Wildfire Riders

~*~ Thirteen Years Ago ~*~

The failing light flickered of the work of Bel ap'Dannok as he tried not to look at the scene around him. His cart wheel had thrown a bolt, and Light knew if he didn't take care of it now there'd be the devil to pay for it when he needed it most.

Behind him, in the not-far-enough distance, his beloved city burned. Oh, aye, the town watch tried to put out the fires before they got into the church district, but there was little use; if the flames hadn't already done folk in, the sickness would take care of the rest.

"If tha watch had anna o'ah min', 'ey'd pack their shite an' git tae goin' like me," he muttered as he fumbled his carpenter's mallet, trying to knock home the thrown bolt just enough to get a pin back in. He swung recklessly, hitting more of his thumb than the bolt, dropping the mallet and swallowing a string of curses as he stuck his thumb in his mouth.

The old man straightened with a wince, his back not near as young as he often thought it was. Without thinking he looked back at the red skies above the shining white walls of Stratholme, and he realized that yes, in fact, his heart could sink even further down that day.

"All our 'opes, tha beau'iful knowledge, tha Cathedral..."

"All gone, frien'."

Bel yelped as he dove for his mallet, scrambling around on his knees to arm himself for what had to be his last moments. You couldn't trust anyone, now - a man would do anything to save his own skin, even if it meant drowning a brother.

"Stay back, or ah'll...ah'll...!" Bel threatened weakly, holding his mallet up. Something prodded his back, and he realized he'd backed up to the cart wheel without thinking.

The fear and panic subsided for a second, and he finally saw what - who - had spoken to him. The towering man's voice was like gravel, and his armor seemed...strange. Too well made, and bit too hard by battle. He was Daer Ronae though, by his voice and the grim set to his jaw. The broad size of the man made the limp form in his arms look even smaller, though Bel knew she was hurt bad because she didn't stir.

"Easah lad," the stranger said, and even though Bel was nearing sixty seven years passing, for some reason the man calling him lad felt right. "Ah dunnae maun yeh anna harm."

"What do yo want!?" Bel nearly stammered, still not trusting the man.

"She's hurt, lad. Needs tae be away from here, but ah cannae go wit' 'er. Can yeh take care o'ah sick lass, fer mah? She needs help." The man's lone eye was pleading, and his grip on the woman was tight.

Bel looked from the stranger to the woman in his arms. Her chest rose and fell slowly, though she looked...near lifeless. There was a mass of bloody bandages around her abdomen, and Bel's heart sank at that.

"Ah'm n-n-no healah," he stammerred.

"She dunnae need ah healah, lad, she's been seen tae. She needs rest. Can yeh take 'er in yer cart, man?" The stranger's voice was urgent, and he looked back over his shoulder at the burning city behind them. "C'maun lad, ah dunnae 'ave much time, ah 'ave tae git back."

"Yeh can't take 'er?" Bel pleaded.

"Ah cannae carry 'er all tha wey South oan me own!" The man's voice was like iron as it raised to near a half-bellow, as though it was used to doing such.

"Awraight, awra-- wait, she ain' sick, nae? Ah willnae risk me neck fer--!" The stranger's gauntleted fist picking him up by the shirtsleeves bit back whatever words Bel had left in a high-pitched squeak.

"She's pure, man. She's untouched by tha sick. Now can yeh 'elp 'er?" The man's eye was ablaze with desperation, and something else that made Bel pause. Shakily, the old farmer nodded, and the stranger set him down and gently laid the woman in his cart, arranging the sack of flour Bel had come to town to buy as a place to rest her head.

Bel watched mesmerized as this goliath of a veteran took obsessive care in tending to her. "She mauns alot tae yeh, lad?" Bel whispered as the man brushed hair off of her brow and unpinned his blue cloak, draping it over her to keep her warm.

"Some day...ayeh," the stranger whispered, his hand lingering on her cheek. The faded hope in the man's voice made Bel's resolve return.

"Awraight 'en lad - yeh best get back there, 'en. They'll be needin' ah big strong lad like yeh," Bel said, leaping into action. The wheel bolt was given a resounding whack, knocked into place on the first try. Fiddling the pin into the catch, the farmer thumped it. "Good as new. Nae go oan - ah'll take care of 'er as she's me oan."

The stranger clapped a paw on Bel's shoulder and gave it a squeeze. "Thanks, friend. Heah, take...all 'et ah have." The soldier's coin purse was shoved into the farmer's hands, and Bel gasped at the weight of it. "Jes' take it. See 'er safe. South."

Bel nodded enough to set his howls wobbling. "South lad, aye! Southshore, 'et tha Crown an' Sword! Ah'll take 'er there - got familah there! Ah'll give 'em word yer comin'."

