The beast reared, and for a moment he thought it prepared to strike him dead. But then it lay down beside him, lower than Uther’s heart-pressed hand, and the people in the crowd went silent. The snow fell, the dragon surrendered, and Uther won the tournament. The dragon’s once-fierce eyes all at once looked exhausted, and the wretched creature limped away, chains clattering against stone and snow. It felt like something less than victory, to see such suffering. But the test had been passed, and his hand had been stayed. Uther stood and raised his chin high.
King Artenes hoisted an urn above his head and shouted, “Behold, our champion! Uther the Unbloodied!”
The bodies of the other knights were taken away and buried with their standards, and the feasting began again outside the tournament grounds. Music played, buoyant and sweet, all the blood and loss forgotten. Their hearts were fixed on the joyous present, but Uther’s thoughts drifted back to the chained dragon. King Artenes promised that Uther would have his trophy soon and praised his remarkable courage.
“If I may inquire, my king, what will become of the beast?” Uther asked.
“You will see,” the king said with a snap of his jaw like a corpse stiffening. He turned on his heel and was gone into the crowd.
Suddenly, a handmaiden drew Uther’s attention, saying that Lady Miatharas awaited him in her tent. It would be a joy to see her fear swept away, having proven to her the power and guidance of the Light.
Uther found the white tent draped with flowers, though the blue blossoms were already fragrant with rot. Inside, he beheld Lady Miatharas standing in a robe of gray and silver, the clasps intricately wrought with runes. She did not smile as he expected but remained shrouded in sorrow. The bard from the feast played a melancholy tune, reclining on a pile of cushions behind the lady. Uther had not given the singer a second look at supper, but now he saw that the bard had darting quixotic eyes and a mop of hair that seemed sometimes blue and sometimes black. His face was gaunt, not ugly but severe, the flesh clinging dearly to his bones. Garbed in hose and vest, he stared intently at Uther, while Lady Miatharas drifted forward and bowed her head.
“You have come for your prize,” she said, tears sparkling on her cheeks and in her sheet of golden hair.
“I have come for that, yes, dear lady. But why do you weep?”
The lady shook her head and reached toward him, placing her hand on his armor over his heart. He noticed the bruises on her wrists, deep and new, and saw the blood crusted beneath her fingernails.
The beast, he thought, that I felled with compassion.
“Do not take this jewel from me, paladin. It was a gift from my fated,” she said, looking to her left, where the bard strummed his instrument. Uther followed her gaze and understood. “It is the only thing I cherish in the world, this jewel. Please, paladin, do not insist.”
He noticed the bruises on her wrists, deep and new, and saw the blood crusted beneath her fingernails.
Uther clasped his hand over hers. “Keep your prize, lady. I will return with empty hands but a full heart. You have shown me the wisdom in compassion, the restful beauty of an unraised weapon. But tell me, how came you to be the beast? Why are you made to fight?”
“I disobeyed my father, the king, and his line is broken because of me. This is my punishment.”
“Unjust!” Uther thundered. “You and your companion must join me—leave behind the unkindness of this place and make a new life in Lordaeron.”
The lady shook her head, her hand still pressed to his heart. “That is forbidden, paladin. My chosen and I are bound to this place—the magic that guards the pool through which you came will not allow us to pass. Only you may wake and return freely. And leave behind this felled creature.” A shiver ran through him, her hand cold against his chest even through his armor. A flash of light followed, and the suggestion of magic or a rune hovered before him, and then it was gone. “After you pass through the waters, this land and all you did here will be little more than a memory. One day, I think it will mean something more to you, and you will see me and the beast and the castle again with perfect clarity.”
Uther turned to go. “When, lady?”
“Many years from now, on a broken field blazing like fire. You will think of me, and I hope the memory will bring you comfort.” Her wavering smile vanished, and she clutched the pendant around her neck. “Though I fear it will not.”
