Tiponi felt the hoofbeats vibrating through the earth before she heard the mounts or saw the riders. There was two; one a demon, the other an undead horse. Strellabelle rose from their relative hiding place in the quiet little graveyard to meet their companions.

Hyzanthlay appeared boldly through the mist, wreathed in fire and smoke, her orbs glittering with anticipation, her hungry tongue licking her cracked, full lips. Her companion was considerably more subdued in manner and appearance. Her pale mount cantered slowly through the thin fog. She had a thin, narrow frame and sat upright, but her eyes and face were partially covered in a thick hood.

Tiponi studied her closely. Her first instinct had been correct, but she had to think twice. It was a priest. Was this their healer? It must be; they already had enough for damage, and their leader was yet to be summoned.

“Greetings, Tauren,” Hyzanthlay nodded to Strellabelle but spoke to Tiponi first. “You certainly look and smell ready. There`s an unmistakable odor of rent undead flesh on your knuckles. Just warming up, eh?”

Tiponi said nothing, but suppressed a grin as Hyzanthlay stifled a laugh.

“I expected you to bring two,” Strellabelle said. “Unless you are prepared to draw your sword and lead us.”

Hyzanthlay let her toothy smile spread over her scarred cheeks and put her hand on the hilt of her sword.

“My hunger could drive me all the way through the Cathedral,” she growled through her clenched teeth. “My companion has found a Bear. You don’t mind running with another druid, do you? This is Sorena, an accomplished priest. Our healer.”

Strellabelle’s face twisted as she cut Hyzanthlay off.

“We’ve met,” she hissed, and turned away. Hyzanthlay smiled thinly.

“His name is Kohanaa,” Sorena said quietly, nodding towards Strellabelle. She dismounted from her horse and leading it into a sheltered spot. “He will be waiting for our summons.”

“Then let’s not be rude, and keep him waiting,” Hyzanthlay drew a small, glowing shard from her pack without waiting for Strellabelle. Either warlock would be able to summon but she was clearly in a hurry to get started.

The Druid did not seem to be disoriented or frightened as many were when summoned by a warlock. It could be a painful and confusing process for those not well versed in the powers of Fel. He seemed to be focused on the monastery at first, then lowered his massive horns to face his new companions. His fur was light grey, his eyes calm and contemplative. The sight of the three Forsaken, two being warlocks, clearly did not disturb or unnerve him.

“Hail, and well met,” He gave a stiff, collective bow to the group before raising his hand and greeting Tiponi in their native tongue. “I see we are a full party. Shall we begin?”

“Indeed,” Sorena said, smiling. “One of our warlocks is restless.”

Hyzanthlay was grumbling and pacing back and forth across the road, just out of sight from where the outer sentries would have been patrolling.

The Druid regarded the Priest with a steady gaze. It was not common to have an undead priest as the main healer, but he had already seen that no other in the group (except perhaps himself) would be able to serve the party in this regard. He showed no doubt as he took his bear form, shook his massive shoulders and brandished rows of sharp teeth. He usually resisted the urge to rush, always moving at a steady pace, but the pacing warlock and the smell of fresh blood on the other Tauren spurred him onward.
An aura of anger and impatience swirled about the both of them. If he didn’t check their aggression soon, it was likely they would get themselves killed, along with the rest of the party.

“Then forward,” Kohanaa said calmly, and threw his great, furry body towards the imposing grey walls of the Scarlet Monastary.

Who does he think he is, coming in and taking charge like that?

Tiponi tried not to grind her teeth as the group carved their way through the Scarlets guarding the perimeter. She stabbed her spear into a human’s thigh and with a fluid movement, withdrew it and used the long metal point as a blade to carve the arm off another attacker.

He just shows up and assumes he’s in charge. After all the work and planning Hyzanthlay and I did.

She growled in anger as a Scarlet moved in to close with her. She whirled her spear around like a staff and smashed the butt of the wooden pole into his face. Before he could recover, the weapon spun again, disembowelling him.

I saw the way he looked at me, she fumed, it was a dismissal. No one of importance.

She roared in another man’s face, he soiled himself in terror, the stink of it creeping up to her nose and for a split second her furious rage turned into a smirk before she put the pathetic wretch out of his misery.

I bet he’ll say something about the Rite. He’ll make me take the feathers out of my mane, because a ‘real’ Elder wasn’t there…

“Damn you to Fel!” She screamed as she cut open the throat of a female sentry. The blood jetted into her face and ran warm between her lips.

“Tiponi, she is already dead.” The strange voice said.

Tiponi turned, blood running down her arms and face and she held the Scarlet husk high in one arm. The undead pest was talking to her, the strange woman who could heal and was not so rotten.

Tiponi blinked, and her rage began to ebb. She dropped the corpse and shook her head to clear her thoughts. Something strange was happening to her. She could not control herself. She looked around the faces of her companions, they were a mixture of concern and perhaps pride. She spoke to deflect their judging gazes.

“We should keep moving.”

* * *

Despite her attempts to tread lightly, Tiponi’s hooves made soft clopping noises on the tiles leading to the Scarlet’s Graveyard. She cast quick glances about her surroundings, taking important strategic information in with a fleeting look. She identified possible hiding places for her enemies, avenues of retreat should they be overrun and she looked for furniture or stone columns she could use for cover against missile fire.

The stonework was clean of debris, it should provide stable footing. Tapestries hang from the walls at odd intervals with paintings, presumably of humans of importance. She filed everything away, every sense straining. The hundreds of flickering candles provided good lighting. The air smelled of their burning wax as well as other disgusting smells. Burnt flesh, excrement and rot. Moans and shrieks of pain, as well as the clanging of metal echoed along the corridor. The Inquisitors were always busy.

Her new armor glimmered faintly in the golden candlelight. She gripped her spear tightly in one and held her lightweight hide buckler in the other. Her face was a mask of concentration as she made her way through the monastery with the others. Tiponi and her party pressed themselves against the wall as they came to an archway leading into a large room. She judged it to be the source of the smells and sounds. Tiponi waited for the signal from the great bear up front, then hollering a war cry, lept once more into the heat of battle.

On the surface, the group was complete and flawless. However, within the heart of each member there was buried a singular purpose, a separate direction, that fragmented the party internally.

Kohanaa’s face was twisted into a mask of rage and anger, but inside he was determined and even as well as troubled. Three Forsaken, and two warlocks no less! The demonic speech that they used with their minions, along with the hollow Gutterspeak of their own race, made his skin crawl. What was more troubling was how he kept turning to his fellow Tauren expecting a similar intuitive sense, but instead felt the opposite from the chips of bone on her knuckles to the darkness in her eyes. Something about their stench or angry faces, something about their permanent brooding scowl. How could one of their own, a child of the Earthmother, be darkened to such a degree?

Tiponi herself carried a similar countenance as her countryman; calm and unwavering. But her stern visage camouflaged a troubled mind. She not considered that the reek of rotting skin and old bone would have stayed with her, and that the undead would detect it, and be so pleased by it.

At first she had been proud of herself that she had come so far as to win Hyzanthlay’s acclaim, perhaps even her recognition as an equal. How long ago was it that she had scorned this same creature and even tried to lecture her? Tiponi began to ask herself how she had changed. She seemed to belong here but what did she really want? The way the Druid had regarded her when she had returned his greeting made her feel alienation when there should have been kinship.

If stature and countenance were measures of kinship, the Priest was clearly the odd one out. She was thin and bony compared to her Forsaken sisters, who hunched over more and seemed broader in the shoulders. This made her even more diminutive to the Tauren, who lost sight of her occasionally despite their vigilance. Sorena moved so quickly and so silently she was more like a ghost than a zombie. She often found herself in awkward vantage points along walls or near rooftops above their heads, in places where she could heal them and avoid getting hit herself. Something silent and invisible drove her and lifted her above the darkness that gathered at their feet; the darkness of Fel fire and demons.

Strellabelle’s voidwalker hissed along at Kohanaa’s heels, swerving around in front to head off the groups of two or three that were now coming at them at a steady pace. As she carefully calculated the timing of her Affliction spells, she inwardly repeated the names Varimathras had given the Clan. The Houndmaster, Herod, Whitemane, Morgraine. It was their last night alive.

The Clan of the Fallen had successfully taken the credit for the assassination of Arugal. Now, finally, they would destroy the Scarlet Monastery and definitively crush the last foothold the Scarlets had in eastern Tirisfal Glades. Their place as a guild close to the Throne would always be assured.

Strellabelle now sought a way to sever the ties that her sister in Fel had forged with the upstarts in DPS Very Slowly. She considered finding a way to destroy the Priest, as they would soon be surrounded by the Holy Light it would not be so difficult to burn an undead beyond help. But the prospect of losing an undead priest who could heal with such skill made her think twice. In the microcosm of things, it was important to break Hyzanthlay’s will and set it to that of the Clan. That seemed an unlikely prospect today; she was watching the other warlock charge in at the heels of her leader and a demon just to feed when the blood was at its hottest.

If they saw anything past the Bear, it was often the other warlock that would fill their vision, and then it was only a jumble of glowing eyes and shining teeth that would terrify them into their eternal rest. At first, this habit had annoyed Sorena, who was already busy healing the Druid and the Voidwalker to babysit a wayward spellcaster. It was soon apparent that her concerns were unfounded. Hyzanthlay was in her glory, alternatively using Lifetap and Cannibalize to restore her power rather than depending solely on Sorena. She was draining the corpses fairly quickly, in hungry gulps, after using her sword and vice-like grip to pry open the chest cavity.

None of the party members knew that this wasn’t her usual technique; she was looking for something. The Apothecary had warned her that the hearts he needed would not likely be found on the guards outside, and this is what she was collecting. The sentries that paced the dirt roads outside the Monastery were fairly recent conscripts and were not very troublesome or zealous. She would enjoy tearing into them to make sure.

Hyzanthlay’s appetite was not one driven by pleasure or anger, as her party members may have guessed. In the first few minutes they would have been right. But now it was a vicious frustration that spurred her on. She had been waiting for months to reach into the guts of the Scarlet Monastery and rip its innards out. Here she was, but that hunger was still not satisfied. In fact, rather than that, it seemed to grow and deepen. She had always known that it had been the Scarlets, the ones that opened up her chest and left her to die in Andorhol, but she still didn’t know who or why. It’s possible that the answer was here. It was also possible that there was no answer, or that she would never find it. And this made the blood that ran down her gaping maw bitter and cold.

They did well in the open space that preceded the actual structure, but the high Gothic arches that framed the doorways seemed to close in on them as they charged ahead. Re-enforcements were being called. The green grass fell and sank beneath their feet, giving way to worn stone. Arches of marble and granite rose up out of the ground, and they were encased in a maze of blue and white rock.

“This way,” Hyzanthlay bolted towards the Graveyard.

“No, don’t bother,” Strellabelle hissed. “Nothing of value!”

“Grave Moss,” Hyzanthlay was already moving. Kohanna had to jump forward to keep her from getting pinned by two Zealots with broadswords. He barely contained his annoyance.

The herb was a valuable one. After a bloody skirmish and a quick conference that simply confirmed the group was in agreement, they proceeded to the Graveyard. Strellabelle at first resisted, as none of the people the Dreadlord had mentioned were in the Graveyard. But intelligence reports said it was a small area anyway, and Hyzanthlay apparently still needed to blow off some steam.

But they wouldn’t be able to charge through the Library like that.

Few guards met them there, and only Sorena seemed surprised at the level of undead infestation. The grassy hills and open air, which should have been a holy place of repose, was littered with mindless undead like the ditches and valleys of Tirisfal Glades.

Strellabelle nodded quietly to herself. This was related to something else Varimathras had told her. Perhaps if she shared her quest with Hyzanthlay, the bloodthirsty creature would calm down a bit. At the moment, she and the priest were poking through the gravestones.

“I heard the pickings were good here,” for the moment, Hyzanthlay’s hunger had subsided. Her cheeks and chin were splattered with blood, and it covered her chest and waist. She took no note of her messy condition as pawed through the mossy dirt, pulling up the roots of a rank, soggy plant.

“Why…why so many? Has the Monastery really become so corrupt?” Sorena looked mournfully over the gravestones, many of which were mutilated or damaged somehow.

“It doesn’t surprise me,” Hyzanthlay smiled as she pulled some purple and grey roots out of the ground. They smelled foul. “They were rotten from the core years ago.”

“Some powerful priests and paladins were trained here,” Sorena continued. “Many still roam these halls. If we fail against them, they have the power to destroy us forever. Why have they not put the dead to rest?”

“The Scarlets forgot the path of the Light long ago,” the warlock spat, as she tied the herbs into a neat bundle. “Assuming they ever knew it.”

Kohanna sniffed the ground, and then turned to where the warlock and the priest were. They seemed to have stopped searching for plants and were returning to them. They were about to pass a dark alcove that neither seemed to have taken notice of.

On the contrary, Hyzanthlay could smell an exquisite mixture of warm blood and rent flesh. Humans close to death and in pain. Sorena was saying something and seemed deeply concerned. In that moment she was not her usual attentive self. The warlock saw the occupied torture racks and moved towards them like a wave towards a beach. She did not make any note of the Interrogator until he turned to face her, and even then her plans did not deviate past the throbbing vain in his forehead.

Not a trace of fear or disgust flashed across his face when he looked at her. He actually looked thoughtful for a moment, and then he spoke.

“Wilhemina,”, he said, as if seeing a familiar face on the street. “Lovely to see you.”

Hyzanthlay froze, then stopped midstride. What had he called her? His high squeaky voice made her dead skin rise in gooseflesh. He reached tentatively towards her chest.

“”This time, Miss Mina,” Interrogater Vishas whispered, “I’ll rip the secrets from your flesh…”

The Bear crashed into the alcove, knocking Vishas aside. Hyzanthlay was thrown against Sorena, who was knocked off balance and barely dodged a charging voidwalker. Strellabelle hung back, but she was concentrating her dark power on Vishas. Tiponi had lunged forward as well, keeping two of the Interrogater’s lackey’s busy.

Hyzanthlay made a strange guttural noise as she rose up from the ground and threw herself at Vishas. She was yelling something in a language none of them could understand.

It was too late; Strellabelle’s affliction spells and the Druid had done their work, and the Interrogator lay dead. Tiponi had almost finished their opponents off singlehandedly. All turned to finish off the guards. All but one.

Hyzanthlay remained, kneeling on Vishas’ chest. She clutched him by the throat and was shaking him, as if somehow he would understand the stream of Gutterspeak curses and would answer her. Blood dribbled silently from his mouth as if to mock her. Sorena shook her head and held up her hands in a hopeless gesture that meant out of mana.

Kohanaa finally broke his silence.

“By the gods,” he growled, returning to his Tauren form and casting a few healing spells on himself, “will one of you put a tether on this…on your kindred? I am no coward but I have no wish to perish here.”

Strellabelle was barely listening. She had hit Vishas as aggressively as possible. She had been warned that one of them would know something. Curiosity about her former existence had distracted Hyzanthlay for long enough. Here, in the Monastery, she would finally be broken. All of her power and will would belong to the Can of the Fallen.

“Sorena,” Strellabelle looked at the Priest and spoke as if giving an order. “You have some shadow power. Get her off of him and shut her up.”

Of course, Sorena did not act immediately. Mind Control was a brutal and painful spell. She was reluctant to cast it on an ally, even one that was being troublesome.

“I will not,” Sorena answered. “I am not under your orders.”

“You are Forsaken, are you not?” The warlock hissed, drawing closer to the priest and straightening her back so she looked down at the diminutive Sorena.

“I am.” Sorena replied, and her clam, soft voice grew hard and cold. “And I have already refused the invitation the Clan extended.”

“Will you refuse an order from the Dark Lady and Varimathras?” Strellabelle spat. She drew closer and her voice became a threatening whisper. “I know the truth about you, Sorena.”

“You can’t threaten me,” Sorena spoke quietly, but without fear.

Strellabelle cackled wickedly.

“Certainly not,” she said, “But as for your precious, wee bearn…well, the next time, it might not be such a friendly warlock that lies in wait on your rooftop.”

Sorena’s pale face twisted, the glow in her eyes faded as if in an admission of defeat. She bowed her head and stepped forward, and Strellabelle stepped aside, barely containing the wide grin on her face.

The Priest said nothing as she walked towards Hyzanthlay, who was oblivious to all that surrounded her. She whispered something, and extended her arms toward the screaming warlock.

Hyzanthlay did not stop suddenly. She gagged and choked, as if struggling to keep yelling. Her body jerked upward, as if drawn by a string. Sorena pushed one hand forward and drew the other back. Hyzanthlay stood bolt upright, her mouth hanging open and her tongue frozen. Her face was a mask of devastating agony.

The Priest looked up at her for a moment, and their eyes locked. Hyzanthlay’s orbs burned with resentment and accusation. Sorena stared back, determined but apologetic.

“Hyzanthlay,” Strellabelle spat, “Stay behind the bear from now on. That’s an order.”

The Destruction warlock hissed and choked, struggling to speak. Her arms shook violently as she tried to raise them. Blood and bile bubbled down her chin.

Strellabelle frowned.

“More,” she hissed at Sorena. The Priest’s orbs glimmered with defiance but she did not look away from her target.

“Do it,” Strellabelle whispered, her voice betraying some urgency.

Sorena extended her fingertips slightly, and Hyzanthlay’s body convulsed violently. She choked and wheezed, then her head fell and she started to make a funny sputtering sound.

“Hyzanthlay,” Strellabelle barked, “That’s an order!”

Hyzanthlay’s head fell, and her shoulders shook. Sorena lowered her arms and Hyzanthlay’s now limp body sank to the ground. She crouched there for a moment before raising her head and meeting Strellabelle’s gaze. A thin string of drool extended from her lip as she slowly nodded her head and wheezed.

Strellabelle smiled, and for a moment enjoyed the satisfaction of controlling both the Priest and the Warlock.

“Good,” she said. “Now do as I say, starting with wearing this,” she pulled a tabard from her pack and threw it on the ground in front of Hyzanthlay. “You need a constant reminder.”

“Release her,” Strellabelle turned away as she spoke, barely looking at the Priest as she motioned to the Tauren. If they felt any shock or disgust they didn’t show it.

Tiponi crouched low as the Forsaken argued. The way was clear for now, all threats to her party eliminated. She knelt close to a human body and began to wipe the blood from her weapon on his tunic. Tiponi regarded the Forsaken over her shoulder. There was something going on between the others and she couldn’t quite understand it. Hyzanthlay seemed to lose her senses at one point. She broke down and began screaming gibberish. Now she had recovered, but something was strange. Her friend was not quite herself. She was just standing there, putting that tabard on with a dumb look on her face and bubbles blowing out of her nose.

Something weird is definitely going on… Maybe it’s this place? Maybe we’ve been infected by something? Maybe… whatever has come over me has affected Hyzanthlay.

Tiponi began to rise. She intended to reach out a hand to comfort her confused friend, but as she rose pain exploded down her leg. She yelped in agony, it had happened so fast that the others had not begun to move. The undead were gathered together as Kohanaa scouted their next route, when suddenly the dead man at Tiponi’s feet proved he was not spent after all. He jabbed a white-hot metal pole into her flesh. It made a sizzling sound and stank of burnt meat and fur.

After that split second of pain Tiponi kicked him away. It was a torture implement of some kind. Used to cause pain, to deliberately hurt. She growled in a low tone. This creature had used that weapon on bound, defenseless opponents, and he didn’t even have the decency to give them an honorable death!

She roared in his face as he came at her with the hot metal poker. She waited for him. At the last moment, when he jabbed his implement forward to sear her flesh once more, Tiponi turned aside. With one deft movement she turned about and forced him to continue forward. His momentum carried him into the wall where he encountered a wall hanging. Swiftly Tiponi bundled him and the tapestry up, wrapping him in the ancient dry material. He struggled for a moment inside the tight little roll she had trapped him in.

“I hope you appreciate the irony.” She told him as she plucked a candle from its stand and lit the fabric. The material was old and quite combustible. The man was swiftly encased in flame and he began to squirm and writhe, screaming as he burned. His shrieks of agony echoed down the corridor as Tiponi stood and regarded his demise without a flicker of emotion. However, watching Hyzanthlay writhe in pain and then crumple to the ground like a deflated balloon did not give Tiponi any relief or satisfaction. She had always wondered what, if anything, could possibly stop such a creature. She had a new respect for this Priest, and the fearsome power that she could wield despite her small stature, the ultimate powers of both Light and Darkness. And yet, even in her undead state, Sorena had chosen the Light.

Strellabelle walked back first, followed by Sorena and the Druid. Tiponi waited for a moment as Hyzanthlay swayed slightly before continuing forward. She did not raise her eyes and said nothing.

The party was silent as they walked back through the carnage they had created. The hallways that had been filled with human screams and moving bits of steel were now eerily silent. The rank odor of blood and sweat permeated the air. Strellabelle and the Druid moved to the front, but Sorena seemed to deliberately lag behind until she was level with Hyzanthlay. As soon as her back was to them, Tiponi heard a snarl, and the unmistakable sound of one undead grabbed the other and pinning her against the wall.

She looked over her shoulder and saw Hyzanthlay, still drooling slightly, having some rather harsh words with Sorena. The Warlock had grabbed the Priest by her shoulder and was hissing something in her face. The Tauren did not understand the Gutterspeak, but she did gather that Hyzanthlay hadn’t appreciated what had just happened. It seemed a rift had opened between the two undead. Tiponi looked ahead and saw Strellabelle watching the scene. She was smiling, and seemed well pleased by it.

Hyzanthlay had moved slowly while putting on the tabard, asking herself what had just happened. The smell of burning flesh and fur brought her back to her senses. As much as she wanted to charge through the monastery, it was not possible to do things her way as long as Strellabelle was holding both her and Sorena by a proverbial leash. But not all was as it seemed. Strellabelle did not wield the control she thought she did, as Hyzanthlay had just learned.

The opportunity presented itself in a matter of moments. Sorena hung back behind Tiponi on purpose, as if knowing what Hyzanthlay was thinking. But the Warlock knew that Strellabelle would be watching, so she had to make it look good.

As soon as the priest was within reach, Hyzanthlay grabbed her by the shoulder and pinned her against the wall. Sorena did not look surprised or frightened but her orbs seemed to widen and glitter more fiercely.

“How did you know? I didn’t even remember myself….” She whispered, trying to make her raspy whisper sound hostile, “that I was ticklish?”

“Lucky guess,” Sorena`s lips twitched but she managed to repress a smile. “I knew she wouldn’t know the difference.”

“She has to die,” Hyzanthlay said bluntly. “It’s the only way we`ll both be rid of her.”

“What can I do?” Sorena whispered. “The Clan…they know about…”

“It’s not what you can do,” Hyzanthlay hissed. “It’s what you’re not going to do.”

Sorena’s orbs widened, this time in real horror. A taboo for any healer.

“No,” she whispered. “I…I can`t help that way.”

Hyzanthlay bit her cracked lip in frustration. She should have known that Sorena was too good a healer to deliberately let a member of the party die. She turned her head slightly and saw both Tiponi and Strellabelle watching them. She looked carefully at Sorena’s face again, and released her rather roughly. She seemed to have succeeded in making the scene look hostile; Strellabelle was smiling and Tiponi looked a bit uncomfortable, but that could be attributed to her recent injury.

Hyzanthlay wasn’t sure she could take on Strellabelle herself. However, such a greedy, arrogant creature could be lured into a compromising situation. The impending Library raid would surely hold some interesting possibilities. She was looking forward to the Monastery’s collection of books herself.

And then there was Vishas. She self-consciously touched the space under her neck where the scar was.  Assuming he had not mistaken her for someone else, he had recognized her, even called her by a human name; Wilhemina. That was enough for Hyzanthlay to understand the nature of her hatred for the Scarlet Crusade.

She had been tortured by Vishas, but not likely killed. After all, he had used the term, “this time” and spoken to her as if she wasn’t undead. Hyzanthlay was not so crazed not to notice that Strellabelle had targeted him on purpose. But she was not planning on giving up so easily.

The Clan had clearly underestimated her resolve. Vishas was important, but still just an interrogator. He was taking his orders from another, and that person would not fall so quickly once he…or she…had been found.

