The fights we take

There was power.

As he carefully made his way over the blighted soil of Deatholme he felt it throbbing in the back of his head.

The place was packed up with strong magic, the ley lines converging towards the tower that rose threateningly in the middle of the citadel. He could trace them in his mind, the energy of the land itself converted into something more powerful, yet so dark it sent shivers down his spine only thinking of it.

The mindless creatures of the Scourge roamed towards him from all sides, driven like fireflies by the sparkle of a candle. It was his life they claimed, the force behind them requiring the utter extinction of everything that breathed.

Fighting his way inside, step by step, the voidwaker charging at the wailing spirits and the huge, horribly looking nerubian spiders.

He hated spiders, Eireannan thought, summoning yet another bolt of shadow that hit the creature, sending it to the ground, its thin legs frozen at awkward angles.

We believe that Dar’khan Drahtir has returned, the Regent had said, his eyes flickering with a spark of hatred and disgust. It was a well known story the two had once been close friends, before the war. Before Dar’khan’s schemes to steal the power of the Sunwell for himself had been exposed. Before he had willingly provided Arthas with the precious information he had used to crush the elven defenses and make his way into Silvermoon.
We have already failed twice in our attempts to destroy that…that undead monstrosity that is responsible for the slaughter of our people.

Resources were scarce in the Ghostlands. Almost all those that could fight had long gone through the Dark Portal to join Kael’thas in the Outland.

I will do it.

A loud crack as he swept with his sword over one of the approaching skeletons and the pile of bones fell to the ground.

No man can take Deatholme alone.

The voidwalker growled at his enemies and Eireannan focused again on the fight, whispering curses under his breath, the enormous spiders writhing in searing agony.

I will.

He didn’t stop to look at the trail of bones and corpses he left behind. Focus was everything. Pushing his own strength as far as it would go.

You’ll die.

The pain as the stream of shadow magic hit him right in the back. His demonic shield absorbed most of it, but it was still enough to make every nerve ending in his body twitch. He staggered, turning on the spot to see the necromancer that was just summoning the second bolt. There was another roaring sound when the voidwalker intercepted one of the huge spiders that was aiming at Eireannan’s head. It took him a second to regain equilibrium and, letting the demon deal with the second attacker, he dashed to the necromancer, dodging the bolt.

No I won’t. Not today.

The sword felt heavy as he lifted it with both hands, aiming at the human’s head. He missed it though and only smashed his shoulder. The sound of cracking bones made his stomach clench. The man fell, with a muffled scream, from the force of the blow, struggling to cast another spell. Eireannan lifted the sword again and drove the blade through his chest this time, bringing him down for good.

It starts in Deatholme. But it won’t stop here.

Running forward on the winding path that leaded into the tower.

Blood on his hands.
Again.

There was power in that place and now he felt it stronger than before. The temptation.

He quickly dispatched the two shadowy forms guarding the entrance. Pausing a second to catch his breath before sliding in.
He focused on the inward sounds, trying to ignore the thundering beats of his own heart. The tower seemed to speak with a thousand voices, humming and vibrating under the touch of a stranger.

It starts in Deatholme. But it won’t stop here. I won’t let it stop.

He went down the stairs, carefully following the wall, so as not to bump unexpectedly into an enemy. There were three of them, all necromancers. He sent his demon to take care of one and darted forward towards the other two.

They hit him and it hurt again.

But the pain was just fuel, Eireannan thought, as he raised his hands above his head to call down the fire. It poured over them and within minutes it was over. The smell of burned clothes and charred flesh, raising from the two corpses was so strong he had to fight the sudden rush of memories.

The pyres.

No.

Don’t think of that.

Focus.

The sounds of fighting had stirred the undead creature that lurked in that forsaken place. Another face he’d known when he was younger. Dar’khan Drahtir, member of the Convocation of Silvermoon. Now twisted into a cruel smile as he took in the sudden apparition of the intruder.

“Another one who wishes to join the dead?” he asked, his voice sounding exactly like his features were. Low, cruel, wicked.

“You dare challenge me by coming to this place? You will die and be raised to serve the one true master.”

Eireannan shivered. It was a possibility he had considered during the long sleepless night that had preceded his insane attempt. One that terrified him. He fought his emotions, trying to bring them to a bearable level. In the end, it all came down to winning the fight. The alternative was simply unconceivable.

They faced each other for what seemed like an eternity. Fingers poised on the sword hilt, so hard it ached, as he forced himself to endure the fixed, venomous gaze of the undead mage.

Assessing him.

Trying to find his weakness.

Eireannan shivered again. The demon stirred and growled behind him, and for a second his attention was attracted by the sound, enough for Dar’khan to send a bolt of dark energy towards him. He avoided it – barely. It hit the wall behind, shattering the stones into pieces. Some of them pierced his skin, leaving blood trails on his face.

And then there was the sudden, unexpected rush of panic, making him want to run, run away and hide, as his mind and will failed him altogether…

Suffering followed soon.

Dark.

Niniel’s body laying sprawled in a grotesque position in the blood soaked grass.

The smell of death.

Fear.

Just a spell, Eireannan forced himself to reason, as he fell to his knees, panting from the pain inflicted by Dar’khan’s curse of Agony. Just a spell. He’d used it hundreds of times before to weaken his enemies.

And he wasn’t going down under his own fel magic.

The hell he wasn’t!

He heard the inhuman laugh of Dar’khan Drathir as the undead drew closer, bathing in the weakness of his victim.

“Did you say your goodbyes?”

Come closer.

“How stupid to imagine you can defeat me!”

Closer.

“ And now you shall serve my master as well”.

No, I won’t.

Eireannan rose in a single move, pushing with both hands the sword through Drathir’s chest. Turning it around to widen the gush into the dead flesh, while the other one squirmed, trying to break free.

Whispering the words like a litany.

“Suffer.”

Unable to push him away, the undead mage extend his hand, grabbing Eireannan’s arm, forcefully. A fel –yellow green light spread over the place where it touched him. Eireannan gasped again, in shock, as he felt it reaching to the core of his being, to drain away his life force.

“Burn”.

Pulling himself back to plunge again the cold steel into the even colder body that was greedily draining him.

Again. And again, through the searing flames that engulfed them both.

Until it was over.

The undead body fell to the ground with a muffled sound. Eireannan stepped back, hands trembling, struggling for breath. A sort of satisfied smirk showed up on his lips, as he shoved his boot into the corpse to roll it on its back.

This man had opened the gates of Silvermoon to the Scourge. How many thousands had died because of him? How many others wandered under foreign skies, bound to demons and fel magic because of him?

“I told you it is not today that I die.” he whispered in the silence of the hall, while pulling the dagger and calmly proceeding to the gruesome task of removing Dar’khan’s head.

Revenge was such a bad, corrupting and deliciously flavored thing, after all.