Defenders of Undeath

Chaos.
Only one word could wholly sum up the state of affairs over the last several weeks. The Scourge, risen in force, assaulted strongholds once thought safe and spread across the land as they had in days past. City guard were beleaguered and overtaxed, but the dead were endless. Even within the walls healers struggled to purge infection and disease where it rose, but they too were stretched far too thin. Reports flew in from every direction that things were bad and getting worse.
“No rest for the wicked,” Plagos mused from the gateway to the ruins of Lordaeron.
“Oh, is that why you never sleep?” teased Meridith, flashing an innocent smile at her husband. His slight leer was only brief before his gaze stretched out across the fields. The grinding sound of flesh and bone and gnashing teeth was growing louder.
“Hrrk,” a wet voice gurgled from the side. Both turned to watch as Orloc clanked to the front of the Deathguard unit, his crimson and silver armor moving effortlessly on his undead frame. In one hand he gripped a large, wicked-bladed sword of the same crimson design, and on his opposite arm a broad shield set with a glowing gemstone was strapped to his gauntlet. All told they had gone to great lengths to arm him, and Meridith was rather proud of how official he looked in his platemail. “Are you sure he’ll be all right without a helmet?”
“I don’t think there’s anything left to damage,” Plagos mused, voice devoid of mirth.
Orloc tilted his head curiously at the Executioner, but a sharp whistle caught his attention. The Forsaken warriors beside him gripped swords and leveled shields, readied bows and adjusted quivers. That signal meant the undead were close at hand, within view of the scouts waiting patiently at the zeppelin towers. Tromping feet and throaty growls began, a chorus of impending battle lifting on the chill wind. The sun gave a weak effort to shine down on the approaching horde through the greenish pallor that hung in thick clouds over Tirisfal before it passed on into the noonday haze and was lost.
“Everyone’s ready, Overseer,” a female Forsaken said as she quickly approached and saluted. The Deathguard stood grimly nearby, archers fitting their strings and front-line men and women steadying themselves.
“Good.”
The sickly grass stirred, though the wind was still and dead as the approaching legion. Over the hilltop a number of figures came into view. Their ragged forms were parodies of life and stank of the grave. Beady eyes stared through the haze at the Undercity with an unnatural hunger only they could produce. Ten, twenty, fifty, a hundred. The ghouls came to a halt as skeletal mages and men in dark robes took position throughout the ranks. Somewhere near the middle of the teeming mass several of the shambling corpses were erecting a jagged pink crystal while acolytes hastily drew a runic circle upon the ground. As soon as the lines joined the undead ferrying it collapsed, causing the jewel to pulse and begin hovering in midair.
“We’ll have to do something about that,” Meridith mused as fire licked at her fingertips.
“For Arthas!” a robed figure cried out. Almost immediately the ghouls sprang into slavering motion, gangly limbs flailing as they surged in a diseased tide toward the defenders’ position.
“For Sylvanas!” The rallying cry was echoed throughout those present. Bowstrings tightened while those standing at the fore locked their shields and prepared for the inevitable crash.
The first few animate corpses fell under a hail of arrows, the walls of the Undercity coming alive with flying shafts that struck their targets and violently tore through the paper-thin flesh still clinging to rotted bone. Sadly their number was not enough to phase the implacable creatures that could feel no pain or know fear.
“Mages!” a sergeant cried out. The line teemed with nether-energy as magic flowed like living water. Meridith’s hands glowed brightly as she wove the arcane winds into a weapon, visible heat rippling out from her body. A deft flick guided the unseen spell to its destination among the bodies and the ground beneath them trembled. Though mindless, the cries of anger, pain, and frustrated hunger rose up as a column of searing fire burst from the ground, incinerating over a dozen ghouls and igniting the land. More stumbled through the blossom of licking flames and slowly crumbled to ash.
Many more fell as fire and ice rained into the Scourge’s number. Sulfurous clouds choked the sky, meteoric shards streaking down to pummel indiscriminately into the eager dead. Plagos spoke commanding, demonic words and the clouds swirled at his beckoning, disgorging a green comet that raced down to heave earth and bodily parts up around is crater. From the molten slag rose an infernal, the craggy monster bursting into intense heat that ignited surrounding ghouls and seared away skin and hair. What refused to burn was smashed underneath its titanic fists.
