Nearly forgot that this week was the week for a posting... Just so much to do between writing, streaming, work, and testing for certification to become a teacher... however I did remember, so it is still the same day uploading that it ought to be! As always, please enjoy! ~F
Chapter 148
Second Battle of Light's Hope
Jaina widened her eyes at the sight of Dalaran, renewed and whole, soaring out across the harbor as magic continued to bombard the fleeing necropolis. Despite the knowledge that Jaina had of the city's destruction, and the death of most of the members of the Council of Six, seeing it there spurred her hopes higher, and she felt power well up, allowing her to tap into further reserves of magic, and she conjured a freezing wind to rush over the forces of the Alliance and bind down the scourge abominations in their tracks.
The knights of Stormwind charged, footmen and Night Elf Sentinels parting to clear the way as the mounted warriors of the Alliance trampled through the icy ranks of the undead, shattering the front assault of their enemies.
"Alliance! Forward!" Matthias shouted at her side, sending all their forces charging into the hole made by their cavalry.
They had to find the leader of this assault, and destroy whatever being it might happen to be organizing their enemy. It seemed, from the flashes of light and explosions, that the forces led by Lord Malfoy and Varian in the northern section of the border between the city and the harbor were also breaking through, and Jaina expected for them to collide somewhere near the docks themselves.
Even as the battle recommenced at the waterside, Jaina could sense something powerful just ahead, which had to be the leaders of the Scourge. But it felt… wrong. Not the icy chill of a Lich, but something far more deep and sinister lurked ahead, giving power to these undead, as though feeding them magic and strength directly.
Skewering a pair of ghouls with icicles, Jaina caught a glimpse of some kind of humanoid figures at the far side, but the press of undead bodies blocked her view.
But then, with a roar of noise, the other half of their forces arrived, crashing into the undead from the northern road leading to the Dwarven District like a hammer-stroke. The strange wizards under Lucius' command raised their wands, leveling a barrage of potent magic that shattered the lines in front of the soldiers of Honor Hold, even as the legendary Danath Trollbane led the charge into enemy's lines.
"For Lothar!" Danath cried, even as he hacked down three of the nearest undead.
"For the Alliance!" Varian shouted, his own weapon flashing as he pressed the attack.
Finally the way was cleared, and Jaina spotted the forms of the Elves of Quel'thalas among the undead of the Scourge. But these were desiccated forms of their living counterparts, with the glowing red eyes of the upper minions of the Lich King. The four figures turned to face them, even as the single female flapped powerful wings sprouting from her back.
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Nobu'tan poured every amount of energy he had left in him, drained from both the ritual and trying to keep Teg'Ramm alive, into his screaming legs as he bolted for what had apparently been a warfront on his own doorstep.
How had he not sensed the movement of so many hostile forces in the midst of his own empowered ritual?
Nobu'tan stumbled on a pile of loose stone, and would have fallen if not for Garona appearing beside him to steady him. "Easy there pup, you're not recovered."
"But…" Nobu'tan said, looking at the streak of light that was Med'an, literally flying on a vortex of air. The shimmer of power was blinding, but in his weakened state the Grand Warlock could do nothing to aid the young son of Garona.
He felt responsible for the young part-orc, and he had sworn Garona that her son would be safe. There was little choice, and he dug in his robes for the Elder Wand. Shuddering slightly, he funneled excess arcane magic flying off of the young orc fighting Nobu'tan's battle and conjured a mana-rich piece of food.
The vile sweetness assaulted his taste buds, but the minor amount of energy boost was enough to keep him on his feet. "I have to help…" he said, but even to his own ears his voice was wavering.
"I think Med'an has everything well in hand for the time being," the half-orc said, gesturing at the horde of undead being shattered by a single powerful entity.
But even though it was clear that the young shaman had shattered the Scourge's assault prematurely, they would need others to mop up the rest of the drudges. "Expecto… Patronum…" Nobu'tan muttered, sending out the silvery Felbat to find Voldemort and Bannok Grimaxe. The combination of the Blightbringers and the Dawn's Hammer would be able to hunt down and demolish any remaining undead that were not under the necromancer clan's control.
Unfortunately, his spell seemed to sail off and away from the mountain, heading far to the north rather than anywhere near enough for allies to come to their aid.