* * *

Kwahu crept slowly through the undergrowth. It had begun to rain in Tirisfal as though the Earthmother herself cried at the sight of such devastation. He thanked her for the distraction, for the humans at the monastery were on their guard. He had received several tips pointing this way, but his hopes were confirmed when he spied a small hoof print in the mud.

“Tiponi,” He murmured. He had come far to find her and if his search led him into this human bastion then so be it. His form melted in the rain, shrinking down until he landed with four paws in the earth. He wore the guise of a mighty lion, a proud and stealthy predator. His large paws barely disturbed the dirt as he padded towards the entrance to the human architecture. He snuck past the sentries with ease. Between the sounds of the rain and the flashes of lightning in the distance, their dim human senses could not detect him.

Up he crept through the hallway. He kept to the shadows, his ears flicking this way and that at the slightest noise. He emerged in a large chamber, filled with Scarlet Crusaders. They patrolled this area, heavily protecting the entrance to their inner sanctum. Kwahu sat still in the corner of the room monitoring their movements until he had established a pattern, then, when the time was right he crept outward. There were four passages leading further into the complex, two were barred by doors which he would not be able to get to undetected. He sniffed at the air trying to find a clue, but he could smell nothing beyond the rain and human stink. He randomly picked an archway and padded through.

The stone walls were lit by flickering candlelight, and were lavishly decorated with tapestries and carpets. Armed humans patrolled these walkways vigilantly. Kwahu had to quickly back up as a Scarlet brushed right by him. The human moved on without slowing. Kwahu sighed in relief and lashed his tail. A horrible clatter followed as his tail knocked over a candelabra.

The human turned and shouted an alarm. Kwahu cursed himself for his stupidity, it had been going so well! There were over a dozen armed warriors to answer the cry and within moments he was surrounded. He backed into a corner and shifted into his mighty bear form to withstand their blows. Quickly they began to overwhelm him. As the butt of an axe haft descended towards his head, Kwahu’s last thoughts were of Tiponi.

***

The Druid scouted a few paces ahead for a moment as they crossed the threshold from the graveyard. They were quietly preparing to pass through the door into the Library. Kohanaa had apparently studied extensively and was not bashful nor boastful about his knowledge. Taking no notice of the tensions that had arisen between the undead, he was adamant that they be prepared to face the Beastmasters that guarded the hallways and archways leading to the Gallery of Treasures. Strellabelle seemed to take special note of this. Hyzanthlay pretended to be angry and sullen, but was listening carefully.

The books. In the frenzy that had taken hold of her upon entering the monastery, she had forgotten them. She still carried a vivid memory of the book she had clutched in the Shallow Grave, the one that had given her a new name. Every book she touched now seemed to vibrate with an old memory, like a dream that she had forgotten upon waking. Perhaps this was why she was rather disinterested in books now. Her training was mostly demonstrative, and the undead warlocks saw little use in putting their teachings or discoveries in writing, another way they were distinct from the mages, who seemed obsessed with it.

Apothecary Zraedus had cautioned her against disregarding written literature, especially if she ever had access to a treasure trove like the Library of the Scarlets. The Forsaken did not prioritize recording their memories, as they were free from such mortal shackles as sentiment or time. In her sudden sobriety, his words returned to her.

“The Clan has a number of mages in their ranks,” he had said. “Strellabelle will likely raid the library for their benefit, but not for them solely. There might be a great deal of information for warlocks as well.”

“I don’t need a book to tell me how to aim and burn,” Hyzanthlay had laughed through a cloud of smoke. “She’s welcome to the collection if she wants it.”

“Any information valuable to the Clan would be valuable to you,” Zraedus had cautioned. “Allow her to take what she wants, but I caution you, do not ignore what interests her.”

Hyzanthlay’s thoughts were interrupted by the other warlock, who was speaking to her in a diminutive tone as if she was still senseless and crouched on the floor.

“You will assist us with your imp,” she said quietly, without looking directly into her face. “I will be using my succubus to distract any undesirables that our Tauren are too busy for.”

The Library wing was accessible through a narrow corridor with two sharp corners. Kohanaa cautioned the party with a silent nod, and sniffed cautiously around the corner. He withdrew his shaggy head and took a deep breath, his hulking shoulders swelling and his lip curling. The other party members readied themselves, and he charged into the open corridor. The carnage began again.

The Beastmasters were troublesome, as they always had a large, vicious dog as a pet. But there were many users of the Holy Light, and even though such powers could also seriously harm any combatant, the undead had to be especially cautious. The chaplains and adepts had to be dispensed with especially quickly.

Hyzanthlay proved her worth in the corridor leading to the Huntsman’s Cloister. Her shadowbolts and fel fire dispensed of the healers amazingly quickly. Strellabelle was obviously slightly annoyed with being upstaged but could not contain how impressed she was. The spells of an affliction warlock were just as destructive but more time consuming; she was also taking more time to rein in her demon. She wasn’t sure why, but the atmosphere of the monastery seemed to affect the succubus in a similar way to Hyzanthlay. The creature seemed anxious to move on and kept giggling uncontrollably.

The crowds thickened as they reached the heart of the Huntsman’s Cloister. The corridor made a sharp left turn and opened up to a courtyard. The group at the end was large and troublesome. Word of the raid was spreading through the monastery, and their opponents were getting more strategic in their attacks. Sorena was fast on her feet and nigh invisible, but it was getting more difficult to avoid her attackers. Most of the fighters, with the exception of the Beastmasters, had spell casting abilities and were now deliberately targeting their healer.

Hyzanthlay took it upon herself to head these off. With Kohanaa, Tiponi and Strellabelle leading, and Hyzanthlay staying near the priest at the rear, she was often out of sight in the thick of battle. She no longer charged in but hung back as Strellabelle had ordered.

She now quietly raided the bodies for hearts – and refreshment – when the Druid was done with them. This also made it possible for the warlock and the priest to catch the occasional discreet word.

“She’s after something,” Sorena said softly in Hyzanthlay’s ear as she flashed behind her, healing both the Druid and the Warrior in quick succession. Her grey robes drifted across the walls and floors like smoke driven in a high wind.

“The books,” Hyzanthlay cast Immolate on an Adept who was targeting Sorena. She kept her voice at a whisper and did not look at the Priest as she spoke.

“I don’t think so,” Sorena replied, ducking behind Tiponi’s elbow. “Something about a mission for the Dreadlord.”

Hyzanthlay was not surprised. She was sure that there would be a specific mission to be accomplished here, more than just raiding and devastation. The leaders would have to be hunted down and killed, as Arugal had been. Of course, Strellabelle had thrown an inner hissy fit when compelled to share the glory of killing the Archmage of Shadowfang Keep. Perhaps that was why she had been so stingy with this latest quest.

The importance of Shadowfang Keep was pale in comparison to the Scarlet Monastery. The greedy Affliction warlock surely wanted the glory all to herself this time. Hyzanthlay scowled and cast another Immolate spell on an arrogant Gallant, who was being too liberal with his Holy Smite. How much longer would she have to put up this façade of unwavering obedience before Strellabelle would reveal her secret quest?

They crossed the threshold and entered the open air. The grounds were littered with Beastmasters and spell casters of all kinds, all of which must have been alerted to her presence by now. They took a moment in the dark threshold. The whole courtyard would have to be cleared as quietly as possible. Apparently there was someone important in a room to the south, someone so important that they had to die. The group was instructed to stay as close together as possible. Then they broke out of the shadows into the open air.

***

For the third time in as many minutes, Hamilton Pearce stifled a yawn. The guard shift was tedious business and he was counting the minutes until he could retire. He could really do with a visit to the johns. The work was almost as boring as Brother Lemont’s sermons. Well, maybe not quite… But at least there he could ogle the priestesses as a distraction. Here he paced the length of the courtyard, nodding to four stationary guardsmen at the corner points. He then reversed his direction and did it all over again. He couldn’t help but glance once again at the sundial. The shadow had not moved since the last time he has passed it. Half an hour, and then he could retire. Perhaps he could ask Priestess Clarissa for a private session to discussion the finer points of “The Three Virtues of the Holy Light”. He grinned as he fondly remembered her soft bosom.

A clattering noise returned his attention to the present. He spun on the spot, tightening his grip on his sword and hefting his heavy shield. Could it be that he would actually see some action today? Surely no one would be foolish enough to assault the Scarlet Monastery. As he turned he saw a giant horned bear loping into the room and swiping at the guards with a hefty paw. Hamilton started as more figures appeared behind the huge grey animal. Three Scourge crept into sight and began to hurl bolts of their cursed magic into his fellows. A female Tauren came charging through in the wake from their blasts, closing with his Brothers in melee.

The Tauren woman was his closest target. She wore segmented heavy armor that deflected his allies’ blows, but her primitive weapons were no match for their plate metal either. Hamilton yelled for backup, it would not be long until the intruders were over whelmed. And yet, the Crusaders were taking heavy casualties. A fetid Scourge-woman fired bolts of corrupt shadow magic into his brethren between gouts of flicking hellfire. Another Scourge minion blasted curses at their screaming faces.

Hamilton worked his way through the swirling melee, a blast of shadow magic was deflected by his armor and he found himself squaring off against the Tauren with Brother Michael. The she-cow’s spear thrusts only glanced off his armor and the two men began to co-ordinate a flanking maneuver. The Tauren’s eyes spun wildly, showing their whites. She knew she was surrounded now and could not watch both of them. Then with a bestial holler the woman thrust her spear with all her might and Hamilton’s breath caught for a moment as he saw it pierce straight through Michael’s armored mid-section.

Hamilton whispered a prayer to the Holy Light for Brother Michael even as he moved to take advantage of the situation. The Tauren’s spear had become stuck in Michael’s armor and while she was defenseless Hamilton struck hard with his sword. It was a mighty blow- straight and true, the Tauren raised her pitiful hide bucker up at the last moment, but it was not enough to halt his forceful swing. Sword met buckler, cleaving it apart as it continued to bite deep into bone. The woman roared, her arm hanging limp and bleeding profusely. Hamilton readied his stance for the killing blow. He would be merciful, a quick death for a skilled opponent.

Time seemed to slow for a moment as he saw the Tauren grasp Micheal’s fallen claymore in one large hand and swing it easily at his face as if it were a short sword. He was only vaguely aware as the pain flooded his consciousness that the woman had hacked off his jaw. As he fell to the ground, his awareness beginning to dim, he welcomed the coming of the Light.

* * *

Tiponi roared in agony as the unfamiliar weapon fell from her grasp. From the corners of her eyes she was aware of the warlocks finishing off the last of their opposition, but she only briefly registered the thought before the pain overcame her. Her life’s blood was flowing quickly from the gaping wound, making her head throb and spin. There were shards of bone protruding from her forearm, and her hand was not responding. She began to sway on her feet as the undead approached.

“Hold still,” murmured Sorena as she reached out a hand.

Tiponi began to fumble at her waist for her belt knife with numb fingers, “Stay… back.” It was getting hard to make out the shapes of her friends.

“No time.” Said the healer as she grabbed Tiponi’s wrist and began to cast her magic. Tiponi shrieked in pain as the bone began to shift within her arm. Her blood vessels closed and finally her skin matted shut. Only a faint pink line hinted that there had ever been a wound there.

“All better.” said the Forsaken, releasing the Tauren’s arm.

Tiponi blinked at her, surprised at the skill at healing she possessed. She opened her mouth to thank the priest but the woman spoke before she had the chance.

“It will take a few days until your strength in that arm has fully returned. Try not to favor it until then.”

Tiponi rubbed at her wrist and regarded the ruin of her broken buckler on the floor. It could have been a lot worse.

The other warlock snapped, “Stop wasting time!”

The troupe moved on.

***

They were nearly overwhelmed this time. Hyzanthlay’s grin grew wider as more and more blood splattered on it. She drew her sword and swung it with a vigor that even impressed Tiponi.

The party naturally closed in around the healer. The imp babbled and spat, practically sobbing with glee as it threw fireballs from its hiding place near Hyzanthlay’s ankles. The screaming giggle of the succubus was almost drowned out in the clashing of metal and the pitched voices of the Scarlets screaming out their final prayers.

Hyzanthlay felt a frenzy coming on again. The faces twisted in determination and fear, the howls of agony and defeat; it was as if the gap in her chest had re-opened and they were filling it with their pain. This was all that she wanted, this was all that she existed for. To be nourished by the electric horror and hot blood of human beings.

As quickly as it had begun, the frenzy of battle ended. The succubus was barely clinging to life, winding her whip around her wrists and whimpering with pain. Strellabelle snarled at her to be quiet. The imp peeked out from under Hyzanthlay’s robe, only to see his mistress licking the gore from her sword like a greedy child tearing into a corn cob. Kohanaa had returned to his Tauren form and was helping the exhausted priest heal.

They were victorious but their enemies had been many, and everyone in the party was bruised and battered. Usually such a battle resulted in the loss of the demons, as they were expendable. Sent back to their places in Fel after being destroyed on the material plane, their mistresses could simply summon them again. Sorena, however, had managed to keep them all standing for a surprisingly long time. Tiponi, who was laying some impressive waste with her weapon, also seemed to have less and less attention for her own well-being and her extensive wounds were proof of this.

Only Hyzanthlay was behaving in an oblivious way towards her injuries, but she could refresh herself very quickly. Killing seemed to put more into her than it took out. Strellabelle also took to some cannibalism as Sorena’s mana came back; it was not her preferred method of healing as it was messy and undignified to say the very least, but any undead could do it.

Some would exist without ever doing so. Sorena ate a bit of the food that Hyzanthlay and Tiponi had given her, then knelt quietly in what was very much like a meditative state as her magical powers replenished.

In all the time they would know each other, Hyzanthlay would never witness Sorena cannibalize anything.

Kohanaa turned his attention to Tiponi, whose eyes were still burning brightly despite her wounds and exhaustion. It was at this moment that Strellabelle slipped over to Hyzanthlay’s side.

“Vishas had to die,” She said, as if continuing a conversation that had already begun. “The Clan has received orders from the Dreadlord himself.”

“You…we have a quest to dispose of the leaders,” Hyzanthlay’s suspicions had been confirmed.

“Upon returning with proof of our success, Varimathras will reward us handsomely.” Strellabelle said nothing of the fame or glory that would outstrip the satisfaction of any award. “Our next target is the Beastmaster.”

Hyzanthlay wasn’t interested in Varimathras’ rewards. She was interested in what Visha’s superiors would have to say about a girl named Wilhelmina.

“He is in a room to the south,” Strellabelle replied. “Holding out, it seems. Perhaps he thinks he has a better chance that way.”

The two warlocks shared a guttural chuckle at this suggestion, and for a moment it was like old times between them.

Sorena rose quietly and gracefully from the ground in a single movement. Strellabelle left Hyzanthlay’s side without another word and moved towards the Druid. In the moment she looked away, Hyzanthlay caught Sorena’s eye and gave the priest a barely perceptible nod.

The priest was ready to continue, steeling herself for the Beastmaster. She understood Hyzanthlay’s message. It was confirmed that Strellabelle had a quest to kill the leaders, and one was just ahead. Sorena kept an eye on Hyzanthlay, but she seemed to be listening intently to something and made no attempt to tell her any more.

All five were ready to jump into the fray again. The Cloister seemed devoid of human life now, although littered with its remains. Hyzanthlay felt a strange whisper in her ears, and remembered the ghost from the desert. Now she heard another voice from the grave.

Wisdom is found on the desolate hillside, where no grass grows, where the rabbit scratches a hole in vain.

This was another apparition, hissing at her from the halls of the monastery. The graveyard had been littered with them, in particular the spot by Vishas. Its voice was strangely soothing, and the sound of it seemed to slake her mysterious thirst.

And you, spirit, she thought, did you die by his hand as well?

Wilhelmina, it said, ignoring her question, the book, Wilhelmina.

There was a moment of profound silence. The baying of dogs, the cries of warning, the clank of metal; it was all drowned out by the ghostly whisper and swept over her ears like a heavy wave.

You can be what you want to be. But you can`t change the course of your destiny.

Hyzanthlay raised her head and saw Strellabelle making a sweeping motion with her
hand. The baying of dogs was echoing from the stone walls again. It seems the plan was a simple one; storm the room, distract the animals, mortally wound the Beastmaster as soon as possible.

The voice in her head fell silent.

Only Kohanaa caught a glimpse of Loksey before the actual fighting began. He was alone but for two hulking, scruffy hounds that charged the moment he moved. He knew he was outnumbered. That the shaggy Druid he could see in the shadows was a herald of the Light, come to bring him to his eternal rest.

“Release the hounds!” Loksey cried, drawing his own weapon, barely containing the horror and desperation that was shining in his eyes.

Strellabelle had changed her demon; it was now a voidwalker, and it attacked one of the dogs. Tiponi tackled the other. Hyzanthlay cast on both dogs, which were staring hungrily at the Priest, even after they were blinded by their own blood and burning fur. This is not to say she ignored Loksey. Destruction warlocks also had a talent for damage over time. The dogs were tough and fought to the death, but after they had been reduced to puddles of gore at their feet, Loksey was not much of a challenge.

Considering the time and energy that they had drained to reach him, the Beastmaster`s defeat had been a rather disappointing climax. Little of value was found on the body, so Hyzanthlay was allowed to take his heart for her collection. She also picked up a rather shabby looking dog whistle. She grinned and thought of her little friend in Duskwood.

The group became quiet, almost sullen, as if this victory had brought no pride or comfort. Sorena was easily able to heal without Kohanaa’s help as they moved on. They met with little or no resistance as they moved through what remained of the cloister to the next section. It was assumed that most remaining Scarlets would have pulled back to the Armory and the Cathedral to consolidate their forces. They were prepared to be met with some hold-out fanatics or priests on their way, but the path to the Gallery of Treasures was now open to them.

At first glance, the Library wing had little to indicate that it was organized in any way. There was no decimal system, no card catalogue. Upon confirming that the place was virtually deserted, each party member silently acknowledged this was the moment that they had been waiting for. Strellabelle was the first to slink off, as if she knew exactly where she was going. Sorena lagged behind in a strange way, for the first time since entering the Monastary she seemed conflicted.

As Hyzanthlay walked along the dark hallway, she scanned the plaques that were affixed to each shelf and realized the Gallery was divided into sections. Each section was named after a natural landscape of some kind. The first one was named Abandoned Desert, and Strellabelle had gravitated towards these. No doubt looking for information on demons.

If what Varimathras had theorized was true, and the Scarlet Crusade’s upper ranks had actually been infiltrated by representatives of the Burning Legion itself, the evidence could be here. She smiled appreciatively as she passed by the next, which was called “Forsaken Valley.” Perhaps information about the undead and the Scourge, even the Lich King himself. The next few shelves seemed to contain books about the Holy Light and human history, and had a less devastating name, “Lonely Mountain.”

The next plaque made her stop in her tracks. It said, “DESOLATE HILLSIDE.”

Hyzanthlay peered between the tall, imposing shelves. This section was for periodicals and maps. A tall, thick shelf was filled to the ceiling with fat, ebony bound books. The spine of each was marked with a golden letter and the name of a city. Many cities and letters had more than one book dedicated to them, but there was only one for “Andorhol, W”. Hyzanthaly tore it off the shelf and quickly turned her head to listen for any approaching warlocks. Satisfied that Strellabelle was still busy in with the demonology books, she greedily tore it open.
The entries consisted of lists and lists of names and locations by alphabetical order. As she had hoped, there were entries listed by first name only. There was more than one entry under the name she was looking for, but one said;

Wilhelmina, resident of Corrin’s Crossing. Family name: unknown. Suspected of fraternizing with or endeavoring to fraternize with dark magicks, including but not limited to the Burning Legion. Currently a person of importance. Questioned in an official capacity regarding missing and stolen literature.

This entry was quite typical; it didn’t take much to be a “suspect” as far as the Scarlet Crusade was concerned. In fact, many of the entries contained details about subversive books. It crossed her mind to look up Torch Boy but she realized that she didn’t know his name. The tome was too big to take. Hyzanthlay tore a handful of pages out of the volume pertaining to Andorhol and stuffed them in her pack.

Hyzanthaly felt a movement next to her. She turned and expected to see a cobweb or a bit of dust. Instead, she saw Sorena’s bright orbs glittering in the shadows. The Priest was light on her feet indeed. She had heard or sensed nothing of her movements.

“She’s picked up something about Feralas,” she whispered, this slipped past her and towards the books of the Holy Light.

Feralas? A rank night elf haven on the far side of the western continent. What could she want with that? But she was already going through the maps as Strellebelle’s footsteps sounded nearby. They were mostly of either places where the Scarlet’s had strongholds, or areas like the Blasted Lands or Felwood that had a well-known and strong demonic presence. Hzanthlay did not know if Feralas was one of these, but there was a single map of the area there. It had a predominantly marked area almost in the middle called Dire Maul.

Hyzanthlay raised her eyebrows. She understood what Strellabelle was after.

The other warlock came around the corner. By then Hyzanthlay was looking at a detailed map of Lordearon, drawn up before Lady Sylvanas had built Undercity.

“The Priest is nearby, go see what she’s doing.” she motioned in a general direction and did not look directly at the warlock as she quietly gave her order.

Hyzanthlay said nothing, but obediently slipped towards the Lonely Mountain section. She found Sorena kneeling in a candlelit corner, surrounded by piles of colourful books. She had a strange smile on her face as she was thumbing through one that had a rather festive cover. As she saw Hyzanthlay approach, she held it up so she could see the title.

It was a children’s book called, “The Secret of Dancing Troll Village.” The cover had a silvery grey and red border, framing a picture of several trolls dancing under a starlit sky. It seems that human history included children’s literature, even if it was only one small shelf. Even now, in this place, Sorena was thinking of her son. This was something she intended for him. Hyzanthlay sighed and felt that bad taste come back to her mouth.

“You have no use for these books?” Hyzanthlay was incredulous. She was already thinking of what to tell Strellabelle.
Sorena’s reply was an interesting one, to say the least.

“I’ve already seen most of them,” she whispered. ”I’ve been here before.”

Hyzanthlay had suspected that Sorena had trained in some high profile places. And she did seem to know her way around. When Arthas had been a young prince, the Scarlets were seen as strict but not fanatical, and their knowledge and training had been highly sought by many a priest and paladin. How many of Sorena’s mentors and teachers were still here? No wonder the sight of the overrun graveyard had struck her as a disturbing surprise.

The warlock took a quick look around before speaking. Strellabelle was visible some paces away, speaking with the Druid.

“How well did you know Whitemane and Morgraine?” She knelt next to her and pretended to be absorbed in the bookshelf.

“Quite well, actually,” Sorena whispered, dropping her eyes to the floor.

“They will know you when they see you,” Hyzanthlay whispered.

“Perhaps,” the Priest replied. Hyzanthlay could tell she was hoping against hope that they would not.

Hyzanthlay changed the subject.

“Does the name ‘Xoroth’ mean anything to you?” Her voice was so low that even Sorena could barely hear it.

For a moment the Priest squinted with intense thought. Then her eyes widened with a sudden recognition, but before she had a chance to reply a shuffling was heard nearby. The warlock did not stop to see who it was. She immediately rose up and walked towards Strellabelle. The Affliction warlock was flanked by a succubus again, and was looking at her rather expectantly.

“Nothing of importance,” Hyzanthlay shrugged. “Human history and maps.”

“I have what I was looking for,” Strellabelle announced. “We can move on.”

Hyzanthlay was not so bold as to think Strellabelle would share her reading material with her, but she already knew what it was. This made the Destruction warlock curl her lip in vicious resentment. From what she had heard only the most powerful warlocks were worthy of what she pursued.

Strellabelle was afraid of honest competition. Hyzanthlay sneered with disappointment.

When they ravaged the Scarlet Crusade in Tirisfal Glades she had not noticed these traits. Perhaps the Clan had pried it out of her. Either way, Hyzanthlay had already decided that she would also pursue the fearsome Dreadsteed of Xoroth.

