“Throw these devils back into th’abyss! Step lively now, they’ll not stop coming!” The woman on the wall laughed with near-mad glee, her sword a blur turned to molten gold in the light of the flaming stones, pitched high over the walls of Manor Tyrellian by the great catapults of the Scourge. All of Quel’Thalas was black with the walking dead.
Katryn sang as she fought, lost in the ecstasy she found in bloody battle as foe after foe fell before her blade until she was overwhelmed, impaled with a final, tuneless note as her grin faded, eyes glazing over as the life left them. The walls held, but barely, the defenders forced back inch by inch. The tower on the hill was in flames, in the dark of the night like torches blazing bright.
It was then that the thundering began. Not the thunder of the sky that heralded rain, but the thunder of the great ram of the Undead Scourge, capped with a blade like an axe, crashing endlessly into the huge brass-banded oaken doors of the citadel. The wood began to splinter.
It was there that he saw him. The man sat high atop his enormous destrier and resplendent in gold-and-sapphire plate to match the charger’s barding, the huge warhammer of the Order of the Silver Hand cluctched in his fist. Long hair the color of the flames that surrounded him cascaded to his shoulders, bound back by a golden circlet patterned after a laurel wreath. The Paladin boomed back to him, his voice full of confidence and courage and authority, “We’ll hold here! Arthamir m’boy, take forty lances’n fall back to th’civilian camp – I don’t trust th’size of that force.” It was mostly militia; the soldiers had remained behind. “I’ll catch up when we’re finished here.” When they were all dead.
Swallowing his terror, outwardly calm as a summer sea, Arthamir wheeled his own mount around…
… and he was standing in the snows of the frozen north, teeth chattering but his core warm with the Light. The camp gave a great stench, the onyx rock of the Kor’kron Vanguard nearly emptied, only the rear guard remaining as the great host awaited the opening of Angrathar, that terrible fortress called in the common tongue the Wrathgate.
The voice of the human Regent, Bolvar Fordragon, echoed up to Arthamir’s wind-numb ears, “… the blood of your father, of your people, demands justice!” The Blood Knight smiled, a cold, cruel thing – It was fitting that Fordragon was at the fore. Too many of his kin had fallen to the weakness of humans – Humans would fall before the combined army of the Alliance and Horde in that valley surged into Icecrown and brought an end to Arthas Menethil once and for all.
The clash and crash of steel was deafening even a mile away, and Arthamir made sport of guessing where and when each company would wheel about and strike. He had begged to join the battle, but had been relegated to the reserve – No matter. It simply meant he would be a fresh terror to the monsters of the glacier itself.
His fantasies were cut short by a deep belly laugh from atop a cliff, the violet banner of the Undercity waving. Arthamir’s eyes narrowed as the Forsaken Grand Apothecary began a speech, his heart chilling with every word. The catapults snapped too, barrels flying, green killing mist enveloping the battlefield…
…And he was before the gates of the Citadel, In the Court of Bones. He wheeled Selama around, riding headlong into the the Scourge ranks…
… and it was years before, on Quel’Danas, removing the head of a brother of the Order…
Hellfire Peninsula, fighting Fel-drunk orcs amidst a desert of flame.
The mountains of the Southern Marches, hunting Scourge as the lethargy sapped his strength.
Gilneas, coughing and choking as he was caught in the midst of a misfired plague bombardment.
He woke up screaming.