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…

Chapter 9: Flying - oh - so high...

The trained hypogryph soared under the star speckled sky, setting a firm course towards north west. Gripping the reins tightly with one hand, Severinna tried to wrap the fur lined cloak closer around her shivering frame. It had been a while since she were last flying, she remembered, as she peered into the vast darkness below. Cold gusts of wind slashed against her cheeks and seeped under the cloak no matter what she did.

Thoughtlessly, she started to hum a small tune, a half forgotten song from her childhood. She focused on a memory of sun over golden fields, the fragrance of ripe grain drifting into the air…

A sudden stab of pain in the chest pulled Sev out of reverie rather harshly. The invisible gash acquired during the fight atop Naxxanar still hurt at times. It was not a “true” wound; the flesh was intact and nothing showed the extent of damage. Blood Prince Valanor’s magic, Thassarian had explained, reflected the hurt inflicted upon himself. He had tried to warn her, but she wasn’t able to hear in the noise of the fight. It would heal in time, the death knight assured her, the same a normal cut did.

She had been ill for a couple of days, barely able to move. There were no healers in Death’s Stand and she had been too weak to transport. The Kalu’ak had sent one of their medicine men to look over her, but there was not much he could do, except for preparing her some strangely soothing tea. She had drifted a while between dream and reality, the pain just a faint memory at the edges of her consciousness, as her body, wrapped tightly into the Light, like a protective cocoon, struggled against the wound.

Once she had hoped she could become a true healer – able to mend spirit and flesh alike. The eldest members of the Silver Hand had all been clerics before taking up the sword, and there was much too learn from them in the ways of Light. But then the war came, abruptly shattering her world. The sword became all - the endless fight against the Scourge. Sometimes even the Light seemed to wink out like a gutted candle. She hanged on to the familiar prayers and rituals, seeking a peace that did not come anymore…

With a sigh, Sev pushed the thought away and scanned again the land beneath. The wind seemed milder if she stayed like that, her torso against the hypogryph’s back.
Too many things had happened of late. Only the evening before she had found herself thinking how much she yearned for the times when good was good and wrong was wrong and no path to tread in between. But then, who decided what was good and what wrong?

“You can say that again”, Thassarian had commented, seating himself next to her. She had blinked in surprise, then understood she had been speaking her thoughts loudly. With a barely hidden smile, he handed her a steaming mug and Sev wrinkled her nose at the fragrance. Kalu’ak tea. She wasn’t sure the mixture didn’t contain some powdered fish as well.

As the saying went in the Plaguelands, when one met a death knight you either slew it or died. Usually the second one. You definitely didn’t have one watching over you, bringing you medicine tea.

“What did it feel like?” she had suddenly asked, warming her hands around the mug. From their vantage point, they could see a large portion of the coast, far to the east and west, small lights sparkling in the darkness here and there. “Do you…remember?”

It had been difficult to see Thassarian’s expression in the sunset shadows.
“I do”, he had answered after a moment. “Not all of it. Some memories are dimmer – like when you wake up after a night of heavy drinking. Others are clear, as if it happened yesterday. I remember the screams…and the blood…and the pleas to be spared…Somehow it didn’t seem…wrong at that time.” He paused for a while, staring into the distance. “I remember his voice in my head, drowning everything else.”

“You had no control over your choices.” Realization had come as a shock and she had to take a mouthful of the horrid tasting tea to hid her embarrassment.

“I surrendered it…willingly. In the beginning. Then…it didn’t matter anymore. I was aware of what I did – yet felt nothing at all. No remorse, no shame.” His voice was calm in a disquieting way. Severinna had felt a chill running down her spine.

With a sigh, she shifted to a more comfortable position. The hypogryph cut like an arrow through the night skies, taking her closer to the target of her journey. Maybe to the end of it. Sev started humming again.

Chapter 8: Last rites (3)

I am the Reaper.

The image that forms in my mind’s eye almost makes me laugh. My sword gathers the pale rays of the sun and sparkles with light as I swing it sideways, cutting an abomination in two. Green fluids splash in the air, clinging in my hair, on my face. I resist the temptation of wiping it away – I must not lose focus.

I cannot advance too fast, only one step at a time, plowing through a writhing mass of Scourge. The temple of En’kilah is three times over more strongly guarded than Stratholme and it takes all my strength to keep going forward, carving a path through ghouls, necromancers and gargoyles. If it were not for the Light which drives my sword, they would tear me apart in seconds. Even so, I dread the moment when exhaustion will overcome me.

The only way to access the floating necropolis is to use some scrolls empowered with dark magic, which are in the possession of the high priests of En’kilah. This is the information Thassarian managed to wrest out of the captive lich, back at the ziggurat. I must admit I watched with great satisfaction how he used the phylactery recovered from the bottom of the lake to inflict terrible pain on the undead.

Somehow I am glad there is no time for introspection. Mind me, I, Merille Severinna Aylanes, will attempt to destroy a Scourge necropolis with the help of a very powerful and grim death knight, using information provided under torture by a lich.

Three scrolls, I remember myself. Their holders are to be found in the three towers that mark the north, east and west of En’kilah.

To my infinite luck, the Scourge are not smart. True, death knights and liches are Arthas’ most fearsome servants, cunning and ruthless. But the average undead is as spiritless as a rock and all that drives them forth to battle is the sheer will of extinction their master has imprinted upon them. I have learnt that first hand, despite certain theories very dear to Inquisitors, that the undead are to the last one agile minds able to infiltrate among the living. I could not cut my way through an organized defense, their numbers are too great. However, ghouls and abominations alike, they do not form any resistance and only come forward instinctively to crash against my sword, my battered armor.

Three scrolls and the eastern tower only meters away. An empty circle consecrated by the Light marks the place where I stand. Close enough. I start running.
My boots make a weird crunching sound on the frigid stone pavement as I climb the winding stairs inside. It feels oddly reassuring that there’s a certain pattern to all Scourge buildings – these towers do not look very much different from the ones I’ve been in, back in Terrordale.
Two more guards, this time cultists of the damned, dressed in long, dark robes and carrying intricately carved focus staffs. After the grim harvest outside, their flesh is nothing to the sharpness of my blade. A sound of broken bones as the sword’s edge hits the collarbone and one of the cultists folds down, blood spraying from the severed carotid. The second conjures forth a wave of shadow and for a brief second I feel pain. Him too falls, hands clenching uselessly around his middle, trying to stop his guts from spilling out. I shudder despite the rapture of Light. Such ugly wounds...

Forward, past another set of stairs and into a large, oval room. Dancing shadows fill every corner and a vileness that makes my hairs rise. The priest watches me, shock spreading over his elven features, as I come to stand in front of him, holding my blood dripping sword in both hands. A moment, before he starts chanting into the harsh language of the Scourge. This time I make a very clean cut, swinging the blade with my entire strength. The priest’s head rolls across the hall, surprise still written on his face, while the body takes one or two swaying steps in my direction and finally falls. Hot red drops land on my neck and forehead. The world tilts violently and my mouth tastes like bile as I bend to search the corpse for the scroll.

One down, two more to go. I start running again

It is not until three hours later that I meet Thassarian at the gates of En’kilah. He studies the scrolls with a frown and shakes his head, then points towards a slab of stone, some ten paces away.

