The Cathedral of Light didn't teach its squires what a paladin really needed to know.

Crouched low, Bartolomei peered through a tussock of sweet-grass in the Arathi Highlands.  Ahead of him were five undead.  Four Forsaken bodyguards, arrogant as hell, strolling along the road like they owned it.  In their midst was his target:  a courier, carrying information on the creation of a new Plague.

A new Plague.  Last night, after Quae warned him about this plot, he'd had nightmares of Stormwind, desolate and decayed like Lordaeron.  Her people rotted husks, her lands dead, shrouded in unending darkness.  The young paladin gritted his teeth and forced that image from his mind.  It wasn't going to happen.  He was here, and he was going to kill that damned courier.  The messages she bore would never make it to the Forsaken.

But how to get to her, safe in the midst of her bodyguards?  That was the problem.

He knew what the Cathedral's advice would be.  "Get help," Duthorian Rall would say.  "There are five of them and only one of you.  They're good fighters, about your equal. You can't do this alone."

Fortunately, he didn't take advice from cowards.  As the Forsaken passed, Bartolomei rose silently to his feet and stepped into the road behind them.  Despite the danger, he found himself grinning in fierce anticipation.  It was going to be a hell of a fight, but he could do this.  Let Rall and the other do-nothings at the Cathedral hide behind the Archbishop's skirts -- he didn't need any help.  He knew what paladins did best.

Closing his eyes, Bartolomei thought of Stormwind and of the innocent people who filled her streets.  He thought of the Plaguelands, all that remained of Lordaeron, once Stormwind's twin.  And he thought of the Forsaken, the unliving abominations before him who wanted to drag their sister city down into eternal darkness.  Love and hatred, fear and desperation, flooded through him.  And, in answer to his passions, the Light blazed up fiercely within his heart.

"This ends now," he whispered, releasing a fraction of that power at one of the bodyguards.  Screaming in terror at the Light's touch, the Forsaken pelted off through the grass.  The other three warriors spun about and charged him, but Bartolomei ignored them.  His gaze slid over to the courier, and with another word, searing waves of Light cascaded over the corpse, burning the dried flesh from her bones.  Like her guard, she screamed -- but in rage, not fear.  She, too, charged.  Just as he'd hoped.

Weaving and dodging, he ducked past the guards and slashed at the courier.  The mace slammed into her chest, splintering ribs -- a mortal wound, for anything living.  But the Forsaken monstrosity simply staggered and swung back, a weak blow the paladin parried easily.  Her bodyguards, however, knew their craft.  They surrounded him, and blows rained down, far too many for him to block.  His mail turned the first few, until the bodyguard behind him struck a sharp blow that bit through the paladin's greaves.

But he'd prepared for this.  Never taking his eyes from his target, Bartolomei gulped down the potion he had ready, and the wound closed.  Then he spat another word of rage at the courier.  Once more she writhed in agony as the Light condemned her.  Swinging his mace in a great arc, Bartolomei brought his weapon crashing down on the messenger's shoulder.  With a terrible crack, the creature's arm shattered.  The courier, now mewling in pain, tried to scramble away from him, but the paladin followed her, relentless.  Her minions shrieked and redoubled their attacks.  A sword grazed his arm and sent blood pouring down inside his mail.  A mace slammed into his back with numbing force.  Bartolomei tried to summon the Light's healing power, but the pain was too great.   It didn't matter though.  The courier was almost dead.

Staggering, he released the last of the Light he held within his heart.  Furious heat blazed inside him, burning through every limb with a pain that was both agonizing and delicious.  And at once, his injuries vanished.  As the Forsaken pressed close, the paladin took the Light's last gift of strength and leaped towards the cowering messenger.  With a shout of triumph he slammed his mace down, crushing her skull.  Truly lifeless now, the Forsaken courier dropped at his feet.

Howls of rage rose around him as the guards realized their failure.  One glared at the paladin, tiny sparks of malice burning in his empty eye-sockets.  "Enjoy your fleeting 'victory', fool!" the creature snarled as he and his companions closed in on the panting human.  "Now, you die."

Blood streaked his face and streamed down his sides, bubbling up from a dozen new wounds.  Yet Bartolomei still managed to grin back.  "Guess again, corpse.  Now I do what paladins do best."

One more word, one last flare of the Light -- and a pale golden aura surrounded him.  The undead waded in -- then screamed in fury as the Light's shield turned aside their fiercest blows.  Safe within that golden cocoon, Bartolomei shoved his way out of the pack of Forsaken, and ran for his life.

They chased him, of course.  But he was a damned good runner.  And before the second shield faded, he slid down into one of Arathi's innumerable gullies and lost them.  

Sweet nectar and prayers took care of the rest.  It wasn't more than a couple minutes before he was back on his feet.  His shirt and armor were stained with gore but he, himself, was fine.  Hale and whole and ready for another round of battle.

As it turned out, that wasn't necessary.  When he got back to the road, he could see the bodyguards in the distance, scurrying west.  But the courier's body still lay there, stripped and unceremoniously abandoned.  Nearby, in the road-side weeds, lay what he was looking for:  a sealed packet of papers.  Apparently her servants hadn't realized the importance of what she carried;  in their haste, they'd left it behind.

Praising the Light, Bartolomei retrieved them and turned east, towards Quae's camp.

Perhaps it wasn't a heroic victory.  It didn't have the kind of ending audiences liked ("...and then the noble paladin bravely fled into the hills...").  It certainly wasn't the type of tactics they taught him in Northshire Abbey.  But Bartolomei didn't care.  It was a victory, and that was all that mattered.  It kept Stormwind safe for another day.  

Sometimes it paid to know where your true strength lay -- even if it lay in running away.

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