-6- Old Bones

The air was warmer here. Not by a lot, but a difference that would freeze the breath in your mouth but not shatter your teeth if you bit down too hard. But the winds that passed through the Dragonblight were often colder than anything, and if one wasn't careful, they could end up with a frozen eye. Wotam, a Darkspear veteran, had found out the hard way. Since their brethren's unfortunate loss of an eye, the Trolls aquired protective goggles to defy the chill of the Dragonblight wind. Guro'jintal wasn't sure if it was natural, either; it was a brunt and obtrusive wind that seemed to be helped along by an unseen force. It may very well have to do with the activity around Wyrmrest Temple, and were it not for their small number, Guro'jintal might have joined the Horde and Alliance there. But recent developments force the Trolls to focus on a more pressing matter.

Serum 146.

The ground trembled where the steam tanks carved their path through the snow, pushing through old dunes while making new ones. The Trolls sat atop the metal giants in their new gear: black goggles that doubled to shield against the winds and the sometimes invasive glow of the sun. The cloud cover in Dragonblight was sparse unlike the Grizzly Hills, and often times the shine of the sun would reflect off the white hills to offer a bleeding headache. They wore midnight blue cowls and a wrap around the lower part of their face to keep the warmth in, and it served to mask most of their features. A passerby might think their unsettling countenances to be those of Undead. Guro'jintal hoped no one was so jumpy; friendly fire could quite possibly be the most embarassing death for a warrior.

Kelar called down to the driver then motioned to the two tanks behind him to halt. They had arrived on a plateau overlooking the eastern plains of Dragonblight. A steep cliff was ahead and to their left. To the right, a path had been carved down to the plains and onward. Down the path and then some, Guro'jintal could see thin tendrils of smoking crawling into the sky. He pointed to it, and Kelar acknowledged with a nod.

"That's the Alliance base," said the Dwarf.

"Then this is where we must part ways, Kelar," started Guro'jintal, turning and yelling a command in his native tongue to the other Trolls.

As they climbed down the steam tanks and assembled in a loose group, Kelar called to Guro'jintal. "Are you sure you want to go alone? We only need to refuel. Perhaps we can rendezvous? I have left my people with more than enough protection."

Guro'jintal smiled at the Dwarf. "You are a noble warrior, Kelar, for that I thank you. But your assistance must end here. It is not fair for me to involve you in the burden placed upon my and my brethrens' shoulders. You belong with your people. We have taken you away from them long enough."

"If it weren't for you, Guro'jintal, my people and I might've been dead already," answered the Dwarf.

"And had we been any quicker, the vile potion would not have fallen into the Scourge's hands," replied Guro'jintal.

"You can't blame yourself for that."

"Look at me, Kelar. Look at us," said the Troll, sweeping his hand across the gathered Darkspear. "Upon swearing to undertake our mission, each and every Troll here has damned his name to be placed among the those of the honorable dead even before he has drawn his last breath. For us, death is assured. We cannot fulfill our task, but nor can we fail. We simply fight on in the name of the Warchief until we cannot lift a blade to slice our enemies' throats."

He turned back to Kelar, removing the goggles so the Dwarf could see the determination wrought in his red-hued eyes.

"That is why we are to blame. Everything the Scourge does right, we have done wrong. We are damned to be blamed, Kelar. And you can't change that."

---

His pale, withered fingers gripped the scope with delicate ease that betrayed their appearance. Most of his body was in some form of decay; it was a miracle he was holding together. Quite a miracle indeed.

The Undead lowered the scope as he saw the giant metal contraptions disappear over the cliff as the neared the distant settlement. He smiled as best his dead nerves would allow.

"The scum have moved on to the safety of their home. Commence the ritual," he spat, turning back to lay his eyes on the others present.

Five necromancers faced each other in a perfectly-matched circle of great proportion. Half-buried in the snow between them was a mess of bones. But the maw of the giant skull was unmistakable as that of a dragon. Who knows how long it had been since the creature had perished; what mattered now was that its remains would serve under the Lich King as a frost wyrm, a winged beast of bone and dark magic. As black flames danced along the necromancers' fingertips, the Undead overseer raised an ornate sword into the air, answered by the other Undead present to guard the ritual.

"Glory to the Lich King!" he rasped. They moaned in reply.

---

"Easy, let's not scare them off quite yet."

Guro'jintal was talking to Lijawoto, another youth of the Darkspear. The young Troll nodded and calmly slid his crossbow back over his shoulder. But the older Troll knew he had desperately wanted to sink a bolt into the back of the Undead's head. Guro'jintal had the same sudden urge, but had grown used to the nagging excitement that would make his fingers tingle. Some might say it wasn't healthy to grow so used to the want to kill. Then again, the factions weren't forged on tea parties and flower pickings. Nonetheless, they didn't come about via reckless bloodshed. There was a fine line between war and extermination, and the Trolls had always understood where the line was and never to cross it. But the politics of the Horde and Alliance never saw fit to bring the voice of the warrior into the mix. It's always the nobles and the wealthy, who never fought a day in their life.

