Heresy

It was a simple enough task. She hadn’t even thought twice about it. The cannon was well-made; and Rebus, though somewhat older now, was as fit and agile as he’d always been. Fire it, push the bastard back through the portal from where he’d come.

This one had nothing to do with Haramad, or money. This was for herself; something she believed in, something she wanted. The Netherwing had captured her heart; something good and noble in a battered and devastated world.

The Dragonmaw trials had taken some toll on her, she’d almost gotten used to the gut-wrenching feeling of being transformed into an orc each day; and the familiar musty stench of the mines had become something she could bear without feeling sick inside.

As she had guided Rebus into the air behind Mulverick, waiting for the waves of electrical bombs that coursed out from the armoury strapped to his griffon, it occurred to her that the big cat trusted her no matter what she’d asked; it never seemed to occur to him that his life was in danger, that he placed himself utterly and willingly in her hands each time she flew through the skies over Outland.

Heresy, despite her sight problems, had felt herself a good enough pilot. She never forgot the first rules of riding, even back to her days astride her beautiful saber…Sihmm had once told her “Remember not to panic. After all, the cat doesn’t want to fall any more than you do.”

And that was the secret. Whether one rode a horse, or griffon, a cat or a raptor….the secret had lain in knowing when to guide, and when to listen.

When to think – and when to feel.

It meant learning to trust Rebus’ own instincts, to feel the tension in his body beneath her legs, or the slight tension in each gentle ‘whuff’ of his breath as he moved. Even the animalistic edge of adrenaline that radiated off him gave her some indication of what he felt about his current environs or situation. If danger lurked below, if the currents on which the cat was buoyed were becoming less trustworthy, if he was tired, it all was there for her, if she was paying attention. Her animal mind listened to his and it was this, much more than any visual skills, which Heresy had relied on countless times, to guide herself and the windrider safely home from each adventure.

He’d never once let her down. She’d never once lost faith in his loyalty and strength.

But the simple truth was she’d felt his anxiety and tension through the trials as his body heaved and strained to avoid the onslaught of bombs, poisonous clouds and electrical charges fired at them as they chased their opponent. And close calls – and more than a few burns to her armour – had reminded Heresy that undeath wasn’t a permanent state, any more than life; it was a short time either way, and whether she’d chosen this undead existence or not, she’d come to embrace it with time.

In this undeath, she’d felt more than she could have hoped for. Seen things that horrified and touched her, felt things that awakened her, confused her. She’d seen the eternity and fragility of everything around her; that duality that was – depending on your own philosophical musings – disconcerting or comforting in its relentless continuance.

As Rebus lifted his hulking frame up over the hills of Nagrand, she asked herself why she thought of all this now..why it mattered ‘right now’. Patting the cat’s neck idly, she took a deep breath and took a quick glance at the cannon strapped to his side.

“Can’t fail.” He’d told her. Eredar.

What had she gotten herself in to?

Gods be damned, she had taken work from a demon. Of course she knew it wasn’t that simple. Greater causes sometimes mean taking on unworthy ones. She’d comforted herself by focusing on the fact that his bastar brother would be sent straight back to the Hell he’d come from as soon as that cannon was fired.

“Steady boy..”she slowed him slightly, letting him rest a moment at the peak, his massive paws crunching softly into the grassy surface as he came to a gentle, swooping landing.

She turned her head slightly and gazed out at the clouds. Nagrand was beautiful. Still, always. It never surprised her that the orcs or Draenei had made their home there. The skies were without comparison, the lands lush and the wildlife – despite old Nessingwary’s dogmatic pursuit of the hunt since he’d arrived - ever bountiful.

In the far distance, talbuk could be seen grazing in unison below her, tawny-golden coats reflecting faintly as the sun shone upon the herd. She could see them now, in colour, for the first time in years. The Netherblade mask wasn’t a ‘mask’ by any conventional standard, but Haramad’s men, in their ever-amazing ways, had reinforced it with a sort of ocular field; capturing images and relaying them through a mild electrical current, which travelled via a hairlike wire through one ear, and into her mind. She was as ‘blind’ as she’d always been, but through this sort of bypass, her world was as it had been so long ago, as a living woman.

