi's silhouette standing over a ragged heap of what looked like a very thin man, sitting slumped on the ground.
"I found him like dis," he said. "Ya better be preparin' yaself."
Confused, Idira looked up at Unambi, his face lost to the shadows, the faint gleam of the stars barely catching his eyes. He reached down and grasped hold of the man's grey hair and tilted his face up to the wan light.
Idira stared, disbelieving, incredulous. The last person in all of Azeroth she ever expected to see, gazed up at her, his eyes blank and glassy with fever.
"Help me," he croaked through parched and cracked lips, holding up a trembling hand to her, imploring. "Please."
"Papa," she whispered, tears coming to her eyes as she took in his wretched state. He looked old, ill, and utterly pitiful, an emaciated version of the man he used to be.
"We have to help him," she said, leaning down to take hold of his arm. Through his ragged, stinking shirt, she could feel the bone of his upper arm, his skin moving, loose over it.
"No. We don'," Unambi said, cold. "Da best ting we can be doin' is endin' dis one here an' now. He be half-dead already."
Unambi was right, she knew he was right. Her father deserved to be killed. Apart from the horrible way Papa had treated her as a child, he had gambled away Myra to VanCleef in a card game, ruining her future with Benny and ultimately causing both their deaths. He had put her life at risk at Klaven's Tower when he tried to ambush VanCleef; had bombed the house they lived in, uncaring if his daughters lived or died and had driven an entire town to ruin in his war against VanCleef, forcing her and her sister to retreat to The Night's Cutlass to be buried alive for almost a year.
She had plenty of reasons to want her father dead, but looking at him like this, trembling with fever, his hands so thin she could almost see through them, the past clashed with the present, leaving her uncertain, unable to think straight. It felt wrong to kill him. As he looked up at her, blank, his mouth hanging open, the corners crusted with scabs, she sensed he wouldn't understand why he was being killed anyway.
She glanced up at her protector, already gripping one of his daggers, his eyes narrowed to deadly slits, seeing only the man who had captured and tortured him, his troll honour demanding that his wrong be righted, paid for with Papa's life.
"Please," she plead, soft. "Don't kill him. At least, not when he is like this. It's like killing a baby."
"Ya be askin' much from Unambi," he said in a voice that made Idira's blood run cold. Lulled into complacency by their peaceful life, she had forgotten who Unambi really was. He was no farmer or fisherman. He was warrior first and foremost, the son of the chief, and until Papa had deviously captured him by using paralysing poisons, Unambi would have been the next chief of his tribe. He had every right to butcher her father. She owed it to her protector to allow him to do so, but the thought of killing Papa, like this, would make them no better than her father.
She touched Unambi's hand, the one holding the dagger, sensing the tension in his body, the restrained anger, held in check only for her sake.
"Is there no other way he can repay his debt to you?" she asked, quiet.
He said nothing for a long time, just stared at Papa, still and steady, like a snake ready to strike.
"No," he finally answered. "He mus' pay da price wit' his blood."
"But what good would it be to do it now, when he will have no comprehension of it?"
"Da good be dat dis monsta' be dead an' da world a betta' place." He eyed her. "Why ya be wantin' ta defend dis one, afta' all he be doin' ta ya and ya sista'?"
"Because I have lost everyone, and there is a chance he might be sorry. If you kill him, I will never know," she tightened her hold on her father's arm, defensive. "I need to know. Please."
Unambi shook his head, but he lowered his dagger. "Ya be makin' a terrible troll," he muttered as he slid his dagger back into its sheath. As he bent to hoist up her father, he cut a look at her, severe. "Ya can have dis time ta be nursin' him back ta health, but if he be da same as before," he drew his finger across his throat, "Unambi be takin' what's owed."
Idira nodded, relief washing over her. A part of her believed Unambi was right. Papa was bad, he had always been so, there would be no reason for him to have changed. She looked at her father, stumbling along beside them, his boots so worn that his toes stuck out the front, his filthy flesh torn and blackened with dried blood. As she helped him up the steps, breathing through her mouth to lessen the stink of him, she realised even if he was still bad, she had no other choice but to try, because she was nothing like him, or even Myra. She was Idira. She was different, and somehow knowing that made her feel just a little bit better.