Tiponi was now the impatient one. She was speaking rather breathlessly to Kohanaa, pointing to a painting on the wall. She also seemed to be favoring her off-hand. Kohanaa acknowledged her request, but Strellabelle was reticent. She did not seem to feel there was a need to continue to the Arcanist. His hapless life was apparently not worth anything to the Dreadlord. Sorena, who had remained silent this whole time, quietly interjected.

“We cannot proceed unless Doan is killed,” she said firmly.

Strellabelle turned and glared at her. Sorena met her gaze and continued.

“The Archanist must be killed. He possesses the Scarlet Key. The strongest forces have fallen back, and the last two wings of the monastery will be locked to us now.”

“You would know, as you roamed these halls in life,” Strellabelle revealed this openly, not only to single the Priest out but also to boast about her own knowledge of her fellow party members.

“Acanist Doan will not fall easily,” Kohanaa said. “He is an arcane mage of unspeakable power. We must be cautious.” And his eyes turned heavily towards Tiponi and Hyzanthlay. The warlock rolled her shoulders in annoyance. Tiponi shifted on her heavy hooves impatiently.

They moved on without another word.

The dark hallways were filled with alcoves and small rooms, plenty of hiding places for Monks and Diviners who were waiting to ambush them. But their numbers were scattered; the holdouts were obviously the more fanatical of the Library residents, and seemed to have resigned themselves to a quick death. As they neared the residence of the Archanist, they became more numerous and determined. The Gallants and Chaplains were troublesome, but Hyzanthlay and Tiponi kept them in check, well away from the healer.

Books still lined the walls, and many others were out on display. Strellabelle was openly perusing them in their quieter moments. Hyzanthlay tried to pretend that she wasn’t interested, but was watching the other warlock carefully from the corner of her glowing orbs.

Xoroth was one of the planets the Burning Legion called home, and there resided the demonic mount. Not much was known of the fearsome Dreadsteeds, and the Dreadlords were silent about the secrets of their home worlds. It was a creature of evil and blight, a hideous thing that breathed smoke and consumed ash. It tore across the material plane with a speed and fire that would outstrip any other living mount in Azeroth.

It will be mine, the warlock thought fiercely, glaring at Strellabelle, who was more or less oblivious to her now. Oh yes, it will be mine.

Hyzanthlay glumly recalled their last battle against a mage. It had been dull and predictable. Strellabelle was dragging her feet; her lip was curled in a sneer. She was clearly not thinking about the upcoming battle but about the books. Hyzanthlay realized she couldn’t find what she was looking for. She blinked and realized Sorena was staring at her.

“This one will not fight like Arugal,” she cautioned, as if she knew what the warlocks was thinking. “This is a fanatic, a powerful mage that understands the tenants of the Holy Light.”

“What will he do?” Kohanaa growled at the thick double doors that rose before them.

“He can use Silence,” Sorena said. The mere mention of this spell was enough to make Kohanaa widen his eyes a little.

“He also a master of fire,” the Priest continued. “He has a nova spell that is vicious and destructive. If there’s any sign of it, you must try to dodge it somehow. I might not be able to help you.”

The possibility of a silence spell had sobered the group considerably. Even Tiponi, who had been more anxious then the others to move on, seemed to be more centered. Hyzanthlay felt strangely numb and alone, the absence of the ghostly voice seemed to leave a dull echo in her ears. Her imp was simpering at her feet.

“Stay out of his line of sight, if you can,” she spat at the demon, looking desolately in its direction. She wished it was the face of a certain grinning rogue looking up at her and felt a profound heaviness in her hollow chest.

“Okay, okay, okay,” it tittered, hopping back and forth nervously.

The doors swung open, and like Arugal’s inner sanctum a tall circular room that was revealed to them. Hyzanthlay only had time to ask herself why mages liked circular rooms. Then the battle began.

Archanist Doan was facing them and began his spell casting the second that the doors opened. When Hyzanthlay raised her hand and tried to speak, her movements were slowed. Her spells had not been rendered useless, but for a warlock who loved destruction any lag in velocity was like an eternity. Every party member was affected by the slowing spell, and Strellabelle’s affliction spells had already taken hold.

There was a moment of calm as they stood in the burning room, breathlessly taking in what was left of the study. Hyzanthlay had sworn she had looked into his eyes and seen the unholy shimmer of a warlock. He seemed to be just as intent on scorching the entire room as he was them. Only Sorena seemed to be able to move and be fully conscious.

She had opened the chest at the far end of the room and was digging through it rather urgently. The fire was burning slowly, but as the flames began to lick hungrily at the edges of the wooden furniture and the heavy books, it seemed to become more daring and ran faster.

“There is more here,” The priest said, rising from her crouched position. “Herbs and potions. Quickly!”

The party finally snapped into action at the promise of loot. Hyzanthlay only wanted the herbs. Kingsblood, as she had been hoping. As the rest of the party ran for the doors, she walked casually through the fire, rolling a smoke between her fingers. As she walked through the center of the room, she heard another shadow speaking to her. Its voice was starkly familiar. His voice was still tinged with a certain breathless excitement, but this time he was not telling her to burn in righteous fire.

So, a warlock, he said. I can’t say I’m surprised, young lady.

And impressed, she answered inwardly. Did you turn to the arcane because you didn’t have the mettle to conquer the powers of Fel?

There was a moment of silence when all she could hear was the fire roaring in her ears. She lit her smoke with it and stepped out into the hallway to where her companions were waiting. Tiponi and Kohanaa were closing the door behind her as she slipped out. The wooden doors would burn eventually, but their sheer size would slow the flames long enough for them to finish their messy work in the Armory and Cathedral.

“Hyzanthlay?” Sorena asked, drawn by the strange, blank glare that seemed to emanate from her companions eyes. Every single piece of fabric she was wearing was smoldering.

The warlock looked back at her through a thick cloud of smoke, gave a barely perceptible shrug, then walked past her, puffing away intently.

You would have been a fine mage, Wilhelmina…you would have studied with Serena, perhaps, the Archanists ghostly voice was still whispering to her from his fiery tomb.

Serena, she answered. So, you knew her too.

She was notorious for her skill, he hissed like the wind against the dry grass in the cloister, some of which was burning. Which has not diminished with her change.

Fascinating.

Hyzanthlay did not answer. She drew deeply from her cigar and watched her friends moving in front of her. Their pace had quickened; many of the fires she and Strellabelle had set were spreading, and the walkways were littered with broken bodies and lifeless weapons.

It is not unexpected, the Archanist continued. After all, you took the book. But it was her book, Wilhemelmina.

All this for a stupid book, Hyzanthlay sneered and snorted a nose full of thick smoke into her palm.

To her surprise, she heard a snickering laugh echoing inside her head. She looked down at the imp hopping next to her as if to make sure it wasn’t just one of his outbursts.

When Abbendis gave the order, officially it was the book. Doan snickered. But it wasn’t just a book you stole, pretty Wilhelmina! No, not just a book!

Hyzanthlay stopped in her tracks and remembered the image of a torch flying at her face. The voice inside her head laughed maniacally now, as if seeing the vision in her mind’s eye.

The corridor turned sharply and Hyzanthlay came back to herself. She watched the Druid pass her and open the door.

Sorena ran ahead with him, a dark red key hanging starkly at her side next to her grey and white robes. Tiponi also squeezed past her, and Hyzanthlay smiled, sharing her enthusiasm. The Library was for spellcasters, but the Armory was for warriors. Hopefully there were a few things there that would fit the Tauren, but there was certainly be a myriad of weapons for her to choose from, ones that would make any warrior proud. The voice had receded, now silent but not likely at rest in what was left of the Gallery of Treasures.

Sorena fumbled with the key. The grace and calm that usually defined her demeanor seemed to have left her. Doan’s dying cries had certainly shaken her up. The other two undead were untouched, but Strellabelle still seemed agitated despite their relatively quick fight with the Archanist. Hyzanthlay rolled her shoulders and continued to puff peacefully when she spoke.

“The Armory does not have to be a concern,” she said. “We should finish the Cathedral first, while the leaders and their forces are weakened and off guard.”

“I understand your concern,” the Druid said, as he took her bear form again and began to ready himself. “But if we raid the Armory first, we will draw and thin out the last of the most lethal Scarlet fighters. We will also cut off any remaining access they have to weapons and armor.”

“It is better to isolate the leaders before fighting them,” Tiponi cradled her heavy weapon, staring almost hungrily at the doors as she did so.

“Your motivation is clear, Tauren,” Strellabelle hissed, frustrated to have been outnumbered but willing to go along with the party’s will. Sorena’s will was also clear, as she was still struggling with the lock. They heard a metallic click, and the doors swung open.

A group had been waiting for them and surrounded the party almost immediately. Sorena was unprepared for the ambush and was knocked back a few feet. Hyzanthlay was close enough to draw her sword and hack at her opponents between spell casting.

Against the power of the Scarlets in their armory, however, her sword was of little use. It dented the Gallant coming at her, but he brushed her blows aside and thrust his two-handed sword into her stomach. It didn’t take much for the large weapon to pierce her dry, husky body. Kohanaa caught him and sent him reeling to the ground, not to get up again. The sword in Hyzanthlay’s midriff was quite heavy, and when its user had let it go, it remained skewered through her midriff and drew the warlock into an awkward kneeling position on the floor. She was still able to cast, and did so while pinned to the floor and surrounded by moving allies and enemies.

They didn’t move for much longer. Between Kohanaa’s heavy jaws and Tiponi’s long reach, it did not take long for the ambush to fizzle and melt into a puddle of gore and blood. Soon there was not a sound to be heard in the hallway, except the faint echo of the metal sword that had skewed Hyzanthlay, tapping the floor as she tried to move.

“Tiponi,” she grunted, “get over here.”

The Tauren did as she was asked, but managed to let a sly smile escape her lips as she bent over and gripped the sword hilt.

“And if you tell anyone about this,” Hyzanthlay snapped, “I’ll roast your tender behind!”

Tiponi let a grin escape and pulled. Hyzanthlay staggered backward, then steadied herself and gave Tiponi a reluctant but vaguely appreciative nod. She took a moment to look for the remains of the cigar, but it was long since knocked from her mouth trampled into the stone floor.

Sorena finished patching up Strellabelle and Kohanaa, who seemed to have taken the brunt of the fighting. This time the succubus had fallen, crushed by the sheer numbers that had fallen upon them. The warlock was unmoved, and decided that her voidwalker was more suited to this environment anyway.

“It would be better to have against Herod,” Kohanaa agreed. “The whiles of the succubus will not touch the Scarlet Champion.”

They moved on. Hyzanthlay noticed that the Armory was not a long, connected hallway that radiated from a central point, but a series of open rooms lined by pillars and weapon racks. The party could see well in advance but so could their opponents of them. There were not too many of these left, as the ambush at the gate seemed to be the last act of many desperate and militant fanatics. And their illustrious leader, the Scarlet Champion Herod, had not even joined them.

Either a coward, Hyzanthlay thought, or a dishonest fanatic. Either way her own personal hatred of the human race was increasing exponentially the more time she spent in this place. It crossed her mind that it might be unfair to judge humanity by such standards, as the Scarlets were notorious for their heartlessness and unwavering faith. However, they had represented the best of humanity once, and this intensified the horror of their fall and betrayal. If the most noble that humanity had to offer could plummet so far, what hope did the common human have?

Some things can be worse then undeath, the warlock decided, and ejaculated a mouthful of rancid spit in satisfaction.

The open rooms and pillars funneled into a long, tall hallway that was built with a high arched ceiling. The door at the end led to the fortress of Herod, the Scarlet Champion and a dangerous adversary. Kohanna had a brief conference with Sorena, who had retained her calm demeanor. Hyzanthlay rightly guessed that this was because she did not expect Herod to recognize her. She might have been introduced to him, perhaps conferred with his students during her studies, but she did not roam the halls of plate and steel. That would have been the realm of her paladin colleagues.

His inner sanctum was unique in a certain way. Like the others, it was round. Unlike the others, it was lined by a stairway that spiraled down on both sides, and tapered to a narrow ground floor like a coliseum. It was this stairway, Sorena stressed to the spell casters, that would save their lives. Or in the case of the undead, preserve their existence.

“I can move quickly enough to avoid his blows, but even I will be staying back,” she explained. “This is not some average fanatic. This is Herod, the Scarlet Champion. Once he falls, the occupants of the Cathedral will be extremely vulnerable.”

The Priest paused with a certain amount of dread at the mention of Morgraine and Whitemane. Strellabelle smiled with glee at this admission of vulnerability.

Kohanaa took two steps back and let the warrior open the doors. Herod was waiting for them at the center of the room, at the very bottom of the stairs.

It immediately became apparent that Herod would not fall like their former great foes. He approached them with a fierce and arrogant determination of one who would not retreat. Hyzanthlay smiled, her wide, angry smile, heavy with sharp teeth, and he spoke as if he was reading her mind.

“Ah,” Herod declared, striding towards them and drawing an impressive broadsword, “I’ve been waiting for a challenge!’

Whether or not Herod’s ideal challenge included a huge bear with horns, that was the first thing that he got. His arrogance and delusion, reminiscent of humanity’s worst qualities, seemed to enrage the Tauren to an even more fervent degree than their Forsaken allies.

As the symbol of the military wing of the Scarlet Crusade, it was no surprise that it was the figure of Herod that would bring every member of the party to such an intense emotional height. Hyzanthlay had been murdered by them, Sorena had been weakened, eventually to death, by their failed war against the Scourge. The Library had hidden the knowledge that Strellabelle sought but Herod had held and guarded it, or trained those that did. And how much had the Tauren homeland of Mulgore been scarred and cut open by the gluttonous dwarves as their human allies stood and protected them?

“Light, give me strength!” The stones grew slick with Herod’s blood, but his own sword was dripping with blood.
“Blades of Light!” He cried, and his weapon spun around, slicing Kohanaa and Tipoini as it cut a circle through the air. It passed through the voidwalker, and the Holy Light hissed through the Fel energy like acid. The creature roared in pain but continued to fight. Sorena was too close; she leapt out of his reach just in time, flitting like a ghost from the stairs to the railing and then back again. Hyzanthlay snarled with satisfaction as his face started to bubble up with welts and boils. She took a deep breath and threw an Immolate at him, then laughed triumphantly as his body burst into flames.

“Light!” His garbled voice yelled, “Light! Give me…”

It was Kohanaa that finished him. He lurched forward, his snout soaked with foam and blood, and sank his massive jaws into Herod’s exposed throat. The Scarlet Champion’s last breath was a garbled hiss of blood. The Druid threw his lifeless corpse down mercilessly. Hyzanthlay looked hungrily at the remains, but hesitated to fall on the body so quickly. She was taking a moment to resent Kohanaa for stealing her signature attack. In her moment of hesitation, Tiponi stepped forward, a greedy light in her eyes that Hyzanthlay had not seen in her before.

“That’s a nice helm,” she said, carefully crouching next to the body. “And the axe isn`t bad either.”

“That’s Ravager,” even Sorena couldn’t help but admire the massive axe. “Take it. Luckily the helm wasn’t…”

But she was cut short by the sounds of feet upon the stairs. About twenty of Herod’s fervent allies had arrived, even if it was seconds too late. The Tauren’s steeled themselves, prepared to destroy their foes even in their weakened state. Hyzanthlay and Strellabelle grinned with sweet anticipation; the love of airborne damage was something all warlocks shared.

A torrent of blazing fire rained down on the hapless fanatics, reducing them to scorching piles of smoldering mush. Not one of them reached the Taurens, who stood rather stunned at the warlocks. Both were now laughing hysterically as if they had just shared a very funny joke. Hyzanthlay lot a new cigar and the two of them passed it back and forth, still snickering. Sorena seemed to be oblivious to them. She was staring at the burning pile of humanity on the floor with a grave sadness.

As they made their way towards the Cathedral, their final destination, small skirmishes broke out between the party and the Scarlets. The Crusaders had been beaten and broken, their champion lay in ruined pile of offal and his wicked axe was being wielded by a Tauren like a toy. But the Scarlets were zealots, and the prospects of their imminent demise only drove them to further heights of fanatical devotion. The men and women threw themselves at their foes, and were mercilessly torn to shreds by bear claws and teeth or melted with hellfire. Still the humans fought, fear, exhalation and insanity evident in their eyes.

Tiponi strode among them as a demon of war. She cleaved left and right, barely pausing to check her handiwork before moving on to the next fleshy target. She growled as she worked, cursing under her breath, and not even her companions alongside her could tell how far away her thoughts were.

As her blow was deflected by a magical shield she snarled in memory of the Witchdoctor. He had died at her hand because she had been told to kill him. She saw a cluster of Scarlets charge towards the party, cut down by streams of purple shadowbolts before they got close, and she was reminded of the tide of trolls. The jungles had run with the blood of ogre and troll that day and she had relished in it. She noticed a wounded warrior crawling beneath her hooves. His bloodied hand shook as it reached for the sword just out of its reach. She grinned and brought her hoof down hard atop his head. It exploded like a melon, splattering brain matter across her bloodied armor. The gnome had squished so easily in the forest, its little ribcage cracking and splintering shards of bone into its tiny heart.

She laughed aloud and swung at her next foe, a woman chanter in robes. They parted as easily as her flesh did as the weapon completed its sweep. They laughed at her, they all laughed like she was some pathetic joke! The guards, that damned cockroach vendor, the goblins, her people. Every fel-forsaken person thought it was just so damned funny.

Stupid little Tauren, doesn’t know any better.

I will show them all!

That damned troll had tricked her somehow, she just knew it. The Scarlet she had just impaled spluttered and gaped as blood flowed from his mouth like sweet honey. She watched him for a moment, noticing his last shuddering breath, and she dropped the corpse to the ground to continue fighting.

Oh father I’m so sorry. Damn him! Damn them all! I knew it was wrong I shouldn’t… He gave up on me! He never believed…

He loved Kwahu more than me.

Kwahu! He left too. He was chosen, he was special, no time for me.

Better than me. He laughed, he’s happy I’m gone.

“Tipo-“

Tiponi swung wide with her wicked axe towards the Forsaken woman. It bit into spongy blue flesh as she screamed in surprise. The Voidwalker faded into oblivion as Tiponi screamed. The fight was over. The Scarlet bodies on the ground had been butchered in their death beyond recognition. Tiponi was panting heavily, suddenly aware of the blood and sweat flowing down her body.

What happened? I nearly attacked my friends.
They aren’t my friends.
I must apologize.
Don’t show weakness.

The others began to crowd closer, sharing glances and hushed whispers. Tiponi shook her head, trying to dislodge her headache when she spotted a hint of blue among the red of blood and Scarlet cloth. She bent down and plucked the delicate flower gently.

“I’ve found it…” she whispered. She folded the delicate blue-petaled rose into a cloth and tucked it safely away inside her armor.

I have it now, everything will be okay, I can make up for the wrongs I’ve caused.

It was strange; she could almost hear laughter through her throbbing headache.

The group was still standing, but Herod and his minions had not fallen without a worthy fight. Even Sorena, who was the quickest and smallest of the group by a wide margin, had suffered a few nicks. The warlocks continued to smoke and snicker as the group made their way back up the stairs. All that was left now was the Cathedral. Sorena hung near the back of the group, her head bowed.

Hyzanthlay kept snickering with Strellabelle but this did not escape her notice. She would have to ask the Priest about Xoroth later. Perhaps that was what her fellow warlock was looking for and failed to find; something that would connect the Crusade to the planet of the Dreadlords.

Strellabelle also noticed Sorena’s melancholy demeanour, and as they crossed the threshold that led out of the Armory, she took advantage of it.

“Our Priest knows the Cathedral fairly well,” she chided, as they turned to the last set of locked doors. “Step aside, Druid! We should let her lead.”

Hyzanthlay cackled to this one cue, but the sound was hollow and insincere. When the other warlock looked away, Hyzanthlay cut her orbs in the Priest’s direction as if to say, Are you sure? The priest bowed her head ever further. She was sure, but she was not happy about it.

Hyzanthlay chewed her cigar with intense frustration.

“We have deprived the Scarlets of many of their most hardened warriors,” Kohanaa said, letting the undead warlocks have their fun but ignoring them for the most part, “but many remain, and they will be with their companions who have powers similar to Sorena. The healers must fall first. We will need your succubus, Strellabelle. And you…” He nodded towards Hyzanthlay, “I have seen that you do not speak to demons often, but we may need yours, too.”

The destruction warlock spoke not a word, but nodded quietly and began to cast her summoning spell. It took longer than Strellabelle, as her training in this field was not so specific. The little imp mumbled something about “seeing other warlocks” before it disappeared, only to be replaced by a succubus who said little but still tended to make a fair amount of noise. The hallway now echoed with the occasional moans and sighs of the seductive demons.

“The spellcasters must always be targeted first,” Sorena said firmly, “especially the Abbots. They have…the same powers that I do.”

“If I am occupied,” Kohanaa looked at the other party members, “use the demons.”

“Then forward,” Strellabelle growled, motioning Sorena towards the door. The Priest still held the Scarlet key. She was not necessarily reluctant, but moved with a calm slowness that clearly irritated the Affliction warlock.
The heavy doors swung open with a gravity that reflected their contents. The party continued fearlessly into the candlelit darkness that was the final wing of the Scarlet Monastery.

Kohanaa and Sorena had not exaggerated. The minions within the monastery were fierce and desperate, but strangely not as determined or fanatical as the other inhabitants of the monastery. They had the bad habit of running when their wounds began to overwhelm them, and could not always be caught before successfully summoning help. The mere sight of the mail clad Tauren and the horned bear that ran in front of her sent many scrambling in abject terror. Many times they were nearly overwhelmed, as they had been when entering the Armory. But Sorena was fast and vigilant. Even the demons did not fall.

The great open expanse that opened before the Cathedral did not give the party any opportunity to approach their prey with any kind of strategy. The demons were useful as well as entertaining. Strellabelle and Hyzanthlay shared a few more raspy laughs over the sight of the morally pure Abbots and Champions falling so easily to their Fellish whiles. Sorena was working too hard to share in their diversion, but secretly it gave her some satisfaction as well.

The gothic spires loomed before them, a dizzying height that rose into the clouds out of their vision. The grasses outside the Cathedral doors were soaked with blood, the flowers and shrubs trampled. The group moved with a certain precision now, their individual interests now merged to a single purpose. Whitemane and Morgraine had not emerged from their stronghold in the Cathedral, but it was imperative that as many of their allies be dispatched with as well, lest they come to their aid.

Hyzanthlay was thinking about Abbendis, who would not likely be here. The book, whatever it was about, had belonged to the Crusade. But Torch Boy; to whom had he belonged? And what role had he played in her betrayal? Now she understood the nature of his horror. It had not been the sight of an undead that had driven him out of his mind on the road that night. It had been the terror of guilt that had lashed him to a kneeling position in the dirt.

Morgraine and Whitemane, in her own bloodthirsty mind, had been reduced to stepping stones in her quest to confront Abbendis herself. She was already planning another visit to Torch Boy, and she didn’t care if he was hiding in Stormwind itself.

She looked up at the spires of the Cathedral and thought of the Bulwark, and how the Forsaken had built a barrier on the edge of the Western Plaguelands that looked like a massive wooden procupine. Beyond it laid the ruins of a former kingdom called Lordaeron, and no doubt the remains of the Scarlets would be hidden there. She knew little of Tyr’s Hand. Now a new, fierce hunger gripped her; to cross the boundary of the Bulwark and pursue Abbendis and her minions to the very ends of the earth.

They reached the high, thin doors that led into the Cathedral. Their challengers were crushed before them, buried under their steady but inexorable advance. They hesitated for a moment, as if waiting for some signal. Even the succubi were silent, sensing the gravity of the situation.

“They are here,” Hyzanthlay whispered, and all who heard her were startled by the sound of her voice. It was not the guttural rasp of a Forsaken but a soft whisper, more like that of a human woman. It was she who reached forward and pushed the heavy door open.

Sorena recalled an earlier time, when this Cathedral was all but her home, and those inside were her family. For a moment all was soft candlelight and the smell of incense. Her pleasant memories were shattered when a small group attacked them as they stepped inside. Kohanaa attacked carefully, circling them and pinning them against the doors. The party now stayed together in a closely knit circle, keeping an eye out for reinforcements or spellcasters that were trying to run; and of course the leaders themselves. They made sure that the dark corridors were completely clear before turning their attention towards the altar.

