Reunification-5 (Patreon)

Tommen put a hand over his eyes, shielding them from the sun, as he leaned on his shepherd’s crook. Hard to tell if he were seeing things in the endless green hills that went out west – he'd almost thought somebody were comin' down, but Old Jon's wagon got hit by bandits out of Alterac a couple weeks back. Not that he were sorry about that; couldn't have happened to a better guy.

Old Jon made way too much of a killing taking Azurelode's load and carrying it to Gilneas, then bringing back steel to sell 'em at four times the price. Then Verringtan always bitched about it when stocking his forge and that always lead to Tommen's Pa bitching about buying new shears for the sheep when they wore out.

"Nah, probably just a bear." He shrugged, brushing off his faint desire to abandon the sheep and leg it. "Stanley! Call! Call!" He whistled and his dog got up, charging after the sheep to bring them back.

If there was a bear he'd have to keep 'em close. It weren't like it'd be anything more interesting; bandits, big spiders, couple gnolls, and some wary old bears were all that showed up in Hillsbrad. Well, since the orcs hit Southshore over winter...

Not that his Pa believed those stories. If they'd really been hit by orcs and had their food stolen, how'd they manage to not starve over winter? Nobody believed that story about a girl who grew a harvest in the middle of winter.

"Hey! Hey!" He waved his crook as he followed the flock, corralling a few Stanley missed and keeping them together.

Off in the distance he caught sight of the grey again. Definitely –

Definitely not a bear. Bears didn't flap in the wind, or come in dozens. Were those flags? Grey flags? Lordaeron's were blue, he saw it above the mayor's hall every week when he went into town... got a big L on it for Lordaeron and everything.

But grey? For Gilneas? The Gilneans were coming? Old Jon had gotten past their wall over spring... "Oh crap." He dropped his crook. "Stanley! Home! Home!"

With nary a glance at his startled and confused sheepdog, Tommen started legging it home. Lordaeron were in a bad way, they ain't come back at all since the Prince came back from the north. Not a peep or sword or soldier or nothing an' now the Gilneans were comin'!

He didn't stop running until he were all the way home, screaming at his Pa that the Gilneans were comin' outa the west an' their wall to conquer 'em like they tried in Councilman Gillis' lessons!

-oOoOo-

"Let me get this straight." Morgan said flatly, staring over the latest batch of plans he'd been given to give the bloody royal messenger a good gimlet eye. "Two weeks ago, you show up, say that Genn Bloody Greymane's order to get rid of the entire fleet is gone, and that we've gotta rush build a ship meant for lordly types on some fancy diplomatic mission." As if that weren't crazy enough, good ships didn't grow on trees. No matter how helpful those witch types were. "An' now you've gone and changed the plans to include some ruddy dwarven contraption?!"

The pair of guards standing behind the royal fop of a bureaucrat at least had the good sense to look sheepish. But that was to be expected, they were good Crowley men – no one in Keel had a bad thing to say about Crowley.

Far too many of 'em only still had any livelihood at all 'cause he bought up most of the fleet for that expedition of his. Fucker of a king wanted the lot scuttled like a big fat crook.

"It is of gnomish design, not dwarven, my good shipwright." The fop corrected pedantically, not even a hint of understanding in his voice at all. "Sea Lord Candren has overseen the alterations of the plans and approved them, as well as witnessing a demonstration provided by Miss Tindersnap as to the design's efficacy on a small scale."

Morgan snorted, though internally he was somewhat mollified. Ol' Candren knew his way around ships – unlike his feckless traitor of a brother. "No good saying that he's seen it if the people who've gotta build it ain't." He grumbled, but started to look over the plans properly.

Was going to have a hell of a time to convince the lads to deal with this; rush builds paid well but nobody liked working with new stuff when going fast.

The witches and their magic were bad enough. Having a pair of 'em around all the time worried some folks, even if most of the time it was good lady Celestine and her kid. Morgan knew that they helped – be a bleedin' idgit if he didn't, wood was like iron after they went at it for a week – but the lads, like all good sailors, were superstitious folks and didn't want to accidentally piss off a witch.

"This stupid propeller thing really work?" Morgan muttered, frowning over the design. Being able to sail without any bleedin' sail... it'd be a feather in their caps compared to the islanders. If it worked. "Heard of screws that move water up, or big backwards waterwheels... but this thing ain't even a full circle."

