The Lion and the Serpent - Chapter Three: Blood

“Remind me never ta agree wi’ you again” huffed Arador, gripping his reins, the horse neighing as if it agreed.

“hardly my fault if they put up ‘stiff resistance’ compared to Ashenvale” coughed Seiken, shaking his head with a small smile.

“Stiff resistance!? If tha’s stiff resistance then what tha hell do you call impossible!?” grunted the raven haired warrior again, clearly distraught over the subject.

“Usually ‘a minor challenge’ if I come across such an occasion” grinned Seiken, he was quite enjoying playing with Arador for once, rather than the other way around. The two travelled side by side across the frost touched grass of the highlands, both upon their stallions, Arador’s horse being black, and Seiken’s white. Trohad also followed not far behind with some twenty Arathorian Knights Behind them, riding in a long column.

“I don’t know, I still think Stonetalon was a waste of time. I mean, we only destroyed half tha supplies before we had ta withdraw” Arador shrugged, seemingly still confused by what had happened.

“Do I have to keep explaining it?” Seiken sighed, rubbing his plated hand over his face. “We was there trying to cripple them, not kill them. As long as their panicking about supplies and can’t fight for a while, that’s all we want”. Arador arched a brow and muttered back... “If ya say so”

Seiken rolled his eye. It had been a long two weeks in kalimdor, taking a toll on his patience. First the battle in Ashenvale, then the madness in Stonetalon. The Orc’s emergency supply stash had been destroyed in the mountainous region, but not without the alliance expedition suffering from many gravely wounded men over five days of guerrilla fighting. Not to mention, that dammed Blood elf had gathered a more organised force of his own, managing to force the raiding party away before they could get the second half of the supplies. He’d started to dislike that name... Lorath, no doubt he would be a thorn in future.

The subtle sound of hooves came trotting up behind the pair at the front, growing gradually louder, stopping between them with Arador on the left and Seiken on his right, Trohad at least maintained a smile atop his mare.

“I hear you still didn’t get your Orc by the way” he smiled, almost sincerely before adding “even after a week in the mountains chasing him day and night!” yelled Trohad chuckling heartily. Seiken sighed, narrowing his eyes. Kozgugore just wouldn’t give up, no matter how much he’d pushed the Orc into a corner, he just wouldn’t give ground.

“Thanks for reminding me Again Trohad...” grunted Seiken, now sounding much like Arador in his tired annoyance. Victory, when so hard earned, really was irritating.

“Not a problem, just trying to help” Trohad replied, that dammed wicked smile he had on his face. “not far to the village now anyway, ten minutes or so and you two can rest your grumpy souls for a few days” laughed Trohad, before riding off at some gallop to the north east, a knight following him as they headed for the mountains. A small cutting into the northern slopes of the rocky giants could be seen, surrounded by a small forest that blocked it from view. No doubt that was where he was headed in such a hurry to get back ‘home’.

Arador fidgeted on his saddle, sniffing the air curiously as he looked around for something he couldn’t see.

“Ya smell tha? Smells like the ogre’s are burning things in their mounds again” he shook his head with a tired expression, making the brutish monsters sound more like pests than giant muscular killers.

“I can’t smell anything but myself right now, when we get back I’m jumping straight into the stream. Haven’t had a good wash since we arrived in Astranaar two weeks ago” replied Seiken, a long exasperated yawn coming from his mouth.

“Two weeks?” Arador looked at him blankly, as if something was wrong with what he said.

“Aye, what of it? We’ve been fighting nonstop for a fortnight you know...” muttered back the weary prince.

“Ya make it sound like a lot...” answered Arador, tilting his had curiously. Seiken blinked a second, turning his head all the way to the left to look at his friend. “Are you trying to say you’ve gone longer without a wash?” Seiken arched a brow; the subject was a little vile but a sad necessity of war to him.

“Not really, I’ve gone about six weeks before. But I’ve been washing every day since we left here...” Arador grinner, the conversation had gone back into his favour.

“How in Thoradin’s name did you managed that!? There was no time with all that was going on!” exclaimed Seiken, clearly annoyed he had missed the chance to clean himself up. After all, he had been getting covered in sweat and blood the whole time.

“Simple! The fine Elven lasses in tha natures grasp brought me some water every day, bit of tha old sweet talking swung it, ya know!” answered Arador happily, clearly quite happy he was such a hit with the ladies, even those of other races.