"Where has that damn Death Knight run off to?" Nobu'tan muttered angrily, even as he pushed himself further to start hobbling toward where the pitched battle was already subsiding.
Unfortunately, his feebleness prevented him from arriving before the battle was nearly over. Warriors were carrying the unconscious form of Med'an back toward the mountain, and Nobu'tan called to them to wait for the Grand Warlock and their savior's mother.
The orcs slowed, but their intensity and celebratory nature would not be dimmed. Nobu'tan quickly scanned the young part-orc with magic, sighing in relief when he recognized the clear signs of magical exhaustion and nothing more ailing him.
Spying the Staff of Aetish clutched in the young man's hand, Nobu'tan started to retrieve it, when a spark of magic from the staff warned him against removing it from Med'an's grasp.
It was almost as though the staff was rejecting Nobu'tan now, despite him having assembled and mastered the power of the Guardian's foci. Apparently, the boy's lineage was of a greater connection to the staff than Nobu'tan's mastery of it, and loath as he was to let the powerful object slip from his grasp, it felt… right… to leave it with the young lad.
"Take him to the medical ward," Nobu'tan ordered, nodding for Garona to go with her son. He had recovered enough to move under his own power for the time being, and sensing that Teg'Ramm would survive his ordeal, he had to see to whatever had just happened, and the fallout of yet another Scourge attack on their lands.
Tapping into the Fel, he opened a portal to the large meeting room outside his quarters, where scouts and spies were already speaking with Blaise Zabini, reporting of assaults throughout the Burning Steppes, and the sight of a necropolis briefly trying to navigate over the mountains before being driven back by Feldrake riders.
"Lord Nobu'tan," Blaise said, turning to him, his keen eyes already scanning the Warlock's body for signs of injury.
"I am fine, merely tired," Nobu'tan said, seating himself and nodding for the reports to be delivered to him.
"The Blightbringer and Dawn's Hammer Clan received messages to travel north with all speed, just before the battle commenced," Blaise reported, "Apparently our allies of the Argent Dawn have also been attacked, as has Stormwind to the south."
"King Varian will hold his own, alongside Lucius and Draco there to guide the Alliance to victory, what of the paladins?" Nobu'tan asked, not necessarily caring about their welfare, but the state of the battle and those northern lands. If they fell to the Scourge, it would be worse than if the Forsaken held on to them.
"Nothing as of yet, but we sent the two clans as speedily as portals could funnel then to the established base of the Argent Dawn: Light's Hope Chapel." Blaise replied.
"And what of our forces here?" Nobu'tan asked.
"No casualties. The son of Garona saw to that…" Blaise said, glancing at the scout that had brought that report. "All our warriors call him a new shining hero of the Dark Horde, and are crying for blood against the Scourge for their vicious and unprovoked attack."
Nobu'tan nodded, sighing in resignation. He did not want to run all over this world righting wrongs, especially those caused by people who he had never met before, but that seemed to be his lot in life in order to hold on to his home.
"Then they will be sated." he said softly. "I want every ship prepared to depart for the North. Every able bodied warrior and clan will attend to this matter. If we march on the Frozen North, we will do so in such a manner as to shake the ice from its foundation."
"There is much that needs to be prepared for such an assault…" Blaise reminded Nobu'tan, and the Grand Warlock nodded slowly.
"Yes, but we can do much of it while the armada is preparing," he explained, "I want scouts, both magical and physical, scouring the shoreline for a suitable landing sight, preferably two, given the size of Northrend. Then we can tell what sort of supplies will be needed and detail out shipping lanes for transport."
"It will all be done, even as you say, Chieftain," Blaise replied, bowing partially before turning to usher out the others, clearing the room for Nobu'tan to finally relax from holding onto what little strength he had left.
"You have overtaxed yourself, my protégé," Gul'dan said, the skull appearing from the door of Nobu'tan's chambers shortly after Blaise closed the door behind him. "Rest, and food is needed to replenish your magic and stamina."