After two weeks of failing to break Papa's fever, Idira began to fear he might never get better. It seemed he was destined to lay in her bed, dying slowly while his body shut down, a prisoner to his low-grade fever, never once recognising her or giving her the chance to find out if he felt any regret. Apart from staying away from Papa, Unambi said nothing, though he made no effort to hide the fact that he checked his daggers often, spending more time than Idira felt was necessary sharpening his blades.
Papa never talked, he just lay in the bed, sleeping or staring, vacant, at the rafters, his thin fingers wrapped around the top of the bed sheet, kneading the material in his fists, like a baby. For being such an awful man when he was well, he was an extremely cooperative, passive person when he wasn't, as easy to care for as a kitten. He certainly weighed no more than one. He never complained, never refused his broth, and whatever Idira asked him to do, he obeyed without question.
Then, one evening three weeks after he'd appeared, just as she finished drying the dishes from dinner, she heard him call out from the bed, his voice thin and weak.
"Myra?"
Idira went to the bedroom door, cautious, suddenly overwhelmed by feelings of uncertainty, fearing she had made a terrible mistake by hoping for a miracle she knew in her heart would never happen. From the corner of her eye, she caught Unambi creeping in from the porch, his daggers at the ready, waiting, tense, just out of Papa's line of sight. He nodded at her to go in.
"Papa?" she asked as she approached the bed, still clutching the linen drying towel. "Are you feeling better?"
His eyes, sunken and bruised drifted to her. He tried to sit up, but fell back, exhausted.
"Where's Myra?" he asked, his voice hoarse.
"She's gone, Papa," Idira answered. When he looked at her expectantly, she continued, her heart aching, "She won't be coming back."
He nodded and looked around the room, taking in the furnishings, the rugs and Idira's collection of seashells displayed on a shelf on the wall. After a while, he patted the bed beside him, gesturing for Idira to sit. She shook her head. She had no idea if he even knew who she was.
"Is she dead?" he asked, the slack skin of his grizzled grey jaw wobbling under his protruding cheekbones.
Idira nodded.
His eyes glinted, whether from anger or grief, Idira couldn't tell.
"Was it that mad bastard what killed my girl?" Again he struggled to sit up, and failed.
Idira looked down at the rug, bridling at his audacity. Had he actually forgotten about bombing their house with them in it? She opened her mouth to tell him so, then realised she didn't want to have this conversation, the past was best where it had been left, in the past. Fighting about it now wouldn't change anything.
She nodded again, her throat tight. What was the point in saying it was all his fault, that VanCleef's murder of Benny and Myra's suicide was only the end of a long line of tragic circumstances started by her father when he lost her in a card game. It would only lead to an argument and Unambi ending Papa's life, and then she would never know if her father had ever felt any remorse for his terrible, heinous crimes.
She glanced up at him. A tear slid out of his eye, and down his cheek. He sniffed and wiped it away, his fingers trembling. He glanced up at her.
"I see ye still got them magic purple eyes," he said, gruff.
Idira didn't say anything.
"Well, never mind about that," he said as another tear escaped. He brushed at it, trying to make it look like he had an itch. "Ye turned out real pretty anyway. Like yer Ma, I'm sure some boyo'll love ye, or have ye got yerself a man already?"
"No man, Papa. Not yet."
He huffed and looked around again. "Looks real nice in here," he said, "all cosy like yer Ma used ta have it." He fell silent and glanced out into the kitchen, lit in the soft glow of candlelight. "Ye're not livin' out here all by yer lonesome are ye? It ain't safe."
"I have the troll with me, he protects me."
Her father's eyes widened, and what little colour he'd had, drained away. "Then why ain't I already dead?"
"Because I asked him to let you live, for a little while at least."
"Ye're so much like yer Ma, good all the way through. Nothin' like me," he said, soft. "I'm guessin' ye want to know if I been regrettin' my actions or not."
"Well, do you?" Idira blurted out, sharper than she'd meant to.
Her father looked down at his hands as he fidgeted with the sheet, folding it over and smoothing it down. He scratched his ear.
"There ain't enough time in the world ta make up fer all the wrong I done," he answered, slow. "Yer Papa's a bad man. I ain't never done one good thing in my life. Not one thing. But if ye want me ta suffer for what I done, jus' let me live. It's the livin' wit' it what's hard." Another tear slipped free, tracking its way down his nose to hang suspended on its tip. He didn't bother to wipe it away. He slid a look up at her, sly.
