Wildfire Riders

"Bollocks!"

A thin rope of white smoke rose from the chimney of the cabin. The smoothly hewn logs were scrubbed free of bark and rough edges, shining a bit as the setting sun cast its light over the Grizzly Hills. A broad covered deck stretched the length of the front wall, with a half-circle stained glass window over the front door. The glass showed a great bear looming above the trees and watching the sunset over a mountain range. There had once been a well kept road leading up to the front deck, but over a year of disuse saw bushes and trees encroaching on the winding path. The recent passage of a heavy wagon had left deep tracks in the leaf canopied ground, bringing dark rich soil to the surface. The wagon in question sat in front of the cabin, horses still hitched.

A talented tracker could have told many things from the signs of the trail. One set of footprints beside the wagon tracks showed that whomever was with the wagon had been prepared for trouble, a sentry walking beside the creaky old hitch. Yarn from what could only be a tiny sock caught on a tree branch indicated the presence of a child. The depth of the wheel furrows was a sign that the wagon had travelled slowly, and the horse treads showing one of the eight shod hooves dragging revealed the reason for the ponderous pace. And had the tracker looked up, they would see scorch marks in the trees shaped like human hands. Unfortunately, the two men standing in front of the cabin were not skilled trackers and were completely unaware of this.

Tarquin flicked his short stub of a cigarette through the air where it bounced in a shower of sparks off of Uthas's breastplate. The taller blonde man sucked his pinked fingers and cursed again. His father had always told him he never knew when to quit. Uthas's dark armor shifted a bit, the shoulders rising and falling in a sigh, and the death knight ground the remaining embers out with one metal shod foot.

"There is no need to set the forest ablaze ap Danwyrith." The short knight's voice still carried that otherworldly quality of echoing from a far off place, but Tarquin had since grown accustomed to it on their journey. It didn't bother him nearly as much as falling asleep to a pair of glowing eyes in the darkness, and waking to them in the same place, as if they had not so much as blinked while he slept.

ap Danwyrith snorted as he planted one foot on the deck and vaulted up and over the railing. "Wood's jus' here ta gie the bears an' dear a place ta fuck, Wordweaver. Asides. S'gettin' in air road." He spit and produced another cigarette. The rogue wasn't usually this heavy a smoker, but after a long trip with his particular choice of companions, he figured he deserved it. Besides, the smoke would probably put Naiara at ease given the incredible force of tobacco destruction that was her father.

Uthas made his way carefully around to the steps up to the deck. "You may not care for the serenity of the forest, but others do. We should respect their places while we are here."

Truthfully Tarquin would have ground the cigarette out on his own, as he had even less desire to burn to death in a forest than to camp in one, but he enjoyed needling the death knight whenever possible - especially when it took his mind off the errand that brought them here. "Yeh'll fergive me, then, if my respect fir the sanctity ay the fuckin' woods is comin' in second fir the nonce." He pointed out at Uthas. "Pray later. Figure out how wir gettin' the lassie now, huh?" He was surprised when he felt a warm splash on his outstretched wrist.

Standing clearly out against the rogue's pale skin was a spot of liquid maroon, a shade of which both men were intimately familiar. The pair stared at it in confusion for a moment, caught surprised by the sudden intrusion of the violence they both knew into this pastoral setting. Their eyes met for a moment, and then turned up to the rafters.

Lifeless eyes stared silently down at them. Suspended from the thick wooden beams that supported the awning over the deck was a dead dwarf. His wild yellow beard was thick with blood that had once flowed from a great gaping wound in his throat. Only a few precious drops remained in the corpse, one of which dripped slowly from the dwarf's nose as the two men looked up before detaching and splashing on Tarquin's shoulder. The men locked eyes once more, this time with an old intensity of preparation that they had not shared since many years prior when they fought at one another's side in Blackrock.

It was at that moment that a body crashed through the stained glass above them.

((Awesomeness. *Plays the Odd couple theme*))

15 minutes earlier

Thenia al'Cair sniffed loudly as she looked around the meagerly furnished cabin. A slanted table sat in the middle of the room, one leg substantially shorter than the others, surrounded by mismatched hand carved wooden chairs. The bare wood was stained dark except in the places where the cabin's former guests had etched names and phrases. Four bunks were built into the far wall, one atop another, with just enough room for a person to slide in if they were careful. It would be impossible to even dream of the rotters that she was paying to supposedly guard her sleeping inside the cabin with she and her granddaughter. No, they would sleep outside.

