It
was pitch black in the woods, where the moon's light had difficulty
piercing the leaves. They were only just starting to turn the bright
orange, reds, and yellows of autumn's fiery palette, signaling that
summer was on it's last legs.
Cobb
could care less. He was running as fast as his long, thin legs could
carry him, wheezing with the exertion. It was all he could do not to
trip on roots hidden under the dirt, moss and leaves of the loamy
ground as he made his way to the Crone's hut. He had made the journey
many times at night, sneaking out of his family's home, but never in
such haste. And never as terrified as he was now.
What
have I done? What have I done!
His thoughts raced through is mind, a manic and uneven cadence to
match his running. From his doorway to hers, he ran full out, as if
wolves were on his heels. His short, brown hair was plastered to his
forehead from sweat by the time he burst out of the trees and into
the small clearing where her hut was.
It was a small house, built of mud and
thatch and stones, and slowly crumbling from vines climbing up the
walls, as if a giant hand was grasping it to pull it back into the
trees and earth. As a young child, he was terrified of this house and
the woman who called it home. He was still afraid of her, but only
because he knew her ire when he didn't complete his studies to her
satisfaction. It was the only place he felt safe these days. Home
certainly wasn't.
He rapped his knuckles on the wooden
door, quickly but quietly, a desperate and uneven tattoo. When the
hut remained dark and silent, he did it again, more intently and
whispered, “Get up old woman, I know you're there and I've done
something...” He trailed off, swallowing and looking over his
shoulder, paranoid even now.
“Please,”
he whined, impatient, glancing over his shoulder towards the village
for anyone who might have followed. His heart was still pounding from
his flight, and from adrenaline and fear, and he was in no mood to
stand in the dark, outside, exposed. He was about to start pounding
on the door, caution be damned, when he heard grumbling, and saw a
soft glow from the hearth, the fire being re-awoken.
The
bolt was undone, the iron scratching against the old, weathered wood,
and the door opened a tiny crack. There she stood, in all her grumpy,
ancient glory. Grey hair with a mind of its own stood frizzy in every
direction around a gaunt, wrinkled face. She was much shorter than
Cobb, by a head, but he always felt small around her, even though she
looked as if a stiff breeze could tip her over. Her eyes were a
bright green, and seemed to almost shine like jewels, even in the
dark. Especially in the dark. They were unnerving. Cobb shivered
under her scrutiny.
“Boy,”
her voice threatening, “This had better be the best damn tale
you've ever told to warrant me giving up beauty sleep.”
“I
killed him. I killed my father.”
.. :: | :: ..
Cobb
peeked through the shutters at the village outside, normally quiet at
this time of night, but torches were flickering against walls and
windows, and faint shouts could be heard. He was still out of breath
from running out to the forest that surrounded the quaint town,
terrified of what he'd done. The Crone was muttering excitedly behind
him, shuffling about, occasionally chuckling. Her ancient, hunched
form was pulling down a bundle of herbs that had dried over her
hearth.
“How
can you be laughing?! There is absolutely nothing to be happy
about, old woman,” Cobb cried, pulling away from the window, and
the view of the awakening village.
“Oh,
no?” she asks, clearly amused by the situation, and Cobb couldn't
understand how.
“I
killed my father!” Cobb ran his hands down his face in anguish,
and dropped his voice to almost a whisper. “I killed him,” he
repeated, more to himself than to the Crone. “I set him on fire. I
set him on fire. With only my mind!” The last words
came out as a wail, high pitched and keening, as if he was nothing
more than a toddler having a tantrum, and not a 17 year old young
man.
The
Crone just chuckled again and continued her gathering. Cobb dropped
his hands and shot her a look that could kill. Literally,
he realized. “What is wrong with you. My father is dead
because of me. Because of what you've taught me.”
“And
good riddance to him, boy! Serves him right for beating you. Beating
you bloody instead of letting you be who you really are, trying to
force you into a mold you were never meant to fit.”
“No,
instead, you've turned me into a monster!” Cobb could feel the
tears coming down his face, and he wiped them away in anger. His
mother had seen what he'd done, the whole thing. She was the one that
had called him a monster, used those very words, and backed away in
fear and shock as her husband burned down to his bones after striking
Cobb across the face for the last time.
The
Crone shook her head. “No, boy, not a monster. Powerful. You could
be truly great, if you get the chance to continue your studies. These
half-wit villagers wouldn't recognize true talent if it spit on
them.”
