Chapter 9

Beginning of the End

Stefan rolled over in the bed, tenderly kneading a large welt on his right shoulder. He winced as the bruise replied with a sharp pain. As the morning light flooded through the window, he realized that he had taken an incredible beating last night. Lucky for him, the late Percilus' elbow had left a far less nasty bruise on his forehead. Still, the aches Stefan felt as he rose to a sitting position were more than he could ask for.

"One bloody hell of a night," the man muttered. He stood up, stopping halfway to be sure the pain in his back would not worsen. Gingerly, Stefan slid his pants on, sighing when he saw the beer stain that covered a good portion of a pant leg. He flicked at the off-yellow spot in defeat.

Wondering how he managed the journey alone, Stefan found his way down from the rooms and into the inn's foyer. Apart from a few other patrons, the only other folk in the room was Stefan and his friends, who were waiting at a table together. He took a seat with them, frowning as another uncomfortable pain burned in his lower back.

"Damn, Stefan! You walk as if a kodo just had its way with you," said Gordreck, returning to his mug of beer. The Dwarf was never without liquor.

"I think that would have been more pleasant than the fuss we went through last night," replied Stefan.

"Eye, mon! Muh fink ah lost eh toof," mumbled Guro'jintal. The Troll was leaning back in his chair, his nose pointed toward the sky. He was holding a thick woolen cloth in place over his mouth.

"What's that, Guro? Speak up!" said Gordreck. He pushed at the Troll's shoulder, and after a moment Guro'jintal sluggishly obliged.

"Think me lost eh' tooth!" moaned the Troll. There was a large gap in the corner of his mouth.

"Two, actually. But you were close," jeered Koramosh. They all laughed, except for Guro'jintal, who leered sideways at the Orc before sliding the cloth back into place.

"Well other than the minor flesh wounds, how's everyone holding up?" asked Stefan, looking from one man to the next. He received a variety of answers, but all were in good, fighting condition. He nodded.

"Excellent. What do you say to getting a move on then? Outland's quite a way's away," he suggested.

Their answers were not as cheerful this time around, and Gordreck chose to dole out an obscene curse that involved a Night Elf and a panther with a rather nasty rash. The bartender stared at the Dwarf in disgust, but it probably had more to do with the splintered floorboads than anything. Gordreck smiled uneasily, shrugging his shoulders.

---

"All of them?"

"All of them, my savior."

"That is good news, indeed." Rok'Roham waived the acolyte away, waiting for the hooded follower to be a safe distance away before turning to speak into Gerita's graceful Elven ear.

"My child, it is time. The journey to Silithus will be long and hard, so it is imperative we embark at once. Rally the believers under the flag. Our flag," he whispered, letting his last words melt right into her.

Gerita smiled. "Of course, my Prophet."

She lifted the large standard into the air. A rock, engulfed in flames and haloed by a circle of light, was picked out in gold against the burgundy fabric of the banner. But Gerita Windsorrow was something more. She had replaced her simple brown robes with a warrior's armor, one that covered her shoulders, hips, lower legs, and only a portion of her chest. Beside its practical use, the armor served a dual purpose as a revealing work of art. The crooks and bends in the shiny, blood-red armor went well with the Blood Elf's golden hair and brilliant green eyes. The banner was clutched in her right hand and tucked under her arm while a thin, elegant sword rested lightly in the palm of her left hand. To the endless ranks of Rok'Roham's followers, she appeared as a goddess of war.

"Legion of the One True Prophet! Quiet your fervor, and still your tongues!" she shouted over their heads. After a moment, the horde fell silent.

"You have all proven your allegiance to our Savior, and over these last few weeks, it is obvious that you are indeed the chosen of His favor. Now, the final moment is upon us. Yes, we stand on the edge of transcendence!" she paused as the gathered rose their voices in uproar. She beckoned for their silence with a wave of her sword. "But there is still one more task, one final test of faith and devotion! One more bridge to cross before we set foot upon paradise!"

She turned and jabbed her sword into the distance.

"To the west lies Silithus, the land of the Ancient evil! Within the ruins of the Old God's domain, there is an artefact that is key to our success! Thus, our final journey begins."

"We shall go to Silithus, and obtain the artefact in the name of Him, the One True Prophet!" shouted someone from the crowd. Those around him cheered and threw their fists into the air. Soon, the entire sea of brown robes was engulfed in a moment of zealous fervor.

Gerita turned back to Rok'Roham. The Eredar was smiling back at her.

"Well done, my child. Now, lead our brethren to victory, and salvation."

"As the True Path shows it to be!" she replied.

---

"Does your motor-machine still work, Koramosh?" asked Stefan, turning back to look at the Orc as they exited the inn. The sun had slowly begun to creep up to its zenith in the sky.

"Maybe, unless the filthy Gobbos scrapped it. Knowing those bloody little runts, they're well into it by now. At least they can't use the breaks, those things broke about halfway down the--STEFAN!" The Orc shouted, pointing past Stefan. The man turned to looked at what Koramosh was shouting about, a moment too late.

Something large and brown speared him in the chest, tackling him to the floor. As he lay in the sand, struggling with his attacker, his heart leapt at the sound of metal against sheath. He immediately forgot about the aches and pains that littered his body, and was suddenly lurching and squirming beneath whoever was on top of him. His attacker was not as heavy as he expected, so Stefan was able to lift his opponent up and off of him, rolling over to assume the position atop. In a swift movement he thrust his hand down against his assailant's wrist, eyeing the lethal dagger gripped in the figure's purple hand. After a moment of struggle, the grip on the dagger loosened, letting the weapon fall freely to the sand. Gordreck's foot swept by, kicking the blade away. Stefan kept his weight on the his opponents chest while he removed the brown hood that concealed his identity.

"Now, let's see who the bloody hell you--"

He lifted the hood away. It wasn't a man at all. It was a female Night Elf. One he recognized. He took a breath before recalling her name.

"Iyana? Iyana Moonbreeze?"

It was indeed Iyana, the one who had been working with him in Duskwood. She had changed since they last met. Her long hair was a mess, and a thin layer of dirt caked her pretty features. Her eyes were tired, but a fire was burning within her pupils. She smelled as if she hadn't washed in weeks.

"Hello, Stefan." She smiled weakly at him.