Adjusting his spectacles, the fop smiled snootily; pompous ass from the capital that he was. "A demonstration can be prepared. It remains on display in the capital for the moment, but a barge can be prepared to bring it downriver."

Morgan looked back up at the fop, stared the ignorant man in the eye for a moment, and sighed. "Please tell me he's not in charge of transport, boys." He directed at the guards behind the fop.

It took a moment to realise he was addressing them, but then one nodded. "Just in charge of delivering papers, sir."

"Thank the Light." Morgan shook his head as the fop squawked out a protest. "A barge in the bite? You want to see your little prototype at the bottom of the sea? I'll get George to send up a skiff. Pick up Lord Candren too; figure he'll have some ideas if he's here in person."

Not that he didn't have his own already. Putting the 'engine' in the back made the big metal shaft shorter but it was stupid; they had to handle the weight better, so in the middle it went. Didn't need any fancy enchantment to handle the shaft leaving the ship either, just a good 'ol stuffing box would do. Couldn't fail if someone went and poked the wrong scribble either.

Could probably even take some of that spinning power, if it really worked, and hook it into the anchor hoists... or maybe the bilge pumps. Save some work on the sailors when it was going.

Morgan quickly put the self-important fop out of his mind, ignoring his demands for attention, and got to work making his own notes on the plans. Probably build two ships, one normal and one fancy, and test them against one another. Best keep the same design... Yeah, Ol' Candren'd go for that. Needed the fleet back anyway.

-oOoOo-

"Found another one." Sheila growled lowly, forcing herself to breathe through her mouth to avoid the smell in front of her. The urge to sniff, to indulge in the scent of carnage was... strong. To rip and bite and feast. But she was better than that, no matter the slumbering anger that lurked in her mind.

Instead, she blocked the clumsy swing of the undead man, her sword bisecting the zombie from head to two in a single strike. Her strength was far too much for the groaning corpse to handle.

She could have torn it apart with her bare hands.

Shoving that thought aside, Sheila wiped down her sword and stomped on the still-straining zombie's limbs with her boot. It wasn't just the carnage, she'd been around blood for the archmage's tests... something was in the air and making the anger in her heart pulse and growl more than normal.

"Poor bastards didn't make it into the keep." Captain Jameson snapped as he looked into the hovel she'd been searching, his yellow eyes glinting in the low light above his sharp muzzle. "Should've tried harder to run." There was something feral, exciting, about the way he bared his fangs at the word. Then he pulled back and cursed. "Damnit. Bring the body out, we'll burn it with the rest. Get a priest out here for their rights come morning."

"Aye, Captain." Sheila growled back, snatching up the pieces. At least it wasn't just her feeling things; the whole of the merry band Silverlaine had sent out felt off.

Not that anyone who wasn't cursed would feel right here. Pyrewood was a ruin. Shattered windows stained with blood, broken barricades showing a doomed last stand, mangled corpses left half eaten, the occasional zombie lingering in some hidden crevice to ambush anyone who entered... and that was all there was.

Soon there'd be a pyre to burn the lot, see 'em put to proper rest. But compared to what had once been the town north of the wall? Under the watchful eye of the biggest castle for dozens of leagues? Fuck all was left.

Clearing the place out was miserable work and it'd only get worse when they went further afield. But better them than anyone else, even if Sheila'd rather have her squad with her. If the bloody Scourge had any plague shit lying around she wouldn't get turned. Not like–

The bark of a rifle set her ears lying flat against her head and acrid smoke filled her nostrils. "Eyes up, got company!" Lord Barnsbury bellowed as the sound faded. "Bunch of feral blighters!"

Dropping the body pieces she was carrying Sheila yanked out her sword and pistol once more. Ferals, lanky and hunched over, the same worgen that bit her – mindless, feral, brutal, savage. She'd even believe it if there wasn't a glint of intelligence in the eyes of the biggest one, staring down at them from the rooftops.

"New pack. Don't recognise." He growled, fangs glinting in the moonlight as he rose to full height for a moment. "Clever, wonder how you keep yourselves. Too many... weak. Lose selves."

His voice was filled with the same anger that Sheila forced down at every moment, and it was waking hers up. Her nostrils flared as she inhaled – pack leader – and the anger surged. Growling and thrashing under her skin.

