Chapter 14: Riding across the Dragonblight (1)

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

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

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

“Hey, you there!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can vouch for her…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Darion”, Thassarian says softly yet reproachfully.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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