And so Uther left the tent and trod again the winding path, and he returned to the pool, finding it just as it had been the day before. He waded into the steaming water and felt the magical brand against his chest sizzle and burn. Just as the lady had promised, he passed through the gate and back to forests he recognized and a familiar sky. His horse nosed at the grass not far from the still pool and raised her head, drawn by the sudden splashing and the return of her rider.
As the lady had prophesized, his memory of the tourney grew far off and blurred, like the sun through a heavy fall of snow. Uther rode south in sullen silence and found that he was the first of his paladin brethren to return. Kneeling before the bishop, he confessed that he had nothing to give and nothing to show. He had only a vague stirring in his heart that peace and kindness had guided his hand, but what that hand had been guided to do he could not say. He tried to recall his strange journey, certain that there would be something grand to tell and grief spared, but he faltered and stumbled over his words, helpless.
“My hammer is unbloodied, and my faith is unshaken,” he said, showing the bishop the clean weapon. “Yet in my heart I know there was a good deed done.”
“Do not concern yourself,” the bishop told him kindly. “I know of what mettle you are made, Uther, and it appears we cannot know the test that you passed. The Light shines in you stronger than it did before your journey—that much is clear to me. The proof is your return, and in this pure hammer you show me now with such pride.” The bishop frowned then, his brow furrowing. “Yet look here, my son, your armor is cracked. Whatever you survived, perhaps it has left you with a warning. Now stand and bathe and pray. Light grant you good rest.”
Uther moved his cloak aside and saw that what the bishop said was true. He ran his fingers into the cut on his breastplate, finding that it was cold, as if struck by ice.
This is usually where those old nans and grans would find their charges sleeping deeply and let the story drift to a close. Princelings and princesses would slip through their own transportive pools of dream and wake wiser. But such a story would not end so easily for Sir Uther.
The years passed, and sometimes Uther dreamed of a winter kingdom, a silver sword, and spun-gold hair. He would not remember more until he came to kneel on a bloodied field that was blazing like fire, ash on the wind and truth in his heart. There he saw the beast once more. With waking epiphany, he recalled the lady and her warning, but it would be of no comfort to him as his armor cracked again.
hough the new arrivals filing into the Undercity resembled a funeral procession, they were welcomed joyously, with as much warmth as undead bodies could muster. Many among the incoming group were in varying stages of disorientation and decomposition. Some clung to their burial shrouds like children with their favorite blankets, hoping to wake from the horrible dream they found themselves in. But truth and dreams do not mix well. Even still, the despairing and the aimless were ushered eagerly into their new home beneath the bones of a once-great city, where they would be soothed, celebrated, and gently inducted into the sometimes-unnerving ways of undead life. For each addition to the city’s population was a gift, bringing safety and strength to their fledgling kingdom through greater numbers.
On this particular occasion, a couple of veterans, Conor Greystone and Bronwen Polaron, greeted a cluster of six confused foot soldiers, their liquifying vocal cords dripping with kindness: “Let us help you, friends. Come with us.”
The foot soldiers followed them readily through the dark, twisty mazes of the old catacombs. Among them was one Jeremiah Pall. Like his brothers-in-
arms, legs, and other missing body parts, he wasn’t yet familiar with determining his own route and destination. The Lich King’s shackles were gradually slipping from his mind, but it was still easier to follow directions from others. His memory was sluggishly making its way back. Fortunately, his new companions had only good intentions, now that they could choose to forgo violence.
“Where are we?” He turned round and round to take in the room. They had emerged into a peaceful alcove decorated with flaking paint and broken cobblestones, isolated from the shuffling of worn-through boots and the scraping of exposed phalanges.
“Home,” Conor said. “And a quiet place to make acquaintances.”
The group gathered around the crumbling remains of a fallen pillar. Its broken segments formed makeshift benches and seats, and they all sat facing one another.
“How odd,” Jeremiah said, wrinkling his nose. “I should smell decay … but there’s nothing.”
“You get used to not breathing or smelling. There’s not enough flowers down here to miss it anyway,” Conor said.
“Everything feels so strange,” Jeremiah murmured.
