Chapter 1

Hello faithful readers. This is the first chapter of the story I have been writing. His name is Nicolus Ryder, and as his story is shared, so too will be his history and life. He is completely based off of World of Warcraft, and of course, all credit goes to them. All I did was take their story and twist it around. I hope those of you who have not played the game will enjoy this story, and that those who have played will still enjoy it, nevertheless. So here it is: Nicolus Ryder, Lich Knight. Chapter 1: The beginning.

    A human figure slouches in the ghostly chains, his torso bare, his head bent, his breathing ragged. Two Val’kyr, one behind him, twirling a whip with sharpened pieces of bone along it, the other flying back and forth in front of him, gaze down at him in contempt. “I grow weary of this, Knight,” the one in front says. “I command you again; swear your fealty to him!” She pauses as he slowly raises his head, his glowing cyan eyes glaring up at her defiantly as a low growl comes from him. The winged woman nods to the one with the whip, and once more it is brought down, lashing the man’s back. His back arches as he groans and snarls. The Val’kyr in front of him suddenly bursts out, “Yield already, you stupid mutt!!”

    “Enough, Battle-Maiden,” a soft voice whispers from the shadows. The two Val’kyr instantly stop what they’re doing and the man slouches again, his breathing hard once more. Out of the shadows walks a tall figure, feminine in shape, wearing a strange, leathery cloak. She kneels down in front of him and tilts his head back as she inspects his face. “Yes, I believe this one will do,” she purrs, and at a gesture of her hand the chains disappear. The man collapses to the ground and the cloaked figure tsks to the two others.

“My dear Maidens, you shall go easier on all other Knights you are charged with breaking; this one is near his second death!” She chastises mildly, but a noticeable shiver travels through both the maidens. The figure scoops the man up and walks away, pausing at the threshold of the great flying fortress that is Acherus. “Oh, and please let dear Arthas know that I have inspected his stock and have made my choice. He will soon have what I promised him.” At that her cloak ruffles. Not her cloak though; wings! Great, big, leathery, demonic wings. With a powerful beat of them, she takes off into the diseased sky.

*     *     *

The man awakes later in a big circular chamber, finding himself chained to what seems to be a stone altar by metal shackles. His armor and clothing are off, except for the bottom half of a robe to keep him decent. He begins to struggle against his restraints, only to freeze when a soft chuckle echoes out of the shadows. “W-who’s out there?”  he calls out, his voice echoing for a long time.

“You’re doom, young man. And, in a way, your savior.” The same woman who rescued him steps forward. Her robes are the color of old blood, and her skin has an almost sickly green color to it.

He raises an eyebrow dubiously. “You, my doom and savior? I fail to see how that is even possible.”

    He swears he hears her giggle, then she reappears in his field of vision. “Oh Nicolus, I am going to kill you, again, and give birth to you again, reborn into a different, even higher, form than this one. If all goes according to plan that is.” She walks around the stone slab, trailing a finger along the edge as she does. “I am going to grant you an incredibly powerful gift; the gift of-“

    “Freedom?” he interrupts.

She glares at him and continues, saying, “the gift of the San’layn, which is one you will exercise often in the service of our master.” She smiles as the man’s eyes darken and he begins to struggle in earnest with desperation. The woman simply laughs.

    Then there is a knock and the woman’s face breaks into a wide grin.  “Ah, and just in time, too!” In walks a fellow Death Knight, escorted by what the man can only assume is a San’layn made real. The San’layn’s robe is less elegant than the woman’s, but it, as well as its eyes, were the same, old-blood red. “Oh yes, little Knight, although little for long, you won’t be.” She cackles maniacally.

“Who the fel are you?”

She smirks as she says, pride oozing from her voice, “I am Lane’thel, Blood-Queen of the San’layn!”

