Welcome to another installment of the collaborative fic event hosted by the Wildfire Riders.
The collapse of the Ballistae line and increased pressure on the line has Tarquin calling for a retreat. The problem is getting the call heard. While Tarq runs, Aely is down in the thick of the fighting on the field. She cannot hear the retreat, but she has other concerns. Nykkolia, a mage who we were introduced in a previous post, helps to hold then line and guard the retreat.

—
Tarquin

The Wildfire Riders – Tarquin by *JRinaldi on deviantART

Tarquin pitched down the slope like a falling ash, tottering from step to step, kept aloft by sheer momentum and exhilaration. Snow puffed with every impact of his feet, occasionally digging tracks in the drifts as he skidded for a few yards. It was all very simple – if he tried to slow down, he’d be more likely to stumble, and so increase the odds of ending the Battle of Angrathar as a broken-necked, limp bag of bones at the bottom of a hill. Posterity recalls Tarquin ap Danwyrith, mercenary captain and career criminal, dead at the Bloody Prince’s doorstep on account of tripping and falling. Sodding embarassing, really. So, he just couldn’t afford to stop.

A few lines of potential news-scrip flashed through his head, and he snorted laughter and bit his tongue doing so. The Tribune would have a fucking field day, and those poor sods at the Clarion would have no place to show their heads. Lucky for the lot of them he wasn’t willing to sacrifice his life to the tender mercies of that all-consuming bitch, Irony. He still had work to do, after all. Here and now. He leapt a shattered tangle of limbs that had probably been some sort of deader, waved his arms for balance on the landing, and managed to save himself with a mad sidewards lean. The sounds of battle were growing closer now, an indecipherable mass of voices and material contact, the many-throated growl of a single hungry animal.

It was, he was not much ashamed to say, fucking terrifying.

He skidded another few lengths of hillside, the rear ranks of the Scourge looming in view. The corpse of the behemoth was still there, of course, great gobbets of flesh torn from it by the ripping passage of its fellows. And just like most carrion, it had attracted crows – necromancers, their black cultic robes flapping about them as they launched salvos of entropy and padded the ranks of their minions. Clever bastards, really, and efficient to boot. With cover like that, and a bit of height if they needed, it’d be easy to take their time with their shots. Like, say, if you were one particular cultist, with a keen enough eye to spot one skinny sod scarpering down the hillside wide out in the open. You’d have all the time in the world to drill him with some soul-wrenching evocation.

“Ah, fuck.”

Tarquin picked up speed and hurled himself flat, diving into the snow as death crackled past him. The initial shock of the cold hit like a hammer, with that soothing promise of warmth and rest lurking behind it. He scrambled for purchase, feet slipping out from under him, and then the inconvenient laws of reality kicked in and he was skidding down the last yards of the hill. At least this made him a very difficult target. Got many a reason to be cheerful, don’t I? Could be a corpse in the muck, easy. He was aware he was smiling, and there was snow in his teeth, and it hurt like a bastard. And a few seconds later, he was aware of something that loomed above him though it was down the slope, blotted out the gray half-light, and felt like a stone wall when he slammed into it.

Most stone walls, though, didn’t have the courtesy to yank you out of the snow after you’d made their acquaintance. Tarquin found himself looking up at eight feet and change of Tauren, with blood and pus splashed across his pitted iron armor like he’d taken a bath in dead ghouls. Under his helm, the Horde soldier’s face was slack with what Tarquin took for bemusement. It wasn’t every day, Tarquin supposed, that the Oathbreaker careened down a hillside and ran into your chest. “Cheers, mate,” he huffed breathlessly, bracing a hand against one of the giant’s pauldrons while he got his legs under him. “Linedan, innit?”

Linedan made a sort of volcanic rumbling noise that the rogue eventually realized was Orcish for “Yes,” followed by a string of glottal consonants that he couldn’t properly follow, but smacked of a certain dry humor. Tarquin nodded enthusiastically and tried to remember his Orcish. “Back,” he attempted. “Going back.” Linedan just stared. “Up, back. Ha’the orcs even go’ a word fir ‘retreat’? Shite. Uh…” Inspiration struck. He pointed up the hill, and then described a long arc in the air with his hand, ending with a reasonable somatic expression of an apocalyptic explosion. “Davien,” he finished.

The Tauren’s eyes widened in comprehension. Tarquin clapped his hands together and nodded again. “Universal fuckin’ language, mate. Thanks again. Loktar Ogar an’ all thit.” He jogged in the direction of the fracas, Linedan turning about to follow in his wake, bellowing out to his comrades. And he had comrades, the northman saw as he got closer; a handful of forms in the chaos wearing Noxilite colors. He wondered if Bricu had arranged that one.

