The Battle of West Spire

A cold draft raced through the desolated halls of West Spire, its passing not at all dissimilar from the echoes of death that lingered within it. Seated in the observatory of the immense tower, Lieutenant Commander Erundo watched the distant battle at Ironclad Garrison with diminishing interest. The Battle for Tol Barad was an endless struggle and for every victory he witnessed he saw two defeats. After so long it all bled into one endless struggle. Life became one, endless struggle.

It had been by King Varian's grace that he was commissioned with the defense of the West Spire, but the moment it occurred he heard what his subordinates were saying. Behind his back they called him the standard: a symbol that was carried in battle, but served little purpose. From the gulches of Warsong to the Twin Peaks he had fought alongside some of the boldest men of the Alliance, and for all of his sacrifice he was granted with little praise and less respect. That was the nature of jealousy; the nature of envy.

On the day he had been given the West Spire he vowed above all else that he would not allow it to fall. So long as it stood it would be a testament to his ability and to the effectiveness of the Draenei in times of war.

Beside him stood a towering man, a freakishly large human that nearly eclipsed him in height. Silent and strong in a way that the Light could only have created, the behemoth stood with statuesque discipline as he directed his glimmering gaze into the distance. Sir Eshkandar Anushirvan's intransigent scowl had seen them through harsh battles in the past; surely, it would do so once more.

There was but one moment in which the behemoth spoke, and as Erundo heard that rumbling brogue meet his ear, he could not help but wonder how a woman as small and fragile as the Lady Albrecht could leash such a beast. Was there truth to the rumors? Did she control her minions through favors of the flesh? The thought alone was profane, but to look up at the monstrosity was to call the very nature of physics into question. Anything he touched was certain to break.

"You are certain?" Those had been the words of the Grand Crusader, words that were spoken not with incredulity, but a certain lack of faith. It was as though he had moved his provicator incorrectly in a game of exarchaes and exposed it to the enemy's vindicator.

But he had been certain then as he was now.

Where the fighting was at its thickest, a small detachment of his finest soldiers were led by Exarch Terras into the melee at Ironclad Garrison. It would take a miracle to break the siege, but Terras had proved him with several in the past. Brash and reckless nearly to a fault, he had seen her several times charge the enemy line and watched the cowards break as a result. None save for a particularly misguided orc rose to challenge her and each time he did, she was treated to a sound thrashing before her subordinates drew her back to safety.

He understood the Grand Crusader's hesitation, though. For all of the brilliance that his exarch may have displayed when she was in the field that was a brilliance they would be missing in defense of the spire. Nestled as it was upon the hills like white elekk, their vantage point went without contest. If the Horde were to send a detachment from their siege back to the spire then they would see it in time to prepare a defense. If they approached from the south, then he would be able to dispatch his vanguard to meet them head on.

If they approached from both sides, then the Horde would be delivered a defeat far sounder than when the paladin dwarf effortlessly slew his rival during one of the many needlessly fought battles between the Kor'kron Legion and the Mountain Guard. It had been those unnecessary battles that dwindled the numbers of both factions into passable and easily forgotten things.

It was battles like those that he would have avoided if at all possible.

As though bidden by his thoughts, the Horde began their move. ExarchTerras continued to hold them at Ironclad Garrison, her battle-hardened veterans for the time being disorienting the enemy to a point where coordinating with an additional force seemed unlikely. But Erundo did not see this approach: he heard it. He felt it.

It was not only the aged walls of the West Spire that trembled, but the very air itself. Sir Eshkandar Anushirvan, the Grand Crusader, turned his brumal gaze away from the sightless spectacle he had been enjoying and toward the man at his side. "They come."

And they came in numbers.

One or two siege engines would have been enough to give the lieutenant commander pause, but upon the horizon approached a pack of the devastation. Like any predator they stalked with steady confidence, the mechanized grinding of their gears like the growling of some primordial beast sizing up its prey. Earth was torn asunder beneath their wheels; lives lost should any stand before them.

It was a scenario that he had not foreseen, despite his confidence in the prowess of the small force he left behind. Horde tactics dictated that they attack in small order; each tank commander too vainglorious and impatient to wait for a unified strike against the spire, but this denied that and so much more. What could possible stand against them?