It was then that Morgraine appeared, and he strode towards them with much the same defiant purpose as Herod had. He walked towards the Druid, who pawed at the ground in his challenge. The succubi hissed with glee, excited at the prospect of such a handsome and powerful victim. He did not notice the diminutive Priest; at least not yet. His vision was filled with horns and hooves. Sorena was crouched behind Hyzanthlay’s relatively broad shoulders. The warlock would be careful to avoid his mace, even more careful to avoid his spells.

He raised his mace to strike the Druid, but his blow never fell. Sorena slipped past Hyzanthlay, drew back her hood, and faced Morgraine. The rest of the party froze with a mixture of horror and surprise.

“Renault,” she said, calling him by his first name and spoke to him in broken Common. “You…remember? Renault?”
The last Scarlet Champion stopped, his mace suspended in mid-air. Disbelief and disgust twisted his chiseled face.

“Serena,” he whispered, his eyes widening, the light in them dulled by the abject horror that was creeping over his face like a Corruption spell. His upper limp trembled, his jaw became slack.

“Leave this place,” Sorena whispered. “The Silver Hand has fallen. It will not return.”

She stepped forward, and the unearthly amber glow of her shining orbs was lighting up his dark face. “Go. Now. Or we’ll kill you.”

In that moment of profound and heavy silence, enveloped in the quiet and oblivious darkness of that once holy place, Hyzanthlay actually thought for a moment that he would do as the Priest asked. But Strellabelle would not have it. She had come to the Monastery to kill or be killed. The Dreadlord had given her a command, and glory and spoils were worth more than any petty human sentiments. Hyzanthlay would be bound to Sorena for many years hence, but today she sided with her fellow warlock. She also was determined to sear his plump flesh and smash his pretty face, then drink his blood and eat his big fat heart.

Morgraine uttered a strange, guttural howl, and then swung his mace in Sorena’s direction.

“Infidels!” He howled, “They must be purified!”

She was ready, and dodged him, but she could not dodge the spell. His Hammer of Justice hit her squarely, and a whimper of pain escaped her lips as she crouched on the floor, stunned.

The sight of their healer wounded broke the tension that had held the party back, and sent them into a screaming frenzy. Hyzanthlay could not cast Immolate fast enough. Her anger, which was at a precarious level normally, was suddenly driven to a fever pitch. Strellabelle stood by, smiling broadly, casting with careful precision. Whether or not Sorena had intended it, her confrontation had badly unnerved the last Scarlet Champion, so much that it had taken the edge off considerably. He would not be difficult to destroy now.

Sorena had risen, and was healing as well as ever, but her face was twisted in a strange way. Hyzanthlay caught a glimpse of it, and even though she herself was incapable of tears she wondered if other Forsaken were the same.
They were so focused on Morgraine that they did not see Whitemane at first. She arose from behind the altar, and slowly walked towards the group. Her calm movements were not forced, but they seemed unnatural, especially considering that once Morgraine was dead she was all that was left of the Scarlet Monastery.

She walked with her head held high, without any attempt to conceal herself, as if she was leading the mass on any given Sunday. It was only when Morgraine fell senseless to his knees that she spoke.

“Serena,” she greeted her warmly, as if it was just another day of prayer and study at the Monastary. “You have returned to us.”

“No…no, Sally. Serena…will never return.”

“Morgraine will not fall,” she said it in a quiet voice, but the words still echoed throughout the Cathedral. She opened her arms as if to embrace a willing congregation and cried,

“Arise, my champion!”

Each member of the party lunged towards her in a desperate effort to stop the Resurrection spell. But before any of them took a second step, the Mass Sleep spell had taken effect. They stood in place, heads and shoulders sagging, as Whitemane healed her champion.

Hyzanthlay had a strange dream.

There was a bookshelf in front of her, unmarred and untouched, in perfect order, except for one empty space where a book was missing. She peered carefully through it. She could see nothing on the other side but a thick mist.

What was that awful smell? A hideous face suddenly appeared, with rotting skin and glowing yellow orbs where its eyes should have been.

She was startled awake as if from a nightmare. Her ears were filled with a cacophony of sound. There was the roaring of a bear and the screech of a succubus. The warlock turned just in time to see one of the succubi fade back into Fel. It had been her own; it seems that Strellabelle, who was a better caretaker of demons anyway, had come out of her stupor soon enough to save hers. Upon resurrecting, Morgraine had crushed the unholy creature rather quickly with his consecrated weapon.

Hyzanthlay snarled angrily, and concentrated all of her power on Whitemane. Sorena’s words echoed in her ears; the spellcasters must be targeted first.

Hyzanthlay was not thinking only of the spell caster that was opposing them. She could easily do it now. If she moved to the right spot, and struck Strellabelle down in the chaos, they could be rid of her. Strellabelle, the Clan, and the Dreadlord Varimathras.

Maybe even the Forsaken altogether.

Whitemane was dying. Her robes were torn and bloody, smoldering with Fel fire. Her face was rotted with corruption; the puddle of blood she was standing in was growing wider by the moment. Morgraine was also weakening. They were still fighting fiercely. Hyzanthlay waited for the moment when Strellabelle would be stricken and Sorena would be occupied with the Warrior and the Druid.

And then she would strike.

But then another ghostly voice crept into her thoughts. A female voice that sounded strangely familiar.

Hyzanthlay, it whispered, all the world will be your enemy.

“Leave me,” the warlock hissed. She was trying to maneuver and aim. Morgraine turned and raised his hammer. For a moment it seemed he would aim for Strellabelle, but he was blocked by Tiponi.

But only one can catch you, the voice continued.

Hyzanthlay cocked her head, as if trying to shake the voice out of her ears. This voice Eerily familiar and strangely close.

Her time will come, it said. Hyzanthlay, look to the Priest. Sorena will know.

Whitemane gagged and her staff wavered. In her dying moments, she cast a Smite spell in Strellabelle’s direction. It hit the Affliction warlock square and true.

But Hyzanthlay did not also strike. She was distracted.

Know? Know what? She asked. Whitemane shuddered and moaned, collapsing to the floor in a crumpled, bloody heap. Morgraine was near death, cornered by both Kohanaa and Tiponi.

Sorena will know where the Dreadsteed goes, the voice said softly.

And then it was gone.

The Cathedral was silent. The party stood in a circle around the two corpses, shining with steel and blood.

“The Light has spoken,” Sorena declared quietly.

Sorena only rode as far as Grom Gol. She dared not stop anywhere sooner. Not only did she need to send word to Eucalypto, but she needed to be sure that she was no longer being followed; either by night elves or mysterious benevolent warlocks.

She considered taking the zeppelin, as the long and lazy ride would have calmed her frazzled nerves, but she had an important errand in Undercity. Even as an undead, she preferred her existence to be relatively calm. That was the main reason she had chosen the smaller guild of DPS Very Slowly rather than one of the many larger and more popular ones that had also pursued her. She could not deny that the roguish charm of the guild’s ambassador had something to do with it. He exuded an innocent, almost childlike quality that warmed what was left of her heart.

It only took a few moments. The hearthstone glowed fiercely, and she was gone.

* * *

Strellabelle wasn’t sure of the Dark Lady’s plans, but she had been told by higher ranking members of the Clan to stay by the monastery and await further instructions.

She followed the orders without question and hoped that Hyzanthlay would eventually learn to do the same. However, she did harbor some misgivings about who she would be meeting here. She remembered that young warrior that they had met in the Sepulchre, and how carelessly Hyzanthlay had tossed her a number of valuable healing potions of her own volition.

The undead warlock scowled. Such insolence! And then running off to Darkshire with barely a word! Fraternizing with old friends, familiar surroundings or even more dire, former family members, was dangerous.

On one hand, raids and skirmishes that took place In Darkshire and even Elwynn could be very effective. The mere sight of a single Forsaken riding freely down the main road would strike terror in the heart of almost any human. Tearing the Alliance down from the inside, attacking their hearts and their spirits. To show any vulnerability, however, was a mistake. The Undead must always exude an air of cruelty, apathy, and unwavering obedience.

It was the Clan of the Fallen that had pointed out the suspicious trips a certain Priest had been making into Alliance territory. It had also been their suggestion that Hyzanthlay be sent to confirm their suspicions. If Sorena had agreed to join them instead, perhaps the Clan would have looked the other way. A priest who could wield the Holy Light! Such a talent would have to be studied and exploited, for exclusive use of the Clan, of course.

Instead, she fell in with that Druid, another face she remembered from the Sepulcher. The darkness in her face deepened. They had formed a guild and were still in Booty Bay, a likely place for an upstart guild of vagrants and freaks. It was also a shame that this Eucalypto had ignored her requests. He barely even showed his face in Undercity. Apparently he had some connection to the cockroach vendor but, being a rogue of exceptional quality, he kept his secrets well.

The sources the Clan had at their disposal were keeping an eye on the new guild, and so far they had nothing incriminating to report. The easiest way to usurp a guild’s coveted membership was to tear it apart. The Clan had done it before.

Some angry yelling and a series of awkward crashes and thuds interrupted Strellabelle`s train of thought. From her vantage point, she saw a Tauren running across the grass and recognized the warrior from the Sepulcher. The humans in pursuit had already turned back. The wilderness in this part of Tirisfal Glades was too dangerous.

I should have known, she grumbled inwardly, and sent her minion to attract her attention. Unilke Hyzanthlay, Strellabelle preferred to let her demons do most of the work. And she had to admit, the look on the average Tauren’s face when suddenly faced with a large voidwalker was quite comical.

This particular Tauren disappointed her, however. Apparently she had already seen a number of demons, perhaps thanks to befriending Hyzanthlay, and did not react with any sort of surprise or consternation. She looked past the voidwalker to find the warlock who must have been hiding somewhere behind it. In fact, she barely even took note of the thing.

“They’re gone,” the undead female appeared from the undergrowth. “They find strength in numbers but all humans are cowards at heart. They won’t follow you. Are you ready to enter the Monastary? That’s some fine armor. Where did you get it?”

Tiponi was expecting to meet Hyzanthlay here, and was taken aback by this undead stranger who seemed to know her. The voidwalker continued scowling at nothing in particular and offered no explanation. Tiponi had grown rather tired of the games the undead played after the time she had spent in Undercity.

“Who are you?” She asked, putting her hand suggestively on her weapon. “Did Hyzanthlay send you?”

“We have met, but you would not remember,” the undead replied with a mocking bow. “I am Strellabelle. I was with Hyzanthlay in Shadowfang Keep. You are the Tauren that was wounded in the Sepulcher. She gave you some potions.”

As the warlock spoke this last part, her voice seemed to grate more than usual, in an almost threatening way. Tiponi did not respond to this. One thing she had learned about the undead; most of their more annoying habits were designed to provoke a reaction, as if they were forsaken children.

“I was happy to have her help,” Tiponi decided to give this Strellabelle a dig of her own. “Is she so highly skilled that she doesn’t need a demon?”

Of course, Tiponi knew better. But the way Strellabelle`s face twisted angrily when she said so that playing the naive cow was worth it.

“Hyzanthlay prefers the cruder of the disciplines, Destruction,” Strellabelle sneered with disdain. “Messy and simple, but effective. The Clan is happy enough with it. We need our share of vicious killers, after all.”

Tiponi did not reply, but continued to stare fixedly at the warlock. She repressed the urge to glare at the voidwalker, who would have been breathing down her neck if it had breath.

“I’m surprised she hasn’t demonstrated her abilities on you yet,” Strellabelle hissed, looking over the Tauren warrior with a casual indifference. “She really is a heartless creature. I can’t imagine her caring at all for an…ahem…cow. She made a joke about steak while you were lying there, senseless.”

“Are we going to the Monastary, or not?” Tiponi was troubled by what she had been told but was careful not to show it.

“Hyzanthlay will arrive directly,” Strellabelle hissed. “I have been told she will bring a healer. We will wait out of sight. There’s a small cemetery and a gallows close to the entrance. Even your bulky frame will stay hidden.”

Without waiting for a reply, Strellabelle turned and stomped into the undergrowth. The Tauren and Voidwalker followed in silence.

***
Hyzanthlay glumly made her way to the Royal Quarter. She stomped down the stairs and marched past her usual haunts; the bank, the Apothecareum, that spot on the mossy bridge where she usually went fishing.

Focus on the Monastery, she thought fiercely, and think of all that bright blood you’ll be able to spill.

Yes, all those sweet Crusader guts squishing under her heavy step…she smiled and licked her lips. Something else drew her there, the same morbid curiosity that had driven her to Duskwood. She did not ask herself what it was, in a way she was not even able to. As an undead warlock, she could only think of the most immediate and visceral. She had not killed humans in a while, and Crusaders were especially succulent.

It was the way they first looked at her, with disdain and disgust. She loved to watch that look turn to fear and horror, then the grim resignation of their fate. Some tried to run. Those were the ones that initially approached her with the most confidence. Those were her favorites.

The passage that led to the Queen’s chamber seemed longer than usual. She ignored the guards that saluted her as she reached the end of the passage. The dreadlord Varimathras filled her field of vision, blocking out anything else as she slowly mounted the steps that led to the throne.

“Kneel,” he sneered at her, his voice thick with a heavy darkness.

Hyzanthlay managed to hold in a defiant look and slowly descended to one knee.

“Lower,” he rumbled.

A barely perceptible hiss slipped through Hyzanthlay’s teeth as she put both knees on the ground and touched her forehead to the floor.

“Lower,” Varimathras rumbled, and laughed loudly when she finally looked up at him defiantly.

Sylvanas let Varimathras finish, then beckoned to the warlock.

“Rise and report,” she said, her eyes glowing with a white light that Hyzanthlay now associated with night elves. “You successfully tracked the priest, did you not?”

“I did as you command, my Queen,” Hyzanthlay now stood up but remained bent at the waist, her head lowered. “It was not difficult, as she made little effort to conceal her movements.

She visited a small farm, of little consequence, and possibly abandoned. Foraging for supplies and frightening the odd human. I have nothing further to report.”
There was a strange, heavy silence that filled the chamber. Varimathras twitched his leathery wings but said nothing.

“Are you certain, Warlock, that you have no further information?” Sylvanas spoke in a cold, angry voice.

“I have nothing further to report,” Hyzanthlay repeated in the same cold, dead voice that Sylvanas had used, but she raised her glowing orbs in defiance as she did so.

“Very well,” Sylvanas said heavily. “And now, we will hear another report. Are you so arrogant to think you were not followed as well?”

She let this hang in the air for a moment. The warlock remained unmoved.

“Sorena,” the Dark Lady nodded towards a dark corner of the room, “approach the throne and give your report.”

Well, that makes sense, Hyzanthlay thought. And now priest, we’ll find out what kind of undead you are.

“My Lady,” Sorena curtsied gracefully, and remained on one knee. “I followed the Warlock as you commanded. She is drawn by the herbs and raiding that the dark woods have to offer. You would be proud, my Queen, to see the havoc she has wrought upon our enemies. They flee before her horrible visage. I have nothing more to report.”

Impressive, Hyzanthlay thought, holding back a toothy smile. Perhaps, priest, you and I do have something in common.

Varimathras nodded in approval. The Dark Lady hesitated a moment before continuing.

“Then continue to strike fear into the hearts of even our most zealous enemies,” she said, her voice reaching a powerful crescendo. “To the Monastery, Hyzanthlay, and Sorena will aid you as you raze it to the ground! Now GO!”

Hyzanthlay and Sorena bowed low, and walked from the inner sanctum of the royal quarter side by side. The only exchanged the occasional suspicious look until they reached the gooey green moat that snaked through the four quarters of Undercity.

“I’m riding out through the sewers,” Hyzanthlay wanted to get out of Undercity as soon as possible. “Do you need to stop at the bank, or get repairs?”

“I do,” Sorena said, her voice strangely calm and clear compared to Hyzanthlay’s grating rasp. “A few parts and bolts and I can do some worthy damage, even if I am busy healing. How many others do we have?”

Another small detail was that they needed someone who wore plate to lead them through the Monastery, and from what she gathered from Tiponi it would not be her. She would be worthy with her weapon but her destiny seemed to be taking a different path.

“We need a warrior, or a druid,” she answered, following Sorena to the engineering trainer. “You know Rik, don’t you? I’ve seen him in his bear form. Can he come with us?”

“I sent a cable to Eucalypto in Grom Gol,” Sorena answered. “He would have answered by now.”

“I’ll meet you by the back entrance,” Hyzanthlay didn’t look at Sorena as she veered off to see the Herbalist. A visit to the Apothecaruem would also be in order.

They separated without another word. Both had many questions, but these walls had ears.

* * *

Tiponi lounged across the earth and rock like a rich human would lounge on pillows. She was disturbed by the manner of this Strellabelle and retaliated with exaggerated self-assurance. This warlock seemed to be looking for a fight, and easy to provoke. She irritated Tiponi’s nerves, as she paced beside her demon in impatience. Tiponi embellished a slow yawn in mockery, and went back to preparing her supplies. It would not be long now, she had said. Tiponi finished sharpening her dagger and returned it to its snug sheath at her waist.

As she stretched out a roll of linen before her to make a few bandages, she studied her newest companion. Her big blue demon did not stray far from its mistress’s side.

It was strange, she mused, it hadn’t been so long ago that she would have been afraid of the demon, and angry at its very existence. An “affront to the Earthmother”, an “unnatural abomination” she would have called it. She now barely even noticed the thing. Perhaps that realization should have disturbed her, but it didn’t. She began to tear strips of linen from the cloth, smiling at Strellabelle while she did so. The warlock glanced her way and rolled her eyes, and Tiponi grinned more broadly.

It would not be long now, she thought. Finally the wait was over, and it would all be worth it. Soon, very soon she would be in the Scarlet Monastery, surrounded by pathetic humans. They would attack her, confident in their impending victory, and oh! How she would surprise them. She could hardly wait to see the moment of realization in their eyes. They would laugh at her, and then they would slowly begin to comprehend their impending demise. They would learn fear and pain. When she looked into their eyes and saw death in them, she would laugh. She let out a stifled giggle, and remembered where she was. The warlock was looking at her curiously now and Tiponi glared at her in return.

She quickly returned to her work. What was she thinking about again? Oh yes. She would join her friends in honorable combat. Soon everything would be alright.

***

What Hyzanthlay had referred to as a “back door” was really a rough tunnel that was once the ventilation shaft for the Lordaeron capital city sewers. It was mostly unguarded, as if the Forsaken were daring anyone with the courage or foolishness to try and enter it.

Many had tried, and few had returned to tell what they had seen.

Sorena had received word from Eucalypto. They had a Druid. Not Rik, however. Hyzanthlay was not surprised, as she had usually seen him healing.

They rode in silence along the misty road, Hyzanthlay constantly checking her mount so as not to leave Sorena behind. They came to a halt where the road to the Monastery began. Hyzanthlay took a moment to stare longingly at the Bulwark, barely visible above the misty haze in the east.

“What are you looking for?” Sorena’s voice, still unnaturally smooth for an undead, slipped through her thoughts. “What do you expect that little dog to dig up?”

She was not asking about what she was staring at, but what she was doing wandering around in Duskwood.

“I have no memory of my life before I rose as an undead,” Hyzanthlay answered flatly, her voice grating. “I know I died in Andorhol, most likely in the siege. That dog and her cowardly master seem to know me. But I expect they will tell me nothing. It seems my only recourse is to ride east, to what is left of Andorhol, and see for myself.”

“And the gnomes?” Sorena asked. “If the dog would not damn you, that surely will. You must know they will use the herbs against us.”

Hyzanthlay cackled, as if this thought was actually rather pleasing.

“Any business I do in Elwynn is my own, as is the gold I collect. Any legitimate dealings within the Horde, and Clan would know of, and take a share of the profits. What do I care if the Forsaken fall from my firebloom? The shallow grave is still full, and do we not possess the same powers in death as the Scourge?”

Sorena smiled gently and nodded in agreement. Now it was Hyzanthlay’s turn. She regarded the Priest for a moment, taking note of her rather small stature, which was another contrast to her own. Hyzanthlay was not much taller, but had broader shoulders, and many of her still ropy muscles were clearly visible though her grey, papery skin.

They slowly passed by the Hanging Tree, where the Scarlet Crusade had strung up a number of their enemies as a warning to the others. The bodies, or what was left of them, drifted helplessly on the breeze.

“How is it possible, Priest, that you can touch the Holy Light, and not burn?”

Sorena hesitated a moment before answering, regarding the twisting bodies that dangled from the tree with regret, perhaps even longing.

“My memories of my life are very clear,” she said softly. “The child you saw me with by the farmhouse is my son. In the months before he was born, I was commissioned by the Alliance to use my engineering skills for the war. I was rather frail to begin with, and the work took a toll on me. The birth was a difficult one, but I was stubborn, and held on for a few days. Long enough to hold him and even nurse him, even if it was only once or twice.”

She fell silent. Hyzanthlay felt a strange, bitter taste in her mouth, and longed to cleanse it with fresh blood. That would have to wait; instead she distracted them both with a follow-up question.

“So…because you had a child, you can use the Holy Light?”

“Not exactly,” Sorena said, casting her eyes away from the Tree and to the warlock at her side. Her voice softened to a whisper. “When I hold my son, and think of the joy that I felt…dreams like any other mother.”

She stopped and turned away. The scowl on Hyzanthlay’s face had deepened. At the word “joy”, she had made an awful, guttural noise and spat on the ground.

“We should stay quiet from here,” the Warlock said gruffly. “There will be sentries soon. Will Rik be joining us?”

Sorena rode cautiously behind her companion, who was spurring her mount on and licking her lips hungrily.

“Rik is more of a healer these days, as the new guild has need of one. There is another Druid, one who is well-versed in the Bear aspect. We can wait for him…”

“He will come when I am ready,” Hyzanthlay hissed, and spurred her mount on.

***

Magnus took a moment to rest. Leaning against the haft of his hoe he straightened as best he could- no mean feat for a forsaken, who in life had spent his years stooped over plow and mattock. Old bones and weary joints protested as he eased his spine, wiping sweat (he hoped it was sweat) from his brow with the back of a slightly greenish hand. It wasn’t a particularly warm day, in fact a slight drizzle was just beginning to fall, but he had been working the soil for most of the morning and soon he was surrounded by an off-smelling nimbus of steam.

His family had tilled this patch for generations, back when there were generations. Pumpkins needed tending, and dark lady or no, he was not going to squander his second lease of life away when the only thing he ever knew remained more or less as it was. The soil was nearly barren, and occasionally reeked of disease like a necrotic limb, but the pumpkins still grew and that was near enough for him. Magnus liked pumpkins, they reminded him of himself. A hardy crop, they could survive almost anything.

Weather any storm, thaw when the ground freezes and they seemed (relatively) unharmed by the plague. Other seeds would wither and shrivel in that earth, but the hardy vines of pumpkins did well enough. Hoeing this patch gave him the one reason to exist in a time of war and despair.

From the south came the sound of hooves on stone. Magnus turned to look and strained his vision. His eyes weren’t as good as they were, he wasn’t even sure if they were his at all. After a moment a party of 5 came into view, three forsaken astride skeletal steeds and alongside strode two tauren. They headed east with intent in their eyes and proud smiles on their lips; those that had lips. They were armed and all looked eager for adventure.

Fools.

Everyone knew what lay that way. The scarlet did not take kindly to those with the dark lady’s blessing, nor those who entreat with them. A lot of fool nonsense and trouble is what they would find to the east. Magnus was not a one for violence; he was a poor, simple farmer. Even the bandits stopped raiding when they realized all their booty consisted of pumpkins.

Violence and tomfoolery.

Feh.

Magnus shook his head and turned back to the hoe. Driving the wide blade into the earth, tilling the soil, sweating in the fine Tirisfal drizzle. No adventures. No magic. No fool Scarlet to take his head. A man knew what to expect from pumpkins.

Hyzanthlay had never gone looking for the dog. It always seemed to find her as long as she was fairly close to Darkshire.

