World of Warcraft

by Steve Danuser

  “Sir, I joined the Alliance forces because of you,” Abel said.

  Captain Whitney nodded slowly, as though he had heard this sort of thing many times before. “Were you a good soldier, lad?”

  “Not near as good as you. If I had been, I wouldn’t be here.” Abel pressed a sinewy hand against his still heart. “I was hardly anything, just a foot soldier.”

  “Do not mistake death for failure,” Whitney said. “Everything and everyone dies. Only the strongest souls can be awakened from its firm grasp.”

  “Thank you,” Abel whispered. “And thank you for emboldening me to fight for my home.”

  “It’s what a captain is meant to do. What stories have you heard about me?” Whitney asked Abel.

  Much to Jeremiah’s despair, Abel related the Fearless Flyer story to Whitney, just as he had before. Only this time, the captain constantly interrupted to embellish it with more details:

  “No, no, no. We fought those orcs for months. They only lasted that long because they had steady reinforcements.”

  “I had half their camp ablaze before they knew what hit them. Then my men came in to clean up.”

  “I killed at least five orcs with one blow!”

  Jeremiah burned inside. The tall tale of Captain Whitney—who’d been his former commander, he realized—was awakening dormant memories. More pieces clicked into place, and with each grandiose feat Whitney claimed, Jeremiah’s mind cried, You’re wrong. You’re wrong. You’re wrong.

  Captain Whitney’s voice grew stronger and louder as he and Abel went on with the story. More patrons drifted over and settled into the seats around him, a captivated audience—though perhaps some of them felt more like captives, as Jeremiah did. He recognized several old comrades, who also seemed to find the captain’s exaggerated claims hard to swallow. But none spoke up.

  “The orc bruiser, most people forget about him. Our duel is a story unto itself,” Whitney said.

  Abel was so far onto the edge of his seat, he was in danger of falling. “You actually fought him?”

  “Oh yes, I beat him single-handedly, though he was three times my size. I caught that coward running away from the battle and leaving his troops behind. So I gave him what all deserters get: the sharp end of a sword. That’s what finally sent the orcs packing. When they saw their leader fall, they scattered. In fact, I hunted them down. Every last one of them.” Whitney tipped his empty mug back into his gaping, largely toothless mouth. Drinking down lies.

  “I like you, soldier,” Whitney said, wiping his dry lips. “I could have used more like you in my division.” He gave Jeremiah a cutting look.

  Jeremiah yearned to set the record straight. He wanted to tell everyone about the brave soldiers who had died that night because of the captain’s folly—because of his outrageous claims and broken promises and unspeakable cruelty. But the crowd here had also drunk the lies. What little grumbling he heard from the soldiers gathered around was quickly silenced by the captain’s cutting glare.

  So that’s still how it is, Jeremiah thought. Indeed, it seemed some habits from life never die.

  Whitney had led his men by making them fear him more than their enemy. His temper was abysmal on a good day, and it only grew worse the more heavily he poured his brew. His troops fought hungry only because he withheld rations according to their performance, while his belly was always full. If anyone dared speak out of line, they were punished even more severely. And when Jeremiah’s friend had spoken out against the captain’s cruelty—he knew something painful had followed, but his mind would only think of that little wooden boat. Abel and Jeremiah were the only souls left in the pub after the captain departed, trailed by his quiescent admirers.

  “I wish we could do something to honor Captain Whitney, to show him how much we respect him,” Abel said wistfully.

  “You bought him a drink,” Jeremiah muttered.

  “But he accomplished such great things in life. The whole Undercity should celebrate him.”

  “I can’t bear this anymore. You have to know the truth about your so-called hero.” Jeremiah glanced around and lowered his voice, hating himself for being nervous to speak out, even now. “Whitney wasn’t fearless—he was cruel and foolish.”

  He snapped his mouth shut. Could he really speak the truth aloud? He would never forget the days he’d spent locked in a dark box, no larger than a coffin, as punishment for insubordination. It was a reminder that Captain Whitney decided who lived and died, on or off the battlefield. He heard the choking again and Whitney’s slurred voice: Quiet now. Captain’s orders.

