Chapter 14

Shattered Hopes

With Stefan at the spearhead of the Cenarion line, battle was joined in a brutal clash of wood and steel. He easily parried a horribly placed swing of a hammer, cracking his own mace across the robed man's hooded head. As his first opponents rolled away in a daze, two more took his place. But they crowded each other, scrambling to place their own weapon at the forefront. He rammed the head of his maces into their sternums, kicking them aside with a sweep of his boot. Suddenly there was an axe coming down towards him, and he flinched reflexively, knocking the axe slightly off track. It bit into the strap of his war harness, cutting through and knicking his flesh. He winced in pain, batting the weapon aside.

The zealot prepared for another swing, but when Stefan heard a familiar shout of "Look Away!", he obliged. There was a crunch and sickening slurp, but Stefan had turned away. When he looked back, there was Gordreck, swinging his axe about and defending Stefan's flank.

"My thanks, Gordreck!"

"Quit the small talk and start bashin' heads in! Last one through cleans the liquor bins ta'night!"

Stefan was almost worried at how cheerful the Dwarf seemed, even amidst a sea of death. But the Dwarf was born with an axe in his hand and a keg of lager up his rear. It was more scary to imagine something that took the cheerful sarcasm out of Gordreck. Stefan hoped he wouldn't see that day, let alone be standing close by.

He looked over to find Iyana holding her own. Her movements were graceful, well-timed, and completely fluent. Each stroke and return swing struck home, whether it be a distracting blow or the finishing touch. The comely Night Elf made battle seem more like a dance than an art, and for a moment he almost lost himself in her fluidity. He turned his attention back to a robed man with a large pitchfork, who waved it at him, sometimes jabbing rapidly before retreating. But Stefan knew the man didn't know what else to do with the makeshift weapon save heap loads of hay. He stepped towards the man, who replied by bringing the teeth up toward his head. Stefan caught the tool by the shaft, twisting it out and away from him. The zealot, his hands locked in fear, went with the weapon. Together they somersaulted away, disappearing into the swirling melee. Another robed figure sprung out to face him, a torch in one hand. He waved it about before screaming madly and chucking it at Stefan. He ducked, letting the fiery projectile spin past harmlessly. For a moment, the man stared at him. Then he ran away, pushing and shoving his comrades aside in his flight.

After several more pathetic encounters, Stefan took a moment to survey their progress. The opening moments of battle had remained a stalemate. But as the fight drew on, the unarmored zealots had proven to lack any combat skills at all. But little more could be expected from farmers, gardeners, coolies, and the like. They were not warriors. They were civilians.

This is a slaughter, Stefan thought. He felt pity for the robed crazies. They had been tricked into defending a demon.

That's when doubt began to creep into the back of his head. Something was wrong. He made his way towards the lieutenant in charge of the Cenarion soldiers, pushing past small skirmishes and petty flanking attempts.

"Hail, warrior! How goes the battle on this front?" he called out.

"It goes well, my friend! Not a single warrior has fallen! And yours?" replied the lieutenant.

"Fine," said Stefan. "By chance, did you notice any others that stood out amongst this rabble, beside the Blood Elf?"

"Nay! All are brown robes and cowardly peasants!"

Damn it! Rok'Roham had done it again.

"Lieutenant! We must press the assault! This ends now!"

The Cenarion officer grunted in reply, shouting commands to the twenty soliders close by. Stefan returned to the spearhead's forefront, joining his circle of companions. Guro'jintal had taken his place, swinging his two-handed sword in wide swipes that cut apart limbs and torsos. He came up to the Troll's side, adding his own weapons to the devastating advance. Close by, Koramosh burst from the battle line, two axes clutched in his giant green fists. There was blood lust in his eyes, and little the zealots could do to stop it. The Orc pressed on, splitting from the group and disappearing into their mass. Stefan was about to follow, but Gordreck put a hand on his shoulder.

"The lad'll be alright, Stefan. Mind your own arse!"

He nodded. The Orc would be fine, because the lines were thinning. There were perhaps close to thirty of the robed acolytes left, not to mention the Blood Elf woman at their front. Or at their back, in this case. She stood behind the lines, watching intently. For a moment, he thought her eyes settled on him. Then, she darted her gaze left, and broke off into a sprint. Quizzically, he followed her path.

No!

He followed, attempting to cut her off. But it was too late. She reached the distracted lieutenant before he did. The warrior turned to face her as he drew away from his other opponent, his arms lowered. Stefan imagined his eyes had went wide, and perhaps he was going to raise his arms in defense. But the Blood Elf was faster, and had placed her deadly sword into his sternum, cutting through the plated metal like a knife through butter. Time froze for a moment as the force of the blow lifted the lieutenant off his feet, and then he landed heavily, his helmet spinning off into the dirt.

He turned to look upon the Blood Elf, hatred boiling in his veins. She turned to face him, appreciating Stefan with her cold, green eyes. He melted the gaze as he charged toward her, maces outstretched.

She ducked and weaved through his pincer attack, one mace to her head, the other to her stomach. How she did it didn't matter, but somehow she was able to swipe at Stefan immediately afterward, coming within an inch from fully eviscerating him. He leapt away, catching his breath as she gathered her own. As he looked upon her Elven features, he realized that she was rather young, even for an Elf.

"What is your name, girl?" he asked.

She remained undaunted by the odd question. "Gerita Windsorrow."

He nodded. "An elegant name. A shame I am to learn it on such a dreary note."

She broke the awkward respite first. She came at him, spinning about like Iyana, each twist of her hips intentional, every swing of her arms for a purpose. He backed up slowly, letting her gain ground as her whirlwind advance ensued. Time slowed as he watched her delicate, sharpened blade whip about her, cutting the air and making a whistling sound in its wake. One false move, and she would remove his head from his shoulders.

He slowed his retreat. She came closer, at a painfully slow rate. But her spin didn't slow. He tensed his legs, preparing to pounce.

Then, he let go. Her spin stopped, and her blade whipped out. It sounded like metal cutting through paper as it sliced right through. Then Stefan's maces fell away, cut clean in half. There was a brief moment where Gerita's eyes widened, but then Stefan tackled her, knocking the wind out of her and freeing the grip on her weapon. They fell to the sands, landing in a pile of squirming arms and flailing legs. As they rolled over the hot ground, Gerita delivered a wicked blow to Stefan's nose with her elbow, and he returned the favor by pushing her face into the sand. He rolled on top of her, and pinned her arms down with his own. Then they sat there, hearts beating in their chests, breathing heavily to ease the exhaustion.

"Give up," he said to her.

"No! You shall not have His prize!"

He frowned confusedly at her. Then she thrust upward with her hips, lifting him over her. As he tumbled away in the sand, she sprung to her feet, running towards the platform where she had set the relic aside. Stefan regained himself, and leapt onto her feet, pulling her down. She kicked him off, desperately trying to reach the stone artifact. She crawled the rest of the way, a crazed look in her eyes.

They cannot have it! My life for the--

The thought died on her as the relic exploded in a shower of dust and chunks of stone. She froze, staring dumbfoundedly at the head of a giant axe that had taken the relic's place. Then she looked up at the Dwarf that loomed over her. The Blood Elf looked back to the remains of the relic, her mouth opening and closing in unspoken words.

Then, Gerita Windsorrow buried her face in her hands, and began to cry.