Conquest of the Horde

The sun spread warmly over a golden forest, embracing it in an amber blanket. As dawn broke, Alandris blinked opened her eyes and ran a thumb over an engraved pendant, which was cradled in her palm. Without looking – for she knew the design well – the image of a majestic avian illuminated against a crescent moon flashed through her mind. Even after almost four-hundred years, she could still feel the great care with which it had been meticulously carved into the metal. She wasn’t sure if it was a property of the materials used to craft it, or a preservation enchantment the necklace had been endowed with, but she was glad of that long-lived quality it possessed.

The precious heirloom had allegedly been in the family for generations, which would easily place its actual age at millennia – or older. Supposing it was possible for it to break, she didn’t want that to happen. What she wanted to do was crack it. More specifically, she wanted to learn its origins. What sort of ancestors did she have? What about them symbolised the brilliant bird and its nocturnal flight? At what point had the Eldrynae family filtered down to the likes of her?

Although those sorts of questions begged answer, it had occurred to Alandris that it may just have been an artefact that fell into the possession of her family through trade or sale; perhaps even theft. The fanciful tale of heritage attached to it could have been nothing more than a fabrication, yet her obstinate character and innate curiosity urged her to continue wondering despite the small voice of reason telling her to dismiss the thought.

Dispelling the haze around her mind, she rose. Her destination was a little further, and she knew she should set off if she wished to reach it by noon.

Alandris paused to draw in a breath and gaze up at the Retreat. She wasn’t sure if what she felt was genuine reluctance or just a lack of confidence. Wizen loped ahead of her, bypassing the guards with his characteristic feline nonchalance. Expelling her pent breath with a laugh, she mused that he wouldn’t have gotten away with that anywhere but here, and suspected she would have difficulty prying that old lynx from the glow of the fire, as she followed him up. He surely couldn’t understand why she abandoned such a cosy home for the wilderness.

“Ranger Nariel.” She greeted the Farstrider waiting for her at the entrance with a salute. “Is the Captain around?”

The emerald and gold-trimmed livery Nariel wore denoted her station plainly. She stood just a little taller than Alandris, and black curls framed her face. There was a bow strung over her back and a narrow sword at her side, both of which were well-used and yet kept in good condition. She coolly narrowed her eyes.

“It’s good to see you, too.” Alandris winced at her own carelessness as those words stung her ears, so Nariel eased her tone before continuing. “No, she’s not. But I know what you’re here for, so I went ahead and informed her in advance.”

“Thank you. I assume she had no complaints to voice about my leave?”

“Many, and I had to listen to them all.” The sternness returned to Nariel’s gaze, but her cocked brow indicated it was more playful than annoyed. The hunter failed to stifle a guilty chuckle.

“I apologise, I really do. I should head out before she returns.”

“Wise. Would you like me to prepare a hawkstrider for your journey?”

“For the first leg. I’ll leave it with the Enclave, and make sure it gets back here.”

Nariel shook her head and sighed through her nose. “No need; I’ll come with you, at least as far as the border.”

Exhibiting her penchant for refusing to take ‘no’ for an answer, the Ranger brushed off Alandris’ protests and started to gear up a pair of black-plumed birds. Ignoring the girl’s insistence that she didn’t need to, she gathered supplies and delegated the remainder of her responsibilities to other Farstriders. Conceding, Alandris helped finish up preparations. The sky’s light was waning by the time they were done, so they decided to head out to the first checkpoint before the Captain returned and spend the night there.

“She wouldn’t have been nearly as angry if you’d given her some notice. It’s not the first time, either,” Nariel chided softly.

Alandris didn’t answer right away. She hadn’t abandoned her wits, and an ear occasionally twitched to the noises of the night, even though both Farstriders knew the dusk chorus and evening symphony by heart. The pavilion began to emerge in the distance from dense forest, and since they had forgone the road, only a single arcane lamp marked the structure. Neither needed its guidance, and they would probably snuff it out to hide their position.

