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The Knights of Lordaeron.
‘The Prince, the Prince has returned!’
And so the city exploded. The bells tolled, resounding throughout the winding streets of Lordaeron as the crowds rushed down the cobble-stone streets to see the spectacle. The throngs of people, hundreds upon hundreds strong, cheered and hollered deafening praise, and the sweeping streets were coated in a whirl of floating blood-red petals, which had been flitting through the air in celebration of young Arthas’ return. Amongst the crowd, however, under-scoring the deafening roar of jubilation, were whisperings of fear, of deeply-rooted suspicion.
‘But where has he been?’ hissed an elderly woman to her son,’ He left with hundred men months ago, and returns now with but a few!’
‘Silence mother,’ shot back her son, ‘you’ll get us in trouble with a tongue like that!’ The man lowered his voice slightly and added, ‘Especially with so many guardsmen about.’
A few metres above, standing above on one of the many watchtowers that sat neatly on top of Lordaeron’s towering battlements, Captain Alexander Redtricks silently watched the prince as he strode purposefully toward the keep, his face enshrouded in darkness beneath his cowl. Arthas seemed paler than normal, mused Red to himself, though with things as they were now, Red could hardly blame him; rare was the moment when a paladin wasn’t being called to a new front on a new battlefield. He’d been lucky to have pulled such a comfortable assignment, and certainly wasn’t going to start prophesising certain doom in such a time of celebration.
Even so, thought Red as he turned his attention toward Lordamere Lake, something felt wrong. The lake was still as the sun danced brilliantly across its surface, causing him to shield his eyes from the glistening reflection of the city.
‘Captain Redtricks, orders just came through sir!’ shouted a voice from below him. Red turned away from the lake, his train of thought broken, to see a young Guardsman beckoning him down to the street level.
Red hastened down the steps of the tower, scooping his Imperial Plate helmet off a rack en route. He was thankful for the narrow T-shaped visor of the helmet as he emerged from the muted gloom of the tower to the flaring sunlight outside. At least he wouldn’t be blinded. Red wormed his way awkwardly through the crowd; the prince’s return had been so unexpected that the crowd was clogging the city with little or no organisation, which only added to Red’s problems. The logistics of crowd control in a city as multi-layered and complicated as Lordaeron was difficult at best: streets were tight and winding, the only main streets already black with people. Were he going to get anywhere, he’d need a mount.
‘Sir, the Prince requests that you present yourself at the Keep when he arrives!’ shouted the guard into Red’s ear, in a desperate attempt to overcome the deafening noise in the background.
‘T-The Prince told you that? Are you quite certain?’ asked Redtricks, clearly shocked. Red was astounded that the Prince himself had asked for a Captain of the Guard to be at the end of a victory parade, especially if it require him to abandon his post during duty.
‘Yes sir,’ nodded the guard,’ every Officer of the watch has been asked to attend, immediately.’ The guard held up a signed set of orders, emblazoned with the Royal Seal.
Deep furrows blossomed on Redtricks’ brow. This was a strange, unexpected and not entirely welcome honour. The thought of abandoning his post was against every fibre of his being, but if it was an order from the Prince... surely it would be an honour. Redtricks shook his head, clearing his thoughts. At any rate, he would get nowhere dallying about here, especially if he was the only person to not show up.
‘Soldier, fetch me my steed.’
In spite of the flush of pride Dalian felt, Arthas looked changed somehow; as though youth had been lost from his eyes too. His face seemed to cling to shadow cast down by his black cowl, and his features seemed drawn by the rigours of warfare. Even more disquieting were the two shadowy figures flanking him, their faces drenched in shadow. Dalian banished his observations in an instant; it was not his place to question his superiors, especially the Prince. Any man who was deemed worthy enough to escort the Prince would have to be honourable at best. Dalian stood to attention and saluted as Arthas reached him.
‘Prince Arthas, your Father awaits.’ Aradin announced.
Arthas swept by without a word.
Aradin did his best to mask his shock as Arthas swept past. Alarmed thoughts began to race through his mind; had he done something wrong? Surely not; his men had been drilled to breaking point, and his men had been spectacular in their execution, so it couldn’t be for a lack of professionalism on his part. Arthas ploughed past the steady line of dignitaries that swarmed behind the Royal Guard, heedless of their sycophantic compliments. Though he held his honour guard stance, Aradin fists bunched tightly up in frustration once Arthas had disappeared inside the keep.