“The teleportation device…” he mutters to himself and I follow, watching intently as he presses some marks onto the seemingly dull granite. It suddenly comes to life, glowing with a blue light. I go closer, yet Thassarian stops me. The strength of his grip feels even through the plate armguards I wear.

“I will not lie”, he says bluntly. “We may not come alive out of Naxxanar.”

Distantly I wonder whether technically a death knight could consider himself alive. My mind is playing games of late. No, I realize, it is my life which – he thinks – is at stake.
Sure, slaying half of the Scourge in the temple was a breeze. Did it even occur to him I might get pneumonia from diving into freezing cold water to recover the phylactery the day before?

“Let us do it”, I hear myself say. “It is now or never – and if I came so far I’m staying until the end.”

The ghost of a smile plays over Thassarian’s lips.
“Stay close”, he says as he walks onto the stone and – in the space of a breath, I take the same step too. A tingling and uncomfortable sensation washes over me - it is like being plucked apart fiber by fiber - then I hear again the death knight’s voice, urging me forward, up a narrow flight of stairs and on another teleporting stone. It feels a daunting effort just to breathe and for a couple of seconds I am not able of anything else. We must be standing atop the necropolis right now – a huge and surprisingly empty circle.

Suddenly, the air in front of us shimmers and two forms appear on two opposing sides of the platform. One is the bulky form of a man I’ve seen back in Valiance Keep, Councilor Talbot. The other one…

Blood seems to go cold all of a sudden in my veins. It is not a man in flesh and bones, only a magical projection, but even so panic starts clawing at my throat. Dark, wicked metal covers his body from head to feet and the blade he carries sparkles on its entire length with intricately carved runes. Evil radiates outwards – such corruption I have never felt before. My mind struggles to form a coherent thought, to put a name to that figure. From the depths of the spiked, frightening helmet, ice blue eyes watch impassively the human that advances towards him.
I’m sure they should see us any moment now, but we stand in the shadow, towards the edge of the circle and they are obviously not concerned about the possibility of intruders at this point.

Suddenly, Councilor Talbot’s frame shifts and becomes taller and slimmer. I gape at the elf that bends his knee in front of the dark projection.

“My liege, the infiltration and control of the Alliance power structure by our cultists is well underway.”

“Your progress in this region has been impressive, Blood Prince Valannar.” That voice stirs every last atom of my being. I sense it in my skull, strong and compelling – and I remember it, haunting my nightmares, those terrible days before the fall of Havenshire and Tyr’s Hand. “I am pleased...”

“Please allow me to show you some proof of the influence over human minds I have been granted by the power you bestowed upon me.”

Another faint shimmering in the air and two more silhouettes, a man and a woman appear by his side. They move as in a trance, their steps slow and faltering. The man I recognize to be general Arlos, the very commander of the Alliance forces in Valiance Keep. The woman looks young, with long, black hair…

“Leryssa!”

Thassarian’s shout makes the air vibrate all around us and he runs forward, into the open. So much for not being noticed. The thought crosses my mind, then vanishes. I cannot focus on anything else but the way in which the hilt of the sword feels in my clenched fist. Light, grant me strength in this time of need, you are my shield and my refuge...

“What have you done to my sister, you motherless elf scum!?”

The dark, towering silhouette of the Lich King - realization numbs my senses – turns slowly around. It’s just a projection, I keep telling myself, but it does not help. Surely those blue eyes can cut through the very core of my soul and see the fear that boils there.
“Now this is a surprise, Thassarian.”, he rumbles. “I hadn't heard from Mograine or the other deathknights for months. You've come to rejoin the Scourge, I take it?”

“I would sooner slit my own throat.”, Thassarian yells back. “You will pay for what you did to your own men, Arthas... for what you did to me! I swear it.”

Light, grant me the courage to be silent that I may hear your voice; to persevere, that I may share your victory; and to remember, lest I forget the way by which you have led me…

“Allow me to take care of the intruders, lord. I will feed their entrails to the maggots.”
The Blood prince smiles pleasantly, as if he would find the prospect very entertaining. That smile alone suffices to send shivers down my spine.

“Do not fail me, San'layn.”, the Lich King says dismissively. His image dims and flickers. “Return to Icecrown with this fool's head or do not bother to return at all.”

A magical shield springs up around the Blood Prince at the very moment Thassarian charges into him, with a roar and a naked blade in each hand. I must be screaming something too on top of my lungs as I join him. Such stupid thing to do in battle, wasting your breath.

I fight instinctively, doging bolts of shadow magic and rains of fire. Thassarian yells at me, trying to cover the defening sound of battle. I cannot make out his words. A strange, purplish light suddenly darts from prince Vaalanar’s hands, as I bring down my sword with my entire might upon his shield.

The blow makes my ribs crack and squeezes all breath out of my lungs. It burns. Knees fold under my weight and I collapse, vaguely expecting to see blood spraying out of my severed torso. Oddly there is none. I gasp uselessy for the tiniest shred of air then mercifully darkness closes over me.

Chapter 7: Last rites (2)

I wake up trembling. Cold seems to have permeated me to the bone and my teeth chatter uncontrollably as I stretch, trying to set the blood in my veins into motion again.

“Thud. Thud.”

I have never been more aware of the rhythm in which my heart beats.

“Thud.”

Slanting rays of light dot the stone floor on which I have slept. It couldn’t have been more than a couple hours and it has been hardly resting at all, but I have been so exhausted I was not able to hold my eyes open. I look around, still dazed as I scramble upright.

“Ready for business?” The voice sends chills down my spine. It has an odd, metallic sound to it, a deep note and a shrill overlapping tone. Blue orbs fix me impassible in an expressionless face. It is freezing in here, fresh snow piling outside the ziggurat, but this presence would feel the same under a glorious summer sun.

I wonder how I was able to sleep even the little I did, knowing him so close…My back aches and so does my head. The space around is mostly empty, a stone hall filled with strange looking devices. A magical force field encircles a corner of the room and the skeletal, floating form of an undead being. A lich. Out of all Scourge, there is nothing more cunning, more ruthless than a lich – hard to imagine a being of such power trapped.

My stomach churns at the sight. I keep telling myself it has nothing to do with the ghoul intently studying me from across the hall. His master does not pay more attention to it than to a harmless pet. The stench of rot wafts heavily in the air.

Light, what am I doing here? As I try to stand, nausea suddenly reminds me I haven’t eaten anything for more than a day but had been doing a lot of other things meanwhile. Like recovering a phylactery from the bottom of a fucking freezing lake and fending off abominations around the ziggurat for bloody long hours. I bite my tongue at the language, but it is all in my head. No need for penance here. Not anymore.

My stomach growls loudly and the man standing at ease laughs. It sounds even worse than his voice. Try as I might, I cannot repress a shudder.

I’m not going to bite you” he says calmly, “so stop looking at me like that. We have work to do still, and you agreed to help.”

The reminder is welcome. I was just asking my self again why.

“Do you have anything to eat? ”he continues levelly. “You certainly seem to need it.”

I wrinkle my nose at the question. I have bought some food in the tuskarr village. Obviously, fish.