The Riders were hammered back into their makeshift line of stakes, the line collapsed to a tight knot in a wave of corpses, some of which had finally had the decency to lie down and be dead. “Toe tae th’ line!” Jolstraer was bellowing, bare-headed in the tumult. “Refoahm, an’ toe tae th’line!” He saw Feliche and Bellesta, out ahead of the stakes; bear-mounted, Feliche was big enough to look a Vrykul champion in the eyes as he planted his axe between them. They were holding, as far as that went.

“Tarq!” Ceil was there, blessedly, stepping back from the swirl of combat about the stakes. They looked at each other for a silent moment, confirming the other’s presence, pulse, and wholeness in all their particulars, and he saw his own gratitude reflected in her eye. After that, she was all business. “We can’t do this much longer, even with the Horde here.”

“We’re pullin’ back. Get thim out, up the hill. Genise an’ the dead lasses are bringin’ it down.” He jerked his head towards the front line. “Anyin out oan the flanks, get ‘em. I’m fir tellin’ Jolly!” Ceil spun wordlessly and darted out to the right, where Chryste was making herself a mound of corpses. Tarquin headed into the madness, quietly cursing himself as he scrabbled for his sword. Fourteen fucking years, and you’re still getting into the type of trouble requires an otherwise reasonable man to use a fucking sword. There were a pair of geists skulking around the stake line, maybe heading for the back. That was more like it; he had his knives to hand in no more time than it took him to think about it. One collapsed instantly, a cobalt point punching through leather and the thin skein of flesh under its ear into the spoiled meat of its brain. The other spun and shrieked as he opened its stomach; he stepped aside from its ineffectual flailing and buried a dagger in its vapid eye.

So alright, then, maybe he could manage something useful here.

Knives disappearing again, Tarquin ap Danwyrith waded manfully into the madness of battle. From the rear. Tirith was kneeling in the back, exhausted, gulping from a water skin and wiping soot from his strained face; Tarquin clapped him on the shoulder as he passed, yelling for Jolstraer. The de facto captain of the front line was amid the broken stakes, finishing off a Vrykul with three human skulls braided into her rust-orange hair. Tarquin slipped up beside the old paladin as his sword ripped through the giantess’s neck. “Get ‘em back,” he shouted over the noise of battle, waving his sword in the direction of the Scourge. “Wir callin’ the fire, get ‘em all back.”

Jolstraer looked over at him; beneath its mask of someone’s blood, the old paladin looked haggard and wolfish, his weariness second to his hunger. A smile split his face. “Yeh gonnah use tha’thing, Boss, oah jus’ flop it like a limp cod?” Before Tarquin could answer, the knight was turning away, bulling into another Vrykul. “RETREAT!” he roared as his shield smashed into the giant’s leering face. “TAIGHT OAHDAH NOW, GIT TAE THE STONE-LINE!”

Tarquin leaned forward and jabbed experimentally at the Vrykul’s side as it rained blows down on Taborwynn’s shield. His sword sank in, and the Scourge soldier grunted, teetered, and swiped at him with an axe that looked about the size of a small pony. He hurled himself backwards, a nasty breeze whistling by his face. Jolstraer took the opportunity to shift his bulk to the side and bring his sword backhand into the back of the Vrykul’s head, pitching it lifeless to the snow. “RETREAT TAE TH’STONES!” he repeated, and down the line, Ceil keened out the same call.

Before them, the snow whipped from the ground, swirling in the air, coalescing into hard and deadly shards that lacerated the flesh of the Scourge army. Tirith was back on his feet, beside the scarred mage Nykkolaia, calling down the blizzard that was one of the trademarks of their profession. It always gave Tarquin a little twinge of regret to see Tirith practicing the arcane – a thought of what might have been – but at the moment, in the boss’s estimation, the boy was right where he needed to be – covering their bloody retreat.

A phlegmatic cackle brought his attention forward, where a Vrykul with streamers of rotted meat hanging from its skeletal face was lurking forward, a primitive sword held over its head. Tarquin scrambled to his feet, added his voice to the chorus calling for retreat, and started doing so. But the thing came on, and not far behind him were the mages who really couldn’t afford a little distraction like a rampaging Vargul with a chipped-together falchion.

So he planted his feet, slipped a knife into his offhand, and forced a grin onto his face as the general retreat crept far too slowly towards his position. Next time this happens, I’m sending Laz to the front.

