Chapter Seven
The young king was yelling again, loud enough that Vyra wondered if a vein might finally burst in his forehead. She and Roach exchanged an uncomfortable look before turning back to the chaos unfolding inside the command tent.
“Where is Khadgar?!” Anduin shouted. “The man’s been missing for the past two years, doesn’t he know there’s a freaking old god on the loose?”
Archmage Modera stood wringing her hands in front of his desk, sweat dripping down from her gray hair. “Your grace, I tried searching for him in Dalaran and Karazhan. I can’t contact him magically either.”
The king’s eyes widened, throwing his hands up and looking around the room as if he was confused, “Are you kidding me right now? Azeroth is on the brink and he decides to take a vacation without telling anyone!?”
Jaina Proudmoore, quiet until now, shifted in the corner near him. Her trademark armored blue-white-and-gold robes glinted in the lamplight, her hands resting calmly on her staff. “I can try finding him,” she offered, her firm voice cutting through the quiet.
Anduin whirled in his chair facing her, slicing his hand through the air, “No, Jaina. We need you here. You’re one of the most powerful mages on Azeroth. I need you here to help us fight the old god. Modera, please keep searching.”
Archmage Modera nodded profusely, performing a slight bow before hurrying out the tent.
“And where are the other dragons?!” Anduin demanded. His eyes snapped to Zidormi, who had been trying to blend into a support post. “Zidormi, where are Alexstrasza and Nozdormu?”
The bronze dragon, cloaked in human form and black-and-white robes, stepped forward, brushing aside a lock of her dark hair. “My Lord is occupied with the Infinite Dragonflight. As for my Lady, I… I believe she is tending to her eggs, Your Grace.”
“Oh, that’s so nice,” Anduin said in the most sarcastic tone Vyra had ever heard. “Please go tell the Dragonqueen that if she doesn’t help us stop N’zoth we’re all going to be cooked and those eggs are gonna be scrambled. Thank you.”
Zidormi’s jaw nearly dropped to the floor upon hearing that, she quickly nodded and ran out of the tent. Vyra watched her go.
Was she crying?
Anduin stood up, pressing his palms to the desk. His eyes shifted to Genn Graymane who’d been standing off to the side like an old balding statue. “Am I crazy, Genn? Or does it seem like no one’s taking this old god threat seriously? I mean where the hell is everyone?”
Genn let out a thin, breathless laugh., “You’re not crazy, high king, I can assure you of–.”
He didn’t finish. The tent flaps opened, spilling in a gust of wind as Lor’themar Theron, First Arcanist Thalyssra, and Baine Bloodhoof strolled in, followed by Thrall.
Anduin stabbed a finger at them. “And where have you three been!?”
The horde leaders exchanged confused looks with one another before Lor’themar stepped forward, “Anduin, we are all prominent leaders of the horde, we are not your subjects to scold.”
Anduin walked straight toward him. “I’m sorry Lor’themar, did you miss those giant tentacles flapping around outside?”
“No, I didn’t miss–”
“Did you see those giant burning eyeballs?” Anduin stepped so close their noses almost touched. “N’Zoth is trying to kill or enslave all of us. That means we’re in this together. So yes, for this moment, under my tent, I am your king.”
Silence crashed over the room. Lor’themar’s face looked incredulous, Thalyssra’s violet eyes batted between them, probably wondering if they were going to start throwing hands. Baine’s mouth just hung open.
Roach leaned toward Vyra. “Too bad we don’t have popcorn.”
She tried to shush him, but it came out half-shush, half-giggle.
The tension snapped when Thrall stepped forward. He cleared his throat, voice steady. “Forgive His Highness, my friends. This war with the Old God has been…stressful.”
Anduin Wrynn spun around on his heels, cloak flapping behind him, “No, Thrall, this isn’t stress. This is a nightmare that I want over with, sooner rather than later. Now let’s get together and plan this defense.”
He raised his voice. “Everyone else out!”
The line out of the command tent was slow and tedious. Eventually the rumble of voices and fresh air from outside hit them, carrying the acrid, smoky scent of forges and camp fires. Soon the smell of baking cinnamon rolls and roasting meat filled her nostrils and for just that moment she wished she wasn’t dead.
“You smell that, Vyra?” Roach asked, taking in a deep whiff. “What I’d give for a bite of succulent, tender, smoked brisket.”
“Please stop, I’m about to cry,” she said.
Oh my goddess, being undead sucks.