“I don’t believe this, you mean to say you flirted your way to getting a wash!? Next you’ll be telling me THEY hand washed you in a marble tub!” Growled seiken, now somewhat annoyed. However, Arador simply widened his grin, seemingly quite smug and happy with himself. Seiken fell silent, his jaw dropping at the prospect of it being true.

“Arador...” asked Seiken slowly.

“Aye?” came the answer.

“I hate you sometimes...” he finished, hanging his head low, utterly depressed, while Arador continued to smirk triumphantly.

“Aye aye, I love ya too lion boy...” he whispered back, seemingly not wanting the column of soldiers behind them to hear. Seiken raised his head slowly, a glint in his silver eye as he let a small smirk come up on the edge of his mouth.

“How ya reckon Lysle’s been doing anyway? Sat in Ravenholdt still, drinking himself and his wife senseless eh?” a small smirk arose on Arador’s lips, as he glanced at the weary prince.

“You too? I had this with Trohad, I have complete faith in the man” murmured seiken, narrowing his eye a little.

They now began to draw close to the edge of the small forest at the foot of the northern mountains. The trees had lost most their leaves in the autumn fall, but the density of the tree’s made it impossible to look straight through to the other side.

Arador began to sniff again, slowly, arching a brow as he did so, glancing from side to side, then behind himself, and lastly forward to the trees.

“its not tha ogre’s...” he muttered quietly, a grim expression covering his face, his eyes sharpening as they passed under the wood’s autumn canopy, some hundred metres from the other side of the small wood. Arching a brow and sitting up straight, Seiken looked around curiously after seeing his friend’s expression. “And what's that meant to mean exactly?” he asked firmly, Arador simply remained quiet, his hawk eyes watching every tree and frosty blade of long grass.

Just as they reached the centre of the wood the forest exploded, as birds burst into flight from the trees, a Deafening horrified scream echoing off the mountains and through the surroundings. It came from the direction of the village. Both warriors and their soldiers looked around surprised, instantly spurring their horses on at full gallop. It must have been a minute, or half, before they reached the edge, deafening wails and yells continuing as it went.
Riding out from under the trees, the mounted party were blinded at first by the sudden reappearance of the sun from under the cover of the leafy canopy.

as their eyes adjusted to the brighter light, horrified gasps could be heard as every man’s eyes widened at the sight before them.

The village, surrounded by a half circle of tree’s, with its back against the sheer mountain rock, was blur of destruction. The dozens of small houses that had been built in a crescent shaped row facing the forest, were either burnt out, or a pile of simmering ashes. The ominous silence of the place was broken once more as another whimpering scream could be heard, every man looking to his right to see Trohad staring off in shock. The soldier that was with him kneeling by his side, throwing up violently.

Before the magi stood a great mound, an effigy some ten feet tall that two buzzards sat upon, pecking at. Its raw red colour, was unmistakable, Blood. The villagers were piled upon one another, their broken twisted bodies woven into a cruel monument. Men and women’s faces could be seen, each having been mutilated and butchered in meticulous turn, none had clothing left upon their bodies, and most had been skinned completely. As the crowd of soldiers dismounted and hastily ran toward the scene, they each swallowed so hard it hurt their throats through disgust and disbelief. None were untouched by shock, their mouths hanging and eyes watering as they took each step closer.

As seiken and Arador came to stand behind Trohad, he Fell to one knee and began to cough, and vomit, shaking violently.

Fixated upon it, Seiken looked upon every last horrific detail, the buzzing of flies as they crawled over the scene in their hundreds. The void horror in all their eyes filled him with a dread he’d never felt before. A small flame inside flickered... a dark malefic anger buried deep down, began to simmer.

“Where is Lysle, Trohad?” he began, taking some short sharp breaths, his heart racing. “Tell me...” he clenched his hands into fists, making them crack as the shock began to turn to anger.

Trohad slowly lifted himself to his feet, now quiet and grim faced the shock now under control. Raising his right hand, he pointed to the outer right side of the spectacle in front of him. As he did so, the soldiers scattered, running into the village, screaming out the names of their loved ones, waiting seconds for a reply that wouldn’t come... each gradually looking back to the gruesome pyramid of the dead, knowing exactly where they were.

