Chapter 45: The Leap of Faith |
Morgan’s brain short-circuited in an instant.
I have to carry King Wrynn?
I have to carry King Wrynn!
His face flushed crimson, his chest heaving violently, and he stammered out:
“Yo… Your Majesty, I… I-I-I… of course! It’s my hon… honor!”
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White light spread across the horizon, the dawn about to tear through the night.
The Treasury of Stormwind Keep sat on the castle’s lowest level, adjacent to the armory. On the open square before the vault, Marshal Windsor leaned on his sword, his marshal’s coat soaked in blood—some his own, more from the enemy.
He hadn’t returned home for some time because of his suspicions, instead remaining on duty here.
Although Windsor’s suspicions were confirmed, he felt no joy.
The confirmation meant King Varian Wrynn might already be in grave danger.
He would have preferred to be wrong.
“Hold on!” Windsor shouted hoarsely, cleaving open a corpse that lunged at him with his longsword, “Reinforcements will be here any moment!”
In truth, he did not know whether help would arrive.
He only had to make his men believe.
“Marshal!” The adjutant’s face was streaked with blood, his voice hoarse, “Brothers are running out of strength!”
“Windsor!” Duke Marasmom stood behind the battle line, that ghastly pale face full of smugness. “You colluded with the black warlock, plotting against the king. Tonight is your death!”
Windsor didn’t bother answering the shameless accusation. He gritted his teeth and swung his sword back into the fray.
With such commotion, where were the troops stationed at Stormwind Keep?
Had the Keep already fallen?
At last, the sound of heavy footsteps reached them.
Row after row of fully armed Stormwind guards surged onto the square.
Reinforcements had finally arrived.
Duke Marasmom’s face changed instantly, but he reacted quickly, drawing a parchment from his breast and raising it high.
“Look closely!” His voice was sharp and triumphant. “This is a personal edict from His Majesty the King! Windsor colluded with the black warlock Allen Prestor, betraying Stormwind and conspiring against the realm! His Majesty has been harmed by that evil black witchcraft, stricken ill and forced into seclusion!”
He paused, letting his gaze sweep over the soldiers who now showed hesitation, a cold grin curling at his lips.
“Remember that day when Windsor let Allen’s accomplices go free! Many of you were there— the traitor exposed himself. Will you still risk your lives for him? Windsor is Allen’s accomplice!”
The soldiers looked at one another, their grips on swords and spears starting to falter.
Someone whispered, “The King… is he really ill?”
“I saw it with my own eyes!” Duke Marasmom’s voice climbed. “That Allen Prestor is always lurking near His Majesty. Didn’t you notice? The King left with him and returned shut away— is that not the sign of black magic taking hold?!”
Weapons were held tensely as gazes flickered between Windsor and Marasmom.
Some wore confusion, some nervousness, some were already wavering.
Windsor watched it all, ice cold sinking into his chest.
He recalled the vision from Karazhan.
That day, he and Sir Lothar had stormed Karazhan. Inside the tower he’d seen a prophecy of his death.
In the vision, Stormwind was engulfed in flames, a black dragon’s shadow blotting out the sun, and he lay beneath that dragon’s claws. It was his fate, a conclusion he seemed destined to be unable to escape.
Could that vision be coming true today?
He raised his head, scanning the bewildered soldiers and the triumphant Marasmom.
Maybe today would be the day he gave everything.
Maybe today would be the day his fate finally claimed him.
“Soldiers.” Windsor spoke, his voice low. “I, Windsor, enlisted at fifteen, followed Sir Lothar into battle for half my life, witnessed Stormwind’s falls and personally buried countless comrades. In my life I have never betrayed my oath, nor this city.”
He paused, lifting his blood-blunted longsword, pointing the tip squarely at Duke Marasmom, his voice abruptly rising:
“Today, I am willing to give my life to prove it all! Evil black dragon, I will use my life to expose your true face!!!”
Windsor raised his sword high, shouting as if to charge forward.
“Ahhhhhhhhh!”
At that moment, a cry split the sky.
“The King is here—!!!”
The voice struck like thunder from above.
Everyone froze— the soldiers, Marasmom, Windsor— all eyes turned toward the sound’s source.
Dawn was breaking, the first ray spilling down.
Within that light, several figures plunged from above, leaping directly from the castle rooftop.
Behind them the newly risen sun cast a golden outline around their silhouettes, as if gods had descended.
Allen was at the front. He spread both hands, pale blue light welling from him, enveloping every person behind him.
Feather Fall.
The rate of their descent slowed abruptly, as if invisible winds cradled them. They drifted down gently, gradually approaching the square.
Varian dismounted from Morgan’s back.
He staggered but then stood steady.
His face still bore the pallor of illness, yet his eyes— those lion-like eyes— burned with fierce light.
The soldiers were stunned.
That was the King.
That really was their King!
Varian strode forward. His voice, hoarse from weakness, still carried undisputed authority:
“Soldiers of Stormwind, heed my command!”
He lifted his hand and pointed straight at Duke Marasmom:
“Marasmom plots to usurp the throne and colludes with external enemies. Seize him!”
“By your command!”
The soldiers’ roar was deafening. They turned, blades and spears instantly aimed at Marasmom’s men.
The smugness on Marasmom’s face froze. He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out.
“Enough!”
A roar like hell itself.
One of the black-clad men beside Marasmom began to twist, his body swelling.
The human skin tore apart, revealing a hideous visage beneath— a rotting body burning with sickly green ghost-fire, black armor etched with twisted runes, orbits blazing with the fire of death.
A Death Knight.
Teron Gorefiend.
The men wearing human skins ripped off their disguises in turn; Death Knights emerged from their shells, the air instantly thick with rot and the scent of death.
Teron stood in the morning light, and upon that decayed face a grotesque smile appeared.
“Varian Wrynn.” His voice echoed like from the depths of a tomb, “You came. Excellent. Then die here.”