At his waist was proof of his power. Skulls of abominations, gargoyles, even demons; polished bone white, picked clean of meat, all to show he was strong. That he was mighty and worthy of leading. She wanted to prove herself, show she was worthy too, join him, take his side... her eyes lingered on the ones next to him, that she would have to– to–

To–

Sheila growled, her hand tightening around the hilt of her sword until the leather creaked.

"Too few." He sniffed loudly and dropped to the ground, arms spread wide with a feral grin on his face. "Join Shadowfang, join pack, join Nandos. Take castle – our lair."

Raising her pistol, Sheila took aim. "Fuck. You." She snarled and shot that smug grin right off his face.

Fucker barely blinked as the bullet chipped his tooth and left a bloody graze along his muzzle, merely turning to look at her with fury in his eyes. "Kill her and reward you."

"Frankly," Lord Barnsbury started in the somehow still refined growl of his, "the good lass has the right of it. Bugger off, you flee bitten mongrels, or we'll rip you limb from limb!" His rifle spat fire again, and before the smoke cleared he was charging forward – rifle thrown aside and dagger and sword. "For the honour of Gilneas! Cut them down!"

"You heard him! Kill 'em all, lads!" Captain Jameson howled, hefting the fucking ballista he called a crossbow and sniping one of the mutts off the rooftop.

Sheila rushed after Barnsbury as things quickly descended into a scrum. All around her the section was fighting, dozens of ferals leaping out of dark spots where they'd been hiding.

Too sodding clever. All 'cause of one fucker at their head.

Nandos' claws lashed out at her as she got close, leaving a bloody rent in her nose but giving Barnsbury a chance to shank him with a dagger.

Weren't enough, bastard kicked him back and gained ground.

Dark shadows coalesced in the feral leader's hands and he howled, claws dripping with blood. From where the blood hit the ground bleak shades sprang forth – wolves.

A goddamn mockery of a wolf. The first pounced at Sheila and she knocked it over her shoulder with a trick Jerry once showed her, then the next crashed into her chest before she was ready and sent her rolling.

She shoved a hand in its mouth to stop it biting her face off, kicking and scrabbling as its paws tried to dig into her cuirass.

The first came back, biting down on her leg and through the light padding. Her anger surged and, in a moment of weakness, she let it.

Her head snapped forward, fangs gripping the shadow wolf by the throat, and she bit.

There was no meat, no flesh, no crunch. Just shadows that faded and washed away as the mockery dispersed. Snarling in fury she lunged at the next, weapons discarded, and tore it open.

Again she was disappointed and turned to Pack Leader for direction – Captain Jameson – he was fighting the Shadow Pack. Enemies. She should – pistol – snatching up the fire stick she reloaded it and spat the lead at Pack Leader's foe.

Barely hurt it. Would be days before it died. But Leader was good, took the chance and killed. With long-fang.

Sword. Her own long-fang – sword! – lay discarded. Weapons made her stronger, better, and fellow pack was fighting.

Barnsbury was still fighting, losing, against the enemy pack – Nandos – and she needed to help him.

Sheila grabbed her sword and rejoined the fray, taking the monster of a feral from behind and cutting his tendons with a low blow as he grappled and bit down on Barnsbury's shoulder.

She didn't stop there, slicing up his leg and splitting open his thigh. Right into the fucker's groin.

His whimper made her bare her fangs in delight. "Get off my friend." Might be a nob, might be a royalist, but he was her Light-be-damned pack now. "Now."

"Kill you!" Nandos snarled, slashing out at her in feral fury.

But Barnsbury wasn't done yet, he held the fucker in place for her as she put her sword to his neck.

"Last chance." The archmage'd give them a prize for getting one of the old worgen, right? A pack leader? Even had magic of its own.

"Just kill the bastard, girl." Barnsbury spat blood. "He's bloody strong!"

Whatever control Nandos had was clearly gone and he wouldn't surrender. With disappointment – nothing like biting into fake meat when it should be real – she ended him. Maybe the archmage could've figured out the curse fully... but it wasn't worth risking anything.

As he fell still Sheila felt the urge to howl, and let herself do so. Each of her companions, her section, her pack followed suit.

And with that howl of victory and triumph the enemies, which still outnumbered them, began to flee. Only a few remained behind – and one voice, atop a roof, that had joined in her howl looking down on them.

