Larhan Ironheart, Lord of Hearthglen, had faced many perils in his life. He had fought in both wars against the orcs and had slain more of the beastly creatures that plagued Lordaeron then he could count, but few times had he felt such a fear as he did now. “Are you sure of what you've seen?” he asked the young scout standing before him.

“As much as I may wish it otherwise, m'lord, I am. An army of the dead approaches Hearthglen.” The scout's expression portrayed a thinly veiled terror. His face was pale, his voice shook, and fear danced in his eyes. That he spoke with any semblance of calm at all spoke volumes for his strength of character. “I've never seen the like sir, corpses that walk, that speak, rotting monsters with blood-drenched teeth like nails and claws for hands. It…it's like a nightmare.” He closed his eyes and swallowed a lump in his throat, his body visibly trembling. After taking a moment to recompose himself, he continued, “They're at least fifteen hundred strong, sir. They were too numerous to count, and their forces seemed to be growing, reinforcements coming from all directions. I'm guessing they'll be upon us within two days.”

“Thank you boy, that will be all,” Larhan said. The scout nodded shakily, turned, and walked out of the room. Lord Larhan clasped his fingers together, holding his forefingers against his black-bearded chin as he sat deep in thought. His eyes traced the wood grain of the oaken desk in front of him, as if its twisting design could reveal to him some wisdom he could not see.

He turned towards his most trusted advisor, Salius, an old, thin man clad in claret robes. His appearance was one of a man who had seen much in his life, for he had. He was ninety-six years old, and had spent his life serving three generations of Ironhearts. Yet his somber, pale grey visage betrayed how such an event was beyond even his great experience. Still he knew what needed be done, “My lord, we must evacuate the town. Our militia doesn't have a prayer of deterring a force of that size.”

Lord Larhan sighed deeply. He had lived in Hearthglen for forty-two years, had fallen in love and sired children there. Even with all his travels this town had remained his home, built of the sweat and blood of his great-grandfather generations ago, and he did not take its abandonment lightly. But the lives of his people were of more importance than any settlement could ever be. So with a mournful tone to his voice, he whispered, “Let it be so.”

***

“Aaron you lazy sod, get your ass out of bed.” A familiar voice accompanied a knock on the back of Aaron's head awakening him from his midday nap. Groaning as he rolled out of bed, he made sure to show his gratitude to the speaker by giving him a swift punch to the stomach.

Aaron looked up at the darkly tanned face of a long time friend of his, who was now struggling for air. Between gasps, the man managed something like a smile. “Hah! You barely knocked the wind out of me, you hit like a little girl.”

Aaron, still groggy, managed a reply, “I know a few little girls who could beat your sorry ass, Cain.”

Finally catching his breath, Cain laughed, “Well now's not the time to be discussing your love life. Now get dressed, the captain wants everyone ready in the briefing hall. Sounds like we may finally have something to do today.”

Aaron groaned again, he hated having things to do. “Wonderful, get out of my room.”

“Alright you old prude, I'll see you there.” Aaron laughed at that then, yawning, walked groggily to the small dresser where he kept his clothes. He looked through his few belongings, quickly putting on a simple cotton shirt and plain pair of pants.
After putting on his shoes, he walked out of his room and through the series of hallways that wound throughout the barracks in which he made his home. The hallways were sparsely decorated, built from grey bricks of stone. The only things providing light were torches and the occasional arching windows that let sunlight filter through. But the soldiers who made it their home cared little about the lack of decoration, the barracks was a fortress.

Aaron encountered many soldiers also on their way to the briefing hall, and he greeted many of them, politely or otherwise. On the way Aaron spotted a close friend of his, Adeon, and called out to him.

Adeon turned, his unremarkable features conveying what seemed like a perpetual expression of boredom. He greeted Aaron in turn, waiting a moment for him to catch up.

Aaron smirked at Adeon, “You look cheery as ever.”

The smirk was infectious, a small smile broke across Adeon's face. “It's good to see you,” he said.

Aaron clapped him on the back, and the two walked through the hallways, discussing with each other what could be the cause for the entire Hearthglen militia being called in for a briefing.

