Chapter 5: Crimson Snows
The Soldier
Godfrey Wymar felt sick. It was not the sudden cold weather or the piss poor food the cookies in Light's Hope Chapel prepared. It was not the memory of the three dead men he'd seen that morning, their bodies torn and mutilated that turned his stomach.
"This isn't the same." He said, hearing the misery turn his voice to a croak.
"The same as what?" Edric Archard asked.
"The battle a few days ago. It's just not the same." The fight at Light's Hope Chapel had been more violent and horrible an experience than he'd ever thought possible, but the attack had come so fast he did not have time to think on it.
Only after did the sickening realization of his folly to journey north hit him. There was no glory in this. It was all so real it seemed a dream.
…or a nightmare.
Each time one of the undead smashed its weapon against his shield, he could feel the impact jarring into his very bones. His elbow and shoulders still ached and throbbed even a week later. The shield his father had painted for him back in distant Goldshire had been utterly ruined. What was once a green pine sprouting from the top of a drum tower, the heraldry of his minor family, was now broken splinters scattered across Light's Hope. Shame was his for losing Father's work in his first fight, especially since all he did was huddle with the group and wave off blows.
Am I a coward?
"Of course." Edric answered. "When you dwell on something you know will happen it is far worse than the unexpected."
He sounds so confident. Thoughts of home, green Elwynn Forest, filled Godrey's head.
"This was to be our grand adventure. Now look at where we are." Godrey waved his free hand about. Snow crunched underfoot, mixing with the muck of the Blight beneath it to form a nasty trail that marred the white wasteland. Mountains loomed to either side of them, but other than that it appeared like they were at the ends of the earth. And it was cold...so cold.
Edric laughed, rosy-cheeked. "Aye, we are not yet in the bowels of Icecrown battling Arthas. Remember, old friend that this place once belonged to Lordaeron. King Terenas gave your family and mine, and almost every Stormwinder refuge when the green hordes swallowed our country."
"We owe them this fight. Then we might be shipped off to Northrend with the rest of the Argent Crusade when they realize the worth of the Seven Lucks."
Godfrey swallowed his retort. Lordaeron meant nothing to him. Their company was called the Seven Lucks and they'd set out a hundred strong from the port of Stormwind. Their lot had been low nobles and peasants with gallant Lord Shayne Thunder leading them. All, including Godfrey, planned on bathing themselves in glory. They boasted about being the first swords to reach the base of Icecrown Citadel where the Lich King resided.
Many a jolly boast proved false when men began to die on the road or abandoned their comrades at the first signs of danger. When the ships were marooned on the coast of Dun Morogh they hiked their way to Ironforge. By the time they reached the great chambers of the dwarven capital the armies of the Alliance had already departed, thus they headed north to catch up. By the time they'd rounded into Menethil Harbor they were reassigned to garrison duty at Light's Hope Chapel. After another half moon of tortuous travel, they reached the Argent Dawn's post a third weaker than when they started.
And here they were: marching into Reynar's Pass into the mouth of the Noxious Glade. Stories of the Plaguelands permeated as far west as Kalimdor. However, there were places within the Plaguelands that were far worse than the whole. The Noxious Glade was one of them. A festering open wound on the land itself, it was rumored that the Scourge conducted its blackest works within the bowels of the once peaceful farming valleys. Word had it that the very air was filled with the Plague, so that any man who remained long enough would drop dead and return a ghoul.
In the Glade they said that the most evil of all the Lich Kings legion necropoli resided; Llachus. The Citadel of Screams he'd heard it being called. Others named it the Blightfort. More names preceded the necropolis than Wymar could remember.
We will strike at the Glade to defeat one of the Scourge's most evil servants! Lord Shayne had declared as he briefed the troops. Godfrey remembered the man's speech well. It was inspiring and heroic, but the soldier from Goldshire also felt its desperation. Now that this death knight Morde had taken the reins of the Scourge in the Plaguelands he would not stop until all resistance was quashed.
Morde was wrapped in mystery, but from what Godfrey had heard, the man had once been a loyal and powerful warrior that had served Prince Arthas in his early campaigns against the undead. The words used to describe him now were monster, ruthless, and cruel.
If rumor was true, he was a changed man after the burning of Stratholme. Tormented by his crimes during the purging of the city his moods had darkened and a madness gripped him. When Arthas returned from Northrend he disappeared, only to emerge later as one of the Scourge's most powerful death knights during the attack on Dalaran.
Godfrey looked up and down the line. The Seven Lucks were in the front of the vanguard. To his left was Edric Archard, Hugo Winbolt, and Plower Utteridge. To the right was Smiling Trumble, Darrin Goldhawk, and Jester Loveguard. They were all good strong men, but each of them wore a mask to hold back their emotions.
They'd walked what seemed a hundred miles before they reached their destination. To the north the Elfwall Mountains rose and to the south the Bluestones. Sandwiched between the two mighty ranges was Reynar's Pass.
Brown and grey rocks and banks jutted from the snow covered ground. The storms were buffed by the mountains, unable to break through the shield of stone. The ranges cast thick shadows over Reynar's Pass, darkening its features. There were few bushes and less trees here in the crags and poor soil. Behind the mountains the sky held a pallid green color.
The Noxious Glade…
The trumpet for general battle sounded. The columns of the Argent Dawn began to morph. Men and women orderly transformed from pillars into squares and long lines.
"Where is the Scourge? We've naught seen but a few ghouls on the entire march up." Smiling Trumble mentioned as the Seven Lucks headed up the advance.
"They're waiting." Godfrey heard Edric say. "They probably watch us even now."
Godfrey peered up the tall buttes and cliffs that surrounded them. Could the undead be surrounding them as they spoke?
The men silenced as they moved forward. Godfrey kept his eyes on the flags before them. One standard was the Argent Dawn's silver sunburst on a black field and the other the red and green checkered hearts and clovers of the Lucks.
Protect the colors they always say, Godfrey remembered. Veterans always talked about how their flags were their pride. He still didn't understand that.
For a moment he looked behind him to see if the Dawn really was following. Hundreds of faces, each scared, nervous, and unsure bounced up and down as they walked. Here and there a quiet laugh was exchanged. Steamy breath rose like smoke.
The battle formations advanced until they reached the thinnest point in Reynar's Pass. As they arrived at its boundary the trumpets and bugles sang again and the banners ceased movement. The thin crevice held a hundred men shoulder to shoulder.
A battery of scorpions and ballistae were unlimbered from their horses and brought to the center of the center of the battalion, infantry and cavalry flanking them on the wings. Archers were brought up directly behind the Seven Lucks, who would shield them from the initial brunt of the attack.
"Here we'll negate their numbers. Here we can hold them man-to-man." Edric explained.
But we're fighting monsters, not men.
"What's that noise?" Someone asked. Indeed there was a low rumble, like distant buzzing bees permeating through the atmosphere. The smoggy heart of the Noxious Glade was hard to make out, but there was definite movement perhaps a half mile off at the mouth of Reynar's Pass. A foul breeze from the mouth of the Glade breathed on Godfrey's face. It smelled like sweet decay and sour corruption.
Horns, somber and bitter, rang out.
It sounds like a funeral dirge, Godfrey's thoughts echoed.
