Alayne sighed and glanced around herself uncomfortably. Her benefactor, Jez’ral, had been as good as his word. He had taken her in to his own home, provided her with food, clothing, and had begun instructing her in using demonic magic. She felt vaguely uneasy about drawing on the destructive forces of the Burning Legion. Once, during the few months she had spent training with Jez’ral, she had voiced these concerns.
“It is true,” he admitted openly, “that fel energy corrupts. However, a disciplined mind can stave off that corruption and a strong will can resist its siren call. I believe you possess both. If you did not, I would not instruct you in this course. Also, while many denounce our use of such energies, they do not realize how such dark magics can be used to benefit our people. By learning to control demons, we learn how to overcome them. We warlocks fight the Legion’s fire with its own weapons.”
Alayne herself had seen the truth of his words. Warlocks were tolerated among the magisters as long as they did not begin to show signs of corruption. Those few who had begun to succumb had been driven off or killed, depending on how deeply into the yawning chasm they had fallen. Now, able to wield such energies with a deftness that surprised and pleased her teachers, Alayne had been ordered to report to Sunstrider Isle and assist with the efforts there.
Standing around her were others of her kind. Most were her own age though she had seen only a few of them in Silvermoon before this day. A young priest who stared at her when he thought she wasn’t looking and a hunter who seemed more interested in returning to the forest caught her attention. However, before she could approach either, the Magistrix who had requested their presence stepped forward.
“The sooner you begin applying your educations, the better for us all,” Erona, the woman responsible for overseeing the reclamation of Sunstrider Isle, said without preamble. “There is little margin for error here so listen closely.”
Alayne, along with the other recruits, grew silent and focused on the Magistrix. “The Burning Crystals – the green floating objects to the west of the Sunspire here,” Erona gestured, indicating the green crystals where swarms of mana wyrms hovered, feeding off their energies, “have long been used to power the isle’s experimentations. The mana wyrms were their guardians, but the Scourge invasion of Quel’Thalas has driven them errant from our lack of magical control over them.”
“What would you have us do about that?” one of the recruits asked. “Kill them all?”
“There is little choice but to thin their numbers for reclamation,” Erona nodded, “Do this, then return to me.”
The recruits dispersed. Several muttered angrily that this kind of work was hardly why they had returned to Quel’Thalas. Alayne kept silent. Jez’ral had pointed out to her that even menial tasks could have a significant impact on grander schemes. No work, no matter how trivial it seemed, was beneath her. Instead of grumbling, Alayne selected a mana wyrm and began casting her spells. The creature darted towards her, letting loose blasts of raw arcane energy in response to her attack. It was not very powerful but the jolts of energy did make her blink. The young priest who had been staring at her all morning walked over to her and she felt a protective shield spring up around her. She smiled at him, grateful for the protective shielding, and immediately selected another target. The priest added his spells to her own and, between the two of them, they quickly culled out the mana wyrms on that platform.
While the recruits worked to destroy the mana wyrms, Erona patrolled the area. Several lynxes who had, up until then, been wandering idly through the well-manicured gardens, grew wild. Alayne and the priest moved quickly, turning their attention on the lynxes. Others did the same, save for the hunter who approached one of them, knelt down, and began whispering to it. Alayne watched as the wild animal grew tame under the hunter’s careful attention. The man smiled and fished a piece of meat from his backpack. Feeding it to the lynx, he rose and pointed, sending the creature a silent command to attack its feral kindred.
“Impressive,” Erona murmured. “Your effort has made something clear that, honestly, I wish were not true,” she sighed. “The unchecked power of the Burning Crystals has maligned a much larger swath of the isle’s natural balance than I thought. We must now take on more unfortunate measures to reclaim control. These normally harmless lynxes are falling victim to the influence of the crystals. The wildest of them must be put down. Bring their collars to me as I may yet be able to fashion a magical restraint to turn some back from being uncontrolled.”
Without further word, Erona strode up the hill and into the large building where other sin’dorei leaders had gathered to coordinate their efforts.
“I guess that means we’re on our own,” the hunter muttered.
“Not that many are going to stay for such work,” the priest snorted. Indeed, many of the other recruits took the opportunity of the Magistrix’s absence to leave to find more exciting work. “An honest day’s work never hurt anyone.”
“That’s a good point,” Alayne agreed. “So, let’s be about it.”
“Of course,” the priest grinned. “But first, your name.”
“Alayne,” the young woman said.
“I’m Zerith,” the priest replied.
“Ber’lon,” the hunter added. “And this fellow is…Sunspot,” he pointed at the lynx he’d just tamed.
Zerith opened his mouth to continue the conversation but Alayne cut him off. “Let’s take care of business first and then we’ll take a break.”
~*~*~*~
Alayne slumped down on the bench and wiped her sleeve across her forehead. Zerith sank down next to her and sighed in tired contentment. The handful of recruits who had remained all were fatigued from the morning’s labors. Still, the results were worth it. The green crystals hung unmolested over their platforms and the few lynxes left frolicked peacefully. The treants had had their numbers pruned as well. Enchanted brooms swept the marbled platforms clean. All told, the area of Sunstrider Isle looked much more composed than it had scant hours ago.
“Here,” Ber’lon said, thrusting a waterskin at Alayne. “You look like you could use it.”
“Thank you,” she whispered wearily. Taking a long draught, she passed it to Zerith who gulped down a few swallows before passing it back to the hunter. The trio had become fast friends over their duties. “I’m looking forward to bed tonight,” she added.
“I could use a good nap myself,” Zerith muttered. “However, it looks like there will be no rest for the weary.”
“She’s not so harsh a task master,” Ber’lon replied. “Trust me, I’ve had worse.”
Erona was indeed emerging from the domed building where she had been meeting with the others in charge of Sunstrider Isle’s reclamation. She glanced around the area, clearly impressed with the progress that had been made. Her lips thinned to a harsh line, however, when she saw how few were left. Shaking her head and muttering to herself, the Magistrix walked over to them.
“You have done well,” she announced, praising their efforts. “Sunstrider Isle will soon be ready to welcome others to its shores. However, there is one final task that we have to undertake before the island will be ours once more. Here, I will let Lanthan Perilon explain the situation.”
A second sin’dorei, his hair pale gold and hanging to his waist, walked up beside Erona. He nodded politely in greeting and then pointed west towards the spiraling building that had once been among the finest schools in Quel’Thalas.
“A betrayer of our people resides atop Falthrien Academy to the southwest,” he said simply. “He profanes and twists, with his foul presence, that which was once pure and beautiful. Felendren is his name, and he was banished from blood elf lands for failing to heed the warnings of our teachers and elders. He is the worst of our society, as he lives only to feed his insatiable magical addictions. He refused to learn control; he is a shell of his former self – one of the Wretched – and he is a threat to the Sunspire.”
Alayne closed her eyes, feeling a momentary twinge of sorrow laced with fear. The Wretched were truly a wretched lot. Unable to discipline themselves to drawing only the energy they needed to take the edge off the loss of the Sunwell, they gorged on fel energies until their very bodies were twisted and broken by the strain. It was a danger that lurked for any elves who returned to Quel’Thalas.
“What would you have us do?” Ber’lon asked quietly. “Surely the Blood Knights and the army are too busy to keep watch over prisoners if they were too busy to guard the borders from one sentenced to exile.”
Lanthan nodded. “What you say is accurate. You must destroy him and the wraiths he uses as minions. Once that is done, we will be able to reclaim the Academy for ourselves once more.”
“Kill him,” Alayne muttered. “You want us to kill him?”
“He would kill any of you,” Lanthan said mercilessly. “He has made the rules for this game. We must abide by them or be ready to surrender. That is the way of the world, young one.”
“I understand how you feel,” Zerith whispered as Lanthan and Erona strode back into the shade of the domed building. “But, sometimes it is kill or be killed.”
“Zerith is right,” Ber’lon agreed. “Besides, if he has succumbed and become a Wretched, it’s more a mercy to kill him than to let him suffer on until madness overwhelms him.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Alayne sighed. “Let’s be on with it, then.”
~*~*~*~
Alayne sat at the table in a darkened corner of the inn. Her plate was untouched. The smell of food was noxious to her now. Her two friends had gone up to the room they were sharing now that Sunstrider Isle had been reclaimed and the magisters had urged them to lend their assistance to the efforts in Falconwing Square. Alayne did not feel like walking up the spiraled gilt staircase to her own room in the inn. She also did not feel like eating or remaining in the common room for much longer. Shoving her still-full plate away, she rose and strode out of the inn.