In truth, Aradin had been hoping one of Arthas’ men could tell him what happened to his own son later from one of Arthas’ men. Aradin’s only remaining son, Benedict, had gone to up north training under the tutelage of the renowned hero Sir Uther the Lightbringer, High Paladin of the Silver Hand. Uther was an old friend of Aradin’s from the time Aradin served with him in the Second War, and had sworn that Aradin’s last remaining child would become as courageous a paladin as Aradin was. Aradin could only hope Uther had kept his word, and had been hoping there would be another soldier with him who he could question. And yet all that returned was the Prince and the two shadowy personal guards that flanked him.
Arthas swept into the ceremonial gardens that lay just before the King’s Throne room, just out of Aradin’s view. Tradition dictated that the head of the Royal Guard greet the returning hero outside the Keep itself, as a show of the hero’s worth, and so Aradin had to wait here and ensure the security of the crowd despite his unease. Whatever happened inside would have to be watched by the men he stationed within.
It took him twenty minutes to travel what should have taken five, but eventually he got to the edge of the procession’s path. The perimeter guardsmen eyed him warily, and then grudgingly let him through once they’d seen his rank, which was denoted by the colour of his helmet’s plume. Red’s heart sank. Arthas had evidently passed; though the crowds were still cheering, it was fading now, to the occasional wolf-whistle and the heated din of chattered gossip.
‘Captain Redtricks, there you are! Sorry I took so long but this crowd is impossible!’ exclaimed a young voice behind him. Red twisted around in his saddle and saw another officer of the guard, Sergeant Alosius. Alosius was a diligent and enthusiastic officer, but was not a trained paladin. He was also painfully inexperienced.
‘Alosius, what in blaze’s name are you doing here?!’ hissed Red, furious that one of his sergeants would simply decide to wander down here to have a chat with him on a whim. He had neither the patience nor the inclination to be the understanding type after being so drastically late. Alosius’ excited face fell slightly, a mixture of hurt and confusion.
‘But, you ordered me here sir.’ Alosius said hesitantly.’ A guardsman told me to come here on the double. Signed papers and all!’
Ice flowed through Red’s veins.
‘A guardsman told you to come here?’ Red grabbed Alosius roughly by the rim of his breast-plate and pulled him closer.’ Did you get his name?’
Alosius’ training kicked in, his confusion snapping into a vigilant state of alert. ‘No sir, I was told to come here under strict written orders from First-Captain Alexander Redtricks. You, sir.’
Red’s eyes flicked wildly about, his mounting feeling of dread building higher by the minute. He cursed his ambitious foolishness; what a simple trick to disrupt the chain of command. Red had once learned as a child that an error only became a mistake once the error was compounded. He would not make a mistake.
‘Alosius,’ Red snapped his fingers at him,’ we’ve got to sound the alert at once. We may have an infiltrator, or even multiple infiltrators, within our ranks.’
Alosius saluted sharply then went to gallop off toward his post. In the meantime, Red cupped his gauntlets around his mouth to shout out a call to arms. He never got the chance.
The central gate to the Keep burst open with a thunderous crash, a Royal Guard staggered out. Blood caked across his armour, his breastplate a jagged maw of deep sword strokes.
‘The King!’ he croaked,’ The King has been—‘
A single arrow shrieked through the air and slammed into his visor with a wet thud. The Guard collapsed bonelessly to the floor. A shocked silence descended. Then the screaming started.
War, it seemed, had found Lordaeron.
‘We need another way in.’ he announced as the spear finally stop vibrating from the force of the blow,’ suggestions?’
‘The window?’ one man suggested tentatively. The rest of his men remained silent, expectantly awaiting a solution from their officer. They were trained to follow the orders, not make them.
Aradin snorted in contempt, ‘What does this look like, a fairytale? The closest window is over twenty feet off the ground! And that door isn’t going to open anytime soon.’
‘Then we go through it.’ A quiet voice said.
The line of Guardsmen parted to reveal a slender man with a messy flop of hair that hung loosely down to his shoulders. He was about thirty years old, solemn faced, and was adorned in flowing purple robes.
‘Step aside, Captain.’
Aradin uttered a grim laugh in spite of everything, ‘Look, I applaud your enthusiasm, stranger, but that door is designed to be impervious to even the hardiest of invaders, let alone a single man.’
‘I assure you, soldier, that I am no ordinary man.’ quiet-confidence resonated in the man’s cool, modulated voice,’ now step aside, and we can save this kingdom.’