The first elements of the Scourge began to appear behind the miasmic clouds that roiled in the belly of the Glade. There were men, women, and children dead for years with bits of hair and cloth clinging to their yellow bones. Freshly slain ghouls and wights bore the still pussy, weeping wounds that had stolen their life's fire. They're features were stretched and twisted into masks of sadistic humor and horror. Revolting abominations of every kind towered over their lesser allies. When they moved, clouds of fat black and green flies would rise in the air to show crude stitches that held the pale flesh of a hundred creatures together. Other sick experiments and twisted constructions appeared.
Rickety catapults moved forward on spiked wheels painted dark with the blood of the trodden. The grotesque mummified spiders also dotted the ranks of the dead, advancing on man-sized, hairy legs. Tanned, flayed flesh was nailed to giant platforms carried by hundreds of acolytes. Atop were chanting necromancers and black mages reading from pages encrusted with brown, dried blood and brine.
Hundreds of other undead creatures surrounded the platforms. There were slavering reanimated dogs, gnolls, bears, and woodland creatures. Geists, walking lumps of giant fungus, wailing banshees, a lich and two death knights (so far as Godfrey could tell), revenants and more.
Against such an array of enemies what hope was there?
"I didn't sign up for this." Godfrey's voice cracked. Unconsciously he took a step backward, bumping into one of the archers. The grey man shook his head and pushed Godfrey forward back into line.
There was nowhere to run. He was walled in by bodies and the dead. Young Godfrey felt the need to vomit. He felt the need to move his bowels. Suddenly he felt a warm drip from his pants. Piss.
"Be strong, friends." Edric attempted to encourage. His voice betrayed him. Jester cracked an inappropriate joke about whores. Lord Shayne Thunder's voice boomed across the line shouting commands to 'ready spears'.
Godfrey fumbled with his spear. He preferred the sword.
The undead advanced.
"Archers, prepare volley!" A voice shouted. The bowmen fletched.
"Take aim!"
Following was the longest pause Godfrey had ever felt. He went over every prayer name in the Lexicon of Light.
"FIRE!"
The sky hissed with arrows. Godfrey watched as the iron-headed arrows raced through the sky. He spied movement on the cliffs above. Silhouettes in Argent Dawn colors heaved forward huge black cauldrons. When had they snuck men atop the bluffs? Were they from the detachment that Lord Tyrosus had taken?
All at once the arrows hit the first line of charging Scourge. Hundreds of bodies staggered and fell. More rushed forward—straight into the black oil that spilled from the upturned cauldrons. Many slipped and skidded on the slicks, piling up more bodies. An abomination fell onto dozens of its lessers, crushing them.
A lance of fire shot out from the heart of the Argent Dawn's lines. The oil slicks combusted, sending flame and bodies flying against the cliff walls. A mushroom of smoke rose from the carnage. Godfrey watched as a ghoul attempted to escape the blaze. A shrill cry came from its broken throat before it convulsed and fell to the ground in a heap. Its bones split under the heat and began to turn to ash.
A cheer came from the Argent Dawn lines. Godfrey joined them.
"Teresa! Teresa! Teresa!"
The archmage Teresa stepped forth, the winds whipping her purple and blue skirts and robes around her. Lightning crackled from her fingertips as the graying woman unleashed a torrent of hell on the Scourge.
The clouds broke with five hundred black wings. Stony and misshapen gargoyles descended upon the Argent Dawn, lifting and tossing the hapless soldiers atop the cliff sides. Bodies and blood rained down upon the contingents below.
One gargoyle swooped down toward Godfrey. He ducked. The monster took the man behind him, the grey-haired archer. The wind from its wings nearly knocked him over. Just as it lifted towards the sky again a huge bolt went through its torso, tearing the creature in half. Swiveling scorpions fired in all directions against the cloud of gargoyles.
The young man from Elwynn Forest returned his attention to the fiery wall in front of him. The snow around it had melted and turned to black mud.
"No…" Darrin Goldhawk exhaled in disbelief. The minions of the Scourge continued to push through the flames. Many were still ablaze. The smell of charred flesh and smoke wafted through the Pass. There were so many in fact that they were stomping out the conflagration.
The air hissed again with arrows and ballistae bolts, but the undead had already broken into a full charge.
"Phalanx!" Shayne Thunder's voice echoed through the valley, barely audible through the chaos. The arrows backed off, replaced by more spearmen. Godfrey and his comrades brought their spears to bear along with those behind him and those behind them. A wall of bristling iron spearheads formed, sparkling in the weak light.
At the same time the Scourge hit the frontlines. Spears splintered under the intense pressure. Godfrey felt the impact of something upon the end of his weapon. Despite him gripping with all his strength, the pole slid forward in his hands, burning them. His feet were driven backwards through the snow. The phalanx threatened to break.
"Heave!"
The men began to push back. More spears were brought up. Arrows and magic whistled overhead. Suddenly the Scourge broke apart like a ship against the waves. In a battle with equal field space, they had completely lost the initiative.
The wave receded and then built back up again. This time towering abominations and flesh golems took to the battle. They swept aside the spears, and suddenly the undead were pouring into the lines.
Godfrey tossed aside his shafted weapon, unsheathing a blade. He remembered the old maxim; in groups the spear is supreme. Alone, a blade is a friend.
He felt fear screaming at him to run, but there was nowhere to go but forward. The Azerothian locked onto the nearest enemy, a ghoul whose tattered clothing looked like it was once a bridal gown. He raised the blade, brought it down on the shoulder, retracted and then sliced at the neck.
Hack, slash, parry. The simple combo was repeated over and over a thousand times. Godfrey felt the muscles in his arms burning with exhaustion. His breath frosted and his sweat soaked his underclothes. He didn't know how much time had passed when the last enemy fell.
Men were screaming in pain. Some called out the names of their lovers, others their mothers and fathers.
Godfrey retched right there. Edric appeared beside him, covered in blood.
"Not mine." He said when he saw his friend's face.
"Thank the Light." Godfrey said miserably.
"We need to reform. They are coming back." Edric said, surveying the front.
"How many more times?" Wymar wiped his lips and spat.
"Don't know."
Sure enough, the Scourge advanced again like a reloaded fist. Godfrey didn't much remember what happened next. It all became routine. Hack, slash, parry. Find a new enemy. Avoid the big or magical ones.
At one point he saw Lord Shayne on the ground, clutching at his bowels. They'd been torn open and his intestines were flung about, dying the snow red. Two squires knelt next to him, warding him as he died. There was no distinction between high or lowborn on the battlefield. It was simplicity at its finest.
What seemed like hours and days passed. Time ebbed and flowed. Godfrey simply gave up trying to understand it all and simply acted. He lost count of how many waves the enemy had hit them with.
At last time and sense returned when he saw the Seven Luck's standard fall to the ground. The bearer was struck through the eye with a grooved spine. Anger boiled up inside the Azerothian. He forgot his fear and dismay.
Staggering over to the fallen bearer, he grasped handle to the clover and heart banner and lifted it.
Protect the colors, the veterans had told him when he said he was off to war. Godfrey never understood what they meant until now.
The battle had devolved into anarchy.
"Rally!" Godfrey tried to say. His throat was too parched. He tried again, with little success. Waving the flag about got the attention of some who began to clump about him.
Then something punched Godfrey Wymar in the chest. Stunned, he looked down to see no arrow shaft, sword, or anything. There was only a smoking crater in his chest. Blood began to gush out of the wound and he collapsed. Pain enveloped him and his vision began to turn red.
Godfrey felt arms around him, propping him up. He looked up to see Edric Archard, brown eyes full of tears.
