Chapter 16: Chronicles of the lost souls: Paying the price

~ Light, I pray for your forgiveness, for the sins I have committed and my wrong deeds; but most of all I pray you give me strength to also forgive others for what they have done to me.

Perched on the mountain slopes in sight of Wintergarde Keep, the Scarlet Onslaught encampment was quiet early in the morning.
Guard posts had been set up every fifty meters or so and two-men patrols would circle around the wooden palisade, saluting each other solemnly with a fist brought to the heart each time they met. Other than that, there was not much movement except for the thin smoke of cook fires and people climbing up and down the slope that led to the river to fetch buckets of water.

Regardless of the heavy pickets surrounding the area, the camp itself was not very well organized. Tents lay pitched here and there, mixed with roughly built wooden sheds, which served all ends and purposes, from stable to armory. A couple of these buildings however, lay close to the mountain wall, being more heavily guarded than the rest.

Shifting his shoulders under the weight of his armor, Adair Rellion trotted through the snow, followed by one of the soldiers under his command, who was carrying an unlit torch.
A man in his mid forties, with graying hair at the temples and quite a statuesque figure, he stood out as he crossed the camp, even if his uniform was rather crumpled and his breastplate stained.
He had not bothered himself in quite a while with such mundane tasks. He had other, more important things to do, and no one cared too much anymore about the strict discipline the Scarlet Crusaders used to abide by.

Inspecting the prisoners was one of his daily responsibilities – and probably the most pleasant for him. Before the Plague he had been kicked out of the army – even if, out of mercy, his superiors made it seem an early retirement, due to health problems. The true reason lay buried in his records and those had probably burned long before, with the whole of Lordaeron. Not that he would particularly care, or that such reasons would have matter for the Onslaught. He enjoyed killing too much…thrived to see other people suffer and writhe in agony. His secret shame had proved to be very useful in the service of the Scarlet Crusade. There were always prisoners to break, captured spies to make talk. The inquisitors were good at that. He considered himself even better.

Even now, the thought made him gasp in anticipation. The prisoners of the Onslaught didn’t usually last long before they spilled out whatever they knew. That woman they caught a week before had sort of challenged his personal record and he was eager to rip off her secrets.

Licking his lips, he nodded to the guards in front of the first “ prison cell” – they would call them so even if they looked more like barns. His minion followed in his footsteps, and he heard him light the torch just before they entered the humid, cold room.

The woman lay along one of the walls, her body stretched uncomfortably due to the tight and elaborate bindings that held her arms and legs. As the door came shut after them, the soldier lifted his torch to allow his superior a better view at the prisoner. Whistling softly, Adair Rellion strode across the cell and bent to inspect his handiwork.
“Are you ready to talk today, sweetling?”

His voice was slithering, like serpent skin. He accompanied his words with deeds as he started to untie the ropes which restrained her. She was awake, but all she did was glare at him, too weak now to try and hit him in the face the way she did in their previous encounters. The first time she had even managed to bruise his left check, lashing out unexpectedly. Of course, it had only served to earn her a beating that left her unconscious for hours. A pity, truly. He liked to hear his victims scream.

Just for the sake of it, he kept asking the questions while he untied her. She would speak, eventually out of her own will. But interrogations were always fun.

“I walk in the Light”, was the only answer he got. “and you can go to hell.”

He slapped her hard enough that a small trickle of blood started to run from the corner of her mouth. At the same time, gripping the woman’s arm he twisted it painfully behind her back. His other hand ripped off the already tattered shirt, clawing into the soft flesh of her breasts. A shiver ran through her body, then she was still, even as he pressed her down, face and shoulders against the cold stone beneath.

The man with the torch watched, a flicker of excitement in his otherwise indifferent face. He would get his turn later on…but for now he would make her cry…cry out for him…
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“Will… you allow me… at least to… wash myself?” The woman’s voice was unsteady as she let out the question. Smoothing his shirt into his breeches, Adair Rellion watched her with a smile. A cruel one. The rape, no matter how brutal, didn’t seem to have much more effect than the beatings did…yet she kept her eyes meekly downcast as she spoke. One or two days, he decided, and she would be broken. Meanwhile, he could still have his way with her. Usually he did not do any favors to his prisoners, but such toys were rare and precious here, in this frozen desert at the end of the world. Grinning, he pulled her up, enjoying the sharp hiss she let out as cramped muscles were brusquely stretched.

Even in the middle of the day, no one paid them too much attention as he dragged her out of the cell. At a head sign, the soldier fell back, turning left and vanishing behind a row of tents. The woman walked awkwardly, blinking often in the crude light reflected by the snow. Wearing just the torn and dirty shirt, which came only half a palm over her thighs, she soon started to quiver, teeth chattering loudly.

The spring was right behind the prison cells, a half filled dig in the ground. He pushed her again and she stumbled, splashing into the icy water with a pitiful whimper. Then suddenly, coming behind her back, he pressed his hand in the nape of her neck, forcing her head under the water surface. The woman’s arms flailed around desperately, as she tried to come out and breathe, but he held her there a little more, until he felt in her tensed muscles the small convulsions that announced suffocation. Only then he released his grip and watched her grinning as she coughed and frantically struggled to fill her lungs with air.

Still smiling, Adair Rellion abandoned his prey – she wasn’t running anywhere too soon, and went a few steps aside to peer over the edge of the precipice. The mountain jutted out towards the sky, like a fang, its slope steep and covered in a thick layer of snow. Rocks dotted the bottom of the narrow valley beneath and a narrow path winded through it, heading east. Good place they had chosen to settle, he thought, this time gazing over Wintergarde – a thorn in the sides of those cursed unbelievers...

Suddenly he realized he didn’t hear anymore the woman’s ragged breathing. And still, she was there as he turned, kneeling near the spring, her hair and shirt dripping with water. Watching him. He didn’t know fear, yet the stark determination in those pale green eyes made him feel a worming of snakes in his middle. It all took a second, not more – a fraction of a second. Something glowed around her and then, in a heartbeat, the woman threw herself forward, catching him out of balance. He wanted to scream a warning as they fell, but the shock of being flung over into the abyss under his feet turned the sound into a pathetic squeak. They rolled together down the slope like boulders, the woman’s fingers clawing into his neck as they did, the snow barely enough to dampen the contact with the rugged ground underneath.