Aradin, more curious than anything else, motioned with his hand. His Royal Guards parted like a set of armoured curtains, allowing the newcomer a clear view of their obstacle.
Taking a deep breath, the man raised his hands and closed his eyes. His pale palms raised flat, facing toward the hulking doorway, and began to tremble violently. Aradin would almost have found the sight amusing, were the entire city of Lordaeron not in jeopardy.
Then the door erupted in flames. Incandescent flames incinerated the wood in an instant, turning the once proud barrier into a crispy cinder. The indurium reinforcing the flame clanked to the ground, smouldering in the fading sunlight. With a resounding shout of triumph, the Royal Guard of Lordaeron ploughed into the opening, filling the narrow space with hulking frames of clattering steel. Aradin stayed behind, awestruck by this display of magical prowess.
‘Lad, I’ve been in many battles, seen many things,’ managed Aradin,’ but that was impressive. What is your name, son?’
‘My name is Kalor Flowen, Warlock of Azora’s Tower.’
‘Well, Flowen, it’s an honour to have you with us.’ Aradin drew his sword, the metal shrieking in protest. ‘Now let’s go save my home.’
And with that, the two men plunged into the Keep, disappearing into the roiling plumes of smoke.
Red’s nostrils flared in exertion as he urged his horse toward the Keep. He saw a cluster of Royal Guard disappear into the smoke filled entryway. Alexander urged his horse on harder, digging his feet deep into the beast’s flanks. The street was all but clear now, the occasional body dotted about from where someone had been unfortunate enough to catch a stray arrow from the attackers.
Suddenly Red’s steed lost its balance and tottered forwards to the ground, roughly hurling him from his saddle. Red landed hard on his shoulder, the armour digging deep into his shoulder blade as he rolled out into a low crouch. The horse had half a dozen arrows lodged in its side, and was thrashing about maniacally. Red didn’t have time to attend to his fallen steed; arrows continued to rebound off the cobblestones, a sign that whoever was watching him clearly didn’t want him to make it to the Keep in one alive.
Well tough, thought Redtricks as he sprinted forward, zigzagging wildly to escape being hit, I’ll just have to disappoint them. Redtricks’ back slammed against the wall as he reached the relative shelter of the Keep’s entryway, his lung heaving from the exertion. As the adrenaline lapsed from his system, a white-hot flash of pain arced through his breastbone. Red glanced down and grimaced: he hadn’t even noticed that he’d taken a hit. An arrow shaft was sheathed in his breast-bone, the oily blood glistening in the dying flames of the doorway. Red bunched his teeth and with a muted howl tugged the shaft from his body. Blood splattered down the length of his tabard, but he ignored it. I’ll be damned if a single arrow stops me from my duty, thought Red, as he ducked into the interior of the Keep. He would not fail again.
Death. So much death. These were the words that echoed in Aradin’s head as he thundered down the cavernous halls of Lordaeron’s Keep, leading his men toward the heart of the Kingdom. Corpses littered the floor of the corridor leading to the Throne Room, the broken bodies of Lordaeron’s Noble class mingled with fallen Royal Guard. Jets of recently-spilled blood arced along the walls, a macabre testament to the slaughter that had occurred here. But, as Aradin reached the Throne Room’s door, the realisation of the sheer depth of evil he faced here hit him. His men had held position outside the room, crouching low in a defensive formation. Aradin stepped past them, the warlock Flowen close behind.
The Throne rooms’ doorway laid ajar, the red carpet stained an even darker crimson with the blood of the King’s guards. The Audience chamber lay in a tiered series of boxes that surrounded the main Throne, almost like an old theatre. The Noble’s boxes lay vacant now, save for the occasional body. But what truly sickened Aradin was what sat in the Throne itself.
‘Prince Arthas!?’ managed Aradin.
Prince Arthas, heir to the Throne of Lordaeron, reclined in the throne as he mockingly toyed with the blood-badged crown. King Terenas’ body lay facedown crumpled on the steps at Arthas’ feet, broken and still. A dark pool spilled down the steps around the throne, carpeting the base of the Throne in the blood of royalty. Arthas chuckled softly.
‘The King is dead, long live the King,’ mocked Arthas in a sing-song voice as he gently mopped the blood off his sword with his ebony cloak.
‘Prince Arthas…. Why would … how could you even do this?’ Aradin took a few steps towards the Prince, his feet inches from where King Terenas’ blood seeped down onto the main floor.