Running quickly in the direction Trohad pointed out, Seiken clenched his fists, his face turning a raging red, but his eye welling with tears.
“Lysle! Lysle! Where are you!?” he yelled, but no reply came, only silence and the sound of the breeze rustling through the highland grass and autumn trees.

He came to a burnt out house just the other side of the village, only some twenty paces away. It told the whole story.

Before him was a pile of still half burning rubble and cinders that may have once resembled a family cottage. By the side of it stood a great oak shedding gold and red leaves. From the tree’s great branches were hanging long chains. At the bottom of each chain were hooks holding up husks of what could be described as freshly butchered lambs, but as he drew closer step by step he saw it for what it was. Children, mostly infants hung from the hooks by the back of their necks. Their heads and bodies skinned, their organs taken or hanging limply outside of their bodies. Each dripped slowly with blood as insects swarmed the ground below pooling with the putrid blood of Arathors youth.

He covered his mouth, trying not to be sick, biting down on his gauntlet as he whimpered in shock. Stirring himself he looked again, then to the tree they dangled from, it was covered in what looked like hair. Taking some steps toward it he saw he realised what it was. The villagers scalps where nailed to the tree, hundreds of them. Blonde, brown, black and red haired fleshy patches hammered in with primitive stone pins.

He stared at it for what seemed hours, taking the hand he bit down upon in his shock and stroking a finger across one scalp... seemingly mesmerised, not a thought in his mind.

“i-i fought...” came a stutter on the wind. Seiken stirred, turning to look behind himself he could see the back of the burned down house. Some ten metres away, laid upon his back was a young man, no older than 15 or so, looking at the prince, holding out a hand for help. He wore simple clothes, of green and white. His face was pale and bloodied, and his short brown hair a mess. Seiken’s anger subsided a moment, as he looked blankly at the boy, and he back, his hand still outreached for help.

“Ardon!” came a yell from the other side of the house, Antirius ran up to the boy from nowhere, kneeling down beside his nephew. Slowly walking up to them both in a half daze, seiken listened and watched as the wolf headed knight looked over the boy. An arrow stuck out from his left shoulder, and a small blade wound oozed blood from the left side of his abdomen. By his side lay his own spear, broken in half at the shaft, blood upon it. Seiken’s eyes were however drawn to what looked like scratch and grip marks squeezed into his throat by sharp claws from a strong hand.. He’d been wounded while held at the neck.

“Ardon! My nephew, hold still, help is coming, you’ll be fine!” he muttered to himself hesitantly, over and over trying to look his nephew in the eye to comfort him. The boy however kept his gaze fixed on seiken who looked over them both.

“I-i fought the-the-m uncle” stuttered Ardon, drawing each breath slowly and weakly. Antirius stopped, looking at his nephew quietly, listening. “I couldn’t... stop them” he hissed, gripping his wound with his hand, grimacing in pain.

“Stop who...?” asked Seiken, pressingly. Antirius looked behind himself, up at the prince with a quiet desperation in his watery eyes, before quickly looking back to his nephew.

“He, he said he did...” the boy winced again, before slowly continuing... “The Troll, the Gurubashi... their h-high priest... said h-he does Dam-... Dambalah and his...Emperors...” he paused, taking a short pained breath, “work!” the boy finished the last word with a wailing scream, falling silent suddenly, slumping into his uncles arms. He was dead.

Antirius embraced his fallen nephew tightly, crying, wailing and squeezing as if he would never let him go.

The Empire... had done this? Shrogan did this at the Emperors bidding!? Seiken turned sharply, that dark burning malice bursting into flame deep inside. His heart doubled then trebled its pace, Adrenaline now feeding his anger.

Lowering his gaze he looked upon the desecrated tree again, carved into the side he saw a scrawl of words he hadn’t noticed before. Running over he looked them up and down, narrowing his eyes as he read...

“Where are the mighty warriors of Arathor now? Blood, Fire, Death!”

“Blood... Fire, Death?” he thought, considering the words as he growled. What had happened was now all too clear... the empire had struck at their heart.

(( Bastards! Slay those evil trolls and wipe them of the face of Azeroth!

Seriously though, o m g - awesome sauce! Perfectly graphic, and you kept the characters feeling 'human' which was splendid. I actually felt bad for Ardon, a pinkskin of all things! And the way you started it off all so 'innocently' only have it become a real gutwrencher was superb.

Damned good read! ))