“I do”, I nod curtly. It’s hard to reconcile my mixed feelings into one coherent attitude. Oh yes, I have found Leryssa’s brother, Thassarian…

I should be trying to stab him through the heart right now. I hate all he embodies – a tool of the Scourge, a soul that willingly gave himself to the evil of the Lich King. He’d make short work of me though. A death knight is the most formidable opponent one could conceive.

I have heard about these redeemed death kinghts joining the fight against the Scourge. Yet, how real is their motivation? Can they be trusted? And how far?

When in doubt, kill them all¸ the High Inquisitor Isilien used to say. Better to perish an innocent than to let the evil of the Scourge spread.

Thassarian’s ice blue eyes in a face prematurely aged study me with a strange interest, as if I were an unknown species of insect. Something he may crush under his plated boot, without intention – and without remorse.

Hatred for what he is burns in my veins. Too many lies…I hear Taelan say. Yes, it’s just in my mind. All of a sudden I feel like chuckling. Maybe I am finally going insane.

Thassarian seems to think we two can bring down the necropolis looming above the ziggurat we’re hiding in. Vaguely, I remember agreeing to help. I must have been dead tired last night.

With numb fingers, I rummage in my bag for the package of food. It’s hard to say what is more permeating: the odor of fish or the smell of undeath. A rasping sound starts me – and it takes a moment until I realize it is my own laughter.
Well, some more dried salmon is definitely not the thing that might kill me today.

Chapter 6: Last rites (1)

Valiance Keep, the 14 day of the fourth month since the burning of Havenshire


“Can I bother you for a second?”

Whirling around, Severinna took the black haired woman in one long gaze. She held a tray with a steaming bowl of stew, loaves of fresh bread and a mug of ale and gestured towards a nearby table. The smell of food reminded her how hungry she was – after delivering the letters to the commander of the keep. She had been heading towards the soldier quarters where she had been assigned a place for the night, when a man outside the inn had asked her to enter for a second and speak to a woman who was waiting for her.
“You wanted to see me?”

The woman measured her from head to feet, then sighed. She wasn’t really that young, Severinna thought, maybe thirty or even more, so close, lines were visible in her face, lines of worry and sadness.

“Yes, please excuse me. It will only take a moment, but I have brought you some lunch.” The woman gestured again with the tray. “You must be hungry, you have come a long way.”

Still wary, Sev acknowledged her words and the woman led her towards the table and set the tray down in front of her, then let herself fall on one of the chairs. The common room was almost empty – another hour or two till midday. She could barely refrain herself from devouring the stew. The Tuskarr were a nice people and she herself not picky on her food, but traveling with them for two whole weeks made anything not fish very appetizing.

“I will be brief”, the woman said. “I have asked other people for help until now, but everyone just turned me down. I heard you came from the west and I thought you might be willing to aid me. If you don’t, I will not bother you further. But please, listen to my story…”

The grief in the woman’s voice made Sev frown. She paused with the spoon mid air and tried to look encouraging. Light, she felt so tired. All she truly wanted was lay down and sleep. For a couple of days.

“My name is Leryssa. I don’t have any family left, only a brother, Thassarian. A couple of years ago he enrolled to fight in the Plaguelands, against the Scourge. I have not heard anything from him since…only a letter received from an Argent Dawn officer, telling me he had been missing in action…presumably dead.”

“I’m sorry”, Sev said quietly. She put down the spoon and crossed her hands over the tabletop, watching her.

“Well…” The woman smiled bitterly. “Then, some two months ago, a friend of mine, William Allerton, has send word that my brother has enlisted here, in Valiance Keep, on the same day he did. I sold everything I had and came as fast as I could. He’s my only relative, you see…The only one I still have in the world…If there might be a chance he’s still alive… But nobody would talk to me about it. I have requested countless audiences with the military commanders of this place…to tell me at least where they have sent him…and all in vain…! William’s stationed outside of the keep, in a place called Farshire, and I cannot reach him” She shrugged. “ I suppose my petitions never reached them…the bureaucracy here is horrible. You have arrived today and have been received to the commander. Maybe you could help me…I just want to find out where my brother is. I would go myself in his search, but I am only a civilian and kept out of most of the base…”

Sev averted her eyes, as the woman started to shake with silent sobs. It is Light’s will to serve as shield and sword for those in need, for those that cannot defend themselves. This is the true meaning of compassion and righteousness – to serve the Light in those that most need its help.

“I’ll try”, she offered. “I don’t know of how much use I can be…I’m a stranger here myself…but I’ll do whatever I can.”

“Thank you.” Tears finally started running down Leryssa’s cheeks, but she smiled as she wept. “ I doubt I will ever be able to repay you…but all I have is yours…”

“I don’t want your money”. Sev shook her head, irritated at the thought. “Lunch will be more than fair pay.” She smiled back at the woman, picking up her spoon, to prove her words. It will not mean too much a delay after all, just doing a few enquiries here and there. Leryssa was right, being at least able to pretend she was one of the military might open her some doors. She would find out what she could, then be on her way to Dragonblight. Her fingers grazed instinctively over the chest plate, touching the place where the small mark rested, the blood red “L”, and she bit her lips thoughtfully at the echo in her mind.

Nobody can take the Light from you.

---------------------------

Three days later I am still around Valiance Keep trying to honor the promise I’ve made to Leryssa. Every time I seem to untangle one of the threads leading to her brother, I end up even further from the truth than before.
I set out to find William Allerton. Farshire is a settlement on the shores of the ocean, not far from Valiance Keep. It was a peaceful village, inhabited by farmers, until a couple of weeks before, since undead started spreading all over the place. Most of the inhabitants have fled to the keep. The few that remain live under constant siege, having to fight back the rotting dead from their very door step.
Their simple courage impressed me. I found here, on the other edge of Northrend, the same determination as back in Valgarde. These people have left the old world to make a living here in the harsh north. They know their support is important for the armed offensive and now, that they have a foothold on this land, they don’t intend to leave so easily.

William Allerton has been stationed here with a contingent of Alliance troops, guarding the Farshire mine - a vital resource. But the mine had been overcome with undead and no one was able to check whether any of the soldiers are still alive. They are peasants after all and already do more than is expected of them. I sighed and headed towards the mine – after all these years, no amount of Scourge scares me so easily.

I didn’t hope to find survivors and there weren’t any. Some of the dead soldiers had already been turned – and these, the Light willing, I was able to dispatch - others lay decomposing in the damp tunnels. I had brought torches and burned as many bodies as I could, as I made my way towards the end of the mine, coughing from all the acrid smoke. William Allerton was the last corpse I found. He had defended himself bravely, but had been eventually overrun by the undead. I searched his possessions thoroughly, yet all I found was an enlistment card. I took it anyway, said a prayer for the fallen and returned to Farshire, to break the news.

As expected, Leryssa was rather shocked by my discovery. However, she took it quite well and produced an army recruitment ledger I did not dare ask how she had come by. We searched the ledger – assuming that her brother and the late William Allerton had been close to each other in the enlistment line – and eventually found his name. He had been assigned to unit “S”, but that didn’t tell us much, not with all the other recruit units named after the town of origin. There was for example the Southshore corps and the Westfall Militia deployed far north in the Grizzly Hills, but none of us could figure what “S” stood for.