“I know,” she quietly admitted, at last. It was tempting to unleash a deluge of excuses, but her old friend had heard them all before, and Nariel probably knew it was no use trying to ask her to be more considerate.

“You will come back, of course.”

Despite not being sure if she had been asked a question or issued an order, Alandris nodded her head.

“Of course.”

By the time another day had begun, the two were well on their way. Their high-spirited birds of burden had decided to race one another, launching into a joyous sprint over Eversong’s knolls and across streams, morning rays peeking through the canopy to observe. Tremendously sure and fleet of foot, they made for perfect short-term modes of transport. Their passage was near-silent, and they knew the land as well as – if not better than – their riders.

As the cockatrices craned their necks for a drink, Nariel twisted in her saddle and studied the unmarked path they’d ridden down. Many a predator would consider their mounts delightful treats. With them in such a prone position, it wasn’t a chance to pass up, for few creatures could outrun an alert tallstrider of any feather. Satisfied that nothing lurked in the nearby brush, the Ranger turned back to catch Alandris peering at her treasured pendant. She understood its meaning, and the comfort it brought to the one who wore it. Holding it had even calmed her in the past, but that probably had more to do with how extraordinary it had been for its owner to trust it in another’s hands. It was a very powerful symbol, but to Nariel, the source of its power was the one who had given it to her in her time of need, and what that had meant to her.

“We might have lost that old cat of yours,” she remarked. “Don’t think I’ll be down by the river catching his breakfast every morning, if he decides to stay behind.”

“He’ll find his way here eventually.” Alandris grinned, and tucked the medallion away. “He won’t stay, rest assured.”

As if on cue, a feline face poked out of the bushes. Red, tufted ears stood alert, and keen eyes stared ahead. Long, white mutton chops draping either side of the creature’s face gave it the appearance of a wizened old man. But the animal in question was not Wizen, and no sooner had the Rangers noticed this, it had coiled its body like a spring and leapt to clear the distance between them.

The birds bolted in opposite directions, Alandris upriver and Nariel down. The lynx ricocheted after the former, its paws barely touching the ground in a mad, feral sprint. In an effort to buy distance, Alandris took her knife and cut a blanket free, tossing it off the bird’s back. It billowed out into their pursuer. A claw caught fabric, and she forced her mount to turn sharply to see a bundle of fur and cloth somersault by. It tumbled into the river before freeing itself, swallowed by rushing, white water. She felt a stab of relief as the creature pierced the surface again to gasp a breath, before the current carried it beyond her sight.

The hunter took the lead as they crossed a bridge, the ground ahead and soon underfoot taking on a darker shade of viridian, and beyond that, patches of black signified they had reached the fringes of the Ghostlands. They wandered for some time, silent for their own safety while in transit. As they settled down to allow their hawkstriders rest, Alandris’ hand brushed the head of a lone, white flower. One corner of her mouth curled.

“Are you any closer to finishing that piece?”

“It’s been eight years. What do you suppose?” Nariel was busy refining the tips of her arrows, but paused to glance up. “Things might have changed again before I apply the final strokes.”

“I hear that kind of art is popular in the city. The critics are calling it ‘juxtaposed duality’. I also heard there was a skilled Arcane painter in Dalaran who managed to paint a scene so real that it was like looking out of a window. The sun rose in the morning, and the canvas shimmered with starlight at night. The land was blanketed by snow in winter, and young animals pranced around the fields come spring.”

The Ranger missed the fanged grin her friend was sporting, having turned her attention back to the drudgery of sharpening.

“That sounds exceptionally pretentious. Don’t the magocrats have anything better to do with their time?”

With a shuffle, Alandris was on her feet and beginning to load up her gear again. The smile could still be heard in her voice.

“No, apparently they don’t. We’d better be on our way.”

A shriek, pleasantly shrill and unfettered, rang through the forest.