She
turned away then, to continue gathering up supplies, putting them
away into an old traveling bag made of stained leather. It was only a
moment later, though, that she stopped, ear cocked towards her door.
The smile fading from her face.
“Cobb,
child, take this,” she said, her tone hushed, pushing the leather
bag into his arms with more force than he realized she could muster.
He wanted to protest her constantly calling him a child when he
wasn't one, but the urgency in her voice kept him silent. His
blubbering confession of what had happened not an hour before had
given her a strange, manic energy and unusual strength. And something
else, too, something beneath the surface that he couldn't quite put
his finger on. It made him uneasy.
Cobb
listened then, too, holding his breath to catch whatever it was that
she thought she had heard. It didn't take long before he realized the
shouting from the village was getting louder...and closer.
The
fire, he thought to himself. Why aren't they putting out the
fire he started?
“Oh,”
the old Crone whispered. “They're coming here.”
Her
eyes got big as plates, the whites shining in the flickering light of
her hearth, and that strange, otherworldly energy made them seem even
brighter than usual. Bright, and green, and almost mad.
She
whirled around, making Cobb jump, and gripped his shoulders so tight,
he knew he'd have a new set of bruises over his father's old ones.
“Quick, boy. Grab whatever else is useful, and climb out through
the hatch up above.”
Cobb
nodded, wiping stray tears from his eyes again, and frantically
grabbed what few herbs he recognized from her tutelage, along with a
wine-skin and an old cloak. Throwing the cloak over his shoulders, he
climbed the rickety ladder up to the loft, and eased himself over to
the loose part of thatch that the old woman would prop open on good
days, when the weather was dry and the sun could shine in.
The
shouting had grown very loud now, and flickering lights from torches
could be seen through the little window below. He looked back only
briefly and saw the old woman whispering over a bit of purple glass,
which she then tucked into her robe.
He
shook his head and opened the hatch in the roof just enough to
squeeze out, and shut it behind himself as he clung to the top of the
hut. Below, he heard the Crone screech at the small mob that had
gathered, like a pack of hungry, rabid wolves.
“Begone!
You have no business here! Begone, I said!” She shouted from
her doorway. Her voice cracked, and Cobb swore she sounded almost
excited. Like laughter was threatening to bubble up in between
her curses.
“Witch!”
some of the villagers cried, while others in the crowd just screamed,
“Burn it down!” or “Kill her and kill the monster child!”. He
heard his mother's shrill voice among them, calling out “Damn you
witch! Damn you for cursing my boy! My beautiful boy!”
You
were the one who cursed me, mother, by never protecting what should
have been your greatest treasure, Cobb thought to himself. Cursed
me to live a life of pain and solitude. He wasn't surprised she
was part of the mob. She was meek and stupid, and followed others
orders instead of thinking for herself; she always had. He hated her
as much as he had hated his father, for her unwillingness - or
inability - to shield him from his father's abuses his entire life.
He
was forced back to his new and terrible reality when he heard the old
woman screech sharply in pain, like a wounded hawk. He carefully
crawled up to the top of the roof, peeking over the edge to get a
glimpse of what was happening below.
The
villagers had surrounded her, grabbed her roughly, and pulled her
away from her hut. They were building a pyre. They wouldn't!
He thought to himself, horrified. They wouldn't dare...not without
a trial of some kind! Not without proof she had done something wrong!
But
the fervor, fear, and anger of the village would not be quelled. They
pushed and pulled at the old woman, tearing at her already tattered
clothing, scratching at her face and arms, keeping her prisoner while
they piled more branches high, and bound her hands together tightly,
waving signs against evil and spitting at her.
Cobb
was terrified. These were the people he had grown up seeing every
day, and most were common folk more likely to invite you in for tea
and freshly baked bread, than harm another person. Yet here they
were, preparing to burn his mentor alive.
He
covered his mouth to keep from crying out and laid as flat as he
could while still keeping an eye on the angry mob below. He thought
at first he might try to escape, try to run into the woods, but the
men of the village had brought out their dogs, and there was no way
he could get away without being seen. Even now, the beasts circled
around the milling people, howling and barking and growling.
The
pyre was finished almost as fast as they had started building it.
They dragged the Crone over to it, and up to the top, tying her there
to a single pole they had erected at its center. She was too old, too
frail, and in too much pain from the beatings they had given her
already to fight back much. Cobb was sickened by what he saw, but he
couldn't look away. The only person in his entire life who had cared
about him was about to be burned alive.
