Renold Ward remembered an old joke he heard among the elites in the prestigious city of Dalaran. If you want to get someone killed, send a warrior. If you want someone punished, send a paladin. If you want someone set on fire, send a warlock. But if you want any of those done well, send a mage.

Well, it was less of a joke, more of a statement of fact.

His latest task was to clear out Jaedenar, and within it, the dark, twisting corridors of Shadow Hold. A former barrow den to the sleeping night elf druids, it was now populated by cultists, satyrs, demons, and - if the reports were true - perhaps even a dreadlord. He had never encountered one of the famed demons before. Renold had the mad hope that it would live up to its reputation, and do something as shocking as provide for him a worthy adversary. It was not something he had in quite some time.

The first true test of his resolve was back in the Second War. He was a young mage then, tasked with combating the great orcish threat that stormed in from the Dark Portal. The fledgling Alliance put his talents to great use, and while many fell by his hand, many more were sent to prison in far away Arathi. It was at Hammerfall he spent months guarding the weary, demoralized orcs, until his talents were called elsewhere. Had he not been called away, perhaps they would never have freed themselves. It was always a regret of his to have left that place, even after those many years. Surely, had they a great mage at their disposal, the camps would have held and the orcs would never have seen the light of day.

Alas, the choices were made and time moved on. The Third War brought more struggles, but he surpassed them just the same. Now, he hunted for something to challenge him again. The black-robed lunatics roaming Jaedenar were certainly not going to live up to his hopes, however. Their paltry shadow spells could hardly pierce the protective shell of frost that covered him. Such was the case with warlocks; in Renold’s mind, they were little more than spellcaster impersonators, mages for when no mages were available. Hopefully the demons, or possibly the dreadlord, would provide greater fare. It would be something to liven up this place of fel-green rivers and mad furbolgs.

Renold made short work of another two cultists on the way towards the entrance to Shadow Hold. Like so many before, his smiling face and thin salt-and-pepper beard would be the last thing they’d see. However, he did notice something that caught his attention; he killed two, but found a third body lying face down in a small pile of rotten leaves and detritus. Rolling it over with the toe of his boot, he saw it was quite clearly not his handiwork. Rather than frost-burned skin marking his kill, multiple stab wounds marred the corpse. Perhaps they had turned on this one and left him off to the side to rot. It seemed plausible enough. Cultists were not known to be ones of trial and mercy.

Renold Ward soon saw it wasn’t the only body left behind, however. Just outside the entrance to Shadow Hold was an old, corrupted moonwell, its sparkling waters tainted by the energy of the fel. Floating in its waters, blood seeping from multiple wounds, were the bodies of two satyrs. Their faces were not marked with pain, but rather shock, as if they hadn’t so much as had a chance to pull their weapons. Again, the bodies were marked by multiple, vicious wounds.

Renold was pleased. There may be a challenge here greater than just a Nathrezim.

There was no sense in forgetting the basic precautions. Ignoring the bodies, he sat on the edge of the moonwell as casually as one would sit by a fountain in Dalaran. There, he conjured a small number of mana-infused drinks and food to carry in his pack. Small assurances, just in case the mysterious fighter was one of note. Of course, it could all be for nothing, and just be a particularly talented Alliance soldier tasked with the same mission as him.

How utterly disappointing that would be.

Once prepared, he began to descend into the former barrow den. Purple and green fires lit the chamber, illuminating the large, cavernous complex beneath the earth. Much to his surprise, it was almost entirely devoid of life. At least now, that is. Bodies of the powerful felguards lay destroyed among their felhound pets, the latter’s otherworldly tendrils severed by surgical strikes from a dagger before finding another pierced their skulls, sending their form back to the void from which they came.

Not something to scoff at, surely, but far from impressing the renowned mage. A few dead demons! He had slain hundreds in his day. As far as he was concerned, this was child’s play.

Yet…

As he progressed through the halls, the number of bodies began to become more and more significant. Furthermore, each was marked with the same set of wounds, meaning that whoever this particular assassin was, they were likely working without the help of others.

His footsteps on the stone in the chamber, echoing with every step no matter how much he tried to quiet them, reminded him that he, too, was very much alone. Worse yet, they echoed in the chamber in a manner that was incongruent to what he was expecting. The mage began to grow frustrated, feeling that with every step he took, the returning sound would not quite match. While still thinking it was his mind playing tricks, he feigned a step and held back at the last moment - and heard an echo from the footfall that never happened.

Two possibilities. One: the cultists had magically set some obscure trap to confuse and frustrate those who entered the barrow den. Insanity, whispers, and mind-games were often the tricks employed by cultists and demon-worshipers. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility.

Two: he was being followed. Far more likely. Far more sinister.