The soft flutter of feathers brought a hawk into view. It dipped low and glided on the winds which swept between the sickly trees. Its silver feathers were almost indistinguishable from the tumbling leaves it raced, but a keen pair of eyes had followed it below the canopy, and a gloved arm waited rigidly. Tenderloin dangled from that same arm’s fingers. Extending its talons and folding its wings inwards, the hawk caught the perch, plucked the prepared meal, and took off again. In that moment, Nariel had unclipped a thin canister from its leg, and was beginning to unfurl the missive contained within.

“Already?” Closing her book, Alandris rose and joined Nariel to peek over the Ranger’s shoulder.

The parchment curled, faltered and crinkled to illegibility in her palm. Her feathered brow drew inwards. “I’m to return right away. You–”

“Will be just fine walking from here. The Enclave was a little out of my way, to be honest.”

Smiling and nodding, the Ranger gathered her belongings. She gave only a brief farewell. Alandris could tell she might have said more were time and the evidently troubling contents of the letter not pressing her to haste. It may also have been that something in the letter stayed her tongue, but the hunter didn’t ponder over it for too long. If her old friend deemed it an unsuitable topic to speak on, she would trust that judgement. By the Light, she was rarely wrong when it came to these sorts of things.

Packing her supplies, Alandris headed off on her way, tailed by an elderly, decrepit-looking Lynx. As she walked, she gazed down at her pendant.

“Now it really begins. Let us see where you take me.”

Although the sight of a once-proud edifice now laying in ruin brought about a sense of melancholy, and the memories of the dreadful event which brought it about, there was something innately refreshing about watching nature stake its rightful claim over the rain-eroded building. Wall-climbers had latched onto windows, gradually creeping their way inside and creating a network within, with vines draping from the ceiling. The result was a floral web, the ancient, mossy scent of wet stone and foliage permeating the interior.

Alandris recognised it right away. It was an Arcane Academy – or had been, once upon a time – in which spells and incantations were developed and practiced. The hunter had scouted it out long ago, if only to ascertain that it wasn’t the path for her. Where once the air had been a little stale and dry from the establishment’s expansive library, now it was cool and moist. The Headmistress, an aged Wizard with a taste for conjuration, had vividly and generously decorated the school.

Now, her creations were scattered across the ground in innumerable pieces, making negotiating the ruins quite difficult. The tomes lay in brown, mushy piles. Not even the encyclopaedias fortunate enough to have retained their shelved positions were spared decimation. The charred leather bindings implied a fire had consumed the pages, but she lamented the inability to discern whether it was magical or natural flame. Anything of value or importance had probably been salvaged long ago, at any rate. It was a disappointing first step, but only the first, she knew.

Curling up in a dry alcove, Alandris buried herself in her supplies and let the gradual drip of water and the soft whistle of the wind lull her to sleep.

The air was still, silent, and cool when the hunter awoke. The sun and its light had fallen below the horizon many hours ago. In its place, a round moon poured silver through the arched windows. Those silver curtains lit the room sparsely, creating visible pools in the otherwise consuming blackness. Through one of the pools, a tall figure fluidly swam in and out of view.

Subconsciously, Alandris held her breath. Her mind was still hazy, but the first emotion to register was fear, and then suspicion. The obvious question of who – or what – she had seen surfaced, followed by queries of whether they were friend or foe. Others begged answer, too. Did they know she was there? The ruins had been vacant when she arrived and during her survey. Had they made a sound? No, she didn’t think anything had disturbed the silence. As she thought that, the soft ‘woosh’ of a breath graced her ears. She started, but the exhalation had merely been her own pent-up lungful, she immediately realised.

Stilling the quiver of her hands, Alandris slid her short sword from its sleeve and slipped quietly from her perch.

Carefully, she collected her belongings. A pair of specially-designed and enchanted goggles found their way into her hand from the depths of the satchel after some hasty fumbling about. Recent times had forced Alandris to find solutions for problems that she had never before faced. In the blackest of nights, her dimly luminescent eyes betrayed her position to pursuer and pursued alike, and she had realised too late that for her to have spotted the figure, it must also have caught sight of her.