Out of the lines of the undead stepped a single figure, seven foot tall and clad in grey, pockmarked armor. He looked like the monstrous skeleton of some long-dead animal in that armor. An outstretched arm ended in smoking fingers pointed at Godfrey.
I died for a flag, he realized. What a notion…
The last thing that danced before Godfrey Wymar's eyes was the shield his father had painted for him.
The Lioness
Osra's dream from last night cycled through her head again. At first it had been fuzzy, but the nightmare had persisted and for years now it had recurred.
In it she was back home. Everywhere the young woman looked the grasses were green and the mountains capped sparkling white. The vast expanse of the Alterac Uplands in the distance was dotted with happy villages and hamlets. The orchard behind the barn was ripe with their peach crop. She'd picked one for her betrothed. Alec always loved peaches.
Alec chewed the peach with relish, the juice from the fat fruit running down his chin. Suddenly he screamed and clutched his throat. Osra screamed for help, but no one was around. When she looked back at Alec, she saw that his face had turned blue and his flesh had begun to fall from the skin. Underneath was Valdar with his chestnut brown mane and scraggly stubble. He grasped at her, biting, ripping, chewing. A million beetles and worms clawed their way out of his mouth and eyes, burying her alive. That was when she awoke.
Osra shivered all morning whilst the march continued, both from the cold air and the dream. The memories tumbled back through her whenever she had that dream. She remembered how relieved her father was when she had finally accepted a proposal. The union was necessary for her family to survive with her brothers Thore and Eulas off fighting for the Alliance. She'd told herself she might even get more train with her sword in when she didn't have so many duties.
Farm girls were meant to marry young, around fourteen or fifteen after their flowering. She had been eighteen when she at last accepted one of her many suitors, Alec. He was butchered by the undead along with her parents before any of the marriage ceremonies could commence. She'd been fond of Alec but had not loved him. The only man her affections ever truly belonged to had been Valdar, and he too was gone now.
After Osra had sent Valdar's broken, lifeless body down the Averass River towards the sea she went north looking for answers and purpose. Joining the Scarlet Crusade had probably been the biggest mistake of her life. The things she'd seen done and not attempted to stop still stung her.
Black thoughts for a white day, Osra mused. The snow had continued to fall and was now piling around her ankles. Her feet ached with cold. Soon they might be numb. Most of the soldiers hadn't packed for cold weather. The front swept through with little warning, sucking the warmth from the air and from her flesh. She took off the necklace that was touching her bosom to avoid frostbite. The metal locket had been handed down from woman to woman in her family for generations.
Osra had left Light's Hope Chapel as the last soldiers in the column departed. Her wrist too was a throbbing pain, but she'd taped several sticks under her chainmail coat to hold her hand mostly in place. Someone had told her how severe her injuries had been before Sir Duncan had healed the worst of them. He had saved many lives that day, and was the talk of the camp.
She'd snuck out of the field hospital and donned some light armor, wrapping it all up in a thick, musty fur cloak. The young woman did not want to appear herself. Among all the soldiers, even the cooks and camp followers, there were few females in the Argent Dawn. These women were mostly either of another species, like the night elf Rayne, or hardened commanders like Archmage Teresa. There was a visible lack of her sex serving in the ranks.
"Perhaps I am a fool like Alaric said. But fool or not, I'll not be left out of this fight." She told herself stubbornly. And so she had marched with the Argent Dawn. The force had traveled deep into the night. They'd camped on the hard ground beneath bushes and dead trees for two hours before moving again. The only thing that had slowed the troop had been the snows. Icicles clung to spears and beards were lined with white.
The rangings she usually performed were weeklong ordeals in the wilderness to scout the positions of Scourge and Scarlet Crusade positions. She evaded open contact and reported new locations for safe houses, stashes, and even supply trains to come in from Stormwind and Ironforge. Even though they'd been gone the better part of a day, she still felt as if she'd completed three rangings in a row. The swordswoman wished to sit by the fire again to warm her.
White sheets had covered the world. At one point they passed a town and she'd not even noticed until she stepped through what was once someone's house. The walls had been blasted down and the rubble buried beneath the crisp, crunchy snow. After they passed the town the column split up into two smaller troops. Hers had wheeled to the north east, marching toward the Bluestone Mountains. The other disappeared into the snow drifts heading north.
Osra flanked the column like an outrider, watching for any signs of a sneak attack. Earlier three charred ghouls had emerged from the snow and rubble in a town they'd passed through and injured a warrior. After that men were more wary. Though the heavy snows might blind and hold the restive undead at bay, they certainly did not stop them.
"Hey, woman." A arrogant voice called out. "No need to talk by yourself. Come 'ere and lemme hear that tongue of yours flap."
The gall, she thought. Osra felt a flush creeping into her already cold-reddened cheeks. She kept her head down and her hood up though. The snow had broken momentarily, but the hood was not only for the weather but to hide her identity.
Only some cold jackanapes looking for distraction.
"Why don't you mosey on down back to Light's Hope. You can help keep my tent warm when I return with Zacharias Morde's skull as my cock piece." Another man spoke up. This one's voice was high and wiry, but full of the same cut. His face was mousy and covered in reddish-brown growth. The two men scuttled up toward her past the other troops.
"Some man give you that bruise?" The mar on her face had not yet fully healed.
She ignored them.
"You deaf woman?"
"Maybe the snow's gone to your head n' made you white-mad. I like a little crazy with my pretty." The second man moved into pace beside her. The other one moved to her left.
"I like those eyes of hers. Got some fight in 'em."
"This is not time for your crude humors." Osra said. She continued to scan the woods as she walked.
"I always thirst for a woman after some bloodletting. Let me get a little sample." The mousy looking man slipped a hand under the fur cloak and cupped her buttocks. Rage flew through Osra. Instantly she produced a dirk and let it fly towards the mousy man's throat. She stopped just as it began to draw bloody beads from his weak little chin.
"I'd kill you if you weren't needed for the battle. Next time you do that...you'll lose a little more than some blood." Her dirk slid down below his beltline and pressed.
The man squirmed away and grunted a response before melting back into the column. His friend joined him before shooting a look that said 'You shouldn't be here'. She didn't care. For years she'd dealt with the same sexism. Her skill and prowess would prove her equality. They must've been green recruits; undisciplined and unruly. Still, fury roiled through her and further darkened her mood.
Another hour passed and the Argent Dawn brigade continued to march toward the mountainsides. The ground had become rocky and inclined beneath the snow and many had begun tripping on unseen pitfalls and crevices. Despite injury none dared slow or stop. If they did they'd be lost in the storm, perhaps forever.
How deep into the Bluestones are we going?
Osra tried to see through the thick, falling flakes. Baldcut Pinnacle was barely visible. The landmark, visible for dozens of surrounding miles, was not quite as bald as it usually was though. Its caps jutted above the clouds, but the flanks of the mountain were iced over. The side facing south was almost entirely a flat, vertical plane of grey and black rock, giving the mountain a strange, half-triangle look. Many a man had tried to solve the mystery of the Baldcut Pinnacle and its strange shape, but none of the theories had ever proven conclusive.
Great bluffs of pink and blue-veined granite and now loomed to both sides of the brigade. The snow had blessedly not yet returned. Above the cliffs the necks of mountains seemed to pinprick the clouds all about them.
Abruptly the march halted. Ragged cliffs rose from above the front of the column to meet with the deep canyon they were already moving through. There were a few minutes of silence and trepidation before the men and women of the Argent Dawn began moving again.