Leryssa, however, is a resourceful woman. Back in Stormwind, she ran an inn, so she knows whom and when and how to ask…The innkeeper here sent us to an old veteran, now retired, who spends his day around the keep. The man has served in the army all his life and what he does not know about Valiance Keep operations may be fit in a tea spoon.

We had to turn the base upside down though, to produce a bottle of rare Kul Tiras wine, which was the only think that would convince old man Colburn to share his “wisdom” with us.

I would find all this detective work amusing, and even relaxing, if it didn’t deter me from reaching my destination. Yet I have promised, and that is why the third day found me in the basements of the keep, where the prison cells are. Leryssa bribed the guards to let me pass – a necessary annoyance. I disagree with this kind of means, but even I must admit it greatly sped up the process.
The man I am looking for is a deserter – someone who has been assigned to the same unit as Thassarian, Leryssa’s brother. It doesn’t take much for him to spill out his story, nothing fancy in truth. He says the mission Thassarian has been put in charge of was pure suicide, and that him and the rest of the unit have gone west, to launch an attack on the Scourge forces in the area.

After three more or less fruitful days, at least this information is something to begin with. The deserter cackles when I thank him for the news. He truly believes mine is a “fool’s errand.” I let him meditate some more on his choices as I head to Leryssa and share what I have just found out. Going west suits me just fine, since I’ll be closer to Dragonblight. I will send her news if I will succeed in finding at least a trace of her brother.

There’s something about this story that bothers me, like a small thorn nestled in the back of my head. I can’t tell why. I just feel it, as I leave Valiance Keep, heading into the seemingly endless expanse of rugged grass and malformed trees that is Borean Tundra. The harsh winds of the frozen sea have swept over the land, molding it to an uneventful rocky plain.
Flocks of some huge animals I remember seeing once at a Darkmoon Faire wander around, feeding on the scarce fodder and tundra birds fill the air with their chirping.

The wind slashes coldly against my cheeks as I ride and attempts to untie my hair. Loose strands whip around my forehead – I have already given up trying to keep up the hooded cloak. It is somewhat exhilarating and I find myself laughing out loud.

My destination is the tuskarr settlement of Kaskala. From there, I hope to secure passage to wherever the “S” unit has been sent. Another couple of days at most, and I will be on my way. It is odd to think the wandering may come to an end – that I might just find “home” again.

I don’t believe it. My mind cannot grasp yet the horrible amount of truth that is creeping up on its edges – but it has become more and more difficult to ignore it either. Back there, in Hearthglen, daily routine swallowed any attempts at thinking too much. There would be the morning prayers, the sword exercises, the patrols, the evening prayers and sometimes even the midnight prayers. And the penance, of course. No one was as pure as they should, so spiritual atonement was requested, and ever so often physical mortification as well.
But now, looking back, I see the unnecessary amount of blood spilled. Innocents dead, people tortured to confess they worked for the Scourge. People tortured to prove they were not Scourge. Inquisitor Isilien’s precepts. High General Abbendis’ revelations…her belief the Light was talking to her. The preparations to sail north with a handful of followers – her chosen ones. Few of us knew the whole truth until the end.

I shiver and it is not only the wind. Laughter dies. Suddenly I feel lonely, in this quiet immensity of land.
I spur my horse southwards, towards the sea.

The day is not over yet as I arive in the tuskarr settlement of Unu’pe. It’s a fisherman village, with nets and fishing poles everywhere and a couple of children running among them. The tuskarr are strange but friendly beings, and their accent is the funniest I’ve ever heard. Their elder, Ataika, is swift to point me in the desired direction. Unit “S” is camped just over the hill, in a place they named “Death’s Stand”, and the man I’m looking for is definitely there.

“Be wary”, the elder warns me, shaking his head. “He bore the mark of Karkut... he who watches over the dead.”
Great, I think, unable not to notice the pleasant amount of references to death that surround me. I thank Ataika and start in the direction he had indicated, leading my horse by the reins – the coast is too steep and covered in snow to be able to ride.
I wish I didn’t have this eerie yet clear idea that something is wrong…

Chapter 5: And let me not be blind when you show me the way

“Child.”

I start and stop ashamed, halfway towards gripping my sword, which lays within reach. It’s a reflex that says a lot of me lately.
My things are on the bed in an orderly pile, ready to be stuffed into the saddlebags. Not much really, just three spare shirts, leggings and a clean coat. A couple of books and a small pouch with ointments and bandages.

The man leaning against the door frame wears the plain clothing of a cleric, yet something in his posture speaks otherwise, of someone used to carrying weapons. He frowns, and I feel as if his blue eyes weight me thoroughly, plucking every last fiber of my soul for careful inspection.

“I see you are preparing to leave.”

“I have to…” I finally dare to meet his eyes and memory stings sharply, to the very core of my being.

“You have made friends here. They are going north, towards Westwind Garrison. Vrykul attacks are worse in that area…”

“I cannot…” I wish I could bring myself to form full sentences. But it takes all my strength of will just to hold his gaze. Friends. We are alone and we die alone and the fight against the Scourge is all we have. I don’t want it to be like this, not really.

“You’ll be heading into Dragonblight, I suppose…”

I nod, reluctantly. It’s all I can do not to flinch under his intense scrutiny. He shakes his head in dismay.

“Haven’t you had enough of that madness? You’ve shown courage and great strength in the Light…why waste it so?”

Suddenly I find myself gaping – how could he know for sure? – then my fingers find instinctively that spot above my heart where I have been marked.

“At least you would not object at doing me a favor, child. I have messages that need to be delivered in Valiance Keep as soon as possible. I planned to send a courier, but you’ll do just fine. There’s a small settlement of natives, the Tuskarr to the east of the fjord…We have established good terms with them so you will be able to secure passage to another one of their ports, along the coast of Dragonblight, and from there to Borean Tundra.”

I have only met this man twice before, and he certainly does not know it….just another face in the crowd… But I remember wanting to be like him, a hero out of legend, even more so than Lord Uther the Lightbringer who to this day is revered as a saint. I know many other things about him…and he doesn’t know this either. Those blue eyes, so much like his son’s, are still measuring me… and then something snaps inside of me and unexpectedly I find myself fighting anguished sobs.

“Taelan was my friend”. It is not a lie. He was maybe the only friend I have ever had. And the same as me, all he wanted was to be like his father – even if he had grown up in his absence, believing him dead, as some many others did.

I blink back tears, recalling all those evenings me and Taelan have spent together walking along the walls of Mardenholde Keep.
Now he has understood too, but he does not ask for answers. Suddenly he’s holding me tightly and stroking my hair. I don’t know how he could have moved so fast and I cannot see his expression, but he shivers badly, almost as much as I do.
His son’s death is a wound that would never heal in this man’s soul. I can only guess he holds himself responsible for it…yet he had somehow found the strength to go on when honor was everything that was left to him. I will too. I must. I will not fail.

“Go”, he says after a while. “Go to New Hearthglen if you have to, child. I will pray for you to see the truth before it is too late.”

I know the truth, deep in my heart. Taelan did too. But I cannot prevent myself from going back, like a mote driven inexorably towards the flame. I am too afraid to accept change…and the fact that I am aware of it scares me even worse.

He lifts my chin so that he can look into my eyes and my knees melt…It’s different from Taelan’s gaze, and it does not give me those strange butterflies in the stomach – yet it helds the same shattering intensity.