The Knight being walked over wears the trappings of a Knight of Acherus, identical to what the man had been wearing not long before, its wrists bound behind its back, a vacantness to its eyes. Lane’thel saunters over to the cloaked figure, smiling, revealing long, sharp fangs. She runs a finger down the Knight’s chest slowly, then in a flash she has pulled out a dagger from within her robes, and in that same motion, plunges it into the newcomer’s chest. A blood-curdling scream echoes against the walls as its eyes suddenly focus, off the ceiling and the floor. A bluish cloud oozes from the wound, which the blade seems to absorb, maintaining a soft, faint glow. The Knight falls, dead and spent, nothing now but a corpse. Lane’thel twirls her dagger, licking her lips slowly.

“Mmmmm, but now I need the essences of a San’layn …” she slowly looks to the one who had escorted the poor doomed Knight in, and although he had been grinning, he quickly stops and starts backing away.

“M-my Queen … surely you do not mean …” he asks, his voice trembling in fear. The Queen raises her hand and beckons for him. He turns, obviously planning on running, and in a blur of red and leathery green, she is atop him, the man on his back and her sitting astride him. “No, please. I beg you!”

“Silence!” she screams, and he falls silent. “You should know by now; if your Queen desires something, she is to have it, when she wants it.” Without hesitation, she plunges the dagger into his chest. He, too, screams and thrashes as a similar thing happens to him, except the cloud is red rather than blue. After a long moment, his screams finally cease. She stands, brushing off her robes, and the man in shackles thrashes and struggles with all his might. She lazily makes her way toward him, and as she does a second blade extends out the base of the hilt.

He snarls up at her as she looms over him. “I will never serve him! Never!” he roars.

She chuckles darkly, and murmurs quietly, “Oh, we’ll see about that.” She then sets the second blade’s tip to his chest and starts drawing Runes on his chest, murmuring in a dark language with hisses and clicks, all the while the man screams, worse than the other two. The clouds along the blade travel down and pool in his wounds, making them glow a soft purple. She finishes the ritual, and suddenly his body convulses, his screams silent. His body is overcome by shadow, and he grows in size, his Worgen Form emerging. He breaks out of the shackles as if they were mere dirt and he stands, breathing heavily, the purple Runes on his chest glowing with a dull, cool light. His lupine fangs elongate slightly, sharpening, and his eyes turn from blue, to red.

“Yes, my pet.” Lane’thel coos to him. She pulls at the neckline of her robe, baring her neck and shoulder. “Come, have a taste, and feel your hunger awaken.” His eyes are immediately trained on her, and with a snarl he dashes in a blur of black fur to her, pouncing on her and sinking his fangs into her. As he feeds, big, black feathered wings form on his back. All the while the Queen’s triumphant laughter echoes through the halls.

*     *     *

Lane’thel sits in a chair at a table. A chill begins to enter the room, heralding the arrival of the great figure that throws the doors open a moment later. The dark armor has skulls on the boots, pauldrons, and wears a combination of a helm and a crown. His eyes are like blue fire, both chilling and eerie. “Why did you summon me, Lane’thel?” he asks. There is an echo to his voice, as if he is not the only one speaking, and his voice is cold enough to chill a skeleton deeper than the bone. She laughs softly, then slowly stands.

“Oh dear, dear Arthas. Were you always this straight forward with business?” she asks.

“I am not here out of sentimentality, Blood-Queen.” Arthas says coldly.

“Pity.”

“You should be working on the task I gave you, not calling for social visits.” He says. He turns to exit the room.

“Oh Arthas, you are absolutely no fun whatsoever. And incidentally, I have completed your little task.” He stops at the last words and slowly turns back to her.

“You have done it?” he asks.

She nods. “The blending of the essences of San’layn and Death Knight went perfectly. You now have your weapon.” She raises a hand and a pair of glowing eyes appears in the darker recesses of the room, glowing blue, like the armored figure. “He is completely obedient, and will serve you faithfully, my king.”