—

Aely

The Wildfire Riders – Aelflaed by *JRinaldi on deviantART

Aely lost track of time – between fighting off the stragglers that made it over to Fordragon’s flanks, rushing water and bandages to those on the field, and keeping her own feet in the din, she didn’t know if it had been moments or hours or days.

A pair of ghouls broke through the line to her right, yelling gibberish and flailing towards the makeshift area that the better equipped healers were using. “OI! FECKIN’ TOSSERS!” She screamed, slamming one of them in the face with a shock of Holy Energy, and crashing full force into the second. A whirling mass of greatsword, holy light, and angry, red-headed vengeance completed the job, leaving two sets of shredded body parts back underfoot. She went to get an elven archer back on his feet, catching her breath.

The snow fell thick over the battlefield, the newly dead falling alongside the reanimated, but still they pressed forward. She flung Holy Light at everything she could reach, friend and foe, knowing it would warm and heal the men but burn and kill the undead. Her voice was harsh, raw with yelling and ragged breath. Her arms ached from supporting the wounded off the fields only to turn and have to fight her way back. Still, she went on, slashing her way through the straggling ghouls and skeletons to find another wounded soldier. A drop of water against the tide.

“Death Knights – hold your ground!”

A coarse shout rang out from an Alliance commander – and a resounding yell surged from the soldiers on that flank. Aely paused, waiting to hear the expected horror usually wrought by Arthas’ chosen, only to have shouts of surprise instead.

“The Ebon Blade – Give room!” “Give room, and assist!” “Fall in behind and keep moving!”

She whispered a prayer, knowing that Bertrand was likely among them – fearing for the hollow look in his face. But his fate was his own, between him and whatever afterlife awaited those who were neither living nor dead. She didn’t have time for more than a passing hope as she knelt to close the eyes of a young woman, grimacing at the head wound that had taken her life.

Without warning, pain seared through her consciousness.

She fell.

Bandages, greatsword, and concentration toppled with her as she sprawled forward into the snow, blood rushing in her ears. She rolled, praying it was away from the attacker and watching as the axe sunk into the ground beside her head. A gruff yell, and the skeleton’s chest cavity crumpled from behind, followed quickly by a sickening crunch as its arm was wrenched out of socket, useless.

A scruffy, russet beard, followed quickly by a grinning Dwarven face came into view. “Watch nae, lass, or ye’ll be joinin’ em – cannae focus on healin’ an’ lose sight th’ battle!”

She sat up. Blood was welled up through the soft space between her gorget and shoulder armor, warm against her skin. She pulled off the armor, binding her shoulder with bandages and a prayer, her left arm tingling as she closed the wound and flexed her fingers.

“Yeh’ll be alright?” The Dwarf offered her a hand.

“Ayeh, jus’ need a moment.” She strapped the damaged spaulders back on, and then took his hand and leveraged herself back to standing.

Wrapping her fingers around her necklace, she closed her eyes – By the Grace of the Light, may your brethren be healed; By the Strength of the Light, may your enemies be undone. And may the Light bring you Peace. – took a deep breath and opened them again, heard the cries of someone wounded, and went back out onto the field, cradling her arm.

So the battle raged up to the doors of Angrathar, and the undead were pushed back. Even the great legions of Ymirjar warriors fell before the onslaught of Alliance and Horde.

And then there was silence again. Somewhere a man was shouting, and Aely recognized Highlord Fordragon. She was far to one side, and his words were indistinct, but the challenge in his voice rang clear. She stood on a broken wagon to get a better look. Someone called for a medic, but her eye caught another red and white baldric heading that way. Then nearer…

“Aely?”

—
Nykkolia

Despite the throwing of frost against snow, Nykkolaia burned inside. Time was irrelevant, except the breaths and heart beats between the casting of each spell. The only inner sign of the length of time passing was the glint of frost coating her hands and the dull ache in her mind. Down the slope, blade and shield and blunted weapon was being swung and throne. The clangs and thuds echoed up, and Nykk was dimly aware of it as it reached her ears, cutting through the wind that alternately whispered and shrieked.

Nykkolaia’s pale eyes infrequently broke from the sight of ‘us’ and ‘them’ to see recognizable forms. Hear their voices. The accents of the North were the loudest for her – comfort and music in the midst of chaos.

“MOVE MOVE MOVE!” Jol Taborwynn bellowed over the sound of his damage, swinging blade and shield like a living weapon. Vrykul, ghoul, geist, cultist, it didn’t matter to him. He would damn well bathe in their blood for the memory of what was lost and what remained that the mindless dead would try to tear away from them. He was surrounded by hard fighters, Horde and Alliance, Orc and Night Elf, Troll and Dwarf, Human and Forsaken. Jol was mindful of them, but swung all of his strength into the undead as they fell back up the slope. His arms felt like bars of lead, but he kept swinging out of sure stubborn will. They were falling back, but they were nowhere near done. The battle was not done yet. Not done.