Abruptly, the fall stopped. He lay on his back, nausea making his stomach try to knot on itself. The woman had landed on top of him, panting. Somehow during their mad descent she had managed to cushion her own body with his. Adair Rellion tried to sit, to writhe away. Pain made him grunt, strangely unexpected, even if on a conscious level he knew he probably had more than one broken bone. His former victim stared him down in the eyes, her entire weight pressed against him. Normally, he should have been able to push her off, his frame being larger than hers and more powerful. Except his muscles wouldn’t obey anymore. Panic bubbled inside his chest as he became aware of it. Light, did that fall let him crippled? He would die there, slowly and horribly, unknown by any living soul…The woman’s gaze bore into him, sharp and unyielding like a drill. Her hands fumbled after something, what was it? – and then he groaned at the feeling of cold metal pressed against his skin. His own dagger.

“I’ve considered letting the wolves take care of it”, the woman said calmly her expression grim as three days old death.” Weird, she did not shiver despite being soaked in freezing water – she should have been down with hypothermia by then. “But you are right, it is more pleasant to take matters in your own hands.”
He had said that even as he tortured her. He swallowed hard, trying to form words but they would not go past his constricted throat. His eyes bulged, mouth gaping soundlessly.

Please…

“I am one of you, after all”, the woman continued, very evenly. And dangerously. Adair Rellion tried again to move, arms and legs twitching uncontrollably. “And a crusader never flinches…”

He was going to die, he understood. He didn’t want to. Abject fear took hold and he howled, struggling in vain to push her aside. The blade ran smoothly across the side of his neck, opening his carotid and the last thing he felt was the hot rush of blood, with each maddened beat of his straining heart…

Severinna put the knife aside and watched him die. She could feel the wave of warmth spreading into her chilled body as the Light surged again, knitting flesh and bone. It hurt a bit, healing always did when you were not skilled in directing the flows. But that pain was sweet, that pain was nothing compared to the hollowness within her soul.
She took another look at the corpse lying beneath her, then calmly, very much so, started to peel of his clothing. Blood stained it here and there and it retained still his scent and his warmth. It made her want to throw up, but it had to do. She couldn’t run around half naked in the snow.

Dimly she recalled a moment long past, that night of horrors at the edge of a burning Stratholme. She remembered the tears flowing down her grime stained cheeks and the old soldier huddled by her side, with a resigned look in his eyes. "We should be dead"…that man whose face she had forgotten, had said. "But one does what it takes to survive…and we want to live, girl…no matter what…no matter the suffering…"

Discarding the sodden shirt onto the ground, she wrapped Adair Rellion’s coat around herself and started to pull on the leather boots, strapping them as tightly as she could, to compensate for the difference in size. The memories of Stratholme flickered again in the back of her mind.

Surely she had come a long way since then.

Chapter 15: Riding across the Dragonblight (2) - Time games

Exhaustion crawls over me slowly as I pull the horse at a trot, trying to pick the safest way through the frozen snow. Something ominous floats in the air, I can feel it on my skin like a faint tingle. It’s impossible to say the hour with the clouds so thick in the sky – maybe five or six hours in the afternoon and more than twelve since I left Fordragon Hold…

Lord Bolvar received me swiftly upon my arrival. Despite being for years the regent of Stormwind he looks every bit the soldier he is, a tall and well built man in properly polished armor. I was amazed to see the extent of the forces massed at the gates – and even more surprised to see that the Horde will also take part in the offensive that is being prepared.

As I climbed through the rather narrow valley that leads to the Wrath gate, I have noticed to the right the Alliance hold, the blue and white banners fluttering in the wind and orderly lines of tents to the left, where the Horde encampment lies. The two armies have formed there a grudging covenant, spurred by the sight of the gate itself. It tops the steep lines of the mountain, massive and seemingly indestructible, the first of a chain of such gates that defend the Lich King’s frozen citadel.

Thassarian told me all their names during the night I spent in their encampment: Angra’thar, the Wrath Gate, Mord’rethar, the Death Gate, Aldur’thar, the Desolation Gate and finally Corp’rethar, the Horror Gate barring the very entrance to Icecrown. I can’t say the Scourge lacks a certain inspiration of sorts. The very names are meant to make one’s skin crawl with fear; I do not dare imagine what their defenses look like.

I had this secret hope I will be allowed to participate in the offensive, but Lord Fordragon sent me back immediately, to relay some instructions to Commander Wrymbane. I have been a soldier for too long to argue with orders. At least I managed to get a sound night’s sleep before leaving…a luxury I have started to appreciate of late.

Lost in thoughts, I have not noticed how deep the mist has become. I look around, trying to figure out if I am still going in the right direction. I can barely see as far as my own arms, gripping the reins, the rest is lost in the thick layer of vapors, which keep climbing, by the second, wanting to swallow me entirely. This fog feels alive and malevolent. My throat constricts and I fight for every breath, each one more ragged and shallow than the last…

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“Who gave the order?”

Taelan’s grip on my shoulders hurts as he shakes me violently. “Who gave it?” My hands are crimson red with dried blood and I stare at them even while my mind tries to close on itself, not to remember…

“Who gave it? The Inquisitors?”

I look into his face only to see anguish, and disappointment…and horror.

“Who did it?!”

“Me!” I yell back. The words pluck me apart, shread by shread, a never ending torture. “I did. I gave the order, Taelan! It was me…!”

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Flicker -

I blink hazily, struggling to focus against a sudden wave of diziness. My imagination must be playing games on me. I must find a way to –

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“Make me proud.”, my father says, placing the sheathed sword on the table between us. “I know how much you’ve wanted one ever since you were little…” He never shows such emotion as it is now painted on his otherwise stern features. “Be strong. Have faith in the Light…”

I take it reverently and slowly unsheathe the blade that catches the slanted rays of sun and reflects them back. It is beautiful indeed, perfection molded into steel, the strong hilt carved with the symbols of the Light fitting right into my palm. Tears fill my eyes while I try a form or two, just to feel the sword’s weight and balance. My father’s work is, as expected, impeccable –

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The horse stumbles upon something and suddenly pulls me out of my thoughts. I draw in another deep breath; for some reason the air just seems to have run out of oxygen. My vision has clouded, or is it just the mist? For a second I thought I could see –

Flicker.