Something stuttered to a halt within Idira. He was lying. He hadn't changed at all. He thought she was stupid, and wouldn't be able to tell. Her chest tightened so much, she couldn't breathe. She backed away, and hurried outside, gulping at the fresh evening air, pushing her way through the raised garden, unseeing, until she reached the shadowy line of acacia trees. When she stopped she realised she was still holding the dish towel, her hands shaking. Unambi strode up from behind her.
"He be tryin' ta put da confusion in ya mind," Unambi said, pacing back and forth as he glared at the house, glowing in its warm pool of candlelight, filled with hostility. "Don' ya be listenin' ta dat talk. Once ya bad, ya stay bad."
"It's just," Idira whispered, "I had hoped, now that it's all over, now that he's lost and Westfall will never be his, maybe he would be sorry and want to change and be a better man before he died . . ." She looked up at Unambi, her throat so tight she couldn't continue.
"An' be a real Papa ta ya an' make all dem wrongs he done ta ya right, hm?" Unambi asked, quiet.
Idira choked and nodded, the ache inside her drawing so taut, she felt as though she would snap in two. She pressed her hand to her heart, trying to ease the hurt as a lifetime of heartache engulfed her. Her whole life she had waited for this moment, believing that one day if she ever saw him again, he would change, be a good Papa, say sorry and mean it. He'd help around the farm, and they'd be a family. But it would never be. Her pain blossomed, opening, rushing over her, years of buried hurt and anguish, betrayal and confusion, her agony so raw, so untouched, buried intact since the times he had hurt her, she couldn't even cry. Unambi took hold of her arms and steadied her, helping her over to a tree stump to sit.
"Ya be stayin' here. It be time ta be finishin' dis. Though he don' be deservin' it, Unambi'll make it quick."
Numb, Idira stared at him, his words not sinking in. He turned away. Realisation slammed into her. He was going to kill Papa. She lunged forward and caught his arm. "No. It's murder. We would be no better than him. He should be handed over to Stoutmantle, to be tried."
"An' how we goin' ta be doin' dat?" he asked, watching her, patient as she worked out the logistics.
She slumped, defeated. It was impossible. She would have to walk, alone and unprotected all the way to Sentinel Hill and then bring soldiers back to the farm, exposing her existence there and perhaps even causing Unambi and her to be separated for good if the soldiers decided she wasn't safe living there 'alone'. No. The risk was too great.
At the edge of her hearing she thought she heard a metallic sound, a light clanking, steady and rhythmic. Unambi must have heard it too, because he stood up, turning until he faced the north-east, listening, his eyes narrow.
"A soldier," he grunted after several moments. "Movin' in dis direction. Ya might jus' be gettin' what ya be wishin' for afta' all. Go on back ta da house, I'll be in da shadows if ya be needin' me."
Idira slipped back through the raised garden beds and up into the warm glow of the house. She checked on her father, who snored, loud on the pillows. She scoffed, so much for remorse, if he could sleep like a baby after what he'd just said. She went to the table and sat down to wait, preparing herself, thinking of what she was going to have to say.
The clanking drew closer, right up to the bottom steps of the house. It stopped.
"Idira!" a man's voice called out, commanding.
Her head came up. The voice sounded a little like Logan's. She jumped up, knocking over her chair in her haste to get to the door. She flung it open, and there, standing in a full suit of armour, a little dented in places, his helm caught up under the crook of his arm, stood Logan, looking every bit just like one of the heroes from her fairytale books, handsome, strong, and battle-scarred.
"Start packing," he said, abrupt.
"What?" Idira asked, as Unambi came forward and Logan nodded at him. "Why?"
He glanced up at the quiet sky, sparkling with its innocent carpet of stars, wary. "Demons, from another world, attacking all over Azeroth from their sky ships. You're not safe here."
"Demons?" Idira repeated, struggling to keep up. "I thought those were made up to scare children into behaving."
Logan laughed, bitter. "If only. Pack, we leave tonight."
"Where are we going?"
"Stormwind, it's safest for you there."
Idira glanced at Unambi. She looked back at Logan and raised an eyebrow. "And Unambi?"
