Legacy of the Spider Lords: Chapter 1

A Chapter by CruxPanacea

---Part III: Legacy of the Spider Lords---

Regret

As he played his fingertips along the rough edges of the wooden mug, Valdric Protkins pondered the years. He looked back upon his childhood, a dreary struggle between youthful recreation and preparation for war at a very young age. After only a few months to himself, Valdric had been placed under the care of an elder Mage of Stormwind. His dreams of spellcasting and daring adventure had come true, and in the next few years he had taken that passion and fueled his work with it. No sooner had he grown to his fullest capability that he was sent off to the war front, joining the ranks of Alliance in the foothills of Hillsbrad.

But he had made a foolish mistake. It had cost him his life. But as Valdric's vision failed and his awareness went numb, it seemed like scant minutes before it all came back to him in a flood. As the Undead Mage brought the mug of steaming liquid to his dead mouth, he knew he could recall every moment of the experience.

When he had emerged from the grave, Valdric knew what had happened. He had been given a second chance. But now, his allegiance had changed. That was the second realization that had dawned upon him, that something was wrong. He had awakened in a mass grave, and watched as other newly-risen retrieved themselves from the ground. But as they gathered, he knew he was different. The others, they had a strange look in their blank eyes; they were lost. They had no direction, no higher calling. But Valdric had. That was the first time he heard the voice.

These are not your friends! They are betrayers, enemies! Slay them all!

He didn't ask why. He only complied, drawing forth the magical prowess that had never left him. His cold fingers lit up with flames, and after a succession of fiery blasts and arcane explosions, the others so similar to him in appearance lay dead for the second time. He was bothered that after the slaughter, he felt nothing. He could only be bothered, because he would no longer experience emotion ever again. He could only know that, at this point in time, he might have been grieving, or mourning their loss. Perhaps even fear. But he felt none of it. No regret.

As Valdric brought the mug to his lips once more, he remembered how the voice had come to him more and more. How he had learned it was that of the Lich King, his new master. He had accepted this with quiet acknowledgement. In truth, Valdric doubted if his reaction would have been any different if he were alive. He had killed countless times in his first life; the first death, completely accidental, was the reason why Valdric had been sent to the war front in the first place. It was a duel gone wrong. He had slain his opponent. When the life drained from the mage's eyes, Valdric hadn't reacted. He had stored the memory, hidden somewhere in the back of his flawed mind. His instructor had seen this, and known what to do. Valdric wasn't normal. He was a natural-born killer. He belonged on the front line, where he could do innocents no harm.

After the slaughter that followed his second birth, Valdric had gone on a killing spree, all in the name of the Lich King. He had killed Horde and Alliance alike, those he had once called brethren, still others he may never have called enemy. But they all died the same, and each time, he knew he would have felt satisfaction. Perhaps it was the chance to experience even a hint of the emotion that kept him killing, and killing. He didn't know, and didn't care, either.

Now, he sat alone in a room of the Dusky Horizon Inn, one of the many buildings erected around the Light's Hope Chapel of the Eastern Plaguelands. His master had given him another task; an ambassador of the Draenei would be arriving to seal a provisions agreement with the Argent Dawn. Such a deal should never reach fruition. Valdric was to kill the ambassador. Should he succeed, the Lich King would grant him the power of one of his own children; a Lich. And all Valdric had to do was kill again. It was so simple.

---

He had arrived early. His lungs were afire from the long sprint, but he could not afford to be late at the expense of a fractured wagon wheel. He had made the rest of the journey to Light's Hope on foot, and found that his fear for punishment of failure had made the trip much quicker.

But as he neared, he noticed a coach parked outside the Dusky Horizon Inn. Emblazoned on its silk window cloths was the familiar runes of the Draeneic people. The ambassador was early, as well. He was sure he could take a moment to catch his breath before letting the Mage know. He dropped his hands to his knees, letting the burning sensation wane from his tired chest. After a minute of recuperation, he rose once again, and trotted toward the Inn.

It must've been ten feet, perhaps eight. But he was close to the door when the whistling sound tickled the edge of his hearing. Then something heavy impacted on the right side of his neck, and he fell over from the force of the blow. When he hit the ground, he couldn't move. It hurt too much. He felt a warm sensation wash over him. When he found the strength to lift his hand, he brought it to his neck, where the heavy object lay embedded in his jugular. When he drew his hand away, it was covered in his own blood. He tried to scream, but his voice failed him. He sat in the middle of the deserted road, drowning in his own blood.

The last thing he saw was a tall, curvacious figure approaching, a pair of strange antennas protruding from the sides of her head that was masked by the growing gloom. He blacked out as long, delicate fingers reached down toward him.

---

Valdric felt the stasis ward he had placed in the room go off. Someone had entered. No doubt, it was his contact. What's more, he sensed that he was much closer than just the front door. But it was no small surprise to find the Lich King's servants more cunning than they appeared.

"You're early," spoke Valdric into the darkness of the room. He turned to glare at the figure standing in the doorway. "Has the ambassador arrived?"

He saw the figure nod in the darkness.

"Good. Then his death is imminent," replied Valdric, rising to his feet and letting his robes unfurl from his lap.

The figure in the doorway moved closer. In the glow of the moonlight through an open window, something shined along the newcomer's waist. A pair of maces, their large metal heads in the shape of screaming demons. Lowly messengers of the Lich King carried no such weapons. Valdric ran through a list of his deadliest, quickest spells in his head, ready for any trouble.

"No," said the figure. "Your death is, Undead."

Valdric raised his hands, incantations dancing off his tongue. But as quickly as he was muttering, his opponent had drawn one of the maces. He felt the weapon before it had impacted; the Elementium-laced mace severed the growing aura of magic that Valdric had gathered around him, and a moment later it smashed into his forehead. He stumbled backward, knocking the mug of hot drink to the floor and toppling over the table he had been lounging at a moment before, landing on his stomach. In a second, his assailant was on top of him, holding Valdric's head in a lock with his arms. The Mage knew that rage and unbridled hatred would be coursing through his veins, had he the emotional connection to feel it. But instead he regarded the situation with a calmed expression, and careful understanding.

Then his opponent asked him a question. One he both accepted and shunned at the same time.

"Valdric Protkins, servant of the Lich King. In all of your vile, unholy service, have you ever once regretted a life you took?"

Even before the images of all those he had killed flashed through his mind for the last time, Valdric knew the answer. He had known ever since the tragic duel.

"No."

"Me neither."

The Mage was puzzled for a moment. But then the man twisted his neck, and in a staccato of cracks and pops, Valdric Protkins died for the second, and final time.