Osra blinked in disbelief. Even though she couldn't see above the men in front of her, it seemed like the Dawn was marching straight into the canyon wall. There were a few men, maybe a dozen, who had broken off from the main force and were scaling the steep walls with grapnels and hooks. They also brought up oil cauldrons black as their contents, hoisting them up with ropes.
As the lines of men and women squeezed through the thin walls of the canyon, Osra caught a glimpse of what was before them. A tunnel, not six feet by six feet, carved its way through the base of the mountain. The Argent Dawn's soldiers were traveling under the mountain into the Noxious Glade.
"How'd we not know 'bout this earlier?" Osra heard someone mutter. She wanted to know how the undead didn't know about it.
As she approached the entrance to the dark cave she spied a set of heavy boulders that blended in perfectly with their surroundings pushed off to the side. Scraggly brush and thorn bushes covered most of the entrance like a spread of razor-like ivy, further camouflaging the cave.
Fiery Lord Tyrosus and handsome Duncan the Boldstrider stood at the edge of the caves, watching the first of their men enter. Then she saw Alaric Faltron'Quel. He was dressed in a vest of shiny, oiled mail under a black and silver hauberk that was clasped with two roundels in the shape of starbursts. Draped over his shoulders was a thick black bear cloak that nearly covered the rump of his horse as well. His mane of sandy blonde hair was pulled back behind his head.
So this is your doing, Osra thought. You found this place when you passed through, running from your pursuers. You enjoy your caves, don't you Alaric? Would that you were a bat. The young woman remembered the 'castle' from the day she'd met him.
The elf was an intriguing mystery if anything. He'd refused to open up his past in detail, but she knew that if she kept at it she might eventually convince him otherwise. Though he seemed to be in his own world, constantly ridiculing everything around him, he made good company. Though he was not as rugged as Duncan Macallan, he had a certain elegance and comeliness to his hawkish features.
Sir Duncan's full armor was a thing of beauty. It was wrought from adamantium smiths deep in the heart of Ironforge. The whole set seemed to flow smoothly together. Such was the specialty of the dwarves in their metalwork. His helm crested over his head in the shape of a silver winged saint. A wide-brimmed gorget protected his throat. His shoulder pauldrons seemed to be carved from giant blocks of steel resembling two holy books. Their open pages were carved with gold-filled inscriptions from the Lexicon of Light. The trim of the armor, including his scaled cuirass, was enameled in dark red. A white cloak made from snow fox pelts fell behind him, completing the image.
When his eyes swept past Osra she flushed and looked away, unconsciously brushing her bangs out of her eyes.
Osra shook her head and focused on the trail ahead. The canyon walls closed in almost to her shoulders. Suddenly she was hit by a blast of moist, foul smelling air from the cave. The humidity was so palpable and thick, and the smell so foul, that the she felt like she was choking on a fetid broth.
A ripple of hesitation and fear spread through the Dawn as it neared the caverns. Osra felt it too. Who knew what was on the other side of that dark, dank hole? The cave looked just large enough to fit an average sized man through without stooping over. A bout of claustrophobia washed over Osra. She swallowed it down and stepped up to the mouth of the cave when it was her turn. The similar nausea of the pre-battle also began to creep up now as well. She pulled her hair back so it wouldn't fall into her eyes.
Osra gripped the scabbard of her sword so tight her knuckles turned white. It was a nervous habit she'd developed over the years. She took a deep breath, was handed a torch, and stepped forward into the deep darkness beneath the mountain. Then she lost all track of time.
The cavern had stretched forever, a dismal, yawning hole. At last light had appeared at the end of the cramped pit. When she stumbled through her eyes were pained by the sudden appearance of the sun, however weak it was behind the unnatural greenish clouds of the Glade. It was past midday, judging by the sun's position. They'd been in the caves for about an hour.
The ground was a stinking blight that stretched to the hazy mountains miles and miles away. Ziggurats and crude slaughterhouses were silhouetted through the mist, dotting the horizon like sores.
The trees that were left were skeletons. They were skinny and drooping, as if the dead soil had leeched their matter away. Though the young lady had been in the Plaguelands for a long time, she'd never seen so thick and evil a blight. Nothing would ever grow on this ground again. She could feel its taint even through her boots, as if it were trying to suck the life out of her.
The sound of battle echoed across the Glade. Distant screams echoed through the mountains like ghosts. Explosions and bloodletting filled the ears of the Argent Dawn. Battle had already been joined by the other detachment of the Dawn.
And so we will take them in the rear. Alaric'Quel, you are truly full of surprises.
As the lines formed there was no talking, no banners, no fanfare. Their army had no horns and no shouting. Osra glanced around. She peered into the eyes of her comrades. There were sinners and pious men. There were thieves, farmers, smugglers, merchants, cobblers, brick-men, and a hundred other things. Each person had fear in their eyes, but also determination. They knew they were not supposed to be in this place. There was no room for the living in the Noxious Glade.
"This is a death sentence." Someone whispered ever so slightly.
"There is no turning back." She replied, clasping the boy's shoulder. He was no more than eighteen, the same age she'd been when the Scourge took her parents and home from her. Sadness and remembrance washed through her.
The Argent Dawn went forward, hugging the mountains. The farther north they went the snow returned, first on the mountains then on the blighted ground. The sounds of battle grew closer.
There were no undead anywhere in sight as they moved in the shadow of the mountains. Perhaps's they'd all been pulled to defend the attack at Reynar's Pass? The Scourge had no way of knowing of the backdoor Alaric had hidden.
When smoke and fire rose from the mountains, Osra knew they had arrived. Alaric'Quel appeared from the rear of the column, meeting Duncan and Lord Tyrosus at the fore. He motioned forward and unsheathed a falchion. A vicious smile appeared on his face as Tyrosus nodded. He scaled a hill in the path of the Argent Dawn to see what was beyond it. Then he disappeared, running down the far side.
The enemy is up ahead...what would you be thinking, Valdar? Osra drew the remnants of Valdar's 'Dogs of War' flag from a pouch and tied it around her arm. She always wore it when in battle.
Ever so slowly the Dawn crested the hill. Osra tightened her grip on her scabbard when she saw what lay before them.
The Bound
After receiving the echoes of the defeat of the wraith, both Morde and Kirkessen had been surprised and gladdened by the Argent Dawn's decision to march forth and meet him in battle. The human's feeble battle lines held for now, but it was only a matter of time before they were battered away.
Able to read the death knight's mind like an open book, Kirkessen could sense his disappointment. The Argent Dawn's forces were far smaller than he'd initially believed. Either the Scourge had inflicted far more damage in the assault on Light's Hope Chapel than he'd believed, or some portion of the Dawn remained at their base as a garrison. The lich knew that there was no other entrance into the Noxious Glade...save for one tunnel that led under the mountains to the south.
Kirkessen could experience the death knight's senses and feel his thoughts, but like all the other Scourge connected by the web of magic that the Lich King weaved between them all, he could exert no control. With no physical body and the inability to assume another's plaguing him, the one-time lich was but a prisoner bound to the walls of the black citadel, Llachus.
He could smell rank fear in the air through Morde. The death knight's thoughts resounded through the lich as if they were his own. Soon they would be more food. His body would grow stronger with each of theirs. They would be amongst the first to swell his numbers.