Evening had settled over the square. A peaceful quiet lay thick upon it. The babble of the water in the fountain, the jingle of the soldiers’ armor, and the faint chirping of crickets were the only sounds that could be heard. Alayne treasured the silence, savoring it as she rarely had before.
“Are you all right?” a soft baritone voice asked. Alayne turned around to see Zerith standing a few feet behind her. “You’ve been quiet ever since the Academy.”
“I’m just tired,” she whispered, not wanting to further disrupt the silence.
“It was your first battle, wasn’t it?” the priest said, drawing up to stand beside her.
“It was hardly a battle,” she snorted.
“The size doesn’t matter, Alayne,” he said gently. “You only did what you had to do. Both Felendren and Thaelis had their chance to leave peacefully. You saw what those with Thaelis did to Alarion.”
Alayne shuddered, remembering the shock of seeing Alarion’s corpse in the middle of the road. Her skin had still been warm. The Wretched who had taken control of the building opposite Falconwing Square had slaughtered her and stolen the package of supplies she’d been carrying to the inn. She’d never seen violent death before. She looked at Zerith and tried to compose her thoughts. It wasn’t that she’d killed a half-dozen men that day that had her on edge…
…it was that she had almost been unable to stop killing them. She’d felt no pleasure in the doing but she had been satisfied to see those who would betray her people destroyed. She also felt no real sorrow about their deaths. At last, after a lengthy silence, she shook her head. “I’m just tired, Zerith. Come on, let’s go to sleep. We still have plenty of work ahead of us tomorrow.”
~*~*~*~
Zerith looked relieved the next morning when he and Ber’lon came downstairs to see Alayne eating a healthy breakfast while studying a grimoire. She smiled a greeting at the pair and motioned for them to join her at the table. They paused only to make their orders at the inn’s kitchen and then sat down to join her while waiting for their own breakfasts.
“Shadow Spells and Fel Fire,” Ber’lon muttered, reading the title of the tome Alayne studied. “That’s so far beyond me that I can barely understand the title.”
Alayne grinned and shook her head. She caught Zerith’s glance and her grin froze and fell off her face. The priest was staring at her with the strangest look of sorrow mingled with longing. Closing her book, she leaned her elbows on the table, clasped her hands beneath her chin, and studied her companions.
Ber’lon had long black hair that was tied back in a hasty tail that spilled over his shoulders. His eyes, like her own, were slowly changing from their natural color – emerald green for him and sapphire for her – to a bright green. His skin was dusky from long days spent outdoors in the sun where hers was fairer. The faint red tone – a flush that indicated her feeding on the demonic energies in place of the Sunwell – was more obvious in her color than the hunter’s. Ber’lon was also sturdily built and had an air of rugged good health often found in those who sought home and hearth in the forest instead of the cities. By contrast, Zerith, who was still staring at her as if he did not know quite what to make of her, had shoulder-length reddish brown hair and bright green eyes. His skin, like her own, was fairer in complexion than Ber’lon’s. Both he and the hunter sported a day’s worth of stubble on their cheeks and chins as neither had bothered to shave that morning.
During her study, Zerith shook himself as if to clear his thoughts and took a seat at the table. Their breakfast arrived a short time later and the three ate in silence, Alayne sneaking regretful glances at her books and wishing she could read more before they had to set out. Before they had even finished eating, the local guard commander poked his head into the inn, relieved to see them still there.
“Thank you for the short work you made of that Wretched infestation,” he said as he walked over to their table. “If you have the time, I’ve got some more work lined up for you.”
“Certainly,” Zerith answered for them. “We’re eager to be of assistance.”
“Good, good,” the commander said. “Magister Jaronis asked me to speak with you. If you’ll head over to the West Sanctum, they’re currently dealing with an infestation of arcane pests. Here’s a letter of introduction for you to present to Ley-Keeper Velania. Oh, and if you stop by the North Sanctum, don’t be alarmed. They’ve got a dwarf there helping to oversee the strengthening of the supports. Don’t bother him and he won’t bother you.”
The three nodded and rose to follow the commander out of the inn. Outside in the square, they could see other recruits busily working to break down the golem patrollers who had gone berserk and needed to be brought back under control. Others were combing through the ruins to gather up the mana crystals that the Wretched had stolen and hoarded for themselves. Waving to a few they had come across in the inn the night before, the trio set out for the other side of the square and entered Eversong Woods.
Taking the road out of Falconwing Square, they followed the path past the North Sanctum where, sure enough, they could see a dwarven architect discussing the structure with its keeper. Ignoring them, they continued on southwards, passing by some students who were frantically searching for a book they’d lost. The pair tried to cajole them into aiding them but Alayne laughed and shook her head. “Perhaps the punishment Magister Antheol metes out will teach you to be more responsible with his books. Besides, aren’t you two missing his lesson now?”
Continuing on to the fork that took them to the West Sanctum, they paused when Alayne stopped in the center of the road midway up the hill. The stench of arcane power hung thick in the air to one sensitive to it and she felt as if she might choke. “What in the name of the Light is going on there?” she wondered.
Zerith put a comforting hand on her shoulder and they continued on to the sanctum. A harassed-looking and harried sin’dorei woman, the Ley-Keeper Velania, gestured for them to come closer. She plucked the letter of introduction from Zerith’s hand before the priest had a chance to ask a question and then snorted.
“I warned of the dangers of increasing the load on the West Sanctum!” she growled. “Now one of the energy converters is destroyed and arcane wraiths are pouring out of the sanctum! I’m going to need you to take care of those creatures before we send anyone in for repairs! Make haste!” she ordered, pointing at the sanctum. The building was set in a depression in the hill and dozens of arcane wraiths darted around the clearing.
“What are those?” Zerith asked in a whisper as they took the stairs down to the area. The creatures largely ignored them for the moment.
“Mana wraiths,” Alayne winced. “They’re not difficult to destroy but they do make me want to sneeze.”
“So, how do we destroy them? They’re pure arcane energy, right?” Ber’lon asked.
“Just like we destroyed the mana wyrms yesterday. They’re magical beings, yes, but they are physical. If their bodies die, so do they.”
“Then let’s get to it,” Zerith suggested.
~*~*~*~
“You’re Cloudslasher’s student?” the Ley-Keeper asked an hour later when the wraiths were dead and the Sanctum back in working order.
Alayne nodded. “I am.”
“I thought I recognized his spell forms. He’s a good one. Not as good as his own instructor, Mir’el, but still more than decent.”
Alayne and the others collected a few silvers in payment for their services and nodded their thanks. The task had not been difficult and, once the Sanctum had been powered down, correcting the defect in its workings had taken Alayne all of five minutes. Still, she was happy to hear the clinking of coins in her pouch. If she were able to find more reliable work, she could consider living independently once her studies were complete.
So lost was she in her own dreams of one day having a home of her own with a garden and a full kitchen that she did not notice Ber’lon stopped right in front of her until she ran into his back. Before she could ask him why he was stopped, he lifted a hand and motioned for silence. Reaching down to stroke Sunspot’s head, he pointed at a thick bush. The lynx was off at once and Ber’lon had an arrow nocked and fired before Alayne could wonder at his behavior.
A sharp pain-filled cry rose from the bush. Sunspot growled and then whimpered. Without explanation, Ber’lon waded in, rushing to the lynx’s defense. He grappled with the hidden attacker and forced him out of his hiding spot. Alayne gasped when she caught her first real glimpse of the attacker. A night elf dressed in dark leathers wielding twin daggers had been hiding in the underbrush. Alayne had seen only a few of the near-legendary kaldorei during her time in Menethil after the Battle of Mount Hyjal. They were staunch members of the Alliance now. But what was one doing here, in Eversong?
The night elf managed to shove Ber’lon off him and rolled quickly. Before Ber’lon could gather himself, the lavender-skinned man was on top of him, daggers flashing towards Ber’lon’s throat. Almost without thought, Alayne unleashed a bolt of shadow that struck the night elf in the back. Green fire and black smoke surrounded him as the bolt exploded. He cried out in agony as she followed up with one of the curses she’d been taught. Next to her, Zerith cast his own spells to shield and fortify Ber’lon while draining his night elven attacker. Ber’lon whistled and Sunspot sprang from the bush, sinking his teeth into the night elf’s neck. At the same moment that Sunspot attacked, Alayne stepped in and planted her own dagger in the man’s back. The night elf collapsed with a liquid grunt, his life-blood spilling out from his throat and back.
