This is a short fanfiction inspired by the Necrolords of Maldraxxus, only, it is a horror twist that features their champions returning to Azeroth for some dark deeds. Warnings for fantasy violence. Enjoy.
FROM THE REALMS OF DEATH
Those who had returned from the realms of death were not at all the same. Toragar’s camp had languished in the dusty silence of Deadwind Pass for months on orders from an ambitious new commander in Grom’gol, keeping track of the rare comings and goings of travelers. Little more than stray ogre scouts, or the rare reagent-hunting warlock were ever seen. And then a missive had arrived one day, floating into camp on the breath of some enchantment. Orders from Grom’gol, sent by the Nightborne magister who was posted there:
A trio of human warriors arrived in Stormwind Harbor nine nights ago. They have taken the old Elwynn road to Lakeshire, and are bound for the Pass. Observe their movements, and do not be seen. The wisdom of Orgrimmar suspects they have come with sinister ambitions for the tower. Be wary; they are from those who ventured into the Shadowlands.
The Shadowlands. Its name had hung grimly over the world of Azeroth in the months since the undead returned. Toragar had cut down his share, his axe a prized rarity he’d gotten for a good price at a Booty Bay auction. Now even the proudest orcs were more hesitant to face the perils of battle. Nobody knew for certain what had happened, save that mortal souls were being condemned to a brutal afterlife regardless of their deeds and character. Others took to the most underhanded and vicious acts, feeling free of judgment from the Great Beyond. No matter what happened, they were all heading to the same place in death, so they robbed travelers and raided pilgrim camps, slaughtered peasants and peons working in mines for their ore. The times were dark, but worst of all was the quiet. The cities were emptier. The news was brief. The leylines had, for the first time in a long while, bore the strain of portal travelers without much burden, for official business was becoming rarer and rarer. Why three human warriors were of concern, not only to Grom’gol but to Orgrimmar, disturbed Toragar.
His best tracker was Zendo, a soft-footed and soft-worded troll whose bundle of javelins had found their mark more often than not. The two of them made for where the Deadwind Pass lead up into the clay heavy foothills of Redridge Mountains, and there they waited.
Time passed slowly, but eventually they did catch sight of the warriors. They made no attempt at secrecy, but road on enormous stallions wearing full plate regalia. Not a squire attended them, and only one extra horse for provisions followed. They seemed, even from a distance, bizarrely tireless. Yet Zendo’s spyglass did not suggest they were death knights. Their eyes were the eyes of men, born and bred of Azeroth. Yet something in their silence was unnerving. The two members of the Horde followed them dutifully down the pass, watching for any sign of reason for why they had come. It was said the campaign in the Shadowlands was hard-fought, and ever active. So what had they come back for?
The first night granted some clues as to their presence. From their hiding place in the hills above, Toragar and Zendo watched as the warriors at last disarmed themselves of their claymores and plate mail, and set camp and ate, and even spoke a little.
“It is in his nature to plan ahead,” one said.
“I don’t bemoan the war, and it’s sure to go on when this is all over,” another said.
“Even with…” the words were uncertain in the night air, “… that tower is cursed thrice over. There isn’t a more damned place on Azeroth.”
“We won’t even need to go inside,” the first had said, who seemed to be the leader. His long mane of black hair gave him a furtive, yet aristocratic look. “This,” he began, and held up his hand, “shall do the work for us.” Their camp was suddenly illuminated by a ghastly green glow, and a strange moaning sound murmured from the site of the magic. A writhing ball of energy was summoned from his hand, and if ever there was something that Toragar suspected was necromantic just from the looks of it, this was it. The humans all seemed to look upon the spell with reverence, and then the leader shut his palm and the spell vanished. The fire crackled innocently in its lesser glow, and they spoke little more.
The next day did not go without incident. As they began their descent into the lower valley of the pass, where loomed the great tower of Karazhan, the warriors encountered a pack of ogres. The enormous warriors, the only ones stupid or brave enough to make any long term shelter in Deadwind, charged the three directly on the road. There were six ogres, five of them armed with clubs, and one of them, a two-headed rarity, waggled his fingers in the preparation of a spell. Fireballs burst forth from his hands, pounding into the road and coughing up spumes of heavy burning dust into the air. The warriors charged on their stallions into the fray, cutting down two of the ogres in the first attack. They pulled their mounts back to a higher position on the road and dismounted. The three of them each began to channel something, and that strange green magic returned. Surrounding each warrior was a kind of spell shield, but not like any Toragar or Zendo had ever seen. It actually smelled like corpses, a pungent odor filled the air. They had faced necromancers and death knights before, so why did this dark magic seem so strange to them? The eerie glow was simply not of this world, not even of liches and warlocks’ magic, not even akin to the burning light of the fel that the demons wielded. Something about it was almost saddening, and the smell had suggestions of sweetness and nostalgia that made it all the more oppressive.