Soon they reached the briefing hall. It was made out of the same stone blocks as the rest of the barracks, but was large enough to hold all five hundred fifty some-odd members of militia and more inside it. The hall vaguely resembled that of a cathedral, with rows of benches for the men to sit on and a large semicircular dais at the fore of the room on which the officers stood to address the men. Only torch and candlelight illuminated this room, windows had been impossible as no side of the room touched the outside.

Aaron and Adeon saw Cain beckoning them over, and they sat themselves at his side, bantering back and forth as they waited for the briefing to start. The last of the men filed in, and Corporal Varlom stood up, gesturing to quiet the soldiers.

Corporal Varlom was a short, muscular man whose strength was complimented by a quickness of mind and an uncanny skill with an axe. He had grown up with the Lord Larhan, only two years his junior, and the red-haired officer had led the militia almost as long as Larhan Ironheart had ruled over the town.

When Varlan spoke, all conversation stopped, and his gruff voice boomed forth, “I suppose what's foremost on all of your minds is why you're all here, and I'm not going to keep you in suspense. A vast undead army has been seen approaching Hearthglen.” Varlom let the information sink in, and murmurs of surprise and fear spread throughout the hall.

Varlom then began once more, “Lord Larhan has ordered an evacuation of the town. Messengers are being sent throughout Hearthglen, and we plan to leave the town within the hour. Speed is of the essence here, the scout who sighted this army reported that they are barely a day's march away from us. We plan to travel to nearby Quel'Thalas and request sanctuary from the high elves. After that we can only hope that the elves will be able to repel the invaders.”

He sighed deeply, looking down as if to gather his thoughts. “Our problem is this – the undead never sleep, they require little rest, and as close as they are we have no chance of reaching Quel'Thalas before they overtake us. So, I'm requesting volunteers to make a stand against the undead army in the hills, in order that we might buy time for the rest of the village to escape. Make no mistake – chances of survival are slim to none, so I won't order anyone to do this. You should all carefully consider whether you're willing to make a most grievous sacrifice.”

Aaron sat dumbfounded, this was not as he had expected his day to play out. He looked around, unbelieving, only to see the same shocked expression on both Adeon and Cain's wide-eyed faces.

Cain was the first to speak. “How can this be?” His eyes locked with Aaron's, and the uncharacteristic, deadly seriousness of his voice showed the truth of this terrible reality much quicker than the words themselves, “What can we do?”

Aaron answered, “I don't know.”

For a moment Adeon remained silent, but then his eyes narrowed, and his face took on a look of resolute determination. “What can we do? Can we allow this undead scourge to overrun our families, our townsmen? No, we cannot. I cannot. You may do what you believe is right, but I will fight !” The unassuming man yelled his last three words, stood up, and brought his fist to his chest in a salute.

Inspired, other men followed suit, standing and shouting their willingness to go to battle, Aaron and Cain among them. Only a handful of those gathered left out of fear. Nearly all stood with their fists to their chests, ready to fight, ready to die. Corporal Varlom gave one command, “Those of you who remain here, outfit yourselves quickly, soon we'll be off. May the Holy Light protect you all.” With a final nod of approval towards the brave men who remained, he turned and walked off the platform, taking the time to shake the hands of many of the soldiers. His smile illustrated a rush of pride for his men, but his eyes betrayed a profound sadness.

***

“By the Light, there must be thousands of them,” Cain whispered, a mixture of awe and horror in his voice.

“The Light has nothing to do with this monstrosity,” Adeon replied, his voice cold.

Aaron could think of nothing to say, gazing upon the mass of undead bodies advancing towards the human lines. His mind was dominated by thoughts of everything he'd hoped to accomplish in his life, and how he knew with a terrifying certainty that none of it would ever come to pass. He would die. There was nothing he could do to change that, but perhaps his loved ones would live on.

Time passed, the wind shifted, and a breeze gently brushed through the human lines, bringing with it the stench of rotting flesh and decay. Many of the soldiers began to retch; Aaron himself vomited onto the ground in front of him. As his stomach heaves subsided, he wiped a gauntleted hand over his mouth, disgusted at his own weakness. It was a moment before he felt the touch of a hand on his armored shoulder.

