Blood Ties (World of Warcraft: Midnight)

Chapter One

Light’s Hope Chapel, Eastern Plaguelands

The Eastern Kingdoms

Clang. Clang. Clang.

The sound of hammer against steel was a familiar one outside Light’s Hope Chapel. But this time Master Craftsman Wilhelm—who usually repaired the weapons and armor of the Knights of the Silver Hand—was not the one producing it. The gruff dwarf was instead leaning back against a grassy hillock, peering up at the brown-gray sky of the Eastern Plaguelands and belting out a smithing song between swigs of Thunderbrew lager. He paused long enough to pose a question to the half-elf champion who had offered to take his place.

“How long can that skinny little arm of yers keep this up, laddie?” Wilhelm’s eyes twinkled, his mustache wet with foam. The “laddie” in question, Arator the Redeemer, grinned at him as he wiped his brow.

“Yet again I lament that I do not possess the dwarven musculature,” he said with an exaggerated sigh.

Wilhelm guffawed. “Ah, well, we cannae all be so fortunate.”

Arator’s arm was certainly up to the task, but it was hot work, and neither his human nor his elven blood gave him the innate dwarven ability to long withstand the heat of the forge. He removed his upper body armor and laid it to one side, revealing a pair of dragon tattoos on his muscled upper arms. They were identical in style, both outlined in gold, but filled in with different hues: one bright as the White Lady moon and the other a shade of charcoal.

A human boy of about ten, Winthrop, sat beside him. Winthrop was the newest squire to the famed paladin Lord Grayson Shadowbreaker, a position that Arator himself had held when he was new to the order. It was the boy’s task to which Arator now plied his own efforts, working on cleaning and hammering dents out of the great man’s armor. Today marked young Winthrop’s first visit to Light’s Hope Chapel, and he was far too dazzled by the elite company he presently kept to have made much progress in mending his lord’s gambeson.

“I can’t believe you’re bothering to help me,” he told Arator. “I mean . . . you’re the son of High Exarch Turalyon and Lady Alleria Windrunner! They’ve statues in the Valley of Heroes, songs sung about them. You were practically born famous!”

Arator had heard all this before and had tired of it years ago. Still, it was hardly Win’s fault, and he meant well. Although Arator was much older than Winthrop, the years of a half-elf did not keep pace with those of humans. It was one of many challenges bequeathed by his unique parentage. For all Arator’s experience and all he had seen, in many ways, he felt more kinship with the new squire than with his lord knight.

Arator turned his smile on the boy. “As I said, I enjoy being of assistance.” Arator well remembered how many tasks had been assigned during his own time as Grayson’s squire. It was important to learn skills like armor repair, of course, but young Win seemed buried beneath mundane chores. Arator felt that there was no task so small it was beneath him, if he could help someone by performing it.

Winthrop’s brown eyes narrowed, and he glanced toward where Lord Grayson and another of his former squires were engaged in conversation. “I hope he doesn’t get angry at us,” Winthrop murmured.

Arator couldn’t blame the boy for being concerned. Tall, muscular, having lost his right eye in battle long ago, Lord Grayson could seem intimidating even when out of armor and chatting casually. As one of Stormwind’s foremost paladins, he’d trained many among their number, had even brought Arator with him to their order’s war council a time or two. It was hard not to see him as intimidating, formidable—certainly an enemy Arator would not want to meet in battle. Simply sparring with the man was hard enough. But Grayson had made a firm commitment to others in the order, and he’d served the Light longer than most.

“Don’t worry,” Arator reassured the boy. “He’ll know it was my idea, not yours, trust me.”

“I don’t want you to get in trouble, either.”

“I won’t.”

Winthrop sighed. “Everyone says I’m lucky he picked me, but . . .” The boy looked down. “He’s so . . . strong, and confident, and can knock me to the ground in seconds when we’re sparring. I’ve heard a lot of the stories—he’s a real hero! He’s more than just a knight, he’s a lord! I’ve got to make sure I don’t disappoint him.” As he spoke the words, Winthrop reached for the gambeson and set to mending it with renewed purpose.