He watched the battle unfold from Morde's eyes. Death knights had the ability to shield themselves from others of equal station, but Zacharias sadistically continued to allow his one-time ally to taste his experiences. It was akin to allowing a parched captive to gaze upon a cool, clear river, but not allow him to leave his cell. It was torture of the worst kind. Kirkessen preferred to have been flayed. Even that death would have been quicker and sweeter.
The lich had an escape though. He would just have to sit still for a little while longer. When Zacharias Morde's attention was absorbed, he would strike. Kirkessen slipped back into a body near Reynar's Pass.
The smell of smoke, sweat, rot, shit, and blood permeated the frigid air. The Argent Dawn's lines were battered but not wholly broken. Somewhere in those ranks was Maxwell Tyrosus. That man would be the second to feel the revenge of Kirkessen the Zealous when he regained mortal frame. It was because of him that this agonizing predicament had been beset upon the lich.
That red hair would burn nicely, but not so much as to kill him. His death will be a slow thing that takes years.
The lich harbored fantasies of how he could kill Tyrosus when he was whole again. With the powers of necromancy at his fingertips, Kirkessen would keep the man alive past any natural point to extend his suffering. He would break Tyrosus' psyche through pain and then simply leave him to starve to death. Madness would be his lot. Then that damned man would serve well as fodder for the glorious Lich King.
First the lich would have to deal with Morde. The death knight strong as an ox and built like a mountain. His necromantic arts were somewhat feeble, but his proficiency in runic magic was second to none. He was cunning, even a bit mad, and had an animal-like instinct to him. Morde did not care for the mighty and glorious Lich King. He simply used power given to him to inflict maximum chaos and anarchy.
Zacharias cut through the Argent Dawn with ease, utilizing both his power and magic. Snow flew about his black leather boots while gore drenched his face. There were none who could stop him. The mage attempted to launch a barrage of arcane magic but the death knight used his magic throw her against the cliff wall. She fell and disappeared in a crowd of tauren. The cowmen raged and charged at Zacharias.
The death knight slipped between two of them, hamstrung one, and unleashed a blood glyph upon the other. The mark swept up the tauren's leg through his veins, swelling them until they exploded simultaneously. As Zacharias walked out from the red rain the warriors of the Argent Dawn began to shy away from him. Even the remaining tauren pulled back, fear in their eyes.
Only one advanced. Kirkessen instantly recognized the huge axe, 'Death's End'. Its long, half-moon edge rippled like no other weapon of its kind. Forged by dwarves long ago, the arcanite reaper had cut down humans, orcs, and of course, undead. It had been handed down from various heroes in Lordaeron's history until it reached its current champion.
Leonid Bartholomew pushed men aside to reach the front of the lines. The men and dwarves and other races of the Argent Dawn drew back to give Bartholomew space. He moved through the formation like a shadow. Their faces did not hold disgust or repulsion for the walking corpse in their midst, but a silent reverence. Bartholomew was a hero in life and death.
Rage twisted his already half-rotted face into an ugly grimace. Kirkessen grew anxious. Had he a body, it would have tensed.
Morde, in his half-madness, had always muttered about the inevitable battle between him and Bartholomew. The two monsters, once men, shared a long history. They'd fought over countless battlefields together, but the one thing that had driven them apart was a simple woman. What had come after was a tragic tale that led to this day.
"Old friend, we can finally mete out our fated battle." Zacharias' smile was like an animal's.
"I am no friend of yours. You have no friends save the dead." Bartholomew hissed.
"I see a corpse pulsing with the magic of the Scourge in front of me." The death knight goaded.
"My undead condition is a malady. I shall make yours perpetual."
"Perhaps I shall meet with Adrianna again. She can comfort me for eternity, seeing as to your…condition." Morde's grin became a sickening, sadistic thing.
Hate and rage seethed off of Bartholomew. "You raped her. You killed her. You took everything from me and more. I will see your end or I will grind my own bones to dust."
The world seemed to fall away save for the two monsters. The eyes that watched melted away and the cold seemed a numb, distant thing. Even the battle that had raged moments ago seemed to pause. Kirkessen forgot himself for a moment and focused on the terrible havoc about to be had.
Suddenly they were rushing at each other, snow and mud kicked up by their boots. Their weapons, Darkbane and Death's End slammed against one another in showers of sparks. The sound of grinding, clashing metal filled the empty air.
If he can kill Morde then it will be all the easier, the Lich thought. His hopes soared.
The two combatants went back and forth, dancing in a wide circle with such speed Kirkessen had trouble following their motions. Bartholomew was so agile and deft in his motions that the death knight had no time to cast his runic magic.
Carnage swirled around them, the living meeting the dead with steel and wood and wisps of magic. The hell of war...Kirkessen felt that this was true beauty.
The moment came crashing down in an instant though. Bartholomew and Zacharias were backed up, maybe ten feet from one another. Simultaneously they charged, weapons raised. The death knight's blade shimmered with runes while the edge of the warrior's axe shone with the sun's light. Neither weapon would intercept the other. The fighters would aim for a quick end to their fight.
Blood flew from Zacharias Morde's shoulder and chest in an arc where the axe bit deeply through his armor. The death knight fell to the ground with a curse, his equipment and armor clattering.
Bartholomew stood still and raised his head to the sky...before his neck seemed to split nearly in half. No blood emerged from his wound, only thick, purple embalming fluid. It dribbled down his chest. The hero of Lordaeron fell to his knees. He mouthed words, but no sounds came.
Slowly, Zacharias stood. Blood flowed in a waterfall from his wound, but steps were steady nonetheless. Silence filled the battlefield as the death knight grabbed Bartholomew's hair and with a swift tug tore off his head. Morde lifted the head high for all to see, the fluids dripping onto his face.
Ah well. The plan shall continue anyway.
"Behold your Revered! His fate awaits you all!" Morde shouted in the faces of the attackers.
The men and women of the Argent Dawn stood in disbelief for a second. Their hero and one of their commanders had been slain. Someone howled in anger. A scream went up, then an oath. The battle continued almost as if it had never stopped. The fighters of the Argent Dawn fell into bloodlust, battling even harder than they had before. Kirkessen had seen such an event before; on the slopes of Blackrock Spire after Orgrim Doomhammer slew Lord General Anduin Lothar.
The thrumming of trumpets and bugles cut through the din of battle. The telepathic connective webs between the Scourge in the Noxious Glade were suddenly paralyzed with confusion. Kirkessen could sense the uncertainty and befuddlement coming off of Morde.
Perfect...
A force, perhaps five hundred strong, sliced into the rearguard of the Scourge army. It was not a large contingent, but regardless of its size, the surprise of its attack was just what the lich needed. Leading it was an elf, a paladin, and fiery Maxwell Tyrosus. All the pieces were in place.
It seemed that the Argent Dawn had known of the tunnels beneath the Bluestones. He had suspected as much. Now they were exploiting the tactical advantage brilliantly. Kirkessen felt Morde searching the Scourge's web-lines to glean what was happening. He had not the slightest idea of how the Dawn had snuck into the Glade.
It is time.
At the moment of his binding, Kirkessen sealed his remaining power within the walls of Llachus. Now, he broke the seals. It was all or nothing. Utilizing the confusion of the situation, the lich suddenly imposed his control over the walls of Llachus. With the black citadel under his control, he would be able to usurp the Scourge's minions from Morde and his followers. The citadel of Llachus became his body, and soon the Noxious Glade would be returned to the Lich King's rightful captain; him.