The rotters in question were busy checking the windows and back door to make sure they were secure. Fitzroy and Small Darek hadn't spoken much to Thenia on the long trip, for which she was grateful. They mostly amused each other with wild stories that ranged from the horrific to the disgusting and seemed to revolved around someone called Tall Darek. Each night when they would bed down, Thenia would sleep as far from them as possible and still be warmed by the fire. The very air around the two seemed greasy and thick, the smell of their death clinging to skin and clothes. She cursed Bittertongue daily for forcing her into this wilderness.

The trip had been hard on the older woman. Though commited to the protection of her grandchild at any cost, she had been unprepared for the untamed expanses of Northrend. When she had thought of traveling into the country to escape the horrors of the city, she had imagined rolling hills of green and the planted farmer's fields of Westfall. To Thenia al'Cair the idea of living rough had seemed to involve horses and campfires and not many details. She had learned that the details are where the demons lie while squatting over a ditch after eating bad berries. As much as she despised the Forsaken traveling with her, they were probably the only reason she had made it this far. They knew what she could and couldn't eat, how to tie the food out of the reach of animals, how to care for the horses and wagon, and everything that she, in her infinite grandmotherly wisdom, did not.

They had even brought extra blankets for Naiara. She was continually amazed at how easily a babe could reduce the hardest hired killers to the level of infancy as they goo'd and gaa'd. She had seen it time and again in Stormwind, and it seemed that being undead did little to change the natural affection for children. Small Darek would walk next to the wagon and roll a gold coin across his knuckles as Naiara watched, then make it disappear into a hole in the side of his head before opening his mouth and rolling it down his tongue. The child would laugh and clap her hands. It was all Thenia could do not to vomit. She could not afford to offend these two. She didn't trust that their knives would remain pointed at her enemies if she did.

Luckily, the two, for all of their faults, seemed to be consumate professionals. They moved with efficiency to check the cabin, even scanning the rafters for signs of danger. Fitzroy had not liked that Thedran Hillwright, the dwarven caretaker, wasn't present when they arrived at the cottage. Small Darek had laughed at his taller counterpart and told him not to worry so much, but he had become more wary himself. Only after every nook and cranny had been swept did the two relax at all. They'd even begun to joke again, Darek moving to the table to begin laying out the evening's food, and Fitzroy hunched over the fireplace starting the fire. The legs that swept out from the dark hole above Fitzroy caught them all completely by surprise.

Uthas was first through the door, not bothering to open the creaky wooden plank, but rather destroying it with the same motion that unsheathed the great axe upon his back. Tarquin darted after the armoured man, a knife in either hand, held wide and low. The interior of the cabin was a scene from the rogue's nightmares. The table in the center of the room had been reduced to splinters amidst which lay a severed head, mouth and eyes still opened wide as if in a scream. Bits of gore and flesh covered the walls and hung from the rafters of the ceiling, as if unfortunate previous owner of the head had been torn apart by a great force and simply flung across the vicinity. Crouched in the corner of the room was Thenia al'Cair, her eyes shut tight and cradling a baby in her arms. She rocked back and forth, seemingly unaware of her surroundings, while the child screaming and wailed. The cabin was light by the flickering lights of a lambent green flame flecked with iridescent pops of colour.


The tightening of his throat and colour of the flame warned Tarquin of the presence of Night Strangler in the fire. A combination of various fungi and crushed minerals, the powder tightened the vocal cords and prevented any kind of speech in anyone older than an infant. It also induced some mild hallucinogenic experiences, but too much exposure killed as surely as a knife in the heart. It was most often used in small doses by the physickers of armies to ease the pain of the wounded, and ease the psychological pain on the able troops by silencing the screams of their bloodied comrades.