The first time she had seen her without her master, she had been gathering herbs near the small city, just like she was doing tonight. The dog had quietly walked up to her, sniffing carefully. Upon seeing her, Hyzanthlay had carefully drawn her sword, moving slowly so as not to spook the creature.

Slaying this dog would be a boon to any undead that travelled through Duskwood. Her orbs flickered around, quickly and thoroughly taking in her surroundings. It seemed odd that Torch Boy was nowhere to be seen.

The dog looked up at her with large, dark eyes, which strangely enough, seemed to dance for joy as she approached. Its tail wagged in frenzied happiness. Poor foolish creature, the warlock thought. I’ll make it clean and quiet. It was rather a pity that animals never tasted quite like humans.

Suddenly, the dog spun in a happy circle, lept to the side, scampered to the base of a nearby tree, and starting digging fiercely among the tangled roots. Hyzanthlay was still holding her sword firmly, ready to strike at anytime, but her curiosity got the better of her and she hesitated.

The dog stopped digging, poked her snout into the shallow hole she had dug, and took a few short sniffs as if to confirm the find. Then she sat back on her haunches, ears forward, eying the warlock with enthusiastic confidence.

Still brandishing her sword in case the dog decided to set off an alarm after all, Hyzanthlay slowly knelt next to the dirt and examined the find. It was Earthroot; not rare or valuable but fairly useful. And there seemed to be something else as well. No, it couldn’t be!

Ghost mushrooms!

Hyzanthlay was amazed. Such a rare thing, and to find them here! She had last seen them in the caves of Mauradon, when she had helped a party of Trolls and Tauren take revenge on a centaur stronghold. One of the trolls had mentioned there were some in the Hinterlands as well, far to the north, in a place that she herself had not yet ventured. The animal had proven her usefulness, and so far there had been no followers and no alarm. She smiled, and sheathed her sword.

“Good dog,” she rasped, and reached out to touch the dog’s head. The little creature’s tail wagged happily, and when the warlock rose up, she fell in step immediately.

***

Eucalypto was checking his mail frequently these days. Guild recruitment was keeping him busy. On this particular early morning he had a pile of mail in front of him at the breakfast table. Both he and Rik were shifting through it. One rather fat envelope caught Rik’s attention. It was from the priest. Rik had not met her yet, but Eucalypto was quite taken with her. An accomplished engineer, apparently.

“Shadow, I assume,” Rik said in a bland voice. He had yet to meet an undead priest who focused exclusively on healing. It was naturally difficult for the Undead to dabble in the Light.

“We need more healers, Euc.”

“She does heal,” Euc replied, pretending not to notice Rik raise one of his furry eyebrows. He didn’t have time for a follow-up question, as the chunky little envelope suddenly made a funny noise.

Rik sniffed it, and tilted his head back in surprise when it made the noise again. Eucalypto laughed, then reached forward and opened the envelope.

A small machine fell out. The way it buzzed and flashed reminded him of something a gnome would design.

“Ah, what they can’t build these days,” Eucalypto said. “Here, let me show you how this works.”

Rik watched with rapt curiosity as Eucalypto touched one of the flashing buttons. The annoying noise stopped repeating, and when he held it up to his face and started to speak into it, the Druid realized it was some kind of communication device.

“Greetings, my dear! How good it is to…” Eucalypto’s voice turned from cheerful to dour.

“Oh, well that is a shame. Yes. I’m afraid so.”

There was a tense pause. Eucalypto’s orbs flickered.

“Focus, Sorena. It’s still a bit dark. You can make it if you stay on the rooftops. Now, stop wasting time talking to me.”

Eucalypto pressed another button and put the device down. Rik waited for an explanation but the rogue didn’t offer one. His cheerful mood had become nervous and unhappy.
*       *       *
“I think we should get off the road.”

One of the gnomes was getting nervous. The wind whistled menacingly along the cobblestones, sending a whirlwind of leaves into their faces.

His three companions ignored him. They had found some succulent fungi and were distracted from their jittery companion. But he could hear unmistakable hoofbeats approaching him, and the thought of a felsteed galloping towards them got the better of his nerve.

“Get off the road!” He exclaimed, jumping behind a nearby tree. “Quick!”

His friends finally took the hint, and scrambled into hiding with him, still whispering to each other about the succulents that they had found. What finally hushed them was the fiery snort of a warlock mount, and the unmistakable hiss of an undead’s raspy breath.

She stopped by the tree, and it almost sounded like she was sniffing the air. Then she dismissed her beast, and reached past the tree. The gnomes froze, thinking that she would grab one of them. Of course she was going to snatch one and eat them as a snack! They never should have trusted that gunfighter from Tanaris!

They all exhaled with relief when she reached past them and ripped a few fragrant herbs from the ground. She turned her head, revealing a grey and yellow scarred face, and grinned at them wickedly.

“‘You…you’re the Warlock?” One of them asked, cautiously standing up.

The undead female put the herbs away in her pack and bowed in acknowledgment. Then she reached into another, much larger pack and produced three large bags. She threw two of them on the ground, and the third she set down with considerable more care.

“Kingsblood, of course,” one of the gnomes said, examining the first bag. “It’s more than decent as far as quality goes, anyway. Shouldn’t be tough to move.”

“Dreamfoil!” The second gnome exclaimed. “And Steelbloom! This stuff is tough to come by!”

“This is what we were waiting for,” the first gnome said, carefully examining the third bag. “Firebloom, and still highly volatile.”

“Firebloom!” One of them hissed, than lowered his voice, “our engineers are going to have a field day with this!”

He was quickly shushed by his companions, one of which was already counting out a sizable amount of gold for their unwelcome guest. He handed it to the undead warlock and backed away slowly. She held the bag of coin in the palm of her hand, savoring its weight, her smile widening to show rows of pointed teeth.

Without a reply, she summoned her felsteed back. The gnomes (at least the ones that weren’t distracted by the bags she had left) slowly backed away. She didn’t return to the road, but instead drove her flaming mount into dark woods.

***

At seven feet tall, Lafti was actually an average height for a Night Elf. It was the stark, ropey muscles, bodily scars, filed teeth and tattoos that made the humans in Stormwind raise their eyebrows when she strode past. She wore an imposing double bladed axe that looked more like it was made for an orc. In truth, it had been; she had pried it from his cold, dead hands in Warsong Gulch and taken it for her own after defeating him.

Her companion, Zephe, was a hunter who had not suffered the same ritualistic body scars that mark the militaristic Sentinels. With her tight leather clothing and smooth purple skin, she was more of a stereotypical night elf and drew attention for different reasons.

On this early morning, she let Lafti lead their way. They would need the element of fear for the hunt they were on in this dark hour.

The area in question was in a dark corner of Stormwind’s Trade District. The humans, in their usual arrogance, were notoriously lazy about keeping vigil in their own city. True, Stormwind was well supplied and guarded, surrounded by thick walls and populated by any number of elite heroes all day, every day. The flagship city of the Alliance deserved no less. A Night Elf knew how quickly such fortunes could turn, however, especially one like Lafti. Behind her cold grey eyes was a memory of the Sundering, a great cataclysm almost ten thousand years old.

The relatively new enemies represented by the minions of the undead (both Scourge and the Forsaken), had been targeted by the Darnassian priests and druids as worthy of the Sentinels’ attention. Lafti lived to hunt and slay anything that threatened the already ancient and venerated Night Elf civilization.

Lafti had grown tired of slaughtering trolls and orcs in the misty northern forests, and taking her fearlessness and vicious countenance into consideration, she had been sent the Eastern Kingdoms to face the undead. And what better companion than a hunter, who could detect an undead within a few miles and could kill a blackfly with a single shot from a hundred feet away?

“She is here,” Zephe whispered, as they neared the ramshackle house. Apparently, the city’s security had been breached, and a Forsaken spy was hiding in a dank little room by the wall.  No doubt a rogue, or one that had been helped by a rogue.

Lafti nodded, having no doubt that her friend was correct. The Stormwind guard had already been notified, including SI-7. A few guards were waiting outside. Their captain approached Lafti and Zephe as they walked towards him. He puffed out his chest in a way that suggested he was about to tell the imposing Sentinel something she didn’t want to hear.

“We’re taking care of it,” he said, proudly and stupidly. “I’ve sent my best men in already.”

Zephe raised an eyebrow and shook her head. Lafti narrowed her eyes, which had begun to glow fiercely.

“You were given very specific instructions, Captain.” Lafti spoke Common with dull, flat tone that grated on the ears of most humans. “The orders were for your own protection.”

The Captain replied to this with a mocking snort.

“I think we can handle one little dead girl,” he said.

Lafti seemed to ignore this. She turned to Zephe and said something quietly in Darnassian. The hunter nodded calmly and started to prepare her bow. Lafti walked towards the dark doorway, past the Captain as if he wasn’t even there.

“I said, I’ve sent my best men in already,” he said in an annoyed voice. “They’re bringing her down now.”

“No, Captain,” the Sentinal replied without looking back, “your men are already dead.”

***

Sorena had ridden through the dark night. From the little farmhouse by the cemetery she had driven her skeletal mount north, across the river, taking a cautious sweep past the sleeping city of Goldshire, then to the secret place on the wall that she and Eucalypto had prepared. The sloping, rocky hills were not well guarded, as it was mistakenly believed that they made the thick walls even more secure. Most of the Stormwind guard were prepared for an open assault with larger numbers. One or two covert spies did get in from time to time, usually stealthy rogues.

Or, in this case, an ingenious priest.

She was working on a map of the city at the time, piecing it together with clues she and Eucalypto had gathered. They were trying to formulate a plan that involved setting communication devices in certain opportune places to plan raids and counter-attacks.

Then she heard the heavy clump of metal boots on the hollow stairway, and realized that their hideout had been discovered.

She barely had time to turn around before the door burst open, and she was faced with several armed guards. Two already had their crossbows trained on her. Two others had their swords drawn. The fifth had a thick pair of manacles ready.

Sorena spoke a horrible word. The two guards with crossbows screamed in uncontrollable horror as they turned and fired their weapons on each other. In the second that it took for them to fall in a crumpled heap on the ground, Sorena had turned to face the unfortunate guard who had been holding the manacles.

She broke his arm, and then cast a devouring plague that sucked the life out of his body and threw him across the room, knocking one of the swordsmen down. The other was attacked by a malevolent, invisible force that seemed to leap from the upper corner of the room. Both stricken swordsman were afflicted by pain and disease, and neither got up from the floor.

It had taken Sorena only a few seconds to finish off five of Stormwind’s best men.

She did not run. There must be more outside waiting. She dismissed her shadow fiend, reached into her pack, and pulled out a device that Rik would have recognized. It also had flashing buttons and lights. She pressed a button and waited for a moment before hearing Eucalypto`s voice.

“We’ve been discovered,” she said shortly. “Perhaps this line was traced.”

“A Sentinel.”

“I’ll have to hurry.”

She hung up the phone and stepped towards the door. When she looked into the corridor, she was able to discern a pair of angry, white eyes from the distant doorway. She did not stay long enough to see the flash of the Sentinel’s huge axe. The priest turned and ran, not looking back.

She could hear the heavy footsteps on the corridor, smell the old scars on her skin and the worn but still sharp edge of the massive axe.

The Sentinel could run unhindered by petty annoyances that would slow down a human. Darkness would not stop the night elf. Sorena also sensed her advanced age. A creature that had witnessed the apocalyptic Sundering would know little of fear.

The Sentinel that pursued her would be resistant to the magic that had destroyed the human guards. She would have to be quick.

And lucky.

A balcony at the end of the hallway gave her easy access to the roof. She and Eucalypto had arranged an escape route that would lead from the rooftops to the outer wall, then the rocky cliffs.

How far in advance had her pursuers anticipated her escape? If they had their cat mounts ready, she would not be able to outrun them.

This last thought made Sorena catch her breath and focus on escape. As she lept from the first rooftop to the second, a low whistle on the wind distracted her. A dull, searing pain in her side followed. Of course, the Sentinel had not come alone. She had brought a hunter, and despite Sorena’s speed and agility she had not been able to dodge or even sense the approaching arrow. Even if she had, her shield would have to be saved for the jump from the cliff. She could not have used it against the soldiers either; it would not have recharged in time.

She was reluctant to reveal her knowledge of the Light to the Alliance, but had she not cast a simple healing spell on herself in that moment, she would have careened from the rooftop and into the arms of the Hunter and the Stormwind guard. Even then, the wound and the poison the arrow had carried slowed her pace. The Sentinel was close enough that Sorena heard her draw her breath in anger and surprise.

The priest could not look back. She jumped again and landed on another rooftop. Pain and fear did not affect her speed. The smell of the oiled metal of the axe filled her nostrils.

She felt the heavy steps of the Sentinel shift as she drew the weapon.

Sorena jumped, and the blade nicked her cloak. The weight of the swing shook the air. It could have easily sliced the frail undead creature in half. The next swing was sure to hit her.

The Sentinel was unwounded and determined. Her pace had quickened.

The priest lept again. The axe sailed through the air, this time a solid hit. But it never reached the Priest. It was deflected by a Divine Shield. However, this compromised Sorena’s ability to protect herself from the fall from the cliffs, and she was badly wounded as she landed on the grass by the other side of the wall.

The Sentinel could not make the same jump and didn’t have to. Even if it took a scant few seconds for the night elf to find another way down, Sorena would need a good head start to outrun the cats. For a moment, she wished she was a warlock. It was unlikely that there were any here, at least any that would help her.

***

Hyzanthlay had little use for the herbs that grew in Elwynn now. She gathered a few with the intention of donating them to the Clan as a means of appeasement, but did not plan to stay long. She was debating whether or not to use her hearthstone to return to Undercity and report, or ride south to Grom Gol and perhaps even visit Eucalypto in Booty Bay.

Then she heard the alarms from Stormwind. It seems some serious trouble was afoot, as the alarms from Goldshire also began to sound. Whatever was troubling the humans of Elwynn, it was on the move and trying to escape.

The Warlock was still near the road, but she also could hear and see much of what was in the dark woods. If it was running from Stormwind, it would likely cut north through the forest and head for Duskwood.

In a few moments, she was not surprised to see a skeletal horse lumbering through the underbrush, and the way that the rider was hunched over indicated that she had already been wounded.

It was Sorena, the priest she had been watching not two hours ago. She was riding hard, but the undead mounts of the Forsaken were known for their resilience and not their speed, and she would not be able to outrun the two nightsabers that were pursuing her. So involved was their pursuit, however, that they did not notice the Warlock`s glowing eyes nearby, glaring at them with utter contempt and disgust as they drew closer to their quarry.

Hyzanthlay waited for them to pass by before summoning her flaming demon mount. She would be able to catch them and overtake them easily, but she was more interested in an early breakfast. She had not tried night elf, and from the smell she suspected the taste would be equally putrid, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t going to try. Maybe a nice scorching would improve it.

***
It had only taken a few seconds for Lafti to find a safer place to climb down from the wall. They had anticipated that the priest would take this route. Zephe was already waiting, as were their two nightsabers. The beasts could smell the thrill of the hunt on their mistresses, and ran as swiftly and silently as shadows over the dark grass.

The night elves did not need to speak. Zephe knew her shot had hit sailed straight and true, and from the determined but content look on Lafti’s face it was clear the priest was injured and near capture. Zephe knew she was close, heading east, and their mounts were faster. With any luck, they would be able to catch her before she even crossed the river.

The undead horse let off a luminous glow that bobbed and weaved through the trees. Lafti spurred her mount on ahead. Zephe fell back, drawing her bow, and prepared for another shot.

Lafti drew her axe and prepared to strike the priest. She would knock her from her mount, perhaps try to keep her alive for a few minutes. Communication would be difficult, but they might be able to get something out of her before hacking her up.

She would also have to be careful not to damage any of her belongings. An undead priest that was a master of the Holy Light, or so their sources had claimed. Some form of evidence or proof was required.

Using the weapon’s massive weight, she leaned back and prepared to swing forward and leap from her mount. The priest turned for a moment and looked at her, and Lafti was actually shaken by the resigned yet defiant look on her grey face. She bit her lip and swung.

A scream shattered the air and shook Lafti’s normally firm grip. The axe glanced off the Priest’s shoulder, knocking her from her mount but not mortally wounding her. She turned her nightsaber and watched with surprised horror as Zephe’s mount bolted past her, riderless.

A great swath of fire was stretched across the grass where they had just ran, and a hapless figure, covered in flames, came blundering out of it. It was Zephe, writhing in the grip of Immolate and consumed by Fear.

Then the great demon, snorting fire and pawing flame, appeared through the curtain of smoke and ash. The undead Warlock snarled proudly at the chaos it had created, its eyes filled with joyful fire.

Lafti gagged with anger, and forgot the priest. The air was still filled with Zephe`s screams. Flames began to lick at the limbs of the trees and the wind carried the small burning tongues over the dry grass.

The Warlock dismissed her mount and faced the Sentinel, who raised her axe and charged. Her world had shrunk, from the trees of Darnassus and the walls of Stormwind, to this single rotting Warlock’s neck. Where she had come from didn’t matter. All that mattered now was her messy demise.

She jumped and roared her challenge, and the warlock returned it by speaking a horrible word. The Fear spell did not miss, but withered and fell from the target, not strong enough to stop the enraged Sentinel.

The heavy axe swung, but like before on the wall, it bounced off its target. The force of the blow sent Lafti reeling through the dark space and hurled her into the burning undergrowth.

By the time she scrambled to her feet, both of the Forsaken were gone. She turned to Zephe, who was lying on the ground, her body still smoldering, her cheeks and eyes still swollen from the heat and pain. They were both calm, but also visibly excited. The thrill of the chase was still on them.

“She came upon us in the woods,” Zephe explained, as Lafti helped her up. “I only sensed her at the last moment.”

“One thing we do have,” Lafti said, retrieving her axe, “we have seen an undead priest use the Holy Light with no small amount of skill. And we know our informant is real.”

“Yes, he did mention a warlock.” Zephe took some potions and elixirs from her bag and consumed them. She offered them to her friend but the Sentinel refused. She was busy with their nightsabers, who had been thrown into a stubborn and agitated mood by the attack.

They did not speak again as they walked back to Stormwind, calming their mounts as they did so.

***

Hyzanthlay was tempted to take a bite out of that Hunter. She was pleasantly surprised to find that barbequed night elf smelled rather succulent. But that look in the Sentinel’s eyes made her think twice.

The priest’s bubble had saved her from a quick and clean decapitation, a certain death this time. Hyzanthlay was impressed that the priest had used the opportunity to save her with a Divine Shield instead of healing herself and running.

She followed the Priest at a safe distance for a while, more out of curiosity than anything else. She turned south after reaching Duskwood and continued to Stranglethorn Vale.

Hyzanthlay went no farther than the mysterious Twilight Grove. She was sure they were no longer being followed. The Sentinel had taken quite a fall, and her friend would eventually recover but had been badly burned. Their mounts had also been very spooked. Nightsabers were fast and fierce but skittish when surprised.

It was uncomfortably close to dawn, and Hyzanthlay had lost her taste for adventures. If she followed Sorena any further, it was possible she would be suspected of being an accomplice of one she was supposed to be following. All of these political intrigues made her feel even more hostile than usual. Hang Sylvanas, and the bloody Clan!

What she needed was a nice romp through a small human town to clear her head and cheer her up. Then she remembered the Scarlet Monastary. Oh, the sweet, fresh blood of Crusaders! It was just what she needed to clear her undead head.

Strellabelle was no doubt already waiting, as was the Tauren. But first, clear up this silliness with the Dark Lady.

She used her Hearthstone, and in a few scant moments she had returned to Undercity.

Hyzanthlay had felt rather drained upon reaching Undercity. She had hoped that a few hours of dabbling in the Apothecarium would rejuvenate her, but she found herself casting a fishing line over the old sewer instead.

The fishhook trembled violently, and Hyzanthlay sighed with boredom as she reeled on yet another moldy human skull. She sighed and threw it back. As she did, she noticed an Undercity guard who seemed to be on an urgent errand of some kind, and he was coming towards her.

“You are Hyzanthlay, the Warlock?” He asked in a crisp, professional tone that meant serious business.

“You know who I am,” she answered curtly. “What do you want?”

“The Lady Sylvanas has requested your presence,” he answered with a salute.

“I will come directly,” Hyzanthlay answered without looking up. She was wondering if she could make it to the zeppelin before they sent another messenger.

“You are to come with me immediately.” the guard answered. “The word of Sylvanas is law.”

Hyzanthlay groaned, and reeled in her empty fishhook. She should have known that trick wouldn´t work twice.

She glumly followed the messenger to the Royal Quarter, her ragged fishing hat pulled low over her eyes. Hopefully Strellabelle wouldn’t be here. She didn’t feel like “donating” the proceeds from her desert adventure to the Clan of the Fallen. She smiled to herself, thinking of how impressed Eucalypto would be when she told him about it.

She winced and twitched her nose with annoyance as they began to walk down the long corridor. She was very careful who she spoke to about it, but there was always had the faint stench of night elf hanging about the Royal Quarter. Of course, she wasn’t about to ask why. Residuals from an old failed raid, many said. But there were many that also quietly confessed that Sylvanas looked rather odd for someone who had died a High Elf.

The undead guards saluted her and their compatriot as they swept into the Royal Chamber. The guard fell to one knee before the Queen of the Undead, and Hyzanthlay, after a rather withering look from the Dreadlord, reluctantly did the same.

“I have brought you Hyzanthlay, of the Clan of the Fallen, my Queen,” the messenger said. Without waiting for a reply or even looking at her face, he slowly rose, saluted and backed away.

Hyzanthlay had winced when the messenger had introduced her using the guild name. If Strellabelle was not here, certainly another representative of the Clan would be. She stared fixedly at the floor, waiting stubbornly to be addressed.

“Hyzanthlay,” Sylvanas finally said. “You were from Andorhol, were you not?”

Hyzanthlay bit her lip. How did she know that? What else did she know?

“Yes, my Queen,” she replied, and added nothing else.

“It is my understanding that you lurk in Duskwood, even in Elwynn. Is this not true?”

You know damn well it’s true, Hyzanthlay wanted to spit. She had visited Duskwood frequently since her first encounter with man she had nicknamed “Torch Boy”. She had made a few forays into light and leafy Elwynn as well. What was the Queen wondering about? Her visits to the Apothecary tower, her business with those shady gnomes, or perhaps the partnership she had struck up with that scruffy little dog?

Instead she answered calmly;

“Indeed, it is, my most Esteemed Lady,” she answered, her glowing orbs practically burning the stones beneath her into embers.

There was a moment of tense silence. The Queen seemed to be thinking. Then she stepped forward, so the toe of her boot was just under Hyzanthlay’s forehead.

“Rise, Warlock,” she said. Hyzanthlay did so, and when they were at eye level she spoke again.

“Something in Duskwood troubles me,” she said in a cold voice.

The orbs of Sylvanas’ eyes were not the same as those of the other undead. They were not yellow but grey, almost blue, and her pupils were almost visible. It was almost as if she still had eyes.

“It must be dread indeed, to trouble your Ladyship,” Hyzanthlay smiled with mock politeness.

“Even my power is not absolute,” the Queen said severely. “There are traitors among us, Hyzanthlay. There is a priest you will seek out in Duskwood. Her name is Sorena. I am suspicious that she has been consorting with members of the Alliance, and that she may turn on us.”

Sylvanas turned away and walked back a few steps, as if pacing. Then she turned back and snarled,

“I have no time for games. Seek the priest, and report to me. If she is a traitor, she will discover a fate worse than undeath. Now, go!”

Hyzanthlay bowed low, and backed up a few steps before turning away. The Dreadlord laughed at her softly as she walked quickly out of the throne room. She avoided cutting her orbs at him as she scurried off. Even as powerful as she was, she did not have the might to face a Dreadlord.

At least not yet.

Her anger was also tempered by the sinking feeling that the warning Sylvanas had issued regarding traitors was really meant for her, not this ‘Sorena.’

AZEROTH POST

Eucalypto;

I have been sent on an errand by none other than the Dark Lady herself. Thankfully this pesky task won’t take me too far out of my way.

I am looking for an undead priest by the name of Sorena. If you have word of her, I will compensate you handsomely for it.

