Which really should be titled “Matt writes fanfic.” Yes, I write fanfic, that is to say, I write stuff that is sometimes not set in worlds I created (though it is often about characters that I do create). This is one of them, based particularly in Azeroth, which is to say the universe of WARCRAFT. The general setting is their copyright. The characters are mine inasmuch as I can say that with a straight face. This story is problematic, mostly due to length and time, and I’m not to go about fixing every little thing (or big one) in it. In short, like much work, it is not finished: merely abandoned.

Yes, I still have a problem with the passive tense. Sue me.

The Bulwark

It would have to hold, thought Nord. There were enough hands lashing together enough timbers. None had abandoned the township, even after the morning that showed the smoke of the coming host. He cursed the rain-muddied roads that refused to dust. The clouds would have been visible a day earlier and there would have been that much more time.

It was one thing to listen to the Elder’s words and suffer through his visions. It was another to see that he was actually right about one this time. He wondered where Kalin had been off to. She had overseen the planning of the rushed defenses but was not here now.

Morning was bone-chill and dripping. At least the road up the mountain would be slippery and treacherous. Nothing larger than a single horse would be coming up that path. Not today, at any rate.

“Nord! Nord!” came the hoarse cry from down the road. The runner came around Chal’s Elbow, the last bend before the road into the township cleared. He slipped on the greasy mud as he ran, scared more than he should have been. “We’ve seen them!”

The ground at Nord’s feet gave way for an instant as he landed, leaping down from the makeshift bulwark. “The host? Who is it?” Armies didn’t march in the foothills of Alterac without good reason.

Timothy stopped, haltingly, finding his grip in the mud, gray furrows dug inches in. “Nord, it’s the Scourge! They’re coming!”

His heart stilled an instant, then hammered in his chest to bursting. “You’re sure?”

“Yes! They’ve marched without stopping since we first spotted the smoke. That’s more than a day! The living do not march like that.”

“Not even greenskins march like that,” Nord sighed. He wished it had been Orcs. They could be dealt with, even bargained with. The Scourge…

“Tell the others, Timothy. How long have we got?”

Timothy shook his head.

“All right then.” Nord withdrew his staff and leaned upon it. “All right then.”

“The sun itself was too frightened to come out,” Kalin muttered. “But it’s seen fit to set in blood.”

Indeed it had, Nord saw. Crimson and gold glinted off of the dampness from the day’s mist. On another day, this would have been a glory. Today it felt like a banner draped on a burial cairn.

Kalin was made even more radiant by the sunset, not that she had ever needed it.

“Why didn’t you leave, Kalin? Why didn’t any one of us leave? We could have made it to Southshore, perhaps.”

Her smile was bitter as Wintersbite tea, but warm. “He’d never been right before, why believe him now?”

Nord shrugged, “Maybe because he’s right.” He scratched at his short beard nervously. “I don’t suppose he’s told anyone how all this will turn out?”

“No, that would have been useful. I saw him this morning and…just… More riddles.” Kalin set her quiver down, carefully so as to avoid the mud that had been tracked up by the soldiers mustering there. The arrows in it were all fletched red and orange, tiny bits of flame clinging to the shafts, made even brighter by the last bits of sunset.

Nord glanced over the soldiers gathered. Well, they thought of themselves as soldiers. Days ago they had been farmers or simple merchants or fathers or sons. Today, though, they were at least pretending to put aside their fear, strapping on armor that was too old and too small, rusted and not shining.

But their weapons were sharp. That much was right.

“Kalin, I…” Nord started, fitfully.

Kalin turned to him, not with sadness in her eyes, but with cheer. “Tell me after we put these bastards in the ground a second time. You freeze them and I’ll burn them.

“Then you can tell me.”

Nobody had noticed the sound until it was upon them. But it must have been building all afternoon and into the sunset. There was no other explanation.

Suddenly, though, it was there. The sound of a thousand footsteps, the scrape of metal on flesh and even bone, and something else, not breathing, not laughing, not song of battle. It was the rush of blackened wings, of cold wind from the north, hollow and demanding, hungering from its own chill. They rounded the bend like a slow flood.

“Archers! Fire!” Kalin called. “No wasted shots and use the pitch carefully!” Her voice rang out clear as the bell at the Elder’s temple, calling faithful to the service, faithful who never believed. Not until today.

There weren’t faces in the host. It rolled like a wave of bodies, like a surge through a ruined slaughterhouse. Blue sparks snaked from naked eyesockets and black armor crusted with mud and filth seemed to suck the very light from the Sun’s setting.

But Kalin and her archers brought their own light. Where arrows struck, even the dead burned. Bursts of flame licked at the figures, who kept marching, oblivious to their own consumption. Some slowed and fell, only to be trampled by the army sweeping up from behind. There was no stopping it, no slowing it, the only fellowship in those that continued to march forward over the tangle of smoking bones. They were lucky, it was only a mindless horde, unthinking soldiers who would march until they found their destination or were annihilated. She could accommodate that. She thanked her luck that they were not facing a calculating foe.

“Nord, the ice! Call it now!” Kalin said, volume not from panic but excitement and thrill of the coming battle. “Behind their lines! Pitch barrels to the front!”

Clearing his mind of the clatter and march of the coming host, Nord reached out and coaxed a slowly freezing hell into the host, as far back from the defensive stand as he could, hoping to tangle them further. Needle shards of ice whipped by sudden winds jetted down, seething and hissing against undead armor. There were no sounds of confusion or clamor, just the unrelenting march. The ground grew slick, pelted with frost, feet slipping and slowed.