The rogue took in all of this information in the space of a single heartbeart, and yet it was still too slow. Tarquin was the survivor of a hundred life or death struggles in tight, dark quarters, and Uthas a hundred more, but somehow they were still overtaken by the speed and ferocity of the man who dropped upon them from above. He came down in between them, a tall, rail thin form that seemed to be outlined in a pulsing red energy. One shoulder smoothly turned into Tarquin, catching him in the chest as the man stepped between his stabbing blades with inhuman speed. ap Danwyrith felt himself lifted off of his feet by the force of the blow and slammed back into the jamb of the door. He felt the knives slide out of his nerveless fingers as he struggled to fill his lungs with the air that had so recently vacated them. Then two hands grabbed the front of his leather jerkin as the crimson bathed man stepped back and pivoted smoothly, launching Tarquin across the room.


He crashed through the stand of pokers and brushes in front of the fireplace before cracking his head into the stone surrounding the fire. The world spun in front of him for a moment as he tried to push himself to his feet once and failed, slumping back down to the floor boards.


And still the babe wailed.


With one opponent out of the way, the attacker turned toward the more dangerous looking of the two. Uthas was only now turning around, completely outmatched by the incredible speed and force with which the glowing man moved. Tarquin shook his head trying to bring what seemed a distant world back into focus. He saw the tall figure produce a pair of short swords, and watched as the red glow extended to surround the blades as well. Brilliant red runes seemed to rise to the surface of the polished steel before resubmerging into the metal.


To the death knight's credit he did not waste time attempted to assess the situation. Simultaneous with his pivot, Uthas brought the great axe around with both hands in sweep that stirred the thick air of the cabin. The glowing man should not have been able to move in time. There was nowhere to move TO; the axe itself covered most of the distance between Uthas and the cabin wall. Still, their attacked seemed to bend backward somehow, arching his body nearly in two as he leaned forward OVER the swinging axe to drive both swords directly into the death knight's arms. The blades passed through the thick armour like a night breeze across a lake, making only a small hiss as steam rose from the wounds. The axe flew from Uthas's now limp arms to embed itself deeply in the wall of the cabin.


Once more to his favour, the death knight did not simply give up. The small man moved forward with his body, attempting to press the man against the cabin wall. Tarquin knew that if Uthas managed to pin the man, the rogue would have only seconds to gather Thenia and Naiara to escape. He groped about for purchase on the floor and levered himself up onto his hands, legs still splayed out in front of him. His hopes were in vain, however, as he watched the glowing man slash into Uthas, once, twice, three times, before stepping aside and letting the knight crash into the wall. With every stroke of his swords, red sparks arced out against the black armor of the death knight, crackling and hissing with puffs of steam. Again his blades lashed out, this time along the knight's legs, dropping him to the floor. Finally, as Uthas hit his knees and rocked backward, balanced there for the longest of seconds, the swords came up and drove down through the horned helm, shattering one of the great dark spires off of it and shearing through cleanly. The knight gave one final shudder and then stilled, falling only when the taller man smoothly withdrew the blades from his body.


The attacker turned to face Tarquin and at last the rogue was able to see him clearly. Dark hair hung around the man's ears and face, a pale thin face staring out of the straight greasy tangle. His face looked stretched and taut, as if he had been the victim of some great famine or disease in his youth and had never quite filled out to his body's potential. He was dressed from head to toe in poorly tanned and dyed black hides bereft of hair, stitched together with what Tarquin guessed was human hair. Mad eyes stared at the downed rogue, framed by what ap Danwyrith could only describe as a leering grin, almost sexual in its pleasure. The man looked at Tarquin, licked his lips and stepped toward him.


And still the babe wailed.


Tarquin ap Danwyrith had never put much stock into fate. He held no truck with those who said the Light destined all to their proper end, and thought poorly of men who believed themselves particularly lucky or unfortunate. Fate, luck, destiny, these were all things that one made oneself. If the world was a blushing maid, a little charm would get her skirts up around her waist; if it was a locked door, then nimble fingers would crack it open; and if was any other metaphor you'd care to ascribe, then quick wits and sheer bloody-minded persistence would see you through. No, he had never put much stock in fate - but fortune was a different matter, and that day, he started to wonder if he'd done her any favors lately.