Although his bravado urged him to move without one, he recast the icy armour that surrounded him, protecting him from assault. Still, he was to move forward regardless of the warning signs. He was tasked with clearing this barrow den, and he had to ensure it was complete. His name and reputation meant something to him, and to cower in fear at a few dead demons was not what he wished to carry with him. Renold moved on, undaunted, but with eyes that watched the shadows more closely than before.

The next room was little more than a thin hallway. A figure twitched in the distance. It was a cultist, wheezing, gasping for breath, a pool of blood spreading wide across the dirt and stone of the barrow den ground. Cautiously, Renold approached to stand over the dying man, knowing there was little he could do for him now even if he wished to. It was a miracle he was alive at all, his face pale from the blood loss.

“Who did this to you?” Ward demanded, hoping to make the cultist’s life worth something in the end.

He sputtered blood, the coughing showing great pain. “Orc,” he wheezed. “Quick. He… killed everything. Demons… Cultists… Lord Banehollow…”

“Banehollow?” Could that be the dreadlord? For this entity to eliminate him as well was suddenly a task much more impressive.

“Left me… to tell… tell you…”

“Tell me?” Ward asked, leaning in close to listen to the ever dwindling voice.

“You’re…” more sputtering. The man was fading. “You’re already dead.”

The man slumped, leaving behind a streak of blood from the wound that clearly pierced his lung which gave his voice that terrible, dreadful wheezing. Renold felt no pity for him. He had sided with demons that wished the world to end, just for a momentary touch of power - and power not even strong enough to save his life. The mage was far more concerned that not only did this assassin know of his existence, but seemed to be waiting for him. This man would have been left to die before he even entered the hold.

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Renold Ward added a mana shield to the armour he had already cast. This day had taken a turn he did not expect. Nevertheless, he was not a man to back down nor give in. After all, he was a mage. The powers of the arcane were at his beck and call, and he faced but one assassin.

The barrow den opened to a large, empty chamber. Fires burned in sconces along the walls leading towards the end of the hall, leading towards a single raised platform. Laid upon them were a set of massive pauldrons, a shade of green that would have matched the vile liquid that passed for water in Felwood. All through the chamber were the disemboweled bodies of demons.

Renold crossed the chamber to inspect them. Thinking back to his time in the Third War, he heard tales of dreadlords. When they were defeated, their physical form would shrink and eventually disappear, but they left behind the imposing shoulder armour they wore. He could only imagine this was what happened here. A whole score of demons, cut to pieces, the same telltale wounds from the very beginning.

So now even a dreadlord had fallen prey to this fiend. One that evidently knows of the mage.

A scraping came from the hallway before the chamber. It was unmistakable; the dragging of daggers against stone. It pierced the empty air of the chamber, quieted now except for the flickering of the fires and the heart, beating louder now, of the mage. “You dare taunt me? A storied mage of Dalaran?” Renold called out, his voice clear and confident still, in spite of the assassin’s attempt to terrify him. “I have bested foes the likes of which would set you quivering in your boots, and you think that a few dead cultists would have me begging for mercy? Show yourself, little fiend, and you’ll be awed by the power of a true master of the arcane!”

The scraping stopped. Renold waited. Nothing happened.

Renold left the chamber and returned to the hallway. He gasped, even though he tried to suppress it, not pleased with himself to give the assassin the pleasure of seeing his shock. There was a message left behind for him. In jagged, sharp letters, and in the human language, was a single word: “Grimshank.”

Something about it stuck in his mind. The name sounded familiar, something from his past... but what? He racked his brain but came out empty handed, the thought so close but perpetually out of reach. However, his options were limited regardless; keep moving forward, out of this wretched barrow den.

He exited the hallway and turned the corner on the way to the exit. It was there he first saw him. An orc, standing perfectly still, his face passive but intent. There was absolutely nothing distinct about him, the face as standard and unremarkable as orcs could be. There was, however, something in his eyes. A madness, but tinged with pain, and the anger that pain brought.

Renold did not hesitate. He lifted his staff, spoke the words of power, and launched a ball of fire directly towards the orc - only to watch him fade away as if he was never there, the spell crashing into the wall beyond and sending stone and dirt across the chamber floor. It was silent again, save for the sizzling of the rock that lay scattered across the ground. A few beads of sweat formed on Ward’s brow, and he wiped them away quickly, frustrated they existed at all. He reminded himself of who he was; a master, a champion, a brilliant mage and stalwart hero of the Alliance. There was no reason to fear some trickster who taunted and hid rather than fought.

“Fight me, then! You have a quarrel with me, well, step from the shadows and show yourself!” the mage roared in frustration. “Coward!” he yelled. “Cowardice, this is!”