Looking up, Aaron saw a tall, broad-shouldered man looking down at him with a sad smile on his grey-bearded face. “We all feel fear grasping at our hearts my boy. Do not be ashamed,” the man said, as if he knew what Aaron had been thinking. Aaron nodded his gratitude to the soldier, and the man's sorrowful gaze drifted back towards the encroaching scourge.

Minutes went by, and the distant sound of thousands of feet shuffling over earth began to pound the soldiers' ears. The whispers of fear were silenced, as all the men became as one in their silent dread. The failing light of dusk poured down from a burning sky of yellow, orange, and red, illuminating the harbingers of death.

They closed in, and Aaron shut his eyes for a moment, praying to the Holy Light that it would deliver him this day, but it was to no avail. The creatures reached the bottom of the hill and Aaron could hear their screeching cries of bloodlust and roars of torment. What few archers the militia had let fly their arrows, bringing down too small a number of the horrors to make any difference. Yet, all of a sudden, the undead forces stopped, and their cries quieted as one rode to the forefront upon a nightmarish steed.

The figure's face may once have been handsome, but now was deathly pale, and looked so gaunt it was as if the skin of his face was stretched directly atop of bone. The figure's sunken eyes were surrounded by dark circles, and his shoulder-long hair was as white as bone. Regardless of his sickly appearance, he still looked to be among the living, but despite that fact, the undead revered him.

He was clad in fearsome armor of steel, forged so that it looked as if he was clad in bone. Wicked skulls graced his shoulders, forearms and waist, and spikes jutting from pitch-black gauntlets stained red with blood. He lifted up a gleaming sword that looked as if it had burst from hell itself, its crosspiece shaped into two skulls, one of a sharp-horned ram and another with burning green eyes that made one wonder if the blade was as alive as the man. Then the death knight brought the blade down, and the undead forces charged.

The ground shook from what seemed a million footfalls, trembling as if the earth itself was struck with fear at this unholy battalion. Aaron gripped his sword and shield in a death grip, his hands slick with a cold sweat. He and the terrified soldiers around him were clad in the gleaming blue-tinged steel plate mail standard to swordsmen of the Alliance , the connecting segments of the armor outlined in bronze. They should have been a glorious sight to see, but against the horror of the undead they were as nothing. The men brought up their shields and readied their weapons, some praying for salvation, others weeping quietly with despair, Aaron amongst the small few silently accepting their fate.

The first of the undead to reach the lines were ghoulish creatures, shaped vaguely like men but with hellish red eyes that possessed not a trace of humanity. Like corpses they appeared, their skin half rotted away, revealing bones and muscles and innards dominated by an oversized, pulsing stomach. Their too-wide maw showcased sets of terrible needle-like teeth. Spittle flew from their open mouths and flapping tongues as they bounded forward on bloodstained claws, their inhuman cries tearing through the air.

They leaped upon the first of the footmen, their claws tearing off armor and their teeth biting through flesh and bone. The soldiers countered, swords slashing through the ghoulish creature's frightening, but decayed and fragile hides, shields and maces cracking bones and crushing skulls. Each man was a match for three or four of the ghouls, but it seemed like there were a dozen of the beasts for every man. Far outnumbered, the men were quickly pushed back, more and more of them falling beneath an endless tide of ghouls.

One of the creatures leaped at Aaron, its teeth glistening red with the blood of a fresh kill. Aaron thrust his sword through the creature's skull, impaling the creature upon his blade. Still, the soulless beast struggled towards him, its clawed hands reaching for his throat. Aaron kicked the beast off his sword, slashing off the top half of its head as it hit the ground. Turning away from the now limp creature, Aaron fell back as another one leaped upon his shield, a spray of rancid saliva spraying through his Y-shaped visor onto his face. Nearly panicking, he turned, smashing the shield against the ground, crushing the ghoul with a sickening crack.

He looked up and for a moment was frozen with horror as he saw the limp corpse of Cain, his helmet lost somewhere on the battlefield, being devoured by one of the ghouls. The creature's teeth tore into the fallen warrior's body, ripping off chunks of flesh to feed its endless hunger. Roaring with anguish, Aaron ran forth and with a blow powered by despair, pierced the creature through its side, lifting it up upon his blade and casting it away. As anguish wracked his mind, Aaron was lost within himself, his mourning interrupted by an impact from behind him that bashed him to the ground. He tried to turn but felt claws pierce through his armor and cut into his flesh.