There is plenty more Kingsblood where this came from, and I have quite a few new ones for you to try as well. The Dreamfoil is exceptional.

Enjoy.
Hyzanthlay
***

AZEROTH POST
Hyzanthlay;

It is quite serendipitous that you have asked me about Sorena. I will explain this later. For now it will suffice to say that you will most likely find her in Duskwood. She lurks by a little farmhouse south of Darkshire, near the Rotting Orchard.

Thank you very kindly for the herbal remedies. I look forward to enjoying them, along with your esteemed company upon our next meeting.

Dinner and a show?

Yours in darkness,
Eucalypto

***
The journey south took a few days. Hyzanthlay had a lot to do and used the time to plan.

She decided to start with some fairly innocent herb gathering by Stonard in the Swamp of Sorrows. This was also an opportune place to check to see if there was word from Eucalypto as well. As it happened, there was.

She read his short note with interest. “Dinner and a show” for the two of them usually meant a short walk in Elwynn followed by a few freshly killed Stormwind guards and a moonlight picnic. She had been thinking to ask her friends at the tower about this Sorena, but the information that the rogue has sent her was adequate. She was glad to skip the independent-minded apothecaries for now, as a visit to them would have been suspicious and it was likely she was being followed.

Elwynn was unpleasant enough, but it was much worse in the daytime. She had an appointment that she didn’t intend to miss. As long as she didn’t have to spend too much time looking for Sorena, she could move east and arrive in time.

She found the farmhouse without any difficulty. Grave Moss was a rare herb and not used often, but when she did need it, there was always some here. A few mindless zombies and skeletons wandered among the shabby gravestones, but they never ventured outside the gate and were of little danger to anyone, even a blundering novice.

Occasionally one (usually a human, as the capital was nearby) would show up and use them as target practice, but tonight it was quiet.

Hyzanthlay waited nearby, but her vantage point high in a nearby tree saw to it that she was out of sight. She didn’t use her Eye of Kilrogg spell often, as she liked to catch her enemies up close. Not even a fellow undead was likely to notice the small, green orb that floated above the highest beam of the cottage roof. Lidless, unaffected by dark or shadow, it could see any movement anywhere near the dark little farm.

There was no light in the cottage windows, but the place was obviously not abandoned. A small herb and vegetable garden outside were well tended, and the creeping vines on the stone walls had been dutifully pruned.

Nothing to do now but wait.

In these idle moments, Hyzanthlay’s dark thoughts wandered. She deeply resented Sylvanas for turning her into a slinking spy. The Dark Lady must have known this was outside her usual realm of expertise. Had the undead Queen already decided on her guilt?

Any fool could have come here to follow this bloody priest. Perhaps this errand was really a set-up, and the real spies or assassins were simply waiting for her to show up. That did not displease her in the slightest. It would mean some real action instead of this silliness.

A high, clear note, almost like birdsong, cut through the gloomy night. No, it was not a bird, but it sounded like singing. A movement in the graveyard, clearly not one of the mindless zombies, shimmered and flowed over the ground.

In a moment, Hyzanthlay recognized the form of an undead female, and from her robes and the mace at her side, it was a priest.

Hello Sorena, Hyzanthlay thought.

Yes, she was singing, and slowly moving closer to the house as she did so. As she grew closer, Hyzanthlay could make out the words.

Way up high,
There’s a land that I heard of,
Once in a lullaby.

The green orb glowed faintly, taking the scene in. The priest drew closer to the cottage. Perhaps she was luring out the hapless victims within, to be murdered and eaten.

Hyzanthlay licked her lips in anticipation.

Someday I’ll wish upon a star,
And wake up where the clouds are far behind me.

She crossed the arched threshold and walked into the garden, where she stopped an knelt on the ground among the herbs and flowers.

The cottage door opened a crack. The green orb twitched and spun but remained invisible.

A small child, perhaps three years old, peered out into the garden. In one hand he clutched a ragged blanket, the other hand was clenched into a fist that he had jammed in his mouth. Even from her vantage point high in the tree, Hyzanthlay would have been able to see the whites of his huge eyes.

Where troubles melt like lemon drops,
Away above the chimney tops,
That’s where you’ll find me.

Sorena raised her head and opened her arms. The little boy toddled across the garden as fast as his stubby legs would carry him. He dropped his little blanket and fell into her embrace.

Interesting technique, thought the mind behind the green orb. Wouldn’t suit me, that’s for sure. What will she do now, eat him? Not much of a meal.

Sorena continued to sing softly, and the spy could no longer hear her. But she could see her carefully pick up the blanket, shake the dirt out, and wrap the drowsy child up. She then placed his sleeping body in a rocking chair by the house, which moved gently as she sang the last few notes.

Birds fly over the rainbow,
Why, then oh why, can’t I?

The last few notes made Hyzanthlay want to gag. She wasn’t sure what Sorena was doing, but it was making her extremely uncomfortable.

The Warlock decided she had seen enough. She reached out and made a fist with her hand and snuffed out the Eye like a candle. She quietly moved towards Darkshire, and decided to tell the Queen Bitch little or nothing of what she had seen. Maybe she would flat-out lie. She couldn’t explain it anyways, and didn’t care if the Dreadlord herself smacked her around.

Reducing her to hiding in treetops like a rogue…or worse…an elf!

She spat on the ground with contempt.

Tiponi closed her eyes and breathed deeply. The sun warmed her face and a cool breeze gently ruffled her mane. She sighed in absolute contentment. This was exactly the kind of thing she had imagined during her childhood daydreams. Here she was, exotic travelling companions by her side, on an airship sailing across the sky to an exciting unexplored wilderness. She could hardly contain her excitement. However, the airship operator had failed to mention exactly how long it took to sail across the entire continent, and as the days passed her excitement waned into sheer boredom.

At first she had been mesmerized by the miniature landscape passing by below her, but that had been quickly obscured by the clouds as the zeppelin soared higher. It had been an amazing sight, seeing the white clouds stretched out below like a fluffy blanket. She almost felt like she could reach out and grab them. But days and days of the same sight had dampened her enthusiasm, and now she longed to see something other than those billowy hills of white.

She had explored the airship from top to bottom, and had even been chased out of the engineering room by angry goblins. She admired the little creatures; usually they were fascinating and full of fun stories. These goblins, however, were very much fixated on their work. Her undead companions were better conversationalists, but they seemed to tire quickly of her questions. And that warlock. A demon summoner.

Tiponi frowned. She had respect for all creatures of Azeroth. Living or dead, animal or elemental, all were part of the Earthmother. She had created them, and when they finally drew their last breath they would return to her or watch on from the halls of their ancestors. But not demons. Demons were apart from the Earthmother. They had been brought to Azeroth by the Burning Legion. Corrupt evil creatures whose only purpose in existence was to destroy and conquer the works of the Earthmother. Tiponi growled in contempt.

In opposition to everything she valued, a demon stood on the opposite side of the deck. The beast was hideous. It stood in a revolting parody of a female, with accentuated breasts and thighs that were covered in jagged markings. Its attributes were easily recognizable, from the wicked curved horns on its head to its sharp barbed tail. It veritably reeked of wrongness, and yet Tiponi had to suffer its existence.

As if to laugh at Tiponi’s innermost thoughts the demon let out a giggling squeal and lashed itself with its whip. Tiponi turned away in disgust. She had distracted the warlock with this reaction, interrupting the conversation she’d been having with Eucalypto.

They had been speaking of the Undercity, and Tiponi had interjected.

“How was I supposed to know that?” she had asked, “It seemed ridiculous, who would pay that much for an insect?”

She glanced over at Eucalypto and cleared her throat, “Uh, that is to say…and the armor! They can’t really believe people walk around with that much gold on them. Oh Eucalypto that reminds me, I met this really crazy lady who…”

Tiponi had hissed with a sharp intake of breath.

“What is that abomination!?” An intangible mass of blobby blue stood beside Hyzanthlay where the demonic lady had once stood. Its only distinguishing features were its glowing eyes, devoid of emotion, and metallic bracers on its arm-like appendages. She had then tried to explain the significance of the Earthmother to the undead and why demons were by their nature, evil undesirable creatures that should be destroyed on sight.

It had not gone over very well.

Now she sat on one end of the air ship while the warlock remained on the other. She hadn’t meant to offend her. Forsaken were so hard to understand! She sighed. At least she was leaving the undead lands behind her. Perhaps the people of Stranglethorn would be more amiable. At least something good had come of this trip. She had made fast friends with a troll woman who acted as one of the ship’s guards.

Du’una cackled wildly at Tiponi’s latest question about the Darkspear Clan, and why they fought with other trolls.

“Well, because dey be our enemies. Ya know? Da different tribes be all at war. Like you and the Grimtotems. Da Skullsplitters hate us Darkspears, cos we be Horde now! Ha! They be scared of dat, ya know? But den dey always be hating on us anyway! Haha!!” The troll snorted wildly. Tiponi sat bemused by her extravagant hand gestures as she spoke.

“Dis troll in Stranglethorn you did speak of, I know of him. He be a powerful witchdoctor, strong mojo. You best be careful.”

She dropped a small ball crafted from tree rubber and, while it bounced, attempted to scoop up a handful of troll knucklebones. Tiponi had been disgusted at first, until the troll explained they had been a gift from her father. She had laughed loudly at that for some reason. It was a game Tiponi had come to enjoy, and it made a fine distraction from the monotonous clouds and that thing with the undead.

Tiponi struggled as well, although she was accurate and her reflexes deft, her fingers were simply too large and clumsy to pick up as many tiny bones as Du’una. Once she had nearly lost the rubber ball over the side, but the experienced troll had tied a small length of cord to the ball to prevent such an occurrence.

Tiponi laughed and clapped as the troll fumbled. She might be able to win this time! She concentrated, sticking her lolling tongue out the side of her mouth as she did so.
“I think I’m getting the hang of this!”

Meanwhile, Eucalypto was actually looking forward to an entertaining trip; he expected some tension between his two companions and wasn’t disappointed. After a slight tiff over a demon, Hyzanthlay and Tiponi avoided each other. The warlock retreated to the lower level to smoke from the balcony, and it was not long until Eucalypto joined her.

Tiponi continued her game of knucklebones until it grew dark, drawn by Du’una and her tales of trolls. She decided Hyzanthlay must have cooled down some and decided to rejoin them. They were relaxing on a small balcony that extended from the lower level. Some sort of discussion about politics. The way that Hyzanthlay was ranting, one could tell that she’d had a few. The succubus perched nearby, purring and fussing over her nails. The sun had set over the Great Sea to the west.

“..any doubt about them, just look at the human misery piled against the Greymane Wall. How any of them even survive the night is beyond me!”

“Our family didn’t know the Silverlaines very well,” Eucalypto quietly let a small detail of his former life slip away like the landscape of the Eastern Kingdoms beneath them. He was sitting on the edge, letting his feet dangle over the railing. A line of smoke trailed from the cigarette dangling from his mouth and wafted high over Menethil Harbor.

“As if the gate will ever open. Is there really so many there still?”

“If you don’t believe me, ask Phannuz,” Hyzanthlay raised her voice snapped her fingers. The succubus moaned sadly and faded away. In her place the voidwalker appeared. Eucalypto laughed. Tiponi did not understand the joke.

“As you command,” it said in a deep monotone, and Hyzanthlay could not help how her demon’s presence agitated the young warrior. She had called it an “abomination” earlier and Hyzanthlay had been tempted to remind her that those were the Undercity guards. This thing was actually called a Voidwalker.

“Tell us, Voidwalker,” she sneered, “you were there; what did you think of Silverpine Forest?”

The voidwalker did not have a mouth, but a metallic voice that seemed to come from behind its beady black eyes said,

“I…don’t like this place.”

The two undead collapsed into peals of inebriated laughter. Tiponi frowned.

“I’ve got one, I’ve got one,” Eucalypto leaned back, and as he spoke smoke seeped out of the numerous holes in his head, “Tell me Phannuz, what is your opinion of the delicious Devaite Fish?”

The voidwalker answered without hesitation, “Cannot…resist.”

They collapsed in laughter again, and Hyzanthlay dismissed her minion with a wave.
He muttered, “I go.” And vanished.

Tiponi shook her head and said, “I really don’t understand your humor at all. It’s like paying for a bug. Is that a joke?”

“Are you really so bothered by bugs and demons?” Hyzanthlay said. “When Jeremiah sets up a shop in Thunder Bluff, then you can cry about it. And Azeroth is filled with demons. Better get used to it. Euc?”

He didn’t turn around but simply handed her his lit cigarette, which Hyzanthlay used to fire up the unlit cigarette in her mouth. She placed it back between his fingers and took a long draw from her own. It had to be long, as she was short of breath these days. As she did Tiponi spoke;

“As I said, the Earthmother created all life on Azeroth, and to her and the ancestors they will return. But not demons. Demons are apart from the Earthmother.”

“Tiponi,” Hyzanthlay stared at her, “has it occurred to your Earthmother that Eucalypto and I would rather be pushing up some nice daisies somewhere?”

“I always wanted to be cremated and used for gardening, actually,” Eucalypto’s wide grin was lit up by his cigarette. His orbs glittered with mischief and the stars wheeled overhead. The smoke, combined with a generally relaxed atmosphere, had allowed him less formal speech.

“Ah well, to each his own,” Hyzanthlay said. “At least, that’s what I kept telling myself in Thunder Bluff.”

Tiponi looked at her in surprise. “You…you’ve been to Thunder Bluff?”

“Indeed I have, and I must say I was impressed by your people and the city they built on the mesas. But as for my journey, when I was but a ‘lockling,” Hyzanthlay began, and Eucalypto laughed and coughed, “I was given a staff by a superior with that odd sense of humor. And who is the master of the staff?”

Tiponi didn’t answer. She knew it was Ansekhwa, and where he resided.

“I knew better than to have my demon with me then. At least I knew better than to draw attention to myself in your city. Didn’t seem to make a difference to that warrior outside the master’s tent. Someone you know, no doubt. No, no, she would never have told me her name. Introduce herself? Not likely!”

Hyanthlay let out a loud, drunken burst of laughter before continuing. This startled Tiponi but she didn’t show it.

“Did they tell you to go wait in a cave in Undercity? Did they tell you to go crawl underground where they wouldn’t have to look at you? Perhaps you should visit the Pools of Vision and get a good look at the rotten freaks!”

At this last word, Hyzanthlay tottered to her feet and began to walk towards the stairs leading to the upper deck, muttering to herself.

“Protection from evil?” She snickered, as she stumbled out the stairs and let out a belch; “I AM evil!”

Eucalypto chuckled and waved. Tiponi stared after her swaying form as it disappeared up the stairs.

“I offended her,” Tiponi said sadly.

“Oh, I doubt that,” Eucalypto chuckled. “It is a difficult feat to offend an undead warlock. Hyzanthlay’s demons won’t be much of a bother to you. The beasts she calls from the nether are but mere trinkets to her eyes. Demonology is not her specialty.”

“What is?” Tiponi was almost afraid to ask.

“Destruction,” Eucalypto said, smiling proudly into the starry sky.

Hyzanthlay made it to the top step, and swayed for a moment with the movement of the airship. She stood on the landing for a moment, hiccupped, then sighed and moved towards the railing where a few hammocks were set up. She slowly eased down on one, yawned and stretched, then turned her orbs towards the open portal next to her.

The two troll watchers had been chatting rather loudly until she appeared; now they lowered their voices. Du’una nodded towards her, and then gave Umjin a suggestive shove. The troll reluctantly took a few steps towards the Warlock, who slowly turned and stared defiantly back at him.

“You…you got the good stuff,” he said, his head lowered, smiling. “You leave some for us watchers, yes?”

Hyzanthlay grinned viciously. Leave it to a troll to smell the Kingsblood, and ask for some sight unseen. It was not only a handy herb for alchemy but a classic troll favorite. Not only for smoking but also for tea and cooking; the herbalist in Orgrimmar had gotten a little excited talking about it.

“Indeed, friend,” Hyzanthlay wasn’t the least bit surprised. “But it was not easy to find, and it’s not cheap. My supply is limited, but for the right amount I’m sure…”
“We trade, and not for gold,” Umjin said carefully. “You want some information? That be valuable.”

“Go on,” Hyzanthlay nodded slowly and let her eyelids droop, hoping he would loosen his tongue if she seemed less likely to jump up and melt his face.

“Your friend, the Rogue. He be headin’ north?”

“Why do you think that?”

“It be Alliance territory. Old orchards, farms, small towns. Fun for an undead Rogue and Warlock. There be other things too.”

He paused and leaned closer.

“You be Hyzanthlay, the Warlock that killed Arugal. We hear of you.”

Hyzanthlay turned and glared at Umjin. She was already testy about the delay in attacking the monastery and there was nothing that the Scarlet Crusade wanted in Stranglethorn Vale.

“You know a place called Duskwood? There be undead there. A grove filled with dragons. And a city called Darkshire A small city, that has many…umm…”

He seemed to have forgotten the word in Orcish, and turned to Du’una with a helpless gesture.

“Refugees,” she said. “From the north, from the war.”

Hyzanthlay sat up and turned to look at both of the Trolls. Her round orbs were now shining brightly and she gave no further heed to the Troll’s discomfort.

“They say you don’t know, but that you have a mark.” Du’una touched her breast, close to her heart. “Maybe you be there that day the Scourge came.”

“Before I was a Watcher,” Umjin nodded and continued, “I cross the bridge, and brave the undead to sell the Kingsblood. There be one good customer, he know them all. From Andorhol. He was there, that day. And they say he know the Scarlet Crusade, too.”

“I understand,” Hyzanthlay said softly. “Very well Troll, your price is fair.
Darkshire, was it? And did this…human…have a name?”

“Sure, but he never tell me,” Umjin chuckled. “Nah, he be too smart for that. But he easy to find. He has a dog, about so big.” The Troll lowered his hand to knee-height. “This dog can sniff undead. She be famous for it. But you be clever, you can fool a dog. He have a scar too, on his face.”

Umjin drew his index finger down the side of his face, from his forehead, past his eye, to his chin.

“My thanks, Troll,” Hyzanthlay reached into her bag and pulled out a generous amount of the pungent plant. “Now leave me, and don’t speak to me again.”

Her orbs were flickering with a threatening light. Du’una hurried back to her post and Umjin backed away a few cautious steps before doing the same.

Undercity was a practical name for a horrifying place. For any living creature it was a nightmare come true, a city teeming with the living dead and ruled by the Banshee Queen Sylvanas Windrunner herself. Here the undead were free to surround themselves with anything their putrid and rotten hearts desired. This included everything in the undead index, from cockroach pets to exposed entrails.

Hyzanthlay arrived in Undercity via giant bat, and was immediately greeted by a page from the Dark Lady. She was relieved to find that Strellabelle had already delivered the report (along with the head), and that her presence in the Royal Quarter was not required immediately. However, Sylvanas herself had requested Hyzanthlay’s presence at a later, as-yet-to-be undisclosed time.

Freedom in Undercity was the best commendation Hyzanthlay could have wished for. The absence of windows, natural light or clocks reflected how little fatigue or time made to the denizens of the undead. Hyzanthlay freely walked along the candlelit corridors with her new demon, a svelte succubus. Heswena was more for show than anything else, smiling suggestively and dipping the ends of her fingers into her mouth as they strolled along. If the demon felt she wasn’t getting enough attention she would crack her whip above her head and moan loudly.

Her business at the bank and auction house concluded, Hyzanthlay decided to relax by casting a fishing line into the moat of green goo that circled the four quarters of Undercity. And here Eucalypto found her.

“My sincerest congratulations, dear Lady!” Eucalypto greeted her with the usual formality. “Such a shame I wasn’t there to see it myself!”

“You didn’t miss much.” Hyzanthlay snarled, peering at him from under the rim of her ratty fishing hat. Eucalypto’s orbs flickered past her however, to the tattooed thigh of the succubus.

“Oh,” he said, eyes flickering with mischief, “aren’t you going to introduce me to your…friend?”

“My what?” Hyzanthlay blinked. It took a moment for her to understand that he was referring to Heswena, since introducing a demon to anyone was just plain silly. This would be like introducing someone to your cooking stove. And it made Hyzanthlay intensely angry.

“And to just WHOM,” and as her jagged, yellow teeth snapped on the last syllable, she waved her hand and the succubus faded away with a sad little moan, “are you referring to as my friend? And you, rogue, Rik told me you got…lost…somewhere?” And she snickered viciously.

“Ahem, well,” the rogue smiled and raised a patchy eyebrow, “not all who wander are lost, as they say. Leather and steel is as good as gold these days, that is, if one can stand the smell of night elf.”

“True enough. You have been commissioned for some armour? A Tauren warrior turned up at the Sepulchre. If there was any doubt she needed new armour before, I assure you, she certainly does now.”

“Ah, Tiponi,” Eucalypto said. “I warned her about the road from Tarren Mill. Take the zeppelin, I said! Would it be inappropriate to refer to Tauren females as ‘bull-headed’?”

“No, just inaccurate. She will be detained; our common friend Rik asked me to pass on the message. Wailing Caverns, is it? Yes, I know the place, near the Crossroads. I find the Barrens disagreeable, but the fishing there is good.”

“Ah, yes,” Eucalypto smiled, “no doubt, you seek the deviate fish?”

“You know of it?”

“The Trolls are poor at keeping secrets. They also like to show off. But come, Hyzanthlay; there is a tavern in Brill and I would be honored to buy you some spirits, and hear your tales of Shadowfang Keep and Arugal!”

“Ask Rik,” Hyzanthlay reeled in a slimy old skull, and recast her line dismissively. “As I said, the mage was devoid of either power or will, and his defeat was hardly glorious. I have no more to say about it.

Do you not have any tales to tell, rogue?”

Eucalypto was quiet for a moment, but he was smiling gently.

“There are jungles to the far south; pirates, herbs, gems…and good hunting. And you will find no better fishing anywhere in Azeroth.”

Hyzanthlay nodded, focusing on her fishing line. The rogue continued.

“The hunting is the best sport. The best of all. And the best game…is Alliance.”

Hyzanthlay reeled in her line, put away her fishing pole and rose from her crouched position.

“Lead the way to Brill, rogue.”

“After you, My Lady.”

Undercity was too business-like to provide any meaningful repose, so undead looking to unwind found their way to Brill. Both Eucalypto and Hyzanthlay could still enjoy spirits and smoke, in spite of their state, and some storytelling.

Over a foaming tankard, Hyzanthlay described the more entertaining points of Shadowfang Keep. Mainly the time that she had been knocked down the stairs. And the battle with Fenrus. She said little to nothing of Arugal. She took to arranging her herbs on the tabletop and draining her tankard as Eucalypto told her about Wailing Caverns.

“It’s the night elves, of course,” Eucalypto explained, and Hyzanthlay nodded her head in mock surprise, gulping down her mead. He went on for a while about a druid named Naralex and his attempt to use the Emerald Dream to rejuvenate the Barrens. His dream had become a nightmare, and a mysterious taint had spread through the place.

“I was only there to skin dinosaurs, perhaps discover some nice gear that some unfortunate had dropped or some great beast had swallowed. And then this Tiponi turns up. Not by mistake, of course; she was there to assassinate the corrupted leaders of the Fang.

“It was partly your herbalism that drew her to me. I must thank you for the mageroyal; not only is it a fine smoke, but you were correct when you said it was commonly used among the Tauren. I was resting by a newly skinned corpse, puffing away, and it was this that drew her to me.

“I greeted her with the usual formality. Oh, snicker all you want, but she is still a proud lady, and a proper warrior none the less! And I am but a humble servant before such nobility, as you know. Of course my greeting surprised her. Such a shame that chivalry is dead. She was also surprised that an undead would be smoking anything, let alone her grandmother’s favorite blend. And what was an undead rogue doing so far from the Eastern Kingdoms? A young thing, but bright enough, and not the least bit repulsed by me.

“I agreed to help her find and kill the leaders of the Fang when I found out they were night elves. Yes, the smell of the place was difficult to endure. I’m grateful for the herbs, as they also masked the reek. Do you have…”

“I’ve put some things together for you.” Hyzanthlay enjoyed how her skills in herbalism never failed to draw Eucalypto’s interest. “The Liferoot is a little tricky to cure, so don’t hassle me about the wait.”