"I have time for neither," Nobu'tan complained, straining as his lifted himself out of the chair. He knew he had little choice but to do as he was bidden by the spirit of his old master, but the new conflict, right on the heels of another was something that plagued his mind. "I cannot allow them to fight on without me there, watching over them and protecting them…"
"You cannot protect them from everything," Gul'dan chided, the voice soft and low, even as how the old orc would speak to him as they sat in his tent so many years ago. Nobu'tan relaxed, even as he shuffled over to his private chambers and closed the door, knowing that his servants would not permit him to be disturbed as he rested, unless it was a matter that demanded his attention over any others.
"I will do all that I can, for the Dark Horde, and for this world. My home…" Nobu'tan said, firm in his position, even as yielded and collapsed onto the soft cloth of the bed that had been placed there for his use. While appearing as normal as any other found in the mountain, Nobu'tan hadn't been able to resist when Narcissa had enchanted it for supreme softness and controlled temperature, neither too hot nor too cold ever.
"You are indeed my greatest student," Gul'dan said, the words pleasant on Nobu'tan's ears as he drifted away into exhausted sleep, "I would do all that I could to protect my people, and you, as well."
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Thrall was dour as he watched the Horde assemble for action.
Garrosh was rallying all those who would fight alongside him in Northrend, proclaiming the esteemed honor and glory of the Horde above all else. If not for the extreme success that he was having, Thrall would have never believed that many of his people would so willing sign up for what appeared to be a march into death itself.
But the Scourge had made the first and greatest mistake in attacking Orgrimmar directly. A fire had been lit in Thrall's people, and orc, troll, and tauren alike were baying for justice and blood for those that had fallen.
Garrosh embodied this view, and Thrall knew that he had no more power to stall any longer, or stop the bloodshed and loss of life that was to come.
"I will ensure that as many of our people return alive, Warchief," High Overlord Saurfang said, even as he and his son, the spitting image of his veteran father, stood on either side of the Thrall. "And I will ensure that the Scourge pay for what they have done," Drannosh added, adding fuel to that fiery spirit that Thrall equally was in awe of and feared.
"Make sure that Garrosh learns all he needs in this campaign, in order to fulfill his duty to his warriors, the Horde, and to his legacy…" was all that Thrall asked of both Saurfangs, and the pair nodded solemnly.
"Are you certain you will not lead the expedition on its initial voyage?" Varrok asked, the elder Saurfang looking grim as Garrosh continued a boisterous speech to the assembled masses of Horde warriors and adventurers.
"I have given Garrosh all the command that he asked for, as was his right for the terms of our Mak'Gorah, even if it was interrupted by the Scourge attack," Thrall explained. There had been more demands that the younger orc had wanted, but Thrall was not ready to share those with the others of the Horde just yet. All he wanted to focus on was making sure that Garrosh was as prepared as he needed to be to be a wise and just leader.
"There is so much of his father in him…" Varrok said, grimacing at the smug look on the young Hellscream's face, "too much…"
"He is loyal to the Horde, and that is all we can ask of him," Thrall said, shaking his head. He understood what Saurfang would have wanted. To smack the young upstart about the entire Valley of Strength, to humble that overly proud demeanor wherewith he pranced among their people, but Thrall was not ready for the fallout that such a display would no doubt cause.
"Loyalty with no wisdom can lead to destruction," Varrok countered, "Orgrim learned that lesson that hard way at Lordaeron, as did Blackhand before him when he was slain by his own right hand…"
"That is why I need you to watch over him, especially when I cannot," Thrall said seriously, turning to look Varrok in the eye, "he must learn patience and good judgment, and I don't think Garrosh is in the position to learn it from me…"
"I will try, Thrall," the High Overlord replied, "but I have a bad feeling about this."
The Warchief said nothing, but he felt the same level of unease. They were on the precipice of something unprecedented. Messages had been sent, seeking confirmation of strategy and projections of landings points between Orgrimmar, Stormwind, and the Undercity. No one knew how to easily contact the Dark Horde, although Thrall heavily suspected that King Varian had means to do so, but still there had been no word from Blackrock Mountain.
But they couldn't worry about that now, even as Garrosh was rallying the first forces to march on Northrend before them, ushering those who passed his personal approval to board the zeppelins that had been arranged by their goblin allies to take their vanguard on a preemptive strike to seize territory for them to construct a base of operations on the western side of the frozen continent. The rest would come later by ship, along with peons and supplies for the actual construction.
