(AN: Okay, so I got the story up and running with Beacon of Light [originally entitled The Beginning of the End] and Betrayer, so now I thought I'd go back to Pilgrim's Road. Instead of carrying on with the story as I began it, this is the new version. You will get to see much more of Marion Sledgeheart, and two characters who appeared in I'll Be Home for Winter's Veil, but in their natural habitat [I know that I made a mistake with the hair color of one of them: I won't be able to fix it until Betrayer is fully uploaded. For now, the dark hair in this one is how it should be].)

(This will be a very grim story, as the Scarlet Crusade is the central focus of the story. My brother and I both agree on the irony of Blizzard pushing the whole "misunderstood" and "gray" line with every villain in their intellectual property, but the Scarlet Crusade are still "all bad." While I won't do much to ingratiate them to the audience, they won't be "all bad" in my story. I know, it paints me into a hypocritical light in regards to my hatred of the misunderstood villain trope. But this story needs to be finished.)

A Crusade of Blood

The woods of Northern Lordaeron were silent. Not even the sound of wild creatures could be heard scampering through the underbrush. Seven years ago, these lands were once thriving with life, verdant and beautiful. Then came the invasion of the Undead Scourge, a foe more powerful than the Orcish Horde of old, that swept away the Human Kingdom of Lordaeron. In the aftermath of that war, the remnant people of Lordaeron were hunted down and exterminated.

But there were some that survived.

In the woods outside of what had once been the village of Terun in Northern Lordaeron, a group of humans were lying in wait: these were such survivors. Men and women, armed to the teeth, wearing the colors of crimson and white. Before them, through the trees, the village of Terun could be seen. Ever and anon, a villager would lumber aimlessly out from behind a ruined house, completely oblivious to anything around them. A sickly sweet aroma wafted on the wind towards the forest, filling the nostrils of those hiding in the trees. Behind a tree in the forest were hid two men dressed in the red and white: a youth with short dark hair, and an older man with long brown hair tied in a pony-tail behind his head. As the smell of decay filled their noses, the youth made as though he would retch.

"Steady, son," the man whispered. "Those rotting bastards will hear you, then we'll be truly f..."

"Silence, Varlaine!" another hiss came from the captain of their company, hidden in a pile of dried, dead bushes. "Wait for the signal to move."

The man called Varlaine looked to his left: behind the tree next to him was a dark-haired Elf, drumming his fingers restlessly on the hilt of his long-sword. He had always seemed on edge, ever since he had first joined their order. Varlaine turned to his right; beyond the bush where the captain hid a Dwarf slumped against the bole of another tree, quietly reciting prayers beneath her breath. Varlaine could not remember the last time he prayed to the Light for strength, as that Dwarf did; but seeing her pray evoked courage in him, rather than mockery.

"Attack!" the captain shouted. "For the Scarlet Crusade!"

The signal was given, and they broke cover. Varlaine drew his bow and fit an arrow onto the string, while the young man drew gripped the haft of his mace. From their hiding places rose the others in red and white, charging towards the village before them. The Dwarf hefted a large shield onto her left arm, then drew out a short sword in her right hand and roared loudly as she tried to beat the others into the fray. The Elf deftly leaped over a fallen tree that was in his path, without missing a beat, sword leveled forward to the attack. Without warning, the Crusaders burst through the trees and came down upon the inhabitants of the village: they had no chance.

Those they found lumbering through the streets were mindless zombies, people afflicted by the plague of undeath years ago, who were not under the direct command of the Scourge, but still a menace, albeit a very small one. These had no mind of their own and wandered about like beasts, killing and eating the living they encountered, until their shambling bodies fell apart from decay and use and they became no more.

The assault found these in no small number, but they were a pointless enemy. Killing them was easy, especially while these were mindless, shiftless and without direction, while the Scarlet Crusade assault group was planned, calculated, organized, and efficient. One by one the rotting zombies were hacked to useless pieces, or burned with holy fire: at least one member of their group was a priest of the Scarlet Monastery, while the Elf and Dwarf were paladins that wielded the Holy Light. There was hardly any contest.

Once the creatures in the streets were dealt with, the captain ordered his men to pile up the bodies in the center of the village to be summarily burned with fire. Several armed men were placed on watch at the edge of the village, in case another attack from more organized undead struck them while they were defenseless. Varlaine was watching the main street, while the Dwarf woman was dragging two bodies that, though rotting, emaciated and missing a few limbs, were more than twice her size. The Elf was standing by Varlaine's side, cleaning his long-sword with a cloth and looking in disgust at the rotting offal that was piling up at the tips of his boots from the blade.

"A good hunt, eh?" Varlaine asked.

"If you insist," the Elf replied with a haughty air. Varlaine could not recall a time when he knew the Elf where he was not proud and haughty, carrying himself as a king among ignorant serfs, or as a mage of the Kirin Tor among peasants. He had heard that the High Elves of Quel'Thalas were arrogant and aloof, and those stories certainly seemed to be true.

"What's the matter, Setheras?" Varlaine asked the Elf. "Killing these mindless corpses not enough fun for you?"

"As a matter of fact, no," Setheras stated. "It's been too long since we've faced a foe that put up a real fight."

"Don't remind me of those days," Varlaine sighed. Those days, as he cryptically put it, were the dark years when the Scarlet Crusade was first formed. Varlaine vividly remembered those days as the worst of his entire life: his beloved Lordaeron in ashes, the town of his birth in ruins, his loved ones, friends, family, and neighbors, turned to mindless undead. For him, those days were a time when he was constantly on the run, going from one briar-filled, sickly forest to another, hiding face-down in the mud during long, rainy nights to mask his scent from the shambling ghouls that haunted the Plaguelands.

