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| Details |
| Author: | OzmaAsimov |
| Summary: | The Battle of the Wrathgate took something from everyone who was present, including Auralind. |
| Rating: | M for Mature 17+ |
This is the end.
The sentiment had been seen in so many faces, heard echoes in the words of frightened soldiers. Auralind has never imagined herself one who could be shaken by an impending battle, but this one was different. Her people had never faced a doom like this before…at least not in her memory.
"This is not the end," Anderas said calmly.
"I did not say it was," Auralind attempted to defend her unspoken thoughts, not entirely honestly.
"But you're thinking it."
"I'm thinking I should be out there, scouting the enemy, doing what I do best. I have the best eyes and ears in the Moonhunters. You know I do."
"The enemy is coming to us."
"All the more reason to know their movements!" Auralind snapped, anger rising in her voice. She wasn't angry at Anderas. He knew it, but it stung a little, all the same. Berelas nuzzled against her thigh, the striped saber sensing her tension. She ran her fingers affectionately through her companion's scruff.
"Shalan…you must trust in Malfurion and Tyrande. The plan will work."
"At what cost?"
Anderas smiled his gentle smile. "You're asking the wrong question."
She gave her beloved a grumpy frown. "What is the right question, then?"
"What cost is too high to avoid annihilation?"
Auralind's frown turned into a scowl. "You're doing the annoying thing again."
"Being right?
"Yes."
Anderas chuckled and slipped his hand into Auralind's, giving her a reassuring squeeze. She squeezed his in return. Soon the warhorns would sound, the fires of battle would burn, and blessed Mount Hyjal would become a field of death…
…death…
…death all around…
…fields of death…in the frozen north…inescapable death…
…in Northrend…standing at the very doorstep of Icecrown. Angrathar, the Wrathgate.
This is the end.
This isn't the same, shalan.
Tension rolled through the ranks around Auralind; she could hear it in the shifting of their armor, how the cold metal scraped. How their breaths came rapidly and they could not stop talking—in such bitter cold, a calm person hunkers down and conserves their warmth. This was not calm.
This is the end. Death is coming.
This is not Hyjal. That was the Legion coming for us. This time, it is you coming for the Lich King. You are the hunter.
"For once, Anderas…I think you might be wrong."
"What?" The Sentinel beside Auralind turned her head, confusion in her voice.
Auralind's face flushed a bit. "Ah…apologies. I was simply lost in thought." Auralind felt a nuzzle at her thigh. She reached down to ruffle Berelas…no, not Berelas. That was Hyjal. She was in Northrend, and this was Elu'shalla. Her fingers sank into the lion's moonlight-white mane and he gave a rumble of approval.
The other Sentinel chuckled. "I know that look. Speaking to someone you've lost. It's alright. I do the same. They're with us in these moments. Guiding us, giving us strength and comfort."
Auralind smiled, "Yes, I think so as well."
"So…what is Anderas wrong about?"
Auralind fell silent. What could she say? That hope was wrong? That she smelled a looming death on the wind? Should she explain the foreboding sense weighing down on her?
"I'm sorry. That was inappropriate of me to ask." The Sentinel's voice fell in shame. Auralind could hear the youth in her tone, which might explain her faux pas and degree of enthusiasm.
"It was," Auralind rebuked her sternly. She sighed, and then softly said, "But it is alright. We are now sisters-in-arms, and that is a bond that should never be broken. I am Auralind Mistwalker. This is Elu'shalla."
The younger Sentinel gasped. "Mistwalker…? Oh…oh! That's why you haven't looked at-…oh, it's an honor, shan'var! I am Jenoan Snowgale."
Auralind lifted a hand, still not 'looking' at Jenoan, her blind eyes unfocused and staring blankly forward. "Please, do not. We are both serving under Highlord Fordragon today. I am here merely as a soldier. Let us be just that, together."
"Of course…yes, as you wish shan-…Auralind. I'm sorry, I should have recognized you, especially with Elu'shalla. Surely no other lion has such a coat." Jenoan's breathing had quickened, and Auralind didn't expect it would slow for some time. It had been a while since a young Sentinel had recognized her, or even cared much who she was. Apparently this one had heard stories, even about Elu'shalla. 'Moonshadow' is what they might call him in the Common tongue. Elu—'moon-white'—for the luminous color of his coat, and shalla—'shadow'—for his inexplicable stealthiness.
There didn't seem much else to say, and silence suited Auralind just fine. She needed to focus and get her head in the present. The last thing she could afford to do was let her own dread start affecting the morale of less experienced soldiers like Jenoan. Where was this fatalism coming from? She'd been in battle many times before. The stakes at Hyjal were much higher than this. Of course, at Hyjal, she had Anderas.
You have me now, anu'aloris.