  Jeremiah clenched his jaw. He had already lost everything because of the captain. But he wouldn’t allow fear to continue to rule him.

  “In truth,” Jeremiah said, “the captain was stone-drunk the night of the raid, as he was every night. It was dark, and he angrily stumbled into the catapult, got all tangled up in the ropes. And when he stupidly cut himself free, the catapult flung him into the orc’s camp.” His tone grew harsher as he released pent-up rage. “He smashed into a tent, and it collapsed, then caught fire by accident. The orcs interpreted it as an attack, so they retaliated. Most of us were brutally killed, but—”

  Jeremiah shook his head. “We managed to make it into the camp while half the orcs tried to douse the fire. It took easily ten men to take down the orc bruiser. When it was done, his remaining forces ran away. We found Whitney in their camp. He had been hiding like a coward while we fought for our lives. For his life.” Jeremiah’s eyes flared bright with righteous fury. “But truth doesn’t win wars, especially when it’s ugly and inconvenient. A war hero helps recruit more soldiers, and thus the Fearless Flyer was born.”

  “His stories are everything to me. The tale of the Fearless Flyer was the last letter my father sent me. Why should I believe you instead of him?” Abel shut his eyes tightly, grinding what was left of his broken teeth.

  “Because I have no reputation to protect and nothing to gain by deceiving you.”

  “You’re just jealous of Captain Whitney.”

  “Not jealous. Angry. And sad.” Jeremiah sighed. He understood that Abel didn’t want to believe him, because if the captain’s legendary attack had been nothing more than an embarrassment, then Abel would have built his life on a false idol—and ultimately lost it. Those stories of valor would putrefy in the dead boy’s still heart, along with cherished memories of his father. Jeremiah lifted his empty mug and pretended to take a sip. It was as empty as he felt. He dropped the mug heavily to the table.

  “Was your father Roland Meadows?” Jeremiah asked.

  “You knew him?” Abel’s eyes were wide with shock.

  “We were in the same division. He was my friend. You look just like him, you know. He often spoke about his boy. Whitney forced us to sing his praises in any letters back home.”

  “If you’re right, why hasn’t anyone exposed him?” Abel demanded.

  “Who would listen to a lowly foot soldier over a decorated captain? If we hadn’t promoted Whitney’s version of things, our careers would have been over. Everyone had their own reasons for keeping silent. My family depended on my wages, so I went along with it. I never saw my family again before I died. But the saddest thing about it …” Jeremiah’s shoulders drooped. “Your father did have the courage to speak up. He confronted Whitney, saying he’d put an end to the lies. He was going to chase down the courier, stopping the letters and the falsehoods. Whitney would have none of that—he cut Roland’s throat. Whitney smiled as my friend choked and slipped away.”

  “You’re the one lying. My father was happy to serve with Captain Whitney! His letters said so! He’s probably still out there—”

  “He talked about a toy boat his son built,” Jeremiah whispered.

  Abel fell into a troubled silence. His lower lip trembled. “We were going to race them when he got home.”

  The pair sat quietly, processing. Grief did not discriminate between the living and the unliving.

&nb
sp; “I don’t know what to think anymore. I had little at home, but I had a hero to look up to. I thought my father admired Captain Whitney. He never came home, but I never knew why.”

  “Abel, you joined the army because of your father. You were following in his footsteps, not Whitney’s. Your father died for the truth. But that doesn’t have to be in vain.”

  Abel put a hand to his cheek, as though expecting tears. He blinked a few times. “I believe you, Jeremiah. So what do we do about the captain? What can we do?”

  “I hoped you would say that. I often wished I hadn’t supported his lies when I was alive, but it seems I have a second chance to make it right. And you’ve given me an idea of how to do that.”

  “What will we need?”

  “Mainly? A celebration. And a catapult.”