“Just remember one thing. No one can take the Light away from you.”

And with that he leaves me, with a stack of letters I am supposed to carry over to Valiance Keep – and a small pouch, filled with coins. I believe he considers me smart enough to find the way to Borean Tundra on my own, provided the means I sit on the bed, still shaken and tears flow down my cheeks, maybe for the first time since my only friend died. I could watch Havenshire burn without weeping, but now I cannot stop. Something tickles at the back of my mind – a memory of words spoken times before by people who have died in their name.

Esarus thar no Darador. By blood and honor we serve.

“I know, Lord Fordring”, I whisper to the closed door, the empty walls of the room.
I look at my hands – they have held the Ashbringer and the Light did not strike me down for daring to call upon its powers. Well, not really. I am not strong enough to wield it and even the Light can burn one unworthy to act as vessel for such great a force.

Through tears, I cannot stop wondering whether my prayers have been finally answered. Maybe - just maybe - this is the sign I have been hoping for...

I start packing again.

Chapter 4: The shining Light (2)

Mind numbing pain fills the darkness beyond my eyelids in crimson red. My body reacts to it, writhing in agony, but I drift where it cannot touch me.

“She will recover”, the slurring voice says again as a dripping wet cloth is gently placed on my forehead. “She is greatly weakened though”.
Someone is holding me. I struggle to open my eyes and see.

“Light.Will.Protect.You.”

Kelen’s almost desperate protests die somewhere back as I climb down the stairs and into the swarm of undead. It is a sight of nightmare – an endless hall filled with horrible, broken bodies raggedly moving…Their evil seeps into the ground, into the air. I can barely breathe.
“Light, I humbly pray you so to guide and govern me…”
My steps echo hollowly on the paving stones. Soon there will be no return. Fear grips at my throat with a thousand frozen fingers. This is madness.
“…that I may never forget you, in the darkest moments of my life…”
“Sev, come back! Sev!”
I run.
“so I may remember that I am ever walking in your sight…”
The undead stir, aware of my presence. The hall is endless, and all I can see is rotting flesh , hollow eye sockets…
Panic wants to take over. I will have faith.
Light springs around me, shielding my body as I charge into the mass of undead. Awful growls burst from all sides – and a sound of something sizzling and burning away. My senses dim in the rapture of Light and my steps do not falter. I can see it now. It’s a sword, lying in ankle deep water. It sparkles. It glows with the Light as my hands do. I run towards it, splashing and panting. My fingers close in its hilt – it feels heavy when I lift it. Merciless claws tear at the air – tear at me, but they fail to touch even the plate I wear. The undead growl and writhe, their numbers seemingly infinite as they throw themselves at me, feeling their pray might escape.
Light fills me, drowns all sound, all thought. It fills me and courses through the blade, an endless flow, like lightning striking into the undead. They burn. It burns. I hear my voice, coming from far off, beyond consciousness. I think I scream as I climb the stairs, fratically staggering into Kelen’s arms…
Light, it hurts…


I open my eyes to the sun-streaked ceiling of a tent. I lay on my back, a warm blanket covering me to the neck. My body feels light, as if I could fly any moment now.
“Fight with honor. Always. Honor.”

Maeglin smiles down at me. There is some expression in his unreadable elven features.

“Blessed are those that are pure and walk in the way of Light.”

I smile back.

Chapter 3 : The shining Light (1)

It hurts.

The pain seems to be nestled deep inside my spine and radiates outwards with every breath I take. I fight to open my eyes, but it feels too daunting an effort. The darkness streaked with golden behind my closed lids is comforting and so are the hands gently stroking my hair.

“Put her there, on the blankets. Hurry, hurry…!”

The voice sounds worried. I’m too tired to care.

“The sword…” someone else says. “We have recovered it, milord! We…”

“To hell with the sword!” It’s another voice, deep and rumbling. A part of me recognizes it, even if it’s been a very long time since I heard it last. It’s nothing rational. I just know, in the distant way you sometimes recall the dimmest memories of childhood. “So many good men have died to redeem this blade. I should have been the one to carry it. It was my responsibility! Mine!”

Light, it hurts.

“She’ll be fine”. This voice is soft and a bit slurring. I feel a tingle –it’s like an electrical current crossing my body and I arch, my muscles contracting painfully.

Memory swirls in tight circles. I float.

The catacombs under Utgarde are huge and unexpectedly dry. It smells like damp stone, but there is no trickling of water. Our party has come to that place while tracing the missing dwarven expedition – what remains of it anyway, we have already found two mangled bodies back in the Vrykul village.

“Maybe we should just go back?” one of my companions offers in a tight voice.

The dwarves, Noro and Nara are brother and sister – and quite unexperienced, both of them, despite the fact they’re armed through their teeth. Kelen is the man I met on my first day here. He talks a lot and mostly nonsense, yet I suspect it’s just a mask he’s too used to wearing. He has the air of a shady dealer – I’ve encountered his likes before.
Aelynos has been a student of magic in Stormwind – the two of them have met on the boat and befriended each other, though I have never seen men more different. Finally, Maeglin. He sailed all the way from Kalimdor and it’s hard to guess why did he choose to enroll in this fight. His race usually keep away from mortal struggles. Maybe they had their own taste of the Scourge and found it unpleasant. I wonder whether they have tried to acknowledge my motivations as well…

Somehow they settled to let me lead. I have a little more experience than them in matters of war, but I feel uncomfortable ordering people around. At least I hope not to get them into trouble. Not more than we are all in already, at any rate.

“I heard something”, Kelen says. He is virtually on his toes, peering along a side corridor. Echoes answer, no matter how quietly he has spoken.

“It’s nothing”, Aelynos whispers hopefully. Kelen watches me interrogatively, and so does Maeglin, even though he has to cock his head to one side to look at my face – he towers over me head and shoulders and more. Aelynos swallows hard and the dwarves look uncomfortable as I nod.

Our steps seem thunders as we cross the hall and start down the corridor. I push them hard, a moment of hesitation and Aelynos is going to break down on me, Nara maybe as well. Kelen looks wary, but nothing more. Maeglin is impenetrable.

It is too quiet. After having to fight our way to the catacombs, this silence weights on my mind like a heavy stone.

Kelen touches my arm, gently, so as not to scare me. I start anyway, breath catching in my throat. The corridor is a dead end. Tall niches, decorated with wood carvings surround a slab of stone which closely resembles an altar. A man lays on it, eagle spread. His arms and legs have been bound to the stone with metal chains, which now hang loose along the sides. He is obviously in no condition to run anywhere.

It has the odd air of a pagan sacrifice, something I would rather expect to see in the murky depths inhabited by the Cult of the Damned. Wounds slash the man’s body, most of them covered in grime and blood, some definitely infected. He lives still, yet his breath is shallow and pained.

Four sets of eyes fix me with hope.

My skill with the Light is not so strong. I cannot heal him. Not such wounds.

“I’ll try”, Maeglin suddenly says. Now we all look at him, as he moves towards the stone altar and places a gentle hand on the young man’s chest. His face remains unreadable as he closes his eyes, in concentration. A green, warm light springs under his fingers, expands to wrap the man’s body like a cocoon. He opens his eyes, suddenly, and gasps for air.