Both Saurfangs took their leave to join the vanguard, and Thrall was left alone to watch over what he suspected was going to be the last moments of the Horde as he remembered it. Things were changing, and while he was well aware of the implications, Thrall was powerless to prevent it.
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Varian gazed at the withered and desiccated elves, trying to understand what sort of threat they were facing.
The female undead, wings beating gently as she gazed greedily at the Alliance forces, smirked. "Some of you will be food, some will be thralls, but all of you will die…" she intoned, raising an arm daintily, like some lady of court ordering her courtesans onward.
"I smell… human… but something slightly different… Delicious!" one of the males said, stepping forward with red strands of magic wafting around him. Varian did not need a second opinion to guess that it was blood-related, and that this was a very dangerous minion of the Lich King.
"Not on your life!" a woman shouted, literally appearing out of thin air before a section of their forces, air displaced with a resounding crack. Jets of magical light flew from her upheld wand at the undead elves.
The male elf used a flow of crimson magic to block the initial blast of spells, and battle resumed around them all. The four undead elves vanished into the fray, as did the woman, even as footmen charged the Scourge's last line on the harbor, attempting to push them bodily into the sea.
Glancing at Draco Malfoy over his shoulder, Varian nodded, silently ordering the young man to see to his kin, and to lead the counterattack against these vampire Elves. Without even skipped a beat, Draco vanished with a soft pop, and Varian hefted Shalamayne in the defense of his people, carving the flesh and bones of the undead with a fury he had never known in all his years of battle and blood as Lo'Gosh of the arena.
It was a righteous sort of fury, which burned deep within, colder than the flash of rage in the midst of battle, but more enduring. Varian spearheaded the charge of his guards, roaring like the lion that emblazoned the Stormwind banner as he shoulder-checked the first opponent. The ghoul collapsed immediately, being met by the weapon of another Alliance warrior, while Varian pushed forward, deflecting several arrows before slamming the fused weapon into a heavily armored skeletal giant.
"To the King!" a cry was taken up, and the forces of the Alliance surged after him, crashing upon every undead unable to fall back and quickly starting to route the last remnant of the Scourge forces.
Looking quickly for the presence of the undead Blood Elves, Varian glanced around, sidestepping the rush of bodies trying to fill the ground that the Scourge was forced to abandon. At first, he only caught glimpses, and blinked rapidly as his eyes tried to keep pace with the rapidly shifting figures. Apparently the undead Elves were using their blood magic to replicate the same teleportation powers that the wizards of Lucius' people could manage, popping across rooftops and battlements as they tried to chase the strange spell casters.
But the many mages had rallied around their own, and were aggressively penning down the Elves, keeping them from isolating any one of them, or even returning to the ground to feast on those without their exceptional powers. Varian counted the luck that had blessed the Alliance with these individuals, and regardless of their ties to the Dark Horde and their leader Nobu'tan, that they would fight to defend Stormwind and the Alliance was a blessing he would not ignore.
Turning his attention back to the battle on the ground, Varian swung his blade once more, signaling his elite forces to push forward into the melee, and barking encouragement at his people to keep their advance.
They had to take every advantage they had while the undead leaders of the Scourge here were preoccupied. Should they resume commanding their forces, they would suffer many more causalities, which Varian was unwilling to consider when they had an entire campaign waiting for them once this battle was concluded.
"For the Alliance!" he cried, flowing through bodies toward the front once more, hoping to score a few more kills of his own before the rest were pressed into the choppy water of Stormwind Harbor.
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Voldemort was not certain how he and the Blightbringer Clan had gotten roped into the Dawn's Hammer's sudden desire to travel to the north, but Bannok Grimaxe had been adamant that the pair of them and their clans were needed to defend some place far to the north, called Light's Hope.
It was a location that Voldemort vaguely recalled mentioned a few times when he had been traveling the Plaguelands with Nathanos Blightcaller, specifically that the undead would not venture near to that place, as the power of Light magic that dwelled there was too powerful for him and Voldemort to challenge at that time.
But apparently, the Lich King was another foe altogether, and was launching a full scale invasion of the area specifically to wipe out the Paladins that dwelled there, and seize whatever power lay dormant under that dedicated site.