Men
poured pitch over her head, and over the branches and twigs at her
feet. She screeched obscenities at them, each in turn, and at the
village as a whole, and at his mother in particular, and his father,
who would never hear her particularly nasty opinions of him. There
was a pause, then, as those bearing torches gathered around, closer
and closer. I'm going to be sick, he thought, and turned his
head to quietly retch, praying to the Light that he would not be
heard over the commotion below. As if the Light is watching out
for you now, fool. Not after what you've done.
They
tossed the torches without fanfare, and the flames caught fast,
licking up the Crone's ripped robes, now stained with her blood, and
dancing up into her frizzy, gray hair, now sticky with the pitch.
She
leaned against the pole, barely able to stand, her arms pulled tight
against the bonds that kept her in place as her back arched in pain,
but then...then, she laughed.
Cobb
was struck as silent as the crowd. They all stared at her, in shock,
like deer suddenly caught in the open, stupefied by her cackling. It
was a full-throated laugh, which quickly morphed into a manic
cackling, her voice cracking along with the logs at her feet, as the
fire burned hotter and hotter, pushing the spectators back. Her robes
burned away, her gray hair too, and her skin seemed to blister and
melt, yet still, she laughed.
The
villagers began muttering, making the sign against evil, backing
away, as scared of what was happening as Cobb was. “By the Light,
what are you?” a village elder cried, his eyes wide with
fear.
The
old Crone fell silent then, finally, the fire roaring as loudly as a
lion, and they could barely make out her shout, “Done with you lot,
is what I am!”
The
fire suddenly burst into a bright green flame that roared up high
above the Crone's head, and acrid smoke poured forth, causing the
people gathered to panic and run in all directions, coughing and
sputtering, tears running down their faces as they choked on the ash.
Cobb wasn't quick enough pulling back over the ridge of the roof, and
caught a face full of it himself.
It
burned down his throat, in his eyes, in his lungs, and he lost his
grip on the old, dark thatch of the hut. He slid, then rolled down,
off the back of the house, and landed unceremoniously in a heap on
the ground, coughing and gagging, and completely out of breath. Run,
he heard in his head, a squeaky, annoying voice. Run before they
find you, stupid!
Gasping,
he dragged himself to his feet, using the vines growing up the
crumbling hut's wall and ran into the forest. It was dark under the
leaves of the woods, and he didn't know them well. He could barely
see through the tears, could barely breathe from the burning in his
lungs, whether from running or from the smoke he had inhaled, he
couldn't tell.
His
foot caught on a root and tripped him up. Stumbling, he hit the loamy
earth hard, dead leaves exploding outward where his body hit the
forest floor. His nose was filled with the smells of earth and decay.
He
scrambled back to his feet, running again, only to cry out as
something bit into his shoulder. It hurt. Far worse than any
beating his father had given him. It was sharp, and stinging, and he
could smell blood, feel it running down his back. Glancing back, he
saw the shaft and fletching of an arrow, and realized they had shot
him.
They
mean to kill me, same as the old woman, he realized.
So
run, stupid. That voice again, high-pitched and giggling. He was
going mad. He giggled too, at the absurdity, at what his life had
become within the course of only a few hours.
They
were close behind, and he couldn't get away with his shoulder feeling
as though it was on fire. He couldn't think, couldn't concentrate,
couldn't focus. It was all just noise and pain.
One
of the hunting dogs slammed into him from behind, suddenly, from out
of the dark, biting at his head and neck. He rolled, instinct taking
over, and kicked out at the furry form that had brought him down. He
grinned wickedly as his heel found it's mark, and the large dog
yelped and whined, pulling back and wary to attack again.
But
the damage was done, as the men who had followed after their beast
were now close enough to see, and loud enough to hear, clearly enough
for Cobb to recognize their voices. There was Gregor, the innkeeper,
and Harold, the fletcher, who he no doubt had to thank for the arrow
still lodged in his back.
Even
drunken Braed, who was almost never seen without a tankard or a
flask, and did all he could to shirk his farm work, stood close by, a
pitchfork in hand. They were all so angry, all wearing the same faces
his father used to, when he'd come home from the tavern, drunk and
surly. Looking to make someone feel as bad as he did. The difference
was, these men were sober, and terrified.
Cobb
fought back. For once, he thought to himself, or maybe it was
that unknown, mad voice in his head, he wasn't sure anymore.