The stranger looked sad, and only nodded. Bel scrambled up into the cart and took the reigns, slapping his old mule into a sluggish start. "Hyah, yeh ol' bag ah bones! Ah'll see 'er safe, yeh'll see--" Bel called out, turning back to the stranger...

But he was gone, without a glint or a sound to tell where he'd been. Bel scanned the treeline up and down the road to try and see where the soldier had disappeared to, but did not see a whit of the man's grey mane of hair or his broad form. A fellow that big couldn't be that fast, could he?

Bel's eyes fell back to the lass in his care, and he huffed. "Never ah min' where he's goan - ah got ah charge tae take care of. Hyah, mule. Tae Tyr's hand we ride, an' 'en oan tae Southshore." Bel put out of his mind soldiers disappearing into the woods or the flaming skyline behind them. He never saw the glint of bronze scales in the thicket.

Davac'cai ban caen.

The world twisted. The voice again, on the wind. Dranna turned to peer up at the red-tinged clouds that raced across the sky, the dim ash-choked plumes of a city destined to burn forever. The sun was a dim ball behind those shrouds, and was outshone by flicks of golden lightning stabbing from ground to sky. Her heart raced like a herd of wild mustangs. She was afraid, but urgent need spurned her. She turned back forward again and began to run, as if the hounds of plague were nipping at her heels.

Ved'ya bech, ved'ya ruch, venastra magyath.

Dark words; she could feel them like hammer blows to her spirit. They made her stumble and fall to the cracked and deathly earth, tearing her clothes and flesh alike. She couldn't stop, not now! The hounds were closing in on her, and she had to get somewhere safe. Something important lie ahead, something that she wanted more than anything in life.

She pulled herself up and ran over the low, jagged hills of home.

VENASTRA MAGYATH!

The wind was knocked from her, like a fist from a dockyard bully twice her size. She fell back, rolling down the hillside and bruising her face on a rock. Staggering to her feet, her vision was blurry, and her head pounded. She felt dazed, tired, almost willing to let whatever sought her out to run her down and be done with her. Finish her, so she did not have to face what lie ahead.

Something in her railed at giving up on what lie ahead. She pulled herself up the hill again, on hands and knees, not caring how the rocks cut her or how she slipped in the feeling of her own blood. She had to get there. She had to! She looked up through a bleary eye and saw it, there; a broken tower on the hill, where the flaming clouds swirled overhead and were sucked into its dilapidated interior.

Hamanai...

The rocks fell away before her, revealing the ill-used cart path leading up to the tower. She clawed her way to it and pulled herself to her feet, willing her legs to bring her forward.

...argonai...

The road felt like it stretched forever, and each step forward made the path two steps longer. She sobbed with pain and anger, fear and hatred and regret all beating at her as sure as the wind and the terrain.

...deva'chatral.

She doubted she would live through whatever stood to come, but she couldn't stop. She stepped forward and collided with the worm-eaten door of the tower, which a moment before had seemed a mile away. She sagged against it, pushing with what little strength she had left. Tears and sweat and blood ran down her face, clouding her vision so she could no longer see.

Caudyek!

Semhail!

Uthonai!

The hammer blows of the dark words were...less, here. They did not batter her, or flay her to her ending. Her vision cleared, and she saw before her face a symbol of dark sorcery, a circle of blood with which dark runes skittered around its edge. Dazedly, she reached up and touched it, crying out as the sigil burned her palm. The door itself shattered inward to the tower, the splinters alighting in flame amidst the ash-laden winds that spun within the tower in a torrent.

Oun vai Lorn Daer Ronae!

~*~

The words sent her sprawling out of her bed at the depths of night to land on the floorboards in a cursing heap. Her chest heaved, and her skin was slick with sweat and tangled up in the lone bed sheet that had been her only companion in the unseasonably warm spring of Stormwind.

Dranna Taborwynn let out a string of strong northerly curses as she fumbled a hand up at the small table next to her bed to help push her up. Her hand smacked the Gnomish glowbulb she had left on the table, flinging bluish-white light across the room and blinding her. More epithets rang out, crossing from northerly into the utterances of a southseas tavern wench.

It took her ages, but she calmed enough. She sat with her back against the high bed, nursing an elbow that would be the devil tomorrow and gritting her teeth against a throbbing in her temples that had been persisting on and off for weeks.

Her breathing slowed, but the anxiety in her chest did not dissipate. She had never made it to the tower before, despite all of the nights she had endured this nightmare since reaching the southlands. It had to mean something.

Thee, in that night, she shuddered at the thought. The fear, and the pain, were too real. Sighing, she went to pull herself to her feet to try and settle back into bed, but stopped and hissed at the pain in her hand. Looking at it in the pale light, she grimaced at the tender flesh of her palm. The grimace turned sour as she recognized the rough, angular shapes that half-stood in her red flesh. This was no ordinary nightmare. This was no ordinary night.