"Get rope!" Captain Jameson roared out an order. "Tie them down! The archmage'll want them."

Sheila snorted at the idea that she wasn't the only one who'd gone down that line of thought, but her eyes were locked with the worgen on the rooftop. Crimson red, like still-running blood, but not hateful. Angry but not furious. Watching, waiting... and then the worgen was gone, leaping away into the woods without once joining the fight.

"Ronald, get to the keep and bring down healers. 'Livia won't make it if we move her." Pack Leader – Captain Jameson kept barking orders, and the pack obeyed. "Sheila! You're the least injured, stop staring at the darkness and start patrolling; keep any of the ferals away so the healers can work."

Startled out of her observation of the departing worgen, Sheila turned and saluted. "On it, Captain!" She growled.

She didn't see any more of the red-eyed not-feral that night, nor any actual ferals, but there were a few zombies that crawled out from the commotion.

It was a good night. They'd proven they were better than Nandos' pack, shown they were useful, that the curse wasn't weakness... and even if she'd slipped she was still in control. The growling anger not silent, but back in its cage.

Even if it never went away, even if the archmage couldn't ever fully cure her, even if she'd never find a lad willing to marry her furry arse, she could still serve her country and her lord. And that was good enough.

-oOoOo-

As the magistrate and the councillors adjusted their formal robes carefully, brushing off any dust and letting their wives perform last-moment spot cleaning and grooming, Horrace found himself glad he was but a minor functionary. All of the Fields had been in an uproar since Farmer Ray and his son had shown up, the boy crying about Gilneans coming to conquer them; if he had the right to do so, Horrace would cancel Gillis' right to give lessons to the children.

A true-blooded patriot of Lordaeron, he was quick to talk about the treachery and perfidy of their neighbours, even going so far as to deny the prince's part in the Plague business right up until the end.

"Do you think they're peaceful?" Magistrate Burnsides asked, and not for the first time. "The militia isn't exactly prepared."

"Seven footmen, two old muskets donated by the dwarves, and a half-trained apprentice mage in Citizen May." Horrace dutifully reported from the registry. "A decent defensive force under normal circumstances, trebled if one considers the soldiers set to guard the Azurelode Mine and volunteers."

More than trebled, truthfully. Most folks had taken to learning some weapon as things got worse – it had settled in after spring that help was not coming from the capital. They were on their own... or, perhaps not.

Councilman Gillis sucked a breath in through his teeth angrily. "How dare they fly His Highness' flag!" He spat on the ground and ground it in with his foot.

Amongst the Gilnean grey, a mix of the old Arathorian sigil and the new three-clawed design, was a trio of Lordaeron's flags. Foremost amongst them was not the simple blue flag of Lordaeron, no, but the crowned beacon of Light that marked the royal house of Menethil.

Perhaps the rumours of Princess Calia appearing in Southshore and being whisked away by a trio of Gilnean girls had in fact been true. The young woman leading the procession certainly had the blonde hair of a Menethil, but only the magistrate had met the princess in the past – a side-eyed glance at Burnsides saw his eyes wide open and his mouth quivering.

But whether he saw through a disguise or had seen the princess in truth he did not say, and the council stood in silence, save for Gillis' continued grumbling, before the town hall as the army approached.

As was his wont, Horrace made a point of counting all he could see – at least a hundred horse, three dozen wagons drawn behind, and more than a thousand foot. Closer to two than one, by his reckoning. Most were equipped in the Gilnean fashion, wish muskets and spears, but a few marched as footmen of Lordaeron.

Most notable, of course, were those who lead from the front. All women – Light be, where were their commanders? – one in full plate like a true knight, a pair of red and brown haired girls in odd dress who rode close to one another, and the possible princess beside an old matron.

"The Council of Hillsbrad Fields welcomes the travellers on this day." Magistrate Burnsides spoke loudly and clearly, his voice empty of most of his prior nerves, as they finally stopped before them. "However, we must know what business such a force has here this day – these are dark times and some do not take lightly the offering of false hope that you bring."

"They're here to steal all we own!" Farmer Ray's boy wailed in the crowd, and a pair of girls started crying.

Clearly much to the possible princess' dismay, as she looked to them with sorrowful eyes. After a moment however, she dismounted. "Magistrate Burnsides... it has been many a year. Last I saw you Father had given you his promotion for your work in rooting out the Dalia Agamand's malpractice against her subjects." She smiled brightly, her blue eyes glimmering with wetness. "I apologise for my absence, but I have brought allies. Late as they may be."

