What Apprentice Nelphi hadn’t told Ringo Flinthammer was that he wouldn’t be alone at Icecrown Citadel.
In fact, there was a whole army there, camped on Arthas’ doorstep, an uneasy mix of Argent Crusaders and Knights of the Ebon Blade. Together, the entire force was calling itself the Ashen Verdict, but notably, they still wore the colors of the crusade and the knighthood, respectively, and ate and slept in their own camps within a camp. The Horde forces, commanded by Saurfang himself, were nowhere in sight, and the Ashen Verdict looked upon any Alliance soldiers who asked where the Horde were as would-be troublemakers.
Lady Proudmoore’s detail, which entered a side complex opened by Widge Gearloose’s carpet bombing, was small in comparison to the main force of the Ashen Verdict, which had literally bludgeoned down the front door of the citadel, but still, there were more than Ringo would have expected, including some old friends.
“Ringo,” Dazhbog sighed, slashing at the horde of skeletons with his sword, “I said one more group of them. ‘Lure one more group of them to us.’ Does this look like one more group?”
“Ye wanna’ get the undead?,” Ringo Flinthammer growled, reloading his gun. “Ah’ll tell ye how to get the undead. One of their men pulls a knife, yer man pulls a gun. They send yer man to the hospital, ye send their man to the morgue. That’s how ye get the undead.”
“Yes, but it doesn’t have to be all at once.”
“Baelan doesn’t mind.”
“Well, Baelan’s going to need to be revived again in a second, now isn’t he?”
“Fine, fine …”