Zerith rolled the night elf off Ber’lon and helped the hunter stagger to his feet. “What in the name of the Light was he doing here?” the priest asked, voicing the question on everyone’s mind.
“A spy,” Ber’lon rasped, rubbing his throat. The kaldorei had tried to strangle him while the pair grappled in the brush. “Search his pockets. Perhaps we’ll learn more about what he was doing here.”
Steeling herself to the distasteful task, Alayne knelt and began riffling through the night elf’s pockets. Ber’lon pushed through the brush and spotted a small leather satchel. Zerith simply stared at the dead man, studying his face as if the corpse would tell him the tale.
“Here’s something,” Ber’lon muttered, pulling a bundle of papers out of the pack. “I can’t read it, though. I’m not sure of the language.”
Alayne scrambled over and plucked the documents from his hands. Scanning them, she nodded to herself. “I’m no expert, but this looks like old Thalassian. It’s probably Darnassian – the kaldorei tongue. It’s akin to our own in some ways but completely alien in others.”
“You can read that?” Zerith asked, impressed.
“Not really,” Alayne admitted. “I can make out that it has something to do with the areas that once housed the Keys to Quel’Thalas. But, I get that more from the maps and diagrams than from the text itself.”
“Perhaps someone else could decipher it and tell us what it says,” the priest mused. “At any rate, we should take it back to Falconwing Square and let the guards know that there are spies in our midst.”
“That sounds like a good plan to me,” Ber’lon agreed. “Let’s tell the Ley-Keeper to keep an eye out in case this fellow had friends.”
Ber’lon trotted back towards the Sanctum to inform Velania of her uninvited observers while Alayne and Zerith dragged the body back into the brush and covered it with leaves. Sunspot stayed with them, watching his master’s attacker with a grim satisfaction. Alayne wondered if this would be only the first of many attempted invasions from their now-distant cousins and former allies. She prayed that the peace she’d begun to find in her homeland would not be disturbed too much in the coming days.
~*~*~*~
The three returned to Falconwing Square and were directed to the captain, Aeldon Sunbrand. A veteran of the campaign in Kalimdor, Sunbrand was fluent in all of the Alliance languages and had been one of the first to pick up Orcish. He studied the documents for long moments, agreeing with Alayne that many of them were written in Darnassian. However, the most relevant ones were actually in Dwarven. The captain studied them for a long while before puffing out his cheeks, sighing, and eyeing the three young sin’dorei as if they had dreamed this up just to plague him.
“Blast that Anvilward!” he swore, folding his arms over his chest and leaning backwards to stare at the sky. “We were fools to let him come here. Listen, you three,” he sighed, leaning in closer to them and glancing around conspiratorially. “This is a very delicate situation. Even though we’ve identified the spy, we cannot kill him out in the open. We cannot try to capture him either as the risk of him escaping is too great. I want you three to go find Prospector Anvilward at the North Sanctum and kill him. Do this in a quiet manner. We don’t want word to spread that we allowed – no, invited – a spy into our city. Bring me his head as proof. Ironforge will learn not to meddle with the sin’dorei.”
Zerith set his lips in a thin line but nodded, accepting the mission. Ber’lon looked unsurprised by the turn of events and nodded thoughtfully. Alayne sighed and agreed as well. If word got out that a spy from the Alliance had been allowed free run of Eversong Woods and Silvermoon city, the sin’dorei’s confidence in their army would falter. They could not allow themselves to be seen as anything less than powerful, nearly immortal masters of magic. Their true weaknesses would overwhelm them and encourage further attacks if their one-time allies were to learn just how fragile the façade was.
“How are we going to do this?” Zerith wondered aloud as they made their way back through the gate that separated Falconwing Square from Eversong.
“We’ll have to do it inside the Sanctum,” Ber’lon muttered. “Otherwise, any passer-by could see.”
“I’ll lure him inside somehow,” Alayne volunteered. “I…I served in a tavern in Menethil Harbor. I’m sure I can come up with something to spark his curiosity enough to overcome his good sense.”
“I’m not sure I like that idea at all,” Zerith protested.
Alayne ignored the priest for a moment and reached out. Channeling the fel energies that she had learned to command, she wrested part of the Twisting Nether, taming it to her control and calling forth an imp. The creature was small, not much larger than a noblewoman’s pet lapdog. Green felfire sparked from its scrawny frame. Mentally, Alayne ordered the creature to give her its name. Working its name into the summoning spell, Alayne completed the incantation that bound the creature completely to her will. “Follow me,” she ordered it in a leaden voice. Quick rapid strides forced Zerith and Ber’lon to trot to catch up with her as she continued towards the North Sanctum.
“You don’t have to do this,” the priest whispered. “Perhaps I could…”
“I’m not going to do anything too terrible,” Alayne replied softly. “It’s just trickery.”
“Still, you’re too good to even imply that…”
“I implied it quite enough back in Menethil. It was that or not eat.”
“You’re among your own kind now. You shouldn’t…”
“I do this only because it’s necessary. I don’t like it any more than you do.”
Zerith raised his hands, conceding the point. “Besides,” Alayne added with a wry grin, “if this doesn’t work, we just have Ber’lon clap a hand over the dwarf’s mouth and drag him bodily into the Sanctum.”
A few moments later saw the three on the steps leading down to the Sanctum. The keeper stared at them in confusion for a moment but Zerith and Ber’lon quickly drew him aside, telling him that Captain Sunbrand had sent them to bring him a message concerning the order he’d made at the Falconwing inn. Alayne huffed and stepped inside the Sanctum as if fatigued. Fishing Ber’lon’s flask from her pouch and took a loud guzzle. Anvilward saw her and looked intrigued. He smacked his lips loudly and eyed her companions.
“I’ve always been curious about something,” she said brightly, feigning intoxication. “These Sanctums…they have some strange vaulting on the ceiling. I remember wondering how the dome kept from collapsing when I was a child. Have you ever seen it clearly?”
“Nae, I’ve not, lass. I’d love to take a look at this feature yer talkin’ about,” the dwarf muttered into his beard, staring at both the woman and the flask as if torn between which one struck his fancy the most.
“It’s right up here,” Alayne shouted as she scampered up the ramp. Sending a mental command to the imp she’d left stationed in the underbrush out of sight of the Sanctum, she ordered it to attend to her now. She could feel the minion drawing closer. She prayed it would be close enough. For her part, she began summoning the shadows and preparing her curses to lay on the dwarf the minute he reached the platform.
Anvilward reached the top of the ramp and Alayne’s shadow bolt exploded against his chest. His jet black beard caught flame from the dark fire of the spell and he flailed wildly, trying to swat it out. “What kind of trickery is this?” he roared.
Alayne hissed. She’d been hoping that her first spell would be the only one needed. She cast a curse on him, sapping his strength, and began preparing a spell to melt his flesh from his bones. Her imp minion Azyal scampered up the ramp and hurled a firebolt at the dwarf’s back.
Before Alayne could complete her cast, she saw a shield spring up around her and an arrowhead blossom out of the dwarf’s chest. Anvilward stared down at the arrow in horror before he staggered and collapsed. Alayne glanced down to see Ber’lon lowering his bow, a faint grin on his face. Their plan had worked. Now they just had to find a discreet way to carry the dwarf’s head back to the captain in Falconwing Square.
~*~*~*~
Zerith and Alayne made their way back towards Silvermoon city late in the day. Ber’lon, hearing rumors of disturbances in Fairbreeze Village – his home as a child – had decided to part ways with the others for the time being.
The late evening sun sent shadows down the blackened, burnt scar that cut through Quel’Thalas from Deatholme to the Sunwell. As the pair approached it, Alayne stopped in her tracks and could not move. Echoing through the otherwise quiet forest air were the sounds of frantic combat. Zerith moved to see if he could be of assistance but Alayne sank to the ground, her fingers curling into the grassy sod and her breath coming in gasps and pants as panic took her. When the priest realized that his friend was not keeping pace with him, he turned and ran back to her, worry clear on his face.
“Alayne?” he asked softly, squatting down beside her. Calling on the Light, he gently probed her for signs of illness or injury but found nothing aside from stark terror and panic. “Alayne, what’s wrong?”