"Glorious." Kirkessen said as he felt his control being exerted across Llachus. He had broken free of his prison! The euphoria and ecstasy of his sudden break-out almost caused him to forget his objective. The lich would never had been able to attempt such a maneuver had his captor been closely watching.
Using his power to draw upon the mana pools deep in the bowels of Llachus, he folded time and space. Llachus disappeared from the Noxious Glade for a brief lapse. It reappeared in a flash of light above Reynar's Pass. The square kilometer base of the magnificent edifice blotted out the sun, casting a shadow across the whole Pass.
The battle below seemed such a little thing, but from this distance Kirkessen could control all the Scourge in the area using the powerful Ley-lines from the citadel. Zacharias Morde, ever the incautious fool, had accumulated all of the Scourge's strength near the Pass to beat off the attack. Now they were all his...
"You broke the cage. So your hands held enough strength to reach the keys." He heard Morde's voice echo through his thousand ears on the ground. Now he knew what was happening. What the death knight had done to his spirit had been akin to locking it in a cell but leaving the key-ring within an arm's length. It was another torture Morde had put him through; to be so close yet so far. Now the runes that held his spirit from touching the physical world were broken.
"I am reclaiming what is mine. The lich king shall punish you for your insolence in chaining your superior!" Kirkessen retorted. The lich cast a spell using the mana pools deep in the bowels of Llachus. Instantly the Zacharias was sealed from the Scourge's hierarchy with arcane spell casting in a mockery of the runic cage he'd constructed for the lich. . It was poetic justice.
The death knight abruptly found himself surrounded by enemies; not only the Argent Dawn, but also his former minions. The abominations and wraiths and skeletons all turned to encircle the wounded death knight.
Zacharias Morde fought back, slavering like an animal as he drank in the violence. Kirkessen watched in slight disgust. Freed and no longer the lesser, he could see the death knight for what he truly was; a savage brute, more animal than human whose sole enjoyment was the anarchy of war.
"You are the farthest thing from what the beloved Lich King wishes." Kirkessen chided as the undead continued to pile around Morde.
"Our god preaches order and obedience that derives from a single throne. You are a mad dog, and I will put you down like one." If Kirkessen had lips, they would have curled in satisfaction.
As the masses of undead flesh and bone covered Zacharias Morde, Kirkessen felt his victory growing closer. The Argent Dawn had but two pitifully small forces against his thousands of undead. Weight of numbers alone would crush them.
A frosty explosion rippled through the Scourge's lines. Was it the mage? No...
"But-how?" Kirkessen gasped. Morde stood amongst hundreds of frozen corpses, both Dawn and Scourge. He was not supposed to be this powerful. Darkbane was outstretched, pointing towards Llachus as it floated helplessly above the battlefield. Mana formed like a green hurricane around the blade.
Kirkessen knew what was coming. Runic magic simply shunted raw arcane power into complex patterns that represented the geographical paths traversed by the Ley-lines. In casting spells, the caster skipped that essential step and forced the world's natural magic to their will, bending and threading it where they willed. Casting this way was what caused corruption for the spell casters due to their hubris over nature.
What Zacharias Morde was doing blurred the border between runic magic and arcane spell casting. Kirkessen had seen Morde forge his sword when he first came to Llachus years ago to pledge himself to the Lich King. Ever craving more power, he carved a series of runes and glyphs that used the energy that filled them
to forcefully gather more magic than the death knight could ever have done on his own. The result was his own brand of magic.
"You cannot! If you destroy Llachus, you will not have the mental fortitude regain control of the Scourge!" Kirkessen wailed. The mana pools had all been used for his spells. There was no escape.
"I do what I will."
"THIS IS IMPOSSIBLE!" Kirkessen screamed. Damn him. So much time and effort...so much pain and suffering...all for naught.
"Your last words, lich. Taste the irony."
Kirkessen felt Llachus crashing into the snowy peaks above Reynar's Pass as the powerful rune coursed through the walls and core of the black citadel. At least he could have the satisfaction that his falling citadel might crush Zacharias Morde.
As the massive pyramid structure began to fall apart, Kirkessen's spirit disintegrated as well. What Maxwell Tyrosus had begun by cracking his phylactery, the destruction of Llachus was completing. The pain was worse than the lich could ever imagine and he could not even scream.
The Exile
The elf swung his sword again, this time slicing cleanly through the neck of his enemy. The skeletal construct fell awkwardly. A thunderous sound filled the air. In the sky, the black pyramid began to fall.
Alaric shielded his eyes as the flying fortress broke up against the mountainside. Green flame bust from its innards and thick clouds of greasy, black smoke filled the air, turning the sun into a distant, red thing. Debris and boulders fell from a thousand feet up, raining down upon both the defenders and attackers.
The commanders of the Dawn had told him the huge necropolis was called 'Llachus'. It was the central focal point for the command structure of the Scourge in the eastern Plaguelands. Its indomitable walls had watched as the armies of the living were defeated time and time again. It was witness to the fall of the mightiest of castles and the most innocent of hamlets. Now it's ruins slid against the side of the Bluestone Mountains, leaving fiery wreckage behind it.
"What in the name of..." Maxwell Tyrosus' single eye was large with surprise and shock. Alaric thought he saw tears in the side of the eye.
"I never thought I'd see the day. That damned thing has commanded the death of more innocents than I can imagine."
The undead army before them had already begun to scatter. The bodies of the slain, both living and Scourge, remained to carpet the snowy ground. Alaric surveyed the fields, wiping his brow. The heat of battle triumphed over the cool air, and the havoc at the mouth of the Pass was palpable even at this distance.
With no direction from the central nexus, the Scourge minions either scattered as birds fleeing a child or fell upon anything that moved close to them. Those that still fought continued to attack the Dawn's front lines, but without order they would be quickly mopped up. Men began to break ranks to chase down the enemy.
"Attack!" Tyrosus shouted. The warriors of the Argent Dawn surged forward with renewed vigor.
"No..." Alaric said under his breath. "No advance!" His voice rose to a ragged yell.
The necropolis toppled end over end down the mountainside. It hit the peak of a smaller crag and lurched unpredictably to the side. Moving in the direction it was now, its fall would come to an end at the base of the mountains...right on top of them. Someone curse as the shadow of Llachus overcame the entire army.
The elf watched helplessly as the stone and metal rain fell all about him, crushing hapless soldiers and undead alike. As a panel of black casting flew at Alaric's head, he instinctively reached out to protect himself with a shield of magic only to feel the emptiness inside. He swept the shielding aside with his vambrace.
What was left of the main body of the necropolis smashed into the ground with the horrific sound of tearing and twisting metal. Alaric ducked down as a shockwave of snow swept across the one-time farming fields of the Noxious Glade as if an avalanche. The tremors threw him off his feet and onto his back, knocking out the wind from his lungs. The world blacked out.
When Alaric came to he was covered in snow and ice. Legs numb, he sat up and brushed himself off. Stumbling, the elf propped himself up against a piece of massive saronite that must've belonged to the outer shell of the necropolis. (Saronite was one of the Light-forsaken metals native from Northrend. Pitch black and a holder of strange properties like the reduction of magic against its outer crust and the induction of such the inside, supposedly it was crafted from the blood of an Old God, but such tales were for old women and shivering drunks.)
The elf looked up. Snow, dust, and smoke still blotted out the sun, casting an eerie pall across the land. Alaric aimlessly began to meander, still in a state of shock from the experience. His head rang and the sounds of the world were dimmed out. There were distant screams in the fog, but he could not tell if they were a food or a mile away. Survivors roamed in the gloom like zombies. They were obviously stunned from the experience.
