Good Intentions

[Jim Raynor]

"The dead."

The reanimated abominations swarmed the village, staggering from one place to the next. The huts had decayed; chunks of brick strewn over the ground, rooves dotted with jagged holes. Whether from a fierce last stand or the simple negligence of unwieldy undead, Illidan couldn't say. Any desperate battle lost by the humans would have left no decomposing bodies; indeed, they would have only swelled the enemy's ranks.

The only untouched building in the entire village was the church. Towards the edge of the settlement, against the palisades, the only signs of damage were surely weather and age related; small fissures in the brick, faded and eroded edges, cracked roof tiles.

The undead shambled about at the outer edges of the village but seemed to gradually organise into loose lines, as if they queued for something. Illidan's magic gaze soared over them and to the centre of the village. A number of living corpses dug an incessant hole in the dirt, some using shovels in jerky and rigid manners, others giving up all pretence of using tools and simply clawing away with leathery fingers. As the hole expanded, soil flung through the air, the zombies climbed in, disappearing from sight. Obviously the hole was much deeper than it appeared from Illidan's vantage point.

"Really?" Barland said dryly. "Who would've thought you'd see dead people in there, of all places?"

Illidan shot him a dour look. The lack of respect boiled his blood. "They're digging a hole."

"Digging?" Eyra said, never taking her eyes from the sparks that flew from her sharpening knife. "What could they be digging for?" She stopped scraping the steel over the whetstone and looked up. "Could they be digging up more people? You know, adding to their ranks?"

Falstan shook his head, eyes fixated on the crackling flames. "There's no graveyard within the walls. There'd be no one to find, if that's what they're looking for."

"Tunnels?" Joni ventured. "Maybe they're makin' some underground way to surprise Darkshire."

"You ever hear of undead building anything?" Barland said, spitting.

"Don't be so foolish," Illidan remarked. Something about that bearded simpleton tweaked his nerve. "If your foe exhibits strange behaviour, you damn well make sure you find out what it is."

Falstan looked up from the fire. "So? What does the strange behaviour look like?"

Illidan focused. It was distant and hard to sense, but the strands of necrotic energy were balled tightly together beneath the surface. And yet, the magic waned, pulsing strongly and then fading into mist before regathering its strength.

He cast his gaze away from the hole. Light pockets of undead sorcery littered the conquered town, but a brilliant yellow light shone like a beacon from the church.

"I don't know yet." Illidan hopped down from the wall. Despite the distance, his legs absorbed the shock with relative ease. "But I know how we will find out."

The night elf led the four Darkshire soldiers around the curved town wall. They passed by a watchtower, skeletal scouts surveying the horizon with their cursed eyes, but never looking down. By Falstan's accounts, even if they spotted them, it would likely result in little action.

Illidan hurled himself skyward again, the jump peaking just over the wall's edge, and located the church. Smashing through the wall would provide the quickest and safest route to the building festooned in dark magic. He landed upon the ground again, and a thought crept into his mind.

The five of them together wouldn't prove much stronger than just Illidan himself; after all, he was a great practitioner of magic, both of the arcane and fel varieties. He was also a Prime, and that afforded him greater strength than the majority of the Omniverse's residents, including these four soldiers. Was there any merit in including them on this raid? If the undead army charged for the church, Illidan was reasonably sure he could escape before he was captured, but these four were a different story.

Illidan spun around. All four had their weapons drawn; Falstad, a greatsword; Barland, two sharp bladed axes; Eyra, a pair of long stiletto knives; Joni, a massive warhammer. A formidable band indeed, but against a horde of lumbering undead, Illidan had doubts.

"Let me handle this," the night elf said. "There's little hope for you against the entirety of the undead host in there."

Barland spat. "We didn't come all this way to miss out on the action."

Falstad nodded. "We need to know what's going on in there. If you're providing the means, then we'll go in and we'll get to the bottom of this."

Illidan looked them over again. "So be it." What did he care if they lived or died?

The ex-lord of Outland wrapped on the wooden wall with his knuckles. Thick and sturdy. It would take a blisteringly strong hit to break through to the other side. Illidan could easily bound over it, but his insistent minions needed a fast way in and out of the village in case things got hairy.

"Hand me that warhammer," Illidan said.

Joni looked at it for a moment, face blank, and offered it to the night elf. Illidan's muscles tensed as the warhammer shifted its weight onto his arms. It should be enough.

The sturdy head of the weapon thudded into the ground. Illidan looked to the wall. "This is going to be loud."

Falstan's brow furrowed. "Wait, what are you -"

Illidan swung the warhammer into the palisade with his full force behind it. The wall cracked at the impact point but did not break.

"One more," Illidan said.

"You'll get the attention of the undead, you moron!" Barland said.

"If they're as docile as you've all been saying, they won't come," Illidan said. The warhammer slammed into the wall again, shattering a man sized hole into it. Splinters flew everywhere. He dropped the weapon onto the soil for Joni to reclaim. "Now follow me."

Illidan hopped through the hole and bounded a few steps. Turning around, he saw Falstan duck in with Eyra close behind. He would let them filter in behind him, but they were of little consequence. Illidan was here to prove himself. He would be the one to discover the situation here and resolve it. These puny humans could play warrior if they wanted to, as long as they didn't get in his way.

The destruction of the village was worse up close. The smell of rotting flesh and burning rubble stung his nose. Some bodies lay discarded on the ground, apparently too decayed or broken to be resurrected for their dark plot. Illidan saw one skeleton, skin drooping from his body like curtains, shuffle around a corner, but otherwise there were no other undead. Strange.

His eyes settled on the church, and the necrotic power almost blinded him with its potency, a brilliant yellow flare in his magic sight.

The others had caught up to Illidan. "Wait outside and guard. Call out to me if the undead armies amass on our position."

"You're telling us to wait?!" Barland said, spittle flying from his lips. "You're not the one who calls the shots around here!"

"Barland, settle," Falstan said. His expression didn't agree with his words. "Let him check first. He's a Prime. He's much better suited to whatever he senses in there."

Illidan didn't hear the rest of the conversation. He strode up the stairs and kicked open the double doors, detaching one that spun crazily over the floor.

Inside, candles lined the length of the church, shadows flickering in tune with the flames. The pews were either missing or destroyed, some bent in the middle, others just a pile of splinters. At the far end, on the dais, stood a cloaked figure, hunched over the pulpit. A book opened before him, he chanted in a low voice. Illidan didn't recognise the language. Beside him, a terrified woman clutched her legs inside a metal cage, hair unkempt, dirt staining her cheeks.

The cloaked figure looked up from his tome as the door clattered to the ground, but it was Illidan who spoke first.

"You insufferable coward."