Shattered Chains

*A Scourge ziggurat in Icecrown. The Fall of the Lich King*

Laraus Ketting sat forward on his throne, his staff coming up in one hand and banging loudly on the stone floor, the sound echoing through the ziggurat and rebounding from the haunted halls of the structure. Distant rattling, growling, and groaning could be heard from the unliving that roamed the structure’s interior, the Scourge patrolling their base with impunity.

After a moment the echoing of the staff’s crash faded, and the sound was replaced by the sound of armored boots approaching. The necromancer smirked to himself, leaning back in the stone throne like a king holding court. He was hardly that of course, being a powerful necromancer but just another cog in the war machine that was the Scourge forces in Icecrown. Even so, the ziggurat and all within it were under his control, and so he played at the role with the dead who must obey his commands.

A figure entered the chamber, dressed from neck to toes in dark black plate armor, a spear glowing with unholy runes strapped to her back. Long blonde hair fell down around an elven face that still held all of the beauty it once had in life, and the delicate curves of the elf’s form was not lost on Laraus as he watched her approach. He knew his acolytes thought him disgusting for his ogling of his elven death knight, but what did he care for the opinion of his minions whom were simply fodder as far as he was concerned?

As she had been instructed to do long ago, the death knight approached within ten feet of him before falling to her knees, her head bowed. The spear she carried scraped on the floor alongside her plate armor, making a terrible clatter as she got into position. The rune-spear had been his idea, as the death knight was his ultimate weapon within the ziggurat and therefore was his ceremonial guard whenever he met others of equal position within the cult. She would stand behind him, her cold beauty matched by the deadly weapon she carried; the perfect trophy piece to show his conquests.

He waited a few minutes, watching her as she knelt before him, admiring her for a time before waving his hand and allowing her to rise. She did so, coming to stiff attention before him, her glowing eyes unseeing as she stared straight ahead, “You summoned me, Master?”

Laraus grinned, the thrill of complete control over his entire domain a thing he never tired of. He nodded, gesturing with his hands, “I did. The so-called Argent Crusade makes progress into Icecrown, particularly the Master’s citadel. I am concerned that they will launch attacks on other targets as opportunity permits, such as this structure. It is my desire that you prepare extra defenses around the ziggurat’s entrance and that traps be set in the outer passageways. I have already informed my acolytes that they will not be permitted to leave the structure for some time.”

The blonde elf bowed stiffly, a hand coming up to her heart in a salute he had commanded her to give him every time he issued an order to her, “I hear and obey, Master.”

Laraus grinned, “I know you do. Now go. I do not wish to have the living assaulting my domain.”

He watched as she saluted him again, admiring her undead form as she turned to walk away. Just as she reached the edge of his audience chamber, there was a sudden shockwave of magic that surged through the ziggurat. Laraus felt it immediately, as if a great vacuum of power had opened up somewhere nearby, and it reverberated throughout all of the domain that he watched over in the name of the Lich King.

Where the shockwave had been a puzzling occurrence to the necromancer, it had far more impact on the death knight. She stumbled, staggering sideways until a hand came out to lean against a nearby pillar, her form swaying as she struggled to make sense of what had just come to pass.

Somewhere in the distance, a group of adventurers in conjunction with the Argent Crusade had finally slain the Lich King, and his fall had been felt by all of the undead in all of Icecrown.

The death knight blinked, shaking her head as a voice that had been with her for so long was suddenly silenced, a wave of images replacing the cold control of the Lich King and flooding her senses. She saw golden woods flying by as elves on hawkstriders rode through the forests of Quel’Thalas. She felt the cool, refreshing water of the Elrendar River on her feet as she dipped her toes in it on a lazy summer day. She tasted wine on her lips of the finest vintage, given out to guests at a party as they enjoyed the sight of fireworks in a starlit sky to celebrate some great holiday or event.

And behind all of the images, all of the sights and sounds, she heard a chorus of voices rising up in song, the sound a harmony that contained within it generations of her people, her heritage passed down the line from a kingdom that had lived peacefully in a golden realm untouched for thousands of years.

In that moment, she remembered who she was.

“Death knight! Seal the entrance to the ziggurat at once. I do not know what has come to pass, but we must be ready for an attack!” Laraus shouted, actually deigning to rise from his stone seat due to his nerves.

Expecting immediate obedience, he was shocked to see the black-armored form turn to stare at him, the gaze no longer unseeing, no longer a slave to his will. Instead he saw unending malice glowing in those two scourge-lit orbs, affixed on his person with an intensity that made him think of the primal, secret fear that all necromancers shared; that moment when their creations turn on them.