“Of course, my dear; as long as it’s no trouble.”

The sound of raised voices interrupted their conversation. The heated discussion seemed to be drawing closer. It was in Orcish, and seemed to involve a number of undead voices and one familiar Tauren. Eucalypto paused to raise an eyebrow, and then rose from his chair to limp quickly outside. Hyzanthlay waved at the barmaid to refill her mug and continued puttering with her smokables. The scene outside was considerably less tranquil.

“We have been directed to take you to the zeppelin,” the Deathguard said to the young Tauren warrior. “Until it arrives, you will stay where we can see you, or until Eucalypto appears and gives us an explanation for you.”

“There is no need for all this fuss!” She replied tersely. “I was perfectly within my rights when I told the cockroach vendor…”

“Jeremiah Payson has been selling cockroaches underneath the Undercity bank since the day the Dark Lady set foot in the Royal Quarter. That is well before any Tauren muddied our doorstep with their hoof prints!”

“Be lucky we agreed to escort you out of town,” the other Deathguard sneered. “Shall we carve you up instead, and sell the cuts to Stormwind for a few gold?”

Their cruel laughter was cut short. A figure had emerged from the inn nearby and reached them in a split second. The Deathguards didn’t even see him until he appeared before their eyes, hand raised.

“Enough, cur!” Eucalypto snarled and gave the nearest Deathguard a sound slap on his grey cheek. “What insolence! Is this how we treat guests?”

“Your ‘guest’ was harassing Jeremiah,” the Deathguard sounded defiant but he was cowering. The other was pouting and rubbing his sore face. “Accusing him of extorting foreigners!”

“And good for her, because he does.” Eucalypto spoke firmly and quietly. “Gold means little to us, those trapped in a never-ending cycle of undeath. Now, tell me gentlemen, how is a cockroach like a writing desk?”

This seemed to confuse to Deathguards, who wandered back the way that they had come muttering angrily. Eucalytpo turned to the Tauren warrior.

“Greetings, Tiponi,” and he bowed. “Forgive me; Undercity is not known for its hospitality.”

“Well, I should say not!” Tiponi shook her mane defiantly. “Can you imagine? So much silver to buy a bug for a pet?”

“A travesty indeed! Perhaps we should ask Richard what he thinks?”

Tiponi opened her mouth to say, Who? But the word never came out. Eucalypto tilted his head to one side, and a huge dark brown cockroach poked its head out from under his collar. It waved it’s feelers in Tiponi’s direction rather resentfully.

“This is Richard,” Eucalypto grinned wickedly and lifted the little creature off his shoulder. It clicked affectionately in his direction, “purchased from Jeremiah some time ago. They’re great survivors.”

Tiponi could not help but laugh quietly.

“Would you care to join Hyzanthlay and I for a drink while we wait for the zeppelin to Stranglethorn Vale?” Eucalpto carefully tucked Richard back into his collar.

“Indeed, Eucalypto,” Tiponi nodded with relief and saluted her companion before following him inside the inn.

The patrons took little notice of the foreigner who had to duck her head down a bit to keep her horns clear of the beams in the ceiling. Eucalypto’s companion was an undead female, and before her on the table were smile piles of herbs and an empty tankard, still frosty from the now absent contents.

“May I present my esteemed colleague, Hyzanthlay.” Eucalypto raised his voice so the whole tavern could hear him. “She is the accomplished warlock that recently stormed Shadowfang Keep and slew Arugal for the Horde!”

The few patrons roared with approval, and the barmaid provided Hyzanthlay with a brimming tankard on the house. If there had been any blood left in the warlock’s body, it would have been rushing to her cheeks.

“Pleased to meet you,” Tiponi carefully took her seat, as the bench was rather small for her. One undead warrior at another table nodded in her direction, clearly impressed by her size and apparent strength.

“We did meet, before,” Hyzanthlay’s command of Orcish was not as accomplished as Eucalypto’s and Tiponi had to listen carefully. “You were badly wounded, and Mura was tending to you in the Sepulcher. I do not expect you to remember.”

“I do remember the potions. My thanks for that. I see you are also a herbalist.” Tiponi took note of the various herbs on the table, and was distracted by what looked like a bit of Swiftthistle.

“This is difficult to find,” she said, “and very valuable among my people. Do you know its use?”

The warlock looked at her with a raised eyebrow and shook her head. Tiponi opened her mouth to continue but was interrupted by the low, long horn that was mounted on the zeppelin tower just outside. A scratchy goblin voice yelled,

“The zeppelin to Stranglethorn Vale has arrived! All aboooard for Stranglethorn! Vale!”

“We will have much to talk about during the trip, Tiponi,” Hyzanthlay quickly gathered up the herbs; some she had already rolled into small cigarettes. She handed a few of these to Eucalytpo as he tossed a few gold onto the table.

“I’ll see to this,” Eucalypto said, “for today, I travel to the tropics with two lovely ladies, and could very well be the luckiest rogue in the whole of Azeroth.”

The pale furred Tauren breathed deeply, trying vainly to buckle her armor straps.

Tiponi had outgrown her armor. The leather was old and well-worn but well oiled and loved. It had been her mother’s before hers, made by her grandmother. It seemed a shame to discard it on a far distant continent from her homeland.

Try as she might, she could not hold onto the traditions of her people forever. Times were changing. Already the Shu’halo had settled from traveling nomads into an established city of their own. They shared influences of their own with the other races and could not help by be changed by them in turn. Times were changing yes, and she was changing ever faster.

The leather strap holding her shoulder pad in place snapped free and she roared in frustration. Looking up sheepishly she noticed a forsaken farmer gazing at her, mouth open and glowing orb eyes wide. In shock at her outburst…Or, maybe he just looked like that normally, hard to tell with these people. She smiled and waved enthusiastically and the fellow got back to his work.

New armor, yes. She couldn’t keep wearing this old relic and longer. She should find a leatherworker and have him fashion her a new harness and…no! She stopped her train of thought cold. In her mind’s vision she saw her memory of the orcs of Orgrimmar. They wore armor of metal and chainmail. Great metal plates with spikes. She would look truly fearsome in that armor… Her mind was made up, she must travel to the nearest city and have a new suit of armor commissioned, in the fashion of the orcs but made for her figure. She nearly skipped with glee as she made her way back to the inn.

“I have a message for Eucalypto, he can find me in Undercity.”

There was a strange stillness to the forest of Silverpine that Tiponi could not quite place. It was as if the forest itself held bated breath in dreaded anticipation. The woods were dark and gloomy and the trees had a sickened look to them, but that was not what had the young Tauren looking over her shoulder. It was just so, quiet. Her hooves seemed to clatter too loudly on the cobblestones of the road leading to the Undercity.

The air was cold but without a breeze and a thick mist clung heavily to the forest floor. She could barely see where she was headed, without the road she would have been lost for sure. She had never felt so alone in her life. She hadn’t appreciated the comfort of her friends and family when they were around her, but here on the other side of the world without a friendly soul in sight she longed for their presence.

Two shapes appeared in the mist ahead of her, one small and one tiny, coming towards her down the road. She scrambled into a nearby bush, attempting to make as little noise as was possible. The fog parted, revealing two people in rich purple robes.

One was a human male, judging by his grey beard and furless head, who walked with his hands clasped behind his back. The other was a miniature female, not much taller than Tiponi’s kneecap. The little woman had a pile of green curls atop her head and was gesturing wildly with her hands. Tiponi had encountered few humans before, none friendly, but she could only guess that the tiny figure before her was a gnome.

She tried to hold very still as they approached. She held her breath as they passed by her on the road, the gnome was speaking in an unfamiliar language as her compatriot nodded along. As soon as they disappeared into the fog behind her she rose to hurry along her way.

“Veld! Odes!!” the shouts arose behind her. Quickly she looked and saw the two figures running out of the mist. She cursed and darted into the trees. A bolt of ice flew past her horns as she scrambled into the undergrowth.

“Mages!,” she thought, cursing her luck. She had little experience with wielders of the Arcane. The fog thickened amongst the trees and before long she had become turned around. Her heartbeat thumped loudly in her ears as she ran. She could see nothing ahead except the limbs of great trees rising out of the grey blanket of fog. The fog lit up bright orange as a fireball hurtled towards her.

Tiponi’s warrior instincts kicked in and she threw herself aside, but her reaction was too slow. She howled in agony and rage and the flames hit her breastplate below the shoulder. Her armor was blackened and burnt through and her chest throbbed with pain. The gnome emerged from the fog, a grin splitting her face as she conjured up another blast. Growling, and clutching her wound with one hand, Tiponi lashed out with her hoof, throwing her body weight into the tiny creature. She felt the crunch against her hooves as she crushed the gnome’s ribcage and she ran on assured that her adversary was no more.

She slowed to catch her breath against the bough of a large tree. She was beginning to feel light-headed and her hand came away from her chest thick with her blood. Conscious now that she was running out of time, Tiponi loped onwards, trying to get back to the road. Her vision was beginning to go blurry so she did not even see it in time to react to the bolt of frost magic unleashed against her. The human had returned.

The ice magic had numbed her fingers such that when she thrust her spear into the mage she felt it jar into her shoulder, but the weapon slipped free from her numbed fingers. As the human lay dying, Tiponi stumbled. She did not remember hitting the ground.

The first thing she noticed was the light. It was a warm ambient light, not glaringly bright and not too dim. Then she saw the hooves before her eyes. She picked herself up from the ground that wasn’t there and tried to fix her eyes upon her rescuer. It was a Shu’halo woman. She could not see her face, it was somehow obscured by the glowing light, but she knew she was beautiful and that she was safe here.

“Thank you for saving…”

“Hush child,” the woman interrupted placing a finger upon Tiponi’s lips, “You mustn’t give up yet child, there is too much left for you to do…”

“What?” Tiponi asked, confused and now trying to work out where she was, there was a forest?

“Open your eyes, that’s it…”

Tiponi opened bleary eyes as the sounds began to coalesce into sense again. She was on a pallet under a wooden roof. She began to sit up. Pain shot through her body and she collapsed again.

“Easy now,” a soft voice said, “you need rest to recover.” A Shu’halo woman with lightly tanned fur and a kind face sat beside her. She did not look familiar. “I am Mura, rest now, you’ll be safe here.”

“Where…there were wizards! In purple robes…” Tiponi felt as though all the strength had left her. Looking about she saw her weapons and armor had been recovered and placed by her side.

“You’re in the Sepulcher. Those were wizards of the Kirin Tor. They have established themselves nearby, you were fortunate to escape them. Worry not, you must rest now. The healing herbs need time to work. Sleep now, young one.”

The woman left Tiponi’s side and she quickly felt her eyelids drooping. Her worries were forgotten as sleep took her.

* * *

“Congratulations, Hyzanthlay;” Rik said, as they began to make their way along the road. “The mage Arugal has officially been killed by Horde agents.”

“My superiors will indeed be pleased.” Hyzanthlay’s voice was flat and dull.

“You are clearly not enthused,” the Druid asked, with some interest. Earthroot’s brown eyes flickered.

“Oh, I AM enthused,” Hyzanthlay waved her hand dismissively. “The Keep was interesting enough. But I feel better about killing Crusaders than mages.”

“Ah, of course! We can all be united in our hate of the Scarlet Crusade.” Rik chuckled and Earthroot tousled her mane in agreement. “So, I suppose they killed you, then?”

Hyzanthlay was not shocked by Rik’s blunt tone. In fact, his theory made sense.

“That’s what could have happened. It seems I’m unique among my brethren in that I have no memory of my death and the life before it.”

Rik was about to say something, but they were nearing the gates of the Sepulchre and one of the guards was gesturing towards them.

“Greetings,” he said, “we have been told to watch for you, Druid. Please speak to Mura. She has need of a healer.”

“I am busy today,” Rik raised an eyebrow, and in a flash of shining mist, turned into a cat and ran towards Mura Grimtotem’s small campsite on the far side of the Sepulchre. Hyzanthlay casually followed. The two guards both saluted her as she walked post.

Hyzanthlay could smell fresh blood, and it was not from Arugal’s head. Strellabelle was standing by the tomb, almost in the same place Hyzanthlay had met her before. She was tinkering with some vials and nodded towards Mura’s camp, and muttered, “Steak?” in Gutterspeak.

Hyzanthlay was confused. It was not until she looked inside Mura’s small wigwam did she understand the joke.

A young Tauren warrior was lying inside. She had been badly wounded, it seems by spellcasters. Mura said something about the road past Ambermill. Some of her fur had been scorched, and there was a bad wound by her breastplate. She was unconcious, but muttering in a troubled way in the tongue of her people.

Rik was speaking gently to her and casting a few spells. Earthroot pushed past Hyzanthlay and stared for a moment before falling upon one knee and lowing softly, as if in pain.

“She is young, but strong,” Mura said in Common. She spoke to comfort Earthroot but looked at Hyzanthlay.

“Tiponi will live and fight again. You trained her well in Mulgore, sister. She wounded a few and even killed two. A human with her spear, and a gnome that she crushed; we found his body close to where she fell.”

“Crushed? A gnome? Is that so?” Hyzanthlay looked past Rik’s shoulder and saw that Tiponi was breathing a little easier. She fished around in her bag and brought out a handful of red and yellow vials.

“For strength and health, see that she gets them,” Hyzanthlay dropped the vials in one of Earthroot’s surprised open hands. Rik had finished his casting and smiled at the gift, which did not seem to surprise him at all.

“I thank you, and so will Tiponi when she is well. She is on the mend,” and he looked to Earthroot when he said this, who rose to her feet and took a deep breath. “If you will, Hyzanthlay, I suspect you and Strellabelle will be headed to Undercity to be commended. It seems that Eucalypto is waiting for her there; if you happen to see him,” and Rik seemed to snicker at this a bit, “let him know, will you?”

Hyzanthlay nodded, not understanding what was so funny, then turned to meet a rather dour Strellabelle. Something here did not meet with her approval.

“The Dark Lady awaits,” she said curtly, as Hyzanthlay waved goodbye to Rik. “And you will no longer be handing out your potions to Tauren like wildflowers to cattle. You and your profession belong to the Clan of the Fallen now.”

“I’m not wearing your guild tabard yet,” Hyzanthlay snarled back.

There were no guards or gargoyles on the ragged, mossy towers. The thick blocks of stone that had formed the base of the Keep and fastened it to the hillside were worn and smooth. The fearsome stench of wet dog and the occasional guttural howl was usually enough to keep away any intruders.

The five adventurers, along with a shaggy wolf and two demons, left the shade of the winding mountain road and stepped over the hulking drawbridge. It groaned with every step. As they drew closer to the forbidding door, the stones grew clearer through the mists. Green moss bled down from the threshold. The sounds of the forest disappeared as they drew closer. All the adventurers could hear now was the echo of dripping water and the occasional crow of a carrion bird.

Earthroot listened closely at the door for a moment. She turned and nodded gravely. Her companions drew back and unsheathed their weapons. Only the Druid remained unmoved, staring closely at the door.

The Warrior’s mace rose into the air, making a slight whisper as it punched through the fog, then a solid, heavy crunch as it smashed the lock and bolt securing the entrance.

From the look and feel of the heavy, weathered door, it was expected that it would take a few tries to smash through the heavy, soggy wood. The adventurers were surprised – but not unprepared – to see the old door swing open quite easily and with little noise. It was what they saw immediately inside that gave them pause. Crumpled on the floor behind a steel grate, only a few feet ahead of them, were the mangled remains of Deathstalker Vincent. And standing over him was none other than the Archmage Arugal himself.

Hyzanthlay’s first thought was very practical. The element of surprise had clearly been lost.

For a few moments, Arugal did not seem to notice them. They could hear his voice, tinged with shame and madness, muffled by the mists.

“I have changed my mind loyal servants. You do not need to bring the prisoner all the way to my study. I will deal with him here and now. Vincent! You and your pathetic ilk will find no more success in routing my sons and I than those beggarly remnants of the Kirin Tor. If you will not serve my Master with your sword and knowledge of his enemies…”

Arugal stopped. He drew himself to his full height. It might have been a trick of the shadows and fog, but his head seemed to turn slightly towards the door before his voice reached an angry crescendo.

“Your mouldering remains will serve ME as a testament to what happens when one is foolish enough to trespass in my domain!”

As Arugal spoke, the party had quickly entered the Keep and readied their weapons and spells, expecting to take care of business immediately. Hyzanthlay snarled in anticipation, hoping that Arugal would impress her with some real arcane fortitude. The booming voice of the Archmage shook the foundations of the Keep. The wind hissed and moaned, blowing the door firmly shut. Then Arugal was gone.

“He has retreated,” hissed Earthroot, after a few moments of silence. She turned to the others.

“He must not have seen us,” Hyzanhtlay hissed, more in frustrated than anything else. Perhaps he hadn’t? That was a more likely explanation. That fool! He could not have run from them. That was just too pathetic.

“Strong magics here, but only Undead and Worgen,” sniffed the Hunter, who had taken a few moments to examine the ground. His wolf was unnervingly calm and unmoved. “No beasts that will surprise us, anyway.”

“Silverlaine’s ghostly troops will guard the Keep from intruders, as their duty binds them,” the Druid whispered. “The worgen are everywhere, and their Master has given them orders! We will pursue him to his inner sanctum. Prepare yourselves.”

“We have orders of our own, and they must be seen to.” Strellabelle pointed to the remains of Deathstalker Vincent.

Access to the inner courtyard was blocked by the thick steel bars. They would have to move through the stables and a small stockade in order to reach it.

Fang, who had been bristly and jumpy before entering the keep, now moved with a calm fluidity. The adjoining room, only dark and cold a moment ago, was now filled with gleaming red eyes. Fang turned and made sure they saw him first, before they noticed the flying mace.

The next few rooms became a cluttered mess of burning dog hair and angry yelping. Earthroot cut a path for them through the snarling worgen and their wolf companions. The Hunter was silent and deadly, picking off anything that managed to get through the gauntlet the warlocks had formed in front of the healer. Between the two of them, that didn’t amount to much. They left a path of smouldering wood and burning straw behind them. Both warlocks were secretly impressed with the fearless worgen in battle; they ran towards them with all the snarling madness of rabid dogs, but stood upright to face their foes. They did not run even when on the verge of death. It occurred to Hyzanthlay that there was something very human about them, which made her feel better about killing them.

What had once been a more open area was now enclosed with various awkward renovations. Arugal had made a number of aesthetic and practical changes to accommodate his “children.” Several old pieces of furniture and carpeting lay broken and strewn about. The result was a rank, twisted jungle of shabby stairways and piles of straw. Usually the view was blocked out by a wooden landing or boardwalk that had been added later. As the group came to the foot of a thick, wide staircase that looked weathered with age, the halls were brightened by the moonlight that came streaming in through the higher windows. They were rising above the hills of Silverpine Forest, leaving even the foggy clouds behind.

The air seemed to grow even more bitter as they ascended the stairs. The vaulted ceiling was filled with cobwebs and dust, and the snarling worgen that ran down to meet them seemed even bigger and more rabid than the previous ones.

“We are nearing the courtyard,” Strellabelle sniffed quietly, “the large door to the right.”

But it was securely locked; and this was no ragged back door. It would not be forced or enchanted. Even a rogue might have been at a loss. Beyond the door, restless spirits as well as wolf people waited to meet the intruders. Hyzanthlay sniffed the air, and detected a familiar, rank odour.

“Adament is not far,” she whispered, and pointed to another stairway leading down to their left. This was the stockade, and they would have to investigate it. Any live prisoners might be of some use to them.

There was a bristling entourage of worgen with dark fur and burning red eyes waiting, ready to ambush them. In the cramped, dark space and flickering torchlight, a few of the determined creatures broke through the warlocks and threw themselves at the Druid.
They had chosen their moment of attack deliberately. Earthroot was overwhelmed with defending herself and could not help him. There was one distinctive, hulking worgen that had smooth, bronze fur and terrible red eyes. It had lunged up the stairs along with its fellows and was keeping the warrior busy.

The Druid barely blinked at the creature that surged towards him. What skin was visible through the burning fur was already rotting away from the warlock’s corruption. A few of the hunter’s arrows had embedded themselves in his back and shoulders. He would not survive the battle but was determined to reach the healer, and cripple him.

The Druid took a step back, but didn’t flinch. He narrowed his eyes and held his great, heavy hands out before his chest. The bronze worgen leaped, strings of spit glimmering at his shoulders. But he did not fall upon a stricken healer. Instead, he met a massive bear brandishing a pair of sharp, shimmering horns. He still managed to sink a fang into the shoulder and rake his claws across the bear’s neck before being shaken off. The Druid swung a hulking paw of his own, but could only knock the worgen off balance for a moment.

Hyzanthlay had taken notice of the charging worgen and knew that the healer must be protected. She gave no thought as to her own fate to distract the charging wolf-man. She did not do this out of concern or self-sacrifice; she simply had little value for her own existence. Searing Pain was equally painful as well as annoying spell, and always made the victim look at her in surprised agony. Quite satisfying. It might not have worked with such a raging, determined creature, but the worgen had been disoriented by the Druid’s transformation.

She cast the spell, and the worgen felt his muscles twitch and burn. It yelped in surprise and pain. It charged at Hyzanthlay and swung one of its clawed front paws with all its strength. The warlock remembered the force of the blow, but did not remember crashing through a wooden railing before hitting a wall and falling down the stairs to the Stockade. There she lay until her companions dug her out of the straw and began to perform their healing spells.

Hyzanthlay heard the snickering of an undead male. Her vision cleared, and she saw the fuzzy outline of a rogue. She only knew one undead rogue by name.

“Eucalypto…?” She muttered, and then she heard another familiar voice.

“Ah, yes, I thought I knew you, Warlock. But I was occupied when we were first introduced.”

Hyzanthlay’s vision cleared, and she saw the fuzzy form of the Druid come into focus before her.

“Rik,” she said, now recognizing him after seeing his bear-form. “Greetings.”

“Greetings, and don’t be such a fool in the future.” He cast another healing spell or two before picking rather critically at the corner of her robe. “I may be a healer, but you are more vulnerable than I…”

Hyzanthlay snarled at the word “vulnerable” and lurched to her feet.

“I have died once, perhaps I’m keen to try again,” she sneered. And she expected Rik to flinch or frown at her words but he did neither. Instead, he smiled and replied;
“I’m afraid not, for your friend Eucalypto would not have it. He has found memories of life in Tirisfal Glades, and despises the Scourge and the Scarlets. If you fell on my account, he would never forgive me.”

The rogue she had first seen was Adamant, now freed from his prison. The other cell remained shut but was not vacant. A human mage was the occupant. He regarded them calmly but defiantly and would only speak in the human vernacular, a language none of them knew. The Forsaken used a language known as Gutterspeak among each other, and the Common tongue of the Horde was Orcish, of course a language that very few humans knew. Adamant and Strellabelle remembered a word or two, but Hyzanthlay had no memory of the tongue she must have spoken habitually.

“We should kill him,” Strellabelle hissed. But the Tauren were reluctant to kill a prisoner. The mage had also made no attempt to attack or threaten them.

“I sense no wards, no magical bindings,” the Hunter said. “He be here as an observer, and he seen what he came to see.”

Hyzanthlay narrowed her eyes at the human, who looked back at her. He was clearly not fearless but contained his emotions well.

“Then he will have to earn the right to report,” Strellabelle hissed, and pulled the lever to open the cell door.

There was a flash, and a cloud of shimmering smoke. The mage had disappeared.

“And now, the re-inforcements from Dalaran will come,” Earthroot shouldered her mace. The city of mages was nearby, where it stood defiantly on the opposite shore of Lordamere Lake. “We must make haste.”

Adamant unlocked the door for them before returning the way the party had come. It was agreed that he would return to the Sepulchre to report. Searching Vincent’s corpse for any clues would be up to the adventurers.

It was the first open air they had seen in some time. A few scattered clouds moved across the sky, shading out the clear stars and a stark crescent moon. The courtyard not only had worgen to contend with, but also the ghostly remnants of the previous tenants. Baron Silverlaine was the original owner of the Keep and stubbornly remained when the worgen overran it. The mad mage had adopted them as well as the wolf people when he moved into the Keep.