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The man stops for a second in front of the strangely shaped altar. Something lies on it, but I cannot figure out what. His voice is hoarse and pained as he speaks. “…Only shadows from the past remain. There's nothing left to redeem!”

Suddenly he lifts his sword and runs that thing through. A scream rises, a sound to make blood freeze in your veins. The man I look at crumbles to his knees and a circle of blades surrounds him, searching for his flesh, for his heart…Pain shots through my chest, unbearably strong and I feel as if my soul is ripped away, together with the last glimmer of hope…

Noooooooo…

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“Be righteous and fair. Be always in the service of those too weak to defend themselves. Never fear death or pain while you tread in the ways of the Light…”

The mist clings to my lungs, feeling like oil stained water.

“We will cleanse this land…” The modulated voice of High Inquisitor Isilien rises and falls in rhythm of his words. “We will destroy the unbelivers and all those that carry the taint of the Scourge…”

“How could you?”, Taelan asks softly, and his eyes are distant and disbelieving. “How could you?”

I am dreaming. It must be. I must turn and find a way out of this mist, I -

…I am looking straight into the woman’s face. She has exactly my height and hair like polished copper, cut neatly to her shoulders. Dark plate encases her body, angles sharp and unyielding. A death knight’s armor, I notice uneasily. Her eyes however are not orbs of pure blue fire, but a soft green and gray, sad eyes that seem to be gazing through me. Her hand reaches my shoulder – a feather like touch as she shakes her head.

“You must go on”, she whispers. Her voice has an oddly familiar sound. I know this woman, even if, in this exact moment I can’t figure out exactly how. “If you turn now, some things will be changed – forever.”

A noise startles me, like great wings flapping over my head.

“You must go on”, the woman repeats. Only now I notice the intricate carvings on her stark armor – the symbols of Light, such as I am wearing, on the hilt of my blade. “Have strength”, she says softly. I hear again the sound of wings and peer around, for the briefest of seconds, trying to see where it is coming from. When I look back the woman is no more. Only the mist, wrapping me tightly, like a cocoon. Like a shroud.

I urge the horse forward, whispering a prayer under my breath. The words come without thinking now, by rote. Suddenly, the fog vanishes. I can see far into the distance through the frozen air, the contours of Wintergarde Keep projected like a shadow on a glimmering layer of snow.

What I see closer is what worries me most though. I must have wandered far from my initial route to stumble upon a camp of the Onslaught. Men in light red armor surround me in the blink of an eye, as I vainly search for the sheltering fog. Someone yells at me to dismount. There is passion in their eyes- and madness. I have learned to recognize fanaticism long before.

“You must go on”, that woman said, but I wonder if she would have gone forward, knowing…

Maybe these man do not know of my betrayal, yet. Maybe I will just convince them to let me pass..

“I’ve seen her two days before”, one of them spits. “With the death knights! She serves the Scourge!”

Cheers rise from the ranks of the Scarlet Onslaught. There seem to be more gathering every second to block my way. I might be able to ride through them, but I cannot escape their arrows if they decide to –

The nearest man suddenly swings his sword against the horse's legs and the poor stallion gives out a horrible cry before crumbling into a shivering mass. The violence of the movement projects me ungraciously out of the saddle and onto a rocky outcrop; my head hits something hard, with a sickening thud.

Some more enthusiastic cheering is the last sound I hear before blacking out.

Chapter 14: Riding across the Dragonblight (1)

The only sound that can be heard seemingly for miles is the dry crunching of my horse’s hooves over the broken cobblestones. A sharp wind stirs the snow every now and then, bringing tears in my eyes. Beyond the narrow circle of light my lantern makes the frozen waste gleams milky as far as I can see…an odd luminescence of sorts, common to these northern lands.

The Path of the Titans stretches to the north, a massive stone way which countless millennia have barely managed to scratch. I would be safe as long as I follow it, so I’ve been told back in Valgarde. Scourge rarely cross the ancient road. However, I rein the horse in and prepare to turn westwards where my way lies now. The folded map is tucked in my saddlebags. It is difficult to follow directions; the snow covers the land too thickly. I will have to rely on my instincts for the most part of the journey and pray I do not stumble upon the undead.

Upon more of them than I can handle, I think wryly.

“Hey, you there!”

Blood freezes in my veins at the unexpected sound bursting right behind me. The voice is deep and weird, and stirs memories in the back of my mind. Memories do not have time to become certainty however, as the voice continues, instructing me to turn around and keep my hands where they can be seen.

I have nothing better to do than obey. Curse my luck! Why didn’t I hear anything before?

It is not a man, it’s an entire squad, coming from the left and descending onto the road at full speed. I hold the lantern up as I peer towards the dark silhouettes around me, aligned shoulder to shoulder, their horses quiet like death itself.

“Who are you and where are you headed?” the inquisitorial voice resumes. It comes from the depths of a black hooded cloak, not three steps away from me. Then suddenly someone starts laughing - something to make shivers run up your back.

“Well, my my, I didn’t hope to see you again so soon, Severinna…”

This voice I know and it startles me worse than the other stranger's rasping tone.

“Be at ease, Darion”, the second man continues, “she’s the woman that saved my sister’s life…”
“She can be a spy for the Scarlets nonetheless. Or Arthas’. I will suspect anyone that heads in the same direction as I do, at the same time. Especially if they look innocent as this woman does.”

“I can vouch for her…”

“You’ve always been foolish and soft-hearted, Thassarian.” The hooded man straightens in his saddle, the massive hilts of two swords protruding the air above his back. Most of the shadows surrounding me are armed in the same way, heavy blades that manage to glimmer faintly even in the darkness. “Come on, break lines. We go east and make camp above the road, as settled.”

A short pause follows, as the rest of the riders spur their mounts, forming a very organized group that starts to move immediately. The first men already crest the hill overlooking the road when he speaks again, a tinge of amusement to his sharp tone. “Would you care to join us for a while?”