<span style="color:rgb(179,179,179);font-family:Georgia;font-size:13px;line-height:18.479999542236328px;">"The gulls," Erundo said without bothering to explain himself further. Sir Eshkandar turned then to a young woman, dusky of complexion who followed him as though his shadow. Genette, he believed her name was. He nodded but once and she was out of the observatory and toward the gull pen. In a matter of seconds she would have birds flying to Terras army. If she could arrive in time then perhaps they could break the siege before the spire took considerable damage, but that was a large if. They would need more time.

<span style="color:rgb(179,179,179);font-family:Georgia;font-size:13px;line-height:18.479999542236328px;">Erundo rose from his seat and walked toward the door. His arms may have been too small; his chest too broad, but he walked with purpose despite his misshapen physique. Once he made it to the door he twisted sideways to slip through it and looked down the winding spire. "Baatos. Lead your brutes into the fray."

<span style="color:rgb(179,179,179);font-family:Georgia;font-size:13px;line-height:18.479999542236328px;">It was a command that most would have balked at, no, fled from (as his nephew had done on several occasions), but not Baatos. The gargantuan Draenei snorted with enough force to be heard before nodding and lifting his impossibly large shield and axe into place. Without bothering to confirm his order by word he left through the gates of the spire and approached the storm without fear. A small number of large fighters followed after him. If nothing else, Baatos the Brute would buy him time.

<span style="color:rgb(179,179,179);font-family:Georgia;font-size:13px;line-height:18.479999542236328px;">That left them with but one additional commander to harass the enemy, and that was a commander he would rather not throw into the fray yet. As he sat back down, Erundo looked back toward the battle where the gulls had been dispatched to. Several of the birds descended with their messages toward Terras' line, but he could not see if they found her or a subordinate. They would need to be swift in their retreat and, from the sight of it, the Horde was still struggling to answer the problem they presented.

<span style="color:rgb(179,179,179);font-family:Georgia;font-size:13px;line-height:18.479999542236328px;">Erundo's attention returned to Baatos and his men as they approached the tank line. The escort for the tanks was what appeared to be some of Garrosh Hellscream's finest soldiers; crack troopers that did well to emphasize the might with which they rode by smiting their wolves on the flank and sending them like black streaks of fury into Baatos' approaching army. He could not hear that clash over the din of the approaching tanks, but he could certainly see it.

<span style="color:rgb(179,179,179);font-family:Georgia;font-size:13px;line-height:18.479999542236328px;">It was a legacy of rage unleashed in a moment. Alliance against Horde; orc against Draenei. The savagery with which his commander fought was a disturbing one to witness, and yet he knew that without it both Baatos and his spire would have fallen long ago. Riding from his right, an orc skirmisher attempted to cleave through Baatos' armor, but his spiked shield not only answered the strike, but as he swatted outward sent the orc and his wolf rolling off to the side.

<span style="color:rgb(179,179,179);font-family:Georgia;font-size:13px;line-height:18.479999542236328px;">Then came two challengers; each nearly as large as his commander. The first revealed his chest to be the perfect holster for Baatos' axe, while the second received a kick so forceful that Erundo believed he could hear the bones in his chest shattering as he fell backward. He may not have heard it, but he knew that Baatos was roaring. That he was salivating with bloodlust as the battle grew all the more severe.

<span style="color:rgb(179,179,179);font-family:Georgia;font-size:13px;line-height:18.479999542236328px;">But he was only a man, and they were many. Defending against two was a talent; defending against three a miracle. Erundo watched as his commander twisted and turned, claiming what lives he could, but inevitably being forced to surrender ground. A blood elf attempted to leap upon his back, but he whirled about and caught it by the neck with a massive hand. Without hesitation he slammed it down with enough force to send it to the ground, to Hell, if it so pleased the giant as he fought. A hit caught him on the leg, then. He staggered but did not fall. Like the Spire he struggled to remain standing.

<span style="color:rgb(179,179,179);font-family:Georgia;font-size:13px;line-height:18.479999542236328px;">Like the Spire he would fall without assistance.

<span style="color:rgb(179,179,179);font-family:Georgia;font-size:13px;line-height:18.479999542236328px;">Erundo again looked towardTerras' line. The gulls had delivered their message and it appeared that she was withdrawing her forces in as orderly a fashion as a battle field could allow. The orcs and their allies, despite being well tended to, perceived the withdrawal as a retreat and like any dumb savages gave pursuit readily.Terras was of course able to hold against them, but it would take them more time to reach the Spire, more time to save him and his reputation.