A friendly devilsaur makes more sense, thought Guro'jintal.

"What was that, captain?"

"Oh? Nothing, Lijawoto," replied Guro'jintal. He was getting old.

"Captain," came a whispered voice from behind. Alojin was approaching behind the ridge. "The others are in place. They are waiting for the signal."

Guro'jintal nodded. "Very good. Get into position alongside us. We've to wait a while longer."

"But they are raising a dragon," replied Alojin as he sunk into the snow beside Guro'jintal. "Shouldn't we stop them?"

Guro'jintal chuckled. "The Scourge is an endless number, Alojin. But the skeletons of dead dragons...their numbers are far smaller and much more manageable. We are much better off destroying their weapons. And besides, a frost wyrm is a whole lot more fun than a pale, drooling idiot that doesn't remember its own name."

---

The overseer watched quietly as the necromancers did their work. As Eredun danced off their tongues, he felt the air thicken with the gathering magic. Though he had lost feeling toward the chill in his second life, he shivered at the thought of the channels of magic, invisible to the eye without the proper monocle. And the language the necromancers spoke was so guttural, and ugly. The syllables were ill-timed and irregular, and if he hadn't known better he might have thought the sorcerors were just making sounds for the hell of it.

The ground trembled slightly as the magics began to take effect. Then the tremble turned into a constant rumble. In the center of the necromancers, the skeletal remains of the dragon were stirring. A clawed paw tensed and relaxed. A bony wing shifted. The head rose.

The snow erupted in giant plumes, casting a perpetual fog over the clearing for a few seconds. When the veil was lifted, the skeleton had risen to its feet. The overseer laughed with joy.

"Well done! Now bind the wyrm to the Lich King's will. Then our work is--"

Boom!

One of the necromancers erupted into flames as an explosion burst on his chest. The disruption in the ritual momentarily stunned the other necromancers and caused the wyrm to falter. As it stumbled on its feet, nearly crushing another necromancer in the process, the overseer saw them; figures emerged from the snowy ridges around them and were advancing swiftly across the snows to the ritual ground. He drew his sword and pointed to the oncoming enemy.

"Ambush! Prepare yourselves!"

He saw another necromancer fall to an arrow in his forehead. Again, the ritual faltered, and the wyrm spasmed as the remaining sorcerors struggled to maintain their hold on the creature's will. The Undead saw the guards meet the ambushers head on, and noticed one of the assailants slip through the melee. He dashed toward the ritual in an attempt to stop him, but he already knew he was too late and silently cursed as the figure slid a knife across the necromancer's throat.

The Undead tried to voice his anger, but something heavy hit him from behind and he found his head buried in the snow. The blade was knocked from his grasp in the process, so he attempted to claw at whatever had leapt on his back to little effect. A powerful grip pulled at his hair, bringing his head up to watch as the wyrm struggled against the necromancers' magics.

"What is your name, scum?"

The voice was low and powerful. The accented Common was strange, belonging to either a Troll or an Orc.

"Once, I had been Jefrus Harison. But now I am nameless. I am a grateful servant of the Lich King, the bane of life."

He waited out the silence that followed before speaking again. "What is your name?"

"Once, a name might have mattered to you, Jefrus. Maybe a family, too. That ring you're wearing, it's not for show?"

Jefrus drew his hand to his face, as if noticing the ring for the first time. But he had known about it since the first breath he took in Undeath. He remembered her name, her smell, and her smile. He remembered their daughter, who had been six when he had left for Northrend with Arthas Menethil. And he remembered how everything had changed a few months later. As he stared at the ring it was as if he saw the rotting, withered hand it was attached to for the first time as well. Suddenly the emptiness in his chest was gone, a feeling long forgotten. And then he smiled.

"Fiona..."

The grip on his head relaxed. Jefrus craned his neck to see the Troll standing over him, eyes masked by black goggles. He didn't have to say anything.

"Jefrus Harison, I am Guro'jintal of the Darkspear."

"A pleasure to meet you, Guro'jintal," said Jefrus.

It played like a dream, how the Troll knew exactly what Jefrus wanted as he slid a long bone dagger out from his belt.

"Can I see my family again?" asked Jefrus.

"I could do you no greater honor," replied Guro'jintal.

Jefrus nodded.

Glory to life. Death to the Lich King.

It was Jefrus Harison's final thought before he died for the last time.