‘Ah, yes. You. Yet another so-called ‘servant of Lordaeron’ comes to judge me. Yet another fool comes to die,’ sneered Arthas as he idly tossed the crown to one side and began inspecting his nails with detached amusement. The crown rolled on its side across the room, and finally clattered to a halt in the shadows.
Aradin bristled in contempt, ‘this, this crime is beyond even the boundaries of murder…. i-its regicide….it’s patricide!’
Arthas cocked his head to one side in wry-amusement, burning malevolence in his eyes. ‘And who are you to judge me, peasant? Another aspiring Uther? His time shall come like the rest of you fools, mark my words.’
Arthas rose to his feet, and began stalking slowly around the throne, his hands tracing the delicate carvings that were inlaid on its edges. The gold embroidered throne contrasted with the ivory colour of the maddened Prince’s hands, which slid across the surface like a patient serpent.
‘Men succeed and thrive in society by moving upwards, taking opportunities, taking lives if need be.’ Arthas gestured at Terenas’ corpse with his chin,’ His death, and the death of all of Lordaeron will advance my life. The game had been played, the pieces moved; all that were left to take were pawns. And oh did I take them.’ Arthas barked a short laugh as we raised a sweeping hand outwards toward the entire city
‘Look at them, cheering and waving their little flags, content to have their hero,’ Arthas’ open hand clenched to a tight fist,’ only to be crushed in an instant!’
‘Those people trusted you, Prince Arthas; they put their lives in your hands.’ Aradin was numb with horror.
Arthas snorted in contempt at the paladin before him, ‘I owed them nothing. The Plague could not be contained, it shall triumph and all of Azeroth will bow before The Scourge’s might. These people should be thankful for my swift deliverance; I’m putting them out of their misery.’
Aradin’s only reply was to tighten his grip on his sword and fall into a combat stance, his shield raised before him. The Royal Guard fell into rank beside him.
‘Prince Arthas,’ announced Aradin grimly,’ for the murder of our appointed King, for the desecration of our sacred homeland, and for the butchery of your own father, I hereby sentence you to death in atonement for your atrocities. May the Light have mercy on your soul.’
Arthas threw back his head and laughed, as he almost lazily beckoned them with a gauntleted hand. ‘You’ve come seeking death, foolish Paladin, come accept your reward!’
With a roar the Royal Guard of Lordaeron fell upon their Prince. Flowen could only watch as the throne room once more erupted into a chaotic maelstrom of clanging steel and piercing screams before he averted his eyes, turned, and left the chamber.
The scene was one of absolute carnage. A half-dozen Royal Guard surrounded Arthas in a semi-circle, warily holding their swords toward him. Another cluster lay dead or dying in the immediate vicinity of the Throne. The Prince himself stood on the dais that surrounded the throne, one foot placed contemptuously on the corpse of King Terenas as he awaited the next attack. Redtricks’ heart caught in his throat at such a vile sight, but he nevertheless stepped into formation beside his surviving comrades.
‘Yet another willing volunteer for the Scourge,’ smirked Arthas as he effortlessly parried an oncoming thrust, wheeled about and slashed the throat of a Guardsman in a single fluid motion.
With seven of his men down, Aradin was relieved to see backup, albeit a wounded man. The mysterious warlock had vanished during the chaos of the opening battle with the Fallen Prince. What little Aradin could remember of that fight, he didn’t want to.
Arthas had reacted with preternatural reflexes and fought with superhuman skill; the oncoming rush was battered aside with a burst of corrupted Holy Energy; icey blue flames licked from the floor and writhed over the two closest men, who screeched as they were engulfed. The Guard, startled by this unexpected power, had hesitated, and that had been their downfall. Arthas scythed into their ranks like the reaper, culling the unprepared guardsman left, right and center. A parry here, a thrust there, Arthas timed every strike, calculated every move in an attack that was as merciless as it was brutally efficient. Within a matter of seconds five men were dead, either burnt beyond recognition or strategically maimed. With a strained grunt Aradin caught a blow from Arthas’ sword, and watch in dismay as his hilt became encrusted in frost. Hairline cracks snaked their way across the surface of his blade, and Aradin had to roll backward in a clumsy tumble at the last moment to avoid the next lethal swipe of Arthas’ cursed weapon. When Aradin came out of the roll, he held up his sword only to see it shatter into a thousand shards of ice. Arthas leered at Aradin then, without even looking behind him, plunged his sword into an oncoming Guardsman. The Guardsman gasped, as his wound crystallised and froze itself shut.