“I…I can’t…,” she gasped. Visions of her father falling at the Sunwell, of the Scourge scouring her home, the nightmares of many sleepless nights since she’d learned of her father’s death, assailed her as the sounds of battle rang out from the Dead Scar. She could remember the sickly smell of burning flesh, the thick smoke that had curled up to the sky as she and her mother made their escape on one of the dragonhawks while her father hurried to rejoin his garrison before the gates of Silvermoon. Her stomach lurched as she recalled that day. She gagged and choked as the pain of memory overwhelmed her.
“Ssh,” Zerith whispered, pulling her into a companionable embrace and rocking her gently. “It’s just those roving skeletons. There are no necromancers to command them. The rangers are just clearing them out so that travel between Silvermoon and other parts of Quel’Thalas won’t be threatened. There’s no need to worry. No one will force you to face it until you’re ready.”
Stronger sobs wracked the woman as she wept bitterly while her friend held her and tried to calm her. “You…you s-s-sound like my f-f-father,” she groaned. “I’m s-s-sorry…”
“Hush now,” he said tenderly, smoothing her hair and brushing tears away from her cheeks with his knuckle. “It’s okay. The battle is over now. Hear it?”
Alayne swallowed her sobs and listened. The sounds of the battle had faded. Once again birds chirped and squirrels chattered. Faint laughter, a sound unknown to the Scourge, rang in the air. The battle was over and the sin’dorei were victorious. Alayne grew calmer and, nodding her thanks to her friend, pushed herself out of his lap and up to her feet. Zerith helped her steady herself with a calm smile on his face. Alayne glanced at him and noticed that his own eyes were hard and bright with a mix of anger, sorrow, and longing. “Zerith?” she asked.
“I’m sorry,” he sighed, forcing himself back to the present. “It’s just that you remind me so much of my youngest sister…”
“Sister?” she whispered. “Where is she?”
The warmth in his eyes flared to the heat of bitter anger. “She died,” he muttered. “Arthas killed her.”
Alayne and Zerith stood still for a moment later before the priest drew a ragged breath of his own, forced himself to a disciplined calm once more, and took her hand, leading her over the Dead Scar and back to their homes in Silvermoon.
~*~*~*~
Jez’ral nodded his approval of the imp Alayne was able to control. She demonstrated her spells and practiced some more advanced ones under his supervision, working with the incantations until she had the correct tone, inflection, and pitch memorized. Her two days working to help reclaim Sunstrider Isle and Falconwing Square had allowed her to grow more confident in her spell-work and had helped to increase her endurance for casting far more than the previous month’s study in safe, confined conditions had.
“You’re doing well,” he said evenly. “But, there is always room for improvement.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“I mean that it is time for you to consider what you want to do with your life. I know that you are young – before the Scourge invasion, you would not even have been allowed to become an apprentice. However, as you have no doubt heard,” he frowned with distaste, “such traditions cannot be strictly adhered to while our survival as a people is still in question.”
Alayne blushed and nodded. She’d heard the speeches in the bazaar about the various duties to the blood that were being asked of women her age. While sin’dorei matured at only a slightly slower pace than humans, once they reached physical adulthood, they slowed. A sin’dorei, quel’dorei, or even a kaldorei would change little from the time they reached the age of sixteen or seventeen. In the days before the Scourge invasion, Alayne, now seventeen, would have been considered just out of childhood. She would have been beginning to consider a course of study and would have been carefully shielded from the first onset of adulthood by her parents and by a culture that felt itself assured of centuries. However, now, those who would have once protected her sought to encourage her to take on duties and responsibilities to the race that she would not have been asked to consider until she was well into mental and emotional adulthood around the age of sixty or seventy.
“Those are not the traditions of which I speak, young one,” Jez’ral murmured dryly, knowing from Alayne’s flushed cheeks and downcast gaze exactly where her mind had gone. “You were forced to grow up quickly to take care of your mother, to work in a tavern, and then to begin wrestling with decisions after your mother’s death. And, even as you seek protection from those problems, you yearn for greater independence. I have heard it in your words while you were telling me about what you and those two young men did.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that perhaps it is time for you to travel a bit. The world is filled with itinerant adventurers who give their efforts to those around them and then journey on. I think that may be a better life for you now than one spent safely behind the gates of Silvermoon studying dusty tomes day in and day out.”
“You want me to leave?” she asked, a hint of panic in her voice.
“Light no!” he gasped. “You will be welcome here as my apprentice until you have completed your Master’s training which – even if you did study day in and day out for it, you would not be prepared for before two or three more years had passed. However, what I am suggesting is that you and those other two take some more time and travel through Quel’Thalas. Down in the Ghostlands I’m sure there are many things you could do to help.”
“The Ghostlands,” she shivered.
“Indeed, your next step of training will take you there.”
“Next step of training?” she asked, intrigued.
“You’ve proven that you can command a simple demon to your will,” he gestured at the imp. “Your spells have gained power and you are more assured of their results. You still follow a somewhat formulaic approach to casting but creativity will come with time and confidence. That confidence will come with experience. The best way I can think for you to gain experience is to go out into the world – knowing, of course, that you have a place to return to if you need it – and work for it.”
“I’ll think about it,” she replied. “I’ll think about it.”
~*~*~*~
Zerith shuddered and wrapped his stole more tightly around him. He’d flown over the Ghostlands on his return to Quel’Thalas and had little intention of setting foot near his former home for years longer. However, when Alayne had approached him with the suggestion of traveling there to lend assistance on the frontier, he had felt oddly compelled to go with her. Part of it was her uncanny resemblance to his own sister and part of it was the thought of someone even younger than he struggling to right the wrongs inflicted on and by their elders all on her own.
Ahead of him, Alayne stared down the hill that lead into the Ghostlands. She shaded her eyes with a hand and then hiked her skirts to her knees and ran down the hill, shouting for him to follow her. Zerith shrugged and jogged after her, wondering what she had seen. She staggered to a halt half-way down and knelt beside a sin’dorei courier who had collapsed in the roadway. A Forsaken, her robes proclaiming her a member of the Royal Apothecary Society, ducked out of the small hut that overlooked the border bridge. She carried a vial of some potion in her skeletal hand and waved the warlock away.
“There’s nothing wrong with him that a little of this won’t cure in short order,” the Forsaken said in a brisk, business-like manner. “Still, you should be careful of wandering through the Ghostlands. They’re not as tainted as the Plaguelands but they’re bad enough.”
“What happened to him?” Zerith asked as he reached them. Bending down, he laid a hand on the man’s forehead. A slight fever burned through the courier and the priest could see and sense bite wounds on the man’s body.
“He probably got bitten by one of the creatures near the border,” the Forsaken said dismissively. “He’s got a weak constitution compared to one of us. But, enough of this will fix him in no time.”
“Here,” Zerith offered, “allow me to help so that you need not waste your medicine.”
The Forsaken nodded in acceptance, rose, and stepped back. Drawing on his faith, Zerith cleansed the starting infection and closed the wounds. The courier would still need to rest and take it easy but he would not spend several days abed while his body fought off the illness that had threatened. Once the healing was complete, the Forsaken called for some of her companions to come and carry the elf indoors and put him to bed.
“That was good work,” she said graciously. “If you two are looking to make your way in the world, you could do worse than stopping by Tranquillen to help those gathered there. From what I’ve heard, your people have done well reclaiming this part of your kingdom but there’s still plenty of work to be had south of the river.”
“We will head that direction, then,” Alayne said. “Thank you.”
The pair made their farewells to the Forsaken and then continued their trek south in silence. Zerith glanced around at the dark forests, remembering the days when they had been just as verdant and peaceful as the forests around Silvermoon. Now, however, they were tainted and twisted by the polluting presence of the Scourge. Wispy, ghost-like moss hung from the bare branches of skeletal trees. The ground was barren. What little growth sprang from the rocky soil was dark and chill to the touch. The light of the sun was unable to penetrate the perpetual shade of necromantic magic that blanketed the land. The last gasp of autumn hung in the air – the spells that held the rest of Quel’Thalas in eternal summer could not stretch across the river yet.
Following the cobbled road into Tranquillen, the pair stopped and asked the guards what they could do to help. The guards were first disappointed that they were only a priest and a warlock. Requests for fresh troops and rotations of duty back to Eversong were frequent enough. Now that they learned that only a handful of bare-adults – not even trained for combat – were willing to venture south of the Elrendar river, the frustrations began to run high. However, when they did learn that the pair were earnest in their desire to help out, even if they were not suited to joining the Silvermoon Army, the guards and leaders in Tranquillen were quick to give them work to do.