<span style="color:rgb(179,179,179);font-family:Georgia;font-size:13px;line-height:18.479999542236328px;">"There is another," Sir Eshkandar said. As with everything that left the glacial giant there was little reason to explain it further; Erundo understood what he meant and who he meant. He shook his head.

<span style="color:rgb(179,179,179);font-family:Georgia;font-size:13px;line-height:18.479999542236328px;">"She is not yet recovered." <span style="color:rgb(179,179,179);font-family:Georgia;font-size:13px;line-height:18.479999542236328px;">"She will not recover if death finds her." <span style="color:rgb(179,179,179);font-family:Georgia;font-size:13px;line-height:18.479999542236328px;">"All the more reason to wait." <span style="color:rgb(179,179,179);font-family:Georgia;font-size:13px;line-height:18.479999542236328px;">"If you fear the loss of a soldier, then perhaps it is time you replaced yourself."

<span style="color:rgb(179,179,179);font-family:Georgia;font-size:13px;line-height:18.479999542236328px;">They were harsh words delivered with indifference. The unity between the Brotherhood of the Flame and the Light"s Blade was essential for the West Spire to remain standing and yet Sir Eshkandar's statement brooked little regard for it. Did the Grand Crusader believe his title exempted him from the Lieutenant Commander's jurisdiction? To that point he had served him silently, but now...

<span style="color:rgb(179,179,179);font-family:Georgia;font-size:13px;line-height:18.479999542236328px;">He was right. He knew, deep down inside, that the goliath was correct. But to throw away a life simply to buy more time? It would not at all be like sending Baatos into the fray, for Baatos was born to die. The one that they would be calling in was not only weakened, but recently redeemed. He would wait forTerras. He had to wait for his exarch before acting.

<span style="color:rgb(179,179,179);font-family:Georgia;font-size:13px;line-height:18.479999542236328px;">If good news arrived on a wind, then it was bad news that came as a storm. Baatos' unit was in retreat, bloodied and beaten and as he looked to Terras' army he found that the orcs had outflanked them and pinned them inside. His heart nearly shattered at the sight of the orcish guard ensnaring his exarch in what should have been a fairly obvious trap.

<span style="color:rgb(179,179,179);font-family:Georgia;font-size:13px;line-height:18.479999542236328px;">Why would the Light lift him to such heights only to cast him down? Why would it grant him a commission only to see it lost? WithoutTerras the day could not be won. All that remained was to determine the best way they should surrender to their fate. What more could they do? What could possibly...

<span style="color:rgb(179,179,179);font-family:Georgia;font-size:13px;line-height:18.479999542236328px;">Sir Eshkandar's hand fell upon his shoulder. "Call her," he commanded.

<span style="color:rgb(179,179,179);font-family:Georgia;font-size:13px;line-height:18.479999542236328px;">As always, Erundo"s salvation would come at the hand of another. He nodded and closed his eyes, embracing the elements and immersing himself within their glory. Now was the time to redeem himself. Now was the time to call upon her. <span style="color:rgb(179,179,179);font-family:Georgia;font-size:13px;line-height:18.479999542236328px;">Upon the western most of the West Spire's hills, Hetaera sat in silent meditation. Though some found it easier to commune with the spirits during times of peace, it was war that filled her and fed the flames she had for so long known. Broken ribs and bruised skin mended well within the fire and she allowed those ailments to fall away from her mind.

<span style="color:rgb(179,179,179);font-family:Georgia;font-size:13px;line-height:18.479999542236328px;">She remembered what it was to be weak; to be without power or a voice. The orcs had taken from her more than she would ever be able to regain, but the Sha'nash awakened within her a life that she felt was long gone. No longer did she float through life as though a leaf caught within a powerful breeze; she had become that breeze, and through injury and suffering she had only grown stronger. A muscle did not improve unless it was torn down and built again.

<span style="color:rgb(179,179,179);font-family:Georgia;font-size:13px;line-height:18.479999542236328px;">The soul was no different, and no soul had fallen further than her own.