The Lich King eyes the pair of eyes in the darkness, then suddenly, through the doors, enters a man in similar armor to the king, a great sword slung across his back.  “All that’s left now is to test it,”Arthas says softly. “Mograine, slay it.” The Knight beside the King leaps forward and slices where the eyes were. They disappear, and when they next appear, they are many meters away. Mograine chases them in pursuit. “This is my test: if Mograine can slay it, then it is worthless. If it is able to defeat my Death Knight though …” He doesn’t finish, the implication clear, as he watches Mograine impassively as he chases the eyes, a seemingly futile pursuit.

It is a while before Lane’thel says softly, “Nicolus, enough toying with him. Take him down, but leave him alive.” She smirks, and in that instant the eyes are suddenly glowing scarlet.

Mograine comes at them again, but he isn’t even close when suddenly he is lifted in the air by purple and black tendrils. He holds his sword in one hand while he grasps at his neck. Then a dark shadow darts out of the darkness. It grabs the Knight by his neck and slams him into the ground, using his other to rip the sword from his hands. It clatters across the ground, the winged Worgen’s claws around the Knight’s neck, immobilizing him completely.

In the room there is only silence. Then Arthas says softly, “Release him.” The Worgen leaps off of the Knight as he sits up, gasping and massaging his throat. The creature wore only a black robe, blue Runes glowing faintly along the hem and cuffs of his sleeves. “Kneel before your master,” Arthas commands. It sinks down onto both knees, its head bowed.

Smiling smugly, Lane’thel says, “See? Obedient. It will serve you well, no?”

Arthas steps toward the bowed figure and draws his sword, placing it on one shoulder of the supplicant thing. “You are indeed powerful. Once, you were a Death Knight, one of my elite soldiers; now, you will rise a Lich Knight, for I am the Lich King, and you will bow to no other besides me. I Knight you,” and he moves the sword to the other shoulder, “in the name of the Death schools, Blood, Frost, and Unholy. Rise, my champion. It is time you were taught of your legacy. And when you have been educated, you shall teach the whole of Azeroth the true meaning of fear.”

*     *     *

A shadows flits through the treetops, leaping from branch to branch. Nicolus has been a Lich Knight for many months now. He wears armor reserved for only the best of the Death Knights, and a great sword is slung across his back, the red, green, blue, and purple Runes seeming to glow softly with an inner light. He stops on the outskirts of a clearing, gazing down at a wall erected around his target. There is only one entrance, with two guards patrolling it. And over the wall, he sees the tip of the Chapel peeking over. Light’s Hope Chapel. After this, the Scourge will be unstoppable. He reaches toward one of the guards, and he draws his sword, the Runes glowing brighter, the red brightest of them. The guard suddenly doubles over, lets out a scream, and collapses as his blood literally begins to boil. His companion runs to his side, but with a gesture from Nicolus, shadowy tendrils of Unholy energy shoots out, grabbing the other, and yanks her through the air into the branches. He impales her with his weapon. She gasps, and the blade soaks the blood up like a sponge with water. The light leaves her eyes and he lets her corpse drop into the bushes.

He jumps across the clearing, using his big, black wings to glide to the incapacitated one, ending his life with a swift stab to the chest. He stalks into the area, gazing about at the boxes, tents and supplies, in the center of which stands the chapel. Raising his face to the sky he calls out, “Crusaders! Your doom is upon you! Come and face your fate!” At first, nothing stirs. Then, out of the chapel walks a man. He has white hair, and a beard. He wears the golden glowing armor traditionally worn by the Paladins. But what catches Nicolus’ attention is the large sword slung across his back, a sword said to be able to destroy the Undead easily, and one that hurt him to simply look at: the Ashbringer. “Tirion Fordring,” Nicolus says softly, his voice the whisper of death. “I did not expect to find myself faced against you so quickly.”

The man draws the Ashbringer, leveling it at his opposite. “You should have known I would hunt you down, Lich Knight. I simply chose sooner rather than later, before you enjoyed another slaughter.”

The Knight laughs, his voice bouncing off the walls surrounding them, and echoing in itself. “Is that so? Once I have disposed of you, I will forever be known as the one who destroyed the High Paladin, and the people will fall ever quicker. You have only succeeded in speeding on the demise of the forces that oppose the Scourge.” He, too, levels his sword at the man. “Come, Fordring. Let’s see if those legends about the wielder of the Ashbringer are true.” And with that, they meet, their swords clashing together.