Luckily, the mages of the Stormreaver Clan were very talented, and able to open a portal startlingly close to the place they sought, allowing both clan's-worth of warriors to pass through directly into the dying glades of eastern Lordaeron.
"The Argent Dawn base their operations here," Bannok explained as the moved with all swiftness to the location the old orc had seen in vision, "and they will need every able-bodied warrior to hold back the Scourge, their Death Knight leaders, and perhaps the Lich King himself."
Voldemort felt a chill at the thought of the overlord of the frozen north. Having witnessed the darkness that that being could influence over even undead his power had never touched, Voldemort wondered why bringing his clan of undead and necrolytes would even be wise.
Eventually, the chapel appeared over the hilly landscape, rising like a defiant pillar of white stone in the bleak air. And around the hill the structure was built upon, the land writhed with mounds of undead. "The attack has already begun," Bannok said, sizing up the horde that they would have to push through, "If we take the eastern slope, we can get through without encountering their elite Death Knights."
Voldemort nodded, drawing Blightbringer and Apocalypse together. The blades would carve the undead as easily as the living, and this day they would do so in abundance.
Bannok raised his axe, the blade gleaming with its new plating of silver-steel, "For the Light!" the orc cried, echoed by all of his clan, and the charged forward, their frost wolves churning the dead soil as the paladins of the Dark Horde joined the battle eagerly. Horns blared to signal their arrival to the defenders, and Voldemort sighed.
"Slay the Scourge menace, for our freedom!" he shouted, and his Blightbringers followed in the fiery warhorse's wake.
The mindless ghouls were completely unaware of the attackers on their rear, so focused were they at pressing forward toward the chapel. It was almost pitifully easy to sever their heads from the necks as Voldemort rode past.
Together the two clans pushed a safe channel through to the defenders in the center of the ground filled with holy magic, keeping life in the very ground as opposed to the sick and dying grass all around them.
Voldemort spotted the leader of these paladins, the grim-faced Tirion, wielding the massive sword that blazed with holy fire. Vaguely Voldemort remembered the blade, the Ashbringer, and how effective it had been in scouring the depths of the floating citadel that had come to this place years ago.
Even now, the same weapon lived up to its impressive name, turning countless undead into scatterings of singed ashes with every swing, as the Knight of the Silver Hand led the valiant defense of their lands.
Even as Voldemort and his clan spilled into the gap they had opened in the Scourge lines, more of the mindless creatures swarmed from all directions, abominations and other larger creatures supporting the smaller ghouls, even as a dark horn blared in the distance.
"Soldiers of the Scourge, death knights of Acherus, minions of the darkness, hear the call of the Highlord!" a voice cried out, off in the distance.
Voldemort recognized the voice of the Scourge's chief Death Knight, and he spotted that Tirion too had grown very still.
"RISE!" the command echoed, and the ground all around the chapel's blessed grasses erupted as corpses thrust themselves upward, joining the battle in earnest. Voldemort was forced to leap down from his steed, driving both blades through a pair of walking corpses that had flanked Tirion as he dealt with an abomination.
"The skies turn red with the blood of the fallen! The Lich King watches over us, minions! Leave only ashes and misery in your destructive wake!" the Death Knight cried again, closer this time, seeming to drive the lesser undead into a frenzy of savage aggression. Their eyes flashes blue with the power of the Lich King, and Voldemort swing wide, splitting many in half as he carved a wide arc around himself and the Paladin.
"Scourge armies approach!" one of the paladins shouted in warning, even as more waves of their undead foes approached.
"Stand fast, brothers and sisters!" Lord Maxwell Tyrosus, the same Paladin that had helped train the Dawn's Hammer, shouted, rallying the living, "The Light will prevail!"
"Do it!" Voldemort commanded, glancing at the necrolytes. As one, they began their spells, executing their influence over the bodies of the dead and undead, trying to wrest control of the weak and mindless warriors from the Scourge and turn them against their own.
Many of the dead shuddered, their eyes flashing from blue to green as the power of the Dark Horde swept over them. Soon, undead was fighting undead, and the Blightbringer Death Knights swept through the battle several times, slaughtering any living necromancer that tried to retake control of their mindless fodder.