Roach and Vyra picked their way through the horde and alliance until they made it to the Ebon Blade’s camp site. They walked by the dragon pen, Vyra giving Evara a gentle rub on her snout as they passed.
The Four Horsemen had gathered ahead, with a line of death knights standing at attention. Orders were being shouted. When Nazgrim spotted them, he jabbed a finger their way. “You two are on grave detail,” he barked. “Plenty of corpses still on the field. Stack them on carts and get them to the makeshift morgue on the east side of the lake. Sort them by race. Wrap ‘em in those enchanted black cloths, they’ll keep the bodies preserved until they can be transported back to their home lands.”
“What?” Vyra folded her arms. “Because we’re undead, the living give us corpse duty?”
Nazgrim growled, mouth twitching between his tusks. “Vyra, I’m this close to sticking this foot in your a**. You almost got yourself and that frost wyrm killed with that dive stunt you pulled earlier today. I may be dead, but I’m not blind. Move now, or I’ll be digging two fresh graves right here!”
“Yes, General!” she yelped.
Roach snapped a salute beside her.
Together, they ran off like orc peons being told to get back to work.
~~~~~~
The field around Whitepetal Lake looked different now that the fighting had stopped. Smoke hung low over the grass, drifting in thin gray ribbons from shattered siege engines and burned-out mantid carapaces. The ground was torn in long, ugly streaks where spells or claws or blades had carved through the soil. Here and there, pools of water from frost spells reflected the violet sky overhead. Huge piles of mantid and mogu corpses burned in the distance, the stench a mix of burning and decay, as the smoke bled into the sky.
Vyra moved through the aftermath slowly. Bodies lay scattered in every direction, humans and orcs in dented plate, axes, swords, and shields still clutched in their still hands. Two Tauren lay collapsed beneath shields that were half melted from mantid acid. Blood soaked into the earth in dark patches, long since cooled. She knelt beside each fallen soldier, lifting them carefully, making sure their limbs didn’t drag or snag on anything. Roach was already loading the first cart. “It didn’t seem like so many of us had fallen when we were in the midst of battle,” he said. “Now here in the aftermath, this is…surreal.”
A draenei vindicator lay half-buried in a patch of churned mud, shield cracked nearly in two. Vyra braced her boots and pulled him free. The lightless crystals on his armor glimmered faintly as she lifted him onto the cart beside a dwarf still clutching a battered rifle. Roach had placed the body of his fallen wolf companion next to him.
“I remember seeing him after I fell off Evara,” she said. “He was blasting mogu left and right with that rifle, the wolf was leaping from one to the other, tearing out chunks of flesh.”
“Damn.” Roach leaned over and rolled the dwarf’s eyes shut, “Rest in peace, brother.”
Farther ahead, a blood elf archer lay where he had fallen. A large mantid arm covered in serrated edges snapped beneath Vyra’s boots as she made her way to him. When she grabbed his feet she saw the tuft of orange hair belonging to a dark spear troll shaman whose tusks were cracked, his totems lay broken around him, trampled. Roach dragged the bodies of two goblins toward the cart next.
The deeper they went, the quieter the battlefield became. The sounds of the encampment, Thrall barking orders, steel being forged, prayers sung by the priests faded behind her. In their place was only the wind moving through scorched reeds and the soft scrape of armor against armor as she worked. She reached a low ridge where several Stormwind knights lay fallen together, mantid spikes impaling them. A broken alliance banner lay trampled and muddy still clutched in one of their gauntlets.
As Vyra stepped closer to them she saw the unmistakable long ears of a night elf.
A Kaldorei warrior lay on his back, eyes half-closed. His breastplate was split down the center, the metal bent inward from a blow she couldn’t identify. One arm stretched toward his greatsword just inches out of reach. His face was still, peaceful in a way. She knelt beside him, brushing debris from his hair. For a moment, she didn’t move. The ghostly hollow ache came back in her chest, slow, but sharp. Memories she didn’t want came creeping back, of her, Maelyn, and Nadyea laughing as they swam along the shore of the veiled sea near Teldrassil.
Vyra pressed her palm to the night elf’s cold forehead and bowed her head. She no longer believed Elune would hear her, but she said the prayer anyway. The words felt distant, broken at the edges, but she tried none the less. “Elune-adore, brother.” When she lifted him, she cradled his head carefully, making sure it didn’t fall to one side. She carried him back across the field, and lowered him gently onto the cart among the others.