"I'll look after you from now on. With these new, dangerous times upon us, you need to be somewhere more secure than here." He turned to address Unambi. "You know you can't come to Stormwind. It's time for you to head back to your people. Probably best to stick to the coastline."
"You've changed," Idira said, noticing how brusque and commanding Logan had become, all his edges honed to brutal, razor sharpness.
"I'm alive," he answered, curt. He waved a gauntleted hand, gesturing for her to go back into the house. "We can talk later, right now I need you to pack. I had to pull a lot of strings to get myself out here in time to warn you."
"There's more than just me," Idira said, glancing back towards the bedroom.
Logan glanced at her, sharp. Jealousy flared in his eyes. "What do you mean?"
"My father turned up, half-dead three weeks ago. He's not well enough yet to walk."
Logan stared at her, incredulous.
"And you helped him?" he bellowed, furious. "What's wrong with you? You should have ended him as soon as you had the chance."
Idira blinked. The military life had certainly changed Logan, and not for the better. She wasn't so sure she wanted to do as he told her, not when he had turned into such a tactless bully.
"Dat man be da girl's father," Unambi said into the sudden stark silence, his words tinged with reproach. "She be needin' da time ta be comin' ta terms wit' tings, wit' what be needin' ta be done wit' him."
Logan scoffed. "Well, I hope you've come to terms with things because I'm not bringing him. He'll slow us down too much. He can face the demons alone, it's more than he deserves. In fact," he said as he pulled his sword free and stormed up the steps, "I'm going to solve this right now, that man ruined thousands of lives. This ends tonight."
Idira threw herself in his path, bracing her arms against the doorframe. "Wait!" she cried, "He should be given a trial, what about all those others who deserve to see him brought to justice? No one person should have the right to take his life."
Logan barked a harsh laugh. "There's no time for trials. Remember when that dragon came, how much damage it did? It might have been vanquished by a multitude of champions but that one dragon, even with all its power has turned out to be nothing compared to what's happening now. The Legion Invasion is far wor—"
His mouth kept moving for several more words, but Idira couldn't hear him. A roar came from the sky, filling her ears, deafening her, making her head ache. A rushing wind rose up, rising from the ground, a vortex, sudden and sharp, pulling her hair free of its pins, sending it flying around her face and into her mouth; the skirts of her dress snapping against her legs and her apron billowing up between her and Logan, wild, like a living thing.
Above, the sky flared bright, as though filled with sheet lightning, but instead of white, a sickly, putrid, foul colour of green reached all the way across the sky's canopy. It touched the horizon for a heartbeat, then retreated, racing back to its point of origin, coalescing into a massive swirling maelstrom, taking up a quarter of the sky. From within its centre, the shape of a flying ship unlike any boat Idira had ever seen slid out of the light's core, materialising, black against the halo of green. It pulled free, and hung suspended in the sky, a long, flattened, triangular shaped ship, over the centre of Westfall, the vile light of the maelstrom playing against its black metallic surface.
A long jagged blast of sound came from the ship, deep, low and mechanical, making Idira's legs go numb. She clung onto the door frame, struggling to stay on her feet. From inside the portal, another ship emerged, sliding out of the light's viscous, streaming centre. It swept out, silent, exactly the same as the first ship, coming to a halt further south, over Moonbrook, hovering silent, deadly, terrifying.
The ships sounded their strange horns again, Idira's legs gave out under her, paralysed by the decimating sound. She cried out, clapping her hands over her ears, pain exploding into her head. She could taste the metallic taint of blood in her mouth. Her hands felt wet. She pulled one away and stared at it in shock. Blood.
The noise increased, brutal, tearing at her mind. She screamed, wishing she could die to make the pain stop. The trunks of the acacia trees split in half and crashed to the ground, one smashed into the roof of the shed, carrying the whole structure down with it. The chicken coop trembled, shuddering, shaking, resisting. It heaved and caved in, then ballooned outwards, expanding until it exploded, the noise of its shattering drowned out by the devastating blast of the horns. The blasts stopped, abrupt. Not even an echo followed in their wake.