‘I can see you’ve met Frostmourne. Freezing cold from the freezing North!’ exclaimed Arthas gleefully as he roughly elbowed his dying opponent in the face, drawing the blade free of his latest victim. The Prince whirled about and decapitated the man as he fell, the dead man’s head toppling to the floor without a sound. Red had noticed the sapping aura the Fallen Prince emanated as well; his wound had begun to sting from the bone-scraping chill. Redtricks’ limbs felt heavy and slow, and his energy was fading rapidly. He would have leapt straight in… but it was so cold.
‘Take heart lad,’ boomed Aradin as he scooped up a new blade,’ Where Darkness dwells, so too can the Light shine!’ The Knight’s words seemed to strengthen Redtricks, who felt the tendrils of cold loosen and slip away.
‘Such naivety,’ Arthas hissed,’ it’s no wonder Lordaeron is falling so effortlessly. Pathetic.’
Pathetic.
And with that last comment Redtricks snapped. Every ounce of guilt he had, every shred of shame that dwelled within him for abandoning his post converted to a careless, insurmountable fury. And so he charged. Blow after blow rained down against Arthas, such was the might of Reds’ anger. Arthas’ eyes even widened slightly, the last embers of his dying humanity shocked at the madness his actions had inspired in another paladin. Aradin watched, dumb-founded, as the younger man charged. Ten, twelve, thirteen blows Arthas blocked, but even the Fallen Prince himself began to give way. But, alas, force of arm alone cannot always win a battle, as Aradin knew full well from his years of service in the Second War. This Captain may have courage on his side, but with Arthas in possession of Frostmourne, he was hopelessly outmatched. Aradin watched as Arthas slowly ceased to back-pedal, and regained his demeanour of dauntless evil. Red’s attack began to fizzle out, the blows landing less and less rapidly, as more and more blood began to seep from his wound. To go one on one with someone as powerful as Arthas would mean certain death, but Aradin was tired of watching his boys go off to die one by one. For once, he’d like to see a man walk away from such a battle in return for such bravery.
Aradin shook his head, were his wife Aurelia alive today, she would have called him crazy, insane even. Good thing she isn’t, he managed an inward smile as he rushed toward Arthas, sword raised.
‘Run lad, now!’ cried Aradin as he swung his blade, arcing it toward Arthas’ head. Arthas snapped Frostmourne about and caught the strike, then send Aradin flying backward with a back-handed smack from his gauntlet.
Arthas grabbed Redtricks by the hem of his cloak and hurled him aside, turning toward the Knight.
‘You die first, Knight of Lordaeron.’
Aradin groggily pulled himself to his feet. Between him and the doorway stood Arthas; Redtricks and the remaining Guardsmen had a clear shot for freedom. Behind them, the warlock Flowen had re-appeared, and was silently watching from the distance. The brooding Warlock and the old Knight’s eyes made contact. They knew what had to be done.
‘You there,’ nodded Aradin at Redtricks,’ I want you to do a favour for me.’
Arthas stalked closer to Aradin, taking his time. Toying with him Redtricks raised his sword to charge once more, but the Knight shook his head at him sadly.
‘Don’t throw your life away, Brother.’ Aradin smiled tightly,’ I’ve lived long enough anyway. Too long, in fact,’ He paused’ but I do want you to do a favour for me; I’ve a son. Benedict Dalian is his name. Find him.’
Redtricks opened his mouth to reply, decided against it, and instead snapped a tight salute, ignoring the white-hot pain that flashed through his arm. Then, giving one final regretful glance over his shoulder, Redtricks was pulled from the room by the silent warlock. Aradin was left, alone, to face the Fallen Prince, who was steadily pushing him back against the wall.
‘Any last requests, Paladin?’ asked Arthas.
Aradin tossed his shield aside and raised his sword, pointing it toward the Prince.
‘One last round with an old soldier, Monster.’
His last words. Knight-Captain Aradin Dalian, veteran of a hundred battles, lasted fifteen minutes in single-combat with the Fallen Prince. No-one bore witness to his final moments of heroism.
‘Forward! In the name of the Scourge, in the name of the Lich King!’ hissed Mazak as he pulled himself up over the edge of the battlements. A human rushed toward him, a spear aimed at Mazak’s chest. Mazak simply spread his arms and waited. The spear rammed straight through the chest-piece and emerged clean out the other side.
Mazak through back his head and laughed at the expression of horror etched on the man’s features.
‘You can’t kill what’s already dead, fool.’ leered the undead warrior. Mazak’s decayed hands gripped the shaft of the spear and, using it as leverage, swung the screaming human over the edge of the battlements. ‘We can survive anything; the mortal flesh is weak compared to the might of the Scourge!’