“Be glad you can feel at all,” Bronwen replied without malice. “I’m Bronwen Polaron. My associate here is Conor Greystone. What do you call yourself?”
“Jeremiah Pall.”
They went around the small circle, speaking their names as free souls in a kind of rechristening, until they came to the last foot soldier. He was not a boy but not yet a man, now forever stuck in between, just as they were all caught between life and death. The youth picked nervously at a split wound on his forearm, pulling the puckered edges of the skin farther apart. Jeremiah looked away. That would take some getting used to as well.
“I am …” The foot soldier looked perplexed.
They waited patiently as his cracked lips moved silently.
“Go on—it will come back to you,” Jeremiah encouraged him.
The boy finally responded in a tone that said he hoped he got the answer right. “Abel?”
It might not have been his birth name in his past life—the group would never know—but one name was as good as another, and the important thing was that what you called yourself was your choice. Still, something about his face—or his voice or his quirked smile—reminded Jeremiah of someone he had served with in life. Someone, but who exactly it was eluded him. The best his useless brain could come up with was the image of a wooden toy boat.
“Welcome, Abel,” Conor said. “Welcome, all of you. If there’s anything you need, anything you want to know, we are your guides.”
“We find that new arrivals settle in better when they share how they came to be here,” Bronwen said. It was important to help the recently raised accept their new fate and cope with the traumatic memories that sometimes rushed back into their reawakened minds.
Jeremiah stared at the back of his hand, marveling at how familiar and yet unfamiliar it was. The skin was ashen, mottled with darker purple spots where his unmoving blood had settled.
“We died,” he said.
“Obviously,” Bronwen replied with gentle jest. “But what led to your death and subsequent rising?”
Jeremiah had been drafted, pressed into the army without any say in the matter. It was the same with most of the others. But he was surprised to hear that Abel’s story was different.
“I enlisted.” Abel continued pulling at the open wound on his arm, stretching the skin like taffy. Jeremiah glimpsed the white of his ulna and winced.
“Why did you volunteer?” Jeremiah asked.
Abel’s glowing eyes twinkled. “To be a hero, like Captain Whitney.”
“Whitney.” If Jeremiah had any breath, he would have drawn it in sharply. Instead he dug his fingers into his legs and leaned forward intently. Something had sparked in his cauliflower brain, hearing that name again after … How long had it been? A dark recollection bubbled up that had nothing to do with the Lich King. Something uglier. Something with a choking sound.
Abel sat upright and clasped his hands, more animated than he had been since passing through the northern gate. “Captain Whitney, the Fearless Flyer! My father told me stories of his great victory over a formidable orc battalion.
“Whitney’s forces had been fighting the orcs for weeks. They were low on food and even lower on morale. The wise, courageous captain knew they needed to do something bold, something unexpected, if they hoped to gain an advantage over their tireless foes. That was when Whitney spotted the catapult, and a brilliant idea came to him. What if they could attack from above?
“The captain rushed to the catapult, calling his troops to arm themselves. As his weary soldiers rallied around him, Whitney spoke: ‘War demands much from us—often too much. The fight pushes us to our limits, and if it doesn’t break us, it pushes us beyond them—further than we ever imagined possible. Each one of you has done everything that I asked without question, reprieve, or complaint. And so tonight, I ask for one final show of your faith, loyalty, and steely determination. Follow me into this last battle, and by the time the sun crests this field, the day will be won with our enemy fled or fallen at our feet.’
“His soldiers protested that the orcs would spot them first and attack, but their captain reassured them. ‘Look for my sign and go forward to victory. Those orcs will not see it coming. Get ready, brave soldiers. When life calls on us to act, we must rise to the occasion.’ Whitney winked and climbed into the bucket of the catapult fearlessly. He drew his sword, and in one smooth motion, he cut the rope. His men watched, dumbfounded, as the machine launched their intrepid leader into the black sky and he disappeared from view.