Pieces of wood and wire rained down onto the roof of the house from the coop, clattering against the slates, others skidded and tumbled across the yard, slamming into the walls of the raised garden beds and over Blackie's grave. All across the yard, the broken, bloodied bodies of the chickens lay in tiny, mottled heaps. A flutter of movement caught Idira's eye. She turned, slow. One of the chickens had landed on the porch, its mouth opened and closed as blood pooled under its head, thick, dark and glutinous. Its eye rolled back into its head as its body spasmed, jerking in its final death throes. She recognised the bird. Thea, one of her favourites. Always a good layer. Numb, she reached out to stroke its feathers.
Logan grabbed onto Idira's arm, jerking her away from the dead chicken, his leather-clad hand hoisting her to her feet, rough. "Get up!" he shouted into her face, though she could barely hear him over the feeling of wool in her head, the ringing in her ears. "We have to move. Now!"
Held in his vice-like grip, she stumbled after him down the steps, her thoughts in tatters. Too much had happened, too fast. Another ship began to slip through the churning hole in the sky. Idira cowered. Nothing could survive the blast of three of those ships, even the land would disintegrate.
She looked back at the house, feeling as though she had forgotten something. Unambi loped after them, his eyes on her, protective. Her thoughts moved slow, sluggish. Then it came, as clear as crystal. Papa. They had left him behind, helpless and alone. They were no better than him. She dug her heels into the soil, pulling Logan to a halt.
He turned, the whites of his eyes reflecting the sickly green colour of the sky. He glared at her, livid. She yanked her arm free and pointed at the house. "Papa!" she mouthed, knowing it was no use to scream.
He shook his head and pointed at the sky, where the third ship was just pulling free from the portal. It pivoted, slow, and began to slide across the sky in total silence towards the farm, processing, bleak, stately, aloof, uncaring. An incomprehensible thing.
She turned and ran, holding her skirts up around her knees, Unambi right behind her. She could feel her Light building within her, and despite the horrors unfolding around them, she felt euphoria. It wasn't gone. It wasn't over. Her Light could save them all. This was her fight, she could feel it, this was what her Light had been waiting for, this invasion of demons. She had never before felt so alive. Her whole body thrummed, awakening to a power she felt she couldn't contain. She ran up the steps into the house and tore into the bedroom. Her father huddled on the floor, blood dripping from his nose, mouth and ears. He looked up at her, then drew back, horrified, shaking his head, recoiling from her touch.
"Don't ye touch me!" he shouted as she reached out to help him up. He rubbed the back of his arm against his mouth and nose, smearing blood across his face. "Look at ye, with those accursed eyes, glowin' like that. Ye did this ta me, didn't ye, ye evil purple-eyed bitch. Jus' like at Klaven's Tower." He reached up and pulled a kitchen knife from under his pillow, quick as lightning he pressed its point, cold, against her throat.
Unambi burst into the room, his chest rising and falling, ignoring the furious shouts of Logan coming from outside the house. His hands darted to the hilts of his daggers.
"Not so fast," Papa growled. "Yer days o' protectin' this witch're over."
Idira felt the knife's point bite through her skin, stinging, burning hot, drawing blood. She stifled a cry, it hurt far more than she thought it would. She called to her Light, it seethed, crowding the inner edges of her being, more powerful than she had ever felt it before, yet nothing happened. She met Unambi's eyes, watching her, a dagger in each hand, waiting. He nodded at her, slow.
"Da Light will protect ya if I can't," he said, soft. "Don' be afraid."
A shearing hiss sliced through the air. In the middle of the room, the distorted image of a nightmarish creature flickered, appearing in segments, the space around it liquefying, as the thing took shape. Papa drew back, startled. Something hurtled past Idira, making tendrils of her hair drift past her face, caught in the draft. A heavy thud. The knife clattered to the floor. Her father slammed back against the bed, crying out, scrabbling at the hilt of Unambi's dagger. He held out his hand to her.
"Help me," he panted. She shook her head and scuttled away from him, moving on all fours across the room, grabbing hold of Unambi's outstretched hand just as the demon materialised.
A dog. No. Not a dog. It did have four legs, a head and a tail, but the similarities ended there. It was a thing. A nightmare. A pair of long, curved, pointed horns extruded from its red-scaled shoulders, pointed downwards, perfect for gouging its victim. She couldn't see any eyes, its head appeared to be nothing other than a massive mouth. It growled and sniffed, slavering, its saliva dripping onto the rug, where it sizzled and burned straight through the rug and into the floorboards, filling the room with the smell of sulphur. From its back, two writhing tentacles with dripping three-pointed appendages darted and seethed, seeking. It opened its mouth, exposing rows upon rows of jagged pointed teeth, far more vicious looking than even the sharks' that washed up onto the beach, dead.