Mazak was still laughing when he heard a dry click from behind him.
‘Well then ye can stand to lose yer head then you bollocks, if you don’t mind!’
Mazak turned around to stare down the gold-embroidered barrel of a decidedly over-sized Dwarven blunderbuss. With a howl of anguish Mazak’s head shattered into a thousand shards of bone, his body twisting in the air gracefully before making a somewhat less graceful landing.
Eric Strongbrew, Rifleman of the Alliance, chuckled as he reloaded his rifle and casually lit a stick of dynamite with his smoking pipe. Without a second glance he tossed the hissing explosive over the edge of the wall, and methodically pushed siege ladder after siege ladder backward off the battered walls. Their occupants howled in rage as they toppled back toward the ground. A moment later a thunderous roar marked the detonation of the dwarf’s explosive, spraying fragments of bone and diseased flesh against the wall.
‘We’ll hold them yet, old boy,’ said Eric aloud, despite being the only remaining person on the defense line,’ they’ll get us eventually, but until then lets have a good crack at getting as many of ‘em as we can first, eh?’.
As if in reply, a dozen ladders simultaneously appeared over the rim of the battlements, mocking the dwarf’s bluster. The dwarf merely nodded, lit the long fuse on the huge stockpile of Dwarven blasting munitions that lay piled on the battlement’s floor, and turned to face the next wave. Strongbrew cocked his blunderbuss, sighted it and blasted the first attacker at point blank range. The plaguebearer fell without a sound, knocking two other invaders off on its descent. Eric slammed the butt of his rifle into the next freak, battering the creature off balance. Tossing the spent rifle aside, Eric drew his two repeating-muskets from his hip-holsters, and began to singing a bawdy dwarven love song, his hoarse voice being drowned out by the roars of his guns and the battle cries of the encroaching Scourge.
The air was thick with smoke, and the two men had to leap to one side as a carriage tore down the street, people clawing all over it for an attempt to escape. The enemy who that had been pelting arrows from the cover of the rooftops had become brasher now, and were leaping down to street level to press the attack. An undead assassin leapt in front of Flowen’s path and uttered a guttural snarl as it whirled his twin blades in a mesmerising blur of martial prowess. Flowen glowered in contempt, simply raised his hand and sent a searing ball of dark-purple shadow energy rippling through the air. The fiend barely had time to shriek as he was blown apart. Flown smirked, then looked around. Red was missing.
As soon as they’d reached this street, Red had sunk to his knees, a hand clasped over his pulsing wound. The arrow’s head had broken from the shaft, and was still lodged inside his breastbone. What worried Red was that the pain was lessening, to be replaced with a numbness that was spreading throughout his body. Red closed his eyes against the burning glare of the city in flames, when a shadow fell across him. Flowen stood over the fallen Paladin.
‘Get up,’ he said coldly.
When he opened his eyes, Red’s vision began to blur and swing wildly out of the focus, the Warlock’s icey calm features swimming before him in a giddy dance. Faintly he heard Flowen’s voice penetrate the haze.
‘Get up or we’re both dead, soldier. I don’t have time to be dragging you with me. That Knight gave his life to save you, and I’ll be damned if I watch you just lay there and die.’
With a sigh Redtricks’ head lolled to one side, having finally succumbed to unconsciousness. Flowen pursed his lips in thought; it was a miracle the man had gotten this far, and it seemed that no amount of tough talk was going to move him. Flowen sighed.
He had no choice.
Flowen resented breaking the warlock code, but there was no way he could move a plate-encased paladin by himself. Desperate times called for desperate measures. Kalor closed his eyes and focused his mind, rivulets of sweat running down his brow; to summon was a draining experience, both of the mind and of the body. What he was about to do was against every principle, every teaching of Azoran Warlock etiquette that had ever existed with regard to dealing with a crisis situation. But this was no ordinary crisis.
Flowen drew from a pouch on his belt a smooth, plain stone about the size of his fist. Stepping back a couple of paces, he threw the stone onto the ground in front of him. It bounced a few times, rolled and then finally skittered to a halt. A moment passed. Just then, faint tendrils of purple energy emanated from the stone, licking across the surface of the cobblestones, and then gently faded away. For another moment, all was still. And then the trembling started. Slowly at first, then more steadily, the ground began to pulsate and quiver, the ground shaking beneath Flowen’s very feet.