He
bit, and scratched, and kicked out, but there were too many of them,
and they were all too strong, and too burly. They held him down, hit
him, beat him, until he stopped fighting back, until he couldn't
fight back anymore. He could only cradle his head and pray to any
gods still listening that they would stop before he blacked out.
But
he had been beaten too many times in his life to hold out much hope.
He knew exactly what every strike would leave behind, these ugly
souvenirs of rage. That one will leave a bruise, black and blue,
and yellow later. And that one cracked at least two ribs, he
thought as a random kick hit him in the side. The next one hit him
low in the back, and he felt an even deeper pain, and he knew, deep
down, they weren't going to stop.
They
were taking it in turns, as more and more of the braver souls in the
village found their way into the woods where the men had dropped him.
One eye was already swollen shut, but the other made out his mother,
and he realized she was shouting for them to stop, to spare her boy.
She
moved forward slowly, her face illuminated by the dancing torchlight,
inching her way up to where her son lay bleeding on the ground.
“Cobby?” she asked, voice quavering. “My boy? My beautiful
boy...what did she do to you?”
Cobb
choked on a laugh. “Beautiful?” he heard himself sneer, almost
choking on the blood. Even now he couldn't bear the falseness of her.
Never once had she stood up for him against his father, never once
had she spoken out to spare him. In all of his 17 years, he could not
recall a single moment where she stepped in to stop his father from
taking out his anger on his son.
Even
this time, he was certain, she was doing it only out of fear, knowing
that if she let the villagers kill him, she and her precious
daughters would be alone with no man in the house to care for them.
“Beautiful boy? Not so beautiful, now, mother. The
Crone did nothing to me!” he choked out, and his mother
recoiled, fear back in her face. “She never cursed me! She taught
me how to love myself because you would never love me as I
deserved!”
He
was filled with loathing, and pain, and all he wanted now was for her
to suffer as much as he had. He grinned then, his teeth red with his
own blood. What he couldn't see was the green fire in his eyes.
His
mother did.
His
mother saw the fire very clearly as she died in it, screaming like
her husband had, as her flesh melted away and her bones turned black.
He never stopped grinning.
It
was the last thing Cobb saw, before the mob rushed in around him, and
then pain, and finally, darkness.
..
:: | :: ..
No
one noticed the woman standing on the edge of the clearing, quietly
watching the mob beat the young man to death, his one, still-open eye
turning glassy and empty, even as it was focused on the pile of
smoldering ash that used to be his mother's bones.
She
was tall and thin, her face angular, almost gaunt, framed in curls
the color of clover honey. She wore a dress of dark green velvet
trimmed in gold, and a hooded cloak to match. She stared at the dead
body and the villagers slowly realizing what they had done with eyes
as green as emeralds and as bright as candlelight, but which held no
warmth.
Her
former apprentice was almost unrecognizable now, after the mob had
finished taking out their fear and rage on his body. The woman
sneered and turned away, walking briskly into the dark of the forest,
leaving her former home behind to be burned to the ground, as she had
no use for it now.
Trailing
after her was a little green imp, the tip of his tail smoking faintly
with felfire. He skipped after his mistress, his yellow eyes flashing
in the dark.
“A
pity, yes, mistress? He held promise, didn't he, mistress?” his
voice was squeaky and grating, and pleading for attention.
“Silence,”
she snapped, and looked over her shoulder to ensure they hadn't been
followed. Once she saw there was nothing behind them, she sighed and
frowned.
“Yes,
Azkol. It is a shame. The boy was easy to manipulate, and he did
indeed show some promise. He was willing to kill his own kin, after
all, and took to my teaching so readily.”
“At
least he got his revenge,” the little demon said, giggling.
“Mmmm,
yes,” she replied, humming, a cold smile tugging at her lips. “He
did, indeed, get that.” She pictured the look on that stupid cow's
face as she burst into flames born purely from her own son's hatred
of her. It had been so easy teaching the young man how to hone his
skills and control the fire that had already been slowly growing
inside his mind and soul. The abuses he had endured from his father
were terrible enough. The fact that his mother was hesitant to shield
him out of fear for herself and her daughters, and no one in the
village bothered to save him from his lot in life only made matters
simpler for her. If she had cared about anyone but herself, she would
have found it all terribly sad. But she didn't. This had all become
simply an inconvenience.
She
was glad she had a soulstone prepared for such an occasion. She
pulled the now dull and dark purple stone from where she had tucked
it away, turning it over in her hands as she considered her next
move.
