Lordaeron – 1 year prior to the first war.
A foul, course smell reached his nostrils as he clung with his back to the wooden wall, crawling back against the mouldy surface and making it creak. The sound seemed magnified in the gloom of the small house. Gloom that hadn’t been there a moment ago, like the moss on the tiles of the floor, or the darkness behind the windows. He gripped his sword tightly against his armoured chest, but Aran could not stop it from shaking any less than he could shut out the female voice that called out his name.
The house seemed deserted at first, just like the rest of the village he and his squad were supposed to check for ‘unusual activity’. Capital City had received multiple reports on strange events occurring in Holden Hill. Unexplained phenomena that were taking place, people who went missing, strange noises heard in the night. The reports kept piling up until finally the City sent a group of lightly armed soldiers.
Judging by the size of the village and its poor defences Aran assumed it was possible for the village to have become victim of a raid. There was but a single watchtower which they had passed on the hill. It had been crudely made. It consisted of nothing more than four spikey logs driven into the ground and covered with wooden plates. There wasn’t even a roof to keep the watch dry, if it was even manned at all. But when their party arrived in the actual village in the warm sun of late spring it seemed perfectly in order, aside from the fact that it had been abandoned completely. Not a single living soul, be they man, woman, child or dog had been left behind. Finding no immediate threat Aran had spread out his group of eight, searching the houses for clues as to what had driven the inhabitants away.
That’s when the sun had vanished.
The sky had turned a murky green, cloudless. Aran was the only one to witness it, all the others were inside. But they witnessed other things. The first scream came from the other side of the village, but it was so loud that the man might have been standing right next to him. Other shrieks followed in quick succession. Aran unsheathed his sword and ran down the hill for the first house. When he entered he found one of his men, slumped against an upturned table, the hilt of his dagger sticking out of his belly. Both his hands were firmly clasped around it in a death grip.
In the next house he found another. This one had attempted to crawl through one of the windows but the glass had cut him open, he hadn’t made it through. In the other houses he found similar scenes. All of his men were either dead or gone. No traces of struggles or fights were found. In the house where he had heard the first scream at the end he found it deserted, but that is where he heard the voice the first time.
“Aran.”
The whisper was hardly audible, but he recognised it instantly as the voice of his wife. But it could not be. Tricia had died giving birth to their child. It had happened years ago, when he had been away from Lordaeron.
Aran mentally shook himself. He must have mistaken the wind for her voice, that’s all. He made to sheath his sword when he heard it again, louder.
“Aran, where are you?”
In the shock he missed his scabbard and dropped his sword, cursing he bent to pick it up. As he straightened he saw her, standing in the doorway. His knees gave out and he landed noisily on the ground as his wife slowly advanced. She was wearing the same clothes as the day she died: a light-blue dress with a white apron, and a yellow ribbon that held her long auburn hair out of her face. The front of her apron had a shockingly red stain on it, and he could see blood seeping down her legs and onto the wooden floor, leaving small crimson pools behind as she moved ever so slow towards him.
“Where were you Aran?”
He found the strength of his legs again and he propelled himself out of the room, away from her. He had bounded out of the house and shut the door, sliding against the wall without making a sound. But now the wall creaked, as if it were old and falling apart. Moss started to grow on the floor where it was clean before. The light from the windows faded and the smell of decay thickened until Aran felt ready to retch.
“Light …” Aran whispered softly into the descending gloom. Nothing made sense to him. His wife was dead. That thing that stalked outside was not his wife, it couldn’t be. But she looks so real!
“My love.”
The voice was so close to his ear that he jumped to his feet where he lay. Without looking behind him he drove himself through the backdoor which had previously been locked, and ran, he simply ran. He had to get away from the village. He made for the line of trees, trying to ignore the sickening colour of the sky or the smell of death or his shaking jaw. He ran.
But before he reached the cover of the trees a branch shifted, and then another, and more. All around him green skinned creatures rose from the woods bearing long spears and leather shields or long curved swords. They all smirked at him, their lips stretching over their tusks and shouting words he couldn’t understand.
Aran knew instantly that these were forest trolls. But what are they doing here? Aran thought as his hand slowly crept to his own sword. They belong in the south. His hand found only air and he realised with cold dread that he had left his sword in the house with his wife— No! Not with my wife! With a ghost! Ghosts couldn’t have harmed him, they couldn’t even have touched him. He felt like a fool.
One of the Trolls stepped out of the line and lifted a blunt stave with small skulls hanging from the tip.
“Zul’jin curse you Human!” it screeched in a strange accent that suggested its mouth was too big to utter the words.
More and more Trolls appeared from behind the trees and started surrounding him. Aran was defenceless against an immense force and his men were likely already dead. He had to use all his willpower to force himself to stand stiffly still, until he felt a small hand crawl over his shoulder and creep up towards his neck.
“It’s all right, my love. It’s all going to be all right.”
Aran felt something warm spread from between his legs.