Flowen frowned, and then decided to take one more cautious step backward.
With a howl the ground erupted in a billowing tower of rock and green fire. The chaotic whirlwind of destruction hovered in the air for a moment, whirling faster and faster, then began to take shape. Stones slid into place, forming a solid structure. Foundation slabs from the road formed shoulders, stray rocks rolled in with an almost magnetic force, forming the rest of the giant creature. Stones and scattered pebbles even formed a crude caricature of a human face. Burning eyes of primal fury sprung to life, powerful and hungry as time itself. With a bone-trembling roar the Infernal was complete.
‘Arise, Decimus, your Master needs you once more!’ bellowed Flowen.
Standing at well over 10 feet tall, the creature was large even for an Infernal. Decimus’ fiery gaze bored deep into Flowen’s soul. Flowen did not move an inch: to do so would mean certain death. Infernals, being what they are, were a touchy minion at the best of times. Manifold were the tales of even great Warlocks having their beasts turn on them, sometimes fatally so. Flowen, of course, had no intention of this happening. With a submissive moan the Infernal inclined its head in respect.
‘Decimus,’ Flowen pointed at the fallen Paladin,’ I need you to help me carry something. Carefully, if you can; try not to smash anything this time’
The Infernal gently scooped up the Paladin and slung him quite roughly over his shoulder. Flowen winced at the suddenness of the gesture; Decimus was hardly the most careful beast and the fallen soldier was in no condition to be battered about willy-nilly. At any rate, Flowen needed to find a way out of Lordaeron, and fast. Being a warlock, certain unconventional means were at his disposal. Flowen nodded at the rock-creature, who waited patiently for his Master’s command.
‘Decimus, find us an exit.’
The ground shook as Decimus bounded like a basalt gorilla toward the nearest wall. From what Flowen could tell, he was headed south, which would put them at the battlement that overlooked Lordamere Lake. Flowen’s feet rebounded off the pavement as he weaved his way through the destruction left in the lumbering Infernal’s wake.
Charging across Decimus’ path was a line of Scourge infantry, kitted out in armour they’d ransacked from the fallen Lordaeron Guard. At the sight of Flowen’s minion they screeched to a halt. They turned to flee, but it was too late. With a gleeful grunt Decimus bundled straight into their rank and file, his free hand catching the unfortunate undead with bone-splintering impacts. They were tossed aside like rag-dolls, limbs twisted at ill-advisable angles. One brave Scourge trooper leapt up onto Decimus’ back whilst the beast was busy stamping on an undead archer, and began hacking away uselessly at the Infernal’s stony hide. Decimus roared and jumped backward into the nearest building. The building, a small house, crumbled under the weight of the impact. Decimus snuffled an amused chuckle, and then peeled the remains of the Scourge off his back. At the sight of this, the Scourge bolted, having lost their bottle. Decimus scooped up a fallen roof beam and hurled it like a javelin after them.
‘Focus, Decimus, an exit, now!’
Decimus grumbled a bass sigh and then trundled toward the wall once more. Within a few minutes, they had reached the remains of the battlements. Deep holes had been gouged into the exterior wall, and Flowen could see signs where the enemy siege equipment had almost succeeded in breaking clean through. The Infernal knelt down on one knee and allowed Flowen to climb up on its back. The rock was hot, almost scalding to the touch, so Flowen wrapped his hands in his thick robes as he mounted Decimus’ other shoulder.
‘Up.’
And so they climbed. Decimus’ hands punched thick dents into the interior wall, his hands moulding into the deteriorated surface of the walls interior as he climbed. Flowen clung on for dear life as they rose higher and higher above the streets. He turned to watch the end of Lordaeron.
Darkness had fallen upon the city. The streets were truly ablaze now, the occasional human being cut down mercilessly by the seething mass of Scourge that flowed throughout narrow streets. He could see glimmers of steel, from where the light of the flames danced off the armour of the combatants. The sounds of combat were dying out, to be replaced with the rallying cries of the invaders. The flowing blue symbol of the Lordaeron Alliance that hung majestically from the Keep’s balustrades shrivelled and curled black as the Scourge set their torches to it. Flowen turned away. He’d seen enough.
Emphasis on try, she thought wryly as she watched a kid cry for her mother.
‘Anything, Sister Mollrye?’ inquired a nervous voice behind her. Mollrye turned to her comrade, a fellow member of the City Guard.
‘Nothing, Alosius; we’ll wait five more minutes, then we’ll get the hell out of here. I just can’t leave without—,’ Mollrye broke of, ‘what in the Nether is that?!’