"As long as the Crusade stands," Setheras replied. "Those days will never come again."

Nearby, the Dwarf had deposited the two bodies onto the steadily growing pile, then paused to take wind.

"What's the matter, little Dwarf?" Setheras asked. "Your fabled strength has failed you?"

"Ach, nay," the Dwarf replied. "I have'nae had a proper drink in days. Perhaps I'd not be so winded if ye lent us a hand, pretty boy."

"Dragging bodies around in the mud like a servant?" Setheras gasped, then chuckled. "No, thank you. I'm more than satisfied with what I do now."

"Then dunnae complain about failin' strength!" the Dwarf replied as she went off to drag another body onto the pile.

"Shut up, Marion," said Setheras. "No one likes a whiny b*tch, especially when it's a Dwarf."

While they were thus engaged, those few of their number that could be spared were sent into the buildings to sound out anything of value that could be salvaged. Usually this meant weapons, armor, perhaps a cache of gunpowder left behind by a band of Dwarven mercenaries, or perhaps unspoiled cloth that could be used for binding of wounds or sewing of clothes. Food was never taken; the Scarlet Crusade often grew or hunted for food of their own, as the grain in Northern Lordaeron was poisoned.

Suddenly a cry was heard, and those soldiers nearest put their hands to their weapons. From out of one dilapidated house there appeared the young man, leading before him five people from out of the house: a woman with graying hair and four children, two boys and two girls. Whether they were all hers was doubtful, as the oldest girl and the youngest boy both had dark hair, and the others had fair hair.

"Well done, Baris," the captain said. "Captured an old woman and four children all by yourself." Several of those around laughed at this, but young Baris did not make a sound. The captain waved a dismissive hand at them, ordering behind his back as he turned away: "Go ahead, go on, be done with it, we have work to do."

Baris turned to those he had captured, then drew his sword. Realizing what was about to happen, the children burst into tears and the woman threw herself at Baris' feet, pleading for their lives. Varlaine noticed that Baris' hand was shaking upon the hilt of his sword, hesitant.

"Steady, son," he said. "You know what you have to do."

"I can't do it, Varlaine," Baris replied.

But by now, the sounds of pleading caught the attention of the captain. He now walked back to Baris' side, one hand resting on the pommel of the short hammer that sat in his belt.

"Is there a problem, son?" the captain asked.

"I..." stammered Baris. "I...can't..."

"You know the rule," the captain reminded the young man. "We're not under orders to take prisoners, therefore anyone we find is purged. There's no telling if they're undead in disguise."

"No, milords!" the woman cried out. "We're not undead! We've been hiding from them in the house here yonder, ever since the War ended. We stayed behind, but had no idea...no, Gerald! No!"

At this, the eldest boy broke from where he stood and charged at Baris. They couldn't have been much older and both of roughly equal size. They fell to the ground as the young peasant boy Gerald tried to wrest the sword from Baris' hand. Two more soldiers arrived where the commotion was and tore the peasant off Baris. The boy was angrily kicking and screaming, trying to free himself, while Baris' face was flushed with having almost been overwhelmed.

"That more than proves it," the captain said. "Only an undead would defy the Scarlet Crusade. Go on, then, Baris: kill them."

Filled with the heat of battle and furious at being taken by surprise, Baris aimed his sword at the young man, ready to strike. Yet once again he did not move.

"What's the matter with you, boy?" the captain scolded. "He's an enemy! One of those bastards that destroyed our homeland, your homeland. Think of your father and your mother, Baris! Would they want you to let a scum like this exist?"

"I..." stammered Baris again. "I don't think he's undead."

"Are you questioning the Grand Inquisitor?" the captain whispered, a fearful tone in his voice as he uttered what could possibly be Baris' doom.

"No, sir," Baris shook his head.

"Then kill him!" the captain repeated. "He's not one of us, he might be undead. Kill him now!"

"Sir!" Varlaine interjected.

"Stand down, hunter," the captain dismissed.

"This is Baris' first taste of combat, sir," Varlaine continued. "He hasn't yet been properly blooded. If I may, sir, I will carry out the Grand Inquisitor's orders."

The captain grumbled. "Alright, but be quick about it."

Varlaine set an arrow into his bow, pulled the string back, then released the deadly missile straight into the peasant boy's throat. The woman rushed to his side, weeping for her son. With disgust filling up inside him, Varlaine tossed his bow to Setheras the Elf, who was standing nearby, then took the sword from Baris' hand and slit the woman's throat. Tears filled Baris' eyes as he watched Varlaine approach each of the four children, paralyzed with fear, and deliver death to them one by one.

"You can never be too careful with the undead, boy," the captain said to Baris as he watched in horror. "Learn that quickly."

At Setheras' side, Marion also saw the scene that took place. But whereas Baris was silently weeping and Setheras seemed detached from the whole ordeal, she could not get the image of the mother and four dead children out of her mind. Though the sun was hot upon the village of Terun, it seemed that a cloud passed over the sun for the Dwarf, shutting out the Light.

(AN: A nice cheerful chapter with killings all around. This will probably be the first M-rated WoW fic I've written, but not the last one [the Horde-centric ones must needs be M-rated, mostly for violence and language more than undead-on-goblin sex scenes: just kidding])