As the thin man stepped toward him there was a sudden flash as the crimson light around him burned bright with symbols and runes. The man threw his head back and screamed silently, scraping at his skin with the pommels of both swords. Then a sharp crack filled the room and the light dripped down the man like a liquid, running across the floorboards and dissipating before Tarquin's eyes. His assailant dropped to his knees, breathing heavily. And if the rogue did not believe in fate, he did believe in seizing opportunity.


His hands groped around and closed on the first hard object they touched. Tarquin found a reserve of energy spurred by the sudden weakness in the thin man, and driven by the cries of the baby, he bounded to his feet and leapt at the man. Down came the fireplace poker he had picked up, its black pitted iron crashing into the back of the kneeling man's head. It up went again, and then back down. Over and over the rogue smashed the poker into the head of the man who threatened Naiara and all of the Riders by extension until there was nothing but pulp left to hit. He realized he was screaming, forcing air out of his lungs, but that no sound was emerging. Finished with his gruesome task, he staggered back and let the poker slide from his fingers, clunking dully to the floor.


And still the babe wailed.


Thenia continued to rock Naiara back and forth, head down and eyes closed. Tarquin looked in the direction of the fallen death knight, then dismissed him in favor of the woman and screaming child. He crossed the distance to the older woman in a few unsteady steps and laid his hand on her shoulder. The grandmother gave no indication that she was aware of his presence. Unable to speak, the rogue grabbed her shoulder harder and shook her. When she still did not respond, he pulled back his hand and gave her a stinging slap across the face.

The ignominy of being slapped in the face was enough to wake Thenia from her stupor. Her head came up, eyes flared wide in anger, one hand going to her already reddening cheek. As far as Tarquin was concerned, the slap was the least of what the woman deserved. Her mouth moved as she attempted an angry retort and stopped in confusion when no sound emerged. The woman jerked back away from ap Danwyrith and stared at him angrily. He raised his hand to drag her to her feet when her eyes widened and she looked over his shoulder.

The mysterious assailant had somehow risen to his feet once more. Though he was covered in his own blood, the skin on his head was whole and unblemished. As Tarquin watched in horror, the man's skull seemed to writhe under his flesh, settling back once more into a human shape. An amulet dangling around his neck flickered with a dull green glow for a moment, catching Tarquin's eye. It had been hidden beneath the man's hide shirt previously, and must have popped loose when the rogue attacked him. Finally the attacker reached up and pushed an unhinged jaw back into place, grinding his teeth a few times and then grinning at Tarquin.

And still the babe wailed.

***********************************************

You've fought worse horrors, he told himself. He'd have given a finger or two to forget the gibbering godling that Bronzebeard had found in the depths of Ulduar. The Butcher had been worse, for the sheer malice in his flaring eyes. Naxxramas had been a nest of monstrosity, almost tedious by the end, but the screams of the children woven into that thing at the heart of the House of Experiments...and then, of course, there was the Enemy, dominating the field at Angrathar with his towering hatred. Aye, he'd fought worse horrors.

But that didn't make this any better.

The thin man was whole now, slightly hunched before him. His mouth seemed too wide for his face, a gaping fence of yellowed bone splitting cracked lips. The contours and angles seemed unsettling - a slight imperfection, perhaps, in the process that had knit red slurry and component fragments into a functioning human head. Or else it was just the sheer malevolence within the man, bubbling up to distort the surface of his physical form. Either way, Tarquin knew he was proper fucked. He was facing the rarest of all things - a man faster than himself. His natural speed and reflexes were the only things that had kept the Boss of the Riders alive through more pinches than he could remember. Now he was stuck alone with a rapacious killer that could heal his own fucking splattered head, and faster than he was to boot. It was too much to endure.

His father had always told him he never knew when to quit.

As the baby Bittertongue howled her wrath toward the heavens, Tarquin reached out and slapped the man in the face. It was a full armed slap, rocking the man's head back and to the side. In a normal fight he would have followed the distraction with a knife to the jugular and opened the man's veins. Instead, he followed it with another slap, and then another. The blows had no power behind them, and the man did not try to defend himself - but that insufferable smile slid from his face, replaced by a rictus of anger that looked far more natural on his haggard face. The man raised his swords and in one motion drove them toward Tarquin with enough strength to sever the spine of a kodo.