“It is beyond my skill” Maeglin whispers. The light fades, the man gasps once more.

“The Light…The artifact…Barely wrested it from the forces of Naxxramas. So many perished…in the wake of its redemption…” His voice is low, barely a ragged whisper. His gaze takes us all in, unseeing. “There is still a chance... still time. It was hurled into the den of the fallen, far below us... Guarded by the unmerciful dead…” A shudder runs through his body and he fights for breath. “Please, you must…recover it...”

He slumps back onto the stone, unmoving. For a moment it is silence. We watch each other – then suddenly Kelen breaks from us and starts towards the fork in the corridor.

Noro runs after him, and his sister follows. He wants to inspect the terrain and we can do nothing else but wait. I will not risk all our lives on a dying man’s words. I will…not…

Maeglin avoids looking at me. He leans against the wall, closing his eyes, wrapping himself in silence like a protective shell. Aelynos hugs himself, taking in short, gulping breaths. His teeth chatter, but he remains quiet. The place is unnerving, I can feel it too. But I have seen worse in my life. Far worse than this.

“It’s terrible.”

Kelen’s voice has me starting again, my sword at the ready. He steps as light as a cat, on padded feet.

“Undead”, he breathed. “Undead as far as I could see, in the catacombs below us. There’s no way to cut a path through them…we would be torn into pieces in seconds.”

“Please”, the man on the stone slab whispers. He looks on the very brink of death, eyes sunken, his skin gray where it is not covered in blood. A weak hand claws the air almost desperately – and latches onto mine with unexpected strength.

“Please…You must not…allow it…to fall…to the Scourge…Not…again…”

Those cold fingers try to pry their way to my bones. I grip his hand back, in a vain attempt to comfort. “Don’t be afraid.” He must be suffering a lot, but somehow his face is…serene. “Light. Will. Protect. You.”

Interlude - For the worst may yet come

“The prince has completely lost his mind out there in the North. He killed his own father upon return and proclaimed himself King of Lordaeron.. His whereabouts are not known at the moment, but the kingdom has fallen to anarchy.”

She had gotten used to such reports coming from the Southern borders with Lordaeron, Niniel Ain’Ethil thought wryly. She ran the best information network there had ever been in Ouel’Thalas – the main reason why she had not been put out of the Ranger Corps years before, for indiscipline.
In truth, it was not very hard to be charged for such under Sylvanas Windrunner’s command. The woman did not accept the meekest protest…the humblest comment to her orders…

“Eirean…”

She had hoped he didn’t know, yet. The Convocation of Silvermoon decided to keep the news secret, at least until they knew whether there was any danger aimed at themselves.
But with his father a high ranking Magister, it was a foolishness to believe Eireannan wasn’t among the first to find out.

“Eirean. Look at me!”

He did. Emerald eyes as cold as winter’s heart met hers and Niniel shuddered.

She wanted to extend her hand and touch him, hold him, tell him it was all going to be just fine. Tell her that she loved him and his pain hurt her to the bone.
Dusk bathed the Sunspire gardens in crimson light, painting a healthy shade on Eireannan’s face – one Niniel knew very well was not there. He averted his eyes and she finally exhaled. That gaze mad it hard to breathe.

“I should have gone with him”, Eireannan said wearily. His voice was distant, emotionless. At least he didn’t lay numb, staring beyond her as if she were a wall.

“He was always so easily…angered…too rash and careless but…this…Light, this is…”

“You could have done nothing”, Niniel said softly.

He gazed at his hands, examining them carefully, as if expecting to see stains no one else would be able to notice.
With a sigh, Niniel tried to look elsewhere, at the statues lining the gardens, white marble glimmering faintly in the sunset light.

“The Ranger General has ordered us to prepare to march for the borderlands. No one can say if there is danger yet, but she’d rather be prepared.”

“I should have gone with him to Northrend…” he repeated, quietly, oblivious to her words. Niniel gave him a worried frown, but Eireannan didn’t see it. “I abandoned him. I abandoned the Light and everyone I cared for… ”

“I’m still here, Eirean…” And I love you.

He didn’t seem to hear. She wondered whether he was in his right mind anymore. He would sit for days glaring at the ceiling – then suddenly bury himself into the library, frantically reading…

“Captain Ain’Ethil!”

She jumped to her feet in a second, standing to attention almost instinctively. Only two steps away, Sylvanas Windrunner gave them a strange look, the corners of her mouth twisting vaguely in a bitter smile.

“You are supposed to look over the preparations for departure, not do idle talk.”

“Yes, my Lady!”

Her zeal made Eireannan frown. The relationship between the two women could have been at best described as tense, especially since…He couldn’t remember very well what…and he wasn’t sure he had to, either.

His gaze trailed after Niniel, a shadow of smile on his lips, then returned to Sylvanas. She was tapping nervously her fingers against her thigh, another surprising thing for someone so composed as the Ranger General.

“We’re leaving in less than an hour” she said, slowly. “I though I should pass and say goodbye.” Her eyes became darker while she turned halfway to look after Niniel, as she strode away hurriedly but proudly, head held high. “Does she know?”

Eireannan gave her a blank stare. “What?”

He hadn’t obviously heard her last words.

“Never mind.” With a sigh, Sylvanas Windrunner brushed a strand of hair behind her ear and smiled weakly. She was wearing the uniform of the Rangers, all blue and sparkling gold thread, her hair braided to the back with a matching length of silk.
Light, Eireannan looked bad. Tired and grim and absent, he had been so ever since he returned from Loraderon…She shivered. Not too much like the young man she had grown to care for. Her friend. Maybe her only true friend.

Did he even hear whatever they told him these days? It seemed no.

But then, to her surprise, Eireannan was on his feet as well and looking down on her.

“Then it means I have less than an hour to pack up…”

“What…! Anor’alah belore…!” The frustrated sound she gave made two passers by just turn their heads and stare at them. “ You are not going anywhere! Besides, it’s only routine. It’s safer to keep an eye on the borders, but that is all…what happens in Lordaeron is of no concern to us… A walk in the woods…nothing to worry about…”

“Do I look worried to you?” he snapped. “If it’s just a walk in the woods I’ll bring a picnic basket. But I’m not staying idle here while you two go out there! You have no idea what to expect, believe me!”
“You need rest and to take your mind off what had happened”. She blinked annoyed at the way in which she didn’t manage to order him around as she did with everyone else.

“I’ve very been concerned by your state of mind of late…You scare your father, and Niniel…and me.”

He smiled wryly. It was his old smile, but looked chilling with those death cold eyes.

“I am fine. As fine as I’ll get to be. And you may yet find this trekk in the Borderlands to be much more than you’ve asked for…”

His tone was sharp, without even a trace of the soft formality he used with her, even when they were alone. She opened her mouth to say something, then shut it back, pursing her lips. By the Sunwell, she was the Ranger General of Quel’Thalas and she was not letting herself goaded into a fight with him. Not in his current state, at any rate.

“That’s better”, Eireannan muttered as he stepped by her, without even seeming to notice her anger. Sylvanas started again to say something and again the words didn’t come out. “I’ll make ready in half an hour, then.”
And with that he whirled out of sight, letting her boil in her own steaming fury.

Chapter 2: Valgarde (2) - Changes

~ Valgarde,the 26th day of the third month since the burning of Havenshire

I am a recruit, again.