“I must continue my journey”, I say. It’s the first time I actually manage to say something since they have appeared and I am amazed to discover my voice is steady. Surely my hands gripping the reins are not. The man chuckles, and in a death knight’s case this is never a pleasant sound.

“A little rest will do you well. I wouldn’t go too far east through the dark if I were you…”

“We’ll camp close enough”, Thassarian suddenly says, advancing towards us. I recognize the drawn, pale face, the blue gaze that studies me intently – maybe slightly less indifferent than the first time we met. “You can leave again at dawn.”
Light knows I am tired. I have contemplated the possibility to stop and have some rest, a couple of hours, no more, but the quietness of the land shrouded in snow and the chilling blizzard made me reconsider. There’s no telling what might just stumble upon me if I stopped to sleep even for a bit.

“Fine”, I nod. It’s just natural to spend the night in the midst of a frozen desert, having as company a legion of death knights. My sense of normality has stretched to a very thin thread of late.

I have passed a little over a month in Wintergarde now. Commander Wrymbane seems decided to prove that his legion can hold Naxxramas back for as long as he pleases. It is bravado and he knows it. I know it. Every man we lose leaves our defenses weaker. The Scourge don’t have the same issue. They dig up our dead and throw them back at us nonchalantly. Thanks the Light it is usually hard to recognize someone after the necromancers have had their way with them. Otherwise I doubt a single man in the fortress would still be able to fight against their best friend, their wife, their children maybe. We burn every corpse that we are able to recover. Apparently the Lich King didn’t find yet a way to raise the ashes to do battle in his name.

It is futile. It is desperate. But we held on in Stratholme as desperately as now. Some of us went mad. Others went…over. I look at Thassarian as I walk and try to figure out what made him cross the line. Fate can be cruel sometimes. I have survived the end of the world twice…and now, I am left here, to the very feet of Icecrown to discover how meaningless my life is. All the Crusade was for me, the feeling of belonging, the sense of purpose is lost now. I can see the line in my head. But I will not step over it. I walk into the Light and no one can take it from me. Except that there are others who believe the same while they blissfully torture and hang people whose only mistake was to show some doubt. Or some heart, for that matter. That poor woman’s face still haunts my nights. And so does my own betrayal.

Wrymbane chose me to deliver an urgent message to Lord Bolvar Fordragon, who’s preparing a new offensive against the gates of Icecrown. We are to keep the eye of Naxxramas on us meanwhile, to give them some maneuver space. This and other pieces of intelligence about the Scourge movements are all in my pocket now – as I trudge reluctantly alongside the death knights. Wrymbane has gone so far as to proclaim me a hero for my involvement in the battle of Wintergarde. It tastes odd. I am no hero, only filled with bitterness and despair.

“So.” Thassarian’s voice pulls me out of the reverie. “I thought you were headed to New Hearthglen or whatever those fanatics had named their town.”

“I had a sudden change of heart” I tell him. He cocks his head sideways, as if listening to some unheard voice, yet his gaze never leaves my face.

“Had a hard time, didn’t you?” he asks quietly.

“Nay”, I shrug. There’s no time to add anything, as their leader joins us, reining the death charger on my other side.

“I still feel it’s foolish to stop here for the night”, he mutters, half to himself, half to the other death knight. “If it wouldn’t be for the promise I made to Tirion not to start the attack before his forces arrive…”

“Attack?”
The word escapes my lips before I can stop it. He looks at me as if only then realizing I am there and not a senseless rock, then makes a hoarse, annoyed sound.
“By the bones of Kel’Thuzad, I forgot about you…”

Thassarian chuckles, sending shivers up my spine. Light, these men may not serve the Scourge anymore, but they are dead.

“Now who’s growing reckless, Darion Mograine?”

The name feels to me like a thunder, rolling over endless plains on a summer storm. My eyes must be ready to pop out of their sockets. Darion Mograine? Lord Alexandros, fallen in battle against the Scourge in Stratholme. Highlord Renault Mograine, his elder son, commanding the defenses of the Scarlet Monastery has perished during an attack apparently ordered by the Argent Dawn. What a curse must have weighted on this family to have the last of the Mograines end up like this – a mocking husk of whatever he had been before…? I can remember Darion, no older than twelve or thirteen, sitting with his father on the palisade that surrounded the training grounds in Stratholme, before the Plague. A blonde-haired boy, eyes as blue as the morning sky and a focused expression on his face…

“Where are you headed?” he asks sharply, skipping Thassarian’s remark. It takes me a moment to understand he’s talking to me.

“East”, I say evasively. I know nothing about their intentions so far and I will tell them nothing more than I need to.

“Don’t play games with me, girl”, Darion Mograine cuts in. His words have the edge of a knife. “My lucky guess would be you are sent with messages to Angrathar.”
Again he catches me unprepared. I shrug, without understanding.

“Angrathar, the Wrath Gate”, he adds impatiently. “Where that fool Fordragon is preparing his offensive...which will probably cost his life and the life of his men as well…”

“Darion”, Thassarian says softly yet reproachfully.

“What? We won’t defeat Arthas playing by the rules and you know it damn well…Let Tirion and the rest of those Light blinded idiots trust in their empty virtues…I’ll do things my way!”

Thassarian sighs, shaking his head. He doesn’t seem like a defender of the virtues of Light to me either. Maybe he just thinks the other one will frighten me to death. The thought he could see me as a damsel in distress makes me nearly choke.

“Now – Darion Mograine returns to me - you tell me your orders, girl!”

His tone is imperative and does not admit opposition. Suddenly all the anger I have kept in check for weeks bursts free; before I can realize what I am doing I have already reined my horse abruptly, turning it halfway to block the death knight’s way.

“Don’t call me that!” I snap angrily. “I have been accepted into the Order when you could not hold a sword without fear of cutting yourself!”
Matter of fact, I am right. He must be almost ten years my younger – he couldn’t have been more than fifteen at the first outbreak of the Plague, while I was nearing twenty four. Well, being raised in the service of the Lich King must count for some years too...but right now I don't care.
I cannot see his face yet the ragged sound of his breathing is enough to figure out exactly how annoyed he is. He’s ready to trample me under the hooves of his horse. Thassarian watches me calmly, with an admiration of sorts. I gather not many dare stand up to Highlord Mograine.