Aaron's agonized scream mixed with the ghoul's cry of triumph, until its screech was abruptly silenced and its severed head dropped into Aaron's view. As he shook with lingering shock and pain, he felt strong hands help him to his feet, and he looked back to see who had saved him from death. Again he saw the grey-bearded face of the man who had spoken to him before. The man's face was now flecked with blood, his own and others', and the kindly, sad expression on his face was gone, replaced by one of grim determination.

There was no time for gratitude, as both men retreated back to the much-thinned lines of the Hearthglen militia, sparing but a moment to gaze at the utter carnage surrounding them.

Corpses, both of men and monsters, littered the battlefield. Most of the ghouls in the first wave had been slain, but along with them were three quarters of the soldiers. As Aaron and his savior rejoined the lines, they saw the second wave advancing behind the first. As numerous as the first wave had seemed, the second dwarfed it. There were three times as many ghouls, and escorting them were the most monstrous abominations Aaron had ever seen.

The abominations looked as if they had been sewn together from a dozen different corpses, a single head stood at twice the height of a man, topping an enormously corpulent body covered in blood and stitching. The beasts had too many arms: four, sometimes five, each hand wielding a sickle, butcher knife or some other wicked instrument of death. Many of the creatures seemed to be tearing apart at the seams, their torsos trailing huge piles of intestines, or blood and muscle from a tear in an arm or leg.

When the second wave reached the lines, the battle began once more. Although the men fought valiantly, they were too few and too fatigued to last against the onslaught. Aaron and the grey-bearded man fought back to back, slaying any ghoul that came close.

One abomination had run out things to kill, the pile of cooling bodies around it no longer provided for its amusement. Single-mindedly obeying its purpose to destroy, it searched the battlefield for more lives to extinguish, and saw two. Aaron and his companion had caught the abomination's attention, and with butchery on its mind, it lumbered forth, its three remaining arms bringing to bear a variety of sadistic weaponry.

The monstrous creature plunged a hook downward towards the closer of the two, spearing it and holding it in the air to hear it squeal. Quickly growing bored again, it threw its victim into a pack of ghouls, who tore into the corpse with frenzy.

Aaron felt the sudden loss of the bearded man's presence, and turned to find him being murdered by the beast. Roaring with horrified anger, Aaron sprinted towards it, plunging his blade again and again into the abomination's writhing mass of guts. He ducked under the slice of a butcher knife and cut a gash in the abomination's flesh, causing a mass of crimson fluid and organs to fall upon him.

The abomination swung his arms at the irritating morsel, growing frustrated as hook, mace and butcher knife failed to strike it. The man's sword, small to the abomination's eyes, was nonetheless painful, and in fact the abomination felt itself beginning to die. Then the man cut deep into the monster's leg, and the abomination found that it could no longer remain standing, crashing back upon the ground. The man leaped upon the abomination's chest and plunged his sword again and again into its body. Even as it died, the monster desired just to kill, if only one more time, and so with the last bit of its strength, its swung its mace, hitting the man in the chest. The abomination smiled a hideous, malformed smile, and died.

The thing's final blow crushed Aaron's breastplate into his chest, his own protection crushing his lungs and breaking his body as he fell back on the bloodied battlefield. He tried to move, but his body would not respond. All he could do was gasp for as air as his life faded away. Slowly dying, Aaron watched as the undead finished off the rest of the militia, until only Lord Larhan, the greatest warrior Aaron had ever met, still fought on. Riding on a magnificent, armored white steed, he tore into both abomination and ghoul with deadly abandon, his mighty broadsword and lance bringing death to all they touched.

All at once the undead forces surrounding him suddenly pulled back – not out of fear, for they knew no such thing, but rather by order of the death knight leading them. He rode forth on a black steed with eyes and hooves of fire, his only weapon his hell-spawned, blood-dripping sword. Larhan glared at him, anger mixing with shock, and a sudden, terrible recognition of the death knight's face.

The death knight, a predatory grin on his face, charged. His horse galloped forth, but as Larhan prepared to parry a sword strike the death knight surprised him, leaping off his mount and knocking Larhan to the ground. Larhan's terrified horse, suddenly without a rider to steady him, galloped off.