But soon, from the shadow of the trees, greater threats appeared. Death Knights, scores of them, poured from the surrounding landscape to join the battle, and their skill greatly exceeded any mindless Scourge warrior they had thus far faced.
The lesser warriors of undeath were nothing compared to the Blightbringer Clan, however, and the two factions of Death Knights clashed heavily, weapons clanging with an unholy din on the grounds of the paladin's chapel.
Bolts and blasts of holy magic flew in all directions, clerics of both the Dawn's Hammer and the Argent Dawn wading into battle from the small structure, even as the mounted regiment of the Scourge's elite warriors charged in.
Voldemort caught sight of the leader of these Death Knights, and recognized the lead horseman was one that he had fought before, both on the slopes of Blackrock Mountain, as well as in the bowels of the Necropolis that had invaded some time ago. Darion Morgraine, one of the greatest of the Lich King's Death Knights, rode at the head, stopping as he beheld the resistance against his forces.
"Unexpected," he said, voice echoing over the din with its inhuman ringing, "but of little consequence. You will all die in the end."
"No," Tirion countered, the strength of his conviction manifesting itself in his voice and aura, so strongly that even Voldemort could sense it burning at his unloving bones. "You cannot win, Darion, not here!"
The Paladin raised the blade over his head, even as a beam of light rocketed downward from the sky, forcing Voldemort to withdrawn or be consumed in the burning magic, like many of the Scourge forces that dared to remain.
The light surged until it was blinding, before dimming to reveal a shattered battleground, the scourge forces reduced to only the Death Knights. All lesser undead had been consumed in fire and light magic, and those who remained on the side of the Lich King were bound in chains made out of golden light.
"Bring them before the chapel…" Tirion ordered, and paladins sprung from all around to obey, leading three of the main leaders of the Scourge army to a position where they would kneel before the entrance of the chapel itself.
"Stand down, death knights." Morgraine commanded, "We have lost. The Light… this place… no hope…" he muttered, losing himself in the intensifying power of this site.
"Heave you learned nothing, boy?" Tirion said, talking down to the Death Knight as an uncle would dress down a wayward nephew, "You have become all that your father fought against! Like that coward, Arthas, you allowed yourself to be consumed by the darkness, the hate… feeding upon the misery of those you tortured and killed!"
The weight of the words seemed to press down on the captured Death Knight commander, but Voldemort could sense that it was the Light itself bear down on him, threatening to consume even these powerful undead and set their very souls ablaze.
"Your master knows what lies beneath the chapel." Tirion continued, "That is why he dares not show his face! He sent you and your death knights to meet their doom, Darion." The Paladin seemed to consider the appearance of the undead before him, and spoke softer, "What you are feeling right now is the anguish of a thousand lost souls! Souls that you and your master brought here! The Light will tear you apart, Darion!"
"Save your breath, old man. It might be the last you ever draw…" the Death Knight threatened, but he trailed off, glowing eyes shifting to look at a spot behind the Paladin.
"Father?" the undead asked, seeming to see and hear something that was either not there, or not for the eyes of the rest of those assembled. Tirion seemed to see the vision as well, but Voldemort was not privy to what transpired.
The Death Knight and Paladin fell to even softer tones, inaudible to the rest of the assembly, but everyone waited expectantly, for whatever outcome might transpire. The defenders held the upper hand for the time being, but if the Death Knights went all out trying to eliminate them, the damage would be great to their numbers before they were all brought down.
"Touching…" a new voice resonated, causing even Voldemort to seize slightly in anguish of memory.
The sick energy he had felt once before returned, flowing like a cold breeze from the figure that emerged from the trees. There was no mistaking that armor, or the blade in his hand.
Tirion had been wrong.
The Lich King had come personally to battle.
With a wave of the powerful blade in his hand, magic was drained from the air, and Voldemort felt something pass into the blade itself, disappearing from their world. "He is mine now…" the Lich King taunted, the neutrality of his voice betrayed by the sick pleasure the words implied.
Their battle was now very far from over, Voldemort suspected, and he raised his blades to be ready.