Roach paused his work long enough to look at her, “You alright?”
“No, I’m not,” she admitted. How could she be when yet again she was carrying the body of another of her people. Thousands died when Teldrassil burned, now more were being sacrificed to the bloody altar known as Azeroth.
He approached her cautiously, his voice dropping softer, “What’s wrong?”
“Everything.” She stared out over the carts of bodies. “Why does everyone want this world so badly? They either want to destroy it or enslave it and we’re always caught in the middle. Why?!” Her voice echoed across the battlefield then faded into the night.
“I wish I knew,” Roach murmured. He set a steady hand on her shoulder. “If you need a break, I can finish up here.”
She shook her head. “No. Let’s just get it done.”
~~~~~~
The eastern side of the lake had been cleared earlier in the evening, the ground flattened, with wooden stakes dividing up the land in sections, bearing the symbols of each race. Priests and paladins of every race walked solemnly through the rows of bodies whispering prayers to the light. Lanterns were gripped in their hands or attached to their belts, their light flickering across the water and casting long beams over the fallen. Forsaken and other death knights knelt down wrapping the bodies in the black cloths enchanted by the mages to halt decay for a time.
Vyra and Roach guided the carts into the empty sections of rows. Humans were placed together, armor smoothed and hands folded, as were the gnomes, draenei, worgen, and the rest. Horde soldiers lay in other sections, orc, tauren, troll, blood elf, forsaken, each draped in black cloths that fluttered gently whenever the night breeze shifted off the lake. With so many bodies together now the mages’ preservation enchantments on the cloth left the air faintly chilled, the air tinged with a strange metallic cold that seemed to cling to her.
They unloaded the first cart carefully, lifting the bodies, adjusting limbs, straightening armor plates, chainmail, and robes where they could before placing the black cloths around them. The night elf warrior she had carried earlier was placed among their kin, the black cloth drawn over and wrapped around him gently. She lingered for a moment before turning back to the carts.
The second and third carts were lighter. They sorted them by faction and race, placing each body in their respective sections of land. A few empty spaces remained between rows, waiting for more. Vyra laid the dwarf hunter and his gray wolf next to each other as close as possible. Before she finished wrapping him, she saw a sealed letter sticking partly out of his leather coat. She pulled it free, reading the blurred letters on the front:
To: Grannik Quickeye of Kharanos.
She tucked the letter beneath her chest armor and finished wrapping up hunter and companion.
The lake beside them was still. Not a ripple broke the surface. The Nightborne’s section of land was closest to the water, among the row, a Forsaken death knight laid the body of one of their warriors. A shal’dorei woman in bloodied-torn robes knelt beside the fallen, staff gripped in one hand while she covered her face with the other, crying. She glanced up just long enough to see Vyra staring at her, streaks of tears glistening on her lavender skin. Vyra quickly turned away and continued working.
Ash drifted in the air from nearby burning enemy corpse piles. Vyra brushed it gently off a fallen tauren’s chestplate before placing him in his row. “Walk with the Earthmother, friend,” she whispered to him.
When she found Roach again, he wasn’t moving. He stood over one of the fallen, staring in a way that made her slow her steps. When Vyra reached his side, she understood why. A female blood elf mage lay at his feet, long wavy red hair spread across the dirt like a curtain. Her red-and-gold robes were singed, the emerald crystal on her staff cracked down the center. A bloodied wound shown on her chest where a mantid claw or mogu halberd had impaled her.
“Roach, are you—?”
“Her hair,” he breathed. “It’s auburn. Like Lyrielle’s. I wasn’t paying attention when I put her in the cart. For a second I thought it was… her.”
Vyra’s voice softened. “I can wrap her, if you want.”
He shook his head. “Kind of you to offer, but… I’ll do it.”
Vyra knelt beside him, raising a lamp even though she knew he didn’t need the light. As he worked to wrap the mage up, he started singing, a song she’d never heard from him before. The words were low, almost lost beneath the wind, but heavy.
Shorel’aran, sweetest soul,
May Belore light your way.
Wait for me in the skies above,
Until we find each other again someday.
Anar’alah belore,
Let it bare you to peace.
Shorel’aran, my sweetest soul,
Soon all your pain and all your fears will cease.
Vyra couldn’t explain why in that moment, but she leaned in, and pressed her lips to his cheek.
Roach brought his hand up, caressing the spot where she had kissed him, “What was that for?”
“I don’t know,” Vyra said, shaking her head. “Just…because.”