Larhan shoved the death knight off him, swiftly rolling to his right as a sword pierced the ground where his head had been a moment ago. He got to his feet, but the dark warrior would not give him a moment to recover, swinging his cursed blade in a wide arc towards Larhan's chest. As he brought his blade up to parry, Larhan underestimated the unholy power of the blade and its wielder. The strike knocked Larhan's sword away into a cadre of ghouls who quickly surrounded it, making recovery of the blade impossible.

With a grim expression on his bloodied face, Larhan tore a dagger from his belt and lunged forward. His attack was so swift the death knight only had a moment to react, turning so that the dagger plunged into his shoulder instead of his throat. Striking between the plates of armor, the dagger pierced through the underlying chain mail and into flesh.

The death knight offered nothing more than a growl of irritation, cracking the pommel of his sword against the back of Larhan's skull. Then, taking advantage of Larhan's disorientation, the death knight kicked Larhan's legs out from under him. Holding the Lord of Hearthglen down with an armored boot, the death knight drove his sword through Larhan's forearm and into the earth., pinning him to the ground.

Not far away, Aaron awaited death. He watched the scene play out with tears in his eyes, unable to help himself or his lord. Larhan, grunting with pain, strained vainly to free himself, but the dark warrior's enchanted blade held fast. Finally giving up, he turned a fiery gaze of hatred upon the death knight. “Prince Arthas you traitorous son of a bitch! The king will see you hang for this betrayal!”

Arthas, death knight of the lich king and heir to the throne of Lordaeron, grinned at the threat. He pulled the dagger from his shoulder in one swift motion, without as much as a wince of pain. He spoke a short incantation, and a green glow appeared underneath his armored shoulder. After a moment he moved his arm experimentally, moving it in a circle with ease. Satisfied with his healing, he looked back to turn his malicious gaze upon his defeated enemy. He spoke, his voice deep and terrible, but with a mockingly pleasant tone, “Will he now? I'm afraid your information is lacking, knight.”

His fingers traced a pattern in the air and a cloud of green-black energy charged the air around his hand. Larhan's defiance never wavered, and Aaron strained past his fading consciousness to hear the death knight's final words. “Tragically, my father was killed some time ago.”

Larhan gasped, and a wide, vicious grin spread across Arthas's face as he continued. “Now, I am king of Lordaeron.”

Arthas's fist sprung open, and the green-black energy blasted forward, a sickly jade skull trailed by a smoky green-black coil of force. The death coil impacted upon Lord Larhan's chest, and he let loose a shrill scream of anguish as the energy tore him apart.

Then there was nothing.

***

The battered refugees of Hearthglen marched onwards towards the high elven city of Quel'Thalas , cold, hungry and exhausted. Since the fog had dropped they were unsure if they were even headed in the right direction anymore, but with their best trackers leading the way they trudged across the muddy earth.

Spirits were low, despair was the almost universal feeling as mothers, wives, and sisters, grieved for their many lost sons, husbands, and brothers, while the few men left did their best to comfort them. The people pressed on, in part because of the scrap of hope that they still clung too, and in part to honor the memory of the soldiers who had sacrificed their lives for those of the townspeople.

Trees began to appear amidst the fog. The trees were massively thick and tall, reaching up to disappear into the fog. The distance between the trees grew shorter as they pressed on, until groves of them were seen on either side of the survivors.

Whispers of hope spread throughout the people, when a voice from the trees called out to them, “Humans! Why do you tread upon elven lands?”

Salius, advisor to the former lord of Hearthglen, bowed low and said, “We are refugees from the village of Hearthglen my lady, we come to your lands seeking sanctuary from the undead scourge that ravaged our home, and may be approaching your lands even now.”

A female elf of great beauty emerged from the trees. Clad in green robes which rapped tightly around her attractive form. Warily wielding a deadly wooden long bow in her hands, she replied, “Yes, our scouts have spoken of this scourge.…” Her voice trailed off as she looked amongst the ragged band of survivors, she slowly dropped her bow, and her wary expression softened to one of sympathy and compassion. She spoke again, “And I can see you all have suffered greatly at its hands. Come, I shall lead you to Quel'thalas.”

As she turned to lead them there she smiled and said, “The city of the elves awaits you.”

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