Barrels of pitch upturned, thick black liquid heated and pouring onto the ground.

“Wait on it now! We don’t need to light this aflame with us on it.” Kalin drew her bow again and let fly, the arrow whistling until it found its mark in the visor of an undead footman. It lurched as if mead-drunk, falling forward as flame spurted and ate the creature’s skull.

The first of the host’s boots touched the pitch oozing over the cold gray mud. Time was up. Nord sweat even in the cold, pouring his strength into maintaining the freak storm, silently repeating the incantation. Kalin thought of firing a last shot and then dropped it. No good ever came of a rushed shot. It was time to abandon the first line and let the pitch do its work. In his trance, Nord would be unaware and easy prey, but waking him was a tricky business.

“Pull back, quicky! Pass it along!” she hissed at the footman closest to her, a gangly boy who shook with each oncoming step. “Tell the townsfolk to go now. The ransom has been paid! Hurry and you get to live a few more moments! Now go!”

Carefully she turned to Nord and placed a hand upon his shoulder. His skin was cool to the touch though his brow was bright with sweat, eyes closed and twitching as if in dream. “Nord,” she whispered, barely breathing into his ear. “Nord, it’s time to move back. You’ve done what you can.”

His eyes snapped open and the blizzard faded. “What? We’re leaving?” He was unsteady, drained and dizzy.

“There’s too many of them. We’re falling back and letting them burn here.” Kalin took as much of his weight as she could, leading him to the ladder.

“But I can’t do fire,” he protested weakly.

“Leave that to me.” She tried to manage a grin, but it would have been wasted. He slid to the ground and stumbled away.

The soldiers must have reached the bulwark, for it began to shove and shudder, hands grasping and ripping at the timbers, dulled swords beating. They would be well in the pitch now.

“Fire! Fire now!” Kalin called.

There was an instant of crackle, rushing above Kalin’s head, hissing and spitting as the flaming arrows plunged into the oil-soaked ground. It burned hungrily, lashes of fire twining around the bogged host, consuming them. They continued hammering at the bulwark, spreading the flames even further amongst themselves and the wetted timbers. Eventually even it caught flame, flame that crawled unnaturally, dragged by the undead until disintegrating muscle and even bone prevented them from taking even another step.

The sun was well down as Kalin dragged Nord up the road, flames hot on their back, the oily smoke blackening even the coming moonrise. “Come on! There’s not much time. We have to regroup!”

Sporadic cheers went up from the defenders, thinking that the flames would continue to spread and the mindless would just keep marching to their consumption. Kalin hoped they were right. Nord was walking, finally, though still leaned on her as they headed to the lantern lights of the town ahead.

The clamor at the bulwark continued, a steady thumping as the last of the host rushed to and broke against the flaming barrier. Orange light danced about them, but not reaching as far as the town itself in the settling night. Maybe they would make it. The host would mash itself into cinders, driven by their own blind stupidity. Even she was beginning to believe it now. The thought of it heartened her, lightened her step.

“Nord, you had something to tell me?”

They stopped, breathing out misty clouds in the gathering cold.

“Yes, I did. I wanted to say…”

His words were cut short by a scream, cold and shrill. It was jagged bone piercing through skulls and clutching hearts.

“No. No no no no.” Kalin stopped breathing after that.

The dance of flame behind them became contorted, suffocated. The light twitched and writhed in strangulation. It darkened and deepened to a bleeding red that seethed.

They both turned to see what was happening. The bulwark, in full blaze, was collapsing. Too quickly. There was no host hammering upon it any longer, but still, it was being destroyed, and not by the flame. It was as if the ground itself was becoming unstable and the structure was sinking, falling in upon itself, or crushed by some outside force.

Then came the laugh, echoing up the road. It was human, but it was wrong. Too deep, too cold, too metallic. There was no humor in it, nor exultation, only mockery.

There was only one sane response. “Run!” Nord screamed. “Death Knight!”

Kalin would not. “One last shot,” she muttered to herself. “Just one more.” She drew her bow and notched one of her remaining orange-fletched arrows. It glowed like a coal against her face.

“Death Knight!” Nord called again, this time to the town’s defenders, though he knew that it would lead to almost immediate abandonment of their posts. He would not ask them to stand and die in the face of that kind of abomination. The stories of what they were capable of were so overblown that they had to be just that: stories. But even so, Nord was in no mood to find out for himself.

The laugh faded, echoes ringing far too long against the mountainside. It was cut off finally, by the total destruction of the bulwark. Timbers as thick around as a man’s thigh simply blackened and crumbled, forgetting even to burn as they fell. Nord’s heart withered within his chest, and that was before he heard the oncoming hoofbeats. The last of the red light bled out and faded.

“Come on, come on already,” Kalin whispered.

“Kalin, no! Get back!”

“Tell the others to get ready!”

Nord stood firm. “They already know.”

“Let’s hope they stand at their posts. Were I a farmer and knew what was coming, I’d be long gone.”

The hoofbeats strengthened, too loud, too close. Blue-white glare pulsed on the road, timed with the oncoming steps. Nord could only barely make out the shape of the charger as it approached. He hoped that it was just the darkness increasing its power, amplified by his fear and the night. The figure on the beast’s back leaned forwards, sword arm slightly bent. The blade it held did not shine in the light, but it had its own. And that light was cheerless and grim.