  It didn’t take much flattery to coax Captain Whitney to address his fellow Forsaken on the anniversary of his legendary victory. Abel was the key—as the Fearless Flyer’s newest and biggest fan, Whitney had no reason to be suspicious of Abel’s humble request, and no one questioned that it was the anniversary of that battle against the orcs. (It was not.)

  Captain Whitney did, however, balk at the sight of a large catapult, the powerful war machine that had launched him into history. Jeremiah had meticulously recreated every detail on the repaired catapult he’d found in the ruins of Lordaeron.

  “This doesn’t look safe,” Captain Whitney hissed as Abel led him up from the familiar darkness toward broad daylight and the catapult’s loading basket.

  “It’s stable enough. Purely ceremonial,” Abel assured him, startled at how readily Whitney believed him. He had never liked lying for any reason, ironically a lesson his father had instilled in him from a young age. But now he had no father to admit his lie to, and he would forever grieve that.

  Jeremiah began chanting: “Fear-less! Fear-less!” The crowd soon took up the cry with their quavering voices, surging in intensity, echoing through the crooked city streets. Whitney climbed up into the basket and stood tall, soaking in the praise. If he noticed that some of his former soldiers were present in the crowd, it caused him no concern. They had an understanding, a reality Whitney had created—a greater truth held together by the bonds of war.

  Or so he thought.

  The crowd hushed, and Abel prompted Captain Whitney to begin his tale: “War demands much from us. Often too much. The fight pushes us to our limits—”

  Abel handed up a mug to Captain

  Whitney. “What’s this?” Whitney asked.

  “I thought we would reenact the moment, exactly as it happened, so all can see your triumph firsthand,” Abel said. “You were drinking that night, before the battle.”

  “Oh, yes,” Captain Whitney said. The crowd shifted uneasily, fabric rustling and bones clacking in chorus. “Hold a moment. Where did you …?” Whitney looked around. All eyes were on him. “Ah, I just recalled! A soldier kindly offered me some ale, but I told her sternly that courage comes from within, not from a glass. And I dashed the mug to the ground!” He demonstrated, and the empty mug shattered on the worn cobblestones. Whitney smiled. “Now, where was I?”

  “What we believe makes us who we are, for better or for worse.”

  “The fight pushes us to our limits,” someone called out.

  “Right. The fight pushes us to our limits, and if it doesn’t break us, it pushes us beyond them …”

  And on he went, following the same script he always had. “They will not see it coming. Get ready,” he said. “Look for my sign—”

  At that, Jeremiah and his fellow soldiers tossed ropes over and around Captain Whitney.

  “What is the meaning of this?” the captain cried out. He flailed about but only managed to wrap himself up more and more in the ropes, effectively trussing himself.

  “The way I heard it recently,” Abel said, “your temper got the better of you, and you stumbled drunkenly into the catapult. Got yourself caught in the ropes.”

  “Who have you been talking to, boy?” Whitney squinted. “Who’s been speaking out of turn?” His eyes fell on Jeremiah and the other soldiers. “You!”

  “Well. Here you are, Captain, tangled up in your own lies at last,” Jeremiah said.

  “Release me!”

  “Oh, we’ll release you.” Jeremiah grinned toothlessly. “Once everyone hears the real story. Many of us tried before—this boy’s father tried before. Now the truth will come from you or from me—your choice.”

  “Don’t listen to him!” Whitney shrieked. “He’s lying!”

  “The mark of a good leader is knowing when they’re beat,” Jeremiah said. “Of course, you aren’t a good leader, so I shouldn’t expect you to admit your lies.”

  “Give him a chance to do the right thing for once,” Abel said.

  Jeremiah nodded, and everyone looked at Captain Whitney expectantly. If they had still breathed, they would have held their breath in anticipation.

  “You aren’t going to believe a newcomer over me. Who’s more trustworthy? A failed soldier boy and a coward, or a heroic captain?” The many former soldiers in the audience roared in outrage.

  “Look!” Jeremiah pointed to the wisps of white hair on the captain’s peeling scalp. “Whitney died an old man, not in battle like so many of the men who followed him. Why should he fight when he could order us to do it for him? His great victory, the one we are remembering today, wasn’t some brilliant plan of his. It was a drunken accident that cost our side as much as the orcs. More, if you count the steep price of carrying Whitney’s secrets.”