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Draco balanced carefully on the rooftop that he had apparated to, following Mrs. Parkinson as she fought the vamperic Blood Elves, who had tried to circle around the press of the Alliance forces into the city to, presumably, feast on the citizens there who were more or less defenseless.
The three males were floating around the rooftop, while the winged female was directly confronting the older woman, who fought with a fire that Draco could only derive from that of a vengeful mother. Hexes, curses, and bolts of blood magic flew in every direction. It was all he could do to stay where he was and try to keep the other Elves in view, as they tried to strike the wizards from above and out of sight as they fought with the female.
"I shall consume you!" one of the three shouted, darting at Draco, who spun on the spot, apparating to another rooftop and countering with a blood-boiling curse. Having had creatures similar to these on their own world, most of the wizarding people had an idea of how to handle them. Those that had any martial skill, which were few, conjured weapons made of silver, while the others used spells that would maim blood and bones, rather than outright kill, in order to put these undead creatures out of action.
Unfortunately, their enemy was extremely fast, and difficult to catch with their spells, even as they had to react to protect their own skins from the attacked from the air.
"Submit to the thirst!" the female shouted, charging on the ground at Mrs. Parkinson, claws elongating and slashing wildly at the woman.
Apparently the old witch had been a master in transfigurations, as chunks of tile from the roof she stood on flew upward with a wave of her wand, changing midair to a storm of silver shrapnel, before being banished into the face of her attacker, who howled in rage as she was cut by the material.
From the swelled burns, all present were made perfectly aware that silver was indeed the answer, and Draco hastily conjured several weapons of the material, sending them flying outward at the other Vampire-Elves. Using a careful application of the Fel and his own magic, he guided the weapons in chasing down the flying creatures, intercepting and knocking them off course like a massive game of Quidditch.
With some added presume to slow their darting maneuvers, suddenly the wizards were able to score many more hits on the flying foes, and the tide of the battle slipped well into their favor.
More wizards apparated in, their own conjured silver adding to a growing swarm of weapons in the air, even as more spells flew upward to counter the swooping Elves.
"My Lady, we must withdraw!" one of the males said, landing carefully next to the female leader.
Even with her face cut, the rage was apparently in her features, and she buffeted her associate back with a wing, "None can resist my thirst!" she screamed, lunging again, but the roof on either side curled suddenly, destabilizing her footing and wrapping around her, pinning arms and wings to her sides.
The female shrieked again, and seemed to be on the verge of breaking out of the folded tiles, but Mrs. Parkinson twisted her wand, rapidly transfiguring the entire section of uprooted roof into silver, causing the leader of these effective vampires to crumple from burning agony, all attempts to fight stripped from her in an instant.
A barrage of spells and weapons kept the other three from trying to intervene, even Draco apparated beside Mrs. Parkinson, watching her back as she folded more sections of roof over her prisoner, and effectively bound the creature from head to foot.
The transfiguration would not be permanent, not for that amount and certainly not for anything changed into a precious metal. It was a fundamental law of the school of wizarding magic. No transfiguration was permanent. But they had all held these as long as they needed them to fight these crazed Elves.
Seeing that they could not rescue their captured leader, the three males turned and fled, clearly to bring tidings of what transpired back to their master in the frozen north.
"My King will devour your souls, and I will enjoy feasting on whatever remains!" the creature ranted, delirious from the burning effect that the magical silver was having.
"Those bonds won't last," Draco said calmly, training his wand on the creature, "we should kill it and be done here…"
"Yes," Mrs. Parkinson said, raising her wand.
"There may be another option, if you'll allow for me to explain," a new voice said, and the two wizards turned to see the Dalaran Mage, Khadgar, walking carefully toward them along the rooftop. How he had gotten there, and more so without Draco noticing, he wasn't sure, but the old-appearing man smirked at the pair of them as he sized up their captive.
"It would be of use to us, going into Northrend to fight her master, to be able to question her of what forces Arthas has hidden away in Icecrown… and Dalaran has the perfect place to keep her safely sealed away from anyone that she may try to feed on…"
Draco could tell that Mrs. Parkinson had little wish to let the creature live, but he placed a hand on her shoulder. "It would be wisest to let one pawn live in order to capture the king," he said.
She huffed, but relented, and the Archmage placed a hand on the rubble, teleporting it away.