Kalin drew further, putting all of her power into the bow. As she did, the point of the arrow flared white with gold at the edges. “Die,” she breathed as she let fly.

The figure on the horse laughed in response. The air around it glowed and swirled, enveloping it before the arrow found its mark. Instead of burning the Death Knight, the arrow’s flame was spent on the whirling shield. Sparks rained uselessly to the ground, hissing in the mud.

“Damnation. Hell and damnation,” Kalin spat. She hurried to notch another arrow.

Nord reached forward, thrusting his right hand out. From it flew a jagged shard of ice, hurtling directly at the mounted figure. He started another spell immediately, ignoring the ache of his body and the pounding in his head.

The bolt of ice struck just as the shield around the Death Knight faded away to dimly glowing cinders. The figure rocked backwards, but did not drop its sword or leave its saddle.

It continued thundering ahead, turning to rake Kalin as it passed. She let fly with a second arrow, this one hitting home, so close that a miss would be unthinkable. The arrow burst into flame on the armor, orange and crimson stabbing the darkness.

The Death Knight managed another laugh.

“None of your tricks, mage!” it hissed. There was an edge of derision in the voice; unmistakably feminine, but not soft or lilting. Dark violet smoke seethed into Nord’s mouth and down his throat, numbing and gagging him. He gasped and reached uselessly, unable to speak, pulse shrieking in his head, shriek turning to panic.

Continuing toward Kalin, the rider tilted her sword with an ease that bordered on contempt. The blade flicked upwards, shearing Kalin’s bow in half and slicing into her armor.

“Naah!” Kalin cried out in spite of herself.

Nord dropped to his knees, still struggling against the pestilence in his throat. It tasted of pus and tickled like insect eggs hatching inside him.

“Focus,” he mouthed to himself. Instantly, he was sheathed in ice, impervious to attack from within or without. The taste, however, still lingered. He spat uselessly, trying to rid himself of it.

The death knight slowed, turning for another pass, the visor of her helmet always trained towards them. Kalin discarded the useless bow and drew her sword, knowing that there was no time to ready her short bow. No time.

“Kalin! Get out of here! I’ll hold it!” Nord rasped.

The beast’s hooves tramped into the mud wetly, closer now, but deliberate, not at a gallop.

Kailn stood her ground, blade across her body. “You can get to town faster!”

The white glow on the beast’s hooves pulsed, a racing heartbeat slowing, steadying. Lit from beneath, the scene turned unearthly, Kalin’s resolution looking more like fright on her face.

Nord stood and tried to draw the last of his reserves. “I’m staying…until you hear what I have to tell-” He hurtled through the air, some force ripping him from where he stood and pulling him to the Death Knight. Even in the night he could see the sickly purple tendrils of the death grip snaking around him. Instinctively, he teleported out of it, or tried to. But there was no more strength to summon. There was no swimming sensation of displacement, no last-moment escape.

“Nord! No!” Kalin began to run to him when she realized what was going on. “No! I want to hear you!” Her training screamed that this was insane and futile, that he could not be saved and she would be throwing her life away in the same stroke.

But she would not listen.

The Death Knight lowered her blade and Nord found himself a hair’s breadth from it, the grip’s magic dissipating into fine ash in the wind.

“Hold!” ordered the Death Knight, icicle voice cutting. She pressed the blade lightly against Nord’s exposed throat to add weight to the command.

Kalin stopped, resolution or not. “Get off that horse, you monster. Come down and face me!”

There was a momentary chuckle, and this one dripped with black humor. “I thought we just did that. The advantage is mine.”

Kalin stood, shaking from futility and exhaustion. Then she heard the tramping in the distance. It was regular and monotonous, marching with neither drudgery or enthusiasm. There was another host coming. Her sword slid from her hand, thoughtlessly, to the mud below.

The blood drained from Nord’s face, more from Kalin’s reaction than the thought of more Scourge. She had always been the bravest among them, but even that was useless now.

“Did you really think we’d waste all of our forces on that trap?” she asked flatly. “We march the grist up front. Enough grist to choke the mill, as it were.”

The sword point rested on Nord’s throat. He could almost feel its thirst. Hot and fetid, the unholy steed breathed heavily, only partially-contained.

Nord willed himself to turn from Kalin to the rider. There would not be time to attack her, not without distance between them. Best to study his opponent for any weakness. Looking into the visor, he saw only a clear blue glow where her eyes were. Hints of her features showed in that, but only hints.

“I give you the honor of leading our column into your luckless hamlet. March proudly or find yourselves dragged in on hooks.” Her eyes slanted at this, leaving no doubt as to her word. “And do not think that any of your tricks can save you. I know them all.”

Nord gestured over to Kalin, his eyes still locked on the hateful glow. She hesitated, instinctively unwilling to give up advantage of reach.

The Death Knight’s grip tightened on the bade, the merest twitch nicking Nord’s flesh. He stilled himself, trying not to make it dig in any deeper.

“Immediately ,” she rasped, all pleasantries wrung from her words.

Kalin stood fast, immovable as stone. The blue light drained her face and she watched with dark sockets. “I will not—-“

The Death Knight had taken enough insolence. She flicked her blade across Nord’s throat, just below the line of his jaw. His severed jugular flowed, hot and wet onto his neck and tunic. With a sound like a wistful sigh, he slid down to the mud, face deep in the gray. The blade hung there where his head had been.

“No! Monster!” Kalin screamed, tears of rage burning down her cheeks.