“Mind your tongue” he growls, managing to avoid clashing into me at the last moment. I have been mistaken: there is something more sinister than a death knight laughing – a death knight trying to control the urge to rip someone’s throat to shreds. As amused as Thassarian seems, there’s a tension about him and I understand he sits ready to throw himself in between us, should need be.

“He can be…grumpy sometimes”, he smirks as Darion Mograine pushes past the both of us, into the darkness. He looks as if he would expect me to smile, yet all I can manage is what I know to be a pained grimace. I have a hard time imagining a death knight with a sense of humor. The dead don’t laugh with the living.
Just to prove me wrong, Thassarian does.

Chapter 13: Chronicles of the lost souls - The things we have to do

----The captain was right. Five days in isolation do wonders to clear one’s mind.

“Abbendis must have lost it completely”. High Commander Halford Wrymbane shook his head in dismay as he closed the leather bound book. It was written in the form of a journal, but almost everyone in New Hearthglen had a copy of it – teachings and rambling about the Onslaught’s mission and how the purest had been selected by the Light to bring down the scourge for ever. “The Light’s talking to her?!”

Severinna looked down, studying her hands and drawing intently. Other things crowded in her mind. The dungeons, the tortures and daily hanging. The stark atmosphere, reeking of cruelty and suspicion. The new priestly order of the Ravens who drew equally upon the light and the dissolving force of shadow. Oddly, the High General seemed to believe they were the most virtuous and the most dedicated of all her men. What better proof her mind had indeed been shaken after the destruction of New Avalon at the hands of the Scourge?

Three days after finally allowed to leave confinement, she had managed to sneak out of the fortress in the middle of the night and rode north, as fast as she could over the frozen wastes, heading north. Only luck had prevented her from running into a scourge patrol or one of the scattered camps that littered the ground under Naxxramas.

“What made you change your mind?” Eligor Dawnbringer asked quietly. The woman didn’t lift her head. She kept drawing, all attention apparently focused on the plan sketches.

“I didn’t”, she said after a while, as an afterthought. “Would this be enough?”

It was neater than either Wrymbane or Dawnbringer had dared hope.

“Yes”, Dawnbringer nodded. “You’re doing the right thing girl, you know that…”

“So they did say too…” Severinna shrugged, finally meeting his eyes. There was a holowness to her gaze he had not noticed before. It pained him. A price had to be paid for anything, but he would rather it was not this woman’s soul. “I am sure Kel’Thuzd is convinced of this as well…”

A sad smile fluttered over Eligor Dawnbringer’s lips. For a man in his mid-thirties, his face bore too many creases of worry and bitterness.

“You’re learning too fast…”

“Yeah”, Severinna agreed, letting the pen down. She stood. The inked plan of New Hearthglen seemed to be glaring back at her from the small writing table set under the tent. “I’ve been told that before. Now, if you will both excuse me, there is work to be done.”

There was always work to be done in a city under siege, Commander Wrymbane thought wryly. For a moment, Severinna and Eligor Dawnbringer remained looking at the harsh contours of Naxxramas, floating over the lower tire of Wintergarde, which they had lost during the first attack. Death and disease rained down from the necropolis – a true harbinger of doom.

“Terrordale all over again”, Dawnbringer whispered. It was Sev’s time to nod.

“Never miss the good times”, she said and she shrugged again. It definitely made her wonder what sort of sick humor fate had.

--- I leave them pondering over the maps I have drawn and the information scribbled on their edge. Back there, I could see the doubt in their eyes. Am I to be trusted? Or is it rather a trap High General Abbendis has carefully set up for them?

They will have to live with that doubt – and make decisions out of it - just as I have to bear what I have done. We’ve all drawn the short stick in this.

I remember the haggard face that greeted me from the mirror this very morning. The face of a stranger, someone I have never met before. Light, is this what it takes to do the right thing? Well, it doesn’t seem wrong now, anyway. I smile at Thassarian’s words in the back of my head. The alarm trumpets sound over the keep and I start, looking over my shoulder towards Naxxramas, to see a cloud of gargoyles and frost wryms darken the sky, abruptly plunging towards Wintergarde’s walls. My thoughts are clumsy, like a child’s tottering steps. I avoid them, as one would avoid brushing over a painful scab that might break under the strain. I think I am just going to cleanse some more scourge for today…

Chapter 12: Chronicles of the lost souls - What it means to be broken (2)

There was not too much light in the dungeons of New Hearthglen. Even the torches seemed to flicker unsteadily, as if they would rather go out than bear witness to what we did.

I had been swiftly assigned to guard duty. It had been a test I guess, to see if I had the strength to stomach what a dutiful Onslaught soldier should. I thought I did. For a couple of weeks I kept lying to myself that I was finally back home.

The cells to the right and left were very dimly lit and quiet as I strode back and forth in the corridor. Counting the steps, and the minutes with them until I would be able to get out and breathe again - the cool air of Northrend, that vaguely bears the smell of the plague...

“Please…” The voice was hoarse, like metal grinding on stone. I stopped abruptly, peering into the cell to my right to see the haggard face of a woman. She lay directly on the floor, her hands clenched around the door bars. “Please…a drop of water…have mercy…”

I felt the hot surge of anger realizing the torturers were not even allowing the prisoners to drink. A pitcher and clay mugs were set on a table in the guard room, just a few steps away. I went for them, filled one of the mugs and squeezed it through the cell bars.

“Thank you…” the woman managed, as she frantically gulped on the water, obviously afraid I might take it back from her.

“Be at ease”, I said mustering all the calm I could. What I had seen during the last two days, since assigned to the prison guard made me sick to the marrow. Had these people completely lost their mind, the basic sense of right and wrong? “I’ll give you another one if you want.”

She had been beaten badly. Whipped probably. She held her left arm at an unsual angle, which made me wonder how many other broken bones she had. Burns, cuts and bruises of varied severity adorned all patches of skin not covered by the tattered dress she wore.