Gone was the red-tinged world of her Bloodfang, gone was the animal blindness she’d savoured one final time with the human Commander. What was left in front of her was a sort of simple truth, to be taken or left as desired.

She lifted her head slightly, sniffing the air. They were close to Twilight Ridge; she could smell the warlocks; she smiled slightly as she did so. Rich, heady, evil, perfect.

Some things never changed.

As if about to speak to the wind, she opened her mouth to say something. Faces flashed before her mind; Linton and Indy, Gharb and Ghanka, Fireflower and Arcorash, Nashtoch and Pipmat, Maxus and Odrade, Fenriz and Chaya, Thickie and Blacktalon, even Sardon…..and countless others flickered across her memory for a brief moment.

It struck her as strange that they all mixed together in her mind without an internal commentary. But nothing came to mind. What Heresy had needed to say tended to get said. There wasn’t anything left.

She glanced down at the cannon once more, tapping it thoughtfully with one finger.

“Can’t fail.”, she muttered. “I’m a damn rogue, not a bombadier.”

With a shrug, she pressed her heels gently against the cat’s ribs. “Come on, fellow..time to go to work.”

Rebus grunted softly and extended his wings, and with a resounding thick slap, struck the air beneath them and rose into the sky once again. It was all too easy to see Twilight Ridge; where Nagrand’s green and natural landscape gave way to sickly black and purple sludge, where the scent of flowers and raw earth beneath sunshine gave way to honey-sweet demonic power and the dull crackling of magic..waiting, always waiting. She hated that soft sound; it felt like the fingers on her neck of all those years ago, the ones that could touch her, and make her kill.

Unconsciously she lifted Rebus higher; looking down at the unwanted visitors with a soft snarl on her features. It had taken a very long time indeed, for her unhealthy affection for warlocks to pass. It had, in fact, honed itself into a cold and disinterested observance. Touched by demons, demons, demon minions, it all was the same to her. Even if Pipmat’s letter had given her some final indication that the tailor had lived…Nashtoch’s blind selfishness, his brutality taught her all she had needed to finally understand about the warlock’s art. That no matter how strong you thought you were…the risk was there, always, and forever, that you would become the puppet, and no longer the puppeteer.

And nothing in life, or undeath, had meant more to Heresy than the freedom to exist as she wished; nothing was more abhorrent to her than to see a soul bound to torment against its will. So as she gazed at the encampment far below, the smell of them lingering in the air, she enjoyed it for what it was, a scent; but no longer confused it with the reality of the creature wielding it. With a wry smirk she inhaled the smell.

The sound she heard next could only be made by the massive feet of the one she had come to banish; she’d have to go lower to get within range. It made her nervous; the warlocks moved here in tightly formed packs; guards patrolled each magical core and their hounds, nasty snapping grey beasts, could detect her on scent before she’d have a chance to move away. There was no room for error; she couldn’t be dismounted. Rebus and she both would have to be at their best.

“But..if I am..” she frowned thoughtfully.

She patted her legs. Malchazeen was there, her beloved glittering blade, charged with power, as was her old ripper, ugly but trusty. She patted one pocket. Vials of poisons were at the ready. She patted her other pocket.

“Damnit!” she hissed to herself.

Flashpowder.

Of all…the things…to forget..

She sighed. Too much to think about, a stupid mistake.

“Well boy..we’re going to have to make sure we don’t fall…right?” she scratched his neck softly, while Rebus maintained his steady, slow, pace, wings beating softly, keeping them aloft, but still.

“Can’t fail…” she gritted her teeth and took one last breath before unlatching the cannon and spinning it to rest against her thigh, held it in a position to fire with her left hand, gripping Rebus’ reins with her right.

“Hear that?? We can’t fail!” she finally shouted. Spurring Rebus downward, the cat roared mightily, as the two sped toward the massive Eredar.

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"I wrote the story myself. It's about a girl who lost her reputation and never missed it." - Mae West
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