“If you were to ask me,” one of the guards muttered, glancing about to make certain none of his superiors could overhear him, “the best thing to do would be to gather an army and attack Deatholme head-on. The Scourge swarm out of there. If we could destroy it, that would be a mighty blow against them and would give us enough breathing space to actually make headway here. However, no one wants to do that. The commanders of the Silvermoon Army have looked it over and say that it’s not worth the cost in lives right now. And, more likely than not, they’re right. So, you could start off by helping us clear out the ghosts in Goldenmist Village and Windrunner Village. There are a good number of cultists hiding out in Windrunner Village as well. If their numbers were thinned down, that might help with the Scourge problem. At the very least, clearing those areas out would put a dent in some of their havens and give us a real chance to hold the advances they make through the Dead Scar.”
“We will be heading to Goldenmist Village, then,” Alayne said. “We’ll do what we can there.”
“Good luck to you both. May the eternal sun guide your path.”
Zerith stared quizzically at Alayne as she lead him down the path towards the Dead Scar and Goldenmist Village. He tried to ignore the sense of panic and despair he could feel welling up within him. He remembered Goldenmist Village all too well. It had been his home as a young child and youth. He and his sisters had been born within one of the houses on the outskirts of the village. His father, Ren’im, had been the priest in charge of the local shrine. Many days, he had ducked his studies to swim or fish in the river that ran behind the town. As he grew older and had the beginnings of responsibility laid on his shoulder, he had given up those simple escapes to spend time maintaining and praying in the town’s holy shrine. To face returning to it, to see his childhood home despoiled by the Scourge and the ghosts of those he had known wandering the broken streets…he shivered at the thought.
“What’s wrong, Zerith?” Alayne asked, her aquamarine eyes wide with concern.
“Goldenmist Village is where I grew up,” he said in a small voice. “I’ve little liking for returning and seeing it…” he could not finish.
Alayne reached up and patted him on the shoulder. She smiled sympathetically with true understanding. “I know how it feels,” she said gently. “If you can’t go, then don’t. I do have something I need to do there myself but you do not need to accompany me.”
“What is it you have to do there?” he asked.
“The warlocks have been using a building there for…more advanced summoning,” she admitted, biting her lower lip and looking up at him apologetically. He nodded and waved for her to continue. “Some demons are too risky to summon in the quarters in Murder Row,” she explained. “And, part of our training is learning to summon and command these creatures beyond the safe confines of a controlled environment. Since no one lives in the village anymore and the only risk is to the warlock and the ghosts, it was decided to create a summoning chamber in Goldenmist Village.”
“And what do you have to do?”
“Well, I’ll need to gather a voidstone from the Dead Scar. The Scourge carry them but often discard them. Voidstones are one of the ways a necromancer can keep control of a minion from a vast distance. They can also be used to spy on others. However, since the Scourge are completely mindless, they’ll often drop them and leave them where they lay. Finding one will not be too difficult. Once I’ve done that, I’ll go to the summoning chamber and attempt to call forth and command a voidwalker. If I succeed, I’ll have proven myself strong enough to access the more advanced classes of spellbooks.”
“Is this dangerous?”
“Any kind of magic is dangerous,” she equivocated. Zerith glared at her and she shrugged. “It could be,” she admitted.
“Then I will come with you.”
“If you do,” she said, raising a hand, “then you should know that you will not be able to help me control it. At best, you’d be able to protect me from its rampaging. Don’t try to attack it with holy magic. That will only enrage it and make it stronger and more difficult to control.”
“I see,” the priest sighed. “It’s often like that. Opposites might annihilate each other but the energy expenditures in doing so often create an effect that is far more than the sum of its parts.”
“A priest who’s studied arcane elementals,” Alayne muttered, impressed.
“A priest who had three sisters who were mages in training,” he grimaced. “I know their lessons almost as well as I know my own.”
“I’ll bet they say the same thing about you,” she teased lightly.
“No, they don’t,” he whispered. “I’m the only one who survived.”
“I’m sorry,” she replied, reaching out and hugging him. “I knew that your youngest sister was…gone but not that…you were like me. Alone.”
“It’s okay,” he sighed. “It happened three years ago. Now,” he said, taking a deep breath and centering himself, “let’s go take care of what you need to do.”
~*~*~*~
“This used to be the elder’s home,” Zerith muttered, unable to wholly keep the disapproval from his voice.
“I know,” Alayne said meekly. “But, it was the only one that still had a sound roof.”
“What do you need to do now?”
Alayne pulled out the voidstone she’d found near the Dead Scar. She motioned for Zerith to stand to one side of the room while she walked into the center of the glowing green summoning circle. The demonic energies scribed on the floor rose up around her, surrounding her, buffeting her, and trying to break her resolve as she focused on tapping into the voidstone. The dark blue crystal pulsed in her hand, sending out waves of cold so intense it burned. She forced herself to ignore the pain and distractions. Giving in to them would prove fatal. Instead, she channeled her spell, drawing on and mastering the energies of the circle. Tearing open a small hole in the fabric of reality around her, she reached into the Twisting Nether, searching out her quarry. Finding what she sought, she snared it and began muttering the incantation that would pull the demon from the Nether to Azeroth.
Once the spell was complete, a dark voidwalker appeared in the summoning circle. It raised wispy fists at the warlock and rushed towards her, seeking to end her domination of its will while she was weakened from calling it forth. Forcing down panic, she fought back, searing the creature with the very fires that gave it birth. The voidwalker roared and redoubled its efforts. Tapping into its source of power, Alayne pulled that magical energy into herself, draining the creature until it was too weak to continue the battle.
“Your name, creature?” she commanded silently, her mind touching the consciousness that drove the voidwalker on.
“Jhaztast,” the voidwalker replied in the same manner. Its tone, while angry, was tinged with the barest traces of respect.
The harsh green glare of the circle began to fade now that the spell was complete and the demon was under her control. Zerith stared at her, wide-eyed, wondering when the battle would begin. Once she had summoned the rift, the shielding enchantment laid on the circle had prevented him from seeing beyond the border. “Alayne?” he asked, his voice filled with concern.
“It’s done,” she whispered, swaying on her feet. “He is under my control.”
Before she could say another word, the room tilted and grew dark.
~*~*~*~
“Alayne,” he said. His voice was soft and sibilant. “Alayne.”
“Who’s there?” she asked, frightened by the chill darkness surrounding her. The young woman stood in a frozen wasteland, a place that never knew summer. Standing before her was a man who no longer knew warmth of any kind.
“He’s mine, you know,” the dread man said, his tone filled with amused mockery.
“Who are you?” she demanded, her voice growing more shrill as panic threatened to overwhelm her.
“He’s mine and you will be mine too, little Alayne,” the stranger sneered. “Look, and see your own doom!”
Glancing beyond him, she saw…
“Alayne! Wake up!”
Alayne’s eyes popped open and she nearly screamed in fright. Zerith stood over her, shaking her gently but insistently. “Where am I?” she asked, wincing at the loudness of her own voice.
“Back in Tranquillien,” Zerith replied. “You fainted after summoning that voidwalker. It bowed to you and vanished. I carried you back here to the inn so you could rest.”
“I…I see,” she whispered. She reached up and rubbed at her temples. Her head pounded abominably. Zerith pulled the coverlet up over her again and ran his fingers over her forehead. Nodding to himself, he left the room with quick strides, returning moments later with a mug of steaming tea.
“Here,” he said, helping her to sit up and then placing the mug against her lips. “Drink this. It will help.” Alayne gulped down the tea, barely wincing in distaste at its strong flavor.
“What was in that?” she asked after she passed the mug back to the priest.
“It’s a mix that I used to give Valara after she woke up from a nightmare. She’d always have the worst headaches after a bad dream.”
“Valara?”
“My youngest sister,” he explained. “The one you bear an absolutely uncanny resemblance to in more ways than one.”
“I wish I was your sister,” Alayne whispered, laying back down in the bed. Zerith smoothed the coverlet over her and then walked over to the washing basin. Dipping a facecloth in the cool water, he wrung it out and then walked over and draped it over Alayne’s forehead. “If you were my brother, I could ask you to stay here so that the bad dreams would stay away. My father used to do that when I was little.”