  The captain dangled helplessly in his rope cocoon. “No one cares what really happened. It’s ancient history. No matter what story you tell, it ends the same: we’re all dead.”

  “Death offers a fresh perspective on life,” Jeremiah said. “All we have here are our memories and the choices that brought us here. What we believe makes us who we are, for better or for worse.”

  “I stand by my story,” Whitney grumbled, kicking his legs feebly.

  Jeremiah turned back to his comrades. “Abel, it seems the captain is having a hard time remembering the rest of the story.”

  “We were just getting to my favorite part of it.” Abel sadly pulled the captain’s sword from its sheath at his side.

  “Wait!” Whitney said. “Don’t do this. That’s an order!”

  “‘You’ll be all right,’ you used to tell us,” Jeremiah said. “‘Captain’s orders.’ We may have pulled through, but never were we all right. Another lie, the last one we all heard as you sent us to our deaths.”

  Jeremiah stood over the abusive captain, his shadow harsh like a coffin lid. “When life calls on us to act, we must rise to the occasion.”

  Abel brought the sword down in one sure stroke. The blade sliced through the ropes handily—including the one holding the primed trigger of the catapult.

  Jeremiah caught Whitney’s surprised expression just as the arm of the catapult snapped forward, hurling him up and up and up, out of the ruins, far from the city that would stomach his lies no longer. His frightened screams faded into the distance.

  Abel gazed solemnly after him for a while, in the direction where the captain, the hero of his favorite stories, had disappeared, likely forever. His body was old and falling apart. He wouldn’t survive the landing this time, if all his parts even fell in the same place. But all stories need an ending, as do those who tell them.

  “Roland would be proud of you today,” Jeremiah said.

  Abel lifted his chin and smiled for the first time since his arrival. “You know, I think I’m content being just a foot soldier—like you and my father. Feet firmly on the ground, kept to the honest path.”

  ondness filled Elyrion Fogsong’s smile. “I remember when you first appeared at my door, Sentinel Bloomblade. Armored and determined to speak with the mysterious hermit of the bog. You were bold enough then to make the journey down the slopes of Mount Hyjal to my reclusive home and demand a rare antidote for
an ailing sister-in-arms, no matter the cost. Does such boldness elude you now?”

  “I can be bold on behalf of others,” Keda said. She sank into one of Elyrion’s musty cushions, hiding her face. “But not for myself. How could I pursue a beautiful heart like Toreth’s? I am certain he has no knowledge of my existence.”

  “You exaggerate,” the hermit said, listening to his customer with half an ear as he measured out ground carnelian. The elder night elf was perched at his desk, surrounded by bottles. Light from the cauldron fire played across his lined face.

  “Regrettably, no,” groaned Keda. “I saw him in the stables today. For all my so-called boldness, when I tried to offer greetings and Elune’s blessing, the words stuck in my throat. An onlooking priestess believed I was choking on something and made quite the display of healing me. I can only hope he politely excused himself from the scene.”

  “Well,” mused Elyrion, tapping the powder into his potion, “then it seems he’s aware of your existence now. Surely that is a comfort?”

  He dodged the pillow just in time.

  “Easy,” he said with a chuckle. “I will charge you double if you make me begin again.”

  Keda grumbled, pulling herself up and pacing restlessly around the little cottage. She was tall, even for a night elf, and had to duck to avoid the thicket of herbs hanging from the alchemist’s ceiling.

  “You should be happy for my loyal patronage. Most wouldn’t leave the shade of Nordrassil just to acquire potions, and fewer from the mysterious hermit of the bog. Why do you live all the way down here?”

  Elyrion ignored her question, stirring the potion with a glass rod. It changed from murky gray to a clear blue. “Dear Keda, you know my craft is worth the journey. Here you are, one tonic for stubborn scars.” He raised an eyebrow. “Always buying wares for your sister Sentinels.”