The Death Knight swung her blade around, trace of blood still clinging to it. The brought the black steel to a point, directly at Kalin’s heart. She may have been out of reach for the moment, but the Grip could change that with a thought. A faint violet halo slithered across its length like coals being fanned. There were angular markings carved into the fuller of the blade, perhaps holding meaning, though Kalin only saw doom in them.

“Calm yourself,” the Death Knight soothed. “I’m merely making him more…pliable.” The runes glowed brightly for an instant, afterimage burned into Kalin’s vision. “He’ll be up in a moment.”

The sound of the approaching host enveloped them both. They marched over the ruin of the bulwark then ringed the rider and Kalin, staring ahead blankly with neither malice nor kindness.

When the footsteps stopped, Kalin heard a hack and a gurgle from Nord’s lifeless body. It twitched, as if suddenly roused from dream. Tentatively, arms pressed into the mud as it lifted itself up and out.

“No,” Kalin sobbed. She knew this was no miracle, no reprieve. Nord moved all wrong, mechanically, without true motivation. It was a puppet, being pulled along by something not himself any longer. Glistening in the eerie blue light, mud sloughed off the face and the eyes snapped open. They too, glowed faintly blue, with no life behind them. Blood lapped from his wound, weakly now, nearly gone.

It looked around, head moving listlessly. Though there was something feral in its eyes, tracking the sounds and sights around it. Kalin stilled her breathing, not wanting its attention. She heard it making sounds, sounds that she prayed were only the soft burble of mud dropping to the ground. A moment ago, forever ago, she wanted to hear what Nord had to say. But now, she couldn’t keep it far enough away from her. She pressed her hands against her mouth and tried desperately not to retch. In the end, she couldn’t take her eyes off of it.

Not-Nord locked his eyes onto Kalin. It then reoriented his body to her, turning slowly as if stiffening in the cold. The mouth opened, lips mud-caked and quavering. It took a step, unsure.

“Oh, look,” teased the cool voice. “He wants to tell you something.” The charger snorted once as if chuckling.

And then another step, slow and halting. Not-Nord faced Kalin and stared. There was a hollow expectation in its gaze, a dull hunger never satisfied.

Kalin crushed her eyes shut, pressing her hands so hard to her ears that she could only hear her own roaring pulse. But even over that, she could hear his words.

“I have always…loved…you.”

Kalin bit her tongue instead of shrieking. She would not reward this obscenity.

“How sweet. He still remembers you. They usually don’t.” The Death Knight sat back in her saddle, waiting.

Not-Nord continued to stare, expectation dissipating like a child losing interest in a new toy. Finally, it turned away, neither disappointed nor even engaged.

“Maybe you weren’t so special after all,” she laughed. “Now, if you don’t want your precious mage to spend eternity walking this doomed land, you will answer my questions accurately and with a speed indicating respect. Are we clear?”

“Perfectly, monster.” That was all the defiance Kalin could muster. Her left hand was curled into a fist so tight that it shook.

“Your lover is a monster. I’m a mere servant,” the Death Knight said in measured, corrective tones. “You may please call me Teress, however.” She sheathed the blade. Kalin thought she heard a whine of protest from the thing as it was put away.

“Now you will please escort me directly to the presence of Andrian the Elder. If there is resistance, it will be crushed. Give me what I require and your town may yet live.”

Not-Nord stomped joylessly through the mud alongside his newfound kind. He blended in seamlessly, samelessly. He was no longer a mage, merely another damned footman in a tireless army.

Kalin would see him ended one way or another. This wasn’t how it was supposed to fall, not how things were to be. She fought the urge to strike him down now. There would be no time at the moement, but perhaps when the Death Knight was attending to other matters.

“Call for your townsmen,” Teress ordered. “I want them where they can be seen. Have them bring torches and meet in the square.”

Kalin knew better than to resist outright. But she paused a moment before answering. “They know you’re here. They won’t come out of hiding easily.”

“Then they shall be burned out. Tell them.”

Kalin swallowed dryly and then spoke. “People of Khaston! Listen to me!” She let her voice ring on the mountainside and off the seemingly-deserted buildings scattered about the square. All of them were lightless from within, visible only by moonlight weak as milk and the sickening blue glow of the approaching host.

“Our defenses have failed! We are overrun, but we may be spared! Assemble now in the square!”

Teress unfastened the chin-strap of her helmet and removed it slowly. She sighed once, in irritation. “I have no time for this sort of foolishness.” Her hair, black and lustrous as volcanic glass, was tied back tight, with some length falling across the nape of her neck.

Kalin glanced at her, looking for wounds or scars that might show some weakness she could exploit. She found none. The skin of her face was bone-pale. Whoever she had been, she had died without a mark on her.

“They’ve deserted the town,” Kalin offered.

“Then they will only return to ashes.” Teress replied. “Pity. I was hoping to find some more…volunteers. Ah well, there’s still plenty to find on the way to Tarren Mill.”

Tarren Mill was a week of forced marching away, likely less for tireless Scourge. Kalin had been there once when it was a human town, when she was but a girl. To all reports, Undead held the place. But why would Scourge march on other Undead? she asked herself.

“Please! Come out and show yourselves!” Kalin called to anyone who’d listen. “They’ll burn you where you stand!”

Teress arched an eyebrow and regarded Kalin. Kalin tried to keep her panic down. If the plan had been followed, the town would indeed be deserted. The bulwark was to buy time for them, but it might not have been enough. They would be easy prey if caught on foot.