Zerith studied her with an odd expression on his face. After a long moment of thought, he walked over and pulled the lone chair from behind the small writing table and set it next to the bed. Sitting in it, he folded his arms over his chest. “I’ll stay here and keep the dreams away,” he whispered, patting her hand fondly. “Go back to sleep.”
“You don’t have to,” she whispered. “You don’t have to look after me like this.”
“I’ll do it anyway,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“Alayne,” he whispered, “we’re sin’dorei. We have to look out for each other. No one else will look after us.”
Alayne smiled and closed her eyes once more, letting the tea Zerith had fixed her pull her back into slumber.
~*~*~*~
Alayne sighed as she and Zerith walked down the pathway from Windrunner Spire. The pair had been in the Ghostlands for over a fortnight and had helped lay to rest the wandering spirits in Goldenmist Village, had fought back the nerubian invasion of Suncrown Village, and had worked with the local guard force to reclaim Windrunner Village. They had also helped to end the Darnassian incursion into their territory and even cleared out the Scourge ziggurats that overlooked the only secure roadway connecting their territory to the rest of Lordaeron. Yet, still, the Scourge swarmed up the Dead Scar. Daily attacks against the Farstriders’ and the Army’s positions along the Scar were a fact of life. Despite their success in reclaiming control of vast swathes of the Ghostlands, the leadership in the capital refused to send the numbers needed to destroy Deatholme once and for all.
With discouraged hearts, the two elves headed back to Tranquillien from the great spire that overlooked both Windrunner Village and the sea. A band of cultists had taken over the area. Alayne and Zerith had disguised themselves as members of the cult and infiltrated their sanctum before destroying it and blasting their way through the numbers that assailed them. A good many human bodies now dotted the rocky cliff-face beneath the spire, causalities of war.
“Alayne, look out!” Zerith shouted, jerking the young woman from her thoughts. A swarm of banshees was rushing down the pathway after them, controlled by a trio of necromancers they had thought dead. Without stopping to question the turn of events, Alayne summoned her voidwalker and ordered it to attack the cultists while she and Zerith made short work of the banshees. The necromancers were obviously still weak from the beating the pair had given them before and thus unable to unleash the full extent of their spells against the two elves. The banshees were quickly dispatched and then the priest and warlock turned their ire on the cultists. Spells flew through the air, smashing into the cultists, setting their robes and flesh aflame and sapping what little energy they had left. When they collapsed to the ground, Alayne walked back up the path and slit their throats to ensure that there would be no more surprises from them.
“I’m going to clean up our mess a little more thoroughly,” she said to Zerith. The priest was studying the remains left behind by the banshees, looking for more scourgestones. During his time with the Forsaken in Tranquillien, the priest had become involved in several of their alchemical experiments, the latest involving the scourgestones. Alayne grinned at his distracted acknowledgement and then ordered her voidwalker to sling the corpses over its shoulders. The demon and its mistress returned to the spire and scoured it of bodies. Should Arthas attempt to re-use these particular minions, he’d have to pull them out of the salty seawater first.
“That’s done,” she announced as she exited the spire some time later. Dusting her hands, she walked down the path to where Zerith sat atop a small boulder, studying something in his hands. “What do you have there?” she asked curiously.
“A pendant. See the inscription here? It says ‘To Sylvanas. Love always, Alleria.’ Either the cultists or the banshees must have found it in the ruins around here. Damned thieves,” he swore, pocketing it.
“Perhaps we should return it to its proper owner,” Alayne suggested. “If I had any brothers or sisters, I would treasure any gifts from them beyond all the wealth in Lordaeron.”
“You may be right,” Zerith muttered. “Though, from what I’ve heard, the Lady Sylvanas is greatly changed.”
“Of course she is!” Alayne replied heatedly. “Anyone who was murdered and then dragged back to an unnatural form of life and forced to serve their killer would be ‘greatly changed.’”
“True enough,” Zerith acknowledged, grinning ruefully. “It was a poor choice of words. Let’s head back to Tranquillien. Who knows? Perhaps the Regent-Lord will have changed his mind since last evening and we’ll find a garrison of troops who can ensure that our efforts here won’t be undone in a few months,” he gestured to the spire and the land around it.
The pair continued on their way back to Tranquillien, each pondering their own thoughts. Finally, just as the town appeared in the distance, Zerith stopped and studied the ground. “You’re right, you know,” he muttered.
“Of course I am,” Alayne quipped lightly. “I’m always right. What, in particular, am I right about now?”
“About treasuring things from family,” he grinned, amused at her sense of humor. “I wish that we had found some remnant of my family’s belongings when we cleared out Goldenmist Village.”
“I wish that as well.”
“But, they’re gone, aren’t they?” he said, his tone indicating that the question was rhetorical.
“Our families’ belongings?” Alayne said, unwilling to let him drop the subject so quickly and on such a note.
“And our families as well,” he sighed. “We really are alone in this world now.”
“Well, you said it yourself,” Alayne whispered, reaching out and squeezing his arm comfortingly. “All we have is each other.”
“I did say that, didn’t I?”
Alayne chewed her lower lip worriedly. She hated seeing her friend so morose. He sighed and started to walk further towards the town. She laid a hand on his arm, stopping him again. He glanced at her expectantly. “Families,” she said softly, “when you get down to it, are nothing more than bonds of blood and oaths.”
“What are you…”
Alayne plucked her dagger from its sheath at her waist and dragged it across her palm. Then, without another word, she handed the dagger to him. He studied her bleeding hand for a moment and then nodded. Repeating her gesture, he passed the dagger back to her. She placed it back in its sheath with her uncut hand and then took his bleeding hand in her own. Pressing their palms together, she took a deep breath. “By my heart’s blood and my soul’s will, I vow that you, Zerith, are my brother in blood, from this day forward until eternity ends.”
Zerith gripped her hand tightly with his own, overcome by a rush of emotions. Alayne struggled not to wince in pain while he searched for something to say in response. With a tearful smile, he said “And I swear by my heart’s blood, my soul’s will, and before the Light that you, Alayne, are my sister by blood, from this day until time itself dies. And now, little sister,” he said, the joy in his eyes taking a more mocking glint, “let me bandage your hand before it gets infected!”
Alayne laughed with delight as her adopted brother unwound a bandage from his pouch and wrapped it around her palm. He muttered something about cleaning it more thoroughly when they got back to the inn. Performing the same task on his own hand, he wrapped his arms around her in a fraternal hug. The pair continued on to Tranquillien, completely oblivious to the change in the soil where their mingled blood had fallen.
The barren soil, darkened by their blood, was enriched by the magic of their oath. As the seasons changed, that spot grew more fertile until a single red rose bloomed.
~*~*~*~
Zerith and Alayne reached Tranquillien just in time to lend their assistance to the guards as yet another Scourge attack swarmed over the barricades. Though both were mentally and physically drained from their day’s work at Windrunner Spire, they gave what they could, helping to repel the attackers.
“They just keep coming. More and more of them all the time,” one of the guards grumbled as they dragged the carcasses away to be burnt.
“They do,” Zerith agreed. “And they’ll keep coming until a group of us gets together enough strength to take down Deatholme and Dar’khan.”
“Just as well to say ‘until the Dark Titan repents,’ as to say that,” muttered the guard.
“Don’t talk that way!” Alayne shouted. “Dar’khan will be brought to justice; Deatholme will fall. It’s not a question of ‘if,’ merely one of ‘when.’”
“Sure, lady. Whatever you say,” the guard muttered, sounding defeated.
Alayne stared after the guard, her mouth hanging open with shock. Zerith touched her arm gently and she swallowed the words she had been about to say. The pair returned to the inn, leaving the rest of the clean-up effort to the guards. The priest unwound the bandage from her hand and began cleaning the wound and applying a salve to prevent infection and aid healing.
“Don’t worry about arguing with anyone, Alayne,” Zerith counseled as he worked. “The humans say that actions speak louder than words. They’re right about that.”
“What are you saying?” Alayne muttered, confused. Zerith finished tying off the bandage and then began working on his own hand. Alayne helped him, following his instructions carefully.
“I’m saying that we have to stop waiting around on the government in Silvermoon to save us and start saving ourselves,” he replied once his own bandage was tied off. Alayne stared at her brother, confused. “I’ve been mulling this over for the past few days. I didn’t want to say anything until I’d thought on it more. We need to return to Silvermoon…”
“You think telling them ourselves will help?”
“No. We need to return to Silvermoon, gather up our own army, and then smash Deatholme into the ground.”