“Deathguard, ready yourselves,” a steely Forsaken said as he unshouldered an intimidating mace. He glanced at Orloc, who was watching with eyeless sockets in a faceless expression of desire. “Time to prove your worth; make sure you don’t embarrass Lord Varimathras.”
As the wanton destruction slowed to a crawl, leaving only writhing limbs and smoldering remains scattered about the field, the Deathguard began their advance. The second wave of ghouls surged forward to meet them, the acolytes too concerned with channeling their dark magics into the bolstering crystals plotted about the battle. When metal met claw the men began to sweat, their steely resolve wavering as bodies were literally sent flying under the force with which the undead spearhead struck.
Orloc’s blade plunged through a ghoul and mercilessly tore out of its side to decapitate another. An approaching mongrel was swiftly bludgeoned by his shield, rendering its slavering jaws toothless. Next to him the Deathguard Dayvid powdered a skeletal mage's skull, taking it out of the fight with one powerful stroke that interrupted its pathetic attempt at magic. His stance returned to ready without hesitation, the weight of his weapon steadying in his skilled grip. The dead were tireless, both in the defense and assault of the Undercity. Tooth and nail met plate and sword, arcane energies swirled with necromantic power in a constant struggle to push back the influence of Northrend and persevere against Arthas’ forces.
“Orloc, Dayvid!” Plagos shouted out over the din, pausing only to wind his fingers around the bony features of a zealous ghoul. Blackness poured out of its eyes and mouth before the warlock released a limp and motionless body. “Take down those necromancers!”
At once both warriors surged through the dead, shoulder-checking and shield-slamming attempted attackers as they came. Dayvid was first to reach the glowing crystal and easily severed the acolyte’s tie by crushing one of his legs sideways, then followed up with a pulverizing slam to the human's very mortal cranium. Orloc was next to strike down one of the Lich King’s minions. Shock was written across the corrupted human’s face as blood trickled down into his eyes and mouth from under his hood. Orloc’s sword blade wrenched in his skull several times as the zombie attempted to pull it out. Finally it ripped backward with a splatter of bone fragments, blood, and grey matter. Coupled with the fall of the last ghoul, this demonstration of hideous murder was enough to break the remaining channelers. Fire engulfed one while several arrows struck the other cleanly in the back. Both died just outside the circle, their last anguished screams drowned out by triumphant cries the Forsaken shouted to the darkened sky.
“We’ll need to destroy this,” Dayvid commented as he wiped his hands on the robes of one dead acolyte. He stared at the pulsating crystal and appraised it, pondering if he and the abomination next to him could shatter it.
Meridith and a fallen Ranger approached, the former dismissing the last cinders from her fingertips. “Excellent job, you two.”
Orloc’s eyes were fixed on the crystal, its pale glow illuminating his grimly-mutilated features. It was a deep kind of glow that resembled a vast ocean of energy that swirled and coalesced within itself. Somewhere in that expanse was something very familiar.
It’s almost time…
Shaken from his momentary reverie, the zombie looked around. Everything seemed different, murky, and still. Meridith did not move, Dayvid remained steadfastly posed next to the crystal. Even the crystal no longer pulsed, its color a pale semblance of its former self. Orloc reached out to touch it, to see if it was still a crystal, and his hand was gripped at the wrist by a spectral projection. As he drew back in alarm a figure appeared in the crystal’s shadow and stepped out, his body more of a suggestion than any tangible thing. He had strong, human features and shoulder-length hair, much like Orloc’s own, though in his colorless apparition there was only wispy smoke to imply his locks had substance.
<I>Do you remember me? Do you remember</i> us?
“Hrr…rrrk?” Orloc gurgled and took another step back.
I can feel it…Arthas’ power flows through me like a renewing spring. We’ve never known family, you and I, but we shall soon. Acceptance. Unity. Togetherness. And we’ll bring it to Azeroth, to everyone.
“Wha…what are you?” his question slathered from his gaping throat.
