Grim Views

"Die, fiend!" The Crusade officer tried to ride him down, swinging a sword for his head. A sweeping parry of his runeblade shattered the man's sword, and the follow-through cut the legs out from under his horse; the sickening crunch when he hit the ground told the Death Knight that the man's neck had broken. He turned, and sent dark energy coursing towards the fleeing peasant the officer had been trying to protect. The woman flew through the air towards him, and Khorshah contemptuously cut her nearly in half with another sweeping stroke.

"There will be no mercy for the living, Khorshah. Cut them all down!" The Lich King's voice thundered in his mind, and he obeyed. The Death Knight performed a brief ritual, a soft incantation, and the dead officer’s body got to its feet jerkily. Khorshah sent it lurching toward another group of peasants, who screamed and fled.

The battle raged around the strange crystal that had landed in the Plaguelands. Warriors of the Horde and soldiers of the Alliance fought side-by-side against the Scourge under the banner of the Argent Dawn. Khorshah drove his axe through the skull of a ghoul, then quickly turned and sent a bolt of lightning through the chest of another that had snuck up behind the human lord. Count Rugen gave the Tauren a grateful look; Khorshah nodded, and then readied his axes as another wave of the unliving approached.

The Death Knight shook his head to clear the strange vision; where did that come from? An arrow sank into his thigh; with a snarl he drove his sword point-first through the chest of the footman he had been fighting, then flung the dying man bodily toward the archer who had fired it. He walked over to the woman, who struggled under the weight of the corpse. "Mercy," she pleaded, reaching out with her free hand. He granted it with a stroke of his runeblade and moved on.

"They will all perish! You will be one of my champions, Khorshah, and the peace of death will reign over this world and all the others.” The Lich King’s words drove the Tauren on, and he burst into the basement of the inn where several peasants huddled in terror. When he emerged, his runeblade was still dripping; the scarlet-robed priest who had come to investigate the noise blanched, but began to chant holy words as Khorshah charged.

“I don’t like it, brother.” Jhawna gave him a disapproving look as he buckled on his mail, then unrolled the tabard of the Argent Dawn. “Even the humans say Rugen can’t be trusted – Zherenkov only chose him to lead this party because of the connections to the royal family in Stormwind.”

Khorshah frowned, and shook his head. “Rugen is a capable leader, sister, and the humans can be trusted. After all, the Scourge are a threat to us all; betrayal would serve nobody.” He hefted an axe, and as he gripped it the edge burst into flame. “Besides, the spirits walk with me. Have a little faith.”

"Are you all right, brother?" Koltira struck him on the shoulder, and Khorshah blinked and shook his head again. "You seemed lost."

Khorshah looked at the blood elf, and nodded. "I’m fine," he rumbled, and gestured to the stairs. "Let's get out of here before they send in even more reinforcements." Koltira nodded, and led the way as they moved out of the citadel. The Scarlet Crusade was near breaking, and there was little resistance to their escape.

Morg dove for the ground as the massive abomination swung its chain; Khorshah’s axe clove the rusted iron in half, and he drove a following stroke into the creature’s leg. Morg rose with a howl of orcish fury and swung his massive axe three times; the huge creature fell with a splatter of rotting guts, and the orc warrior grimaced at the smell. “Where are the reserves? We’re cut off here, but a charge from Rugen’s men could break them!”

Khorshah blasted a skeleton with lightning; the explosion as it shattered destroyed the two beside it. “Rugen should have been here by now; this is going badly!” Then the Tauren spied the Stormwind banners of the Duke’s forces – but the hope died in his heart as soon as it was born. “They’re retreating. They’re leaving us here! The damned Alliance –!” He cut himself off as he saw the center of the battlefield, where the cultists had finished chanting; a massive, half-tangible shade materialized over the crystal, and Khorshah straightened. “What is it your people say, Morg? ‘Lok’tar ogar?’ I fear we will see no victory today.”

“If we must meet death, we will make them pay dearly for it,” the orc replied, and lifted his axe again. “Lok’tar ogar! For the Horde!” The pair charged, and the remaining Horde soldiers followed.