Auralind shut her eyes tightly. It would be unseemly to cry in front of Jenoan and the other soldiers. She was Auralind Mistwalker, veteran Sentinel of Hyjal, former Lieutenant of Cobalt Company, bearer of the legendary bow Lohn'goron. She had battled demon lords, slain dragons, destroyed liches, and even survived an encounter with a Dark Rider. She had an example to set.
Her ears twitched; there was a shift in the ranks. Postures were straightening. Chatter was coming to a halt, and turning into murmurs of awe. Soon voices were raised in celebration, and a single name repeated: Fordragon.
Highlord Bolvar Fordragon strode through the troops to the lauding of his name, bringing a wave of courage in his wake. Auralind nodded to herself. This is what the troops needed: hope. If they had any chance of winning the day, they needed to be inspired.
The army of Fordragon Hold was not the only one rallying. As the Highlord took to the field, the undead swarming around the Wrathgate took notice. Ghouls, skeletons, and geists ceased shambling and creeping about aimlessly, and like a singular mind they turned their focus on the encroaching soldiers. Massive, fleshy abominations lumbered behind them, while hideous gargoyles swooped through the air above, ready to dive and rain down necromantic fire.
Battle was imminent, the match hovering above the fuse.
Unfazed, unflinching, Highlord Fordragon led the charge. The living crashed into the undead with a fury fueled by the memories of those who had been taken from them. This was a righteous crusade against an enemy without conscience. Even the most compassionate hearts had no room for mercy for these monsters—mere tools for a malevolent puppet master. Alliance mettle proved more than a match for the Scourge.
Auralind stood among the ranks of her fellow archers, focusing her attention on the soaring gargoyles. Every time she heard the heavy beat of their wings, she found a target. Thwip! Tchruk! The arrows drove through their rough, leathery skin with a disgusting, gravelly crunch—only her ears could pick up those subtle aural details. Such a delightful blessing her keen senses were sometimes.
A gargoyle crashed just a few feet from Auralind, struck but still writhing. Elu'shalla pounced, sinking his fangs into the creature's throat and chomping down with a terrible crunch of bone. The stubborn thing continued to twitch, and Auralind pinned its head with her foot before thrusting her sword through its ear.
Elu'shalla rumbled a complaint, licking his chops. She couldn't blame him for being picky about the flavor of gargoyle. She knelt down, digging a strip of mammoth meat from her satchel and feeding it to her beloved lion friend. "That should get the taste of Scourge out of your mouth."
In the moment of stillness amid the chaos of battle, Auralind's ears flickered. "Do you hear that, Shalla?" Something on the wind; a sound that didn't belong, and yet somehow familiar. Still, she could not place where it was coming from.
There was little time to think about it. An entirely new sound took her attention. Scraping and clanking of cold saronite. Angrathar! The Wrathgate was opening…something was emerging. Heavy footsteps…a battle roar! Vrykul! The giants thundered into battle, their massive axes and clubs cleaving through the Alliance forces like wet paper.
This is not the end.
Anderas's voice echoed in her mind. No, not this. This did not feel like doom. Vrykul were dangerous, but Cobalt Company had defeated them before. Sure this army could face them. "Archers!" she commanded, "Bring those vrykul down!"
Bows lowered their aim, still well above the heads of their allies, and unleashed a hurricane of arrows at the vrykul. Auralind heard many arrows find purchase, shattering ice as they stuck. Some of the vrykul slowed, but they did not stop. These giants were different, perhaps empowered by the Lich King somehow.
Elu'shalla roared and tensed to charge the vrykul, but Auralind held up a staying gesture. "No…stay with me…be with me. The lion gave a frustrated rumble, but consented and remained protectively at her side.
A horn pierced the air. Auralind knew the sound well: an orcish warhorn. She felt a faint rumbling in the ground, distant yipping and barking…then the raised voices of thousands of orcs, trolls, tauren, and sin'dorei in some of the few Orcish words she had learned to recognize: "FOR THE HORDE!"
Dranosh Saurfang had come. The Horde forces swept in, their worg-riders leading the charge, mighty axes and massive totem clubs hacking and smashing the frozen giants with a ferocity only the Horde can bring.
This is not the end.
Maybe, Anderas. Maybe there was hope after all.
Auralind's ears twitched. That sound again. Even with all the war cries and the raging storm of battle, there was something else…something that did not belong. Something Fordragon didn't know about, and that made it a threat. Elu'shalla stood alert; Auralind felt his tension. He heard it, too. "Help me find it, Shalla."
Elu'shalla bounded off like a slingshot, and Auralind struggled to keep up. They dashed through the chaos of the battlefield, ducking under a swinging vrykul axe. Auralind dodged aside as a worg fell…dead, its neck gashed open. Her heart sank for the poor creature; it should be hunting in a forest somewhere, not dying to the Scourge. With no time to mourn, she raced after Elu'shalla until they reached the base of a rocky slope at the base of Angrathar.