My stomach tried to knot on itself at the sight. Despite everything I had been through – or done, I still could not look at such physical wounds without feeling uncomfortable. It reminded me too much of the burning of Stratholme and my sister’s flesh ripped away with hungry claws…I struggled to repress the shudder and concentrate instead on the woman in the cell.

“Why are you here?” I asked softly? She glanced at me over the rim of the mug, nervously licking her lips. I was one of her tormentors after all. Shame fluttered in my belly, following the anger I had felt just moments before.

“M…my husband”, she said after a while. “He disappeared for years. I thought him dead…We even made a funeral…since I had no body to bury properly…And then a few months before he came back to me…” The woman paused considering, then shifted, trying to adjust to a more comfortable position. A low pained moan escaped her lips. “He took me here…said we can make a new home…where people do not hate him for what he is. He’s…not himself anymore. But he loves me and out two children. And he’s so sorry for what he has done…I will not tell them where he hides…even if they kill me. He does not serve the Scourge now. And neither do I.”

I grimaced. I was familiar with the Inquisitors' methods. They could torture someone to a bloodied mess and then just heal him and start all over again, denying their victim even the last refuge, the embrace of death…

Another moan came off the poor woman’s lips. She must have been in a lot of pain. I put the water pitcher aside and slowly knelt near the cell door.

“Is it broken?You arm…”

She nodded. That close, she looked even worse, eyes sunken into the back of the head.

One that serves the Scourge deserves nothing else, a small voice started by rote in my mind. I snuffed it out, disgusted. Some things we learn when we are younger tend to come back every now and then, whether we truly like them or not.

“I cannot do much”, I said surprised to hear a very steady voice. Squeezing my hand through the bars though, I took hold of the woman’s arm and focused inwardly, on the glorious sensation of light filling me. It took much more skill than I had to be able to direct that flow and properly mend injuries and I had never healed anything more than a couple of gashes of my own but even with my feeble strength I could ease her pain a little. I heard her gasp in shock as the light wrapped tightly around the both of us and then the next thing I knew, gauntleted fists closed on my shoulders.

“Betrayal!”someone shouted, as the man behind pulled me harshly to my feet. “She is serving the Scourge as well…!”

“We must try her and sentence her immediately.”

“To the gallows!”

The poor woman sobbed uncontrollably on the floor of the cell as one of the guards started yelling more curses and insults at her, out of which “Scourge loving wench” was the most innocent one. The rest though were too concerned with me to care. Before I could utter a single word, I had been pushed away from the cell and into the closest wall, two of the men moving to hold me, as if I were an unbelievable powerful being that could take them all down if not properly restrained.

A face or two I knew…people I had fought with, back in the Plaguelands. Now they were all fixing me intently, their gazes hard and malevolent. They could probably imagine me hanging already. Panic crept into my belly but I held onto the memory of Light flooding my senses. I had done nothing wrong wanting to ease the pain of a suffering being. I had not…

“Let’s not hurry”, I heard someone say. Looking left I saw one of the captains, a grizzled man entering the corridor in which we were gathered. He came straight towards me and lifted my chin, peering into my eyes. Another man I knew, he had been in Hearthglen before I left.

“I don’t think she’s working for the Scourge. She has just let a moment of weakness cloud her judgment…”

With a sigh, he released me. His expression had never changed, yet I thought I could see a flicker of uneasiness in the depths of his eyes.

“She will be punished though. Thirty whip strokes and a week in seclusion to meditate on her mistake will surely set her right.”

He was trying to save me, really. Thirty whip strokes was hard enough to satisfy the lust for blood these men had, yet not not enough to kill me. Silence followed his words, broken only the whimpering of the prisoner in the cell across the room, then suddenly the man holding my shoulders pushed me forward. I stumbled, almost falling over. It was what they had expected, for in a matter of minutes I had been dragged into the interrogation room and my wrists fastened to one of the chains in the wall, tall enough that it would uncomfortably stretch my entire body.

The same hands that had maneuvered the chains gripped now the sides of my coat and pulled it sideways and down my back making the buttons pop. The shirt I wore underneath followed immediately, with a crisp sound of torn linen and both pieces of garment gathered around my waist. I felt the damp, cool air against my skin. The sensation was eerie, tinged with the embarrassment at being so exposed.

“So you serve the Scourge…?” the same man said. This one I did not know, all for the best, maybe.

“No”, I answered back, condensing all the anger I felt into that single word. There was no use in arguing with such fanatics. The light beckoned at the edge of my awareness and I focused on it instead of the hard gazes around.

“Thirty and not one more”, the captain said sternly. “Then lock her up, she’ll have time to meditate on the dangers of meddling with the unbelievers.”

The men grumbled but none of them really dared to mutter against. Discipline might have slackened – I had seen soldiers with unkempt armor, fights taking place at night after too much ale…something you would have never stumbled upon back in Hearthglen or Stratholme – but not to the point where one would disregard a superior’s order.

All shred of thought vanished as the birch landed on my naked back for the first time. It burned, spreading like fire tendrils across my skin and I could not repress a violent shudder. Ages seemed to pass until the next blow came. My body arched instinctively, as pain became deeper. In between ragged breaths, I counted the third strike, slashing across my back. My muscles felt like tense bows, ready to spring any second, my wrists ached from the metal cuffs. The fourth and fifth blows nearly made me cry out. I bit my lips, stifling the sound just in time…A sharp gasp was everything that was heard as the birch lashed again. I gritted my teeth against the pain, the feeling of blood starting to trickle down my sides. I would not have them hear me howl. Seven. I blinked away stinging tears and drops of sweat. Time seemed to have slowed to a crawl. Eight. Light was warm and sweet, engulfing me protectively. Nine.

--Light, let it be that my humble acceptance of the mistakes I’ve made and the penance I rightly deserve free me from my sins and make me worthy of your healing.

Tenth.

-- Light, may I grow in your service and become pleasant to you –

A sharp stab through my heaving chest reminded me of the slow-healing, invisible wound I had taken during the fight upon Naxxanar. I had worked alongside a death knight. A man carrying the taint of the Scourge. There had been times when I would believe my torment was well deserved.