In a burst of quickness powered by desperation, the rogue twisted to the side, allowing one blade to pass narrowly by his chest. The spin was not quick enough to avoid both blades, however, and he gasped as he felt the steel of the other drive home through his chest, nailing him to the wall like the world's biggest butterfly. He felt his right arm go slack. The attacker then planted his foot against ap Danwyrith's chest and pushed, extracting the sword. Tarquin screamed as his legs turned to water and he slid down the wall, leaving a trail of maroon smeared behind him. The rogue hunched forward and began to shake.

The monstrous attacker stood over the fallen rogue, breathing hard, and thrust his blades up and over his head, exulting in his victory. A tendril of drool hung from the corner of his mouth, dangling until he ran his tongue around his lips. His eyes rolled in his head as he pulsed with wave after wave of delicious satisfaction. Mother would be so pleased with him. He watched the rogue's shoulders shake up and down, and delighted that this proud man had been reduced to tears. It was only the beginning

That delight was washed away when Tarquin raised his head - pale and bloodless, but stretched in a grin of pure delight, shaking with laughter. The face of the man standing over him twisted in confusion. He had won. The rogue had lost. Why was he laughing? He opened his mouth to demand an answer, and then cursed himself when no sound came out. Stupid, stupid!

But he got his answer anyway. Tarquin lifted his good arm with an effort, still chortling soundlessly, and dangled something before the other man's horrified gaze. Hanging from his gloved fingers, swinging gently back and forth, was a plain silver amulet on a broken chain. He mastered his laughter, or perhaps ran out of breath for it, and before his foe could move, extended his finger to point into the center of the room, still grinning.

Standing behind the man was Uthas. Despite his small stature, the death knight seemed to loom out of the flicking blue light, a manifestation of the cold rage of the North brought to life. One hand flicked out to catch the turning man by the throat and lift him into the air. His long legs kicked and thrashed as he groped the armored hand at his neck, desperately trying to pry himself free. The icy gauntlet simply closed tighter, standing impervious against the weak flesh that clawed at it. A greyish blue began to spread from the death knight's hand, colouring the flesh and hides of the man in black as it crept across his body. He began to shudder violently as it crept up his cheeks toward his eyes. His breath came out in puffs of vapor, and tears ran openly down his face until they froze into tiny crystals. The quivering and shaking of his limbs and torso ceased as the blue colour ran over them, stiffening into an unnatural stillness. Finally his entire body was still, and the gasps of vapor came no more. Then with a sudden violent motion Uthas hurled the frozen man against the cabin wall where he shattered into a thousand shards of dark maroon ichor.

And finally the babe fell silent.

Tarquin breathed hard and clutched at the wound in his chest. He could feel the blood boiling hot against the sudden freezing chill in the cabin. The rogue dropped the amulet to the ground and staggered to where Thenia clutched Naiara, then pulled her to her feet with his one good arm. The woman didn't resist, listlessly allowing herself to be lead by the blonde man. She stared sightlessly ahead and shuffled her feet forward as ap Danwyrith tugged at her arm. Perhaps it was violence of the fight, or the sudden brutality of the dark man's death, but whatever the cause, Thenia al'Cair had seen enough. Tarquin pushed her gently out of the open cabin door as Uthas reclaimed his axe and swept out ahead, alert for danger.

The air outside was clear of the thick cloying scent of the Night Strangler. The sun still stood above the horizon, and Tarquin welcomed its heat on his face as he stepped into the light. After only a moment outside, he felt his throat begin to loosen. Uthas paced around the clearing in front of the cabin, his piercing eyes scanning every stir of breeze and flicker of light for more attackers. After a moment he looked back at Tarquin and shook his head, swinging his axe over his shoulder and freezing it to his back with a whispered word.

The rogue looked at the sun for a moment and smiled at the sound of Naiara gurgling. He reached out and took her from Thenia's strengthless arms and cradled her in the crook of his own. The Oathbreaker looked down at the smallest Bittertongue. "What d'yeh think, lass?"

The child looked up at him with a serious expression and responded. "BAWKS!"

Tarquin grinned, opened his mouth, and then tottered and slumped to the ground, his godsdaughter still held securely in his arms.