Vincent’s remains had nothing of interest or value, and Rik rather sombrely confirmed that he was beyond all healing or resurrection. Strellabelle shrugged, and tossed an old piece of clothing from the ground over his upper body.

“At least someone was here to pay some respect,” she hissed, “and he will be avenged.”
They moved on, and little more was spoken. Now that they were outdoors, silence was even more important. Their path now took them up winding stairs and precarious balconies and bridges as they continued upward. Fang seemed a little unnerved by their high, precarious path and stayed close to his master unless fighting. The ghostly soldiers attacked the adventurers as if still guarding their lord’s Keep. It was strange for the Tauren to watch the translucent figures fall in battle, only to see them rise and continue their patrol only moments later as if nothing had happened.
“They don’t even know, do they? I’d rather be killed and eaten by a band of murlocs,” Hyzanthlay whispered to Strellabelle. The undead had a nice private laugh over it.
At last, they reached the central tower and began to climb a dizzying flight of thick, stone steps. The remains of what once had been a thick red carpet softened their footfalls. Ornate drapes and crests hung from the walls, and they were surprisingly well-kept. They had not been gnawed at or soiled by the worgen. They were finally close to Arugal himself.

Earthroot muttered something about the air being too still, the walls and floor being too quiet. Fang had returned to himself again, sniffing and drooling with enthusiasm. As if in answer, a gutteral wolf howl cut through the silence. It was a long, drawn howl that echoed throughout the tower. Unlike the other occasional howls that they had heard, it was deep and angry, was a seemed to be coming from the very top of the stairs.

“Fenrus, the Devourer, at last,” the Hunter smiled with enthusiasm, patted Fang with rough affection and said something in Trollish. Hyzanthlay listened with interest. So the Hunter was here for Fenrus. It made sense; he would make a fine pelt and an even better trophy. Her thoughts turned briefly to the anthropomorphic Troll gods. Surely there was a wolf in this pantheon.

“He guards the Mage’s study, and our Book of Ur,” Hyzanthlay said quietly, “we may face the beast and his master at once.”

“It would be suicide to face us alone,” Earthroot thought out loud.

The adventurers had to fight their way up the stairs, and the double doors at the very top were unguarded. The party took a brief respite. It was difficult to keep Fang calm now; every howl he heard from inside the doors drove him deeper into a canine frenzy. He snarled and gripped the stones with his front claws, returning the guttural cry that came from behind the heavy doors.

“Fenrus must be killed first,” Rik said. “Warlocks, we will need an imp for extra fire and a voidwalker to help Earthroot and Fang; there is no telling what the mage will do. And lastly, please, soulstones for both myself and my fellow Tauren.”

It was serious business indeed, if the confident Druid believed there was a chance they could fall. The Warlocks worked in a rushed silence that was only interrupted by the angry howl of Fenrus the Devourer only a few feet away. The Hunter inspected the door closely and concluded that it was not locked or barred.

Earthroot narrowed her large brown eyes and snarled at the door. Fenris howled his challenge.

“For our ancestors,” she roared, and she raised one of her great hooves and kicked the heavy doors with all her strength.

The hulking, shaggy beast was waiting for them to open the door. Hyzanthlay barely had time to take a look at the room before the great wolf threw himself at the charging Tauren. It was a circular, domed room lined with candles and bookshelves. A circular walkway surrounded the roof, and it was occupied.

“The Mage comes,” Strellabelle pointed upward, to where Arugal was calmly standing in full view of them. He spoke not a word and did not so much as raise his arms.
As Rik had planned, Earthroot, Fang and the voidwalker concentrated on Fenrus.

Fire and howling filled the chamber. Fenrus was a fearsome creature, but he could not stand against the determined adventurers. The hunter filled the creature with arrows, and the warlocks threw their fire and disease in his path. It was not before his long, black snout was caked with blood from Earthroot’s repeated blows. But Fenrus’ own fangs were bloody with blood that was not his.

Hyzanthlay waited for Arugal. She watched him out of the corner of her glowing orbs, waiting for one of the greatest mages alive to make a move. But he just stood there, with a strange unearthly calm, watching them. Wasn’t this creature his pet, or his child…what was it he had said?

Fenris’ eyes were blinded with blood. He crouched and snarled now, a wounded animal near death. Bloody drool hung from his loose jaw, and his paws left smears of red on the floor. A noble creature indeed, Hyzanthlay thought, and a strange emotion took hold of her. Normally proudly sadistic, Hyzanthlay decided that watching the creature in pain was strangely displeasing. She began to cast one of her most powerful destructive spells, in a sudden hurry to put it out of its misery.

And still, as Fenris lay dying, blugeoned and lying dead in a pool of its own gore, Arugal did not act. This enraged Hyzanthlay. They and followed him all this way, and he had done nothing! Even in her rage, she took note of his sloping shoulders and bowed head.

Why had he done nothing?

“Arugal!” She roared angrily. “You helpless coward!”

The mage’s head jerked towards her as if startled out of a trance. He raised his hand and stepped back, then vanished. But he did not leave the party alone. Already battered from the fight with Fenrus, four voidwalkers appeared and rushed towards them. Luckily they were weak creatures and fell fairly quickly, but Earthroot still turned to Hyzanthlay in anger.

“That was uncalled for, Warlock,” she spat.

“The fool must be stupid and suicidal,” Hyzanthlay retorted, thrusting Earthroot’s own words back at her.

“That mage is a being of great power,” Earthroot spoke carefully but she was shaking with rage. “You risk our lives…”

“The coward sends his minions in to die, then runs from us!” Hyzanthlay was enraged, but Strellabelle gripped her shoulder and said,

“What my colleague means, Tauren, is that the mage might not be as powerful as our intelligence originally reported.”

Earthroot shook her mane, and Hzyanthlay twitched slightly. The party breathed again as the tension seemed to dissipate from the room. The Hunter had barely noticed the altercation, busy as he had been with tending to the corpse of Fenrus. Fang stood by proudly as his master dressed the beast. Rik was helping but took some note of the heated discussion between the undead and Earthroot.

“Fine pelt, fine trophy,” the Hunter patted the large bundle tenderly. He was spattered with blood and bits of black hair. “It be an honor to face the Devourer, and win his hide! Powerful medicine! I thank all here, friends and witnesses. And now, we kill the Master! Eh, now you get your scalp, Warlock! Yeah, I know what you be waitin’ for! Arugal, now we kill!”

Hyzanthlay was so pleased with the Troll’s enthusiasm and appearance that she forgot her anger. Strellabelle had found the Book of Ur without very much trouble; it was a tall, thick book with a shining purple cover. The mage had made no attempt to hide it or any of his other belongings.

“Not far now,” Earthroot nodded to Rik, and the party moved soundlessly through the far doors of the study, up another flight of stairs, towards the highest tower of
Shadowfang Keep.

There was a final long room at the top of the dark stairs. No torches lined the walls, no straw or wood burned nearby to light their way. The only meagre light now was the thin, white threads of moonlight that seeped in through the rotting wood. They could have easily conjured some light, but decided to use the shadows as a cover for the final assault. Beyond the room above them was the very pinnacle of the tower, where the mage was waiting.

The Hunter very quietly informed them that the large room was filled with both wolves and worgen; not much different from what they had been fighting through the whole time. No traps or ambushes of any kind. An eerie sense of foreboding settled among the party, even for the undead.

What ultimate horror did Arugal (or the Kirin Tor) have waiting for them?
Or was he actually just waiting to die?

The beasts in this room were fierce, but grave and sombre. They seemed to have a plan of attack and followed it, attacking Earthroot at the same time, ignoring any distractions the Hunter or Warlocks attempted. At last, the great worgen who stood by the thick double doors at the end of the room uttered a forlorn, guttural howl and lurched towards Earthroot’s bloody mace.

For a few moments, they rested among the piles of smouldering bodies and charred wood. The Hunter decided to make a few quick alterations to his bow. Earthroot was skilled and strong, and none doubted her skill, but the Mage would move quickly, and the party would be depending on ranged damage.

Hyzanthlay sighed at the miserable anti-climax the pursuit of Arugal had become. She turned to Rik, who was sitting quietly by a patch of moonlight by the last set of doors. He was holding a bit of Fenrus’ pelt, which he seemed to be studying intently.

“And if Eucalypto is so deeply concerned for my welfare,” She asked, with a certain mock politeness, “then why is he not here to defend me personally?”

Rik did not look up right away, but snickered and smiled.

“I’m afraid I haven’t seen Eucalypto in some time,” he delivered this news with no gravity or distress. “He was last seen in Wailing Caverns, a famous place near my homeland. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

“Fine fishing,” Hyzanthlay said shortly.

“And fine mining and skinning, for those that have the skills.” Rik lifted up the pelt and held it to the light. It had a thick, luxurious sheen, and even in her undead state Hyzanthlay knew it would have been very sensuous to touch. “There’s a lot of gold in it, and we need all our copper these days. We mean to start a guild; and you are welcome to join, Hyzanthlay, if you desire.”

Strellabelle was busy for the moment with some potions, but she overheard this comment and snorted with disdain. Strellabelle already had a guild, The Clan of the Fallen. They were venerated throughout Undercity and had been in existence since the rise of Sylvanas. They did not have petty annoyances to contend with, like lack of gold.
“We be ready,” the Hunter announced quietly. And Earthroot nodded, in her usual grave way, as she hefted her great mace on to her shoulder. An unearthly calm had come over Fang, who no longer made any noise even to sniff the ground.

“And now, the head of Arugal,” Hyzanthlay muttered with not a hint of enthusiasm. “Anything I should know, in case he decides not just to lie down and die?”

“He does what mages do,” Earthroot said calmly, ignoring Hyzanthlay’s sarcasm. “I expect he will teleport and shape-shift. I will not be able to follow him immediately.”

“Ya, that be a thing to see,” the Hunter said. Rik nodded, and rested his hand on the troll’s scarred shoulder. Hyzanthlay was readying herself but listened closely. Shapeshifting was important to Druids and Trolls, but it was not a power that Warlocks knew.

These doors, like the ones before it, were not locked or barred. Earthroot prepared to open them the same way she had opened the others. Then she stopped and lowered her great hoof, almost as if she was tired. Instead, she calmly reached forward and turned the knob.

The door swung open with a frightened squeak. Nothing rushed to meet them but cold darkness.

There was a glow at the far end of what looked like a room that had been broken in half. The pale light shone through the jagged hole that stretched across the thatched roof, and it reminded Hyzanthlay of the lonely light she had seen that night in the Crossroads, when all were alseep but the good apothecary working before his beakers and candles under the cold stars. And then in the darkness she saw the figure hunched by the alchemy lab, in the same robes and pointed hat she had seen him in downstairs. Despite the noise they must have made he took no notice of them.

The few beams of moonlight that shone through the ceiling were barely enough to illuminate the shattered room. Beyond a crooked stone doorframe was a landing and a flight of stairs leading down and to the right.

Arugal was standing on a broken platform straight ahead on their level. The Hunter and his pet crouched in the darkness by the entrance while the rest of the party made their way down the stairs.

As the party quickly and silently moved towards him, he very slowly stopped his work. His shoulders were hunched at first, and he moved slowly and deliberately to stand at his full height.

He slowly turned to face them. Hyzanthlay did not wait for the rest of the party. She targeted the mage the moment Earthroot’s hoof hit the first stair leading up to him. And he seemed to focus on her for a moment, and hesitate, before unleashing his fury.
Hyzanthaly was surprised to be hit by a shadow magic at first.

The mage must have known that it would have a limited effect on the Forsaken. It shook her but did little to prevent her from casting again. Earthroot was too quick to let Arugal cast at one of her charges a second time. In the next moment, the mage’s line of sight was blocked by a massive pair of hooves and horns, crowned with a heavy mace.

Arrows began to fly across the room. Fang had silently slipped from his master’s side and up the stairs. He joined Strellabelle’s voidwalker and Earthroot in raining blows upon the mage. Hyzanthlay cast in a way that was calm, almost bored; the mage would be down soon and they had not had much of a fight. All talk and no action. Typical for a human, she thought.

Then the mage spoke.

“Release your RAGE!” He cried, and a heavy darkness swept through the room.

Earthroot’s figure twisted and warped. The mace fell to the floor with a heavy clunk, her horns and hooves disappeared. In their place appeared red eyes, claws and fangs. The mage had turned her into one of his pets, a raging worgen!

Hyzanthanlay’s lips opened in a wide grin. Now THAT was impressive!

In a flash of light, Arugal appeared on the platform next to the Hunter, who had already dropped his bow and unsheathed an axe with a vicious, jagged edge. He was by no means less threatening without his bow or his pet. He crouched low and swung decisively, striking one of Arugal’s arms and causing him to miscast.

Earthroot, in her worgen form, was now a minion of the mage. She turned to charge down the stairs at Rik, who was helping the Hunter for the moment. A sickening crunch, followed by a bolt of pain in her ankle, changed her mind. She looked down and saw Fang, his snarling jaws locked on the tendon below the knee.

She roared in agony and rage. One of her great, shaggy paws clenched into a fist, swung around and made contact with Fang’s snout. A fountain of blood burst from the creature’s nose as its body lurched from the platform and fell, to lie in a motionless heap near the bottom of the stairs.

Arugal targeted the warlocks next. The shadow bolt flew over Strellabelle’s head. Her voidwalker charged at Arugal, but he transported back to his original position as Earthroot flew down the stairs towards them, now free of Fang’s grasp. Hyzanthlay turned to Rik, who did not look at her but said calmly, “Aim at the mage,” as he narrowed his eyes and raised his hands in front of him.

Hyzanthlay concentrated her flames on Arugal and tried not to be too distracted by the vicious bear on worgen battle that was taking place at her shoulder. Despite the distraction of the healer and the warrior, Arugal was steadily being beaten; the undead warlocks were strong against his shadow spells, and the already fearless hunter had been driven to a lethal rage by Fang’s terrible fall.

Arugal shuddered now, visibly weakened by the three determined adventurers. The spell he had cast upon Earthroot was broken, and she shrank into a Tauren warrior again. She shook herself and did not hesitate to pick up her mace and turn back to the mage.
Rik had barely returned to his Tauren form the moment Earthroot picked up her mace. The Hunter had moved down from the platform near the entrance to stand near Fang. The animal still had not stirred.

The mage’s defences were broken. His mana was spent. He stared with angry defiance at the Tauren warrior as she raised her mallet and struck decisively.

She hit him where the neck and shoulder met, aiming for his collarbone. The crushing blow very nearly separated Arugal’s head from his body, and there was already a thick puddle of blood to meet his body where it fell.

Rik, although clearly exhausted and badly wounded, was already casting a few healing spells. Earthroot slowly lowered her mace and shuddered. A light shower of blood sprinkled over her hooves.

The Hunter gave no thought to himself or his companions. He was already crouched over Fang’s body, speaking quietly to himself in Trollish. Strellabelle was distracted by Arugal’s apothecary equipment and books. Hyzanthlay, who was unscathed for the most part, slowly made her way to the mage himself.

She expected his face to be twisted somehow, with anger, fear, pain, madness. Whatever had driven him here, she expected it to be etched in his face somehow.

But it was not. Except for the gaping wound below his neck, he seemed to simply be asleep, dreaming pleasantly.

“Him at peace,” a voice at her shoulder said, and she looked up and saw the Hunter. He was cradling his axe in his hand and had a strange, blank look in his eyes.

Strellabelle was standing at his side and it seemed like they had just spoken briefly. The other warlock did not have to speak; her glowing orbs said the words, Stand back.

Hyzanthlay did, but not in time to get a few drops of blood on her shoes. The Hunter had chopped the head of Arugal clean off with one heavy stroke. Strellabelle quickly grabbed it by the sticky hair and thrust it into a sack at her side. Then she motioned to Hyzanthlay. The Hunter stood over the remains, shoulders sagging, and took no notice as they swept away.

The two Tauren were crouched near Fang, and Hyzanthaly broke off from Strellabelle’s path to walk towards them. The other warlock was out the door before she realized that she was no longer being followed. No matter; she knew where the Sepulcher was.

Earthroot was kneeling and chanting quietly in her native tongue. Rik was channelling a powerful healing spell and took no notice anything around him.

“Is it dead?” Hyzanthlay was heedless of the gravity of the situation and wondered why she even cared enough to ask about the lifeless bundle on the floor. The Hunter had sheathed his axe and calmly returned to his vigil at Fang’s side. He leaned very close to the creature’s side, close enough that his front tusks were buried in the thick, black fur. Rik filled the dreary room with green and white light. Hyzanthlay could barely contain her fascination when the creature stirred.

“Oh, well, look at that! I was sure it was dead.” She said, almost enthusiastically.
“Earthmother be praised,” Earthroot raised herself up. She seemed just as relieved as the Hunter, whose quiet demeanour had broken apart. He was weeping openly as he helped the shaggy beast to his feet. Fang was shaky and still rather bloody, but clearly not dead.

“Indeed, she has been kind to us this day.” Rik seemed profoundly tired but pleased. “We will return to the Sepulcher and give our report.”

They moved quickly out of the Keep. Worgen and wolves would no longer bother them, but the odd stray ghost would occasionally flash past their vision. The many fires they had set did little damage. It seems that they air and wood was too wet with clouds and mist to let the fire consume them completely.

The pelt of Fenrus was not the only heavy bundle the Hunter carried. When the party reached the foot of the hill, they buried the body of Arugal in a shallow grave near Pyrewood Village. As they threw a few shovel-fulls of dirt over what was left of it, Hyzanthlay drew a piece of linen from her bags and tossed it over the upper body.

Silverpine Forest was dotted with orchards and country homes, and the Sepulcher was the central graveyard for the neighborhood. It had never been a place of human habitation. Coveted by the upper class due to its peaceful vantage point over Lordamere Lake, the graveyard and death pits of Brill had swollen beyond capacity rather than inconvenience the elite of Lordaeron and Alterac.

There were only a few large family crypts and the rows of headstones were even and well-tended. Yuriv’s was located next to the crooked metal fence at the far corner.

There was little reason to have any respect for the sanctity of the dead now, especially since she was one. Hyzanthlay jumped on the short metal partition. She stood on it for a moment before hopping directly onto a stone coffin before the headstone, moving with all the playful apathy of a child jumping on the furniture. As she scraped some of the grime from her boots with the insignia at her feet, she inspected the stone symbol carefully. It was the sign of the Scarlet Crusade that she had come to despise, along with a few other emblems referring to the kingdom of Lordaeron.

Hyzanthlay dropped the silver pendant on the two stone hands gripping a stone hilt. Then she dropped off the tomb to the ground and stood still for a moment.
A profound quiet seemed to settle over the hillside. The air stood still.

There was nothing here.

Hyzanthlay kept walking, and made no other attempt to tend to the grave.
Strellabelle had emerged from the largest family tomb at the western end of the cemetery, where the Forsaken had their base.

“We’re going to Shadowfang Keep,” she muttered. “Have you ever heard of it?”

“Of course,” Hyzanthlay replied. “But there can’t be much left of it?”

“Of course not, and we aren’t the first to pick over its ruins. But recently one of our Deathguards has gone missing, and we’ll face Arugal himself. The Forsaken have decided that raiding the lower levels for supplies and specimens isn’t enough this time. Windrunner herself has decided that the Archmage has to die. Stealing his research isn’t enough anymore.”

“I know a rogue, if we need help,” Hyzanthlay ventured. But Strellabelle waved her hand dismissively.

“This mission is too important; the Dark Lady and High Executor Hadrec have seen to our companions personally.”

“And what is our mission?”

“To determine what happened to two of the Lady’s agents, kill Arugal, and collect any more research or communication that we can. Special consideration should be given to any correspondence with Dalaran and a certain tome known as The Book of Ur. I will continue the debriefing as soon as the rest of our party arrives.”

Hyzanthlay grinned. They were the warlocks, and the demonic powers they had included a spell that could summon others regardless of their location. This was Strellabelle’s way of saying the party would arrive and the mission would begin only when they were ready. She was in no hurry, as humans and wolves did little to excite her.

“Perhaps,” Hyzanthlay suggested, “we could infiltrate the Keep in secret, and summon others once inside?”

“We can’t summon from inside. Our spies have already determined as such. Do not forget, we are dealing with Dalaran. I see inside your mind, my dark sister, and understand your hunger. The Scarlet Crusade must wait for now. You are Forsaken, and you will respect for the wishes of the Dark Lady.”

The two Taurens who joined them were summoned with the dark powers, and did not have to travel all the way from Mulgore. A Troll hunter, with shining eyes and a wolf pet, also joined them. He introduced his scruffy wolf as Fang, and cautioned the other party members not to touch him, as he was always ravenous and indiscriminate. It sounded more like a boast than a real concern. Hyzanthlay remembered the Troll hunter from the tavern in the Crossroads, and was glad to have him.

The Tauren warrior and druid were cool and businesslike at first, clearly out of their element in the shadows of the Sepulchre. Hyzanthlay sensed they did not want to be here but were taking the situation very seriously. More interested in Elune than Lady Sylvanas, Hyz thought, but she knew little of the Night Elf goddess and even less of the Tauren spirit world.

The potions were brewed. The weapons and armour had the correct enchantments against shadow and poison. The ideal pathway through the keep had been mapped. And two warlocks meant two soulstones, and plenty of healthstones just in case of emergencies. The Warrior, a Tauren named Earthroot, cautioned the warlocks about the use of Fear in the enclosed spaces they would be encountering.

Hyz grinned with wicked appreciation, even though Fear was a spell that she herself rarely used. It had an unpredictable effect, sometimes causing the victims to turn and blindly run as their skin rotted off or burned, which provided a rather miserable anti-climax to a fight. Hyzanthlay preferred to finish her victims with her sword and savour a hot, fresh meal rather than chew a clammy corpse that had been hidden in the underbrush. It still pleased her immensely that it was their signature spell.

“The Worgen also have the power of Silence,” she added, casting her eyes over the spellcasters and hunter, to the Druid healer. “See that you are prepared, lest I fall.”
“You will not fall,” the Druid replied calmly, and for the first time Hyzanthlay regarded their healer. He carried the same noble air as his brethren, but with none of the silent pity or politely hostile demeanour they often reserved for the undead. In fact, he almost seemed to regard the warlocks with a keen interest. When Hyz looked at him, she was greeted with a toothy, comical grin instead of the usual stiff, serious nod. He looked vaguely familiar but she could not place him.

Hyzanthlay pouted and snarled all along the road to Pyrewood Village and the Keep. Loopy mages and mangy dogs! Hyzanthlay didn’t care for mages, as she was frequently mistaken for one until she picked up a sword or summoned a demon. She didn’t care for the Kirin Tor, as they were Alliance. They were also extremely powerful, and held considerable influence in every human kingdom.

Hyz actually almost regretted killing a few of the weaker Worgen and wolves along the road. Something about their eyes reminded her of a mysterious place beyond the tomb from which she had crawled, the missing memories of her former life.

The air in Silverpine Forest was always cold, bitter and tainted with a rank coppery odour. The worgen who roamed the hills were not native to Azeroth. Only a Night Elf could be so careless as to unleash such a thing upon the world, and only a human would be so foolish as to think they could be kept as pets. Hyzanthlay was grateful that the reek of night elf was miles from here. Her looming voidwalker, who had very politely introduced himself as Phannuz at their recent meeting, did not have a nose and made no comment on these observations.

The Kingdom of Gilneas still stood, but stayed in stubborn isolation. From the drawbridge leading to the keep, they could see the Greymane Wall in the distance. The two Warlocks could hear the wails of the refugees huddled along it. No help would come to them from cursed kingdom of Greymane.

Strellabella spat, and cursed the name of Elune.

Hyzanthlay laughed quietly, and reminded Strellabelle not to take the name of the Moon Goddess in vain lest it offend their Tauren allies.

“Besides, if these creatures are half as vicious as they sound, perhaps we should give Elune a little credit. They would make worthy opponents.”

“Enough chatter.” Earthroot unsheathed her mace and strode over the wooden drawbridge. “Let us begin!”