Clambering steadily down the sheer vertical surface of Lordaeron’s walls, a giant figure of earthy brown stone made its way toward the ground. To the sergeant’s amazement, clinging onto its back were two men, one holding onto the other. One of the men was enclosed within a complete set of Imperial Plate armour, his form limp and unconscious.
‘Ready yourselves!’ whispered Alosius. The ground throbbed with each of the giant’s footfalls.
Mollrye paused for a moment, took one more look at the human figures, then rose to her feet and began waving them over hurriedly.
‘Sister Mollrye, have you lost your senses?! Look at the size of that thing!’ hissed Alosius, incensed.
‘Were it hostile, it wouldn’t be carrying our Captain on its back,’ she answered coolly.
One of the men dropped down from his perch and darted toward them, waving a mute greeting. He slid into the reeds beside them and glanced around. Mollrye was alarmed at the sense of calm that washed off him. Some of the most dangerous men Mollrye had encountered in her life had been those who were unfazed by death; Flowen’s manner was completely contrary to the sheer carnage going on around him. He would have to be watched, noted Mollrye glumly. The last thing she needed was a wild-card.
‘Who’s in charge here?’ he asked briskly.
Mollrye shrugged helplessly and raised her hand. Alosius was a good man, but lacked the spine to lead. Mollrye had found him leading a rag-tag
‘I’ve a wounded man here. One of yours I believe.’ Flowen eyed the huddled group of refugees,’ is there a healer here?’
‘Captain Redtricks…’ exclaimed Alosius, ‘I was sure he was dead!’
‘Not yet, at any rate,’ Mollrye’s eyes scanned over Redtricks, taking in the wound with a trained eye. Her manner was business-like, professional. She was used to seeing wounded men.’ I’ll need to see the wound before I can treat it. Help me get his armour off.’
They pealed Alexander out of his armour, gently removing his helmet at first. The Captain was in his thirties, his dark bushy eyebrows matching the colour of his neatly trimmed beard. His skin was layered in a thin sheen of sweat, and was waxy to the touch. Not good. Mollrye pulled the wounded man’s cloak from its broach and passed it to Alosius.
‘Make yourself useful, Alosius, douse this with water, we need to clean the area around the wound.’
Alosius nodded and hastened to the lake’s bank, where he dipped the cloak in the freezing water of Lordamere Lake. Mollrye took the soaked cloak with a nod of thanks, swabbing away the encrusted blood that was frozen to Redtricks’ pale skin.
‘You’ve done this before,’ noted Flowen, his eyes quietly digesting the methodical process in which Mollrye worked.
‘Believe me, you ever serve on the frontlines, you see your share of cuts and bruises,’ the female paladin’s face clouded with bewilderment. ’This wound is odd though; the arrowhead is literally frozen inside his body, I’ve never seen anything like it. I’m going to need a knife. A clean one, if you can.’
Flowen wordlessly handed her a small jagged knife. The handle was encrusted with sparkling jewels and embroidered with shining gold. The blade itself was a bright ivory, carved from a dragonkin’s skull. Mollrye’s eyes widened in surprise at the priceless weapon, but then her business-like demeanour composed itself, making her face unreadable once more. She dug the knife into the wound, thankful that the Captain was unconscious. With a grunt of effort she pulled the arrowhead clear of Red’s body, blood spattering across her clothing as she did so. Sometimes she really hated being a healer.
‘Well that’s the hard part done,’ winced Mollrye as she threw the arrowhead away,’ now comes the easier bit.’
Pressing her bare palms over the wound, Mollrye muttered a silent prayer to the Light. There was a warm flash of light, muffled below her hands to a muted orange glow. The smell of burnt flesh lingered in the air. Mollrye nodded to herself.
‘Right, that should do it,’ Mollrye wiped the blood that was smattered on the blade onto the grass then handed it back to the brooding warlock.’ Alosius, you help me carry him. Lets get moving people; I don’t want to stay here any longer than I have to.’ Mollrye broke off for a second, and then added quietly, ‘…anything that’s left inside the city is either dead or dying.’
And so they fled. Flowen loaded the wounded soldier onto Decimus’ mountainous back as the Infernal waded waist-deep around the edge of the Lake, steam rising from where the beast’s elemental fire evaporated off the cold water. The stragglers silently paddled across the lake, the rippling flames that were mirrored in the calm surface of the lake reflecting their lost home, reminding them of their loss every inch of the way.
