Saora's Benedicion 15

    Ramstein laid in a foaming pile of boiling skin and ooze. Saora shuddered, falling on her hands and knees. She wanted to say a prayer for the people who were killed to make the monstrosity but the world spun when she thought of the sheer number of them. Verita limped to her side, silently handing her a canteen. Smiling gratefully, Saora gulped down the water. She glanced west and saw the sun still peeking over the buildings. They made it.

    "Come on then," Onyxe shuffled past, "let's kill this motherless dog an' go home."

    The group slowly climbed the infirmary's crumbling steps. Armod took the lead, peeking inside before signaling all clear. He darted around the first corner. The Dwarves exchanged smirks and winked at Saora. Brushing her out of the way, they each took one end of Onyxe's mace and held it in front of the doorway.

    "Oi! Armod!" Onyxe cried, "They're flankin' us!"

    "Git out here, ya ninny!" called Grifton. A string of swears echoed in the infirmary's halls, followed quickly by thudding footsteps. Before Saora could warn him, Armod tore through the exit. The mace's handle didn't even shake as the warrior plowed into it and then over it. He tumbled down the steps and landed in a heap at the bottom.

    "Gnome lovin', flower pickin', light weights!" he hollered. The Dwarves were laughing too hard to answer. Saora giggled, covering her mouth sheepishly. Even Verita was laughing. She shouldered her bow and moved close enough to extend her hand for the warrior.

    "At least you fight better than you walk," she chuckled. Armod grinned and clasped her hand. She hauled him up and followed him up the steps. Saora tossed him a quick heal, giggling when Armod stuck his tongue out at her. After slapping his brothers with the flat side of his swords, he reentered the infirmary. Saora gulped. Suddenly nothing was funny anymore. She prayed for strength but couldn't help from shivering as she entered.

    The first thing she noticed was the color. The char black and deep burning red she'd grown used to was gone. The Baron's dwelling had blue and purple hues with wisps of green fog. It reminded Saora of a corpse she'd seen long ago in the waters of Stranglethorn. She gagged at the memory. Her breath floated past her eyes like a thin cloud. It was freezing. The narrow hallway abruptly turned ahead. Stairs lead down to a pair of metal double doors, clearly a recent addition to the structure. Blue runes ran up the center of each door, pulsing and humming. Armod placed a hand on one of the doors. When he pulled it away, an icy aura pulsed under his handprint and glossed the metal.

    "Locked," he murmured. Grifton shoved him away and peered at the doors, his nose nearly brushing the blue metal. He turned and slammed his shoulder into the blockade. He growled and hit the doors again. Huffing, the Dwarf backed away and clutched his shoulder. It had iced over.

    "Magic," Onyxe scowled, running a finger down the strange markings, "an' nothin' like we've seen before."

    Saora gulped, "So...how do we get in?"

    "Baron Rivendare wanted sport from us," the hunter spoke up. "Try issuing a challenge."

    Onyxe shrugged, "Canna hurt." He raised a giant fist and pounded three times on the doors.

    "Open up in the name of the Alliance!" he hollered. His voice echoed in the small hallway. For a moment, Saora thought there wouldn't be an answer. Then, from behind the doors, that familiar chuckle started again.

    "So you still live, heroes," the Baron sneered. "I'm so glad. Please, enter my domain." There was a loud clack and the blue around the doors vanished. Grifton kicked, his boot hitting the doors with a bang. They flew open and slammed against the inner wall. Forming a protective line, the Dwarves and warrior eased into the lower room first. Saora, Verita and Endy followed close.

    The Baron's room was like a cave in winter. Ice lined the walls and floor. Cages huddled in the back, some with shivering occupants, some with frozen corpses. Piled unceremoniously on either side of the room were hundreds and hundreds of bodies, most only skeletons. The mound closest to the group shifted. A giant warhorse made entirely of bones eased itself away from the bodies. It was draped in purple cloth that hung to the stone floor. Two horns sprouted from the top of its cracked skull. Purple magic leaked from every hole, even surrounding the creature's hooves. It snorted and trotted to the circle of cages.

    "You must forgive Deathcharger, heroes. He isn't accustomed to the living." A thin white hand slid from behind the cages. It gently stroked the charger's nose.

    "Where is the Argent soldier, Baron?" Onyxe snarled.

    "Oh she's alive," came the answer. "She'll live long enough to watch her saviors be destroyed." He eased into view, gently leading the skeletal horse away from his prisoners.

    Baron Rivendare looked nothing like Saora expected. Glowing purple runes covered his polished black armor. A long black cloak fluttered from his wide shoulders, more like darkened wings than a simple cloak. Long white hair framed his chiseled face. Pale skin stood out against the deep purple scarf that covered his mouth and chin. Eyes as black as his armor gazed at the group hungrily. This was no simple Death Knight corpse. He was regal and graceful. This man was once an aristocrat, a wealthy member of Lordaeron, a trained warrior.

    "Paladins," his voice was smooth as butter, "how wonderful. I will enjoy our combat, brothers."

    Grifton snarled, "We're no brothers of yers, Death Knight."

    "Perhaps not yet. A warrior as well. This will be a grand battle. It's been some time since someone has been foolish enough to cross blades with me."

    "By the order of King Bronzebeard an' Bolvar Fordragon," Onyxe pointed his mace at the knight, "yer actions in Stratholme have been judged as treason. Therefore, Baron Rivendare, we've been appointed as yer executioners. Surrender an' yer death will be quick."

    The Baron threw back his white head, roaring with laughter, "Is that so? Treason. How adorable. But only two of your so-called rulers have condemned me? The dishonorable fighter is an Elf, no?" Verita growled, her grip tightening on her bow.

    "And last but not least we have," his empty eyes lit on Saora and widened, "Saora? Saora Avalie? My, it's been years. You've grown, child."

    Saora froze, her throat suddenly dry, "M-me?"

    "A priestess, following the footsteps of your father. How...predictable. I wonder if your command over the Light is as powerful as his was. You could be useful to my King."

    "Do--do you...know me?"

    "I always wondered if anyone survived Arthas's little 'culling'. How fortunate you did. Such a talented bloodline shouldn't be wasted on a lifeless death."

    "Enough," Armod seethed.

    "Ah, my impatient brother in arms is right," the Baron easily mounted his horse, "reunions can be conducted once I've turned you to servants of my King. I suppose I can keep the cat as food for His toys."

    "Yeh won't be seein' the next light of day, heathen," Onyxe crouched, readying his weapon.

    "We'll find out. Won't we, heroes? Time to take matters into my own hands," he pulled a giant black sword from a sheath on his horse's side. Like his armor, it glowed with purple runes.

    "Come," his eyes gleamed. "Challenge the might of the Scourge."