They battle back and forth across the compound. Holy Light flies from the Paladin, healing and restoring himself, while also lashing out at the Knight, who is likewise sending clouds of black and green Unholy magic at him. They block them with their swords, the Lich Knight snarling as it tries to push back his opponent. A cold wind whips through the camp, while Holy fire sets things ablaze. It is a great battle; the champion of darkness against the champion of light.

The battle rages on for a long time. They begin to fatigue, albeit slowly. Their blades lock, their eyes meeting, each a resolve harder than saronite. They disengage, both breathing heavily. A golden figure, seeming to be made of Light appears next to Tirion, and the Knight falters. They are both on him in an instant. The battle continues, Nicolus slowly being worn down. He leaps away, and quickly inscribes a Rune on the ground. Scourge monsters, skeletons, ghouls, corpses and the like rise up and begin attacking the Paladin. The figure of Light disappears, and as the Ashbringer slices through Scourge, they are disintegrated, turning to ash.

Suddenly, an opening appears and Nicolus grins, leaping forward to deliver the final blow. Tirion sees him coming just in time and points at him, shouting, “Light take thee!” A blast of Light shoots out and hits him square in the chest, knocking him to the ground. He rolls and screams, howling as the Holy flames consume him, black smoke rising from him. The man slowly walks over, limping slightly. The flames begin to dissipate and he looks down at not a black winged Worgen, but a tan one, wearing the Knight armor. He is then shrouded in light, and then he is not a Worgen anymore, but a man. He looks up slowly, his eyes no longer red, but blue.

Tirion walks forward slowly, kneeling down beside the man as Nicolus looks up at him. There is a softer expression upon his face, and after a moment he says softly, “I ... couldn’t stop myself ... the horrors ... the nightmares ...” his voice is weak, the whisper of death. His eyes begin to close, and he mutters softly,”By ... the Light ... what have ... I done?” He goes still, and the man checks him for a pulse. He thinks for a moment, then throws the one who had been his enemy only moments before over his shoulder, and begins the long trek across the Plaguelands.

*       *       *

Nicolus wakes later, inside a tent, Tirion sitting by the bed. He tries to rise, only to have the other man’s hand on his shoulder, keeping him down. “Easy, Knight.” he says softly. “You have just endured a great ordeal. You deserve some rest.”

The Knight shakes his head. “The things I have done ... the only rest I deserve is the eternal one.” Nevertheless, he sinks back down into the bed. “What ... what happened to me?” he asks.

“I believe the Ashbringer gave you a gift.” the Paladin says with a smile. “I don’t know how or why, but when it struck you with the Light, it removed the influence of the Lich King, and took your Worgen self and subdued him. It has granted you a second chance at life.” He nods to a corner, where the Knight’s armor and weapon are. “I know not if they will serve you as well as before, but if not, you are welcome to help yourself to our armory.” The man stands up, and turns to leave, pausing at the tent flap. “You have a chance at redemption, Ryder. I would not waste it if I were you. And, personally, I would want to destroy whatever it was that was controlling me.” And with that, he leaves.

Nicolus sits up, his head in his hands. After a while he slowly lowers them and rises from the bed. He sways, but he steadies himself quickly. He draws a Rune onto his shoulder that glows red, and it fades, healing him. He takes a deep breath and begins putting the armor on.

         He hesitates before taking up his sword. The Runes no longer glow along the blade. Will they still serve me? Do I still possess their power? he thinks. Then he narrows his eyes and grasps the hilt firmly. The Runes blaze into being along the blade, glowing brightly, ready for use. He slowly grins and says softly, “I will not waste this chance. I’m going to make things right.” He sheathes his sword across his back, and as he leaves the tent, entering the world anew, he mutters, “Prepare yourself, Arthas. Your champion is no longer enslaved, and he hungers for retribution.”