But then, why did it flee?

The very question made her hackles raise. It may be calling on aid, or setting up an ambush. It might actually be afraid of her. She cursed that she hadn’t taken more time to study her environment in the day; she did not know the lay of the land nearly as well as she might have liked to, even less so in the dark. Keen senses permitted her greater awareness of her surroundings, but if the figure had also been elven, her advantage was rendered null and void. Worse still, there was every chance that her unidentified opponent in this strange game could navigate the abandoned academy blindfolded.

Battling to bury stymieing thoughts and silence the clamour of her mind, she donned the headgear and took her first step through the gloom. As though its solemn beams would injure her on contact, she steered clear of the draping moonlight. The quiet she strained to listen above was unnaturally pervasive, but she couldn’t risk breaking it to ascertain whether it was her hearing that was impaired, or if the purportedly empty building really was as quiet as it professed to be.

The lower floor came into view as she crept below. A murky pond of absolute darkness had formed since the sun fell, and for a moment, she hesitated. It was tempting to chance exiting via one of the upper windows, as she knew she was tracing the shadow’s steps, and every step of her own brought the chance of triggering a coiled trap. The prospect of running and exposing her back to the stranger did not appeal, however. Steeling herself, Alandris descended.

The shuffle of clothing teased her ears. They rose. Its source was off to the left, just a degree or so…

A vestige of blue light, a beacon in the dark, snagged her full attention. A pair of jade orbs manifested above. The situation became suddenly apparent, and the outline of a gesturing hand materialised. Reacting immediately, Alandris drew. Thin azure ribbons darted towards her, but they were nothing more than threads. The spell had been nipped in the bud, and the surprised caster’s concentration broken. In that moment of distraction, the hunter had closed the distance between them and pressed the light blade’s tip against the figure’s heaving chest.

She could now see that he was a man, his face dimly lit by the luminosity of his own startled eyes.

“Who are you?” He held his silence, mouth ajar, and the tension agitated her. The pressure of her sword increased, as did the insistent edge of her voice. “Who are you?”

“Dathron,” he replied carefully and clearly, his initial shock ebbing. “I live here.”

“Dathron,” she repeated. She kept her arm stiff. “Why were you preparing to attack me?”

The mage hesitated to answer, but his reply was calm and sincere when it came. “I was casting a spell that would light the room. I heard a noise, and feared a ghoul had crept inside.”

Air rushed out of Alandris’s nose. She believed him, but she couldn’t quite explain why. It wasn’t natural to trust a complete stranger, but they were both Sin’dorei and in a situation like this, a mage of her ecology was infinitely better than one of the countless other things she could have encountered in the blackest hour of a Ghostlands night. Relaxing her shoulder, she lowered the sword. “Is that why you fled from me upstairs?”

She saw his brow furrow in confusion and something shifted in the pit of her stomach. “I haven’t been upstairs.”

“…I saw you.”

“I’m sorry. I’ve been here since just before dusk, and I haven’t been upstairs, nor has anyone passed me.”

After searching his eyes – all that she could see of him – she plainly issued a command.

“Light the room.”

Complying with a nod, Dathron made a controlled, elegant gesture, spell threads whistling around his fingertips. A bright core of energy was born in his left palm, a cold Arcane light that effortlessly filled every inch of the room. She knew the light well, for it was the same as could be found within every roadside lantern from the northernmost isle to the Thalassian Pass, dutifully marking Quel’thalas’s myriad winding travel routes. It was soothing, comforting, and kindled a feeling of security within her.

“You’re a Lamplighter?” Alandris asked, quickly looking over the robed Arcanist before glancing away and assessing the room for any sight of a threat. Nothing seemed out of place appeared except for a satchel, which she assumed was Dathron’s, sitting by a pile of spoiled books. Nothing seemed touched but a chair and a solitary maroon book that had been set on the table, and her mouth formed a small smile when it crossed her mind that his quiet, unassuming entry could be likened to a stray cat’s.