A disaster. I must find Tyrosus. We need to rally them.
He traversed the white landscape, moving toward the wreckage of Llachus. As he neared the fallen fortress the dead grew thicker upon the ground. He remembered being thrown...maybe the Argent Dawn's Lord Commander was still alive.
So many men and women that had minutes ago been full of life and vigor lay scattered about. Alaric felt a guilt crawling up in his gut. He'd been the one to lead them in here, so confident and full of himself.
Father...have I failed again?
He encountered a body that had been pierced through the heart. The blood was fresher than those that had fallen before the destruction of the necropolis. Again, he found a man-at-arms with a still-bleeding sword wound through his heart. Then another...
"What is this?" Alaric muttered. "These men were well and alive until moments ago."
Something must've survived the crash...
The blankets of snow were dotted and interrupted with stones and bits of the necropolis small as cobblestones and large as an kodo.
Suddenly he spotted Maxwell Tyrosus rising from the snow, his fiery hair contrasting with the white wastes. A black shadow appeared behind the man. Its hand reached out and grabbed him by the throat. Tyrosus gave a startled gasp, but was cut off as a huge, runeblade plunged into his heart. Blood jetted out in steady squirts.
"You will...be judged. Sooner-or later." He said in a ragged whisper.
"I don't care, just give me your soul." The familiar voice whispered, frothing with spit. The Lord Commander of the Plaguelands, Helm of the Argent Dawn, Sunburst of the East, struggled for a moment in pain before going limp. Zacharias Morde emerged from the shadow, throwing Tyrosus' body like a rag doll.
"Morde, you son of a bitch!" Alaric roared. He felt his concentration sharpen. He felt his sword hand twitch. Realizing he still grasped his falchion, he charged, meeting the death knight with a flurry of strikes.
"You didn't even give him a chance to fight!" Their faces were so close Alaric could smell the black knight's fetid breath.
"Ah, and the other prize. Alaric'Quel, tell me, why should I risk leaving him alive? Cut off the head and the body dies." The death knight's voice rumbled. He swept his finger through a puddle of blood where Tyrosus lay and splashed it over one of the runes near the hilt.
"I could say the same thing for you." The elf spat, swinging the falchion vertically. It scraped across Morde's chainmail vest, cracking a few of the links.
If this death knight survived, then he will surely rally his armies. With the Argent Dawn weakened as it is, there will be no stopping him.
He brought the falchion to bear quicker than Morde could lift his heavy runeblade. He noticed a deep gash in Morde's armor. Blood had frozen as it seeped out and onto the metal, but there was still fresh flows lapping out of the wound.
His right side is weak. Alaric concentrated his attacks on that side, but the death knight still had his runic powers. One of the runes on his sword flared bright, dancing as if a purple flame. Thick leaves of frost grew from the metal of the weapon, sparkling dimly in the light.
Zacharias stepped forward and swung at Alaric's thigh. The strike slid across the metal leggings the elf wore, leaving a scratch. Alaric felt the cold of the buffed weapon seep into his leg. Even though he'd only taken a scratch, the pain that coursed through his limb felt as if it had just been taken off. Grunting he fell backward to escape another blow and looked at the wound. Icicles clung to the tear in the armor and the wound below it looked as if it were frozen solid. The pain spread then stopped spreading at his thigh and knee.
"If I'd not used my runes to destroy Llachus, and had Bartholomew not injured me so, this would have been over in the first strike." Morde taunted.
"But why attack your own-"
"Why do I need a fortress when I am indestructible?" A twisted laugh rose from Zacharias' gut. He towered over Alaric at seven feet. The elf knew the difference in their strength. This man's arms and legs were like stumps, but all muscle. His death knight runic powers were perhaps on par with his arcane magic before it was taken from him.
"Damn you! Damn your sword, and damn Arthas!" Alaric retaliated. He could feel his arms growing tired, hitting once, twice, again and again. He mixed his combinations and attempted the different Dances he'd learned from the Blade Masters in Quel'thalas during childhood. Nothing worked. He was being toyed with. The realization only threw him further into rage.
Another rune lit up in a sunset orange on the death knight's sword. Darkbane, he'd called it. The magic expelled itself from the tip of the blade, but was met and stopped with a golden hammer. The magic split apart and whirled off into the distance. Sir Duncan Macallan stepped to Alaric's side.
"It seems we are destined to finish this fight, paladin." Morde said.
"And it seems that I keep getting saved by the same people." Alaric muttered. A grin touched Duncan's lips before his eyes met the corpse of Maxwell Tyrosus. Then his grey eyes flashed with brief anger. It was quelled at once though, hidden away with the rest of his emotions like paladins were wont to do. Alaric could only imagine what the man was feeling at the sight of his dead commander and friend.
"We're going to end this now, elf." Duncan said. Alaric could feel the paladin's resolve. He knew what the Duncan meant to do.
Alaric slowly backed away. An aura of shining gold enveloped Duncan as he stepped in toward his opposite. Hammer and runeblade met. With his aura, the paladin moved dizzyingly fast. The huge death knight barely managed to keep track of his enemy.
Back and forth the paladin and death knight battled. They were like land and water, constantly locked in the struggle of the tides. Their fight took them through the snowdrifts and around the fields of dead bodies.
Morde scored a hit on Duncan's vambraced arm with such force that the armor caved in, despite the protective aura. Alaric heard a bone crack. Blood welled, but before even a drop could touch the ground the paladin threw his arm in the air. The Light coursed through his body and almost instantaneously the grievous damage was healed.
Would that I had become a priest instead...Alaric laughed to himself. Unlike the arcane magics, holy magic was something entirely unexplainable. Maybe it came from some mysterious source of religious power, but Alaric's faith had flagged of late. That answer sounded like a convenience to him. Perhaps he could learn holy magic, but such a thing required rigorous and brutal training for years.
I don't have years.
Yet another rune, this one a sickly green burnt into existence on Darkbane. An ethereal, fleshless arm reached from the blade to steal away Duncan's soul. The paladin clapped his hands and lay them flat on the ground, consecrating it with a holy fire. The foul magic evaporated.
A succession of hits later, Duncan managed to smashed the side of the death knight's horned helm. It was flung off like a piece of scrap. The blow was not enough though. Morde struck back as he lost his balance. The sudden counterattack caught Duncan by surprise and carved through his hauberk. Attempting to escape the worst of the hit, Duncan jumped backwards but slipped as well. He fell into a snowdrift and did not rise.
Alaric knew it was his chance to pounce. Dashing forward he stabbed his falchion up to the hilt through the death knight's back between the shoulders. The blade exploded out Morde's chest, sticky, red viscera coming with it. The death knight grunted, dropped his weapon, and twisted. With his huge arms he picked up Alaric and threw him to the ground like he would a child. The elf felt ribs cracking as he smashed into the ground.
Alaric'Quel awaited the final blow to end his life, but none came. Though it seemed an hour, not a few seconds had passed when he opened his eyes and peered above. The death knight was hunched over, his shoulders twisted at a grotesque angle to pull the falchion out. Slowly the weapon was plucked, fresh waves of red running from both his new and old wounds. He tossed it toward Alaric.
By the Light, what is he? Alaric felt stunned. When he'd begun to fight Morde, the death knight had been cleaved from shoulder to collarbone. Now his chest cavity had been sliced open and still he stood.