“Gather up our own army? That sounds almost like treason. You know what the magisters do to those they consider traitors…”
“It’s not treason,” Zerith explained. “We will first, of course, need to scout the area ourselves and come up with a plan. Then, we spread word that we’re looking for volunteers to come and help us. If we get enough people, we can go in and bring Dar’khan to justice.”
“What if we just infiltrated his base, disguising ourselves like we did today?”
“I have considered that. I don’t think it will work. The government isn’t sitting on its hands for no reason. I’m sure they’ve tried that very tactic already and had it fail. Such a failure would put Dar’khan on high alert and make it nearly impossible for us to succeed in that method. No, we’re going to have to be a little more direct. And, for that, we’re going to need a group of highly-motivated volunteers who are willing to go in and smash things up.”
“That…that actually sounds like a great idea,” Alayne admitted, awed by the plan. “And, it would help our people in their negotiations with the Horde. I’ve heard from Jez’ral that even with Sylvanas arguing for us, the Warchief isn’t too keen on the idea of accepting a people who can’t even secure their own homeland. After all, he does have the trolls there as a charity case already.”
“Then it’s settled?”
“It is as far as I’m concerned,” she laughed. “We’ll go south to scout Deatholme tomorrow. Once we’re done there, we’ll return to Silvermoon to gather our own forces.”
~*~*~*~
Alayne and Zerith stood up before a milling crowd at the far end of the Silvermoon bazaar. The day was drawing to a close and the merchants were beginning to close up their carts and shops in anticipation of returning home for the evening. Still, plenty of people were gathering to hear the pair speak. Alayne prayed that the city’s guardians – magisters and Blood Knights – would not break up their gathering as they had so many others. Of course, Alayne and Zerith were only discussing something that would aid the sin’dorei people. Others had been arguing against the government. She hoped that any patrols passing through would see that clearly enough.
Throughout the day, the pair had passed through Silvermoon, speaking with newcomers and residents. Word had spread beyond them and news of their hopes to gather a force and reclaim the rest of Quel’Thalas brought more eager and curious listeners. When she stopped by to try to enlist other warlocks, Jez’ral had been bemused by her passion. He’d refused to join her, citing his duties in Silvermoon, but had wished her luck. He’d also let her borrow some of his personal spellbooks to study so she could further increase her powers.
Zerith touched Alayne on the shoulder and shared a look with her. The crowd had started to settle down and were watching the pair attentively. Alayne drew a deep breath and then raised her voice so that everyone could hear. “Hear me,” she called out, raising her hands so that the rest of the crowd would fall silent. “The Ghostlands must be retaken. My brother and I,” she reached out, touching Zerith on the shoulder, “have discovered how Deatholme might be retaken. We’re seeking volunteers to join us in putting an end to his usurpation of our land and to bring him to justice!”
“Isn’t that the army’s job?” someone in the crowd called out.
“Were they not rightfully occupied with guarding our city and our homes against the Scourge, it would be,” the priest answered. “But, we cannot ask them to lend their already-overtaxed strength to this cause. It is all that the army, the Farstriders, and the Blood Knights,” he added, bowing politely towards one of a pair of Blood Knights who had joined the crowd, “can do to protect the areas we have reclaimed. Advancing and retaking new areas must fall to those of us who have returned.”
“It is not just the army, or the Farstriders, or the Blood Knights, or, indeed, any organization’s task to guard and rebuild Quel’Thalas,” Alayne argued. Her eyes sparkled with passion as she made her points. “It is a task that belongs to all of us. Join us and let us help carry this heavy burden instead of waiting around for others to do what we can do ourselves!”
The crowd erupted in applause and several people began pushing forward, eager to offer themselves as volunteers to the cause. One of them was the Blood Knight whom Zerith had spotted in the crowd. His partner, a young elven woman with jet black hair, rolled her eyes and turned on her heel to leave. The Blood Knight made his way through the crowd of volunteers and, seeing that Alayne was being swarmed by them, smiled with amusement. “Not all of the Blood Knights are too busy to take on Dar’khan,” he said. His emerald green eyes glowed brightly with happiness and a hint of something else. “I offer myself to your cause.”
“Thank you…” she grinned, letting the pause stretch out. “You are?” she asked at last.
“Ger’alin Sunrage.”
“Alayne Dawnrunner,” she laughed, offering her hand. He took it in his own and lifted it to his lips. She chuckled and pulled it back, “Such chivalry,” she said lightly. “I’m impressed.”
“I’ll be impressed if we can get these people organized,” the priest said. “Zerith Lightbinder,” he introduced himself. “I’m hoping that you learn more about tactics than the little my sister and I have managed to scrape together.”
“Tactics, logistics, strategy,” Ger’alin replied, “I’ve studied them all and put them in practice against the ogres of Dustwallow Marsh.”
“Good, good. Alayne? What should we do?”
“Everyone!” Alayne called out loudly. She was being overwhelmed by the crowd still moving to offer its services. Ger’alin reached out and grasped her around the waist, lifting her up on his shoulder so she could see and be heard. She swayed and then chuckled quietly, her mirth sending a pleasant vibration through Ger’alin’s shoulder and supporting arm. “Meet us in Tranquillien in three days if you want to join in the battle,” she told the crowd. Ger’alin waited until most of the gathering had begun to disperse before setting her back down on her feet. “Thank you,” she said graciously. “But, next time, give me some warning. I’m not fond of heights.”
The Blood Knight laughed and nodded in agreement. “I will go ask leave of my duties to accompany you. When will you be setting out? This evening or tomorrow morning?”
“Tomorrow morning,” Zerith answered for both of them. “If we set out this minute, we’d still be well after midnight getting to the inn.”
“Then I will meet you at the gates of the city in the morning,” Ger’alin promised. “I assume you’ve scouted the area around Deatholme?” Zerith nodded. “Good. We will discuss your plan and if I have anything to offer, I will let you know.” Bowing again to both of them, the Blood Knight departed.
“I can’t believe we got one of the Blood Knights to support us,” Alayne whispered in shock. She stared after Ger’alin, a smile of amazed respect on her face. “He seems quite nice as well. I’d heard the Blood Knights were worse than the upper ranks of the magisters.”
“He seems nice enough,” Zerith agreed. “Now, let’s go back and get some rest. I have a feeling that fellow will be waiting for us at the first crack of dawn.”
~*~*~*~
True to his word, Ger’alin was waiting for them at the gates of the city at the crack of dawn. The three took the road south to Tranquillien. Ger’alin was an easy traveling companion. He was skilled with weapons of all sorts though his abilities with the magic favored by the Blood Knights were less than stellar. Alayne was amused that the man could barely manage to draw in magical energies, nevermind wielding them as most Blood Knights did. He seemed content with his weapons skills, leaving magic to the others.
During the days while they waited on the rest of the volunteers to make their way south, the three put their heads together, planning and refining the assault. Ger’alin was impressed by the maps, sketches, and notes they had put together. He shed light on a few tactical maneuvers that would be helpful. He and Zerith spent the better part of an afternoon scanning the area, watching and timing patrols and intervals, and then altering their plans to suit the new knowledge. By the time the last day dawned, Alayne felt as if she had known the brown-haired paladin just as long as she had known Zerith.
“Quite a crowd we’ve managed to draw,” the priest said mid-morning on the day where they would begin their assault.
“It’s more than sufficient for what we plan,” Ger’alin nodded as he pulled his waist-length ponytail over his shoulder and tucked it into his belt. Two thick locks of hair fell down the side of his face, too short to remain in the tie. He rubbed his jaw as he studied the crowd, wondering how best to break them into divisions. When Alayne stepped out of the inn, the crowd began applauding, remembering her speech. The warlock blushed and glanced at Ger’alin and Zerith. The two men nodded in support.
“Thank you all for coming,” she said, her voice carrying over the babble of the crowd. “We will be assigning you to teams and giving each group an assignment to carry out. When we are ready, we will finish the preparations that should help to hide us from the look-outs and will press south towards Deatholme at sunset.”
The crowd murmured in assent as Zerith and Ger’alin began making their way through, speaking with each person to get a gauge of their abilities and then assigning them according to the strategy they had devised. This took several hours during which Alayne worked with the Apothecaries to finish the batch of potions that would temporarily render them invisible to the eyes of the Scourge. Once the final preparations were made and everyone understood their place in the plan, they donned the dark cloaks the Forsaken and the guards had helpfully provided, drank down the foul-tasting brew, and then began walking towards Deatholme.