“The captain flew silently toward the orcs’ camp, the only sound the air whistling past his ears. Whitney angled his descent toward the largest tent, which belonged to the lead orc bruiser himself. When he reached it, he plunged his sword into the fabric, tearing it asunder as he slid toward solid ground. He seized a nearby torch and set the tent aflame.
“The captain was swift, running from tent to tent with his torch. When his soldiers saw the glow of the fire, they recognized his sign and rushed toward the orc camp, their own weapons raised. The disorganized orcs scrambled to meet the surprise assault, but they were spooked and unprepared. Whitney leveled three orcs with a single sweep of his sword, and his soldiers rejoiced when they saw him alive.
“With their supplies and resolve destroyed, the orc forces were routed. Before sunrise, they had retreated, leaving behind the smoldering remains of their camp. Captain Whitney’s soldiers cheered for him: ‘Fearless Flyer! Fearless Flyer!’”
As Abel finished relating the tale, he found his audience speechless, glassy eyes wide. He misunderstood their silence and shrugged. “Sorry, I got excited. It’s my favorite story. My father’s letter told it better.”
Jeremiah was stunned by what he had just heard. He knew the story was wrong. Twisted. Memory pricked his thoughts again—the choking noise. Before Jeremiah could speak up, Conor cut in. “Not at all. Stories guide our lives and shape our destinies.”
“Captain Whitney’s soldiers cheered for him: ‘Fearless Flyer! Fearless Flyer!’”
“That’s why it’s important to know which stories are true and which are fiction,” Jeremiah said.
“Oh, this one’s true,” Bronwen said.
“What makes you so sure?” Jeremiah asked with a lift of his good eyebrow.
“Because I’ve heard Captain Whitney tell it himself. He’s one of us.”
“He’s here?” Abel jumped to his feet. “I’d like to thank him for inspiring me to follow in his footsteps.”
“Thank him? Sounds like he’s the reason you died,” Jeremiah muttered. But Abel either did not hear him or graciously chose to ignore the comment.
“You’ll likely find Whitney at the pub,” Conor said. “He usually draws a good crowd late in the day.”
“We can drink in our … condition?” Abel asked.
“We may not experience the same
pleasure from a mug of ale that we did in life, but some habits from life never die,” Conor said.
“I’ll join you, if you don’t mind,” Jeremiah said. “I’d like a word with him as well.”
They found Captain Whitney in the trade quarter, in a makeshift pub just as run-down as its sparse occupants, with rotting wooden beams, sticky floors, and a sickly light that rendered everyone as dim shadows. Perhaps the Forsaken who lingered here preferred it that way, as it masked their own worsening condition. Jeremiah’s eyes widened as if he’d seen a ghost—and in a way, he had.
The larger-than-life (or larger-than-death) man known as the Fearless Flyer was in an advanced state of decay himself. The flesh on the right side of his face had been stripped away, revealing stark bone traversed by the occasional maggot. Dark earth and purple rot clung to his shabby old clothes. But Jeremiah noted thinning patches of white hair on his scalp, evidence that Whitney had led a long life. The table before him was littered with empty mugs. Without understanding how, Jeremiah knew that Whitney was never far from a mug, and the more he emptied, the meaner he got.
“Captain Whitney?” Abel asked, awestruck. “Stories about your heroic victories moved my heart to follow your example.”
Whitney turned his head slowly, neck joints grinding. When he fixed his eyes on Abel, they blazed yellow. His every gesture was heavy and deliberate.
“Is that so?” His voice was hollow, crooked. “Draw up a chair. Buy me a drink and share your story, newcomer.”
Whitney sized up Jeremiah next. His eyes showed a flash of recognition, and then they narrowed to bright slits. The message was clear: You are not welcome.
Jeremiah hesitated for a brief moment before he took a chair at the table across from Abel and Whitney anyway. Abel signaled for service, and a Forsaken woman carried over a tray with three mugs. She was comely, in good enough condition to nearly pass for living, and her threadbare patchwork dress was only just starting to become musty. Jeremiah saw that the cups she brought were empty, but Captain Whitney raised his grandly and made a show of toasting Abel before miming taking a deep draft.
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