Magistrate Burnsides choked back whatever reply he might have, and Horrace rushed to note down her words. If there was any doubt...

It was Gillis who still held it. "You come here with Gilneans at your back and try to pretend–" He spat, stepping forward with an accusing finger aimed at her. "–and sullying their name! How dare–"

"Do you claim that Princess Menethil is not herself, good sir?" The matron said with a raised brow, a wan smile on her face. "Or must I vouch for her?" She shook her head. "I, Lady Greymane, Queen-Mother of the King of Gilneas, do hereby vouchsafe the parentage of Calia Menethil and her daughter, Llianne Menethil."

"If that is insufficient, is a knight's honour enough?"

"Peace, Dame Hilda." Princess Calia waved down the knight's frustrations with the councilman. "Much has happened, my father's death, my brother's actions... it is no surprise there are those who disbelieve."

"I do not, Your Majesty." Magistrate Burnsides whispered, going down on one knee. Tears fell from his eyes onto the stone steps of the hall. "Light be blessed – the line of Menethil is not ended."

"It is not." She replied softly. "I have returned, and with me enough to see us all safe from the Plague." She took the magistrate's hand and bid him rise.

Horrace had only seen the prince once, briefly and from afar, during his training as a scribe. But here and now, seeing the compassion and duty that she wore so strongly on her face, he could not possibly deny the similarities. Even Councilman Gillis was subdued by it.

Ascending the steps to stand amongst them, she turned to look out over the crowd that had gathered from across the Fields as well as those that she had brought with her. She took in a deep breath and Horrace's pen hovered over his notes, waiting with bated breath for her words. "Lordaeron has fallen, but it has not died. Not just here in Hillsbrad, sheltered from the horrors of the Scourge, but elsewhere also; Tyr's Hand still holds, the great fortress remaining safe from the onslaught of the dead. Hearthglen, saved by Lord Uther during the height of the Plague, remains a bastion of his paladins."

Cheers erupted at the Lightbringer's name, some embracing others with tears in their eyes. Those who had kin in the north – whose family might yet remain.

"Lordaern has fallen, but it has not died. Not yet." Princess Calia repeated firmly. "I left to seek aid from those best able to offer it. It has taken time, too long, and for that I must–" Against the tide of denials, she was forced to raise her voice. "–I must offer my apologies for my failings. I was not here for you, for my people, in the worst of times."

Throwing a hand out to the army that had followed her, they raised their arms and began to chant. "Calia! Calia!"

"But I have returned! And with me come those saved by Lord Darius Crowley from the Scourge, our kin from Silverpine and Tirisfal who fled south to our neighbour's embrace! Trained for battle, we will see Hillsbrad safe once more, no matter what endangers it!"

"Darius! Darius!"

"Crowley! Crowley!"

"Calia! Calia!"

"More men will follow, bringing with them materials and weapons to safeguard our lands. To prepare for the coming threats. To ready ourselves for the crusade to reclaim our kingdom; it will not be soon, perhaps not for decades or more, but I swear to you – to my father and the Light itself, that my daughter shall sit upon the Throne of Lordaeron in her lifetime."

Lowering her arm, Princess Calia smiled widely at them all. Her gaze washed over the crowd, and even met that of Horrace beside her.

His heart swelled, knowing that he would march to the ends of the world for the Menethils if they but asked. As any good man of Lordaeron would – the traitor prince could not end the line of righteous kings and queens, no matter how hard he tried.

"Now, let us celebrate. Gwyneth Arevin, personal witch to Queen Lorna Greymane, shall ensure that the stores remain full – so eat, drink, and be merry on this day. You are safe now."

Great cheers erupted as all sought to fulfil her orders, and the strange brown-haired girl went about growing each and every field to a fullness none had witnessed in decades. The celebrations only grew from there – but where others might seek drink or the embrace of another, relief and joy exploding over what had come, for Horrace the true joy of the night was recording the lives of so many newcomers to Hillsbrad Fields.

Half a thousand new names for the registry. New citizens, new militia, and there would be more to come. Tens of thousands spared the darkness of the north; never again would he allow Gillis to curse the name of Gilneas. Not so long as he lived.