"No weapon exists rivaling fear in its potency. The Scourge emphasized that lesson above all others and each of us, from ghoul to Death Knight, embodied the philosophy down to our animated bones. But the Old Gods were greater masters of fear than even the Deathlord’s aspirations. Their doomsayers stood on every street corner, preaching of incurable madness and irresistible whispers calling from the dark places between stars, and their wooden crates appeared faster than the city guards could remove them. Even the king’s advisors warned of inevitable destruction, citing ancient texts indecipherable to those outside their closely-guarded orders, and kept their liege awake into the first wisps of dawn detailing the horrors they faced if the Old Gods emerged from their eternal slumber. The whole of the world existed in panic, whether king or warchief, peon or beggar, as dark portents became more frequent and ill omens weaved themselves into the fabric of daily life.
When the Old Gods did emerge, sending ambassadors rather than armies and extended treaties rather than spears, the fear gripping the world reached a fever pitch. The hearts and minds of Azeroth were conquered before the first k’thir arrived bearing their message; cooperate and you shall be made strong. They promised peace and prosperity, but in return they asked for one last war to be waged–a return to Northrend, to complete the eradication of undead forgotten so many decades ago, and eradication of the Knights of the Ebon Blade. Initial resistance ignited, but fear did not represent the sole weapon of the Old Gods’ arsenals and the flames of rebellion died like lit matches in heavy rain. The agreements between Acherus, the Alliance and the Horde were dissolved with elaborate strokes of quill. Those we wronged in our path to preserve our world came to hate us more than their ravening overlords. They sought to vent their frustrations upon our Order, attempting to believe that with the threat of undeath purged, they could find the strength, one day, to persevere against the Void.
Yet, such things are beyond the grasp of mortality. As we have always done, we of Acherus shall do what the living cannot; even if we must walk across a field of their corpses to see our duty done. Though we must remain in a persistent retreat from those who have always been our enemies and those who were once our friends, we shall never allow defeat. Death is eternal and so, too, must be our vigilance.
We know what it means to suffer well. Our enemies shall not."
– Journal entry of Garend Hollowgrave, the Hanged Knight, of the Order of the Ebon Blade.
The withered trees of Duskwood bent low their boughs in the presence of the massacre. Twelve guards, responsible for escorting a large corpse cart to the incinerators, lay scattered around their charge. Their lifesblood seeped into the hungry earth, weeping through cracks of armor or the stumped memory of limbs. Around them, three figures walked amidst the carnage. They, too, strode amidst the consequences of their duty like caretakers in a graveyard.
“How long has it been since we found a patrol that still had faces?”, Talbod asked as he shook a severed head from a rent helm. He examined the grim token from behind his helmet a fanged maw, his breath a chilled fog against the summer evening. An idle finger rubbed against the tentacled remains of a k’thir’s mouth. The guard’s look of anguish was a delightful dessert to the banquet from which the three sated their Hunger.
“Too long”, Lark spoke up from near the corpse cart. Larkspur Plagueheart, a Blood Elf whose blindfold covered the empty homes of his stolen eyes, stood vigil over the deceased. A thin cloud of moths fluttered around him, some clinging to his armor like jewelry while others rested near his large ears and whispered secrets the elf never shared. His ears were bent now, drooped low, as if they bore an indescribable weight. “Looks like the remains of rebels. Their souls are angry. They did not die easy.”
“I’d say not, that poor bastard’s just a torso!” Talbod brought the k’thir’s head and gave a cursory glance over the corpse cart. “At least they’re not the only ones on this road who died hard. Maybe that will give them some peace.” He placed the severed head on the corner of the cart, letting the tortured souls within see that, at least, some justice could still be found.
Across a wide ditch, Garend Hollowgrave held vigil over the dessicated corpse of a guard, like a dark angel perched upon a tombstone. All three knights would return to Acherus with their Hungers sated, but Garend feasted the most of the small team. Of the fifteen guards, ten were supposed to be captured and returned to the Ebon Hold so the other knights, too, could feed. But these were hard times; Lark, Talbod and Garend found themselves carried away in the bloodletting. Only three guards survived, and one would not see the end of their journey–‘one for the road’, as Talbod said.
Sadly, it was not an uncommon occurrence from the raids. Easy meals were years behind the Order. First come, first serve had become unwritten, but understood, law. Garend’s thoughts lingered on memories of his service as an executioner to the crown of Stormwind. He’d never hungered in those days, a month between meals of suffering at most, while serving his king and his Lady Death. Now, the King of Stormwind hadn’t been seen in months and necessity demanded he kneel to a more northern throne. Garend’s fingers wrapped around the noose dangling from his neck, weathered but still possessing all the strength of the oak from which he’d hanged. Even through the gauntlet, he could feel every knot and twist of the rope. He tended it like an old man stroking the tail of a favorite cat. It was his namesake, a memoir, and a warden to his prison.
“We should get going”, Talbod spoke up loud enough for Garend to hear. “They were supposed to meet another group a few miles up. Their friends will come looking.”
Garend tightened the grip he held on the k’thir’s throat. Broken limbs twitched in protest. Black eyes bulged with hatred, fear and pain. It was an exquisite feeling. The guard’s neck snapped with a slow, grating sound. The head fell limp. Garend’s longsword, Reprieve, looked on jealously from its sheathe. He stood with one last, long look at the warm corpse and turned back to the others. “Will they serve?”, he asked while looking at Lark.