Well, I didn’t believe it now.

Eleven.

I stopped fighting the pain, gave into it, allowing it to flow through my quivering body. A simple trick I had learned from a priest years before. Struggling against it only made it deeper, unbearable. The key to enduring was to surrender and empty your mind. Distantly, the sound of the birch against my skin made me cringe, but the pain of each strike belonged now to someone else.

-- Light, guide me to do your will, show me your way and open my mind to see how I should live. Teach me love and understanding, cleanse my heart and make me anew.

Suddenly the blows stopped. It could have been five minutes later – or an hour. The coppery scent of blood filled the air, rich and heavy – I felt it through gulping breaths while my body shuddered and convulsed, the pain barely suppressed for a while coming back a thousandfold.

Truthful to his words, the captain had my chains unclasped and two of his men dragged me to a room nearby. As the door closed on them, pitiful cries broke from outside – the rest had probably returned to tormenting the prisoners.

I collapsed to the floor, knees giving up under my weight. Small rivulets of blood dripped down my sides, onto my naked abdomen and soaked the white linen shirt. The screams rose again, shrilling agony. I shivered inside, chilled to the bone.

As much as I hated to admit it, Dawnbringer had been awfully right...

Chapter 11: Chronicles of the lost souls: Interlude

“What do you intend to do with her?”

Admiral Barean Westwind was a well built, greying man. I had never seen him before, except for the statue that decorated the Hall of Arms in the Monastery, and like everyone else, thought him dead. That’s how the other attempt of the Crusade against Prince Arthas and the Lich King has ended: in utter disaster.

But apparently he was well and healthy and had made his apparition as soon as the Onslaught had pulled ashore, full of advice and suggestions and words of wisdom…

I tried to find the source of the discomfort I felt in his presence. As I stood with my head down I could only glance sideways at his face. He looked forty, despite the graying hair. Oddly enough, he had been approaching forty five when the Northrend expedition started, and that was five or six years ago, barely at the end of the war.

High General Abbendis stared blandly out the window, into the darkening sky. From my angle I had another great view of the scaffolds.

“I don’t know…” She sighed , after a while. “I believed them all lost…whoever remained back there, in Lordaeron.” A frown touched her otherwise smooth features. Her eyes were clouded and unfocused and she bit her lips, as if struggling to catch an eluding thought… “I wish the Light would speak to me again. Show me the way…”

It was all I could do to keep my head low and stare into the floor tiles. The Admiral made a small approving sound, then looked back at me.

“I’ll take care of it. You need to rest more, Brigitte.”

“I do”, she agreed. “I feel so tired…”

The Admiral's steps measured the room precisely from one side to the other, then suddenly he stopped in front of me.

“We must see how true her intentions are, of course”, he said and he smiled I didn’t like that smile. On another man, it would have been fatherly and warm. On his lips it became a wicked grin which promised very unpleasant things. “She has been away from her brothers and sisters for too long…”

I swallowed hard. I did not want to think about the initiation ritual each crusader went through. No one among us ever discusses that matter.

Admiral Westwind lifted my chin with one hand and peered deep into my eyes. The world seemed to lurch a little, then steadied itself and I found myself breathing more easily for a second.

Home. You are home,you are safe now. The feeling was odd and my mind did not acknowledge it quite well yet.

“Surely you have seen things that might be useful for us, during you stay in Wintergarde, for example”, he said slowly. “And we are never going to turn away anyone truly dedicated to our cause…anyone truly willing to submit to the Light…”

I believe him. I had to submit and serve without questioning…be purified from all the doubts and evil I have touched during these months. I needed to pray, to suffer and be forgiven…I needed to…

“I think she’ll do”, the Admiral concluded lightly, stepping aside. I struggled to stand when I would have rather bene humbly on my knees. In the depths of my mind a small, unknown voice seethed with anger.

“As you say”, High General Abbendis echoed him, her tone level and emotionless, as if coming from a great distance. “Welcome home, child…”

Chapter 10: Chronicles of the lost souls - What it means to be broken (1)

~ Wintergarde, the 10th day of the fifth month since the burning of Havenshire

This morning I can hardly recognize the haggard, drawn face that is staring back at me from the tiny mirror I use to brush and braid my hair. To be truthful, sleep has been eluding me of late and I didn’t have much of an appetite.

I don't have much time to dwell on it though. Shouts outside the barracks tell me that a new Scourge offensive has been probably launched out of Naxxramas. There’s never a dull moment in Wintergarde...

The last two weeks, ever since I left Death’s stand seem blurred in my memory. Somehow it feels just like back there, in the Crimson Bastion of Stratholme...I try not to think too much of it. It's a good habit I should've used more often. Or less. Now it is too late for both of them.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I have ridden into Dragonblight following the main road, and it took me two days to reach the small outpost of Star’s Rest.The fight there is of a different nature than that against the Scourge, yet no less tense. All I could grasp was that the blue dragonflight are siphoning the magic from the world, endangering it to an unseen extent. As if it weren’t complicated enough, with Scourge and who else roaming this land…

Of greater importance to me however, was the fact that I stumbled upon the courier from Thassarian’s unit - the one he told me before I left them. He had been sent to Wintergarde with information of the highest importance, but had been ambushed on the way by the undead. Hearing I had been at Death’s Stand as well, he asked me to deliver the letter in his stead. This trust certain people seem to place in me has started to become annoying. I might well be a Scourge agent myself…set to unravel the Alliance operations in this land...

The mages of Star’s rest didn’t care too much about the poor man’s mission at that point, but they offered to provide me with one of the trained hyppogryphs they had with them, so that I could travel swiftly to Wintergarde. After so much trekking in the snow it was a change.

I remember very well arriving to the city to find it under heavy siege from a necropolis. A chill passed through my heart as I saw its shadow swallowing the lower tier of Wintergarde, casting its darkness over the land. The walls had been broken and houses were burning, ghouls and necromancers streaming on the streets in search of any survivors. Or corpses, for that matter. It doesn’t seem to count for the Scourge. It felt like Havenshire, all over again and for a few seconds after my hyppogryph had landed I couldn’t move, my eyes glued to the threatening shape in the sky. Scourge constructions may look all alike, but I would recognize that one from a thousand necropolises. I still have nightmares of it, floating over Terrordale.