"Come to finish the job, monster?" The female Tauren knelt in chains, still wearing a torn tabard in the colors of the Argent Dawn. "I should have known that creature outside wouldn't have the courage to –" She finally looked up, and her voice faltered. "Khorshah? Is that you?" The Death Knight stared down at her silently.

"I'd know that face anywhere. Khorshah, it's Amilya! Don't you recognize me? Light above, what have they done to you?" The woman looked around at the other prisoners. "Fight his compulsion, Khorshah. You have to fight him. Remember who you are! You were a champion of the Argent Dawn, a hero of the horde!" Khorshah' face remained impassive, but he hesitated. Something about her was familiar...

There was a sense of something weakening inside him, and then a voice came from outside. "What's taking so long in there?" Khorshah' hand tightened on the hilt of his sword, but still he hesitated.

"It's too late for me, Khorshah. Finish it - but fight him! Fight his will! I know there's still good in you somewhere!" His expression didn't change as he struck the woman's head from her shoulders, then turned and walked back out of the hut. His mind was troubled, though, and for the moment, the Lich King’s voice was mute. Who was he?

(( nice ))

Three weeks had passed since the battle at Light’s Hope Chapel, and Tirion Fordring’s defeat of the Lich King – however temporary – remained clear in Khorshah’s memory. The moment the Lich King’s betrayal was made clear, and the moment the Lich King’s hold over him had snapped. The sight of Ashbringer cleaving into that dark armor was one he would never forget.

“Thrall’s proclamation of redemption has met with mixed reactions, brother,” Jhawna said. “Father has refused to see you.”

Khorshah just nodded. “I am grateful you came, sister.” The sight of Jhawna’s face had sparked the first flood of memories since the Lich King’s hold over him had broken; memories of their youth in Mulgore and his training as a Shaman. The spirits of his ancestors were silent now. “I cannot return home in any case. Mother would die, seeing what I have become.”

Jhawna’s expression was sad as she looked at what had been – what still was – her brother, but she nodded. “What will you do, brother? Will you go back to the armies?” Her voice was bitter.

“I do not know, sister. I do not feel worthy to join them. Many of us – the Knights of the Ebon Blade – feel the same way. We have been torn from our families, from our past, from everything we knew. We will find our purpose again, but it will take time.” He stood and walked over to the kodo his sister had brought him, checking the packs and saddle. “I will return, sister, when I have found myself. Peace be with you.”

He stood at the Dark Portal in the Blasted Lands now, and a chill went through him that had nothing to do with the wind of the desert’s night. He flicked the reins and urged his kodo through.

”Lok’tar, shaman! More fodder for the fel orcs, I suppose.” The Lieutenant General looked up at Khorshah, grinning crookedly around a broken tusk. “As it happens, I need a messenger. Talk to the wind rider master there –” the orc pointed, “– and she’ll get you to Thrallmar.”

The female orc at the wyvern roost had different plans. “Orion ignored me when I told him we needed to get this supply train through the fighting out there. Does he expect me to fly kodo over the heads of those demons? Listen, Tauren, I’ve got a plan if you’ve got the stones.” Khorshah just grinned.

An hour later he rode into Thrallmar at the head of the supply train; his kodo was winded – they all were – but the wyvern-dropped bombs had provided enough of a distraction for him to ride around. The peons unpacked the supplies as he took Orion’s report to the general in charge, and awaited further orders.

The Death Knight grinned at the memory, and gave a salute to the warriors he passed. His grin faded at the sight of the suspicious looks he got in return. When last he’d passed through this gate, it was as a hero. The brief flight to Thrallmar gave him enough time to reflect on that. This blasted land still needed heroes; now more than ever, perhaps, with the renewed Scourge incursions in Azeroth and the invasion of Northrend. For the first time since Light’s Hope Chapel, Khorshah felt the stirrings of purpose in his heart.

(( This is really, really good. ))

“How does it happen you didn’t join your ancestors immediately after you died, ‘shaman’?â€

Khorshah danced.

It was a rite of summoning, learned from an aged troll shaman during his apprenticeship. The tauren's feet hit the ground of the isolated Mulgore hilltop, making a thundering sound, nearly shaking the ground as he moved with the beat kept by Jamarion on a wide drum. As he danced, he remembered.