<span style="color:rgb(179,179,179);font-family:Georgia;font-size:13px;line-height:18.479999542236328px;">The sound of thunder in the distance masked battle, but reminded her of the raw power of the elements. Those peals continued endlessly, lightning flashing and rain descending to soak through her ringmail and soothe the many injuries she had incurred over the course of her fighting. It would have been prudent to remain in Shattrath and continue her convalescence, but she could not do that. Were it not for the pleading of the exarch, she would have followed her into battle at Ironclad Garrison.

<span style="color:rgb(179,179,179);font-family:Georgia;font-size:13px;line-height:18.479999542236328px;">Now, she sat as an oasis of tranquility within a storm.

<span style="color:rgb(179,179,179);font-family:Georgia;font-size:13px;line-height:18.479999542236328px;">The passing of a wind shifted her alabaster tresses aside, the angelic nature of her visage highlighted by the continual breaking of lightning against the dark sky. At the center of chaos was always order; she represented that order. She had become the storm and would"

<span style="color:rgb(179,179,179);font-family:Georgia;font-size:13px;line-height:18.479999542236328px;">"Magebreaker," Erundo's voice said within her ear. Hearing him may have broken her connection to the storm about her, but not the link that their spirits had created to one another. "This spirit link will not last overly long."

<span style="color:rgb(179,179,179);font-family:Georgia;font-size:13px;line-height:18.479999542236328px;">Her eyes opened, a halogenic glow of pearlescent beauty: raw, untapped power. "Go ahead, Loremaster." She spoke with hibernal eloquence; chilled, wintry perfection in every syllable.

<span style="color:rgb(179,179,179);font-family:Georgia;font-size:13px;line-height:18.479999542236328px;">"The Horde approaches now in large number. Baatos the Brute was dispatched but could slow only one of them, but reports show that there are at the very least six in their total number."

<span style="color:rgb(179,179,179);font-family:Georgia;font-size:13px;line-height:18.479999542236328px;">Even if the loremaster did not say the final part, Hetaera would have known it. Erundo did well to mask his fear with his tone, but during their spirit link she could feel him as much as hear him, and there was no lack of apprehension that was within her leader's chest then. She had several times heard him being called the Standard, and whether or not it was true it made little difference. This time he needed her to carry him.

<span style="color:rgb(179,179,179);font-family:Georgia;font-size:13px;line-height:18.479999542236328px;">"Exarch Terras has been surrounded. We do not know how long it will take for her to break their ensnarement, but I am certain it will be too late to rescue the Spire. The fate of west is in your hands now, Magebreaker."

<span style="color:rgb(179,179,179);font-family:Georgia;font-size:13px;line-height:18.479999542236328px;">She would not falter.

<span style="color:rgb(179,179,179);font-family:Georgia;font-size:13px;line-height:18.479999542236328px;">Rising from the ground took more effort than it once had, but she could not allow injuries to slow her now. As she came to her full height Hetaera looked in the direction of Terras' besieged forces and then toward the approaching tank line. Her heart told her to go in one direction, her mind in another. Duty, she told herself.

<span style="color:rgb(179,179,179);font-family:Georgia;font-size:13px;line-height:18.479999542236328px;">"She will outlast them, Magebreaker." As easily as she could feel him, so too could he feel her. Hetaera nodded despite the fact he could not see her. "We need you. I need you. You are our last hope."

<span style="color:rgb(179,179,179);font-family:Georgia;font-size:13px;line-height:18.479999542236328px;">The force at her command was hardly something to be considered frightening. She was but one woman, trained more by her own hand than that of formal instructors. She was beaten and bruised; her ethereal grace momentarily shattered in the wake of a gruesome defeat, and yet she stood tall as Terrace of Light.

<span style="color:rgb(179,179,179);font-family:Georgia;font-size:13px;line-height:18.479999542236328px;">There were countless lives that hung in the balance, and for them to be weighted to a broken woman may have been a cruel jape on behalf of the Light. She had felt Erundo's fear and knew that it was as much for her as it was for himself. How could one woman stand against the tide of war and survive? The answer was not in who she was, but what she was.

<span style="color:rgb(179,179,179);font-family:Georgia;font-size:13px;line-height:18.479999542236328px;">As she descended from the mountaintop Hetaera brought with her a reality that the Horde would soon have to contend with.

<span style="color:rgb(179,179,179);font-family:Georgia;font-size:13px;line-height:18.479999542236328px;">They had called down the thunder. Now, the whirlwind was theirs to reap.