The dreaded Naxxramas, seat of Kel’Thuzad.

The letter I was carrying had arrived too late. It contained the names of saboteurs in the service of the Scourge, whose task was to weaken Wintergarde defenses – all information Thassarian had managed to gather at Naxxanar. High Commander Halford Wrymbane crumpled the note in his fist with a sad frown, the pointed out to a line of corpses hanging from the arcades at the front gate of Wintergarde.

“Ghoul bait”, he spat. “Now, we need any hand available to help us rescue those still alive down there!” A rumble of screams rose just then from the burning hell on the lower tier, as if to underline his words. “ How’d you feel about flying?”

Some rest would have been much better, but any second that passed meant more dead –more cannon fodder for the Scourge. So the next thing I knew, I was on a gryphon’s back, dodging projectiles and sizzling bolts of dark magic under the belly of Naxxramas. Find a survivor, land sharply, get him in the saddle, take off. Rinse and repeat. Sometimes the Scourge would be on you as soon as you touched ground. One or two I had to pull from the jaws of ghouls. Not a nice sight, definitely. I hoped the healers back in the Keep will manage to put them back into one piece…

Around five hours in the afternoon, the screams had faded. There couldn’t have been survivors left by that time – the Scourge is swift in striking. Commander Wrymbane stopped the rescue operations and pulled all troops back into the keep, forming defensive barriers around the gates.

I had just seated myself on the edge of a small stone fence to catch my breath. The damn wound was hurting again and so did my head. I was hungry and thirsty and angry….very much so. Why would the Light allow such things to happen? Why would it leave its faithful into the grasp of the Scourge – either raised to serve in eternal torment or as mindless tools?

Somwhere nearby, a man was lecturing a group of veterans on the dangers of Naxxramas. Were they already preaparing the counterstrike?
“Next, I shall speak of the death knight wing of Naxxramas. It is there where our finest warriors are corrupted and twisted into the Scourge's greatest weapons.”

Tired as I was, that voice made my breath hitch. Peering around the corner I saw him – a tall man, dressed in one of those robes the priests used to wear back in Lordaeron.

"Dawnbringer."

The name had left my lips before I was aware of it. I must have spoken very loudly, beacause some of his listeners turned to stare at me, and so did Eligor Dawnbringer himself. Obviously, he did not recognize me on the spot. I backed off, awkwardly, trying to scrable upright and turn my back on them at the same time. I had managed to take a couple staggering steps when someone caught my arm from behind.

“I remember you.”, Eligor Dawnbringer said softly. “You served in Stratholme.”

I had no other choice than to stop and look him in the eyes.

“What are you running from?”
Damn it, I thought. He held my arm so tightly I could not pry it away, try as I might.

“Where are you coming from?” he continued heatedly, even if his tone did never rise past a whisper. “New Hearthglen? Or rather that outpost to the north?”

I glared back as hard as I could. New Hearthglen – this I had found out only days before – was the name of my destination.

“None”, I said. “Just arrived from Valiance Keep. Let me be!”

“Now now”, he said mildly, “why so much displeasure at seeing someone who had been through the same fights as you?”

“I’ve never been able to tell whether you betrayed the Crusade…or the Dawn…or rather both!” Anger was seeping off me now and there was nothing I could do to control it. I tried again to yank my arm free, yet all he did was start walking, dragging me with him in the process.

“Well, none.” The man dared to shrug. “The Brotherhood believes the Dawn has to many scruples…and the Crusade too little brains. You on the other side…”A smile crept on his lips as he inspected me. “I heard many were left behind when the Onslaught sailed north.”

“None of your business!” Now the arm I was trying to wrest free had started to hurt as well, to top the sharp stabs of pain through my chest and the dull ache in my head.

“I thought you were one of those people she left to their fate when Tyr’s Hand fell.”, Dawnbringer commented sharply. “Abbendis has gone mad. The Onslaught are raiding Wintergarde’s supplies, cutting off our lines, killing our men… If we let them stand, she will be at our throats before the dust settles.” Again he studied me thoroughly, frowning. “If you could get into New Hearthglen and give us at least some insight into her plans…”

“Never!” I almost spat. This time he released me and stepped back. “Never!”

“Be it as you say.” He shrugged. Whatever he pretended about following the teachings of the Light, this man was as shrewed as most of the Crusade’s leaders – if not worse. It made me sick, all of it. The Scourge, the agonizing screams, the insinuations that I might end up a betrayer myself.

New Hearthglen stood south, somewhere beyond the undead lines. I had gotten a chance to survey the landscape though, from the gryphon’s back and I was sure I could make it through, provided time and caution. I had after all, managed to survive for seven years in the Plaguelands, under the sight of Naxxramas.

All I needed was a horse and some goodwill of the guards to let me pass. I surveyed the contents of my purse with a frown. I had never had too much gold and the little I managed to scramble in Menethil before setting off was largely gone by now. The Light would have to provide me the means of sustenance, I thought bitterly. It could do at least that…

The next day though, the trip south proved easier than I thought, once I managed to solve the most ardent issues. Commander Wrymbane agreed to provide me with a horse as long as I delivered a report to an outpost just beyond enemy lines. I was even able to scramble some supplies, most of them packed military ratios – but better than nothing. And after the initial difficulty of getting through the Scourge lines at the base of the hill, the forest was quiet, except for the howling of wolves and the crunching of frozen snow under the hooves of my horse.

I must have traveled a six or seven of miles, maybe more…It had been dawn when I left and was well past midday when I finally saw the walls of New Hearthglen.
The familiar name brought the sharp sting of tears to my eyes. Even under the purple tinged skies of the Plaguelands, the former domain of Mardenholde was still a beautiful place.

Home, I thought. Somehow, I did not believe it. A part of me wanted to run away. Too many memories had awaken of late in the back of my head – things I had seen or done – which came to me as through a haze, never too clear…never dim enough.
As I spurred my horse down the slope and descended towards the town I caught above the walls a glimpse of a scaffold and the crimson banners flailing in the chilling wind...
Sure, so good to be home again…