There
had been rumors for days of a strange cult, of people dying, of
people rising from their graves to walk again and kill their former
friends and family. The village had been on edge as the rumors fanned
the flames of fear. This entire night's events were inevitable. It
had only been a matter of time before something became the spark to
light the tinder. She had hoped for a few more days to gather
supplies and prepare her new apprentice. Oh, well.
But
she had to be careful now. The crown prince himself had even been
tasked with discovering the source of the sickness starting to make
its way through the populace. Hopefully, she didn't cross paths with
him on her way back to the City of Lordaeron. Running into Prince
Arthas would make her job of preparing for the coming plague
considerably more difficult.
“Azkol,”
she gestured to her demon, “I believe the timetable is moving up a
bit. We must get to the city quickly. There is still much to be done,
and without an apprentice, it is going to take longer than I'd like.”
Her
demon nodded vigorously in agreement. “Yes, mistress. You are so
wise.”
The
warlock rolled her eyes, but smirked. “Keep watch,” she ordered
and began weaving her hands in intricate formations, muttering an
incantation to summon another demon. Fire bloomed from the earth at
her feet, and from the flames and ash rose a horse seemingly made of
coal and flames. A felsteed demon stood before her.
The
damp forest floor hissed wherever it stepped and plants wilted where
it passed as it walked up to her, and stood still as stone, patient
for her to climb upon its back. The only movement was its black tail
swishing as it swatted at flies that could never hope to land on its
burning back.
As
she settled herself into a comfortable position, the horse-demon gave
a blood-curdling whinny, and trotted forward, the felfire in its eyes
burning brighter, illuminating the trees all around. The imp
scampered alongside, easily keeping up.
“Come,
Azkol. Our master's plan awaits us.”
The
woman who had worn the face of a Crone, in a village that would soon
be wiped from the face of the earth, rode off into the night,
laughing, eager to aid the Cult of the Damned with killing every last
man, woman, and child that walked this world and earn her place as a
true servant of the Burning Legion, with power beyond her wildest
dreams awaiting her.
..
:: | :: ..
He
was cold.
He
was cold, and broken, but the voices demanded that he get up.
He
could almost hear his mother's voice calling up from the kitchen,
warning him that if he didn't get up, his father would come fetch him
from his bed.
That
was enough to spur him awake.
It
was blackness all around. His eyes were open, or so he thought. But
he was blind. And it was silent.
Yet
still, there were voices, or almost-voices, demanding he get up. He
was called. He had to get up, and follow.
His
limbs were sluggish. They didn't want to move. The darkness was
heavy, pressing in all around him. He pushed back.
The
relatively fresh mound of dirt covering an unmarked grave on the
furthest edge of the graveyard near the village temple moved and
cracked as a very bony hand burst up from underneath. A second hand
followed as dark magic crept under the loose ground and compelled
those buried there to rise up and join the Scourge army waiting just
outside of town. As shallow as the grave was, the body inside was
struggling.
Bones
were already exposed in places where damaged, swollen flesh had
decayed quickly. The dead thing slowly hoisted itself up into a
sitting position, and rubbed dirt from out of its eye sockets.
Greenish-yellow orbs of light slowly emerged from where the dirt had
been, replacing eyes that were no longer there. A broken arrow could
be seen sunk deep in what was left of the flesh behind the left
shoulder. The body had been wrapped in the same cloak it had been
wearing. It was stained with blood and dirt, and decay from being in
the damp earth for many days, but it held together as the reanimated
body slowly rose to its feet, swaying gently in the breeze.
A
groan echoed out of the ghoul's mouth and it lurched forward,
stumbling on legs barely attached with withered muscle and sinew. A
leather back swung on a thick strap, making the newly arisen corpse's
movements even more uneven. It finally settled at the dead thing's
hip, and allowed for easier walking by the time the ghoul reached the
cemetery gate.
Other
sleepers were waking up as well, and the earth rumbled as more dead
burst forth from their graves. It made the going a bit more
treacherous for the newly reborn undead, as grave after grave opened
to release the prisoners within, leaving holes to navigate around.
Some of the dead were nothing but bones, while others still had dried
muscle and sinew clinging on tightly. All were held together by the
magic still coursing through the graveyard, making bones glow, and
rattle in the night.
His master was waiting. The general of
the army. The Death Knight.
Follow
him. Kill. Feed. Obey.
Serve the Scourge.
Serve the Scourge.
Yes,
the dead thing thought to itself, memories of mothers and fathers and
kitchens and warm beds and fear slowly fading away. Yes, I
will serve. And I will kill. Again.