The Riders and those of Noxilite who fought beside them fell back.

As the retreat was sounded, the lines began their slow move backward. Taborwynn’s roar rose above the sounds of battle and Nykkolaia was, briefly, aware of ap’Danwyrith coming to the line. Another mage was beside her now, but only part of her was aware of these things. The other part was focused. Her eyes and her hands rose to the sky and the grey clouds swirled together. Called from the air came the blades of ice that left razor paths through enemy flesh.

She could smell the blood, though none was on her hands. Being a mage was clean business, when done right.

The tumult of sound only drew nearer, but she didn’t stop. The ice falling from the sky slowed the encroaching ‘them’ to allow the ‘us’ to make their way back to the lines. No peace in our time, came an unbidden thought that was pulled away amidst the noise of slamming shields and shearing of bodies.

“Git goan!” Jolly roared to those remaining behind him, standing and facing against the onslaught and holding them off to buy the others time to get set. Swing, turn, block, slash, cut, slam. He flew into a fury of Righteousness, giving up one grudging step at a time, but buying the others time to move. They had to move, regroup, and then bring the hammer down on the Scourge.

The wind roar and the burning inside her grew worse. The fire ate away at her awareness and it abandoned her. She suffered no injury, but there was pain building inside. Her magic continued, but it began to falter. The tide moving towards her was unknown and would catch her in its wake if she didn’t over-come the distraction within, and yet her heart beat moments too late and the forces surrounding the solitary figures trailing the line were suddenly far closer than they had been before.

Nykkolaia was aware of being alone. The line had moved without her, the chaos enveloping all.

Her survival instinct took over where it had previously forsaken her and her left hand swung out before her, ice rising with greedy hands to capture the feet of those who would harm her. She hurried back to rejoin the rest of the forces, but the ice – that of Northrend’s making – took her down before she got far. A careless mistake, perhaps, or simply a cruel twist of fate… either way, it was very likely to cost her life, before she had the chance to make much of her ruined soul.

The fire that had been burning her from inside grew. Panic fed it. Fear fed it. Helplessness fed it. All within moments, breaths that she wasn’t taking. She was aware of the enemy around her, like the tide about to pull her under… and she closed her eyes. The fire erupted all around her.

Mangled bodies flew outwards in flames, and it damn well caught Jol’s eye as he was about to turn and rejoin his fellows. Someone was down there. He damn well couldn’t leave them behind.

A wordless roar came out from him, and he physically threw himself into the throng, leaping over a falling Vrykul and blasting into the Scourge with Holy Light. He clambered over and through undead, swinging and slamming through until he reached the still smoldering circle of cleared undead. The mage was curled up there, covering herself in fear. Jol had no time and no patience for the still-clambering Scourge. With another gutteral roar, he turned and unleashed a furious rain of holy power, clearing a path back through the undead that had surged past. Burying his sword into the chest of a charging Vrykul, Jol sidestepped and let it past, taking the moment to grab the mage by the scruff of her robes and physically lifting her up fully. With another roar, he turned and pushed her through the cleared path.

“MOVE!” he bellowed after her, turning and picking up a discarded hammer from the ground in a hurry. With gritted teeth, he turned back around to the fray, swinging his hammer with all his might.

Death was forestalled. It was denied. Perhaps for the second time in her life when it shouldn’t have been, it was. Nykkolaia was not so foolish as to lose herself in shock when her senses recovered and she was hauled to her feet. Only for an instant, her eyes met Taborwynn’s and breath returned to her body. She moved back on the path and sought ice to throw, cover Jol… but it would not come. Panic lingered at the edges of her mind, but she couldn’t let that happen twice.

Fire came with barely a thought now. As she quickly made her steps back, her eyes took in everything and she watched the Paladin swinging the great hammer. Fire bloomed from the chest of the Vrykul as its head caved in and another, coming in swiftly, lit up explosively and fell thrashing to the ground.

The Vrykul he was about to lay into bloomed into fire, and Jol didn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. He damn well knew he couldn’t keep up at this pace, and there was still a fight left to be had. Burying the hammer in a gibbering geist’s head, Jol turned and ran back up the slope towards the mage. He barely had time to register the surprise on her face when he lowered his shoulder and wrapped an arm around her, lifting her up over his shoulder in one smooth motion without breaking stride. “Keep slingin’ an’ ah’ll keep runnin’!” he bellowed at her as his legs churned them both up the slope.