*
A cool breeze wafted from the open shutters, carrying with it a hint of freshly baked bread. Long stripes of weak sunlight shone on the floor. Spring had finally broken and summer was upon Dalaran. The warmth was in the air, but in the early morning the wind still bore a ghost of winter. It never reached Liandrix. He was sitting behind his desk, surrounded by piles of books that formed a solid wall on the cluttered surface. Behind it lay a small pile of quills and empty inkpots, most of them broken or ravaged beyond use. Liandrix himself was snoring rather noisily, his head resting on a scroll.
A loud bang jostled him awake and for a moment he wrestled with the scroll on the desk, attempting to straighten it out like a pillow. By the time he realised what he was doing the door of his study had opened and a man was standing in the doorway. Liandrix put down the scroll.
“Robert, what are you doing here in the dead of night?” Liandrix asked as he stifled a yawn.
Robert turned his head to the open window, then back at Liandrix. “It’s morning, Liandrix. By the Light I’d wish you’d sleep sometimes!”
Robert smirked as Liandrix covered his mouth with both of his hands to hide another yawn. He was a tall man, imposing in the Kirin Tor colours and in his width as well. Liandrix always thought that he ate bricks for breakfast the way his muscles stretched his robes. He had more size than most of the guards in Stratholme.
Liandrix pushed himself to his feet and glanced over his fort of books. “Darn.”
“Come on, the council is waiting for you to brief them on the Trolls.”
“I have the report right here,” Liandrix said, feeling grateful for finishing it before he fell asleep.
“Then take it with you, we have to go now!” Robert said as he vanished through the doorway.
Liandrix hastily grabbed all his loose scrolls and hurried after him down the stairs. “I’m not going to take my report to them myself, Robert. I’m only advising the Open Council!”
Robert turned around when he reached the bottom of the stairs. “Yes, and you'll be doing it in person, now come on. And wear your robes would you? Someone might start thinking you hate the Kirin Tor colours.”
Liandrix didn’t hate the Kirin Tor colours, but he did dislike how everyone was always looking at him. He had been in the Kirin Tor for a year now as Expert on Lore and Anthropology and the first thing he had noticed is how differently the people – mages included – looked upon a wizard of the Kirin Tor. He understood now why people such as Althanir and David Spellsword chose to hide their appearance.
Robert turned to march on but Liandrix ran in front of him and stopped him with both hands on his shoulders. “Look, I don’t mind advising them, but politics is not my place, Robert. I leave things like that to you. Can’t you just go in my stead?”
Robert slung an arm around Liandrix shoulders and started walking again. “Would that I could, my friend, but they summoned you specifically. They’re in a right state, even the Grand Magus is attending.”
Liandrix nearly lost his footing. He had never told anyone, including Robert about his encounter with the Archmage and the fact that he spent weeks living with the man. He hadn’t seen him in fifteen years. Liandrix had moved out of the wooden cottage when he got initiated into the Kirin Tor and had received accomodations somewhere between the Violet Citadel and the archives. Liandrix rather preferred to spend his time in the direction of the latter. But now they were heading for the Citadel.
Derreck and Falen had both left Dalaran. Derreck had eventually concluded his study and moved back to his birthplace somewhere in Azeroth near Stormwind, while Falen had earned his Master colours in Advanced Alchemy and was now in Capital City. Liandrix was the last to leave Master Cohlien Frostweaver and that left him apprenticeless, which Cohlien seemed to take as a reason not to lose his prized hat anymore, but Liandrix rather thought he’d miss having an apprentice around, and so chose to visit him from time to time.
“Speaking of encounters,” Robert said silkily, “how did your encounter with Catherine end yesterday?”
Liandrix groaned. He had forgotten about meeting Catherine. “I fell asleep at the desk. I doubt she even came over.”
“Ouch,” Robert said as he patted his shoulder. “Looks like you missed your chance.”
“Look, it’s not like that with Catherine and me, we’re just friends.”
Robert spared him a look so dry Liandrix wondered how he could pull his face like that without spraining a muscle. “It’s well you aren’t into politicis, Liandrix; your lies are as see-through as my wife’s briefs. I mean come on, she offered to check out your tome on ‘Dwarven Fabric and Their Magical Components’! If that’s no spell for a steamy night … “
Liandrix felt another of Robert’s ‘My wife and I’ tales coming. Once he got started on one of those it was difficult to stop him.
“She’s a tailor! Of course she’d be interested in a book like that.”
“Oh Lian.”
They were drawing up to the Citadel, an immense building in the north-east corner of the city. Robert marched straight up to the steps that lead to a violet portcullis but Liandrix hesitated to climb the steps. Robert turned to look at him.
“Come on, it won’t be that bad. I’ll be there to back you up, remember?”
It wasn’t the council that worried Liandrix, although he preferred not to face them either. He wondered how the Grand Magus would behave once he saw Liandrix. Would he remember him? Talk to him? Perhaps he’d already told the other council members about their enounters. Perhaps he wouldn’t recognise him at all after such a long time.
Robert vanished through the entrance, and Liandrix reluctantly followed him in.