“The bodies are in bad shape, but nothing our flesh-crafters can’t fix. It’d be best if we could reunite them with their own limbs but that seems a difficult prospect. I’m not even sure some of these arms or legs belong to anyone in the cart. Still, better than nothing.” There was sorrow in Lark’s voice. The moths carried the thoughts of the dead to his ears, perching like earrings as they translated the agony of lost souls.
“No, I mean will they serve us? Are they prepared to sacrifice what little the Old Ones have left them to carry on the war? Will they serve willingly?”
Lark’s brow furrowed as he looked over the nightmarish contents piled between the old boards. Yellowed teeth and whitened eyes stared back, unseeing. A chill edged into the tired wind that persisted through Duskwood like a dying breath. “They will serve whatever capacity be asked of them. Even the maggots are bloated with anger.”
“Good. Let’s take them home.”
The horses pulling the cart fled early in the fight, tearing loose from their reigns and bolting along the road as fast as their hooves could carry. Luckily, there remained enough to hook up a replacement to take the prize home. Their destination lingered ten miles to the southeast–a family graveyard just large enough for a Deathgate to return them all to Acherus. Between the three Knights, it was decided that Marrow would pull the cart.
Unlike his sisters and brethren of the Order, Garend did not ride a steed. Instead, he rode an undead donkey whom he had known in life, named Marrow. Even amongst the Dark Riders, Marrow was considered to be the most hateful, pissy animal to ever walk on hooves. He was a poitou, with thick, matted fur dangling from his body. Strands covered his face, and the blue lichfire of his eyes peered through the forest of hair like the mourning veil of a widow. More than a mount, Marrow served as Garend’s traveling companion. Once, they were a welcome, if gruesome, sight on the roads of the Eastern Kingdom as they traveled to distant villages and hamlets to dispense the king’s high justice. Now, like all the others of Acherus, they were hunted to the ends of the earth.
“He can pull it, but he won’t like it.” Garend commented as he harnessed Marrow to the cart. “Of course he won’t like it. Marrow doesn’t like anything.” Talbod saw to securing the few, living prisoners and relished in the tightness of their bonds. In response, Marrow flicked his tail and farted. The smell brought the k’thir guards vomiting into their gags, and the few moths that were indulging their flitting curiosity fled back to Lark for safety.
“We should bury them”, Lark raised the idea tentatively, “We shouldn’t just leave them scattered along the road like this.” “No time”, Talbod refuted without looking up from the cart. “We’re already lagging behind schedule. Couldn’t afford it even if we wanted to.” Garend patted Marrow’s side, where exposed ribs and organs peeked through large holes of the donkey’s flesh. “Give them your peace, Lark. We’ll finish getting the cart ready and turned around, but then we have to go.”
“I miss when the dead could still find respect”, Lark said as he knelt amongst the carnage. “I miss when the Draenei had a monopoly on face-tentacles”, Talbod said as he yanked one of the k’thir. “And pancakes.” “Pancakes?” “Yeah, pancakes. When I was in the army we’d come in from a long day of marching and digging latrines, exhausted and covered in blisters, and we’d sit down to a big mess of pancakes. Plus, I’d get extra from picking up latrine duties from the rest of the squad. Made them taste better than first love. I like to think as long as there’s blueberries, milk, eggs and flour, there’s still hope for the world.” Talbod glanced off into the woods, drifting through old memories. “I wonder where the Draenei are now.”
“Not sure anyone knows. They said they weren’t going to spend their lives fighting for a world that didn’t want to fight for itself, so the Prophet packed them all up and left. As far as I know, the only ones still on Azeroth are those who stayed with the Order.” Garend spat a blob of phlegm into the ditch. “At least the Night Elves had the decency to stay in Kalimdor after they broke from the Alliance. I hear that fighting is more brutal than Northrend. The forests are nothing more than pin-point arrows and slit throats over there, from what I know. Whole regiments go missing overnight. Ugly business, even by our standards.”
Lark’s whispers emerged in the conversational lull. The elf went from body to body, muttering something in a language neither of his companions could understand. Civility and savagery held a momentary ceasefire in the name of respect for the fallen.
“Do you think we’ll ever win?”, Talbod asked as he pulled his horse next to the cart. Garend sat on a wooden bench which groaned in protest, holding Marrow’s reigns as the donkey worried at a pile of crab grass. Wet balls slopped from the beast’s open stomach as it swallowed. “I don’t know. Even if we can send the Old Gods back into their dens, we’ll have participated in open war against both Horde and Alliance. Not to mention we’ll be up to our eyeballs in debt to the Frozen Throne for the aid He’s granted us. We may find ourselves having restored peace to the world only to be thrown into shackles for the trouble. I doubt we’ll ever be able to negotiate with the Alliance or the Horde. Some of our brothers tried early on, especially from the Horde, but most of them were piked for it. The early purge was costly for us. I wish we could have rescued more.” Garend’s hand returned to his noose, and the thick strands ached against the wounds pressed deeply into his neck. “Do you think we’ll ever win, Talbod?”
“No idea. I try not to think about it. That kind of stuff can drive a person mad, and sanity is in short supply these days. I think about pancakes instead; makes everything a lot easier.”
Lark pulled up atop his steed, the elf on one flank of the cart while Talbod took the other. “It’s done, or the best I could do with such little time.” His ear’s remained droopy; the war offered precious few opportunities for them to stand upright. Moths circled his head like a crown.
“Let’s get our new recruits back to Acherus, then. Hyah, Marrow!”
It took ten minutes and two apples before Marrow budged. The three Death Knights took some solace that, despite how much of the world had changed, the donkey’s temperament, at least, persisted.