“That is some welcome initiative,” Teress said. “Again.”

“I am begging you! Come out now and you’ll be spared!” Kalin’s voice was ragged and torn.

The Scourge soldiers shifted in their boots. Teress’ mount snuffled and stamped restlessly. She soothed it, patting it beside the ear and whispering.

“Drag them out,” Teress ordered to the assembled Scourge. She scanned the town square. “And while we’re waiting, you may tell me where to find Andrian.”

Again. Teress hadn’t forgotten. Kalin hoped that perhaps she might, focusing on the defiance of the townsfolk instead.

She turned away. “He’s a useless old man, mostly crazy,” Kalin offered quickly.

Teress fixed her gaze on Kalin by way of reply. “That may very well be true, but it changes nothing. My master has charged me with his capture and bringing him to Acherus.”

“And you’re but a servant,” Kalin retorted.

Teress glared. “I have a task. Exactly how it is done is my choice. But it will be completed.”

The Scourge soldiers rattled against locked doors, breaking them without care or thought. There were no cries from within the buildings. Kalin allowed herself to breathe, releasing her clenched fist and unlocking her knees.

Then she watched and thought of ways to lash out that wouldn’t end with her near-immediate murder. Patience. Patience will give you the shot, her instructor had told her once.

“Hmh,” Teress said finally. “I dallied with you and your lover for too long.” She stabbed the word deep into Kalin but didn’t watch for a reaction.

“We warned them that a Death Knight was among the host.”

“Ah, well, that would do it. No matter. We’ll catch them when they tire.” They were never the target, merely an obstacle at best.

“We?” asked Kalin, with far too much edge.

Teress let it go, and looked up the mountain instead. The dark granite still shone wetly with the day’s rain. Moonlight caught the mist along the ground, gauzy and willow-soft. There was a single light far up the mountainside, faint but unmistakable.

“Yes. Did you think that I would let you go a moment before I’d taken my prize?”

“It would have been nice.”

Teress smiled thinly in spite of herself. “You’re entertaining, I’ll give you that. Now shut your mouth and lead me up that path to that light.”

“As you wish.”

Teress drew her sword with a motion and snapped it across Kalin’s back. Kalin froze where she stood, hearing the blade’s kiss across the scabbard. The length of her tied-back hair dropped to the mud at her feet.

“No more games. You are not so valuable as you might think.”

Kalin resumed her march, feeling the cold breeze against the back of her neck for the first time in many months. She was unaccustomed to its rawness, wind against her bare skin and biting.

The modest temple was carved from the rock face of the mountain, an elegant wooden structure built out from the granite. Tall and narrow, it resembled nothing less than a window cut into the stone, looking out to the valley below. There was a multitude of ropes cast from beams and anchored to the mountain at either side. Hanging from those lines was an assortment of lanterns, large and small, of all colors with red predominant. A hundred flames flickered beneath cloth and colored glass.

Every light in the village, it seemed, was hung here. The ropes swayed in the mountain breeze, blowing in traces of distant snow and ice. But the chill was lost in the festival atmosphere of the illuminated temple. Kalin tried to remember the last time the temple had been lit like this, and could not.

“There,” Kalin offered. “You’ll find him there.”

“I could hardly not find him here,” Teress said from astride her charger. Slickrock or not, the beast was able to track up the mountainside with ease. Kalin had glanced back to see the stone under its hooves literally freezing with every step. Icy mist clung in ragged horseshoe patterns.

A detachment from the Scourge host followed behind, now stopped and awaiting further instruction. They looked a perfect nightmare in the moonlight, exposed bone and sinew visible in the gaps and joints of their armor. While at ease, their heads lolled slightly and looked like they might have been sleeping at their posts. Only Not-Nord was whole among them, eyes glassy and fixed on the lanterns of the temple.

“Let him go and I’ll lead you inside,” Kalin said finally.

“Hmmh?” said Teress, distracted and focused on the lights. Even they could lend no warmth to her skin, however.

“The one you raised tonight.” She couldn’t even bear to say his name; her mouth refused. That was no more Nord than it was the Child-King of Azeroth.

“Oh, the mage? Perhaps when I have my charge.”

Kalin set her jaw, mustering what determination she could, and faced Teress. She’d had time to recover from the battle and the shock of everything else tonight and was not going to back down.

Teress snapped her fingers as she dismounted. At the order, five of the undead lurched to life and drew their rusting weapons. The action was not lost on Kalin.

“Tell me about these markings here,” Teress snapped, having disregarded the previous insolence. “This building is old, older even than your village. But…” Another snap of the fingers and one of the soldiers handed a torch to her. “These markings are unusual. I’ve never seen their like. Now tell me about them.”

“I…I don’t know. Andrian knows of them, but his explanations are…nonsensical.” Kalin stammered, whether through ignorance or reluctance, it was impossible to tell.

Teress stepped towards the temple, confident that her prisoner would be unable to attempt escape or harm. Her dark eyes swept over the carved wood frame, not for a moment distracted by the twinkling of the suspended lights.

“Yet your hamlet defended Andrian, though he is both ‘crazy’ and ‘nonsensical.’ Interesting that you would sacrifice yourselves instead of flee.

“He must be quite a prize indeed,” she said, craning her neck to regard something of interest in the dark wood.

“You don’t know why Arthas wants him?”

Teress’ head snapped around instantly, eyes locking onto Kalin’s own. The blue glow coiled there, waiting to strike.