Tilting her head, Auralind listened to the wind. The sound was still faint, carried on the wind…from above. A ledge at the top of the slope. "Climb," she said, but Elu'shalla was already ascending ahead of her. She scrambled up the rocks, struggling for purchase. This was not like climbing trees, or even the mossy hills and mountains of Ashenvale or Feralas. The stones here had a skin of ice, dusted in snow. Every step threatened to slip out from underneath her.
As she ascended, the mysterious sound became clearer. It wasn't just one sound, it was many. She heard mechanical cranking, not unlike what she had often heard among dwarves and gnomes—but not so finely tuned as gnomish contraptions. And there were voices, all of them muffled, speaking a tongue she did not know, yet its cadence and inflection was not unlike Common.
The ledge was only another ten yards above her when the smell hit her like a month-old fish to the face. A putrid, sickening stench. A mix of decay and something like bile, and yet far worse; even the slight whiff of it burned her nostrils. The sense of impending doom bore down on her. Auralind gritted her teeth and climbed faster, Elu'shalla at her side.
She could make out dozens of voices before reaching the ledge itself. Sinking into the shadows of a boulder at the ledge, Auralind listened. Elu'shalla pressed to her side, watching with his steely blue eyes. There were people up here, working. They walked about…their gait was strange, a kind of loping walk. She'd heard it before…and suddenly she knew where she had heard that language before as well, and why it sounded like Common. It was Gutterspeak. They were Forsaken! But what were they doing? And why only Forsaken? As she considered it, she realized that she had not heard any Forsaken voices during the Horde charge; though it would have been easy to miss in all the chaos.
The mechanical sounds became clearer: large machines being rolled into position. "I must know what this is, Shalla" she whispered to the lion. "Please, I need your eyes." She closed her own eyes, laying her hand upon Elu'shalla's head, and concentrated, calling upon the nature magic she'd been taught long ago. Reaching out with her spirit, she touched Elu'shalla's, embracing until they joined, and vision came to her. She was viewing the world through the lion's eyes. Some colors were muted, but it was enough to see what was happening.
The Forsaken had a number of ballistae they had placed in position at the edge of the cliff. There were numerous wagons on the ledge carrying crates, from which the Forsaken were unpacking barrels with an eerie green glow. Those barrels were being loaded into the ballistae. Auralind frowned as she realized that all of the Forsaken were wearing gas masks. Her nose twitched; the barrels…that was the source of the bilious stench. That ammunition wasn't explosives, it was… "Oh, no…plague…"
One of the ballistae was already fully loaded, a Forsaken operator was at the lever. Another approached someone Auralind could not see through Elu'shalla's eyes, standing beyond one of the machines. "Va bor eynes, Majis Danavandar Putress," he said. "Se vohl wirsh."
"Ti ko," came a deep voice that sounded all too pleased with itself.
There was no time to warn the armies below. Armies…the Horde was down there as well. The Forsaken were attacking their own, as well. Auralind released Elu'shalla's sight and stood from her hidden position. She knew where her target was, and within a second, two arrows appeared in the back of the Forsaken ballistae operator. With a gurgle, he arched, then slumped to the ground.
Elu'shalla charged ahead to engage, leaping on the nearest Forsaken, tearing into her neck. Auralind let fly three more arrows, dropping three more Forsaken as they came to stop Elu'shalla, then she turned her attention again to the ballistae operators. She had to stop them from launching those barrels!
Quite suddenly, the sky fell…or the earth flew up to strike the back of her skull. It was not entirely clear; but Auralind felt a sudden, blunt pain in her head and the world spun, her ears ringing. She could not tell if she was standing or laying down. No…definitely laying down. She became vaguely aware of movement…she was being dragged. Her arms would not respond. Were they broken? No…her wrists…bound. How long had she been out?
The ringing had faded, leaving dull fog in her head. But gradually, sounds began to pierce it. Loud, mechanical clacks and cranks. The ballistae…they were launching. Explosions…screams. Elune's light, no…the Forsaken had unleashed their plague.
A voice came through the chaos, far too close to Auralind's face. "Brave of you to attack us on your own, just you and your kitten." It was the deep, self-righteous voice from before, the one they seemed to call 'Putress', speaking to her in Common. "Brave, but stupid. Do you hear that, blind one? Those are your friends and allies, dying in agony. I wanted you to know your efforts were for nothing before you joined them." His voice grew distant, the shuffle of his robes telling her he stood up. "Throw her and the lion into the ravine. Let their last breaths be of plague." He didn't have to give the command in Common, but it seemed crueler that way.