"Elf, you did not win this fight."
"Just die!" Alaric screamed in frustration. Of all the enemies he'd ever faced, this one was proving one of the most tenacious.
Morde bent to pick up Darkbane. He convulsed in a fit of wet coughing, but recovered the weapon.
"It was won for you by my old friend." Lines of crimson ran from blue lips. He stuck the end of the sword into the ground and used it to balance himself. Then his eyes rolled backward toward the sky.
"Leonid, it seems we were fated to die on the same battlefield after all." Then he closed his eyes and became still.
"You bastard." Alaric spat. Zacharias Morde died upright and undefeated. He even looked dignified. How dare a demon like him to do such a thing. Alaric let out a wordless cry of cold fury.
Humiliation, hate, and anger filled Alaric. Here he sat, broken and battered beneath the shadow of Zacharias Morde. The death knight had utterly defeated him, his plan, and everyone else despite their greatest efforts.
Memories of Silvermoon burning as he watched from an evacuation ship returned, as did his battle with the Lich King atop Icecrown Citadel. The stinging truth about Kael'thas and his blood elves surfaced to plague Alaric again, as did the soul-shaking betrayal of his people. At every turn he was defeated and shunned.
The righteous do not win. Justice does not prevail. History is written by the winners. They decide what is truth and justice. His father's voice haunted him.
Alaric stood and picked up his sword. The cold began to return as a breeze swept into his sweat-soaked breeches and jacket. He hobbled over to Duncan. The man was breathing. He'd hit his head on a rock or piece of debris after he slipped into the snowdrift.
"It is time to leave, paladin." He would carry the unconscious man through the ruins of Llachus to reach Even Chambers' and Bartholomew's regiment, if any of them still lived. Hopefully they could meet up with some of the survivors of Tyrosus' force. He'd seen a few of them back a ways after the crash.
The necropolis had seemed like it would initially come down directly on the Pass and block it, but its course was chanced when it clipped the peak of one of the mountains and come down on them instead. Sooner or later the surviving necromancers and lieutenants of Morde in the Noxious Glade would rally their forces. With the Lich King preoccupied in Northrend and neglecting the Plaguelands, instead of facing one huge army, the Dawn would be facing fifty smaller ones. The prospect was just as dangerous. Alaric did not want to be caught in the middle of a civil war with all manners of madmen scrambling to fill the void the death knight had left behind.
Just when Alaric was about to pick up the unconscious paladin, he felt eyes boring into the back of his head. He brought the falchion to bear.
Turning, his eyes met a set like his; slanted and hawk-like. Unlike most elves, this one's irises were black like his hair. Long ears poked through the mane of black hair that fell past slim but lean and toned shoulders. It was an elf. He stood shorter than Alaric, but still had an air and gait that seemed to enlarge his nobility. Two swords hung from sheathes at his waist.
"Alaric'Faltron Quel, it has been some time." The elf said. His voice was like blade-oil.
Alaric's eyes grew wide as he felt the ghosts of the past surrounding him once more. This man before him had once been a friend. Legend and stories surrounded this elf. He was arguably the most famed and skilled swordsman in the world. He was Salvos Fysian, the Duke of Blades.
Character Bio: Zacharias Morde
Zacharias Morde stands at an enormous 7'1. His eyes are the same color as his lips; deep, dark blue.
Once, Morde was a gallant, albeit ordinary knight of Stormwind. Born in Grand Hamlet into a commoner family, his size, strength, and martial prowess made him the perfect fit as a knight. After serving in the king's army during the Colonization against the Gurubashi troll tribes, he saved and was thusly squired to Sir Loramy Urram.
After being forced from the south by the orcs, Morde fought alongside the Alliance to reclaim his homeland. In the endless, bloody battles, he met and befriended the young nobleman Leonid Bartholomew. After the fronts stabilized outside Lordegarde, by order of Captain General Anduin Lothar the two snuck through the Horde's armies with a small force into the occupied countries to sow dissention among the enslaved populations. The two men became renowned heroes throughout the Seven Kingdoms for their dashing adventures during this time, including an encounter with the retreating Warchief Orgrim Doomhammer and the ogre mage Cho'gall.
The men survived the Second War, returning to Lordaeron as members of King Terenas' highest guard; the Order of the Marble Horse. While Morde grew complacent and entitled with all the lavish riches of the court, Bartholomew sharpened and honed his skill.
When the beautiful and charming Adrianna Teringas came to the King's court in Lordegarde, both men fell hopelessly in love with her. Morde attempted to shower her with gifts, showing her around his estates and telling tales of his glory. It was exactly this arrogance that drove Adrianna away from him. Instead she came to reciprocate the feelings of the more humble and hardworking Bartholomew.
In a fit of rage and jealousy, Morde attacked his friend in King Terenas' throne room amidst a crowd of onlookers including Terenas Menethil and his son Arthas. Zacharias Morde lost the duel and was disgraced. The King stripped him of his titles, lands, and honor.
Bitter and jaded, Morde disappeared from public life, looking for an escape to his shame. He became a feared bandit leader, falling to his new lows. When the Scourge's Plague had begun to appear at the fringes of Lordaeron, a new chapter the tragic life of Morde began.
Zacharias Morde and his bandits encountered none other than Kel'thuzad during this time. The necromancer saw Morde's potential and inducted him into the Scourge. For a first lesson in necromancy, Morde betrayed and slew his banditry comrades and used their bodies as materials.
Zacharias Morde the death knight had been born.
Factoid: The War Against the Lich King
The War Against the Lich King is an ongoing conflict involving the entire Horde, Alliance, undead Scourge, and various other factions across the world. The battles have raged from the sands of southern Kalimdor to the arctic wastes of Northrend across various theaters and proxy wars.
The events began in winter of 610 when the Plague of Undeath began to sweep in waves southward into the Eastern Kingdoms and Kalimdor once more. The Scourge consequently launches invasions across the world which culminated in the battles for Stormwind and Orgrimmar.
When the Scourge was beaten back at the walls of these cities, Warchief Thrall and King Varian Wrynn gathered their respective forces and allies for an unprecedented invasion of Northrend. Kul Tiras' destruction of the Scourge fleet off the coast of Gilneas left the oceans open. The inherent difficulties in logistics and communications over hundreds and thousands of miles caused for a slow start to the attacks, but by spring strong beachheads had been established on the shores of east and western Northrend.
During all of the early spring most battles were fought to defend these beachheads. Fresh reinforcements, along with strange complacency among the Scourge's massive armies, allowed both the Horde and Alliance armies to make inroads deeper into Northrend where they respectively encountered native populations willing to join their causes.
As it stands now, the forces of the Living, now held together in a loose coalition, stand ready to assault the Wrathgate which defends the heartlands of the undead Scourge; Icecrown Glacier.
A/N: Hey everyone,
Sorry this chapter took so long to put up. It was a long one and I had to do a lot of restructuring with it, especially surrounding the history of Zacharias Morde. I even ended up taking an entire POV out since it didn't mesh well. In the end I felt like the chapter was passable but that it lacked something and I couldn't figure out what. I'll just have to plan better for the next one.
Anyway, Pacificuser (Bien) it's great to hear from you again! I've always enjoyed and appreciated your reviews all these long years. I'll do my best to keep spell-checking. Sometimes I get lazy, haha.
High Elven Swordsman, good to see that you are alive and kicking. Thanks for the reviews!
-Omegatrooper