Mildly startled by her realisation, Dathron raised his brow.

“I am,” he nodded. He reached over the table to his left, and guided the core of the light into a glassless, elaborate lantern frame. It was slightly bent, but it sufficed as a vessel.

“It’s more convenient to live out here than to travel from the city or an outpost.”

Alandris perched on the table and looked him over with more scrutiny. He was slender and well-groomed, swaddled in fine, brocaded robes.

“I should imagine so,” she idly agreed. “The ghouls trouble you much?”

“Lighting lamps isn’t all I can do.” He pulled across a chair, settling into it. The maroon book lay in front of him, but before she had the opportunity to inspect the title and author, he whispered a word and the colour rippled and segued into a drab teal, the letters on the cover morphing under her scrutiny. ‘History to Come’ was the curious new title, and to her surprise, she recognised the author—

“You didn’t give me your name,” he observed, snipping her thoughts. Flicking open the reformed book without laying a finger on it, he skimmed to a page around a third of the way through and lifted his gaze to meet hers.

“Alandris.”

“Are you a traveller, Alandris?”

“Yes, but I’m not sure where I’m going, yet,” she admitted. It was the first time she had said as much out loud, although she had long known that her destination would only present itself once she arrived.

Perhaps part of the journey was figuring out where you were headed, she mused.

“I see,” he quietly said, returning his eyes to the book. “What is that around your neck, by the way?”

“Hmm?” She glanced down. Her pendant was tucked away under her collar. For the briefest of moments, she had forgotten that she was wearing it. Once she realised, she tugged it out, medallion and all, and held it up to the softly shimmering lantern.

“This?”

“Yes, that.”

“Only an old pendant. Funny you should mention it, though. It is one of the reasons I’m travelling,” she explained. She cocked her head. “I assume you divined its presence from the enchantments in place on it?”

“No, I saw the outline just under your tunic. But now that you mention it, I can faintly sense the magic it holds. I’ve cast similar spells to preserve lanterns I don’t anticipate a return to for a long time. It’s the sort of spell you use to perpetuate magic. I trust you’ve come across broken bookshelves which continue to rotate after all these years, and plant pots hovering amidst ruins.”

“And an animated sweeping brush that was determined to dust down a vacant Scourge holding. It battered a skeletal undead to pieces.” The memory caused her to grin. Many of the beasts that resisted the Scourge’s corruption took to savagely ripping holes in their ranks, but nothing quite compared to the unstoppable broomstick and its innocent quest for absolute cleanliness. She had even supplemented it with magic of her own so that it might continue its reign of terror that little bit longer.

“That is something I would like to have seen. I’m surprised no one has thought to enchant an armoury and send out an army of unmanned cudgels.” As he spoke, his voice was distant, as though distracted.

“That would be effective until the opposing army realised they could draw the magic keeping them aloft and then claim the inert weapons,” she reminded, her tone slightly sharper than she intended for it to be. “Then their spellstealers would be charged up, and their warriors armed.”

The Lamplighter coldly smiled. His attention broke from the text he had been poring over until now. He neatly dog-eared the page he was on and shut the book.

“You’re not an Arcanist, but nor are you a stranger to the inner workings of magic. Why—” Truncating his own words, he narrowed his eyes. “Ah.”

“You used to teach here, didn’t you?” It dawned on her as it dawned on him.

Pushing out his chair, the Lamplighter took his book and went to stow it in his satchel. He drew the process out, but got around to answering her question once he was finished. “I used to,” he said, the barest hint of wistful remembrance in the confession.

“It was good seeing you again, Alandris, but it’s about time I make myself scarce. I hope you find what you were looking for.” Smiling earnestly, he stepped out into the darkness, leaving the girl alone in the old academy, bathed in the light of the lamp he had lit. She fell asleep under its pale radiance, pondering how that man’s injured sister was doing.