“You are not fit to speak his name. Is that clear?”

Kalin was speechless. Was there…jealousy there? Now that was a horror. Arthas was single-handedly responsible for death and misery greater than even the Horde hoped to sow across the land. And yet this woman, this thing-woman spoke of Arthas with a perversion of love.

“Wait for me here.” The order was a snapping bone at the end of a long fall. “The whole of this detachment has the smell of you lodged in their rotting brains. If you run, they will chase you until you tire, and I’ll make sure your lover has the fist taste.

Then you’ll wish you were merely dead.”

Teress threw aisde the heavy woolen outer curtain, and then a second curtain, both dyed red and inlaid with bronze sigils, gold on the inner. The golden thread was finer than a baby’s hair, woven into symbols that somehow filled the Death Knight with the unease of the unfamiliar. What could they be that had such power?

This was not something she was accustomed to. There was nowhere that her master could not reach. There was no army that his legions feared. Even now, he was preparing to march from Acherus, the vast necropolis that hung in the choked and burning skies of the Eastern Plaguelands. Lordaeron would be once again his, the Eastern Kingdoms not long after that.

The very fact that he could extend his power this far south was testament to his coming victory. There was nothing that could withstand his will; that would be the defiance of Death itself. And was she not one of his chosen, an agent of that will?

Teress dismissed her unease and let the curtain fall behind her. It dropped back with the sound of a shroud being laid upon a resting corpse, something she had known once before. Her oldest memory.

The forechamber was draped in more red, translucent with lanterns hung behind it. Teress supposed it was meant to be warming and welcoming, but something about it made her feel like she’d stepped inside the belly of something alive and pulsing. More carvings worked into the beams and columns. These were chased with more gold. She looked closely at them, trying to discern meaning, but she could not, though there was something old and familiar about the shapes.

Perhaps from the days before her rebirth, perhaps those days.

No. There was nothing before she was raised in His service. Those days were meaningless, an entire lifetime written in another language, filled with thoughts that had no further use.

She clenched her fist tightly inside gauntlets, strong enough for the metal to grate against itself. The sound and sensation brought her back to the present.

“Ah, so you’ve finally arrived,” said a sourceless voice. “You’d think that having the Sight would extend your patience. If only that were so.”

“You are Andrian,” Teress replied. “You are to come with me. There will be no argument.”

Andrian returned a dry chuckle. “To serve your master? The light would have to flicker and die before that happened, and not even he has such power.”

There, behind that veil, Teress decided. She flicked her blade across the crimson silk, causing it to split and billow. Candlelight flowed through the slash, but no one stood there. The smell of burning goat butter wafted across the room.

“Do not draw this out,” Teress grated. “You cannot hide.”

Scrape of metal boot on dry wood and another shape behind the veil. Teress lowered her blade and instead pulled it aside with her hand.

Andrian stood there in the golden glow of the candles. The flickering light made the creases of his face even deeper, the hollows of his cheeks more prominent. His skin was well-tanned, evidence of a full life of labor and rigor. He wore no apparent armor, only a thick robe with a minimum of decoration, not reflective of the fine embroidery of the drapes surrounding him.

He held a flanged mace of finely-engraved bronze in his right hand. A pure white glow played around the fingers that gripped it. This was no ceremonial weapon, Teress noted. It was anointed, sanctified.

“I am not hiding,” Andrian said as she measured him by sight. “And you’ll find that I will not shrink from battle.”

His bald head gleamed like polished bone as he set his jaw and assumed his full height.

“My Master wishes the courtesy of your presence,” Teress said, looking directly into his eyes. He did not blink or shirk away from her gaze.

“Return with us presently and your protectors will be spared,” she said.

“You cannot offer that which you do not hold,” he replied.

She rested a hand on the pommel of her blade as she stepped entirely through the curtain. “A matter of convenience. There are corpses enough here to hunt them down before sunrise.”

He nodded. A ripple of sadness washed over and through him. “I told them that my life was not so long or valuable as to be worth ransoming theirs. I am close to my end.”

“Closer than you think, should you remain defiant.”

“So your deals have become threats? Is that how a child like Arthas gets what he wants?” Andrian grinned like a naughty child himself.

Teress wanted nothing more than to slap the grin from his face, broken bones or not.

“Step forward, creature. Unless you fear me.”

“I. Fear. Nothing.” Teress grated, her voice stone on stone.

“Only fools and the insane fear nothing. Then again, perhaps you are a fool.”

“And you speak with the bravery of the condemned. Teress dragged the tip of her blade across the floor, carving a new symbol from her frustration.

“Condemned? I think not. Even if you can bring yourself to kill me and rob your boy-god of his reward.”

“I am warranted with your death if need be. The Master believes that you’re more valuable to him dead, if not a willing servant.”

“Look around you and tell me you understand,” Andrian urged. “You’ve no idea what I’ve seen.”

The candlelight tricked her eyes and the symbols of gold seemed to be alive, if only for a moment. There was a, a presence, for lack of a better word. The symbols represented something alive and tangible, something right in the temple with the both of them. Was there a hum? What was that sound? It was like crystal singing, goblets teased into a chorus.

She pushed the thought away. There was only inevitability, the inevitability that she represented, that she bore.

“I don’t have to understand.” The runes on the blade flared with her rising anger. Sacred and blasphemous, it sang a song of joy at the coming battle. The song hummed through Teress’ body, making her shiver. Hers was the only joyous noise she heard now.

