warriors of light
“Soldiers, Netherlight Temple is believed to be under imminent threat by the dreadlord Balnazzar.” Tyrosus paused, letting that news sink in. Before the muttering in the crowd could really gain traction, he continued, “We will be sending a squadron of our best fighters to assist them. If anyone is interested in volunteering for the mission before I begin assigning places, please come forward now.”
There didn’t seem to be the mass movement towards the front of the chapel that Reg was hoping for. Grimacing, he nudged a draenei aside and started winding his way through the crowd. If this involved rather more elbows in ribs than was strictly polite—well, everyone was wearing armor, anyway, and Aya was on mending duty in Hearthglen and couldn’t frown at him from there. “I will!” His voice was lost in the crowd; he took a moment to clear his throat and hip-check a dwarf who had been trying to back up in front of him. “Highlord Tyrosus, I volunteer!”
Tyrosus looked him up and down critically. “Excellent; we were in need of a good front-line fighter.” He lifted his gaze from Reg and swept it out over the assembled Silver Hand—Blood Knights, Sunwalkers, ex-Argents, hunters and rogues and priests. “Now that Crusader Bladesworn has boldly been the first to step forward, I trust the rest of you will follow his good example.”
Reg winced. It’s happening again. I thought they were done holding me up and telling the rest that they surely couldn’t do worse than the dead man, but I suppose Tyrosus never got the memo. He cleared his throat again. “May I be dismissed, Highlord? I have much preparation to do.”
Tyrosus glanced at him and flashed him a quick smile. “Of course. And thank you for volunteering.”
He’d sounded genuine. Reg was still idly pondering it the next morning as he stood in loose formation with the rest of the Silver Hand, the portal to Netherlight glowing in front of them. A Blood Knight next to him kept flicking her ears, and the movement was distracting enough that he almost missed Tyrosus’ speech.
“…We strike at the heart of the beast! Put your faith in the Light, champions, and it will protect you!”
And then he turned and charged through the portal, and the Silver Hand followed him.
The Netherlight Temple gleamed, all warm ceramic and glass, but Reg barely noticed what any of it looked like; his sabaton had just landed on the shining stone floor when the raw Light of the place hit him like a hammer. The demons had already begun their assault, and he knew he should join the fray—but as his fellow fighters charged ahead, he stood frozen in place. The heat was nearly overwhelming; he thought he could feel his skin sizzling even through his armor. He took a deep breath of too-hot air, and then another.
The air brought scents he knew too well. Felblood. Sanctified blood.
Even if it burned him to cinders, he would fight. With one final prayer in his heart—Light, let me serve you—he drew his sword and charged.
His world narrowed to the length of his blade, with only the barest idea of what was happening beyond it. The demons were pouring in from portals around the temple, and though the priests were largely holding their own (a bolt of pure Light—dodge—strike—Consecration; move) they were being hit hard. Reg hamstrung a wrathguard, catching an eredar on the backswing before it could fling fire at a troll. A gap opened up in the fighting, and he wound under another demon’s guard (stabbing it in the ribs as he passed) to leap atop a table. From his new vantage point, he had a slightly better idea of what was happening in the hall.
Well. That explained the searing Light, at least. A Naaru—an actual Light-blessed Naaru—was chiming steadily in the center of the hall, and any demon within range of its emanations was burnt to ash. A white-bearded draenei stood in front of it, channeling a glowing shield of Light. Reg tore his gaze away. Shadows coiled in his peripheral vision; he turned for a better look and found himself sucking in a breath he didn’t need.
There was Rythien, back against the wall, with his shadow tentacles making bloody work of any demon that got too close. Reg couldn’t see the priest’s cane, but he didn’t appear to need it with the shadows shifting around him—and then a demon cleaved two of the tendrils in half, and Rythien fell to one knee with blood dripping from his nose.
Reg charged across the room to him just as a felguard brought its axe around. It could have decapitated Rythien; Reg twisted around its arm and sank his sword into its chest.
Rythien snorted; Reg could smell the blood, and it made his mouth water. “Ow, fuck.” Shadows surged, lifting him to his feet again as he added, “Thanks.”
Reg cast a glance over his shoulder at him. No obvious wounds. Good. “Jameston would murder me if I let you be killed.”
Rythien’s ears flagged, but he was already looking past him; whatever he saw made his eyes go wide. “Fuck.”
Reg spun to follow his gaze, and found himself privately echoing the statement. The draenei’s shield was cracking as a massive dreadlord hammered on it, and the Naaru beyond it was chiming desperately. “…Cover me.”
“Reginald—!”
There was more, but Reg was already moving. It seemed to take an age to traverse the battlefield, and he found himself sparing a fleeting wish that he’d brought along his gun—but then, suddenly, he found himself within range of Balnazzar. He was three times his size and radiated energy that made his skin crawl, but more importantly he hadn’t noticed him yet.
He wasted no time. As his sword bit into the back of the dreadlord’s leg, felblood sprayed out—but Balnazzar didn’t fall. Oh, dear.
The demon’s voice made his stomach churn. “Foolish mortals. You think to stop me?”
The displacement of air as he teleported away almost knocked Reg over; for a moment pure panic gripped his heart, and then he spun around as the dreadlord’s voice rang out from the altar. “Taste the true might of the Burning Legion!”
More portals ripped open along the sides of the temple; as floods of demons poured through, Reg leapt into action again. Imps fell easily; felguards took a little more time, but for a few minutes he was sure he was making a dent in the Legion’s forces.
And then he realized that they wouldn’t stop coming. While he gutted one felguard, another landed a blow that shattered his pauldron; an imp he missed on the first swing attached itself to his sabaton and he wasted precious seconds getting it off. A wrathguard nearly took his head off while he struggled. We’re losing ground. Light, protect us…
His prayers were answered in a sudden rush of heat. A massive, bat-winged, glowing thing (dreadlord-shaped, but surely it couldn’t be—) appeared in front of the beleaguered Naaru; its voice carried out over the din of battle. “Army of Light, to me! Attack!”
Oh. He’d heard of Lothraxion, the supposedly “redeemed” dreadlord that led a division of the Army of Light, but he’d dismissed it as rumor; now that it was here and directing a squadron of well-armed and excessively shiny paladins into the fray, he realized Aya’s friend had been right. Drat. I must remember to apologize when I—there! An opening appeared in the chaos of combat, and he dashed through it to join the paladins striking at Balnazzar.
Everything became a bit hectic after that. Light and shadow crashed into the dreadlord, narrowly avoiding the melee fighters trying to bring Balnazzar down to stabbing range. For a terrible moment, all Reg could focus on was staying out of the way—the Light would burn him just as surely as felfire would, and be much more embarrassing to explain.
Then felblood sprayed through the air, and pure Light seared where the dreadlord lay.
Reg breathed again, finally lowering his sword. Thank the Light, it’s over.
Hoofbeats sounded behind him as the draenei let his shield fall. “Thank you, heroes. Now, let us tend to the wounded.”
Reg instinctively turned to watch the draenei pass—he practically bled Light. Hrm. He looks familiar… It wasn’t until Rythien bowed at his approach that Reg realized where he’d seen him before. “…Sweet Light.” He almost wished he’d brought his camera. It wasn’t every day he got to see the prophet of the draenei people in the flesh.
He let the surprise wash over him, cleaned his blade on his cloak, and went to lend his first aid skills to the task of cleaning up.