I have expected snow and blizzards, but at this time of the year the southern parts of Northrend are covered in green. The air is cool, and the sun does not burn as heavily as elsewhere, but there are pickets of evergreens and oaks, fields of oats and maize as far as the eye can see. Farms are tightly packed together around Valgarde, so that their people can run to the safety of the walls should the need arise.

These are hard people, used to hold both the sickle and the sword, soldiers turned into farmers and into soldiers again. They do not complain about their fate, but cherish the memory of “home”… forested hills rolling under the deep blue sky of Tirisfal…the golden plains of Andorhal… the glorious cathedrals of Stratholme shining into the sun…

I cannot tell them what our land has become.

After five weeks of lurching on a boat in the immensity of the frozen sea, this expanse of solid ground managed to lift my spirits. I have been swiftly assigned to a recruits unit and given a tiny place in the barracks. I did not intend to remain for too long here, but I have nowhere else to go, no other allegiance. It’s hard to keep the emptiness I feel at bay for too long.

Valgarde came under attack soon after our ship had docked. The enemies have been repelled, but they might come yet again. A race of brutish giants – vrykul, as they call themselves – they have appeared seemingly out of nowhere some month ago. During their last foray, a week before, they took a number of prisoners – soldiers as well as civilians. Vice admiral Keller, who runs this operation, has sent scouts to investigate the situation and rescue the captives. However, most of them had been captured by the vrykul and given to a terrible fate – impaled and left do to die slowly, in terrible pain, in sight of Valgarde’s walls. My unit has been tasked with recovering the bodies and rescuing any survivors there may be. It’s a grim mission and people are muttering that they are risking their own lives for nothing.

I remember tree branches bent under their weight. I remember ropes and crows. I shut my eyes tight over those memories – they come back to me as through a haze and I deep inside I wonder why I had never noticed before…
I remember terror. I remember how strong it can be, even when you tread in the ways of Light…

Our enemies shouldn’t be allowed this…No, I will do what it takes.

I spent the whole evening polishing my armor. The breastplate is worn and dented, the symbols of Hope barely visible now, but still gives off sparks when catching the sunlight. I have been offered a new one, from the scarce supply of spare military equipment Valgarde has. However, I cannot make myself give up the familiar things that seem to have their own life under my fingers as I go through the evening ritual. The other men watch me warily – one or two, grizzled soldiers, nodded in understanding. There is no need to do it every day. I could slacken discipline, throw my things in a pile under the bed and no one would complain. Valgarde garrison doesn’t seem to have a lot of rules.

Yet it comforts me to respect even small parts of the old routine. They are the only think solid in a world that had changed beyond my imagination.


~ Light, I humbly offer you my prayers that you take me into your care and make me see the purpose you placed in my life. Guide me forever in your sight and do not let my steps falter, nor the strength of my arm fail in my faithful service to you.

Prologue: Into the Light

It happened in the fifth year of my training.

I had only been allowed home for the end of the week, to visit my family – rules for those aspiring to join the Silver Hand were quite harsh. Lessons and practice would stretch from morning till nightfall and I would usually sleep without dreams due to exhaustion.

The priest was dressed in white as he met me on the stairs of the house. I remember his face, good and warm, despite lines of age and worry. Maybe he had a feeling of what would come.

“I regret to tell it so…abruptly…but your father had passed away last night…”

It was impossible. Father had always been the healthiest of men. Despite working hard at the forge, sometimes out in the rain, he had not fallen ill once in his entire life. The door had remained open behind the priest and I could hear heart tearing cries from the inside. I recognized my mother and sister as they wailed, sobs mixed with incoherent words.

“May the Light have mercy of his soul and forever keep him in its glory”, I answered instinctively. I had had a long practice day with the sword, but only then did I truly become aware of the weariness in my limbs.

“There’s an epidemic in the city”, the priest continued quietly. “I cannot spend anymore time here…other people are maybe dying as we speak.” He placed a hand on my shoulder, in a reassuring way. “I trust you to give them some strength …Your father was a good man. I have no doubt he is happy now.”

I had heard about the epidemic, but I did not imagine for a second it was so bad. Or that it could touch me…or my family for that matter.

I couldn’t cry. The shock had been too great but faith steeled me. Whatever came had to be accepted in the name of Light, as just a test to measure if we were worthy of its blessings. My father had always thought so and I was not going to disappoint him. It took me some time though to calm my mother and sister, before we could sit down and think about more practical matters, such as the burial service.

I think they hated me then, because I was cool headed and able to accept what they could not. My father look odd laying on the bed, his expression contorted as if he had been in great pain to the end. I prayed that he was at peace, for whatever comes to our body must never touch our soul. The illness had started unexpectedly, mother told me…just the day before, after they had dinner.
None of them spoke of it, but I knew they were torn inside between grief and the worry that they might have caught the disease too…Haggard faces and red rimmed eyes followed me as I said the ritual prayers. They brought comfort to me, though I doubt to Mother and Lyssa as well. But they listened to me, and we set to the long night’s watch over the dead.

Then, sometime after dark, the bells started to toll. I cannot write the horror of what followed. The city burned that night, yet before the flames swallowed the place of damnation it had become, many souls had been lost to the shadow. I had not seen all of it and though some details are vivid in my mind, most of it comes from stories I’ve shared with other people who had witnessed the culling of Stratholme.
First rose the rumor that something bad was happening. People ran this way and the other, carrying bundles and crying children. Screams started to shatter the midnight silence – one or two at first, then more, rising from almost every house on our street. The city was under attack – by the very army sworn to protect it - no, there where hideous, powerful creatures rampaging the streets - no, the dead themselves had risen from their graves to judge the living…

While this seemed the most impossible explanation of all, I felt a stab of uneasiness through my heart. I knew I was not strong enough to protect my mother and sister, yet I fingered the hilt of my sword hard as I paced in the living room watching the blaze grow over rooftops, to the east and north… They where so shattered by my father’s death I doubted they could even think at that moment, and despite my being the youngest, the responsibility pressed on my shoulders as if it were wholly mine.

I was just pondering the idea of telling them to run – since the fires seemed to be moving closer and closer, somehow encircling our neighborhood, when suddenly I heard my mother scream. It was an awful sound, much worse than all the wailing she’d done before. A cry as if her chest was split open and her heart tore out while still beating. Me and my sister rushed into the bedroom where Father lay – to find him on his feet, a hand clenched around Mother’s throat, squeezing it hard.

We both cried as one, dashing forward to stop him. I cannot describe in words how it felt - he was dead, we knew he was dead, and yet he stood there, slowly killing our mother…his wife... We flung ourselves at him, trying to pry his fingers open, but somehow it was as if attempted to move a wall. His skin was cadaveric and felt cold to the touch – and there was an awful fixity in his eyes – cold, dead eyes that gazed at us without blinking, without seeing. I have many times since faced Scourge – looked into decomposing faces and blank malevolent eyes, but never after did I feel so much horror as with my father.

He broke mother’s neck as she was still gasping for air and let her fell – only to grab my sister’s arm and tear it from its socket. She screeched horribly as blood burst in a fountain, uselessly flailing with the remaining hand. I tried to reach her and I couldn’t. The world swayed around me. Lyssa screamed at me to run and she did so until her voice broke off…until, despite my futile attempts the…thing in my father’s body put her down and ripped open her throat.

