Die marching
Prologue
Prologue
13th Thoradin, King’s Year 598 – 6 years after the opening of the Dark Portal
The rain had stopped at last. The reek of blood and evil mixed with the scents of sweat and leather and steel. A haze of wood smoke, burnt flesh, and dark magic hung in the midday air, as the dead and the dying were trampled, mutilated, or captured by the advancing orcs.
Courage and valor had been no match for the ferocity and savagery of the Horde. The battle standards of Lordaeron and Stromgarde lay torn and bloodied in the mud just as ingloriously as the men who had carried them into battle.
The Horde surged forward across the Thandol Span which had acted as a choke point and been the Alliance’s one advantage. The looting and pillaging of the Alliance war camp begun in earnest and their march north would halt for a few brief days if the humans were lucky. For soon they would sweep across the Arathi Highlands as they did the lands in the south and it seemed that nothing would be able to stop them.
Those few who had survived had fled the field and of them those who hadn’t the advantage of a horse could still be seen in the distance making their way north. Some were slowed by the injured while others left behind both arms and armor to flee from the coming onslaught more quickly.
Orc raiders were not content to simply allow them to retreat, however. Those on foot were unlikely to be able to outrun their pursuers but that didn’t stop them from trying. Captain Wymorland Reidastiand had had his legs crushed by an ogre and was bleeding from several grievous wounds. His son, a private, had lifted the Captain up in his arms and was struggling to carry him away to safety.
Swords and shields were quickly abandoned, but plate armor took too long to remove and time was of the essence. Unfortunately, this did little to aid Private Reidastiand in his struggle to save his father’s life.
“Damn it, boy! Leave me behind. Think of your sister and your mother. I am already dead, but who will protect them if you die?!”
“No, father, by the Light I swear I will save you! Nothing you say can deter me.”
But despite his valiant words every step was a laboured battle and the two progressed slowly with the orcs following close behind and gaining ground. The final shouts of other survivors close by alerted them to the proximity of the orcs at their heels. Just as the pair reached the top of one of the Highland’s many hills the Captain sighted a group of raiders behind them at the base of the hill only a few hundred yards away descending upon four men who had attempted to carry with them the wounded.
“No, boy, you aren’t going to die just for my damn dead husk. You have to grow up and make the hard decisions in this life! Survive, damn you, survive!”
Before his son could refute him the Captain pushed himself out of his exhausted son’s grasp and the two of them tumbled down the hill’s other side. Private Reidastiand picked himself up as quickly as he could, but it was not nearly fast enough. The Captain drew his dagger from his belt and plunged it into his own throat.
Private Reidastiand was at his father’s side too late. Choking and sputtering blood, the Captain pushed his son away with all his remaining strength and breathed his last breath. Trembling Private Reidastiand set the body on the ground and ran north as fast as he could.
13th Thoradin, King’s Year 598 – 6 years after the opening of the Dark Portal
The rain had stopped at last. The reek of blood and evil mixed with the scents of sweat and leather and steel. A haze of wood smoke, burnt flesh, and dark magic hung in the midday air, as the dead and the dying were trampled, mutilated, or captured by the advancing orcs.
Courage and valor had been no match for the ferocity and savagery of the Horde. The battle standards of Lordaeron and Stromgarde lay torn and bloodied in the mud just as ingloriously as the men who had carried them into battle.
The Horde surged forward across the Thandol Span which had acted as a choke point and been the Alliance’s one advantage. The looting and pillaging of the Alliance war camp begun in earnest and their march north would halt for a few brief days if the humans were lucky. For soon they would sweep across the Arathi Highlands as they did the lands in the south and it seemed that nothing would be able to stop them.
Those few who had survived had fled the field and of them those who hadn’t the advantage of a horse could still be seen in the distance making their way north. Some were slowed by the injured while others left behind both arms and armor to flee from the coming onslaught more quickly.
Orc raiders were not content to simply allow them to retreat, however. Those on foot were unlikely to be able to outrun their pursuers but that didn’t stop them from trying. Captain Wymorland Reidastiand had had his legs crushed by an ogre and was bleeding from several grievous wounds. His son, a private, had lifted the Captain up in his arms and was struggling to carry him away to safety.
Swords and shields were quickly abandoned, but plate armor took too long to remove and time was of the essence. Unfortunately, this did little to aid Private Reidastiand in his struggle to save his father’s life.
“Damn it, boy! Leave me behind. Think of your sister and your mother. I am already dead, but who will protect them if you die?!”
“No, father, by the Light I swear I will save you! Nothing you say can deter me.”
But despite his valiant words every step was a laboured battle and the two progressed slowly with the orcs following close behind and gaining ground. The final shouts of other survivors close by alerted them to the proximity of the orcs at their heels. Just as the pair reached the top of one of the Highland’s many hills the Captain sighted a group of raiders behind them at the base of the hill only a few hundred yards away descending upon four men who had attempted to carry with them the wounded.
“No, boy, you aren’t going to die just for my damn dead husk. You have to grow up and make the hard decisions in this life! Survive, damn you, survive!”
Before his son could refute him the Captain pushed himself out of his exhausted son’s grasp and the two of them tumbled down the hill’s other side. Private Reidastiand picked himself up as quickly as he could, but it was not nearly fast enough. The Captain drew his dagger from his belt and plunged it into his own throat.
Private Reidastiand was at his father’s side too late. Choking and sputtering blood, the Captain pushed his son away with all his remaining strength and breathed his last breath. Trembling Private Reidastiand set the body on the ground and ran north as fast as he could.