The warriors, shielded by the strange necromantic magic, charged forth, each one meeting with one of the surviving ogres as the magi performed rites of bloodlust from their back line. The ogres were enchanted to swing their massive clubs impossibly fast; but the warriors did not try to parry the blows or avoid them. The mystic shields that guarded them absorbed the strikes completely, and the dumbfounded ogres were helpless as they were cut down in a few strikes each. As the ogre magi stood there, frozen in fear, the sky began to darken, and the ground trembled. Rising from the very earth was a massive pillar of bone, gnarled and twisted, and hanging from its lip was a banner whose sigil none on Azeroth had ever seen. The warriors let out mad cries of battle frenzy, and their slaughter of the magi was just that; they tore the ogre to pieces with their claymores, leaving the dusty road blood red for yards around.
After Toragar had witnessed their effortless slaughter of the ogres, he knew this was no longer something to watch in silence. He bade Zendo return to camp at once and get word to Grom’gol as to the nature of these warriors. He would continue to watch from afar, and see just what they planned to do at Karazhan. He only hoped Grom’gol was ready to aid, with the magister’s portals and the loyal warriors of the Horde ready to enter from the other side. Nothing about these human warriors seemed to suggest they would go down with anything less than a bloody fight to the end.
“Ya be careful, captain,” Zendo said. “That’s bad magic ta make a Loa turn him eyes away. Someting rotten and black ‘at shouldn’t be in dis world.” The dutiful troll said no more, but clasped Toragar’s hand and nodded, and then turned away, hastening silently back up the pass.
The lowland in which Karazhan rose was a depressive place, all the gloominess of the Deadwind Pass made complete by its silent ruin. Haunting echoes sounded through the air; even before the tower, in the ancient days of the world, Toragar expected this land had always been unnatural.
Toragar crept into one of the ruined houses that lay at the foot of the tower, watching in silence as the warriors cantered forward on their horses. All at once, they seemed to nod at one another, and dismounted, ushering forth their mounts, including the pack horse. What happened next made even a seasoned orc battler wince. They drew their claymores and, without pause for ceremony, slew their own stallions, and the pack horse too! The great, noble beasts collapsed whining in the dust, their eyes wide in fear and shock at the betrayal of their masters. With some effort, they drew all the beasts’ corpses into a pile before the tower, and raised their claymores over them.
All at once, they spoke: “We call upon the powers of Maldraxxus! We call upon the Primus!” Once more, the sky darkened and the ground trembled. Once more, the great, gnarled tendril of bone emerged, rumbling, from the earth, the strange, tattered banner hanging from it. The warriors drove their claymores into the earth, and began to mutter words that Toragar could not hear. Strange sights shimmered in the air, and a green pallor overtook the sky. Small waves of energy leapt and twirled through the air like fish, eerie emanations of magic. And then, there were larger, darker things. Visions of riders in tattered robes and black plate armor raced through the sky, wielding terrible blades and scythes of ornate design. They howled in spectral form as they went back and forth through the air.
“It is not complete!” One of the warriors cried out amidst the soulstorm they were summoning. “We need more!"
The leader looked up grimly, and Toragar’s heart seemed to stop for a moment; he was looking directly at him. “There are mortals here yet.” The two others’ heads snapped to attention, and suddenly they were all looking at the tiny emergence of Toragar’s eyes from the outcropping of the ruins. They drew their claymores out from the ground and began to stalk towards him.
“The worst damnation may await me,” Toragar said to himself. “But I cannot forsake honor now!” He strode out from the ruin without any hesitance, brandishing his mighty war-axe. It seemed that this ritual had deprived the warriors of the power they needed to create their magic shields, or they simply did not bother to summon them. They marched forward regardless, plate armor shining in the weird darkness of their ritual, claymores ready.
Toragar roared and charged. His axe was well suited to keeping multiple combatants at bay. His orcish strength allowed him to sweep the weapon in wide, powerful arcs that even the greatest human fighter could never dream of achieving. Their claymores’ steel sang in response, clattering with his axe, as they tried to get close at him. One of them made a feint to get close; it was his mistake. Toragar let one of his hands drop from the grip of his weapon for a moment and bashed at the humans’ skull; the plate helmet only added to the severity of the blow from his massive fist. The warrior staggered and fell to the ground as the others advanced. Toragar got his axe up just in time to weather the mighty strikes of their claymores. The sounds of their combat rung out below the soulstorm.
Toragar’s rage carried him farther than he could have hoped. The second warrior had made an overconfident thrust attack and missed his mark. Toragar took the opportunity and separated the human’s head from his body with one mighty sweep of his axe. Now only the black-haired leader was left.
“Their corpses are just as useful. When my work is done, it won’t have mattered at all,” he hissed. His attacks came swiftly. Had he been holding back? The thrill of single combat seemed to inspire him more than Toragar could have imagined. The fatigued warrior struggled to keep up with the resounding clashes the enemy’s claymore brought. His guard was failing, and as his rage dwindled the terrible mood of the scene all around him demoralized his vigor greatly. A spectral rider galloped overhead, cackling in glee, and Toragar saw an overhead strike coming down hard, and he knew his strength was wasted. He could not muster a defense. If Zendo had made it back to camp and gotten the message out, it hadn’t been fast enough. No one was coming, at least not for him. The swing of the warrior’s blade was the last thing he saw, and then all went to darkness.