A ghostly hand reached out and rested over Orloc’s chestplate, underneath which his necromantic phylactery pumped the necrotic enzymes that kept him animate. This “heart” pulsed in the same manner as the crystal, causing a shudder to run through its undead body.
You.
As the world came back into color, Meridith shook Orloc’s shoulder again and called his name. He had been frozen, staring at the crystal, and had not moved since the last acolyte had been killed. Suddenly his legs dropped out from under him and he collapsed onto the ground.
“Orloc!” Dayvid and Meridith knelt and attempted to stir the comatose abomination. Behind them the glowing pylon dimmed, then cracked, and then fell into pieces as its binding circle faded into nothingness.
==Later, in the Apothecarium==
Einrich sighed as he placed his quill pen back into its inkwell. The many notes spread out in front of him were organized and stacked save for the ones he had been working on by candlelight. Since the Scourge had begun their renewed assault, new information came in every day. New things to chronicle, categorize, study, note, record, and transcribe came up every hour. Rest was a convenience for those who could afford it, but he was on a mission. The Scourge had to be stopped before Arthas could find him.
“E,” a soft voice said from somewhere behind him. He turned in his seat to see Meridith Deathweaver. Her arms were folded loosely in front of her and her less-rotted features were set in an expression of worry.
“Ah, Meridith. Always a pleasure,” he replied, without his usual sarcastic tone. His respect for the Forsaken had grown in his time working with them, and Meridith was no exception. At first he had been angered and even jealous that she had been put in charge of his pet project, but now he was coming to understand why Varimathras chose her to watch over it.
Unfortunately, he was beginning to suspect it was a ploy to put Meridith in harm’s way when it became opportune.
“I’m worried about Orloc,” she said, stepping slowly down the stairs from the entrance to his small cubby and into the laboratory proper. “While we were outside, fighting, he got close to a Scourge-stone and fainted.”
“Oh dear, that doesn’t sound good. Where is he?”	
“Resting in my quarters. Plagos insisted someone watch him in case he, well, manages to turn.” Pursing her lips the mage slid over to a chair and sat down. “I’m worried this war is taking its toll on all of us, but him especially.”
“Well, the problem with retaining your intelligence is that you still have a mind to exhaust,” Einrich mused lightly turning back to his notes. He picked up his quill and continued to write as he spoke. “Orloc’s mind is especially primitive, not like yours or mine. I doubt it has the natural defenses to stave off a dedicated assault.”
“It was almost as if Arthas was…there, in that crystal.”
The scratching quill paused for a moment. Orloc’s animated essence was that of Oran Locke, a man who had been killed by the Scourge. He was originally a Scourge weapon. The former merchant knew that the phylactery still held a connection to the will of the Lich King; he had felt Arthas’ presence inside that dark soul when he first bound it to its prison.
“The Lich King is a powerful adversary,” he supplied, weakly.
“I know, and even the strongest Forsaken hear him from time to time,” Meridith sighed as she leaned back against the chair. 
“E…I need to know if Orloc has a connection to the Scourge. Is his soul-binding the only thing preventing him from turning on us?”
Again the writing stopped. “…no. Orloc is completely loyal to the Forsaken. Oran Locke is no more than a power source.”
Meridith furrowed her brow at the brief hesitation. She considered pressing it for a moment before she shook her head and rose from her seat. Something wanted to burst out, to question his motives and loyalties, but she fought it back as she walked up the steps. Pausing, she turned to watch the still figure hunched in his chair.
“Not too long ago, we confiscated something from one of the undead girls who befriended Orloc. A sword. I don’t know where she got it, but it feels like him. It feels like Oran Locke, just like the phylactery feels like him. But it’s more malicious, more…potent. It’s almost as if he can be in two places at once.”
The woman was gone only a moment after speaking. Einrich curled his bony fingers into a fist, crushing a half-written page. The sword that Meganna found was far from a simple weapon. He thought the elixir he delivered to her would help suppress the essence within, but the girl must have awakened it somehow. She also must not have realized its true nature, and now it was back here in the Undercity. As he forced his hand to relax and spread out his notes again, he noted a strange occurrence that had not happened since his death.
He was trembling.