Flinthammer Hall

“What are you doing, Clyde, you fool?”

“Just dropping off flesh; same as always.”

“Imbecile!” Rathan snapped, looking up from his stitching. “Check the Butcher’s list. They want certain parts put aside for a project they’re working on.”

“We always do it this way: Flesh for the Undying Army, so that we might rise once more and wage war upon our enemies.”

“Atticus said the same thing last cycle. Do you know what the Butcher did?”

“No?”

“They ripped off Atticus’ ears and sewed on sousaphant ears instead so that he could ‘listen better.'”

Clyde whimpered and clapped his hands to the side of his head.

“What sort of monster is the Butcher?”

“They come from a world that knows nothing but war,” Rathan said, snipping off a thread. “Realm-shaking events happen on a regular basis, armies clashing, invasions arriving, even the very landscape being transformed. In times of alleged peace, many from the Butcher’s world still want nothing more than to slaughter each other. Some say … uh, let’s speak of this another time.”

Metal-soled boots clanked up the ramp. There was a wet sound as body parts were emptied from a leather bag.

…

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“‘Your light will guide us home,'” Bael Flinthammer read. “’We’ll be back. Not even –‘”

He covered his voice choking off with a cough, folding up the letter to hand Marisi, sitting on his lap, a small Feast of Winter Veil gift that had been delivered alongside the letter.

She tore off the purple and gold wrapping and pulled out a small white figurine free.

“It’s a walrus person!” she squealed. “Made of … bone?”

“Ivory,” Bael said, squinting at the note included with the letter. “The tuskarr carve their discarded tusks into art, Mom says. Neat.”

Marisi marched the squat figure up and down the chair and the boy sitting in it.

“Are they coming home?” she said quietly, not meeting Bael’s eyes. “Are they going to die, too?”

Bael lifted up the folded-up letter, letting his Uncle Ely, returning to the room with mugs of mornbrew, take it from him.

“Nay, they’ll be fine,” Bael said, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt. “They’ve been in all sorts of danger before.

“As long as they’re together, there’s nothing to worry about.”

“What is that thing?”

“Ah donnae, but the venthyr are scared of it, too — run!”

The blue creature made a noise that sounded like a roar, although neither of its heads appeared to have a mouth, even as two more gleaming portals appeared in the area nearby.

“Whoa, whoa, there’s one here, too, back the other way!”

“There is nae other way!”

“Ringo!”

“Oh, now there’s three of them. Ah really wish we’d brought Rusty with us.”

“Let’s go through one of those portals.”

“Tae where those things are coming from? Ye think that’s an improvement, do ye?”

“We don’t know what’s on the other side, but we know that on this side, we’re about to get ripped to pieces.”

“This is a terrible idea.”

“No time to argue, go!”

“Khaz’goroth on a cracker — her portal closed right behind her. Turn around, Frostmaw, ye great galloot, there’s nae way out here — head for that one instead. This is a terrible idea …”

“Dearest Bael,

“Years ago, when you were still a baby, I wrote you another letter from the shadow of Icecrown Citadel. I don’t know if your mother ever shared it with you, since I and at least some of Ashen Verdict made it back alive.

“Your mother and I are there now. We came seeking a priest your mother knows, Scott the Psycho, who we thought might be able to tell us what’s wrong with your mother’s magic. But before we could, the Banshee Queen ripped open the sky. The veil between the world of the living and the land of the dead got torn to pieces.

“The crew of Skybreaker said the Alliance was sending an expedition across to find out whatever the Banshee was up to and to put a stop to it. They asked Lt. Commander Flinthammer — your ma — to be part of that mission. I’m going along to be her aide-de-camp (her assistant).

“When I wrote you that letter from Northrend, I knew I was walking into certain death, or something close to it.

“No living person knows what’s waiting for us on the far side of the veil, not even Scott the Psycho.

“But whatever’s happening up here is as bad as anything Azeroth’s faced during your life or mine.

“And somewhere on the other side is Kildris. We’re going to find out why your mother’s magic isn’t working, and we’re going to do everything we can to bring Marisi’s mom back home with us.

“Be kind to Marisi. Be a friend to her, a brother if you can.

“I don’t need to tell you to listen to your Uncle Ely while we’re gone. You’re a good boy — a good man — and already a better one than I’ve ever been. You more than make me proud: You give me an ideal to live up to, even though I know I never will fully measure up. Your light will guide us home.

“We’ll be back. Not even death can keep us from you.

“Love, your father,
Ringo Flinthammer”

“Khaz’goroth on a cracker!”

“Beli, such language!” Ringo Flinthammer was shocked. “You ne’er talk like that.”

“I can’t see a thing in this blizzard. Are you sure Rusty knows where he’s going?”

“Aye, he was raised in the Storm Peaks. He knows these mountains and Icecrown Glacier even when he cannae see them hisself. He’ll get us to this Scott person. (Honestly, what sort o’ name is ‘Scott,’ anyway?)”

“Scott the Merciful is a psychopomp. He may be able to tell us why I can’t bring back Kildris from the dead.”

“Only a psycho would have a name like ‘Scott.'”

“Again, a psychopomp is one who helps in the transition between life and death.”

“In that case, mah rifle is a psychopomp, too!”

“Scott stayed here at the Argent Dawn base to study the undead and death and dying. I couldn’t sit around like the the useless wet farts at the Netherlight Temple, whose plan to deal with whatever’s blocking resurrection magic is to ‘pray harder.’ So, Northrend and Scott the Merciful.”

“Even though he’s a psycho.”

Beli sighed.

“At least the blizzard’s letting up. Ringo! Look at the sky!”

“Khaz’goroth on a cracker!”