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.