Idira glanced at Unambi. He stood completely still. The thing didn't seem to be aware of their presence yet. Outside, the sound of more demons arriving filled the air, the shearing hiss repeating dozens of time as they materialised all over the farm. They talked to each other, some deep and guttural, others gurgling like boiling water, several of them screeched, their cries burrowing into Idira's spine, like a dagger across glass.
Papa groaned, loud, still grappling with the dagger's hilt, his hands slick with blood. The demon snorted, its head and tentacles swivelling towards him. It howled and leapt across the room, its mouth opening wide, its teeth glistening. Unambi covered Idira's eyes and yanked her back, into the kitchen. Her father's blood curdling screams filled her ears, turning her blood to ice.
"Now be a good time ta be makin' us invisible again," Unambi murmured, low.
Despite her father's horrifying, agonised screams, she forced herself to focus, doing exactly the same thing she had done before on The Night's Cutlass.
Make us invisible.
Nothing happened. From within the bedroom, the screams stopped, replaced by the nauseating sound of bones snapping; the stink of her father's blood, entrails and faeces filling the confined space. She tried again, her concentration wavering as the gruesome noises coming from within the bedroom escalated. The Light churned, pounding against her inner being, desperate to escape, but no matter how hard she focussed, nothing else happened. They remained totally visible.
Unambi nodded and flexed his fingers on his remaining dagger. "Den it be time ta fight."
Idira felt the blood drain from her face as one of the demons outside moved past the sitting room window, its massive cloven hooves carrying so much weight, the windows rattled in time to his steps as it thudded across the ground. She could only see up to its waist, which meant it was at least twice the height of the house. A sensation of dread clawed into her. Unambi couldn't fight these things and survive, to match these creatures of the Void, an army would be needed, and magic, a lot of magic. From somewhere across the yard she could hear the clank of Logan's armour as he battled against a demon.
The dog-like demon had stopped feeding. Idira turned, holding her breath, watching, horrified as it moved into the kitchen, using its tentacles to seek out its next kill. A sound came from the open front door, another demon ducked into the house, tall, like a man, and heavily muscled but with blue-green skin, it wore red plate armour up to its waist, plate gloves and on one shoulder a massive plated shoulder guard. From its disproportionately small head, a massive red spike rose above it, matching the row of spikes protruding from its spine. In his metal-encased hand he carried a large curved axe, big enough to cleave a man in two with one strike. The Light within her throbbed, hungry, making her stagger. The two demons, who didn't seem to be able to see very well, suddenly turned, homing in on her, snarling and sniffing.
"Anytime ya be wantin' ta use dat Light would be a good time," Unambi said under his breath.
Idira tried, with all her might she tried. She could feel a tsunami building within her, so powerful, it felt like it might carry her away. Yet nothing happened. She didn't know what to do. She was in danger, the Light was supposed to protect her, why wasn't it protecting her?
The demons moved closer, snorting, curious. Her heart pounding, she closed her eyes, begging the Light to come to their aid. Nothing. She looked up at Unambi and shook her head. They were going to die. This was where it was going to end. She should have listened to Logan and run.
Unambi slipped to the side of the dog demon, dodging its horns as it moved its head from side to side, searching, blind. He slashed away its tentacles. It threw its head up, screeching, a high, thin, ear-splitting howl as it turned in circles, crashing against the furniture in its desperation to escape. The other demon turned its head, confused, looking from side to side, its tiny eyes squinting in the bright candlelight, staggering as the dog demon crashed into him. He roared and slammed his weapon down onto it, cleaving it almost in half. The dog squealed as the demon pulled its battle axe free, still living. The demon roared again, and lifted its weapon up, hacking into the thing until it stopped moving, its hind leg thrashed once, then fell silent.