The lion. Elu'shalla! Her head clearing, she reached out with her spirit…he lived. But he was in great pain. Barely alive. "Don't touch him!" she screamed, "I'll tear your bones apart!" The Forsaken around her laughed as she struggled against her bonds.
Bony fingers gripped Auralind's arms, hoisting her to her feet. There was one dead man to each side of her, holding her. How could they be so strong with so little muscle? She could hear their faint breaths under their masks; they breathed so little compared to humans, but enough, it seemed, that their own plague was still a threat to them.
Elu'shalla gave a weak roar. She felt his pain as other Forsaken lifted his heavy body. She could smell his blood where they had cut him. He must have lost so much already. "Hold on, Shalla," she tried to comfort him, her voice cracking.
They started walking her toward the ledge. The sounds of the dying below grew louder in her ears. Auralind's heart pounded against her ribs. She pulled against the ropes binding her wrists. She struggled against her captors, but their hold was firm.
"Toss him in."
"NO! ELU'SHALLA!"
Auralind's soul screamed.
She was looking up, seeing herself at the top of the ledge, being held by two Forsaken. Colors were muted. She was getting smaller, further away. She was screaming, crying. She felt a desire to comfort…to nuzzle and make those tears go away. My pride. Protect. Love. The wind rushed past a moonlight-white mane. Then, all was enveloped in a haze of sickly green.
She was back in darkness, feeling the salty sting of hot tears in her eyes, streaming down her cheeks. They burned against her skin, sorrow boiling into rage. As the Forsaken moved to march her toward the edge, Auralind bellowed a roar of agonized feline fury. The dead men paused, just for a moment, at the unearthly sound.
A moment was all she needed. Auralind swung her body around at one of her captors, lunging at his throat. Her fangs plunged into his rancid flesh. With a jerk of her head she ripped out a mouthful, leaving him staggering backward, clutching at the wound as he collapsed to the ground. She whirled on the other Forsaken, her mouth dripping with black blood. He drew his sword, muttering some curse in Gutterspeak.
Auralind snarled like a rabid beast, crouched low, then darted forward. He swung his blade, and she ducked low, tangling her legs into his and sweeping him to the ground, face-first. No time to waste, she rolled over and brought her heel down on the back of his head repeatedly…until he stopped moving.
She had probably mere seconds to cut her ropes before other Forsaken came. Why weren't they upon her yet? She could hear calls and chatter in the camp, but couldn't understand the Gutterspeak. She took a knife from her dead captor, awkwardly maneuvering it behind herself to slice through the ropes around her wrists.
Then she heard it: the beating of wings. Not just any wings. These were enormous. Massive, powerful, scaled wings. Dragons.
That was why the Forsaken were paying no attention to her. There was something much more important on their minds. Dragons were coming. Why? What was their interest?
The plague. Alexstrasza was the Life-Binder. The plague was antithesis to her very being. She would send her red dragonflight to burn away the plague. But that meant this ledge was about to be engulfed in flames, and the Forsaken knew it, too.
Her hands freed, Auralind frantically unbuckled the gasmask from her fallen foe. No time to put it on yet. She could hear dragon wings above. She was about to be in an inferno.
Maybe there was no need to run. Maybe…this is the end. She had fought so hard, for nothing. Elu'shalla was gone. The Forsaken had defeated everyone.
This is not the end. Live, anu'aloris. Live for our love. Our Elun'alare.
Our Moonpetal. Nilunelle. Of course. Auralind winced at a stab of admonition for being so selfish. If she died here, Nilunelle would be devastated. She had to live. She had to get home to her daughter.
Auralind ran. Clutching the gasmask, she pushed her body as hard and fast as her legs would carry her to get off that ledge, away from the certain death of dragonfire. Behind her, she could already feel the heat even before the gouts of flame touched down. Then came thunderous explosions; they must be hitting the crates and the ballistae. The shockwaves slammed into Auralind as she reached the spot where she'd been knocked out, and they carried her right off her feet. The world spun as she was thrown through the air. A thick snowbank cushioned her impact…before consciousness slipped away again.
…
…death…in the frozen north…
…at Angrathar…the Wrathgate.
…
For days after the Battle of the Wrathgate, survivors had been trickling into Wintergarde Keep. On the third day, a night elf woman appeared riding a hippogryph, but on the ground. She wore the tabard of Cobalt Company, but held up the charred tabard of Fordragon's army to identify herself. She was haggard, dirty, and clearly exhausted and in need of food and care.
She cradled a large object in her lap astride the hippogryph, crudely wrapped in linens. When others from Cobalt Company were alerted and came to assist her, she instructed them to be careful, as the object was fragile. They could see in places through the linens that it was heavily charred…a body, but not humanoid.
A single patch of mane left unburnt…glistening moonlight-white.