His voice echoed down the empty halls and chambers. He heard no response. The orc was patient, and would not show himself until he was ready. His efforts to draw him out by questioning his honour were for naught.

Paranoia was beginning to set upon the mage. At every pebble that skipped beneath his feet, he would pull from his power and explode with arcane energy - only to find that it was nothing more than his imagination. He did it again and again, trying to catch the rogue coming for him, until his energy began to wane. The efforts to keep his shields, as well as continue his searching spells for the assassin, were draining him of his ability to continue. His arcane bursts became few and far between. The rogue in the shadows was patient. It was all too predictable.

The shield faded for but a moment. He felt a rip across his shoulder, a many-edged blade cutting across him. He hadn’t even the chance to turn before the rogue vanished again. Breathing heavily, he yelled out at the rogue. “The coward strikes! You think one small wound will stop me? I’ve fought countless…” He stopped and saved his strength. His outrage would do nothing. He had to focus. It was a matter of outwitting an orc. A simple task.

Pulling the conjured food and drink from his pack, he scarfed down as much as he could, as quickly as he could. In the next hall, he heard the sound of dragging daggers again. He had to ignore it; he was not going to rush in unprepared.

The food and drink returned his power. Casting his barrier again, he progressed to the next hall, this time ready to fight this challenger. He was not to be made a fool of so easily.

And yet, as he entered the next hall, there the orc was again. Standing still, a demon dead at his feet. His daggers dripped with blood - one from a demon, and the other his. Above him was a new message. He vanished from sight the moment the mage locked eyes with him.

Renold brought his full magical prowess to bear, sending the powers of frost, arcane and fire in wild directions, the alternating icy and molten blasts slamming into anywhere the orc may have been hiding. Waves of deadly energy cascaded out of the mage, a manifestation of his anger towards the orc. Eventually, it had come to naught again. Once the fires died, all he heard was the gentle tapping of his own blood dripping to the floor from the wound in his shoulder. Tap tap, it went, a reminder that the rogue had so easily drawn first blood, and there would certainly be more to come.

He looked to the message now. Written in the blood of the demon that was at the orc’s feet was a single word: “Hammerfall”.

The memories came like a flood. Dejected, beaten orcs, sent to the internment camps of Arathi. The face of the orc, so unremarkable, so forgettable, was made known by the rest of guards - Ward included. It was the one they could never break. No degradation, no withdrawal from their bloodlust, no punishment or torment could shatter that one’s spirit. His visage remained passive and empty, as if there was no soul left in the orc.

But there was. And it hungered for blood.

Distracted, Renold’s shield faded. Again, the orc was waiting, and two daggers bit into each of his arms, digging deep. He howled in pain, dropping his staff to the floor and stumbling forward. He searched for the orc through gritted teeth, only to find he had disappeared again.

Worse yet, his head began to throb. It was difficult to concentrate, even the most rudimentary spells making him feel as if he was a novice mage testing his skills for the first time. As he stood, his legs wobbled weakly, like the muscles had gone soft or tore. The rogue’s poisons had begun to work in full. It was not the wounds that frightened him most, vicious as they may be; it was that the rogue had robbed him of his ability to fight back at full effectiveness. He was being bled out like a pig.

“It was war,” Renold mumbled, knowing the orc was close. Considering the words were written in the human language, he had assumed now his attacker had picked up at least a workable knowledge of the tongue from his days in the camp. “You destroyed our cities. Killed our people. We did as we had to.”

“You will kneel as we knelt,” came a voice from the shadows. It was deep, calm, and entirely emotionless. Two more swipes of his daggers came at the back of the mage’s knees, knocking him to the floor. Pure agony ripped through the mage.

Ward forgot entirely about overcoming some challenge, or foolish ideals on reputation. His last hope was to summon a portal to safe, secure Stormwind and throw himself into it. He began to whisper the words to summon it, hoping the orc wouldn’t return before it came into being. His hands shook, the spellcasting unsteady. The pain coursed through his body, almost too much to bear. He was moments away, almost able to see the towers of the storied cathedral.

The orc appeared again, right before him. A boot landed heavily on his chest, knocking him onto his back. Renold’s last glimpse of hope and safety faded away. Without a smile nor a grimace, he took out a parchment stained with blood and pierced it with his dagger. Renold watched, hardly able to move, hardly able to think, as he then slid the weapon into his chest and stopped the beating of his heart.

---

Grimshank stood over the body as it went cold. Carefully removing the dagger first, he removed the parchment from the end. He had passed it through the name “Renold Ward”, his blood soaking into the paper just as he had the five previous. Seventeen more remained on the list. Each, a guard of Hammerfall. Each, a target.

They would all kneel.