He led the charge with Lythande and Yemana that day, twenty Grim or more behind him, racing through Elwynn Forest toward their target - Stormwind, again. Not the main force, tonight, but a distraction; a feint to draw the defense away from the king. He crested the hill and stopped; arrayed before him were six fists of Alliance warriors, many wearing the tabard of the Fabled Order, lined up in neat ranks to oppose them. The hesitation lasted only a moment.

"LOK'TAR OGAR! TO THE ATTACK!" His warbear surged forward, and the Grim behind him were relentless; he heard Aquizit and Greebo spitting venomous curses, sensed the Araun's magics battering down the defenses of the Paladins, heard Yemana's roars and Lythande's triumphant shout as enemies fell. His axe drove through the breastplate of a human paladin as if it were paper, and he whirled to find a new opponent - and there were none. The Grim had defeated twice their own number, and made it look easy.

Ten skulls were arrayed around a fire at the crest of the hilltop; as Khorshah continued his dance, Jamarion began to sing. The words were known to the death knight - a plea to the spirits, asking their blessing and their forgiveness for attempting to draw them back from beyond the veil. That was the difference between the magic of the Shaman and the magic he wielded now; the Shaman asked, was given, thanked the spirits.

A Death Knight simply took, and used, and when he finished there was nothing left.

He rode slowly into Bloodhoof Village, frowning as several people - people he'd known since childhood - turned their backs on him. His father was outside, tending kodo; the old man ignored Khorshah, and walked inside. Jhawna came out but stopped as she saw the colors he wore, the tabard on his chest. "You signed on with The Grim." Her voice was flat.

Khorshah nodded. "They have the strength to do what is needed, sister. I think they can defeat Arthas, that they can bring down the Alliance."

Jhawna just shook her head. "They're killers, brother. They have no interest in a peaceful life. They --"

"Peace is what they seek above all else!" It was the first time he'd raised his voice to his sister since his return from Light's Hope Chapel, and her surprise was clear. "It's only through the destruction of our enemies that we can --"

Jhawna shook her head again, her expression one of hurt - and pity. "If you believe that, then you're not the brother I grew up with." She turned away and looked back over her shoulder. "Don't come back as long as you wear that tabard, Khorshah." She walked back into the hut, letting the curtain close behind her before he could say anything else.

Jamarion's beat grew faster, and the song grew louder; Khorshah threw the herbs onto the fire, breathed deeply of the smoke that rose around him as he danced, and then was suddenly still. Ten spirits hovered over the skulls - human, elven, orcish. Jamarion's drumming stopped, and he fell silent. Khorshah went to his knees before the apparitions.

"I seek your aid, honored ones," he rumbled, arms spread. "I have seen my defeat - no, I have seen my failure, not even at Arthas' hand, but by his will alone." The flickering spirits regarded him coldly. "Once I was a shaman; I treated with the spirits of the ancestors, and the spirits of the elements, and I died fighting for the cause of those same spirits. Your cause. Aid me now! Grant me strength to remain free from Arthas' will!"

One by one, nine of the spirits turned their backs on him, folding their arms and vanishing, denying his plea. The last, an orc, regarded the Death Knight. It is not for you to summon us, tainted one. The spirit's voice was loud in his head. Not your place. No longer your right. You think your cause merits this transgression?

Khorshah let out a slow breath. "My cause is a just one, honored warrior. I fight for peace, to see the end of the threat of the Lich King. Can you not lend your blessing to that cause?"

The spirit withdrew a little, and regarded the Tauren sadly. I see your soul, tainted one, and though you wish it white, I see only black. You do not fight for peace; you do not fight to end a threat. You fight for vengeance. You fight for glory. These are not unjust causes, but without knowing them, you sought our aid. The orc's spirit stepped back into the fire, and turned away. Icecrown will be your doom, Death Knight.

Khorshah slumped, head hanging; Jamarion put a hand on the Tauren's shoulder. "It hadda be tried, mon. Besides, de spirits, dey dead. What do dey know, ah?"

The joke sounded flat even to the troll, and Khorshah just shook his head. "With or without them, Jama, I'll fight. I'm sworn to. If need be, I'll tear down Icecrown's gate myself."