Arator felt his smile fade slightly. Even though he might be the son of legends, he was, in Winthrop’s innocent words, just a knight of the Silver Hand. Many would say that was honor enough, but Winthrop’s easy dismissal of it only echoed Arator’s own thoughts. He had earned that rank for himself long ago, had even been recognized with a title. Now and then, the Light would grant a paladin inspiration regarding another’s destiny. Arator’s own father had been so moved to name the famous Uther “the Lightbringer.” Arator had been named “the Redeemer.” But whom or what exactly he would one day redeem eluded him. And until that moment came, it seemed the order was content to let him chase accolades without ever receiving them.

He tried not to let it bother him, but others younger than he, still panting and bloody, had received battlefield promotions. Their companions, weary but buoyed by victory, had cheered them with hoarse voices. Usually when he had such thoughts, Arator rebuked himself, as he did now, for being envious—and, perhaps, overly imaginative. He had joined the Knights of the Silver Hand to lend his strength to a worthy cause, and while acknowledgment of his efforts was nice, he certainly didn’t require it to continue his course.

Arator had fought well and valiantly in several wars already, but his efforts had been insufficient to attract much notice. At least, he thought ruefully, notice of the good kind. There seemed to be no end to the order’s rules, and Arator had bent, if not fully broken, most of them. He’d concerned himself too much with the locals here, hesitated there, gotten information from a questionable source another time. His methods were always a topic of discussion among the order, but Arator noticed that no one raised concerns with his results. Some had voiced, obliquely or bluntly, that his disregard for protocol and rules would one day harm his standing in the order, but Arator dismissed the idea. To him, it was simple: If he could not change his world, improve the lives of common folk, what purpose was left for a Knight of the Silver Hand?

In truth, it had been more than a willingness to be helpful that had prompted Arator to help young Winthrop. He had been summoned to Light’s Hope by Lord Maxwell Tyrosus, one of the central leaders within their order. Arator understood that Lord Tyrosus was an extraordinarily busy individual, and while he was not surprised he had to wait for an audience, he did need something to keep his mind off the meeting. Arator knew exactly why he had been asked to come here today, though he did not know what the outcome of the conversation would be.

Abruptly, Winthrop sprang to his feet, dropping the gambeson. “Lord Tyrosus!” he exclaimed, his voice climbing a half octave with excitement and delight.

But Arator felt only knife-sharp disappointment as he beheld the expression on the knight’s weatherworn face. An ominous clue as to the tone of the conversation. Arator schooled his own features lest Lord Tyrosus see how hard the blow had struck. Rising, Arator placed Lord Grayson’s armor down next to Winthrop, who was still gazing up at Tyrosus with wide eyes.

Lord Tyrosus glanced over the boy’s progress. “Good work, young man! But best pick up the pace, eh?”

Winthrop gulped and nodded furiously, unable to speak.

To Arator, Tyrosus said merely, “Come. Let us pay our respects together.”

They fell into step, heading toward the Sanctum of Light, the scent of stone and its coolness enveloping them as they descended. This had been the headquarters for the Knights of the Silver Hand since the Burning Legion’s invasion, and Arator knew it well. He had come here many times on Silver Hand business, but he often found himself at the sanctum for no other reason than to simply be with the Light, to draw inspiration from watching others perfect their skills, and to pay respect to the many who had gone before.

They paused before the tomb of the legendary Tirion Fordring. Tirion had been one of the five original paladins—the first in Azeroth’s history. Archbishop Alonsus Faol had called upon these five to lead the order long ago. Faol’s vision was to marry the Light’s compassion with the power of the hammer, knights who would be priest and warrior both. But where the Light had a tendency toward order and rigidity, Tirion knew it to be flexible and kind. He saw the Light’s reach in all he met, famously held empathy for his former enemies, and yet never feared raising hammer or sword when he saw injustice . . . even when it meant standing against his fellow paladins. Even when it meant exile from his home and this very order.