“Hunger”, he growled. It was not his voice; nothing in that monster …reminded me of my good and righteous father. I remember clearly he started to tear Lyssa’s flesh off her bones, using his fingers like claws. Her screams still filled my ears, although they had ceased moments before. I can’t remember where that strength came from – maybe I prayed in my heart and the Light heard my desperate call…I took out the sword and drew it through his ribcage, as hard as my arms could push it. A gurgling sound answered…and he collapsed. Mother and Lyssa were already dead by that time. I couldn’t stand it anymore. I ran. I remember dashing out madly and running, without looking back, without pausing to draw my breath. I remember Stratholme burning and dead lying everywhere…some drowning in pools of their own blood, others like my father. I do not recall much afterwards.

Chapter 23: The truth comes crashing down (2)

Now throw those wings away/ The sky is so far from earth/Remember me my son/When light fades/Sometimes truth chains our dreams/And we are crushed by the burden of time/While our aimless life/Flows towards the dark/Hope/Lifelong hope/Cruel sad joke/Die by hope.
(Macbeth - Lifelong hope Lyrics)


Red pain flickered on the edges of Eireannan’s vision. Blood trickled steadily under his shirt, where Saidan Dathrothan’s blade had sliced across his ribs. He stumbled and faked he had stopped to look over his shoulder, searching for any signs of pursuit. Likely, no one had followed them. Chaos reigned over the Scarlet Bastion as they had made their escape.
Only a little more now. Light Hope’s chapel was just across the hill. And it was dawning. Suddenly he wanted to laugh.

They all looked worse for the wear, yet it was more than he could have expected under the circumstances. Garon and Tjolme both had cuts and bruises and breastplates significantly more battered than before. Haldan had taken some tumbles as well, though less than the rest – and now he was loaded with all the papers they had managed to salvage from the burning archives.

To his right, Lainné stopped constantly to peer around – for the same reasons as he did, Eireannan suspected. After such a fight it was a wonder she could stand.
He had stopped her almost forcefully from healing him as they had cut their way out of Stratholme. For once the woman had seen reason. His wounds were not truly life threatening, and she was ready to fall on her face from exhaustion, a risk none of them could afford.

He missed a step again and glanced sideways towards Lainné, hoping she hadn’t noticed. He was aware of the searing pain of the wounds in the distant, out of body way which came with long years of discipline. A corner of his mind told him he bled too much, but he shut it down, mercilessly. Bring them all to safety first. There would be time for mending wounds afterwards.

The landscape ahead seemed to blur in the morning light and he had to blink several times to clear his vision. What had he been thinking of before? Lainné. She deserved the truth and he had sworn to himself to tell it all, if they escaped from Stratholme…

“A gold coin for your thoughts”…

Lainné breathed hard but somehow she was smiling. No to him, to anyone in particular. That night hadn’t changed anything. He still ought to found a way to see her safely away. The Vale of Stranglethorn wasn’t far enough for that matter.

He grimaced.

“They aren’t worth a copper.” Eireannan paused thoughtfully. “I need to tell you something, though…” His boot caught the edge of a rock and he slipped. Lainné’s arms wrapped around his middle in the space of a breath, even if she was in no condition to support him. He gazed down at her – she wasn’t smiling anymore. Haggard eyes in a face much too pale fixed him with shattering intensity.
Light Hope’s chapel was just over that hill, really. Why did she look so worried? – no, on the brink of panic…why…

The world tilted violently. He wasn’t aware that he was falling. Not until his head connected hard to the rugged ground at any rate.
Light wavered…diminished…died…Darkness claimed him…

-------------------

The first thing Eireannan became aware of was warmth. Sweet, pleasant warmth wrapping him tightly, like a protective cocoon. Memory unfolded too fast for him to savor the feeling. He opened his eyes - and blinked, trying to adjust to the light of day that angled abruptly between the tent flaps. The hand he lifted to shield his face tangled instead in something silken. Lainné lay to his left side and she moaned as he moved, then shifted to look at him, dark eyes wide and glossy.

“Eirean”, she cried, before pressing her face hard against his shoulder, words lost in a whisper his ears couldn’t catch. His fingers instinctively stroked her hair, trying to put some reassurance into the gesture – he doubted he could speak in that very moment.

“Well, good morning, sleeping beauty…”

The sound of that ragged voice made him jump, halfway sitting before he could even look around. A swarm of angry locusts seemed to take flight inside his head and he pressed a palm against his forehead with a groan. Lainné clang to his side, worriedly, trying to push him back down on the blankets – but he struggled to sit, glancing from his own barely scarred hands to the man perched on a stool in front of the tent’s entrance.

“Can’t say I’ve been bored though…sister Mayhrin here and I talked a lot…about herbs, mostly…”

Lainne turned around, to look angrily at the man, as he rose from his stool and moved closer. He must have been at least eighty, with receding white hair and a lined face, yet he stood straight of back. The rasping voice continued, casually ignoring Lainne's glare and Eireannan's shock.

“And what do I hear? Saidan Dathrothan possessed by a dreadlord? That is a terrible blow for the crusade. Rotten from the inside, like an apple..." He chuckled. "This attempt was madness, though. Sheer madness...and yet no less than I expected of you..."

"Father Marcus", Eireannan breathed. Jolts of pain danced in his skull and he resolved to keep his head steady. It was hard to believe there where so many places in his body that could hurt.

“What where you trying to do, lad? Kill yourself? You’re lucky this young woman is so skilled. I wouldn’t have spared such effort on you, though. Morons deserve to die…!”

“You have no right to talk to me so”, Eireannan grated. Unluckily, he moved at the same time and the flashing pain that exploded in his head could have rivaled fireworks. He toppled forward, clutching his temples with both hands and making obvious efforts not to cry out.

“Just because you’re not my apprentice anymore, doesn’t mean I will not call you an idiot whenever you act like one…Be grateful there aren’t any floors to scrub around here…”

The words made Eireannan’s head come up despite the nauseating swirl inside his stomach. The little color he had regained drained from his face in the space of a moment.

“Father, don’t”. He sounded pleading, desperately so. The elder man snorted and waved away the words, sounding rather concerned than embarrassed.

“I’ve already told her the whole truth. Did you ever intend to?”

Slowly, he dared turn his head towards her. Lainné busied herself with smoothing unnecessarily the edges of the blanket. She didn’t seem angry, yet she didn’t look at him either.

“Lainné?”

No, no wound of the body could compare to the festering plague in his soul. At times he succeeded to ignore it...for an hour…for a day. The loss was always there, an awfully hollow spot in the back of his head, so much like the dull ache following an amputation.
He pushed the pain away, wrapping it into a tight bundle he could look at in a detached manner. A simple focus exercise he had learned during the first years of training. That pain was no longer his, yet still spanned his awareness, a mass of raw feelings too deep to be touched.

Panic seized him by the throat as he realized tears were streaming down his face. Hot white anger suddenly turned into a pitiful struggle to swallow the sobs that threatened to tear him apart. Lainné kept her face down, so he couldn’t see her expression, while the elderly priest watched him with a hint of compassion in the blue, sharp eyes. Finally he gave in and started to cry.