As dusk settled on the dark forests of the Ghostlands, the group made its way from the road and to the Dead Scar. The Scourge sentinels were quickly slain before they could spot, let alone alert their masters to the presence of the attackers. Zerith and Ger’alin stayed close to Alayne, both to protect her and to provide support. Once their group had taken control of the great stone gateway overlooking the Dead Scar, the crowd began moving through, sweeping down on the complex and seizing the different ziggurats and outposts. Ger’alin, Alayne, and Zerith led their group to the main cathedral, a twisted structure that resembled a mockery to the shrines of the sin’dorei, and began their assault.
Zerith watched his sister closely as she hurled her spells as the guards set on the cathedral. She seemed almost overwhelmed with outrage at seeing elven traitors and undead fighting against the reclamation of Deatholme. Her rage shone clearly through her blazing eyes. Her face was twisted in disgusted hatred as she and the others slaughtered the skeletal watchmen and pressed into the keep.
At the lowest level of the interior, Dar’khan himself and his two most trusted lieutenants were waiting. They seemed unsurprised at the attack and confident that they would not only win, but would turn the entire army against Silvermoon. For a moment, Alayne seemed too terrified to carry on her part in the assault. Zerith reached towards her with concern and even Ger’alin eyed her in askance. The woman stood as if hearing something from her past that frightened her and turned her bowels to water. Then, her expression changed to one of dread resolve and she blasted out with her strongest spells, catching Dar’khan in the chest with a bolt of shadow and flame. The others sprang to the attack and, within moments, Dar’khan and his trusted lieutenants were dead.
“It’s over,” Ger’alin gasped, sounding both surprised and confident. “Deatholme belongs to the sin’dorei once more.”
“Yes,” Alayne agreed, still out of breath from the battle. “Justice has been served.”
~*~*~*~
Once the team who had killed Dar’khan emerged from the cathedral, the rest of the battle went smoothly. Each tower and ziggurat, if not taken already, was soon under the control of the volunteers from Silvermoon. Searching each building room-by-room, they eradicated the Scourge and the necromancers. Priests and mages studied the cauldrons in the courtyard, arguing over how best to neutralize their noxious contents. Scanning the area, Zerith felt pride in what he and the others had accomplished.
Though all were reluctant to leave the scene of so great a victory, eventually the chill barrenness of the ground and the pervasive stench of rot and decay drove the force back to Tranquillien. Ger’alin carried the grisly bag with Dar’khan’s head in it, having been the one to remove the proof of their victory with his own blade. Zerith had placed a preservation spell around it so that it would not decay too much before they returned to Silvermoon.
At Tranquillien, the entire populace was out and beginning the celebrations as soon as Ger’alin lifted the head out of the bag, showing the proof that Deatholme had been reclaimed. The festivities continued well past dawn when the three leaders of the gathering took to their beds with fatigue. Early the next afternoon, the entire gathering reconvened and began the trek back to Silvermoon, arriving early in the evening. Somehow, word had reached the city ahead of the gathering and the guards formed an escort, bringing Alayne, Zerith, and Ger’alin to the Sunfury Spire where the Regent-Lord of Quel’Thalas stood finishing up the day’s business. When they reached the Spire, Ger’alin took a step back to rejoin the crowd. Alayne paused, glanced over her shoulder, and started to motion for the others to join her and Zerith inside the spire.
“No, Alayne,” Ger’alin said, smiling proudly. “This honor belongs to you and Zerith. It was the two of you who worked so hard to bring us together and focus us on ridding the Ghostlands of Dar’khan. Without your leadership and tenacity, that traitor would still be fouling the world with his presence.”
Alayne nodded in humility and gratitude. Taking the sack from the Blood Knight, she and Zerith entered the spire.
“You seek an audience with me? I do not recall hearing of an appointment,” Lord Lor’themar said, his annoyance plain, as the two elves made their obeisance.
“Forgive us for disturbing you, my Lord,” Zerith said, “but we bring news from the Ghostlands.”
“News of Dar’khan,” Alayne quickly interjected, seeing that Lord Lor’themar was about to order them out. Intrigue replaced irritation on the leader’s visage. Hastily, the warlock pulled the traitor’s head from the bag, holding it up for Lord Lor’themar to see clearly.
“Now that’s one face I was not expecting to see so soon. This is quite good news, in more ways than you can imagine. Did the two of you manage this on your own?”
“No, my Lord,” Zerith explained. “We led a group of our people into Deatholme and together we all helped bring Dar’khan to justice. Alayne and I merely come on behalf of our forces.”
“I see. Modest as well as daring. Please wait here a moment. I will have some business for you to attend to as the leaders of the expedition that killed Dar’khan,” Lor’themar said as he entered a side room. Several minutes later, he emerged with a sealed letter. “There were doubts about our capabilities among our potential new allies. Of what use could we be to them when perceived as unable to deal with our problems at home? This,” he said, pointing to Dar’khan’s head which now lay atop the bag it had been in, “changes everything. No longer will our power be questioned. We’ll be able to join the Horde as equals. Take this letter,” he indicated the letter in his hand, “to Sylvanas, ruler of the Forsaken. She’s already on our side but the news of Dar’khan’s death will be music to her ears. Prepare for a long trip, Alayne and Zerith. If all goes well, she will send you to Orgrimmar. Guards!” he barked, “Take this head and hang it from the gates of our city as a warning to anyone else who might think to side with the Scourge against us.”
Tucking Lord Lor’themar’s letter into one of her pouches, Zerith and Alayne bowed their way out of the Regent-Lord’s presence. Returning to the crowd gathered outside the spire, they told the others of their mission to journey to Undercity and speak with the leader of the Forsaken. Ger’alin nodded and several others chose to join them. It was a smaller, yet still sizeable, group that made its way to the Orb of Translocation that connected Silvermoon and Undercity.
As Alayne and Zerith touched the Orb, thoughts of Sylvanas filled the young woman’s heart with dread. “You can never go home again,” the humans were often wont to say, she thought to herself. Does the same hold true for seeing a childhood hero once grown to adulthood?
~*~*~*~
It was late evening before the two responsible for the assault against Deatholme were able to request an audience with the Banshee Queen. Her assistants told Zerith and Alayne to take rooms at one of the inns in the Royal Quarter and await the summons there. Surprised to find an inn that catered to the living in a city that was little more than a tomb, the pair took the last room available and then sought out something for supper. They came across several of their comrades, including Ger’alin. The Blood Knight seemed to have found his element in the War Quarter of the city and was mixing and laughing with warriors among the Forsaken and the other Horde races before much time had passed. Alayne paused and watched as Ger’alin demonstrated a move he’d picked up fighting ogres in Dustwallow Marsh. She envied the ease with which he made friends among strangers. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw a shop that demanded her attention. Entering it and making a few small purchases, she hurried back to the inn where a messenger waited for her. The messenger told her that she and her brother would be expected before the Dark Lady in the morning. Thanking him for his time, Alayne hurried up to her room.
“What’s the rush?” Zerith asked, poking his head out of his own room. He’d heard her racing up the stairs. “A messenger just came by a few minutes ago…”
“I know,” she said, cutting him off. “I just spoke to him myself. Do you still have that pendant we found?”
“Yes,” he nodded, patting his belt pouch. “Why, do you want it?”
“No,” Alayne said, shaking her head. “Keep it. We’ll give it to her when we present Lord Theron’s letter to her tomorrow.”
“That sounds like a good idea,” Zerith muttered, a yawn cracking his jaws. Alayne, infected by the yawn, did the same. Zerith repeated her yawn and soon the two were giggling when not yawning as they passed it back and forth. “It’s been a long day,” Zerith said at last. “I am going to get some sleep. What’s that?” he asked, pointing to a small book Alayne had pulled from her belt pouch.
“Oh this?” she asked. “It’s a journal. I’m thinking of keeping one that chronicles our beginnings and our journeys. So much was lost when the Scourge overran our lands. More than just lives and possessions. Memories were lost. But with this,” she said, waving the book, “memories will last.”
Zerith smiled and nodded in understanding. “Try not to make me sound too silly,” he requested.
She followed her brother into the room they were forced to share. Zerith quickly washed his face and hands and then settled onto his bed. Within moments, he was sound asleep. Alayne set her journal on the desk, mulled over her thoughts for a while, checked to see that Zerith did truly sleep, and then, at last, lifted the quill, dipped it in the ink jar, and began writing.