“Do as I say at once!” Laraus shouted, his voice sounding a bit weak even to his own mind.

The death knight paused, her form straightening as she turned to face him, and for the first time since her death she spoke with her own free will, the words coming slowly, “My name…..my name is Avielle Silverlight….”

Laraus’s eyes widened in shock and he backed up a step, falling unceremoniously back into his throne, “That cannot be! You are my servant! I have given you a command and you will obey!”

Avielle took a few steps into the room, her grip on her rune-spear tightening as a cascade of memories crashed through her mind. All of it spun within her, thoughts flashing wildly as she tried to make sense of it all, but underneath every thought was the knowledge that she had been a slave of the human who now shouted at her; a mere tool to use as he saw fit, keeping her in undying captivity under the thrall of the Lich King for all those many years.

Her voice echoed back, more confident now as her will surged, triumphantly reclaiming her body, “My name is Avielle Silverlight, and I am a daughter to slaughtered parents, sister to brothers who died defying the undead, leader of a people who perished at the hands of you and yours. Know now the terrible price of my vengeance, necromancer!”

Laraus sprang back to his feet, shouting out words in the language of Death, summoning more of the minions within the ziggurat to come to his aid. The lesser undead would have little in the way of memories as the more powerful death knight had, and would be useful in controlling her until he could reclaim his grip over her will.

From the corridors beyond skeletons loomed, rattling as they approached, their rusty weapons held ready. They moved more slowly than Laraus would have liked, stepping into the room and surrounding the death knight in a throng. “You will obey me once more, my pet! There are too many within my domain for you to fight. Surrender and I will forgive your outburst!”

Avielle looked around her, and for a moment sorrow passed over her features. She reached down, taking a horn made of bone from her belt and brought it to her lips, sounding a long trailing wail from the instrument. It was meant to signal the Scourge under her leadership to attack, the call a spell designed to lead them into battle. This time though, it had something beneath it; a ghostly echo of a silvery sounding horn that the elves of Quel’Thalas would sound before a battle.

The dead around Avielle stopped, the sound echoing coldly through the ziggurat. She looked at them, her voice softer now as she pleaded with them, “A great crime has been committed against each and every one of you. Each of you fought beside me, died a good death defending those who could not fight the evils that invaded our land. Instead of rest, you were cursed with this…this mockery of life whereby your hands would be stained with the blood of our own. Hear me now, sons and daughters of Quel’Thalas! Hear me now, retainers of House Silverlight! Heed my call! Take up arms once more for our banner, that we may right this terrible tragedy! Give to me your loyalty in death as you once did in life, and I will see that we are avenged!”

The air around the throng of skeletal dead shimmered, ghostly images forming here and there over the skeletons. Here the blue eyes of an elf stared with sorrow at Avielle, there a silver and blue banner materialized and fluttered in an unfelt wind. Though the ghosts were silent, each stared at Avielle in reverence, the Lich King’s fall having given them some semblance of free will for a moment.

In that moment, they chose to give of themselves, they chose to follow the heir of their House in death as they had in life. To a single creature, the throng of skeletons fell to one knee, their rusty blades held out in offering to the death knight.

The ghostly images faded, and Avielle returned her gaze to the necromancer on his throne. For the briefest of moments, he saw the outline of a ghostly silver circlet on her head, as if she wore a ceremonial piece of jewelry that those of noble blood might wear when commanding their servants at an event. It faded a heartbeat later, and the skeletons all rose, now turning to face him, weapons drawn.

Avielle’s voice echoed through the chamber, the cold sound final in its judgment, “Your time has come, necromancer. You and all those who dwell within this place will now pay for what you have done to my people. We shall leave no brick atop another when we are through here, and none shall remember you ever existed.”

Laraus stammered, trying to croak out the words to spells, trying to call for his acolytes to aid him even though he knew there were not enough of them to confront the undead that the death knight had wrested from his grasp. He tried to force his will upon Avielle again, only to find his power coldly and swiftly repulsed by the fiery will that now rode within her form.

As they came for him, he even screamed for the Lich King to aid him, although it was far too late for that.

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Many hours later a throng of undead would exit the burning remains of a ziggurat and slip into the blowing snowstorms of Icecrown, not to be seen again by living eyes. A few cultists who observed this rebel group of undead leaving the structure would report seeing them lead by a figure on a deathcharger, her golden hair flowing down over the midnight black armor she wore, a flickering runeblade in the form of a spear strapped to her back.