Unambi raised his dagger to attack the remaining demon when the sound of pounding feet filled the air, the sound of fighting drawing all those nearby into the house, at least the ones who could fit into the door. Outside the window Idira could see more of them, gathering around, hungry, their eyes glowing red, leathery wings rustling, their taloned fingers clawing at the planks. One of them held something limp in its hands, tearing at it with its teeth, as though eating a chicken. It shifted the thing and she saw its face. She choked. Margle's empty eyes looked back at her, dull, lightless. Unambi pushed her behind him, his hand clapping over her mouth just in time to catch her scream. He shook his head.
"He be gone ta da Light, he don' feel nothin' now."
He backed her up against the far wall of the kitchen, blocking her view of Margle's dismemberment. The house seethed with more than a dozen demons, snarling and shifting, gripping their hateful, deadly demonic blades, glowing with the same foul green light as the one in the sky.
"I tink dis time Unambi won' be gettin' up from dis fight," he said, soft. "But da Light got a plan, and it be a good one, ya got ta trust dat Light. Ya real special, Idira, don' ya be forgettin' dat."
"What do you mean?" Idira whispered, panicking, frightened by what he was saying, even as the Light surged within her, the force of it lifting her up onto her toes, overwhelming her. The shadows in the room shifted, rotating until they spread away from her, the brightest source of light. In her glare, the demons shifted, confused, some of them lifted their hands to shield their eyes, blinded.
"It be a real honour ta be chosen as ya protecta'," Unambi said, tears glinting in his eyes. "But Unambi got one last ting ta be doin' ta help ya be escapin' dis mess." He patted her head, gentle. "Don' ya be forgettin' ol' Unambi now."
He was leaving her. No. It wasn't meant to be like this, the Light would save them, she just needed more time. She lunged after him, but he slipped free and rushed into the seething mass of nightmarish creatures, slashing into them, cutting a swathe through the first three, bringing them down before they could even react. He climbed over their fallen bodies to attack the others. Driven mad by the scent of blood, the demons bellowed, desperate to fight, surrounding him. Their weapons fell and lifted back up again, dark with blood. His blood.
"No!" Idira screamed, frantic. The Light boiled within her, rising up, bursting through the last barriers, driven by her terror, fear and rage. "I won't lose you, too!"
Brilliant violet light flooded her, exploding outwards. Silence. She lifted from the floor, the Light rotating, spinning faster and faster, streaming out of her. She looked down, she was nothing. Only her Light existed, radiating from her core, piercing, powerful, disintegrating the demons in front of her, squirming and shrieking, struggling to escape. The Light swarmed back to her, gathering once more, its tendrils circling her, burning hot, freezing cold, speeding up until she pulsed, her Light burning brighter than a star.
A heartbeat of utter stillness, visions tumbled through her mind, crystal clear. Khadgar. The balcony. A library within a stone tower filled with flying books. A dark chamber, cast in a sickly green light. A wall of ice. A silver circlet. A portal to eternity.
Her Light surged, an explosion, blasting out of her, fragmenting her. Streaming away for miles. She screamed, but she had no mouth. Silence. Darkness. Nothing.
Someone was shouting, but it came from far away. A long, dark corridor separated her from the voice, bossy and commanding. She ignored it, hoping it would go away. She was fine where she was, drifting in nothingness.
Idira. Can you hear me? Please, for the love of the Light, please. Wake up!
She opened her eyes. She couldn't move. She lay on the earth, surrounded by the shattered foundation of the house, the ragged remains of a blackened structure rose above her, parts of it still burning. In the distance, beyond the smoking beds of the ruined gardens, the acacia trees blistered and cracked, consumed by flame. She felt nothing. She wondered if she was dead.
Logan bent over her, a brutal gash across his forehead seeped blood. "Thank the Light!" he breathed. He brushed the hair from her eyes. "Can you hear me?" he asked, urgent.
She didn't answer, she couldn't remember how.
His metal-clad arms slid underneath her. She felt herself being lifted into the air, floating again, just like before. She gazed up at the heavens, listening to the clank of his armour as he strode away.
From somewhere deep in her mind, a fragment of an old conversation rose up out from the chaos of her thoughts. She clung to it, though it made no sense.
It's a long walk to Stormwind. Four hours if I walk fast.
Above, the sky sparkled, clear again. The swirling portal and the ships were gone, as though they had been nothing more than a bad dream. She looked up at the stars, her eyelids drifting down.
The Light had saved her, just like Unambi said it would.
She closed her eyes and slept, dreaming of the one she lost and would never forget.