“Because you’re afraid of what will come with that reckoning.”

“Liar!” she spat, surprised at her own response. This was not cool and detached; this was not the path she’d walked. It burned her as she spoke. What was he doing to her?

Andrian took half a step forward, urging her to come closer, beckoning with his free hand. “Because it’s easier to give in than to stand on your own feet? Even if that means your damnation?”

“You mean my release!” The blade shook in her hand, like a waterless fish trying to thrash its way back to the river.

Andrian tried a smile, but it wouldn’t come. “Take my life. I give it to you. But know that to completely destroy me, you’ll now need to destroy yourself, that which now bears my memory.

“Just as you bear the tiny seed of doubt,” he added.

No more. No more trickery of the filigrees, no more mind-clouds. Just sureness, the sureness of destruction, of finality. She ripped her blade upwards, across his torso. A jet of blood splayed through the air.

“You must be thinking of someone else,” she said, controlling her quickened breath through gritted teeth. “I have no doubts.”

Andrian raised his hand and drew it across his chest. An ember glow of gold poured out from his fingers and erased the wound, though the blood remained on his garment. “I’m not yet finished with you.”

“Yes you are.” Teress struck again, bringing the blade down into his left shoulder. It cut through the bone and joint slickly. She withdrew the blade to watch him suffer.

With a slow ease, Andrian passed the head of the mace over the rent flesh. In seconds, the skin and meat and gristle knitted itself together, undoing the attack.

“So much fury. Where is its source, I wonder? Can it be that you can’t kill but a single man? Call for help, then.”

“I need not!” She lashed out, double-handed on the blade. She summoned the blight, blackening his skin, causing boils to erupt and fester. She lashed with frost, crystals rippling across his flesh. She strangulated with the black smoke in his mouth and nostrils, silencing his spells. He could not heal when he could not speak.

Candles around him fluttered and died, smothered by the dark winds of her fury. Those left alight were sickly and pale. But still, there was enough light to see him bend and grimace, wracked with pain that he could not contain or banish. It was good, her work.

She breathed heavily, looking around quickly for more.

There was a rush of inward wind, and the candles around him lit once again, roaring to life. The air surrounding Andrian shimmered and bent, rippling like a slow stream. Beneath the shield, bathed in golden glow, Andrian was whole and unblemished once more.

“You lack conviction, girl. Try harder, else you return to your Master with empty hands.”

Teress drew back and smashed the runeblade down on the barrier. The force of the blow returned, into her hands and beyond. She held onto the sword, but only barely. A twisted snarl escaped her lips.

“Do you think you’re the first paladin I’ve fought? You can’t stay behind that forever!

“Why fight this? You can’t best death itself.” She clenched the sword with new strength, counting the seconds for the shield to fall.

“Winter comes, but spring always follows.” Andrian readied himself, knowing that she was right and that he would be vulnerable soon enough.

“Not for you,” Teress warned.

“No matter. It still comes. It comes even if your kind are the only ones left to see it. You’ll still know, won’t you?”

She could wait no longer and slammed the blade down again, barrier or no. There was a shriek and crackle. Violet flame shot from the side of the blow, but Andrian would give.

“No such thing!” Teress yelled, lung-strained, as if mere volume could cover her own doubt.

Andrian smiled weakly. “You know…You know that he’s sent you to Light’s Hope to be destroyed.”

Relief rushed into her limbs and even into her heart. He knew not of what he spoke.

“Hah! Light’s Hope is not my target! We are on our way to Tarren Mill! This shows what little you know!” She drew for another blow, hastening the shield’s falling.

“Does it? You will find yourself at Light’s Hope and then you will see what I have seen, only the merest part of it, a shard of a greater whole.”

The blade grated and whined against the barrier, sparking purple in the candlelight. She knew its hunger and it was her own.

Andrian willed his eyes into hers. “The Light itself has spoken to me, and when it speaks to you, you will find yourself destroyed!”

“Liar! He would never do that!”

“Are those tears in my eyes?” flashed the thought. She ground the blade harder, pushing with all of her might, shoulders itching and aflame from exertion.

“Believe what you like. You may even choose to remember this moment before the end.” Andrian could only muster graveness in reply. There was nothing left for even the taunt of a smile. “Were that my victory was not so small.”

“There will be no victory!” Teress commanded, breath hot and vengeful. Blood would quench the smouldering doubt. It had to.

The fuller-runes burned white-hot, hotter even than her wrath. Whatever will held the shield together faltered and split. Her blade plunged through skin and meat, lodging only when hilt struck bone. She was wetted to her elbows. She sought satisfaction in the act and could not find it.

Teress forced herself to look at Andrian in death and saw no fear, no worry, not even grudging acceptance. She saw only peace.

That peace cut through her, through her rage, through the joy of battle, and through even the love that she felt in performing her Master’s service. It cut and that cut would not heal.

She kicked over the remaining candles, watching them set the fabric alight. Where the silk burned, so too did shelves laden with papers and books, no doubt ancient and valuable. It was all the same currency to the fire.

Teress stood and wrenched the blade out of Andrian’s corpse. He seemed to fight her in death, gnawing even after his last breath. She watched, making sure that the flames would indeed catch the columns with their hated inscriptions. Watching it burn and crumble would have to be reward enough.

She pushed her way through the veils, ripping aside those that weren’t slashed by her blade. The heat at her back pushed her faster with each passing moment. Ripping though the last, she allowed herself a breath in relief, sucking in the cold mountain air. Smoke surged out of the doorway behind her.

“Now you’ll tell me that your eyes are only watering because of the smoke’s sting.” Kalin lashed with her words. She had nothing else.

Teress drew back to her full height and composed herself. She then stared at Kalin, who had the light in her face, making her smile when there was none there.

“Make sure this place burns to the ground,” Teress said finally. She suppressed a cough. “Oh, and you,” she said to Not-Nord.

Not-Nord shambled up stiffly, painted orange and red by the burning temple. The mud on his face and body caked and cracked, crumbling away, revealing the graying skin beneath. Teress looked at him and then into Kalin’s eyes, her own now coal-black.

Kalin held her breath fitfully but she wouldn’t back down. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be, but maybe Andrian had been wrong in that. Or maybe he’d just withheld that which was too painful for him to pass along.

“Make yourself useful and put that fire out.” Teress pointed at the burning doorway for emphasis. “Don’t disappoint me.”

Not-Nord dutifully scooped up a handful of moist black dirt and marched past the veil of flame. He disappeared as sheets of fire roared and danced with their own brief life.

Kalin waited for it to emerge. The only thing that moved in her sight was the firelight, now playing over the entryway and even the rock itself.

“A bargain is such,” Teress said. “I have no prize and neither do you.”

There was a nearby shriek and a rush of hoofsteps. It thundered up from the village, at the head of a coming gale.

Teress stood at full attention, and with a flick of her wrist, her minions did as well. Kalin remained guarded, knowing that this was not at an end yet. She was still a prisoner of the Scourge.

“Lady Teress!” called the newcomer. He rode a steed that was more bone than horse. Moonlight shone through its ribs to the dry memory of organs within. “I bring word from the Master!”

He rode to a clattering stop, sounding like a butcher’s offal sack being emptied. The horse-thing whinnied blasphemously, having voice when it should be grave-silent. Somehow, Teress’ own steed was less unsettling than this thing. Kalin wondered if she was becoming used to that particular shade of abomination.

“What news?” Teress asked. “Hurry, for I am to lead this host to Tarren Mill. This errand has already cost us precious days.”

The messenger was draped in black cloth, though metal shone at his shoulders and joints. A great blade lay sheathed at his side. From beneath his head wrappings, a single blue orb glowed.

“You are no longer to march on Tarren Mill,” he said finally.

The thing beating in Teress’ chest skipped and clenched. Another cough, residual of the smoke, she told herself.

“Light’s Hope,” she whispered further.

“Beg your pardon,” the messenger said with an edge of expectation.

“We are to march on Light’s Hope,” Teress repeated, louder and with no trace of resignation.

The messenger nodded. “His word precedes me. How did you know?”

Teress shook her head, noncommittal. “It is not your concern. Only His will matters.”

“Indeed. At any rate, you will go and meet Morgaine there.”

Morgaine, thought Teress. He was second only to the Master himself on the field of battle. She wondered what was coming.

The messenger glanced over the temple, doorway timbers sagging before they creaked into a firey collapse.

“What of your task here?” the messenger inquired?

Teress looked over to Kalin. “Andrian chose death over the Master’s call. The town appears to be deserted aside from a handful of defenders who were routed. Pursuit is not worth the delay.”

He nodded once, satisfied. “And this prisoner? She aided our cause?”

Terese nodded. “She did. She led us here.”

Kalin kept her expression blank. Now was not the time to smile in the knowledge of what was to come. Andrian may have been crazy and wrong, but that didn’t keep people from speaking to him on the eve of battle. And often he spoke in riddles and symbols, but sometimes there was enough to see things clearly.

Even if he’d been wrong about Nord. Or maybe he left that part out to spare her. Knowing that ahead of time would have been unbearable. She could not have marched him to his damnation with foreknowledge.

For that alone, she would wait for her shot at Teress. She would wait until her destruction.

The messenger chuckled. “Then you are in her debt. Now you can be on the road to Light’s Hope that much faster.”

Teress had no response, watching the temple burn now.

“I am no prisoner,” Kalin said loud and clear.

Raising an eyebrow, Teress turned to watch her carefully.

“Indeed not,” mused the messenger. “Do you have a new pet, Milady?”

Teress scowled in reply. “I have no need of one. Especially not one likely to bite me in my sleep.”

“I can guide you through this land. These passes are treacherous,” Kalin offered.

“Treachery does not belong to the mountains alone.” Teress laughed, hollow. “You are a foolish child who knows not of what she speaks.”

She looked away, turning her back to Kalin and whatever it was that she planned. “You stay with your town, live to tell your tale. And do not let me see you another time.”

A careless gesture and Kalin’s guards took a step towards her. They then pointed their blades and indicated that she march back down the hill.

“You won’t see me,” Kalin warned.

Teress smiled flatly but could not find it in herself to laugh.

Turning back to the messenger, she said: “Return to the Master. Tell him that his will be done.”

“His will be done. Farewell, Lady Teress.”

The messenger spurred his steed and rolled down the mountainside like an avalanche, cold iron echoing off the stone for all to hear.

Teress watched the temple collapse in on itself with a shudder and crash. Embers cooled and blackened as they fell to the bare stone foundations. Whatever was there would not be so much as a cinder by morning. Red shadows played in the sparks, and the sparks themselves seemed to claw symbols out of the darkness.

And even in the warmth of the fire, she was cold, so cold.